After dinner, Vincent stays for several more hours. They clean up together and Edwin is high on the domesticity, a warm body next to his, brushing hands, kissing just because he can. Vincent flirts and jokes and if Edwin thought he would stop blushing once his feelings weren't a secret, he guessed wrong. He might blush more, if that were at all possible, because Vincent doubles up on the innuendo. He draws a wet hand down Edwin's back and Edwin shivers. Edwin goes to change his shirt and Vincent drawls: "You're not taking it off in front of me, darling? Pity." Edwin shakes his head mutely and disappears in the bedroom before he combusts.

They sit on the couch with the TV on and Vincent slings a leg over Edwin's lap and loosely circles Edwin's shoulders with his arms. He kisses Edwin's neck up to his ear, down his jaw. Edwin's hands glide over Vincent's back, the muscles of his legs, up his stomach and chest, and Vincent pushes into the touch. They make out, wet and warm, ignoring the TV.

Vincent's hands stay away from anything more intimate — sexual — than that and Edwin is grateful for it. He doesn't know if he could push Vincent away, when it's on offer, but he doesn't want to go so fast. He wants to process, not rush into anything he'd regret. Hell, he might be rushing now, driven by lust. Sure, he wants Vincent, everything he can get, but is it a good idea? He never expected he'd get a relationship, and that's quite different from quietly pining. Vincent can be kind and thoughtful, larger than life, but his fire can burn as much as it can warm. He's a man. The first man Edwin has ever dated. He's only ever dated — properly dated — one woman, and he married her. Vincent has dated many people. He might have expectations. He thinks he might scare Edwin off. Maybe he wants to scare Edwin off and is only humouring him. Attracted to his body, but not his mind.

No, that's just the jitters and doubt of a new relationship. His first new relationship since he was nineteen. His first relationship with a man. He's chewing in circles again. You worry too much, Ellen would say. Something about how Vincent couldn't possibly dislike him, he's very likable, but she's Ellen. Of course she thinks that. Still, he shouldn't be so anxious. Vincent teases him, he knows that. He jokes, but he wouldn't lie about this. If he says he is willing to try serious, he means it. He won't scare Edwin off. This won't be the thing he can't handle. He's gay. He can date a man. Be out with a man. Even one like Vincent, who is loud and visible and unapologetic and everyone will know. People will judge, but Edwin shouldn't care. He can stop caring. He was out today with Vincent. People probably assumed. Judged. He wore nail polish. Caroline removed it last Sunday, but he can recall how it felt.

If he could do that, he can do this.

***

Edwin stares dubiously at the pottery wheel in front of him. He has a lump of clay, wet and soft, but he hasn't touched it yet. He's supposed to make a bowl. The instructor demonstrated a few minutes ago how to drive the wheel with your foot and mould the clay with your hands and she made it look easy, but it can't be that easy.

He glances to his right, where Vincent is testing out speeds and letting the wheel spin for a few seconds at a time. Of course Vincent is not afraid to try. He can make jewellery. That's probably more dangerous if something goes wrong than this. The only danger here is that they will get dirty. That's pretty much a guarantee, in fact. He doesn't want to ruin the brand-new jeans he put on after much internal debate. Vincent's appreciative look when he opened the door was worth it, though.

Vincent — wearing a tight, short-sleeved shirt that leaves his forearms distractingly bare — senses him looking because he stops and his eyes jump to Edwin's unmoving wheel and then his face. "You're not going to make a bowl by admiring me, darling. Even if I am much prettier than that lump of clay right now."

"I know." He's going to try. In a bit. It wouldn't be fair to Vincent if he sat here like a grump. It was Vincent's idea, but he said yes. He wants Vincent to enjoy this and if he doesn't stop scowling, Vincent will be annoyed. He thought he might be able to enjoy this, that he wouldn't completely suck at this and he would have fun. He can try new things. New things that are outside his comfort zone. Open mind, and all that.

He should have known that even if Vincent has never done this either, it'd be right up his alley. Vincent will make 3 beautiful bowls that he will take home and use, and Edwin will make some sagging monstrosity, still more lump than bowl. It shouldn't matter. He's here to enjoy's Vincent company, not to master the pottery wheel. Vincent won't refuse a second date because he couldn't make a proper bowl. But he wants ... He wants Vincent to be impressed. To be equals in this one thing. There's running, sure, but that's different. He couldn't say why; it just is.

"Do you know how to use the wheel? I can show you." Vincent drags his chair over and presses down on the pedal, cupping Edwin's hands in his and directing him how to mould the clay into the basic shape of a bowl. His leg is a line against Edwin's thigh and Edwin wants to press back into Vincent's hands, hold them. He already mourns the moment Vincent will go back to his own pottery wheel.

Edwin has gotten very familiar with Vincent's hands this week. They're warm and big and calloused and they have roamed his body until he feels the ghost of their touch everywhere. He can't stop his mind from recalling where they have been and even though they haven't slept together, not yet, it makes him dizzy with desire. He can't stop imagining. He's not sure how he survived his birthday without Ellen asking questions, or Tamara, how he got any work done. Today was even worse because he knew they had this planned for the evening and he flipped between nerves and being drunk on anticipation.

"I got it," Edwin says and his voice is somehow still steady. "Thank you." Vincent sits back and Edwin feels cold without his touch, but he tentatively presses down the pedal. The wheel spins and he presses in his thumbs to hollow out the bowl.

"You're welcome, darling. Give me a shout if you need me to touch you again." Edwin looks up and Vincent shoots him a crooked smile.

Edwin shakes his head fondly. "You're impossible." Vincent shouldn't say that in public.

"Is that not how you like me? I think it is."

"I'm not answering that," Edwin says evenly, but Vincent will take that for the answer it is. He can't be annoyed when Vincent is so generous with his affection. Nobody has heard. All other participants are talking. They could just be two friends, close friends. Who touch each other without thinking.

Edwin can't touch Vincent without thinking. About everything they haven't done yet, about what people will think if he reaches out, about what Vincent will think, if he touches when they're not kissing. Should he touch Vincent like he touches other men, his friends? Should he touch Vincent like he touched Ellen? Vincent is his partner, but he's a man, too. Maybe it's presumptuous to drape an arm over his shoulder, to hold his hand. Do gay men do that, adult men? Would Vincent want that? He's feminine, but he's not a woman. He's so independent, sweeps through a room, wouldn't stick to Edwin's side. He must like touch, but maybe he only likes the doing, not the receiving.

The instructor passes by and shows Vincent how to make his bowl thinner without breaking it. Edwin stares and tries to copy Vincent. Vincent catches his gaze. "Still looking at me, honey?"

Edwin glances at the instructor, but her expression is still the same. She must know now. That Vincent is gay, that they're a couple. She doesn't know that Vincent calls everyone by petnames, that he flirts. Could he ask Vincent to tone down the petnames in public? So people don't — won't look at them weird? They shouldn't invite trouble. They can be normal, show people that they're not any different, just because they're gay.

"Just how you're doing it," he replies.

"Yours looks great," the instructor says. "I think you're both almost done. Call me when you are." She moves on to the next person and Edwin looks at the bowl in his hands. It does look good. It looks like a bowl, at least. Mostly even and round. His hands are slick with clay and he's glad he rolled up his sleeves to his elbows because the clay comes over his wrists, too.

"You definitely got the hang of it, darling," Vincent says. "Are you having fun?"

Edwin thinks about that. You know what? He might be. His mind is still running away with him, but in the here and now, he's not so anxious. "It's not so bad."

"I'm glad. It's good to try new things, but I don't want you to hate them. I definitely don't want you to hate our first date." The brown of Vincent's eyes softens with his voice. Edwin wants to wrap his arms around Vincent's shoulders and breathe in his warmth, chest to chest. Abruptly, Vincent's tone changes and he adds, as if embarrassed: "Not even I am that mean, sugar."

"I don't think you're mean. You're just — I needed to get used to you. But you can be thoughtful, and kind."

"You're so sweet. You can admit you like them loud and a little mean to you, it's okay."

"No, that's not — I like your confidence, but you don't need to be loud. Or mean. I like when you're kind, or quiet." He likes the soft Vincent, dressed down on the couch in his own home, engrossed in a movie, or Vincent when he played the clarinet, utterly dedicated to the music. Both of them running in silence, to the soundtrack of their own feet and the wind and the occasional car. Those are the moments when it's easy to understand Vincent, to know how they fit together.

Vincent doesn't hold his gaze and focuses on smoothing out the edge of his bowl. "As long as you know that's not all you get, darling. I might be quiet, but I'm always a lot to handle."

"I know. I don't want you to be small." He might not want Vincent to broadcast everything to the world all the time — his sexuality, his femininity, their relationship, his inability to accept things as they are, to care what other people think — but he doesn't ever want Vincent to be sad, or anxious. Locked up in a box. A closet. Like a flower without sunlight, he'd shrivel and lose his colours, the brightness that spills out of him even when he's quiet.

"Good." Vincent's smile turns lascivious. "Should have known you're a size queen."

"Vincent," Edwin groans.

"Exactly what a size queen would say in bed with me, darling. In that tone." Edwin can't say Vincent's name again after that, so he shoots him a disgruntled look, his face on fire. Can't Vincent ever be serious? They were having a nice moment and he needs to make it into some, some sex joke. "Too much?" Vincent adds.

"We're in public."

"Well, if that's your only objection, I'll keep that in mind, gorgeous."

"It's not. It's common decency."

"Thought you just said you didn't want me to be small?" Vincent's tone is still light, but he pulls up a challenging eyebrow.

"That's not the same. Vincent, please."

"Alright, alright, darling, I got it. No arousing you in public." Vincent smiles with feigned innocence and Edwin rolls his eyes, but he's relieved. Vincent can push and push, but he can also stop.

"Thank you."

Vincent leans over and kisses his cheek and when Edwin stares after him, he waves over the instructor to present his bowl. Edwin glances around. Nobody's looking. Should he do the same? But Vincent is standing up, and the instructor turns to Edwin.

"Are you done?"

"I think so." He cups his bowl in his palms, so he can bring it to the ceramics oven. Maybe he could give it to Vincent. Or is that too much for a first date? He hadn't gotten Vincent flowers because, well, he's not a woman, but maybe a bowl is okay. Maybe gay men give each other imperfect pottery bowls instead of flowers.

He huffs, and the knot in his chest loosens. Maybe he shouldn't worry so much about gifts. Dates are not for gifts; they're for having fun together, getting to know each other. He's here to spend time with Vincent. Vincent who is standing on the other side of the room, in front of the oven. When he turns and catches Edwin's gaze across the room, Edwin smiles and walks over.