The Vacation 3

Riddles In The Dark (And A New Notebook)

Eventually, they made it out of bed. By then it was way too late for any outdoor adventures. But Zach did get the grand tour of the Hobbit hole, and at the end he had to admit that it was at the very least homey.

First and foremost, the kitchen. Spacious, with square lattice windows and a barrel-vault ceiling, the kitchen was equipped with every gadget an amateur cook could dream of. (“All The Toys, Zach, seriously, I swear.”) Zach was introduced with much ceremony to a shiny red KitchenAid™ mixer that Chris wanted to marry. (“Will you look at that, Zach? Just look at her. What a beauty. Why don’t I have one in L.A. yet? Those Hobbits sure know how to live.”) Of course, there was also a luxury coffee maker that would produce all caffeinated beverages known to mankind, and probably a few as-yet-undiscovered ones. But as a means of survival in the wilderness (no LAMILL or Intelligentsia nearby, not even a Starbucks around the corner) that machine warranted no further commentary.

The solid wooden table was surrounded by three comfortable upholstered chairs and a bench. More sofa than bench, really, and cozily squeezed into the corner next to the open fireplace. A rectangular door led out to the backyard. Apparently the amenities of Hobbit living didn’t just include a pool in the garden, but also a small, but well-maintained vegetable plot. (“Just salad and herbs and stuff. Tomatoes, of course.” The irritated undertone made Zach guess that the tomatoes were bigger than Chris’s own.)

Next came the dining room. With skylights. And skylights at night in make-believe Middle-earth (or the middle of nowhere in New Zealand) meant stars, stars, and more stars. The Milky Way was clearly visible – up in the sky, and not just on the ridiculous pajamas Zach was still wearing. That was already damn impressive, but the dining room was also a showcase for light fixtures.

Arrangements of candle sconces were scattered across bare white walls instead of paintings. The ceiling light was a chandelier in the form of corals or roots. Designer candelabra graced a long banquet table. Zach didn’t recognize the wood, but the texture fascinated him. With strong color contrasts and swirling lines, the surface of the table looked like a map. Apparently the carpenter had thought so, too: a corner of the table sported a pyrographic compass rose, and the fabric of the upholstery echoed the motif with a pattern of old maps. On a sideboard, a series of candle holders formed a parade, arranged by size: Hobbit-tiny, dwarf-small, people-big, and even troll-XXL. Zach’s fingers itched to play with sizes and perspectives. Clearly, he had underestimated the Instagram opportunities of Hobbit holes.

He turned to Chris. “I have to admit your taste in interior design is excellent. Even when applied to renting Hobbit holes.”

“So you approve? That’s a relief.” Chris beamed at him. “And I haven’t even demonstrated the chandelier yet.”

“I was wondering about that …” Zach admitted, glancing at the globe of twisting limbs at the ceiling.

“You need to stand near the middle of the room,” Chris said. “And close your eyes. I’ll say when.”

“When?”

“Subpar, Zachary.” Chris shook his head with exaggerated disappointment. He’d put on his contacts again, so Zach got the full experience of his wicked blue gaze. “Jet lag seems to have adverse effects on your customary standards of witticism. Now shut your eyes.”

Zach obeyed. He heard Chris flick off the wall sconces. Darkness enfolded him, and he grew aware of how utterly silent it was in the house. Out here there was no traffic, no man-made noise at all. The only thing he could hear was his own breathing and a soft sound as Chris shifted on his feet next to the door. Chris was still waiting for the right moment to switch on the chandelier, drawing out the suspense until Zach’s heart couldn’t seem to help itself and started beating faster.

Finally, Zach heard the snick of the switch. Light flared up and brightened the darkness behind his lids.

“Open your eyes,” Chris whispered.

Zach found himself transported into a magical forest. Dark trees with gnarled roots surrounded him. Sinister branches and twisting vines swayed ever so slightly in a breeze he couldn’t feel. The white walls made sense now: they formed the canvas for the shadow painting of the chandelier. Spontaneously, Zach tried to create a bat with his fingers to add some wildlife to the forest and failed. But when he crossed his hands and aligned his thumbs, a bird flew through the shadowy trees. Surreal. Now he only had to convince Chris to take a picture of that …

Then he remembered one of the scarier riddles from “The Hobbit” and couldn’t resist: “‘It cannot be seen, cannot be felt, cannot be heard, cannot be smelt. It lies behind stars and under hills, and empty holes it fills. It comes first and follows after, ends life, kills laughter …’ What is it, my preciousssssss?”

“Ha. Ha. Very funny.” Chris cast an uneasy glance at the dark forest the dining room had turned into. “But I guess you’re right. This definitely has that whole ‘riddles in the dark’ vibe going. And it fits the Mirkwood chapter, too.” He shuddered.

Zach suddenly remembered how much Chris disliked the dark. Uncomfortably, he recalled the evening when John and Simon had somehow managed to get that little tidbit out of Chris and proceeded to torture him accordingly.

“It’s normal that darkness invokes primal terror in you,” Zach lectured gently, warming quickly to a favorite topic. “You need to treat it as an invitation from your subconscious to confront your fears and your Shadow.”

Instead of dismissing Zach’s kitchen-sink psychology with a pseudo-intellectual rebuttal, Chris looked only more troubled. A reminder that there must be very real fears lurking in Chris’s mind right now, given their situation.

“Hey, just pretend we’re Where The Wild Things Are,” Zach quipped, quirking his eyebrows. He walked over to Chris and playfully put his arms around him, trying to lighten up the mood. “I mean, what could Captain Kirk and Jack Ryan possibly be scared of?”

Chris shrugged – shrugged him off. “Now that’s a big question, isn’t it?” Chris quoted one of Zach’s interviews. “Because fear is so interesting,” he drawled and stepped away. “Cockroaches. Spiders. Frogs. Mediocrity. I’m boring.”

“Don’t forget to mention prosthetic tails of alien cat people,” Zach joked. Chris’s aversion to the prehensile tails had led to terrible teasing about suppressed desires for tentacle porn on set. But Chris had always endured the ribbing with good humor. “Now, there’s an interesting fear,” Zach went on, perhaps a little too determined to keep things cheerful. “Freud would get a kick – or maybe rather a dick – out of that one.” The moment the words left his mouth, Zach knew he’d made a mistake.

“I’m glad you’ve discovered at least something interesting about my fears,” Chris snapped, switched off the light, and disappeared in the living room on the other side of the hallway.

The living room shared the chimney with the kitchen, and it boasted an even bigger open fireplace. Apart from that, it sported a high-end flat screen TV and surround system as well as an Xbox and a PlayStation to keep guests entertained on rainy afternoons. Two overstuffed armchairs and two almost indecently comfortable sofas were piled high with colorful pillows and warm throw blankets. Chris was slumped on one of the sofas now, staring at the unlit fireplace. Zach sat down next to Chris but didn’t touch him.

“Fuck Freud,” Chris muttered. “And fuck you, with your fearlessness. It’s not as if I don’t try to be as fearless as possible, too.”

“I know that, Chris,” Zach said. “And you know that was an interview.” Then he added, “I’m sorry. That was a stupid joke. And not just because I know for a fact that you’re neither afraid of dicks nor craving tentacles.” Carefully, Zach reached out, resting a calm hand on Chris’s shoulder. At first Chris stiffened, but then he exhaled some of his tension in a deep breath. In a way, Zach was relieved. Not because Chris was angry and scared. But because Chris trusted him with more than his passion after all. “C’mere.” Zach pulled Chris into his arms again. “If it helps, I’m scared, too.”

“Yeah,” Chris said after a long silence. “It does, actually.”

Zach tightened his arms around Chris and leaned against him. Chris’s newly spiky hair tickled his nose. “Look, right now is not a good time for this. And I’m not saying that to be even more of a jerk, but I’m jet-lagged and you’re … well, kind of keyed up. But, it’s okay to be scared. And it’s also okay not to be. Like, what you said at the door that it’s not – difficult for you right now. This, it’s your experience. I mean, I’m a part of it, definitely. But that must be the premise.” Chris softened in his embrace with a heartfelt sigh. Good. “And I promise I’ll protect you from any aliens with prosthetic tails in the future.”

“And from frogs,” Chris reminded him promptly.

Zach’s stomach growled as if it wanted to agree with Chris.

“Time for dinner?” Chris smiled, eyes crinkling again. “I’m afraid I’m all out of cuisses de grenouille, though.”

“Now that you mention it …” Zach’s stomach grumbled again. “Show me what you’ve got, Pine. And if you can’t dish up frog, I hope it’s at least a little more sophisticated than frozen pizza.” In fact, he’d be perfectly fine with frozen pizza; after a suitable sojourn in the oven, of course, and perhaps adorned with extra cheese.

Chris bounced off the sofa. “Oh, ye of little faith.” But he beamed at Zach. “I actually prepped something yesterday. I figured we might be uh… too busy for proper cooking.” Now his smile turned shy, bashful.

“You’re too cute for your own good.” Unable to resist, Zach grabbed Chris’s hips and pulled him down again, until Chris was right on top of him. Zach kissed him, lips sliding against lips with soft, slow movements, so he could savor the warmth of Chris’s skin and his smile. Then he teased Chris with his tongue, tracing the outline of his mouth, barely tasting, before he plunged in. Chris returned the kiss with enthusiasm, gasping sighs against Zach’s lips, sucking at his tongue, hard. A breathless moment passed, with them staring almost deliriously into each other’s eyes, too close to see more than a haze of colors. Then Chris was kissing him again, nipping at his lips, sucking them into his mouth, then twirling his tongue around his, only to draw back and press sweet kisses at the corners of his mouth, and finally, when Zach’s stomach chose that exact inopportune moment to growl again, a tiny butterfly of a kiss on the tip of his nose.

“Food,” Chris reminded him. “Man doesn’t live off love alone.”

“Man can try.” But Zach let himself be pulled up from the sofa and followed Chris next door.

In the kitchen, Chris made him sit down at the table while he kindled a fire. He even lit one of those old-timey candlesticks and put it on the table. Before, Zach might have made fun of Chris for his penchant of creating scenes while snapping a picture for his Instagram account himself. Now he just watched and wondered at that fluttery feeling in his stomach. Thankfully, observing Chris proved enough of a distraction from more meaningful emotional investigations.

The wine came first. “It’s supposed to be succulent,” Chris said, frowning at the bottle. “A Merlot,” he elaborated. “Abbey Cellars Bishop. 2009. Apparently that was a very good year.“ He smiled at Zach, eyes twinkling. And of course he had to start humming Frank Sinatra before he could open the bottle and set it to breathe.

Zach couldn’t resist smelling for himself. He reached for the bottle and inhaled. Definitely fruit-driven. Very berry, he thought. If the flavor kept the promise of this rich, ripe scent, he wouldn’t argue the extravagant adjective. And he was already imagining how it would taste on Chris’s lips. Talk about succulence.

While Zach was nosing the wine, Chris got a pot out of the fridge and put it on the stove. Next, a Panini maker made an appearance. (Chris had been serious when he’d announced that the kitchen came with All The Toys.) The bread Chris pulled out of a cabinet looked seriously artisanal, and the cheese smelled delicious even fresh from the fridge. A few minutes later, the contents of the pot were burbling away, and the fruity smell of tomato soup set off Zach’s stomach again.

Once the sandwiches were toasting, Chris laid the table with green linen napkins, spoons with wooden handles and heavy, green-tinged fleur-de-lis wine glasses. The soup bowls and plates he took out of a cupboard were simple brown stoneware. He filled an earthenware jug with water and placed drinking beakers of the same style next to it. It was all very salt-of-the-earth, rustic, and undeniably Hobbity.

“Et voilà, un croque-monsieur pour monsieur, sans jambon, mais avec de la soupe à la tomate.” Chris carefully placed a soup bowl and a sandwich in front of Zach. Then he had the nerve to bow with a flourish, one arm at the small of his back.

That was taking things too far. “I don’t think you’re allowed to Frenchify tomato soup and grilled cheese like that,” Zach protested weakly. “There are trademarks. Treaties. Things.”

“Really?” Chris returned with his own food. Sitting down, he frowned. “Okay then: ‘Aqui tem, o seu croque-monsieur sem fiambre mas com uma sopa de tomate.’” He picked up his spoon. “I think the Portuguese won’t mind if I abuse their language a little bit.”

“Did you know there’s a petition over at Change.org to prevent you from speaking foreign languages ever again?” Zach asked. “Something about you violating international humanitarian law the moment you open your mouth.”

Zach tasted the soup. One sip, and he knew it was homemade. Probably with tomatoes from the Hobbit garden in the backyard. His toes curled with pleasure. Closing his eyes, he sighed. Pure bliss.

Chris snorted, and Zach glared at him a little. But Chris’s eyes only brightened even more until they crinkled with mirth at the corners. Chris licked his lips and just smiled. And Zach couldn’t help it, he fucking loved that he was allowed to feel a little possessive and proprietary about that smile now. He tried the wine. Oh yes, succulent indeed.

“Don’t worry,” Chris said. “The Brazilian PR people taught me just a couple of phrases for that Ryan interview. Mostly hello and goodbye and wonderful-weather-today, and because I nagged them a bit of foodie stuff, like this one. The only other thing I know is ‘Pode dizer-me se a pizza vem com os tomates por cima ou por baixo?’ and I’m pretty sure that doesn’t mean what I think it means because they kept cracking up whenever I tried to say that. Maybe it’s not quite as bad as that ‘Pinto’ thing our dear fans came up with, but I’m certainly not going to try that one in public any time soon. So you see, the world is actually pretty safe from my mad-bad linguistic skills.”

Thankfully Zach hadn’t any soup or wine in his mouth. The effect would have been embarrassing. “As long as I get exclusive rights to your talented tongue, I don’t mind.” He didn’t even pretend that he wasn’t serious about that, and took a decisive bite of grilled cheese for added emphasis and extra bliss. Because he’d been right about the bread, and the cheese was heavenly.

His spoon suspended midair, Chris gazed at Zach and sighed with the appreciation of a man savoring Lucullian delights. “You know, Kingsolver was right. She wrote that watching Italian men eat is a secret form of tourism. That totally applies to Irish-Italian Americans, too. And to you. Though I’m not sure I’d call it ‘tourism’. Voyeurism, more like. Food porn, even.” He licked his lips and declaimed, “They close their eyes, raise their eyebrows into accent marks, and make sounds of acute appreciation. It’s sexy.”

Zach hid his blush behind his wine glass. “So it’s culinary quotes now? Our vocabulary games don’t do it for you anymore?”

Chris chased the last bite of sandwich with a deep swallow of water. He shrugged and spread his hands, a study in innocence. His mischievous expression ruined the angelic effect, however. “Just one of the books I’m reading at the moment,” Chris said. “Animal, Vegetable, Miracle. It’s a good book, interesting. Even though the author is a bit of a fanatic about some stuff.”

“Hmm.” Zach finished his soup. “Trade seconds for another quote? Because I promise you, I can satisfy all your … literary desires.”

“Watch me shiver in anticipation.” But Chris smiled at the compliment and served him a second bowl of soup.

“All right, then.” Zach made a show of eating the soup. He closed his eyes, raised his eyebrows, sucked the spoon, and sighed with pleasure. It was no hardship; the second serving was just as delicious as the first. When he opened his eyes, he found Chris staring at him, his face flushed, and a silent ohhh… on his lips. Zach pushed the empty bowl aside and leaned forward. Thoughtfully, he sucked his lips into his mouth and watched how Chris inhaled, how the silent ohhh… flowed into a soft AHHH…

“Tomatoes,” Zach murmured, keeping his voice low and sexy, a deep-voiced whisper, “are lusty enough, yet there runs through tomatoes an undercurrent of frivolity. But beets, beets are deadly serious.” He drew back and smirked. “Tom Robbins, Jitterbug Perfume.”

“Jesus Christ, Zach,” Chris breathed. “We really need to stop watching each other’s interviews.”

Zach laughed. “But your performance with those blood oranges for ‘Ellen’ was very inspiring.” He reached for the bottle of wine to top up their glasses. “You’re right about the interviews, though,” he said, growing serious again. “Well, perhaps not that we have to stop watching them. I don’t see how we can. But, like, what I said about fear – about cockroaches and the nuclear apocalypse – that was me grandstanding. There are just … things friends don’t know of each other, not even good friends, not even you and I. Things we can’t extrapolate from interviews. Our public personae, I’m not saying it’s all fake, but it’s definitely an act. At least not quite real. You know that, Chris. And that, we can’t have that between us now. We need to be authentic with each other.”

Chris pulled the candle closer and started playing with the melting wax. Zach hated it when people did that, but he didn’t say a word. And he fully expected Chris to complain about how he’d ruined a moment of romance with a relationship lecture. (It was a special talent of his that Jon had kvetched about frequently. Miles less so; but then he had spoiled the mood often enough himself). A few minutes later, Chris pushed the candle away again and looked up, his eyes dark. A stormy evening at the pool, Zach thought.

“Thank you,” Chris said quietly. “For what you said, now and … before, too. For the way you said that. Like I’m real. Like we’re real. You know, relationship-real.”

Oh. There was that fluttery feeling again. Zach inhaled carefully, as if a deep breath might scare away any metaphorical butterflies in the vicinity. He would have liked to respond with “Of course it’s a relationship!” But that would have been, well, not a lie anymore, perhaps, but also not quite true. Not yet, at least.

“Look,” Zach said, “I can’t deny that there were moments during the last few weeks when I asked myself what the hell we’re doing.”

Worse, without meaning to, simply with his silence during those weeks, he might have given the impression up until now that he didn’t think Chris was real, that he didn’t quite believe in Chris, in his bisexuality. Zach had been happy to fuck Chris the very first night. Then he’d just as happily proceeded to ignore the proverbial elephant in the room. And now? Zach knew it was still not the right time to talk about that particular animal in any detail – about all private and professional repercussions of a serious relationship between them.

Instead, Zach reached across the table. He was grateful when Chris didn’t pull away but entwined their fingers. “But, Chris? I wouldn’t be here if this wasn’t real.”

He wasn’t the only one doing some cautious breathing right now. When Chris met his gaze, Zach was relieved to see a smile. Not as brilliant as before, perhaps almost hesitant. Maybe even more touching that way. Definitely disarming.

“Bed?” Zach suggested. “Now?”

♦

Zach woke pressed against Chris’s ass, hard and horny, ready to fuck, his arms wrapped around Chris’s body, one leg curled around his thigh. Morning wood was a thing, and it didn’t go away when you turned thirty, or even thirty-five. Zach exhaled. Inhaled. The warm scent of sleeping Chris. He had no idea what time it was. Might be three. Might be six. And it was so silent here at night. Now he was wide awake, and there was absolutely nothing to distract him. Nothing he could do except enjoy the pain-tinged pleasure of his unrelieved arousal, his cock throbbing against Chris’s ass.

Chris. He was in bed with Chris. Such a surreal experience, still. Not just because of the jet lag. Another deep breath, and yeah, there was that feeling again. For a moment he experienced the strange sensation of feeling weak-kneed while lying down. And why does the idea bother me so much that I am falling in love with a good friend, and vice versa? Zach wondered. No, he amended, his stomach churning. Not bother. It scares me. Involuntarily, he drew Chris closer. Chris squirmed in Zach’s arms and sighed, but he didn’t wake. Chris. Zach pressed just a little harder against him. Yes, he’d love to fuck that seductive ass right now. Of course he would. But for the first time in round about twelve years, Zach thought he might want to be fucked, too. Not that he never did that ever, never mind his personal preferences. Contrary to what some people said, Zach was able to compromise in bed just fine. However, he didn’t actively want that often, rarely needed that. Now he thought he might, though. Perhaps. Chris groaned. The rhythm of his breathing changed, and he moved again. A bad dream? Or had Zach managed to wake him?

That question was answered a moment later, when Chris reached around awkwardly, shoving a small bottle and a condom into his hand. “Please, don’t just tease me.”

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” Zach whispered, running his hand up and down Chris’s side.

“I know.” Chris’s voice was hoarse with sleep. “Jet lag. It’s fine. I like sleepy sex. Just don’t expect any miracles.”

“Chris, you’re—”

“Crazy?” Chris pushed back against his erection, and Zach had to suck his lips into his mouth not to moan. “You keep saying that. Now come on. Fuck me. Please.” With every short sentence, Chris sounded more awake.

“Talk about offers I cannot possibly refuse.” Zach slid his hand lower and tugged at the waistband of Chris’s PJs. With some awkward wriggling, Chris stripped off his pants. Obviously he was really in the mood for sex. Zach followed suit.

Of course getting rid of cumbersome clothes destroyed the mood. For a while they lay silent and naked in the darkness, shifting a little with each breath to get attuned to each other again. Zach could pinpoint the exact moment the balance shifted again, when Chris didn’t exhale but sighed. Zach echoed the sound and followed the slight movement with a caress, stroking Chris’s back, from his neck to his thighs, all those sculpted muscles and lean lines. His head resting in the crook of his elbow, Zach curled up skin to skin behind Chris. Close enough that he barely had to move to kiss Chris’s shoulder and to nip at his neck. For a breath or two, he pressed his erection between the cheeks of Chris’s ass and held himself there again, not moving, not pushing in, just allowing Chris to feel his arousal, letting his cock pulse against sensitive skin. Chris shivered in his arms and inhaled with a shaky gasp. Zach’s dick twitched greedily against Chris’s cleft. But crazy passion was not what Zach had in mind for tonight. This time, he wanted all those sensual, whispering words: soft and slow and devastating.

With that goal in mind, Zach forced himself to draw far enough away from his lover’s body that his erection wasn’t forced up against Chris’s ass anymore. The loss of contact was profound. Think Vulcan thoughts, he told himself. Mind over matter. He rested his forehead between Chris’s shoulder blades and sucked in a deep breath. Chris’s scent was pure olfactory titillation. A lemony head note of clean sweat that revealed a heart note of sleepy skin, warm and generous. And the base note was still waiting to unfold …

Using the fingers of his left hand in lieu of a brush, Zach painted invisible calligraphy down Chris’s back. Kanji, maybe. Or those swirls and spirals that constituted Vulcan script. A poem to appreciate the sex appeal of the spine, with a verse devoted to each delicate vertebra. As he followed the groove of Chris’s back with his fingertips, he felt oddly protective. Yoga had taught Zach much about a body in balance. Photo shoots of Chris might show off the Hollywood-approved figure of an action hero actor in his prime, but his spine told a different story, with uneven indentations speaking of too much stress and too much pressure.

When he reached the tailbone, Chris shoved back against him with a gasp. Zach grinned and interrupted his explorations. He placed his palm against the small of Chris’s back, warm, firm, and hopefully infuriating in its immobility. Judging by the strangled sound Chris choked out, his strategy was successful. But Chris stopped squirming, too.

“Yes,” Zach whispered. “Just relax. Let me … let me …”

He resumed his caresses. Another gentle line, a spiral drawn around the tailbone, he pressed his index finger into the cleft between the buttocks as a final flourish. Then he palmed Chris’s ass, spreading the cheeks with ring finger and index finger. By now his heart was pounding, and he was breathing hard, puffs of breath against Chris’s skin. Just with his middle finger, he began to caress the crease, to stroke lightly across the hole. Again and again, with gentle pressure. Small touches. A steady rhythm. He loved the intimacy of it, all the sensations. The soft skin of the pucker under his fingertip, the slight, coarse fuzz surrounding it, the smooth, firm feel of the buttocks, how Chris trembled under his touch, his harsh breathing.

When Zach had just about reached the limit of his endurance, Chris started keening, a needy whimper, easily the most beautiful sound Zach had ever heard. “Pull your leg up,” he asked. “Maybe use one of those extra pillows, might be more comfortable.”

“God, thank you,” Chris breathed. “I was about to go insane.”

A jerky movement and the rustling of fabric told Zach that Chris had grabbed a pillow. Then he felt Chris draw his leg up, shifting to give Zach better access. Zach used the opportunity to squirt a generous amount of lube on his hand before he settled back down behind Chris again. Goosebumps prickled against Zach’s lips when Chris shivered with the shock of the cool liquid hitting hot skin.

“Love getting you ready like this,” Zach murmured as he slid his index finger in and out of Chris’s body, barely grazing the prostate. “So tight. As if we’ve never done this before.”

“Four times. Not never. Ahhh…” With two fingers Zach was even more careful than before. His gentleness paid off in soft sighs. Even three fingers met no resistance.

“Maybe not mathematically.” Zach drew back and fumbled for the condom on the nightstand. “In terms of ass-fucking you’re still close to virginal.”

He rolled on the condom and decided to err on the side of caution with the lube, lathering himself thoroughly. Also, the slick sounds made Chris shiver, and anything that made Chris tremble like that against his body was good. Very good, even. He positioned himself and gripped Chris’s hip to hold him in place.

“I quote—” Chris groaned. “Please push—”

“No. No quotes. Not now.” Zach knew that he’d never live down that particular Instagram. He still did his best to push in slowly, though. Once he was all the way in, he slid his hand around Chris’s body. But he didn’t reach for Chris’s cock yet. He merely rested his hand tenderly on Chris’s stomach, feeling each shuddering breath vibrate against his palm. For as long as he could endure, he stayed like that and didn’t move. He lost himself in this strange, physical connection, in almost sharing each other’s heartbeats. When he couldn’t stay still another second, he pulled out almost completely again, only to ease back inside very, very slowly. He was so close, so painfully close. But just like in the shower this afternoon, physical exhaustion was on his side, and gave him more time than he might have had otherwise. He let himself sink into the rhythm he created, into a gentle back and forth between their bodies. When he felt the wetness of Chris’s pre-come on the back of his hand, Zach faltered.

“Fuck, Chris.” He propped himself up on his right elbow. That way, he had a little more reach. Now he wrapped his hand around Chris’s cock. To feel him throb in his palm, hot and slick with pre-come and lube, was almost too much to bear. Zach pushed his left foot against the mattress for leverage and thrust harder. He was so close now. He couldn’t think anymore. Couldn’t think beyond hot, beyond tight, beyond – Chris. When Chris cried out, an unintelligible, helpless sound, Zach couldn’t hold himself back anymore. He melted into his climax and dissolved in mindless pleasure deep inside Chris’s body. Then Chris closed his hand over his. Together they slid their fingers up and down Chris’s cock, while Zach still shuddered inside his body. With a voiceless gasp, Chris spasmed, clenching hard, and spilled over their joined hands.

When Zach fell asleep a few minutes later, the deep pheromonic base note of Chris’s natural perfume revealed itself. Zach could taste the scent of Chris’s orgasm with every breath he took, at once tart and sweet, much like the wine they had shared for dinner. The flavor conjured up very pleasant dreams indeed.

♦

A warm touch on his shoulder woke him. Zach turned on his back and blinked, trying to make sense of his surroundings.

“Hey.” Chris was standing in front of the bed, a big brown coffee mug in one hand and a glass of water with a bottle of Zicam in the other. “I figured you’d get mad at me if I let you sleep in very much longer.”

“Nrgh.” Apparently jet lag and sex in the small hours had adverse effects on his eloquence. Awkwardly, Zach pushed himself upright and accepted the coffee. Chris put the water and the pills on the nightstand and sat down on the bed in front of him, cross-legged and entirely too adorable for man in his thirties. He was barefoot (of course) and dressed in dark blue sweatpants and an oversize, bright blue t-shirt adorned with some artsy calligraphy in that awful Hobbit font.

When the slogan on the shirt registered with Zach, he almost spluttered the first swallow of coffee all over himself.

“What?” Chris asked, irritated. “It’s organic Arabica with soy milk. The disgusting stuff you always drink.”

“It’s not the coffee,” Zach wheezed. “It’s the t-shirt.”

Chris looked down at his shirt. “A happy hole & lots of weed, let’s celebrate the Hobbit creed,” he read aloud. Looking up, he shrugged. “I like it.”

“You would.” Zach shook his head. “Only you, Chris.”

“Only I, Zach, would go to the great lengths of not only buying terrible, horrible, no good, very bad soy milk, poison perfectly fine coffee with that disgusting substance and then proceed to serve it to you in bed. Also, there’s proper breakfast waiting for you in the kitchen.” With a sniff, Chris jumped off the bed and proceeded to flounce out of the room.

Zach remained behind, wondering how in hell he’d ever come to the conclusion that Chris was something like ninety-nine percent straight.

When he entered the kitchen a few minutes later, Chris was flipping over an omelet. The table was indeed laid for a sumptuous breakfast. At a glance, Zach took in a pitcher with orange juice, croissants, fruit salad, yogurt, very red jam, honey, and almost translucent ham. Zach dropped his cardigan and his gift for Chris on a chair, and cautiously approached the stove.

“I’m afraid I can only do whole egg omelets,” Chris said. “I actually tried making the egg white version, and I ended up with a very thin, but all the more pernicious layer of charcoal. Had to soak the pan in vinegar on low for hours.” He wrinkled his nose. “I hope you’ll survive a real egg omelet for once. We can go out for breakfast tomorrow, I suppose.”

“I think I’ll live.” Zach stepped behind Chris and put his arms around his waist. “Hi.”

Chris sighed, a happy little huff that made Zach smile. But then Chris stiffened. “Now watch me make a mess of things.” Zach could feel how Chris actually held his breath. And although he couldn’t see it, he was willing to bet good money that Chris had the tip of his tongue squeezed between his lips, too. Carefully, Chris slid the omelet onto a plate and sighed with relief. “Here you go.”

But Zach ignored the food in favor of a kiss. “Hey, slow down, sweetheart.” He switched the stove off. Then he picked up the plate with one hand and used his other arm to maneuver Chris to the table. Or more precisely, to the comfortable bench next to the fireplace. He was not in the mood for chairs. “Sit.”

Chris obeyed, and Zach slid in next to him, pulling him close. “Yesterday you told me not to worry about taking a nap because we’re on vacation. You know what? That applies to you, too. And vacation or no vacation, I’m not going to walk away because there’s no soy milk or no egg white omelet. Or because you’re wearing the most ridiculous t-shirt I’ve ever seen in my life. Or even because you dress me in fucking glow-in-the-dark Milky Way PJs.”

Chris sighed. “I’m an idiot.”

“No, you’re not.” Zach rolled his eyes. Prima donna Pine. “But seriously, calm the fuck down.” He tightened his hold on Chris and inhaled deeply. A new perfume, he thought. Citrus fruits and bergamot and Tonka beans. It complemented Chris’s natural scent. “You smell nice.”

“Thanks. It’s—”

“I’m here, Chris,” Zach interrupted him, repeating his reassurances from the previous day. “I’m here.” He proceeded to kiss Chris, and that definitely helped, both of them. Maybe they should just spend the whole vacation in bed.

Then he remembered something. “And I have something for you.”

“For me?”

“Doofus.” He reached across Chris for his cardigan and the gift-wrapped parcel under it. “Surely you’re familiar with the concept? Gifts, presents? A token of my affection?”

“The omelet will get cold.”

Rolling his eyes, Zach picked up the fork. “Open up.” He fed Chris the first bite before trying the omelet himself. It was nowhere near cold, and wonderfully fluffy. He raised the fork for Chris again. “It’s really good, Chris. Thank you.” Instead of more food, he offered another kiss. Then he alternated between kisses and omelet – for himself and for Chris – until his patience ran out, and he put the fork down. “Also, if it gets cold, we can eat it cold. Or feed it to the Hobbits. Now open your present.”

Zach put the gift into Chris’s hands, hoping he wouldn’t notice that it had been surreptitiously opened and rewrapped. He needn’t have worried. Chris tore off the paper with relish and without a second glance. Zach stuffed the knuckle of his thumb into his mouth to keep himself from laughing when Chris stared in shock at the limited edition “The Hobbit” moleskine notebook in his hands, a glowing red dragon embossed in the satiny black cover.

“But …” Chris started. Fell silent, and predictably opened the notebook. He nearly dropped it when he realized it was less than pristine. “Zach—”

“Yes?” Oh, there was that feeling in his stomach again. Fluttery. Devious. Dangerous. Demon butterflies with vampire fangs.

“You … you copied The Notebook.”

Zach nodded. “You left it at my place. I … well, I looked up a few things online, because you and the internet definitely don’t mix, and I think I’ve found your fan. So we can send it back to her when you visit me in Berlin. But I thought …” He trailed off, feeling sort of stupid. “I thought you’d want to keep it, too.”

“Yes,” Chris said softly. “Of course I do.” He leafed through the pages, smiling and blushing, grinning and blushing even more, until he suddenly stopped and frowned. “You added new stuff!”

“Hmmm, possibly.” Now it was Zach’s turn to flush. He lowered his gaze, wondering if he’d overdone things again because he just couldn’t leave well enough alone.

“What you said about my eyes. And … what I said about yours.” Chris gasped. “And the haiku. And … a quote?”

“I seem to recall you have a thing for quotes, Mr. Berkeley,” Zach said. “And I happen to have a thing for this one.”

“You know, it’s quite a job starting to love somebody,” Chris read out loud. “You have to have energy, generosity, blindness. There is even a moment, in the very beginning, when you have to jump across a precipice: if you think about it you don’t do it.” Chris looked up. “That’s remarkably cheerful for Sartre. Thank you. And for taking on that job. Or for uh… offering?”

Zach’s heart was pounding. He could feel the rhythm of his pulse down to his diaphragm. Almost as if he had to jump across an abyss for real. “Chris.” He took a deep breath. “If you want me for that job, I’m yours.”

(Zach did post this Instagram when he was in Berlin again; it gave rise to much speculation on Tumblr in April.)

(Unnecessary disclaimer: the Instagram is fake, nothing but fantasy, and just an illustration for this story.)

Author’s Notes

• The answer to the riddle is “darkness”, just in case that isn’t clear.

• Many thanks to Zauza and F. for the Portuguese bits.

• “Pode dizer-me se a pizza vem com os tomates por cima ou por baixo?” means “Can you tell me if this pizza comes with the tomatoes on top or on bottom?” and of course “tomatoes” is a euphemism. For balls …

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