by Bauer, Tal
[You’ll know when I arrive.]
I’m deeply troubled now. What on Earth does that mean?
[I will see you soon. Wish me luck.]
Luck? Why do you need luck? Why is luck involved when you are flying home?
Sasha? Sasha, YOU are not flying home, are you? You will be sitting comfortably while another pilot flies, yes?
Sasha?
He saw the texts pop up as he turned his wireless off and hopped into his cockpit. He’d already asked the flight engineer on the flight line to take a photo of him in front of the jet, “for my family,” he’d fumbled. He felt like an idiot, but it would make Sergey smile.
The engines roared to life, purring through the cockpit. He strapped his helmet on and taxied down the runway, listening to the air traffic controller in his ear. “NASA flight 17, you are cleared for takeoff on runway three-six.”
“Thank you, Ellington.” He gripped the stick. The plane trembled, a wild horse bucking to unleash, to soar. I’ll see you soon, Sergey.
Clear skies. Hard burn. He shoved the stick and launched into the black ink sky. To home.
* * *
He cruised at 50,000 feet, high above the commercial airliners crisscrossing America, Canada, and the North Atlantic. Above him, there were only stars, wisps of atmosphere and ions dancing in and out of Earth’s gravity. As he gazed out of his cockpit, memories flitted through his mind. Standing on a frozen lake on top of the universe. Falling to Earth, free-jumping from the atmosphere. Riding the spirit of a bear through the underworld.
His hand rested over his hip tattoo, his bear spirit guide. Kilaqqi had shown him the way and had gifted him the tattoo.
He'd been extremely, extraordinarily, high on muscimol during his spirit journey. But he’d also seen things on that vision quest. Things that were true.
Every other time he’d flown his jets high enough to catch the curve of the Earth, taste the edge of space, he’d fought his own darkness, the frantic baying of his own soul. Tilt the stick a bit, he’d always whispered to himself. Point the nose to the black and let it happen. He’d have died, but he’d have punched into space, seen the stars, and his death would be in the only place he’d ever wanted to be.
Before.
Now, he counted down the hours to his next refueling, and the hours beyond that to Moscow. He’d tacked a picture of Sergey up in his cockpit, the pilot’s private good luck ritual across every decade of flight. I’ll come home to you, the silent promise. He’d never had a photo in his cockpit before.
I’ll see you soon, he whispered to the stars. NASA. The SLS, the space launch system that had replaced the shuttle system and the orbiters. The Lunar Station. And even Mars, the missions to the red planet on the near horizon. I’ll see you soon, he said to the stars, and then I’ll come home. His eyes lingered on Sergey’s smile, his reckless humor falling from the image as he laughed at someone off the edge of the photo.
His fuel was good, well within ranges for his flight. He’d picked up a tailwind over Greenland and he was making fast time. Burning less fuel. He could push more. He punched the speed up, pushing faster.
Toward home.
* * *
He sent a text to Sergey from Norway. [ETA three hours.]
You are early!
[I made good time.] He sent a picture of himself in the cockpit, a selfie he’d taken after leaving Greenland. Ice sheets behind him, the sun in his face glinting off the black sun visor of his helmet.
Blyad, Sasha!
Grinning, he sent another photo, his jet on the runway in Nova Scotia, and then him posing in Iceland in front the wing.
I don’t know whether to be furious or horny.
He laughed as his engine spooled up and his checks came back green. Helmet on. Canopy closed. [You can tell me in three hours what you decide on. I will see you there?]
Abso-fucking-lutely you will.
Sasha grinned the entire final leg of his flight.
* * *
Landing in Russia was always bittersweet. Home, and everything that represented. Sergey. The skip of his heart. His foolish happiness, his ever-growing optimism. Sergey was an infection in his soul: the longer they were together, the more Sasha started thinking about words like forever and always and the one. The more he started to believe in his long-lost dreams.
But not quite. Russia also meant hiding and secrets. Loving Sergey, but only behind closed doors. Keeping the best part of his life hidden, never to be exposed. The fear, so strong it crushed his chest sometimes, nearly broke his back, that he’d be the end of Sergey. That he’d ruin everything.
He should walk away. He should not do this.
But the urge to flee had melted away, replaced with the need to point his jet north by northeast from Houston and fly home, back to Sergey and smiles and the feelings and memories and rushes of sensation that burst to his mind whenever someone said the word happy.
As he approached, he spotted a dark caravan on the edge of the air base’s runway near a cluster of private aviation hangars. NASA had contracted with a German company to take care of the T-38 while it was in Moscow, parking it in the German-owned facility for maintenance and security. Sasha couldn’t find it in him to be pissed about that. Some things never changed. Despite NASA’s attempts, by morning, the GRU would undoubtedly be poking into every nut and bolt of his T-38.
Earth’s gravity pulled him down, the push-pull fighting against his jet engines and pressing him against his seat, making him clench his abs and plant his feet and grip the stick as he brought his jet in, closer, closer, and then—
Wheels down, one skip, a slight bounce, and he was gliding down the runway, the smell of burnt rubber and hot pavement flying into the cockpit. Engines whining, full reverse. The jet slowing. He rounded the runway and taxied back to the convoy. It was dark, night again, and his jet’s lights cast a faint glow that stretched to the edge of the group.
Light slithered up the legs of a man standing ahead of the others. Black pants, a wool coat. Red scarf tied tight. Sergey.
It was the fastest power down he’d ever done, slamming switches and toggles and throwing his canopy back. He didn’t even wait for a ground crew, for the chocks and the ladder. He slid over the side and dropped down, landing in a crouch.
“You know,” he heard Sergey calling out, striding toward him. “I’ve never actually seen you land anything.”
A punch-out over Siberia, and then a nose-first crash in the Arctic. Sasha grinned. “Those were not my fault.”
“Mmmm.” Sergey glared. A moment later he smiled, and he threw open his arms. They hugged, a big bear hug, keeping it friendly and warm for any possible eyes lingering on them from the airport or the hangar. Sergey pressed his chilled cheek to Sasha’s. “I’ve missed you, lyubov moya.”
“Take me home.”
* * *
It took an hour, waiting for the Germans to finish their finicky paperwork and take possession of Sasha’s jet, filling out forms in triplicate, signing that he’d landed, signing that he’d confirmed the jet was in one piece, signing that he’d transferred control to German Aerowings Holdings, and then signing that he’d signed. A representative from the American embassy oversaw everything, a sleepy junior bureaucrat who seemed confused as to why he was authenticating the transfer of a NASA jet to Germans in southern Moscow in the middle of the night. Sasha took the time to strip off his G-suit, rolling it up as best he could. Sweat soaked through his flight suit and dripped down his neck from the ends of his hair. His muscles burned after the day-long flight.
Sergey prattled as they drove home, Yuri in the driver’s seat making quick work of the trip, taking them through backroads and side streets and keeping their sirens off. They held hands, waiting while Moscow passed them by, the lights of the Garden Ring beating into the SUV in the same frantic syncopation as Sasha’s heartbeats.
Finally. Home. Yuri parked at the back entrance, and Sergey grabbed his bag before Sasha could. They slipped in, winding
their way up to Sergey’s apartment in silence. Mikhail had cleared the halls before they arrived, and there was no one to watch as Sasha followed Sergey, not to his own Kremlin apartment, but into Sergey’s.
The door shut, and Sergey’s hands were on him. His lips. He kissed Sasha the same way every time they reunited, like he’d been saving up every kiss he wanted to give to Sasha for six months and had to get all his pent-up love out right that moment.
“I need a shower,” Sasha mumbled into the kisses. He tried to gently push Sergey away. After almost twelve hours of flying, he was disgusting. He was drowning in sweat inside his flight suit. “You don’t want me right now.”
“Bullshit. I want you always.”
“I don’t want me right now.” Sasha peeled away. “Shower first.”
Sergey pulled his scarf loose and unbuttoned his jacket. Reached for his fly. “Then I will wash you.”
For the first few minutes of the shower, Sergey seemed to keep to his intentions. He waited as Sasha stood under the spray, as he tipped his head back. Steamy water sluiced down his body, dipping in and out of his aching muscles. He sighed, letting the water and the steam work into him.
Hands turned him. Sergey rubbed soap over every part of his body, over his back and his arms and his legs. Gently washed his crotch and rinsed the soap away before it burned. He lifted Sasha’s arms and washed his pits like he was a child. Sasha closed his eyes and let it happen. He smiled.
Sergey’s hard cock pushed into his hip. “Sasha…” He bit softly at Sasha’s shoulder.
There were times they didn’t need to speak. Sergey had all the words in the world, could talk until he used up every molecule of oxygen on the planet, but sometimes all they needed was touch, or for their eyes to meet and hold. It wasn’t always that way. Sasha hadn’t fully understood Sergey’s touches, his silences, before.
Now, he turned into Sergey’s arms and wrapped him up, drawing him close as he kissed Sergey, and kept kissing him. Their hard cocks pressed together, soaked in the spray of the shower. He rolled his hips. Sergey responded, pushing back.
“I’m ready for you,” Sergey breathed.
At his words, it was like Sasha’s muscles were reborn, suddenly no longer aching, no longer clenching in exhaustion. He could do anything, and what they needed that moment was perfectly clear.
He backed Sergey against the shower wall. Steam clung to the stone, warming it, and he pushed into Sergey as they kissed again. One hand cupped Sergey’s face, and the other slid down to Sergey’s hip, and then his thigh. He guided Sergey’s leg up and around his waist. “Squeeze me tight.”
Sergey grabbed Sasha’s shoulders. Lifted his other leg and wrapped it around Sasha’s waist as well.
Sasha grabbed his ass, holding Sergey over his cock. His fingers dipped between his cheeks, finding his hole.
“Like I said, I’m ready for you.” Sergey nibbled his jaw and pushed into Sasha’s touch. “And impatient.”
So was Sasha. He’d spent his entire life rationing his urges, doling out seedy encounters in bars and back alleys every six months, only enough release to keep him sane. Loving Sergey fully, with every molecule of his being, had unleashed a barrier inside of him, something he’d held in check since he’d realized he’d craved other men, back when he was a gangly teen trying to make it on the frozen tundra above the Arctic circle.
He wanted Sergey every day, every way. Some nights he beat off twice to the thought of Sergey, their memories, and then again in the morning, to keep sane.
Sergey here, in his arms, in his hold, was too much to pull away from. He guided himself to Sergey’s hole and gently pushed in.
Sergey tipped his head back and groaned. Sasha pressed his lips to Sergey’s throat and shuddered. He’d never get enough of the feel of Sergey around him, his hole surrounding his cock, him sinking into Sergey’s body. Sasha’s thighs trembled. He thrust into Sergey, deeper.
They kissed as Sasha rocked, as Sergey pushed down and rode him, as the water beat onto their skin and the steam rose, choking the air in the shower until it was thick. Thick like honey, like the sweat beading off their bodies in the humid spray. Thick like the kisses they couldn’t stop trading, like the thrusts Sasha poured himself into. He lifted Sergey and lowered him, guiding him up and down his cock. Sergey panted, his nails biting into Sasha’s skin.
It had been six weeks too long to make it last, and Sasha pushed hard into Sergey, once, twice, and again, and exploded, gasping into Sergey’s mouth as he pushed and pressed and thrust. Sergey moaned, reaching for his own cock and stroking.
Sasha batted his hand away and took over, sucking on Sergey’s neck while he stroked him. Sergey squirmed, and his ass squeezed, clenching on Sasha’s softening cock. Sasha pushed deeper, keeping himself within Sergey. Sergey loved coming while Sasha’s cock was inside him.
Moments, and then Sergey shuddered, spilling himself over Sasha’s fist. His come burned hotter than the water, and it seared his skin before washing away in the spray.
Sergey’s eyes opened, and he gazed love-drunk at Sasha. He smiled, dopey and lopsided, before their lips met.
Sasha’s legs quivered, and his aching muscles slammed back into him. Groaning, he set Sergey back down, their bodies separating with a shiver. They washed each other again, and eventually Sergey led him, naked and still damp, to the bed, where they kissed until Sasha was hard again and he pushed into Sergey as Sergey tipped his head back and chanted his name all the way to dawn.
* * *
11
Riyadh, Saudi Arabia
There was no party like a king’s party.
Eid al-Fitr, the biggest night of the Islamic year. The end of Ramadan, and the party to end all parties. Adam had known, for years, that it was the Islamic parties you wanted to attend, especially iftar feasts and Eids. Nothing came close, not frat house throwdowns or the most manicured and managed weddings, not even Hollywood afterparties or wild beach clubs. Hell, he’d met Faisal at an iftar feast during Ramadan in Iraq. Faisal had come to him, had seduced him, had invited him home. And he’d been lost ever since.
Years later, he stood at his husband’s side in his grandfather’s palace, toasting to the end of Ramadan and sharing prayers with his in-laws. It could have been normal, if his in-laws weren’t the Saudi royal family.
Happiness seemed to flow through the palace, joy at the end of Ramadan. Thanksgiving. Smiles were everywhere, the sound of laughter, of music and dancing. Everyone, it seemed, was radiant with joy. Even his husband was reuniting with members of his family who had come to pay their respects and were learning the lay of the land, the new realities within the royal family. Faisal was someone now. Someone to pay attention to, as was the American man with him.
There was a hollowness inside Adam, though, that he couldn’t fill. Formlessness. A void. Something missing, something that had been carved out and thrown away. Listlessness hung on the edge of his days, and life seemed to move around him as if he were watching everything and yet not feeling it, not truly living it. A mime to his own reality.
It was the searing sting of abandonment, a stab that pierced his heart. A one-two-three punch from his past, carving him up and throwing away what they didn’t like.
Something had gone rotten inside of him.
Stay dead, his brother had said. Let Dad think you’re dead. It will be better for him that way.
Jason. He’d hoped, for a moment, that he could bridge two worlds. At the least, he could make a single friend. Someone to be with without wearing the mantle of a husband or a royal figure or an officer and a leader. Someone he could be Adam with, whatever that meant anymore.
Was this what Faisal had always cautioned him against? That being known as someone—royal or official or important—made others see you as less than human? That it wasn’t about who you were anymore, but what you knew, who you knew, how you could make things happen?
Was this why Faisal had kept the secret of who he was from Adam until after
they’d fallen in love? Until after Adam knew he loved Faisal the man? Not that Adam was dazzled by his title, his family, his prestige? Honestly, it would have been easier if Faisal had been simply Faisal. He loved him despite his royal heritage, not because of it.
Adam snorted. Jason had it so, so wrong.
Loneliness echoed in his hollow heart. Faisal was there every day, smiling and holding him close, loving him with the strength of the sun. There was something eternal about their love, something that felt timeless, like the sands of Arabia that had existed the day the sun first rose over Earth. He could depend on that love, in a true way. In all his life, he could rely on Faisal and what they had between them. He could build his life on top of that stability.
But aside from Faisal, there was an emptiness in his life. Doc had disappeared, finding his own way. Jason and the US government seemed to want him only as a spy. His family had declared him dead. Without Faisal, would he even exist as a person? Or would he cease to be, whatever and whoever Adam Cooper was floating off into the sun and dissipating on the wind and the sand?
“Ya Adam.”
He looked up from his perch on his cushion, tucked into the corner and trying to stay out of the way. He didn’t know Faisal’s full family, and the barrage of extended relatives and princes and cousins was too overwhelming. Not all of them approved of the tectonic shift in royal politics. Some were more hostile than others, but with King Faisal and Uncle Abdul’s blessing, no one dared say anything in public to Faisal or Adam.
“Your Highness.” He stood and bowed his head. “Eid Mubarak.”
“Eid Mubarak.” Abdul smiled wide and opened his arms, drawing Adam into a long hug. “Let’s speak, ya Adam.”
His heart launched missiles of terror, of frantic horror, as he followed Uncle Abdul to the balcony off the King’s ballroom. The hint of a crescent moon, the Eid moon, hung overheard, barely visible through Riyadh’s neon glow.