Chapter Text
v. mardi: matin
When Johnny wakes again, the room is grey instead of black: pretty close to dawn, then, one way or the other. He’s (still) wrapped in Gus’ arms; he doesn’t remember moving, let alone dreaming, and he probably didn’t do either, but he does remember Gus warm and solid against him.
He stretches, carefully but luxuriously. Every muscle in his body is relaxed and humming, and it’s almost better than after a sauna. Gus grunts and pulls Johnny in closer again, tucking his nose between Johnny’s neck and the pillow and breathing in deep; and Johnny wraps his arms around Gus’, holding on and letting his mind wander.
He hasn’t felt this peaceful for a long time; and he wonders if it’s Gus, or if it’s sex, or both, or something else.
And it doesn’t really matter, after all, so he just smiles and lets the feeling run through him, like the breeze on the lake on a summer day. Once in a while he pokes at himself, sorting through the feelings in his head, turning them over and wondering at himself, and smiling at nothing.
He’s not sure, for instance, why sex with Gus, why – well, be honest – why fucking Gus, holding Gus in his hand, pushing into Gus’ body… he’s not sure why he feels more like a man now than he ever has before. Is it because Gus is hard where Johnny is? Or because Gus can take it, and Johnny can take it, and he can be… himself with Gus? Or is it that… that Gus was right, before, when he said that Johnny’d been – been gay, or, uh, not entirely straight, for (maybe) years?
Or is that not really what “gay” is at all and he’s just flying blind, as usual… is it just that he likes it, gets off on Gus getting off on him, and… is it the same thing or not really?
There’s a sudden pang in his chest: he could have asked Sigrid, and she might have known, or she might not have known, but she’d have said so, either way, and she wouldn’t have laughed.
Truth to tell, he’d always hoped for twins even though he knew that Sigrid was the one who’d have them, if anyone did; but he’d always hoped that if he had children they’d have what he had, their Icelandic heritage, their prairie birthrights, and… the other part of themselves, the part that didn’t need words, or anything else, to know.
But he can hear Sigrid still, sometimes, and he strains to hear her now: what would she say, if he asked her now, if he could? What… what would he ask her?
Am I gay?
Did I love Zoë?
Did I want Zoë or… did I want this, and Zoë … knew it somehow?
Sigrid’s snort sounds so close Johnny almost opens his eyes, but he knows if he does she won’t be there, or she’ll be gone.
Sex with Zoë was good, and sometimes, especially in the beginning, sometimes it was really good. He tries to remember that, hold onto that.
But this… with Gus… if he’d tried harder, would it have been like this with Zoë? Was it really Zoë’s fault Johnny knew almost nothing when they got married? Hell, it’s not like he knows that much now. Zoë knew more, and was pretty patient with him, all things considered; but was that really fair, after all?
Or was Johnny meant for this, meant for… well, for Gus, just for the sake of argument – and was Zoë, maybe, meant for Louis all along? Maybe she couldn’t help it any more than Johnny can help this, any more than Sigrid could help it (he supposes) with Max.
Is it a once in a lifetime thing?
He wants to ask Gus what God would say about that, about love, about there being someone for everyone; he wants to ask Gus if Louis could have been Zoë’s someone, and vice versa, or is Johnny just hiding, ducking responsibility the way…
Sigrid would have known; at least, she’d have known if Max was a once in a lifetime thing. And Max might have been, for Sigrid; they had Eric, and he’s not sure if it’s Lutheran or Anglican or what, at this point, but they were blessed; and he and Zoë weren’t. And he’s not sure if it works that way, either, if God knows, or cares, because there are kids starving, dying, in Africa, in other places, and… does He care or doesn’t he?
But that doesn’t make sense either, not really; and he’s getting lost again in his own head.
God is, or could be, in everything, all the time… in Johnny, last night (okay, this morning), and in Gus too, and in Johnny inside Gus; and that’s a lot easier to think about, to understand, than wondering if Eric’s a blessing, a blessing in the church sense. He knows Eric’s a blessing in any other sense, every other sense.
He pushes back against Gus, hoping Gus will tighten his arms; and Gus does, murmuring something Johnny can’t quite hear, but it’s okay: Gus is there.
But his brain won’t let it go: what if he’d been married, still, and met Gus? What if Zoë was home, right now, with one or two kids, and Johnny’d taken the job in Winnipeg, what if he’d been here and met Gus by the canal… would he be here now, regardless of Zoë? If there is just one, and Gus (for instance) is it, for Johnny, wouldn’t he still be here? Shouldn’t he still be here? And isn’t that, what did Gus call it, isn’t that moral relativism; and isn’t that the whole reason God made the rules to begin with?
Part of his mind is trying to dismiss it: this is pointless, and if Sigrid was here that’s what she’d be saying. Sigrid never looked back, not that Johnny ever knew, anyway; she always looked ahead, never down, never back.
And, really, Johnny says to her, feeling lonely and wistful, he never has either, not until… not since he found the note, really, and spent the next half hour in blind panic, wondering what he’d done, trying to remember anything, anything over the past ten years that–
And then the phone’d rung, and he’d known it wasn’t Eric, because he was still at school, and he’d hoped it was Zoë, that it was a… mistake or that she’d changed her mind or… that it was Louis, even.
And when he’d burned the letter, not long after, before Eric got home, before anyone, ever, could see it, he burned his fingers too, not really on purpose but because he hadn’t wanted to let the last piece fall into the sink, to be washed away.
It was ten years of his life that he doesn’t even know, any more, if they were real; and after he’d rinsed the blackened curls of ash and paper down the drain, he’d run the disposal for a long time, like somehow the paper would come back up, somehow, someone would know, someone would tell Eric; and then he’d left for the hospital.
He doesn’t remember crying, but the wind was icy on his face when he’d gone outside: he remembers that, still, how it was so sharp it took his breath away and he couldn’t breathe for a few seconds, scary seconds; and he remembers driving slow, too slow, because if anything happened to him who would Eric have then?
He’d told Eric, that time: he’d learned, from Sigrid’s death, one more thing, one last thing from her. And if he still doesn’t know why he never visited her – people think they’ll live forever, maybe – he knows, too, that Sigrid never held a grudge about it: she wasn’t that way. Eric’s not, either: it’s one of the things he loves about Eric, not just that he reminds Johnny of his mother but that Sigrid and Max had made such an… interesting person, an… individual, someone who belonged in their family, someone who belonged with them, someone who belonged to Gimli, even.
When Eric’s older Johnny’s already decided to give him the house: it’s a Jóhannsson house and it should be lived in by a Jóhannsson, and even if (when) Eric leaves Gimli, he can keep it for summer, and holidays; and maybe Eric won’t leave Gimli, or maybe he’ll have his own Jóhanssons to visit, or live there, someday. And it’s not like Johnny was planning to remarry, even before this, before Gus; after all, he hadn’t really seen it coming the first time.
His nose is stuffy and so is his head, between his eyes, hot and itchy: he’s held back tears too many times not to know the signs, and he hopes Gus stays asleep a while longer, hopes he can get back… whatever it was that he had, before this, when he first woke; and he wishes, again, he could just ask someone what the hell is going on with him. He really is between two worlds, like Gus said, but he’s starting to think he’s not just caught there, he’s stuck there, and he doesn’t know how, or why, or what he can do about it.
He takes a careful breath, then swallows hard, carefully, slowly, almost furtively pressing his fingertips against his eyes, but that just makes his head hurt more. He tries to move, but Gus holds him tighter, says his name in a formless mutter that just about sends Johnny over the edge; and the last thing he needs, and Gus needs, is Gus, the non-morning person, waking up to find Johnny bawling in bed, especially after he– they…
“Bathroom,” he whispers: he couldn’t talk if he wanted to, barely holding on as it is. “Bathroom, Gus,” and Gus mumbles again, an impatient sound, but his arms loose Johnny and Johnny rolls out of bed fast.
He closes both doors, the one into the bathroom, and the one into the little dark room where the toilet is, and blows his nose violently, over and over, until his eyes are wet from the pressure behind them; and then he pinches himself on the wrist, right over the bone: after they moved to Winnipeg, Eric had several weeks of nightmares; when he started sleeping again, Johnny stopped, waking up with his face wet two and three times a night. After the second time, after Eric had to wake him, Johnny’d set the alarm for every two hours. And sometimes, still, when the alarm went off, his face was wet.
As far as he knows, Eric never caught on to the alarm clock system; and after a few months it’d mostly stopped. Since Eric never said anything, Johnny knows that Eric figured it was leaving Gimli, losing Zoë, and that was fine, that was exactly what Johnny’d hoped.
Zoë’s death was really just… convenient: all he’d had to deal with was sympathy, not explanations.
And if that’s not wicked, if that’s not buying him a ticket straight to hell (like he’s not already on the express), he doesn’t know what the hell “wicked” means.
He ends up with dry heaves and a cold sweat, sitting bare-assed on the tile floor; and if God does listen to him he’d thank Him that Gus isn’t a morning person, because this would be just about impossible to explain in any way that would make Gus, or any sane person, want to do more than say, “Get lost, loser,” or maybe, if they were feeling sorry enough for his pathetic ass, “See you around, fuck-up.”
Yeah, he’d fucked it up with Zoë, whether or not he was the right or wrong person for her, whether or not she was the right or wrong person for him, and that had been normal, he’d had everything going for him there. There’s no way he won’t fuck it up with Gus, no way, no matter what Gus said, or says, or thought, or thinks.
Three years ago he’d been someone else.
Three years ago life was good, life was fun. If he’d known, famous last words, if he’d known, what would he have done differently – besides everything? He’d have celebrated life, every day, he’d have stopped even more often to look at the dew on the grass, to watch the clouds roll by, to enjoy the warmth of the sun in the summer, the crisp air of autumn, the sheer icy beauty of winter, the green and brown tang of spring.
He’d even have enjoyed the two months of mud.
His hands and arms are trembling; he takes a deep breath and closes the lid of the toilet, resting his arms on it so they stop shaking, resting his head on his arms: he’s lightheaded but his neck is sore and it feels good not to have to hold his head up; and he can feel his stomach unclenching, the muscles relaxing.
He must have dozed off: the next thing he knows is the sensation of falling, and then his hand hits the tile as he catches himself. He’s freezing, no kidding, and his knees are stiff. He rubs them for a second so he can get up without falling on his ass.
The door squeaks when he opens it and it sounds unnaturally loud, but the other door’s still closed. There’s a wet washcloth in the sink and he stares at it for a few seconds: Gus? Cleaning up himself and – Johnny looks down, feels the heat rising to his face – and Johnny too, he guesses; and he blinks rapidly a few times. He rinses his mouth, glad he didn’t actually throw up, and tries to remember if there was soda in the refrigerator, something to settle his stomach. At least there’s water, he knows, and he slips out quietly, easing the door open with both hands.
Gus is still dead to the world, flat on his stomach, one arm across the empty space where Johnny was. There’s a bottle of water by the bed; he didn’t see it before, and there’s another prickle behind his eyes, that Gus thought of that.
He thinks Noelle must have been the one to break it off, from Gus’… well, from his attitude, more than anything; anyway, he’s not carrying a torch for her. If she did, she was stupid, is all Johnny can think.
He goes into the kitchen and looks in the fridge, where he finds a small can of Coke. A few sips ease his stomach, clear his mouth, and he takes a few more swallows, letting it settle.
He’s still freezing but moving around has helped get his blood stirred up. He feels bad about climbing back in with Gus, but worse about Gus waking up without him there: things are bad enough as it stands, because he doesn’t know what to do… next.
The sun’s up now: he stares at the pattern the blinds are making on the carpet while he finishes the soda, and then he puts both hands on the counter and stretches his back, and his legs; then, starting with his neck, consciously tries to relax, all the way down his back, his shoulders, his arms, his legs. He’s used to this too: the ibuprofen won’t stay down until some of the tension’s gone. He cracks his neck, then scrubs his hands through his hair, takes a deep breath and goes back into the bedroom.
Gus is still on his stomach; when Johnny climbs into bed, carefully, he doesn’t move at first, not even his arm, until Johnny touches it; then he says something, a string of syllables that makes no sense, and throws his arm across Johnny. Johnny, holding as still as he can, stares at the windows for a long time, until they blur and he can’t see them any more.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Gus is only a quarter aware of Johnny getting back into bed, and maybe a little more aware that he’s cold: aware enough to put an arm around him, pull the covers up, before he lets himself retreat into a deeper sleep again.
When he wakes next time, his arm’s still across Johnny, but Johnny’s perched at the edge of the bed, his body unnaturally straight, as if he didn’t want to move, or was afraid to move, but fell asleep despite that.
Gus slides an arm beneath and gathers him close; Johnny rolls partly on his side, and Gus kisses the back of his neck and breathes in deeply.
Johnny smells… wrong: sour or something; and when Gus raises his head to look more closely, he sees blue shadows under Johnny’s eyes; and when he leans in close to smell, to taste, the skin of Johnny’s face is… salty.
And although Johnny’s face is relaxed in sleep, it’s not relaxed, not like before, when he cleaned Johnny up and Johnny smiled; and Johnny’s body isn’t relaxed, either, not the way it was before, when Gus finally got back into bed.
He pulls Johnny closer, rocking him without really being aware of it, tucking Johnny’s head under his neck where Johnny can hear Gus’ pulse, Gus’ heartbeat, where Johnny can feel Gus’ life force, where Gus can give Johnny some of that life, some of that strength, even if that idea is more fanciful (and Eastern) than practical (and Western).
He wants to ask Johnny why, why and what: Zoë? Sigrid? Sin? Redemption? Homosexuality? God? All of the above or – from what he’s already seen of Johnny, it’s entirely possible – none of the above?
Somehow he doesn’t think Johnny broke down over the Leafs’ chances.
And how the hell did he sleep through it? He’s not normally a heavy sleeper, not that heavy; and he hadn’t even been drinking, not enough to matter.
Johnny heaves a deep sigh and turns all the way over onto his stomach, his face still turned toward Gus, his head resting on Gus’ arm. He looks more relaxed, and Gus feels fractionally better that Johnny needs him, or can be comforted by him, even if it’s just any touch and not necessarily Gus’.
Someone as tactile as Johnny would have found the past few years a living hell; and he waits again for the panic to strike him, for the need to breathe, alone, to hit him; and, again, it doesn’t.
He can give Johnny that, too, then, and apparently without even grudging it, which is good, because Johnny’d pick up on that, pick up on that in a heartbeat.
He leans in to kiss Johnny’s face again, and his lips are salty when he pulls back. He takes a deep breath and unclenches his hand, under Johnny’s neck, then smoothes his other hand through Johnny’s hair, like Johnny’s a cat. The side of Johnny’s mouth that he can see tilts a little, and even that makes Gus feel better.
No one as… incandescent as Johnny should carry so much pain inside.
He looks up at the ceiling, his jaw set, trying to regain the centre he’d found last night, when he hears a peculiar noise.
It takes a few seconds to identify Johnny’s phone, buzzing, on the kitchen counter.
It takes a few more to extricate himself from Johnny but all he can think is that Johnny’s been worried about Eric, and he makes it to the kitchen in three strides once he gets out of bed. But he’s not in time; the display flickers to “missed call” as he picks it up.
“Fuck,” he says under his breath, and looks over his shoulder; but Johnny’s still sleeping soundly.
He pulls on jeans, not bothering with underwear yet, and a t-shirt, and goes back to the kitchen to see if he can figure out Johnny’s coffee machine. If it was Eric, chances are he’ll try again.
The dishes are done: Johnny must have done them last night, or this morning; and again Gus wonders how he slept through all of it.
After a few fruitless minutes, he shelves the Johnny-coffee project and starts the electric coffee pot, then sits down at the table to puzzle out how to get Johnny’s coffee pot back together and where to put the coffee.
The cell phone buzzes again, making him jump, and he grabs at it. There’s a long string of numbers on the display: it must be overseas, must be Eric.
“Johnny’s cell phone,” he says quietly, flicking the cover open.
There’s a long pause; then a voice says uncertainly, “Johnny?” The connection is crackly but otherwise clear.
“You must be Eric,” Gus says. “I’m a friend of Johnny’s. He’s staying with me for a few days in Ottawa.”
There’s another pause and then Eric says, “Oh. I didn’t know Johnny knew anyone in Ottawa.”
Gus lets the smile creep into his voice: “Your aunt said exactly the same thing.”
And the ice is broken: Eric laughs, still uncertain, but definitely amused. “Are you from the NHL too? Is Johnny there?”
“Yeah, he’s here,” Gus says, disregarding the first question: that answer must (and will) come later, in person. “He’s still asleep; let me get him for you. Are you having a good time? Are you in – Singapore, is it?”
“Yeah, and it’s awesome,” Eric says fervently, and his enthusiasm takes Gus back more than a few years: he remembers, suddenly, the first time he crossed the Channel, and how that had been so much more exciting than the plane ride to London.
Johnny’s stirring: Gus hasn’t been particularly quiet since realizing it was Eric, and he’s glad that the sight of the phone in Gus’ hand brings a quick, heartfelt smile to Johnny’s face. “Eric,” Gus says to Johnny, then, to Eric, “It was nice to meet you, Eric; I hope I get to meet you in person some day.”
“Thanks,” Eric says, “me too.”
“Eric!” Johnny’s saying before he even gets the phone to his mouth. “Auntie Auntie’s not freaking out, she says; are you in Singapore? I figured you stopped somewhere…”
Gus goes back to the kitchen, slipping his loafers on while he scribbles a note to Johnny: “Getting breakfast – back soon!” He pulls his jacket on while he crosses back to the bed, handing the note to Johnny, unable to keep from touching Johnny’s hair again. Johnny looks up at him, one side of his mouth a little shaky, and Gus would swear, if he was that kind of romantic, that Johnny’s heart is in his eyes.
He gives Johnny a thumbs-up, feels his jacket pocket for the keycard, gets his wallet off the nightstand, and lets himself out.
It’s not that he thinks Johnny would object to his presence; but it has to be easier to talk to Eric without the presence of someone who’s, really, when all’s said and done, a stranger to the both of them.
He doesn’t know when Johnny’s birthday is; he doesn’t even know how old Johnny is, or what kind of music he listens to; or how he feels about the question of independence for Quebec; or why a tattoo at all, why that one?
He does know Johnny’s not a Leafs fan… that’s something, anyway.
He wishes he could find the shop Johnny must have found yesterday but that’s really not possible: he doubts he has Johnny’s apparent (indeed, professed) knack for landing on his feet.
He settles for a Second Cup down the street, getting Johnny a red-eye and himself a plain coffee. On his way back through the hotel, he remembers that they have something they call a continental breakfast and, in truth, it’s closer to the real thing than many places in North America.
Sure enough, they have croissants, butter and chocolate, and hard boiled eggs, so he gathers several croissants and eggs in a napkin and folds it into a pouch. One of the waiters is staring at him; Gus grins at him on his way out, grins and winks; and the waiter flushes and looks away.
Yeah, remedial customer service is definitely called for here: in Germany, someone would have gone to get him a basket to carry it all, with plates and knives, and pressed butter and jam on him, not to mention egg cups and spoons; and he remembers one pension in France where Madame didn’t boil the eggs until you sat down at the table.
He’s not wearing a watch but he’s relatively certain that he’s been gone at least twenty minutes and the wait for the lift adds another three or four. When he lets himself back into the room, he can still hear Johnny talking: through the French doors, he sees Johnny, wrapped in a robe now, sitting on the side of the bed. It’s quickly apparent, however, that he’s talking to his aunt, not Eric, since what little Johnny says is the same as before, Icelandic and English alternating in his gentle murmur.
He puts the napkin down on the table with his coffee and takes Johnny’s coffee in to him. When Johnny stretches out his hand for the coffee, relief and welcome showing plainly in his face, his hand is as shaky as his lips were, before, and Gus feels his mouth set into a thin line. He turns quickly so Johnny won’t see and busies himself in the kitchen, getting a plate for the croissants and fiddling with the mysterious coffee pot – he thinks he’s seen something like it in Greece, perhaps – and trying not to listen to Johnny’s one-sided non-conversation with his aunt.
“I don’t know,” Johnny’s saying apologetically, his voice getting nearer. “He didn’t mention it; maybe there’s no network there.”
“Uh, I can’t remember – I think one of them was twenty-seven and one was fifty-nine.”
“Já, þetta blesst. I’m positive. No, Max was there – he said hello. Já. Já. Ég elska þig. I’ll call you when I hear again, yes. Já. Elska þig. Vertu sæl.”
He flips the phone shut and sinks down into the chair opposite Gus and draws in a shuddering breath. “Thanks,” he says, not looking at Gus. “I’d never have heard it… I was, uh, pretty out of it.”
“I was up,” Gus says. “It was nothing.”
Johnny’s gone again, and Gus knows, he knows, that it’s Zoë.
He pushes the croissants toward Johnny, then bumps his knuckles against Johnny’s where Johnny’s holding onto the coffee cup. “I’m damned if I can figure out your contraption, Johnny,” he says, trying to inject humour he doesn’t really feel into his voice. “The chocolate croissants are pretty good here. Not as good as the ones you can get in Montreal, of course.”
“Yeah,” Johnny echoes. “Of course.” He tries to smile but it’s clearly an effort.
“Eric okay?” Gus says after a few awkward minutes. He doesn’t want to pry; but he wants to crack Johnny open, suck him out of his shell, wrap him up in his arms and never let him go, keep Johnny from needing a goddamn shell at all.
“He’s great,” Johnny says, glancing up briefly. “I think he’s having the time of his life so far. They were, uh, planning to get a berth on a tramp steamer or something to Hong Kong. Sounds like something out of a movie, doesn’t it? Max got him an OSC, uh, a–”
“Yeah,” Gus says, smiling, wishing he could touch Johnny’s face, “I know what it is.”
“Yeah,” and the smile is real this time, if brief. “I guess you would. So they’re going down to Malaysia, maybe to Australia. It’s better than Burma, uh, Myanmar… Max’s been everywhere and he says it’s all good, but I’d rather… anyway, Max knows it, so… it’s good, and, uh, Eric’s great.”
“You miss him,” Gus says softly.
“Yeah,” Johnny says, looking down again, blinking rapidly. “It’s all… I’m pretty… uh, I’m pretty fucked up right now, sorry. Thanks… thanks for the coffee.”
“Do you want to be alone?” Gus asks, even though he doesn’t want to, even though he doesn’t want to hear the answer.
“… I don’t know,” Johnny says after a while, his voice barely a whisper. “I… just don’t know. I don’t even know who I am any more.” His knuckles are white, and so is his face: Gus almost expects it when the coffee overturns, spilling across the table and splashing onto him.
Johnny, however, stares incredulously, and then buries his face in his arms, his shoulders shaking.
Gus rights the cup (fortunately it still had the lid on) and rescues Johnny’s cell phone; and then he’s kneeling beside Johnny, an arm around his waist, rubbing Johnny’s back with his other hand. Johnny’s fighting the sobs, trying so hard to maintain his control, that Gus’ muscles ache in sympathy.
He wants to say it’s just coffee, but it’s not; and he wants to tell him he doesn’t have to pretend but he can’t: Johnny’s so tense, so fragile, that Gus imagines the wrong words, the wrong touch will shatter him. At the same time, he wants to dig deep and excise that bullet, let the blood flow freely for a while, let that pain out instead of being inside, poisoning Johnny.
And, yes, if Johnny thinks he doesn’t know who he is any more, that’s an argument for the “Oh, God, I’m gay!” side of the freaking-out column; but Gus still wants to blame Zoë, rational or not, because the “Oh, God, I’m gay!” thing is three days, not three years, old.
And if she was a control freak, it would probably just make her afterlife to know she’s managing to control him even from the grave, Johnny living a boxed-in life, afraid to feel, afraid to care, afraid to live because of the pain he’s still carrying… and humiliated, probably beyond bearing, when it catches up with him in front of a mostly-stranger.
So, no, he doesn’t want to shatter Johnny, but he pushes, a little, just enough so Johnny knows that he’s not wishing something ridiculous, like he’d never met Johnny or that Johnny was a thousand miles away. “You can tell me, Johnny,” he says into Johnny’s shoulder. “If you want.”
Johnny chokes again and then turns, so unexpectedly that the back of his hand catches Gus in the jaw, but Gus ignores both that and Johnny’s indrawn breath and pulls Johnny to him. He knows from (bitter) experience that it’s easier to talk when you can’t see the other person, confessional or no.
“Yeah,” Johnny says, his voice breaking, “because to top it all off you’re a priest.”
“Yeah,” Gus says quietly. “What else, Johnny?”
Johnny takes another breath, shaky, then slides to his knees in the circle of Gus’ arms and buries his face in Gus’ neck, words tumbling out like a flood, half of them unintelligible: and Gus lets them flow over him like he’s a rock, in an avalanche, lets them cascade down, away, gone forever; and when Johnny hiccups, when the words slow, falter, and then stop, Gus opens his eyes. The light in the room is like sun on the water.
He puts his hand on the back of Johnny’s neck, shaping Johnny’s skull with his fingers. “No,” he says first, quietly but firmly. “What is now, is; we can’t go back, we can’t change things. You can wonder ‘what if’ but that’s all that it will ever be. There aren’t any second chances. Time is infinity but only in each moment; after each moment, each choice, the infinite starts over. If you’d been married still and we met, there would have been so many different choices piled up that that particular infinity never would have become this one.”
Johnny’s breathing faster, but there’s no real sign that any of that made sense. “You’d have had a wedding ring on,” Gus says after a few moments. “I might not have forgotten to put on my collar.” He’s still not sure: now Johnny’s holding his breath. He pushes, once more. “You would not have committed adultery, Johnny. And… I wouldn’t have given you the chance.”
Johnny holds his breath a few moments longer, then breathes in deep, shuddering a little. Gus restrains himself from pulling Johnny’s face up and kissing him into tomorrow and instead says, “Whether you’ve always been gay, or bisexual, or not, it didn’t affect your feelings for Zoë one iota. You’d have known; and since you didn’t, it wasn’t a factor.”
“That makes no sense,” and Johnny’s breath is warm on his neck. “That’s –”
“You would have known,” Gus says, again firmly. “You would have. I did.”
Suddenly Johnny’s very still. Finally he says, “So you’re… are you gay? Or… I thought you were, uh, bisexual.”
“I am,” Gus says simply.
There’s another long silence; then Johnny says, almost too quietly for Gus to hear him, “How… how can it be that simple?”
“How can it not be?” and Gus pulls him closer, turning his head to breathe in the scent of Johnny, feel Johnny’s skin and the close-shaven hair behind his ear. “It’s all much simpler than we make it.”
“What is?” and he’s not sure it that’s a laugh or a sniffle.
“Life,” Gus says softly, easily. “God. Love. Hockey.”
This time it’s definite: a snort, not quite a laugh, but not a sniffle either. And, again taking Gus’ breath away, Johnny says unexpectedly, “Confederation?”
“Okay, no,” Gus says, pulling back and risking a kiss, laving away the salt on Johnny’s lips until all he tastes is Johnny’s sweet, sweet mouth. “Confederation is as complicated as religion. It’s all man-made.”
Johnny doesn’t dignify that with an answer: he just leans in again, his lips warm and soft under Gus’. And Gus goes with it, for a few minutes anyway, letting himself relax into Johnny’s warmth, Johnny’s openness, Johnny’s sweetness, hoping that Johnny’s soul is washed clean of the poison; and he thinks that the blood of the Lamb isn’t far off, not when it comes to Johnny.
When he pulls back, reluctantly, Johnny’s still leaning in, eyes closed; and Gus puts his hands on Johnny’s shoulders, giving him a little shake. “If my knees are killing me, I know yours are,” he whispers, brushing a kiss across Johnny’s cheek, stopping at his ear, reveling in the shudder that follows the quick dart of his tongue in and around.
Johnny’s eyes fly open, a delayed reaction, but Gus stops the apology rising to Johnny’s lips with a finger pressed to them. “Come on,” he says, pulling himself up on the edge of the table and bracing his feet to help Johnny up. “I know just the thing.”
Johnny, unresisting and (in all probability) drained beyond his own comprehension, follows Gus docilely into the bathroom. Gus turns on the tub full blast, then distracts Johnny for a blissful few minutes by backing him into a corner and kissing him thoroughly. He tries to rein himself in: the goal is distraction, not actual sex, not right now, but at the same time he’s not only trying to comfort Johnny, he’s trying to give Johnny some of his own strength, trying to give Johnny some of his own peace.
He’s not entirely successful; by the time he comes back to himself, his leg is wedged between Johnny’s and they’re both moaning; Johnny’s robe is open and his cock is rampant on Gus’ thigh, and Gus has to pull back and look, just look for a moment at Johnny, flushed and beautiful from head to cock, and the sight of him makes Gus’ mouth water.
He had a plan… he really did.
He takes another deep breath and pulls Johnny in close, a full body hug. “Okay,” he says, more to himself than to Johnny. “Just the thing.”
“Bath,” Johnny says, his voice lifting a little at the end.
“Yeah,” Gus says, turning Johnny, pulling the robe off him. Johnny turns back, a protest – no, a question – on his face, on his lips. “I’ll be in in a minute.”
He wishes he could take away the dark stains under Johnny’s eyes too, but he’ll settle for unshadowed eyes, unshadowed eyes and a half-smile.
He sticks the “Do not disturb/Ne pas déranger” sign on the door, fetches Johnny’s coffee from the table and pours it into a china mug from the cabinet, then does the same with his own. Balancing both mugs and the plate of croissants and hard boiled eggs, he makes his way into the bathroom and sets everything down on the ledge surrounding the tub. “Breakfast in tub,” he says with a wink when Johnny, his head against the backrest, opens his eyes sleepily. Johnny doesn’t say anything, just watches as Gus strips, his eyes widening when he realises Gus isn’t – wasn’t – wearing underwear.
He’s not prepared for Johnny to move over, quicker than he can react, move over and pull Gus close to the edge of the tub; and Gus’ erection, which was mostly gone, is back within heartbeats as Johnny kisses, licks, takes him in.
He’s feeling a little schizo, but (he supposes) that’s probably nothing compared to the pendulum Johnny’s clearly swinging on.
When he has a chance to breathe, to think, he pulls out as gently as he can and leans in to kiss Johnny. “Come on,” he says, not really knowing what he’s saying. “Breakfast.”
“I–”
“I want nothing more than for you to – to suck me into oblivion again, Johnny,” Gus says, sliding into the tub beside him. “And again, and again, and the other way around too.” He pushes Johnny, then pulls him so Johnny’s leaning back against him this time, and braces his knees so Johnny won’t slide down; and then he begins to massage Johnny’s neck again, smoothing his fingers down the tendons that stand out, he’s noticed, at almost any sign of stress, working his thumbs up the back of Johnny’s neck. “I love to touch you,” he says, leaning down to kiss Johnny’s ear, and Johnny sighs, his eyes closing; and under Gus’ fingers, his shoulders begin to relax. “Hold you… feel you move under me, on me, in me…”
He’s not sure what devil’s prompting him, but Johnny’s eyes fly open, and then he begins to laugh, almost as if he can’t help himself. He laughs too, pulling Johnny up, kissing his neck where, just now, his fingers were, wrapping his arms around Johnny and holding him close and tight. He closes his eyes and breathes in, licking Johnny’s neck then and feeling the water swirl around his cock, still hard, and feeling Johnny’s balls brushing it, now and then, as the currents move and Johnny does too.
He wants Johnny in him again, and again after that; and he imagines being in Johnny, right now, being able to put his hands on Johnny’s hips, thrust up and in, imagining the sounds Johnny would make, the way he’d say Gus’ name, hungry, the way Johnny’s cock would feel in his hand while Johnny’s being fucked, the way Johnny’s cock would swell in his hand right before he comes…
“God, that’s good,” Johnny says, letting his head fall back on Gus’ shoulder, letting Gus push his cock up between Johnny’s legs, behind Johnny’s balls.
“Yeah,” Gus says, trying to breathe, already, again, too close to the edge and not wanting it to stop, not wanting it to end, not wanting Johnny to move a single more time and not able to think what he’ll do if Johnny stops moving, not able to remember that he was trying – God, that road to hell – trying to make this about Johnny, for Johnny. “God, you turn me on, Johnny…”
“Yeah?” Johnny says, so softly Gus almost doesn’t hear him.
“Yeah,” Gus whispers, turning Johnny’s face, finding his lips by touch alone. “You do. You have to know it.” And he’s oddly thankful to feel heat beneath his lips again, against his chest, under his arms, as the blush races up Johnny’s body: Johnny’s with him again, fully, completely, not thinking about yesterday, or last year, or ten years ago, or even tomorrow, just thinking about them, how he makes Gus feel, how (he hopes) Gus feels about him.
When the heat fades, he leans up, holding Johnny close with one arm and reaching for the coffee, Johnny’s first; and Johnny leans back against him with a contented sound, sipping the coffee, barely lukewarm now; but he doesn’t seem to care, and Gus sure as hell doesn’t. And when he pulls apart a croissant and offers a piece to Johnny, this time Johnny takes it; and, as if he didn’t realize he was hungry, makes short work (with Gus’ help) of the remainder of the plate.
Gus leans in to lick a flake of croissant off Johnny’s lower lip and Johnny licks back, his eyes crinkling into a smile almost before his mouth moves; and the kiss that follows is another slow kiss, long, luxurious, Johnny intent, deliberate, and yet still gentle, his fingers under Gus’ chin not really holding Gus’ face still so much as… resting, or simply touching him. And Gus follows his lead, giving it back to Johnny as slowly as he can, as thoroughly as he can, concentrating only on their mouths, their lips, their tongues touching, meeting, tangling with small wordless sounds and soft breaths.
A shift, a glide, and Johnny’s face to face, straddling him, his long legs cradling Gus’ torso; and Gus has a moment to wish he was that flexible before giving himself up to the intoxication of Johnny’s taste, the feel of Johnny’s lower lip, soft and full, caught between Gus’ teeth, the touch of Johnny’s fingers moving up into Gus’ hair. And when Johnny pulls back, this time, Gus is the one who protests, eyes still closed, leaning up and in.
He feels Johnny’s lips on his cheekbone, then a flicker of tongue; then Johnny’s hugging him close and murmuring something Gus can’t quite understand just in front of Gus’ ear; and Gus lets his head sink back, lets his hands slide down Johnny’s arms, then his back; and he thinks, really, that this is all he ever needs.
Johnny folds his legs and slides down Gus just enough to lick his throat, then kiss it; then he’s sucking – too gently even to leave a mark – and Gus moans, just so Johnny knows he appreciates it, and turns his head to press his lips to Johnny’s temple.
Their respective sighs are almost mutual. Johnny’s hand finds Gus’ and he squeezes it, holding Johnny close with his other arm, listening to his own heartbeat, feeling Johnny’s thudding against his chest.
“Twenty questions,” he whispers, rubbing his thumb on the inside of Johnny’s wrist.
Johnny chuckles, a not-quite-sleepy sound that sends a warm dark thrill through Gus. “Animal, vegetable, mineral…”
“Let’s call it a modification. I ask something, you ask something. Anything. Something you want to know about me. And vice versa.”
Johnny’s tension is all too noticeable: he goes from sleepy and relaxed to bowstring taut almost between breaths; but he doesn’t say no.
“Shall I go first?”
“Sure,” Johnny mumbles; somehow even his wrist, still in Gus’ hand, is taut.
“Fortunately I’ve seen you naked, so that gets rid of the obvious one,” Gus says musingly; and he grins inwardly, feeling Johnny’s puzzlement. “You know… whether you’re a natural blond.”
“Jesus!” Johnny sputters after a few incredulous seconds. “Oh, God, if you think buying condoms in Gimli is bad, you have no clue what would happen if a guy bought hair dye! I mean, for – not for – that wasn’t for someone else, anyway.”
“You have to use bleach,” Gus murmurs, very pleased: Johnny’s tension is, at least momentarily, forgotten. “I think.”
“So was that your, uh, question?” Johnny says, putting his head back down on Gus’ shoulder; his fingers feel like they’re burning a brand down Gus’ collarbone.
“Not at all,” Gus says, trying to keep his breathing steady. “Let’s see… birthday? Do I need to start thinking of a present soon?”
Johnny snorts. “December 15.”
“Smack in the middle of St. Nicholas and Christmas… good timing,” Gus says; and a few seconds later he’s glad he dialed back on the sarcasm, because Johnny’s nodding.
“Yeah, best of both worlds, especially in Canada, because we can’t import skata or hákarl and the rest of it’s either edible or downright good, or so I hear. But Amma and Afi would talk about the hákarl…” He shakes his head. “Auntie Auntie says Langamma told her once it was the worst thing she ever put in her mouth, and she’d eaten lichen.”
He sounds so solemn, and so shocked, that Gus is hard-put not to laugh. “What is – oh, it’s your turn. I’ll have to wait to ask what skata and hákarl are.”
“You get a freebie,” Johnny says, tilting his head to grin up at Gus. “If you really want to know, because it’s gross. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“Worse than blubber?” Gus asks, raising an eyebrow: he’d had no idea, starting this, that it would prove so fucking difficult to keep his hands and mouth off Johnny: he wants out of the tub, now, he wants Johnny in bed, now, and he wants to make Johnny scream when he comes, drive out any and all thoughts that aren’t Gus, that aren’t Gus in bed with him, that aren’t Gus, and sex, and Solomon Gundy around the corner.
“Blubber is good,” Johnny’s saying earnestly, sitting up straight. “I’m serious. Hákarl is rotten shark. They bury it in the sand and they let it rot. And skata, that’s the same thing but it’s skate, not shark.”
“Okay, yeah, blubber would be good,” Gus says, a little amazed, but not enough to be completely distracted: how could he be, with Johnny’s eyes sparkling, his face animated, his hands gesturing… Gus can’t tear his eyes, or his thoughts, away, and certainly not for rotten fish, of all things. “Comparatively speaking.”
Johnny doesn’t look as if he thinks Gus is sufficiently convinced, but he nods anyway. “I just… no.”
Gus hopes (is pretty sure, anyway) that this time he doesn’t say “the hell with it” out loud, but the water’s still warm and Johnny’s skin is like silk under his fingers; and soon enough Johnny’s straddling him again, moaning into his mouth, pushing their cocks together rhythmically; and Gus has one hand in the small of Johnny’s back, the other under the curve of Johnny’s ass, helping Johnny rock against him. In the back of his mind his brain is telling him to remember the point, but just then Johnny’s hand slides down his chest, between them, and suddenly there’s delicious pressure all around his cock, against his cock, Johnny’s cock sliding along with his into Johnny’s hand.
All right, no, not here, he wants – needs! – to taste Johnny, feel Johnny stretched against him full length, needs to –
“Oh God,” he says, gasping for breath: Johnny’s hand is tightening, the pace quickening. “Please – Johnny–”
Somewhat to his surprise, Johnny’s hand slows; and Johnny, breathing hard, leans back enough to look at him, a question forming on his lips.
“What you do to me,” Gus whispers, shaken; and Johnny’s eyes droop suddenly, long lidded, sultry; and he draws in a breath, shaky too. “Bed?” Gus says then, not really a question; and Johnny nods quickly, apparently speechless.
Gus helps Johnny get leverage to push up and out; and he can’t resist biting Johnny’s ass where it curves from his hip, a gentle nip, not enough to bruise, more than enough to make Johnny moan, moan and turn back; and Gus, pulling himself to his knees, leans in to taste Johnny, too fast, too hard, but he can’t stop himself; and when Johnny’s cock slides in further, into his throat, Gus relaxes and swallows. Johnny’s got two fists clenched in Gus’ hair and the noise he makes, a whimper, a throaty sigh, has Gus fumbling for his own cock as he swallows again, as he slides the whole length of him down and buries his nose in Johnny’s pubic hair.
He swallows one more time, then, reluctantly, lets Johnny slide out and takes a deep breath, refilling his lungs; and Johnny’s crouching over him, kissing him urgently, his fingers, those long, beautiful fingers feeling Gus’ throat, just above his Adam’s apple, gasping words into Gus’ mouth: “Oh, God, so hot, so tight, so close…”
“No,” Gus whispers, “not yet; wait for me, Johnny.” And he’s suddenly certain, absolutely certain, that Johnny was this close, the first time they kissed: the urgency’s the same, and the voice, and the tension all over his body, good tension, happy tension.
Johnny’s eyes are closed and he’s swallowing, trying, Gus realises, to pull himself together. Gus hauls himself out of the tub and wraps a robe around Johnny, just enough to blot some of the water, and then he leans in and licks a nipple, precisely, delicately, pressing just hard enough with his tongue to make Johnny arch against him with another moan.
“Your turn,” he whispers into Johnny’s neck, into Johnny’s ear.
“God, Gus, don’t–”
“I won’t… your turn.” Gus leans down again, flicking the other nipple, feeling Johnny’s hands tighten in his hair. “Ask me,” he whispers, watching the nipple tighten as his breath moves across it. “Your turn.”
“God, I can’t think,” Johnny says shakily. “I can’t… ice cream. Ice cream? You like ice cream?”
Tears, unbidden, prick the back of his eyelids: innocent, God, and so damnably – adorable, so – “Yeah,” he says hoarsely. “I love it.” He pushes, and Johnny moves back a step: they’re in the outer bathroom now, only a few steps to the bed, and it might as well be a hundred miles.
“Vanilla? Chocolate? Uh… butter pecan?”
“My turn,” Gus growls, burying his face in Johnny’s neck, sucking, licking, biting enough to make Johnny’s voice, when he answers, break.
“Don’t I – oh, God… freebie?”
“Anything,” Gus growls again, pushing, walking Johnny backwards, “everything. Chocolate and vanilla and especially butter pecan. Whipped cream, nuts, a cherry.”
“I want to taste ice cream on you,” Johnny says against Gus’ mouth. “I want… I want…”
“Everything,” Gus says again, halting their progress (such as it is) so he can lose himself in Johnny’s mouth again, in Johnny’s arms, in the hot press of Johnny’s body against his, the hard press of cock against his stomach, the rough soft brush of hair under his palms as he cradles Johnny’s head in his hands.
“Your turn,” Johnny whispers against his mouth; and Gus has to physically stop himself, stop for a moment and think, because the words aren’t going together in any way that makes sense to him right now.
Of course, that’s assuming that he’s stopped making sense now as opposed to, say, five minutes ago.
“Music,” he breathes, biting Johnny’s chin, scraping the stubble with his teeth. “What’d you listen to, growing up?”
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
“Music,” Johnny echoes, turning his head to find Gus’ mouth with his own, because if he feels Gus’ teeth one single more time he’s going to come and the hell with waiting.
Except that Gus’ certainty, that he can wait, that he will wait… Gus’ certainty is almost impossible to argue with, or even doubt.
“Music,” Gus says again, into his mouth; and they’re moving again, too, backwards until he feels the bed behind him. He sinks down first, fast, licking a broad wet strip down Gus’ belly, under Gus’ cock, nuzzling into Gus’ balls with his nose and his mouth and breathing in deep. Gus groans, a deep beautiful sound, and Johnny groans too because he smells so good, he tastes so good, under, behind, around, the fuzz on Gus’ balls tickling his nose and his face.
“You’re killing me,” Gus breathes. “God, Johnny…”
Johnny, his mouth stretched around one of Gus’ balls, can’t really answer but Gus probably doesn’t expect him to, so he hums instead, feeling the sound vibrate through his mouth, through Gus the way Gus’ moan, Gus’ words are vibrating through him.
This… this is what he wanted, all he wanted; and it suddenly seems as simple as Gus said it was, earlier.
Gus’ hands are in his hair again, pulling tight, hauling Johnny up and back by main force. Seconds after he lets go, Gus is on him, on the bed, insistent: he pins Johnny’s arms above his head with one hand and stares at him for a long moment before leaning in to brush Johnny’s lips with his own while his other hand finds Johnny’s nipple.
“My turn,” he says again, and his voice is so dark, so throaty, that Johnny nearly comes on the strength of it. “Music…”
“God,” Johnny says, breathless, laughing. “Who cares what I–”
“I care,” Gus says, fixing him with eyes so dark and intent that Johnny’s stomach flips. “We can do this the easy way or the hard way,” and he grinds his hips into Johnny’s crotch, against Johnny’s cock, when he says ‘hard,’ and then reaches down to lick Johnny’s nipples again, first the left, then the right.
“Oh, God, anything,” Johnny says, squirming and not caring how desperate he sounds: it’s not like Gus doesn’t already knoweverything there is to know, everything important anyway. “The, uh… the Diodes. DOA.”
“Of course,” Gus breathes, a wicked glint in his eye; and he begins to move against Johnny, too slow, too good. “And? The Clash?”
“Yeah,” Johnny gasps, trying to pull out of Gus’ grip. “C’mon, oh God, Gus –”
“Sex Pistols? Pink Floyd?”
“No – yes! Suddenly Saucer, uh…”
“Triumph?”
Johnny’s eyes fly open to see Gus grinning at him; and then Gus looses his wrists. “Oh yeah,” Johnny says, trying to sound as firm as Gus but only managing half-cocked – full-cocked, right between the legs, God – “had all their albums –” With his hands free he can grab Gus, pull him down, and he does, licking Gus’ mouth and then going for it like an odd man rush late in the third.
When Gus is breathing as hard as Johnny, Johnny lets go, lets go and gets his leg under him, pushing Gus over so he’s on top now, straddling Gus. “My turn,” he says, holding Gus by the wrists – one hand for each, because Gus has at least twenty pounds on him. But Gus is struggling just enough that his cock is poking Johnny in the belly; as soon as Johnny catches on, he gets up on his knees and says again, “My turn.”
Gus grins, chest still heaving, and says, almost meekly, “Okay.”
But Johnny’s not stupid and doesn’t relax his grip for even a second. Gus grins broader and tries to lift his head enough to reach Johnny’s. “Too smart for me,” he says, straining; but Johnny’s got leverage and he holds Gus down. “Okay, your turn.”
Johnny wishes he had a free hand: Gus deserves to be tickled right now. But he settles for teasing, sinking back down slowly, letting their cocks touch, meet, move just enough that Gus’ eyes start to close, and then he stops. “Cats or dogs?” he says, trying to keep his voice steady, trying to sound as nonchalant as Gus did; and he chances a quick dip, a taste of Gus’ mouth.
“Johnny–”
“Cats or dogs?” Johnny says again, unable to keep the smile off his face any longer. “Gerbils? Horses? Sheep?”
“I don’t know what rumours you’ve heard about Newfoundland but the sheep are not scared,” Gus says; and while Johnny’s exploding with laughter Gus gets loose, but instead of flipping them over again, he pulls Johnny down, stretches Johnny out, full-length, on top of him, and rubs one hand over Johnny’s ass, kissing him (between Johnny’s gasps for breath) all the while. “In fact,” Gus adds when Johnny’s finally stopped, “between you and me, those sheep are spoiled.” He thrusts up against Johnny as he says it, his cock hard and wet against Johnny’s stomach, and Johnny loses it completely, rolling off Gus onto his back and howling.
Gus leans up on an elbow, grinning, chuckling now and then; and he sets Johnny off all over again when he says solemnly, “Spoiled rotten. But not like shark.”
“Oh God, my stomach hurts,” Johnny says, gasping. “You are sick, I am sick, we’re sick!”
“Welcome to hell,” Gus says, and he’s suddenly a lot closer than he was just seconds ago, his breath warm on Johnny’s face. “Pretty cozy, isn’t it?”
Johnny doesn’t really know what he’s saying, and doesn’t really care: “I love it. I–”
Fortunately for him, and for any hope he has of getting out of this, in a few weeks, with maybe a shred of dignity, Gus cuts him off with a tongue in his mouth and a hand on his cock. By the time Gus is talking again, his lips warm and soft against Johnny’s throat, it’s all Johnny can do to actually listen: “I don’t have a sheep,” he’s saying. “Or a dog, not that I mind dogs. I have a cat, sometimes: she’s the town cat; and I had a pig for a while. Does that count?”
“Count…” Johnny says, straining into Gus’ hand. “Uh… yeah… oh, God, don’t – don’t–”
“I won’t,” Gus says in the hollow at the base of his throat. “Never,” and his tongue is warm and wet on Johnny’s nipple again, God, nothing’s ever felt like that. He tries to pull Gus up, hooking a leg over his waist, but Gus laughs against his skin and licks the flat of Johnny’s stomach.
“My turn again,” Gus says into Johnny’s navel; and then Johnny feels tongue, tongue and lips. He can’t think what Gus means for a second, and then can’t believe it, and he laughs out loud, mostly because he can’t believe Gus is serious.
“Yeah,” Gus says, lifting his head to look at Johnny, his smile glorious and untamed, and Johnny can’t breathe for a second because he’s so beautiful, so he just blinks instead. “Or on second thought…”
“Second thoughts, third thoughts,” Johnny says, arching his body, trying to get closer, somehow– “Please…”
Gus rubs his palms up Johnny’s thighs and Johnny shudders; and Gus leans in and Johnny watches as his tongue comes out. He wants to keep watching, he wants to see – but when Gus’ tongue touches the end of his cock he gasps and his head falls back: maybe next time, because Gus’ mouth is so warm, so sweet, that he just wants to feel, just wants–
And Gus is doing it again, taking Johnny in, in and down; and Johnny shoves his fist in his mouth so he doesn’t scream, let the whole floor, the whole hotel know how good it feels to be in Gus Knickel’s throat, how soft warm tight wet–
And then it’s gone, gone too fast, a chill down his cock and up his spine.
And then Gus is over him, on him, holding his hands, still in fists, kissing where Johnny bit himself, and telling Johnny in a fierce, low whisper that he wants Johnny, he wants all of him, he wants to taste him, taste him and feel him and hear him, and Johnny barely has time to wonder how Gus saw him, how he noticed, before Gus’ mouth is on his. And this time it’s not gentle, not at all, it’s Gus licking his way in and taking his mouth, it’s Gus’ hand on the back of his neck, strong and warm,holding him, it’s Gus’ thigh between his legs giving him something to rub against, something else to feel.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
He knows he’s pushed Johnny to the edge and he can’t stop himself anyway: he’s this close to dragging Johnny back to Solomon Gundy, back to his island, where he’s not bound by the constraints of time and civilization and everything else that comes, or wants to come, between Johnny and him, where Johnny won’t have to think, won’t have to worry, won’t have to –
He kisses Johnny’s hand again, his tongue finding the dents Johnny’s teeth made there, licking and smoothing them; and he rubs his finger over them too. Johnny’s breathing fast, confusion writ large on his face; Gus holds his gaze and licks his finger, then finds one of Johnny’s nipples without looking, circling it gently, lightly. Johnny moans again, hooking an ankle around Gus’ calf, his cock pulsing against Gus’ thigh.
Gus wets his finger again and then slides down enough to make room for his hand, too, between Johnny’s legs; and as he licks Johnny’s nipple, pressing it down and then sucking it in, he reaches behind Johnny’s balls, finding the soft skin there.
Johnny’s got Gus by the hair with one hand, the other one holding onto Gus’ shoulder like a drowning man clinging to wreckage. Gus slides his hand further down, finding the soft pucker of skin, rubbing gently and using his teeth, just as gently, on Johnny’s nipple at the same time. Johnny’s moan goes higher all at once as Gus’ fingertip slips in, in and out, higher and louder, and that’s what Gus wanted, wants. He reaches up with his thumb, finding the base of Johnny’s cock and rubbing up and around while he blows across Johnny’s nipple.
Johnny seems to come up off the bed; Gus pushes his hand down, his finger in just a little more and fastens his lips to the base of Johnny’s throat, sucking hard enough to sting, hard enough to leave a mark. And this time Johnny does scream, or near enough to make no difference. Gus misses the first mouthful but latches onto Johnny’s cock in time for the rest, and he doesn’t know what he wants more: the sound of Johnny, almost a moan, part of a whimper, or the taste of Johnny’s cock, spilling into his mouth, warm and alive and bursting with Johnny.
Johnny’s still shuddering, still coming, when his calf jerks again under Gus, in just the right spot, and Gus sucks him in hard one last time and then lets himself go all over Johnny’s leg and the sheets, raising his head to gasp Johnny’s name against Johnny’s stomach.
There’s moisture on his face; it takes him a minute, breathing hard and collecting his scattered-to-the-wind thoughts, to realize he’s laying in Johnny’s come. That thought makes his breath catch again and he turns to lick Johnny’s stomach, still heaving beneath him as Johnny tries to catch his own breath. Johnny’s fingers are on his face, cupping his jaw, stroking gently, and Gus has to consciously slow his breathing, his pounding heart, because he feels inexplicable tears threatening.
It’s the work of a few seconds to pull the covers down, to climb back into the bed with Johnny, pull the covers back up and wrap himself around Johnny; and it’s not the wisest thing he’s ever done, but he whispers things he probably shouldn’t in Johnny’s ear, just in front of his lips; and Johnny answers back, sleepy, smiling, and oh so sweet.
It’s a very few minutes later when Johnny’s deep, even breathing shows he’s gone; and Gus hopes – he’d pray, if he couldthink – he’ll be let to sleep undisturbed by ghosts this time; and he kisses the back of Johnny’s neck and lets the tears he’d held back, earlier, slide out of the corner of his eye and into the pillowcase.
He tucks his face between the back of Johnny’s head and the pillow and lets the darkness pull him down, heaving a deep sigh that’s the last thing he remembers for a while.
When he wakes again, he’d swear Johnny hasn’t moved, and that’s just what he wanted.
Wants.
God, he wants.
He breathes in deep and presses his lips to the back of Johnny’s neck; Johnny murmurs something, something Gus can’t make out; but his voice is warm… and happy.
“Soon,” Gus whispers, not really sure if it’s Johnny or himself he’s talking to; and then he carefully, quietly disentangles himself from Johnny’s arms and legs. Once out of bed, Johnny murmurs something else and rolls onto his stomach.
Gus wonders if, hopes that, Johnny will sleep until he gets back from the lawyers; and he gets ready as quietly as he can, then pulls the French doors shut and writes Johnny a quick note.
Unfortunately he has to go back into the bedroom for the papers from the lawyers: and he finds them on the table by the window, where Johnny must have put them for safekeeping. Johnny’s still sleeping soundly; Gus watches him for a long minute and then shakes himself.
He props the note up by Johnny’s coffee contraption: “Gone to lawyers. Back around three (I hope). See you for dinner.”
Yeah, Noelle wants an informal dinner; but if it’s that informal, he’s damned if he’ll leave Johnny behind, although the prospect of Johnny at the mercy of, say, Nelson’s tongue – or even Noelle’s – wipes the smile from his face, enough so that the doorman rushes to open the door, apologizing all the while; and it takes Gus almost too long to laugh and brush it off.
No dinner, and that’s an end to it, he decides; and he stops in the store at the corner to make two phone calls.
He could make them from the room, but he’d wake Johnny; and he could make them from the lawyers’ offices but it’s none of their concern.
Zeda’s in, and answers on the second ring; she usually does. She grills him about the confederation and the concessions; fortunately he’d read enough, last night, to satisfy her most pressing questions but she’s not entirely happy with his answers.
Being her star pupil for too many years to count is starting to have its drawbacks, and he says as much.
She scolds him, but she’s off the subject now and ready to listen to the real reason he called, which was nothing to do with confederation and everything to do with Johnny.
“And shouldn’t you be telling this to your bishop?” is the first thing she says.
“I will,” Gus says. “But you came first.”
“I hope you’re not expecting confetti and fireworks,” and Gus rejoices, as he always does, in her very acidity. “There’s many on the island will be disappointed in you, letting the line die out.”
The other, better thing he loves about Zeda is not just her ability to put him in his place but her ability to understand the things he doesn’t say, doesn’t need to say to her.
“They’ve had plenty of years to practice,” he says glibly, knowing what she expects from him. “It’s probably better this way.” He knows, and she knows too, that anything, really, would go over better than Noelle had, probably even the apocryphal sheep.
“You’d think that,” she says, punctuating her sentence with a snort. “You were everything your grandfather wanted, you know.”
“And my father wasn’t,” Gus says. “You know.”
“You’ll bring him for dinner as soon as you get here. No excuses, mind,” Zeda says, finally capitulating.
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Gus says meekly.
“Perhaps you should call Bunsy too,” she says, and again he feels a surge of homesickness, so sharp he can taste it: she knew he’d call her first; and she knows he’ll call Bunsy next.
“I’m on solid ground there,” he says cheerfully. “At least there’s no way Johnny can be mistaken for a witch.”
“Don’t encourage him,” Zeda says automatically. “Call me before you leave Montréal so we can air the place out.”
“Of course,” Gus says, just as meekly, and she hangs up.
Bunsy, who’s grown increasingly hard of hearing, is more of a challenge. At first he takes it into his head that Gus is bringing Noelle back and after a five minute harangue in which he holds Noelle, and confederation, responsible for all the evils that have befallen Solomon Gundy in the past two hundred years, Gus’ laughter finally penetrates his righteous anger.
“Not Noelle,” Gus says loudly. “Johnny.”
There’s a long silence; then Bunsy says, “Come from over the sea, did he?”
Gus tries not to be surprised but there’s not much point in it. “In a manner of speaking.”
“You’d best let Zeda know. That cat of yours is pregnant. I told you no good would come of feeding her in the graveyard.”
“Cats hunt, Bunsy, it’s not as if I turn mice loose –”
“You probably turn mice loose a-purpose for her to run down,” Bunsy says loudly.
“You’re right, as usual,” Gus says. “I’ll call you again when I’m on my way back.”
“Mind he brings–”
“Absolutely,” Gus says, and hangs up the phone before the laughter gets loose: a mortally offended Bunsy, while amusing at times, is not something that Gus needs to cope with as soon as he gets back.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The bed’s not only empty but cold when Johnny wakes. He stares at the ceiling for a minute, his hand resting in the hollow where Gus had been.
It’s in the back of his head that Gus was meeting with someone, but he doesn’t know if Gus told him or he just figured it out somehow.
Anyway.
He’s got stuff to do too and slacking in bed all day won’t get it done.
And Johnny knows it’s sad but he checks for a note first: Gus left him one – hell, handed it to him – when he went to get breakfast, after all. And he finds one, by the coffee pot; and he doesn’t realize he’s smiling until he’s folded it into quarters.
It goes in his bag, in his zip binder where he keeps his passport and address book, and a calling card, and the map of Canada that (sort of) made Gus laugh until he couldn’t breathe; and, yeah, the note that Gus shoved under his nose this morning, while Johnny was on the phone with Eric.
It’s stupid, and he never said it wasn’t. He’d kept the four letters Zoë’d sent him – they’d never really been apart, not very much – with the vague idea that their grandchildren would want to see them some day.
He’d never found his letters to her, he realises suddenly, but he didn’t go through her stuff; Auntie Auntie and her friend (and, of course, Johnny’s cousin twice removed) Nora had. Auntie Auntie wouldn’t have thrown them away but she might have put them away.
He should ask her, next time he thinks of it.
Not that grandchildren are part of the picture, but great nephews or great nieces, yeah, someday he could have those climbing all over him and asking questions, wanting to know; and he can show them the letters from Zoë and the… the two innocuous notes from a week he spent in Ottawa once with a priest.
Johnny laughs out loud, laughs at himself, but he doesn’t hold it against himself either; and he zips the binder up again and goes in to shower and shave.
He doesn’t notice it until he’s shaving: why should he? But Gus left a mark, red, with purple pinpricks, on his collarbone, a mark the size of a loonie.
And he’s not getting hard over that, because he’s not a teenager.
Not that he ever had one as a teenager, but Sigrid had, and it made them laugh: once, when their father actually noticed something outside his boat, his engine, Sigrid told him, with a straight face, that it was the curling iron.
Her hair was all of three inches long just then but Dad had nodded and gone back to the parts catalog; and it was all they could do not to laugh, but they’d held off until they got to the attic and they’d laughed then until they couldn’t breathe, until Sigrid had tears rolling down her face, until Johnny’s stomach ached.
Sort of the way it aches now, after Gus and the sheep, after laughing so hard he couldn’t stop; and he’s smiling again, just thinking about it, and thinking how those’re sheep to be jealous of.
He picks out a black t-shirt, a little small, so the neck’s snug; and he pulls out his only pair of clean jeans, also a little tight, and black, once, now old and worn to a dark soft grey. Laundry is definitely on his to-do list today, laundry and coffee.
Gus’ clothes are still on the floor in the bathroom so Johnny picks them up too: jeans are jeans, after all, and he got coffee on Gus’ shirt.
And he’s not going to get hard, either, over the memory of Gus stripping down and no underwear beneath.
God.
If he’s here much longer he’ll end up jerking off; and after just two days with Gus, that’s – it’s just not enough, not now.
So Johnny skips coffee, shoving the laundry into a rucksack he uses for it. He gets change from the front desk, but the clerk doesn’t seem to understand Johnny’s question. It doesn’t matter: he’d planned to stop by, say hi to Hafdís anyway, see if she knows a place.
He barely has time to get “Sæl!” out of his mouth before she’s bringing him a cup for coffee, sitting him down at the same table as yesterday; and she puts a plate of cookies out for him before going to wait on the woman and her daughter who came in right after Johnny.
Hafdís sits down too, after they leave (they bought two sweaters and a bracelet that doesn’t look like it but still makes him think of the one Max bought for Zoë) and they have a companionable cup of coffee, talking about nothing in particular. When she nods at his rucksack, he remembers his question: the coffee was so good, and the cookies (as good as Amma’s), that he forgot why he’d originally stopped in. He tells her about the coffee pot and the coffee, and she’s thrilled about that too; and of course she knows a place for laundry, further into “the Market,” she says, that’s clean and reasonable.
Johnny forgets his Icelandic and his English, trying to thank her when he leaves, and he feels his face getting hot; but she just laughs and pats his arm, and tells him to come by again before he leaves Ottawa, and to bring a picture of his nephew next time (the Grade 8 picture in Johnny’s wallet is “too old”).
On the way to the laundromat Johnny passes an army-navy surplus store. He’d planned to look for one in Montreal but he’s never looked a gift horse in the mouth. He comes out almost an hour later, happier than he was before and in possession of a shelter-half, a very small camping stove, a mess kit, a kettle, and a couple of old wool blankets. Next door is a bookshop, where he finds a map of eastern Canada that’s better than the one he has at the hotel; and, down the next street, he finds the laundromat.
He splurges on two loads, a light and a medium: his two pairs of jeans plus Gus’ take up most of the room in one of the (really small) washers. And he’s almost alone, so he doesn’t feel guilty about spreading the map out on one of the folding tables and studying it for a while. He’s practicing the French names under his breath, trying to say them the way Gus did, when the washers stop.
He concentrates on Newfoundland while the dryers are going: he finds Solomon Gundy and identifies the ferry routes to it. He has to look around the map to find the scale, and he tries to figure out how big the island really is, measuring with his fingertip; when the dryer buzzer goes off, he realises he’s tracing the water around the island with his finger and he’s glad he’s alone now: he can feel his ears heating up.
On the way back to the hotel he stops in to tell Hafdís about the little stove, and to thank her for the laundromat. She reminds him of Eric, a little, entering into the spirit of the trip, and she’s telling him a vendor to look for, the next day at the farmer’s market, when someone else comes into the store. He ducks out with a grin and a wave and tells her he’ll see her tomorrow; she calls after him to remember the picture of Eric.
Johnny doesn’t have his watch on – he left without it; but he’s pretty sure it’s way past three: the sun is sitting a lot lower in the sky. On the other hand, Gus doesn’t seem the type to worry, if he even made it back by three (Johnny’s found, in his own very limited experience, that meetings with lawyers always go long).