Hush

by Tal Bauer

  Tom gripped the edge of his kitchen counter and watched Mike play wrestle with Etta Mae. Etta Mae was getting into it, bouncing and making her Basset noises. Half barks, half snorts, and she flopped from sitting on her butt to lying on her back to leaping to all four paws and barking. Tom’s fingers tightened on the granite. He wanted this. He wanted this, exactly this. He wanted it so, so badly.

  “Mike…” His voice trembled. “I’m gay.”

  There. He’d said it. Out loud. Tom’s nails dug into the counter, scratching on the gray surface. Panic swelled inside him, waves and waves of shrieks and all his nightmares, his fears suddenly erupting like popping balloons. His old professor’s voice rang in his ears, over and over again.

  Mike stared at him, still ruffling Etta Mae’s ears. His face was stone, closed off, but his eyes searched Tom’s. “Have you ever said that before?”

  He couldn’t speak. Tom shook his head. “Not like this,” he whispered. “I’ve always known. But—” His throat closed, choking his words.

  “Have you ever…” Mike stood and headed for the kitchen. He stopped in front of Tom, though not touching him. But he was close. Close enough that Tom whimpered. “Have you ever allowed yourself to be gay?”

  “Once.” Damn it, he wasn’t going to choke up. But, heat was building in his eyes, and his chest went tight. He breathed through clenched teeth. “Once, I wanted to live my life. I wanted to be me. But…”

  Mike laid his palm on top of Tom’s shaking hand gripping the edge of the counter until his knuckles went white. “What happened?”

  He told him. Everything.

  When he finally stopped talking, his throat was hoarse and he’d cried, tears falling down his cheeks like waterfalls. Mike brushed them away as he choked out his story. 1991, and the first year he’d let go of the total reins he’d kept on his life. The chance he’d taken, wanting to live his life, wanting to be himself, wanting to not live in fear. The world back then, the atmosphere, the day-to-day he lived in, the times, the way society portrayed him and all gay men. His professor, torpedoing his life before it had even begun, just after he’d let himself taste the life he truly wanted. Fear, so much crippling fear. Fear that had pushed him back into the closet and hammered the door closed. Fear that kept him living a monk’s life, lonely and celibate.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t say anything to you. I’ve never said anything. I’ve never—” He sniffed, rubbing the back of his hand over his cheek. “I’m sorry. This is ridiculous. I’m sorry.”

  “Hey.” Mike’s arms wound around his shoulders, and he pulled Tom close, molding him to his body. “It’s okay. I never realized—” Mike sighed, his breath ruffling Tom’s hair. “I had no idea.”

  “You’re younger than I am.” Tentatively, Tom touched Mike’s hips. His heart screamed, and fresh tears silently rolled down his cheeks. “You grew up in a different world.”

  “Yeah.” Mike’s arms tightened. “Even in the Navy, even before it was allowed, no one cared that I was gay. I had a lot of support.”

  “I’m glad you did.” He could only whisper. “Living like I have, I don’t recommend it.”

  Mike pulled back slowly, his hands on Tom’s shoulders. He searched Tom’s gaze, his expression unreadable. “Why now? Why are you doing this now?”

  He squirmed. “I… fell for a guy,” he breathed. “I fell for this guy, this amazing guy. I think he’s worth it.”

  Mike looked like Tom had just kicked his puppy. “Tom…”

  “It’s okay, I don’t expect anything. I never have. I know I’m not your type. But you are amazing, Mike. Just this. Just… telling you.” He squeezed his eyes shut. Licked his lips. “Feeling your hands on me. It’s worth it.” His eyes fluttered open.

  “You need to stop saying that,” Mike grunted.

  “Saying what?”

  “That you’re not my type.” Mike swiped his thumb over Tom’s cheek, brushing away the river of tears. “I met this amazing guy, too. He’s…” Mike sighed. “He’s so brave. So, so brave.”

  God, the tears were coming back. He didn’t feel brave, he didn’t feel brave at all. “Tell him I said hi, and that he’s a lucky guy.” He tried to smile.

  If life were a movie, this would be when they kissed. Mike would smile at him in adoration and lean in, press his lips gently to Tom’s for their first careful kiss. Tom would wilt—or, honestly, maybe faint—and Mike would sweep him into his arms, shielding him from everything. Life, his bruised and battered heart, his fears, the world.

  This wasn’t a movie, though. Mike opened his mouth, as if he were about to say something.

  The oven beeped, the timer going off.

  “That’s dinner.” Tom slipped from Mike’s hold. “I was supposed to make a salad. Um.” He stood at his farmhouse sink, gripping the edge.

  “I’ll make the salad.”

  They worked in silence, Tom pulling the fish from the oven and the salsa from the fridge as Mike tossed a spinach salad. He ducked into the bathroom for a minute, splashing water on his face and drying his eyes. He looked like hell now, but there was nothing for that.

  Strangely, he felt weightless, untethered. His secret was out. Mike was still here, at least for the next minute or so. Whatever happened would happen. Maybe he’d just torn up the best parts of his life, shredded his façade and tanked whatever he’d built with Mike. But he’d stood in the sun last week and he’d said the words tonight. I’m gay. Baby steps.

  When he came back, Mike was bringing their plates to the table, fish steaming on top of a bed of rice with a rainbow salsa on top. He’d poured two glasses of wine and brought the sauvignon blanc to the table. The candles Tom had lit an hour ago were still burning, flames flickering low in their silver crescent holders.

  “This looks great. What is it?”

  “Toasted coconut tilapia with a pomegranate salsa.” Chopped pomegranate, cranberry, tomato, orange, and lime sat on top of the flaky filets.

  “Sounds delicious.” Mike pulled out Tom’s chair and smiled.

  They ate in silence for a few minutes. The TV was on, streaming music, soft, bluesy jazz. Lonely saxophone notes lingered on and on, and soft bass thrummed. Tom reached for his wine, practically gulping it down.

  And then, Mike’s palm covered the back of his hand, squeezing gently. He launched into a story from his early days in the marshals, his post to a Podunk town in the middle of nowhere where every marshal did every job, and he saw it all. Bootleggers, white supremacists, religious revivalists, and felons on the run. Fresh from the Navy and still a bit wide-eyed at the small, inner world of rural America, Mike had been out of his depth in the hinterlands.

  Tom laughed, and nearly snorted wine at one point.

  Mike held his hand the whole time.

  “Then I was transferred to the regional task force for the Whitmore hunt.”

  “You were on the Whitmore search?”

  Paul Whitmore, leader of a sect of sovereign citizens, suspect in three bombings of federal facilities, and a white supremacist who was practically a god to neo-Nazis across America, had hidden in the Appalachians after his last firebombing of a federal courthouse in North Carolina. U.S. Marshals, FBI, ATF, and DEA agents had scoured the mountains for the man.

  He was a ghost.

  “I was. That was the task force.”

  He squeezed Mike’s thumb, tangling with his own. “You didn’t like it.”

  Mike shook his head. “That part of the country… the tension. The pain. The anger. I felt like an alien on my own planet. This is a big, big nation. We have so many different people in it. Sometimes, I’m amazed we’ve managed to stay united this long.” Mike frowned, clearly uncomfortable. “Some divides are deeper than red versus blue. They go deeper than deep. How do West Virginia and New York City belong to the same nation?”

  “We’re all American. Somewhere deep inside, that means something. We all believe in the same freedoms.”

  “I don’t think everyone wants the sam
e freedoms for everyone else.” Mike’s hand clamped down on Tom’s.

  Well. That was true. He turned his hand over, laced their fingers together. “America is a dream, more than anything else. It’s a dream made of hope, for everyone, here and around the world. Hope that one day we will all be equal, and free. The country was founded on hope. On looking at the horizon and thinking, one day, maybe me too. Everyone can relate to that, in some way.”

  Mike was quiet. “You are an optimist. Even after…”

  “I have to be. I would have died if I thought things wouldn’t, one day, be better. Maybe not better for me, but… I always hoped the world would change.”

  “Do you think it has?”

  “I look at you, and yes. I do.”

  “Me?”

  “You’re my hero.” He grinned, his face heating. “You’re everything I dreamed about. Living a proud, happy life, respected by everyone. You’re amazing, Mike.”

  Mike had a weird smile on his face, like he was forcing it, almost. “I’m not that great.”

  “You are to me.”

  He could hear Mike’s swallow, could see his Adam’s apple rise and fall. “Are you finished?”

  “Oh. Yes, I am.” He started to stand, but Mike put his hand on his shoulder and stood instead. He cleared their plates and refilled Tom’s wine glass before sitting again. “So, are you not an optimist?”

  Sighing, Mike reached for Tom’s hand again. “I’m a dreamer.”

  “A dreamer?”

  “I want a fairy tale.”

  “That’s not a bad thing.”

  “The original fairy tales all had terrible endings. They were horror stories. Warnings. They weren’t nice.”

  Etta Mae scratched at the back door, and glared over her shoulder. Mike rose to let her out.

  “Let’s go out to the deck.” Tom brought Mike outside, to the small deck he’d built off his living room. He had a grill and some tiki torches and a stone fireplace with a wicker couch in front of it. Mike sat, and held out his arm for Tom to cuddle close.

  Yes, please. Tom probably embarrassed himself with how fast he snuggled into Mike’s side. Etta Mae did her business and then proceeded on her sniff, her daily perusal of the yard. They watched her, silent.

  Mike pressed a kiss to the top of his head. He breathed deep, inhaling Tom’s hair, before kissing him again.

  Slowly, Tom shifted, twisted. Turned his face up, until he was looking up into Mike’s gaze. Mike’s lips hovered above his, less than an inch separating them. Twenty-five years, twenty-five years since a man had last kissed him. He ached, his bones crying out, his heart screaming, yearning for another kiss. For Mike’s kiss.

  Mike didn’t blink. He stared into Tom’s eyes as if he was searching them, searching him. Tom reached for Mike, winding his fingers up Mike’s neck, running them through Mike’s sandy hair.

  “Tom…”

  God, he could still count on one hand how many times Mike had used his first name. It made his blood burn, his skin light on fire. Another man was looking at him like he wanted him. Another man was about to kiss him.

  “Tom, what do you want?”

  “You. I want you.”

  Something passed deep in Mike’s gaze, but then it was gone. He leaned in, closing the last half inch, and pressed their lips together.

  Soft, and gentle. Warm. Hungry. Mike moved over him, his kiss starting slow, but capturing Tom completely. He clung to Mike, hanging on as his heart sang and his soul went electric. Twenty-five years he’d waited for this kiss. And what a perfect kiss it was.

  Mike pulled back, jerking free. “Shit,” he whispered.

  “Wha—”

  But Mike’s hand rose, cupping his cheek, and then Mike tugged him close for another kiss. Time stretched, lengthened, measured in slow nibbles and gentle sucks, the press and push of their lips against one another. Mike sucked on his lower lip, and Tom’s spine arched. He pressed into Mike, rolling in his hold, and cradled Mike’s face. Mike sighed, his breath shaking. Tom slithered into his lap, straddling Mike, never breaking the kiss.

  Mike’s hands ran down his body, down his shoulders, down his back, and squeezed his hips.

  God, this was really happening. This was finally, finally happening. He rocked forward, pressing against Mike.

  Mike hissed. His hands clamped down on Tom’s hips. Yes, yes. Tom surged against him, rocking his body against Mike’s, cupping his hands around Mike’s face.

  Moaning, Mike ran his hands up Tom’s back, his shoulders, and into his hair. “Tom…”

  “Yes. Yes, Mike. Yes. Please.” Squirming, Tom pressed against Mike as he sat in his lap. He couldn’t think, couldn’t put thoughts together. He just wanted Mike’s hands on him, on his skin. Wanted Mike’s body to push him back into his mattress. Or the couch. Or the floor. He wasn’t picky, not right now.

  But Mike gently pushed him back. Put inches between their bodies. Tom leaned forward, trying to keep their kiss going.

  “Tom… Can we… go a little slower?”

  Ice-cold water drenched him. His passion blunted. The curl of humiliation, uncomfortably familiar, rose in his belly. “Yeah.” Tom slid off Mike’s lap, standing unsteadily. “Yeah. I’m sorry.”

  Mike stood, grabbing his hands. He kissed his knuckles, pressed his cheek to the back of his fingers. “Nothing to apologize for. I want to treat you right.” Another kiss to his knuckles, and then a light touch of Mike’s lips to his. “And I said slower. Not stop.”

  Damn it, his passion was flaring again. He was a sun about to go supernova.

  Etta Mae padded up the deck and wagged her tail at them both. Her tongue lolled out, the heat of the summer evening sapping her energy.

  “Let’s go inside.”

  Etta Mae pushed her way through first. Mike chuckled, holding the door open for both Etta Mae and Tom. Jazz hit Tom, a slow saxophone and trombone duet. He needed to get away from Mike, get himself under control.

  But, Mike reached for him, laced their fingers together. He spun Tom gently and brought him close, one hand landing on his waist. He started to sway, leading Tom with his hips.

  And now they were dancing. They were dancing in his living room as Etta Mae slurped her water, making a racket in counterpoint to the soft music. Mike pressed his cheek against Tom’s, laid a kiss to the center of his forehead. Tom trembled, shaking in Mike’s hold.

  The song bled into another, and Mike spun him, pulled him close again. Kissed his closed eyes. Hummed along with the music, nuzzling Tom’s cheek.

  Eventually, Tom pulled away, shaking from his head to the tips of his toes. “I need a minute.”

  Mike steered him to the couch, where Etta Mae had flopped in her spot at the end, draping herself over the throw pillows and the couch arm. Her soft snores floated through the living room. Mike sat, and pulled Tom down, cradling him like they’d sat outside. “You okay?”

  “Overwhelmed.” Tom exhaled slowly. Mike threaded their fingers together again. He squeezed, and didn’t let go. “This is more than I ever imagined.”

  “Should I go?”

  “No. I never want you to leave.”

  A kiss to his hair, and then Mike rested his cheek on top of Tom’s head.

  “Tell me more about you, Mike. Talk to me.” Talking to Mike had always been easy, been fun, but it was like a spell had been cast, and their hands and lips were doing the speaking now. Their bodies were aligning, Tom’s craving Mike, his touch and everything about him. But there was something in the air, in the room with them, something unspoken and dark. Tom wanted everything, wanted to roll in Mike’s arms and start slowly stripping, but…

  Mike told him story after story. Him in high school, figuring out that he was different than the other guys. He liked his fellow football players more than he liked the cheerleaders. Fooling around with one of them, his first time, a teenage fumble. Joining the Navy. He’d been in a supportive command. There were two lesbians who were very open about themselves, and no o
ne on the ship gave them any crap. He never had to come out, because he was never in. He was just himself, and he had hookups in different ports, a few encounters out at sea with fellow sailors. He saw the world, learned the intel trade, and grew a little bit, as a man. And then, the marshals. He grew a lot more as a man, there.

  “I love your life.” Tom stroked Mike’s hand, his thumb tracing the bones under Mike’s skin. “It sounds great. You’re a great man.”

  “I’ve had missteps. I’ve made mistakes. I don’t think I’d pass a Senate confirmation. You’ve lived a better life.”

  “I’ve lived a sterile life.”

  “What would you do, if you could do anything?”

  He stroked Mike’s hand again, tracing a scar that led up his arm. “Anything? I’d…” He’d find someone. He wouldn’t be alone. He’d wake up smiling every day, go to sleep smiling every night. He’d have arms around him, kisses on his lips. They’d travel, walk Etta Mae together, cook side by side. Live life. “I wouldn’t be alone.”

  Mike touched his cheek, cupped his chin. Turned his face gently, until they were eye to eye, noses brushing, little Eskimo kisses. A gentle, chaste kiss of the lips, and then another. And another. And then it lingered, stretched. Tongues slid together, gentle nudges, sucks.

  Time stretched again, going thin. Tom shifted in Mike’s hold, reclining half on the couch, half on Mike. One leg went over Mike’s lap, and Mike’s arms wound around him, holding him close. Tom’s hands ran through Mike’s hair, cradled his neck. Their kisses stretched on, and on, and on.

  Eventually, breathlessly, Mike pulled back, a single millimeter. His hot breath ghosted Tom’s kiss-swollen lips. “I should go.”

  “You don’t have to.”

  Mike grinned. “If I don’t, I won’t behave.”

  You don’t have to behave. I don’t want you to behave. But, a part of Tom’s mind knew he couldn’t just rush into this. Couldn’t take Mike to bed, not with the dark something hanging in the room. There was something there, something they hadn’t spoken about yet. Mike had been strangely guarded, unusually reticent since Tom’s confession. Even though they’d kissed, there was still a pull, a drag of fear, that made Tom hesitant.