by Amy Lane
He started warming the soup and toasting the bread, then went into the bathroom to gather Luka’s clothes for the washer. Luka was leaning against the tile wall, letting the water beat down on him, and for a moment Crispin was afraid he’d fallen asleep on his feet.
“Crispin?” he said, sounding much more lucid.
“Yeah?”
“There’s no chance you’ll forget everything I said in the car about the wretched birds, is there?”
“None in hell. Finish up and come eat. I’m leaving some pajama bottoms and a T-shirt you can borrow. Did you want me to wash what’s in your backpack too?”
“Augh!” Luka straightened up behind the frosted glass and grabbed the washcloth. “This was not the impression I wanted to make.”
“As far as acts of devotion go, it doesn’t get much better than this,” Crispin said tenderly. “Hurry—soup will be warm in a moment.”
“Soup sounds like heaven. Thank you. And yes—the clothes in the backpack are worse than the ones on the floor, to be honest.”
“Yikes!”
“Don’t even ask.”
So he didn’t. He just emptied the many-pocketed canvas backpack of a few pairs of jeans, some underwear, and some soft linen shirts and sweatshirts and a few pairs of socks—and the orange acrylic hat. It was just enough to make a load, really—and besides the toothbrush, a cake of soap, and a tattered copy of The Canterbury Tales, apparently all he carried with him in the world.
Crispin dropped the laundry basket in the kitchen by the laundry room door, finished making the sandwiches, and was pouring a glass of wine for Luka when he padded in, hair wet and combed behind him, feet bare. He was wearing Crispin’s favorite pajama bottoms—soft and flannel and worn—and they hung loosely from Luka’s lean frame.
“Wine? What’s the occasion?” Luka asked.
“Well, for one, you’re here and I’m celebrating. For another, I think a glass of wine might sort of take the edge off of all….” Crispin made a little circling motion with his hand. “All. All of that. I’d be surprised if you didn’t see pink elephants after the last week, and I get to sleep in until eleven tomorrow, and I’d like some of that time to be not sleeping. And with you. And naked.”
Luka’s grin made an appearance, and Crispin almost held his hands to his chest to ward off the sweetness of it. “I had plans to spend some of my time here that way as well. The wine is welcome. Shall we sit?”
“You sit,” Crispin said, moving toward the refrigerator. “If I don’t feed the heathens, I’ll never hear the end of it.”
“Of course.”
Crispin grabbed the small basket of laundry and opened the laundry room door. “Sherman?” he called, waiting for the giant house-pony to shamble out from his den under the sink. “Sherman—who’s a good dog!”
Sherman let out half a woof, and Crispin set the basket down on top of the counter so he could pet the short brown fur and fondle the silky triangular ears. “Good dog. Who’s a good dog? C’mon, buddy. Let’s run outside and do the thing, and then you can come in and eat, okay? Okay? Let’s go do the thing! The thing! The marvelous thing!”
He opened the back porch door, and Sherman bounded out into the rain while Crispin hurried up and threw Luka’s clothes in the washer, doubling up on soap.
Sherman bounded back in, and Crispin took a moment to dry him off with a big towel before adding food to his bowl and freshening his water. “You good, buddy? Should I leave the door open so you can sleep on the floor in the living room? It’s warmer. Yes, it is. It is. I don’t mind either. You’ve got a mat. You know you’re welcome, yes, you are.”
Sherman was engaged with the kibble in his ginormous bowl and didn’t answer, but Crispin was going to take that as a yes. As he straightened up, Captain Steve wandered in and hopped up on the counter where his food bowl sat and started to meow piteously.
“Oh my God, you can see bowl in your bowl. Call the police, you are obviously a neglected animal, in spite of the other bowl in front of the refrigerator, amirite?”
“Meow, meow, meow!”
“Of course. I totally understand. I’ll fix that situation immediately. Yeah, you big hairball, I’ll leave the door open for you too.”
“Meow.”
Crispin walked back into the kitchen, where Luka was laughing softly while dipping his sandwich in his tomato soup.
“What?” It occurred to him that Luka had not been the only one to ramble naked in the words.
“You—they are your friends, I can tell.”
Crispin’s face heated. “Yes. They’re good people. You can meet them tomorrow—but I warn you, Captain Steve likes to sleep on my head.”
Luka blinked sleepy eyes around Crispin’s white-tiled kitchen, the gleaming stainless steel refrigerator, and the pale blond cabinets. The walls behind the fixtures were painted sky blue, and there was a window behind the sink that overlooked the backyard.
“This is a good place,” he said, sounding almost surprised. “It’s very simple, very clean. I don’t know why I expected clutter.”
“That’s the living room,” Crispin said, not sure whether clutter was good or bad. “My foster mother, Carmen—she always kept the kitchen spotless and the mantelpiece crowded. She said that way people would do more talking in the living room and leave her to cook.”
Luka laughed a little more. “There will be pictures? I’d love to see pictures of young Crispin.”
“Of course. You can see my foster sister too—she was cute as a baby.”
Luka nodded. “Of course. But it is not your foster sister I want to know more about.”
D’oh! “What about you?” Crispin asked, suddenly burningly curious. “I… do you have any pictures of you and your family?”
Luka shrugged. “Three boxes,” he said, and Crispin remembered that he’d mentioned those boxes when they’d been in Munich. “I left three boxes in storage with a lawyer in New Zealand. They have yearbooks and pictures and books.” He closed his eyes and sighed. “Do you have books?” he asked plaintively.
“Yeah—a lot of them.” And oh, how embarrassing. “I really like Stephen King and Clive Barker.”
Luka’s smile was no surprise—but it wasn’t getting less potent either. “I have books on my phone, of course,” he said. “But I miss paperbacks—the feel of the book, the smell. Did you know that the glue in the binding smells like vanilla?”
“No,” Crispin told him, surprised. “Is that why people say they like—”
“The smell of the books? Yes. It’s almost unfair, right? Like lacing the air with the teeniest bit of opium—it makes you an addict to simply breathing in.”
“Which books do you miss?”
“Anything not a classic!” Luka said ruefully. “I admit—I realized I would not have many books while I traveled, so I tried to make sure every book I bought was something people would think was worthwhile.”
“The Canterbury Tales?” Because of course.
“Yes. And the Iliad and the Odyssey. But sometimes….” He looked irritated with himself as he said this. “Sometimes you just want something that makes you happy. Do you know I haven’t read Harry Potter? I saw most of the movies with my parents, but I’ve never read the books, and they seem marvelous.” He let out a sigh. “I’d really like to read them someday.”
“I have them,” Crispin told him. Who didn’t? “You can, you know, read them while you’re here. I mean, we can do other things too—you can drive the car—”
“No, no, I cannot,” Luka told him with a sigh. “I forget how spread out America is—and people are averse to hitchhikers too.”
“Well, we can do Lyft, and I’ll show you how the light rail works in Folsom, and the bus schedules. There are ways. Don’t worry—you won’t be stranded with my animals and my Harry Potter collection, okay?”
Luka reached out and covered his hand as they sat. “So kind. I am a fortunate man to have landed on your doorstep, Crispin Henry. I hope you know that.”
“I can’t believe you’re here,” Crispin whispered, covering the hand on his. “It makes me….” He would not get choked up. “Really happy,” he finished.
Luka leaned forward and took his mouth then, tasting minty fresh with a kick of chardonnay, and Crispin relaxed into this kiss as he had into the other.
And it was like wind to a bonfire as the flames of want swept up his body. He moaned slightly, and Luka pressed him closer, until he fell out of the chair and landed on his knees between Luka’s thighs. Luka leaned down and framed his face with long-fingered hands.
“You look even better than I dreamed.”
Crispin pushed up into his kiss then, gently, and waited for the droop in his neck, the laxness in his mouth, before pulling back and framing Luka’s face in return.
“Sleep, love. Let’s get you into bed—”
“Your bed?”
“Please.”
Luka smiled, eyes half-closed, while Crispin scrambled to his feet and pulled him to the bedroom. He didn’t even look around—simply pulled back the covers and crawled in. He was asleep before Crispin could kiss his forehead good night.
Crispin sighed and turned off the light, retreated to the living room, and turned on the television. About ten minutes later, his phone buzzed.
Open the door, it’s freezing out here!
Sherman bounded across the floor woofing, and Crispin heaved himself off the couch. “Millie, this had better be good.”
She stood in the doorway, grinning radiantly. “Guess what?”
“Sh! He’s asleep!”
She pulled back, surprised. “Wait—who’s asleep? Do you have a man here?”
“It’s Luka. He spent four days in transit and just got here—he’s wiped. But come in! Why are you here in the first place?”
She grinned at him some more, hopping on her toes before bending down to hug Sherman. “Hey, Shermie—good baby. Such a good baby! Who’s a good dog!”
“What part of being quiet didn’t you hear?” Crispin hissed, frowning.
She stood up, only a little repentant. “Sorry, Crispin. I didn’t mean to wake up your secret boyfriend—”
He cocked his head like he had when they’d been little, and she rolled her eyes. “Okay. I didn’t mean to be rude, but I have news. You know how Todd and I are moving in six months to research the saltwater wetlands?”
He nodded, because he’d been trying not to think about it. One more person to leave him behind—he was starting to feel like he had it coming.
“Well, for starters, we’re only going to be gone, like, three months—like, not even long enough to sublet our apartment, right?”
Crispin perked up. “Really? Like… really? So, Todd still gets his dream job but—”
“But we don’t have to leave Sacramento—not permanently. So that’s good, right?”
Crispin smiled and nodded. “Yes! Yes, that’s good!” He tried to be a good person then—he did. “I mean, as long as Todd’s okay with it.”
“Well, sort of. I mean, I think we’ve decided that his fieldwork will be best in small bursts, like a few months in a year and then back here, because, you know, it will be better for the baby to have a home—”
Crispin gasped, hand to his mouth, and tried not to holler. “Oh my God! Baby! You guys are having a baby?”
She smiled and shrieked, and he forgave her even as he picked her up and whirled her around.
“You’re going to be a mom? Oh, Millie! That’s awesome!”
“And you’re going to be Uncle Crispin,” she said, her round little face with the chipmunk cheeks looking so much more… more… Millie than he’d seen her look since she’d been… well, a round and rosy adolescent who had needed Crispin more than anything in the world. “Are you ready?”
He grinned at her. “So ready. You, on the other hand, are way too young to be having children—I don’t even know what you’re thinking—”
“Oh, shut up!”
She hugged him again, and they chatted, still in the hallway, for a few minutes and then she gave a yawn. “So, your invisible guy—”
“Luka,” he repeated.
“Will he be visible tomorrow?”
“Possibly, but me and the guys are still doing that bar guy’s books. Why?”
“I’ll bring dinner over. Monday. You do the garlic toast, I’ll do the super-fattening spaghetti sauce, and we’ll embarrass each other by talking about our childhood.” She shrugged. “We’ll break out the photo albums—let’s see if we can make Todd cry.”
For a moment Crispin thought about saying no, of telling her that he didn’t want to scare Luka off by being too domestic—and then he realized that this was the only way he could be.
“It’s a date,” he said firmly. “No wine.”
“No wine,” she repeated. “I mean, a half glass a day, probably, but since I didn’t drink that much before I was pregnant, I’m not going to start now. But that’s why you’re on for garlic bread and photo albums. You can’t just bring wine anymore.”
Crispin gave a wicked smile. “I can bring pie,” he said slyly, and she shook her head, hands out in front of her.
“Oh no—I was here last weekend when you were experimenting, remember? You save that crap for your weirdo sports buddies and stick to what you know!”
“Helping to raise cute kids.” He was so excited.
“I’m not doing this without you, big brother.” She hugged him then, tight and real, and he waved her out the door, feeling needed and warm and happy. As the door closed behind her, he heard Luka’s confused voice from the bedroom.
“Crispin? Am I here?”
“Yeah, Luka—I’ll be right there.”
Forget the couch. He had a TV in his room and a tablet if he wanted one. Even if Luka wasn’t awake enough to hear and understand the news, Crispin wanted to share it with him in whatever capacity he could, even if it meant settling down in a darkened room and reading for two hours and listening to Luka breathe.
For this moment, his little house was everything contentment should be, and he wanted to share it while he could.
CRISPIN WOKE up at around six thirty in the morning, while the night-dark sky filled the room with icy moonlight. Luka’s long body was curled around his own, and Crispin suddenly needed him in a way he’d never imagined needing anybody.
He wrapped his arms around his shoulders and began to kiss him—the corners of his mouth, his jawline, nibbling the cords of his neck, waiting for him to become responsive.
It took some doing—some delirious moments of making himself drunk on the taste of Luka’s skin, of shuddering every time Luka moved his lips against Crispin’s or arched up against his touch.
Crispin rucked up his shirt and kissed his nipples, suckling hard, teasing with his teeth, working the tiny bit of flesh for all its erogenous potential.
Luka began to buck up against him, arching his hips in an unconscious plea.
“Ah!” he panted. “Crispin! I… I can’t think… I can’t….”
“Sh….” Crispin nipped him, then soothed the nipple with his tongue. “I’ll do everything, okay? I just need to taste you!”
Luka lapsed into French then—and that was all Crispin knew about what he was saying. He recognized a lot of “Oui!” and then some “Ja!” and figured he was doing okay. Luka started shaking while he spread his knees and whimpered, and Crispin figured it was time to move the show to ground zero.
He’d wanted so badly to do this the night before, on his knees in front of Luka’s chair. But Luka had needed sleep, and Crispin had wanted only to give him what he needed.
He wiggled down the bed, pulling Luka’s sleep pants down as he went, and realized that Luka must have left the clean underwear in the bathroom.
Eureka!
This was what Crispin needed.
He took Luka’s erection into his mouth in one swallow, gently closing his lips so he could slide the foreskin back. Luka gasped and thrust, forcing himse
lf far into the back of Crispin’s throat, and Crispin swallowed, working hard to relax enough to take him back there.
Luka’s groan sent tingles of arousal straight to Crispin’s groin.
He took Luka in his fist and slid down again, swallowing hard, making his throat ripple around that outrageously large head. Luka’s flailing hands found the back of Crispin’s head, and he clenched his fingers in Crispin’s hair. The sting drove Crispin to take him deeper, squeeze and stroke his fist, ply his tongue, and Luka’s raw cry was his reward.
Crispin kept working, grinding up against the bed, needing the taste of Luka’s come in his mouth more than he needed a hand on his own cock.
“Crispin… I… oh God!”
Crispin pulled him in one more time.
Luka came, shaking hard, his limbs, his core, and Crispin doggedly kept sucking, milking him for everything he had.
Finally Luka went limp and fumbled at Crispin’s shoulders until Crispin disengaged. He moved up in the bed, sliding the sweats back up over Luka’s nakedness and fixing his shirt as he went.
The taste of come was sharp and sweet, bitter and earthy on his tongue and in the back of his throat.
“C’mere, love,” Luka demanded, and Crispin pushed himself into Luka’s arms, heedless of the wet spot on the front of his own sweats.
“Mm…,” he murmured, warm and safe in the circle of Luka’s arms.
“Feeling frisky?” Luka asked, nuzzling Crispin’s ear.
“Wanting you,” Crispin admitted. In a million years, he wasn’t sure if he could explain what had come over him, the need he’d had to take Luka inside him, to keep a part of him while he was still there. “Wanting to taste you.”
“Mm… me too.” Luka yawned. “Maybe not just now. Good heavens, I could sleep some more.”
“You should,” Crispin encouraged. “Maybe go use the bathroom first, but come back to bed.”
“Mm… good idea.”