Love Conventions

by Morgan James

  Remy dragged him into the food room.

  “Food room?”

  “Yeah, meals in pill forms. You know”—he affected a deeper, voice-over tone—“fooood of the future.”

  Ash smiled. “Sounds… unappetizing.”

  “No way,” Remy said with enthusiasm. “Well, meal pills do. But they don’t have those to eat. It’s also a café. It has ice-cream dots, Ash, ice-cream dots. Who can resist them?” Remy bounced as he led Ash to the coveted ice cream.

  “Are you secretly five?”

  “Ha! You figured me out.” His eyes danced, and he caught Ash in his gaze until he looked away.

  The food room turned out pretty much as advertised, but Remy’s enthusiasm entertained when the room didn’t. It also distracted—Remy moaned obnoxiously as he snacked.

  That Ash found himself flattered by Remy’s somewhat reluctant offer to share was probably a sign of madness. Remy didn’t strike him as someone who often handed over food unasked. Ash only took two dots.

  They left the food exhibit and were passing the room on gender and sexuality when a male voice said, “I know. He’s so hot.”

  “Uh-huh,” agreed a female one. “I can’t decide if I’d rather fuck Zvi or Wells.”

  Ash froze. He was aware people talked about him that way, objectified him and told their friends fantasies about him. Hell, it wasn’t like he’d never done it about others. But knowing and hearing were very different things.

  “Wells, obviously,” said the masculine voice. “I like the shy ones. They’re always the freakiest.” He laughed.

  Ash burned. He couldn’t bring himself to look at Remy.

  “I know you do,” said the woman. They were getting closer.

  Buggering fuck. Ash did not want to run into fans this way.

  Remy curled his hand around Ash’s and pulled him away from the voices. Then he opened a door, pushed Ash inside, and followed after. He shut them into the janitor’s closet.

  Ash wanted to face-palm. He was hiding from his fans, in a closet. The irony was killing him.

  Remy snorted. “I never thought I’d find myself in the closet,” he muttered.

  They stood close together. The bursting shelves and supplies on the floor left little room to maneuver. Remy was thin, and though he was muscular, some of his angles jutted into Ash—an elbow, a knee. Ash knew people admired his body, especially when he had the extra twenty pounds of muscles for playing Zvi, but he had always preferred less bulk in other men.

  Not that he’d ever done anything to pursue it.

  They stood in silence. Remy’s hot breath gusted across Ash’s cheek. Over the sound of their soft breathing and his thumping heart, Ash heard the fans laughing heartily, growing louder and then fainter again.

  Ash fidgeted, unused to standing so close to a fan outside of cons. He had never been much of the actor stereotype—short on personal space and overly tactile. Remy apparently didn’t have the same problem.

  He placed a hand on Ash’s elbow—for balance?—and asked in a hushed tone that sent shivers down Ash’s spine, “Okay?”

  “Yeah,” Ash breathed, matching him for volume.

  They stayed silent for a minute.

  “I think they’re gone,” Remy whispered. “Should we brave it?”

  Ash hesitated a couple of extra beats. He could live through another few claustrophobic seconds if it meant avoiding tweets about him hiding in museum closets with strange men.

  He touched his hidden coin pendant and hoped they weren’t caught.

  “Think we’ll be safe?”

  “I don’t know,” Ash admitted.

  Remy cracked the door, pressed his cheek to it, and peered out. “I think the coast is clear. No more scary fans,” Remy whispered conspiratorially. He grinned. “Shall we make a break for it?”

  Ash nodded. “Aye.” They exited the closet, aiming for casual. Or Ash suspected Remy was also attempting to look cool, to not draw attention to himself. Ash hoped he wasn’t failing quite so badly.

  They snuck out of the exhibit and through the museum.

  Ash stuffed his hands into his pockets when they got outside. “Where to now?” he asked impulsively.

  Remy’s eyes widened.

  Oh. Stupid to assume he wanted to hang out. He probably already had plans—

  A smile spread across Remy’s face. “I know the perfect place.” He ushered Ash away from the building and led him to a hole-in-the-wall which apparently sold “the best doughnuts ever.”

  Remy ordered half a dozen. Ash arched an eyebrow but didn’t protest.

  They weren’t exactly in his approved diet—somewhere, the Restraint trainer probably recoiled in horror, not knowing why—but fuck it. He wasn’t filming anything, so no one would fuss if he ate some carb bombs.

  Remy tugged Ash to the back corner of the shop. They weren’t exactly sheltered, but it wasn’t a conspicuous spot.

  Remy pulled out a plastic knife and waved it in the air before he quickly cut the Earl-Grey-and-lemon doughnut into quarters.

  “Right. Pick your poison,” he said cheerfully.

  Ash reached out slowly and picked one up. He was skeptical, but he did like Earl Grey.

  “Wow,” he said around his mouthful.

  Remy popped one of the quarters into his smiling mouth. “I know, right? Everything they make is so good. They had a walnut, thyme, and maple flavor last year.”

  Ash couldn’t help it, he wrinkled his nose.

  Remy chuckled. “I know. But they were so good. As amazing as all the other ones. Sadly, they rotate all but their most popular flavors, so they no longer make it.”

  “That’s too bad.” Ash tried not to eye the other half of the Earl Grey and lemon too covetously.

  Remy pushed the plate closer. “Go on.”

  Ash took a piece and ate it. Remy ate the other one, then cut up the blueberries and cream, which was equally delicious. They followed it with a chocolate and sea salt, a rosemary and orange with honey glaze, a peanut butter and banana, and a key lime pie. Ash only mildly regretted eating six half doughnuts in one sitting.

  “So, favorite one?”

  “They’re all so good,” Ash said. “But I think I like the Earl Grey one best.”

  Remy shook his head good-naturedly. “I love the chocolate one, but I’m gonna go with chocolate every time.” He shrugged. “I might have a problem.”

  “A chocolate problem? Because you always have to side with it, never against it?”

  “Something like that. It has a terrible hold on me.”

  Ash licked his lips and tasted a hint of honey. He smiled. “These were definitely a good idea. Though you probably delayed my dinner by an hour. And I definitely need to check out a gym tomorrow.”

  Remy groaned. “I’m not sure I’ve ever been in a gym.”

  Ash raised his eyebrows, unconvinced, remembering Remy’s slim but muscled body pressed to his own. Ash swallowed.

  “No really. These bad boys”—he lifted an arm to flex a bicep—“come from dog-walking and hockey.”

  “You play hockey?” Ash asked, surprised. Ash thought hockey players were… bigger.

  Remy snorted. “You’re so Scottish. Yes, I play hockey. Despite being a geeky beanpole, I’m still Canadian. Mom taught me on our backyard rink. I’ve played my whole life. But my NHL dreams didn’t last past age seven.”

  “You were only seven when you decided you couldn’t go pro?”

  “I don’t have the passion or talent for it.” Remy smiled. “Also it coincided with my phase of wanting to be a chocolate pirate.”

  Ash barked a surprised laugh. “What?”

  “I told you I had a chocolate problem,” Remy said, nonchalant.

  “You wanted to go into a life of high-seas chocolate crime?”

  “It seemed like a good idea at the time. I’d get to sail, live with my buddies, eat chocolate, and sing a lot.”

  “Sing?”

  Remy grinned. “I might have had a Muppe
t Treasure Island phase too. It led to some misconceptions.”

  Ash laughed, charmed by the image of Remy at seven, running about in costume, convinced pirates lived in musicals. “So you like to sing?”

  “Sure. Who doesn’t? I’m terrible, but whatever.” He cocked his head. “You?”

  “Oh. Well. Not really.” Ash wasn’t fond of singing with an audience. He hummed in the shower when he was alone in the flat, but he hadn’t sung near others since primary school.

  “That’s too bad.” Remy cast about. “I guess it’s too crowded around here to bust into a musical number.” He sighed dramatically.

  Ash appreciated the restraint. The less attention attracted, the better.

  “Anyway. You ready to blow this pop stand?”

  Ash stared. “Pop stand? Are you ninety?”

  “Nope, but I do love a good dad joke.”

  They both stood and gathered their rubbish. As they walked out, Ash tossed it into the bin, and Remy said, “Nice shot. Lucky for you, otherwise I’d trash-talk.”

  Ash groaned. “Pathetic.”

  “I suppose you could do better?”

  “Maybe. But I’m rubbish at serving up puns to order.”

  Remy laughed. “Master.” He gave a sweeping mocking bow.

  Ash wrinkled his nose and smiled. “So. Where…?”

  Remy tapped his chin. “Hmm. Oh! There’s a place only a couple blocks away.” He waved up the pavement, and they headed north… or west?

  At the next intersection, they turned right. Ash stuffed his hands into his pockets and enjoyed the silence.

  He never needed to fill the quiet, but people often wanted him to talk and share. It felt good to be with someone who seemed as content to pass moments unmarked.

  “Hmm. I shared one of my childhood dreams…,” Remy said. Well. Nearly content.

  “I don’t think chocolate pirate—”

  “I was very serious about it. I even had a hat and everything. Anyway, I think it only fair you tell me one of yours.”

  Ash had several secret dreams as a kid. Maw once told him he’d wanted to be a dinosaur at four, and by eight he’d moved on to astronaut.

  He didn’t mention that.

  “I was obsessed with Superman when I was five. I had several tapes with cartoons. I had a costume my maw made for me, and I wore it almost every day for half a year. Told everyone I was gonna be him.”

  “Really?” Remy’s eyes danced.

  “Yeah.” Ash cleared his throat. “I’ve never told anyone that.”

  They stopped at a crosswalk. Remy’s eyes were narrowed, considering. He licked his lips and hummed in understanding.

  Ash tapped his pendant. “Everyone wants cute stories from your past. My brother wilnae talk, and I try not to say much about my life. I don’t see the point really.” Ash bit his lip and looked away. The light changed and he stepped off the curb.

  “Well, no one will hear the story from me. How else could I lord it over you?”

  Ash looked over as they reached the other side of the street, and Remy winked.

  The tension eased from Ash’s shoulders. He didn’t know why it was so easy to believe Remy, but it was.

  Chapter Three

  AS they continued on, Remy filled the time with idle chatter about the streets and the sites they passed.

  A few blocks from the bakery, Remy guided him to a shop with a busy front window, jammed with odds and ends, mostly clothes and accessories—an old lace dress, a stylish button-down matched with trousers, several pairs of shoes, some gloves, a fedora, and a cowboy hat.

  Unconvinced, Ash obeyed Remy’s flourishing wave and entered before him.

  Vintage clothing—some more gently used than others—filled every nook and cranny. Rows of hangers hung over more racks, and shelves loomed over them. Hats clung to any spare inch, and boxes of gloves, wallets, scarves, and bags were crammed wherever possible. Thankfully the space was clean and organized—to some degree.

  The shop begged to be browsed and invited curiosity.

  Remy grinned and wound his way between the tightly packed rows. He picked up a hat that looked like felt and had a round top and a large floppy brim which drooped when he put it on.

  He struck a pose, hands on hips. “How do I look?”

  “Like an eejit?”

  “Oh good. For a second there, I thought I’d failed.” He took the hat off, put it back, then moved on. Ash followed, glancing round, eyeing the wares.

  “Ooh.” Remy reached into the racks and pulled out a jacket which probably hadn’t been worn since 1987.

  “What is that?”

  “Glorious,” Remy breathed emphatically.

  “That is not glorious. That is….” Ash flicked one shoulder. “It has shoulder pads.”

  “So?”

  “And what do you even call that color? Bogey?”

  “Hmm, neon yellow-green?”

  “That’s not a name. It’s a description.”

  “Hey, yellow-green is an acceptable name for a color.”

  Ash snorted. “Yes. I’m sure all the great artists use it.”

  Remy held the coat up and gave it a look. “To be honest, I’m not sure any artist paints with this color.”

  “I hope not.” Ash shuddered. “Not if they want to sell anything.”

  Remy put it back and flicked through the hangers next to it. Ash’s gaze was caught by a collection of gloves on the opposite wall. They weren’t made for cold weather, but fashion. He especially liked a pair of lady’s white evening gloves like he hadn’t seen since his appearance on a period drama. Ash reached out and touched. They were soft, and when he flipped them over, he saw fine needlework, an intricate pattern winding from cuff to fingers. Beautiful.

  “Ooh, pretty,” Remy enthused from over his shoulder.

  “Yeah. Old-fashioned.”

  Remy cocked his head. “I wonder how old they are. They look ooold.”

  Ash snorted. “Yeah. Makes me think of my time on Highclere House.”

  Remy laughed. “Oh man. You didn’t get to wear gloves like these, though.” He tilted his head to the side. “That would have been a very different and interesting story for the footman if you had.”

  The corners of Ash’s mouth quirked, but he kept a straight face. “Very different. Not sure the grans of England would have been ready for that.”

  “I think you’re underestimating grans,” Remy said with an arched brow. He took a step back and made a production of giving Ash a once-over. “I think you’d rock a turn-of-the-century corset and skirt. Very you. And you have the waistline for it.”

  Giving in, Ash dropped the straight face and chuckled. He shook his head. “You know, my gran loves that show, was thrilled when I was on it. She was so proud. Only four episodes, but she brags.”

  “What, and not about Zvi?” They drifted farther into the store.

  “Nah. She’s veray proud of me for being ‘so famous,’ but she’s never seen my ‘beasties magic show.’” He naturally slipped into her brogue as he quoted her.

  “She doesn’t really—”

  “She does. Pats my cheek and everything when she says it.”

  “Your grandmother sounds amazing,” Remy sighed. “Mine would not brag if I was working on a sci-fi show. Mostly because she only watches CBC and the local Quebecois public access.” He wrinkled his nose. “Not that I see her much. She’s near Quebec City, and Mom was always too busy to visit when I was a kid, and now… well, I can’t afford the trip.”

  “I’m sorry,” Ash said softly. “Distance from family isn’t fun.”

  “Thanks.” Remy gave a small smile. “Oh sweet.” Remy picked up a top hat and placed it on his head. “What do you think?”

  “Ridiculous.” And handsome. “It’s too big for you. Good thing your ears catch it, otherwise it would fall over your eyes.” Ash nearly cringed.

  Remy squawked. “My ears aren’t big.”

  “They really are,” Ash said apologetically.
Why was he still talking? “Sorry.” The brim forced Remy’s ears to curve downward in a stupidly charming way.

  Remy huffed and adjusted the hat. “Well. I guess I won’t be going to you for any more fashion advice.” He didn’t look angry, though.

  Ash put his hands in his pockets and tilted his head. “I guess I shouldn’t tell you, then, that you need a walking stick to complete the look?”

  “Ooh, a cane.” Remy clapped his hands and looked around, apparently not holding a grudge.

  Ash nearly sighed in relief. Not offended.

  “Do you think they have one in here somewhere?”

  Ash arched a brow. “Probably. But… you’re not actually going to buy that thing, are you?”

  Remy turned back to him. “What? No. I wish.” He pulled the top hat off and flipped it over. “I proba—yeesh.” He put it back with exaggerated care.

  Ash picked up the hat by the brim to get a look at the price tag. He whistled. Even he’d balk at dropping $200 on a hat, and he was comfortable thanks to Restraint and to his portion of his dad’s life insurance and settlement. “Yeah. No.”

  “Right? Definitely not at that price. I’m just a poor grad student.”

  They moved on, leaving too-expensive headgear behind. “What—” Ash licked his lips. “—are you studying?”

  “Hmm? Myths and legends.”

  Ash blinked. “You can get a degree in that?”

  “Oh, sure. You can get a master’s in anything really.”

  Ash snorted. “So, what do you do with a degree in myths and legends?”

  “If I’m lucky, I’ll write a couple of best sellers and never have to work again. Worked for JK Rowling.”

  Ash wrinkled his nose. “She doesn’t have a degree i—”

  “So it’s in classics. To-mato, to-mahto.” Remy waffled a hand back and forth.

  “Equally useless?”

  Remy tossed his head back and laughed. His throat looked so long and his shoulders so broad as they shook. Ash blinked and turned away for a moment.

  “Sorry.” He straightened. “That was probably too loud.” He smiled sheepishly. “I might have some tension regarding what the fuck I’m going to do when I graduate.”