Homebird

by Amy Lane

  But don’t I have another family now?

  The thought hit him halfway back to Munich, as Nick dozed on Crispin’s shoulder and Crispin leaned against Link.

  Apparently he couldn’t shake these bozos. He’d actually been in the wedding party for two of them, and he was pretty sure Cam was sizing him up for a tuxedo immediately after their trip. When Ray’s wife got pregnant, Crispin knew they were all on for uncle duty. When Nick and Marcy broke up (they could all see it coming, and although they all loved Marcy, they were all on Nick’s side) they would all get called in with alcohol and old action movies to make him feel better.

  All Crispin lacked was someone to come home to, someone warm who would hug him in the morning before they toddled off to work, someone who wanted to kiss him, to talk to him, to….

  The thought of someone familiar enough to touch him, skin to skin, flooded his senses with electricity, and he had to stomp on it, hard, like a monster under a trapdoor, or one of two things would happen.

  He was surrounded by male bodies—if he got an erection, he’d die of embarrassment.

  And if he burst into tears, he’d beg his friends to throw him off the train.

  BUT EVEN if he’d stomped the monster down under the trapdoor, that didn’t mean it couldn’t be heard, snarling, pounding, thrashing around the basement, wrecking the carefully built shelves and preserved bottles of the few good memories Crispin had.

  He thought he could exist on his memories of Grayson, say he’d had a relationship once and he didn’t need one now. But in the next few hours, as they made their way back to the hotel, rested, showered, and got ready for their night in the beer tents, he found one jar of memories after another burst on the ground of the hard reality of ten long years.

  Grayson smiling at him across the quad at WSU—poof! He saw how young Grayson was, how weak his chin was, how he’d been scoping out more than one guy.

  Their first kiss after a movie? Poof! Grayson went out with two more guys before he called Crispin—and he’d expected Crispin to do the same.

  Making love for the first time? Ouch! God, neither of them had known what they were doing.

  The second time had been better.

  The third passable.

  By their sophomore year, sex had been something to look forward to, but they had never, ever, not used condoms, and now that Crispin was older, he knew what that had meant to Grayson when it meant something else entirely to Crispin, who thought all sex was with condoms back then because even googling sex was too embarrassing for words.

  And then there was their goodbye kiss, which Crispin had once thought of as poignant, and now he could almost feel Grayson running backward toward the airport as they kissed.

  Coming with Crispin to a funeral was as dedicated as the guy had ever gotten.

  That?

  That was all Crispin had to look forward to?

  God.

  Ray’s cousin in San Francisco was looking better by the minute. Ray wasn’t a bad-looking guy—but even if his cousin had a hump and the mange, if he was as sweet to a boyfriend as Ray was to his wife, Crispin could find some happiness, right?

  So Crispin’s monster of loneliness had done a good job destroying Crispin’s defenses against romance by the time they ran out of the hotel, afraid they wouldn’t get a good place in the beer tents.

  Unfortunately, that didn’t help Crispin’s internal navigation system at all.

  Fifteen minutes later, he and Cam were dodging around another corner while Cam tried to follow Link’s hastily texted directions.

  “Jesus, Link, can I have an address? A street name? A residence? Something? Where the hell is the beer garden?”

  Both their phones buzzed just as they walked past the entrance to an open courtyard, covered overhead to keep out rain and sun, raucous with laughter and overflowing with Neil Diamond’s “Sweet Caroline.”

  Crispin looked at his phone while Cam looked up at the banner across the top of the entrance.

  “Biergarten,” they both read, and then Cam looked down at Crispin’s phone and Crispin looked up at the banner, which both said exactly the same thing.

  “We must never speak of this,” Cam said seriously.

  “He’d never let us live it down,” Crispin agreed. Together they ventured into the carnival atmosphere of the tent.

  People everywhere.

  There was a bar on one side, with waitstaff wearing lederhosen or dirndls thronging the counter, amassing fists full of giant pint glasses, holding them in impossible fan configurations by the handles.

  In the center was a stage and a sort of merry-go-round—at the moment children were gathered about it, jittering with excitement, as though something fun were going to happen.

  The rest of the tent was filled with long foldable wooden tables and chairs, and to the left in the corner, Link and the others waved, the table in front of them filled with pints—and one lone glass of white wine.

  Crispin waved and darted after Cam, who was striding in that direction—

  —and almost walked into one of the young waiters, one hand holding no fewer than seven steins of lager.

  “Whoa whoa whoa!” the young man cried jovially, putting his free hand under Crispin’s elbow to steady them both. “Slow down there—your friends will not drink all the beer!”

  Crispin held a hand to his chest to still his heart and found himself face-to-face with the most beautiful young man he’d ever seen.

  Perhaps, all together, the features were not perfect. His nose was long-bridged but broken in places, and his jaw was bony. His long hair was pulled back into a quick bun, and it was sun-streaked and stiff—clean but not cosseted, and long probably by convenience. But his hazel eyes were wide and friendly and his mouth generous and smiling. He had impossibly sharp cheekbones and every line on his face was drawn to them because this was a face used to laughing.

  “You are okay?” the young man laughed, and Crispin nodded like a bobble doll.

  “Yes. I’m sorry. I’ll be more careful—”

  “Not at all. Don’t be careful—come in, it is Oktoberfest! Be happy!”

  Crispin couldn’t help his responding grin. “That’s the plan.” He looked over to where Link was waving at him, and then back to the young waiter. “My friends have already ordered.”

  The young man laughed, a low, sly belly laugh that hit an answering chord in Crispin’s stomach. “You must be the lone white wine, yes?”

  Crispin nodded, pushing up his glasses. “Yes—I’m sorry, it was probably inconven—”

  “No sorry. Be happy. I am Luka, and I’ll be right back with your friends to take your food order. Enjoy your Riesling, American boy—I’ll bring you another glass when you’re done!”

  “Hey, Luka!” someone at another table called. “Are those for us?”

  “Ja! I shall be right there!” He turned back to Crispin with a wink. “Go sit with your friends—I’ll be by.”

  Luka turned toward his customers, and Crispin tried to gather his knees under him so he could walk.

  “Whoa, Crispy—almost took out the waiter there.” Link chortled as he neared the table. “I saw that! Lucky that guy was like a superhero, right?”

  “He was amazing,” Crispin agreed, thinking about the deft way he’d balanced all those steins in one fist while keeping Crispin upright with the other. “I’m not sure I could hold even one of those.”

  “You have to work up to it,” Cameron teased, hefting his stein and pulling in a deep draft. He swallowed and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, winking. “That wineglass is way too light—you’ll have to do a lot of reps with that, my man.”

  Crispin laughingly agreed and took a sip of his wine. He paused, midmouthful, to savor, because it was really very good, and to remember that they hadn’t eaten anything since the abbey.

  “Please tell me they serve real food here,” he begged. “I’m not sure I’m up for drinking with nothing in my stomach but pretzels.”

/>   “Well,” said a familiar accented voice behind him, “you should go next door to the traditional tent where you can order food, but if you trust me, just a little, I was offering to get you what you need.”

  Crispin took an actual gulp of his wine. “That’s very kind of you,” he said, smiling up over his shoulder. “But I’m sure you have other customers—”

  “Not at all,” Luka lied genially. “Besides—it is early, and I am working late. What kind of waiter would I be if I didn’t prepare you for a long night of drinking?”

  It made no sense at all, but Crispin was so entranced watching the way Luka’s hazel eyes sparkled as he spoke that he wasn’t going to quibble facts.

  “Okay,” he said, just to see Luka’s eyes sparkle some more.

  “Excellent! I’ll tell you what, my American boys. You stay here and finish your pints—and your glass,” he added with a sly wink at Crispin, “and I will be back with some pretzels and some sausage and some vegetables—”

  “But we don’t even have a menu!” Link protested.

  “I will pick for you. If you like it, you will pay me lots, and if you don’t, you will pay me nothing and there are no hard feelings, yes?”

  “But—” Crispin tried to protest while all his friends crowed, “That’s a deal! Absolutely! Thanks, Luka, you’re amazing!”

  “I am indeed!” His grin widened, and Crispin spotted two dimples, one on either cheek, that just about undid his every brain cell. “You boys stay right there and drink! Luka will take care of you!”

  And with that he was gone, leaving Crispin breathing deeply because he could still smell his sweat and clean soap and spilled beer. Normally only the soap would do it for him, but it was Luka’s sweat and spilled beer, and Crispin had to work not to hyperventilate in an effort to smell more of him.

  And then he was hyperventilating because—“Oh my God!” he said, making sure Luka was out of earshot. “I don’t want to take advantage of him!”

  Link shook his head. “Don’t worry—we won’t. It’s how we pay for the beer. They buy the steins and then come serve them to us, and we pay him for them plus a little extra so he can make money. I gotta bleed the lizard after this pint—I’ll check out the prices and make sure we pay him enough to make a profit.”

  Crispin subsided with another gulp of wine. “Okay,” he said, feeling better. “You’re sure this is how it’s done?”

  But when he paid attention to the bar, he could hear the other waiters ordering six or seven pints and handing the bartender money before going around to various tables, offering them pints, and realized it was true.

  “Yikes,” he said, taking one last sip of wine. “They’ve got to work for their money.”

  “Well, Luka seems to,” Ray said, finishing off his beer.

  At that moment Luka came by their table, a fist full of steins in one hand and another absurdly delicate glass of wine in the other. “Boys! Are you ready?”

  He was met by a resounding cheer. “So that’s six steins—you think two of you will be in the mood for two extra?”

  “Yeah!” everyone called, and since Link had bought the last round, Nick handed Luka two bills for this one. Crispin figured that’s how it would work—these guys didn’t quibble with pennies.

  “What about you?” Luka spoke directly to Crispin after setting the beers down. He placed the wineglass on the table and gathered the empty, winking. “Your food will be out shortly—will I be bringing a stein out for you this evening?”

  Crispin shook his head. “No—I’m afraid not. Maybe some water after this glass of Riesling too.”

  Luka squinted at him, one hand full of empty steins and one hand twirling Crispin’s empty wineglass. “You came all the way to Germany for Oktoberfest and you didn’t plan to drink beer?”

  Crispin could feel heat creeping up his neck. “I came for the company,” he said with dignity, and the entire table heard it and lifted their glasses, shouting “Hear! Hear!”

  Crispin flushed hotter and took a sip of his wine. “Huzzah,” he added weakly.

  “Mm….” Luka glanced around the tent, apparently assessing whether he was needed or not. He must not have been, because he swung a leg over the bench next to Crispin, straddling it.

  “This is a problem,” he said, all concern. “What is it you don’t like about beer?”

  Crispin’s flush would never leave. “It’s bitter,” he mumbled.

  To his mortification Luka let out an earthy chuckle. “Sometimes bitterness is not so bad, no?” he asked, voice pitched just for Crispin’s ears.

  Crispin’s mouth opened, and he stared at the absurdly beautiful young man across from him. Had Luka just told a dirty joke? A dirty joke about blowjobs? Crispin was pretty sure his ears turned red, and his jeans definitely got tight.

  “I wouldn’t remember,” he said in a faint voice.

  “That is a shame,” Luka murmured. “But here—let me go get you some food, and perhaps we can think of a way for you to drink beer with your friends.” With that he winked and stood before bustling off into the busy beer tent and leaving Crispin gasping like a fish.

  “Oh my God, Crispin!” Cam gasped next to him. “That guy was totally hitting on you!”

  “Impossible,” Crispin rasped, staring at his Riesling like it might magically transform into beer. “Men don’t hit on me.”

  Women didn’t either, for that matter. Crispin assumed he gave off a sexless, sort of amoeba-like vibe.

  “Oh yes they do,” Cam muttered. “Cord Thomas has been hitting on you for ages.”

  Crispin stared at him. “From work?” he asked. Cord Thomas was a “man’s man” with giant muscles and deeply tanned skin—sort of like a Dwayne Johnson with hair. “Are you high? He’s not even—”

  “Bi? The hell he’s not. Where have you been hiding?” Nick asked, half laughing. “Oh my God—I thought you just thought he was sort of a douche, but Jesus, Crispin—are you sure you’re not ace?”

  Crispin’s whole body was buzzing from the smell of Luka’s sweat, and his smile, and even the faint mint tang of his breath as he’d leaned forward to talk.

  “Positive,” he said, mortified. “Is there anyone else I should know about? Are you all going to be crawling with gay cousins that I positively have to date when I get home?”

  “Yes,” Cam said without remorse. “Project Crispin is officially launched—and it starts with flirting with our waiter, who is so damned pretty I think I’ve got a crush. Keep it up, Crispin—you’re doing fine.”

  “I’m failing miserably,” Crispin corrected, “but it’s nice of you to give me false hope.”

  “No, no,” Ray judged. “That big-gray-eyes thing is working. Everybody loves a good blush. Now choke on your tongue and really sell it.”

  Crispin glared at him. “I hate you. I really hate you.”

  “Well, hate me all you want after you manage a complete sentence, okay? I’m not introducing Adan to you if all you do is make that weird sound in your throat. I see enough choking with the Kings, you understand?”

  The table groaned, and the conversation shifted to sports like it always did, and Crispin sipped his wine in peace for a few.

  But only a few. “My boys! My hungry boys—here is some food to sustain you through your drinking!”

  Crispin was feeling a little happy by now, a little buzzed, a little mellow, a little loose, and he cheered with the rest of the gang as Luka and another waiter set down plates full of pretzels and vegetables and sausage on their table, as well as smaller plates they could use to serve themselves. “Food is an outstanding idea,” he said, smiling up at Luka. “Thank you.”

  Luka dimpled at him. “Pace yourself,” he urged gently. “A little food, a little drink, a little making merry. I would very much like to see you here when the tents close down, and I do not think you’re the kind to return just to see if I mean that.”

  “Gerk.” Crispin swallowed and tried a real word. “Uhm….”

  L
uka lowered his head and met Crispin’s eyes. “Here,” he said, thrusting a smaller-sized stein into Crispin’s hand. “This is a citrus beer. There is not so much bitterness, and your friends will not have to carry you out if you try to keep up with them.”

  “Uhm….” Oh, Crispin couldn’t help it. “God, you’re pretty.”

  Luka’s smile widened. “That is a good start to the evening,” he said with satisfaction. “Now eat. Talk about sports. Toast your friends. It will be a good night.”

  It was, in fact, a very good night.

  They talked about sports—of course—and about concerts Ray planned to drag them to, and sci-fi movies coming out in the spring. They waxed poetic about beers they’d had in the past and back seat coached all the sports they followed, even ones they’d never seen live. When their personal lives came up, they only talked about the stuff that could make everybody laugh—how Cam’s fiancée had proposed to him by buying a small yappy dog, or how Link’s wife was spending the time he was in Germany shopping with her friends. Ray talked about his sister’s kid and how she was so cute she spread cuteness germs, and that’s why his wife got so excited about kids of their own.

  They’d drifted back to sports again when Luka appeared at Crispin’s elbow.

  “Tell me truly,” he said, his voice low and intimate. “Do you love basketball?”

  His voice was not low enough, because the whole table smirked.

  “He humors us,” Cam said, winking at Crispin, “but as long as he pitches in for tickets, we’ll keep bringing him along.”

  Crispin had eaten well and was about halfway through his half pint of beer, so he could keep his head, at least, when he answered. “It’s a community project,” he said wisely. “The fun is in the group.”

  “Well, this group is having much fun,” Luka said with a grin. “Another round?”

  Everybody cheered except Crispin, and Luka bent forward to murmur, “I’ll bring you water—and no, American, I’m sorry, we don’t have ice.”