On Belay

The old rope took up half the living room. I had it in coils, cut lengths, and one section I kept pulling through my hands because I still hadn’t decided it was done. Mateo sat across from me with the cams in rows, working a sling free of a knot someone else had left in it.

“You don’t have to do the hardware,” I said. “I set the routes. That’s my mess.”

“You asked me to help.” He didn’t look up. His knees were somewhere near the coffee table. Everything in this apartment was a little short for him.

“I asked you to carry the bag up the stairs.”

“And then you opened the bag.”

Fair. The bag was open, and so was the takeout, cooling on the floor by the couch. I had water in a glass and he had tea that had gone the color of the carpet. Neither of us had touched the food yet.

I held up the section of rope. The sheath was fuzzy in one spot, the kind of wear you get from a hard catch and then a week of pretending it was nothing. “This is the one.”

“I know which one it is.”

“You caught me at the second bolt. I swung into the wall, and you took the load like you were reading a claim. No drama. Then you didn’t speak for the rest of the session.”

His hands stopped on the sling. “You were laughing.”

“I was fine.”

“You hit the wall.”

“I hit the wall. You held me. That’s the job.” I tossed the bad section onto the retire pile. “You’ve been weird since. Tonight included.”

“I’m not weird.”

“You’re sorting my cams by size and then by color. That’s weird.”

He set a blue one down, then moved it one spot left. “I keep seeing the slack. I should have had you tighter.”

“You had me. I didn’t deck. If I’d wanted a tight rope I’d have said so.” I pointed at the noodles. “Eat. You’re allowed to stop reviewing the incident.”

We sat with our backs against the couch, boxes between our knees. The gym chalk was still on my hands. His shirt had a pale streak on the sleeve from the same bag. For two years we’d done this twice a week and then gone home. Tonight the gear was on my floor, and he was quiet in a way that wasn’t the wall.

I ate. He moved noodles around with a fork and looked at the rope pile.

“Show me the one you use on the anchor,” he said.

“You’ve seen it a hundred times.”

“I want to see it from here. Not while I’m feeding you slack.”

I wiped my hands on my leggings and pulled a practice length from the retire pile, soft, no load left in it. I tied the knot slow so he could follow it. The rope crossed, tucked, dressed. I held it out.

He took it and turned it over. His forearm rested on his knee. I’d been not looking at that for a year. I looked anyway.

“Would this hold a person?” he said.

“On a harness, yes. On a wrist, it’s the wrong knot. Too likely to cinch.”

“I wasn’t asking about a wrist.”

“You were about to.”

He stared at the rope like it had filed something incorrectly. When he spoke, it was the voice he used when he tried to explain a patent claim over coffee after the gym, careful and a little too complete.

“I’m inquiring whether you would be willing to apply a restraint, using rope you have already retired from climbing use, to a person who is not currently climbing.”

I waited.

He tried again. “The application would be recreational. Not structural. Not at the gym.”

“Mateo.”

“A person might want to be tied. By you. Here. Not for climbing.” He shut his eyes. “That was the third time. The first two were worse.”

“Belay protocol,” I said. “If I can’t hear the call, I don’t clip you in. Say it so I know what you’re asking.”

He opened his eyes. The tips of his ears were red. “I want you to tie me up. Not for climbing. I’ve wanted to ask for a long time. I practiced it in the car and it still came out like a specification.”

I laughed. It came out before I could stop it, short and surprised. Then I saw his face. He wasn’t joking, and he wasn’t taking it back. The laugh died in my throat.

“Why me?”

“Who else would I ask?” He set the knot on the rug between us. “You’re the only person I trust on a rope. You already hold me when I fall. I thought if I could say it to anyone, it would be you.”

That landed lower than I expected. I set my box aside. The room was the same room. The rope was the same rope. He was still the man who checked my knot twice a week and never once reached for my hand.

“I’ve been careful for a year,” I said. “After the breakup I decided I wasn’t going to want anyone for a while. I got good at it. Then you started showing up with that sleeve rolled, and I spent a year deciding not to notice your forearms. I noticed them anyway. Every session. I tied in and looked at the wall instead.”

He went very still. “You could have said.”

“So could you.”

“I was waiting until I could say it right.”

“You didn’t.” I smiled, smaller this time. “I heard you anyway.”

He nodded once, like that was the finding.

I picked up a soft length from the retire pile, the one that wouldn’t hold a fall anymore but would hold a knot. I moved the takeout out of the way and sat on my heels in front of him. His knees bracketed me. I could see the chalk in the lines of his palm.

“On belay?”

He held out his wrists. Both of them, steady. “Belay on.”

“One first,” I said. “You can stop this with a word. So can I. If you want more after, you ask for more. You don’t get to go quiet on me.”

“I won’t.”

I took his right wrist and wrapped the soft rope once, twice, a simple tie I could undo with my fingers, nothing near his neck, nothing that would bite if he pulled. I slid one finger under the wrap and checked the gap. It held him. It didn’t trap him.

His free hand came up and stopped just short of my hair. I leaned in and closed the distance. The kiss was clumsy for half a second, then he answered it, mouth warm, a small sound he didn’t finish. I put my hand on his face. He put his on the back of my neck only long enough to find my hair, then dropped it to my wrist like he remembered who was tying whom.

I kissed him until I felt both of us shaking from how long we had not done this. Then I pulled back, because I was the one holding the lead, and I wanted him to feel the wait.

My hand stayed on the knot.

“What do you want to happen next?”