Chapter Eighteen
By his best approximation—and assuming a fairly broad definition of sex—Elliott had had sex with John somewhere around four hundred times. Which was a lot when you came to think about it, especially when both partners were busy and unable to spend much time together. Some of the sex had been good—very good even—but most had been . . . mediocre. And of course, over time they’d fallen into familiar patterns, so their encounters were like ordering from a menu: one from column A, one from column B, and if you’re lucky, a dessert from column C.
Elliott and Simon hadn’t been together nearly long enough to slide into bedroom ennui. Like explorers newly landed on a mysterious continent, they were still discovering each other’s body—and that was a wonderful adventure indeed. They were learning how to make each other gasp and writhe, how to bring each other to the point where begging turned to wordless cries, how to tease and soothe and delight.
So the sex was hot. But almost as good was what came afterward—the tender kisses and murmured words, the restful times while curled in an embrace. Elliott had never had any of that with John, and he had come to realize what a poverty that had been.
Now on Halloween night, Simon and Elliott climbed into bed and spent a long time stroking and fondling, interrupted occasionally by whispers.
“I’m glad you don’t wax,” Elliott said, petting the sleek hair on Simon’s chest.
“You have a thing for bears, huh?”
“Hey, you’re the one who wants to be a park ranger.”
“You got a pic-a-nic basket?” Snorting at his own dumb joke, Simon caressed Elliott’s balls. Elliott might have objected to the humor except, well, Simon was caressing his balls. And that felt damned good.
Elliott rolled onto his back and splayed his legs, encouraging easier access. Taking the hint, Simon continued what he was doing as he tipped onto his side to mouth Elliott’s chest, which in its natural state was almost hairless. For a time, Elliott enjoyed simply lying there, luxuriating in Simon’s wandering fingers and clever tongue, shivering slightly at the scrape of Simon’s beard over his skin. Simon smelled of baklava and wine, and he hummed a bit as he worked Elliott’s body. When they were in bed together, it seemed as if Elliott temporarily acquired more senses, and all of them were nearly overwhelmed with the corporeality, the actuality of Simon.
“Hey, El?” Simon’s quiet voice rumbled through the sensory noise in Elliott’s head. “Would you like to top tonight?”
Oh yes, Elliott would.
Getting Simon ready was a reward in itself. After arranging him facedown, Elliott had an excellent excuse to lavish attention on Simon’s round, firm ass. Dark hair grew there too, but more sparsely than on his chest, and these hairs were finer. Beneath that was soft skin and strong muscle, and Simon’s cleft invited Elliott’s fingers and tongue.
He waited until Simon was gasping—almost growling with need—before rolling a condom onto himself. In consideration of the injured knee, they’d propped Simon’s hips with a pillow, but still, before beginning a slow side home, Elliott licked his nape and whispered in his ear. “Doing okay? Leg’s all right?”
Simon reached behind himself awkwardly, attempting to urge Elliott’s hips forward. “Yes! Don’t stop.”
Elliott didn’t stop, but he did take his time, relishing every additional centimeter of enveloping heat. Due to the pillow, he couldn’t reach Simon’s cock, which was a shame. Not that Simon seemed to mind—he was pushing backward into Elliott’s thrusts, moaning encouragement the entire time. Some of what he said was not in English, but that was okay because Elliott suspected a smattering of Serbo-Croatian words fell from his own mouth as he approached his climax.
When Elliott came, his eyes were squeezed shut, but still he saw sparkles. It felt as if his entire body burst into tiny particles, only to come back together slightly better than before.
He realized he was still plunging into Simon’s pliant body, but a heartbeat or two later, Simon called out loud enough to make Ishtar bark from the living room.
Then Elliott was laughing too hard to do much but roll off Simon and be gathered into Simon’s arms. “Good?” Elliott asked.
“Yeah. Um, you’ll need to wash that pillowcase.”
That sent them into more laughter.
After they’d calmed and done a minimal cleanup, Elliott let Ishtar in. Her loud grunt as she collapsed onto her bed said she didn’t approve of their nighttime shenanigans.
“Some sex goddess,” Elliott muttered.
“Huh?”
“Nothing.”
Simon sucked briefly on Elliott’s earlobe. “Happy Halloween.”
One thing Elliott knew for sure—whatever happened between them, his memories of Simon would haunt him in a wonderful way.
***
Rain persisted over the next several days. Not a deluge, but drizzles and showers. Elliott couldn’t get much running in, which made both him and Ishtar restless. It turned out Ishtar hated rain as much as she hated sprinklers, and she seemed to hold Elliott personally responsible for the bad weather. He’d let her out into the backyard, and she’d stand in the doorway, gazing up at him reproachfully. Then she’d hurry to the front door, only to look disappointed when she learned it was raining there too.
The good news was that the little library held up well despite the moisture. Elliott checked carefully each day, and the books remained dry. The titles rotated at an even busier rate than before, maybe because the weather caused people to spend more time reading indoors. The other good news was that despite his stress levels, Elliott did not buy any new books. He spent time working on his classes and spelunking the internet for sources on homosexuality during the gold rush. He even put those pieces together by developing an impromptu lesson plan on the subject and offering his California history students extra credit for writing an essay. This was the time of year when they were eager to bolster their grades, so he was confident some of them would take him up on the offer.
Elliott also made some progress on Ishtar, signing her up for an obedience class that would begin in January. Well, he signed them both up. Ishtar was a bright girl who grasped things quickly; Elliott suspected the class would mostly involve him learning how to communicate effectively with her.
“It’ll be like learning another language,” he told her. “I wonder if it’s as hard as Croatian?”
Ishtar didn’t have an answer. She was too busy licking peanut butter out of a large rubber toy that looked disturbingly like an extremely uncomfortable butt plug.
Simon was putting in extra effort with his PT and had even bought a treadmill so he could walk no matter the weather. Now that he’d decided on a career path, he was serious about rehabilitating his leg. He came over to Elliott’s house almost every night, and they’d have dinner together, watch TV, and usually enjoy a sleepover. It was the most domestic arrangement Elliott had ever experienced, and it was wonderful in spite of the uncertain future hanging over their heads.
Exactly two weeks after Halloween, on the first really chilly night of the year, Simon brought dinner from the grocery store—rotisserie chicken, a bagged salad, a deli salad made with green beans, and a couple of rolls.
“Where’s the cane?” Elliott asked as he set the table.
Simon beamed. “Semiretired. I’m going to get a folding one to have handy just in case, but I should mostly be able to manage without one.”
Elliott set down the silverware and gave him a celebratory kiss. “You know, once you have full use of that leg, we can get more adventurous in bed. More positions.”
“You’re bored with me already?” Simon’s tone was joking, but his eyes betrayed a hint of insecurity.
“I am not. We could never have sex again, and I’d still be endlessly fascinated with you. But I hope we do have sex again, because you knock my socks off.”
Simon pulled him close and palmed his ass. “Socks off, huh?”
“And everything else.”
So they temporarily abandoned the meal to go work up an appetite in bed. When they came back to the kitchen, Elliott had to reheat the chicken, but it was totally worth it.
After they sat down and started filling their plates, Elliott noticed that Simon took smaller portions than usual. “Feeling okay?” he asked. “Do you want the other drumstick?”
“I feel dandy, and I don’t want more food. I’m trying to drop a few pounds.” He grimaced.
“Why? You look great. I mean, you’d look great no matter what, but—”
“I know you think I’m sexy, El.” He rubbed his belly as he spoke. “The problem is that extra weight isn’t good for my stupid knee. And it won’t help me pass the physical agility tests either.” He snagged a piece of breast meat with his fork.
“Okay, that makes sense. A long as you know I’d lo— Shit.” His throat tightened with the enormity of what he’d almost said, and he laid his fork on the table.
Simon chewed and swallowed carefully, all the while keeping his gaze locked on Elliott’s face. When his mouth was empty, he stroked his beard a few times, and his voice was deep and quiet when he spoke. “That was a big word that almost slipped out.”
“Not really. One syllable. Four letters.” Elliott’s laugh sounded slightly hysterical.
“Unconstitutionality is a really long word, but it’s not nearly as big as what you almost said.”
Nodding, Elliott conceded the point.
Simon reached across the table to take Elliott’s hand. “I really want to hear you say that word. I really want to say it back. But I know I haven’t earned it.”
“Me either.”
They avoided the subject for the remainder of the meal. As they put away the leftovers, Simon “accidentally” dropped a bit of chicken for Ishtar. Elliott washed the dishes while Simon dried and put them away. They ended up on the couch in their usual spots, and while Elliott was startled to realize they had usual spots, he was also comforted.
Simon took possession of the remote control and put on a cop show, mostly because he enjoyed making fun of them. Fictional police work, he said, had little to do with the reality of the job.
“Thanksgiving plans?” he asked during a commercial.
“Nothing big. Ladd and Anna order one of those grocery store meals. I bring wine. Do you spend it with just your parents or the whole clan?”
“Whole clan. But it’s complicated because the location is a point of family contention. Mom and Dad like to host, which Dad thinks should be his right because he’s the oldest. But his next-oldest brother has six kids and a zillion grandkids and thinks superior procreation gives him hosting rights.”
As usual, a tale about Simon’s family made Elliott smile, even if there was a sad edge to it. “Is that Ashur and Miri’s father?”
“Nope, that would be brother number three. But due to a disaster he caused at Pita Palace long ago—stuff caught on fire—nobody trusts him anywhere near a kitchen. So it’s just Dad and Uncle Isaac fighting over it, which is just as well.”
Elliott snuggled closer against him. “And how is this resolved?”
“By doubling the agony. Mom and Dad host on Thanksgiving proper, and then even though we all have leftovers, we go to Uncle Isaac’s the next night for another meal. And even more leftovers.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah. And as if all the eating wasn’t exhausting enough, there’s the drama. Thanksgiving comes in third on the family-crisis scale, after Christmas and Easter. Somebody always ends up not speaking to somebody else for at least a week.”
Elliott squirmed around to see Simon’s face. “I bet you’re never any of those somebodies.”
“No.” Simon’s sigh was long and loud. “I try not to get in the middle of it.”
“Sounds wise.”
Simon slammed his hand against the arm of the couch, “Damn it, you and I should be spending the holiday together!” He left unspoken the rest of that complaint—that they might never have a Thanksgiving together. Next year, Elliott might be freezing his ass off in Nebraska. Or Simon might have decided that continuing their relationship was too risky.
“You could come over to Ladd and Anna’s with me. Anna’s dying to meet you anyway.”
“Except I can’t. I can’t get out of the family thing. And I’d love to invite you, but—”
“I know.”
And there went another conversational topic into the dead zone.
Despite Simon’s warmth, Elliott felt chilly. He walked to the bedroom and pulled a gray microfleece throw from the closet. Soon he’d need his down comforter too, especially for the nights he slept alone.
After returning to the couch and the crook of Simon’s arm, Elliott spread the blanket over their laps. “That’s cozy,” Simon commented after a few minutes.
“Hmm.”
“I was thinking about something.”
“Hmm?” Simon was gently stroking Elliott’s arm—just a light whisper of his fingertips—and between that, dinner, and sex, Elliott was too drowsy to say much else.
“I’ll make a good salary as a ranger supervisor.”
“That’s good.”
“And if I stopped being chickenshit about coming out to my parents, you and I could move in together. Your place or mine. That would save a lot on expenses. So if you weren’t earning a huge amount with the online or part-time stuff, no big deal.”
This thought had crossed Elliott’s mind too—more than once. If it weren’t for their respective issues, keeping separate residences a few blocks apart would be absurd, especially given that Simon usually spent the night anyway. Elliott would love to share a bed with Simon every night, wake up to him every morning, just . . . have him around.
“It’s not only the money,” he said.
“If you’re freaked about not contributing absolutely equally to the mortgage and stuff, don’t be. We’d be partners, and that means we each contribute what we can.”
Elliott lifted Simon’s hand and kissed the back of it. “Socialism. I could deal with that. I was referring to my job situation, though. There’s nothing wrong with teaching online or at community colleges, but it’s not what I’ve worked toward. I’m . . . Shit. A scholar?”
“You can’t be a scholar without the fancy university? It seems to me like you can write your books no matter who you work for. Maybe even better if you can control your own schedule.”
“That’s not how it’s done.” Elliott shifted uncomfortably.
“Seems to me you should do stuff because you want to do it, because it makes you happy. Don’t let somebody tell you how it should be done.”
Mulling over those words, Elliott remained silent. Why did he so badly want an academic job at a research institution? Simon was right; he could write anywhere. While community college students were different from students at a four-year university, teaching them could be equally rewarding. He’d just always assumed he’d be a university professor—that’s what everyone he went to grad school with had assumed. John had certainly nurtured that expectation, giving him long lectures about the quality of various institutions and the need to aim high.
What was the payoff? If Elliott went to Nebraska State—hell, if he went to fucking Harvard—what would he get in the end? A scholarly reputation among the few dozen people who gave a crap. Maybe an award or two to hang in his office, a small grant now and then to fund his travel. A research assistant to do grunt work. Nice enough things. But were they nicer than the embrace that currently enfolded him? The embrace that might or might not last?
He had no answers to any of that. Time to bury this conversation as well.