Mr. March Names the Stars

by Rivka Aaron-Hughes

  Wes laughed and tried to remember his high school's marching band. The memories were fragmented, because he usually watched from under the bleachers. He'd been something like friends with the drum major, so he came to every competition and most halftime shows, even though he hated football, to support her. He easily pictured teenaged Nash, barely bigger than the tenor sax he was hauling around, blowing his lungs out to get the biggest sound he could make. It was a sweet image that left Wes smiling as he asked, "What about the back end of Nowhere, Iowa? How do you know about the great nachos at the Black Rabbit?"

  "Well, you know, Iowa legalized same-sex marriage before Minnesota. I got hauled on a lot of wedding road trips. People like having a lawyer along when they don't feel like they're on solid legal ground. No one seemed to care that a contracts lawyer couldn't help much if some county clerk got snippy about a marriage license."

  "Doesn't explain why a diner. I mean, if it's a wedding, shouldn't you go someplace fancy to celebrate?"

  Nash shrugged. "Sometimes we'd have a couple hours to kill between getting the license and starting the ceremony. Sometimes we just—These were mostly couples who'd had commitment ceremonies years before. The legal ceremony was about making a statement, since it didn't have any standing in Minnesota. To be able to say they'd done it. It was about the adventure as much as the wedding itself."

  "Questionable small-town diners can be an adventure," Wes agreed.

  They talked most of the way to the diner. It was nice enough, but Wes missed the frank openness and intimacy of their letters. Something about the distance between them had spurred them to increasing levels of honesty. Back in each other's physical presence, without the shields of paper and miles, they felt like strangers again.

  The Black Rabbit properly fell more under the heading of "roadhouse" than "diner." As soon as Nash opened the door, the smell of fried food washed over Wes. The interior was cool and dark, covered with neon beer signs and photographs of fast-paced cities worlds away in both miles and attitude. The small dance floor was empty in the middle of a Monday afternoon, but the dart boards, pool tables, and juke box were enjoying heavy traffic, the clink of pool balls just audible beneath the blare of an old Bonnie Raitt song.

  A stack of menus sat tucked between the salt shaker and the ketchup bottle, but Wes only consulted one long enough to confirm that bacon double cheeseburgers were on offer, and Nash didn't look at his at all. When a tired-looking young woman in black arrived at their table with a notepad, Nash ordered something called, horrifyingly, "Nachos Extreme" and tilted his head at Wes. "Do you drink?"

  He shouldn't, since he was technically still part of the magical container that had been created for the festival. But the day was sweltering, and he was on a date, damn it. "What are you thinking?"

  "Pitcher of Blue Moon?" Nash asked.

  "Sure, why not?" Wes shrugged, and the server added it to her notepad and walked away.

  Wes froze.

  Date? Did I just think of this as a date? Since when is that what this is?

  A flutter of excited anticipation stirred in Wes' gut. Could he do that? Would Nash let him? Wes hadn't been on a date in a long time; could he just up and declare that this was one, now that they were here? Well, why couldn't he?

  Did he want to? Feeling attraction was one thing; acting on it was a different eye of newt. But now that they were face-to-face again, Wes remembered what a good-looking guy Nash was, how his body had felt against Wes' when they'd hugged, how smooth and strong his hand had been when they'd shaken goodbye at Other Realms. Wes wanted to hold that hand, rest his cheek against it, and brush kisses across the knuckles, if Nash would let him.

  "This is a now a date," Wes announced.

  Across the table, Nash went still. He picked up his fork, turned it in his hand twice, set it back down on his napkin. He slid the napkin to the side, slid it in front of him, slid it to the side again. "What?" His voice sounded strangled and flat.

  Wes licked his lips and gestured between them. "You. Me. Here. Date." He winced at the Tarzan-speak but forced himself to go on, make a joke of it. He quirked his lips in a hopeful smile and said, "Yes?"

  "You... want this to be a date." The tone of Nash's voice made it a curious nonquestion question. "You want to date me."

  "Well... yeah?" Wes hastened to correct the uncertainty in his tone, because he wanted there to be no misunderstandings between them. "Yes," he said emphatically. "Yes, Nash Larsen, I would like to date you."

  "I... Why?"

  Wes leaned back against the booth. "Why do I want to date you?" Nash nodded, and Wes flipped his hand in a gesture he hoped conveyed his confusion at being asked. "Because the six letters I've gotten from you have been the highlight of my summer, for starters," he said. "Because I've enjoyed learning things about you and want to learn a thousand more. Because you look really good in tight polo shirts, seriously, is your entire closet full of them? Because it's been me and Ivy for so long, and I think I'm done with that, and if kissing is a thing you do, then it's a thing I'd like to do with you."

  Nash set down his half-empty water glass. Wes watched him place it exactly in the condensation ring it'd left when he picked it up and realized he must be stalling. "I'm trans," Nash said. "HRT and top surgery only, and not inclined toward the bottom surgery."

  "Yeah," Wes said, "I know. And?"

  A look of deep-seated frustration crossed Nash's face. "And you're gay."

  Wes shook his head and tried to figure out what he'd missed. "So far, you're not telling me anything that's news. And nothing that would keep me from wanting to date you."

  "I have found," Nash said with the lawyerly precision he'd used in their first meeting, "that most gay cis men aren't interested in dating me once they realize I have... nonstandard plumbing."

  Wes felt a wave of anger at the idiot guys who'd turned Nash down, with sides of happiness that their stupidity meant Nash was single and hurt that Nash would think he was the same way. Wes took a second to put his thoughts in order and then said, "First off, we're ace, so the state of your plumbing won't be a high priority, right?"

  Nash's scowl deepened, and Wes had an inkling he had something to say about idiots who hadn't wanted to date him when they found out he was ace, either. Wes held up his hand to hold off that rant until later. "Second, I'm into guys, okay? Guyness. Malehood. Whatever that looks like. If all I cared about was penises, I'd date pre- and non-op transwomen. I don't, because they're women. You are a man. You're a man because you say you are, and I'd like to date you because you're about to eat a plate of the most terrifying jalapeño-, bacon-, and gods-know-what-else-covered nachos I've ever heard of, and maybe I'm insane, but I'm still going to want to kiss you after you've eaten it."

  "Well, if I'd known this was a date," Nash grumbled, but the corners of his lips were turned up enough for Wes to count it as a smile—and a win. Nash exhaled and turned his head away, his gaze out the window.

  Wes wondered if he'd gone too far with his rant, and he found himself unexpectedly invested in the way this played out. Being here with Nash felt deeply right, and he was going to feel more than a little crushed if Nash said no.

  Nash opened his mouth. The server came back with their beer. Wes cursed the interruption, but Nash looked grateful for the space it provided him.

  Nash spent a long moment pouring beer for them both before taking a sip of his and saying, "I have been told that I'm not the world's best boyfriend. I've been accused of being married to my work, and some people have been… less than charmed by my dedication to my coven."

  Wes grinned, because that wasn't a no. In fact, it sounded like the opening strains of the complex symphony of "yes." "That's okay," he said. "I'm not even around for half the year, and my coven is also my only living relative and lifelong best friend. If I had a dime for every time we've been called co-dependent, I could make every repair the truck needs and have enough left over to buy Ivy those ridiculous cowboy boots xe wants and oh, look, my m
etaphor about being co-dependent with Ivy turned into a story about Ivy."

  Nash laughed, that full, quiet sound that was becoming so dear to Wes. He treasured Nash's letters, but a letter couldn't laugh like this. "In that case," Nash said, "I'd like this to be a date. And I'd like other dates to happen someday." His gaze dropped to Wes' lips and then moved back to his eyes. "And kissing is a thing I do, and I would enjoy doing it with you." He moved his beer out of the way and extended his hand across the table like they were going to shake. Wes didn't bother rolling his eyes; he just reached out his own hand and held Nash's. Like two people on a date.

  Nash startled and looked around but made no move to pull his hand back. Wes figured, if the Black Rabbit was a popular wedding lunch spot for same-sex couples, two dudes quietly holding hands in a corner booth wouldn't be a big deal. It still made a nice change from guys who resisted going out in public together for fear of being seen as a couple. He tried not to date guys like that anymore.

  They held hands and stared goofily at each other until their food came. Wes felt like he was having one of the dates he'd missed in high school, when having a cute boy hold his hand across the table could (or so he'd been told) fill him with butterflies of anticipation, rather than a vague sense that the whole ordeal was going to disappoint him before it even began.

  Everything was better after that. Easier. Their conversation took on the same level of familiarity and comfort they had on paper. They elaborated on things they'd mentioned in their letters and strayed into new/old getting-to-know-you territory: realizing they were ace, coming out, finding Paganism. Nash was charming, and Wes was charmed. If he could judge by the grins Nash kept shooting him when he thought Wes wasn't looking, Nash felt the same. Under it all, something nagged at Wes, some minor discordant tone, but he pushed it aside in favor of a playful attempt to steal one of Nash's monstrous nachos and the story of the mortifying way he and Ivy had realized their tent needed a privacy signal.

  They emptied their plates and their pitcher far too soon. Wes entertained the idea of ordering another so they could keep talking. But he'd signed up for a workshop at 2:30, and he needed to start packing so he and Ivy could hit the road at a decent hour tomorrow. "We should go," he said, and he couldn't remember the last time he'd been so reluctant to say those words.

  Nash nodded and signaled for the check. He had a credit card out of his wallet by the time the server arrived. Wes briefly considered protesting; after all, he was the one who'd asked Nash out. Then he thought about Nash's stable job, the condo he owned, and the bank account that, unlike Wes', probably held way more than the five-dollar required minimum. Wes could handle letting him pay.

  They settled the bill and made their way out of the building. The sun was blinding and the heat oppressive after two hours in the restaurant's dim, air-conditioned interior. Sweat pooled at Wes' temples and under his arms, and he shifted uncomfortably.

  Nash's fingers landed feather-light above Wes' elbow. "You okay?" he asked softly.

  Wes looked over and felt a weird fluttering sensation at the care and concern in Nash's brown eyes. It'd been a long time since anyone other than Ivy had shown this level of worry over his wellbeing. He smiled, and the fluttering increased when Nash smiled back. "I'm fine," he said, covering Nash's fingers with his own. "It's really hot, and I'm not used to this many clothes."

  Nash chuckled. Then his gaze grew considering. "Would you kiss me here?"

  Wes shivered. He wasn't sentimental or superstitious, but he didn't want their first kiss to happen in a roadhouse parking lot. It wasn't the beginning he wanted for them.

  He played up the joke. He batted his eyelashes and leaned in and down until his lips were inches from Nash's. "Here?" he murmured, heart soaring when Nash swayed in closer. At the last instant he swerved, so his lips landed on Nash's cheek instead. "Or here?"

  He pulled back. Nash stared, dazed and startled. Then his gaze cleared, and he seemed to come to the same realization Wes had. He nodded. "Back to the festival?" The promise carried clear in his voice: the festival, and more kisses.

  Wes grinned and gestured toward the car. "Lead the way."

  They returned to the festival grounds in a comfortable silence. On impulse, Wes rested his hand on Nash's leg, low, near his knee. The muscle twitched at the unexpected touch, but then Nash relaxed and glanced over briefly, smiling. Wes squeezed the leg under his hand. As he'd expected, it was ropy with muscle. "Distance or racing?"

  Nash's eyebrows lowered. It was adorable. "What do you mean?"

  "You have bicycle muscles." Wes stroked Nash's leg for emphasis. "Are you a racer or a distance rider?"

  "Uh, neither, I guess? I'm a transportation rider. I ride to work every day, do the grocery shopping, normal things. I mean, I guess I do distances on the weekends, if I ride to coven stuff, but if I get on my bike, it means there's somewhere I need to be."

  Wes' mouth was hanging open, but he couldn't help it. Another amazing and obviously important side of Nash that his letters hadn't revealed. Everything Wes learned about this man made him want to learn more.

  Nash glanced over again. His frown resolved into a hesitant smile. "What?"

  Wes shrugged. "Just happy."

  Some deity or spirit or something must've been smiling at Nash, because the primo parking spot they'd pulled out of was still open. Nash parked and killed the engine, and they sat, suddenly shy. What happened now? They'd left to burn off nervous energy and come back dating. Wes wasn't sure how to proceed.

  "Can I walk you home?" Nash asked.

  Wes laughed. "Why, Mr. Larsen, you're quite the romantic."

  Nash shrugged. "I believe it's standard first date protocol."

  Wes snorted. "Silver tongue."

  They meandered toward the tent. Just into festival grounds proper, something brushed against Wes' fingers. He looked down in time to see Nash pulling his hand back. Wes reached out and grabbed it before it got away. Nash looked over, startled, as Wes intertwined their fingers. Then he relaxed, and he couldn't quite make the shy, pleased smile leave his face—not that Wes thought he was trying hard. A niggling sense of something forgotten lingered at the back of Wes' brain, but he felt too relaxed to chase it down.

  A cursory examination suggested that Ivy wasn't in or around the tent. Wes shouldn't have felt as grateful as he did, but Ivy could be a lot to handle at the best of times. Wes didn't want Nash, already outside his comfort zone by being around so many people, to have to deal with xyr "disapproving older sibling/what are your intentions toward my brother?" schtick right now. True to his word, Nash walked him right up to the front tent flap, not releasing his hand even when they were face-to-face. "I had a good time today," Nash said, and he made it sound like a genuine statement of emotions rather than an empty platitude.

  "Me too," Wes said. "We should do it again sometime." Then he cursed. He'd meant it as a joke; he hadn't been trying to bring up the awkward topic of the physical distance between them and the incompatibility of their lifestyles.

  But instead of being upset, Nash looked determined and eager. "Later, okay? I have leave saved up, but I can't use it all at once. There's a festival in Missouri, right? I could come to that."

  Wes' brain reeled. He’d been the one who’d started this, but maybe he hadn’t fully thought through the implications of the large distances Nash would have to travel for the dubious pleasure of his company. But he took in the hope on Nash's face and couldn't bring himself to crush it. "Maybe," he hedged. "Let's come back to that later."

  Nash nodded and shuffled closer. "You're right. Later. This is more important now."

  Nash's lips were thin and firm, moving against Wes' with confidence and care in equal measure. Wes closed his eyes and sighed contentedly, leaning into Nash and falling into this startling connection with someone who cared about him. It felt strange, kissing someone shorter than himself, but Nash's hands were strong and firm on his arms, and his leanly muscled body felt solid and sure against Wes. />
  Nash pulled away slowly, eyes closed. Wes studied his face, the curves and planes of it, the glow of sunlight off his dark skin. He was beautiful, and Wes felt a rush of awed gratitude that Nash wanted to share even a sliver of that beauty with him.

  Nash opened his eyes and smiled, though he looked confused, too. "What?"

  "I like looking at you," Wes said.

  Nash ducked his head. "Thanks," he said, only sounding a little self-conscious. Then he sighed and leaned away. "I should get going. Have to feed the cats before they eat each other."

  Wes boggled at him. "Nash, did you drive to Iowa just to take me to lunch?"

  Nash looked at the ground. "I woke up this morning wanting to see you."

  "So you drove to Iowa."

  When Nash raised his eyes to Wes', the spark of mischief and challenge in them took his breath away. "Don't tell me you've never felt the itch to hit the road."

  Wes' startled laugh bounced around them. "True enough," he said, pushing Nash away gently. "Enjoy your drive back to Minnesota."

  Nash gave him a shy smile. "I will now. I'll be thinking of you."

  Wes huffed. "Seriously, go now before I haul you into the tent and spoon you so hard you can never leave," he said. And when Nash looked to be considering taking that offer, Wes groaned and gave his shoulders a shove. "Go," he said. "Otherwise you'll have to deal with Ivy, and neither of us is ready for that."

  "Okay, fine." Nash backed away. "I'll go. But we'll talk soon, okay? I'll write you."

  "You'd better."

  A strange expression crossed Nash's face, and then he was swooping back in, pressing a hard kiss to Wes' lips and shoving something into his hand. "Can't believe I forgot. I had a reason for coming here."

  Wes glanced down at the piece of paper in his hand but then looked back up to watch Nash walk away, finding that a more rewarding activity. Only after Nash disappeared around a bend in the path did Wes unfold the paper and read it.

  "Wes Piedmont is a Reclaiming-tradition witch and member of Procyon coven. He travels the Pagan festival circuit with his sibling Ivy, selling wood and metals artworks made during the off-season and handmade body care products under their Dog Stars label. Wes loves astronomy, the poetry of Mary Oliver and Carl Phillips, and losing track of time in the woods. And, guys, you're in luck: Wes is single!"