by Lou Sylvre
“Wow, you have a one-track mind when you’re hungry.”
Beck laughed. “Not really, Oleg. I’m thinking about you. I just need food to keep my strength up before I get back to that.”
Oleg smiled a rather coy smile. “I’ll shower with you. Faster, right?”
It wasn’t, though, as being naked and slippery proved a distraction. But the hot water—though longer lasting than at Beck’s apartment, did run out eventually, encouraging them to get out and get dressed.
Beck had little faith in his own social skills, and the weather outside reminded him it was still December, and his very good mood began to retreat as he followed Oleg into the back door of the family home. Larishka, however, was having none of his hesitant company manners and soon seated him—almost forcefully—at the round table next to Oleg. A plate of sandwiches landed in front of him a short time later with hot, dark tea served in a glass, which was nested in a metal holder with a handle.
“This is the Russian way to drink tea,” Lara said, her accent providing a rolled R and, Beck thought, almost a trill in there somewhere. “Podstakannik.” She touched the metal holder to indicate her meaning.
Beck’s mouth was full, which meant he could get away with a nod. He did, and then quickly followed with another bite. The sandwiches were ham with some kind of pickle and very good, and he didn’t mind at all that Lara babbled on. The sun had set some time ago, and the kitchen was lit by a Tiffany-style fixture overhead, the yellow and red glass blossoms limning Oleg’s chestnut hair and lashes in gold. Beck ate, but he watched his lover eat too, and he thought it a wonderful sight.
Until he remembered John sitting alone in the little apartment. Beck had showed his stepfather his stores of food—canned soups and sandwich goods and even frozen pizzas—before he left, and made sure he knew how to operate everything. But that didn’t mean John was eating, or even keeping the place warm.
Suddenly uneasy, he swallowed and said, “Hey, Oleg? Do you mind if I run back and grab my phone? I think I should call and make sure John is okay.”
Lara apparently thought being Oleg’s older sister made her surrogate for that role with Beck too, and she interjected, “No, no. You don’t go run out through the rain—or is it snowing again? Use the phone in the living room. Just to your left as you walk into the room.”
The room, an old-fashioned haven full of overstuffed things, polished wood, bric-a-brac, and various musical paraphernalia, settled around Beck like a favorite quilt the minute he entered. Even the Christmas tree standing in the corner near the woodstove and the menorah on the mantel felt okay. With the comfort came sadness, because for the first time he admitted that December might not really be blackhearted. It was horrible for him. But that was because he was alone, and he hadn’t had a good thing happen in December since he was fourteen years old.
But, he realized, he hadn’t done much good for anyone else either, during any December since then.
There’s a connection there, he thought.
John answered his call almost immediately. “Hey, son—sorry, Beck.”
He seemed in good cheer, and Beck didn’t want to upset that. He also felt a little ashamed of his temper earlier, so he said, “It’s okay, Dad. Don’t apologize. Are you doing all right? Did you eat? No trouble with the heater?”
John assured him all was well, and then added, “That lady from the social services was here. Wanted to make sure I wasn’t being taken advantage of.”
It took Beck a number of seconds to realize the sound that followed, though stifled, was laughter.
“I didn’t tell her you were gone—said you just went to the store. She’s nice enough, I guess.” After a moment, he continued. “And someone from AA called. Bob D. Wants to take me to a meeting tomorrow at noon.”
“Yeah? What did you tell him?” Beck, surprised that his stepdad seemed talkative, sat down on a love seat and promptly sank deep into the embrace of the Abramovs’ cushions. It wasn’t unpleasant, but he felt like an imposter.
“I was surprised he wanted to do it—it being Christmas Eve tomorrow and all.”
Fuck! Christmas Eve. Beck’s mind raced. He hadn’t even considered the holiday. He’d be hanging out alone in Oleg’s room! He was sure the family wouldn’t want a stranger in the middle of their traditions—yes, this kind of family, they’ve got traditions, capital T. It would be less painful to be home with Parcheesi. Even with his stepfather.
Fuck! John will be alone. Newly sober. Short blocks from prime can-you-spare-a-quarter territory.
John’s voice eventually cut into Beck’s thoughts. He’d said yes to the meeting. So that was good. But still, as he ended the call with some final words of encouragement, Beck felt worried and defeated all over again.
Back in the kitchen, Oleg sat at the table alone, and Lara was nowhere to be seen. Beck stood, hovering. “Tomorrow’s Christmas Eve,” he finally said in answer to Oleg’s questioning look. “I… I think I shouldn’t leave John….”
“Beck, I didn’t say anything before, but—”
Lara bustled back into the kitchen and interrupted, apparently not aware or not caring her little brother was already speaking. “And so. How is John?”
Evidently, in the short time Beck had been occupied in the other room, Oleg had told her all about John and their temporary living arrangements. From her tone, it seemed she saw herself as fully involved. Possibly even responsible. Beck assured her John was okay, and that pleased her.
Beck again broached the subject he’d started on with Oleg. “Tomorrow’s Christmas Eve—”
That was all he got out before Lara threw her hands in the air and said, “No, no, no. Your stepfather can’t be alone on Christmas Eve. You’ll tell him to be ready at three, and I’ll have Alexi or Peter pick him up. He can stay on the cot in Papa’s office, and we’ll get him back to your apartment in time to feed the cat on Christmas.”
For some reason, Beck said, “Parcheesi.”
Apparently, Oleg had told her about even this small detail, for now she said, “The cat. Yes.”
ACTUALLY IT was Lina and Bill who fetched John from the apartment, and when he arrived at the house, where Beck and Oleg were already sunk together into the couch looking at a family photo album, Beck smiled, relating well to the bulldozed and helpless look on his stepdad’s face.
Privately, Beck was glad John would be there to receive some of the rampant solicitude. He didn’t feel grumpy about it, though, when the family greeted him cheerfully and saw to even his vaguest wants. He didn’t think they were being phony. He didn’t indulge in self-pity at all. That was a change in Beck, and it didn’t escape his notice.
The family did have traditions, ranging from when to have hot chocolate to who passed out gifts and what to sing before dinner, which turned out to be something Russian—no surprise—about a sleigh ride with tingling, freezing fingers. Beck tried to reserve a corner of his December pessimism, but he was warm and fed and the object of many smiles, and he knew he’d never be able to deny the happiness he felt that day. Not even if the twenty-sixth rolled around and turned the month back to black.
He and John even became partners in a game of hearts. They lost, but they laughed. Even if it was all essentially make-believe and would be struck to shards at midnight, the day was too delicious while it lasted to be tasted lightly. So Beck dove in. He laughed, he ate, he even tried to sing. But mostly, he watched Oleg. The man captivated him—all of him. Sure, he was sexy, and Beck savored the few kisses and flirty touches they snuck when no one was near to see, but there was so much more to him. His voice, of course, but also his grace, his quick mind. His smiles—he had a whole repertoire of them, it seemed, and every one of them meant something a little different.
Beck thought he could dedicate a lifetime to the language of Oleg’s smiles.
But of course the day ended. The family then tucked itself in—some members in the big house, some in their nearby homes. John had already retired to Andrei’s study,
and Beck and Oleg walked back to the rooms above the garage. Of course they made love that night. For Beck, the sex that time was a prelude to the romance of sleeping in Oleg’s arms.
Early in the morning, they made the delightful discovery that they shared a tendency for morning wood. Further discoveries ensued, and then, more satisfied than he ever remembered being, Beck fell asleep again, cradled by Oleg and a weak but warm beam of transient sunlight. As he started to wake later, he inhaled the indescribably delicious scent of Oleg. But when he reached across the bed, then felt around, then opened his eyes, he found he was alone.
At first he was afraid he’d rudely missed Christmas breakfast—another family tradition—but he’d been told it was set for ten and the clock said nine. He rose and washed and dressed and waited. That made him nervous, and he started thinking, I should probably leave.
Just when he’d decided it was time to sneak away, Oleg came in with a thermal pot full of coffee and a package wrapped in dark green satin foil.
“What are you doing?” Oleg set the thermos and package down on his tiny desk and moved to the door, as if sure it needed blocking.
Damn, it’s strange. He reads my mind.
“I know what you’re thinking, Beck, but you can’t leave yet. For one thing, John’s still here. For another, you’re expected for breakfast. Lara sent Vic to the store for Bisquick and had Lina bake the coffee cake recipe off the box because John told her it was your favorite.”
“No shit?”
“And besides, please stay, Beck. Because I asked you to. You’ll be fine here.”
“Yeah,” Beck said, sitting down on the too-small stool that appeared to live under Oleg’s desk. “I’m fine. I am. But it’s still December.”
Oleg looked at him, wearing a slight, crooked smile that Beck decided indicated he was worried, puzzled, and somewhat amused. When Beck stayed silent, he said, “I don’t know what that means, Beck.”
Beck heaved a tired sigh—tired though he’d slept a full, satisfying sleep and woken refreshed—and said, “Neither do I.”
Oleg came close and straddled Beck’s lap, wrapping his arms around him, laying his head on his shoulder. After a moment, he reached for the package he’d been carrying when he came in, and offered it to Beck.
“It’s from Lara,” he said, and got to his feet to pour them both coffee.
“What is it?”
Oleg laughed. “The point of the wrapping is so you don’t know what it is before you open it. If your boyfriend tells you what it is before you do that, it spoils the surprise. You’re acting like you’ve never got a Christmas present before.”
Beck’s mind tumbled through possible responses:
You’re my boyfriend?
I don’t like surprises in December.
It has been a very long time since I got the last one.
In the end he said nothing, just tugged at the ribbon and then, frustrated, tore at the paper.
“Larishka’s a photographer,” Oleg said helpfully, now that it was clear the thing was a framed photo. “Still uses film and has a darkroom in the house. She’s amazing and—”
Smiling at Oleg’s nervous rambling, Beck put a stop to it with a kiss. He sat back and smiled, letting Oleg know he didn’t need to explain. Then he took a long look at Lara’s work. A black and white print, and in it Beck smiled in the instant just before his lips met Oleg’s for one of those stolen kisses they thought no one had seen yesterday. Beck looked like someone he didn’t recognize, or maybe someone he remembered from a very happy summer. Oleg glowed—figuratively but literally too, the wall sconce behind his head creating a halo that seemed to cast its shine onto Beck. Beck’s hand, long fingers looking more graceful and lovely than he ever would have thought, gently cupped Oleg’s head. He remembered the moment, of course. He’d been there.
But if these two people had been strangers, Beck would have thought they were in love and had been so for years.
Oleg fidgeted nearby, antsy for some reason. Beck looked a question at him, and he said, “She inscribed the back. Turn it over. I want to find out what she said.”
Beck turned the framed image over in his lap and read aloud, “To Oleg and Beck, to help you see the way you fit together.”
It was true, they did fit. That truth almost buried Beck, falling over him like snow, inexorable. He knew it would bury him and either keep him alive through every December or kill him like a stray dog in a hard freeze. Overwhelmed with the danger of possibility, he sat as still as if already frozen.
Then, opening a small, still-warm corner of his mind, he looked at Oleg and saw him smile gently and begin to move, dancing to a tune only he, at first, could hear. But he began to hum, and then to sing—quietly yet roughly, in a voice entirely different from the one with which he sang “In the Bleak Midwinter.”
It was a song Beck knew, liked but didn’t often hear—Augustana’s “We Fit Together.” Not Beck’s usual fare. Alternative, a little shouty in the recording, but not as Oleg sang it. The perfect song for this particular moment. He didn’t know all of the words, but he whispered the ones he did know as Oleg sang, hearing them a new way, an unlonely way. About cold so deep it hurts. About the push and pull of gravity and of love. And about the wonder—like in the photograph—the frightening, perfect wonder of finding a beautiful someone. When Oleg finished the last of the lyrics, he stepped in close to Beck, and Beck wrapped his arms around him.
“Lay with me,” Oleg whispered, paraphrasing the song’s final verse. “Stay by me. We’ll be good together, I think.”
Still holding on to Oleg with one arm, Beck picked up the framed photo of their not-secret kiss and turned his head to study it again. Slowly, he smiled. “Oleg,” he said, mostly because the name tasted sweet on his tongue. Then, half teasing, he said, “My place is too small for two people—just ask John.” Tentatively, feeling brave, he added, “This place too.”
Oleg rolled his eyes, an endearing expression Beck hadn’t seen before, and one that came with a unique version of his ever-intriguing smile.
“Easily solved, Beck! We can work it out together.”
Beck put the picture down so he could wrap Oleg up with both arms. He said, “Hmm,” into Oleg’s ear and gave the lobe a playful nip. “Is it April already, do you think?”
Oleg drew back to give Beck a thoroughly perplexed, brows-drawn-down-in-confusion look. “What?”
“Do you know,” Beck asked, “how much I like watching your face?”
This time Oleg raised his eyebrows but said nothing at all.
Beck laughed. “As good a reason as any, I guess, to give together a try. Let’s do it.”
More from Lou Sylvre
Six years ago, Brian Harrison helped save the life of Jackie Vasquez, and he’s never really forgotten him. After the rescue, Brian ended his employment with Jackie’s uncle Luki and left the US for England, aiming to distance himself from the confused feelings—not lust, but not brotherly—that then sixteen-year-old Jackie engendered. Now Jackie has become a man, and when they meet again by chance, lust with a dose of D/s rope kink is definitely on the list of possibilities. As they get to know each other, though, lust shows every sign of growing into love, deep and true.
When Jackie moves to London for graduate studies in criminal psychology, he and Brian hope they’ll be able to enjoy each other’s frequent company. But they haven’t factored in the claim Brian’s police job with Scotland Yard will make on his time, especially when the “Gaslighter crimes” sap investigative resources. An abandoned aide dog named Soldier leads to a breakthrough clue, and a chain of discoveries fall like dominoes. As Brian rushes to beat the criminal’s game before it escalates to true terror, he comes to an undeniable conclusion: Jackie Vasquez, the man he loves, is in mortal danger.
Vasquez & James: Book One
Reclusive weaver Sonny Bly James controls every color and shape in his tapestries, but he can’t control the pattern of his life—a random encounter with Luki Va
squez, ex-ATF agent and all-around badass, makes that perfectly clear. The mutual attraction is immediate, but love-shy Sonny has retreated from life, and Luki wears his visible and not-so-visible scars like armor. Neither can bare his soul with ease.
While they run from desire, they can’t hide from the evil that hunts them. After it becomes clear that a violent stalker has targeted Sonny, Luki’s protective instincts won’t let him run far, especially when Sonny’s family is targeted as well. Whether they can forgive or forget, Sonny and Luki will have to call a truce and work together to save Sonny’s nephew and fight an enemy intent on making sure loving Luki Vasquez is the last mistake Sonny will ever make.
Sequel to Loving Luki Vasquez
Vasquez & James: Book Two
Sonny James and Luki Vasquez are living proof that the course of love never runs smoothly. Ambushed by grief, Sonny listens to a voice singing the blues from beyond the grave. While revisiting the sorrows and failings of his past, in the here and now he puts up a wall against love. Just when Luki chips through that barricade, the couple becomes the target of a new threat from outside: an escalating and unexplainable rash of breakins and assaults.
Thoughts of infidelity rise between them, a threat that may strain their newly mended love past its limits. To come through the trials alive and together, Luki and Sonny will have to unite against enemies who were once friends and overcome crippling hatred and overwhelming fear. If they succeed, maybe then they can rekindle the twin flames of passion and love.
A Vasquez & James Novella
Professional badass Luki Vasquez and textile artist Sonny James have been married for five years, and despite the sometimes volatile mix, they’re happy. From their first days together, they stood united against deadly enemies and prevailed. But now the deadly enemy they face is the cancer thriving inside Luki, consuming his lungs.
As Luki’s treatment proceeds, Sonny hovers near, determined to provide every care, control every thread of possibility just as he does when he weaves. But he can’t control the progress of the cancer or how Luki’s body reacts to the treatment regime. Sonny tries, but Luki dances with cancer alone—until he gets a startling reminder of the miracle of life. With renewed determination and mutual love, the two men emerge from their coldest winter into a new spring day.