“That’s… a pretty complicated metaphor, right off the cuff.”
“It’s something I’ve thought about a lot. Believe me, I’ve drifted a long, long way.” He leaned even closer, his gaze intense enough to scorch. “Walter, there is nothing ugly about you.”
Walter was still wondering how Martin knew what he’d been thinking when Dorothy arrived with their meals. She gave them each a deep, oversized bowl, then set a small loaf of bread on a board in the middle of the table. “Enjoy,” she said, then patted each of them briefly before moving on to the next table.
The bread was still steaming and looked wonderful. But Walter stared dubiously at the stuff in his bowl. The stew—if that’s what it was—smelled nice, but it was a weird green color with chunks of unidentifiable purple and orange floating in it.
Walter’s doubt must have been obvious, because Martin laughed. “It’s a festival food for us,” he said. He followed up with a word that sounded like nothing but vowels, which Walter assumed was what the stuff was called. “Try it.”
Fine. Couldn’t be worse than some of the slop the Army had passed off as edible, right? With Martin watching closely, Walter picked up his soup spoon, dipped it into the technicolor goo, and took a tiny taste.
“Oh!” It tasted… well, green. But in a good way, like the first fresh spring vegetables after months of mushy tinned stuff. It was spicy too, although Walter couldn’t begin to identify the spices. It made his tongue tingle, and it warmed him when he swallowed.
“Well?” Martin demanded.
“I could live without the texture. But boy, it tastes fantastic.”
With a smug smile, Martin reached for the bread.
They both ate second helpings, followed by coffee and berry pie a la mode. Walter’s stomach felt drum-tight, but the meal had been so delicious and the company so wonderful that he didn’t care. He and Martin had chatted nonstop throughout the meal. About little things, like the mutt Walter had owned when he was a boy and the planter boxes Martin wanted to install in the windows of his cabins. But also about big things, like the way Martin’s mother had sung nearly all the time and how Walter had ended up being a medic. That last bit was unusual—he rarely spoke to anyone about the war, and never without his chest going tight and his heart hammering. But tonight, discussing his training with Martin, all he felt was the memory of unease.
No money changed hands at the end of dinner, but Dorothy patted Martin’s head and stroked Walter’s back. Probably Martin ran a tab; that would make sense. “We’ll see you later,” Dorothy said to Martin, then turned to Walter. “One thing I like about you is your voice, which is nice and deep without being loud. And you don’t seem to mind some silence, either.”
When Walter blinked, Martin laughed softly. “More small talk. It’s a way we say good-bye to people we’re getting to know.”
Although he was a little flustered, Walter attempted a response. “You have pretty hair. And it’s always neatly braided no matter how much you rush around.”
Dorothy patted her braid, beamed at him, and then quickly stroked his cheek. “I feel good about this,” she said, glancing at Martin. Walter didn’t understand what she was talking about.
All the other customers waved and called out good-byes as Martin and Walter left.
A soft mist surrounded them as they walked across the gravel lot, moving as if they had all the time in the world. When they reached unit three, Walter unlocked the door, but Martin paused. “You still want me?” Martin asked.
“God, yes.” More than he’d wanted anything in years.
“You’re sad.”
Walter wondered how he’d suddenly begun wearing his emotions so openly, when his family had complained that he was unreadable. “I suppose so.”
“Because of me?”
“No, because of me. Because everything good slips away.”
Martin stepped into the doorway, putting them chest to chest. “You can keep the good inside of you the same way you’ve been keeping the bad. Then it’s never quite gone.”
Wouldn’t it be nice if good memories haunted him the way the awful ones did? Walter shook his head and gave a small smile. “I’m not usually like this. I’m no philosopher, and I don’t tell people what I’m feeling. You, this place… you’re having a weird effect on me.”
“Does that bother you?”
“No.” It made him wistful, like unrequited love. He saw the serene, thoughtful man who’d temporarily replaced the frightened, jumpy one, and he wished the change could be permanent.
Walter settled an arm around Martin’s waist and urged him inside, then shut and locked the door.
They stood looking at each other, Martin smiling faintly. Walter felt as nervous as if he were the virgin. Then Martin chuckled. “Is this foreplay?”
“Fore-foreplay, maybe.”
And just like magic, the tension was gone. Martin lit a fire in the woodstove while Walter fussed around: hanging up his jacket, removing a few things from the bed, drinking a glass of water. The little room warmed up quickly, and the flames that flickered behind the grille lent a cheery atmosphere to the already cozy cabin.
“How often to you rent out these units?” Walter asked.
“Not often. My people, we have communities in other places too, and sometimes we get visitors. Other times, one of your people passes through looking for a rest.”
Walter couldn’t remember seeing more than two or three cars on the road since he arrived. He couldn’t imagine how Martin supported himself with so little trade, but decided it would be rude to ask. Besides, they weren’t here to talk business. “I’m glad I decided to make that turn.”
“Me too. But maybe it wasn’t just a random decision. Maybe I was wishing for you so hard that I influenced you.”
“Nah. You were wishing for someone way better. I’m just what came along.”
“I was wishing for you,” Martin insisted. Then he reached over and unbuttoned Walter’s shirt.
If anything, Martin was even more beautiful in the cabin’s mellow light than he’d been in the woods. His pale skin glowed, and his hair was like spun gold. He smoothed his palms up Walter’s arms, down his chest, and over his belly. “Memorizing the feel of you,” he said, smiling. “And making sure you’re real.”
That made Walter laugh, because surely Martin was the fantasy, not him. Walter touched Martin too, marveling at the softness of his skin and the clever ways his muscles and bones moved. Tracing blue veins with his fingertips. Teasing pink nipples to stiff little peaks. Then Martin and Walter moved even nearer so they could kiss, but their hands never stilled, instead mapping the expanses of broad backs and the gentle curves of buttocks.
Their earlier encounter hadn’t been hurried, but now they moved even slower, as if they were in a perfectly wonderful dream. Martin spent a century or so licking and nibbling on Walter’s neck and collarbones, and then it was Walter’s turn to spend a happy eternity kneading Martin’s ass while inhaling the sweet fragrance of his hair. They gently rocked their pelvises together, their hard cocks rubbing.
“You want to be inside me,” Martin whispered into his ear. A statement, not a question.