by T. J. Klune
And that had stuck with him, hadn’t it? The fact that his father could ever find something beautiful. He cried when he found out murmurations were rare, true murmurations with tens of thousands of birds, and that he’d probably never see one. His father put a hand (a loving and terrible hand) on his shoulder and said, “One day, we’ll see them with our own eyes, right above us, bucko, I promise,” but they hadn’t because his mom and dad had died, and he just couldn’t. He couldn’t go back without thinking of them, and life got in the way after that. After the grief had settled. After it hurt, but only dully. His life, he was living his life and then came the baby and the shit show that had followed. And here he is now, she’s crying, his fists are balled at his sides, and there’s a starling sitting on the balcony.
“What are you looking at?” she asks tearfully. “Am I not even important enough for you to—”
He ignores her. His heart is thundering in his chest, blood rushing in his ears. He thinks about the moon hitting his eye, it’s like that pizza pie, wasn’t it? Happy sang that. Happy sang that and it feels like he is bleeding through because there are Happy and Oscar (Walter) and it is bright and sunny and he thinks one word. One word as the starling lifts its wings and flies from the balcony.
He thinks, Sean.
He doesn’t know any Sean.
He loves Sean.
The light pouring in from the window darkens, like clouds have moved over the sun.
But it’s not clouds.
He knows this.
She yells at him to pay attention, yells at him to just fucking look at her, but he’s taking a step and another step and another toward the sliding door of the balcony as the shadows grow in the room, and if he listens, if he really listens, he can hear the beat of thousands of wings, the rush of air as it’s split, the rolling movement of the starlings.
He thinks, Sean, because that’s all he’s ever wanted.
He opens the sliding door to the balcony.
The sky outside is black with birds.
They murmur his name in the murmuration.
He laughs as the window cracks, as the floor cracks, as his mind cracks.
He’s—
HE’S RINGING the doorbell, and he hears, “Just a minute,” and he smiles to himself, insides twisting, but it’s in a good way now.
He practices again, reminding himself that he’ll open the door, say hello, you look nice today, and maybe there’s a small part of him that thinks, Don’t put this on me, you did this, you did this too, but he has no idea where the thought comes from. He shakes his head, thinking that the ten-minute walk from the bookstore to Sean’s house was uneventful enough that he should have calmed down some, but he’s excited and nervous and just wants this to go well. It’s the romantic in him (hidden, of course, because he never really wants to show that side of himself to anyone if he can help it, and he looks down at the flower in his hand, snorting in irony) that wants this to go so well that it goes on forever. He never wants this feeling to end, these butterflies of anticipation, of a future that could bring so much.
The door opens and Sean’s there. Sean’s there with his just-for-Mike smile, and maybe it’s curved a little more than it normally is. It freezes slightly when he sees Mike, and then he’s choking out, “Mrs. Richardson?”
Mike flushes brutally, making a mental note to scold that woman the next time he sees her. “Mrs. Richardson,” he says in a slightly strangled voice, and it’s already not going like he wanted it to. “Hello,” he says. “You look…” and he can’t say nice like he planned, because nice doesn’t even begin to cover it. Sean’s wearing a pair of pink pastel Bermuda shorts and a checkered shirt that’s white and the lightest of blues. It’s buttoned down the front and pulls tight against the lean muscles in his chest. He doesn’t have socks on, and his legs are pale and hairy and Mike’s brain short-circuits just a little. It hits him then, just how handsome he thinks Sean is, and that finally, finally, finally, they’re moving forward with this… this thing, this thing that Mike wants more than anything else in the world.
He says, “You look good,” and hopes it’s enough.
“Thanks, big guy,” Sean says, eyes twinkling. “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen your knees before.”
The noise Mike makes at that is one he’d rather forget, but Sean’s laughing and his hand is out, fingers tracing against Mike’s freshly shorn beard, and Mike thinks, Yeah, this is good. This can be real good.
X
“FUNNY HOW that works out,” Sean says.
They’ve arrived at the park, Mike carrying the heavy picnic basket on one arm, the other tensed tightly as Sean grips his elbow.
Mike is glaring at what he sees before him.
It seems as if everyone in Amorea decided today would be a good day to go to the park and have a picnic.
He sees Happy, Donald, and Calvin, all of whom should be at their stores right now, studiously avoiding Mike’s gaze as they sit along the fountain at the center of the park.
There’s the Amorea Women’s Club, spread out perfectly on a large checkered blanket, sipping on tall glasses of cold lemonade.
Walter’s there, and Mike knows he should be at the diner. He glances over his shoulder. Sure enough, the diner is empty, the light dimmed. He can see a sign on the door, but can’t quite make it out. He doesn’t really need to see it, though, knowing it probably says some variation of GONE TO PRY IN THE AFFAIRS OF OTHERS. BE BACK SOON!!!
He imagines a similar sign hangs on every business in Amorea at the moment.
He’s going to have some sharp words with a few people later.
“Funny,” Mike says.
Sean squeezes his shoulder. “They mean well.”
“They meddle,” he says.
“They care.”
“Too much.”
“Probably. But it’s to be expected.”
Mike’s glare softens as he glances over at Sean. “It is?”
Sean shrugs. “Since you took your time and all. They just want to see if it was worth the wait.”
Mike sputters.
Sean grins. “Oh look. There’s a spot open by the pond just for us. How lucky are we?” He squeezes Mike’s elbow again and begins to tug him toward the pond.
And Mike thinks maybe he’s the luckiest of all.
THEY ARE largely left alone, and for that Mike is grateful. He thinks there might be certain spies sent in to report back to the rest of Amorea, because every now and then, someone will walk by under the guise of strolling along the lake, hesitating as soon as they are within earshot for the briefest of moments, but moving along rather quickly as soon as Mike starts to frown.
Todd Sturgis is out with his ice cream cart, the bell ringing as he pushes it along the concrete path, cheerfully exclaiming how he has Fudgsicles and Twin Pop popsicles, flavored orange and root beer and lemon and cherry and banana.
There are people blowing bubbles, the oily surface reflecting in the sun. A little dog barks at a croquet game set up on a nearby expanse of green. There are fat clouds in the sky and a cool breeze below.
It’s the perfect summer weekend in Amorea, but Mike’s not fooled at all.
They’re meddling. All of them.
And really, he should be more annoyed than he actually is.
But he can’t be. Not with the company he’s in.
Sean spreads out the large red blanket he’d brought under the shade of an old oak tree near the dock on the pond. Then he takes the basket from Mike’s hand and sets it down beside him. Mike’s unsure of what to do next (does he sit next to him? does he unpack the basket? does he engage Sean in meaningless small talk?) when Sean says, “You look confused.”
“I’m not very good at this,” Mike admits for lack of something better to say.
“At what?”
“You.”
“You’re very good at me,” Sean says. “Maybe the best of all.”
Mike doesn’t quite know what to do with that. Oh, he kno
ws what he’d like to do, but he doesn’t think now is the right time for a first kiss. So instead he says, “You’re the best at me too,” and internally kicks himself for sounding so ridiculous.
It doesn’t seem to matter to Sean, if the look on his face says anything about it. It’s a mixture of awe and fondness like he’s thinking the same thing Mike is: I can’t believe I get to have this. But that can’t be what he’s thinking, because it if anyone here drew short, it’d be Sean.
Sean pats the blanket next to him and doesn’t even comment on how quickly or how close Mike sits, like all he was waiting for was permission.
“Now, I suppose I could tell you that I made all of this myself,” Sean says, “so you’d be impressed. But I didn’t. Walter did.”
Mike peeks inside the picnic basket and snorts. “Sandwiches. You think you’d impress me by telling me you made sandwiches.” He thinks Mrs. Richardson would be proud.
“I burn things,” Sean says. “You know that’s why Walter has me banned from the kitchen.” Which is true. It’s well known throughout Amorea that Sean Mellgard isn’t allowed in a kitchen. Walter always makes sure Sean has dinner before he goes home at night and, on any days off, sends one of the girls over with food. Sean claims it’s unnecessary, but Walter’s told Mike stories about cookies that looked like coal and a meatloaf that he was positive was actually poisonous. Not to mention that things tended to get lit on fire when Sean Mellgard was involved.
“I wouldn’t have been impressed,” Mike says, “because I wouldn’t have believed you, given that these actually look edible.”
Sean squints at him. “Do you have oil in your hair? It looks really fancy.”
“Mrs. Richardson says it makes my hair look shinier,” Mike admits, though it pains him greatly.
“Men with oil in their hair aren’t allowed to make fun of my cooking,” Sean says.
“Yeah,” Mike says, knowing he’s got a goofy smile on his face, but unable to do anything about it.
“Yeah,” Sean says in that tone of voice he does so well.
And it’s easy. It’s easy, because they’ve taken the long road to get to this point. Maybe there are times that Mike wishes he’d gotten his act together sooner than he did, but he’ll never regret it because of where they’ve ended up now. They’re eating, and he’s made Sean laugh three times, and he’s hoping to get to a fourth before the day is out.
Amorea moves around them, but they might as well be wrapped in a little bubble, because they’re largely left alone. It doesn’t take long before Mike is able to block everyone else out, and maybe it’s the moment he reaches out and wipes a little smudge of potato salad from Sean’s chin, or maybe it’s when Sean’s bare feet press against his shin (on accident or on purpose, he doesn’t know, and he doesn’t think it matters) but he thinks that it couldn’t be any better than this. That if this is what they’ve been building to, then he would gladly go through this again and again and again just to get to this moment.
The years have been worth it.
He knows it’s true when they are lying side by side on the blanket, heads turned toward each other, arms barely touching. The sunlight is filtering through the trees, little shadows rippling along Sean’s face. His eyes are open and he’s listening as Mike tells him about the book he’s reading (You Can’t Go Home Again by Thomas Wolfe) and about the radio serial he’s listening to (Abbott Mysteries, Jean and Pat Abbott solving murders in San Francisco, a place he’s never been to, a place he’s never heard of, a place he’ll never go, and he doesn’t think twice about how Sean never asks what San Francisco is).
There was a time when he didn’t think they’d get here, and it had nothing to do with Sean. He couldn’t quite say why he was so hesitant, where that sick, roiling feeling came from every time he thought about taking the next step. Past the argument of the age difference, there wasn’t much but a fog, but it was still there, and it blanketed Mike at times, covered him until he thought he was choking on it. There was always an urgent sense of I can’t and Not yet, maybe not ever. He knows it wasn’t fair to Sean. And he never asked Sean to wait like he did. He remembers the halted conversation they had where he couldn’t quite articulate his point, but Sean seemed to understand it anyway, patting his hand and saying, “I’m not going anywhere, big guy. You take all the time you need.”
And he still doesn’t understand it. Still doesn’t really get why it took this long, but that crippling fog is mostly gone now, and while it still curls around his ankles, it doesn’t cause him to stumble like it used to.
But it’s worth it. He knows it is. Because it’s Sean on his back, pointing at a cloud, saying, That one looks like a rabid giraffe, and it doesn’t, it really doesn’t, but Sean thinks it does, and that’s enough for Mike.
It’s in the way their arms brush together, warm skin against warm skin and how maybe they leave them pressed together instead of apologizing and moving apart.
It’s in the way that even though they’ve been here for hours, even though the sky is starting to streak as the sun goes down, Mike could stay here for hours more, just as long as he could stay right where he is.
He’s not sure who reaches for whom first, who is the braver out of the two of them. All he knows is that one moment, Sean is saying, “I don’t know, I guess so, I hadn’t really thought about it that way,” to a question Mike doesn’t remember asking, and the next, their fingers are intertwined and there’s a thumb brushing near his. Mike is blushing, he knows he is, that damn Irish luck, and Sean is amused, always amused by him.
He can see some stars in the deepening blue, can hear the town moving slowly and happily around them. He thinks he even hears Happy singing how that’s… amore, and Mike doesn’t even mind that it’s the thousandth time he’s heard that song. He doesn’t even mind that Happy sounds like a barrel full of cats rolling down a hill when he sings. It’s good. Everything is good.
“So,” Sean says after falling silent for a little while. They’re still joined at the hands, and if Mike has any say in it, they’ll stay that way for as long as possible.
“So,” Mike says.
“It’s almost the end of summer.”
“Is it?” Mike says, frowning slightly. He didn’t realize that much time had passed already.
Sean chuckles and squeezes his hand. Mike maybe loves him a little bit more for not yet letting go, even though their hands are clammy. “Sure is, big guy. And I was thinking.”
“Don’t strain yourself too much.”
“A peach. A real peach.”
“Someone’s gotta keep the ego in check.”
“And you think it’s gonna be you?”
Mike blanches a little, not meaning to be presumptuous. He averts his eyes and gives a weak laugh, trying to play it off, trying to deflect. He says, “I didn’t mean—”
“I want you to,” Sean says quickly, like he’s afraid he won’t get all the words out in time. “Mean it, I mean.”
“Yeah?” Mike says, and he sounds a little breathless.
“Yeah,” Sean says.
Mike clears his throat and tries not to show how smug he feels. “Okay,” he says. “I… uh. I can. Keep your. Ego. In check?” Because what were they even talking about now?
The corners of Sean’s eyes crinkle slightly. It’s one of the first things that Mike ever really noticed about him, how he doesn’t even need to smile with his mouth, it can be around his eyes, and Sean’s amused again, amused by Mike, and Mike likes it, likes these little moments when it’s quiet and everything is okay. Sure, there might be a bit of unease crawling through him, and sure, there’s that voice whispering in the back of his head, Are you sure it was a dream? and Are you sure it wasn’t a ghost? and You’re forgetting something, something important because there was a woman crying and your palms itched, but he ignores it. He ignores it because he doesn’t want anything to distract him from this moment. He’s lying on his back, his hand is in Sean’s, and the corners of Sean’s eyes are cri
nkling. He’s amused, and they’re so close to each other that Mike can feel his breath on his face, can see individual lashes as Sean blinks slow and heavy. So yes, he ignores the uneasiness because he wants nothing to do with it. He wants nothing to distract him from right now, which has been three years in the making.
“You do that,” Sean says. “You keep me in check, okay?”
“Yeah,” Mike says hoarsely.
“Yeah.”
It’s perfect. Everything about this is perfect, and he can barely breathe.
Sean says, “So, since it’s almost the end of summer. There’s that thing they do every year coming up in a couple of weeks.”
Mike’s throat is a little dry, but he swallows through it. The Amorea Women’s Club puts on a social with food and music and dancing, and it’s never really been Mike’s thing. It’s loud and gaudy, but as a business owner in Amorea, he’s expected to wear a tie and show up with a smile on his face. He didn’t escort Sean for the past couple of years; they’ve met there and they’ve eaten and watched others dance, and even though Mike tried to push himself to do more, to pull Sean out onto the dance floor, to hold him close and sway back and forth, he didn’t. He didn’t really know why, but there was always something that held him back.
But he’s tired of that. He’s not like that anymore. He’s different now. Things are different between the two of them. They’re on their first date and it’s going well, and maybe Mike’s thinking about daring to kiss Sean at the end of the night, on the lips or on the cheek, he’s not quite sure yet. He wants to do this right, doesn’t want anything to mess this up. Maybe it’ll be a little forward of him, but he thinks that Sean will be okay with it. Because sometimes Mike catches Sean staring at him like he wants to kiss him too. They’ll both blush and look away, but it’s been happening for a long time, and it’s been happening more and more.
“The fall harvest thing,” Mike says.
“Right,” Sean says. “A big to-do.”
“You should go,” Mike says quickly. “Um. With me. If you want. We could go. Together?” And he curses himself internally for sounding like some fumbling kid. He’s thirty-six years old, goddammit, and he weighs two hundred and seventeen pounds. He could lift Sean like it was nothing, skinny thing that he is, with one arm, even, but he’s punctuating his words all wrong, and he wants to start over.