by AJ Wilde
* * * *
"Hey. Hey, you okay?” Nick covered Chris’ hand with his own. “Your hands are shaking."
"It's nothing,” Chris mumbled, turning away. Nick's hand maintained its grip. Chris shivered, although it wasn't cold.
Nick settled himself into the opposite seat, and plunked a cup of double espresso in front of Chris. Chris took a deep breath, let it out all in a rush, then gave a shrug. “I left my boyfriend. This morning. No big deal. I'm just—my hands start to shake, and I can't..."
Nick took a gulp of his coffee, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “It's okay. It's going to be all right. Hey, look at me.” Nick glanced around quickly. The other patrons of the dining car seemed engrossed in their own lives. He took Chris’ hands in both of his and held them under the table. Chris stared at him, wide-eyed, lower lip trembling slightly. “Now listen,” Nick began in his best lawyer-advising-client voice.
"Sshh!” Chris wrestled free of Nick's grasp.
"What? I'm not trying to..."
"No. I don't mean that."
Nick whipped his head around. “What?” He could hear a muffled bell ringing and a stamping of feet.
"Get your ticket out. The ticket inspector is here,” Chris said, matter-of-factly.
"Fuck!” Nick jumped up from his seat.
"What?"
"I don't have one! I don't have a ticket."
"You got on a train without buying a ticket?” Chris muttered.
"I told you, I just jumped onto any train. I was fucked up this morning, I wasn't thinking!"
"Well, they won't buy that excuse.” Chris scowled.
"What am I going to do?” Nick hissed under his breath.
"Come on—I have an idea. Here, follow me. Quickly!” Chris got up and dashed to the other side of the dining car. “Here. Get in.” Shoving Nick into the restroom, Chris scoped out the other passengers, then slid in sideways and locked the door. “Breathe in!” Nick obediently sucked in his gut, not that he had any, and gave Chris as much room as possible, which wasn't a lot, in the tiny train restroom built for about half a normal person.
"But they check the restrooms! I've seen them do it on the commuter trains...” Nick whispered urgently.
Chris smirked. “Relax, man. I have a plan. You see, I do have a ticket."
"But...” Nick squirmed. He'd never cheated on anything in his life. Always paid his bills on time, never accrued any interest on his credit card, never late for appointments. The perfect, impeccable, unimpeachable life. And he'd just thrown his favorite Ralph Lauren tie out of a train window.
A sharp knock on the door announced the ticket inspector.
"Excuse me, sir or madam—I need to see your ticket please."
The voice was imperious, no nonsense. Chris motioned to Nick to keep quiet, then called out cheerfully.
"Just a moment!” Opening the door just enough to shimmy out, Chris greeted the inspector with a bright smile and closed the door firmly.
"Sorry. Junk food.” Chris made a face and the inspector smiled in sympathy. She was a short little barrel of a woman, compressed into her regulation polyester like an overstuffed pork sausage.
"Ticket, please."
"Yes, sorry. Here.” Chris fished the ticket out from the depths of the Roots backpack that occupied the window seat. The inspector studied it closely, nodded, and handed it back with a smile.
"That's fine, thank you. Have a good day."
Chris grinned back, pulling down the handle of the restroom door. “If you'll excuse me—I have to go finish what I started."
The inspector, thoroughly disarmed, rolled her eyes and grinned. “Don't fall in—it's a long walk back to Toronto!"
Chris waited until she was tackling the next victim before backing into the restroom. The door closed and locked, the light outside once again flashing 'occupied'.
"Well. Aren't you the dazzling urbanite?” Nick was impressed.
"Nobody can resist my charms,” Chris retorted.
"Not even me?” Nick had to give as good as he got. He was a lawyer, after all.
"Especially not you.” Warm brown eyes burned into Nick's soul.
* * * *
When you're shoved up against someone in a confined area, you become acutely aware of the physical world. Normally we are separated from each other by what we like to call “personal space"—that three-foot-diameter bubble that Da Vinci illustrated to brilliant effect. We live in a vacuum, each person suspended in a void of their own creation: untouched, untouchable, alone. And we pretend that's just how we like it. The reverse is, of course, true. In our automated, vacuum-packed, homogenized, politically correct, morally desiccated world, we live out our lint-free, ready-to-eat, microwavable, lactose-intolerant lives. We don't reach out and touch someone, unless it's by text message. And we're lonely. We crave that most basic of needs: touch. The closeness of another person; the simple warmth of an embrace. To know that we are still human beings.
* * * *
Nick softened his stance and allowed his body to mold against Chris. He was warm and Nick allowed himself to feel that warmth, to let it wash over and through him, breaking down the conventions of polite society that he had been schooled in—no—that had been drilled into him his whole life. Don't get close to anyone. Don't let anyone in. Men don't show emotion, it's a sign of weakness. Find a nice girl, get married, settle down. Don't upset your father. To hell with all that. He was tired.
Before he even knew what he was doing, his arms were around Chris. Chris folded into him, grateful. A tiny point of moving space, in the vast expanse of time. What did it matter? Nothing mattered, only this moment.
Nick closed his eyes and breathed slowly, evenly. Their breathing and heartbeats merged. Their scents blended together: Nick's top-drawer Perry Ellis cologne, and Chris, who smelled of wild heather and sunshine.
"She's gone,” Chris whispered into Nick's shoulder, and the spell was broken; a moment that felt like an hour, but was really only two minutes, was over. Nick let out a breath. Chris opened the door a crack, then beckoned to Nick. “All clear. Come on."
Nick looked around apprehensively, but the inspector was nowhere to be seen. He sat down heavily in the nearest seat, feeling slightly crumpled. Chris sat next to him. Any notion of personal space was a fading memory.
Nick looked out of the window. The train was rocking across an impossibly narrow bridge. The landscape had changed from the gentle meadows and farmland of the south. Now, huge granite boulders jutted out from the railway cuttings and the distant patchwork of forest seemed hemmed with dark evergreens. Occasionally, a tall white pine stood out on a high rock outcropping, like a sentinel guarding the way north. The train rattled across a broad river. Nick, lost in thought, barely noticed the whistle and the muffled announcement.
"This is your stop."
"What?"
"Your stop. Washago. This is where you get off, to go back to Toronto."
Nick's heart began to pound. Go back. He looked up. His palms were sweating. The station lumbered into view. Chris stared impassively out of the window. What do you really want?
"Grandma, right?” Nick willed Chris to look at him.
"Grandma. Yeah.” Chris smiled, still staring out at the tiny station house, standing all by itself at the edge of the river. Boats bobbed at the nearby marina. “You know—she used to say to me, if you don't ever want to be sorry, just do what your heart tells you all the time."
"She sounds wise.” But Nick's decision was already made.
* * * *
When you're seriously attracted to someone, your whole body changes. Your heart beats faster when they're close to you. You feel hot all over and your breath gets all caught up in your throat. Sometimes when you try to speak, nothing comes out. Those few moments when he held you, you could think of nothing else but what it would be like to be with him, and you fought your body's response. You could feel how much he wanted you, but you were afraid. All those words that can ne
ver be said.
You twist the beads on your wrist, hoping for an answer. As usual, you have no say in the matter; the choice is his, and his alone.
"All aboard, stand clear of the doors, please. Gravenhurst next stop, Gravenhurst."
You stare out at the gray sky. Canada in April is a world toying with the notion of spring. A day that begins balmy: summer-soft air, suffused with the joyful counterpoint of chickadee, robin, redwing, and spring peeper, turns frigid by afternoon. A line of frantic honking geese flies low past a cold day moon; snow will follow. The bare bones of trees shiver with silent mirth. You believed the warm deceit of morning and forgot your coat—the joke is on you.
And now it's ten-thirty and there's snow on the wind; but you don't care because the train is pulling out of the station and he is still sitting beside you. His presence is your lifeline and you cling to it, unashamed.
* * * *
"Still here then?"
"Yeah."
"Good."
"Would you have missed me?"
"Yeah."
"Smoke?"
"Thought you'd never ask."
They lurched back to the dining car as the train swayed alarmingly. Nick grabbed at the nearest seat back.
"Is it supposed to do this?"
"Don't worry. We're crossing the Severn River, it always feels like it's going to fall off the tracks."
"I'll take your word for it."
They flopped into a window seat. Chris took out a crumpled pack of Camels and handed one to Nick, which he lit and gave back. Chris arched an eyebrow.
"You don't have to do that."
"Yes, I do. I'm a gentleman, remember?"
Chris snorted. “Don't gentlemen prefer blonds?"
"Not this one. Besides, I'm not sure what color your hair really is."
"Nobody is. Not even me."
The train wobbled again as it rattled across the bridge. Chris grabbed Nick's arm. “Look, Nick! Look."
Nick followed Chris’ pointing finger. Deep in a forested gully on the other side of the river, a family of white-tail deer stood, transfixed at the approach of the train, then bounding away as it passed.
"Wow. They're beautiful."
"You won't see that on Bay Street."
"To hell with Bay Street."
"That's the spirit.” Chris grinned at Nick. The train pulled slowly into Gravenhurst station. The pretty station house with its whitewashed wood siding and hanging baskets of geraniums gave Nick the impression of having stepped back in time.
"What?” Chris was regarding him with a knowing smirk.
"Nothing. Well—I was just thinking, how little places like this change. The city just keeps building more and more condos, more office towers, knocking all the old stuff down, and then you come up here..."
Chris nodded. “Gravenhurst hasn't changed much since Lucy Maud Montgomery vacationed here. She wrote Anne of Green Gables."
"How do you know all this stuff?” Nick shook his head in mock surprise.
"I read. A lot.” Chris dragged on the Camel, making it wiggle.
Nick's cigarette was already almost gone. You're so bad for me.
Chris stubbed out the cigarette, and shot a glance at Nick. “I told you, I'm trying to quit. Now let's eat, I'm starving."
* * * *
"So,” said Chris, in between french fries. “What do you notice about the landscape up here?"
"What? What do you mean?"
"The landscape.” Chris licked gravy off one finger. Nick tried not to stare. “What's different about it? Come on, you went to law school; you should be observant by nature."
Nick coughed. Chris took a french fry and dangled it, long artistic fingers twirling just enough to get a quarter-inch of gravy, then expertly nibbling the end off, before biting the fry in half with perfect white teeth. But it was the surreptitious lick of the lips that made Nick dizzy.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"I asked you a question."
"Uh ... yeah. Sorry.” Nick frowned and stared out of the window. The Muskoka towns of Bracebridge and Huntsville followed in quick succession. Another river, another rickety bridge. What do you want me to say? That I'd rather watch you eat than look at the scenery?
"It's um—rocky. And there are a lot of rivers and lakes. And the trees are different."
"Well done, Einstein.” Chris gestured out of the window with a french fry. “We're now on the Canadian Shield. It's a solid sheet of pre-Cambrian rock, mostly granite, left over from the last Ice Age. As soon as you cross the Severn and enter Muskoka, everything changes."
Chris leaned across the table. “Here. Eat."
Nick meekly took the offered french fry. It felt like some kind of strange mating ritual—and maybe it was. He sat passively as Chris fed him one french fry at a time. He'd never done this before—not even in private. He felt the eyes of other passengers on them, but he didn't care. For the first time in his twenty-eight years, he felt free, like he'd been bound and gagged all this time. It was the tie: it had to be the tie.
The train lumbered on; another bridge, another waterway: Severn, Muskoka, Fairy Lake, Big East River. Chris knew the name of every town, village, lake, river, and highway. Even the trees had names.
"See,” said Chris, pointing down into a deep ravine. “The bushy ones are Scots pine; the dark, shaggy-looking ones are balsam fir; and the really tall ones with the wide arms are white pine."
"Branches, you mean,” Nick interrupted. “Trees don't have arms.” He took a swig of coffee.
Chris shot him a look. “You've never hugged a tree, have you, Nick?"
"No.” Nick slumped back, defeated. “Doesn't it scare you, being up this high?” Changing the subject—an old lawyer's trick. It usually worked like a charm.
Chris looked out of the window. The sheer rock walls of the ravine plunged down and down to the dark, forested bottom where a creek meandered, a sparkling reflection of the faraway sun.
"This doesn't scare me. People scare me, sometimes. My grandma always told me, don't be so afraid of dying, that you forget to live.” Chris turned the basket of fries around and around, and Nick pretended not to notice that his elegant, delicate fingers were trembling like the aspen leaves in the valley below.
"Did he hurt you?” Nick was out on a limb, and he knew it. But he had to ask.
"Only emotionally.” Chris replied, as though that made it all right.
"I'm sorry, about before."
"What are you talking about?"
"Before. In the restroom. I'm sorry.” Nick fidgeted in his seat.
"You're sorry for what? For getting fresh?"
Nick flushed. “I didn't mean to, I just—there was no room, and I..."
"There's no need to apologize. I liked it. In fact, if you wanted to do it again...” Chris shrugged, and gazed out of the window.
Nick frowned. “Are you hitting on me?"
"Do you want me to?” Chris arched an eyebrow, and Nick's stomach did a 180 degree flip. Choose.
"Yes.” Nick swallowed hard. His voice sounded hoarse and far away, and all he could hear was the pounding of his own pulse.
"Last one,” said Chris, lightly.
"What?” Nick's throat had closed up somehow, and he could barely get the word out.
"Last fry.” Chris regarded Nick with amusement. “Wanna share?"
"What do you mean?” Nick already knew, but wanted Chris to tell him.
"Oh, come on. Don't tell me you've never done this with spaghetti."
Nick could only manage a nod. Chris held one end of the fry lightly between those even white teeth and offered the other end. Nick bit, and swallowed, and bit, until there was nowhere to go but Chris’ lips. Nick's heart pounded like a hammer. Chris waited patiently for Nick to take what was being offered.
Does time stop when you hold your breath? Dark brown eyes framed by long black lashes; full lips, waiting. Nick's mind was on hold, so his body took over, surrendering his mouth to the de
vastating softness of Chris’ lips. The first taste was salt, then coffee, tobacco, and finally a warm deliciousness. Nick ran his fingers through Chris’ hair. A voice over the P.A. system announced the next stop, but no one was listening.
* * * *
The first time you kiss someone, it's like unwrapping a gift. You've admired the pretty paper, read the clever card; now it's time to undo the ribbon and see what's inside. A simple touching of lips could never suffice to define what a kiss is. You offer an intimate part of yourself to another person, for him to sample. You open the door to your soul, and invite him inside. His touch, his taste, his scent, at first and then beneath all that, the things he tries to hide: his gentleness, his vulnerability, his fear, his pain. Your body responds to his touch and you pray to the old gods who watch over such matters that you will be allowed to keep him, for just a little while.
* * * *
Nick closed his eyes. The lyrics of an old song popped into his mind: I never realized what a kiss could be. Across the carriage, an elderly lady tutted, but Nick didn't care; he was undone and there was no point in hiding anymore.
Nick was sinking down, down into a deep ocean from which there was no return. Then, like sunlight on dark water, Chris brought him back.
"What did you want to be when you grew up?"
"What?” Nick's head was spinning.
"When you were a little kid. What did you want to be?” Chris spoke softly, as though sharing a secret. Their fingers entwined of their own accord on the tabletop that separated them. Whispered words between kisses suddenly seemed so normal. Outside the window, the green forested world sped by.
"I don't know.” Nick couldn't think, couldn't breathe. Brown eyes smiled into blue.
"Come on, don't tell me you wanted to be a lawyer when you were six."
"No. No, of course not."
"Well?"
"I, um...” Nick closed his eyes as Chris stroked his hair. “I loved horses. My aunt had a farm, and I was fascinated by the farrier, you know, the blacksmith. I used to hang around while he shoed the ponies. Then one time, he taught me how to make a horseshoe. My parents sent me there every summer, so they could take off to Paris without feeling guilty. I learned all about the forge, how to work iron; I loved it. So yeah, I think I wanted to be a blacksmith."