That was the most bizarre and moving revelation of the night, followed closely by—if Matt was ever going to love anyone, if he was not already in love with someone, then it would be Santi.
Of course it would be Santi. Santi should know that, at least, although it was obviously hopeless.
Matt rested his hand on Santi’s shoulder until some of Santi’s tension slipped away. “My offer of tea still stands.”
“I’m sober right now,” Santi informed him flatly.
Matt knew that. “Yes?”
He got a small sigh. “And apparently a masochist. So yes, why not have tea in the guest house with you?”
Matt nodded jerkily. “Why not?” he agreed, then fell back on politeness when a smile split his face. “Do you need to say good night to anyone?”
Santi made a disdainful noise that Matt took for a ‘No.’ The weight of his stare made it difficult for Matt to think clearly, or breathe, or make his way to the patio and then the path to the guest house.
The night was growing even colder, dew starting to sparkle on the metal furniture. If Santi had a jacket, he didn’t appear to care about it. Matt glanced toward the house as they passed the patio. It was still lit up. He briefly wondered if everyone had gone home but he wasn’t going to go look. He’d wind up being assigned an errand, or a favor, or a task. Then all this would be over.
He reached back, making sure Santi was with him, and had a night-before-Christmas thrill to realize Santi was there, trailing behind him for some strange reason.
Matt stopped and turned around.
Santi stared up at him, curious or impatient and freezing. His ponytail looked secure yet some curls had already slipped down over one eye.
Matt reached out to tuck them behind Santi’s ear. Santi’s skin was cool, but warmer where Matt’s fingers brushed it. The lights along the path allowed Matt to see the dark pools of Santi’s eyes and the way the amused quirk at his lips melted into softness when Matt touched him.
“You’re staring,” Santi whispered, and it was also strange that Santi would whisper. No one was around to hear them. Or see them. They were around the corner of the pool house now, out of sight of anyone in the main house.
“I spend a lot of time not staring.” Every truth was easier and easier to say. Tomorrow would be dangerous. Better that Matt avoid his family for as long as he could, then. Which was no hardship.
“And now you get to?” Santi shivered a little. “Atme?” he asked doubtfully. “You realize you are very handsome, and you live in a town filled with the beautiful rich? Or is that it? I’m interesting in comparison?”
“I like looking at you,” Matt revealed, and felt shamefully self-indulgent. “You do a lot of things with your face and your hands. Sometimes, I’m not sure what they mean, but I think that’s because I don’t allow myself to wonder.”
“Jesus,” Santi breathed. He let out a broken laugh. “Matthew, you can’t just…”
“You think you can’t be loved or something.” Matt nearly scowled. “But I think, if I were capable of loving anyone, it would be you. You’re my best friend,” Matt told him while Santi’s mouth went soft again and Santi watched him without a sound. Santi was Matt’s only close friend, although Matt got along with most of his coworkers, had even been invited to a baby shower or two, a simple wedding, birthday drinks. Those were friends too, as much as anyone could be friends with someone who was related to their boss. “I don’t think it would take much,” Matt added thoughtfully. “I could be in love with you now. I could have been for years. I really wouldn’t know unless I delve into my feelings, and there doesn’t seem any point to that. But I thought you should hear it. You still want tea?”
“Tea?” Santi asked, lost. “I—yes. Sure. Tea. In your home.”
“The guest house,” Matt corrected, although Santi didn’t care about that.
“With you,” Santi finished as though Matt hadn’t spoken. “Unlike you, I delve quite a bit, constantly, but somehow I am still surprised.” He slid his hand over part of Matt’s arm as if wanting to reassure himself it was truly there.
“You’re getting cold.” Matt took hold of Santi’s hand and tugged it gently, leading Santi farther down the path when Santi seemed frozen.
They passed under the lemon tree and through the hedged garden around the front of the small guest house before Santi spoke again, and that was only to say, “Matt,” in an almost exasperated voice before he pulled his hand free.
Matt opened the door and went in first to turn on the lights, leaving it open for Santi to follow. He thought Santi did; he heard the door close, heard Santi lean against it and sigh quietly.
Matt went into the kitchen, decided it was neat enough, and started to fill the kettle with water. Electric kettles were a godsend.
He knew when Santi came to stand in the doorway and watch him. He couldn’t say how he did, except that he was used to Santi watching him. Santi didn’t do it like other people did. His gaze wasn’t critical. It was warm.
“Bathroom’s down the hall by the bedroom. Washer/dryer and pantry are behind that door in the corner. Living room leads out to more of the garden, on the other side of the house. It’s practically a cottage, according to Camille.” Matt tossed Santi a smile as he explained the layout, although his stomach trembled and his pulse wouldn’t slow down. Santi stared at him, the same way he always did, steady and still warm. Hungry.
Matt fumbled the tin of tea leaves, nearly dropping the lid.
“You’re really making me tea,” Santi observed with another quiet sigh.
