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Travelling Home Ch. 01

By: podga



Chapter 1: Stockholm

[June 2010]

The first time I realized that my dad wasn't always right, I was eight years old. He told me that bullies always back down when challenged, and I found out that just wasn't so, or at least not when the challenger is about a head shorter than said bully and happens to be the shiest kid in third grade. Still, when I look back at that morning -- or maybe it was afternoon, not all the details are clear any more -- I'm kinda proud of the little guy lying flat on his back in the middle of the school playground and gingerly wiping his bloody nose and upper lip with the cuff of his sleeve. It was the first time I stood up for myself, showed everybody that I would not be pushed around, that I, Jordan Petersen, was a force, albeit not an overwhelming one, to be reckoned with.

I wasn't the only new kid in third grade that year. That was the nature of the American Community Schools in Athens. They were there to educate the children of soldiers and other American expats, who were posted in Greece for a period of time, so kids came and went all the time. For some reason, though, I was immediately tagged as an outsider. Maybe it was because I didn't speak English very well, or that I'd lived in Athens most of my life. I'd barely even heard of London or Tokyo, let alone of Patrick Henry Village. I'd never seen a game of football or baseball, not that I could remember, and at first I would respond in Greek when somebody spoke to me, not realizing that not everybody in the world switches between the two languages like I did with my mom and older sister (though never with my dad). I don't even know why my parents decided to yank me out of Greek school and send me to ACS in third grade; I think mostly because my Greek mom knew how happy it would make my American dad, who'd left everything familiar behind to be with her, to have a more American son.

Until the day of the incident, David Ives had more or less ignored me. Most kids had, at least until our teacher noticed that I was squinting to see the blackboard, told my parents, and I showed up that fateful day wearing glasses. A couple of kids made fun of me, then it seemed like they all did, even the ones that wore glasses themselves. At first the teasing didn't bother me, at least not much more than being ignored did, but by the time David picked on me, I'd had just about enough. 

David was the biggest kid in third grade, a natural leader. I think his dad worked for a bank, rather than the military, and David could say hello in four or five languages. I don't think he was really a bully, at least not in the sense that he picked on the weaker kids, or stole their lunch money or anything. It's just that he knew his size was part of his advantage, and he wasn't averse to using it. When he teased me, I shoved him, both hands on his chest, barely pushing him one step backward, and he shoved me back, knocking me on my ass. He turned away, already having lost interest in me, not expecting me to come back at him. To this day I don't know why I did it; maybe it came from reading too many of my sister's comic books, and wanting to be a hero for once, like Superman or Captain America. I jumped to my feet and shoved him again, making him stumble forward. So he turned around and cold-cocked me.

I imagine that by the middle of fifth grade David must have been relieved to see the last of me. By that point, he was almost two heads taller than me, and we got into scuffles at least two or three times a month. For some reason, I'd concentrated all my resentment on him, all those hot feelings that I didn't know how to deal with otherwise, about being an outsider, about not being good at sports or even understanding the rules, about being shy and being made fun of for everything from my Greek accent to my glasses to the lumpy wool scarf that my grandmother had knitted for me and that my mom made me wear to school every day in the winter. When he'd see me approaching to pick a fight, he'd get a bored look on his face, almost like beating me up was just another school assignment he needed to take care of. One of the last times we fought, he even reached down to pick me up and set me on my feet and he patted me on the shoulder, as if to show me that it was nothing personal on his side. I like to think that what I saw in his eyes that day was reluctant admiration, instead of the firm conviction that he was dealing with a nut job.

One day David didn't show up. It wasn't uncommon for kids to leave in the middle of the school year, but we generally had a going-away party for them, and we'd have cake, and talk about the next place their dad was being sent to, and somebody would say that they'd been there, or had a pen-pal or something, and that it would be fun. Kids didn't just vanish from one day to the next like David did. Later somebody said that his father had died, and that his mom had taken him back to the States.

Sixth grade I begged my parents to send me back to Greek school, so that I could be with my friends from the neighborhood, and they did. There I found that, once again, I didn't quite fit in. Maybe it was the three years in a different school system, maybe it was my American name at a time when Americans weren't really liked in Greece, maybe it was something else entirely. Most probably, it was just me. I wasn't exactly unhappy, but I always felt that I had to compensate for the fact that I was somehow different than the others. Standing out, even in a good way, made me feel uncomfortable.

I haven't thought of David Ives in almost forty years, at least not as anything other than one small, though oddly significant, part of my childhood. It's certainly strange to be thinking of him now, as I stand against a wall in a ballroom in the Stockholm Sheraton, a strategic one-step distance from one of the open bars. I hate the inevitable networking events that follow the mind-numbing hours of power point presentations that pose as professional conferences, but since the company is paying for my attendance, I feel duty-bound to hang around and give anybody who wants to network with me the opportunity to do so. I've managed the last three of these events without exchanging a single business card.

At least there are two compensations this time. For one, there's a big bowl of wasabi nuts on the bar that I've more or less appropriated for my own consumption. I love wasabi nuts and can rarely find them, so this is a really a treat.

And there's The Guy.

I first noticed him this morning, while the conference coordinator was welcoming us to the event, pointing out the fire exits and asking us to set our mobiles on meeting mode. I was sitting in the first seat to the right of the center aisle, in the second to last row, and The Guy was several rows in front of me, in the first seat on the left side of the aisle. He was sitting sideways, his legs in the aisle, his back to his neighbor, so I could see his profile. He was furiously thumbing his BlackBerry, scowling at it, dark eyebrows knit together over a longish straight nose, mouth pursed. He was directly in my line of sight, so that I didn't even have to turn my head to check on him every so often. I liked the way a hank of wavy dark brown hair flopped over his forehead, how he combed his long fingers through it to push it back, how he gnawed at his bottom lip as he continued to pay more attention to his BlackBerry than to the speakers throughout the day. If somebody asks him tomorrow what the conference was about, I doubt he'll be able to tell them more than the title. I know that's all I'll remember, except for him.

I shift my position slightly, so that I can observe The Guy standing with a group of four or five men and women, leaning his elbow against one of the tall round tables placed around the room. For the first time I see him smiling, and I realize why David Ives has been on my mind. The Guy looks like what David might have grown up to look like, and it's odd that it would be his smile that allowed me to make the connection, because David Ives never smiled at me, not once in three years. The Guy scans the room as he raises a beer bottle to his lips, and he catches me staring, our gazes locking for an instant, before I turn away, heat climbing to my cheeks.

"Yordan?" I hear a voice next to me, the initial J pronounced the Swedish way.

"Jordan," I correct automatically, relieved to recognize a colleague from my company.

"Magnus," he points to himself, as if not really expecting me to remember. Just like me, Magnus doesn't appear to be a born networker or a natural extrovert, and we spend a happy half hour together bitching about downsizing and expense cutting initiatives, and assuring one another that the IT (his) and Accounting (mine) divisions are the only ones in our company that really know what they're doing. I try not to check too often on The Guy's whereabouts, but I'm aware of the moment he leaves the room, and I kind of wilt.

After Magnus takes his leave, and the bartender's glare makes it obvious that he doesn't intend to refill the decimated bowl of wasabi nuts just for me, I decide it's about time I headed home, as well. Even though it's after seven, we've got a full three hours of daylight left. Maybe I'll go for a run, shake out the cobwebs.

Unfortunately, instead of the sun I was expecting, I walk out of the hotel into a downpour. I own three umbrellas, but I never seem to get lucky with having one actually with me when necessary. It's two blocks to the Central Station, where I can catch the subway to my home, but I'm wearing one of my nicer suits, so I hug the side of the building, trying to make up my mind whether to go for it.

"Do I know you?"

I don't realize the question is aimed at me, until it's repeated, with a simultaneous light touch on my elbow. It's The Guy. Standing next to him, I see that he's maybe an inch shorter than my own 5'11" and his eyes are almost the exact same dark blue-gray as the sky over Stockholm right now.

"I don't think so."

"Because you've been staring at me." He has an American accent, as most Swedes do, but there's a tinge of something else underneath that hints at a different nationality.

I fumble for an answer, opening and closing my mouth like a guppy, and he smiles, full lips curving upward, a small dimple forming in his left cheek.

"Would you like a cigarette?" he offers, holding out a pack of red Marlboros, and I take one, even though I quit smoking a couple of years ago.

"Thanks," I mumble as he lights it for me, and I inhale deeply, and I'm not sure if the sudden dizzy spell is due to the nicotine hit or to how his eyes crinkle at the corners when his smile deepens. 

[1981-1985]

"You just know," Benny intoned in a voice made squeaky by his effort not to exhale, and he handed me the fat joint.

"But how?"

I was aware that Benny was interpreting my urgency as conservative Jordan trying to ensure that he would never give out that vibe that caused others to know, but actually just the opposite was true. I wanted people to stop assuming that I was Benny's straight friend, so that it wasn't always me having to do all the work. All Benny could do was shrug, and hold out his hand for me to give him the joint back.

I ran into Benny Siegel my first day at Dartmouth and my second day in America. I arrived a day before the Freshman Trips, and was exploring the still mostly empty dorm, when Benny walked out of the communal bathroom, a towel wrapped around his waist, water still dripping from his hair onto his shoulders. Olive-skinned and brown-eyed, he looked Greek. He looked like home.

"Hey, 'shman" he nodded at me. "Did you just get here?"

He pronounced it 'hee-uh' and I was later to learn that he used expressions like "you don' gotta" and "yous guys" and "capiche", as if he'd just stepped out of a Godfather movie. He'd actually grown up in Old Westbury and attended Phillips Exeter, although at the time I didn't know the privileged background those things denoted. I just assumed Benny was like me, middle-class and relying on work-study and scholarships to attend an Ivy League college.

That afternoon Benny drove us both to West Lebanon in his decrepit rusting Mustang, and he laughed hysterically when I expressed the opinion that the local Kmart was a shopping paradise. After that, he appointed himself my guide to Dartmouth, the US, and to life in general.

It was Benny, who got me to join the track team. I was envious of the athletic duffel bag he carried, of the team clothes, of the specialized running shoes, of all those signs of belonging that always seemed to elude me. My Greek school hadn't had an athletics program, but I loved running and had always done well at the various informal races. I knew that I was probably a better middle distance runner than anything, but I knew nothing about racing strategy, and at first lacked the discipline to train. I almost gave up several times, but Benny called me a pussy and alternately bullied, cajoled and shamed me to keep on going. I made all-Ivy and all-American by my sophomore fall, and there're a lot of things I owe Benny for, but I think leading me into a sport, where I was part of a unit and yet could still do my own thing, is the biggest.

One Sunday morning, my sophomore and Benny's junior spring we were running the Storrs Pond loop, heading back, when Benny twisted his ankle. A big meet was coming up, so we decided not to push his luck. We stopped, stretched a little, then started to walk back. Benny threw his arm around my shoulders, leaning against me and favoring his ankle, hamming it up, and we collapsed laughing on the side of the path, lazily swatting at the zillions of midges, having nowhere we needed to be. We were shooting the breeze about something or other, when suddenly Benny leaned over and kissed me on the lips. I stared at him, my heart thumping slowly, almost painfully, and he stared back, color rising to his cheeks. "I'm sorry," he finally blurted out, at the exact time that I squeezed my eyes shut, put my hands on his shoulders and kissed him back. 

At first, Benny and I were each other's guides in this new world, but by the following spring he'd pulled ahead again, knowing things that I could only guess at. We shared an apartment, although not bedrooms, until he graduated.

Benny and I are still best friends, even though there've been more than a few hiccups in all these years, and he now boasts that he fucked every gay guy in the Ivy League, and lived to tell the tale; I don't think it's funny, because the AIDS epidemic was ripping through the gay community, killing young men in their prime, and we knew nothing about it yet. And even if we'd known, we probably would have thought that nothing bad could ever happen to us. Both Benny and I, especially I, should have known better. 

[June 2010]

Even after college and grad school, I never figured how a conservatively dressed, introverted accountant can reliably ping on someone's gaydar, when necessary. And my own gaydar is by no means an accurate instrument. In fact, it's generally the wiser choice to ignore my instincts about another man unless there are obvious other clues, like us meeting in a gay club and him groping me.

Standing in front of the Sheraton with The Guy lighting my cigarette, I'm not sure if that quick flick of the eyes as he steps back is one of interest or just curiosity, if the husky bedroom voice is due to too many cigarettes or an effort at seduction, if the way he leant in as he was lighting my cigarette was simply him shielding the flame of his lighter against a breeze I didn't notice.

"David," he introduces himself, pronouncing it the Central European way, with a long a, and I blink. David?

"Jordan," I respond cautiously, but he gives no sign of recognition, and I tell myself to stop being stupid. It's just a coincidence, and not a very big one at that. There must be hundreds, thousands of Davids with dark brown wavy hair and blue-gray eyes, and so many years later I probably don't really remember David Ives' face or eye color with any degree of accuracy anyway. Besides, it's hard to imagine the adult David Ives being shorter than me.

"So. Why were you staring at me?" he insists.

"When?" I ask, trying to ignore my gut, which tends to react to my hopes more than to reality. And even if he is gay and flirting a little to pass the time, it doesn't mean he's really interested. Guys don't come on to me in the middle of the street. Never have.

"During the presentations. And afterwards, during drinks."

"I wasn't," I say, blowing out a stream of smoke nonchalantly, and he laughs.

"Okay, well then, neither was I."

"You were?" I ask, surprise robbing me of what miniscule amounts of cool I may have displayed until that point.

"I just said I wasn't," he replies, his mouth still curving upward, and I have to drag my eyes away from those full lips. He's just playing. God knows I'm not much to look at. Light brown hair, which I keep short in an effort to tame the cowlicks and lately, to keep the gray from being too evident. Brown eyes, long nose with the distinctive Petersen bump. I still run, so I'm trim. About the most I can say for me is that I look groomed and pleasant, and I like to think that, graying hair notwithstanding, I don't look middle-aged, despite the fact that, at forty-six, that's exactly what I am.

I turn to face the street, savoring the taste of the cigarette. The rain looks like it's easing up; another few minutes and I can probably head for the station without completely ruining my suit.

"Would you like to have a drink with me?" he asks.

I flick a quick glance at him; he's facing out towards the street, as well, not looking at me.

"Tonight?"

He nods. "I'm flying out early tomorrow. I was only here for the conference and to touch base with a few business contacts."

The sharp stab of disappointment surprises me. A second ago I was ready to walk away myself, and it's not like I anticipated ever meeting him again, even if he lived in Stockholm; it's not a large city, but it's not that small, either. Still, now that external forces are imposing deadlines on me, I want to resist them.

"Where are you staying?"

He jerks his head backwards, indicating the Sheraton.

"Does your room have a minibar?"

This isn't me, this direct, bold person, but he doesn't know that. He smiles easily.

"Let's go check," he suggests, stubbing out his cigarette in the tall ashtray and striding towards the hotel entrance. I follow two steps behind him, my mouth dry and my stomach coiling with nerves. I feel more alive than I have in years.

When we reach his room, I expect him to pounce on me, and I'm psyching myself to pounce on him in case he doesn't make the first move, but he murmurs a brief apology and slips into the bathroom, and I'm left standing awkwardly in the middle of the bedroom, trying to ignore the two large beds, the small pile of gym clothes on an armchair that makes the whole setting oddly intimate, like I'm stealing a glimpse of his personal life, my own reflection in the mirror over the desk. His laptop bag is propped against the chair, the nametag indicating that he's a platinum member of the same hotel loyalty club as me, only I lost platinum privileges last year, when I finally received a more fixed assignment. I flip the nametag over, ridiculing myself for needing the final proof that this isn't David Ives. His last name is Hamvas. Hungarian then.

I walk over to the window and look out. The gray clouds are dissipating slightly, and where the sky is visible, it's tinged orange and red. I like Stockholm. I don't love it, but I like it well enough. And tonight even more so.

I turn around at the slight noise behind me. He's taking off his coat and at first it looks like he's about to toss it on the armchair, where his gym clothes are. He hesitates, and with a sheepish look my way, he hangs the coat neatly in the closet. It's the first time he's looked anything but completely self-assured with me, completing this little task that shows that he's thinking about tomorrow, not only tonight, but I may have imagined it, because he's smiling confidently again as he briskly unbuttons and rolls up his cuffs, displaying strong forearms with a light dusting of dark hair.


Travelling Home Ch. 01



He bends over to peer into the minibar.

"What would you like?"

"A Coke, please."

He throws me a brief surprised look, but doesn't comment. He snags a beer for himself, opens it, and then walks over to me and hands me the can, his fingers sliding deliberately over my mine as he pulls his hand away.

"Take off your coat, stay a while," he murmurs, his smirk acknowledging the corniness of the line, and I grunt a nervous laugh. I start to shrug my coat off, then realize too late that I'm holding the drink, and the logistics seem beyond me, especially when he adds the complication of pressing his lean body against mine and sliding his arms around my waist, his rough cheek rubbing against mine as he nuzzles my neck in a move that sends heat to my groin and yet feels oddly tender at the same time.

"You're uncomfortable," he notes. "Why? Are you experimenting?" I try to find amusement or irritation in his voice, but he only sounds curious.

I sigh and put my hands on his hips, one flat against the light wool of his trousers, feeling the firm flesh and hard bone underneath, the other still holding the damn drink, so that I can only rest the heel of my palm against his belt.

"No," I tell him, my eyes on his loosened tie, then on the small patch of skin displayed by the open collar. I can see his pulse beating there, and I want to put my lips on the spot, lick it, feel if it's as smooth and soft as it looks.

"Are you in a steady relationship?"

Startled, I tear my eyes away from his throat and look into his eyes, then I frown and shake my head. I'm suddenly having a hard enough time with the idea of a one-night stand with David; I can't imagine the added baggage of a steady relationship, not least because I haven't actually been in one since grad school.

"No," I say out loud, and he slides his hands up and down my back and smiles.

"What then?"

"Nothing." I give into the temptation and bend my head. His skin really is that soft, and it tastes salty against the tip of my tongue. "Nothing," I repeat, and push his collar aside with my face, trying to find the curve of his shoulder.

He twists his head to the side, giving me more access, and his pulse flutters against my lips. He inhales sharply, then again in a kind of stuttered breath, and his hands clench on my shirt, and just like that, my awkwardness disappears.

"David," I mutter against his warm skin, and he grunts, ducking his head and shoving it against mine, forcing it up so that he can reach my mouth with his.

You watch sex scenes in the movies and it's either a perfect choreography and/or guys slamming each other into walls, leaving a trail of discarded clothes behind them. Real life isn't like that, especially not the first time. It's not elegant or graceful or smooth, and at some point you've got to get rid of your shoes and clothes (and the fucking Coke can), and you find out that he likes his nipples kissed and licked but not pinched, after you've been doing not enough of the first or second and way too much of the third, and you start to wonder if this is convenience or passion for him, because if it's only the first, it's been a long day since your shower this morning. So it's nice, sort of, and intriguing, and exciting, but not so much so that you want to be risking cracking the plaster or the back of your head.

He nearly knees me in the balls when we fall onto one of the beds, his body hard against mine, our mouths glued together, and I accidentally backhand him when he grabs my arms and tries to flip me over onto my stomach. He collapses onto his side, muttering something that sounds like a curse and laughing breathily at the same time.

"If you don't like to bottom, just say so."

Yeah, and there's figuring the part of who does what to whom, as well.

I stretch out on my belly, rest my cheek on a folded arm, and look at him as he lies next to me. There's still enough light coming in through the window that I can see the tangled hank of hair falling in his eyes, and I brush it back.

"How old are you?" I ask him, because his smile is that of a boy, and his hair is soft and silky between my fingers, and his body leanly muscled, but I can also just make out the silver in his stubble, and there are lines around his eyes and mouth that dig deeper than mere good humor, and a hint of spreading softness to his waist that I recognize only too well from my own body.

"Forty-six. Why?"

I shrug. I don't really know why, but I find it unsettling that this man can be my age and still flirt and throw himself into one-night stands, notwithstanding the fact that from his point of view, I'm doing exactly the same thing. For some reason I needed him to be younger, not because I find him any less attractive now that I know his age, but because now both of us are too old to be this impetuous, because we both know better. I wanted at least one of us to be young enough to honestly believe that this could lead somewhere.

He must see my withdrawal in my eyes and his mouth straightens. His brows knit together, like they did this morning when he was poring over his BlackBerry, and he pushes himself up off the bed. He walks to the closet and I think he's going to start pulling clothes on, but he only fumbles in the pocket of his jacket and then returns to bed, holding something in his hand.

"Here," he says, lightly tossing the object so that it lands near my hand. It's his wallet.

What the hell is he doing? Trying to pay me? I push myself onto my elbows, starting to get up, when he flops down next to me on his side again, then opens the wallet and holds it in front of my face, showing me a photo.

My eyesight isn't what it used to be, and I have to use one hand to push his wrist a little further away. In the gloom, all I can make out is that it's a blond boy.

"Who's this?"

"My son."

It takes a while for me to get my mouth working, not realizing that my fingers are tightening around his wrist until he twists it free, grimacing a little.

"Maybe I should have asked you. If you're experimenting. If you're in a relationship."

"Does it make a difference? You know what I want, and we'll only be here tonight."

If I admit it makes a difference, I also admit to a bunch of other stuff that I don't want to admit to, like the fact that can I imagine myself wanting more than a one-night stand with David, just on the basis of watching him exchange e-mails all morning and of his smile. I should get up. I should dress and leave. Instead I lie back down, pillowing my head on my arm again, trying to decide if I'm angry or disappointed or feeling anything real at all.

"Why did you show me his picture?"

He sighs, looking at the picture himself before flipping the wallet closed and twisting around to place it on the nightstand. He turns back towards me, and rests his palm on the small of my back.

"He's twenty. He hasn't spoken to me since he was fifteen, since his mother explained to him the real reason we were getting divorced."

He's silent for a while, his eyes seeming to follow the movements of his hand on my back as he rubs small circles. Maybe he started out trying to somehow soothe me, but I think he needs the comforting contact of skin against skin himself.

"It's his birthday today."

"Do you still try to talk to him?" I think of the morning spent on the BlackBerry, wondering if he was trying to e-mail his son.

His hand pauses for a second, then resumes, kneading a little at my muscles.

"No. I did at first, but I have to respect that he's an adult, that he knows what he wants."

I think of how absolutely and totally innocent and naïve and fucked up I was at twenty. I wonder why he's telling me all this. I feel guilty that I'm reminding him of stuff that, especially today, he maybe just wants to forget about.

"I'm not experimenting. I'm not in a relationship. I'm on the road three to four days a week, and I've been to almost every country in the world, except that I've seen nothing but hotel rooms and airports, and what's between the two. If I'm lucky, the trips will include a couple of dinners that aren't in the same hotel."

He speaks matter-of-factly, just describing his life. He's not asking me to feel sorry for him, and I don't, because otherwise I'd have to also feel sorry for myself, as that's pretty much been my life until now, and what it will go back to being after my assignment in Stockholm ends next year.

"I saw you looking at me all day, and then you came out of the hotel and stood next to me."

"I didn't see you," I say defensively.

"No, I know. But I recognized you."

"What do you mean? Recognized me from where?"

He shakes his head in frustration. "Maybe recognize is the wrong word. I saw you and I knew that we're alike."

My breath catches at that. He's wrong. He's extraordinary, full of energy and intensity and he burns brightly enough to make me focus on him, and nothing else, when he was just sitting there, and I'm none of those things.

"No," I whisper, trying to correct his impression, but he ignores me. He leans over and kisses my back, near where his hand was stroking, then licks a stripe up my spine and nuzzles into my shoulder, making me shiver.

"Maybe not," he concedes. "But I want you, anyway. I haven't wanted anybody in a long time, but I want you."

I don't resist him as he swings a leg over me, so that he's lying on top of me, pinning me down with his weight and grinding his dick against my ass, but I tense up and clench my butt. If we weren't the same size, or if at any point he'd shown actual aggression, I'd have shoved him off of me, but as it is, I'm willing to wait and see what he'll do.

"I don't bottom," I tell him, closing my eyes and pushing my face into the crook of my arm. It's actually not true. If for some reason I had to pick one for the rest of my life, I'd pick bottoming without a second thought. But it makes me feel vulnerable and out of control, and I don't want that right now, not with David.

"That's okay," he whispers in my ear, and I shiver, but he doesn't stop moving against me, his cock sliding against me, his chest slick with perspiration against my back. "Let me come like this, and then you can fuck me. Okay?"

He kisses my nape, and I moan. His body is warm against mine, almost burning me with its heat. I slowly relax under him and I focus on how his dick feels against my crack, on his damp, quick breath, on the strong fingers that are digging into my shoulders. I focus on my own dick, iron hard and trapped between my belly and the sheets, rubbing against them as his body forces mine into a slight rocking motion.

"Jordie," he mutters, and nobody except Benny has called me that since grade school, and the sound of it makes me arch up so that I can feel him better, so that he can settle against me more firmly.

He comes quietly, the changing rhythm of his movements and the liquid warmth pooling on my back the only evidence. He rests on me afterwards, and every so often I think I feel his lips moving on my shoulder. It should feel uncomfortable, because we're both sticky with sweat, saliva and his come, and it's way too hot in the room, and my erection is almost painful, but I find myself wishing that he'll fall asleep on me, so that I'll never have to move, so that this will last forever.

All too soon he gives a small groan and slides off of me, one leg still draped over my thighs, his hand between my shoulder blades.

"Are you going to move?" he asks, shaking me gently.

"Nuh uh." I miss him against my back, and every so often I flex my butt, rubbing my cock against the sheets.

"Lazy bastard," he laughs. I feel his body come up off the bed, and hear splashing in the bathroom, then I flinch away from cold water dripping on my back. He rubs my back with a washcloth, and I arch into his hand, sighing contentedly.

"Lazy bastard," he murmurs again.

I turn my face a little so that I can speak.

"Flattery will get you nowhere."

He's right. I am lazy. I'm even too lazy to do anything about my raging hard-on.

"Or maybe you're just too old."

"Hey!"

I've been running all my life, I love it, and I still hate those first steps, not because I don't want the pleasure that will follow, but because I know that bringing pleasure closer also brings its end closer. So I'm reluctant to turn to David, as if I can somehow control time, even make it stop, if I simply do nothing. Still, if he expects me to retaliate for being called old, I will. I don't back away from challenges.

Suddenly he jerks upright again, and a second later I hear him in the bathroom, and I'm pretty sure he's cursing in Hungarian.

"What's wrong?" I call out, but he ignores me. I roll onto my side, raising my head to brace it against my hand, looking at him as he walks into the bedroom and squats over his small case. He unzips it and rummages through pockets, still muttering. Finally he kicks the case with his bare foot and flops back onto the bed, lying on his back with his arm covering his eyes, his lips moving. It's the first good look I've gotten at his dick, and it makes me reconsider my decision not to bottom for David. I reach out and run my finger along its length, and it twitches and thickens a little against his thigh.

"What's wrong?" I repeat.

"I don't have stuff with me."

"Stuff?" I repeat stupidly, then I realize. "You're kidding me."

"No. I thought I might have had at least a condom somewhere, but... I really don't do this very often."

"Well, hell," I mutter.

He rolls into his side and grins at me as his fingers wrap around my cock and his thumb swipes across the tip.

"When's the last time somebody jerked you off?"

"Other than me, you mean?" I groan, my hips already pushing forward into his fist, and I drop my head and close my eyes. "Jesus, do that again," I beg, and he twists his hand, pressing his thumb into a spot right under the head before he moves it over the now leaking tip, again. I have to remember to try that myself some time. "A couple of months," I lie. 

It's over embarrassingly quickly and much as I like hearing David laugh, I'd rather he wasn't at this exact moment. He wipes his hand on the sheet.

"Okay. Maybe you're not too old. What are you, fifteen?"

"I wish. Then I'd be ready for another round even as we speak."

He scoots over for a kiss, his hand cupping the back of my head.

"Will you stay? I'm flying at seven, so I need to leave here at five fifteen at the latest. Will you stay until then?"

I don't know if he's expecting a cuddle or more non-penetrating sex or just to hear someone breathing next to him. Whatever he wants is fine with me. I nod.

I wake up, just barely, to the smell of his minty fresh breath and aftershave and to the tickle of his tie against my back as he leans over to kiss me.

"I left my card on the desk. Don't be a stranger," he tells me, then his lips press against mine once more.

I snap fully awake when the door closes behind him a second later. He somehow managed to shower, dress and pack without my knowing a thing.

I've never seen the Stockholm subway really crowded, and Swedes are casual dressers for the most part; still, I think they're giving the guy in the wrinkled suit a wider berth than normal. My goofy smile probably isn't helping matters. It's only later, in the shower, as I wash the last of David's smell off of me, that my giddiness is replaced by a sense of loss, and before I have time to shut myself up, I admit that I'm lonely. I turn the water to cold and let it beat down on me, and I deliberately think about my schedule, and this morning's meeting with our auditors, and, ever so slowly, I slide back into my normal life.



Travelling Home Ch. 02



Chapter 2: London

The first time I try to call David, about two weeks after the conference, my call is forwarded to his voicemail. It's a standard recorded message, not his voice, and even at the best of times I sound like a moron when I leave a message, so I hang up.

It takes me three days to make a second attempt. I should be reviewing the monthly figures and preparing management reports. Instead I'm drafting speeches on sticky notes, so that I'll be prepared for either him or his voicemail. The task is made more difficult because I have no idea what I want to say. I have no idea what I want, period.

It's his voicemail.

"Uhmmm, David. Hi. It's Jordan. You know... from Stockholm. Uh, almost three weeks ago... Anyway, I just thought I'd call, you know, see what's up. Uhm. Well. Anyway. Call me, if you get a chance."

I hang up and bang the receiver against my forehead. Moron. Moron, moron, moron. Why didn't I just stick to the goddamned script? What's so difficult about, Hi David, it's Jordan. Just thought I'd call. Here's my number, in case you want to call me back. Not award-winning stuff, but oh, so much better than what I actually did say. Plus, I didn't leave my number, which means that the fucking ball is still in my fucking court, because I called him from the office phone, which blocks caller ID.

The third time, I call him from home, from my own mobile, so that, if I go off-script again, he'll at least have my number. The sticky note is on the kitchen counter in front of me, and there's not much that can go wrong, if I just stay on track. I've even rehearsed to achieve the right tone, casual, but not indifferent. I'm forty-six years old, and throughout the span of my career, I've calmly and confidently faced regulators, auditors, even a truly scary Ukrainian border officer, who was convinced my extra hard drive was some sort of bomb. I came out to my parents in a face to face discussion right after I graduated from college, as opposed to Benny, who got drunk on his twentieth birthday and left them a long and rambling message on their answering machine, from which his mother gathered that he liked a guy named Dick.

I can do this.

"David Hamvas."

I nearly drop the phone at the sound of his voice. Fuck. I was expecting voicemail again.

"Uh, hi."

"Hi." His tone is cautious, a little questioning.

I squeeze my eyes shut and pinch the bridge of my nose.

"It's Jordan. You know, from—"

"Jordan!" he interrupts me in the middle of making a fool of myself yet again, his tone warm. "How are you?"

"Good. Good. And you?" I nearly bark at him.

"Fine. Just got home a while ago."

"From where? And where's home?" Yep, just your average interrogation, posing as small talk. 

"From Sydney. And Frankfurt, these days, at least."

The advances in telecommunications are a wonderful thing. David sounds like he's in the next room. I remember calling my parents from Dartmouth and the tinny echo on the line that made normal conversation almost impossible; you knew you were calling long distance back then and you respected it, saved it for special occasions, like births or deaths or to beg your parents for extra money. I suddenly long fervently for those good old days. 

"What were you doing in Sydney?" I think my voice sounds a little more natural now.

"I'm glad you called again," he says, ignoring my question. "I thought you might not, and I didn't have your number. I don't even know your last name, so I have no way of finding you."

"It's Petersen. Jordan Petersen." I lean my elbows on the counter and press the phone harder against my ear. He really does sound glad to hear from me, and something that had a tight grip inside my chest loosens a little.

"Jordan Petersen?" he repeats after a pause, and his voice sounds a little strange. "Is that a common name in America?"

"Well, I'm sure there are a bunch of us kicking around, male and female. So yeah, I guess. Maybe."

"I knew a Jordan in grade school, and I'm pretty sure his last name was Petersen. Or maybe Peterson."

No. Fucking. Way.

"It would have been the early 70's," David blithely continues. "My father worked for First National City Bank, that's Citibank now, in Athens."

"David Ives," I say, pronouncing David the English way.

His laugh is a little choked. "Yeah. Wow. Small world, huh?"

"I thought you'd be bigger," I say inanely, because his different last name would have been the obvious thing to question.

He laughs again, more freely now.

"I guess I peaked early. By seventh grade everybody caught up with me, and by eighth about a third of the guys were taller than me."

"That must have been difficult for you," I say, the waspish tone of my voice surprising me.

"Difficult? Not really, why?"

"Losing the size advantage?"

"Huh?"

My encounters with David were among the defining events of my childhood, and he doesn't even remember them. Jesus, get a grip, Petersen. It's almost forty years later, for Chrissake. What the hell does it matter?

He laughs again, filling the silence. "Jordie Petersen," he says, in that fond, sickly sweet tone people use when they reminisce about their childhood. "What a little oddball you were."

"No, I wasn't," I spit out, unable to help myself. "I was shy, and I was more Greek than American, so I didn't fit in like the rest of you. That's all."

He says nothing for a while, then his voice is gentle. "I'm sorry," he says, but I don't know if he's apologizing for now or then, and I'm embarrassed at my outburst.

"No, I'm sorry. It was a long time ago, and you're right, I probably was an oddball. All kids are, one way or another."

He grunts noncommittally.

"Why did you change your name?" I need to shift the focus from eight-year old Jordie.

"I didn't really. Hamvas is my middle name, my mother's maiden name. When my dad passed away, my mom moved to Hungary and having a Hungarian name was easier. I didn't stand out as much."

"But... we heard you dad passed away when you were in Athens. That's why you left."

"That's right."

"But that was in 1974. Who moved to any Eastern Bloc country in 1974?"

"Evidently, my mother and I."

"Did you speak Hungarian?"

"No. Neither did my mother, or at least not that well. Her parents were Hungarian, but they left before World War Two, when she was only about three years old or so. To this day, I don't know what she was thinking of."

Sounds like there are some things from his childhood that he hasn't left behind either.

"People sometimes get homesick," I say slowly, aware that I don't know him well enough – I don't know him at all – to be able to say something that might make him feel better, but wanting to do so, nevertheless. "I imagine it must have been even harder back then than it is now. It's a lot easier to go home these days, to stay in touch."

"Is it?" he asks, sounding unconvinced.

I think of myself, who meticulously avoids any ties, and I think of David, whose son doesn't speak to him. Can you even have a home, if somebody else doesn't call it that, as well, if you don't share it?

"I don't know," I finally admit.

I hear him take a deep breath and exhale slowly.

"I'll be in London next Friday," he tells me.

"That's nice."

"Is it?" he asks again, but this time I'm surer of my answer.

"Of course. London's fun. Even the museums are fun. And at night you can go to the West End."

"Wanna come see 'Mamma Mia' with me?" he asks, a teasing note to his voice.

"Hell, no. Abba? Christ. No thanks."

He laughs.

"How about 'We Will Rock You'?"

"I had a crush on Freddy Mercury," I admit.

"Didn't every gay boy?"

"And on Roger Daltrey. That chest."

I love his laughter.

"And on David Bowie."

"Yeah? Which period?"

"Ziggy Stardust," I lie, embarrassed to admit that I first listened to Bowie in the 80's and didn't even know he'd been around long before that.

"What about actors?" he asks me.

"You first."

"Hmmm. Alain Delon."

"God, yeah."

"And Gary Cooper."

"Gregory Peck."

"Jimmy Stewart?"

I make a gagging sound.

"Admit it. Secretly, you like 'It's a Wonderful Life'," he teases, and I laugh.

"I really, really, don't. But if it's on TV, I have to watch it. It's like slowing down when you drive by an accident."

"So how about it?"

"How about what?"

"London, next weekend. You and me."

"David..."

One of the things I like to tell myself is that I live this way, without roots or attachments, so that I can do whatever I want, so that I'm accountable to nobody. There's nothing to stop me from booking a spur of the moment ticket to London. And I want to see David again. Underneath it all, though, I know that this thing, this whatever-it-is, has the potential to upset my entire equilibrium, everything I've achieved over the years.

"I want to see you again, Jordie," he murmurs, and for some reason I break out in goose bumps.

"Okay. I'll try."

"Don't just try."

"O-kay," I repeat testily, my irritation fading a split second when he repeats the word with a sigh of satisfaction, maybe even of relief.

We've arranged to meet at Paddington station, at the top of the escalators leading to the Underground. As I get off the Heathrow Express and walk along the platform, hitching my duffel bag more firmly onto my shoulder, I have an absurd moment of fear that he won't be there, or worse, that I suddenly won't recognize him. It's been over a month now since I last saw him. Maybe I don't remember his face correctly, his blue-gray eyes, the way his hair hangs over his forehead.

But he's there, smiling broadly, and looking handsome in a T-shirt that lies flat against the lean muscles of his chest, loose-fitting button-fly jeans and sneakers.

"Hi," he says, and he gives me a brief hug and kisses my cheek. 

I barely suppress the instinct to look around and check that nobody sees us. It's not that I'm in the closet; it's just that meeting a lover for the weekend makes me feel young and nervous. I've only done this a handful of times before, and even then it was more along the lines of a weekend in the Hamptons with a bunch of other friends, as well, or never making it back to my own apartment until Sunday afternoon after a Friday night date went especially well. Pre-planned, just two of us? Never.

"Let's drop off your stuff at the hotel, and then we can figure out what we want to do. I got tickets for the Queen show tomorrow night, but that's the only firm plan so far."

I sit next to him on the tube, our shoulders and thighs pressed together, my duffel bag in my lap and half across his. I inhale deeply, almost giddy with a sudden sense of happiness, and I lean my weight against him. A quick sideways glance tells me he's smiling.

"I wasn't sure if you have a favorite neighborhood or hotel, so I just extended the stay in the hotel the company booked me into. It's right across from Regent's Park. But we can move, if you want to," he assures me.

"No, that's fine. We can go running in the Park. That'll be nice."

"I didn't know you ran," he says, sounding pleased. "It's the only exercise I get, and I'm sort of obsessive about it. I've got a streak going."

"A streak?"

"Mmm. Unless I have an early flight, I try to run every morning, even if it's only for twenty minutes. Today was day 742."

"That's more than two years."

"Yep."

"Don't you ever get sick?"

"Not that sick."

"What would happen if you missed a day? Would you start over?"

"I have started over. Twice. Last time I got to 483, then I was in Milan during a heat wave, and I knew running would be a crazy idea."

I don't remember by SAT or GMAT scores. I don't exactly remember my best times when I was running track, or what my cholesterol level is. For an accountant, I have a remarkably bad memory for numbers. I don't know whether to be impressed or a little scared of this facet of David.

"I'd cheat," I tell him.

"You'd only be lying to yourself," he says with amusement.

I shrug. I don't have a problem lying to myself occasionally. Like that I'm optimistic that David and I have complimentary personalities that can mesh, even when the sexual attraction burns out. It's better than admitting that right now I doubt we'll even make it through the weekend once we fuck each other's brains out.

After the door closes behind us, we start to do the slamming against the walls, strewing our clothes on the way to bed thing. I know I said sex doesn't really happen that way, and I'm just as surprised as anybody to discover that it does. I've barely dropped my duffel onto the floor and looked around the room, when David cannons into me, his mouth ramming against mine, shoving me against the wall. I taste blood; either he or I, maybe both of us, will have a fat lip tomorrow.

"Oh, hey," I say, trying to slow things down, if unbuttoning his fly can be considered that. I shove his jeans down his hips, and he toes his sneakers off and then steps out of his jeans, grinding against me all the while.

"Jordie," he says breathlessly into my mouth, his fingers clenching painfully at my hair. He licks my gums, the roof of my mouth, my tongue, and he gasps harshly when I shove my hand into his briefs and find his cock, hard and already dripping.

I push him across the narrow entrance way, so that now his back is against the wall, and I drop to my knees, holding his hips in place. His fingers are still tangled in my hair, and he tries to pull my head forward onto him.

"Let go of my head, David," I tell him, and he looks down at me, his eyes dazed.

"What?"

"Let go of my head," I repeat, and he lets go instantly, his fingertips trembling as they trace my ears and temples and jaw, then drop away completely.

I reward him by pulling down his underwear and nuzzling into the crease of his hip, inhaling his musky scent.

"Please," he says harshly. His hands hover around my head again, but he doesn't touch me. "Please, please."

I take him in my mouth, moaning at his taste. For a second I wonder how long it's been, a couple of years at least, since I've sucked someone off, but it doesn't matter, because even if my last time had been yesterday, it wouldn't have been David in my mouth, and now it is. His hips try to jerk forward, and I hold him in place, moving slowly up and down his cock, taking him in as deep as I can and swallowing. I feel his fingers flutter against the top of my head and I freeze momentarily, and he says "please" again, and I let him hold my head, even though it scares me, but he doesn't push or try to force me in any way, and after a while I almost forget, and just concentrate on him, my mouth full of him and of his taste.

"Jordie, I'm—" he says, and he's hands are tightening on my hair again, but he's trying to pull me away, not push me down, so it's okay and I ignore his warning. Just like last time, he barely makes a sound when he comes; his seed spurts into my mouth, salty and bitter, and I moan again.

He bends over me and cradles my head, kissing the top of it, as I press my lips into his belly and run my fingers through his pubic hair and trace his balls.

"I want you to fuck me," he whispers, clawing at my polo shirt, trying to free it from my waistband and pull it over my head. I raise my arms to help him, and then he pulls me up and pushes me towards the bed, shoving me until I'm flat on my back and he's crawling over me, his tongue licking up from the waistband of my jeans, dipping into my belly button, then further up, to circle one nipple. He bites it lightly and I cry out, and he looks at me, his eyes blazing.

"Do you like that?" he whispers hotly, and instead of answering, I arch into his mouth, and catch hold of his hand and bring it up to my other nipple. Still looking at me, he pinches carefully, and I cry out again.

"Oh, Jordie," he says huskily, then he rests his weight against me and kisses me, his hands continuing to pay attention to my nipples. I run my palms down his bare back, cupping his ass, feeling along the crease and he does that little stutter inhalation I thought was so sexy the first time we were together.

"I need to get my jeans off," I tell him, speaking into his mouth, the curve of his shoulder, his ear, as he constantly moves against me. "I need to get a condom on, and I need to get inside you."

He sits up, his ass on my thighs, his cock once again stiff and swollen between us, his chest moving like he's just finished a hard run. He unbuttons my jeans, then knee-walks backward, pulling them off. He slips both hands under the legs of my boxers, and I feel his fingers on my testicles and I shudder.

"These are so old-fashioned," he smiles, and I hope he means the underwear and not my balls.

"So am I."

His thumbs move back, rubbing against the perineum, and it's starting to drive me crazy.

"I need more," I tell him, and after giving me just barely enough and ignoring my whimpering and begging for what seems like forever, he finally nods, stands up and goes to the bathroom. God, his ass is sweet, not a bubble butt, which I've never really liked, but not flat either, just lean and muscular and... sweet. He returns with condoms and a lube and tosses them next to me.

"How do you want it?" I ask him, as he stretches out onto the bed next to me.

"I like riding," he says, almost shyly, and I nod. When you're bottoming, being on top gives you more control than any other position.

I shove off my old-fashioned boxers, and then sit up, pulling at his leg so that he straddles me again, wrapping my arms around his waist and kissing his collarbone. He shoves the lube into my hands, and bends down to kiss me, gasping a little as he feels my slick fingers move down his crease and towards his hole. At first he clenches and raises himself a little, flinching away from me, then he relaxes and pushes himself down onto my hand, exhaling as he goes.

"Okay?" I ask him, loving the way he arches his body, his eyes at half-mast and his teeth gnawing at his lower lip, the way his muscles clench on my finger.

"Oh, yeah," he whispers, and then gasps when I press a second finger into him and find his prostate. "Yes." He hunches over and buries his face into my neck. "Yes."

I have to leave him for a while, so that I can put the condom on, and then he starts to sink down onto me, surrounding me, his fingers gripping my shoulders so tightly I'm sure there'll be bruises there tomorrow.

"Yes," he whispers again, when his butt is resting against my open thighs.

I jerk my hips a little into his tight heat, but I can't really move like this, sitting up and with his full weight on my thighs, so I lie back pulling me with him, until he's lying on top of me, and I can brace my feet and rock up into him. He grunts every time I slam my hips up, pushing back against me in the same rhythm, and I start trying to concentrate on something else, anything beyond him and this bed and this room, like general ledger account numbers, because I'm going to come, and it's way, way too soon.

He lifts himself a little, so that he can see my face, and he traces my lips and my jaw with his fingers.

"So good," he whispers. "Jordie, so good."

Jesus, the way he says my name. I grip his hips and push him down as I strain up against him, into him.

"I'm hungry," I declare, as he lies spooned against my back. We never made it out of our room for dinner last night or breakfast this morning. Our hands are laced together and I hold them up in a bar of bright sunlight, studying the blue veins under his skin, the dusting of dark hairs on his wrist and forearm, the square nails tipping his long fingers. "We have to get up and find food, or I'm going to expire right here."

"Not getting up," he mutters. "Thanks to you and your selfish needs I'm on day 1 again, so I might as well just stay in bed."




Travelling Home Ch. 02



"We can go running now," I tell him.

"It won't count. I go running in the morning. It's now three in afternoon."

I peel my back off his chest and get up.

"Come on. It'll be fun."

"I'm too weak. And it'll still be day 1."

I grab one of his ankles and start pulling him off the bed, then catch the other, as well, when he tries to kick me in the ribs.

"So cheat, you obstinate, obsessive bastard. It's morning somewhere in the world. We run and you're back to day 723."

"743," he corrects me instantly and I grin, knowing I've got him.

"That's right. 743. My mistake."

We run the Regents Park loop. It's only a little over four kilometers, so we add the Primrose Hill loop onto it. At first I can tell that Mr. Day 743 thinks he needs to hold back for me, and for about a mile I let him labor under that illusion, then I pull ahead as we head into the hills. For a while he keeps up, and then he drops back, so I slow down for him.

"You're muttering something in a language I don't understand."

"Fuck off," he says, glaring at me balefully.

"Maybe you should stop smoking."

"My ass is sore," he mutters and I almost trip. I try to keep on running, but it's hopeless, and I bend over, bracing my hands on my knees, and laugh and laugh. When I'm done, he's a good four hundred meters ahead of me, so I have to sprint to catch up with him.

The hotel room has one of those old fashioned big bathtubs with the separate cold and hot water faucets, and David talks me into taking a bath with him. He lies quietly between my legs, his back against my chest, leaning his head back against my shoulder, so that his cheek is pressed against mine, and smoking a cigarette. I slip my arms under his, and caress his belly and chest.

"What are you thinking about?" I ask him and he shakes his head.

"Nothing. Just... stuff."

I kiss his temple, and rub my unshaven cheek against his, liking the rasping sound.

"Do you remember any of our teachers' names?" I ask him.

He takes a while to answer. "No. Maybe the one in fourth grade was Mrs. Lowe, but I'm not really sure."

The name sounds familiar. "Yeah, maybe."

"It's strange, you know, the things we remember and what we forget. When we got to Hungary, I didn't go to school immediately. I had to learn Hungarian first. I missed everything and everybody from my past life so goddamn much, the school, playing baseball, my dad. Then school started, and it was okay. The living standard was a bit different, but I expected that from moving before for my dad's job. The other kids were fine once I got to know them. By winter I'd forgotten a lot of my past life. Not really forgotten, but I remembered stuff like I'd read about it, not like it had happened to me."

He draws on his cigarette, and I watch him blow the smoke out in little rings.

"You wear contacts now?" he asks me suddenly.

"Nah, I had surgery years ago. Except that now I need to get glasses again. My arms are getting too short."

"Yeah, mine too. In dark restaurants I've given up on the menus, I just ask the waiters what they recommend."

"You remember I wore glasses?"

"I remember almost everything about you, Jordan. That's what I mean with strange. Years later, my dad and you, I could shut my eyes and hear your voices and see your faces, and I knew I was remembering them right. Nobody else, really, just you two. If you'd still been nine years old when we met in Stockholm, I would have recognized you immediately."

One of the faucets is dripping, the sound of the drops hitting the bathwater echoing in the tiled bathroom.

"Why did you hate me so much?"

I shake my head, because I no longer know.

"Yeah, you did," he insists, mistaking the movement of my head for denial.

"No, I don't think I did, not really. Maybe I just wanted the attention, or to show you that I was brave and a good fighter and that I didn't deserve to be left out of things."

He laughs. "You might have been brave, but you were a terrible fighter."

"I asked my dad and mom to send me to boxing lessons. They never did. Plus I got grounded when I went home with a fat lip or a black eye, because they didn't want me fighting, and the teachers all told them that most of the fights were started by me, not you."

He laughs again. "Aww, poor little Jordie," he murmurs, reaching his free hand up to wrap around the back of my neck and squeeze it consolingly.

"You could have hurt me a lot worse than you did. How come you always pulled your punches?"

He shrugs. "Maybe something told me that one day we'd meet again, and you'd be taller and stronger than me."

"Taller and faster," I correct him and he squeezes my neck again, only this time it hurts a little. "Such a better runner than you," I gloat into his ear, and he could probably still easily kick my ass, so I distract him by wrapping one of my hands around his dick and cupping his balls in the other.

We finally make it to dinner, finding a pub with tables outside that looks like it has enough locals to allow the assumption that the food will be good.

"I'll go in and order for us," David offers. "What do you want?"

"Whatever. A burger. It's too hot for real food."

"Any preferences in beer?"

"Nah, I'll just have a Coke."

He nods, and after a while returns with a Coke for me and a pint of ale for himself, and sits opposite me.

"You don't drink?"

I shake my head.

"Just beer or any alcohol?"

"Any alcohol."

"Is there a specific reason?"

Yeah, there is, but I'm not about to tell him.

"Not really. I've just never liked the taste."

He nods and takes out his cigarettes, offering me one.

"Maybe after dinner," I refuse, and he puts the pack down on the table, then reaches over and twines his fingers through mine and smiles at me.

"You're so serious," he says. "Why are you always so serious?"

"I'm not," I protest. "I'm just not naturally smiley, like you." I give him a stupid grin, showing a lot of tooth, and he grins back.

"Jordie, are you happy?"

I don't know if he means generally or right now, so I turn the question back at him. "Are you?"

He sits back and thinks about it, his eyes drifting towards his cigarettes, then up to mine again.

"Yeah, I think so, most of the time. I have a job I like, I have money, and I have a plan."

"A plan?"

"Yeah. In four years I'm retiring and I'm going to travel and see all the places I've been to and never really seen. Just wander around, be a tourist. When I get sick of one place, I'll move on. I'm going to see the whole world."

"That sounds nice," I tell him. "I dream of something like that, as well."

"It's not a dream," he corrects me. "It's a plan."

"Something like that takes a lot of money, even if you're roughing it."

He shrugs.

"I've got money."

"A lot of money."

"Oh, I've got shitloads of money," he tells me seriously.

A waiter brings us our food, and for a while we concentrate on it. It's over 24 hours since we last ate, and I try not to inhale my burger. His hand sneaks out to steal one of my fries, and I swat it away.

"Hey, you're so rich, get your own fries, Mr. Healthy Salad Man"

He folds his arms on the table and looks at me.

"You don't believe me, do you?"

"Nope."

He reaches into his breast pocket and pulls out his BlackBerry.

"Here. Google me."

I do so, and then show him the results. "Yeah, so?"

He shakes his head and sighs impatiently.

"I haven't used Ives since 1974."

I google David Hamvas and I stare at the small screen. I don't know a hell of a lot about IT, but I know accounting platforms, and there are only a handful of companies that multinational corporations turn to for solutions. And the guy sitting across from me founded and owns one of those. I can't imagine how I didn't make the connection immediately, when I saw his last name, except for the fact that was more preoccupied with who David wasn't, and, once that had been proven (or so I thought), with fucking him. 

"You've got shitloads of money," I assure him numbly, giving back the BlackBerry, and he laughs.

I finish my burger and fries, and he goes into the pub for another beer and Coke, and to pay the tab. When he comes back, he offers me his cigarettes again, and this time I pull one out of the pack.

"You never answered the question."

"Huh? What question?" I ask absent-mindedly, wondering whether I should start smoking again. Most of my life, even when I was running track in college, I smoked two to three cigarettes a day; then I figured it was so little that I might as well stop. Now I'm thinking, if that's the one generally acknowledged addiction I can actually control so successfully that it only gives me pleasure, why give it up?

"Are you happy?"

I try to make smoke rings and fail miserably, until he reaches over, plucks the cigarette out of my fingers, takes a drag and shows me how to do it. He hands the cigarette back, and I practice.

"Now that you've learned a new skill, will you answer me?"

"I'm in one of my favorite cities, and I'm going to get laid in less than hour. What's not to be happy about?"

He frowns at me and glances at his watch.

"You're avoiding the question. And in less than an hour we'll be taking our seats at the Dominion."

I stub my cigarette out and get up, then yank him to his feet, as well.

"No, we're not."

"But I've already paid for the tickets," he protests. "They'll go to waste."

"You're rich, you can afford it."

"Money sure makes you horny," he smirks, trailing after me like an eager puppy.

"What can I say? I'm an accountant."

When we reach the hotel, we do the slamming against the walls thing again.

At 8:00 a.m. the next morning, I join him for Day 744, and even though this time it's my ass that's sore, he still can't keep up with me. To his credit, he tries not to show that it pisses him off. I find his effort cute and I tell him so. That really pisses him off and when we get back to the room, he has to prove his manhood by drilling me into the mattress again. I have to think of more ways to annoy him.

"Let's ride a Hop-On Hop-Off," he suggests afterwards, during breakfast. "I've always wanted to do one of those tours."

We buy tickets, and sit on the upper deck, despite the fact that it's turned cool and blustery. It feels like autumn, even though it's July. He puts on his sunglasses and smiles at me, and he looks ten years younger and I wonder what my life would have been like if I'd met David at a conference ten years ago instead of a month ago. Probably no different than it is today. Ten years ago David was still married.

"Why did you get married?" I ask him as we get off the bus in front of St. Paul's cathedral. It seems like the right place to ask that type of a question.

"I was in love," he tells me simply.

"So you're bi?"

He shakes his head. "No, not really. I mean I've had sex with both men and women, but I really only ever fall in love with men. Except for Nora. And it lasted long enough for me to marry her, and for Sandor to be born."

And to stay married for sixteen years, but he doesn't mention that.

"Have you loved a lot of men?" I regret the question the moment it pops out of my mouth. I don't really want to know, and it's not the kind of question one asks anyway.

"I'm forty-six," he answers flatly, and I'm guessing that's a yes, though I don't see what age has to do with it. I've only ever loved one. So far.

In the evening, we ride the Heathrow Express to the airport together. We're both flying out of Terminal 5, although his departure is forty minutes earlier than mine. Despite the cloudiness of the day, his face got a little sunburned from sitting in the upper deck of the tour buses, so he looks flushed, just like he looked when he bent over me just an hour ago, my legs hitched over his shoulders. I turn away from him to stare out of the window at the scenery sweeping by.

"Do you want to go to the lounge?" he asks me after we check in and go through security.

"Nah. I prefer to wander around, look at the stores and stuff."

He nods, but I know the look. Back when I was traveling as much as he is, I hated the shops and duty free, and all I wanted to do was go to a quiet lounge, where I could get some work done. I'm tempted to follow him now, but I don't want to sit for the next forty minutes just waiting to say goodbye.

"You go, though."

He looks torn.

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah," I laugh. "I hate long goodbyes. It's better this way."

He hugs me, and for a second I drop my head into his shoulder, nuzzling at his neck.

"I had fun," I whisper, kissing him in one of my favorite spots, right at the curve of his jaw under his ear, where his soft skin turns rough with stubble. "Thanks."

He steps back from me, his eyes bright.

"We didn't see much of London."

"Maybe next time."

He smiles.

"Next time," he agrees.

He doesn't look back as he heads for the escalator that will take him up to the lounge. 

I wander around aimlessly, trying on sunglasses and leafing though a few books, then buy a cup of coffee at Starbucks, because standing in line gives me something to do that feels semi-productive. I try not to think of David, not to feel empty or depressed. I scan one the departures boards and see that my flight has been delayed by an hour and I groan; then I see that David's flight is delayed as well, and I can't believe what a stupid idiot I was, to be wasting all this time apart, when we could be spending it together. 

I take out my phone to call him, when I feel arms wrap around me from behind and soft lips on the back of my neck.

"When's your summer vacation?" he asks me.

"Mid-August." I lean back against him, not caring who might be watching us, oblivious to everything but how good he feels against me, how good I feel with his arms around me.

"Do you have plans?"

"Go visit my mom in Athens for a few days, see some friends."

He breathes against my neck.

"Do you want to come visit for a few days?" I ask him, my voice nervous.

He's busy. He'll probably be in Beijing, or Astana, or Quito.

"Yeah. I do. I'd love to."

We spend the next hour in the lounge, at first making plans for August, and then just sitting next to each other, our fingers laced together, his palm warm against mine, watching CNN and not speaking. Finally he needs to leave, and I walk with him to his gate.



Travelling Home Ch. 03



Chapter 3: Athens

Athens has grown hotter over the years, and it's not just me saying that. When I was a child, I remember that even in the summers we'd sometimes need a light jacket at night; that hasn't been the case for a long, long time. We think it's the constant forest fires and the buildings that have gone up in the place of trees, and we've put air-conditioners in our cars and in every room of our houses and offices, so even if the dawns and late nights are still cooler, who'd even know any more? 

When the flight into Eleftherios Venizelos Airport takes you over the city, you see acre after acre of concrete baking in the heat, with the panels and bodies of solar water heaters gleaming on every rooftop. I can't judge if it's beautiful or ugly, though I guess most people would say the latter. For me, that last stretch, especially if I'm sitting on the left side of the plane and can catch a glimpse of Lycabettus... well, it heals something in me, even though I know that in two or three weeks I'll be just as happy, happier, flying away again.

David was supposed to land earlier than me, flying in from Moscow, but the Aeroflot flight is delayed. I take advantage of the time to go to the ATM and get some money, then to rent a car. It takes several attempts to convince the customer service rep at the Sixt counter that I speak Greek fluently; it's not the first time it's happened. People see my name and assume I can only speak English, all evidence to the contrary. I guess a lot of us just don't listen very carefully.

David and I have barely spoken over the past month, and the few conversations were awkward. We ended each one trying to check if we still planned to meet, trying not to be too obvious about it. I rehearsed my reaction in case he told me he had to cancel, several reactions, depending on how he led into it.

He's here finally, walking through the sliding doors, scanning the waiting area. He looks exhausted, his face gray, his shoulders slumped in his business suit, but when he sees me, his eyes immediately lighten. For some reason I'm more self-conscious hugging him here than I was in London, and maybe that's why he feels different in my arms. Even his smell seems different, and after a second I step away from him.

"I rented a car."

He studies me for a second, a faint frown deepening the lines between his eyebrows, then he simply nods. "Lead the way."

As I drive us out of the airport, he busies himself with the radio, trying to find a station with music. He stops at a familiar song that I remember slow dancing to with Benny in our apartment, then he leans back.

"Remember when flying into Athens meant landing in the golf course?" he asks me.

"It wasn't actually in the golf course, you idiot," I laugh, but he's right, it was close enough. I sometimes miss the old airport. It was small and crowded, with those ugly yellow overhead signs you still see in some of the older and smaller airports around the world, but traveling back then meant something special, almost magical, at least to me, and the old airport became part of that.

His hand drifts over to mine, where it rests on the stick shift. He covers it lightly, his palm warm and dry against the back of my hand. I look at him quickly, expecting him to say something, but his head is against the headrest, his eyes closed.

"Tired?" I ask him softly.

"Yes. It's been a long month."

I don't really have an answer for that, and after a while I can tell from his breathing that he's asleep. His hand stays on mine throughout the whole way, growing damp with sweat after a while, but it doesn't bother me. I lace our fingers together, to make shifting gears a little easier.

He stirs when we park, looking around, probably expecting a hotel, but seeing only a quiet neighborhood street with pine trees lining it on either side, two and three story apartment buildings standing in small gardens.

"Are we stopping off at your mother's or something?"

I shake my head and point to a gate across the street.

"No. That's mine."

He unbuckles his belt and leans forward to look through the windshield.

"What, the whole building?"

"No, just the right half of the second floor. The balcony with the red and purple geraniums."

"So this is home?"

I shrug. I don't think of it as home really, just an apartment I bought years ago, using a big, unexpected bonus as a down payment. I had some half-baked idea of renting it out until I retire, but my friends told me so many horror stories about what tenants can do, not to mention the taxes and the difficulty of registering contracts, that I decided to keep it vacant and use it when I'm in Athens. I bought some furniture, and arranged with my sister, who lives only a ten-minute drive away, for her to check on things and water the geraniums once or twice a week. 

I told my mother I'm coming home next week, because I don't want to answer any of the questions she's bound to ask if I show up with David, and I don't want to give up any of our time together while he's here to show up alone, but my sister knows I'm arriving today with someone and she's promised to steer clear. She's never had an issue with my being gay, but ever since she saw 'Queer as Folk' she has a rather distorted image of my sex life, so god only knows what she imagines she's avoiding.

The apartment smells stale and I open the sliding balcony doors of the living room, trying to let in some fresh air, but it's so hot and still outside that there's no noticeable improvement. Something heavy and oppressive hangs in the air, and I try to pretend it's the weather and not the unease between David and me.

"Living room," I point out the obvious. "Kitchen through there." David follows me down a short hallway, as I open doors. "Bathroom, bedroom, master bedroom." I draw back blinds and open windows. "I need to get towels and sheets. I can never quite decide if I should make the beds before I leave, or when I come back." I take a deep breath and order myself to shut up.

He ignores my babbling and stands in the middle of the master bedroom, his hand still on the handle of his wheelie suitcase. He rolls the suitcase to stand next to a wall, then shrugs off his suit jacket and walks to the closet.

"May I?" he asks, his hand hovering inches from the door handle, and I nod.

"Sure."

He hangs up his jacket and loosens his tie, then sits down on the bare mattress, half-lying back and propping himself on his elbows.

"Why are you being so weird?"

I could pretend not to understand what he's talking about, but he deserves more than that. Hell, we both do.

"I don't know. Would you prefer to stay in the center? We can book a hotel room. There's not a hell of a lot to do here."

"No. This is nice."

"There's no cleaning service."

He smiles. "I know how to make a bed and wash dishes. Don't you?"

I try to smile back, and I shift my weight from one foot to the other.

"It's more the cooking and laundry part that concerns me."

"I know how to do those, too."

"Yeah, me too. But this is supposed to be a vacation."

"It will be. I don't really associate hotels with vacations anyway; quite the opposite, in fact."

I shift my weight again.

"So you're okay with this?" I check again.

"If you are."

The thing is, I didn't expect it to feel this way. Sitting in Stockholm, this apartment had seemed like a practical spot to park our stuff and make further plans, maybe fly out to an island. Now, with him here, we need to think about groceries and cooking and making beds and splitting daily tasks, minimal as they may be. It's too... domestic.

I sigh and go and sit next to him and stare at the wall opposite.

"Do you own property?" I ask him.

"I had a house right outside Budapest, but I signed it over to Nora. I haven't bought anything since."

"I don't think of here as home," I clarify carefully, although I'm not sure why it's so important that he understand this point.

"Where then?"

I shrug. I feel the mattress shift slightly, then his fingers slip between my polo shirt and jeans at my waist, stroking my bare skin.

"There's a pool in the back," I tell him, still not entirely comfortable with the intimacy. "You have a bathing suit, right?"

"Yes." His fingers don't stop moving, a light touch, right on the edge of tickling, and I squirm a little. I twist around to look at him. He still seems tired, and that hank of hair that always hangs in his eyes is damp and stringy with sweat. I reach over and push it to the side, my own fingers lingering on the side of his face.

"Why don't you go shower, and I'll make the bed."

He smiles a little and turns his face into my hand, kissing my wrist.

"You're done being weird?"

"For the time being, at least," I half-lie.

He laughs and sits up, leaning in for another kiss.

"Why don't you come shower with me, and then we can make the bed together," he suggests, and that's an even better plan than mine, and suddenly it all feels light and okay again.

"What day are you on?" I ask him.

I only have air conditioning installed in the master bedroom, and for some reason it's not working, so after we're done with each other, we lie stretched out on our backs, sweating heavily, not even our pinkies touching. I wish I could levitate over the hot damp sheets.

"I'm not counting any more."

I turn my head and raise my eyebrows in disbelief, even though he's studying the ceiling and can't see me.

"What? I'm not!" he insists after a long silence.

"How come?"

He shrugs. "It seemed a little stupid," he mumbles.

"You didn't want to go back to Day 1 and you couldn't reconcile yourself to cheating. That's it, isn't it?"

He doesn't answer, but the tip of the ear I can see reddens.

"I ran the days for you."

He rolls over onto his side and gazes at me. I've always been a sucker for eyes the color of his, that deep blue-gray, and I suddenly wonder if I might have preferred brown, like Benny's, if David hadn't been a part of my childhood.

"Did you?" he asks, his voice a little choked.

I'm embarrassed by an admission that I didn't really intend to make, and by the ways I think he might be interpreting it, so I turn my head to look up at the ceiling again.

He sits up, and I can see trickles of perspiration running down his ribs.

"We might have to go to a hotel after all," I tell him. "It's the middle of August and everybody's on vacation. I don't know if we can find someone to fix the air conditioning."

"No," he says firmly. "No." He scoots to the side of the bed and leans over in search of his underwear. "I'm going to go out to the balcony for a cigarette."

"You don't have to go outside," I tell him, but he just shakes his head, then rummages in his suitcase for a new pack and in the pocket of his trousers for a lighter, and walks out of the bedroom.

I wallow for a while, trying not to think of anything, then I get up, take another shower, pull on underwear, shorts and a T-shirt and go to find him on the front balcony. He's leaning against the railing, an ashtray balanced precariously next to his elbow.

"I need to go the supermarket for some supplies. You want to come with me?"

He nods. "Do I have time for a shower?"

"Sure. I'll make a list in the meantime."

Athens in August is a silent, empty city, especially if you're not in the center where the tourist attractions are. Many shops are closed, and people are away, so it's easy to park and get around. David wanders through the supermarket, a happy smile lifting the corners of his mouth, and he puts more food in the cart than we'll ever get through in a week, especially if we head out to one of the islands.

"You're buying too much," I warn him, watching him compare the ingredients labels between two brands of cereal.

"Do you realize that sugar is the second or third ingredient in most cereals, even in supposedly healthy ones like bran flakes?" he says with a frown.

"I don't eat bran flakes. Do you need me to find you some prunes, too?" I smirk.

"Oh, good. Toilet humor," he says dryly. "That's mature."

"No, that's middle-aged," I correct him and he laughs. "I'm serious, though. You're buying too much. I thought we might spend a couple of days outside of Athens, maybe Hydra or Spetses."

"Do we have to decide now?" he glares at me.

It's the first time I've heard him whine.

"No, I guess not."

He smiles at my answer, good mood restored, and tosses one of the cereal boxes into the cart.

When we get back to the apartment, he asks me for my tool set, which he seems to find pretty pathetic after inspection, and goes to tinker with the air conditioner, while I put away the supplies.

"Do you know anything about what you're doing?" I call out, worried about the validity of the warranty if he breaks something. Yeah, I'm a cheap bastard.

"Yes. Relax."

"How do you know? You're not even a real accountant." I love his laughter.

"I went to a technical high school," he tells me, coming to stand at the door of the kitchen so that he doesn't have to yell across the apartment.

"Oh. Well, I think technology has progressed a little bit since then."

"Screw you," he says calmly.

He watches me for a while, and I make a production out of bending over to put things into the fridge and in the low cabinets. One thing I'm certain of, and that's that he loves my ass. "Where's your breaker panel?" he asks finally, a trace of humor in his voice.

"Behind the door."

He opens the panel door and stares at the switches and the little labels written in Greek stuck over them. "Do you have a dedicated breaker switch for the air conditioning?"

"I'm not sure." I come over to stand next to him, reading the labels. "Yeah. That one."

He flips the switch down, then kisses me quickly on the cheek and walks out again, humming.

"Can't we at least first try and find a repair guy?" I plead after him, and then I hear a couple of clanking noises. Obviously not. I can either worry or distract myself, so I pull a pint of vanilla ice cream out of the freezer, and carry it to the front balcony along with a spoon. It's still hot, and a slight breeze has kicked up, so that now I feel like I'm in one of those ovens that cook with hot air. I pull off my T-shirt and hang it over the back of one the teak armchairs, then sit down and prop my feet against the railing. The ice cream is already starting to melt, just the way I like it, and I scrape my spoon along the edges of the container, slowly working my way toward the more solid center.

He joins me after half an hour, looking like he's going to need his third shower of the day. I guiltily try to hide the empty carton under the chair, but he catches me at it, and grins.

"Buying too much food. Yeah, right."

"This isn't food, it's ice cream," I point out the obvious. "So, did you break it?"

"No."

"You fixed it?"

"I think so."

"What do you mean, you think so?"

"I just came to let you know that I intend to flip the breaker switch back on, so that we can test it. You might want to be ready to call an ambulance and the fire brigade."

"Oh." He's teasing, right?

He comes over and squats next to me, so that our heads are almost level, and he kisses me, licking at my lips.

"Mmmm. Sweet and cool," he murmurs. Meanwhile, I'm finding that I like salty and warm.

He stands up.

"I was just kidding. I fixed it."

"Really?"

"Really. Wanna come see?"

I follow him to the bedroom. The door is closed, and when he opens it, the cool air seems to rush out at me and I moan in appreciation.

"You're my hero," I tell him, walking into the bedroom and doing a belly flop onto the bed, my arms spread out.

The door closes behind me, and his weight lands on my back, knocking the wind out of me.

"How are you going to thank me?" he asks, sliding his hands along my arms and pinning them down, rubbing his bare chest against my bare back, and rocking his hips into mine. I can feel his hard-on through our shorts.

"Didn't we already have sex today?"

"Yep." He's chewing on my shoulder.

"You're objectifying me."

"Yep."

"You see nothing in me beyond my handsome face, ripped abs, and long. Thick. Dick," I try, since he seems so agreeable.

"I don't even see those." 

Bastard. He could have at least given me one out of three.

"You have to get us naked. I don't think even you can drill through four layers of clothing."

"Three."

I've been humping my ass up into him, but I still.

"You're commando? Why did you not tell me this before?"

He groans and flips off me, onto his back.

"God, do you ever shut up? How did I ever get the impression you're shy and retiring?"

I get up on my knees next to him, unbuttoning his shorts and dragging them off. His cock snaps up against his belly. I swoop down and lick the drops of pre-come off, then take him into my mouth, and he groans.

"Jordie," he whispers, one hand coming to rest on my head, and I can't help how I tense. He seems to realize it, and his fingers just drift on, down my neck and onto my shoulder, stroking there, showing me the rhythm he wants me to use on him. "So good," he sighs.

His taste is stronger than I remember it, and I figure we're both a little dehydrated with the heat. I try to take him in as deep as possible, relaxing my throat and swallowing, listening for that little stutter breath that means that he's surrendering to me, to us. I rub his balls, and his perineum, and he jerks up, moaning.

"More," he begs, and I pull up his knee, replacing my mouth on his cock with my hand, then kiss around his hip, rolling him to face away from me, leg still lifted, and push my face into his ass, nuzzling, licking, loving how he responds to me.

"Oh, god," he gives a long, thin cry. "Oh, Jordie."

He rocks, thrusting forward into my hand and then back onto my tongue, repeating my name like a chant, over and over again, then falls silent, and hot liquid floods my palm.

I roll him onto his back again, and reach for the lube and condoms that are still on the nightstand from earlier today. He lies passive and sleepy looking, his eyes half-closed, as I brace his legs against my shoulders, lube his hole and then push into him. I close my eyes, because he's almost unbearably beautiful to me at this moment and I think my heart will burst if I continue looking at him. I press my chest down, forcing his thighs against his body and folding him in half, so that I can reach his mouth, searching for it blindly. His lips are soft, and his languid response excites rather than calms me.

It suddenly dawns on me that the loud, harsh grunting in my ears is me, not him, and it scares me, because I thought I was totally self-aware and in control. I lift my head and open my eyes.

"David? Are you okay?"

His face, throat and upper chest are flushed with color, his lips swollen from my kissing, his arms stretched above him with palms flat against the headboard, protecting his head from ramming into it. 

"Yes. Yes, Jordie. Yes." 

I shove my face into the curve of his shoulder, licking his collarbone, sucking on the salty skin, and I drive into him as deeply as I possibly can, thrusting forward, then thrusting forward again without backing off in between.

"Oh, fuck," I groan, and I come so hard that I'm not sure if it hurts or feels good, and I have to fight for my next breath and the one after that.

Afterwards, he squirms a little and we adjust our bodies, so that he can lower his legs without my pulling out. His inner thighs are soft against my hips, and he wraps his arms around my back, shifting me a little so that my full weight isn't on him. I prop my chin on his shoulder.

"I think I'm about to have a heart attack," I joke weakly.

He rubs his cheek against mine.

"Okay, but not before we've had our week," he says. "Promise."




Travelling Home Ch. 03



"I promise," I say obediently.

I hear his breathing start to slow into sleep, and I pull out of him and get up. He mumbles in protest, then rolls over, curling onto his side. I guess cleanup can wait. I quietly pick up my clothes and leave him sleeping in the bedroom.

I find his cigarettes and lighter on the table in the balcony, and I light up, sucking the smoke down and holding it in my chest, waiting for that first hit of nicotine. I lean against the railing, looking out into the darkness. Most of my neighbors seem to be away, and it's quiet enough to hear an owl hooting somewhere in the distance.

For a long time I've thought of my life decisions in terms of now. Will I go to work now, will I run now, will I go to a movie now. I make very few long-term plans, because over the years I've found out that fate -- or the gods or somebody out there -- seems to take an inordinate amount of pleasure in smashing them to pieces. When I first met David, I thought of us in terms of one night, then a weekend, now a week. What happens if I start to think in terms of a month, a year, two years, the rest of our lives? What happens if he starts to think that way, as well?

Oh, god, what happens if he doesn't?



Travelling Home Ch. 04



Chapter 4: New York

The headquarters of our company are in New York City, and every September the accounting directors of all the subsidiaries and international operations meet for a week-long conference that would bore most people into a coma, but which we eagerly anticipate, and not only because of the venue. Hell, even the guys based in New York look forward to it. 

Benny Siegel also looks forward to it, not because he works for our company or is an accountant, but because he lives and works in Manhattan, and I always extend my stay so that we can spend some time together. Which is a problem, at least this year, because the boundaries between best friends and fuck buddies are pretty much non-existent for Benny and me, and I'm not sure how I feel about that any more, given my thing with David. On the other hand, I'm not quite ready to talk to Benny about David yet; I'm not proud of it, but I don't want to ruin my thing with Benny, if my thing with David doesn't work out. And in terms of hours logged with me, Benny definitely has seniority.

So I try to compromise.

"Whaddaya mean, you're not staying with me? You always stay with me!"

At 47, Benny has long given up talking like an escapee from a Francis Ford Coppola movie. He dropped the act when he got hired by one of larger legal firms in New York and realized he wasn't good enough to want to stand out. Besides, there were too many real American-Italians from the boroughs in the firm, and they threatened to beat the shit out of him if he kept the fake accent up. He sometimes pulls it out and dusts it off for me, though.

"It's this project, Benny," I answer vaguely. "There's a few of us working on it, and the others thought that since we're all getting together for the conference anyway, we should put in five or six days on the project, move it forward. They've booked us all in the hotel for the extended period. I had nothing to do with it."

"Well, that sucks," he says slowly. "So you're not even going to have much time for us to hang out?"

"We can definitely spend some time together. Fuck 'em, the brownnosers, they're not going to tie my entire weekend up. We just need to work the schedules out."

He sounds happier when we hang up. I don't know if I am. 

I put my phone down, but it beeps, indicating an incoming message, so I pick it up again, smiling when I see it's from David. 

'Guess who one of the speakers at your conference in NYC is?'

I stare at the message, my heart sinking into my shoes. Speakers are one of the closely-guarded secrets of the annual conference, and they're arranged months, sometimes more than a year, in advance. This isn't possible. Unless he's known for a while, but then why wait until now to tell me? I jab at speed-dial.

"Hey!" he answers happily, but I'm no longer in the mood for happy.

"How long have you known?"

"About five minutes."

"What? Come on, they don't arrange these things two weeks beforehand. Are you sure you're speaking at this year's conference?"

"I'm a pinch hitter. Apparently one of your keynote speakers has been subpoenaed. They got in touch with our PR department, our PR department got in touch with me, I said yes."

"But... can you do this? I mean, at a moment's notice? Don't you need to prepare?"

He sighs gustily. "Jordan, this is what I do. I travel around, I make speeches, I press some flesh, hopefully people are impressed and they put our product on their to-be-considered list. I could make any one of several speeches in my sleep."

"Yeah, but... but, I mean, don't you have something else planned? I mean, your schedule is mapped out weeks in advance, isn't it?" I babble.

"You're being weird. Again." He waits for me to say something, but I'm out of words. "My speech is on Thursday and from what I understand, the conference ends Thursday night. I though we could spend Friday and Saturday together. I have to fly out Saturday night." He waits again. "I thought you'd be pleased." 

I squeeze my eyes shut and try to swallow. Oh, god. I need to tell him, to somehow explain.

"I lived in New York." 

"I know. You can show me your favorite spots." There's a faintly pleading tone to his voice and he clears his throat. "Or we can just stay in and order room service."

"The thing is, David... well, the thing is, I've planned to spend time with some friends." Fuck, man up, Petersen. "With a friend."

"Oh." His reaction is flat, emotionless.

"And, uhm, I haven't told him about you."

I can hear his breathing, and, more faintly in the background, a man speaking Italian.

"Where are you?"

"Ferihegy. Budapest."

"Yeah, I know." He knows I know, the shortest trip from Stockholm to Athens is with Malev via Ferihegy Airport, and it's some kind of sign of something that he's forgotten and thinks he has to explain.

"What's his name? This friend of yours?"

"Benjamin Siegel. Benny."

"I don't even know why I asked that. What the fuck difference does it make?" His laugh is bitter, ugly, not the one I love. Then again, what right do I have to expect anything from him that would please me at this moment?

"David—"

"Well, I've accepted the invitation to speak," he interrupts me. "I'm going to be in New York. I'd like to see you. I guess the rest is up to you."

"David," I try again, but I realize I'm talking to dead air.

So these are my options:

One, the first man I ever fell in love with almost thirty years ago, the man who stood by me at my absolute worst and who helped pull me through, the man I sort of ran away from, because in the long term we were toxic together, and we both knew it, but the man that for five days a year I can love with all my heart and with whom I don't have to pretend to be something I'm not.

Or, two, the man I met three months ago, with whom I've spent exactly 9 days and 9 nights, most of these in bed, whom I have a crush on and maybe am even in love with, and who knows almost nothing about me, because I've tried to only show him the best bits of me and told him nothing about who I really am or was.

[1981-2003]

Dr. Bob, otherwise known as Dr. Robert Holbrook Smith, co-founder of Alcoholics Anonymous, graduated from Dartmouth College in 1902. It's one of the things people always said to me afterwards, when they heard that I'd attended Dartmouth. I never cared enough to find out more about Dr. Bob, and whether the roots of his alcoholism were to be found in the basement of a fraternity, like mine were. I don't think I cared much about anything those days.

When Benny introduced me to running, he also introduced me to the fraternity most of the track team rushed, and Freshman Spring I rushed as well. I knew I was a shoo-in; I'd been partying there since my second week on campus. We weren't Animal House, far from it, but, like all fraternities, drinking formed a large part of many things we did. Most of the brothers could handle it. Benny could. I thought I could; I'd been ordering drinks in dance clubs in Athens since I was fifteen, and I'd never had a problem. Maybe what had saved me until that point was the fact that I didn't like the taste of beer and that I could rarely afford to order more than one cocktail.

That all changed at Dartmouth. You couldn't not like beer, even when it tasted like horse piss. It was always on tap, and if your fraternity had run out, well, Frat Row offered plenty of other choices. Pretty soon, once I started drinking, I couldn't stop, not that I particularly tried to after losing the second game of quarters or the third of beer pong. I drank until I passed out. Benny could sometimes convince me not to even start, but there had to be a damn good reason, like a track meet the next day, or one of the harder days of training, or a test that my whole grade might hang on. There are complete chunks of time missing, lost to me forever, even during my sophomore spring, when Benny and I were falling in love, and when I was the happiest I'd ever been in my whole life. By my junior winter, we'd broken up; Benny couldn't handle a relationship with somebody so self-destructive, especially since he also liked to party and baby-sitting cramped his style, and I was sick of him constantly being on my case. Oddly enough, once we thought we'd pulled our hearts out of the equation, we went back to being good friends.

Benny was accepted to Columbia Law, and when he left, he made me vow that I wouldn't drink during the week, or on any weekend I had a meet. "This is important, Jordie. You have to graduate," he told me over and over again, and I'd nod, alternating between feeling grateful that he cared so much and resentful that he'd gone and left me behind. I'd long given up on my dream of pre-med, and had switched to accounting and math, and I was fighting for a grade average that would keep me from flunking out.

The real hell started the day I graduated and hitched a ride with a brother to New York. I had no idea what I wanted to do, or how to even start looking for a job, but I didn't want to go back to Athens, so I figured I'd crash out at Benny's for a while; his parents had rented a large two-bedroom in the Upper West Side for him, and it's not like he needed a paying roommate.

Things might have turned out differently if Benny had turned me away, but he didn't. I suppose we were still in love, though to this day I can never figure out why he stuck with me. Only this time around, Benny didn't really try to rein me in. For one thing, he was studying too hard. And when he wasn't studying, he wanted to party. I partied right along with him and, since I had nowhere to be or anything to do, I was partying the rest of the time, as well.

I suppose not many people can say that being raped changed their lives for the better. I don't remember all the details, and I can't say for sure that I ever said the word no, or that the guys, who ganged up on me, were any more sober or capable of making decisions than I was, but I know that my near panic at having my head held when I'm giving someone a blow job stems from that day. What stopped me drinking after that wasn't the fear of getting hurt again. Rightly or wrongly, that was something I believed I could easily survive. It was the terror of AIDS; by this time, we all had friends we'd lost, and we'd seen up close and personal what the disease could do. I no longer considered myself invincible and I needed to stay sober in order to avoid putting myself in harm's way.

I relapsed twice, both times while I was still with Benny, though not because of him. I'd always enjoyed wine and cocktails, and after a year and a half of being sober, I figured I could control things. Benny was encouraging; I'd been sick and now I was okay, and it was time to get on with life and have some fun. And as long as I was with Benny, I was okay. But he was still studying, and I'd started temping at an accounting firm, and going out with the guys for drinks after work to kill a few hours. I 'controlled' things for about three months, then ended back in rehab.

The second time was when I was admitted to NYU for my graduate degree in accounting. Benny wanted us to celebrate and he couldn't understand why I wouldn't have even one drink. As far as he was concerned, it all came down to willpower, and willpower required practice, just like running did. This time I managed to stop on my own, but DTs are not pretty and I hated Benny seeing me when I couldn't stand to be in my own skin. Once I felt semi-human again, I took a long, hard look at myself through his eyes. For him, total abstinence did not equal self-discipline, but cowardice. He loved me, but he saw me as weak and self-indulgent and I wasn't too sure I disagreed with his assessment of me. Escaping myself wasn't really an option; escaping him was.

We slowly drifted apart, and after grad school, I found a job and moved out. I worked in New York for a further two years, then I got myself assigned to our company's internal audit team, traveling all over the world, and the rest, as they say, is history. I heard through a mutual friend, an old teammate and brother of ours, that Benny had a partner, and a few years later, I heard through the same friend that Benny's partner had passed away. I contacted Benny to offer my condolences, even though by this time we hadn't spoken in almost fifteen years. I was flying through New York on my way from London, where I was then based, to San Francisco, and arranged a 24-hour stopover, so that I could see him. Seeing Benny again gave me the same feeling like that first time all those year ago, on the third floor of McLane Hall: Benny felt like home, only by this time I knew that, once you've left, you can only go back home for short visits.

[September 2010]

I arranged to meet Benny at Columbus Circle. I suggested a run, because running is when he and I are most at ease with each other, but he told me he's recovering from flu, so the best he's up for is a mosey. 

It's a cool, crisp day, and the leaves are just starting to turn. There's been more gray in Benny's hair every time I see him, so the fact that he's almost completely gray now doesn't surprise me. What shocks me is how thin he is; even the sweatshirt and windbreaker can't hide his gaunt frame. I'm not sure whether I should comment or not, but he sees my face and grimaces.

"Yeah, I know."

"Jesus, Benny, that must have been some flu."

He shrugs and nods his head towards the park entrance. Benny's not very demonstrative in public, but we always hug when we meet, and the fact that he avoids it makes my gut clench. At least he's walking firmly, though not very quickly.

"Are you okay now?" I ask hesitantly.

"Yeah."

"You sure?"

He flips an impatient hand. "Stop. I'm fine. I just need to put on a few pounds again. So how are you?"

"Good."

"Still sober?"

He always fucking asks me this, and in the same condescending tone. What he means is, still depriving myself of the occasional cocktail or flute of champagne, still pretending I'm drinking alcohol rather than water at company functions, so as not to stand out or have to explain, still too weak to stop myself from drinking myself blind if I start. I generally just say yes, and move on, but today I don't want to move on. I'm through apologizing to Benny for doing what I know is right for me.

"You know what, Benny? You, more than anybody, knows what alcohol does to me. I have a job that I'm good at, and I hold down a responsible and demanding position. I'm in good shape. I'm in a relationship. So fuck you, if you look down on me, because I don't want to risk all of that for a fucking shot of tequila."

"You're in a relationship?"

"What?"

He stops and turns to look at me, his hands in his pockets.

"You said you're in a relationship."

"Uh, I did?"

"Stop playing stupid, Jordan." His eyes narrow in sudden realization. "You were lying to me, you fucking asshole," he roars suddenly, pointing an accusing finger at me. "Accounting project, my ass. Go fuck yourself."

He starts walking again, and I fall in beside him. I can't believe I told him I'm in a relationship. This is the problem with my temper. Most time I try not to take things too personally, but then my brain short circuits at the worst possible moment, and I say a lot of stuff I don't really mean or even think, however much I might wish them.

"Is he a colleague? Is he here with you?"

"No, I met him at a conference a few months ago, and we've seen each other a couple of times since. He'll be here next weekend, but I didn't know that, when I was talking to you on the phone. That just sort of—"

"Stop explaining, Jordie," he says, not unkindly. "Do you want a pretzel?"

"Yeah. Thanks."

He buys two pretzels, a bottle of water for him and a Coke for me, and we sit on a bench.

"I'm sorry, Benny. I should have been honest with you."

"So why weren't you?"

"It's not really a relationship yet. I'm not sure it will ever be. And you and me... well, I didn't want to ruin what we have."

"What we have? Jordie, we fuck once a year. That's about it."

"That's not true," I protest, my heart suddenly racing at his assessment of what I've considered so important in my life, of my one anchor. "You're my best friend, Benny. I love you." 

"You know what I never figured out, Jordie? Why you're willing to settle for so little, why you're afraid of wanting more. Why is that?"

I shake my head. I'm not afraid of wanting more; I've just rarely gotten it, and I don't want to waste my life dreaming too big. I think that's the main mistake people make in their lives, wanting too much.

After finishing our pretzels, we meander through the park, heading up towards Umpire Rock and from there to the Carousel. 

"If I ask you something, will you promise to answer me honestly?" 

"Okay."

"Would you rather spend next weekend with him or with me?"

For three years in college, and then again for two years after I came to New York, Benny and I ran alongside each other, sometimes joking, sometimes arguing, often silent, our breathing and steps in perfect cadence. Some reckon friendship in terms of time; I also reckon it in distance, in miles of asphalt and dirt track, of crisp autumn afternoons when our feet crunched on leaves aflame with color, of freezing mornings when each breath seared our lungs. Benny and I have been friends for close to thirty years and over ten thousand miles, and he's the closest thing I've had to one true love. Over the past couple of years, the idea of asking to be reassigned to headquarters, of maybe our trying again now that we're both older and wiser, seemed increasingly attractive, even comforting, and despite Benny's description of our relationship earlier, I know he's been thinking along the same lines. It would have been nice, and nice is not something to scoff at. I look at my long-time friend with a surge of affection. I don't want to have to choose between Benny and David. I hate doing so.

"Him," I say miserably, aware of what I'm throwing away, but the choice is suddenly so blindingly obvious.

For a moment I think he's going to be protest, but instead he smiles, and flings an arm around my shoulders, hugging me to him.

"Then go for it, Jordie. For once in your life, go for it."

David picks up on the second ring.

"Can you talk?"

"Hold on." I hear him apologizing to somebody, then a door closing. "Okay, I'm with you."

"I'm done being weird," I try to joke.

"Okay."

His voice is neutral. Unlike the other times, he's not meeting me half-way.

"I'd like to spend next weekend with you. If you still want to."

"I want to."

I sink onto the foot of the bed. I don't think I knew that it it's possible to feel both relieved and extremely anxious at the same time.

"David? Do you see this, us, going further?"

He sighs. "I don't think that depends on me, Jordan."

"Yeah, but what do you want?"

"I'm too old for this shit. And so are you," he says harshly.

"What shit?" I bristle.

"This. The back and forth. The way you retreat and then try to pretend that it's because of something I might be wanting or thinking. The way you make the simplest things more complicated than they are or need to be, and how every time we see each other or speak to each other, I need to break through this fucking wall you put up."

I lie back, covering my eyes with my forearm. He's right. Other than the part about things being simple, he's right.

"You don't know me." 

"I'm trying to. God knows I'm trying to."

"If you knew—"

"Don't go there. Don't you fucking go there! If I knew what? That there are things in your past you don't want to talk about? That you've made mistakes? That you're far from perfect?"

"Yeah."

"Welcome to the club, Jordan." He laughs shortly. "I guess you're going to have to pick another excuse to bow out of this."




Travelling Home Ch. 04



"I don't want to bow out of this."

We're both silent for a while. I don't want to hang up, and the fact that he doesn't seem to want to either gives me hope.

"You don't know me either," he says quietly. "Do you think I got to where I am today always making the moral or the ethical choice? Do you think I've always played by the rules?" He pauses. "Do you think I was faithful to Nora until we got our divorce, that for sixteen years I honored the vows I made to her?"

"I guess," I say automatically, then more honestly, "No, not really." The truth is, I hadn't thought about these things, but I'm not shocked, either. I'm not blind to David's hard realism, cynicism, or sense of entitlement. But his confessions don't make a difference. It's not that I condone the choices he may have made. It's just that his flaws are part of him, just like his sweet smile, and the way he reads food labels and then makes the unhealthy choice anyway, and the fact that he wants to retire from a job that makes him travel, so that he can travel, and that he likes rubbing my back. "I'm an alcoholic," I blurt out.

"Yeah, I thought you might be. That's okay."

"You don't care?"

"I care. But it doesn't change how I see you."

I want to ask how he feels about me. I want to tell him that I'm crazy about him. "I should let you go," I say instead.

"Okay."

But he doesn't say goodbye or hang up, and neither can I.

"Hey, Jordie?" he purrs, and I know we're on our way to being okay again. For the time being, he's still patient with me, and it strikes me that it was always like this between us, even as children. I counted on David not getting too mad, on taking everything I could throw at him, over and over again.

"Yeah?"

"Is your hotel room on the city or the harbor side?"

"What do you think?"

"Mine's on the harbor side. I checked out the room on the internet. It has a telescope, for a better viewing of the harbor."

"Is that right?"

"Would you like to see the harbor view, Jordie? Lady Liberty standing proudly over symbolic Ellis Island?"

I laugh, recognizing the hotel marketing blurb.

"I'm not that kind of girl," I tell him primly.

I slip into the conference room a few minutes before the session is due to start, hoping to at least say hello to him, but our CFO is monopolizing him. David stands with his hands in his pockets, his head lowered as he listens, nodding every so often. Every year we worry that during our conference it will be announced that we're changing accounting systems, and it suddenly occurs to me that David might be here as a supplier, as well as a speaker. Converting systems isn't fun; I'm still traumatized by the last time, a mere ten years ago, and then we were only adding a couple of modules to the existing infrastructure.

"Shit, that's not David Hamvas, is it?" Connie Ceballos hisses at me. I'm surprised that she instantly recognizes him.

"I'm pretty sure it is," I respond truthfully.

"I thought so. I just read an article on him, although the photo didn't do him justice. Oh, no! They're not going to announce that we're installing a new system, are they?" she moans in a sudden panic, proving that I'm not only one scarred for life by the previous experience.

"I don't know," I mutter back, glaring at David, as if the fact that my company seems to flounder at the simplest projects is his fault. He picks that exact minute to raise his head and notice me; he looks surprised at first, probably at my scowl, and then he smiles broadly, tilting his head a little and staring at me.

"Hey, he's cute! For an old guy."

"Gee, thanks, Connie. He's my age, you know."

"Why is he smiling at you? Have you met him?"

"Yeah, a couple of times, at conventions around Europe," I respond vaguely, thankful that the session is being called to order and I don't have to answer more of Connie's questions.

It's the first time I've heard David speak in public. He's intelligent, charming and polished, his faint accent less noticeable in the practiced delivery. I prop my chin on my fist and let his voice wash over me, and I try to stay in the present rather than daydreaming about what we're going to do when we're finally alone. He meets my eyes twice; the second time he has to clear his throat and start his sentence from the beginning, and after that he avoids looking my way.

"So, what do you think?" David asks me, slipping his arms around my waist and pulling me back to lean against him, nuzzling my ear. The view alone was worth coming to his room for, though the other perks, like his warm naked body wrapped around mine, are certainly welcome.

"It's beautiful. Why the hell are we spending so much money on you? You should be wooing us, not the other way around."

"Oh, I am. One of you, at any rate."

"Well, after all, I am one of the influencers in the buying decisions," I boast modestly. Hey, I get to fill out a user satisfaction questionnaire every year.

He slides his palms down my belly, his fingers tickling a little, and my cock starts to grow. I flex my butt back against him, and his hand wraps around my dick, stroking lazily a couple of times, than stilling, just cupping me.

"Jordie? Is it working?"

"Hmmm? Not quite yet, but give me a couple of seconds."

He laughs gruffly. "Not that, you idiot. My wooing you."

I lean my head backwards and to the side, trying to see his face.

"Yeah, it's working," I say and he nods and kisses me on the corner of my mouth, where he can reach.

"What you asked me on the phone? About whether I see this going further? Is that what you want?"

My first instinct is to make him answer the question first, so that I can follow his lead. If he says that this is enough, I'll be able to pretend that it's enough for me, as well. And it is. Hell, it's more than a lot of people have, it's more than I had a few months ago. I don't want to rock the boat, make premature demands. I've always tried to fit in with others and I don't suppose that's going to change about me.

"We travel a lot for our jobs. You especially," I say, trying to gauge his thoughts, but he just gives a non-committal grunt, his body still loose against mine.

"Maybe we could arrange to meet more often."

"We could," he agrees, no inflection in his voice. Shit, it's like trying to decipher the fucking Sphinx.

I take a deep breath.

"Maybe... maybe we could figure out sort of a joint home base. Figure on spending free time there, rather than trying to coordinate travel schedules across the world."

He doesn't answer immediately, and I have time to run through all the arguments in my head, all the doubts that have plagued me, all the things that I should be considering rather than how much I want to be with him. It's way too soon to be suggesting something like this. We don't know each other well enough. We're too old to be leaping into something. Even in my late forties, I could be mistaking sexual attraction for something more.

"You have a home in Athens," he says finally.

"Yes."

I can feel his breath on my shoulder, his heartbeat against my back. His arms tighten around me. "Yes," he repeats on a sigh. "Yes." 



Travelling Home Ch. 05



Chapter 5: Home

I sit on the side of the pool, my legs dangling over the side into the water, watching Alex swim laps. My nephew is sixteen this year, and in two weeks he'll be starting his last year of high school. He has his father's blond coloring and stocky body, and his mom's sweet disposition. I love hearing from my sister how popular he is in school; it does my heart good.

Alex hoists himself out of the water to sit next to me. "How long are you going to be here, Uncle Joe?"

"Until Sunday. Then I'm gone for two weeks."

"What about him?"

'Him' is sitting in a deck chair in the shade, leaning forward with his knees on his elbows, thumb-typing on his BlackBerry, a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, the perennial lock of hair hanging in his eyes. As if sensing that we're talking about him, he glances our way and gives us a quick smile, then turns his attention back to the small screen.

"He's flying to Vienna Tuesday morning, but he'll be back Thursday."

"So, he's your boyfriend, right?" Alex asks hesitantly, and I smile at the word. It's been a long time since David and I were boys.

"I guess so," I answer, my voice choking a little as I realize that it's the first time I've admitted it out loud. 

David may have stopped counting running days, but I haven't, even though I cheat and also count the days we haven't gone on a run; today is day 1168. My assignment in Stockholm ended in February, and I'm back on the internal audit team, leading it this time. I could be based pretty much anywhere, so long as I have access to our network, and as head of an international, rather than a regional, team, I've been around the world. These days I travel more than David and, if truth be told, Athens is pretty damn inconvenient for intercontinental travel, because you always have to get to a hub like Frankfurt, Amsterdam or London first. It means that both of us add at least half a day to each trip we make, both going and returning. We debated moving, at least for a couple of years until David stops working (by which time he assures me he will have also convinced me to retire, because he needs someone, who can fold shirts better than him, to travel with him; I'm playing hard to get until he promises that he'll only pack T-shirts). For me, and I'm pretty sure for him, as well, the discussion took place only because we felt we should at least pretend to have considered the practical option.

Sometimes weeks will go by without our being in the same time zone. It's fine; we both know that we don't have to worry about the logistics of how and when we might see each other again. All we need to do is come back home, and if the other isn't here, he will be, eventually.

My family has had a little trouble adjusting to the presence of David. Though she'd never admit to it, my mother always thought I'd eventually grow out of being gay, and for my sister, brother and nephew, it was pretty much a theoretical concept. They'd never seen me in a relationship. Never seen me in love.

There's a splash and I watch David's lean, tan body swimming towards me underwater. He comes up right in front of me, his hands on my knees and spits a stream of cool water onto my chest, making me jump and laugh. He grins, and sinks back into the water, still holding onto my knees, his wet lashes glistening, his hair slicked back.

"Everything okay?" I ask him, and he nods.

"Everything's fine," he says happily. "Everything's perfect."

Next to me, Alex stands up hurriedly.

"Uh, I need to get going, Uncle Joe. I'm meeting with friends."

I look up at him.

"You're welcome to have your friends come and hang out here if you ever want to," I invite him for the umpteenth time, although I know that he won't. I asked him about it once, if he was ashamed of me, even though I don't really know what I would have said, if he'd answered yes. Alex set me straight; it wasn't the gay part that prevented him from introducing me to his friends, it was the old uncle part. Which isn't to say that he's exactly comfortable around David and me when public displays of affection happen.

"Thanks, Uncle Joe. Maybe some time." He pulls his T-shirt on and pushes his feet into his flip-flops. "Bye, guys." I watch him until he walks around the corner of the building, then smile down at David and wrap my legs around his body.

David slides his arms around my waist, his hands against my back under the waistband of my trunks. I lean over and kiss the top of his head.

"Behave," I warn him, when he nuzzles into my crotch.

"What would the neighbors say?" he murmurs in a shocked falsetto voice, then his fingers wander further down my butt, his mouth along the hardening length of my cock, so that I can feel his hot breath through the wet cloth.

"Oh, hey, stop."

"Your mouth says stop, but your dick..."

"Jesus, David," I laugh, and I reach behind me to grab his hands and shove him away, dunking him, then slipping into the water myself in an effort to cool down. "If you really want to start something, do it where you can finish it, as well."

He waggles his eyebrows at me.

"I really, really, really want to start something."

Fine, then. I climb out of the pool, pick up my towel and his BlackBerry, cigarettes and lighter, and I head for the building entrance, dripping water all the way up the stairs. I set everything down on a chair in the entrance of our apartment, and head for the bedroom, pulling off my swim trunks as I go along. I don't look back, but I hear the splat of a wet swimsuit hitting the floor behind me. 

He cannons into me, and we both fall onto the bed, he on top of me. After nibbling at the back of my neck for a while, he raises himself up a little, so that I can turn over onto my back, then lowers himself onto me, smiling down at me, his hair dripping in my face. I brace my feet flat on the bed, and rock my hips up, so that our cocks rub together.

"You're so cute when you're determined."

"Cute? Cute?" I slap his bare butt. "Don't call me cute."

"You're cute as a button. Always were," he laughs, then swoops in for a kiss. "Hey, did I tell you my mother found our fourth grade class picture a few days ago? She sent it to me."

I'm not really interested in class pictures at the moment. I raise my head to capture his mouth again, searching for his tongue with mine, and I pull his body harder against me, my hands splayed on his tight butt. He submits with enthusiasm, bracing his elbows against the bed on either side of me, and rubbing against me, his cock sliding along mine. I raise my knees higher, spreading them further apart.

"Fuck me," I groan against his mouth, but he ignores me, shifting his weight onto one elbow so that he can reach between us. His warm fingers wrap around my cock, jacking it, and it's nice, great, fantastic, but not enough. "David, fuck me."

"Come for me first, Jordie," he whispers. He finds that particular spot right under my ear, sucking and licking at it, and I can no longer talk or beg or even think. I just writhe against him, needing to feel him against my entire body, needing to feel him inside me. "Come on, Jordie," he urges again, his hot breath against my wet skin making me moan, and his fist tightens on me. "Come for me."

"No," I mutter, "no, no," but it's just a sound, because my muscles are starting to clench, and my orgasm is rolling through me, an unstoppable, swelling wave, and I mindlessly repeat 'no' with every spurt.

David rolls off of me for a split second, then he's back, hooking my left knee over his shoulder as he simultaneously lubes his cock. He pushes against my hole, one long, hard, burning thrust into me, filling me, and I reach for him and pull him down onto me, relishing in the way his rigid length stretches me, in how the weight of his body traps my cock between our bellies. He cups my head in one hand and smiles down at me.

"You're so fucking hot."

"Not cute?" I ask, lifting my butt, taking him deeper.

"That too," he grins, his hips matching my thrusts. "In a studly way, of course." 

We move together, almost lazily at first, then more quickly, the intensity building, until I feel his liquid heat inside me.

"I can't remember any pictures from ACS," I tell David afterwards, as we lie together, his head on my shoulder. The sheets are damp, but we're too comfortable to move.

"Yeah, I can't remember having seen one myself before now. Do you want to see it?"

"Sure."

He gets up, leaves the room, and returns a moment later, holding a large yellow envelope. He hands it to me, then lies down on his side next to me, propping his head on his hand. There are two pieces of cardboard in the envelope, to prevent damage to the photo. I slide it out carefully. The colors have faded, the reds now orangey. There are two rows of kids standing in front of a blackboard, most of the row behind standing on some sort of low bench. I catch sight of David immediately, right in the middle of the back row. He's grinning straight at the camera, and I can clearly see the adult face in that of the child, the straight dark eyebrows thicker now, the chin a little more square, but still clearly him, the shape of his eyes, the full lips. The tips of his collar spread out across his shoulders, like wings.

"Look at you," I murmur. "Snazzy threads."

He smiles.

"I loved that shirt," he says. "I must have worn it special, for the photo."

I scan the faces looking for my own, not finding it. I must have been absent that day.

"And see? I told you. Cute as a button."

"Where—?" I start to ask, but then I see myself. I'd been looking at the kids at the right and left ends of the rows, imagining that's where I'd be standing, at the edges. Instead I'm right in the middle of the front row, David's hands on my shoulders, a wide smile on my face.

"Huh," I exclaim.

"We don't look like arch-enemies here, do we?" he asks, correctly guessing the cause of my surprise.

"No," I say slowly. "No, we don't."

He laughs.

"Maybe you picking fights with me all the time was your way of showing that you liked me."

"Oh, yeah? Well maybe the fact that you didn't beat me to a pulp every time was your way of showing that you liked me."

He turns on his side and kisses my cheek.

"Who knows? All I know is that I like you plenty now."

I can't control my goofy, besotted smile, even though I try. "That's good, then. Because I like you plenty, too."

These days I try to return home as soon as possible, so I end up on a lot of flights that reach Athens shortly before or after midnight. In the summer the planes are noisy, full of excited tourists starting their vacations, but in the winter they're half-empty, quiet. It's late September now, and I'm one of only two in business class. The cabin lights are dimmed for landing, and I close my eyes, half-asleep, waiting for the thump of the wheels on tarmac, already envisioning the taxi ride home, climbing the stairs to the apartment, seeing David. It'll be past two in the morning by the time I get home. I wonder if he'll still be awake or if he'll be sleeping in our bed, and I picture myself slipping under the sheet next to him, kissing his neck, lying against his back, as I've done so many times before. I can almost feel his skin, its warmth, how its texture changes beneath my hands when I wrap my arms around him and caress him from his chest down to his belly. I can almost smell him and taste him, hear him mumbling a greeting, sometimes so sleepy that he speaks Hungarian, half-caught in some dream. God, I miss him.

I stride through the sliding doors into the arrivals area and head left, towards the exit where the taxis queue, impatiently dodging a family with two carts stacked with luggage and a young couple embracing right in front of the gate, blocking everybody's way.

"Jordie!"

I turn around and he's there, in a blue polo shirt and knee-length khaki shorts, smiling broadly.

"Hey! I didn't expect to see you here!"

We rarely pick each other up; we spend enough time on our way to and from airports as it is. He smiles and hugs me, the male-friends-pat-on-the back thing, only with no distance between our bodies.

"I couldn't sleep, so I thought I'd surprise you."

"Is everything okay?" I ask him, as I walk beside him on our way to short-term parking. David can fall asleep at the drop of a hat and only wakes up when the alarm goes off, and sometimes not even then.

He hesitates, then takes my hand, twining our fingers together.

"Everything's fine. I just wanted to see you."

"What, you couldn't wait half an hour?" I laugh, even though his words make my heart swell in my chest.

"No. No, I don't think I could," he says simply, then squeezes my hand briefly before letting go, so that he can unlock the car and store my suitcase in the trunk.

And I finally say it to him, right there, in an airport parking lot at 1:30 in the morning, the car between us, and even though my voice sounds a little strangled, I've never been more certain of anything in my life.

"I love you, David."

He smiles at me.

"And I love you, Jordie. I think maybe I always have."

I climb into the car, and let David drive us home.