the journal of r. cooper

Jess donated to the HRC, and requested some Scott and Cole. Oh, those two. I meant to do a futurefic, but it’s not exactly that. Sorry.

The first time Cole saw Scott Yun, he was at his kitchen sink and looking out the window while he filled his kettle with water. His French press was on the island behind him, along with the bag of beans Cole had yet to grind. Weekend mornings, he liked the ritual of setting out a cup and saucer, preparing the coffee with cream and sugar, and then sitting down in the living room to read while he drank it.

He had tried to sip his coffee at the kitchen table once or twice, but the empty seat across from him wouldn’t let him read in peace. Eric, had he been there, would have been scolding him for not going out, for becoming an old, scared queen who hid his head in his books.

Maybe to escape Eric’s voice, Cole had been thinking of abandoning his weekend morning tradition, perhaps having his coffee at the nicer coffee shop in town.

He was dwelling almost nervously on this idea when movement in the street outside caught his eyes. Joggers sometimes went past, this was nothing new, and yet Cole stopped. Cold water poured over his hand, a misjudgment that startled him, but didn’t distract him for more than a moment.

The jogger wasn’t especially tall, or broad, but every inch of him was muscle. That in itself was nothing. Cole had never been very into gym bunnies or bodybuilders. Too much bulk, not enough brains.

But he stared at this one, even while his mind registered the red athletic shirt and the black basketball shorts that screamed straight. Maybe it was that this one had warm brown skin with gold undertones, and muscles that spoke more of fitness than steroids. Or maybe it was that he was faintly smiling as he ran, which seemed ludicrous. No one enjoyed jogging that much.

But Cole thought, as the man passed his home at an even speed and then continued steadily on his way, that the jogger was just a man, and he was lonely, and there was no other reason for him to catch his eye.

And with that, he’d put the kettle on the stove, and gone to grind his beans.

The first time Cole really saw Scott Yun, the world was spinning with a little too much wine—chardonnay, because he was at that sort of party. He was on a bench in a very nice garden, next to an incredibly beautiful man, which Cole did not think was the wine, because he had seen this man before.

This man, this straight man, who laughed with his bros from the firehouse, and jogged past Cole’s house every weekend on the same, sure path, was beautiful. His body was strong in a way that made Cole’s blood pump faster, and his cheekbones were the sort of sharp perfection that should have put him in magazines.

Or in porn. God knew, it would have been so much easier to find Scott Yun waiting for him on his laptop screen than next to him in real life.

In real life, Scott laughed easily, and the sound was husky and a little shy. His body was warm, and his dress shirt didn’t fit him nearly as well as his T-shirt from the firehouse. He listened, quiet, his expression attentive, and put his hand on Cole’s knee once, when Cole foolishly spoke of Eric.

Cole was too old to be excited by something so innocent. The spike that went through him was more than lust, but he shook it off and drowned the rest of his fears in wine. He told himself, very firmly, that it was desire, and then that it was harmless desire when Scott leaned toward him and smiled wider and watched him with dark-eyed interest.

But he trembled, not with cold, and not with need, and swayed lightly and bumped Scott as they walked. Scott laughed again, and held Cole stay up despite listing to the side himself. Cole was feverish, dizzy and hot this close to someone gutwrenchingly beautiful. He was giddy. He smiled too much and wouldn’t shut up and if he fell, it was wonderful because Scott would catch him.

He thought, look at this beautiful man, he cannot be real. This cannot be real. This was the wine and the loneliness and the scent of flowers at night making Scott into more than he was.

And then Scott begged Cole to kiss him, so he did, and Scott drew him inside and got on his knees, and whatever Scott Yun thought he was, he was exquisite and terrifying, so Cole had done the only thing he could think to do.

He ran.

He wasn’t obsessed with Scott. He wasn’t trying to find him everywhere, not at first. Watching for Scott was a way to avoid running into him.

At least, in the beginning. That’s what Cole insisted to himself, and sometimes to his husband’s amused voice in his ear.

Of course, then Scott wasn’t straight or confused or closeted at all, and hadn’t been. Then he would see Scott with his reusable bags buying health food for himself and sugary treats for his niece and nephew. He’d see Scott pick them up from school, always smiling, always listening. He watched him entertain children at safety fairs with the others from the fire department, and perform first aid more than once, because the fire department was closer than the nearest ambulance service. Scott used his husky, pleasant voice to joke with his coworkers while at the grocery store, and smiled at service workers, and tipped well, and knew everyone’s names.

He was infuriating. And terrifying. And exquisite. And no matter how much he should hate Cole, he always gave Cole a nod, or said hello.

Cole would nod back, and feel extraordinarily stupid for hesitating over his answer.

It wasn’t about watching for Scott as much as it was about watching Scott. Because if Cole had needed to know for certain that he didn’t deserve anyone as remarkable as Scott, he only had to see him, gleaming with perspiration and awash in sparkling morning sunlight, beaming a tired smile at everyone in sight as he walked into the coffee shop, to know that he was a ridiculous coward.

It didn’t stop him from coming to the coffee shop at the same time every week, but it allowed him to stay where he was, and glance at Scott over the top of his book, and feel that terrible stirring in his stomach from a safe and reasonable distance.

Up close, it was difficult to not look at Scott, and notice that when he stared, Scott would always glance away first. Cole burned with aroused jealousy one moment and then smug pleasure that everyone in that bar had seen what he’d seen when he looked at Scott. He was still aroused, body thrumming a little with heat and excitement to have witnessed that, and then to have Scott close. But he was angry, in a strange way, not his usual indignant anger. A low, simmering kind of anger, at everyone, or people he thought were friends, or at himself.

Look at you, he said, giving away everything. Scott turned, and shrugged easily, and went back to his bros, while Cole was struck dumb. If Scott had been less, it might not have happened.

He followed of course, and when he went from watching Scott to seeking him out to watch him, Cole said it again, Look at you, and knew Scott didn’t understand. That was all that saved him.

Which was a dramatic thought, but Cole had never been very good at dealing with his emotions.

The first time Scott Yun looked back at Cole with immeasurable warmth and happiness in his pretty eyes, Cole momentarily forgot his cat’s name. The first time Scott beamed a smile like sunshine at him from across a crowded coffee shop, Cole burnt his tongue on his coffee. When Scott first sat next to him in public, shy and unsure with so many eyes on them, stars had exploded in Cole’s chest. The knots in his stomach unraveled with Scott’s hand over his on top of the bar in the Saratoga. He was too old to feel that way, too weak, but Scott smiled for all of it, too forgiving and strong and beautiful, too smart not to know now what Cole meant.

Look at you, Cole could whisper, and Scott would duck his head or cast his gaze elsewhere, until Cole closed his eyes and said it again. Look at you, in place of what he should be saying.

The last time Cole said it—or, at least the last time Cole said it in place of what he really meant, Scott was laid out beneath him in his bed, wearing only a sheet and the rays of yellow sunlight that seemed to seek him out wherever he went.

Cole gazed down at him, and the tiny, faint frown that meant Scott was worrying, and the gleaming curves of muscle, and the soft give at Scott’s stomach that hadn’t been there a few months before.

Look at you, Cole told him, and Scott had closed his eyes as if in denial.

So Cole ran his hands over him; ran his palms over his chest and his biceps and the sweetness of that stomach that meant so many of Cole’s cookies had been enjoyed, and then said, I love you, in as low and heartfelt a whisper as he could muster.

Scott, this beautiful, terrifying man, opened his eyes wide, and then smiled, and Cole thought it might have been Scott’s smile that had drawn Cole to him all along.

So he smiled back, and then leaned down to kiss him.