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James was fully aware that keeping a list of ways he loved Richard's hair was a bit weird. But to tell the truth, he'd been a bit weird for pretty much his entire life, and so the fact of an activity's weirdness was no longer enough to keep him from doing it.
The list lived on a battered piece of paper, folded up and hidden in James' wallet behind the obligatory picture of his family. It currently read:
1. the ends when they curl in the heat (rainforest)
2. sticking straight up in the back after sleep
3. stubble
4. adhered to face from sleeping in car
5. shin hairs
6. too much gel applied in attempt to look like rockstar
7. helmet hair
8. goatee absolutely not goatee goatee??
9. windswept as from standing dramatically on distant moor
10. eyelashes (technically hair)
The goatee entry was, even now, the subject of considerable internal debate. Sometimes – usually when Richard was attempting to be serious about something – it seemed quite absurd, as if he were a child who had accidentally fallen asleep with his face in a bowl of chocolate. But sometimes when he was grinning like an idiot or biting his bottom lip in that way he did when he was distracted, it was the sexiest thing in the universe.
This bothered James, because he preferred to have definite opinions about things. Then again, nearly everything about Richard bothered James – his warm brown eyes, his laugh, the way his legs looked in his leathers. The way he jiggled his knee all the time whenever they were stuck waiting somewhere, and yet when they were in James' garage taking apart a motorbike he could be quiet and sharp and efficient for hours without a break. The way he sometimes stroked his hand over the bonnet of a car, the gesture far more sensual than any of Jeremy's grotesque innuendo.
The way lately he had been watching James with more than his usual attentiveness, letting his handshakes and his claps on the back linger just a little too long. The way, when they were alone, he sometimes opened his mouth to say something and then choked it back, just shook his head if James gave him an inquiring glance. James didn't know whether to be alarmed by any of this or not, so he had defaulted to being not alarmed, because it was easier. But he was beginning to suspect that perhaps this wasn't leading somewhere alarming at all. Maybe it was leading to something amazing.
Today they were filming one of the Amazon promos. Richard was wearing a white shirt – always a good choice given his tan, and James blessed the wardrobe person who'd chosen it – and his hair was slicked back along the sides, tousled on top. There was one lock of it that curled down into his face; Richard kept huffing at it between takes.
James wanted to kiss him. That, at least, was something he knew he had a definite opinion about.
They filmed their bit, then watched for a while as Jeremy got to do his bumbling oaf act, which by now he had honed to a fine art. It was rather peaceful, actually – both of them had seen the bumbling oaf act enough that they didn't need to pay any actual attention. Richard was fiddling with his phone, playing some sort of game that involved little brightly-colored dots. James had a copy of a script out but was mainly watching Richard, though he was trying not to let on that he was watching.
At one point Richard looked up from his game, offering James a smile. He opened his mouth as if he might say something, then shut it again and looked down. As he did so the little lock of hair curled down onto his forehead; his free hand moved automatically to brush it back and James reacted without thinking, reached up and curled his hand around Richard's fingers.
Richard looked at him sharply. His eyes had gone very wide.
I should let go, James thought, but for some reason he couldn't quite get his hand to obey. ″Rich. I—″ Richard's hand was warm, his small fingers callused in a way that made James want to shiver.
Richard licked his lips and then flickered a glance at the other side of the room. He said, very softly, ″Do you want to get a drink after this?″
″Yes,″ said James.
″I mean—″
″Yes,″ said James.
Richard swallowed. ″Good. That's good.″ He turned his hand over and gave James' hand a squeeze. James held on for a moment longer, then let go. Astonished happiness was bubbling up inside him.
Over in the corner of the room, they rolled camera again. Richard went back to his game and James to his script. Jeremy tried out his line – ″This is broken.″ – as a moan, a whimper, a shout, a whine. When James looked over at Richard again, he had his hand to his chin and was stroking his beard hairs idly with his thumb and forefinger. He didn't look up, but there was a small, private smile on his face, as if he knew exactly what he was doing.
James sighed, mentally crossed out 'goatee??' on the list, and added 'Who am I kidding? Definitely goatee.' in its place.