Standing close, the warmth between them rose. Jerome's chest and Wince's back were an inch apart. His chin hovered over Wince's shoulder. The wings seemed unexpectedly quiet, and the sound of their breathing amplified.
Wince swayed against him, lightly, just resting his strong back against Jerome's torso, the bouquet held at his side brushing both their legs.
Neither spoke.
Slowly, warily, Jerome's hands rose like muscular shadows as Wince turned to face him like someone waking up from a dream. They stood pressed, breathing together in the wings.
The stage manager voice from out in the house. "Three minutes. Three minutes. Places, please." The stage turned mauve and peach then deep blue.
One breath together. Two.
"We should find our seats. C'mon." Wince looked terrified in his sharp suit. "Well, say something."
"That doesn't matter." Jerome raised his head in wonder. "I am a stopped clock." He took Wince's free hand and pressed it against his heart.
"A what?" Confused grin.
"Clock. I get to be right twice, even if I'm broken." The lights from onstage raked the wings, turning Wince violet and tangerine for a minute, then leaving them in brief darkness. "But only if my timing's right."
Wince stood very still, under the candy light. "It always was." His face crinkled in a smile, and his thumbs hooked Jerome's belt loops.
Jerome lowered his face.
Wince's eyes shone in the sudden dark, and without thinking, Jerome kissed him.
"J--" Wince may have been saying something, but the words vanished into their mouths and Jerome pulled him close; if he never had another chance, he wasn't going to waste this one.
Once burned, once burned. He opened his eyes. Not wanting to miss anything.
Wince pushed one thick arm around Jerome's ribs, holding their chests together as his mouth opened. He pulled away to tip his head and come back licking at Jerome's mouth under the lambent shafts of pink, amber, teal that swept over them.
Somewhere on the other side of the stage, the muted kat-tump-a-bump of toe shoes as dancers took their places for Act Two and the Land of Sweets. His hands were shaking, his legs too.
"Hey, fella. Easy." A quiet laugh from Wince and a rustle of roses. "Jug. Hey. Hey. Easy. I'm right here."
Jerome straightened, self-conscious and nervous about his daughter somewhere back here dressed to dance for Mother Ginger. "I wanted to, y'know. So much. And I didn't know if--" He snuck another kiss, quick, and then another. And then he stepped aside. "Sorry. I'm sorry."
"Don't be. I'm not." A nipping kiss pressed at the corner of Jerome's mouth like punctuation. "We're gonna have an accident, an incident. Look at me."
Jerome nodded. Wince beamed at him with easy, tested affection. And this time he was right, a stopped clock, a cracked nut.
Olivia spoke in his head, You only get the chances you take.
"There's no rush. We're okay, man. We're both grownups." He took Jerome's hand and gripped it, not letting go. "Well, you are."
Jerome squeezed back. He felt crazy and hopeful. What would they say to their kids? Would they go on dates? What would their friends say? His parents? Did he even care?
"Hey. Hey, Jug. Later." Wince tapped Jerome's forehead, as if he'd read his mind. "Leave it 'til later."
Jerome smiled. "Yes, sir. I'm good for it."
"I know you are." They made their way out to the orchestra, not saying any of the stuff they might've.
Wince paused at the end of the row to let him pass and then followed Jerome to their seats in the half-lights, bumping into him in all the right places. The director and the lighting team sat about twenty rows back with the board, deep in conversation. Dress rehearsals tended to be stop/start for hours, but just now, Jerome didn't mind sitting quietly for a bit.
As soon as they sat, Wince found his big hand in the dark and laced their fingers, black and tan.
Jerome grunted in pleasure. Wince grunted back.