Page 57 of Snow Storm

Claude took his time peeling away the tape until Harley squirmed and yelled at him to rip it, so he did. He clawed his fingers and destroyed his lover’s hard work. The paper fell in a neat pile at his feet, and he found himself staring down at a book.

It was older, a little worn around the edges. The cover was sort of abstract in a way he rarely saw at bookshops. Hands clinging on to each other that looked to be drawn in pencil. Then he noticed the title:This and Every Moment After, by Harley James.

“This is yours,” he said very quietly, not looking up.

“Yeah.” Harley cleared his throat. “My first book ever written. It’s the only copy I have in print. It’s only sold like a hundred and fifty copies since it was published, so you’re not holding a bestseller or anything. No publisher wanted it, but it was…I don’t know. It was the book my heart wanted me to write. I thought it would never see the light of day, so I sat on it for a long time, but then I decided to publish it myself. I kept it inmy name because it was mine. It wasn’t anything for R.J. Ruiz, if that makes sense. No one knows it’s me who wrote this. I’ve never shown anyone this before.”

That must have been his pen name, but Claude had never asked about it. “Why not use your real name for everything else?”

Harley licked his lips and hugged himself around the middle. Claude half regretted asking, but he also wanted to know all the good and bad about this man. “Part of it was spite, I think. Ruiz is the last name my mom took when she was adopted. She never believed in me. She did her absolute best to beat the idea of becoming an author out of me, and it hurt. She spent years telling me I wasn’t any good, that I didn’t have enough talent or charisma, that it was a waste of everyone’s time. So when my book got picked up by a big publisher, they asked me what I wanted to go by, and I thought of her. It was kind of a fuck-you, look at me, Ma. You know?”

Claude chuckled. “I think I get it.”

“It’s also for my abuela though. She adopted my mom from rough circumstances. My mom, uh…they’re not blood related. She was the neighbor’s kid, and yeah. It wasn’t a good situation. She took my mom in and gave her a home and her name. But I think what my mom went through kind of…fucked her up? She never recovered, no matter how hard she was loved. But my abuela loved me. She believed in me. She died way before I was an adult, but she told me never to give up. So I didn’t. So the name kind of goes both ways.”

“And this book?—”

“I kept Harley James for my dad,” he said softly. “My mom picked my first name, but my dad said it made me unique and special, even when kids made fun of me for it. I wanted this book to reflect that part of me. The part who was loved.”

“Thank you for sharing that,” Claude told him softly. His life seemed so simple compared to what Harley had experienced.

He traced the swooping font of the title, then the block text of Harley’s name. It was strange to see it there on a book cover—tangible, physical proof that Harley had a big, important life outside of all this.

He felt insignificant in ways he couldn’t explain. Too small for a man like Harley, who deserved so much. And yet, Harley wanted him. He’d chosen him.

And he’d given him this book. His only copy.

He was more than touched. His eyes got a little hot, and he blinked a few times before he looked up.

“I love it.” His voice was raw and ragged. He knew what this meant—the trust Harley had in him. He didn’t know what to say. Everything he’d done and given now seemed to pale in comparison.

“You haven’t even read it,” Harley said with a small, uncomfortable laugh.

Claude set the book down in his lap and pulled Harley in for a kiss. “I don’t have to love the writing—though I suspect I will. I love what this means to you and why you gave it to me.”

“I just wanted you to see this part of who I am. I’m not ashamed of what I write now. I love what I write now. I also love that it pays my bills,” he added with a small laugh. Claude kissed him for that too. “But this was a piece of me that very few people get to see, and…I don’t know. It just felt right.”

“I feel ashamed for what I got you now,” Claude said.

Harley groaned, easing back away from him. “You’re not allowed to judge yourself for whatever this is,” Harley said, patting the wrapped things in his lap. “We didn’t know we were going to meet.”

“No,” Claude offered quietly. “I suppose we didn’t.”

A beat of silence passed, and then Harley tore at the wrappings with a lot more enthusiasm and a lot less care than Claude had gone at his. It made him smile. The paper hit the floor, and Harley stared down at the bound journal in his lap.

There was slight embossing on the cover, and the pages were thick vellum. He opened the cover and traced the wordJournalin calligraphic script.

“For your thoughts,” Claude said softly. “Book thoughts or…other things. I noticed you don’t always seem to feel comfortable expressing yourself aloud the way you might want to. So…if it’s easier…you can tell your journal all the things you want.”

“With you?” Harley asked, looking up at him.

Claude swallowed heavily as he had a sudden mental picture of pages and pages written in Harley’s neat handwriting, full of all the things he secretly desired. A road map of how to bring him the most mind-blowing pleasure.

He licked his lips. “With me. If you like.”

“I would. I want to be able to tell you what’s inside my head when you’re touching me. I want to be able to tell you how I want it—what makes me feel good. I just get so…so stuck.”

Claude took the journal off his lap and set it to the side, drawing Harley back into his arms. “You show me with your body,” he murmured. “With your soft sounds.” He traced a line down Harley’s throat, making him shiver, a whispered moan escaping his lips. “With the way you move. The way your breath hitches in your chest and the way you lean into me like you’re desperate for my touch. I’m learning to read you, and I’ll be fluent soon enough.”

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