Sugar, Butter, Flour, and Love - Chapter 13: Chapter 13

I hated airports. I hated the rushing, how it managed to feel congested in such a large and open space and how people stared at me. By all accounts being tall wasn't the worst thing in the world. Maybe I had to duck through some shorter doorways, automatically head to the back of the movie theatre, dedicate more time than was worth it to find clothes that fit me well, dodge constant questions asking me if I played basketball, high jump, long jump, or volleyball, and squeeze myself into a world that didn't quite fit, but airports somehow made it all worse.
As I shuffled through the concourse with my large suitcase and my carry on down to the terminal where my flight would be, I focused solely on getting to where I needed to be. Just one foot in front of the other. The Queen could have been in my vicinity and I wouldn't have noticed her. If I didn't look at other people I could pretend they didn't notice my hulking presence.
I finally got to my check in area and I did the whole online ticket scan thing before mentally memorizing the route to my departure area. After all that I realized I had two and a half hours until take off, and, I was starving. The other thing about being big and being a former athlete was that I was always hungrier than I had any right to be.
After making my way to the food court I got to thinking about Trace. As soon as I had even a little bit of time on my mind I got to thinking about him. I didn't even know what to call our last significant reaction. Heartbreaking. Humiliating. Horrible.
I wished I'd just said no, or stop, or opened up to Trace. That would have solved half my problems. It was like the truth would get stuck somewhere below my throat, between my esophagus and my lungs, too solid to come out and wedged so tight within me I couldn't swallow it down. My anxiety wasn't the worst it had ever been but I lived around it and even I knew that wasn't healthy. But, it was all I could do just to get by.
And that day in my bedroom Trace was beautiful; naked in so many more ways than just physicality. But my anxiety had become the third person in the room: obstructive and ugly and invasive. Not for the first time, I wished that I was normal and that I could communicate.
It had been about three days since then and I'd been so busy communicating with the BB producers, making arrangements at home, and work that I hadn't spoken to Trace. Every hour I'd hoped I'd get a text, or a call. Instead,  he hadn't texted me, or called. On the way to the airport I'd caved and texted him, telling him I was leaving.
No reply.
I'd wanted to call and talk but I was also too afraid to hear what he was going to say.
The silence was freaking me out. Worse still, was the fact I should've just called him. I had three days to call him and instead I pretended I was too busy to do so.
So right there in the corner of the food court I decided I would call him. I put down the sub I was eating and positioned it back in its silver wrapping. I could do this. Just a phone call. He'll talk to me. My fingers shook as I pushed in the digits I had long ago memorized.
I held the phone to my ear, and my heart thundered as I waited for it to ring. Except, it didn't ring.
The mechanical voice of a woman filled the line, "We're sorry; you have reached a number that has been disconnected or is no longer in service. If you feel you have reached this recording in error, please check the number and try your call again," the voice rang out, but I didn't process it right away.
Disconnected? Disconnected how? Disconnected when? My mind flew into a whirl spin and I could feel my breaths beginning to come short. It felt like I couldn't get enough air as my thoughts hurtled. Had he blocked me? Is that what happened when you get blocked? All because we didn't sleep together? No, Trace wasn't like that. But, how well did I even know him? We'd been sort of dating for almost three months and I still didn't know what we were. At three months I'd already slept with Jeremy, sure maybe I'd been pressured, but he said being physical made a relationship real. Trace and I hadn't slept together, did that make our relationship less real?
I tried to count. I tried to calm down. I tried to remember how to breathe.
One, two, three. Inhale.
Hold it.
Three, two, one. Exhale.
I kept shooting air out of my nostrils until I felt like I could actually breathe again and was glad when my heart left panic attack territory. Maybe he hated me, but maybe he'd lost his phone, or gotten mugged...or worse.
I swallowed before entering my Facebook app and looking for Trace. We'd exchanged contact information weeks and weeks ago. But I never used my Facebook and I didn't have any other form of social media. I'd gotten rid of it after the media and reporters kept trying to get at my brother through me. Even my Facebook page was essentially skeletal. I was only friends with family members, distant friends from high school, university, people from work, even the crochet club I met with twice a month and of course, Manny.
As soon as I checked my messages I saw that I had almost ten messages from Trace. Damn, how hadn't I noticed any of this sooner?
Some messages were memes, and some shared posts, then a message that said 'I guess you don't really use fb, lol. 😓' Then, there were messages from the past few days:
—I used some website to make these fake messages for the story because it flows better with the way things are constructed right now. —
Fuck, why did I never use Facebook? Immediately, I typed a brief apology and dialed his new number which is how he had started off one of the earlier messages.
"Hello?" Trace's familiar voice said warily as he picked up. He had a voice that was low yet smooth; a soothing tenor that would have thrived on the radio. And when he was tired or agitated his voice got rough, not quite so smooth but equally as captivating.
"Hi," I said quietly, "It's me, Darius."
There was a heavy silence over the line before he spoke again, "Darius? Holy shit, you finally called me. I was really beginning to worry that something was wrong." The sound of his smile was doing funny things to my heart. "Are you at the airport already?"
"I'm sorry I didn't see your messages sooner, Trace. And yeah, I got here kind of early but I like being nearby. I'm checked in, just having some food at the food court."
"It's okay, you shouldn't be apologizing. And, about the last time we saw each other? I...want to talk about that."
I slouched a little further into my seat, my voice going soft. "I'm sorry I couldn't.... do it."
"Darius," Trace groaned in frustration, "No more apologies. When does your flight take off? Are you at Pearson or Porter or...?"
"I'm at Porter."
"Okay, good so you're just downtown. I'll leave work and give you a proper goodbye." His voice had a distant tone to it, as though he was simply checking things off a grocery list and like skipping out on work wasn't as big of a deal as I felt it was.
I couldn't explain just how much my heart swelled. "You don't have to—"
"Is your family there or you're not up for seeing me today?"
"It's just me, and I do want to see you, Trace. I just don't want you to go out of your way."
"You're never out of my way," Trace said softly.
There were a few seconds of silence before I numbly gave him the details of where I was, still in shock that he was willing to do that for me.
#
Trace's hug was bone crushingly tight in the best possible way. We rocked from side to side for a few seconds before Trace let go of me but stayed standing in front of me. We were in front of some seats nearby the departures area. He was just smiling at me and I was sort of loving it.
He squeezed my arm. "Hi, Darius."
"Hi, Trace." I said somewhat shyly, worried that something had changed or something was wrong. But, then I really focused on the way he was looking at me and I realized I couldn't be more wrong. His eyes were fond, lips quirked into a warm smile and he stood close enough to touch. Something in his body language spoke to wanting to be closer but I could also see that he was trying to give me the space I tended to radiate that I needed.
He had come straight from work and his outfit was more professional than usual; a baby blue button down long sleeved dress shirt that was neatly folded into his slacks and a bit snug on the biceps. Trace's hair was slicked back and he was wearing dress shoes. I wondered if shoes like that were comfortable with his prosthetic foot.
I raised a brow at his appearance, recognizing it as the most dressed up I'd seen him. He looked incredible, and in that moment I just wanted to lean down and kiss him. "You look really nice today," I murmured instead.
He let out a self-conscious laugh, sliding his hands down his chest. For a second, the movement made the fabric of the shirt stretch tight across his pecs. Immediately, I could see the outline of his barbell piercings plain as day before the shirt went back to hanging off his body and they disappeared from view. Fuck. Something about his piercings being in such an intimate area only just out of view was insanely hot. My throat was suddenly dry, and I directed my gaze to his eyes. Cool your jets, Darius, this is an airport.
"Oh this old thing?" Trace began slowly, "I had a storyboard presentation earlier today and I'm pretty sure they'll go with my narrative ideas for our next game. People tend to act surprised when I'm not wearing sweats, and they take my ideas more seriously when I dress up strategically."
Then that wonderful smile I loved to see was gone, replaced by something almost like sadness. Trace touched my arm again, squeezing tighter like he didn't want to let go. His voice was soft,  "I can't believe you're leaving."
"I can't believe you came to the airport." I said, looking down at his right hand which was pulling on my shirt sleeve.
Trace looked down at his hand as though he just realized he was holding on to me. Quickly, he cleared his throat and put his hands at his side. The two of us took our seats then and he slouched down into his seat before leaning affectionately against my shoulder. I felt like my shoulder was all bone and muscle but Trace seemed perfectly content against my side. "Sometimes, I wish you could understand what I see when I look you," he mumbled.
"What's that?" I asked, just wanting the warmth of his voice to wash over me.
He took a breath before tilting his head so that he was looking up at me. Like that I noticed the way his long lower lashes nearly teased against his skin. "You're weird, but adorable, and I like that I feel protected when you hug me. Not like I need protecting or any of that, but it's just really nice when someone gives me that feeling. I like spending time with you, I like kissing you, hugging you and I feel like we could do nothing together all day and I'd still have an amazing time. So when you didn't call, I thought maybe I'd done something wrong." Trace's voice shook for a second before it stabilized, "Wait, shit, no. I know I did something wrong. I can get really angry when I'm upset. I'm working on it." His voice was quiet but quick, and every now and then he would slow down before inevitably speeding up.
"I don't know how—" I didn't know how to talk about this. I bit the inside of my cheek, realizing I'd have to say it eventually. "I didn't want to sleep with you that day even though I'm into you, obviously. You're the most beautiful guy I've ever met. And I do want to do those things that normal couples do together because by now we should've already done all that. But, I'm just not ready. And I know it's—" I was going too fast and I had to stop just to take a breath. "I should've just gone through with it because that's what I've done before."
"Wait a second, you did all that just because you thought it was about time we had sex?" Trace's tone turned tender, "Oh, Darius, no. It doesn't have to be like that. We can decide what our normal is, okay? Who gives a fuck about prescribed relationship standards or how long it takes? It'll happen eventually, and organically and hopefully when you get back. Next time, I just want you to talk to me. Please," he said like he knew all the things I was hiding from him, "talk to me."
And then he gave me a half hug, raising his lips to my cheek to give me a kiss. The feel of his soft mouth against my skin made me want more but I wasn't one for PDA. The waiting area we were sitting at had a series of benches strewn about the room and we were in a corner. But, it was Trace, and he looked amazingly kissable so I closed my eyes and shifted my head, searching for his lips. Soon, there was the warm sensation of his mouth against mine and the kiss deepened for a second before he pulled back.
"Fuck, " Trace's voice got low. Then, he shook his head. "Wait, 'that's what I did before?' Are you talking about your last boyfriend?"
I edged away from Trace, closing my eyes for a second so I could try to calm down. My relationship with Jeremy had been like a sweater that was too tight around the arms, suffocating at the collar and loose around the stomach. Uncomfortable, but bearable and after it was on for a while it almost felt like it fit properly. But, then you realized the sweater was as uncomfortable as it was unflattering and why were you wearing it? Why were you wearing this stupid fucking sweater to begin with? This sweater that would never fit you, no matter which way you contorted your body, or how much you opened up the seams.
Trace touched my shoulder and I blinked, remembering that he was talking to me, remembering that he was asking about Jeremy. My shoulders had started to creep up around my ears and I forced myself to relax.
"I," I said, "I just agreed with him when he said it was about time, that I'd been withholding that from him and it didn't make any sense to wait. It just made sense when he said it like that."
Finally, I looked at Trace and he looked upset; some awful blend of anger and pity on his face. He looked like he didn't know what to say, lips parted but no sound coming out. Then, "God, Darius, he shouldn't have—"
I licked my lips, edging even further away from Trace until I could feel the arm rest of the seat biting into my side. "I shouldn't have let someone half my size affect me like that. And, can we stop talking about this, please?"
"I honestly wished I'd never said that. And yeah, of course, " he replied slowly.
I sat back in my seat and Trace leaned against my side. There were a few minutes of silence, and it was starting to hit me how much I would miss him.
"You're gonna bake their socks off, Darius." Trace said after a little while. "I'll still be here pining after you. That  certainly won't change over the next few months."
I swallowed before speaking, "Thank you."
Trace turned his head to look directly at me. "You don't have to say that."
"I do." I whispered, staring straight ahead and feeling like if I looked at him I'd tear up.
"When you get back, I'm going to take you on an amazing date." Trace's hand found my own and he interlaced our fingers together before squeezing tight. "We can order tacos, and do a puzzle or something at home, okay? So just, just know that I'll be here." He paused, "I'm focused on you, okay, Darius? No one else."
He squeezed my hand again, and I nodded. Happiness trickled out of me like a leaky faucet and I smiled so wide it felt like my cheeks would burst. But then, I looked back down between our interlaced fingers and a thought occurred to me.
I looked back over at Trace. "What are we?"
"Hmm?" He turned his pretty brown eyes over towards me.
"Like, we're dating, but," I said it more slowly, "what are we?"
Trace let out a small laugh, squeezing my hand while his brown eyes creased nicely. "You're my boyfriend."
His plain tone made me smile. "Well, I wasn't exactly aware of that."
"Oh. Well, now you know." But then Trace's voice softened, "was I supposed to ask you about that?"
He surprised me then by tilting his head up to mine and kissing me, mouth easily opening against mine until his tongue rolled against my own. This kiss was not a hello, or a goodbye, but a lot of things wrapped into one. But, most of all, it was hot. The slow, wet slide of his tongue against mine was a lot more sensual than it usually was and I was intimately aware of the side of Trace's body flush against my own. It was like Trace's body was crafted out of equal parts granite and soft squishiness. I wanted to know everything about both parts.
His mouth came away from mine with a soft smack and he hummed contentedly. Trace licked his wet, pink, full lips. Then, his gaze meandered down my face, slid down my chest and stopped somewhere around my lap.
I flushed, crossing one of my legs over the other.
Trace's voice was nearly a whisper, "Are you a top or a bottom?"
That made me look around our little seat section and when I saw it was still empty, I relaxed. "Trace..." I said slowly.
He reached over and squeezed my knee. The touch sent an electric shock through my body and I fidgeted, feeling like this was the worst time for me to feel like this. All hot and bothered when I was leaving.
"C'mon, I have to keep my imagination going somehow while you're away," Trace teased. His smile was wide and perfect and his voice was honey.
"I'm a top."
Trace exhaled like he'd been holding a breath. "Oh, thank God. I mean, I didn't want to assume or anything or ascribe outdated ideas of masculinity onto you just because you're big and bl—" he cleared his throat, cheeks tinting almost pink. "I didn't want to assume anything and a lot of the time people think I'm a top because of my attitude and others assume I'm supposed to be a bottom because of 'Asian fragility' but what I mean to say if I can manage not to royally fuck up my words is that I'm a bottom so I'm glad you're a top."
I didn't say anything for a little over a second. It was definitely surprising that Trace was a bottom. I mean, I never liked to assume anything about anyone, but...Damn.
Trace frowned. "Shit, did I say something offensive?"
I laughed awkwardly. "I just hadn't realized you'd been thinking about it so much."
He gasped. "You haven't?"
I could barely get passed the idea of Trace  seeing me naked, never mind what we would do once we got there. My cheeks started to burn and to my surprise Trace raised his palm to my cheek.
He blinked before his eyes went wide. "You're...blushing. Fuck, I did say something. What was it?"
I turned my cheek until he lowered his hand. "I've been thinking of a lot of stuff," I started, "but I never get quite that far."
"How far do you get?"
My anxiety was kind of where it all ended and began. But even now I just couldn't get the words out and I hated myself just a little more.
"Never as far as I should get. Trace, listen, when I get back— I need to tell you something important."
Trace blinked before touching my arm. "What about now?"
"Now?" A bit of fear filled my voice and Trace's expression only became more confused.
"Yeah," he prodded, "just tell me now?"
"Now?" I said again, a little more out of breath and a lot more panicked.
"Darius, we're going in circles. Wouldn't you rather just get whatever it is off your chest? I know I haven't shown it lately but I can be a good listener."
My eyes welled with tears and I raised my hands to rub at them. But the tears just spilled over anyways. My heart started to hammer and I started to feel sick at the thought of telling him the truth.
Trace made small startled noises beside me. "Darius, what's wrong?"
Before I knew it he was gently pulling my hand out of my face and dabbing at my eyes with a tissue. I wasn't sure how he'd gotten it out so quickly but it felt oddly intimate for him to be wiping my tears for me. I closed my eyes and gnawed on my lip. Trace continued to dab at my eyes and my cheeks.
"I won't ask," he said eventually.
"Ask what?"
"Whatever it is, you'll tell me when you're ready. And I'm okay with that."
My heart did that awkward flip flop where it reminded me I was never sure about what I wanted.
"I have anxiety," I whispered.
Trace's brows rose. "About the show? Well of course you would, it seems pretty anxiety inducing to me. Cameras being shoved in my face while I try to cook seems like a special kind of stress."
"No," I said closing my eyes and unable to look at him, "I m— I mean. I have, like— Well, it's called...a panic disorder." I swallowed, dragging my hands down my face and trying to breathe. "I have a panic disorder. I—" But, then it started to feel like something was stuck in my throat and it was just too much having Trace right there about to witness me freak out.
I lowered my head down to my thighs and covered my head as tremors traversed down my body. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Worst time this could possibly happen. Right in front of Trace. And it was worse than usual because I could begin to hear myself hyperventilating. And then I started thinking about what would happen if security came and all the horror stories I'd heard about people having panic attacks and law enforcement or security not understanding. And I was in public. In public, in front of Trace. I just needed space. I needed to find air.
Then, I felt something scraping against my back, and Trace's voice way too close to my skin. "Hey, it's alright," he said. It seemed like he was rubbing my back.
But, I couldn't stand to be touched when I was freaking out, so I angled my body away, shaking my head. I tried to count but my tongue wouldn't work.
"Can you go?" I got out.
Trace's voice felt impossibly loud, "Go?"
The hurt filled shock was breaking my heart. But I continued, "A few minutes. Please...Please, go."
Trace sounded hurt and confused and I hated it. "Darius, I can't just leave you like this. I don't understand. I can't do that to you."
I shook my head, getting up quickly. "Okay then, stay. I'll j—just— I'll be back." And then I got up and headed straight for the accessible washroom I had located nearby my sitting area. Washrooms were my go to space if I was in public and freaking out and all these years of being fucked up always made me look at a space and see where I could privately freak out. At this point it was instinctive.
Trace was calling my name but I ran the twenty or so feet over to the washroom, yanked it open and closed the door.
The washroom was huge. It took me a couple seconds to close the toilet lid and sit down. The familiar feeling of panicking in a washroom allowed me to finally get the words out to start counting. I counted until I felt like I could see again and my breaths started coming even.
By the time I'd washed my face, my hands and calmed down, I was too afraid to leave the washroom. It was an awkwardly familiar space and going back out with Trace would just be awkwardly foreign.
Trace had seen the thing I'd been hiding from since we met. How on Earth was I supposed to face him now?