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If you asked Danny how it started, he’d probably say it was Charlie’s fault.
Which, to be fair, if you’re going to place blame, you should probably put it on the desk of the teacher who assigned the project in the first place. Because while Charlie did indeed get unusually invested in this particular school project, growing plants from seed had not been his idea to begin with.
And while we’re at it: moving said plants from the paper towel and glass jar situation to the small windowsill pots (lovingly selected from seventeen different options at the open air market) was not Charlie’s idea, but his dad’s. And certainly the larger pots, on the back deck, was none other than that same dad’s notion. And yes, he was attempting to encourage the botanical interests of his child, and probably also to show he himself was capable of keeping something alive full time (you know, in case it ever came up, and he needed proof that yes he could in fact be a full-time dad and not just a Wednesdays-and-every-other-weekend dad).
But the ten by twelve foot wood planked raised bed Danny built with his own hands, filled with soil and amendment carefully mixed by his own hands, and fitted with soaker hoses to make watering not just easier, but better for the sturdy and deeply rooted growth of the plants… well at that point even Danny had to admit, that’s when it started to be more for himself.
And yes, once the rows of three types of tomatoes and a hearty mix of spring greens, not to mention two types each of parsley and basil, were well-established and needing wrangling as much as weeding, having a task to accomplish on those childless weekends (not to mention all the days of the week not-Wednesday) was a soothing and helpful thing.
But genuinely. (And beyond some kind of “hey it’d be nice to make Grandma’s sauce from tomatoes I grew myself just like her grandmother had done.”) It turned out Danny genuinely enjoyed getting his hands dirty.
Yeah, honestly no one was more surprised by that one than Danny himself.
Well. Maybe Steve.
Thing is, Steve had missed the whole jars and pots on kitchen windowsills portion of the program. He’d been busy with some city council subcommittee he’d been asked to serve on and hadn’t been to Danny’s in a while. He’d even missed the big pots on the deck part of the show. That had been during the planning process for a youth sports fundraiser he’d agreed to help manage. And no one was more sorry than he that he’d been absent for the shirtless construction of the new bed. At that point, he’d simply not been aware that such a miraculous occurrence was occurring.
By the time Steve was clued in to the agricultural revolution happening in the back yard of his best friend’s house, the pre-existing tomato plants that had started it all were cozily nestled in their new beds, and the lettuce starts and basil seedlings had been growing for a while and even pinched back (and made use of) a couple of times.
And the importance of the timing of all this, that’s no doubt important to the progression of the story, is this: that by that point, Danny had been fully immersed in the process for a good long while, and any slightly awkward or uncertain stages he might have gone through (the biggest was the move from inside watering to outside watering, that had been honestly terrifying for weeks), any stumbling transitory phase (like the decision that “okay fine these are my gardening clothes now,” or the “right, the ugly clog shoes actually make sense to me now,” right up to the “hey the pockets on the smock make it easier to harvest the herbs”) had all been well resolved.
In other words. By the time Steve started hanging out in Danny’s back yard, drinking beer, and watching Danny tend his garden… well, to be frank, by that point, the man was an absolute sight to behold. Utterly comfortable and at home with his torn pants, muddy shoes, calloused fingers, well-worn trowel, and full to the brim compost bin.
And it’s not like Steve has a competency kink or anything. But. Yeah okay, he’s maybe got a bit of a “Danny doing things proficiently” kink. That’s probably fair to say.
So it will be unsurprising to learn that, within just a few weeks of Steve discovering Danny’s new hobby, it became a thing of near certainty, that Saturdays when Danny’s kids were with their mom, Steve was just as sure to be parked out in Danny’s yard watching him garden. And later that evening, a sure thing for him to be seated at Danny’s kitchen counter, sipping wine and sneaking bites of super fresh produce, while Danny cooked and canned sauces and stewed tomatoes.
“You could actually help, you know,” Danny blurts out one such evening, as Steve’s just snatched another large chunk of tomato from Danny’s cutting board. Which, bold of him, given Danny’s (chef’s) knife skills.
Steve grins. “I am helping,” he retorts.
“By making fewer tomatoes for the sauce?” Danny asks around his glass, which is distressingly now empty of wine.
Stealing another tomato piece, Steve slides his (still full) wine glass across the counter to his parched partner.
Eyeing the offering over the rim of his own empty vessel, Danny sighs. Sets his glass down, picks Steve’s up. “Okay. That’s helpful. Thanks.” And he takes a big sip. And does not pass the glass back to Steve, who then gets up and takes Danny’s glass over to the table where the bottle sits, safely out of the way of tomatoes and knives and the potential errant spray of acidic juice.
He refills Danny’s glass, but keeps it for himself.
“Just me being here helps,” Steve continues. “I provide the encouragement, the tester, the wine refiller.” He lifts the glass towards Danny in a sort of mock toast. He knows he’s not helping. He gets far more out of these days and nights than Danny does. But he can’t let that be known. It’s far too revealing.
“The Thai food delivery orderer?” Danny suggests. And yeah he’s probably testing Steve. Seeing how far his supposed helpfulness will extend.
And that’s a no brainer as far as Steve’s concerned. Although he would order anything Danny asked without the possibility of a tangible reward, he can’t let that be obvious either, so: “If it means you make more of that delicious sauce, then yes,” and he picks his phone up off the wine bottle table and places their usual “Weekend at Danny’s” order (which is more extravagant than their weeknight order, unless it’s been One of Those Days, of course).
When he gets off the phone, and turns to announce it’ll be an hour before it’s ready, he looks up at Danny and sees his favorite chef leaning against the counter, wine glass casually in hand the way Steve’s never figured out how to manage, apron slightly stained with tomato juice, knife resting against the bamboo board, discarded skins of garlic and onion curling next to leaves of basil yet to be separated from their stems. It’s a sight of which Steve’ll never tire. One that had been all too rare before the Great Gardening Endeavor. It tickles something deep in his gut, an impulse he’s been trying to ignore for several weeks now.
Something tells him that’s no longer going to be possible.
“‘Kay,” he says slowly, split momentarily between figuring out why Danny’s stopped his work, and delighted to have the attention all on himself. Up to now, tonight the veg has gotten the handling and care Steve can no longer deny he wants for himself. “Why’d you stop?” He breathes.
“I never used to like it when you assumed my order,” Danny muses.
And it’s true. They, once upon a time, argued (sometimes at great length) each and every time they ordered. Especially if Steve placed an order (usually tauntingly) without consulting the wishes of his partner. Then one time Steve just got each and every dish he knew full well Danny wanted, and left it at that. And they haven’t argued since.
The thing is. When it comes to Thai food. Danny’s favorites actually ended up becoming Steve’s favorites. Not like he tried, or anything. He just gradually found himself favoring the same dishes Danny did, and enjoying his own former favorites less.
Fortunately, he’d caught it before Danny noticed, and mostly he managed to hide it. So maybe when he’d finally simply swapped his yellow chicken and potato curry for a double serving of Danny’s red curry with fish, Danny’d felt the thrill of victory. The larger batch meaning not just more fish, but more sauce, the better for drenching the rice in, and Danny’s favorite part of the meal (especially when he’s in need of extra comfort).
Steve gets that. His version is probably stealing Danny’s discarded crusts of garlic bread and using them to sop up the residual tomato sauce from the bottom of his pasta bowl.
To be clear. It’s not like Steve minded the arguing. He loves to needle at Danny, get his reaction. Push till he reacts. Steve loves the full focus of Danny’s attention fixed and continuing, unabated, on him. Witness—he even gets jealous of tomatoes.
But more than that, more than getting Danny’s attention even if it’s a negative-ish form, Steve has come to love pampering Danny. Finding little ways of making him happy. Little things he can do, some of which maybe Danny doesn’t even recognize. Things that lighten his load, bring a little extra pep or perk. He’s probably been doing it more and more lately, though mostly he’s tried to be subtle and slow with it, so as to not make Danny wary or curious. He’s not sure why Danny’s picked up on it now.
If he’d been a little more astute he might have realized it probably has something to do with his recent willingness to spend his weekends watching Danny garden, bring him iced tea and sandwiches, order his favorite Thai food whilst refilling his wine glass. (He wouldn’t even have to be all that astute. It has frankly become kind of obvious.)
The way Danny’s watching him, all intent and still, starts to make him uneasy. But in that really good way. His toes curl and spread against the cool tile floor, aware in that strange way that standing up feels precarious. He feels his hands get damp, then sticky, so he sets his phone back down.
Which is just good timing on his part because when he looks back up, Danny’s right in his space. Right like he sometimes complains about Steve being all “Mr No Sense of Personal Space.” Steve doesn’t step back, but it takes effort not to lean forward. Danny’s wineglass (well, Steve’s former wineglass) isn’t in Danny’s hand anymore and Steve’s not sure when that happened.
The reason for the absence of glassware soon becomes apparent, when Danny’s hands reach for either side of Steve’s face, and pull him down and into a searing kiss.
A kiss!
And okay, Steve is not what anyone would consider the swooning type, and Steve does not have what he considers to be an overly active imagination, but he’s had dreams about this moment. Literal nighttime dreams. Try as he might, he’s never been able to invoke such a scene of his own volition. But unbidden, in the depths of night, he has gloriously experienced this before.
Only it was nothing like this.
This is assertive. Claiming. Almost taunting, like Danny is challenging him. What will you do with this? Not for him the romantic seeking of permission, the slow lean in, the build up of anticipation. But a bold ask. No, a demand. Taking. A taking—of what he’s wanted? Steve hopes so. Oh, he hopes so.
When Danny releases him, it’s just as sudden, the lack is almost painful, and Steve must whimper because Danny’s concern is immediate.
“Sorry. That was… I should have asked. I…”
“God no,” Steve whispers hoarsely, touching his lips as if he could prove what had just happened by feeling them. “But you could ask now,” he adds.
There’s barely a pause before Danny says: “Do you want me to kiss you?” And that is not how Steve’s usually heard that worded, and yet—
“Please,” Steve says, and yes it’s needy and pleading because that’s how he feels, and he knows it’s the right response right away because Danny grabs his face, even rougher this time, and this time the kiss is even filthier, and good lord it’s the most amazing thing ever.
When he finally is released by Danny, Steve knows with absolute certainty: his life has been irrevocably changed. He’s a completely new person, his life will forever be divided into pre- and post- kiss. Nothing will ever be the same.
Even the food, when it arrives, seemingly moments (yet somehow an hour) later, tastes different. That’s entirely possibly because his blood pressure is soaring, and Danny is looking at him with a constantly changing swirl of expressions that vary between awe and excitement and doubt and hunger.
Their post-dinner kisses taste of curry and ginger and lemongrass, but the shower kisses are sudsy and minty and sweet.
Once they hit the bed, quite literally, everything tilts. Kisses become bites become searching and exploring and delving and devouring. Turns are fought over, claims are staked, metaphorical flags planted, territories proclaimed. Those kisses, tasting of each other, of ecstasy, of desire and longing too long denied, suppressed, are bittersweet and bitter, to be washed away with soothing, peace-making, promise-filled kisses: I love you, I need you, like this, forever, no longer pretending this isn’t us, what we are, what we need, where we belong.
Long after, when the shock has subsided, Danny laughs.
“I should thank Charlie’s teacher,” he says, turning on his side to run his fingers through Steve’s chest hair, Steve’s new favorite way of being touched by Danny (well, other than the obvious).
“I’m sorry?” Steve is hazy from sex and figures he’s misunderstood.
“The tomatoes. It all started as a science project.”
Steve feels a lazy grin spread across his face. “All in the name of science, huh? Guess I’d better run a few more experiments…” and he puts his grin to better use, drawing affirmations of his scientific method from his partner’s kiss-stung lips.