Sometimes they are a cheesy old love song, something earnest and suggestive. Ice puts his arm around Ceasar and leans in, whispers something in his ear that’s entirely inappropriate and makes Ceasar laugh. They clasp hands, threading their fingers together, and they know that when the table has been cleared they will stumble into a cab together, go home, make love until morning.
Sometimes they are twangy country songs, all about outdoors and falling in love and involving too much alcohol. They trip over their feet as they cross the beach, a bottle of beer clutched tight in each hand, laughing and falling into sand still warm from the hot afternoon. “We should go fishing,” Ceasar says, but Ice pushes him down and they’ve forgotten why they came out here in the first place.
Sometimes they are emo rock, screaming at each other from opposite ends of the room. An unfamiliar cologne lingers on Ceasar’s body but he can’t help it, he wishes he could. “I wonder,” Ice says, “I wonder,” and Ceasar storms out, yelling as he stomps out the door, walks to the Starbucks on the corner and drinks black coffee and doesn’t cry until Ice steers the car into the parking lot.
Sometimes they are something acoustic, smaller and more real, more intense. Ice brushes Ceasar’s hair aside and presses his mouth to his forehead. Ice’s lips are dry and chapped and Ceasar laughs a little, digging a grubby tube of lip balm from his pocket.
Sometimes they are a power ballad, everything slowed down and dramatic, punctuated by lighters waving rhythmically through the dark. My god, Ceasar thinks, it can’t be this easy, I can’t be this happy, and suddenly it isn’t, he isn’t, and everything is poignant and melodramatic until the lighter fluid runs out and Ice kisses him softly in the dark.
Tonight, while they lie together in bed, Ice takes Ceasar’s hand and whispers “I love you.”
It is a moment that needs no accompaniment.