The Quarantine Diary of Adam Garrett [mxm]

Day 11

After a day of work for me and a day of... whatever Brad was doing out there, we had tacos for dinner and then it was haircut time.

"How do you want to do this?" Brad asked. "In the bathroom?"

I grabbed a chair and sat it in the middle of the most open space in the living room. "Right here. It'll be easiest to sweep up all the hair."

"Shirt on or off?" he asked.

I wouldn't have been opposed to shirt-off, but I knew what it was like to have to clean up hair. So... "Shirt on, and go grab a towel, too."

He sat down in the chair and I draped the towel over his shoulders, tucking it into his t-shirt collar. I grabbed my grooming kit and asked what he wanted.

"I don't know, whatever you want. I trust you. Give me the Adam Garrett special."

It felt nice for him to say my whole name. I was glad he was facing the other direction so he couldn't see my smile.

So I cut his hair. I cut my own hair sometimes, and I've gotten pretty good at it. I don't just mean buzzing it all off. I cut it short on the sides and keep it longer on top, letting my big stupid curl at the front be free. I did the same for Brad: trimmed the back and sides very short and faded it up, only cutting the top with scissors to keep the length under control.

Once most of his hair was shaved short, I could see that the freckles on his shoulders and the back of his neck continue up onto his scalp. Brad's hair is thick and wavy. The front flips up on its own once it's trimmed down in a really adorable way.

"What's so funny?" he asked as I stood in front of him and combed my fingers through the front, styling it as best I could. I knew I had a big, fat grin on my face. Brad's was growing as he watched mine.

"It flips up in the front," I said. "That's so cute."

Yes. I said that. As soon as it slipped out, I stood and circled back to work from behind him. Brad acted like he hadn't heard that. My face was on fire.

"I've always hated it," he said. "I couldn't have emo bangs back in the day, which was a real cramp in my style, let me tell you."

"You were emo?" I snorted.

"Skinny jeans and all," he said.

I said, "I'd like to see that."

"It's so embarrassing. I was an appalling emo kid. My hair just wouldn't do the thing."

"It does its own thing," I said.

"That it does."

Then I was done. I brushed as much of the hair on the towel as possible onto the floor, and then I carefully pulled the towel away.

"Take off your shirt and put it in the wash," I told him, "and then you might want to jump in the shower just to make sure all the little hairs are gone."

He hopped off the chair and took his shirt off in one smooth movement, like something from a teen movie. It may as well have happened in slow motion.

He has freckles on his shoulders, too.

I turned around and busied myself in the kitchen as he went into the bathroom. He called back, "This looks great! You did an amazing job, Adam."

Ugh, when he says my name... my stomach clenches. A wave comes over me. I stuttered out "thanks!" but I probably sounded like I was in some kind of medical distress. Brad hopped in the shower, but didn't close the door. I heard the water turn on, heard the shower curtain opened, but when I turned around, there was a good six inches between the door and the jamb. I swept up the hair and tried not to look anywhere near the door.

So by the time he came out, I was on the couch scrolling through Netflix feeling very... mixed-up. Very in love, very uncertain, very miserable. Brad had changed into fresh sweatpants, but he still wasn't wearing a shirt. It was warm in the apartment—we had a really sunny day—but I don't know if it was that warm. We watched more of one of our shows and I tried my best to keep my eyes from sliding over to his chest.

I couldn't concentrate on the show, though, and even now I'm turning it over and over in my head. Why was he doing all that? Why did he leave the door open? Why did he leave his shirt off? He was his usual happy-go-lucky self, so he seemed oblivious to my stress, but what if he was trying to make me uncomfortable? What if he had noticed the way I look at him, even when trying not to, and the way I become a lot worse at breathing around him, and was trying to taunt me or something?

To unpeel my eyes from his bare chest (nicely toned, by the way), I asked him how he was doing. How the day was, how his family was, all that. I hope it made sense coming out of my mouth.

"Fine," he sighed. "Fine, I guess. I'm trying not to think about it much. There's nothing I can do, here, so if I think about it much I'll just go crazy."

Then he was silent for a while. No more quips and jokes or constant questions about what was happening in the show. He traced endless circles on his leg. I felt terrible. I stirred it all up.

"Keeping busy helps you a lot, hey?" I asked.

"Fuck, yeah."

"Where's my magic trick, then?"

He grinned at me. My insides flip-flopped.

"I'm working on a good one," he said. "I need one more day. I've almost got it."

"Uh huh, sure," I teased.

"I'm serious. This one's going to blow your fucking mind."

"Oh, will it?"

We went back and forth like that for a long time, ignoring the TV. I kept teasing him, acting like I didn't believe him, because it made him adorably frustrated. I was having too much fun. I put on a pouty voice, stuck my bottom lip out, and begging him for my magic trick.

He told me it's a card trick. He says it's really hard but it'll be ready tomorrow. That was all I could get out of him, and believe me, I tried. I tried bribery, trickery, and I threatened tickle torture. He was adamant that he could not be budged, no matter how close I came to making good on my threats. I inched my way across the couch to him, tickling fingers at the ready, and he let me get right next to him before he grabbed my wrists and neutralized the threat by wrestling me down onto the couch until I squealed.

I have no shame, apparently.

It was late by the time we went to bed. It's way, way later, now that I've written it all out, but a rough morning will be worth it. Reliving it all is... nice.