“Yes, you’re right. I do want to be famous, but not wave star famous like Eagleton or Duggin…”
“Especially not Danny Duggin,” Geoffrey agrees. Both men laugh. Neither feels any level of respect for HNN’s new newscaster.
“No,” Dean agrees, “not like Danny Duggin. I don’t mean big money fame, either. I guess, what I mean is, well, I spent the first half of my life hiding who I am, so afraid of being found out that I need to assert who I really am now.” Dean watches Geoffrey’s Adam’s apple bob up and down as he swallows back his disappointment. “People need to know that I’m bisexual, and that it’s okay.” Geoffrey’s eyes moisten. “There is nothing wrong with being gay, bi, or straight, and if making myself famous can help me share that with Hadrian, then fame becomes essential for me.”
No longer interested in the topic of fame, Geoffrey mumbles, “You’re bisexual? I thought you…”
Dean picks up where Geoffrey trails off. He knows what Geoffrey has been thinking. “Yes, Geoffrey. I’m bisexual.” Dean sits upright, now cross-legged in the middle of his bed. “My time with you was not phony. I never faked loving you. I know when we separated I said I needed to be true to myself. I said I was straight, and I had to live a straight lifestyle, but these past two years have taught me something crucial.”
“What’s that?”
“I love you.” Geoffrey breaks down at this point. The tears come freely. He covers his face with his hands and tries to control the emotion, but it is too overwhelming. Dean is also in tears. “I know I’m attracted to women, but there is something more.”
Geoffrey barely manages to mumble, “What?”
“You. I’m attracted to you, too. It’s you, Geoffrey. I love you. I want you. I desire you.” Dean gets up from his chair and walks over to Geoffrey’s voc image. He cradles Geoffrey’s shimmering, holographic head in his hands, and then he rejoices in the electric sensation of kissing the man on the crown of his head. Geoffrey stands up and throws his arms around the shimmering holograph of Dean’s body. The two men sparkle and snap with electrical energy.
Dean laughs. “So, I guess my original idea has fallen by the wayside.”
“What idea was that?”
“That we only answer one question a night.”
“Yeah,” Geoffrey’s laugh, though stunted by tears, is genuine, “that has definitely fallen by the wayside, as do all your forced plans.” Now that his tears have abated, his laughter flows more freely. “You always did like to plan things out so perfectly, and then you’d get frustrated when things didn’t turn out the way you expected them to. It is always best just to play things by ear, Dean. And, as it turns out, going through as many questions as we get through is what is working best for you and me.”
Dean smiles in agreement. He lets go of the holographic image of his husband and makes his way over to his small bed. “Next question, then?”
Dean is almost a little too seductive in the way he lounges back onto his bed. Geoffrey watches Dean make himself comfortable on his bed in Destiny Stuttgart’s home. Wistfully, he imagines Dean is really there in this room, making himself more comfortable on their bed. Geoffrey hardens. Not ready for any sexual play, Geoffrey crosses back to his desk and sits down in his desk chair. He swivels it so he is no longer facing the bed they used to share. Being anywhere near their bed, even just seeing it, feels too awkward for Geoffrey, especially with Dean’s holographic image in the room. For a moment, there is a pause.
Dean’s voice pulls Geoffrey out of his reverie. “Next question?”
“Yes, next question.”
“Before making a voc…” Dean paraphrases the question since no one in Hadrian uses phones anymore—all communication is done through the wave; mostly through the vocal contact lens colloquially known as the voc. “…do you ever rehearse what you are going to say? Why?”
“Only if it’s a business call. I figure if I can’t be real with family or friends, then they’re not family or friends.”
“Good answer.” Dean pauses before giving his response. “Please, don’t judge me, but I rehearsed before this voc.”
“I don’t judge you, Dean, but why would you feel like you had to rehearse?”
“Because I hurt you too much to pretend I could just voc and things would be better, and I didn’t know—I still don’t know—what to say or how to act so I don’t end up hurting you again.”
“Just hearing you say that helps.” Geoffrey sits up in his chair; he smiles at Dean’s voc image. “All right, what question comes next?”
“What would constitute a ‘perfect’ day for you?” Dean doesn’t even wait for Geoffrey to respond, leaping into his own answer. “For me, that would be a day where I didn’t have to worry about studying.”
Geoffrey isn’t offended at the sudden reversal in turns, nor does it bother him that Dean’s perfect day doesn’t include him. “Yeah, I remember the uni days. Long days and even longer nights.” Both men chuckle. “But,” hoping to show Dean the light at the end of the tunnel, the one that is so dark and distant at this stage it is impossible to believe in, let alone see, Geoffrey adds, “the rewards are worth it in the end.”
“Yeah, but,” Dean counters, “you didn’t have to worry about finding a job when you got out. You had your fathers’ business to inherit.”
“True.” Geoffrey doesn’t feel chastised in any way. “I can certainly understand how a Stuttgart might worry about his future chances in Hadrian.” Dean smiles. Geoffrey successfully pops his “Pity me; I’m the poor student” bubble.
“My perfect day,” Geoffrey offers up without request, “would be to have you, Frank, and Roger seated at the dinner table with me again.” This seems so impossible that both men fall into a state of brief depression. “I’m sorry,” Geoffrey begins…
“No,” Dean insists, “don’t apologize. It would make for a perfect day, and someday, Geoffrey, you mark my word, someday, it will happen.”
Geoffrey’s eyes have misted up again. “You promise?”
“I swear it on Antinous’s grave, even if it has to happen at a barracks, the four of us will sit down for a meal again.”
Geoffrey smiles, then bows his head. “I think I’ve had enough for our first kick at the can. I’m a bit of an emotional wreck.” Wiping tears away, he stands up and motions towards what used to be their bed. “I need to sleep. I’ve a hard day tomorrow.”
“All right, Geoffrey. I understand. May I voc again tomorrow night?”
“Of course, we still have—how many questions do we have left?”
Dean takes a moment to calculate. “Thirty-two.”
“Seriously, we’ve only been through four?”
“Yeah,” Dean agrees. “They’re pretty intense, aren’t they?”
“Maybe just for us, but it’s good. I’m liking this. Voc me again tomorrow and we’ll have a go at number five.”
“I love you, babe.”
Geoffrey smiles. He’s not ready to say that yet, so he signs off with, “We’ll talk again tomorrow night.”
*****
“When did you last sing to yourself? To someone else?”
“Hadrian help me, Dean; I can’t remember. I guess, I think the last time I sang to myself was when I was two.”
“Seriously, Geoffrey? Only two?” Dean smirks. “I seem to remember hearing you belt out a few when showering.”
“I never—” Suddenly, Geoffrey blushes. He remembers. “Funny how the mind blocks out things like that. Especially if the event seems so trivial…”
“Or embarrassing,” Dean finishes for him. “It’s okay, Geoffrey; I always thought you had a beautiful voice. But you’re not finished. When was the last time you sang to someone?”
“You, on your fortieth birthday.” It was the last one the two men had spent together. Dean frowns. He holds back his tongue, though. He wants to ask, “Why not on Roger’s birthdays?” but Dean could feel the same question haunting Geoffrey. Asking him this would only reopen the rift between, creating an
even greater chasm. Right now, they are building a bridge, and moments like this prove just how fragile and precarious this building process is for them.
Geoffrey quickly shifts to Dean’s turn. “And you?”
“I sing to myself almost all the time now.”
“Really?” Geoffrey is both startled and amused. He also feels a tinge of regret. To sing to oneself suggests contentment. Dean is happy now, he thinks. His eyes grow dark as he mutters to himself, “Something you never were with me.” Hoping to hide his disappointment, he feigns curiosity. “Interesting. Why?”
Apparently oblivious to Geoffrey’s inner concerns, Dean answers, “It’s when I study. I hum more than sing, really. It helps me concentrate. Relaxes me a little.” Geoffrey’s relief is audible. “Why? Did you think something different?” It dawns on Dean why Geoffrey might have been worried. “You don’t need to worry, babe. Honestly, you don’t need to worry. What we had was real. It’s just, in many ways, I wasn’t.” Closing his eyes for a moment, Dean puzzles out his explanation. “I’m finally ready to introduce myself to you, and…” Now it is Dean’s turn to show trepidation. “And, hopefully, you’ll like me, love me, as much as you loved the scared Dean who had only clung to you for protection from the swirling world. I guess, what I mean is, I’m finally ready now to protect myself, and I still want to be with you.” Coughing now, knowing he is being too pushy too soon, Dean leaps into question six: “If you were able to live to the age of ninety and retain either the mind or body of a thirty year old for the last sixty years of your life, which would you want?” Both men answer simultaneously. “The mind!” Then, “I knew you’d say that.” Then a collective burst into laughter. Then both chant, “Next question,” leading to more collective jocularity.
“Do you have a secret hunch about how you will die?” Dean answers instantly. “A bullet to the head like Harvey Milk.”
“Hadrian’s Lover, Dean, that’s too fucking depressing. We’re supposed to be connecting, not planning your funeral.”
“Sorry; that’s just the answer that popped into my head.”
“Well, if you really believe that, then I’d have to say stop all this advocating because I don’t like the sound of you dying that way.”
“Well,” Dean says, changing the direction of their conversation, “how do you see yourself dying?”
“With you cradling me. I’m old, weary, and you’re holding my hand, telling me everything’s going to be all right. We smile. We kiss, and I give you my last breath.”
Dean raises his hand to his mouth. His eyes close. Tears stream naturally. “Thank you, Geoffrey; that is so beautiful.”
*****
“Name three things you and your partner appear to have in common.”
“Easy,” Geoffrey replies. “We both like horseback riding?”
Dean turns coy, “And sometimes on a horse.” He gives Geoffrey a little wink. Suddenly, Geoffrey shuts down. Dean realizes he has moved too fast again. “I’m sorry, Geoffrey; I didn’t mean to be too pushy; I just, I just, well, it just came out, you know, a blurt.”
Geoffrey’s voice lowers, bordering on a growl, “Do you even mean it?”
“Yes, I do.” Dean’s reply is honest, but Geoffrey is too enclosed right now to ascertain what is real and what is mere desperation on his part. “There were many times I enjoyed being with you, times when I let go of all my insecurities and misconceptions, and those times were beautiful. Like our first time together. I was scared, but you were so gentle, so understanding, so—” Dean just stops. He knows there is nothing he can say right now to right things with Geoffrey. He just waits for Geoffrey to find his voice.
“You know, Dean, these questions aren’t working for me.”
“Why not?”
“They’re good. They’re really good, but they are not addressing why you and I broke up. They are not helping us deal with the reason you left me and the scar, the bleeding, festering wound you left inside my heart.”
“Oh, babe, oh, babe, I’m so sorry. I left you because I was angry at the world—and because I was confused within myself. I felt I had to be someone new. Someone I’m not.”
“And what is that?” Geoffrey is no longer looking Dean’s way. His left hand dangles over his left leg while his right hand cradles his face. His torso is slumped over while his upper back vibrates in a desperate attempt to combat his expression of grief.
“A straight man.”
Geoffrey looks up, stunned. “I don’t understand. You’re not gay but you’re not straight.”
“That’s right.”
“Because you’re really bi?”
“Yes, I’m bisexual, Geoffrey. It just turns out my first sexual attraction was with a girl. My second sexual attraction was with you. But this isn’t just about sex anymore. This is about love, and I love you. I have loved you from the start. I just couldn’t admit it to myself. I always said I loved you like a best friend, but if that was true, then I’d’ve been more like Will, wouldn’t I? He never once reached out to Mike, and the one time they did have sex, Will was so drunk he didn’t even know what was happening.” Geoffrey almost laughs. Both men remember Will Middleton coming to live with them after that experience. He swore he would never go back to Mike, but then Mike had voc’d and shared the news that Will’s application for a child had been approved, his sperm had been matched with an egg, and a surrogate goddess had been found for them, so Will had a change of heart. He wanted his child raised in a stable home, with two parents, so after Mike apologized and promised never to try to seduce Will again, he agreed to return home so the two of them could co-parent their child—the child who would become Todd Middleton.
“All right,” Geoffrey whispers, “you’re bisexual. So where do we go from here?”
Dean smiles, “Why don’t we finish answering question eight and take it from there.”
“All right,” Geoffrey replies with a smile as he wipes his eyes, retrieves a handkerchief from his housecoat pocket (no wasteful tissues in Hadrian), and blows his nose. “But you have to promise that we move slow.”
Dean nods and smiles in agreement. “Slow it is.” His smile widens as he remembers, Just like the first time we made love. Only this time, he tells himself, it is my turn to be gentle.
*****
43 http://psp.sagepub.com/content/23/4/363.full.pdf+html
44 http://www.nytimes.com/2015/01/11/fashion/
modern-love-to-fall-in-love-with-anyone
-do-this.html
Salve!
Hadrian Patriotism
HNN—Danny Duggin Reporting
Four years have passed since President Elena Stiles was elected as our president, and our country is gearing up for another election campaign with the hopes of our electing a president who will stand by principles established by the founding families. What we don’t want, Hadrian, is another president like Elena Stiles, who, even though she may be the genetic descendant of one of our founding families, has been slowly whittling away at the four cornerstones of our great country. The legalization of heterosexuality is a blight on our country’s good name. With heterosexuals feeling emboldened, it is becoming increasingly difficult to maintain control over population. Het’ros have called for equal rights in marriage and for the right to be able to propagate without government control. IVF isn’t good enough for them. They want the “natural” approach. Well, we have seen what heterosexuality has done to our planet. The last thing our country needs to do is to embrace heterosexuals amongst our own, and yet, this is exactly what President Stiles is proposing. Even though she signed in the Anti-Strai Propaganda Law when she was first inaugurated, she slapped all good gay conservative folk in the face by changing the exile law for all but one form of strai behavior. Everyone knows strais can’t control their libidos and that any strai behavior leads to the one sexual act that impregnates a woman.
As well, President Stiles, acknowledging heterosexuality as a viable sexual expression is putting Hadrian’s female
population, young and old, at risk. Have we forgotten the horrible attack? Although this attack took place almost thirty years ago, it should still burn indignation in the heart of every Hadrian citizen. The simple fact is, Ms. Stiles, we do not want heterosexual barbarians in our midst, which is why I, and all true blue Hadrian citizens, will be voting for Cooper Johnston come Election Day.
Cooper Johnston may not have pure founding family blood running through his veins, but he knows what Hadrian wants and needs most. Good old-fashioned Hadrian patriotism!
Vale!
War Games
Devon knows that if the games Frank devised are going to have any real chance of success, Frank must be freed of his ankle restraint. Convincing the general to deactivate the program controlling the tactile tattoo, however, will take a bit of verbal jostling on the young lieutenant’s part.
“In order for these games to be as realistic as possible,” Devon begins, “my team cannot know where or when this attack will occur.”
“And you won’t.” The general isn’t giving in.
“Actually, sir, we do know the where at least. Frank’s team will have to attack somewhere in the three-mile circular radius of his prison zone.” Devon sounds matter-of-fact about this, but deep down, he is motivated by the desire to give Frank something no one else can—freedom from his restraint. “His team won’t even be able to go deep enough into the tree line to evade detection.”
The general’s head drops, his brow contorting in its usual manner when he wants others to believe he is thinking seriously. “Valid point, Lieutenant. I suppose this means Private Recruit Hunter will not be participating in the games because his ankle restraint is far too restrictive.”
“But, sir.” Devon is stunned that the general is actually considering leaving Frank out of the very training strategy he created. “You can’t, in all good conscience, refuse him participation?”
“What are suggesting then? That we confine the attacks to Frank’s—what did you call it—his prison zone? No, you are correct in your assessment. We need to think rationally about this and allow the attacking team to select a time and place to attack anywhere along our defense grid and, as you pointed out, that is a full fifty miles.”
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