My Home Is With You [LGBT+]

Thirteen

WE MEET UP. We text. We talk.

Most importantly, we get to know one another.

Intimately, in ways that sometimes words can't even describe.

I learn his likes and dislikes.

And I learn a lot about myself too.

Like the fact that I love the sound of his voice.

Or the way he always kisses my forehead before he says goodbye.

Or his eyes.

His hands.

His smile.

So, it's not entirely awkward, but I do feel out of place when I find myself sitting in the backseat of an expensive car with Maximilian by my side a couple weeks after meeting in person.

"Are you hungry?" He asks.

I look at him, a lie on my tongue, but I nod with a small pout I don't realize I wear until he traces my bottom lip with his thumb.

"Alright, anything in particular?"

"Pizza?" I offer, not sure what else to think of.

"Pizza?" He grins.

"You have had it before... right?" I ask with a tilt of my head curiously.

"Of course, I have, but our tastes might be different," he chuckles.

"I... I hadn't thought of that to be honest. And by different, you mean what exactly?"

"Hm, I don't know. Caviar?"

"On pizza? You're shitting me right?"

His bark of laughter startles me.

"Yes, caviar on pizza should not be a thing."

I snort, "pineapple is where it's at."

He shoots me a glare before shaking his head, "Whatever and wherever you choose to eat, is fine by me."

"Are you sure?"

"Of course," he assures, wrapping his arm around my shoulder.

So, we head to a small Pizza Hut 27 minutes away from my home.  Surprisingly, he allows me to order for us both when we take our seats.

It isn't long before we're waiting for our cheesy goodness, sipping on some cherry soda and filling up on breadsticks.

"It's small here, but the pizza is amazing, and the service is great. I used to come here with my parents all the time," I explain with a bittersweet smile.

Maximilian nods, looking around the establishment and I can tell he likes it. Of course, he does, it feels like home.

Something inside my chest clenches tightly and I feel my eyes water, so I cast my gaze away, desperately willing the tears to go away.

"Are you okay?" He asks concerned.

"Yeah," I lie through the lump forming in my throat, "I'm fine."

I force myself to look at him with a painful smile. He knows better, I know.

"I'm alright, Mr. Doyle," I insist.

"Maximilian," he rolls his eyes, "or Max if you prefer. Anything but Mr. Doyle, we've been over this."

He's right. We have.

"Which is how I know you're not okay," he continues, "you only call me that when you're distressed."