Work Text:
A fly buzzed and knocked incessantly against the dirty, lace-curtained window, waking him from a troubled sleep. There was something dark and heavy about what he’d dreamed, but he couldn’t now recall it. Still, he was left feeling restless and sore. Such dreams always did. They surfaced over his subconscious more often while he was traveling abroad, startling him from sleep, heart a panicked beat in his chest. He took the necessary moments to orient himself, never quite knowing where he was, what country, or when.
He sighed and rubbed his face, figuring he might as well get up.
“Professor?”
The voice was soft and muffled, hesitant behind his closed door.
He squinted in the dusty haze flowing through the window and half turned in bed, a bit woozy still.
He cleared his throat, voice rusty. “Yes?”
“Are you okay? I heard…noises.”
He groaned silently, falling back against his pillow. His graduate assistant, Delia Turner, slept in the room next to his, the same car horns and shouts of the ancient city, smells of cooking meat and fried greens of the local cuisine, no doubt keeping her up even in the final day of their trip. But not Tom. He was used to all the hubbub, the din of early morning poverty colliding with the bustling street, the screeching tires and music bumping from battery-powered boom boxes.
“Tom?”
He sat up, rubbing a hand over his eyes. “I’m alright, Delia. Thank you. I’m up now.”
She was quiet on the other side of the door.
“Are you sure? I can bring you water, or ice—.”
“I’m okay, really. I’ll get up now.”
He heard her murmured “okay” before seeing her shadowed footsteps recede from the bottom of the door.
He sighed and pushed away the thin sheets, sweat coating his nude body, making him feel sticky and unpleasant. He never did well with heat, but most of the places he was the most curious about were set in tropical and moist locations, so he had learned how to deal with it over the years. The presence of a graduate student helped, always informed of the likely chance they would need to hold cold compresses to his face and neck should he be overwhelmed by the heat, body often wracked by fevers and chills. So far this trip that had not been necessary, as their hotel had air conditioning units mounted in each window—a rarity—and Tom hadn’t suffered as badly. He supposed he did it to himself, really. He could easily spend more than was probably wise with his faculty salary and stay in one of the more luxurious hotels along the tourist strips these kinds of cities in these kinds of places usually had. The skyrises, the plush mattresses with pillows like clouds, the central air conditioning, free of pests and scents of the streets. But his work required him to be near the center of it all, where the ruins and the art and the architecture of hundreds of years often existed, more often in the poorer sections of cities. And even though he felt he might very well perish in such places, not from the people and their culture and their way of life, but from the weather, the heat and rain and pockets of moisture that often left him reeling and stumbling to a wall for balance. His graduate assistants were quick about thrusting cold water into his hands, wetting a towel with it, helping him in any way they could. He wasn’t weak, he wasn’t a sissy. He just couldn’t help the environment somehow. It didn’t mean he disliked such places. On the contrary, he adored these locales. He loved immersing himself in new things, such as food and music, and trying new languages and meeting new people. He couldn’t help his regretfully delicate sensibilities.
They’d been in Caracas for twelve days now, and they would be returning to Rhode Island that evening. The purpose for this trip has been to study the Romanesque architecture of the Caracas Catedral for the book he was writing on Spanish influence during the Colonial Period, spending most of the trip with his head craned back, examining the arched ceiling and detailed sculptures of saints and patrons alike. Followed around by Delia and her bag stuffed with a laptop, spare battery, charger, sunscreen, ice packs and water bottles, Tom had traipsed up and down the center nave of the cathedral, wiping sweat from his brow as he catalogued notes into a hand held voice recorder. He sketched dimensions and annotated particularly strong influences of Spanish culture in the architecture and design of the old church, how syncretism occurred among the native culture. Despite the solid week inside the Catedral, he would need to return to Mexico City during spring break in March to finish his second half of the necessary research of a different church there, and to collect primary source documents to reference his work.
Already, he could envision the tall and full trees of Providence, the squat red brick buildings with their tall white Doric and Ionic columns, the wide and crisp lawns of green grass and colorful flower beds. Hundreds of minds spinning away in academic research. Bulbous street lamps flickering on after sundown, the campus illuminated by hovering fireflies and a low shroud of mist. He missed the cool air, the long and low calls from the men's rowing team striding past on the slick waters of the river bordering campus. It would still be warm when he and Delia landed in Providence, but September would arrive soon enough and with it, the steadily changing color of the leaves, the puffs of breaths in the early morning air, fires in the grate, hot chocolate before bed. Regardless, it would be cooler than here, as much as he hated to have to leave so beautiful a place.
Beside him on the table, his cell phone's alarm went off and he finally shuffled to his feet to get dressed. It would be a long flight home, and he couldn't wait to be done with it.
**
"Delia, there's no need to stare," Tom murmured, as he scanned the Venezuelan newspaper before him. "I'm quite alright."
Delia turned away quickly, but he'd had about enough of her concerned stares, catching her all morning, pink bitten lips and trimmed, furrowed brows.
"I'm sorry, professor. I was just worried."
He stifled a sigh, and flipped the page. Poor thing. Waking up to hear his moans of distress from the other side of the wall, who wouldn't be? But of what distress he dreamed, Tom couldn't name. He always woke healthy and unhurt, albeit a little shaken and sweaty, his dreams gone as a swirl of smoke through a cracked-open window. He still believed it was the damned heat that did it, suffering it while unconscious, his body no doubt feeling defenseless and threatened by it.
Delia had experienced this before. She was a graduate student in her last year at Brown, and had traveled extensively with him. Mostly South America, but also to the southwestern states, where the influence of the Spanish was prevalent. Her thesis was coming along well, his research helping her just as much as it did him. She would graduate in May and he would need to search for another assistant, yet another person who would have to be briefed on his weak tolerance for heat, his predisposition to dream badly, his often preconceived cold demeanor with others. But Delia had overcome such formal awkwardness, falling into an easy and obedient manner with him, often knowing what Tom needed before he even did. His voiced-over notes would be typed and ordered chronologically on his desk before he even asked for them; he would have a hot scone and tea in his office as soon as he walked in every morning, Delia no doubt sprinting in to cater to him before hurrying back to her class across campus. He didn’t ask these things of her; they were seemingly borne of a natural inclination to serve and he doubted he would ever find another assistant like her. She was getting him in the habit of expecting grand things from people.
“Don’t worry about me. I’m rather used to it.”
She nodded, because she’d heard this argument before. Sitting back in her seat, she curled against the window and watched the clouds bunch together below their plane. Tom continued with his reading, his eyes flying fast over the Spanish words.
Back at Brown, he would launder all his clothes and prepare the final adjustments to his lecture course, Syncretism and the Advancement of Spanish Influence in the Colonial Americas. It was a rather popular course, he was often surprised to admit to himself. Spanish influence over the Americas was far-reaching and incredibly invasive, but the art and architecture of such colonialism still managed to steal his breath. The colors and the arches and the grand scale of it all, often muted by centuries of grime and wear. The locals did what they could to preserve such artifacts, sometimes aided by organizations that strove to advance the cause of world art history, but he knew his time studying and researching the churches and the digs and the remnants of these civilizations was precious. He didn’t want to miss a moment. He’d been on sabbatical only once two years before, traveling to Spain to witness what he considered the mother culture. Colonization had a dark and painful past, bloody and terrible, causing rifts among entire groups of peoples. The more he learned and opened his eyes to the marching sweep of bigger and stronger armies, the more his heart broke for those who could do nothing but stand by and watch their lives be destroyed, altered beyond recognition, immersion and conversion the only means to survive. And all of this hidden by the simple and all-encompassing term syncretism.
For this same reason, he partially hated his love for the art and architecture left behind. All he could do now was try to handle such delicate treasure with gentle hands, and be understanding and compassionate to the ones still living in history’s wake. As a European, he often felt an appalling shame that he struggled to rid himself of.
“I don’t know why you do it,” Delia had once commented to Tom during office hours in the spring. “Leaving a moderately hot place and going somewhere infinitely hotter. It doesn’t make sense.” She’d plopped down on one of the armchairs he kept for the students, and buried her nose in her textbook.
Because I love it, he thought, scribbling another note into his travel journal. He, of course, didn’t tell her that.
The flight took a little over eight hours. By the time they fell into a taxi outside the airport, Delia was tottering on her feet so that Tom had to guide her inside. Trembling with fatigue, she immediately placed her head against his arm and feel deeply asleep for the duration of the drive home. Tom didn’t mind. He was on his fifth newspaper, one from the local area they had stayed at while in Caracas, weary eyes straining through his glasses.
The taxi dropped Delia off first, and Tom got down to help with her bags and make sure she didn’t face plant on the front lawn. Minutes later he was finally home too, his small cottage one of four along the small road by the riverside. Made of brick with latticed windows and a tiny garden path, Tom had always thought the house charming and ideal. Plus, he liked being woken every morning by the oarsmen. He was just glad he wasn’t living in one of the cottages by the fields, such as poor Teddy was, the Greek Classics professor. The early morning whistles and callous shouts of the sportsmen, the loud clacks of their equipment and the constant harried roar of the mowing vehicles would no doubt have annoyed Tom to no end. At least the oarsmen were quieter about their craft, sliding along on the water, their voices lovely and deep.
He dropped his bags in the front room and immediately stripped for a shower. Classes didn’t start for two more days, and he planned on sleeping nestled under his blankets with the air conditioning full blast. Delia would have most of his notes typed up by tomorrow. He would settle down to work then.
**
The first day of classes was always a riot of activity, no matter the campus, private or public. Tom clasped his briefcase close and excused his way through a group of undergraduates and their lingering parents. While his cottage may be on the calm and quiet banks of the river, the building where he taught most certainly was not, and he often had to push through all of the athletes who meandered about this side of campus, their fields and pitches and courts bunched together just adjacent to Tom’s building. The layout and general ambience of Brown reminded him of the older and slightly more reserved environment of Cambridge, his alma mater. And even though the student body at Brown was remarkably set apart from other universities in the States, it still held a feel about it that was explicitly American, and he was still often quietly charmed by the enthusiasm of his students. Even if they sometimes irked him to no end with their attempted know-all.
“Hey, Professor!”
Tom turned by simple habit, even if he already recognized the elevated voice of one of his least favorite students. He stopped himself closing his eyes in exasperation as the boy approached. Chase Thompson was tall and solidly built, just like that damned coach of his, always taking his parking spot. Chase was golden and had heated blue eyes, as if he was always on the prowl for a scuffle or an argument. But when the boy wanted something, it was an entirely different story.
“How’s it going, Professor? How was your summer?”
Chase stopped just before him, one huge hand clasping the strap of his backpack. Tom wasn’t a small man. He and the boy were the same height, but where Tom was lean and thin, Chase had heavy muscle in his arms and legs, his broad back tapering to a small waist, no doubt the product of his time on the lacrosse field. A star student athlete, Chase was something of a celebrity on campus, giving Brown athletics a name in a nation where rank among universities mattered. All idiotic, in Tom’s opinion. Why distract oneself with sports when academics were top priority? He understood recreational sports. Running, tennis, maybe some golf on the weekends. But the stress and anxiety of collegiate competition seemed too much on top of it all. Unnecessary.
He cleared his throat and tossed the boy a tight smile. “Chase, yes. Summer was great. Yours?”
The boy grinned. “It was great. Listen, I was wondering if I could talk to you about this semester’s work. I have a full schedule with lacrosse—.”
Tom sighed. Chase had barely passed his class last spring, and from what Tom understood, needed to make up the credits with a better grade. Sending Tom a frantic midnight email a week before Tom was to leave for Caracas, the boy had pleaded to take the course again over the summer, but Tom had replied that he wouldn’t be teaching anything again until September. Only now the boy was enrolled in his course again and was trying to make excuses for the possibility of poor work because of sports.
“Look, Chase. It’s imperative you understand that no other athletes are given special treatment. This is exactly why you nearly failed last semester. You take my course, you’re expected to do the same work as everyone else.”
The boy’s face closed off, a coldness appearing in his eyes, in the hard set of his jaw. Tom smirked. There it was. The infamous temper.
“Excuse me,” he said promptly before Chase could say anything, turning on his heel and unlocking the door to his classroom. The boy was already halfway down the hall where he stopped in one of the doorways, speaking animatedly with someone. He pointed down the hall at Tom, who paused, watching. The person clasped the boy on the shoulder and guided him into the room, but not before stepping out and looking straight at Tom. It was with a sour, half-excited flip of his stomach that he saw it was Chase’s coach, Chris Hemsworth. The man wore a small smile on his face, glaring at Tom from down the way. Taking a steadying breath, Tom glared back and swiftly closed the door with a sharp click.
**
Chris Hemsworth, Tom thought bitterly, setting his briefcase on his desk. Taller by a couple of inches and outweighing him by thousands of muscled pounds, Chris managed to intimidate Tom only a little bit. They’d had their share of run-ins over the last two years, ever since Chris had been hired on at Brown to coach the men’s lacrosse team. The professor who had occupied the cottage he now lived in was retiring at the same time, and Tom had found out from a little bird in the administration office that the cottage would be going to the new coach. Rather hating his current small apartment, Tom had met with Dean Ambrose and requested he be transferred to the cottage instead.
Hands folded, smile easy, completely reasonable, he’d stated, “I feel I have a bit more seniority than the new hire, I think. And I’ve always liked the place. Very quiet.”
After years of good teaching and the popularity of his classes, the dean had readily granted Tom’s request and Chris had been forced to move into Tom’s old place instead. He wasn’t exactly sure how Chris had found out about the under-the-table exchange of living quarters, but he seemed to have singled Tom out almost immediately. The man had a presence, towering over everyone, a big grin on his face, clapping his players on the back, chumming with the other coaches in the dining hall, their raucous laughter grating on Tom’s nerves.
He remembered one instance when, with the pretense of joining his friends, Chris had crowded in front of him in line for dinner. Tired and bleary-eyed, Tom had stared at his back for a long moment, not quite believing the man had actually stepped in front of him, as if Tom hadn’t been real at all.
Battling an elementary impulse to tattle on him, Tom breathed out through his nose and calmly said, “Excuse me.” But the man ignored him, piping into the conversation with his friends, who all turned to him like some kind of god, smiles wide and welcoming, more hard back pats. “Excuse me,” Tom repeated a little louder. He tapped on his shoulder for good measure, hating the solid, responsive feel of it. The conversation ceased, and Tom straightened, face coloring as the men all turned to him. Chris glared.
Coldly, he said, “What is it, mate?”
Tom had bristled, not having expected the accent to be quite as pronounced, or sharp. It was always rounder around the edges when he spoke with other people.
“There’s a line here, if you hadn’t noticed. I and the people behind me have been waiting to eat and you can’t just come out of nowhere and cut in.”
Chris had actually smiled, and Tom was taken aback for a small moment at how nice that smile was, made Chris even more handsome than he already was. It would be even lovelier if it weren’t laced with sarcasm.
“You can’t always get what you want, mate.”
It was at that moment that Dean Ambrose had pushed in through the heavy wooden doors, flurries of cold air howling in with him. He zeroed in on Tom almost immediately, and marched toward him, his soft blue eyes squinting in a kind smile. Clapping him on the shoulder, he’d guided Tom away from the others and toward the front of the line, falling into a conversation they’d started hours earlier in his office. Tossing a look over his shoulder, Tom had smirked at Chris, whose heavy brows were bent low in fury. They were served their dinner immediately and Tom accompanied the dean back to his office, where they ate by the warm plume of his fireplace, each partaking in a sherry just after.
Ever since that incident, Tom had been on his guard around Chris. Wary glances in the hallways, Chris tossing him the occasional sneer from across the dining hall. And even though Tom had trouble ridding himself of the hurt that came from receiving such obvious disdain, confused as he was by his slight attraction to the man, he was hardly perturbed at such base antics, only sighing and flipping the page of his newspaper, suddenly exhausted. The man had such exquisite eyes, even when narrowed in his direction.
Chris had only recently started the habit of taking Tom’s parking spot, which was clearly marked. Regardless, Tom reported him and waited for something to happen, but nothing ever did. Maybe Chris was friends with the director of transportation services. He seemed to be friends with everyone.
The door to his classroom opened and a student started down the sloped stairs. More of an auditorium, the room could hold over a hundred students, and there never failed to be an empty seat. Smiling at the girl, Tom grabbed his notes and started writing on the white board.
**
It was a rule of his to avoid the lunch hall the first week of school, cringing at the crowds of confused students and yapping parents. Instead, he made sure his refrigerator was well-stocked, the wine cabinet holding an extra bottle or two.
Settling on his sofa that night, Tom curled his legs under him and bit into his grilled cheese. Project Runway was recorded on his DVR and he had at least a dozen episodes to catch up on. It was his one indulgence, fascinated by the way these young artists created brilliant outfits out of the most impossible items. Corn husks, really? But the dress was gorgeous, he couldn’t deny it.
Delia had stopped by his office just before he left for home, and his notes lay typed on the coffee table, staring at him. After two episodes, Tom swallowed back the last of his wine and resigned himself to reading through them. They would be immaculate. Delia’s work always was.
**
There was no way for Tom to anticipate when Chris would next steal his parking spot. He’d tried arriving earlier than usual, but sometimes Chris would already be parked there, walking easily up the front marble steps, whistling and twirling his keys. Boiling, Tom would have to reverse and squeeze into one of the farther spaces. Other times, he just rode his bike into campus. He didn’t mind the exercise, but it was often difficult maneuvering through the children, or controlling his bike on some of the more steep hills leading to his building. It was easier taking his car, and Chris had to ruin everything, always, the ridiculous wanker.
He thought he would risk it the next morning, thinking that perhaps Chris had matured somewhat over the summer break and would cease all his petty shenanigans. Highly doubtful, as the man was clearly in his early thirties, so all hope was probably lost on that count. It wasn’t until he was pulling into the faculty parking lot that his hopes were truly dashed. Chris’s silver car came zipping around the corner and nearly clipped the front corner of Tom’s vehicle. He slammed his breaks and watched, incredulous and fuming, as Chris drove down the row and into Tom’s parking space.
“That ridiculous…” He gritted his teeth and hurried into the lot, pulling up beside Chris, who was hitching his sports bag onto his shoulder. His silver Aviator glasses only made to irritate Tom all the more.
“Hey!” he called, rolling down the window. Chris turned and then glanced behind him before pointing a finger at his own chest. Me? “Yes, you! What the hell is your bloody problem?”
“My problem?” Chris flashed that wide smile. “I don’t have a problem, mate. Just heading into work.” He started back toward the school again, and Tom eased up on the brake, tailing him.
“You certainly do have a problem. That’s my parking spot. It has my bloody name on it. And you’ve taken it now dozens of times. You can’t do that!”
Chris shrugged, walking still. “Just did.” He flashed another smile and then hopped onto the curb, taking the stairs at a casual gait.
Tom’s grip on the steering wheel was deadly, knuckles white. “Fucking idiot.” Ignoring the broad slant of those shoulders, Tom pulled out of the lot and took one of the spaces near the end, hurrying up the steps and toward his classroom.
He didn’t see Chris again for a few weeks, thankfully. It was the end of September and he and Delia had been going over the research they’d done in Venezuela. The girl was a pro, grabbing coffee for their late nights, ordering in from the Italian place downtown, singlehandedly aiding his work as well as completing her own. With her cropped brown hair and square glasses, she was pixyish, like a fairy, flighty but grounded in her silver ballerina flats. Wrapped in a scarf and light sweater, she checked out books and articles for him, retrieved his mail, silenced the queue of chattering students outside his office with but a whisper and a sharp look, sitting quietly in the corner as he met with them one by one, typing, always typing.
It was she who took the full brunt of Chase Thompson’s verbal abuse one evening when the boy had come to Tom’s office looking for him. Tom had just stepped onto the landing when he heard raised voices from down the hall. It was late evening, and most of the other faculty had retired for the night, but he and Delia would be staying up late to organize more of his research for the cathedral in Caracas. Quickening his steps, he frowned as he caught the tail end of the argument.
"I've already said, he's not in just yet—."
"Look, I don't care what you said. I need to see him. And he's bound to be back soon, so I'll just wait."
"You can't wait in here! It's a private office, only I'm allowed in—."
"Why, are you his little bitch secretary, or something?"
"How dare you—."
Tom rounded the corner and stepped between Delia and Chase.
“What is the meaning of this?”
The girl was furious, cheeks aflame with indignation. He could feel her at his back, black eyes no doubt narrowed as she peered over his shoulder. Chase seemed completely at ease, blue eyes settling on Tom.
“Finally,” he said, shoulders sagging in mock frustration. “Professor, I think—.”
“Let me tell you what I think, young man,” Tom cut in, anger simmering just beneath his skin. “You dare to presume to speak to my graduate assistant in so rude a manner and then deign to tell me to stand here and listen to you? While you, what? Tell me yet another reason as to why you are incapable of completing the required work, when it’s an entirely possible feat for every other student of mine?” Chase made to interrupt but Tom stood to his full height and lifted his chin to speak over him. “Delia is my voice when I am not present, and she is correct in telling you that my office hours are now over. Please return on Monday when I am scheduled to meet with students. Now, good night.”
The boy’s face and neck had slowly reddened and he swallowed back what probably was some crude and juvenile response. Instead, he took a small step forward and poked Tom’s chest with one of his blunt fingers. Behind him, Delia gasped and took Tom’s elbow.
“This conversation isn’t over, Professor.”
Heart racing, Tom watched Chase amble down the hall and out the side doors, a gust of cold wind cutting into the building.
“Are you alright?” he asked, turning to Delia. She still had a grip on his elbow, narrowed gaze on the far doors. She nodded.
“Yeah. I’m okay. He was an asshole.”
Tom chuckled. “I would have to agree with you. I’m sorry for what he called you.”
She rolled her eyes and walked deeper into his office. “Please, Professor. A man calling a woman a bitch? So original. I don’t know how I’ll get any sleep tonight,” she said dryly. She flopped down onto the side chair she kept by his desk, and picked up where she had been before being so rudely interrupted. As Tom made himself comfortable in his own chair, he couldn’t help but resent the sore spot on his chest where Chase had pressed his finger. If Tom felt so inclined, he could report the student for threatening his person, and verbally assaulting his graduate student. But before he went to such extremes, perhaps it would be best to speak to his coach first, not exactly believing that any good would come of it anyway.
“You received another one in the mail,” Delia said after some time.
Tom hummed, writing something out. “What?”
“Another letter.” She peered at him over her laptop. “From Spain.”
Tom rubbed his eyes and sighed, suddenly exhausted. “More phone messages, too, I assume?” She nodded, and he stayed quiet for a moment. “Just toss them out like the rest.”
“Yes, sir.” She stood and took some papers and an envelope from the corner table and quietly left the room.
**
The weather was turning cooler, brisk winds and cloudy skies the markers for the beginning of hot chocolate season. He and Delia had an understanding that she present all coffee receipts to him, and he would leave an envelope of money for her at the end of the semester. It was the least he could do for the poor girl, who was practically his right hand in nearly everything he took on.
Leaving her in his office with a pile of exams to grade, Tom took his opportunity and slipped out into the brisk autumn day. He knew he would find Chris out on the fields. The lacrosse team was made up of solidly built boys that sported rough-looking muscles and bruised skin of great patches of mottled purple and green. Uniforms perpetually stained with grass smears, they tussled and laughed with each other in loose groups, clacking their wooden sticks together and butting helmets.
Like a bunch of uncouth ruffians, Tom thought with a scowl, hands shoved snugly into his coat pockets. Chris was standing on the sidelines, a clipboard tucked under his folded arms. He was smiling and talking amicably with another of the coaches, a whistle hanging from a long thread around his neck.
Tom trudged across the sodden earth, his loafers flaked with mud and blades of grass. The other coach whistled and shouted for the team to start a scrimmage. Chris turned at that moment and caught sight of Tom, surprise lifting his brows over the reflective surface of his sunglasses. Tom tried to suppress the skip his heart gave as Chris walked over to meet him halfway, but he couldn’t and he swallowed a bit nervously as the shouts and calls of the team sounded behind them.
"Well, Professor," Chris said around a wad of gum, and Tom was once again taken aback by how deep the man’s voice was. "Are you lost? Took a break from your books and your papers to watch us troglodytes scramble around after a tiny ball?” His amused grin was wide, the top row of his teeth nearly blinding in the harsh light.
Tom set his jaw and stopped just short of him. "Very funny. You and I need to talk."
Chris shrugged, that irritating smile never leaving his face. "What about?"
Tom lifted his chin towards the group of players on the field. "Your athlete. Chase Thompson."
"Oh, yeah, yeah," Chris said, glancing back at Chase, who was sprinting down the field. "Listen, he told me about your little discussion the other day. And I think it’s important to understand that he does a lot for Brown. He brings sponsors and fills seats on game days. It’s hard enough competing with the other schools in the division. So many of our students are full on geeks—.”
“Responsible students, to me,” Tom muttered.
“But Chase has talent,” Chris said with a grin. “He’ll probably be drafted by a European league by the end of the year. He’s a great kid."
Tom managed to curb his eye roll. “I have to disagree with you.” Quickly, he explained what he'd overheard between Delia and Chase, that Chase had called Delia his 'bitch secretary' and that the boy had also stuck a finger in Tom's chest in what "could easily be interpreted as a threatening gesture".
A frown appeared on Chris's brow as Tom recounted his encounter with Chase. He turned to the field, focusing on the faraway figure of the boy. Tom hesitated, flicking his eyes between the two, wondering if there might be some decency in the man after all.
"He may seem like a great kid to you, but that’s only because you give him exactly what he demands. I don’t function that way. You need to control your player," Tom finished, smoothing down his tie. "He's rash and tries to intimidate with his size and strength, making excuses for his lack of work in the classroom. He has no business threatening me or calling Delia names for doing her job. Control him, or I'll take this matter to the dean."
A sharp wind tossed strands of Chris's hair free from the bun wrapped messily on the back of his head. Tom spared him another glance before turning on his heel.
“You need to lighten up, Professor!” Chris called, and Tom looked back at him. And even though Tom couldn’t see through the silver glass of his Aviators, he had the nagging suspicion that Chris’s blue eyes were crinkled in mocking amusement. “Maybe if you yank that stick out of your ass, things won’t seem so grim all the time.”
Affronted, Tom straightened and hastily buttoned his jacket before turning back around and heading quickly over the sideline and up the hill to his building, Chris’s laughter following him on the breeze.
**
Chris watched him go, long legs carrying him across the soggy pitch, watched that tight little ass of his move in those trousers, also tight. Everything tight. The man needed to loosen up. But what he’d told him about Chase didn’t sit well with Chris. Of course the boy had a tendency to slack off in his academics – a fair amount of college athletes did – but the other professors were more understanding than Mr. Tom Grumpy Face. If Chase wanted to continue with athletics then he’d need to pass his classes and maintain the required grade point average. It seemed Mr. Grumpy Face felt like making Chase’s academic life difficult, he was more than willing to do so, threatening to take the matter to the dean.
Chris paused. Unless…
He went to stand with the other coaches and blew his whistle, calling the scrimmage to a halt.
“Take over for me, guys,” he told his assistant coaches. “Chase! Come on in!”
The boy jogged over and Chris threw an arm around his shoulders, leading him away from where the guys started running drills with the players.
“You didn’t tell me you’d gone to see your art history professor this week.”
Chase frowned, sweat sliding over his full brows, dripping past his lashes. He wiped it away with a rough hand. “What about it, coach? The guy’s a hard ass. Hasn’t wanted to speak to me since school started. He needed to understand that I might be late with some of my work.”
“I know. And I get that. But there are ways to handle this. He’s tougher than the other professors, so you can’t approach him the same way. We’ll get your academics squared away, don’t worry. What I’m concerned with is what you did and said when you finally spoke with him.”
Chase turned startled eyes on him. “What did I do, coach? I didn’t do anything!”
“Come on now. You can’t put your hands on a teacher, Chase. We all know this. You tapped his chest with a finger and he can easily report you for that.”
“But—!”
“It seems he came to me first, lucky for you,” Chris continued. “And you called his assistant a bitch. What the hell, man. You can’t go around calling women bitches. What the hell is wrong with you?”
Chase crossed his arms and stepped away from Chris, furious eyes on some far away distance. “She was bugging me.”
Chris bent back and laughed. “Listen, kid. Get used to it. She was doing her job and you didn’t like what she had to say. Tough shit. You can’t call her a bitch for that.” He took Chase’s shoulder and peered into his eyes, all laughter gone. “I don’t want to hear about another incident like this one. I’ll see what I can do about your schoolwork. But don’t approach the professor or his assistant again. Or you’ll have me to deal with. I want forty laps before practice is over.”
The boy’s face fell open in disbelief. “But coach! What about scrimmage? I’m playing midfield—.”
Chris cut him a hard glance. “Now.”
Chase’s shoulders slumped, jaw tight in forced defeat. “Yes, sir.”
Off he went, dropping his gear at the benches and starting his laps at the corner of the pitch. Squinting his eyes, Chris stared up at where Tom had vanished over the top of the hill, hoping he might still catch a glimpse of his blond curls, the long slope of his shoulder, a cheekbone. But then he shook himself out of it, remembering how Tom had slipped right under Chris and stolen the cottage that should have been rightfully his.
And it wasn’t really about the cottage, at least not entirely. It had stung, yes, because the cottage was nice and it was quiet and it had been part of Chris’s contract with the college, but Tom had snuck in and taken it, no doubt batting those pretty blond lashes, murmuring words low and sweet to get his way, chumming around with all the other dry academics that made up the majority of the administration. It helped that the university had compensated Chris with a higher salary in exchange for taking the professor’s old apartment, and even though it had been a few years since the cottage incident, Chris still couldn’t shake feeling betrayed, however trivial, at Tom’s treatment of him, his clandestine meddling, his complete lack of respect for Chris’s position as a fellow university employee.
What really bothered Chris was how cold the man always was toward him, how cutting his demeanor. And the more Chris made it a point to give the professor crap, maybe only to watch the hot flush rise over his cheeks, to see those pretty lips purse in disapproval and disdain, he began to realize how isolated the professor had made himself among the other faculty, staying friendly with only the dean and his administrative staff, and only one or two of the other art teachers. It was only too easy to get going a good joke about the professor among the other coaches, laughing about him across the dining hall, where the professor sat alone at his table, hunched over books and papers, pecking at a plate of cold food, oblivious. Or rather, more often glaring back with his own stares of indignation, huffing and puffing in his quiet corner.
Maybe Chris hadn’t meant for the teasing and the jokes to get so far out of hand, but he couldn’t help it if the professor made for such good sport, all the angry blushing and pretentious ire, taking offense at nearly everything Chris said or did. He liked the rise he got out of the professor, looking forward to when he saw him next, ready to bear the brunt of the next haughty quip the professor threw his way, as if Chris’s existence was the bane of his own, no matter their position at the college. Maybe the professor didn’t know that Chris knew about the cottage, but if it boiled down to anything, Chris couldn’t just let someone like that get away with thinking they could have what they wanted when they wanted it; that Chris was formidable enough if Tom wanted to see things as a competition. Or maybe there was something curious about the professor that called Chris’s own bluff, something that made him innately interesting, deep down under all that pomp and posh mien.
Whatever it was sometimes irked Chris to no end, the way he couldn’t help but seek the professor out, if only just to see him, to speak with him for a solitary, tense moment, no matter how repulsed the professor seemed of him.
Popping his gum loudly, Chris marched back to the company of the other coaches, watching as Chase circled the pitch for yet another lap. He didn’t like that the boy had taken matters into his own hands, had confronted Tom about his coursework, had touched him.
If anything, the professor was his to torment and no one else’s.
**
It wasn’t until a week later that Tom got a call from Jeanine, Dean Ambrose’s secretary.
“He wants to see me now?” He sighed. “Yes, I’ll be down momentarily.”
Spread before him were student papers and a pile of take-home exams that Delia had collected from his discussion section. Plus, Delia would be here within the hour to help with grading so he could get on with his research. He hoped whatever the dean wanted wouldn’t take long.
He strode through the dark hallways, the lights dimmed after hours. Steps echoing over the cold stone walls, Tom stuffed his hands in his trousers and hunched his shoulders against the chill.
Jeanine was just leaving for the evening, and Tom bid her goodnight before knocking on the dean’s door.
“Tom! Come on in.” The dean was sitting at his mahogany desk, some formal looking letter before him. He signed it with a flourish and placed it in a tray labeled with Jeanine’s name.
“I was surprised to catch you so late here. I apologize for the hour.”
Tom shrugged with a smile. “Just grading some papers still. I’ll be heading out soon myself.”
“Good, that’s good. Listen, have a seat. I wanted to talk with you about something.”
Tom gave the door a glance, thinking of Delia waiting alone back at the office. They hadn’t seen Chase around since he’d spoken with Chris, but he didn’t want to give the boy another chance of catching Delia alone again and regaling her with more verbal abuse. The girl could take care of herself, Tom knew that, but it didn’t sit right with him that she would need to in the first place.
“Alright,” he said, taking the seat opposite the dean. Hands between his knees, he smiled at the man.
“I trust your semester’s going well, Tom?”
“Oh, definitely. My classes are full again.”
“Your classes are always some of our most popular.”
Tom smiled and shrugged again, never quite sure what to do when complimented.
“You have a few athletes in your classes, right?”
Tom’s smile froze. Where was this going?
“Well, yes,” he said slowly. “Some of my lower tier courses can be used for the general education degree. Essentially unit fillers, until the students formally declare their major or pick a course of study. For many athletes, the plan of study is often minor and easy enough to complete while focusing primarily on athletics.”
Dean Ambrose nodded, fully aware of the various educational options available to the student body. “Brown, statistically, has some of the brightest young minds in the country, including our student athletes, who definitely have had to work twice as hard to get where they are now, excelling not only in academics but in athletics as well.”
Tom pursed his lips, not entirely agreeing with the man. “Yes well, perhaps so.”
“Chase Thompson is in your class this semester, right?”
Tom blinked. “Yes.”
“You know, I had a talk with his coach the other day. Brought me a pie from the bakery on Sixth? You know the one?” Tom smiled noncommittally. “Anyway, he brought up Chase. And my goodness, that young man is an absolute titan on the field! Did you know he helped boost the amount of donations the last two years? We’ve been able to bolster the scholarship fund because of that kid. He’s multiplied the number of attendants to home games – just the ticket and vendor sales alone are up forty percent from two years ago!”
Tom shifted in his seat, a warm heat beginning to creep up his neck. He had a suspicion about where this was going.
“I’m afraid I haven’t been able to attend any of the matches,” Tom said.
“He’s great. But from what his coach told me, perhaps not the best student. I take it to understand that he only barely passed your class last semester, and is retaking it again this fall?”
“That’s correct.”
The dean stood and walked around the desk, leaning back on the edge of it. “You know, perhaps it might be a good idea to offer the young man more extra credit opportunities? Or invite him to attend your office hours? The school benefits from his enrollment here.”
Dumbfounded, Tom stared up at the dean, a man he had thought was his friend, someone who understood the importance of a quality education and not cutting corners for the sake of passing entertainment. He swallowed and looked down at his clasped hands.
“Michael…are you asking me to simply let Chase pass for the sake of ticket sales and burgeoning patron support?”
The dean laughed and clapped Tom on the shoulder good-naturedly. “No, Tom! Not at all. That would be highly unethical. And Brown isn’t about that. All I’m asking you to consider is maybe cutting the kid some slack. Be a little more understanding if his assignment is a day or two late. If he needs more time on an exam. Let him make up for loss of points, just like other students do with extra credit.” Tom swallowed, doing his best to hide the disbelief from his features, and the creeping rage he felt blotting the edge of his vision. The dean patted his shoulder again and walked back around his desk. “It’d be a shame if he had to stop playing or drop out entirely because he was a few points short of the required GPA. You understand what I’m saying?”
Tom put on his best poker face, nodding after a moment. “Yes, sir. I understand. I’ll see what I can do.”
He left the dean’s office after promising to meet up soon for dinner and sherry again, closing the door behind him with a quiet click. Stomach heavy with bile, he walked back to his office, the shadows of the darkened hallways seeming to loom over him with every step.
That conniving little weasel, Tom thought, remembering the wide grin on Chris’s face that day on the field, laughing as Tom hurried up the hill. He’d played a far better card than Tom would have been able to. The logic of academics would oftentimes be far outweighed by the power of the support for athletics.
He’d been wrong about Chris; the man had no decency whatsoever.
He finally turned the corner to his office and saw Delia sitting on the floor, laptop shining blue light over her. She looked up and smiled at him, and he returned it, feeling something like relief bloom over him at the sight of so friendly a face.
**
As much as it loathed him to do so, Tom did allow Chase the opportunity to submit extra credit assignments, which the boy did ad nauseam. Feeling collared, Tom slowly watched as the boy’s average rose steadily, securing his position on the team for the duration of the semester. It must have been how the boy learned, finding it difficult to complete assignments in class but presenting projects that honestly surprised Tom in their quality and thoughtfulness. Unless the boy was cheating, or having someone do the work for him. So far Tom had no evidence of that, but it was all beside the matter. This was only one student, and while Chase and Chris and the whole damned university had gotten what they wanted out of Tom, he still had his own work to get on with.
As the semester advanced toward Christmas, Tom started to see his research take shape. By the end of spring, after his trip to the cathedral in Mexico City, he would be able to submit a draft of the article he wanted to publish. Each publication helped cement his position at the university, and even though he had an advanced doctorate under his belt, it was his goal to obtain tenure-bound professorship, which would mean fewer classes to teach and more time for research and writing. Until that happened, he felt his future wasn’t secure.
Chris made himself scarce in the handful of weeks leading up to the holiday break. Either he was avoiding Tom or he was actually busy. But considering how the man had underhanded him and gone to the dean himself about Chase, Tom figured he was avoiding him. And it was with a heavy heart that Tom continued to look out for him in the halls, because despite his rage at Chris getting his way by simple brown-nosing, Tom couldn’t help the flutter of emotion that bubbled in his chest when Chris was focused on him, when Chris would actually speak to him, hear that voice that reminded Tom of the deep cadences of priests he’d seen in all the churches in all the countries he’d ever visited, the way their words bounced over stone walls, round with warmth and promise.
Yes, he laughed and yes he made fun of Tom, but Tom couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to have Chris as a friend, as someone who lent his support instead of his ire. He wondered what kissing Chris would be like, if he would be rough with his affection, as that big body of his alluded to, or if he would be gentle, conscious of his strength and the damage he might cause.
He always spied Chris and his coaching staff running drills with the team, whistles blowing, shouts caught in the wind so that they met Tom’s ears in soft echoes. Puffs of white air billowed around the players, who grunted and screamed with every violent collision, wooden sticks clacking loudly. He wondered how Chris always looked so at ease in the cold, wearing only loose shorts and a cotton tank, muscled arms jumping as he clapped and cheered his players on. Plumes of white breath, blond hair tucked up in a quick bun, shades on, Chris ambled along the sideline, voice cavernous and resonant enough to reach Tom even from where he stood. Tom appreciated the cold well enough, preferred it actually, but there was something unnerving – fascinating – about the apparent inner warmth the man had to have to walk around so exposed in the middle of winter. Tucking his scarf tighter around his neck, Tom would stare down the hill at the field until with a startled gasp, he would dart away as soon as Chris turned and glanced up at him.
Thanksgiving came and went, the campus emptying for a four day weekend, filling to bursting the following Monday. Tom spent the holiday with another art history professor, an older gentleman whose wife had died the year before, and whose children descended upon his somber looking townhouse and cooked all the food while Tom kept the old man company by his fireplace, listening to stories of his late wife.
Delia began making arrangements for their March Mexico trip shortly before Christmas. She booked the flights, reserved their hotel rooms, and organized their schedule at the church and around the city. Eternally grateful, Tom bought her a gift card to their favorite coffee shop, as well as a new scarf to match the purple cashmere sweater she loved so much. On the last day school let out, Tom found a small bundle on his office chair.
Merry Christmas, Professor, the card said. I thought you might like a new one(s).
Inside he found a deep and wide coffee mug, dark green and rimmed by a brown stripe dotted with black. Inside was a bed of chocolate mints and a voice recorder, sleek and silver-toned. Delia knew the condition of his current recorder, dented and scratched and about the size of his entire hand. He’d had it since he was an undergraduate, and figured she was right. It was about time to retire it.
With Delia gone for winter break, and the university observing holiday closure, the campus fell into a cold-ridden silence. Mist sloped down the barren hills, slinking in between the tall maple and oak trees, shrouding the lower halves of the buildings. Clouds banked low in the skies and Tom thought it might snow before the new year. He most likely wouldn’t be able to visit his mother in England until the following summer, once his article draft was submitted and squared away. In the meantime, he would take the opportunity to plan more of his lessons and snuggle down on the sofa with hot chocolate and episodes of Project Runway. School wouldn’t be back in session until mid-January. And with it, an eventual spring and summer, and all its stifling heat.
**
The cold weather wasn’t all that bad, Chris thought. Having grown up in the dry and dusty bush of Melbourne, he was used to heat more than anything. But the cool air here in the east coast felt pretty good on his skin. Others tended to hurry from place to place bundled up in scarves and coats and knee-high boots. Chris felt completely comfortable walking around in his shorts and trainers, maybe throwing on a light sweater if he was going to be outside for an extended amount of time. It would be a relaxing break, he thought. He could jog in the mornings, watch ESPN through lunch, hit the gym in the afternoon and tune in for the newscast by dinner. And then sleep, because sleep was his favorite thing to do. Sleep and sex. You couldn’t go wrong.
With practices every afternoon during the semester, he’d hardly had time to decorate his apartment for Christmas. He didn’t plan on doing much, but he always figured a few lights in the right places could make any place look festive. The coaching staff had a small get-together at the dining hall the Friday school let out. They invited their players and had a table full of food – a whole turkey, ham and green bean casserole, mashed potatoes and gravy, muffins and rolls with butter, juice and water and beer for the staff. It was a calorie fest that the students deserved, pushing their physical limits, enduring both harsh weather conditions and Chris’s brutal scrimmages. It was the chance everyone needed to relax and enjoy each other’s company without the threat of whistles calling them to order, the pressure of practice and performance hanging over their heads. But with everyone gone, Chris imagined he might have the campus all to himself.
One icy Saturday afternoon, padding around his apartment wearing wool socks and boxers, he rooted around the top shelf of the hallway closet and found his box of decorations. He pulled at it, but it seemed stuck to the shelf. Finally managing to yank it free, it came down with a strip of wallpaper glued to the bottom.
He set the box down on his coffee table and began bringing out lights and window stickers and a wreath to hang on his door. He didn’t have a tree, but he liked to wrap a string of lights around the potted plant he kept in the corner of the living room. It didn’t even take him a full hour to decorate. The apartment was small, but not uncomfortably so. It was cozy, with one bedroom and a spacious living room adjacent to a kitchen and small alcove for his dining table. Not that he cooked much. It was mostly protein shakes and lots of chicken and greens.
Picking up any left-over decorations, he piled them back in the box to store away. But he hesitated, his eye catching on something poking out from beneath the box. He fingered the edge of the wallpaper stuck to the bottom and slowly peeled it free, eyes widening as another paper fell out from between and floated to the floor. It was a folded piece of cream parchment, thicker, a nice sort of paper. He scooped it up and examined it, opening it with his thumb. It was yellowed and slightly oily, probably from the glue of the wallpaper. He sank onto the sofa and read.
My dearest Tomás,
You looked so beautiful standing at the window just now. So tall and lean, with the white curtains fluttering at your feet. So beautiful. And the more time I spent with you these last two months, the more I couldn’t believe a person as extraordinarily beautiful as you could ever exist. I’ve not seen or met someone like you before, and I know in my heart that I never will again.
You left just now. You gave me a kiss on the lips and told me you’d be back with pastries from the panadería down the street. And I’m so sorry to know that you’ll come back to an empty hotel room. This room that’s been our hideout since we met all those weeks ago, since I fell in love with you. Since you bestowed me with that radiant smile of yours and told me your name.
I’ve been writing this letter for days. Crying by myself at home, only pretending to sleep so that I might look at your quiet face and remember, memorize you forever. My family won’t understand. They can’t know this about me, Tomás, and that’s why I have to leave you this way. Like a coward, not like the man you think I am.
Please forgive me, mi rey. I love you. But I can’t be with you, as I’ve so often daydreamed about, leaving with you to America, where you teach and live and laugh with such brightness. I am chained to these lands, but you can fly, mi amor. You can fly and be free without me and my shameful family. You are everything I could have ever wanted, and I thank you for the time we were given, the love that you showed me, the smiles and the kisses. Do not hate me when you get back. I could not bear it if you did. You are, and always will be, the brightest of suns. I am eternally sorry. I love you too much to watch you be hurt by my family. I will bear that burden for you.
Tomás, I hope if I ever free myself from here and find myself in the states, I might be able to see you again. I can only hope you think kindly enough of me to do so. I left you this necklace, my own, for you to remember me by. If remembering is something you want to do.
With all of my heart, te adoro.
~Gael
Chris sat stunned, the letter clasped tight in his fingers. Could this really have been addressed to the cold and detached professor that he knew? Radiant smile? Laughing with brightness? Kisses? Surely, this couldn’t be the same man. The letter was riddled with Spanish words, but Chris could discern enough to know that there must have been much affection between Tom and the man who’d written the letter.
Chris stood and marched to the hallway closet, standing on his tiptoes and feeling around the top of the shelf with his hand. His fingers caught on the edge of something and he tugged it loose. It was a stained and dusty envelope, inside of which lay a silver necklace, coiled and still bright. He tipped it so the necklace pooled in his palm, feeling the weight of it.
He felt suddenly uneasy holding the letter and necklace in his hands. The apartment had been wiped clean when he moved in, but he’d always known that it used to be Tom’s residence, finding the fact both mildly thrilling and incredibly annoying. But there wasn’t a speck of anything personal to indicate that someone had once lived in the apartment. And now this letter, stuck and forgotten at the top of a high shelf in the closet, yellowing over the years, just waiting to be read again.
He slid the chain back into the envelope and tucked the letter in beside it. Rather than toss it in the garbage, Chris opened the drawer next to his bed and put it away there, wondering if this Gael person was the reason the professor didn’t smile anymore.
**
The spring semester started in full force mid-January, a snowdrift sending flurries of white powder in the air, piling up against windowsills and doorjambs. Tom hustled to his classroom, Delia tagging along beside him. She let out a squeal when she slipped suddenly, hand shooting out to grab at Tom’s shoulder. He held her steady and then slid her arm through his for better balance. Holding their coffee mugs aloft, they made their way into the building and up the two flights of stairs to his office, Delia telling him about the family drama that always sprang up back home during the holidays.
“Anymore trouble with that one student? The lacrosse player?” Delia asked, standing by while he unlocked his door.
“No, thankfully. Although I feel nearly the entire school rose up in support of him. I felt I had no choice.” He set his things down on his desk, unwinding his scarf. “In all my years of teaching, that’s the first time I’ve ever felt so blindsided before. How naïve of me to think that the importance of academics would prevail over something as trivial as sports.”
Delia shrugged and took her usual chair. “I don’t necessarily think sports are trivial. I like a good soccer match as much as the next person. But I would never believe that skirting one’s responsibilities in the classroom for the sake of sports is the wisest decision. Who was it that said…People think of education as something they can finish…?”
Tom smiled. “Isaac Asimov.”
Delia nodded. “Precisely. Athletes seem to be under the impression that four years of a mediocre degree will suffice in pleasing the academic authorities here, a quick but weak foundation for advancing their more important athletic careers. But what happens if they get permanently hurt and can no longer play anymore? What do they have to fall back on? We never stop learning, no matter what’s written on a paper someone hands us after four or five or six years of higher education. And especially no matter the extent of our body’s physical performance.” Her brow puckered prettily and Tom took a sip of his coffee, eyes crinkling in agreement.
“You are exemplary, Miss Turner.”
Her cheeks brightened and she ducked her head shyly.
As the days progressed, as he became more entrenched in the semester’s work and drafting his research, Tom realized he had started to see more of Chris around campus. The man’s wide shoulders in the hallway outside his auditorium, talking with his players as they got out of class, down by the stairwell in the floor below his office, in the dining hall, his friends gathered around him, still cutting in line much to Tom’s irritation. And if he wasn’t mistaken, it seemed as if the man was trying really hard to make eye contact with Tom. But apart from the initial warning glare Tom threw at him, however ridiculously mollified that the man had actually looked at him at all, he made sure to avoid looking directly at Chris, settling his gaze at some safe distant point behind his head. He didn’t know what the man’s problem was, but if he intended to crack yet another joke at Tom’s expense, or laugh at him with all his coaching friends, then Tom wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of looking directly at him while he did it.
February rolled in and with it, Tom’s birthday, about which even Delia wasn’t aware. He spent the evening at home on the phone with his mother and sisters in England. After that, he took some tea and the newspaper into the living room to read before bed. He had turned thirty-four.
After Valentine’s Day, when red and pink streamers billowed past in the freezing winds, and glitter red and purple hearts hung crookedly and neglected on the dining hall doors, Delia approached Tom with another letter and phone messages.
“This is the sixth since August,” she said quietly. “And the umpteenth phone message.”
“Throw them out,” he whispered, not even bothering to look up.
“But, professor—,” she started. He cut her a sharp look and she jumped, turning on her heel and slipping out the door.
Forgetting about the letters and the phone messages was easy when he sometimes caught sight of Chris when the other wasn’t looking. It wasn’t hard to spy him among the crowds at Brown. While Chris could often be mistaken for a red-blooded, corn-fed American with all his golden skin and blond hair, it wasn’t until he opened his mouth that his deep accent cut across the way to where Tom watched from behind a tree or pillar, watched Chris laugh and pat all his friends on the back. He’d probably knock Tom right off his feet if he ever did that to him, the great clap of those big hands, the shoulder squeezes, the smiles. Tom would often catch himself in a pool of stunted jealousy, again, ridiculously wishing Chris would lavish him with such attention, such friendship. But when Chris would cast a casual gaze around, Tom was quick to disappear, heart pounding at the fear of being caught staring. He always stared too long.
It was early one morning when Tom was making his way up the front steps of the Administration Building that he heard the tiny screams. Nearly at the door, he spun around to see two young toddlers, probably three or four years of age, sprawled out on the icy sidewalk, legs and arms tangled. Their mother, laden with heavy bags, was speaking gently to them, urging them to get up on their own. The twins tried but kept slipping, screaming again, their red-mittened hands useless on the pavement. Tom was just about to move and help them when Chris sprinted out of nowhere and scooped the children up with a playful whoop, both squealing with laughter as he propped them up in his arms. The mother stiffened slightly, but after realizing he only meant to help smiled gratefully at him. The brother and sister babbled to each other, hands flitting over Chris’s long hair, he and the mother speaking too low for Tom to make out. He watched as she directed Chris to her car in the lot, where he set the children down carefully on the asphalt, rubbing their heads with a grin. The woman drove off and Chris started back toward the building, but Tom was already inside the door, peering through the window as Chris glanced up at the steps before heading the opposite way to the fields.
It wasn’t like Tom believed Chris was all that bad. There were moments when the man surprised Tom with his kindness and generosity, witnessing him picking up books that toppled over in one student’s arms, or even the event with the children slipping on the ice. But as soon as one was aware the other was around, a wall of ice sprang up, effectively cutting off any possibility for a breach in conversation, an attempt to break the tension that lived between them. Still, in order to avoid any further disruptions to the calm he’d tried to cultivate since before Christmas, Tom made sure to dismiss all eye contact and hurry along before Chris could jump at the chance to crack yet another joke.
Tom was running late one afternoon he was set to give a midterm exam. Jumping in his car, he drove toward campus and slammed on his breaks when he saw Chris pulling in just ahead of him.
“Goddammit,” he muttered, already anticipating his spot taken from him. But Chris pulled around the corner and drove over to the other side of the lot, leaving Tom’s space completely clear. Momentarily stunned, Tom pulled into his space and dove out of the car, bag and papers in hand.
“Yeah, you’re welcome!” Chris called from the other aisle. Tom waved his hand dismissively and continued on. It wasn’t until after his students turned in their exams that he had a moment to sit at his desk and catch his breath, wondering suddenly why Chris had given up his chance to steal Tom’s parking spot again.
**
Three days before his and Delia’s trip to Mexico City, Tom found himself out by the hill next to the lacrosse fields. It was a surprisingly warm day in March, despite the still frigid winds that burst between the buildings and whistled through the tall oaks. Classes were winding down for Spring Break, an entire week off for the students and faculty at the college. He wore a loose jacket and a checkered scarf, warm enough that the cutting breezes didn’t affect him too much. In the field below, only the lone figure of Chris was seen sitting at the benches, bent over a clipboard. Tom didn’t know what had driven him to walk out here today, the sun shining over the eastern edge of campus. But he had a lull between his morning and afternoon classes and most of the mid-semester work was graded, thanks to Delia’s help. His office had started to close in on him and he hustled outside for a quick breather, the crisp air filling his lungs and waking him up.
The snow had only recently begun to melt, and the ground was a quagmire of mush and sludge and brown-black sleet. He should have been more careful, more vigilant of how close to the edge of the hill he was, how slick and unstable the soggy ground had become in the recent melt, because one second he was meandering along the top of the hill, eyes fixed on the distant figure of Chris, and the next second his foot was sliding out from under him and he was catapulting over the slope, tumbling head over heels, mud soaking into his clothing, smearing over his hair and face. The semi-frozen ground beat at his shoulders and knees as he tumbled, his hands scrambling for purchase, but there was nothing to grab. And above that, he practically choked on the heat and flame and boiling wave of embarrassment that washed over him, rolling down that hill until finally settling in a dirty gasping heap on the lacrosse pitch, fully aware that the last person in the entire world he would ever have wanted to witness such a blunder, was the only one who had.
And then he heard the laughter.
**
“Damn kids,” Chris muttered, rearranging the starting lineup, scratching out one name, scribbling in another. The locker room had become too stifling and rank for his tastes, so he’d stepped out onto the field early, sometimes liking the quiet and the great expanse of it to think and formulate plays. When he heard the cry of alarm, he thought it was his boys coming out from the locker room, and only spared the briefest glance at the hilltop. But then he jumped to his feet, clipboard falling to the ground. He stood in open shock as the person toppled down, all legs and jutting elbows, sliding and tumbling, grunting in pain until finally collapsing in a muddy bundle by the sideline.
Doubling over, Chris gaped, a burst of laughter bubbling out of his mouth, unable to get the image out of his head, legs and arms spinning over and over. What had the person been doing up on the hill? How had they lost their footing?
Stomach hurting, he wheezed and straightened, finally moving his feet to help the poor lad. But as he neared the man, who rose up on shaking arms, his laughter died away and he froze.
“Shit,” he whispered, and then hurried to him.
Tom’s hair was matted down and caked with mud, but there were still a few curls that sprang loose, and Chris would have recognized them anywhere. Trembling, Tom groaned and winced, looking down at his knee, which was bleeding, the pants leg torn on some rock along the way.
“Hey,” Chris said, dropping down beside him. He took his arms, about to pull him up. “Are you okay, mate?”
But Tom yanked himself away, crumpling onto his side with a small, broken sob.
“Leave me alone, you son of a bitch.”
Chris blanched, kneeling in the dirt beside him. “What—Listen, I’m only trying to help.”
“By laughing? By being the jackass you always are and laughing at me? I’m surprised you didn’t wait until you had an audience.” His voice was rough with pain, and he swallowed down bile.
Hurt sliced through Chris, and he blinked rapidly. “No. Tom, wait a minute. I didn’t know it was you. I only just recognized you.”
“I’m so sure,” Tom growled, dragging himself onto his good knee and pushing to his feet with another stifled moan, strumming something to life deep inside Chris’s chest. His face was beet red, and blood dripped down his leg. Mud splotched over his clothing, smeared over the pale skin of his neck. He was absolutely livid. And completely mortified. He started limping away and Chris scrambled to his feet.
“Let me help you—,” he started, trying to take Tom’s elbow, hold gently the small of his back, but Tom ripped himself away again, turning on him in fury.
“Don’t touch me!” he shrieked, tears spilling from his eyes. Chris took an unconscious step back, the vision of Tom, like some weather beaten survivor of an epic flood, soaked and shivering and distraught, something he would never forget for all his life. A pang of need, of care, burst over him and he faltered at the feeling.
“I’m not weak,” Tom murmured, turning away, limping a single step. But then he whirled around and crashed both his palms against Chris’s chest, pushing him so that he stumbled and slipped. “I’m not weak!”
Chris almost told him right then and there about the letter and what it implied about Tom’s character. That he was weak, the he couldn’t take rejection, that he wouldn’t have survive the great conflict of a family’s disapproval, even taking Chris’s daily mocking and ribbing. False, entirely false, because as Tom scrambled back up the hill, falling forward on one arm every few moments, digging and scratching to put as much space between them as possible, Chris saw that he was anything but weak.
And then he was gone over the lip of the hill, the only evidence of his being there the disturbed patch of ground where he’d landed and struggled to rise again. Chris looked around in a bit of a daze, wondering if what had just transpired had even been real. But then he glanced down at his own chest, at the half-prints of Tom’s long hands outlined in mud on his T-shirt. He placed his own hands over them, bigger and wider than Tom’s, and imagined he could still feel the hot stamp of his anger simmering there.
No, he wasn’t weak. But he was hurt, and Chris knew it had something to do with the letter he’d found in his apartment. All that hard and cold façade only hid a deep well of sadness and anger, and it was blistering much closer to the surface than Tom was letting on. He tried to imagine Tom as this other man, Gael, had known him. Happy and smiling and laughing. Chris ran a hand over his hair. What did Tom look like, sound like, laughing?
“Ah, shit,” he muttered, shaking loose mud from his own knees, trying to quell the rush of something distinctive and warm in his chest. “Fucking hell.”
Something fluttered against his leg, blown there by the passing winds. It was Tom’s checkered scarf, stained and torn, a mosaic of blue and red and white. Chris snatched it up, and crumpled it into a ball in his fists, turning narrowed eyes on the edge of the hill where Tom had vanished.
**
His office. He would go to his office first and clean himself off as best he could before making the trek across campus to his house. What a filthy, embarrassing sight he must be, muddied and bleeding. And all because that damn boor had distracted him on his walk. He limped up the stairs, hand trembling on the rail, his other arm draped across his stomach feeling knotted in shame and rage. Fumbling with his keys, he finally unlocked the door, groaning as the warm air hit his frozen face and neck. His scarf—where was it?
Just as he was kicking the door closed, a hand shot in, his dirtied scarf clutched in long fingers.
Chris pushed in and slammed the door shut, cheeks pink, slightly out of breath. He must have run after him.
“Your scarf,” he said rather uselessly, a hard enough edge to his voice that displayed a measure of his own confusion as to why he was in Tom's office.
Tom twisted away. “Get out!”
“What the fuck’s your problem, huh?”
Tom hadn’t realized Chris had followed him to his desk until he was being spun, Chris’s hands hard on his shoulders.
“Get your hands off me, you beast.”
“I was trying to help you. You’re being a complete shit for no reason.”
Tom sneered, and Chris’s eyes darted down to his lips. “No reason, right? Maybe I don’t like fraternizing with assholes.”
“I’m not an asshole—I brought your raggedy scarf back!”
Tom bristled. “It’s not raggedy! It’s cashmere. But you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”
Chris hauled him closer, their faces inches apart. “Yeah, you would wear designer, wouldn’t you. Pretentious shit like you?”
Hands on his chest, Tom struggled to push him off, but Chris was so strong, his fingers wrapping the entire width of Tom's arms, and a twinge of arousal broke through the anger fogging his mind.
“You’re being unreasonable,” he tried, but Chris had him backed up against the edge of his desk, flakes of mud and grass left trailed over the floor, and he thought that maybe he was being the unreasonable one.
“I’m not the one screaming and fighting with the person who tried to help them up after they took a pretty hilarious spill.”
“You’re a jackass,” Tom gasped, bucking and yanking on his arms, but it was no use. Chris had him trapped in his iron grip.
“I’m just trying to help, alright?” Chris whispered, fingers loosening a fraction on Tom’s biceps. His eyes darted over Tom’s face and neck. “You’re covered in it. Here.” He took Tom’s scarf and tried wiping at his cheek. Incensed again, Tom jerked away and Chris reacted fast, grabbing his chin and making Tom face him. But before either knew it, Tom was jumping forward and kissing Chris, their mouths crashing together, teeth clacking, hands clutching at his hair. There was a moan, he wasn’t sure who did it, but then Tom wrenched away, breathing hard. Lifting his arm, he slapped Chris, all his strength in one hard smack, Chris's head snapping from the force of it. Chris groaned, strands of hair hanging in his eyes. Tom stood rooted to the floor, hand frozen in the air, eyes wide, cheeks spotted with bright color.
“Don’t touch me,” he gasped, and Chris grabbed him by the lapels of his jacket.
“You kissed me!”
“Yes, well…I regret it!”
“Like hell you do,” Chris growled and kissed him again. They surged together over the edge of his desk, Chris crowding him against it. Tom wrapped his arms around Chris’s neck, dragging him closer, both bumping hard against the desk, knocking over a cup of pens, his clock, jarring his computer monitor so it rocked and danced on its base.
Chris’s hands were pressed flat to his spine, forcing Tom to arch forward, their hips crushed together. He hardly felt the aches and bruises of his fall, nor the cut to his knee, which was probably still bleeding. All he felt was lovely warmth and the rasp of beard bristles on his chin, the raw strength of the man before him, his full lips devouring Tom’s own, their chests heaving against each other.
When something crashed to the floor, a wooden paperweight shaped like a water lily, they broke apart, both staring and breathing hard.
"You've been ignoring me lately," Chris breathed, voice rough.
Tom's fingers clenched in that blond hair. "Don't I always."
Chris almost snarled. "This was different. You don't snap at me anymore. You won't even look at me now."
Tom's eyes dropped, as if to prove a point. "Maybe I don't want to look at your stupid face."
Chris growled and grabbed his chin, fingers nearly bruising. "Don't get cute."
"Shut up," Tom whispered. "You're insufferable. I can't stand you."
Rolling his hips, Chris let Tom feel how hard they both were, their erections trapped in their trousers. Chris lifted his eyebrows, goading Tom with an irritating oh yeah? look that set Tom's teeth on edge.
"Prove that you can't stand me," Chris spit out.
"Make me!" Tom suddenly tightened his grip in his hair, tugging hard. Chris hissed and tore loose, seizing Tom's wrists and planting them on the edge of the desk. Trapped, Tom tried dislodging him with his legs, lifting a knee and kicking. Chris dodged the hit and pressed himself to Tom again, lips seeking, taking Tom's mouth, tongue plunging in. Startled, Tom cried out, voice muffled against Chris's mouth. He pushed and pulled at him, Chris hauling him closer, pressing him flat to the desk. Dirt smeared his calendar, sprinkling over the surface, but they hardly noticed, clawing at each other, tearing at each other's skin. Chris latched onto his neck and bit hard, his hands tugging at Tom's trousers button, tearing his fly open, hand delving over his cock.
Tom gasped, lifting his head to where Chris held him, kneading at his balls, palming the head of his cock.
"You've got quite the cock, haven't you, professor?" He smiled and held Tom down by the throat, fingers curled loosely, enough to breathe, enough to know who was the stronger. "It's not like I haven't been able to guess, with these tight trousers you wear."
Blushing red, Tom writhed on the desk, Chris standing between his legs, groping at him. The tips of his shoes barely brushed the floor, no leverage against him. Clutching at the thick wrist that held him, Tom whimpered and moaned, hips undulating, wanting more.
"You like that?" Chris asked, staring down between their bodies, his own erection tenting his jeans.
"Yes, you bloody idiot." He lifted his arms, like a toddler begging to be lifted, and Chris chuckled, hesitating.
"You won't hit me again?"
"I might. If you annoy me."
"I'm not annoying you now?" He squeezed the tip of Tom's cock leaking a wet spot on his briefs, and Tom yelped, throwing off Chris's arm and pulling himself up. They fell into a rough embrace, lips smashing together. Yanking at the button of his jeans and wrenching his zipper down, Chris pulled himself out and thrust against Tom. Kissing still, he took hold of Tom's ass and rolled him forward, his cock slipping beneath Tom's sac and between his slim thighs. He started a fast pace, rutting against him, the hard heat of him squeezing along Tom's perineum, so close together that Tom's erection was crushed between. They moved together, Tom's nails dragging down Chris's back through his cotton shirt, Chris's own fingers hooking into the belt hoops of Tom's trousers.
"Don't you fucking stop," Tom breathed hot on Chris's cheek.
"Think you're tough," Chris said, groaning and snapping his hips. "Think you can take this?"
"I'll take whatever you're willing to dish out, you ruffian."
"Yeah, you'll take what I give you," Chris promised harshly, taking his mouth again, Tom's arms clutching him tight. “You be quiet for me now. Don’t want these other stuck up snobs seeing you like this.”
Tom’s desk rattled and slid along the floor, their feet scrambling to stay upright. Chris mouthed behind Tom’s ear, taking a fistful of his hair and yanking to the side, exposing his neck, sinking his teeth into the pale flesh there. Crying out, Tom held on as Chris fucked against him, sacs rolling thickly, erections swelling and throbbing. He groaned and whined, Chris finally smacking their lips together to mute his cries.
Tom’s orgasm was sudden and blinding, taking him in a crest of pleasure unfelt in years. Clinging to Chris, Tom shuddered and spasmed, hips rocking forward, his cum spilling in high ribbons over Chris’s chest.
“Fuck yes,” Chris whispered, eyes sharp on Tom’s face, his big hand holding his head steady. Mouths sliding clumsily together, Tom hugged Chris weakly as Chris pumped against him, collapsing forward slightly. He caught himself on one hand, the other arm wrapped around Tom’s back, still thrusting, his need to come making him frantic. Face buried in Tom’s neck, he spilled finally between Tom’s legs, his groan low and long, his chest vibrating with it. They stood trembling, gasping, still draped over each other.
It was with an invading buzz in their ears that they drew back slowly, eyes wide on the other. Cum dripping, cooling on Chris’s shirt, splattered between Tom’s thighs, they swallowed thickly, hands falling away from each other. Tom became aware of every pain in his body, each twinge and bruise, no doubt bearing new ones from Chris. Blood still oozed down his leg, and mud still smeared over his face.
Chris’s eyes darted between his. “Tom—.”
“Just go,” Tom whispered, and the wall that always existed between them flew up, shielding the emotion in Chris’s eyes, blocking him from Tom. They straightened their clothing and adjusted themselves, Chris casting one last glance at him before leaving the office with a quiet click of the door.
**
He filled the tub slowly, water hot and steaming over his face. The blood on his knee was beginning to scab, the long streaks of it drying stickily on his shin. And he was trembling, teeth chattering loudly in the thick air of his bathroom. From the cold, from anger, from embarrassment. From remnant tremors of his pleasure. He covered his eyes with one hand, still in disbelief. Had he and Chris really just done that?
“You damn fool,” he whispered, fresh tears gathering.
It had taken him almost a half hour to arrive home, limping around the silent buildings, Chris's cum still sticky between his thighs. He hoped against hope that no one would cross his path, see him in his disheveled state. And apart from one or two people sprinting through the cold to dart into doorways, he saw no one. He had some time yet before his afternoon class, time to clean himself up and patch his knee. And tend to his wounded pride and confused heart.
The look on Chris’s face was scorched behind his eyelids, so that Tom saw him every time he blinked, first the easy mirth opening his features, and then the suspended shock, eyes widening as he got closer to Tom sprawled on the ground. And then the slack-jawed relief as he came rutting up against Tom.
Shame and excitement burned his face again, and Tom ducked his head, even though he was alone in the bathroom. Very slowly, he stepped into the tub and lowered himself, the water enveloping his thighs and buttocks, his waist and chest, until he finally relaxed back against the sloped porcelain, pain lancing up his spine, sore and aching from his spill. Dirt and blood tainted the water, the semen washed away, but he made no move to aid in the cleansing. A deep fatigue settled over his bones, lying there listlessly, the drips of water lulling him into a quiet doze.
The dip in vertigo, the fear and pain as he hit the hard and slippery slant of that blasted hill, Chris’s laughter. His moans.
Tom’s face crumpled and he curled on his side, the water lapping at his neck, at the hunched curve of his shoulder. His tears were as hot as the water he lay in, and he let them fall, eyes drooping.
He materialized on a bed, a soft white bed, with white blankets and blue pillows. The walls were light blue and there was light pouring in from the balcony window. Gael stood at the rail, silhouette dark through the gossamer curtains. Tom sighed and rolled over, watching the ember of a cigarette glow red before dying out, Madrid’s city lights casting him in shadow again.
Tom spoke his name, too softly for a person in real life to have heard him, but this was a dream. It had to be. Because Gael was gone, left behind where Tom’s heart was broken, that city of warm breezes and rolling tongues.
Still, Gael turned and snuffed the cigarette on the railing, smiling at Tom as he pushed past the curtains and jumped on the bed. Tom laughed as Gael tossed the sheets in the air and dove under, whispering Tom’s name in Spanish, pulling him closer by the waist. But when the sheets settled and a head popped out, it wasn’t with Gael’s wavy brown hair, or his hazel eyes. This man had blond hair and the bluest eyes with the thickest lashes and his laugh against Tom’s neck was deep and rumbling. Tom froze as lips strayed up his jaw and over to his ear, whispering his name, his English name, voice vibrating over his skin. The moan he heard was his own, fingers sliding up Chris’s shoulders and when Chris drew back and smiled down at him, Tom smiled, too.
A loud pounding sounded suddenly and Tom bolted upright, cold water sloshing over the rim of the tub. It was dirty and swimming with chunks of mud, and he blinked around the room, shivering again.
More pounding and he hurried to his feet, stumbling to a towel and drying himself quickly. He chucked his robe on and limped down the hall, his bruised knee smarting with every step.
“Professor?”
Delia’s voice came through his locked front door. He unbolted it and yanked it open.
She stood there in black leggings and a beige cardigan, several sizes too big, maroon scarf and ruffled cap nearly drowning her. But she was lovely and dry, not a disaster like he was.
“Delia,” he croaked, and cleared his throat. “What’s the matter? Are you alright?”
“I’m fine, professor,” she said quietly, eyeing him up and down. “But you? Are you alright? You missed class.”
Shit. He’d fallen asleep and forgotten about his afternoon class. He waved her in and closed the door.
“I’m so sorry, Delia. I fell asleep in the tub.”
She looked around his living room, tracks of dirt leading down the hall and into the bathroom. “What happened? You’re covered in mud.”
He touched his hair and realized he’d never even washed his head or face. He would have to remember to clean his office before Delia was due back there.
With a sigh, he explained how he fell down the hill, his embarrassing sprawl onto the field. He left Chris out of it. Her look of horror probably matched his own after the incident.
She ushered him to the sofa and bent over his knee, shaking her head and muttering to herself as she went in search of a bandage.
“It’s not as bad as it looks,” he called to her, touching the inflamed skin. “I’m just horribly embarrassed.”
“You poor dear,” she said as she sat on the coffee table before him. “The adrenaline probably knocked your circuits loose. Sleep helps put you back in order.” She dabbed at the skin with antibacterial wipes and stuck a bandage over the cut.
“Did anyone see you?”
He felt the flush in his face and couldn’t seem to look her in the eye. The incident, and what happened directly after, was still too fresh in his mind to formulate a believable fib.
She leaned forward. “Who was it, professor?”
He sighed and let his head hang back, bits of dry dirt raining over the cushions. “It was the lacrosse coach. Whatever his name is.”
“Chase’s coach?”
“Yeah.”
She shook her head. “That’s a shame. I hope he doesn’t make fun of you.” She made a face, and Tom smiled.
“I don’t care anymore if he does.”
He excused himself to rinse off the excess dirt from his hair and face and then changed into jeans and a warm jumper. He still felt sticky and a bit disgusting, but would shower properly before bed. They sat at his kitchen table, two hot mugs of tea before them.
“So class was canceled, then?” he said, stirring in some milk.
Her brows knit together. “Of course not. Why would it be?”
“Well, I wasn’t there. Surely someone reported me missing to administration and they canceled class for today. Who else would have taught for me?”
“I did,” she said, taking a sip.
He did a double take. “You did?”
“Yes, why not? I know your material inside and out. I prepared your notes for this lesson. When you didn’t answer your cell, I walked in and told them all to sit down and pay attention. And I taught it.”
Tom’s smile grew on his face and he patted her wrist kindly. “You never cease to amaze me, Delia. Thank you.”
Her eyes crinkled and she shrugged delicately, like it wasn’t a big deal. “They’re just undergrads, professor. Nothing I can’t handle.”
They grinned at each other over their mugs and Tom took a hearty sip. “Goodness, I’m ready to get away for a bit. Even if it will be boiling where we’re going.”
Delia’s face fell and she turned to him in her seat. “Oh, professor. That’s what I also came by to tell you. I won’t be able to go to Mexico with you.”
He nearly dropped his cup. “What? Why?”
“My mother called me last night. My grandmother’s been admitted to the hospital. They think it’s her heart, and they don’t know how much longer she has. My dad’s bought my ticket home. I leave tomorrow morning. I’ll be back after break, professor…but I’m just—I’m so sorry!”
Tom sat still, heart beating fast in his throat. It wasn’t that he couldn’t handle this alone. Of course he could. But Delia was by far the best graduate assistant he’d ever had and she knew the ins and outs of his travel habits and how to work with him while on site. Not to mention his fainting spells, when the heat was at its worst. Delia always knew when to hand him the ice packs, when to have him sit down and drink from their cold water. She knew when to knock on his door and whisper him awake, not to startle him from the dreams that always plagued him in the heat.
“The heat, Tom,” she said quietly, as if reading his mind. “Your dreams—.”
“It’s alright, Delia,” he said quickly, not liking the look on her face. He didn’t want to make her feel worse than she already did. “I’ll be fine. I will. I only have the one church to go to in Mexico City. And our hotel is close by.”
“But no air conditioning, professor,” she pressed. “It’s an ideal little hotel, shaped like a plaza. There are a circle of cottages around this gorgeous fountain. Our cottage has a single room for you and the pullout sofa for me. It was perfect! And the church is two streets down. I know how you prefer to stay close to the site. I have everything arranged. Ice packs and bottled water, and I was going to ask for a space fan from the guy I spoke with, Miguel. He said he would arrange for one to be available for you.” Her voice climbed in pitch the more she rambled, clearly upset that he would be left to his own devices. “I’m sorry, Tom. But my grandma—.”
She ducked her head down and started crying, her shoulders shaking.
"Oh, no, don't cry, Delia," Tom said, jumping up and pulling her to her feet. He hugged her warmly, patting her back and whispering that it would be alright, that she needn't worry, that things happened for a reason and that it was best to trust in the flow of things. Before she left, she handed him a folder with his itinerary, reservation confirmations and plane ticket from Newark, her extra tucked in beside his.
"You can email me from there if you need help with anything, okay? I'll be checking my email from home." Her face softened and she took his arm gently. "Take care of yourself, professor. Promise me you will. And hydrate. Stay in the shade. And just relax, okay? You're supposed to be on vacation."
He laughed, and shrugged as best he could. "I promise I will. And please let me know how everything goes with your family."
As soon as she left, he found some aspirin in a cabinet and fell back asleep, wondering if he would dream of blond hair and blue eyes again.
**
Spring Break couldn't have come faster for Chris. He’d had his bags packed and a ticket to Cancun ready since before Christmas. Once on the beach, he would rent a board and spend the entire week in the water, which he'd heard rivaled the warmth of the beaches back in Melbourne.
There was something heavy about being on campus these last few weeks. Something that made him weary but charged under his skin, like static electricity clinging to freshly washed sheets.
A month ago, he was on the look out for the next time he could mock Tom and get a good laugh going at his expense; a week ago he was reading a Dear John letter addressed to Tom by a man who had obviously been, and might still be, in love with him; and two days ago he had watched the man fall down a hill and collapse in a puddle of angry tears, only to follow him and hump him against his desk like some kind of rabid and horny teenager. Chris was ready for a break from campus, from the cold, from Tom. All he wanted was the ocean and the endless sky, pale limbs and breathy gasps be damned.
But upon arriving at the Newark airport, he found his ticket counter congested with a small crowd of angry and frustrated people. Security had just arrived and were queuing people into a line. Chris leaned close to one officer and asked what was going on.
"Flight to Cancun is canceled. Nothing leaving for another three days."
Chris blinked fast. "Nothing to Mexico?"
"Nope. Poor ladies at the counter are handling refunds.” The guy ushered him forward and Chris moved along the line.
Nothing to Cancun, nothing even to Mexico. Not from this airport. He wondered vaguely if he should try elsewhere, but thought suddenly that it might be too much trouble. He could try the western states, California maybe, even Florida down south.
He hiked his bag higher on his shoulder and ran a hand roughly through his hair.
"Goddammit," he muttered, stepping out of the line and flopping down at a bank of chairs by the broad windows overlooking the waiting planes. Outside, a steady drizzle began to beat against the pavement and he dropped his head back, a pang of defeat swimming through him.
Through the buzz and chatter of the congested airport, he became aware of a low murmuring to his right, like someone speaking to himself.
"Day one, check in at hotel. Speak with Miguel about space cooler. Day one evening, meet with Padre Aurelio, survey and blue print attached."
Chris rolled his head to see the person, pulse jumping when he realized it was the professor. It was Tom. He sat up fast, mouth parting. Tom was in a chair just a few feet away, bent over a folder and rifling through its pages, finally stopping and squinting at something with complicated schematics. Chris couldn't move his gaze away, couldn't help absorbing every detail about him, the straight back and shoulders, his long fingers flipping through the pages. They were very delicate, his hands, and beneath the sleeves of that jacket he wore Chris knew that the bones of his wrist were very fine. He’d held them down only a few days ago, the sensation of that lean body rising against him making his ears feel warm.
Tom raised his eyes in a casual glance and batted them in surprise at seeing Chris sitting there, watching him.
Chris smiled and cleared his throat. He flicked his hand in greeting. "Hi."
Tom frowned and returned to his papers, saying nothing. Chris noticed a purple bruise on his jaw, and realized it must have been from his fall down the hill. What other marks on his body were hidden from him beneath his clothes? What other marks had Chris caused with his own hands, gripping him so tightly in all their desperation?
Chris grabbed his bag and moved to sit beside Tom, who side-eyed him, but otherwise made no protest.
"Where are you going?" Chris asked.
Tom said nothing.
"Is that a church?"
"Do you always leave for spring break?"
"When's your flight?"
Tom finally sighed and flipped the folder closed. "In three hours."
"Why are you here so early?"
Tom turned away. "We always get here this early."
"We?"
"My graduate assistant and I. Only she was called home last minute. I'm here alone."
Chris stared at him, realizing he liked the way the professor's mouth moved when he talked, the small way his bottom lip dragged down for certain sounds.
"Listen, Tom...about the other day..."
"You don't have to say anything, alright. I realize I was a right tit for falling like that. It was hilarious, I know it was. We can just forget about it."
“I wasn’t talking about that,” he said quietly, and Tom blushed so lovely, eyes sinking.
“Well, I was.”
"But you were hurt," Chris hurried to say, wanting him to keep talking. "I would never laugh at you if I knew you were hurt."
Tom's turned his gaze up at him, blue eyes appearing gray from the sleet outside. "Why not? That never stopped you before."
Chris had the good grace to look down.
Tom smiled crookedly and sighed. "What does it matter. I make for good sport, don't I?" Chris started to shake his head when Tom interrupted. "Anyway, where are you going?"
"Ah, I was headed to Cancun but it turns out my flight was just canceled."
"Shame," Tom said, not sounding like it bothered him at all. Both were silent, no doubt remembering the last time they’d been together, wrapped up in an angry embrace, trousers and jeans torn open. After a moment, Tom said, "I'm headed to Mexico.”
Chris snapped his head up with a grin. "Really? Staying on the beach? Drinking tequila?"
Tom smiled tightly, coldly. "No. Excuse me." He gathered his folder and the bag at his feet and stood up. Chris could only watch him go, his eyes drifting down his backside, watching how he moved through the crowd. He remembered how that pert ass had felt in his hands, remembered the surprised inhale Tom gave at his touch, the quivering moan just after.
Chris’s leg started a hurried bounce, tracking Tom’s progress across the way. He went to stand in the queue for an airline different from the one Chris had originally booked with, and was helped by the woman behind the counter after a few minutes. Tom handed her something, probably his graduate assistant's spare ticket. He must be returning it, Chris realized. Which meant there would be an empty seat on his flight. To Mexico. He wasn't sure where in Mexico Tom was going, but it was probably close to somewhere with a beach, right? He could hop on his flight and then bus it to the closest body of water.
As the woman handed Tom a paper, a receipt probably, she smiled and said something to him and Tom laughed. He genuinely laughed, head tossed back, shoulders moving, so that Chris felt an ache roll through his chest at not being able to hear it, wondering what he would have to say to get Tom to laugh like that with him. Tom nodded his thanks, collected his bag and papers, and left toward the security checkpoint without another glance at where Chris was sitting.
Standing suddenly, Chris hurried to the counter and smiled at the woman, pulling out his own wallet and useless ticket to see if he could wrangle some luck his way.
**
After he left Chris and returned Delia’s ticket, Tom felt a stab of unease about being at the airport alone. Somewhere, Chris was waiting around for a flight, too, unless he gave up and went back to Providence. Sitting at a restaurant and nursing a scotch to calm his nerves, Tom kept an eye out for the man, zeroing in on anyone with blond hair and taller than six feet. When Chris had sat next to Tom by the ticket counters, Tom had been so freshly reminded of his dream where a laughing and playful Gael had turned into a cuddly and affectionate Chris, kissing his neck and hugging him close. It was too much, the exposure, too much of the details of Chris’s face, the full brows, the dark widow’s peak, the stubble growing along his jaw, the bright, impossible blue of his eyes. Even after his thorough shower before bed, Tom could have sworn he woke up smelling like him.
What had happened at the lacrosse pitch was still singed at the forefront of Tom’s mind, and seemed bad enough without adding on their frantic display of lust in his office. His face warmed with thoughts of it all, Chris trying to help him up after his fall, Chris thrusting between his legs.
He was always on edge when around Chris, and this sudden turnabout by the other man was unsettling and confusing. Going on the defensive felt like the only way Tom could save face in light of his recent embarrassment and subsequent moment of weakness. He didn’t like that Chris had been his only eyewitness, both of his fall and spiraling orgasm. He would have preferred the entire lacrosse team witness his fall over Chris any day, and that observation alone had him fidgeting in his seat as Chris bombarded him with question after question, as if he cared, as if all this time he hadn’t taunted Tom and teased him and mocked him and made him feel a complete fool. Wasn’t what happened in his office enough? Why play at a false sense of acquaintance?
Tom swallowed back the rest of his scotch.
When he didn't spot Chris again, he relaxed a bit and paid his bill. Locating his gate number, he sat at a row of chairs and pulled out a draft of his article to edit. He'd brought a paperback with him too, but that was for the flight. He and Delia had been exchanging edited versions, and this was the most current version, annotated with Delia's suggestions about what he should look for in the Mexican church. He smiled, seeing that the girl was spot on with most of her comments. She would make a fine professor one day, if she felt so inclined.
When boarding was announced, Tom filed in with the rest of the passengers, hoping that the seat beside him remained empty. He'd only just sold it back. Surely no one could have bought it so soon. As it was the flight was half empty, people settling in, interspersed among the aisles. He found the flight attendant and gave her two ice packs to keep cool during the flight, thanking her warmly.
Delia always preferred the window seat, but now Tom took it for himself this time, relaxing in with a sigh and adjusting his pants legs. He stared out the square glass, thinking maybe he would sleep part of the seven hours it would take to arrive in Mexico. He might as well rest as much as he could, as he probably wouldn’t after arriving.
Only a few minutes passed before he felt someone stop at his aisle, stowing a bag in the overhead compartment. Please keep moving, please keep moving, he silently begged. But the person dropped down into the seat next to him, heavy and warm. Immediately warm. Tom stifled a sigh and pulled his elbows in closer to his body.
“What do you figure?” the person said, a smile in their voice, Aussie accented and deep.
He snapped his head around so fast he felt one of the bones pop. Chris Hemsworth sat next to him, wearing an irritating grin, hair falling free from its bun.
“What in God’s name are you doing here?” Tom blurted, and Chris laughed, tongue peeking between his teeth.
“I bought a ticket. Going to Mexico.”
“Yes, but, but—.” Tom cut off before he began stammering. Realization dawned on him. “You bought Delia’s ticket.”
“Is that her name?”
Chris was unzipping his jacket, pulling it off. Tom forced himself to look away before he stared for too long.
Yes, that’s her bloody name, Tom thought, ignoring Chris and settling back in his seat, gaze set determinedly out the window. Chris chuckled, and Tom felt his blood boil.
“Is this how it’s going to be the whole time?”
Tom spun on him. “And how exactly did you picture the next seven hours going? Shall we swap magazines and gab about who is sleeping with who among the faculty? Or maybe we should talk about when we’ll be flying home next? You to the Ninth Level and me to London? How excited we are and all the fun things we’ll do once there. And let’s not forget to send each other picture messages about how we miss each other and wish you were here. Or did you want us to talk about how our semester’s going? Well let’s see. I have the most ornery student athlete in my class, who just snaps his fingers and gets his way, grades and mediocre performance be damned. And his coach, goodness. Do we have longer than seven hours?” Chris had his lips pursed and brows bunched in mock thoughtfulness, rummaging around his pockets, bringing out some white ear buds. He put them in his ears, nodding along genially as Tom whispered his rage. “On top of that, I teach a full load of classes, as well as annotate my research and draft a major article for publication, with which Delia has been an absolute godsend. Or maybe we should talk about how we almost”—here he lowered his voice to a spitting whisper—“fucked on my desk the other day. Was that about right, or did you have something else in mind?”
When he was finally through, Chris had some kind of loud music buzzing through the tiny speakers and before Tom could stop him, he reached over and pressed his broad hand to Tom’s forehead, pressing back gently until Tom’s head was resting against his seat.
“Shh,” Chris said quietly. “Rest time. No more anger for now. Let’s take off first.”
And then he relaxed into his own seat and closed his eyes, lips twitching at the corners.
Tom sat frozen where Chris had left him, fingers clutching his armrests, livid with indignation. He huffed out a breath and adjusted his jacket, leaning as far away from Chris as was still dignified. Resolving to stare out the window the entire trip, Tom closed his eyes for a moment and then opened them again, letting the sunlight sear him blind.
**
After takeoff, he slept, waking much later to a stark cloud bank just outside his window. Eyes closed, Chris was slumped over beside him, head resting on a curled fist. His music was still on, an indistinct beat sounding from the wires disappearing into his shirt. Tom’s watch confirmed there were still five hours to go. He pulled the paperback out of his bag and bent the book to the light of the window, trying to ignore the warmth of Chris’s leg next to him.
The flight attendant came by and asked if they needed anything, her accent somewhat dusky and thick. Tom asked for a vodka cranberry and begrudgingly ordered a bottle of water for Chris, who was still asleep. Their flight came with a cookie or complimentary peanuts, and Tom set his aside for later.
He wrote in his journal, outlining his plans for the trip and the questions he would ask Padre Aurelio. It wasn’t until he felt eyes on him sometime later that he realized Chris was awake, leaning over his shoulder and reading what Tom had written. And he was eating his cookie.
“You’re eating my cookie,” Tom said. He took his bag of peanuts before Chris could snag that too.
“What are you writing?”
Tom closed his journal. “Notes. For my research.”
Chris nodded. “And what is your class about?”
“Syncretism in Catholicism and Christianity. But I touch on other world religions, as well.”
“What’s syncretism?”
Tom stared out the window. “It’s when two independent systems of thought and ideas are merged to create an entirely new system of thought. Only, when it came to religion, most often the invading people would incorporate only certain elements of the native religion, so as to make conversion easier. You’ll see examples of it in Catholicism, African and Aztec gods being made into saints and such. Things like that. Changing the date of Christ’s birth to match a sacred holiday in the minority religion. Or the Aztec goddess Tonantzin having remarkably similar traits to the Virgin Mary. After the conquest, so many of the Aztec deities were absorbed into Catholicism. Even to this day, many people wait to buy Christmas trees until December twelfth, the day Juan Diego reportedly saw a vision of the Virgin of Guadalupe, her image seared in bright colors onto his cloak. Scientists are still unable to determine the origin of the image, or identify the medium of the image itself, its colors and whatnot.” He fell silent, feeling he had spoken entirely too much, and annoyed that he’d felt even a spark of interest in sharing this information with Chris.
“You’re wicked smart, then.” He could hear the smile in Chris’s voice, and he gritted his teeth to stop the scalding quip just waiting to roll off his tongue.
“Man, it’s going to be nice to be away from my students for a week.”
Humming, Tom returned to his journal and flipped a page. “Yes, even though the children are probably more in need of the rest than we are.”
“You call them children? They're in their twenties. You’re like, only ten years older than them.”
“Only some,” Tom conceded, sticking a paper between the pages to mark his spot. “The graduate students, maybe. They’re older, more mature. But I certainly understand how some of us can’t know what maturity is just yet. Don’t worry, you’ll grow into it.” He looked pointedly at Chris, who narrowed his eyes at him.
“So, what does the ninth level mean?”
Tom frowned. “What?”
“Earlier. When you were throwing your tantrum?” Tom sighed, and Chris smiled. “You said we would go back to where we’re from. Me from the ninth level, and you to Ireland or something—.”
“London.”
“I’m joking.” Chris chuckled and reached for Tom’s peanuts. Tom opened his mouth to protest, but gave up, knowing there was no use. “So what does it mean?”
“I take it you’ve never read Dante.”
“Sure. He wrote comedies, right?”
Tom rubbed his temples, grumbling to himself. This flight was going to last an eternity. Chris turned in his seat and rested his head back, eyes on Tom, who tried to ignore how the light from the window made them look crystallized.
“So what does it mean?”
This moment, Delia would have been half way through a novel, some amateur college band crooning into her ears. They would be sharing the peanuts, too. Later she would sleep for an hour or two and then wake, taking his article from him and continuing to edit where he’d left off. Tom felt his shoulders dip in defeat.
“Dante’s Inferno is the first part of The Divine Comedy. Only there was nothing funny about it. At the time, people wrote in two forms: Tragedy and Comedy; tragedy in that it was most likely an epic, the highest form of literature and ending in, well, tragedy," he said, giving Chris an obvious look. "And comedy was the low form, meant to detail caricatures in gross exaggeration. Often, comedies were written in the vernacular and usually had happy endings. His comedy was made up of three books, Inferno being the first, followed by Purgatory and Paradise."
Chris was nodding, his eyes drifting down to Tom's lips, and Tom licked them quickly, shifting in his seat. "Anyway, the ninth level was the lowest level of hell, reserved for the worst of treacherous deeds, the final place of torment for traitors such as Brutus, Cassius, Judas Iscariot...Satan."
Chris tilted his head and gave a wounded look, a smile still bright in his eyes. "And you think I belong with that lot?"
Tom shuffled his papers and leaned over them again. "I think nothing of the matter any longer."
They fell into silence, Chris doing a poor job of masking how he watched Tom out of the corner of his eye.
“I can’t wait to lie on the beach,” Chris said softly, head bouncing slightly as they hit a patch of turbulence.
“In Veracruz?”
“Is that where we’re going?”
“No. We’re going to Mexico City. The closest beach is five hours away in Veracruz. Specifically Tecolutla.”
Chris’s face fell, shoulders sagging. “No beach?”
“Not unless you keep traveling.”
“Fuck,” Chris muttered, turning away.
Tom couldn’t help his low chuckle. “What exactly were you expecting?”
“Uh, it’s Mexico. I was expecting a beach. Mexico is synonymous with beaches.”
Tom shook his head. “You’re such a tourist. There is more to this country than what your little midnight infomercials would lead you to believe.”
When the flight attendant came back around to collect any trash, Tom beckoned her close.
"Do you know what the weather is like where we're landing?"
She leaned against the empty seat in front of them. "Captain Rios and I were just speaking about that. A heat wave hit the city about two days ago and hasn't dissipated. Very unusual this early in the year." She smiled sympathetically and moved on.
Tom took a deep breath and closed his eyes, trying to mentally prepare himself for the moment they disembarked into what would probably feel like one of the nine levels. Not the ninth, though. The ninth was made entirely of ice.
"What's wrong?" Chris asked.
"Nothing," Tom replied curtly, and began putting his work away.
When they landed an hour later, he was gripping his armrests tight, eyes peeled on the window and the land beyond. A wind was gusting hard, dust and trash rolling over the shimmering tarmacs. Delia would have an ice pack and bottle of water ready for him by now, so he flagged the flight attendant and asked her for the ice packs that he'd given her back in Newark.
She brought them, along with a handful of napkins. Chris watched the exchange wordlessly.
Tom took his time about letting the other passengers leave first. He always liked to be the last off a flight, all the more time to brace himself for what he knew waited out there. Chris lingered, Tom casting him side-glances, but saying nothing. They had a mini finger pointing war, trying to get the other to go first, before Tom finally huffed in exasperation and headed up the aisle, Chris following directly behind.
Tom stopped just short of exiting, hand on the wall to steady himself. The airports in Mexico were a bit different from the ones in the States. Often the result of overcrowding, many of the planes had to disembark passengers onto the tarmac, paths cordoned-off to guide them into the airport itself. This time was no different, no welcoming air conditioning to help ease the transition for Tom.
Already he could feel a balloon of heat seeping into the still cold airplane. He brought the ice pack to his neck with a nervous swallow.
"You okay?" Chris asked from behind him, sounding like he was bending to speak close to Tom's ear. Tom didn't have the focus to tell him to back off.
"Fine," he said quietly and took his first step around the corner and out of the open door, a metal staircase latched onto the side of the plane.
"Hope you enjoy your trip," the flight attendants said in unison, smiling and ushering them out.
"Thank you," Tom gasped, closing his eyes as the heat hit him full in the face, like a wall of pulsing fire. He faltered on the first step, hand shooting out to grab the burning rail. And then an arm was around his shoulders, pressuring him gently to keep moving. Chris was there, and Tom let him lead the way down the steps, ice pack pressed to his mouth and chin.
"I just...I just need a few moments to—to adjust. It's too much sometimes."
Chris said nothing, only tightened his fingers on Tom's shoulders, maneuvering their way through some stragglers by the entrance. They pushed through the glass doors and were enveloped in air so crisp and cool that Tom moaned, sagging in relief. Chris led him to some chairs and dropped down next to him.
Sweat slipped down Tom's face, and he wondered vaguely if there was something he could fan himself with, when Chris suddenly reached over, as if on instinct, to swipe the beads of sweat with his thumb. Tom flinched away and Chris snatched his hand back, an apology rolling off his lips in a hurry.
"Dr. Hiddleston?"
They both turned to the young man standing there. He wore khaki pants and a blue shirt emblazoned with some taxi company logo.
Tom nodded and the man smiled.
"I am Santiago. Miss Delia made arrangements for you to be picked up and delivered to your hotel." His accent was as thick as the flight attendant’s, his Spanish transforming the quietest words, like Delia, into bursts like flowers.
Chris whistled. "She's good."
“Of course she is,” Tom said half-heartedly, trying to control the well of nausea bubbling in his stomach. He introduced himself to Santiago, adding Chris’s name as a sorry afterthought.
“Miss Delia described you to me. It’s how I found you.” The young man grinned, as if he’d solved a great mystery. Tom liked him immediately.
“Thank you, Santiago. I’m ready to go now.” Tom stood and felt Chris stand up with him.
Santiago’s brows puckered. “Miss Delia said it would only be you?”
“Oh,” Tom said. He glanced back at Chris, who hovered close by. He had that wide-eyed expectant look about him, slightly lost and unsure. It made Tom pause.
But Chris’s face immediately closed off, as if sensing Tom’s hesitation had more to do with his dislike of Chris than with anything else.
“I can find my way to a beach in the next day or two. Maybe I can crash at your hotel tonight and get out of your hair tomorrow.”
Tom nodded after a moment, too preoccupied with the heat and the fatigue of travel to think too much on it. They both followed Santiago through the main terminal, going down escalators and to the luggage claim. He and Chris loomed over nearly everyone, their blond heads catching quick gazes from those around them. Everything was an assault of colors and sounds and scents. Lights flashed from raised Teleprompters and store signs, music and announcements in Spanish squawked from overhead speakers, and the richest aromas permeated the air from the restaurants lining the entire expanse of the main terminal, Chris's mouth watering as they sped past. He couldn’t help but crane his neck to try and catch sight of everything, eventually jogging to keep up with Tom, who strode quickly through the crowd, wanting the solace and quiet of his hotel room. Bags in tow, they piled into the red taxi Santiago had parked at the curb, emergency lights flashing. A car honked behind him and he spat out a flurry of Spanish words, slapping their hood twice. The heat was making Tom dizzy again, so he handed Santiago his bags and slumped into the backseat, Chris following suit.
Santiago slammed the trunk and got behind the wheel, humming to himself.
“Welcome to Tenochtitlán,” he said, pulling into traffic, a Spanish song blasting its tinny melody from the radio.
Chris bent to whisper at Tom, “What’s that?”
Tom’s lashes fluttered, his great attempt to roll his eyes. “It’s what Mexico City was called when it was the capitol of the Aztec Empire, before Hernan Cortez conquered it. The old names for places are still widely used among the population and academic scholars.”
“Ah,” Chris said, and buckled himself in. “You don’t get car sick, do you?” He looked Tom up and down, curled up against his door, wet forehead pressed to the glass.
“No,” he gasped, wincing when the car hit a pothole. “I just get heat sick.”
Chris looked around their seat until he found the ice pack that had rolled away in all the commotion. He pressed it to Tom’s neck and Tom thanked him quietly, taking it in his hand.
As Santiago maneuvered through traffic with the kind of reckless dexterity that came from living on these streets, he babbled on about the city and all the great spots they would probably like to visit—a variety of historical and art museums, the floating gardens of Xochimilco, pronouncing it soh-chee-MIL-koh; the Bosque Chapultepec and Polanco, where Chris was intrigued to hear included zoo, an anthropology museum, and a castle.
“But don’t go at night, señores. You call me and I will take you, okay? Two big blond Americanos like yourselves, no, no.”
Chris opened his mouth to say something, probably that they weren’t technically American, when Tom pinched his arm. In the same Spanish, Tom asked how far the Catedral Metropolitana was from their hotel. Chris cut him a sharp glare when he changed languages, but Tom ignored him.
“Ten minutes, señor,” Santiago said, looking at him in the rearview mirror. “I take you. You need me, I take you.”
Tom blinked slowly, making a big effort to stay alert. Chris could hardly stand to see him suffer so.
“Just take it easy,” he whispered. “I’m right here. I’ll make sure things are okay.”
Tom glanced at him and seemed to consider his offer. And then he nodded with barely suppressed fatigue and relaxed back against the seat, head lolling with the motions of the car. Minutes passed, and then he moaned, startling awake, eyes glassy. Chris observed him, clearly unsure how to help.
Rubbing at the back of his neck, Tom said, “Just…just give me water. And stop looking at me like I’m going to break.”
“Well it sure looks like you’re going to break, if you don’t melt first,” Chris mumbled under his breath, bending to look in Tom’s bag. Tom was fumbling with his jacket, taking it off and folding it over his lap. His shirt was drenched already, and he accepted the bottled water with relief.
Their taxi snaked onto a road filled with bumper-to-bumper traffic and Tom leaned his head back on the seat again, closing his eyes in what probably looked like prayer. Chris watched him, watched the long line of his throat, the jutting Adam’s apple, the sweat beading on the pale skin there, and he remembered the taste of Tom when he’d bitten down just before coming hard all over him.
“Hey, mate,” he said to Santiago. “Can you raise the air a bit?”
Santiago turned one of the knobs on the dash and a blast of air rushed over them.
“How the fucking hell were you considering even doing this alone, Tom?” Chris muttered, taking the wad of napkins the flight attendant had given them and pressing them to Tom’s neck. Tom waved him away half-heartedly, but Chris smacked his hand lightly. “You come to a burning place like this and you have heat sensitivity?” He shook his head, eyes narrowed in disapproval.
“Look, I usually never come alone, alright? Delia has always been with me. She knows what to do.”
“Why come at all?” Chris insisted, scooting an inch closer. He patted Tom’s forehead. “You aren’t supposed to be in a place like this.” With your fairy skin and hair, looking more like some woodland sprite than a college professor.
“This is where my work is. The places I study and teach about just happen to be in the most humid, hot places imaginable.”
“That’s what the internet’s for.”
“It most certainly is not,” Tom bit out. “It’s not the same. It’s never the same compared to looking up at the crumbling frescoes of a five hundred year old nave and realizing your size in the world.”
Chris stayed quiet, wondering if Tom’s heat exhaustion was also frying his brain, or if he spoke like this all the time. He figured it was probably the latter, the damn brainiac. Tom eventually fell into a semi-doze, chest rising with shallow breaths. Chris kept the napkins pressed to his forehead, dabbing down gently to his temple and neck, realizing that if he had all his wits about him Tom would never let Chris touch him so freely, so much.
Watching the professor sweat and suffer against the dirty seat of the taxi, not even half aware of his surroundings and where they were in the city, Chris thought that maybe he wouldn’t get to see his beach after all. Imagining the professor traipsing through the city alone, laden with bags and ice packs and water bottles, dizzy and disoriented, made a ribbon of something hard like possession tighten through his ribcage. He’d felt something similar when Chase had approached Tom all those months ago in his office, poking his chest like some kind of entitled miscreant. The boy was good at lacrosse, but that didn’t mean he could touch and bully what Chris was beginning to admit felt like his to protect. He’d felt the same thing again when he’d sensed Tom’s thin body clench as he cried out his release.
Tom moaned, and Chris inched over a bit more. He looked feverish, cheeks spotted with color.
"How far away are we?" he asked, glancing at Santiago.
"Not far, señor. A few more kilometers."
When they arrived, Santiago pulled into the shaded arch of the front entrance and jumped out to grab their luggage. Chris tugged on Tom's arm until he roused enough to move on his own, albeit sluggishly. But what Chris had hoped would be an easy trip from taxi to room turned out to have a glitch when the manager approached them with the news that their cottage—Chris frowned because cottage?—wasn't ready.
Beside him, Tom took a deep breath and stood to his full height.
"I've just traveled from the eastern United States. I feel rather ill at the moment and I was told that my cottage would be ready upon arrival." His voice was clipped with disapproval, his enunciation tight and precise.
The manager, whose name was Miguel, nodded and opened his hands in a show of earnestness. "We do apologize, Dr. Hiddleston. A business conference of nearly fifteen participants has just left. We only have seven cottages on site. And our staff is working as fast as they can to make sure it's ready for your stay."
Tom opened his mouth again but Chris jumped in, grabbing his elbow to quiet him. "We sure appreciate it. We'll wait right over here," he said, gesturing to the darkened bar he’d glimpsed through an archway tiled with a patterned blue and white mosaic.
Santiago hovered behind them, their luggage at his feet. Tom had the good sense to reach into his pocket and pull out a few American bills, which he accepted with that wide toothy grin of his. Tom thanked him and went to sit at the bar, slumping into one of the high stools.
"Here is my number, señor,” Chris heard, and he turned, accepting the card the boy held out for him. "You call me when you or the doctor need to be taken anywhere."
"But we can walk to the church, yeah?" Chris asked, studying the strange number.
"Yes, but taxi is faster. Ten minute walk, or two minute drive. Even better idea after dark." He smiled again and shook Chris's hand before leaving.
Chris waited with Tom at the bar for a little over an hour, during which Tom drank two bottles of water and swayed on the fist he kept tucked under his chin. At one point he got to his feet, mumbling something about needing to piss. Chris stopped himself at the last second from offering to accompany him, thinking Tom would probably try to sock him in the face at the suggestion.
When the manager finally collected them, Chris remembered something Tom had read aloud to himself back in Newark.
“Will we be able to get a space cooler, like Delia requested?”
“Yes,” Miguel nodded. “It’s already in the bedroom in the cottage.”
Indeed it was, turned on to the highest setting. Chris tipped the boy who carried their luggage and then closed the door behind them. Tom was already in the bedroom, toeing out of his shoes, unbuttoning his shirt and shucking it off. He lay down on his stomach, torso bare, trousers still on. The space cooler was whirring quietly from the corner, but Chris thought that Tom was hardly aware of it, appearing asleep already. Chris leaned against the doorjamb and peered into the dark, cool room. His eyes froze at the sight of Tom’s back, along the length of which were mottled bruises, variously colored in purple and green. Chris bit his lip, wishing quite suddenly that he had never laughed at Tom that day on the lacrosse pitch; that he should have been gentler with him in his office.
As quietly as he could, Chris closed the door and made himself at home in the living room.
**
The cool was good, the cool was enclosing, and Tom stirred, cheek sliding along the fresh sheets. It was late in the day by the look of the light coming in through the lace curtains. He blinked and sat up on his elbows, groaning at the twinge in his back. He still ached. Either the fall was terrible or it was a simple testament to his age, but it hurt regardless. In more ways than one. Tom knew this would be a difficult trip, even with Delia, but he was beginning to realize just how taxing each day was going to be in this heat.
He recalled the taxi ride from the airport, the wall of heat, the immediate dizziness. He’d tried to remain coherent, he’d tried to keep track of where they were in the city, but a mist had clouded his brain, making it fizzle and pop like an egg cooking on pavement. Chris beside him was a startling comfort, taking blunted relief at the feel of him, knees bumping. Half-awake, Tom had felt when Chris scooted closer, pressing moist napkins to his face and neck, the soggy ice pack helping Tom just as much as Chris’s presence had. What would Tom have done alone? How would he have made it out of the plane, down the stairs to the tarmac and into the bustling airport, a stranger among strangers, vulnerable? He rubbed his face, not wanting to think about that.
There was a thump from somewhere in the cottage and he sat up, eyes blurry still. Slipping his shirt back on, he ambled down the hall barefoot and found Chris in the small kitchen, back turned to him, loading something into the small refrigerator.
Tom stood quietly and watched Chris bend and put something on the top shelf.
"What did you get?"
Chris straightened fast, catching his shoulder on the lip of the freezer. The fridge rattled loudly as he hissed in pain.
"Ow…” He rubbed his shoulder and closed the door with the toe of his boot. “Sorry—what?"
"What are you doing?"
"Oh, well. I was just hanging out while you slept, so I thought I'd go out and get some groceries."
Tom deadpanned. "Groceries. Weren't you going to be leaving soon?"
Chris shrugged and clapped his hands softly. "I just...Well, actually, being that the beach is so far, I was thinking of just staying on here."
Tom shook his head. "You should go. I have everything settled here. I'll be meeting with the priest this evening. It’s only five hours to the beach."
"I don't know. I'm not sure it's worth it at this point. And anyway, Mexico is Mexico. I'm excited to be here. Maybe I can help."
Tom was rummaging in the fridge—milk, orange juice, bread and eggs—when he paused. "Help?"
"Sure. I mean. Don't you usually have someone with you? Aren't you a little nervous being here alone?"
Tom chuckled and reached for the juice. "I've been in lots of places by myself. This is nothing new.”
“Oh, yeah? How are you feeling just now?”
Tom popped his head up and met Chris’s eyes. “Point taken. It’s not always this bad.”
“Only because we’re indoors, in the shade. And even like this, it’s hot in here. But what about when you step outside? Your reaction was immediate when we got off that plane. How will you be by yourself, carting your bag around, all your research stuff?”
Tom’s lips were pursed, eyes on the tiled floor as he listened to Chris. Still, he shook his head. “No.”
Chris walked to the front door and opened it. The heat crept through the air in the courtyard like a shimmering glow, pouring into the room, already filling the place. Tom narrowed his eyes.
“Go on. Go outside. Take a stroll through that jungle of green they have in the courtyard. The fountain is nice. Go sit by it.”
Tom shrugged and started toward the hall. “I rather don’t feel like it.”
“Or rather, you know better.” He closed the door. “Look, Tom. I know you’re not stupid. And you’re not helpless. Going out there is possible, but you react badly to the heat. I saw it with my own eyes. And there’s a damn heat wave right now, Tom. Even if your assistant were here with you, it’s a little dangerous, don’t you think? I can stick around. Help you out.”
Tom sniffed out a quick laugh, hands on his waist, shaking his head. “Just like that, right? All these years of the taunting and the jokes, just gone? Erased for the sake of a few days’ peace?”
“I’m really sorry about that,” Chris said softly, chest tightening with sincerity. He ran a hand through his hair.
Tom scoffed and turned away from him. “I don’t care. If you want to stay, then stay. You carry all the heavy stuff. And do keep up with me.” He vanished back into his room, and Chris sighed, unable to stop the smile from creeping over his lips.
**
The church was beautiful and ancient, all tall spires and hulking stone. It was a great monolithic testament to two cultures clashing, European and Native Amerindian alike. Chris found himself arching his neck back to take it all in, Tom beside him doing the same.
“It’s stunning, isn’t it?” Tom whispered, patting his forehead with a moist towel. The cloth hat he wore was already ringed with sweat at the crown of his head. “The largest cathedral in the Americas. Construction began in the late 1500’s, extending over two hundred years, ending finally in 1813. The Spanish architects took vision from churches in Spain, Neo-classic, Baroque, Renaissance. A conglomeration of styles befitting the age, not to mention additions over the years. The eclecticism is extraordinary, the melding of more than one school of thought.”
Cheeks spotted with bright color, his voice took on an awed quality, registering lower than usual, and Chris stayed quiet, liking when Tom spoke like that, liking to see him so flushed and wide-eyed. The bag Tom had handed him back at the hotel was hitched on his shoulder, full of tapes for Tom’s handheld recorder, batteries, two journals and some textbooks, sunscreen and napkins. In his other hand, he carried a small portable cooler full of ice packs and water bottles.
A surprisingly young priest dressed in all black came out to meet them.
“Doctor Hiddleston,” he said, smiling and displaying two missing back teeth. “I am Francisco Aurelio.” He shook both their hands, and ushered them into the interior of the church. “It is cooler in here than out, but not by much, I am afraid.”
Chris couldn’t help his mouth dropping open. The ceilings were higher than he had anticipated, great arches of smooth stone and an intricate puzzle design that spanned the entire length of the church, like the spinal cord of some grand beast. Tom removed his hat, letting it hang at his back from a twined string, gasping quietly, blinking fast at their surroundings. The priest gave them a moment, smiling with his hands crossed in front.
“This is…this is more than I could have imagined, more than the textbooks would have you believe,” Tom murmured, and Francisco nodded.
“There is nothing like seeing tributes to God with your own eyes.”
He gave them a tour, talking about portals and facades, naming chapel after chapel—Lady of Agonies, Immaculate Conception, Lady of Sorrows, Lady of Solitude—Chris’s head spinning at the surge of details. Sacristy, tabernacle, bell towers, they walked the expanse of the church, the nave and its walls decorated with murals and high reliefs of scenes from Christ’s life the priest said were done in the fashion of Flemish painter Peter Paul Rubens.
“Shall we go down to the crypts?” Francisco asked.
“No, thanks—,” Chris started just as Tom said, “Yes, please.”
Tom cut him a sharp glance and Chris closed his mouth.
“Lead the way, please,” Tom said.
Located behind the Altar of the Kings, the crypt door was wooden and huge. They followed a yellow staircase down into the floor beneath the main part of the church, the light faltering as they passed a large stone skull that made the hairs along Chris’s arms rise.
“This was dedicated to Zumárraga, the first Archbishop,” Tom whispered, his voice bouncing along the stone passage. “He was a beloved patron to the Indians, protecting them from the cruelties of some of the Spanish lords.”
Chris hurried past, wondering why anyone would dedicate a giant skull to someone they liked.
They eventually stepped into solid darkness, the air exponentially cooler down there, and Chris stuck as close to Tom as he would allow, hovering at his back. He swallowed and glanced around, trying to make out something, anything. But crypts were underground for a reason, and Chris was suddenly hyper aware of the tons and tons of stone and rock above them, the dead lying buried and silent somewhere in the room with them.
Francisco found a switch on the wall and the crypt was illuminated by modern light fixtures along the ceiling. Stone sarcophagi lay along the floor in five rows of five, the cold effigies of the occupants silent in the shocking light. An altar of porous rock was set into a small niche in the farthest wall, sconces at either side for candles. Chris shifted an inch closer to Tom, and Tom glanced at him, brow bunching. Chris swallowed and took another inch, nervous. Tom, in a startling show of comfort, touched his elbow softly.
He asked the priest a number of questions, both slipping into Spanish after a while, cutting Chris out of the conversation entirely.
“There are a number of archbishops entombed here,” the priest said, reverting back to English. “Along with other notable patrons and holy saints. Not to mention a little ghost said to be seen in these areas. I’ve never seen it personally, but it’s just a story people tell. You are a welcomed guest here, Doctor. You are welcome to explore the interior of the church, and the crypt. If you need access elsewhere, please let me know and I will arrange it.”
Tom thanked him and they trekked upstairs again, Chris going ahead of them. He spent the rest of the day following Tom as he walked the interior of the church, Tom speaking softly into this voice recorder, taking notes in a journal. Chris handed him water when he asked for it, wrapping an ice pack in a napkin so it wouldn’t chafe Tom’s skin, passing him napkins to blot at the sweat dripping down his fine aristocratic nose. They were skirting around the issue of what happened in Tom’s office, and Chris was fine with it. He’d had trouble concentrating over the last few days with just thinking about holding Tom as they both came, and he certainly didn’t want to embarrass himself here in this old church.
By mid-afternoon, Chris’s stomach was growling but he ignored it, watching as Tom worked hard to soak in and record every detail of the church.
“I need to go outside now,” Tom said, taking a rare break on a bench next to a cracked and peeling statue of some saint. His shirt was soaked and Chris thought that he wasn’t drinking nearly enough water to replenish what he’d lost. He sat down beside him and pressed an ice pack to the side of Tom’s neck. Tom stiffened and leaned away only slightly, taking the pack from him after a moment, murmuring his thanks.
“I think you should know that I might faint sometime this week. I usually don’t, but this heat is deplorable. Just something to keep in mind. Try not to be too alarmed.” Tom picked at the label on his water bottle, eyes low.
“What do I do if you faint?” Chris asked, turning a little in his seat. He was already panicking at the thought of having to call for an ambulance, the chaotic hospital, unable to understanding a word of what was being said to him.
“Just lie me down somewhere. Elevate my legs. Open my shirt a little. Press something cold to my neck and face. I’ll be alright. It’s happened before and I’m always fine.”
Chris relaxed, thinking he could handle that.
“I can’t believe this is your work, Tom,” he said softly, conscious of how voices bounced along the stone foundations. “Going to these places. Cataloguing them. It’s amazing.”
Tom smiled, sweat spotting his face like a mist, cheeks and neck flushed pink. “My work is teaching about these places. But my favorite part is when I get to visit them. Write about them. Being published is a perk. It helps with being taken seriously.”
“I’m not exactly sure who wouldn’t take you seriously, mate,” Chris chuckled. When Tom stayed quiet, thumbs smoothing over the ice pack, he said, “I’ll go outside with you. I’ll help you.”
Staring at him for a long moment, Tom finally blinked and whispered, “Okay.”
**
Hat on, Tom hesitated just inside the doorway. Bright sunlight flooded in around the edges of the solid doors, the heat radiating in despite the heavy wood.
“What do you say we break for some food first? We have all week, mate.” Chris offered, and Tom thought maybe he was right, that the sun might be too strong for him that time of day. But he had an agenda, and he couldn’t afford to stray from its strict outline.
“I have the rest of the week scheduled for different sections of the church. Today will be a rundown of the entire thing, and again the day before we leave.”
“Will the crypt be part of the schedule too?” Chris’s voice was light, but his body showed just how nervous he was about a return trip down the yellow stairs.
“Yes,” Tom turned, brows puckered delicately. “You didn’t like it down there, did you?”
Chris shrugged. “Not really, no.”
“They’re just dead people, Chris. Dust after all these years.”
“It’s creepy. Creepy crypt.”
Tom smiled slowly, and Chris stared at his parting lips, the line of straight white teeth, the desire to taste again, sudden and strong.
“Are you hungry?”
Chris blinked, face flooding with heat. “What?”
“We haven’t eaten all day. Are you hungry?”
His shoulders sagged in relief. “Yeah. Very.”
They left Tom’s equipment in the priest’s office, promising to return to collect it after they ate. The priest suggested a small restaurant two blocks south of the church, and they left the church through the back entrance, the building casting that part of the street in deep shadow. Without his ice packs, Tom started flagging again, wiping his forehead, mouth parted, lips cracked. He could sense Chris side-eyeing him, slowing his steps to match Tom’s pace. Tom didn’t feel like he was going to faint, but Chris sure seemed prepared to catch him if he so much as faltered. Instead of feeling smothered by Chris’s attention, Tom realized that he felt a strange sort of relief, trusting suddenly that he might be able to let his guard down in the new city, knowing Chris would be there.
Seated at a corner table, they nursed ice cold beers and squinted in the bright sunlight filtering in through the jungle plants lining the windows. It was slightly awkward, the air between them, both wondering at their curious situation. How had they come to be together like this, sitting at a scarred wooden table in a foreign country, fostering something like amicability? Not that Tom was the friendliest with him. He was sure Chris still caught him throwing suspicious glances his way, hesitating before speaking to him, all around on edge. It would take a very thick person to miss the signs, and Chris wasn’t stupid.
Chris, on the other hand, was trying not to stare at Tom for too long, or too often. But it was moments like these, when Tom was teetering on the brink of some physical limit, when the heat and the sun made him a sleepy, mumbling bundle of slow blinks and shallow breaths, that Chris could see how soft and gentle Tom could be if he let himself. And Chris suddenly hated how terrible he’d been to Tom all this time, allowing the rancor to fester so that neither probably knew what had led to such a rift between practical strangers. Chris believed he remembered what it was for him, the cottage and the sense of entitlement Tom assumed at the college, but he was ready to drop it, if only for the sake of being able to look at Tom as he was now, head leaning on a closed fist, eyes closed to the sun, dozing, and be able to reach across the table and touch his cheek, curl his fingers around that bony wrist, make sure he was okay, healthy, safe.
He blinked and looked down instead, fingers twitching on the table top, the sweat from his beer bottle pooling at its base.
**
The heat only got worse as evening descended. Tom never did walk the outside perimeter of the church, focusing instead on the tabernacle for the rest of the day. But rather than cool off as the day died, the heat worsened, gusts of hot air blowing across the streets doing nothing to relieve the stifling aridity, and Chris knew that if he was sticky and exhausted from the force of it, Tom was about ready to collapse. They wouldn’t make it back to the hotel on foot, so Chris used the phone in the priest’s office to call Santiago, who was waiting for them in the front by the time they packed everything away and thanked the priest.
Mirroring their drive to the hotel from the airport, Tom wilted against the seat, sweat dripping down his face. Chris handed him the last of their water and he drank it down greedily, throat working.
“How was the research?” Santiago said, smiling at them in the rear view mirror. Tom slumped back, head lolling, his moan so soft that Chris felt a pull deep in his chest at the sound, like a ribbon tugging over his ribs.
“It was great,” Chris answered. “Spent all day with our necks craned up at the ceiling.”
Santiago laughed and swerved to avoid a pot hole. Tom jostled, bumping shoulders with Chris. He didn’t move away, finding the solid block of Chris’s bulk soothing in all his haze, the taxi’s rocky movements making him grit his teeth to stay conscious.
Chris peered down at him, Tom’s eyes fluttering, lips moving in some kind of murmuring. Maybe he was asleep and didn’t know how close they were. Either way, Chris pressed a centimeter closer, heart swelling at the feel of Tom’s burning warmth through his clothes.
Head spinning, Tom moaned and rolled his head on the seat, trying to whisper Chris’s name, no strength in his words. Unable to formulate a reason, Tom decided Chris felt cool to the touch despite seeming so warm and full of the sun itself, and he let the movements of the car let him press closer to the man.
“The doctor does not do well in the heat,” Santiago remarked, and Chris glanced down at Tom.
“He doesn’t,” he agreed softly, holding a lukewarm ice pack to his neck, hoping it somehow helped. Tom didn’t even stir.
They arrived at the hotel a minute later, Chris laying their bags on the curb before turning to Tom in the car.
“I’m sorry,” Tom murmured, half conscious. He accepted Chris’s outstretched hand, palms sweating. “I’m not feeling very well.”
“It’s okay,” Chris said, taking his other arm and helping him stand.
Tom slid out of the car and threw a shaky arm over Chris’s shoulders, surprising him. But his skin was so red and his eyes drooped low, seemingly only partially aware of everything.
"And you wanted to try this alone," Chris said with a small laugh. Tom rolled his eyes half-heartedly.
"Shut up," he breathed with a small smile, hand flexing on Chris's shoulder.
Santiago jumped to help with the bags and followed them through the lobby and out the other side to the cobbled courtyard, the air full of moisture from the water fountain and giant-leafed plants. Supporting Tom around his waist, Chris walked carefully, watching Tom for any sign of worse fatigue. But even though the professor was trembling, he made it to the door and handed Chris the key. Once inside, Chris leaned Tom against the wall and indicated where Santiago should leave the bags. He tipped him and the boy left. Chris kicked the door closed and turned to Tom.
He was pale, eyes drooping, starting a slow side down the wall.
“Chris—,” he whispered, legs buckling.
But Chris was already jumping forward, catching him as he collapsed, landing like a rag doll in his arms. Head lolling, eyes rolled back, Tom looked for all the world like he was dead, and felt it too, his long limbed body limp and heavy, threatening to drag Chris to the floor as he shifted him around in his arms to better support him. Trying to breathe through the panic beginning to rise in his chest, Chris did as Tom instructed him. He gathered him in his arms and rushed to the bedroom, his heat seeping right into Chris, spiking his alarm.
“I’ve got you, it’s okay,” he whispered, laying Tom on the bed. He bent over him. “Tom. You’re alright, wake up.” But Tom was unresponsive, his close-cropped hair shining with perspiration, mouth slack. Chris took his face gently. “Please wake up. Tom.”
Hurrying now, he removed Tom’s shoes and then propped pillows under his feet. Unbuttoning his shirt half way down his chest, Chris opened the collar and blew air against his flushed skin. He brought the space cooler closer to the bed, and aimed it directly at Tom’s face. After collecting a wash cloth from the bathroom, he drenched it in cold water and returned to Tom’s side. Sitting by him, he dabbed at Tom’s face, patting the cloth along his neck and chest, whispering for him to revive, to be okay. After a few minutes, Tom’s eyes fluttered and he moaned. Chris’s heart jumped and he leaned forward, hand braced on the other side of Tom’s waist, waiting.
Tom felt called back to the living as if through a very narrow tunnel. He was aware only of his own breaths and a whirring somewhere in the room, a vibrating disturbance in the air. And then warmth above him, hovering, fingers caressing his face. Tom’s brows puckered, seeking more of that touch, the need for it like a balloon swelling in his chest. His eyes slit open, and Chris’s face was there, peering down at him. He was reminded of a dream, but his dream didn’t have heat like this.
“Hey,” he whispered when Tom blinked around the room, eyes still unfocused. Tom’s arm flopped forward, hand circling Chris’s wrist absentmindedly.
“What happened?” he rasped. “Did I…?”
“Yeah,” Chris said, smiling. “But I saved you. It’s no biggie.”
Tom’s smile was wisp thin, but Chris saw it, and he loved it. “Shut up,” he mumbled, head rolling to the side, eyes closing again. His fingers fluttered at his wrist, and Chris held still, not wanting him to move away.
The temperature was better inside Tom’s room, but only slightly. The space cooler was on and whirring in half circles, but it did almost nothing against the suffocating heat.
“It’s like it’s…worse,” Tom slurred, and Chris wondered if he was coherent.
“Yeah,” he said. “Shouldn’t deserts get cooler at night?”
“Yes. But…you know…heat wave. And it’s really not supposed to be this humid. The city was built over a dry lake and…whatever, it’s not important. Nature does what she wants.”
Chris studied him, listened to the shallow rasps of breaths, skin buzzing with the intimate familiarity he and Tom were falling into. Maybe Tom wasn’t aware he was holding Chris’s wrist, or that Chris was half leaning over him, but Chris liked it all the same.
Before Tom fell back asleep, Chris rushed to the bathroom and started up a cold shower. It ran tepid, but it would have to do.Tom was at the door when he turned, and Chris startled, still spooked by that damn crypt and the sightless stares of statues in their shaded corners. And Tom looked spectral himself, gaunt, shirt hanging open. He walked in and started unbuttoning the rest of it, hazy eyes on the pouring water. Having Chris in such close proximity continued to remind Tom of what happened in his office only a few short days ago, unable to prevent images of Chris and that big body fucking against him. His throat dried and he took another step toward the shower, deciding the thirst for cool water needed to be stronger than the other thirst he’d only recently allowed himself to feel.
Chris hung back, unsure if he should stay, not wanting Tom to pass out again and break his head open. But Tom said nothing and Chris didn’t want to invade his private space, so he slowly backed out of the room, hesitating before closing the door, Tom’s shirt falling over one pale freckled shoulder, a large purple bruise spreading mottled just beneath. And right at the edge of his collarbone was a bite mark, tooth marks strung together in a ragged red circle, a match to Chris’s own.
**
The water wasn’t as cold as he wished it would be, but it would do. Tom cleaned himself slowly, rubbing the back of his neck with the small bar of soap, letting the showerhead bathe his curls, water dripping over his face. And then his hands slid lower, along his belly, bubbly white suds making his skin slicker, over-sensitized and buzzing. Chris was somewhere out there, and just the thought made Tom moan quietly, fingers clenching on his own hips. He remembered. He remembered how hard Chris had held him, how small Tom had felt in his arms, how protected despite the raging emotions sparking between them.
Tom let his head hang back, the spray landing on his throat, sharp spikes that reminded him of teeth biting down, and he bit his own lip, cock twitching to life. It filled quickly, muscles jumping in anticipation. He was exhausted, and he was half-awake, but he circled his cock with a trembling hand, Chris’s name a soundless whisper in the foggy bathroom. He tugged and rocked his hips, his other hand gripping the tiled wall, fingers clawed. Oh, but he hadn’t done this in a long while, masturbated to someone real, someone who was just outside the bathroom walls.
He clamped his jaw shut to prevent any telling moans, to stop the burst of someone’s name from between his lips. Instead, he fucked into his own fist, balls drawing up, heavy with the need to release. Dizzy, he eased back into the corner of the stall, ceiling lights shifting and blurring in the drops of water that bounced over his vision. He blinked, but they still swam before him, and he tugged on himself harder for it, eyes hooded, lashes brimming with droplets of water.
When he came, he clapped a hand over his mouth, leg muscles spasming, his orgasm rolling from groin to heart in half a second. Another wave hit him and he felt it in his veins, mapped outward into his fingers and toes, lightning winking into his brain, stoppering all thought.
He stood gasping, wringing his cock until he felt emptied of everything, letting it fall limp between his legs. Head back, he caught his breath, rolling his face and pressing it to the wall, on the other side of which sat Chris, waiting his turn for the shower.
**
Tom was in the shower a long time. Chris resigned himself to pacing out in the hall, ears straining for the telltale thud of a body falling. He even wondered if Tom had fallen asleep, half braced in the corner of the stall, the water gushing over him. But the water was eventually turned off and Chris hurried to the sofa, not wanting Tom to think he’d been eavesdropping for any reason other than that he was worried for his safety.
Tom came out of the bathroom and slipped into his room, quiet as a ghost.
Chris took his turn in the shower, scrubbing off the sweat of the day, scratching shampoo into his scalp, scouring the dust from the crypt from his skin. He felt a hundred times better once in clean shorts and a loose T-shirt. Tom hadn’t come back out of his room, so Chris figured he’d gone to sleep. Pulling out the sofa bed, Chris took his shirt off and rolled into it, the springs creaking loudly. It was still early, a little after nine o’clock, but he closed his eyes almost immediately. He didn’t know how long he slept, but he woke sometime in the night, thinking he’d heard a cry. Somewhere in the street, there was a pounding bass from a car stereo, so he turned over, looking for a cool spot and fell asleep again.
He woke to weak sunlight in his eyes, and he dragged his pillow over his head to snuff it out. His first thought was of Tom, the second of the painful hard-on in his shorts. Chris could remember the last person he’d slept with, going on nearly three years ago. It was just after being hired on at Brown, his anger at Tom and his ruthless meddling still fresh on his mind. He’d crossed paths with a woman who had presented a seminar for the College of Medicine. She was a tiny thing, head barely brushing his chest, but she’d locked eyes with him on the grounds on the way to her car and the next thing he knew they were falling into his apartment, hands tearing at each other’s clothing, his fist full of her black hair. They’d fucked on his bed, and on the floor, and she’d blown him in the kitchen just before leaving. He never got her name, and he never saw her again.
Something about that whole encounter put him on edge and he hadn’t slept with anyone since, even if he’d stared after a few women at the market, a few men on the street. And jacked off more times than he cared to count. But then their sort-of-fucking happened and Chris was unsure where he stood with Tom, what it meant to their tenuous and strained relation, what it meant at all. The more he and Tom had enforced this quasi-hatred of each other, the more Chris wondered at his chosen abstinence, at the moments he caught himself staring after the professor, at the nice curve of his backside. He was all legs, and Chris had the sudden and desperate urge to run his hand over a calf, part his knees slowly.
His cock gave a painful throb and he smothered a groan, wondering if Tom was awake, if he would hear him giving himself a yank in the bathroom. Deciding to take a risk, Chris rose and walked stiffly to the bathroom. All was quiet. Wetting his hand under the tap, Chris pulled down his shorts and fisted himself, hips jutting forward at the contact. He was quick about it, unable to help memories from pouring into his mind of Tom in his arms, of his nails digging into Chris’s back, of those slim hips trying to meet him thrust for thrust, but as he was nearing his finish, teeth clenched to stifle any sounds, he heard a moan from Tom’s room. He froze, eyes on the wall, ears straining. And then there it was again, louder.
“Fuck,” he whispered, putting his free hand on the wall, fingers flexing on the pebbled paint. Just imagining Tom in his room doing exactly what Chris was doing in the bathroom, heated his blood. He wet his hand under the trickle of water in the sink and started pumping his hand harder, fist tighter than before. He smoothed his thumb over the slick head and caught the echo of another cry just as he came into the sink, head thrown back, biting his lip to stay quiet, toes curling on the tile. He wrung it out, tremors quaking through him, fingers squeezing up his shaft as he finally felt his orgasm wane, breathless, hair hanging in his face.
Hitching up his shorts, he leaned forward on the sink and washed his hands sloppily, the water surprisingly cold. Before he could dry them, he heard another noise, like a frightened sob and he went still.
Tom’s voice, small and gasping, “No!”
Chris burst into motion, hurrying into the hall. He pushed through the bedroom door, expecting to see an intruder, but it was only Tom on the bed, sheets tangled around his waist, bare-chested and obviously still asleep. He struggled, fists clenching on his pillow, face pressed to the mattress, groaning in protest.
“Hey,” Chris whispered gently, walking around the bed to kneel beside him.
Tom was sweating, curls damp on his scalp, the sheets moist with it.
“No,” he moaned again, lashes fluttering. Without thinking, Chris cupped Tom’s cheek with his dripping hand, still cold from the water, and Tom stiffened, breath caught in his chest. And then all tension left his body and he relaxed against the mattress, sighing out a moan so sensual Chris’s cock twitching in threatening interest.
He whispered Tom’s name, hoping to rouse him from whatever awful dream he was stuck in. But Tom stayed still, breaths puffing out quietly, long fingers shifting to circle Chris’s wrist. He liked to do that, Chris thought, hold him at his most vulnerable. Scooting closer, Chris smoothed back Tom’s forehead with his other hand, leaving wet streaks over his hot skin. His curls were soft to the touch and Chris slid his fingers into them, petting him softly.
He stayed there for a few long minutes, his hands drying on their own, losing their cool touch. Before Tom could stir and find him kneeling there, Chris took his hands back, regretfully, Tom's brows scrunching in his sleep, fingers bending limp around empty air.
In the kitchen, Chris cooked up some eggs and toasted bread, serving juice into two small Styrofoam cups. Tom padded in after a while, eyes slightly swollen.
"Coffee," he croaked, looking around the tiny kitchen.
"Oh," Chris though, mentally kicking himself. "I forgot, mate. I don't drink any, so I didn't seek any out."
"You don't drink coffee?" Tom's incredulousness was obvious.
"Nope. I get by on the energy my body creates on its own."
"For heaven's sake," Tom muttered, sitting down at the table and scarfing down the eggs Chris made.
"But there's juice!" Chris said, hoping to change his mood. Whatever Tom had dreamed had plagued him for most of the night, it seemed.
Tom drank down both cups, and ate Chris's toast too, sitting quietly at the table with him.
Tom eyed Chris’s hands, thick veins cording into the meat of his forearms. Chewing the bread, he fell into a memory of the day before, when Chris’s hands had helped pull him from the backseat of the sweltering taxi, pull him from the core of unconsciousness, reviving him as surely as a cool drink of water.
“Sleep okay?” Chris ventured cautiously, taking back the half eaten crust of bread Tom had stolen off his plate.
Tom’s eyes shot to his. “What? Why?”
He shrugged, realizing his error. He kept his voice casual. “Just wondering. There was loud music on the street. And it was still hot most of the night.”
Tom dropped his eyes after a moment. “I slept fine.” He rose from the table and went into his room to change. Chris sighed and picked up their plates.
Like the day before, Chris followed Tom around the cathedral, toting bags and the tiny cooler as Tom continued with his work. Over the week, he took digital pictures of nearly every inch of the church, both inside and out, Chris often tugging him under the shade of a giant tree whose great roots grew so far out from its base they cracked through the pavement, catching the toe of Chris’s tennis shoes more than once. Every day Chris dreaded the possibility of going down to the crypt, but Tom seemed aware of his heightened discomfort and put it off for the next day, and the next.
But when not focused into the narrow lens of his camera, Tom studied Chris when the other wasn’t looking. Chris was a giant. Only a couple inches taller than Tom, Chris bore more weight, held it easier on his body than Tom thought he could with his own. He had a swagger to his walk, his long torso allowing his lean hips to sway in a way that was fantastically masculine, bespoken of an easy and quiet confidence, a raw power in his bones that made Tom dart his gaze away when Chris glanced back at him.
Tom’s energy would start to wane in the afternoon, when the heat of the day was at its worst, baking the air through the cathedral’s high windows, creeping in under the tall wooden doors. In what was probably a pathetic show of chivalry, Chris would stand next to Tom and catch the brunt of the sunlight on his own body. Tom would work on steadily, but showed his thanks in small gestures, a squeeze of his elbow, the first sip of their water, and rarely but no less lovely, a smile. Chris loved those the most.
But when the heat rose to its worst, Tom visibly wilted before him, cheeks and neck blooming with color, sweat spotting the bridge of his nose and upper lip. But his eyes were wide on the art before him, lips moving quickly as he whispered to himself, so much like the soft prayers of the faithful scattered throughout the pews. Chris would watch these people, usually older and slow in their shuffling, and then flick his gaze to Tom, who paid his own type of worship to the history of the place, the story behind why it was built, what was left for those who would still visit the cathedral hundreds of years later.
Chris began to anticipate when Tom would need something, sometimes only the barest flick of his wrist would send Chris hurrying to the cooler for a water bottle, or a quick swipe at his forehead would prompt Chris to grab an ice pack, pressing it to the back of Tom’s neck. He loved how the professor would pause in his work, pencil slowing to a halt, his eyes falling shut as Chris dabbed the ice pack to his fevered skin, arching his throat just the tiniest bit, like a cat enjoying the pleasure of a back rub. And then he would look at Chris out of the corner of his eye and whisper, “Thank you.” Chris could never shake how erotic those two words were in a setting so religious and sacred to many people, something loaded in the gazes they threw each other, lips quiet to words they might say.
And then the glaze would come back over Tom’s eyes and he would sway slightly, Chris rushing forward to lead him to a pew, where he would finish his notes and they would call it a day.
Santiago would always be waiting for them when they left the church, his bright red taxi parked illegally in the front. Tom was more pliant at his most disoriented, letting Chris guide him into the back seat, shoulders and thighs touching, the closest they’d ever been since that day.
And when Tom’s reclined head rolled to the side to rest on Chris’s shoulder, neither did a thing about it, Chris always under the impression that Tom was too unconscious to notice. Chris wondered how Delia would have handled the professor in such a state, and surmised that she was probably stronger than he originally thought, and obviously a favorite of Tom’s, thinking he would greatly like to meet her once back in Providence. In any case, the heat wave seemed to have made Tom’s visit more difficult than either he or Delia could have anticipated. It wouldn’t abate, making the professor worse for it. He was so pale when not beet red, bruises under his eyes, voice so soft in the evening, sapped of all energy.
He fainted only twice more. Once in the taxi, Chris unable to rouse him after they’d arrived back at the hotel, squatting outside the car, speaking quietly to Tom, disoriented and weak. And another time before bed, when Tom buckled in the hallway, his body hitting the floor hard before Chris could reach him. That was scariest for Chris, who cradled him against his chest, searching for a more serious injury, probing his scalp and face for bruises or knots. And Tom would let him, coming out of the spell with flickers of light behind his eyes, his skin the first to recognize the touches as belonging to Chris, lying still and quiet so as to better remember the feeling of being taken care of.
Most often, they would eat quietly every evening, and then Chris would prepare his shower like always, Tom touching his arm gratefully on the way in. They communicated often with only small touches and looks, and Chris was starting to feel all the more special for it, thinking that only the best of romances had so simple a start to their foundations. But Chris still questioned if it was even the start of a romance. Part of him was sure that once back in the crisp air of Providence and away from the stifling heat of Mexico, that Tom’s cold demeanor and clipped tone might return, and he was afraid it would stay for good. It was more than obvious that Tom needed him here, but would he need him back in Providence? The uncertainty of that answer made Chris’s chest ache like it hadn’t in ages.
After washing up, they separated to sleep, both collapsing into bed with exhausted huffs. It wasn’t until the fourth day that Chris heard Tom cry out in his sleep again. He jumped to his feet, wearing only boxers and a loose tank, tripping in the hall in his haste to reach him.
Whimpering on the bed was Tom, hands fisting the sheets, legs tangled with the blanket half thrown on the floor. He sobbed brokenly again and Chris sprang forward.
“Okay, okay,” he said soothingly, dropping to a knee by the bed. Cupping Tom’s face, he bent close, trying to see him in the dark. Tom jerked and cried out. “It’s okay! I won’t hurt you. I won’t.”
Tom writhed on his back, fingers closing around Chris’s wrist, mumbling.
He edged closer, Tom’s distress making him feel helpless.
“I’m here. I’m right here, Tom. You’re alright. I won’t let anything hurt you.”
Tom’s eyes scrunched and he moaned softly, back arching. Chris looked around the dark room and heard the whirring spin of the space cooler. It was chugging away, barely doing anything against the heat. Chris dragged it as close as its cord would allow and then sat at the edge of the bed, Tom’s head by his hip. He stroked Tom’s cheek with the pad of his thumb, letting his fingers curve down to cradle his jaw. Tom nosed along his thigh and sighed, half turning to hug his leg.
Chris smiled and leaned back against the headboard, hand palming Tom’s head. An eternity later, or maybe minutes, he gasped awake when he felt a hand on his cheek. The room was black as pitch, the incessant whir of the space cooler somewhere to the left. But there was a face just directly in front of him and he held his breath, the rational part of his mind telling him it was Tom, the irrational part reminding him of giant skulls in dark crypts.
“Chris?”
The whisper was small and quietly afraid, nothing like the cool and often firm, commanding voice the professor usually used. Chris exhaled shakily, hands already lifting.
“Yes,” he whispered and Tom sighed, like that was exactly what he had been waiting to hear. Without a word, Tom tugged him lower on the bed and lay right beside him, on their sides facing each other.
“I’m sorry I woke you,” Tom whispered, fingers inching between to curl in Chris’s cotton top.
“I was worried,” Chris admitted, closing his hand over Tom’s. The dark seemed to be kindling their courage, perhaps letting their fledgling feelings for each other rise up with their mounting attraction, eclipsing for the first time the ire that had always lived between them.
“I can tell you do,” Tom said. “You worry about me. At the church. Being by myself. The heat. How weak I get.”
“You’re not weak, Tom.” Chris shifted closer.
“I am a little bit,” Tom said softly, fingers clenching in his shirt.
“Stop,” Chris insisted, feet brushing Tom’s. “You’re not weak. You told me last week out by the lacrosse field.” Tom’s breath hitched, the tiniest sniffle, no doubt remembering it all. “You’re not weak. You’re just hurt. And you have every right to be.”
“You know nothing about my right to anger, or hurt,” Tom said, words sounding hollow, resigned.
But I do, Chris wanted to say. The letter said it all. But he didn’t think now was the best time to mention Gael’s letter. Not now when Tom was so open with him, touching him willingly, letting him stay.
“This…this isn’t some other kind of…of prank, is it?” Tom asked, and Chris’s heart clenched. “Because if it is, well, I’m not entirely sure I could bear it.”
“Sweetheart,” Chris breathed and finally closed the distance between them, gathering Tom in his arms despite the tremendous heat. Tom grasped him close, face pressed to the soft cotton of his shirt, arms crossed at each other’s waists.
“I won’t hurt you again,” Chris promised. “I would shoot myself in the foot if I didn’t know we still have three days here, carting around all your equipment like some kind of groupie. Or bodyguard.”
Tom laughed, a hot breathy gust of air on his chest, and Chris felt his skin tighten in happiness, finally hearing Tom laugh genuinely and without sarcasm.
“We do have rock stars in the art history field,” Tom said. “But I’m not one of them.”
Chris drew back and smoothed back his hair, the curls stubborn and bouncing back into place.
“You don’t need to be. I like you just as you are.”
Long fingers glided over his cheek, palming it. “I kind of like you too.” He squirmed a bit. “But it’s so hot.”
Chris laughed and let him go and they flopped onto their backs, palms pressed loosely, the sensation so new, like a thrill over their limbs.
“Will you be able to sleep?” Chris asked.
And Tom squeezed his fingers, the rough callouses of his palm sliding over the soft skin of his own. “Yeah. I think I will.”
**
They woke hours later with their fingers still laced. Chris blinked his eyes open and found Tom already awake and watching him, the sunlight casting his eyes in a mosaic of green and blue. Tom smiled and rose up on his elbows, dipping his head to plant a kiss on Chris’s nose. Chris froze, still not entirely believing that so much had changed between them in only a handful of days.
“Morning,” Tom whispered, and Chris tilted his head up and pressed their lips together. Tom smiled and kissed him back.
They drew away, and laughed softly, a blush rising high on Tom’s cheeks.
“I think I’ve wanted to do that for a while,” Chris said.
“Oh, you mean between the jokes? When I’m not bleeding and covered head to toe in filth?”
Chris groaned and covered his face with both hands. “I deserve it. I deserve it all.”
Tom tugged at his wrists. “You do,” he said quietly. “But I’m not faultless either. And I’m willing to put it behind us, if you are.”
“I am,” Chris said fast.
Tom smiled, and it lit his entire face, cheeks dimpling, eyes crinkling sweetly. Chris was captivated by it. “But it may take me some time to…get used to this.”
“Same. But now I can do this,” Chris said, giving Tom a loud kiss on the cheek. “And not fear you punching me in the face.”
Tom threw his head back, clutching his stomach as he laughed. “I would never!”
“I don’t know. There were some times you looked at me with murder in your eyes.”
“You have the murder eyes. Not me. Don't think I haven't noticed the threatening looks you give any man who looks at or gets too close to me.”
"I do not," Chris scoffed, even though he knew very well he did. He thought he'd been more careful with his glares of warning.
"You even did it with Padre Aurelio!"
He poked Chris in the chest and Chris snatched his wrist, pulling against his chest for another kiss.
"A man is a man, and he's never infallible," he whispered. "Especially with something as tempting as you."
Tom moaned, wrapping his arms around his shoulders, dragging him down against the mattress. They laughed and rolled together, their kisses soft and curious, becoming deeper, tongue brushing, Chris crowding Tom onto the mattress. They finally parted, breathless, skin alight with static and specks of sunshine.
It was too hot for much else, both regretfully disentangling themselves to get dressed. Still, it made Chris feel lightheaded that now he could reach for Tom if he wanted, could hold him and kiss gently, could whisper with him quietly about all manner of things, and know that their privacy was their own and on one else’s.
They ate a light breakfast, casting side glances at each other and smiling. After slathering on sunscreen and donning his hat, Tom announced he was ready. The taxi ride felt decidedly less tense than the previous days, Tom chatting with Santiago in Spanish, brushing his knuckles on Chris’s leg almost absentmindedly.
But he was all business back in the church, finishing his notes on each section, going outside only once to double check a detail on the west façade, hurrying back in after only a few moments in the sun. He worked through lunch, both knowing the late afternoons were when the heat was at its worst and Tom was the least focused. Chris was ready with ice packs and water, rotating them out of the small refrigerator every night to take with them the next day.
More taxi rides to and from the hotel, Tom a mumbling, feverish pile of limp limbs beside Chris, who was still careful about how he touched Tom in public, having become aware of the conservative atmosphere in the city. But it seemed the heat wave had caused a great disturbance everywhere. People kept indoors, hardly a soul on the streets, hurrying from one building to another. Sometimes they had the entire cathedral to themselves, the priest in his office, the oiled wooden pews gleaming and empty, and he would take his chance and cup the back of his neck for a quick kiss before the altar.
Back at the hotel, they would shower and have a late dinner, often bringing food to their cottage, both too exhausted to sit in a restaurant. And when they were finally dressed in their cool cotton shorts and shirts, they would lie in bed together, talking, a foot of space between them, still too hot to lie as closely as they wanted. But the touches that had started slow and hesitant became prevalent and lingering, both sometimes too shy to go beyond hand holding and chaste kisses when before Christmas there had been little affection between them. It was so new, this allowance of burgeoning feeling, that to sit and stare at each other was often enough.
Chris talked about his childhood in Melbourne, of how he’d grown up on the beach practically, hair bleached blond, sand stuck on his skin until his late teens. Tom tittered and rasped his thumb across the stubble growing along Chris’s jaw, telling of his years of boarding school in England, of Cambridge and strict education he’d received there, his days laden with rain and moist woolen mittens and drab, dusty libraries that echoed with soft whispers of bored and often harried students.
“I had been teaching at Brown for two years before I went to Spain on sabbatical,” Tom said quietly, and Chris waited with bated breath, wondering if Tom would share what happened in Spain between him and Gael. But Tom shrugged lightly after a moment. “Met some nice people there. It’s a wonderful culture. I came back to Brown with a few articles under my belt, all ready to be published. It helped boost my status there.”
Chris was slightly disappointed that Tom hadn’t shared what he had already surmised from Gael’s letter, but they were only starting in this détente, still hesitant and cautious, and perhaps he didn’t feel as comfortable revealing that part of his life yet.
“Why did we start hating each other?” Tom asked softly, picking at a loose thread on the pillowcase. “Even though, I feel I was on the defensive with you almost immediately. You looked at me like you hated me. When I wasn’t the one boosting athletics over academics, getting your way all the time. Having a close parking spot.”
Chris sighed and leaned his head on his bent arm. He decided to let what Tom said go. “Honestly, I thought you were a meddling little know-it-all, using your influence and position at the college to get your way.” He didn't mention the cottage specifically, feeling like it sounded petty, even in his mind.
Tom’s eyes were wide, hurt and shock pulling at the corners of his mouth. “Wh-what? Why would you think that?”
Sliding closer, Chris pulled Tom against him, wrapping his close when Tom struggled faintly, fighting him as if on instinct.
“I don’t think that anymore, Tom,” he whispered against his cheek. Tom’s eyes were downcast, refusing to meet Chris’s gaze. “I don’t. I didn’t take the time to know you, to really see you. I was stupid and blind and I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Tom.” He embraced him, feeling the resistance leave Tom’s body, sighing in relief when Tom hugged him back.
“I’m sorry, too, Chris.”
They held each other in the dark, and the warmth of their bodies seemed entirely preferable and more bearable than the heat that choked the flowers in the courtyard, rotting limp in the soil.
**
The last day before their flight home finally arrived, and they made sure to have the majority of their things packed before leaving for the cathedral.
“Crypt today,” Tom said in the taxi.
“I know,” Chris said, enjoying the few minutes of air conditioning before having to leave the car.
“You don’t have to be afraid of it.” Fingertips brushed his knuckles.
He covered Tom's fingers on the seat between them. “I’m not afraid. It just creeps me out.”
When they finally stood at the top of the yellow steps behind the Altar of Kings, Tom took Chris’s hand. “Come on, mi rey. Hold on to me,” he whispered, and started down the stairs. The air turned cooler, and for that they were both grateful. Chris wanted to ask what Tom had called him in Spanish, but the darkness became heavier, thicker, and as they neared the giant stone skull, Chris squeezed Tom’s hand and hurried past, all other thoughts forgotten. Tom flicked on the lights and the room stuttered into view, the stone sarcophagi lined in silent scrutiny.
Chris tailed Tom’s every move, throwing more than one glance over his shoulder where he could have sworn he’d seen something move in the shadows. But Tom was beyond such superstitions, asking his help to take measurements of the sarcophagi and the altar of the stone chapel set into its niche. He photographed everything, even catching Chris by surprise when he snapped a picture of him, leaning up against the wall, the cold niche yawning open behind him.
“What’d you do that for?” Chris asked, blinking away the spots in his eyes.
Tom smiled and shrugged innocently. “Just because.”
When Tom was done in the crypt, Chris more than willingly led the way up the stairs and into the main part of the cathedral.
“I think I’m actually done,” Tom said, stuffing his journal into a bag. His voice was gravelly, a clear indicator to Chris that he was nearing his limit.
“Great, I’m beat too,” Chris said feigning a big stretch. Tom pinched his arm playfully, knowing Chris had done nothing but stand around for hours, shadowing him.
Tom spent a few minutes with the priest in his office, thanking him and promising to send him a copy of the article once it was published.
The heat wave was in full force still, boiling along the pavement, vibrating through the air, leaving no relief, not even in the shade. Flowers and plants withered, treetops drooped, birds stumbled around lazily on the ground, flags and courtyard awnings hanging limp in the heavy air.
“They think by next week it should go away,” Santiago said, guiding the taxi on nearly empty streets. “I’ve never seen the city like this. Emergency room visits are high this week. Heat stroke. Dehydration. Madness.”
Beside Chris, Tom moaned, dozing against his shoulder, brows puckered, sweat dotting his skin. Chris held an ice pack to his neck, his own personal flower wilting in this godforsaken gust from hell. He couldn’t wait to get Tom home to Rhode Island with him, stand in a cold shower with him, fall into bed with him to show the depth of all that Chris was starting to feel.
He wiped the sweat from his own face, cradling Tom’s head when they hit a pot hole and Tom flinched, burrowing his face harder into Chris's shoulder.
"I'm sorry," Santiago said softly, eyeing Tom’s still form in the rear view mirror.
When they arrived at the hotel, Chris made a beeline for the bathroom, Tom in tow. But Tom was so listless Chris was afraid he would fall if left on his own.
“Come with me then,” Chris said, leaning Tom against the counter. He pulled off his own shirt and started unbuttoning Tom’s. His pale chest was sprinkled with soft brown hairs, and Chris let his fingers trace between his pecs, feeling him.
“What—where are...Mi rey, what's going on?” Tom mumbled, eyes closed.
There it was again, that phrase. But Chris was determined to get them cooled off and clean and safely in bed. "We are going to shower.”
Tom’s eyes fluttered open in slight alarm. “Together?”
“Yep. What?” Chris asked, unbuttoning his jeans and pushing them down his legs. Tom’s eyes followed the movement, and he swallowed audibly. “You don’t want to shower with me?”
“Well…uh, well—.”
“You’re half asleep on your feet, babe,” he said, bending and kissing the corner of Tom’s mouth. “I don’t want to let you go, in case you hurt yourself. Okay?”
Tom nodded. “Yeah.” And then, “You being bossy isn’t going to change in this relationship, is it?”
Chris chuckled. “Nope. Maybe if you’re good.”
Tom hesitated a moment before pushing his boxers down, and Chris’s breath caught seeing him fully for the first time. He was thin with long lean muscles, a trail of hair leading down from navel to groin. And his cock was a lovely sight, big just like he remembered it, cut, not as thick as it was long. It rested on his heavy sac, furred with dark blond curls.
Tom fidgeted, hands wringing slightly. “You’re making me nervous,” he admitted quietly.
“You nervous? I don’t believe it,” Chris whispered, pulling him into his arms and kissing him gently. “You’re beautiful. I’m sorry I haven’t told you that before. I should have told you every day that we’ve known each other.”
“Chris,” Tom murmured, blushing hotly. Chris removed his own boxers, proud of what he had to display. Balls full and hanging, his cock was thick and cut, the bulbous head swollen and broad. Tom’s eyes widened and as if in slow motion, reached with his hand until he was cupping Chris, who groaned at the feel of his thin fingers, hot and moist.
“Come on,” he rasped after a moment, taking Tom’s elbow and guiding him to the stall. The water was cool on their skin, relieving their misery from the heat. Chris eyed the bite mark he’d left on Tom’s shoulder, faded but still visible, the other bruises along Tom’s back standing out starkly in the blinding white of the shower stall. He trailed a hand down the length of his spine, wanting him healthy and whole and safe. Tom lifted his face to the spray, lips parting in pleasure with a small moan. Chris was having trouble controlling his mounting arousal, watching Tom wash himself, soap suds falling off his limbs like a veil of lace. It was a relief then to see Tom was half hard too, turning to Chris, fatigue still weighing on his face. His lashes were soaked, bowed in thick spikes, a droplet of water dangling from one edge.
He stepped into Chris’s arms, hands sliding around his waist, and Chris dipped his head down to kiss him slowly. Cupping his jaw, he massaged Tom’s neck, feeling the tension slowly leave his body, taking his weight when Tom sagged against him. Pivoting carefully, Chris pressed Tom to the corner of the stall, both groaning when their cocks brushed.
“Chris,” he gasped, hips jutting forward.
“I know, baby,” Chris rasped, hands on Tom’s waist, rolling his pelvis forward. Tom’s eyes fluttered, lips parting, and Chris bent to suck at his neck, gentler, much gentler. Water still running cold at his back, it did nothing to quell the heat springing up between their bodies, their gasps echoing in the small bathroom.
They rutted hard against each other, desperate, erections fat and swollen. Only unlike the last time they had sought release together, they were more aware of the other’s comfort, conscientious of shared pleasure rather than selfish and violent rutting.
Chris reached down and circled his fingers against both their cocks, thrusting against Tom, catching his lips and nipping lightly. Tom grasped at his back, blunt nails scratching identical lines from his shoulders to the meat of his waist. Chris groaned and hitched one of Tom's legs over the crook of his elbow, rocking against him, his need to orgasm mounting with every snap of his hips.
"Don't stop," Tom breathed, gripping him around the neck. "Please—just....Chris—."
"Tell me, baby," Chris whispered. "Go on."
"Harder," Tom pleaded. "And just a little slower."
Chris immediately eased up on the pace, rolling their cocks together, putting his weight behind every thrust.
“Yes,” Tom moaned. “Yes, darling. You feel so good.”
Chris rumbled low in his chest, the water lubricating their bodies, making the slide of lips and hands and cocks easier, beading on their skin, plastering their hair. Tom moved with him, gripping the back of his neck, palming his ass, urging him on with stuttered cries.
And when Tom came, it was the brightest delight of his life, soaking in every change in Tom's face, his eyes rolling back, mouth falling open, the flush that spread like fire up his neck and into the apples of his cheeks.
"Fuck," Chris breathed, kissing him fast as he came too, cock exploding between them, cum spilling down their thighs, smearing with Tom's own. They collapsed back against the tiled wall, breaths loud in the small space. Tom held Chris to him, felt the tremors in his body, cupped his skull and smiled, nuzzling the back of his ear.
Chris squeezed him tight around the middle, both giggling quietly, swaying under the spray of water. After a moment, he slid a hand over the curve of Tom’s backside, plump and firm, smooth under his palm, tracing a fingertip between his cheeks. Tom whined low, eyes nervous.
“How long has it been?” Chris whispered, pressing his finger between, seeking the warmth of his hole.
Tom swallowed and shook his head, a little sadly. “Far longer than you might think.”
“How long, babe?” Chris said again, gentler.
Tom blinked. “Years, Chris.”
“It’s been years for me, too.”
“I don’t believe that,” Tom said softly, hands smoothing over his collarbones. “You’re too lovely not to have.”
“Well I can’t believe the same of you, so we’re just gonna be stuck in our disbelief.”
They stared at each other, and then Tom’s face broke open in a relieved smile. “We’ll be our firsts again then, in a way.”
“Yes," Chris agreed, pecking Tom on the nose. "Our firsts...again."
**
Despite feeling like he was going to die from heat exhaustion, Tom felt the trip was a remarkable success. He’d catalogued every section of the cathedral, annotated his research into an outline he and Delia could easily reference for the article, and took photographs to include in the publication.
And more importantly, he and Chris had crossed over a threshold from which they could not return, falling into an easy familiarity that seemed to have been waiting to spring up between them. The touches and the affection were given freely and more often, when before Tom could hardly look Chris in the face, perhaps not wanting to readily admit the boyish handsomeness of the man for fear it would overrule his own stubborn irritation with him.
It was hard for Tom to acknowledge that Chris had been the one to make the first move toward reconciliation. He liked to consider himself an upstanding person, not belittled by the baser impulses of a person's character. But there was something about Chris that had settled like an itch over his mind, unable to fully ignore him and move on from their apparent differences. As if Chris's open ire and taunts had fueled his own, feeling more defensive than anything. But he felt a great weight lift from his shoulders at the small confessions they shared in the dark, the apologies and the intent to do better, be better, together. He wasn’t sure how they would change with each other back in the States, but Tom was glad for the time they were able to spend here, however short it was.
Chris had been a tremendous help to him. Tom wasn’t sure how he would have got on without him, and he was glad he had stayed. Being inside the cathedral had obviously been a new experience for Chris, whose face showed an almost childish wonder at the great depth and height of it, the history of every statue and painting, the stones in the very foundation going back centuries. But the crypt had alarmed Chris, set him on agitated edge. Tom had felt him only a few inches away wherever he went among the sarcophagi. Tom couldn’t deny how endearing he found it that so great a man, with his size and strength, would find the underground tombs so unnerving.
When Chris had settled down enough to actually rest against one of the walls, those narrowed blue eyes darting every which way, Tom had taken his chance to photograph him. It was a quick shot, Chris with his arms folded, ankles cross casually, all long lines and muscle. He loved the picture very much.
But their trip had come to its end, and they found themselves back in Santiago’s taxi, Tom fanning himself with a window curtains brochure left by a previous customer. As Santiago was loading their luggage into the trunk, Chris reached and carded his fingers through Tom's hair, scratching gently at the nape of his neck. Tom, shuddering lightly, craned his neck for more.
"Kitten," Chris murmured, and Tom blushed.
They thanked Santiago profusely, shaking his hand and promising to return again.
"When there is no heat wave," Santiago joked, his broad smile charming Tom to no end. He noticed Chris hand the boy another tip on top of the one that Tom had given him, and he smiled, appreciating the gesture.
The flight back was uneventful. They shared the bags of peanuts and split their cookies in half to try each flavor. Chris slept for two hours, head tilted back, hand over Tom's wrist. Tom read until he felt drowsy enough to sleep too, thinking that he felt bad that Chris never got to see the beach like he wanted.
When they landed in Newark, it was late and moonlight flooded the street by the airport where they waited for a taxi, Tom tucked under Chris's arm, half dozing.
The taxi dropped Tom off first, and Chris got out to help him with his bags. Tom grabbed his hand and said, "You'll stay?"
Chris's eyebrows shot up to his forehead but he nodded eagerly, grinning. "Yes. Definitely."
He carted their things into the house, which smelled slightly stale after being shut up for a week. Sluggishly, they showered and held each other under the spray of water, bodies sore and tired from travel. Shortly before midnight, they fell into Tom's bed and slept, Tom spooning Chris from behind, face tucked into the warm crook of his neck, sighing softly, content in the cool air of Providence, both relieved to be back safely, home again.
**
Tom avoided the hill by the lacrosse pitch like the plague. Practice started up again for Chris and his team, and even though Tom's building was adjacent to the field, he made sure to walk in the back entrance to prevent himself from seeing the sloped curve of his most ignominious experience.
They'd been back for only a week and Tom was starting to see the startling difference in how he and Chris used to be with each other before the Mexico trip. Chris sought him out at every opportunity that presented itself, finding him in the hallways with a discreet wink, tailing him in the dinner line, and most surprising of all, sitting with him in the dining hall for meals. Tom's papers spread before them, he and Chris would cut into their meats and vegetables and speak quietly together over glasses of water and clinking cutlery. Like a real date, only stranger, and infinitely more comforting. If anyone, like Chris's friends, looked at them oddly, Tom didn't notice and made it a point not to seek the gazes of others without reason. Sitting with Chris was enough, feeling like he was seventeen again and wearing the letterman jacket of the most popular boy in school.
It was with butterflies in his stomach that Tom looked forward to the end of each day, when Chris would sneak into his last class and sit in the back row, smiling down at Tom finishing up his lecture. Together, they would head to Tom's place and make out on his couch—bruising kisses that left Tom with burns on his chin from Chris's beard, and a chain of mottled marks from collarbone to collarbone, Chris's big hands hauling him closer. They slept curled up together in Tom's bed, the nights cool enough to have the sheets tossed over them, the window cracked open to let in the fresh air of dawn.
It was a Tuesday afternoon that Tom spied Chris slipping into the topmost seat of his lecture. He looked down to hide his smile, ruffling the papers before him. His students were taking an exam, a hundred heads bent over their desks, pencils scratching quietly. He chanced a glance up and there was Chris leaning on an elbow, winking at Tom as soon as their eyes met.
Tom felt his face flush, and he hurriedly checked his wristwatch. "You have five minutes," he called to the room at large.
Once every test had been turned in and his students had all filed out, Tom stacked them together, watching as Chris turned the lock on the top auditorium door.
"My my, professor, you look particularly fetching this afternoon."
Tom pursed his lips and gave him the side eye, making Chris laugh.
"Come now," he said with a smile, tugging Tom to the far corner, out of sight of the main door. "I need help with my homework, professor. Can you explain it to me one more time?" He pressed Tom to the white board and started nuzzling his neck.
Tom would have rolled his eyes if it weren't so damn arousing, hearing Chris whisper to him like a student might, small inquisitive voice, his bear-hands handling Tom only roughly enough to elicit those breathy gasps he loved so much.
"Will you speak Spanish for me, professor?"
Tom smiled and flicked his gaze over Chris's lips, the tip of his nose, those blue eyes. "Mi rey hermoso," he whispered, and Chris groaned. Against his will, Tom's stomach flipped and he pressed a warm cheek to Chris's face. "You like that, darling?"
"Mm, yes, babe. I felt a little ticked that Santiago was able to converse with you, shared that little gift with you. I wanted you all to myself." Tom rolled his hips and they fumbled a moment against the white board, their kisses rough. Breaking apart, Chris gazed at him. "You didn’t grow up speaking this language. How does your tongue curl like that?"
Trailing his lips to Chris's ear, Tom whispered, "My tongue can do many things, darling."
"Fuck, Professor," Chris moaned, lips seeking his earlobe. "Professor, please..."
A burst of voices sounded from outside in the hall and they snapped their heads toward the door, breaths caught, eyes wide. When the voices faded, they breathed out slowly, eyes meeting. Tom felt a blush rise on his cheeks, and he turned away with a small attempt at a frown. “Enough of that now,” he said softly.
Chris grabbed him up in a hard hug, crushing him to the wall. Tom gasped and clutched his shoulders. “No. Not enough of that,” he whispered, mouth so close to Tom’s own. "I like how you blush so pretty, baby. I love that I do that to you."
They stared at each other. And then with a small moan, Tom stuck his chin out and stole a kiss. Only Chris gave it willingly, groaning as he pressed Tom bodily to the wall, wrapping a hand around the back of his neck, securing the other around his waist.
"All these kids," Chris whispered hotly, trailing a hand down Tom's trousered leg, hitching his knee up. "All these kids that get to sit here for hours on end and ogle you all day..." He left the rest unsaid, his lips on Tom's skin claiming enough.
"Do I hear a hint of jealousy in your voice, darling?"
Chris huffed quietly, and nudged Tom's collarbone with his forehead, a sweet nuzzle.
"You know, that day that you came out to the field the first time. To tell me about how Chase had confronted you about his coursework? And how he had tapped you on the chest...touched you there. I really didn't like that, babe. I made him run like forty laps."
Head back, Tom laughed, throat bobbing. Chris's heart skipped at the sound.
"You didn't!"
"I absolutely did," Chris said, voice gruff.
"Sweetheart," Tom smiled. "He deserved it, the little devil." Chris chuckled and Tom bent for another kiss. And another, and then one more.
**
Chris went home with him that night, and there was a different charge in the air as soon as they stepped through the door than all the other nights before, when sleep and cuddling were enough to sustain their feelings.
Tom dropped his bag onto the sofa and took Chris's hand. They went into his room, closed the door behind them and fell into a soft embrace, mouths slotting together, hands clasping each other's backs. Chris crowded Tom against the wall, pressing his body flat to his, their hips flush, skin warm through their clothes.
"Tom," he rasped, bracketing his face in those big hands. "Baby—."
"I know, Christopher. I know, my darling," Tom whispered, catching Chris's lips again and again. They pulled away from the wall, yanking off shirts and trousers. In only socks and boxers, they fell down to the bed, hips rolling, teeth nipping, Chris holding Tom's wrists down.
"Darling yes, give me a big one. Mark me good, my dearest."
Chris's lips closed over the jutting bone of Tom's clavicle, licking to the hollow of his throat, sealing his mouth over the tender point between neck and shoulder. He sucked at him there, Tom's hand on the back of his head, carding through his hair, fingers scratching at his scalp. Chills erupted over Chris's skin and he moaned, the taste of salt and sunscreen blooming on his tongue. Tom was hard beneath him, hips jumping up. He planted a hand on a knee and spread his leg out, fitting himself into the crook of his thighs. Tom was like a blushing orchid, skin so pale white, tanned and rosy along his core: cheeks and neck, down to his chest and flat belly.
Eager to see all of him again, Chris drew back and tugged his boxers down and off his legs, Tom rising on his elbows to look at him with eyes glassy from desire, mouth parted beautifully.
"You're perfect," Chris murmured, realizing suddenly that he never wanted anyone else, would never appreciate a person the way he would Tom, couldn't see himself with another man or woman ever again.
"I love you," he whispered, heart stuttering at the open look of shock on Tom's face, blue eyes wide, lashes fluttering in surprise. "I do," Chris insisted. "I love you, Tom. I love you." He gathered him up in his arms and they kissed hard, hungrily, hands clawing to get the other as close as possible.
Shoving his own boxers down, Chris knelt between Tom's legs, trailing his hands from chest to groin, Tom shivering as he looked up at him. He looked dazed, eyes swimming, and Chris found that he couldn't stand the look of Tom in any kind of pain, and he couldn't believe for a single second that he himself had been the one to cause most of Tom's hurt over the last handful of years. How could he have blatantly ignored the tender well of affection, of goodness that lay inside this man's heart? Behind that facade of bitter hurt and defensive anger, Tom was wounded and wary of more suffering, hesitant to open himself up again. Chris wouldn't pressure him. Not anymore. Never.
"How was I so wrong about you? I don't deserve you," he whispered, butting his forehead against Tom's jaw softly. The tears in Tom's eyes finally spilled, rolling down his temples and soaking into his hair. Chris nudged their noses in a quick Eskimo kiss and Tom's face split in a happy grin, giggling quietly.
Driven by a mad need to know everything about Tom, to immerse and devour and be consumed, Chris slid to his knees at the edge of the bed and hauled Tom across the sheets. Tom cried out softly, eyes wide in alarm.
"Chris, what—."
"Has anyone ever tasted this pretty hole of yours?"
Flushed red, Tom swallowed nervously, muscles taut as he leaned up on his elbows. And then he nodded, eyes falling low.
The pang of regret in Chris's chest surprised him. He had hoped he would be the first to stick his tongue inside Tom, lap him up good and wet, but at their age it was improbable and he moved past the thought.
"Did you like it, baby?" He kept his voice low, having already noticed how well Tom responded to it, the softening of his lips, brows smoothing out in pleasure.
"Yes," he murmured roughly, hips rolling forward, an offering. "I liked it very much."
Not needing any further encouragement, Chris dipped his head low and nosed along Tom's sac, hanging heavy. After a full day trapped in his trousers Tom's sex was fragrant with musk, and Chris buried his face against the heat of his groin to breathe him in, moaning at the scent. Mouthing at his balls, Chris hummed and blew gentle air against his trembling thighs, loving the sigh Tom gave from above him. The spongy texture of his sac was softened by the gathering of hair at the root of his cock, and Chris paid worship there, letting Tom's hips writhe against him, eyes sharp on the long plane of his stomach, flat and trembling with every gasp of his name.
And when he pressed his mouth to Tom's hole, Tom keened, arching off the bed, legs closing around his head. Chris chuckled and pressed his hands wide on Tom’s thighs, holding him open, thumbing at the rim of smooth muscle at his entrance. Tom was mumbling, hands trying to reach his head to press Chris harder against him.
"Greedy love," Chris whispered, and Tom huffed, lifting his head to glare at him.
"Get on with it," he gasped, voice rough. "You want me to hate you again?"
"Never, no," Chris said, smiling. And then with a sharp laugh, he pulled back and flipped Tom onto his stomach, the toned swell of his bottom poking high in the air.
"Chris!"
"Hold still now," he murmured, kneeling behind him and spreading his cheeks again. Tom's cock was pressed against the edge of the mattress, pointed down and swollen beautifully, the tip red and leaking. He held it back and gave it a gentle suckle, Tom whining and trying not to squirm. Running his tongue up the sensitive perineum and between his cheeks, Chris closed his mouth over Tom's hole and started licking at it, saliva gathering and slicking his flesh. He burrowed deep, moaning at the scent and taste of him, eyes following the line of Tom's spine to his tight shoulder muscles, arms bunched in and vibrating. His head was turned to the side, eyes glazed and blinking slowly, undulating his hips to get Chris to go deeper.
With his thumbs, Chris spread his hole gently, sinking the tip of his tongue inside, muscling his way into Tom's private core. Legs shaking, Tom thrashed and cried out, half expletives and half a litany of Chris's name. When he was good and wet, hole puckered and pink from his sucking, Chris pulled away and flipped Tom again, who immediately threw his arms around Chris's shoulders and crashed their mouths together. They kissed and fumbled to lie again on the bed, reluctant to let the other go for a single moment.
Some quiet whispers and more fervent fondling later—lube and condoms in the bedside drawer, quickly darling—Chris was slicking himself, adding a generous glob of it between Tom's legs. The first finger slid in after some resistance, the muscle giving after gentle pressure and a handful of deep kisses, mouths pursing together, lips tightening like bows, their moans seeping into warm skin. Taking the base of Tom's cock, Chris looked up at him and smiled, bending low to kiss the weeping tip. When he took him into his mouth, Tom groaned and arched from the bed, hands scrabbling in the sheets. The taste was salty, burned bitter, like almonds, and Chris was reminded of his own taste after jacking off in bed most nights, licking his fingers to taste himself there. Wanting more, he widened his mouth and went further down, trying for a second finger. Squirming it in beside the first, he pumped his hand and curled his tongue around Tom's shaft. Bobbing his head, he let saliva gather and spill, teasing the slit with the tip of his tongue, moaning when Tom moaned.
He was painfully hard, and he rubbed his erection against the sheets, teasing himself as Tom writhed beneath him, mumbling under his breath. When Tom was able to take three of his fingers, Chris popped off, sucking at the tip just as his cock slipped free of his lips. Wiping his fingers on the sheets, Chris tore the condom packet open and rolled it on himself, climbing over Tom.
"Chris, darling, come here, my darling, come here." Tom gathered Chris to his chest and stuttered a small cry as Chris pushed in, a steady pressure, a burning stretch, the wide tip squeezing and sinking in, finally. Chris mouthed at his throat, his chin, taking his swollen-red lips and letting Tom taste himself. Tom's hands trembled at his waist, pushing slightly, wait, please wait. Chris paused, limbs shaking, eyes on Tom. Lashes low, Tom licked his lips and lay back, panting, legs straining to hold wide.
"Are you okay, baby?" Chris whispered, stroking his cheeks with both thumbs. Tom's eyes fluttered open, blue and green with specks of brown, sparkling like the stars he'd seen painted over a halo of Mary in the Mexican cathedral.
He nodded. "Yes, Christopher. Yes, I'm good. Keep going."
Chris smiled. He liked that. Christopher.
Chris moved again, pulling out to sink in further and further, finally rooted deep, hips flat, shaking, spine taut, staring at the wonder that was Tom. Tight, so tight, Chris felt the force of Tom's embrace, the snug fit of him, and those long arms wrapping around his back, their lips smacking loudly in the quiet room. Chris took up a slow rhythm, letting the drag and pull of Tom's hole lull them into a growing desperation, cleaving to each other, breaths shared, legs twined. Such slick heat, Chris groaned from it, wanting more, wanting deeper, wanting him all.
"This is it," Tom whispered, head back, half feverish, long neck bared. "This is how I imagined you, my heart. So thick. You're as lovely as I pictured you in my head. I knew you would be beautiful and big and thick for me. But," he gasped, tears gathering in his eyes, spilling and running down his temples, alarming Chris. "But I never expected you to be this kind, this loving to me."
"Baby," Chris whispered, crushing himself over Tom, pressing him to the mattress. "I'm sorry, Tom. I'm so sorry. Please forgive me." He covered his faces in kisses, his hips driving down hard so that Tom bounced with his strength, mouth open in small cries.
"I forgive you. I promise I do. If you love me, I can face this. I can."
"Yes! I love you, Tom."
Tongues twining, they kissed and rocked together, Tom's legs rising to encircle him, Chris sheathing himself with every thrust, buried to the root, blunt nails scratching at his back, his teeth sinking to mark Tom’s throat. The room was cast in the fire of sunset, streaks of orange burnished over the cream-painted walls, sparking bright in their hair, spots of warmth on their bare skin. Chris's pace increased, their gasps and groans and whispers more urgent.
"Yes, yes, a little harder, my heart. Harder, just…please—Oh!" His face scrunched as Chris rammed into him, their skin slapping. And then his face and neck bloomed with color and he shuddered, whispering a coarse and gutted fuck as he spilled between them, cock pulsing, hole tightening perfectly around Chris. Neck veins popping, fingers clutching at him, Tom groaned as another wave hit him, his orgasm rushing over his bones like flames in a wheat field, stalks swaying to its beat, destroyed and purified, consumed.
Frantic now, Chris pumped into him hard, Tom limp and barely conscious, eyes glazed and distant. Chris pressed his lips to Tom's cheek and kept it there, moaning when he finally released his load, cock swelling, erupting and nearly killing him. He stuttered to a stop, aware of Tom's featherlight touch on his back, fingers like the tips of wings and just as soft.
He lay there over him, sweat shining in the sun, hair hanging in strands from his face. Tom turned his head and blinked up at him, eyes glowing luminescent.
“I think I love you, too,” he said softly.
Leaning low on his elbows, Chris kissed into his smile, both giggling between breaths, holding each other as the sun dipped past the windowsill, shrouding them in muted darkness again.
**
Even climbing the stairs to his office reminded Tom of Chris, the small ache in his back bringing back memories of the previous evening. He smiled and fished around in his pocket for his keys, thinking that maybe he would look into making reservations for them at the new Italian place in central Providence. Maybe he and Chris could go on an actual date instead of picking at each other's plates in the dining hall every night.
"Professor!" he heard just as he stepped onto the landing. He turned fast and saw Delia come pounding around the corner behind him, face flushed with exertion. "Professor, wait!"
"Hello, Tomás."
The blood drained from Tom’s face, frozen at the voice, eyes locked on where Delia hurried toward him. He jostled slightly when she finally reached him out of breath and stumbled into his side, grabbing his arm. They both turned, eyes wide on the person standing just down the hall from them.
Gael stood outside his office, tall and slightly heavier with muscle than the last time Tom had seen him. Wearing slacks and an open-collared shirt, his black hair was slicked back from his face tanned brown, eyes openly expectant on them, hand held out cautiously.
Delia glanced between the two of them, leaning close to Tom to whisper, "I'm sorry, professor. I tried texting but you didn't respond. I tried catching you after your class, but I just missed you. He came by this morning looking for you. I told him you didn't want to see him. That he should leave. Should I call campus security?"
Tom swallowed and finally shook his head slowly, eyes glued to the man who had once been his lover, the man who had left Tom alone in a hotel room in Spain, a box of warm pastries forgotten on a side table, a letter the only thing explaining why he had chosen bigotry and fear and blatant discrimination over Tom's love.
"No," he heard himself say softly, whispering so that only she heard him. "No, you don't have to do that, Delia. I'll speak with him. It'll be fine."
Her white face turned up at him. "Are you sure, Tom? All of his letters, and the phone calls—."
"Yes, I'm sure. You don't have to worry about me. You go on ahead with what you were doing. I appreciate the warning."
"If it's alright with you, I'm going to hang around out here." The look on her face left no room for argument, and Tom offered none.
Straightening, he walked toward his office and the man waiting for him there. Gael smiled as he got closer, eyes softening with what Tom remembered used to be something familiar between them, something loving.
Stiffly, he walked passed him and unlocked his office door, pushing in and letting Gael follow behind. Just before he closed the door, he caught sight of Delia standing in the hall, eyes narrowed on Gael's back. Tom nodded at her, numb still, and she visibly softened, leaning against the wall to wait for him.
**
"How are you, Tomás?"
Tom walked around his desk, visibly tensing when Gael made a move to embrace him, but he stopped at the last second, a frown puckering his dark brows. Yet, as Tom sat down, Gael's face transformed again, happiness alighting it so that his smile was so kind, so like the ones Tom saw only moments before he'd walked out of that hotel room thinking he would return to another, and another. Something twisted in his stomach and he swallowed before clearing his throat.
"I'm quite well, Gael. Thank you." He gestured faintly to the chair opposite him and Gael sank into it, still smiling wide.
"Tomás, you look so well. So well, amor. The years have been good to you."
Tom stiffened at the endearment, realizing how unaffected he was by it, not like how he used to be.
"Why are you here, Gael?"
Gael looked down, the clip in Tom's voice warning enough. "I'm so sorry, Tomás. For how things ended. For being a coward."
Tom shrugged, straightening papers on his desk. "It's no matter. That's all over now."
"No, amor. No, it does matter. I needed to see you again. To tell you how sorry I was. How terrible I felt, still feel, about the whole thing, about how I hurt you. I came to tell you that I've managed to escape them. My family. And the claws they had in me. I've left Spain, Tomás. To come find you."
A twinge of sadness bubbled in Tom's chest, thinking of how much he'd have wished to hear those words in the past, when he had still clung to what he and Gael had, when he couldn't have imagined something better, impossible. And yet, Chris.
"Well, it makes me happy that you're moving on with your life, Gael. Making your own choices and finding your own way. But I'm afraid things are over between us. They ended the day you walked out of that hotel room."
Gael's eyes turned down at the corners, lips parting in regret. Heartbreak looked good on him, Tom thought, remembering warm kisses at dawn, a breeze fragrant from the flowers outside their balcony.
"But Tomás, I've come all this way for you. It took me a few years, but I left them and made my way here. I knew you were still here. Did you not receive any of my letters? My calls?"
"Yes. My student alerted me to each and every one."
"Then why?"
Tom clasped his hands before him on the desk. How to explain to someone that you no longer loved them? "Honestly...," he started slowly, unsure how to phrase his thoughts. "I think that the earliest ones hurt too much. They were a reminder of how visceral you were to me, how corporeal and cemented in my life you were, those short two months all those years ago. They reminded me of my anger, you see. The sense of betrayal—." Gael made to interrupt, but Tom spoke over him. "Because I did feel betrayed, Gael. Even though your letter was so beautifully written, it couldn't erase the fact that you left me, and after we had made such a promise to remain together." He cut off, trying to stave off the lump in his throat. He couldn't cry. He wouldn't.
"I know, Tomás. I know that—."
"But I ignored the most recent letters and calls because things have changed with me."
"What changed?"
"My situation, Gael."
"What situation, mi amor?"
Tom gritted his teeth, becoming frustrated suddenly with Gael's presence, this great disturbance to his routine, chaotic to him, unwanted. His desire for Chris began to mount, his big hands, those arms that always hugged the stress from his heart and body.
"Don't call me that," he whispered, blinking and looking Gael in the eye. "You can't love me still. Years have passed and I've moved on from that. I think you should do the same."
Disbelief clouded Gael's face. "Move on? Tomás, I came back for you!"
"After you left me abandoned in a hotel in a country in which I was a foreigner! And how long ago was this? Three years? Perhaps it would have been better to sit down with me like an adult and talk to me about the problem with your family. We could have planned something together. But you chose to cut it off entirely. And that's what hurt me the most. Like I was no good. Wasn't worth the trouble. Wasn't worth the struggle. This might come as a surprise to you, Gael, but I'm not in the habit of waiting around to be hurt. I know when I'm not wanted and I make sure to remove myself from such influences before they get the chance to upset the balance I've managed to create."
"But what kind of terrible influence do you think I am, exactly?" Their voices were rising, and Tom expected Delia to come bursting in at any moment. "And I do want you! I wanted you then, and I want you still. This is..." He ran a hand through is hair, clearly not having anticipated the turn of events. "This is not what I expected, Tomás."
"Most things never are," Tom murmured, only half listening, his thoughts turning to Chris, of how hard he'd tried to distance himself from that unwelcoming persona, the jokes and the teasing and the glares enough to remind him of what he'd promised himself so long ago. If someone didn't want him, Tom wouldn't force himself into their lives. How wrong he'd been about Chris, his beautiful Chris.
And yet, Gael was suddenly sitting across from him in his office, and Tom felt trapped, his heart beating as fast as a panicked rabbit.
"I need you to leave, Gael. Please. This is something I can't do. Any time before winter, maybe I would have considered some kind of reconciliation, but—"
There was a knock at the door and Tom glanced up. In front of him, Gael still hadn't looked away, as if the strength of his stare would be enough to convince Tom to return to him.
The door opened and Chris poked his head in. And just as if someone had turned the light on in a dark room, Tom felt a relief and happiness so inherent and soothing that his face broke into a soft smile, the tight line of his shoulders easing a bit.
"Chris," he said, half rising.
Gael finally blinked and turned, rising to his feet slowly as Chris stepped into the room and came to stand by Tom's side.
"Is everything alright?" he asked, staring at Gael. He touched Tom's shoulder, and Tom lifted his hand to clasp his fingers.
"Yes, darling. Everything is just fine."
Gael's eyes snapped to him. "Darling?"
Tom stood. "This is Chris—."
Chris jumped forward and stuck his hand out. "His boyfriend."
Jaw tight, Gael reached across the desk and shook his hand, albeit reluctantly. "Gael. A pleasure," he whispered, making pleasure sound like biting into sour lemons.
"Like I was saying," Tom said. "This conversation has poor timing, and I'm no longer available to have it with you. I think it's best you leave now. I apologize that you had to come all this way."
"Tomás, the fact that you said we might have been able to have this conversation before the winter proves that you still have feelings for me." Gael stood there, hands open in supplication.
"It's like I said," Tom repeated in a whisper, looking up at Chris. "Much has changed for me. I am the same person, but not."
Chris smiled at him, wrapping an arm around his waist.
Gael's gaze flicked between the two, face turning a beet red. He lowered his eyes in embarrassment, resigned.
"I can see that clearly now," he said, voice thick. He cleared his throat, glancing around self-consciously. "I'll go now. I'm sorry to have bothered you."
"Gael," Tom said softly, and Gael paused by the door. "I'm sorry that it's come to this. What we had was lovely. But...our circumstances made sure it would never have worked out. I should have written you back. I should have told you. I'm sorry."
Gael only shook his head and tore the door open, letting it slam it behind him. Delia immediately opened it again, her small face peeking in.
"Are you alright, professor?"
Chris, kissing Tom's cheek, jumped back when he heard Delia's voice.
Tom blushed. "Yes, Delia. I'm just fine." He grabbed Chris's hand and they smiled at each other. Delia crossed her arms and smirked at them.
"I think I prophesied this."
"You prophesied nothing," Tom chuckled, knowing she probably had. His chest still felt hollowed out, feeling like every beat of his heart thrummed through the empty space where Gael used to reside, kept alive there by Tom's resentment and grief over it all. It was an echo of an ache, ready to be filled by love for another.
Chris walked around the desk and approached Delia. "So you are the magical Delia." He shook her hand, and she nodded her head once.
"And you are the one who made fun of my Professor."
"I promise you that's over now."
"It had better be, or you might find your bank accounts hacked and emptied, your internet history shared, and your front door and car egged. Repeatedly."
Chris smiled, delighted. "You can do all that?"
Delia shrugged delicately, winking at Tom still behind his desk. "You'll find out either way, right? Best just behave and not worry about it." She smiled and then threw her arms around Chris in a quick hug. He turned stunned eyes at Tom before hugging her back gently. She drew away and smiled up at him before waving her fingers at Tom. "I'll see you tomorrow at lecture, Professor."
"Yes, tomorrow. And Delia?" She turned. "Thank you, my dear. For everything."
She ducked her head, smiling kindly. "You're welcome, Professor."
**
"Will you tell me something, if I asked?"
Tom nodded against his chest. "Of course, my love."
They were lying in Tom's bathtub, a rather small bowl of porcelain that barely contained their long bodies, Tom half lying on Chris to avoid spilling water over the edge. But they lay content and dozing in the moist air of the bathroom, the drips from the faucet the only noise.
"Well," Chris started, his deep voice spreading low in room, sounding thicker in the fogged air. "It's more about me confessing to something. And it's only because I never knew how to tell you. And maybe it isn't even important, but I feel I should tell you because I feel you should know—."
Tom sat up abruptly, palms wide on Chris's chest, water sloshing over the rim even after all their trouble.
"You...you only pretended to love me? Is this a joke? This whole thing was some kind of—of farce, at my expense. Christopher—."
Chris sat up and grabbed Tom in a hard hug, lips locking over his still flapping mouth. Tom struggled faintly, voice muffled, hands pushing against him. But Chris kept him wrapped tight until Tom sagged into his embrace, returning the kiss, those long fingers sliding into Chris's wet hair.
They broke apart, Tom's lashes heavy with water, blinking dazedly up at him.
"Listen here, you stubborn kitten. I love you. And that isn't some kind of damned farce, or any other fancy word you might think to use with that giant brain of yours. I love you. And no one can stop me from continuing to love you. How we treated each other before is over." He cupped Tom's cheek, cradling his head against his shoulder.
"I'll never treat you like that again," he said softly. "So take that fear of yours and toss it, because I'm not a joke, and neither is my love. Alright?"
Tom nodded like he was in some kind of trance, mouth parted adorably. Chris chuckled and kissed him again, their lips smacking loudly in the bathroom.
"So what is it, then?" Tom whispered, tracing his thumb through Chris's beard. Chris sighed.
"I found a letter of yours back at my place. I think you must have left it behind without knowing. It was half pasted to the bottom of a shelf in the hallway closet, glued to the wallpaper lining it."
Tom lifted his eyes slowly, heavy with realization.
"Gael's letter."
Chris nodded. "Yeah. The last letter, it sounded like."
Tom cuddled into his side again, the surface of the water rippling around them. "I thought I'd lost it. Tossed it out with old papers when I moved. I didn't need it anymore, so it doesn't matter. Did you keep it?"
Chris yawned, feeling cozy after realizing Tom wasn't upset about the letter. "It's in a drawer somewhere. There's a necklace too."
Tom covered his face with a hand, groaning quietly. "Just get rid of them. I don't want to see them again."
Chris kissed his forehead, sliding their feet together. "You got it, babe."
They were quiet for a while and then he asked, almost half asleep. "What does 'mi rey' mean?"
In an identical murmur, Tom said, "It means 'my king'. It's a common expression of affection in Spanish. Akin to 'sweetheart' and ‘darling’ and 'my love' and 'my treasure'."
Lifting his head, Chris stared down at Tom in surprise. "You've called me that before."
Tom smiled lazily. "Yeah. Does it bother you?"
Chris sank back against the porcelain. "No," he said honestly. "It certainly does not."
Tom laughed and pinched his nipple. Chris grunted. "I figured it wouldn’t."
Dozing again, they lay in the water until it grew cold; until Chris gathered Tom to his chest, trying not to jostle too much, and stood up, water dripping everywhere. Tom woke with a start, grabbing his shoulders in a panic. But Chris stood steady, kissing his nose, whispering that he wouldn't let him fall. And with confident steps, he carried Tom through the room and onto the bed, both falling in and laughing about the watery mess, both telling the other to wash the sheets next. When they finally calmed enough to sleep, it was tangled in a loose knot, hands in each other's hair, breaths sweet and shared between them.
**
"Chris—just, oh god, darling yes."
"You smell so fucking good. I want to keep you forever."
"Chris, please, I'm so close—."
"I know, baby. Hold out a little longer. Come from me. Just from me."
Hand pressed between Tom's shoulder blades, Chris held him down, rutting into him from behind. His other hand was wrapped around the front of Tom's throat, holding him arched up, feeling the vibration of every cry and moan.
And then the doorbell rang, and they froze, both turning to the closed bedroom door.
"Maybe we should..."
"Like hell we should," Chris growled, pounding into him again. Tom, rocking hard, stuttered.
"B-but, maybe i-i-it's my pictures."
"What pictures?"
Chris slammed in, drawing back to the tip of his cock and sinking in again, bottoming out with every thrust. Tom shuddered violently.
"The ones from the Mexico trip. I sent them in to be developed weeks ago and they were back logged or something. They told me they would deliver them free of charge."
"Okay, but why are we talking about this right now?"
"No, you're right, darling," Tom gasped as Chris tugged on his hair. "Please don't stop."
They finished only moments apart, Tom spilling onto the bed, Chris releasing deep inside him. He pulsed and pulsed, cock throbbing with every wave of pleasure, grimacing up at the ceiling, spots dancing in his vision. Panting, he pulled out, a flood of cum streaming out with him.
"Goddamn. I really filled you up." He wiped at the cream, smearing it over Tom's sensitive sack. Tom flinched, boneless on the bed, legs splayed wide on either side of Chris.
Chris snuggled up beside him, loving how affectionate and giggly Tom turned post-coitus, all the sweet kisses and caresses that left Chris feeling like a real king, aglow in Tom's attention and love.
After a lazy shower, Tom hurried to the door and found a package on the front step. He exclaimed in alarm.
"The sun better not have ruined them, Christopher!"
Chris laughed from somewhere in the bedroom.
Tearing the package open, Tom started flipping through the photographs, sharp and brightly colored records of the murals and statues of the cathedral in Mexico to add to his article publication later that year. When he reached the final picture, he sat down with a smile, touching the image of Chris leaning up against the stone wall of the crypt, arms crossed, long legs disappearing out of frame. But then Tom's eyes caught sight of something in the dark space behind Chris, inside the niche where the stone altar rested in shadow.
A small face peeked out from behind the edge of the altar, pearly white, long and straight hair common among the natives of the country hanging in a simple and elegant side plait. But its eyes were what chilled Tom to the bone. Eyes black and fringed with long lashes and obviously locked onto Chris lounging in the foreground, unaware of his silent admirer.
"Holy mother of God," Tom whispered.
"What's wrong?"
Tom yelped and dropped the picture, turning to see Chris standing behind his chair, hands up in question.
He clutched his heart, gasping. "Jesus, you scared me."
"What's wrong?" Chris said again, and then bent to pick up the picture. Tom jumped and tried to snatch it away.
"It's nothing!"
But Chris held it aloft and peered down at the image.
"It's just my ugly mug."
Tom hovered next to him, biting his lip and picking at a nail. "It's nothing. I'll just send these over to Delia. She'll get them adjusted in the article draft."
But then Chris peered closer, holding the picture up to his face. And then his eyes widened and he dropped the picture like it scalded him, turning to Tom in a panic.
"I fucking knew it! I told you that place gave me the creeps, Tom. I kept seeing things out of the corner of my eye. And the whole time it was that—that thing gawking at me."
They stared at each other for a long moment, and then Tom burst out laughing, bending double.
"Why are you laughing?!"
"Because," Tom wheezed. "You are the most adorable teddy bear. Don’t fret about it. What if it’s only a distortion caused by sitting out in the sun for so long? Our eyes form things that we’ll recognize. It could easily be a smudge that looks like a little girl.”
“Or it could be a ghost,” Chris muttered under his breath, staring at the photograph face down on the floor.
“And if it is? Who cares? I've never seen one before. Maybe I’ll be a believer now."
Chris grumbled and turned away, rubbing his arms as they broke out in chills. Tom rushed to him, folding him into a hug.
"There now, my teddy bear. Don't be afraid of that child. She obviously liked you. And how could she not? A tall strapping lad like yourself?"
"Or maybe she was cursing me because I look just like those Europeans who ruined everything."
"Enough of that now," Tom whispered, cradling his cheek gently. "We'll burn it. How about that? Would that make you feel better?"
"A little," Chris admitted, very close to pouting.
"But first, I'll call Delia over. She'll love this. And she'll love burning the thing herself."
He kissed him on the cheek and smoothed back his hair with a smile.
Delia came over right away, bringing with her pizza and a bottle of wine. She cackled at the picture and patted Chris on the shoulder, trying for sympathy and failing. Chris grumbled as she giggled and took a picture of the picture with her cell phone.
Sitting on the ground in his backyard, they watched as she touched a lighter to the edge of the photograph. It caught fire immediately, the flame scorching across the photo paper, a sharp acrylic scent biting into the air. She dropped it to the ground in the middle of their loose circle, where it curled and twisted into a crackling heap. Chris pulled Tom under his arm, and they watched the fire die out slowly, wisps of smoke curling into the evening air.
Delia served wine and passed out slices of pizza, leaning back on one arm and waving at the line of oarsmen who rowed passed on the river, their voices deep and lilting over the crest of water, like the songs of tribes of old.
End.