Disclaimer ======================================================= This is fiction, in as much as anything can be. Amongst other things it is about homosexuality. I assume that you are accountable for your own actions. If you read this in spite of there being some reason that you should not, you are responsible for whatever consequences come to pass. Copyright (c) psyfon@mindless.com ================================ PsyFon reserves the right to be identified as the author of this work and asks that you not seek to profit from this or derived works. Archive it, send it to friends, make hard copies and use them as kindling. Just don't steal it. (Wow, a copyright notice, the ultimate conceit!) Comments ========================================================= If you have any thoughts or comments about this story I would love to hear them. Flames go to the null device. My email address is: psyfon@mindless.com URL:mailto:psyfon@mindless.com Other Stuff ====================================================== Especial thanks to //, a generous and gentle critic; this is so much better for your time and thought. Obviously, I'm responsible for all the crap bits. ==================================================================
Theory and Practice By PsyFon psyfon@mindless.com 12 November 1998 - 25 February 1999
Gaudy sodium lamps and what little light escaped from shuttered shop windows bathed the rain-washed street in the unnatural glow of the city. Cold October drizzle had been falling steadily since before lunch and showed no sign of stopping. Earlier in the day it had left everyone who could not escape indoors soaked and shivering, but they were gone now; people do not stay out late on wet Monday nights unless they have to. As I passed a closed supermarket that specialised in the expensive end of cheap, a soft, beaten voice said "'Scuse me? You got 20p?" I turned to my right where I caught sight of a figure huddled in the shadows. I stopped mortician slab still, staring down at grey hair and an old coat that looked as if they would rather be dead than stood in front of me. I wanted so much for whomever was there to be somewhere else; anywhere else, but looking up at my face, not expectantly, not hopefully or with anticipation, just looking, their eyes washing sluggishly about their sockets, fixed on nothing in particular. I had the money and I could have given it, but I refused. Resuming my stride, I left the grey hair and coat hunched against the night. I had been walking for the best part of an hour, retracing steps friends and I had taken years before; when hanging out and having a good time were reason enough, but for me having no particular destination had become a bad habit. I continued on past buildings that hadn't changed in years, but they no longer held the mystery they once did, they no longer prompted thoughts of the secrets they might hide, of an adventure just waiting to happen.
By the time I saw the all night snack bar I had walked a little too far and I knew it. Inside, fluorescent tubes banished the shadows with clinical vigour, laying bare the plastic furniture and almost colourless decor. The place was empty save for the poor soul pulling the night shift. I propped up the counter and looked out of the window while I waited for a black coffee and bacon roll. Lost in thought, I was surprised to see someone step from the shadows and bustle through the door, wet training shoes squelching as he walked, desperately trying to keep whatever he held under his black duffle coat from falling to the ground; he failed and a collection of books hit the floor just before he reached the counter. From underneath the large hood came a depressed, "Shit!" as the figure bent to retrieve them. Without thinking I knelt to lend a hand and found my self smiling and staring at titles from a long time ago. I picked up the closest and flipped to the dedication, 'For those people who would be philosophers given the chance.'
"Technical stuff," I said, not quite flatly.
I got a muffled, "Yuh, I s'pose," that was full of tiredness and despondency. Abruptly the figure stood and placed the books on a table to his left, I followed suit. Shivering involuntarily, he pushed the hood from his head revealing slightly matted black hair and a gaunt complexion that was made to look worse by the dark bags under his green, almost feline eyes.
"I read Lansdale cover to cover three times before it sank in," I said gesturing to the book I had been holding, "by the end of the third reading I still found the intelligibility condition unintelligible. At least the way Lansdale has it."
"Huh, oh yuh, it's ah - " there was a pause of a few seconds as he began to rummage around in his pockets for some change, "opaque." >From the silence that greeted him and the look of consternation that began to cross his face I gathered that the money he thought he had was not to be found.
"Ah," I said to the attendant, "can you make that two bacon rolls and two coffees." The attendant grunted what I took to be some kind of affirmation. As I turned back to the stranger I stated rather than asked, "You do like bacon?" Almost daring him to say no.
Taking his hands from empty pockets he mumbled, "Yuh, bacon's cool, thanks." We stood looking at the other, each on our own end of an awkward silence. I smiled nervously, but I did not drop my eyes from his and he stared right back at me; obviously curious as to why a complete stranger had just bought him supper. He wasn't alone in that, I didn't quite know myself. He extended his hand saying, "I'm Aaron, Aaron Mackie." Full of reserve, maybe even grateful for the food and perhaps a little conversation; I couldn't tell from his tone, warm and polite with just a hint of curiosity.
"Nick Craven," I said, shaking his hand firmly.
"So, I'm curious," getting right to the point of it. "You often buy food for total strangers?"
"No, not usually," smiling. "What can I say, it's your lucky day," sounding much more sure of myself than I felt.
"Not really," he said flatly, I cocked my head to one side. He jumped in a little hurriedly before I spoke, "Um, sorry. That wasn't meant to sound quite the way it did. What I meant was something like. What sets me apart?"
"I thought as much," trying to wipe what must be becoming an inane grin from my face. "It's not every day you see philosophy students about, and Lansdale's on the abstract side of abstract. As I said, technical stuff."
"I'm cognitive science, not philosophy," just a little prickly, "but, well - this stuff's a condition of the course." He sighed and ran his hand through his hair before continuing. "It's killing me though."
"Not going well then?" the pitch of my voice rising politely. Like so many questions this one was not quite redundant, despite having already been answered, asked merely to get a reply.
"I read it, I listen, but I must be a dunce or somethin' 'cos it just doesn't go in. Give me an adaptive network or pattern discovery heuristic to fix and I'm fine," shaking his head, "but this." He sighed heavily.
"So where's your problem?" I asked. From there it went back and forth while we waited for supper. When our coffee and food arrived we found a table and chatted on. Aaron was quick, no doubt I was a little slower than I used to be and it was indeed technical stuff, but once I got back on and recalled the moves I had made in seminars that took place an age ago, it began to seem like I was flying with it, pulling mental one eighties and not losing a premise. It was thrilling, real, I felt alive.
"So," Aaron asked nursing his fourth coffee, "you used to be a philosopher?"
"Not really," I said, "I studied it as a post-grad, but well, things sorta got messy and I just," sounding aimless and a little lost, "well I just drifted,"
"Shit," he said in a flat tone, "you make the most difficult stuff seem easy. I'd have sworn you taught this, or somethin'."
"Me," snickering, "nah, I catch rats 'n' mice 'n' stuff people don't want."
"Man that's a waste," he consoled. "Why?"
"I dunno," I said a little too shortly. I had a good idea of why, but I wasn't about to share it with someone who wasn't quite a stranger, no matter how amiable he seemed.
"You don't look like you should be doing pest control. Don't you mind all those dead rodents?"
"They're just rodents Aaron. Alive and all, but just rodents."
"I'm not sure I could kill anything," he paused for breath. "On the radio the other day, someone was saying they're immune to the poison used, er..," he stumbled for the name.
"Warfarin," I offered. This conversation was getting decidedly grim.
"That's right, Warfarin."
"No, they're not - people just don't lay enough bait and what they do lay, they put in the wrong places - leave enough for ratty to come back to five or six times and he'll die."
"How's it work?"
"It's an anticoagulant," I said quietly. I seldom liked to talk about the rather grisly nature of my job. "They bleed to death." I tried not to think about how the rodentia I was paid to control, a wonderful euphemism for kill, died. I suspected slowly and in some degree of pain. Rat or Mouse as a concept, as the name of a species that is, for the most part, a health risk; it's easy to lay poison for that, but an individual death, perhaps long and drawn out, I find that harder to deal with. My boss had once called it hopeless sentimentalism - I hoped to never become as cold as that. The personal is where the real tragedy lies and to lose sight of that, to be blind to it, to not understand it, to revel in the slow death of anything. Such a brutal way to feel, such a human way to feel. The rats, the insects, whatever the pest, all of them simply act in accordance with their nature, fulfilling their place in the universe and I take no pleasure in stopping them. Pest control with a conscience, how delightfully perverse. I heard Aaron mutter something, "Sorry, I didn't catch that."
"I said it sounds gruesome."
"Yeh, I try not to think about it," stifling a yawn. "Look, I have to go - up for work in the morning and all that."
"Yuh, it's kinda late. Um," he hedged, "I know it may be taking a liberty, but - ah, can I call you. I have more of this to do. If I get bogged down it would be - " he paused searching for a word, "nice to have someone to talk to?"
"Well," I smiled, "I s'pose." We parted after he wrote down my number. When I got back to my flat I emptied the last of my bourbon into a glass and nursed it before crawling into bed.
-0-0-0-
I walked from the shower, picked up the ringing phone and greeted whoever was on the other end with my usual hello. "Is Nick there please?" came the reply.
"Yeh, that's me. Who's callin'"
"It's Aaron, you bought me supper a week or two ago." He didn't need to remind me.
"Yeh," I said rather more brightly than I'd intended, "how're things?"
"Not so bad, thanks. You said I could call you and maybe get together for a coffee or something," he sounded expectant and a little nervous.
"I remember, so what are you bogged down with?" I wondered whether he could hear me grinning down the phone.
"Chaotic vector analysis of extensionally quantified sense data realised as multidimensional state spaces."
"Um," smiling I paused for effect, "and the English translation?"
"Oh right, sorry, Krakow and Pettigrew?"
"See," I chuckled, "six words and no technobabble, we'll have you speaking English yet."
"You know this stuff?" Aaron asked brightly.
"Uh huh, when do you want to meet?"
"Well, um, would now be OK?" he hedged. "I know it's Sunday and short notice and you probably have things to do...."
"Now's cool," I said, cutting his babbling. "I just need to get dressed. Where's good for you?"
"Er, anywhere's fine with me - your place?" I didn't fancy going out and I preferred my own coffee. After giving Aaron directions I hung up. He was knocking at my door fifteen minutes later looking healthier than the first time we had met. His black hair was washed and parted down the centre, curling just a little either side of his eyes, which were now free of their unsightly bags. I liked this less haggard Aaron much more.
"Come in," I said, "you're looking better."
With a mumbled, "Thanks," he stepped through the door and smiled, maybe just a little self consciously, "sleep helps, and my first decent grade in philosophy."
"See, I told ya you aren't thick," as I closed the door. Aaron grinned, but said nothing. Walking through to the kitchen I continued, "C'mon through, I'll put the kettle on. Tea or coffee?"
"Tea'ad be good, black, no sugar."
A couple of hours later I ran my hands through my hair and looked at Aaron slouched in a dining chair opposite me. His eyes were fixed on the table and his fingers rested just below his chest, interlocked and pointing skyward. He had not spoken for the past five minutes, a picture of concentration and study. "So?" I prompted.
"Huh, oh yeh," sounding distracted. "It makes sense."
"So ah," I paused, "if it makes sense, what a..."
"Am I thinking about?" Aaron finished for me. Smiling, he sat up, straightening his back.
"Precisely."
"I was wondering what you do in your spare time. When you're not killing mice 'n' rats 'n' stuff people don't want."
"Well," I said smiling at my own words, "I, uh, don't know. Nothing much, my time just sort of disappears I s'pose."
"So how about letting some disappear with me tonight?" unsure of whether he knew how suggestive that sounded I raised an eyebrow and smiled while I waited for Aaron to continue. "They're showing 'The Maltese Falcon' at the university's film theatre. You want to come?"
"Sounds good to me, I've never seen it on a big screen."
"Me either, and Peter Lorre is just so cool," Aaron almost cooed.
"'S funny," I said, "most people watch that movie for Bogie."
"Yeh well, maybe," Aaron paused before changing the subject. "So you live alone?"
"Uh huh, I'm a solitary kind of bloke," I smiled raising my hands above my head and stretching. "No pets, no partner, no parents, no worries."
"Yuh!" Aaron grunted. "Like you're so lucky," with more than a hint of irony. I stared back at him impassively, suddenly feeling alone, but I said nothing. "Sorry," softly, tenderly. "That didn't sound very nice."
"'S all right," it wasn't and he was right; it did sound kind of mean, but I didn't want an argument. Instead I asked if he would like another cup of tea. We spent what remained of the afternoon talking about whatever came to mind. After a couple of sandwiches and an apple we left to see the film. I returned home alone having said good night to Aaron outside the university. I sat in my living room with a half tumbler of rum to warm me before I went to bed. I didn't bother to turn on the lights, not that the darkness hid the emptiness of the place. I had had fun, a good time. I liked Aaron; he made me laugh and his constant questions about philosophy pushed me in a way that most anything else never would and most likely never could. Despite what I had said earlier it wasn't all right and I knew it. The darkness and the silence said so. The nights I would spend walking nowhere screamed it so loud my ears rang. I was alone. I had friends, we would talk, share a joke or two, but like the song says, 'Your friends only go so far, however close friends think they are.' I stared off into the darkness and sighed.
-0-0-0-
"Uh huh, so when're you thinking of inviting yourself round?" I asked Aaron as we walked towards the swimming baths. The sky was a clear blue and a bitter wind whipped across our faces turning our noses and ears red. Aaron and I had got together a couple of times a week since going to see 'The Maltese Falcon' at the end of October. Mostly we would sit and talk about TV, books that we had read or some part of philosophy.
"Well, we've got to have the stuff on Wittgenstein in by the end of the term, so I was thinking this weekend."
"Err, not really," I said hesitantly. "I'm off cycling, I doubt I'll be back before Sunday evening."
"Cycling, but it's December!" he sounded concerned. "You'll freeze or die or something," making a voice and pulling a face that left me in no doubt he questioned my sanity. He wasn't the first.
"You sound like a parent," I quipped more harshly than I'd intended. "I'll be fine," just a little condescendingly.
"Where're you going anyway?" I couldn't quite decide whether he was genuinely interested or simply being polite.
"Just in the hills," I said. "It's a regular thing - sort of."
"Well if you say so," sounding less than convinced. "If the weekend is no good, how 'bout Monday?" he offered.
"Sounds fine to me." Approaching the baths we made small talk about my understanding boss, allowing me to take a weekday afternoon for myself. "I'm owed the time," I said. "I don't see why I shouldn't take it," just before we stepped into the baths' air conditioned foyer and then, after paying, through to the changing area. The heated tiles were warm to my feet and the smell of chlorine perfumed the air. Heavy and overbearing, the smell took me back to my childhood and the many Saturday afternoons that my friends and I had spent splashing about as pre-teens, making a nuisance of ourselves and generally pushing our luck a little further than was wise, but like most children we weren't known for our wisdom.
Lost in my reverie I almost didn't hear Aaron call, "You ready yet?" from the cubicle next to mine as I fastened my trunks around my hips some minutes later.
"Yup," I answered, gathering my clothes and placing them in one of the lockers opposite. "You swim often?" I questioned as we walked toward the foot-bath and pool, only half listening for a reply as I followed Aaron a pace or so behind, mesmerised by his youthful figure. Aaron kept fit, he didn't work out, that much was obvious. There was no obscenely proportioned neck, no tree-trunk thighs, no bulging muscles. This I already knew, clothes can only hide so much and Aaron's often hung loosely, but to have it so elegantly confirmed was a pleasant surprise. His legs and arms were lightly tanned in the way you would expect for someone who didn't go out of their way to catch the sun through the summer. Feeling a little self-conscious, I looked half at my feet and half in front of me, only to find myself staring straight at Aaron's bum. At the way it moved as he walked, at the way his blue trunks lay taut across his cheeks, at the way the light dispersed across the material and highlighted the curves underneath. It's not that I hadn't thought about the way Aaron looked in the past. I had, but not quite like this. I had noticed his smile or the way his hair hung, his slight five o'clock shadow when he neglected to shave or the way the light might play across his green eyes. All those moments, those incidental vagaries that passed through my vision, they were just that, moments; however pleasing, they passed. So I looked at Aaron's bum in spite of my nervousness and I told my self that I didn't care. As bottoms went, I liked it; small, slightly round, pert - Aaron's. I liked the light creamy colour of his lower back and the way his shoulder blades, now only inches from my chest, moved when he walked - which he had stopped doing. I liked the way his ribs felt under the soft skin of his abdomen when I placed my hands there to stop us from colliding as I moved my self to his side. "Um, er - sorry." I said, looking into his face and feeling my cheeks flush.
"I said about twice a week," looking at me quizzically.
"Err.., what's'at?" I asked, giving what I hoped was my best deadpan reply.
"That's how often I swim," not taking his eyes from mine, "twice a week."
"Oh, yeh right - sorry," I stammered. Aaron said nothing, but smiled a little too knowingly for my liking. With my most decisive tone of mumble I gave a quick, "C'mon," plunged through the icy foot-bath and headed for the side of the pool hoping that my ears would stop glowing.
With Aaron beside me I eased myself into the shallow water, taking care not to squash any of the many small children. The place was busy, but not packed, there was plenty of room to swim lengths in the lanes set aside for this and that's what the two of us did. When we occasionally stopped to rest and chat, idly treading water in the deeper reaches of the pool, I tried and failed to not stare at Aaron's teenage chest. In the weeks that we had known each other I hadn't asked his age, he might be twenty or twenty one, but he still had a teenage chest, untouched by hair and with small, pink nipples that I was beginning to think about nibbling. When he bobbed up out of the water to his waist, just before beginning to swim once more, I enjoyed watching the water cascade over his shoulders, down between his pecs and across his abdomen before he fell forward into a sleek crawl. Not quite thirty and here I was, already behaving like an old letch, sometimes I scared myself. Tired and aching from over exertion, I got out of the pool before Aaron so that I could take my time showering.
Later, as we neared the door to my building Aaron piped up from an uncharacteristically contemplative mood, "So, you really haven't been swimming in eight years?"
"That's right," I winced as another spasm shot through my back, "so don't rub it in."
"Well if you will show off?" a little cockily.
"Show off?" I queried, feigning innocence.
"Uh huh, forty five lengths worth," Aaron grinned broadly showing white teeth. "You're not as young as you used to be?"
"You can go off people Aaron Mackie," smiling as I unlocked the door and ushered him through.
"You really should stay in shape," he chided.
"I am in shape," I retorted, hoping that Aaron wasn't going to get fixated on this. "Just not forty odd lengthsw'th."
"Well maybe - give me your key and I'll run up and put the kettle on." With a wink he added, "wouldn't want you to aggravate your back rushing up the stairs," barely able to contain a boyish giggle.
"There you go smart-arse," handing Aaron my keys. It was worth it, if only to watch him run up the first flight.
On the screen Bugs Bunny got the better of Daffy Duck again and next to me Aaron laughed like a child. It was nearly nine in the evening and we had spent the last hour watching a video of cartoons pulled from the TV. Hilarious slapstick that never failed to make me laugh, no matter how many times I watched them. "'S funny," Aaron said, his arm touching mine. "I never figured you for a cartoon freak."
"Huh," I said sarcastically, "thanks Aaron. You're not so well adjusted yourself." I rubbed my back, but it did little to soothe the ache.
"Still hurts?" he asked.
"Yeh, yeh," I retorted good naturedly. "I shouldn't show off so much."
"You got any of that 'Deep Heat' type stuff?" sounding mildly concerned. "I can rub some on your back."
"Ummm," I said slowly rising from the sofa and walking to the bathroom. "Now that you mention it."
"You better lay on the floor," he said taking the small tube of ointment from me when I returned. I lay with my head resting on my crossed forearms idly looking up at Bugs Bunny pull off yet another impossible caper.
"So, ah - where's it hurt," Aaron asked softly.
"About here," I said rubbing the lower part of my back an inch or so below my ribs. He knelt by my side and pulled my shirt half way up my back and then started to softly massage the ointment into my skin with small circular motions. I sighed heavily as the initially cool substance began to have its warming effects and I felt my aching muscles flushed and hot.
"Whenever I use this stuff," Aaron said, his voice smiling, "I can't help but think of those urban myths about people mistaking it for a lubricant."
"Yeh," chuckling. "Remember to wash your hands before you - er - take a pee."
"Yuh right," he replied. Laughing, he continued to gently knead my back even when he had finished applying whatever the magic stuff was. Sometimes he would spread his fingers and slowly move his splayed hands over my skin in a vague circular motion to just below my shoulder blades, or push just a little more firmly with both thumbs, easing away the tension. Bugs Bunny faded into the background and I began to doze, barely aware of myself moaning quietly, lost to the pleasure of someone else's touch. I could have been there for hours, who knew. "Feel better?" he asked quietly.
"Mmm-wonderful," I said dreamily. "You've done that before."
"Um - once or twice."
"Who was the lucky girl?" I asked absently without a thought.
"Hmm, oh," Aaron stumbled, "er, no one important." After a short pause he continued nervously, "Look, about the weekend?"
"Uh huh," I was more than a little curious as to what Aaron was after and who the lucky soul was to have had his talented hands on their torso.
"Leave me your route and call me when you get back, the weather really will be shit up there. Who knows what might happen," swallowing nervously.
"Hmm," smiling as I rolled on my back to look up at Aaron. "Yes Mum."
"And you call me a smart-arse?" he questioned, laughing, but a little exasperated.
"'K" I said, "you win," and went to find an old map on which I could quickly plot my route. Before Aaron left I arranged to call him by six on Sunday, four days hence. Unable to sleep I settled to bed with a larger than usual tumbler of something strong in the hope that it would quiet my overactive mind. It didn't and I slowly turned over all the reasons Aaron might have stumbled around the subject of whom he gave massages to, however hackneyed they seemed.
-0-0-0-
'The moon was full. The hounds, they bayed. A darkness at my back, The moon wa.,' and so it went, but the author escaped me, the title also, like the rest of the poem, was nowhere to be found. So I lay with just those fevered first lines looking up into the heart of Orion's splendour as I waited for the confirmation of my mortality. My cycle lay several hundred feet below me. If the frame wasn't too badly mangled it might need nothing more than a new group-set and forks. Pointless, I was stuck on a ledge in the middle of nowhere, with no way to escape impending hypothermia and I was making plans for a tomorrow that I would not see. Regardless, I carried on thinking about how I might scrape the money together to replace my bike, even though it did nothing to lessen the effects of the biting wind that whistled about me. Try as I might, I still couldn't quite work out how I'd managed to leave the road, let alone end up here, neither halfway up nor halfway down the side of a quarry that I had forgotten existed.
One thing was certain, I would not be helping Aaron with Wittgenstein tomorrow. Slowly, shrouded in regret and sadness, the thought settled heavily all the way to my stomach. For the first time in the best part of a decade I felt cheated by what I took to be a premature end. In the past I would not have cared about what is, after all, the way of things, but now the idea of not seeing Aaron again angered me intensely. In just a couple of months I had come to treasure his company, his insight, his vigour and lately, just the sight of him seemed sufficient. Love? No it couldn't be that, I had cured myself of that delusion years before. I don't do love, out of the question. Lust then? Dressed up and disguised as something that started with an accident, a chance meeting of two kindred spirits, but lust nonetheless. No, sublimation's overrated, I know who I am and why I do the things that I do. I don't need to deceive myself, even when I don't like what I find. It wasn't quite by chance though, the way Aaron and I met. I need not have bought him supper, I might even have offered before ordering, but I barely gave him the choice and I'm not usually so presumptuous. What was it I saw in that demoralised figure who came traipsing in from the rain, barely able to lift his soaked feet from the floor. What compelled me to help when I had earlier refused someone in greater need? Aaron was alive, the old coat and hair was not. Looking into his tired green eyes I had seen questions, hope, understanding; the possibility of making my life a nicer place, even if it were just for a little while. The old coat and hair offered nothing. Such a dismal indictment, that my compassion doesn't extend to the pond-life of humanity.
Time passed, Orion continued in its graceful arc and I got colder. Barely conscious, I talked with images of friends from years before that conjured themselves in the haze. Karen, the girl I lost my virginity to, blond and petite. Now with children, a job and a messy divorce. Peter, the boy I lost my heart to just a short while later. A muscular swimmer who loved horses and sex, we had fallen out of touch, he might be anywhere now. I regretted postponing phonecalls that wound up never being made and putting off writing letters for so long that they simply remained unwritten. Faces from the odd casual encounter of my early twenties; students like me, fresh and alive, but that was before I stopped caring. And Aaron looked down on me from such a long way off, clad only in trunks with a towel round his neck, he must be freezing in the wind. His wavy black hair tousled and out of place. Could I see regret in his eyes, a little anger perhaps? 'I told you so,' he said. 'You'll die or freeze or something.' Smart-arse! But such a beautiful image, windblown cheeks and a broad smile. He faded into the blackness and I lay alone. With no nightcap to warm me I slept, unconscious and uncaring.
-0-0-0-
"Hey! Az!" Lucy called sternly. "What gives?"
With a stumbling, "Huh, oh, er," Aaron gave up all hope of getting back with the plot and looked at her, utterly lost. Like Aaron she was an undergraduate in cognitive science. Unlike Aaron, unassisted, she found the philosophy tiresome rather than impenetrable, neurobiology on the other hand, was a different matter. Next to her Bill looked back impassively, a graduate in philosophy, he'd spent the last two years doing more of the same, and the past six months getting a crash course in computers at the universitie's AI lab. The three of them had been kicking ideas around regularly since they'd met in a shared class.
"You've been on planet pointless all afternoon?" she questioned rather than stated.
"Huh, yeh. I s'pose." more muddled than evasive.
"So?" her exasperation clear. Bill remained silent.
"Maybe we should do this tomorrow?" Aaron replied meekly and rather too hopefully.
"That's not what I meant," lowering her tone, tilting her head forward.
"Yeh Az," Bill finally piped up, "Wossup?"
"Err, I'm just a bit distracted, that's all."
"Tell us somethin' we don't know," Lucy shot back, her agitation growing.
"Don't worry," Bill consoled as Aaron looked at him quizzically. Leaning forward he whispered with his best conspirator's smile, "She's about to lose a bet, which means buying me a beer." This brought a confused exclamation from Aaron and a sarcastic grunt from Lucy.
Bill said no more and the three looked at each other before Aaron did what was expected by his two friends and finally broke the silence, "What's the bet?"
"That you're sleeping with someone," Lucy stated bluntly. Aaron looked from her to Bill and back again. Lucy continued, "It'd explain why you've been so dizzy of late."
Smiling, Bill added, "So you may as well put her out've her misery and tell us who the lucky bloke is?"
"Errr," blushing a delicate shade of crimson Aaron mumbled, "sorry Bill, you're down a pint."
"'K, you aren't sleepin' with 'im?" Bill pressed, "but you want to be?" In spite of himself Aaron blushed just a little more deeply and grinned. Both Bill and Lucy looked him straight in the eye and it was all he could do to not dissolve into laughter. It wasn't the first time he'd been on the receiving end of their penetrating intuition and he knew better than to flog a dead horse.
"Enough already." Sighing with resignation Aaron added, "I guess I've been sorta preoccupied." Lucy leaned forward with anticipation giving him a meaningful stare. As usual Bill played his hand with the serenity of a tortoise and simply inclined his head, which probably meant he was just as anxious to know as Lucy.
"His - er, name's Nick. I think he used to be a philosopher. He helped me with Lansdale over a bacon butty and a coffee; we sort of got to be friends after that." Smiling affectionately he added, "Now I find m'self thinking about delicate grey eyes, unkempt blond hair and a sad smile instead of-ve?" Looking at Lucy for help.
"Neural Darwinism."
"Yuh, bloody Neural Darwinism. I d'know, I'm a soddin' mess," Aaron's exasperation all too obvious. "I don't even know that he's gay."
"And you've known him how long?" Lucy interrupted.
"Since early October."
"Christ Az," quickly from Bill, "it's a wonder you ever got laid!"
"And that," Lucy quite literally chirped, "from a man who wears padlocked undies."
"Anyhow," Aaron raised his voice mildly, hoping to head off what was sure to become an in-depth analysis of sexual politics. But when he continued, there was more resignation than anything else, "He does pest control. The bloke's practically a genius and he catches rats. What a waste."
At this Bill raised an enquiring eyebrow before asking carefully, "Second name of Craven?"
"Yuh," Aaron exclaimed, his voice sharp with curiosity. "You know him?"
"Know of him." Bill corrected. "As an undergraduate he wrote the book on why simulation theory is a crock of shit and his undergrad thesis is required reading for the philosophy of computation MA. He studied here under Trish Wilcott." Lucy whistled softly, approvingly. Aaron stared stupidly at Bill who added with just the slightest hint of awe, "And all before he was 22."
Unable to contain herself Lucy asked Bill the obvious question, "You know why he's catching rats?"
"The story is that about seven years ago there was some trouble, He'd started his doctorate, something about," Bill shook his head as he struggled to recall the details, "infinite sets and intention." Rather too dismissively thought Aaron. "You can find his notes in the library." Bill took great care to point out that whilst he'd read them, it wasn't really his field and everything was consequently, "a bit fuzzy." Both Aaron and Lucy interpreted this as Bill's way of saying he hadn't understood a word.
"Bill," Aaron pleaded impatiently, "get to it will ya."
"Oh right, yeh. Well he was a graduate teaching assistant by then and it seems that one night he was walking home from the library when he found one of his students practically in pieces on the ground. It turned out that a coupl've other philosophy students had given him a work over 'cos he was gay and they'd read too much Nietszche or Hobbes or somethin'." Aaron flinched and bit his bottom lip. Not just because of the retelling of violence, not just because of the truth of it and not just because it scared him silly that there were people who'd still do that; but simply because he always felt a little disgusted and a little shame that he was part of the same species. Bill continued, "Our learned thugs were done for aggravated assault and er, the poor bloke they did over graduated with a two two, but Craven never really got over it. Within six months he quit saying he didn't see the point."
"So, uh," Aaron questioned, "how come you're such an authority?"
"After I found his notes and I'd read his stuff on simulation I started asking around. It seems he left his mark on the philosophy department." Aaron and Lucy listened carefully as Bill related what he knew. "Old Tommy Hilson was well pissed; he was Craven's supervisor." Bill added proudly, "He's mine too. Anyway," pausing for breath, "Hilson said that after the attack Craven was kinda depressed."
"And that's why he left?" Lucy asked, not really being able to put it together.
"I s'pose," offered Bill. "No one's really sure; maybe with life and work and everything else that attack just confirmed how shit the world can be. Everyone was sorry to see him go and not just 'cos he was bloody intelligent. A nice bloke by all accounts."
"Yeh well," Lucy chipped in, "you'll get no argument from Aaron."
"Well," Aaron snorted, glaring at her, "he is, and not just in the way you mean," almost as an afterthought.
"So," Bill said, "if you like him so much, why the long face today?"
"He was uh, s'posed to call by six to say that he'd got back all right; he's bin cycling in the hills," exhaling gently. Looking at his watch pointedly Aaron added, "it's nearly ten to seven now," his implication clear.
"Well Az," Lucy stated bluntly, "maybe you should call 'im." Aaron got no answer when he phoned Nick's number; likewise, the door to his flat remained closed when the three of them called by only a half hour later and his neighbours confirmed that they hadn't seen Nick all weekend. Just before eight Aaron reported his friend missing and began to wait for the local search and rescue to bring him the bad news.
-0-0-0-
I caught Aaron somewhere between a smile and a frown as I watched him walk slowly towards my hospital bed. "Hey,' I croaked tiredly and gestured for him to sit close by.
"Hey yourself," his voice quiet and sullen. For what seemed like the best part of forever we just looked at each other.
"Thank you," I said quietly, simply. What else was there to say? Aaron remained silent, looking at me as if he were trying to discern some hidden drive or power, some reason why I might attempt something so dumb as to cycle out alone in the hills, especially with the temperature eight below and dropping.
"I said you were stupid to go," not so much an 'I told you so' as a 'Why?' I wasn't sure I could answer that.
"I know," I sighed gently. When the silence became uncomfortable, "Shit happens," shrugging my shoulders, my failed nonchalance obvious.
"Yeh, shit happens," his tone somewhere between bitterness and despondency, "there's no need to roll in it."
"It was just an accident," I snapped trying to grasp some perspective. "I'll be OK," a little more gently. I didn't want to fight with Aaron.
"You nearly died!" an angry whisper. I could tell he wanted to shout, to drum it into my head so deep that I would never forget. I couldn't blame him for that. I had nearly died. Waking up in a hospital had been a shock. In fact, I was surprised to wake up at all. I'd dismissed any idea of an afterlife a long time ago and I had been certain that I would die; waking up had not been a part of the plan. If Aaron hadn't reported me missing I would, in all likelihood, have passed along peacefully, a quiet and unnoticed death at the end of a quiet and unnoticed life.
"But I didn't!" sounding far too harsh. I'd swear that Aaron winced. "Aaron, look, I," taking a breath as much for the time as the oxygen. "What can I say, it was stupid to go," a little wearily. I didn't add that I had done it other years with no trouble; but then, I'd had no particular reason to come back.
"I, I was worried," sighing and biting his lip. "Before they found you, I was pissed at you," casting his eyes toward the bed clothes, "that you went. Then," Aaron swallowed nervously, "then I felt guilty for that." I looked at my hands, glanced around the ward quickly and when there was no where else to look, I looked at Aaron. I felt the corners of my mouth turn into the beginnings of a nervous smile, vainly, I tried to find something interesting beneath my fingernails. "Now, I kinda feel pissed at you again," the regret in his voice all too evident.
"I thought you might."
"Look," Aaron hedged, "I'm sorry, I just came to see that you're all right"
"I've been worse." I wanted so much to sound contrite, but I didn't.
"Good," looking around the ward uncomfortably. "How's the food?" he asked, obviously finding this as difficult as I was, he'd start talking about the weather next.
"Awful, I've had a couple of days too much." Aaron nodded and gave me a well practised smile that was reserved for those times when honesty would have been far to impolite. "I'm sorry I missed helping you with Wittgenstein," changing the subject in the absence of something better to say.
"Yeh, me too," he paused. "I'm glad you're OK Nick." Looking away he continued, "I'm going to my sister's for Christmas. I should be back early January. I'll call you."
"Yeh, sure Aaron," I said. I hoped that I would see him again, but I wasn't certain. "Have a good holiday?"
"You too," glumly. Then he was gone.
-0-0-0-
After I was released from the hospital I spent the last couple of weeks before Christmas doing not very much. My Doctor insisted I not work until January. The days passed slowly and the evenings were as daunting as ever, left alone in the dark with my thoughts and a tumbler or two of whatever I could find; it didn't even take the edge off the nights anymore. To begin with I thought about the past, the friends I had lost touch with, the words I had not spoken. I thought about dying, but most of all I thought about Aaron. I did what all good philosophers do, took what I saw apart and hoped the bits I found told me how it all worked. It wasn't just about sex. True enough I did want to lick my way from his toes to his head, to have him squirm with ecstasy at my touch, to taste every delightful inch. When it came to it though, I simply felt better when I knew that Aaron would be around than when I knew he would not; when I knew he was all right than when I thought he might not be. He had been so unhappy at the hospital. For the first time in years my well-being mattered to someone other than myself, and if I were honest, it hadn't mattered all that much to me before October. What I did affected how Aaron felt and it both thrilled and scared me. I didn't want that kind of responsibility. I didn't want to be alone either. God, sometimes I could be thickheaded; to have to nearly die for such mundane enlightenment. And I had pissed Aaron off royally in the process.
There was just a week or more before Christmas the first time he phoned. As luck would have it I was shopping, but that short message on my machine saying he'd try again later and to take care of my self was reassuring beyond belief. I knew then, that I would see Aaron in the new year and I felt good about that. Over the next few days we talked briefly, Aaron seemed preoccupied with my health, my diet, the amount of alcohol I consumed and telling me he was sorry about being a jerk at the hospital.
In the past few years Christmas day had been a quiet affair that I had taken to spending alone, it wasn't so much a choice as something I did by default. I simply had no one else to spend it with. The phone rang midmorning. Had it been another year I would have been surprised; no one called on Christmas day, it just didn't happen. But this wasn't another year and I picked up the receiver with anticipation. "Lo?" I questioned enthusiastically.
"Merry Christmas Nick, you all right?" came the voice of a very chirpy Aaron.
"Aaron, yeh, Merry Christmas." Smiling I continued, "It's good to hear from you. Thanks for your gift, it came in the post yesterday." The day before a small parcel had arrived with instructions not to open it until Christmas day. I recognised neither the post mark nor the writing on the address label, shaking it gently revealed nothing. I should have had no idea who had sent it, but there was likely only one candidate. The urge to rip the packaging from it on Christmas eve had been almost overwhelming.
"You didn't open it 'tll today did you?" he asked sternly. "I'll know if y' did."
"No, I waited," laughing a little. "That jam's truly awful." Aaron had sent me a jar of banana and gooseberry jam and a copy of 'Cycling for Beginners'. The joke wasn't lost on me.
"Thanks a lot," he squeaked in mock petulance. "Have you any idea how long it took to find that?"
"I'm more concerned about where you got it?"
"Trust me, you don't want to know." I smiled at the implication as he continued, "be sure to read that book cover to cover."
"Yuh right, I was riding bikes before you were born Aaron Mackie."
"Really!" feigning absolute incredulity. "I'd never have guessed."
"Cheeky sod," I laughed. Our banter continued for a little while. Like many conversations it contained nothing of substance. I was convinced Aaron just wanted to hear me speak. I was certainly happy simply knowing he was on the other end of the phone.
-0-0-0-
I stepped into the corner shop near the end of my lunch hour on the first working day of the new year "Now then Nick, y'all right?" asked the blond-haired girl behind the counter.
"Not so bad," I replied. "You?"
"Yeh, sound. 'S payday."
"On a Wednesday?" I questioned.
"You know Henry," rolling her eyes, "always did run this place in a queer way."
"Well, I s'pose its being payday is cool," handing her my paper, "kinda odd though." Looking at the shelf behind her I said, "I'll have a bottle of JD as well, thanks."
"'Bit early, even for you," raising her eyebrow before turning to get the bourbon from the shelf. It was early, but I wouldn't be back from work until late and I didn't fancy a night without the comfort of something warm.
"Yeh, right," with just a hint of sarcasm. She placed the bottle on the counter and smiled wanly. "I know, I know," I mumbled, "this stuff'll kill me." She gave me a look that fell somewhere between exasperation and pity.
"Nick, you're the only gay monk I've ever met."
"Don't tell me, I should get out more!"
"Well you should, it'd do you good."
"That's hardly certain," I shot back.
"So what did ya do for Christmas?"
"Ummm." I really didn't want to answer that.
"Kinda proves my point, don'tcha think?"
"You're right," I said, "Ya know, you can keep the bourbon. I'll try counting sheep tonight - or somethin'." I didn't quite know where that had come from. I'd been putting my self to bed with a night cap for a long time - I wondered if I looked as surprised as I felt.
"Good," she said turning and putting the bottle back, "tastes like shit anyway. Maybe you should try curling up with something nice 'n' warm 'n' soft,"
"No dogs at my place, you know that."
"Pervert!" she smiled. "You know what I mean." shrugging her shoulders. I paid for my paper and stepped into the steady rain after saying goodbye.
-0-0-0-
I'd heard the knocking the first time. As I made my way to the door whoever was there knocked again, I was a little annoyed at their impatience. When the door was half open I began to snap, "What the bloody he..," and finished contritely, "Oh, hi Aaron, come in, y-OK?"
"Yeh, well - you know - busy." following me through to the kitchen, he left his coat and small bag by the door.
"Back long?"
"A day or so, term starts on the 11th."
"If you want a drink you know where the kettle is," returning to the cooking scales on the table.
"No, I'm OK thanks." With what I took to be surprise, "I didn't know you cooked."
"You never asked," as I finished measuring the flour.
"Can I help?"
"Can you cook?"
"I can open a tin," Aaron more or less laughed, rather too proudly with a broad grin.
"God help us" I chuckled. "Wash your hands, I don't even want to think about where you've had them," shaking my head.
"Lies and vicious rumour," with a slight giggle over running water.
"So we're makin' pastry - you ever done that before?" I asked.
"Uh, no," Aaron said from behind me. Dropping the towel to a chair he continued, "I'm a quick study though." Walking over to where I stood he slipped his arms between mine and my sides, pushing his chest into my back, he placed his lightly tanned hands on the mixing bowl and nestled his head on my shoulder. In what was possibly the most seductive tone I'd ever heard he asked, "So, where do we start?" I doubted he was talking about my pastry.
"Umm, err," I stuttered, unprepared for Aaron's familiarity. "We ah - rub the flour and fat together." I wondered whether he could feel my heart beating faster than it usually would. Aaron stuck his hands in the bowl and started mushing the contents together, his bare arms rubbing against my ribs through the thin material of my T shirt; I liked the way it felt, not quite a tickle. Catching my breath I jumped in before he ruined any hope of a pie. "No, here," I said softly, "like this." I placed my hands on top of his and turned them knuckles down, both our thumbs curled over his soft palms. "See," I said, steering his hands to the creamed butter and lard in the bowl. "You take the fat in your hands with a generous coating of flour and gently rub them together between your thumb and palm." Raising both our hands, my thumbs atop his, I continued, "Be sure to let the mixture fall between your fingers two or three inches above the bowl," as I guided them slowly back and forth, rubbing the fat and flour together, letting it fall through our hands and back into the bowl. Often, my thumbs would graze his palms lightly and I would thrill to the gentle friction.
"Uh huh," was his only reply. I could feel him breathing shallowly and his ear rubbed against mine as he concentrated on the task at hand, whatever that was.
"Feel how soft the butter is, how it clings round your fingers." After pausing for breath, "How it slides across your palms and sticks under your nails as you take it from the bowl." All the time raising and lowering both our hands, rubbing the fat and flour together before letting it run through our fingers.
"Oh yearh," he breathed, "the lard's a little tougher than the butter, my, er, fingers slip across it," his voice quavering slightly. I hoped his excitement wasn't just due to how the fat felt in his hands. Slick, with an oily sheen, its texture was closer to that of baby oil than petroleum jelly even if its consistency was not. It coated our fingers and palms as we worked them together gently, revelling in the slickness and warmth. Lowering our hands into the bowl, mine under his, we continued to take more of the soft goo onto his palms with our thumbs and then slowly raise them, only to let the ingredients mesh together, the flour sticking to the fat and the rubbing motion separating it into finer, delicately moist crumbs.
Delighting in the way it felt to have Aaron almost holding me, to have him draped round me; I took the opportunity to screw up what could be a perfect moment and asked, "You always this familiar with male friends?" I had so much to say, if I was lucky Aaron had given up waiting and taken matters into his own hands, but I had to know.
Unperturbed, he answered softly, "Not usually, no." Pressing a little tighter with his arms as we continued to rub the mixture.
"So, ah," stuttering slightly, "w - what sets,"
"You apart?" he finished for me.
"Something like that."
"You're gorgeous," with no hint of hesitation.
"Like in the song?"
"Yeh, just like in the song," he confirmed. "You have the most sexy eyes, kinda blue and grey like the colour of a dolphin, but much lighter."
"I'm flattered," I mumbled, blushing audibly. Ever since I had been old enough to care I'd always been a little disappointed with my eye colour, not that I was overly bothered, I would have just preferred a little more blue and a little less grey. Peter had called them limpid and Karen said they were clear. I know better, they're pastel - sort of. "I missed you over Christmas," hoping I didn't sound as inept as I thought I might.
"I know," he replied. "I missed you too."
"You knew?" I questioned genuinely confused. "That I was flattered or that I missed you?"
"Both, sort of." In the bowl Aaron's hands were getting the hang of what they were doing, but I didn't want to leave them alone. As I watched my thumbs work with his and felt the warm curves of his fingers and palms, I recalled a game friends and I used to play when we were small children. It was a game for two. One of us would place the tip of his thumb or finger on the other's outstretched palm and move it in tantalisingly slow circles with the lightest touch a six year old could manage, saying, 'Round and round the garden." We would draw the syllables out to be as long as possible, 'Like a Teddy bear.' Then, as each of us looked into the other's eyes anticipating what was to come, 'One step,' and two springy little fingers would step toward the other's wrist. 'Two step,' and the fingers would move as far up the other's forearm as possible while still touching it, before silence fell for just a short while. Then, 'Tickley under there,' and those little fingers would make a dash for the other's armpit with giggles and shouts before we collapsed in an incoherent mess. The tickling was fun, but I was always most excited by having friends move their fingers round my palm, it never failed to send shivers all the way to my stomach. In my musing I must have missed something, because Aaron piped up boldly, "I said, I think you're obsessed."
"Err, what?" I stuttered. "With you?"
"With me," he answered. I didn't know what to say. I probably was a little obsessed, besides, it seemed that Aaron liked the idea as much as I did so I remained silent. My hands caressed his and the pastry mix, my mind wandered elsewhere. To the feel of Aaron's chest pushed into my back, to his arms moving against my sides, to the sound of him breathing softly. To the touch of his lips on my neck as he kissed and nuzzled tenderly. Blowing ever so gently across my Adams apple he whispered, "I'm glad you're alive. I thought, when you didn't call, I thought you were dead, that I'd never get to do this with you."
"Mmmm - I'm, uh, pleased that you did?" my voice rising as Aaron nibbled my ear and pushed his erection into my bum.
"I'm sorry 'bout the hospital, I was kinda childish."
"'S-Ok," and I wasn't lying. I inhaled deeply and caught the citrus scent from his recently washed hair that was tickling my cheek. Aaron continued to caress my neck and behind my ear with his tongue and lips. Raising my head, stretching as far as I could, "Ooo, that's ah, wonderf..." I panted, but I didn't finish the sentence. Lost to Aaron's desire I wasn't quite sure what was happening with my pastry and I didn't particularly care. I could feel our hands moving slowly, deliberately; that was good enough for me. As I stood there hearing and feeling nothing but Aaron, for an instant I wondered whether he'd read Dracula and I smiled broadly before joking, "Don't give me a love bite, I, uh, grew out of them when I, I was your age."
"I don't care," he almost gasped, "I've missed you. I want to be with you, to sleep and wake up with you." He grasped my hands and held them still above the fine crumbs that would be my pie case, "I drove my sister nuts over Christmas talking 'bout you. She said if I didn't come back and tell you how I felt, she'd do it for me."
Chuckling gently, "I'm glad one of us had his arse kicked into gear."
Just before re-attaching himself to my neck, Aaron didn't so much ask, as order, "You going to kiss me or what?" I found myself wanting to giggle at the bizarre sounds of his soft kisses as he breathed through his nose.
"Well," I turned my head slightly and lifted his chin with a sticky finger. With our lips just an inch or two apart I continued, "not yet - the pastry needs some water." Smiling, "From that basin, a little at a time."
"You," he said grinning, "are infuriating," reaching for the basin and adding just a little water.
"We need to mould this into, er, a lump."
"That a technical term?"
"Uh huh," as both Aaron and I began to push the crumbs together. "You know, for a novice you're not bad at this?"
"Who say's I'm a novice?" feigning insult he ground himself into my rear for effect.
"You did," laughing.
"And I s'pose you're offering lessons?" with gentle sarcasm.
"Uh huh." I liked the idea of giving Aaron lessons, not that he needed them, he had excited me to the point of discomfort and I made a mental note that cooking with him, while desirable, might not be practical.
"This looks kinda done to me." slapping the pastry as he might a child's bottom. Together, we had sculpted a soft doughy ball with a slight golden lustre. "What next?"
"This goes in the fridge, so you're g'na have to let me go." I said, pulling free of his embrace after wrapping the pastry in a food bag. "Oh, and that," pointing to a mixing bowl full of chocolate coloured goo, "goes into those cake tins."
"Mmmmm. Is that what I think it is?" Aaron cooed.
"Yuh, chocolate cake," returning to the table as he reached for the bowl, I slapped his hand away affectionately, just as my mother had mine many years before. "Don't touch and you can have the bowl when I've finished," picking up a spatula and arranging the cake tins in front of me. Aaron smiled, turned my head to face him and kissed me. At first our lips touched lightly, but then, well my brains descended half the length of my body and it was all I could do to not simply abandon my cooking. "Ghod, you do that well," wiping a little butter that his hand had left on my chin.
"I kinda enjoyed it myself," slipping into his now familiar position behind me, his hands clasping my chest. "Why d'ya bake your own cakes?"
"I like to bake and I like cakes, it's a perfect match," spooning mixture into the tins and spreading it evenly. I kept glancing at Aaron from the corner of my eye, his sight never left the mixing bowl. "Here," I said when I'd finished, "this is yours."
"Oooh, yeh," smiling like a young boy he took the bowl and ran his finger all the way round the side, before sucking the chocolate covered digit luxuriantly into his mouth, "Mmmm - I sssink I'm in yuve."
"Don't speak with yer mouth full." Aaron ignored me completely while he continued to tuck into the bowl's leftovers with gusto. I began to think he really hadn't baked anything before.
"Here," he said proffering a finger under my chin, "you should try this before I eat it all." I wrapped my lips tightly around his finger and worked my tongue all the way over and under it, cleaning the un-cooked chocolate goo. Only marginally aware of myself, softly affirming my appreciation. For his part Aaron slowly moved his finger across my tongue and teeth as I explored the way the end turned up slightly, the way his nail was seated and the way the skin was slightly smoother near his half moon than underneath or near the knuckle.
"Mmm, that," I said catching my breath, "was delicious," not even half referring to the chocolate.
"Yeh," Aaron said grinning lewdly, "one of us is g'na have some fun later." I smiled and blushed. I hoped he was right. Then, lifting his hand to my face and running a finger across my lips, "Ya know, that night in October when you bought me supper?"
"Uh huh," lifting my own hand atop his while we stood looking at the table.
"I was ready to quit, to leave and take my chances."
"I'm glad you didn't," more truthfully than I'd ever appreciate.
"Me too," he confirmed placing a gentle peck on my cheek. "Before I called you again I thought about you a lot, your eyes, the way you keep your hair just a little too long. The way that, even when you smiled, you looked kinda sad or shy, I couldn't tell which." I grinned self consciously and Aaron laughed, "Yeh, just like that." Then he fell silent, lost in thought. I'd learned not to interrupt him and waited patiently. "You really do make the hardest shit seem easy Nick," he continued. "Like it matters. When we're talkin' I'll watch you, the way your brow furrows with the difficult bits or when you're trying to think of an example to help me understand," grinning broadly, "and it makes me feel so good to be with you." I didn't know what to say. This kind of honesty had a nasty habit of coming back to bite people on the behind and it scared the hell out of me. I smiled and thought about cooking times. "But when I get the really abstract stuff right, about where it all fits together, or when I show you you got something wrong, or that it can be different and you say 'Wow!' or 'That's so cool!' and we'll run with it. My stomach ends up in my throat and I feel like a genius or somethin'. Not just 'cos I know I got it right and not just 'cos I know you're well chuffed that I did." Aaron fell silent again, maybe his thoughts had moved beyond his ability to put them into words, maybe he just wanted me to say something. I wasn't sure.
"I thought about this over Christmas," I said exhaling slowly, turning so that he and I were looking at each other, my hands resting on his hips. "I think you're pretty cool too." The corners of his mouth turned slightly and his half-smile exposed the tops of his front teeth. "We could talk all day, 'bout whether we think it's love or friendship or biology; but," shaking my head for emphasis, "it's all theory, all of it. The only thing that's important is that when I do stuff with you, I like it more. You make my life a better place." Then Aaron and I kissed, each of us looking into the other's eyes. I'm not sure what I saw there and I have absolutely no idea what Aaron saw, but it felt wonderful. We forgot about the un-baked chocolate cake.