Sex, Lies And Edelweiss

by J. L. Merrow

  Simon shut the door of the staff hostel behind him, and hesitated. Which way now? Should he go left, down to the place where Matt's friend worked, or ought he to speak to Mim first? Perhaps she wouldn't approve of him running after Matt like this. Simon set his jaw. All the more reason not to let her find out about it until afterwards.

  He turned left.

  * * * *

  Matt was getting nowhere. Every instinct was telling him to get out of St. Gilgen and go as far away as he could--but wouldn't he just end up on the streets again if he went back to Berlin? He had enough money, with Simon's three hundred euros, to get back to England--but what was the bloody point?

  Sighing, Matt looked up--and froze. Simon was walking down the street. He stood out in the crowd with that pale skin, dark hair and the way he'd fall over himself not to get in anyone's way.

  Matt had heard of hearts melting, but no one had ever mentioned it bloody well hurt.

  What the hell was Simon doing here? He had to be looking for Matt. Had he come to demand his money back? Suddenly, Matt couldn't face him. Not here. Not now. Thank God, the sun was in Simon's eyes. Waiting for a group of tourists to draw level with where he was sitting, Matt stood up and started walking along with them. They didn't seem to mind or even notice, too busy looking at the scenery through the viewfinders of their top-of-the-range cameras.

  When they reached a hotel, Matt ducked inside and hid in the bar until someone came out to ask what he wanted. He ordered an over-priced coffee and nursed it until long after it'd gone cold. Then he downed it, grimacing, and left.

  * * * *

  It wasn't Matt's friend at the boathouse. This young man, another rangy, tanned type with over-long brownish hair and a moustache didn't seem to know Matt at all, despite Simon's eager description of him.

  "Will Rudi be in later?" he asked desperately.

  The man shrugged, slouching against the wall of the boathouse. "Maybe."

  "Can you give him a message?" Simon begged. "Rudi, I mean...or Matt, if you see him first." He searched his pockets in vain for paper and pen. Why the hell hadn't he thought of this? "Ah, have you-- Thank you," he finished, as the man grumpily handed him an old envelope and a stubby pencil.

  Now what the bloody hell was he going to write?

  Rudi,

  If you see Matt, please tell him..... Simon chewed the end of the pencil, then remembered it wasn't his and wiped it off hastily on his shirt.

  I need to speak to him. And I'm not married.

  Was that clear enough? There wasn't a lot of room. Better safe than sorry, though.

  Mim's my adoptive mother.

  Simon Lavoisier

  P.S. It's not about the money.

  He just managed to squeeze the last word in.

  There...that would have to do. Simon handed the note to Rudi's colleague and felt heat rise in his face as the man openly read it, smirking, before jamming it in a back pocket. He left the boathouse wondering if not-Rudi would simply throw away the note or, worse, take it to the pub and laugh about it with his friends.

  But what else could Simon have done?

  * * * *

  Matt didn't dare go back for his rucksack until late afternoon. On the plus side, he'd found Rudi and talked the bloke into letting him stay for a few days. Rudi had grumbled a bit--he'd just got a new boyfriend and wasn't that keen on giving up his privacy--but he'd said yes, which was what counted.

  When Matt got back to the hire place, Fix was tying up a boat, about to give a Japanese family a hand out of it, so Matt just ducked inside and grabbed his stuff.

  "Thanks, mate," he called out to Fix as he hauled his rucksack back on his shoulders. It hadn't got any lighter during the day, but he supposed he ought to be grateful for that. "I'll see you around, all right?"

  "Hey," Fix called back. "Moment, bitte," he added to the paying customers, who gave him matching blank looks as he loped over to where Matt met him halfway along the landing stage.

  "Yeah?" Matt asked. If Fix was going to ask for a left luggage fee he could get stuffed.

  Fix reached into his back pocket and drew out a crumpled old envelope. "Your friend was here. He left you this."

  "What friend?" Matt asked stupidly, taking the envelope. He'd just seen Rudi an hour ago.

  "English. Tall and dark, with glasses. Older. But he gives his name so you can read it for yourself. Mach's gut." Fix bounded back to his tourists.

  Matt unfolded the note--and felt his stomach turn over. Simon wanted to see him, and not just to get his money back. And...that woman was his mother? Matt boggled. His heart gave a little leap, and he slung his rucksack back in the boathouse with suddenly sweaty palms. Should he say something to Fix? But he was busy with another boat now. Matt couldn't wait.

  His heart pounding, Matt leapt onto the Honda and zoomed back through the village towards the Königshof.

  The streets had never been so crowded, and the tourists had never been so bloody slow. Matt's stomach was tying itself in knots by the time he parked his bike outside the staff entrance of the hotel. It had all seemed so simple when he'd read the letter--go to the hotel, see Simon, get it all sorted out. Now, though...

  Now, his brain had finally caught up with his heart and reminded him of all the potential pitfalls. Like Herr Meissner, who was staring at him coldly through the open kitchen door.

  Shit. "Herr Meissner?" Matt managed to keep his voice steady.

  "Matt. You are here to see someone?" Herr Meissner's voice was cold, but at least he hadn't just ordered Matt off the grounds.

  Matt nearly bottled it and said, "Heike," but that wouldn't get him anywhere, would it? "Simon--Mr. Lavoisier--wanted to see me." Matt thrust out the crumpled note in evidence.

  Herr Meissner didn't even glance at it. He stepped through the door and closed it behind him, shutting out the noise from the kitchens. "I have to ask you a question, Matt. What, do you think, is the relationship between Mr. and Mrs. Lavoisier?"

  The manager's gaunt face wasn't any more bloody readable than it ever was. "They're not married," Matt blurted out. "I mean, I thought they were, but they're not. He just told me," he added, waving the note. "But that's why-- I mean, I wouldn't have asked him for money if I'd known. I thought I was just some bit on the side for him." He ran a hand through his hair. "Look, I really need to see him. Please?"

  As the silence lengthened, Matt's hope died. Biting his lip, he folded up the note and put it back in his pocket, then turned to go.

  "Wait."

  Matt turned back so fast he nearly sprained something.

  "Simon is on the terrace," Herr Meissner said with what was almost a smile.

  * * * *

  Simon was sitting at a secluded table on the hotel terrace, staring out over the village. He'd chosen the shadiest, draftiest spot he could find, and the relative chill had the dual benefits of discouraging company and fitting rather well how he felt inside. The view was probably as spectacular as ever, but he couldn't seem to see it.

  Soon the terrace would start to fill up with hotel guests wanting their dinner. Simon thought he'd give it a miss tonight. The thought of food made him feel faintly nauseous. Of course, that might be because he hadn't eaten all day. He'd been so sure Matt would get the note, would come and see him.

  But he'd waited all day in vain.

  Just like the day of Mummy's funeral.

  "Simon?"

  He looked up. Oh, God. It was Matt. Simon stood, his knees trembling a little, unsure what to say.

  "I didn't know," Matt began, hovering uncertainly by the table. "I mean, I thought Mrs. Lavoisier was your missus." He held out his hand, and Simon realized it was full of euro notes. "I want you to have this back," he said. "Please," he added, sounding desperate, when Simon made no move to take it.

  "I don't want the money back," was all Simon could think of to say. The chill seemed to have increased, and his hands had become clammy.

  Matt's face twisted. "You've got to take it back. I neve
r wanted it, not really. I just thought if I couldn't have you--"

  "You did, actually, have me," Simon reminded him with more than a trace of bitterness.

  Matt ran his free hand through those soft curls Simon had so loved to touch. "I mean--I mean to keep. I thought I couldn't have you to keep, and it made me mad, and that's why I asked for the money. I thought I didn't mean anything to you, so I s'pose...I s'pose I was trying to act like you didn't mean anything to me."

  The roaring in Simon's ears was making it hard to think. "Herr Meissner told me you were a..." He swallowed. "That you'd had a rather unsavory past."

  Matt was hunched in on himself. "Look, I'm not proud of it, but after Daz left me in Berlin, I was skint. I had nowhere to live, no way to get home--and no bloody home to go to, even if I could raise the money. And my German wasn't good enough to get a proper job. So I did what I had to, all right?"

  Simon tried to imagine having no money, no home. It was just so far out of his experiences. But it could all have been so different, couldn't it? If Mummy hadn't had that trust fund; if Mim hadn't taken him in when Mummy died. "What about after you came here?" he asked. Then he turned away, running a hand through his hair in an unconscious echo of Matt. "I'm sorry. I have no right to ask you that."

  "Yeah you do," Matt said. "Look, there's been one or two blokes, all right? Guests here, I mean. And a couple of them gave me, you know, tips and stuff. But I've never asked for anything before, all right?"

  "Just me?" Simon wondered if Matt could tell how much that hurt to say.

  "Yes!" Matt stepped forward. Seeming to notice he still held the three hundred euros, he put the notes on the table between them, weighting them down with the salt cellar. "Because me and them...it didn't mean anything to either of us. We were on the same page. But you--you're different, all right? You mean something."

  The banknotes fluttered in the breeze, and Simon couldn't bear to look at them. Grabbing them, he jammed them into his trouser pocket, although he'd have preferred to burn the wretched things. But then, he could afford to be principled, couldn't he? "Matt, I--"

  "Matt." Gerhardt's voice cut harshly through the charged atmosphere.

  They jumped, first Matt and then Simon, as if they'd been holding hands and he'd sent an electric shock through them.

  "You will be required for the lunchtime service tomorrow. I shall expect you to be on time. Simon," he said in a softer tone, "I should like to speak to you."

  "Yes, fine." Simon sat down dazedly as Matt, wide-eyed, hesitated for a moment, then disappeared.

  * * * *

  Matt wasn't sure what the hell to do with himself--should he run back to the boat hire place and grab his stuff, or hang around the hotel hoping Simon would be free soon? He didn't have long to worry about it, though. Just inside the hotel entrance, a handful of false nails that must have cost more than Matt's entire wardrobe grabbed him by the arm.

  "Young man," Mrs. Lavoisier said firmly, "a word, if you wouldn't mind."

  * * * *

  Simon stood once more on his balcony, staring at the view. He wondered if he should take a picture, but decided it must be seared indelibly into his brain after the momentous events of the last few days. He turned sharply at a knock on the door, and called, "Herein," hoping it wasn't the maid coming to turn down the bed.

  It was Matt.

  "Come in," Simon repeated, as Matt hesitated on the threshold.

  Matt gave a weak smile and walked in, closing the door behind him. "I've just had the fear of God put into me by your mum," he said with a shiver.

  Simon decided now probably wasn't the best time to put Matt straight about his father, who'd given him a stern lecture before bestowing a grudging paternal blessing. "But you're still here, so that's a good sign," he said.

  "Is it?" Matt stepped forward, then stopped, thrusting his hands into his pockets. "Have you thought about what I said?"

  Simon nodded. "Matt, I--" He broke off and turned to look out at the view again. "I've got to go home in a few days," he said, as Matt came to join him, standing only inches away. "And while I may well come here again, for...for other reasons, my life is in England." Simon tried to smile. "If we're going to try and...well, be together, one of us is going to have to make some rather significant changes in his life."

  "You mean, like stop screwing blokes for money," Matt said bitterly.

  Simon whirled. "No! That's not what I meant! I meant, one of us would have to move, that's all. Either you come back to England or I move out here."

  Matt gave a lopsided smile. "You'd leave your job and move out here to be with me?"

  "Well, I do speak the language," Simon reminded him. "And I'm sure the legal system can't be that different," he added, his certainty fading a bit.

  "Yeah, but it still sounds a bit daft to me. I mean, you can't even get baked beans out here, not to mention proper chips."

  "So...you think you might want to come back to England at some point?" Simon strove to keep his tone casual.

  Matt took a deep breath. "I was thinking the end of the summer. Or, you know, sooner, maybe. I mean, I'd been planning to try and save up a bit first, but if you happened to know anyone with a sofa I could kip on..." He stepped a little nearer, until only a hairsbreadth separated them.

  "I've got an excellent sofa," Simon said quickly. "Very roomy. And firm. Very...firm."

  "Yeah? Firm's good," Matt said, appearing thoughtful.

  "Absolutely," Simon agreed. "Much better for your...back," he added. For some reason, the room appeared to be getting warmer.

  "Is it now?" Matt was grinning as he pulled Simon into his strong, tanned arms. "Can't wait to try it out. See if it's as...firm as you say." His hands were warm on Simon's rear end, and as he pulled them closer together, Simon was left in no doubt of the firmness of certain portions of their anatomy. "'Course, I'm going to need a basis for comparison. Like, say, do you think it's as firm as that bed there?"

  "I really couldn't say," Simon managed. "Perhaps we should try that one out. Just as a basis for comparison," he added, as Matt maneuvered him bodily toward the item of furniture in question.

  "It'll need to be sturdy, too," Matt suggested, tackling Simon so both of them ended up landing on the bed.

  "Robust." Simon put in, making short work of Matt's trousers.

  "Might get a lot of wear and tear," Matt said, ripping open Simon's shirt.

  "A few knocks," Simon added, grabbing hold of Matt's erection.

  "Wouldn't want it to--fuck--fall apart too soon." Matt gasped, tearing at Simon's fly.

  "Oh--God!--no." Simon gasped as Matt wrapped his hand around both their cocks at once.

  Conversation ceased.

  But only for a short while.

  Then both of them groaned at once.

  After a moment, Matt grinned and kissed him. "That sofa of yours. How does it handle stains?"

  "I'm not sure," Simon mused, still breathing hard. "But I've got a feeling I'm going to find out."

  J. L. Merrow

  J. L. Merrow is that rare beast, an English person who refuses to drink tea. She read Natural Sciences at Cambridge, where she learned many things, chief amongst which was that she never wanted to see the inside of a lab ever again. Her one regret is that she never mastered the ability of punting one-handed whilst holding a glass of champagne. J. L. has had more than thirty short stories and novellas published.

  To learn more about J. L., please visit her website at: http://www.jlmerrow.com

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