Holidays in Blue

by Eve Morton

  So wise. Very interesting. I could never compete at the table when he started talking and now I understand why.

  Cosmin was touched. His father thought he was wise. He’d feared that his father hated his academic work, either because it was either too erudite or not smart enough, and that was why he never responded. But his father had merely felt out of his depth, and not merely because it was elitist hogwash. His father wanted to understand; it was very different than Maurice’s parents thinking there was no use in learning sonnet structure. At their next Christmas together, their last one as a couple, they’d gone to Maurice’s parents’ place, where his mother had mocked their love of literature and called Cosmin pretentious. It wasn’t what ended their relationship, but being slandered for being gay one year, and then being too smart the next took its toll until they drifted apart.

  Apparently, though, Cosmin’s father never thought his queerness or his education was a problem. He was wise to his father. He was smart. At the end of other chapters in his book, his father had taken notes to summarize what he’d read, as if he was in Cosmin’s class rather than his father.

  When Cosmin opened the journals, he found more clippings from newspapers that mentioned Cosmin in some way. The few that didn’t ended up being related to his research.

  This reminds me of something Cossy mentioned in an email. Reminds me of the story he told me. Of that case study in the first chapter of his book. Seems like what Cosmin is studying.

  Cosmin became confused, though, halfway through a long rebuttal his father had written to a clipping of a bad review of his radio show. Had his father planned on telling him this? Sending it in as a letter to the editor? Or was this journal merely an echo chamber for George, a place where he could speak but still never say a word aloud to the person who needed to hear it the most?

  Cosmin wanted to hear it. He’d been desperate for feedback for most of his career. And while it was heartening to read these glowing and supportive thoughts, and wonderful to see approval in the prose, what was the point if Cosmin never knew? Did his father think that he was so out of his depth with what Cosmin was studying or working on that he couldn’t participate? Cosmin hated the thought, so he didn’t dwell on it.

  He turned to another page to see Julian. It was dated from an era when he’d just started his prestigious position at SickKids; in the picture he posed with a bald twelve-year-old cancer patient who received new treatment. He’d been quoted in the article. Not a huge piece, but his father had saved it.

  I’m pretty sure this is Cosmin’s husband. I do not know if they are married, actually, or how open someone who works with children can be about something like that. Either way, this is really neat.

  Cosmin searched through more notebooks, determined to find something about Maurice. He scraped the bottom of the box, and found the series of missing journals. I was wrong, wasn’t I? he thought. Wrong, wrong, wrong. He struggled with himself. He may have been wrong about his father, but once again, how could he have known any better?

  Eventually he found the notebook for the year of Maurice. There was nothing beyond the obvious observations. But tucked inside another copy of The Tempest—one that Cosmin’s father must have owned all along—there was a note addressed to Cosmin and signed by his father. Unsent, but written.

  I should have been kinder today. I sometimes don’t know the tone of my voice. Your mother always told me that I spoke too loud and that it scared people away. Not her, though, because she was tough. But she told me I should write things down more, which was why I write journals in the morning. She used to read them over breakfast. She insisted on it. Sometimes I think you should read them, or I should write to you, so that my voice doesn’t get too loud and I shut everyone out. I do not mean to shut the door on things, even though I’ve done that a lot in the past.

  The rest of the letter blurred together. Cosmin was crying. He was exhausted and angry, too, but his tears won out. The sadness was like eternity; time eluded him, and so it felt like he’d been crying for most of his life. A memory of the orphanage came to the forefront of his consciousness, and he both saw and deeply felt how he’d howl in the darkness and wait for someone to come, but no one ever did. He saw his father in the morning light of the room, and saw through him. My eyes were full of stars, he thought, my eyes were eternity. He sobbed. He’d lost that eternity, and his father had been partly to blame. He’d discovered it, nurtured it, and written it down in so many words—but words, words, words. What was the point? What was the point in any of this love if it was not expressed?

  Cosmin struggled to read the rest of the letter. He wanted to get to the end, as if it would make a difference. It was the same as the earlier passage, saying he was proud of him no matter what. He butchered some of the language around homosexuality, but George was kind. He meant well. And now he was dead. Gone, wasted. All of this was waste.

  And Cosmin still had not found what he’d come in here looking for.

  Cosmin closed the notebook. He added it to the box with his name on it and slid it, along with the others, back under the bed. He found Eric in the dark, wrapped an arm around him, and fell asleep.

  Chapter Ten

  When Cosmin awoke, it was late in the day. The window in the guest room had heavy-duty blackout curtains, purchased when his father worked nights and often needed to sleep through the brightest parts of the day, but even these couldn’t block out the sunlight that now reflected off the ice-world outdoors. Slats of light sliced through and danced over his eyelids; from the chirping his phone was doing in tandem, he figured the power was back on.

  Cosmin shifted in bed to check his messages only to watch the screen of his iPhone fade out again.

  “The power’s been flickering all morning,” Eric said.

  Cosmin turned to see Eric resting on the side of the bed. He gave him a genuine smile, happy to see he was still here. “Have you been up long?” Cosmin asked. Eric wore a T-shirt and boxers and his phone was in his hand, though still connected to the wall charger.

  “Only an hour or so. I needed to make up a massive sleep debt.”

  Cosmin murmured his agreement. Eric didn’t ask where Cosmin had been last night, or if he’d noticed that he was gone. He merely held up his phone with a news story in the browser. “I’m going to lose signal again considering that we just lost power, but apparently all of Toronto is under a sheet of ice.”

  “Really?”

  Cosmin pulled the curtains back to reveal the neighbourhood under ice. Light cascaded off every surface, making the overcast day seem more like a sunny summer and highlighting just how thickly packed the ice had become. Though some of the icicles visibly dripped in the afternoon warmth, they only seemed to drip down to form yet more icicles. Whatever snow had been on the ground the night before was now thick and transparent, and each car in a driveway was covered in the same thick and transparent sheet of ice. The subdivision was eerily quiet, especially for a Saturday. Trees were also encased and dipped down several inches lower than normal under the strain, as if pulled by a crueller version of gravity. From the pinging against the window, it was likely that the storm hadn’t even come close to passing.

  Eric shifted next to him on the bed so they both could examine the almost extraterrestrial world outside. He sighed under his breath. “When we had power, I pulled up photos. It’s bad. I didn’t want to disturb you as you slept, though.”

  “Appreciate it. But what exactly are we in for?”

  “Well, other than the fact that we still have no power, and we’re definitely not alone in that.” Eric showed a slideshow gallery on his phone that displayed streetcar cables frozen over. “Everything in Toronto looks like this. No one can get in or out.”

  “Wow.”

  “My parents texted me, too,” Eric added. “Their flight’s been cancelled.”

  “The storm’s that far-reaching?”


  “Yeah. The East Coast has been hit pretty bad. My parents don’t know when they’re going to be able to leave. But they’re keeping me updated.” Eric laughed and gestured to their useless phone chargers. “A lot of good that will do though.”

  “I guess my estimate from last night was more foolhardy than ever. Should be used to that by now, though.”

  Cosmin sighed. His brain was exhausted from grieving, yet he was still so restless from his dilemma being unresolved. He wanted to work on the show about Suzanne, but he couldn’t get into Toronto. Not when everything outside looked the way it did. He wanted to slip into emergency mode yet again to see if he could solve this crisis, but there was no point. Their phones were mostly charged. Power would come back on. And they had food. His apartment in Toronto could wait for him, and so would the show.

  That was the part that hurt the most, he was realizing. His show could wait. Suzanne wasn’t going anywhere. What was more important now was the moment, the living. If he learned nothing from his adventure last night, let it be that suffering was suffering, but more often than not, it need not be felt as suffering. He and Eric were trapped here, but it didn’t feel like a panicked state anymore, something that he had to fight. He could give in to it.

  “So you’re telling me that you have nowhere to be?”

  Eric turned to Cosmin, assessing the cadence of his voice with a sly smile. “No, I don’t. Too bad we don’t have anything to keep ourselves occupied.”

  “We do.”

  Cosmin left the guest room and dipped into his father’s. While keeping his blinders on, he grabbed the condoms and came back into the guest room. He held out his discovery like a gift. From the way Eric’s eyes lit, he figured it sort of was.

  All conversation ceased as their mouths met again. Cosmin allowed a deep yearning for human contact to come to the surface, and then moulded his desire to the confines of Eric’s body. He wanted Eric’s pliable body to melt under his hands; he wanted to caress his long, thin torso, and he wanted his sinewy arms to wrap around Cosmin’s back as he entered him. He wanted sex. He wanted to forget. Eros and Thanatos; love and death and desire. Yes, yes, he wanted all of it in a cerebral and animal way. He wanted it like he wanted eternity. And he wanted to do it all with Eric looking him in the eyes.

  It took no more than several seconds of extended kissing before his cock was visible, peeking out of his boxers. Eric grasped him eagerly, coaxing him through the fabric and against his own cock. Eric fisted them together, grinding and biting as the kiss descended into small pecks and panted breathing.

  “I want you inside me,” Eric said. His voice was heavy, husky like the night before. His mouth was incredible. Pink and pert, utterly filthy, yet completely classical and baroque. Simultaneously crass yet erudite in erotic talk. Cosmin had never been so bewitched by dirty talk before, never been so solely aroused through words alone. He was sure Eric could narrate the entire sex scene to him and he could come without ever going inside him.

  But they had the condoms now, so he didn’t want to test his theory.

  Cosmin took off his own shirt, followed by Eric’s, and guided them into his favoured position on the bed. Once naked, they explored one another’s bodies through kisses and hand touches. Eric wrapped his legs around Cosmin, grinding and coaxing him inside just as much as Cosmin wanted to coax himself.

  When he put the condom on, Eric had already slicked his cock well enough with lotion, so the action was easy. The mechanics of sex itself subsumed the desire for a brief moment as they readied themselves with practical realities; once Cosmin breached Eric’s body, though, the desire took over. Actions took over. Sense-memory and details filled in the rest.

  Eric canted his hips towards Cosmin’s own thrusts, meeting them and encouraging him. He placed his hand on Cosmin’s neck, pulling him in for even more kisses as Cosmin sensed out a natural rhythm. He’d never had sex on this mattress before, and the squeaking springs ruined the moment for the first couple seconds. He shifted, tried again, and only continued once Eric’s moans covered up all other sounds.

  “Yeah, yeah, God.” Eric’s exultations thrilled Cosmin, even more as Eric hooked one of his arms around Cosmin’s to steady himself, and rested his forehead against Cosmin’s throbbing biceps.

  Eric closed his eyes and leaned back against the bed, each swallow before a moan making his Adam’s apple throb. Cosmin licked his skin, wondering if the Adam’s apple would taste just as sweet as it looked; it was more salty and bland, but it didn’t matter. Everything he did to Eric seemed to be the right thing. Yes and fucks were peppered between shouts of his name. And it was his name from Eric’s lips that seemed to undo him.

  “Cosmin, Cosmin.” Eric’s free hand was on his cock, holding the base to each of Cosmin’s thrusts. “I’m gonna come.”

  Eric’s words melted away as his body gave in. He was so quiet, his eyes closed and face contorted, that Cosmin worried he was causing pain. Soon Eric’s stomach was covered, and Cosmin knew he was all right. He finished with a small whimper, one that always made him feel so vulnerable, and then lay next to Eric as he tried to catch his breath. His lips felt bruised. But it was worth it, so worth it, just to see Eric’s skin in that flushed pink state, and his mouth still hung open in a muted O.

  “We only have one more left,” Cosmin said. “But my God, I think we will use it well.”

  Eric chuckled against Cosmin’s ear. When Eric kissed his side, his neck, and then his mouth, he put a hand against his face again.

  “You know,” Eric said, “I’m sure my parents probably have some hidden stash too. If I go over and look, I won’t be gone more than fifteen minutes.”

  “As long as you come back,” Cosmin said.

  “Of course,” Eric said, and meant it.

  Chapter Eleven

  The power flickered for most of the day. The house had a gas stove, so they were still able to cook. Eric went to his parents’ house to scavenge supplies. It was an even more treacherous walk than the night before. He wore Cosmin’s boots on his insistence and walked across the slick road with the careful practice of a tightrope walker. His tailbone still smarted from his previous fall, but he kept the pain under wraps through the surge of endorphins and a determined focus on the task at hand. After grabbing food for a big brunch, Eric searched the entire house for more condoms. He turned up only one inside a backpack in his old bedroom, but it had already expired. They would have to be judicious with the one condom they had left, especially since everything from Whitby to the East Coast of the US seemed to be shut down.

  Eric still smiled like a grinning idiot each time he thought of Cosmin. Their frantic fumbling in the kitchen had seemed so strained and conflicted, while still passionate; it was as if sex was a release valve to get rid of all the festering emotions from Cosmin’s show and his father’s death. Even in bed that night, their kiss had seemed more like an emergency gesture than one of true affection; similar to a Grindr hook-up calling him a cab, not because he genuinely cared if he got home safely, but because he cared about him not stealing his stereo.

  All of that would have been more than sufficient for Eric. He was thrilled to be touched in a way he hadn’t been in a long time, and for the touch to come from someone he’d fantasized about a lot as a confused teenager. Come morning, though, and Cosmin had completely changed. He was still quiet, still reserved in all the ways he’d been growing up, but there was a calm to him that had not been there. And their morning tryst had been utterly revelatory. It fulfilled—and exceeded—every last fantasy that Eric had had about the next-door neighbour.

  Maybe I’m in the eye of the storm, Eric thought as he gingerly walked back across the street holding eggs and cheese as if they were a lifeline, and Cosmin will go back to being moody in no time. That reality was far more likely than Eric wanted to give it credit for, so until that inevitability, he decided he was going to enjoy and live
out every last boyish fantasy he had of his brooding next-door neighbour—starting with having as much sex as possible with only that one condom left.

  A big brunch of bacon, eggs, and grilled cheese was quickly assembled and consumed at a leisurely pace, since they were no longer bound to any kind of official clock or schedule. Though Cosmin had made coffee using the gas stove to boil water, and a strainer to shift through grounds that were possibly stale, it definitely wasn’t the same as an electric brew. By the time they were washing dishes, the sunlight was all but gone.

  Afterwards, it made perfect sense to go back to bed, especially with no TV or weather reports to keep them occupied. Sometimes Eric’s phone had 4G connection, but not for any longer than two minutes. And the information from his parents was spotty at best.

  “I wonder how long this will last?” Eric leaned against the headboard of the guest room bed, sitting atop the covers. Cosmin had pulled back the drapes to let the limited starlight into the room. He lit another candle and shut off the flashlight to conserve the battery.

  “Maybe another day at most for the rain, but then there’s the clean-up to worry about. I’ve only seen one salt truck today. Nothing else.”

  Eric nodded. He did some mental calculations. If it lasted another two days, it would be Christmas Eve. “I wonder if my parents will make it home for Christmas. Or if it’ll just be me in the house.”

  Cosmin didn’t answer. He may have been assessing whether or not he wanted to get some other reading material for them to look at by candlelight, more food, or something else altogether.

  “Do you have plans, Cosmin?” Eric asked. “For Christmas?”