Starts with a Match

Stars for Eyes

I'm still drunk by the time Toby gets home.

Mostly because, the moment I started to feel like I was sobering up, I panicked, and downed four of six beers that I picked up from the corner store I walked to. One wasn't even cold yet, I just didn't care.

There's that clatter of keys, thumps of boots coming off on the tile by the mud-bench. I take a deep breath and turn to face them. Toby looks exhausted. Lines under their eyes I've never seen. As tired as they seem, those lines just make them more handsome. They took their bun out, and I was right, their hair is wavy over their shoulders.

"Hi," I say to them. They're not looking at me. They're too busy staring at the plates I've got set up on the kitchen island with spaghetti, sauce, steamed vegetables and homemade garlic bread. I have no clue if any of this is gonna taste as good as it looks. Last time I cooked something more than boiling water macaroni was for like a home ec class in high school.

"What's um..." Toby closes their mouth and takes a few steps into the house, bare feet over the rug I vacuumed this afternoon, then again when I got home from the bar.

I did it in circles. So weird. "What's all this?"

"I made dinner," I reply, shrugging and gesturing my hands at the spread. "If—if you want. If you already ate, no worries, it'll reheat fine. I thought you might be hungry. Since all you got was cake."

Toby raises a bag from their hip. "I brought it home. For us."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

I walk—stumble, lean—around the kitchen island, then I try to move slower, so maybe they won't notice just how off the rocker I am. "I'm...Toby."

They look at me then, and I take their food, set it behind me on the counter. Reaching for their empty hands, I hold them in mine, examining their palms. New scars on their fingers, from when we moved in, phantom ridges from twisting bottle caps. I'm just past that point of personal space and caring about it, that I get enough courage to reach and run my knuckles up and down their abdomen. Love this soft fucking shirt. They tense, but they don't push me away.

"Toby, I'm so sorry," I whisper, ducking my head low in submission. "I shouldn't have pushed you so hard to share those things. It's your life. I wanna be in it, sure. But. I had no right. You gotta shares uh...share what you want, when you want. Even if that means never at all."

Toby watches me. One face I can never seem to totally read. "It was so unfair, and so hurtful. Had no cares to you. Your feelings. Just wanted to care about myself. Selfish. I'm an asshole."

"Not always," says Toby.

"Most of the time."

"Not even that." They flinch with a smile and look to my hand. Moving it from their abdomen, they lift up their shirt. Three scars I mistook as growing lines run from near their belly button to under the waistband of their pants. "I've only ever told Meredith and Tomlin. Never even told Melanie. She believed the cysts thing cause she worked in a hospital, saw the scars and thought they looked the same.. Easy enough to go with that."

"It's your story, you should tell who you want to tell."

"I'd probably have told you. Maybe. In like...fifty years," they chuckle.

"I'd have waited a thousand years, Toby. Tell me whatever you want to tell me. I'll believe you. I trust you. And you're right, I bullied you."

"You did," they nod. "Why?"

"I have no excuses that make sense. And I'm also like...so drunk. So. None of it would make sense in general." Toby sighs with a nod and wipes a finger under their nose, squinting up at me.

"I heard what Donovan was saying about you. Is all that true? Were you a lean, mean, fighting machine?"

I know they're trying to tease. We're rebuilding here, they wouldn't be rude on purpose. Especially since they don't actually know. "Yeah uh. Yeah. Pretty ruthless. But I hated it."

"I can imagine. I mean, I can't. But. I empathize."

"I know you do."

"Did you really almost get..." their words die on their tongue, and they clear their throat. "The other thing Don mentioned. About your..." Toby traces a nail around on their neck.

Goosebumps race down my arms from my ears. "Um. I know I have no right to ask this. But. I don't. I don't wanna share that—"

"You have every right, don't worry about it," Toby says, shaking their head. "You pushing me doesn't mean I get to push you."

"Another time," I tell them. Never. Maybe in fifty years, like Toby said. Maybe on my death bed. Whenever that is.

I keep swaying, closer, so I clear my throat and attempt to straighten.

"Um. So, dinner?"

Toby brings their arms around my waist.

I don't let myself be rigid and shocked and 'oh my God is this really happening'. I melt and wrap them up and squeeze them to me, pull them to their toes until they make a little hum noise. I take it as they're enjoying this hug as much as I am. "Toby..."

"Yeah, Kev." Their ear is right on my heart.

"I've needed this so badly."

Toby blinks up at me. It gives me the opening to huddle down closer. They use the opportunity to break away and reach their arms across my back, lowering me to their level. One hand goes in my hair and I squeeze my eyes shut to keep from sobbing or laughing hysterically. "You ever need a hug, you tell me."

"Even if I've been horrible?"

"If you're being horrible, I know you really need a hug. And an ass kicking."

I hiccup into a laugh and swallow the rest before it bursts out. "You got it."

"And. Sometimes. I'll hide things. And I'll want to be alone. And I won't want to be touched. Okay? It might not always be you. In fact, it may never be you."

I'm forever grateful that Toby doesn't feel the need to pull away from our incredibly long hug to be saying all this. Continuing to talk with my face in their neck, their chin on my shoulder.

"But just give me time, okay? And space. I still want to be here. And I'll still give you hugs when you need them."

I nod and nuzzle closer. Nuzzle. Only ever heard that word around fucking Catherine Teal. "You're so generous, Fritzy."

"You're my friend, Kev. That means more to me than sharing food and doing chores together, and offering you my band-aids, or letting you use my favorite mug if the others are dirty. It means accepting that we'll have arguments, and working through them. And giving hugs when we need them."

Toby pulls back then. They've got tears on their lashes, streaked down their cheeks. Makes that copper and fresh green shine. They've got stars for eyes. Wish I wasn't so drunk. Wish I was wiping the tears from their face with my thumbs while sober. Would mean so much more.