by AJ Wilde
"You think?” Chris traced a finger along Nick's jaw. Somewhere in the back of Nick's mind, he registered the fact that the train had picked up speed and was rattling along the tracks at a breakneck pace. A wall of green flashed past, punctuated by occasional blue.
"Well, yes—I know I did. I was good at it, too. Heck, I made half the metal art in my condo."
"So why didn't you?"
Nick sighed. “My father. He didn't want me working with my hands, said it was blue-collar work, beneath me. Didn't want any son of his having to use the tradesman's entrance."
Chris made a face. “And a lawyer is better?"
Nick laughed. “You have to understand, it's a dynastic thing. My father is a crown prosecutor; his father was on the bench. It was expected of me. He was even disappointed that I went into corporate law. Seven years of school just to push paper around an office. Thought it was a cop-out."
"You've spent a lot of time trying to live up to him, haven't you?"
"Yeah."
"And now?"
Nick felt a sudden burn at the back of his eyes, which was ridiculous, seeing as he hadn't cried since he was eight years old. He clenched his jaw. “Now? What do you mean, now?” Why does my voice sound so angry?
"I didn't mean to push, I'm sorry. Forget it.” Chris looked down, fiddling with the wooden beads around the slender wrist that still wouldn't stop shaking.
Nick took Chris’ hands in his. “It's not you, it's me. I always end up hurting the people who care about me."
"Is that what your girlfriend said?” Dark eyes, deep and unfathomable, gazed at the wooden beads.
"The only thing she cared about was my bank account."
"Maybe it was because she didn't know who you really were."
Nick ran his hands through his hair. “How could she, when I didn't even know?"
"Do you know now?” Chris ran a finger across Nick's lower lip.
"I think I'm getting closer."
"North Bay, this stop, North Bay." The train, which had been hurtling through space as though it wasn't even in contact with the tracks, suddenly slowed with a whoosh and glided to a stop.
"Rest stop."
"Huh?"
"Rest stop. The train stops here for half an hour. We can get out, stretch our legs, that kind of thing."
That kind of thing. Nick looked out of the window. The station was smack in the middle of town, surrounded by bustling streets, restaurants, traffic.
"Of course if you prefer, we can always go back in the restroom.” Chris raised an eyebrow.
"That's not really my style,” Nick said, laughing.
"Come on. I know a place.” Chris stood up, and held out a hand to Nick.
"You know a place?” Nick said, archly.
"Hey, this is my train, man. I've traveled this route so many times—I know every nook and cranny.” Chris grinned.
Nick sighed in mock exasperation, and took the hand that was offered.
At two o'clock on a weekday afternoon, the station was practically deserted. The few passengers left on the small Northlander train variously wandered around, stretched, visited the gift shop, checked their e-mail. There was one bored ticket clerk behind the glass.
"Here.” Chris led Nick around the back of the station house, and stopped at the corner of a passageway.
"The Lost and Found?” Nick frowned. His heart had made its way to his throat and was pounding furiously.
"Yeah, it's perfect. There's never anybody there.” Chris cast a sideways glance at Nick. “Not that I've done this before or anything."
"Of course not.” Nick was beyond caring about such details and his body was already betraying him.
Chris tried the door. “It's unlocked.” Gingerly, they stepped inside. “See? What did I tell...?"
The words hung in the air, unfinished and dangling, as Nick slammed Chris against the wall and effectively removed any lingering doubt. They kissed until they were dizzy. Hands roved over warm skin, fumbling with buttons.
"Nick, Nick...” Chris gasped. Nick just smiled, and kicked the door shut with his foot.
Nick reached down and touched Chris gingerly. Chris groaned and clutched at Nick's shoulders.
"Nick, please, I'm yours, just take me..."
I'm yours. Nick's heart pounded in his ears and his head was spinning. He was breathing hard and fast. Together, they tumbled to the floor, hands roving over each other's bodies, panting breathless open-mouthed kisses.
Chris’ breath slowed to a rhythmic huff as he bucked against Nick. A primal grunt from Nick and no more words needed to be spoken; he held on until Chris cried out.
"Nick, oh, Nicky, please..."
Nobody had called him Nicky since he was a toddler. But something in Chris’ voice made it sound so sensual, so personal, so intimate; almost like a secret that only they could share. Nick didn't need to be told what Chris wanted, what he needed so desperately.
When they were done, they lay on the floor, crumpled and panting. There were no words—just incomprehensible murmurs, the stroking of hair, the fluttering of fingertips, the light touch of lips on earlobe, neck, shoulders, hands. The soft brush of cheek against cheek. Love, made.
* * * *
Lying in his arms on the floor of the Lost and Found, surrounded by other people's umbrellas, plaid wallets, and Walmart shopping bags, you stretch like a cat and relish the delicious sensation of all the cells in your body tingling at once. You remember his warm lips on yours, his tongue in your mouth, his hands on your skin, the longing for more. And when he took you, you cried out his name.
You run long, elegant fingers over his chest. Blue eyes—they'll get you every time. Swimming pool blue. You flicker your fingertips over his stomach and he sighs. You lean over his face, taking in every detail of his features: the straight nose, the perfect skin, the fair hair with chestnut roots, the long black lashes, the soft lips. He smiles, reaches up, and strokes your hair. You must remember his scent, his taste: vanilla and cigarettes, sandalwood and clean, musky male. You brush his lips with yours and commit the feeling to memory.
You kiss like it's the first time. He runs his fingers through your hair and pulls you down, against him, into him, through him. You're a part of him now and you don't want to let go.
Somewhere in the distance, a whistle blows.
* * * *
"Shit! The train!"
Nick scrambled to his feet, searching for his clothes. Chris picked out jeans, T-shirt, and sneakers from the scattered assortment of unclaimed baggage and forgotten articles that littered the small room. Half-dressed and out of breath, they made the train by the skin of their teeth.
"Fuck!"
"You said it."
Tripping over each other and giggling, they fell into the window seat. Chris leaned against Nick, and Nick instinctively opened his arms. Chris snuggled down against his chest.
"You okay, baby?"
Nick had never called anyone “baby” in his life. But then there were a lot of things he'd never done before that he'd done today.
Nick wrapped Chris up in his arms. They kissed in that lazy way that people do, when all the walls between them have been torn down. Their hearts beat together, and the world beyond the sound of that steady pulse seemed out of focus, distant, and all else was but a remnant of someone else's remote and irrelevant reality. Nick breathed in Chris’ scent and stretched languidly, reaching out to recapture a frisson of remembered pleasure.
"Temagami, next stop, Temagami."
The train sped eastward past the rows of little white cottages along the highway that bordered Trout Lake, narrowly missed Quebec, then veered north towards the old growth forests of the Temiskaming shore. Nick stroked Chris’ hair and they nuzzled each other. This is heaven. I'm in heaven, right now, this moment. A deep calm suffused Nick's body as he listened to Chris’ slow, even breathing, and his head began to nod.
Nick dreamed, and in his dream he was happy. Chris was warm in his arms, and Nick smil
ed in that drowsy place between sleep and waking, where you can almost touch what you've imagined. The train rumbled on.
"Nick? Nick Sinclair?"
The voice startled Nick awake, and he looked up, blinking.
"It is you! What the devil..."
The speaker trailed off. He was staring, somewhat dumbfounded, at Chris.
"Hey, Duncan,” Nick said, yawning. “Fancy meeting you here."
"I'll say,” said the short, middle-aged man in the gray suit with the rather frantic tie. Duncan Travis was the last person Nick would have counted on meeting today. But with Chris sleeping peacefully against him, Nick felt invincible.
Chris stirred in Nick's arms and looked up at him with a sleepy smile. “Hey, baby,” Nick murmured. “Oh, sorry, Duncan, this is Chris. We're um, on vacation."
"Uh, hi. Pleased to meet you.” Duncan shuffled from foot to foot.
"Likewise, I'm sure,” Chris purred, without even looking. When it became obvious that neither of them were going to move, Duncan began to back away.
"Yeah, well, I've got a client meeting in New Liskeard, of all places—so I guess I'll see you back at the office then, after the long weekend?” Duncan was studying the pattern on his tie.
"Maybe. Or maybe not,” Nick said, shrugging. He was lost in dark brown eyes. Chris smiled, and licked his lips with deliberate slowness. Duncan, flushing to the roots of his sparse ginger hair, stepped backward and sideways at the same time, ducking at the last moment to avoid a collision with the luggage rack.
"I ... well. You've got company, so I'll—I'll see you, okay, Nick?"
"Mmm-hmm. Later, man,” Nick mumbled, not taking his eyes from Chris.
With Duncan safely blundering his way into the next carriage, Nick and Chris clung to each other, giggling.
"We're on vacation?” Chris arched an eyebrow at Nick.
"Just trying to think outside the box,” Nick said with a shrug.
"Nick, you only need to know one thing."
"What's that?"
"There is no box."
Nick shook his head in mock exasperation. He stroked the wooden beads around Chris’ wrist.
"Here.” Chris unwound the beads, and slipped them onto Nick's wrist.
"No, no—they're yours."
"Not anymore. You've earned them. Welcome to the human race, Nick.” Chris smiled. “Besides, I can always make another one."
"You made this?” Nick fingered the delicately carved and painted beads, strung together on a lace of fine leather.
"Yeah. You're not the only one with talent, you know.” Chris stretched lazily, and sat cross-legged, grabbing the backpack from under the seat and rummaging for cigarettes.
"I didn't say I was.” Nick looked out of the window for the first time in what seemed like hours, and found himself staring at a flash rainstorm, pelting in angry sheets against the glass. The sky was black. He tapped the cigarette that Chris offered him and stuck it behind his ear.
"So. What do you do for a living?” Nick asked. When you've been as intimate as it's possible to be with another person, and then realize that you know practically nothing about them, it can come as a bit of a shock.
"Guess."
"I couldn't possibly."
"Oh, come on. Live dangerously."
"Jesus. All right. Um—you don't work in an office."
"Duh. You asked what I do, not what I don't do. See, I should have been the lawyer."
"You're a smartass, is what you are. Okay, let me think: you're a designer."
"No."
"A short-order cook."
"Never. I can't even make toast."
"A window-cleaner."
"Close, but no cigar."
"Aha! You work outside."
"Yes. Carry on, Sherlock."
"You work with your hands."
"You noticed."
Nick realized that he had, in fact, noticed the short nails and the slight roughness of Chris’ long, artistic fingers. Possibly it had been when they were taking a scenic tour of his belly button that he'd committed their texture to memory.
"You're a landscaper."
"How incredibly bourgeois of you.” Chris made a face. “I'm a gardener. I pull other people's weeds for a living."
"It's a decent job."
"Bullshit."
"Smoke?"
"About damn time."
The dining car was empty. Nick took the cigarette from behind his ear and fumbled for matches.
"Everyone I know is giving it up,” he remarked, letting Chris light him and taking the smoke down gratefully. “Toronto is practically a no-smoking zone."
"Everything's bad for you,” said Chris, yawning and stretching long legs over two seats. “Tobacco and alcohol, that's old school sin. Now they get us with carbs, trans fats, caffeine, red dye number five. Hell, you're not even supposed to drink the water. I can't live on a diet of raw vegetables and Dasani."
"I suppose all you eat is junk food."
"My body thrives on toxins, man."
"So, where are we headed now?” Nick plunked himself down on the arm of Chris’ seat and ran idle fingers through his soft black hair. Chris pushed back against Nick's hand like a contented cat.
"Temagami."
"Ta-ma ... what?"
"Temagami. It's Ojibway for ‘deep water by the shore.’ Fascinating area. You can climb Caribou Mountain, hike White Bear Forest, canoe the lakes.” Chris made a face. “Listen to me. I sound like a fucking tour guide."
Nick snorted. “You're good at it. If you ever need a second job..."
"Shut up."
"Make me."
"Is that an offer?"
"Well, the train's almost empty.” Nick arched an eyebrow. “How long until we get to where we're going?"
"Four hours."
"Plenty of time to get to know each other even better."
"You are so full of shit, Nick."
"I know."
The rainstorm had wrung out its last drops as the train pulled into Temagami station, and the world appeared rinsed, with a fresh scent like young pine. There was woodsmoke on the wind. Nick leaned out of the window, watching as a couple with a baby in tow stepped down from the train. No one got on.
"Cobalt, next stop. Stand clear of the doors, please."
"I think we're alone,” Nick said, glancing over his shoulder at Chris, who was gazing at the sky. The espresso-dark eyes were impassive.
"Alone, yeah.” The voice that answered him was as unknowable and unreachable as the distant hills that rolled in a blue-green ribbon across the endless horizon. Nick dragged down the last of his cigarette and flicked it out of the window. He turned to look at Chris, but something else caught his eye.
"Shit."
"What?"
"Someone left their laptop."
"Must have been one of the suits who got off at North Bay."
"It's still on."
"Leave it, man."
"Oh, come on. Don't turn all ethical on me. You're the one who made me throw my tie away."
"Hey, it's your karma, not mine.” Chris shrugged.
Nick walked over and sat down, gingerly opening the laptop. He felt like a kid stealing candy for the first time, and his heart was thumping against his ribcage. He tapped a key and the screen sprang to life, then pressed another key and the Internet browser opened with a jolly flourish of sound.
"What are you doing?” said Chris, curiosity getting the better of judgment.
"Don't tell me you've never Googled yourself?"
"Is that even a word?"
Nick suddenly had the oddest sensation, that he had become Chris and Chris had become Nick. He shook himself, and typed his own name into the search engine.
"You put your name into the Google search. You'd be amazed at what pops up."
"I can't begin to imagine.” Chris chewed on already ragged fingernails.
"Nicholas Cameron Sinclair III.” Nick read out what he had typed. It used to be something he was pro
ud of, but now it just sounded ridiculous.
"Fancy. Sounds like a Restoration monarch,” Chris said, with the faintest trace of sarcasm.
"Three generations, all named after each other,” Nick said, looking up at Chris. “But Nick will do just fine."
"So what does it tell you about yourself, that you don't already know?"
"Okay, let's see.” Nick read out the first few search results. “Graduate, University of Waterloo, B.A. Honors; Osgoode Hall Law School, Class of 2002; called to the Bar, September 2004; second year associate, Cooper Michaeljohn, Barristers & Solicitors, Toronto."
"Wow,” Chris said. “You really are somebody. What the hell are you doing on an empty train with me?"
"Oh, wait a second. I didn't do this just to brag. It's your turn anyway: what's your name?” Nick erased the screen and started over. He looked up at Chris; the brown eyes were sad.
"Chris."
"I know that, dumbass. Your full name."
"No.” Chris said abruptly, and snapped the laptop shut.
"Chris, I didn't mean...” Nick jumped up, but Chris was already slamming open the door to the next carriage. It slid shut with a heavy clunk, leaving Nick alone.
"Fuck.” Nick slid the laptop onto the next seat and ran after Chris, losing his footing and grabbing at the luggage rack as the train lurched wildly from side to side. By the time he caught up, he was out of breath.
Chris was standing at the far end of the last carriage, staring out of the rear window. A sudden shiver of fear sliced at Nick's mind like an ice-cold knife. He ran up behind him and stopped.
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, please forgive me. I'm a complete and utter jerk, and I have no excuse. No excuse at all."
* * * *
When he is standing right behind you, so close you can almost taste him, the pain is so intense you can't let him in, and you can't even tell him why; why in your loneliness you reach out to strangers in subways, at bus stops, on trains. You throw out a slender thread; a lifeline, and wait; if only someone would notice and grab hold—pull you back from the edge. And that someone is standing right behind you but you're still alone—so alone. You angrily blink back the tears that you didn't even know were streaming down your face. The ever-present blackness opens before you like a deep well and you stare it down.