What We're Talking About When We're Talking About…What Were We Talking About?

 

By Miriam Heddy

 

 

Oh leave the Wise our measures to collate.

One thing at least is certain, light has weight.

One thing is certain and the rest debate.

Light rays, when near the Sun, do not go straight.

—Sir Arthur Eddington

 

 

Light:

 

"Actinic light."

 

"What?"

 

"Early photography, Charles. Light which produces an identifiable or measurable change when it interacts with matter is actinic. Non-actinic light, on the other hand—"

 

"Doesn't interact."

 

"No. It doesn't. And now what does that tell you?"

 

"That I'm late for class, Larry. Is this a fast or slow revelation?"

 

Larry leaned forward against the desk, bracing himself on his hands, and shook his head. "The problem with young people—and I'll include you now even though you're perilously close to not qualifying anymore—"

 

"I won't be thirty for another week—"

 

"Regardless—"

 

"The peril of young people," Charlie prompted, because he really was late and really didn't want to talk about his age right now.

 

"Nevermind. I'm sure it's not as important as your—"

 

"Introductory Methods of Computational Mathematics," Charlie reminded him.

 

"Right. Interesting stuff. Gaussian elimination this week? Did you ever actually read the Jiuzhang suanshu?"

 

"Yes, in translation. You gave it to me, as a matter of fact."

 

"Hmm. Do you still have it by any chance? Because I'd like to take a look at it sometime."

 

"Yes Larry. Does it have something to do with actinic light? Because I'm having a hard time seeing the connection at the moment." He waited by the door, one foot out, one still in the room, knowing that Larry wasn't done yet. After a few years, you developed a feel for knowing when it was safe to leave and when leaving would cause Larry to sulk for the rest of the day, which would inevitably become a problem when they had some work to get done, because Larry did not work well when he was sulking. Or actually, Larry did, but Charlie found the guilt a little distracting.

 

Larry nodded to himself and pushed himself up off the desk, rubbing his hands together and nodding again. "Women, Charles. Women are actinic light."

 

"Ah."

 

"And we are just the paper."

 

Charlie sighed. "Is this in regards to something specific?"

 

Larry frowned, scratching his temple. "Well… I've just been giving some thought to the Amita problem."

 

"She's not a problem, Larry. She's a person."

 

Larry held up his hand, palm out. "I only mean in the sense that she, being a woman, is complex."

 

"Of course that's what you meant. And I have to go. Really."

 

"Go, go." Larry waved his hand, class apparently dismissed, and Charlie looked at his watch. It was conceivable that, if he ran, he could make it there fast enough to get the class going and get through everything they had to get through today. Conceivable, but unlikely, especially as he didn't like to run to class because then he ended up sweaty and irritable, and then everybody was distracted—well, everybody but the geeks who couldn’t care less as long as he was there. He sighed.

 

"Larry, I'll see you in two hours."

"Two?"

 

"I've got office hours right after. You remember."

 

"Yes. Yes. I was just hoping you'd skip them and we could have lunch before everything gets crowded and we end up with a bad table."

 

"I reserved a table. A good table."

 

"You did?"

 

"By the window. Yes."

 

Larry smiled, and Charlie grinned back, because he knew Larry thought he'd forgotten it was his CalSci anniversary which also, as Larry never failed to remind him, was coincidentally the same day Larry shaved off his first and only attempt at a mustache. Charlie shuddered to think of it, but Larry insisted it wasn't as bad as it sounded. Unfortunately, there was no way to verify that, as Larry had somehow managed to burn all the photographs.

 

He was going to be ten minutes late. A new record. And he really didn't want to go teach. That was strange. Really, really strange. And if he wasn't late, he would probably give that some thought. But he was late.

 

Larry had wandered over to his reading chair, apparently having forgotten Charlie was still hanging around. He could just see the back of Larry's head and so came back into the office, coming around the chair, wanting to say goodbye. But when he got there, Larry had a book opened on his chest and was asleep, his mouth open just a little like he was about to say something. Charlie knelt down beside him and shut the book for him quietly, because Larry really hated it when the bindings broke. Larry sighed softly as Charlie's hand brushed against his arm, but he didn't wake up, even when Charlie touched his hand again, where it rested against Larry's belly. But Larry's fingers curled slightly as if he was about to take hold of Charlie's hand, and Charlie pulled away.

 

And then he left, not quite running, but close, and got to class and stopped just outside the room to catch his breath, just in time to catch the tail-end of a complaint about how boring Mr. Eppes was this semester, with someone—Sheryl Saunders, he was pretty sure—saying, helpfully, "At least he's sort of cute for an older guy. And I hear it gets better towards the end of the semester."

 

"One week, assholes," he muttered to himself and then pasted on a smile, walking in the door. "Okay, so today we've all got to tackle eliminating Gauss, which is actually a good thing…."

 

And the groans were almost enough to make him like them again. Almost.

 

Inertia:

 

"Snowballs? We're definitely not going to get snow, Larry."

 

"I do realize that."

 

"At higher elevations, but even then, you'd have to freeze them and then the texture changes."

 

"Not if you do it right."

 

"And you have a plan for how to accomplish this?"

 

Larry shook his head. "No. It was just a thought. It's Professor Kirshvink's birthday next month, and I was just thinking about—"

 

"Getting him a snowball?"

 

"Well, it would be funny."

 

"What are you going to do, throw it at him?"

 

"No—I was just thinking of putting it in a box with some—though that's an idea. The element of surprise is always worth something."

 

"You're serious?"

Larry chuckled. "No, I suppose not. Still, he is rather taken with his theory that interstellar gases are responsible for 'Snowball Earth.' It's really fascinating speculation. I think there's probably a movie in it, somewhere, which is more than I can say for my own research."

 

"I'm sure your work will make a great movie someday."

 

"No. No. No need for flattery, Charles. I long ago accepted that my place was down here looking up at the stars. You, on the other hand… y'know, I've always thought math would make a fascinating subject for a film."

 

Charlie laughed, thinking that sounded highly unlikely. "Even I'm not interested in watching me think."

 

"So… that brings us to the question of the day. What do you want for your birthday?"

 

"Not my name in lights. And not a snowball, either."

 

"Hmm. Now that's unfortunate."

 

"Right. So you're saying I should watch my back?"

 

"Always a good idea, Charles. Always a good idea. But seriously, you do need to give me a wish list. You're not the easiest person to shop for."

 

"I don't need a present, Larry. And did I mention that I didn't want to talk about this?"

 

"Yes, but I just can't understand that. It's a milestone."

 

Charlie sighed. "Yes, although the same thing could be said for any interval marker. The addition of a zero does not make the year magical." He was waving his hands, noticed he was doing it, and stopped, suddenly wondering if Larry was catching.

 

"My thirtieth was magical."

 

"Oh really?"

 

Larry grinned, stirring his glass of water so the ice spun around in circles. "Oh yes. Oh, yes, it was."

 

"And that's all you're going to say about it. Just that. Oh yes."

 

"Oh yes," Larry said it again, and Charlie laughed.

 

"Magical. So I'm guessing this had something to do with either a car or sex. Or…" he looked at Larry's grin and nodded. "Sex in a car."

 

Larry shook his head, no.

 

"Sex with a car?"

 

"I do not kiss and tell. You know that, Charles."

 

"Larry, I'm not even sure you kiss."

 

The words just popped out and Larry looked up sharply, his hand coming to a stop, the ice cubes crashing into his spoon with a soft icy sound. "I'm not sure whether I should be offended or—"

 

"Don't—don't be. I know you—you've even said—look, I just—I just haven't ever actually seen you with… anyone."

 

Larry tipped his head to the side, frowning. "Some of us prefer to keep our romantic relationships off-campus and entirely separate from our professional obligations."

 

"I'm sorry. No—I know that." Charlie looked down at his empty plate, hoping the food was about to arrive, any moment now, because he could really use the distraction. "I know that. And I think—I think that's a good idea."

 

"Hmm."

 

"If Amita taught me anything, it's that you're right. You're right."

 

"My choices are not necessarily the best choices, Charles. They're just mine. I can't recommend, for instance, that you follow in my footsteps when we so clearly want different things."

 

"We don't." He leaned forward in his chair and really looked at Larry, surprised that Larry should think that. "What do you want that I don't want?"

 

Larry looked down at the table and shrugged. "I want to talk about your birthday without your continually looking like it pains you to be thirty."

 

"Almost thirty."

 

"Almost thirty. I mean, really, imagine how it makes me feel, to think you think of thirty as old."

 

Charlie shook his head. "No. I don't think that. That's not—I don't think that."

 

Larry looked unconvinced, and Charlie tapped his fingers on the tabletop, looking around for their server, who apparently had decided to let them both starve to death. Not that he had much of an appetite at the moment. "Look, Larry, it’s not what you think. I don’t think thirty is old. It's just…. Ach." He stopped and tried again, watching to see that Larry was really listening, because he didn't think he could say it twice. "Thirty is—it's just a reminder of where I am. What I'm doing."

 

"You like what you're doing."

 

"What I have, Larry. And what I don't have."

 

"Ah." Larry nodded. "Amita?"

 

Charlie slammed his hand down on the table, and Larry jumped. "No. No. Not Amita. This has nothing—absolutely nothing—to do with Amita. Amita is—old news. She's not relevant to this conversation, to—to any of this. She's not light. I'm not—I'm not—not the right kind of paper. Or she's not the right kind of light."

 

Larry blinked at him, and Charlie sighed, realizing how that sounded. "I like her. She's—she's a very nice person. A very smart, very nice person. And I know that you think she's the right person. Dad thinks she's the right person. But she's not. Just—leave that alone, okay?"

 

"Okay."

 

"Okay."

 

"So I'll scratch Amita off my list of things to get you for your birthday. Which puts me right back at snowballs. Or t-shirts. You can't have enough t-shirts."

 

"Larry?"

 

"No, your point is made and there's no need to belabor it. We'll talk about something else."

 

 

Matter:

 

"Now those are not white," Charlie observed, sitting back on the park bench, still a little too full from lunch to think about eating dessert.

 

Larry frowned at the opened cookie and licked at the white cream. "The insides are."

 

"And that's all you're eating?"

 

"Now that would be silly, Charles. And wasteful." Larry took a bite of the cookie part, dropping crumbs down his shirt which he then brushed to the ground. Charlie shifted over on the park bench and took a cookie from the package on Larry's lap, and Larry gave him a look which suggested he might have asked first.

 

"So you have a date tonight?" It wasn't something he normally asked Larry, and Larry's expression suggested he'd failed in his attempt at subtly making up for earlier implying Larry had no life—or at least no sex life, which was, they both could agree, essentially saying the same thing.

 

"Do you have a date tonight?"

 

Charlie slumped a little farther down on the bench, staring down at the cookie he didn't really need. "No, I do not. I do have at least four hours of work I could do."

 

"Hmm. I suppose we all do. A case for Don?"

 

"No. Don decided he'd see if he could get along without me this week. He says it's a worthwhile experiment in self-reliance, but I'm not sure he's sure if it means his or mine."

 

"Interesting. I suppose that explains why Megan called me."

 

"She called you?"

 

"Strictly professional, Charles."

 

"She called you," Charlie repeated, not sure who he was really annoyed with.

 

"It was a relatively simple matter that was actually in my area of expertise."

 

"Ah. And that would be psychology?"

 

Larry took another bite of his cookie, finishing it off. "Now that would be useful, because then I might have some clue as to what's bothering you."

 

"Nothing is bothering me," Charlie argued, and Larry just nodded.

 

"And as a lay person, and a man, I will just pretend I believe that and offer you another cookie."

 

"That's your last one," Charlie noticed, suddenly wondering when he'd eaten the first one.

 

"I think you need it more than I do."

 

Charlie nodded, thinking that was probably true.

 

"Laura Randall," Larry said suddenly.

 

"Hmm?" Charlie asked.

 

"I introduced you to her once."

 

"I don't think I remember that."

 

"She's a particle physicist from Harvard, one of the few women in the field, Charles. I'm sure you—"

 

"Oh. That Laura Randall. She's--"

 

"I've recently come to the conclusion that I need that."

 

"Laura Randall?"

 

Larry blinked. "A theory with a clever name, Charles."

 

"Oh."

 

"'The Oreo Universe.' It's pithy, vivid, and edible."

 

"All you can ask of science and more," Charlie agreed, feeling suddenly very tired.

 

"I sometimes suspect that a good theory fails not because of the evidence but because we lack sufficient imagination to realize its potential."

 

"Ah. So a good theory should be intellectually sound and taste good."

 

"Precisely. Though I suppose 'Snowball Earth' doesn't quite meet that last criteria."

 

Charlie recognized from the tone that Larry really needed another cookie—maybe a whole box of them. Unfortunately, they were now out. He yawned and Larry looked over at him as if he only just remembered Charlie was there. It was one of the things he liked about Larry. There was a lot less pressure to perform. You could just be. It was very relaxing.

 

"We could see a movie."

 

"A movie?"

 

Larry nodded, crumpling up the cookie package in his fist. "Unless you'd rather go home and work."

 

"I—"

 

"It would give you something besides math to talk about on your next date."

 

"There's not going to be a next date, Larry."

 

"Not with Amita, perhaps, but with someone. Pessimism is not a good quality. Not good. Women can feel it coming off of you in waves."

 

"Vibrations of pessimism?"

 

"It puts them off. Well, some of them. Others like the challenge, I suppose."

 

 

 

Force:

 

The movie was bad. Not just a little bad, but very bad. Bad "sci" and bad "fi." And very loud. Bad hi-fi. Beside him, Larry sat with his mouth hanging open just a bit, his handful of popcorn hanging halfway between his mouth and the box. Charlie reached over and got some popcorn for himself, and Larry started moving again, shoving popcorn in his mouth, crunching away, oblivious to Charlie's discomfort.

 

"This is fascinating," Larry whispered after a moment.

 

"No, it really isn't."

 

"No—look—this is precisely the problem with our education system, Charles."

 

"Alien fascism?"

 

"I think we need to explore the possibility of light sabers in the classroom."

 

"Riight, Larry."

 

"Shhh."

 

Charlie turned his head slightly to glance behind him and frowned. "Sorry," he whispered, but Larry was elbowing him in the ribs again.

 

"Look at that." Larry leaned over and spoke right in his ear, pointing one buttery finger at the screen. Charlie looked, seeing a well-rendered screen full of imaginary stars.

 

"What?"

 

"Look," Larry insisted, and Charlie looked again.

 

"It's… pretty?" he offered and Larry frowned.

 

"Yes, I suppose it is."

 

Just then, a ship flew across the stars, lasers shooting colored beams of light just off-screen. An explosion made the seats vibrate under them, and Charlie looked over at Larry, his profile backlit by the projection.

 

"Oh God," he said.

 

Larry turned toward him, frowning. "What's wrong?"

 

"Nothing. Nevermind. I just— realized… something."

 

"Hmm. Epiphanies do sometimes happen when we least expect them."

 

 

 

Momentum:

 

He and Larry fell into step outside the theatre and as they walked, their hands brushed together, coming apart, and then together again, and each time, Charlie thought about what might happen if he caught Larry's hand in his own.

 

"So what was it about those stars?" he asked, and Larry stopped and looked up at the sky. "The ones in the movie," Charlie clarified, but he looked up as well, aware as he always was that he and Larry never saw the same sky. He understood most of Larry's work, but not out here, like this, looking up, or through the telescope. He needed a computer, something to do, but Larry seemed equally satisfied just appreciating the aesthetics. He could understand that, to an extent. The stars had a mathematic aesthetic. But after that, in Larry's dream of actually going out there, into that vast darkness, airless and cold, he was lost.

 

"Oh, I just noticed someone snuck in a bit of Ursa Major into—what was that part of space called again?"

 

"I don't remember." But he remembered sitting through one of Larry's frequent, impromptu lectures on the stars, delivered on a street, just like this one, actually. In 1869, Richard Proctor noticed that, except for Dubhe and Alkaid, the stars of the Big Dipper asterism all had proper motions heading towards a common point in Sagittarius. And Larry had inclined his head a little. Ursa Major was actually in motion, a rare star cluster that moved together. Thirteen stars in Ursa Major proper and another star in Canes Venatici. And Larry had gestured upward, the sky his own blackboard. And Charlie had learned the names of a hundred stars, not because he cared, particularly, but because Larry did. He knew the names of a hundred astronomers, and their life stories, again, not because he cared, but because Larry did. A crater on Mars was named after Proctor, and he knew that Larry envied Proctor for that—and probably wanted something like that more than he wanted his name on a library.

 

Proctor had used old drawings of Mars dating back to 1666 to try to determine the sidereal day of Mars, and this was the part that Charlie actually thought was interesting, because his final estimate, in 1873, was 24 hours, 37 minutes and 22.713 seconds, differing from the modern value by only .08 seconds.

 

"I suppose the name doesn't matter. It was only for a few frames, at most, but clearly recognizable before the explosion took out the planet and most of the plot. There." Larry pointed with his index finger, tracing the outline of a few constellations, and Charlie instead watched Larry. He'd seen Ursa Major and Larry before, but Larry was always much more interesting.

 

"That's… really…."

 

Larry looked over at him and shrugged. "I suppose you can conclude that a movie has hit its lowest point when the stars turn out to have more personality than—"

 

"The stars," Charlie concluded for him, and Larry laughed.

 

And Charlie reached out and, before he could change his mind, grabbed Larry's hand in his own.

 

Larry stopped laughing abruptly, glancing down at their hands. "Charles, what is this?"

 

"I don't know," Charlie admitted.

 

"I suspect you do," Larry said, "And that's what I find troubling." Larry pulled his hand away, and Charlie took a step backwards, tripping over the curb and onto the street. Larry reached out and caught him and steadied him before he could hit the ground, but not before he hit his elbow on a parking meter.

 

"Dammit. Ow."

 

"Are you alright?"

 

"No!" Charlie answered, rubbing his elbow.

 

But Larry's hand was still gripping his bicep and he looked down at his arm and then back up at Larry, who didn't let go.

 

"Not here, Charles." Larry let go of his arm, giving him a little space to climb back onto the sidewalk, and he followed Larry down the street, so distracted he wasn't sure where they were going, but he kept at least a few feet of space between them, and that felt strange, awkward, because he kept wanting to close the distance again and couldn't.

 

And then Larry stopped and he looked around, seeing they were at Larry's car—and he climbed into the passenger side, but Larry didn't get in right away, standing just outside of the car. Charlie shut his eyes, leaning his head back on the seat, and finally heard the door slam and felt the dip of the seat as Larry sat down, then the sound of the ignition, the quiet, perfect rumble of the engine as the car started up.

 

He didn't open his eyes again until the car stopped and he heard Larry clear his throat.

 

"Where—" he looked out the window, at first seeing trees, mountains—mountains? —and an enormous brick… hotel? And then getting his bearings, he saw the sign. "The Ritz-Carlton?"

 

"It was here or the Hilton, and this is slightly more expensive."

 

"Slightly? A hotel. This…." Charlie frowned. "Why—"

 

But Larry was already out of the car, handing the valet his keys, and heading toward the lobby doors. It took Charlie time to get moving and he jogged to catch up with Larry, stopping just inside the lobby. Larry was at the desk and Charlie waited by the door, feeling very conspicuous without any luggage. But then Larry came back over to him, holding up a keycard, his face hard to read, and Charlie followed him to the room.

 

Larry opened the door and walked in and Charlie had only just gotten inside the room when Larry edged him back against the open door, his hands on either side of Charlie's shoulders.

 

"Are we thinking along similar lines at this moment, Charles? The correct response is yes, by the way, not that I have any interest in biasing your deliberation."

 

Charlie wanted to respond, but found the word was lodged somewhere in his throat, along with his objection that the door was still open. So he forced himself to move, his body finally recognizing that he could—that Larry wasn't even touching him. The door was still open.

 

He managed to get his hands up and away from where they'd been pressed, palms flat against the door, and for a second or two, he flexed his fingers, opening and closing them into fists. And then he brought them up to almost touch Larry's waist but didn't touch him, instead moving his hands around to hover just inches from the small of Larry's back.

 

And he waited, listening to Larry breathing, watching Larry's eyes, which looked different up this close, his pupils dilated, his iris almost colorless in the darkened room. It was a rare thing to catch Larry both awake and unmoving. It was disconcerting, really.

 

"This is unusual," he breathed out, finally, and Larry frowned.

 

"Is that a positive or negative assessment?"

 

"Why a hotel?" he asked, not answering a question he found unanswerable.

 

Larry tipped his head to the side and looked like he wanted to fidget. "Your house is occupied, I'm midway through repainting my bedroom, which doesn't bear thinking about at the moment, and my car is entirely too small for what I want to do with you," Larry answered, and it sounded reasonable, except for the last part, which was astounding.

 

Charlie inhaled, feeling as if there was not enough air in the room, a little light-headed and giddy, as if they were climbing the mountain instead of at its base.

 

"So…why this hotel?"

 

Larry's eyes narrowed. "As opposed to one that rents rooms hourly?"

 

"We don't even have any suitcases," Charlie argued, running out of objections, which was almost a relief.

 

Larry grinned, shyly, looking down at his feet. "It's Friday. I'll buy you a t-shirt. And jeans. And underwear. I've always wanted to do that. Not that there's anything wrong with your—well, I don't know that I've ever actually seen your underwear, so I won't speculate."

 

"For my birthday?" Charlie asked, interrupting Larry's nervous ramble.

 

"If that seems appropriate, then yes. For your birthday. New underwear."

 

Charlie nodded. Appropriate was something he'd have to think about later. His mind was still hung up on the question of what they couldn't do in Larry's car. He had too many ideas about that, most of which he'd only read about.

 

Charlie heard voices in the hallway, the bang of a suitcase hitting the floor outside a nearby room.

 

"Yes," he managed, finally, wanting that door closed.

 

And Larry sighed as if he'd been holding his breath this whole time, his forehead coming to rest against Charlie's own and they stood like that for a moment, swaying a little.

 

And Charlie gave in, then, letting gravity take over, letting his hands come to rest on the small of Larry's back, then letting them slide down further, still, drawing Larry towards him. And he walked Larry forward a bit until he could swing the door shut behind them, the room going dark except for a lamp on the farthest table near the doors to what looked like a patio, the mountains a faint outline behind the mirrored glass.

 

He could see their reflection in it, a little startled by the image of two men who might have been strangers standing so close together that the outline of their bodies was indistinct, merged, intersecting lines in the dark.

 

He saw angles and vertices in the reflection and blinked until he could see only bodies in motion instead of an abstract constellation of points and lines.

 

Most constellations were simply illusions, the human mind drawing together in relationship stars that were actually hundreds of millions of miles apart. He remembered Larry talking about that once, making some muddled metaphor of it that Charlie had only barely followed, but which now seemed clear. He and Larry were a moving group, and how is it that he never noticed that before?

 

Abstractions were safe. Larry felt safe, maybe a little too safe, holding back, still, and once Charlie focused on it, he could feel that holding back—the slight tremble of Larry's body against his own. Larry wanted to move. Hell, Larry couldn't seem to help it.

 

So he finally moved for him, leaning in and kissing Larry, keeping his eyes open as he did it, watching their reflection and finding another, clearer one in the mirror above the dresser. He'd never seen Larry kiss anyone, and it was a little startling to reconcile the familiar and unfamiliar, the strange, dual perspective of distance and proximity.

 

It was really sexy, actually.

 

"Hmm," Larry said after a moment, humming into his mouth and then pulling away.

 

And that was helpful, because Charlie needed to think. And also breathe a little. "Does this thing—you want to do—do we need to lie down?"

 

Larry looked confused, but then suddenly smiled. "Oh yes."

 

"Bed or floor?" Charlie asked, measuring the distance between where they were standing and the bed, thinking that it was too far to manage on legs as shaky as his own.

 

"Bed. It'll be worth the extra effort, I promise." And again, Larry smiled that smile that made Charlie think there was a whole side of Larry that he really didn't know all that much about. But he wanted to. Oh yes, he really did.

 

They stumbled over to the bed, four legs apparently two too many for what they'd become, joined up again at the mouth and hips and most points in between. He thought about how often he took for granted their 'meeting of the minds'—how easy it was to talk to Larry and be understood. But this—this was different.

 

Of course it's different, some part of him that wasn't yet brain-damaged pointed out.

 

But he quieted that part of himself that wasn't immersed in sensation. He'd never really fully experienced thinking with his dick, but this—this seemed like a good time to try.

 

He knew they were at the bed because they stopped moving, and he sat down, trusting that the bed was there behind him. Larry stopped kissing him only long enough to get down on his knees in front of Charlie, kneeling right between his legs, his hands resting on Charlie's thighs but not really resting but instead moving up and down from his knees to his hips, and with each iteration his thumbs got closer and closer to running along the inside seam of his jeans, and Charlie got just that much harder, almost desperate and hating Larry a little for making him wait.

 

"Have I ever led you astray before, Charles?"

 

He shook his head, no, before he could really think about it.

 

"Ah, well. I think that was my mistake." And then Larry's hands were at his waist, pulling open his jeans and unzipping them, and then they were at his hips, urging him forward to the edge of the bed. Larry had fast hands, hands that never did stay still for more than a few seconds before they were illustrating some point. Charlie put his own hands behind him for balance and lifted up his hips as Larry took his jeans and underwear down to his thighs, and then he sat back down again, keeping his eyes up on the ceiling, almost afraid to look at Larry, because he was perilously close to orgasm.

 

"Prime," Larry said.

Charlie took a deep breath. "Is that a compliment?"

 

Larry chuckled. "Some unsolicited advice for those in this room who might be thinking about ejaculating prematurely."

 

Charlie gasped and laughed. "Please don't say that word right now."

 

"Wieferich, Wilson, Wall-Sun-Sun, Wolstenholme, Newman-Shanks-Williams, Smarandache-Wellin, Wagstaff—what else?"

 

"Mersenne, Fermat, Sophie Germain, supersingular and, um, um, ah… God. What—what was I….?"

 

"Unique?"

 

"Yes. You—you—forgot that one too."

 

"Oh, well pardon me for limiting my attention to just the Ws and your dick."

 

Charlie found himself laughing again, which made it just that much easier to calm down. He gave up staring at the ceiling and chanced looking at Larry, who just then licked his lips.

 

Back up to the ceiling, then.

 

2, 3, 5, 7, 11, 13, 17, 19, 23, 29, 31, 41, 47, 59, and 71.

 

Unfortunately, supersingular didn't take very long, and he'd only just dipped into the Sophie Germain primes when he felt Larry's fist closing over the base of his dick, making him lose his place. He tried again but only got half as far before the warm, wet pressure of Larry's tongue licking across his glans made him give up entirely, and only Larry's other hand lightly resting on his thigh kept him from thrusting up into Larry's mouth and ending it all right there.

 

He tried to think of some other distraction, but all he kept coming back how many times he'd thought about Larry doing this just since the movie theatre, since he'd looked over at Larry and suddenly knew that they were actually on a date—not just going to a movie so he'd have something to talk about with someone else, but at a movie because there was nobody else he wanted to talk to.

 

And it was suddenly so remarkably stupid, he felt like an idiot for not seeing it—for not seeing Larry.

 

He pushed himself to sit up a little, bracing himself with just the one hand on the bed, and he put his other hand on Larry's head, touching the soft curls that were nothing at all like his own, tracing around to Larry's ear, along the curve of it, and finally touching his chin, feeling the slight roughness there, and Larry stopped what he was doing and looked up at him, meeting his eyes.

 

"I want—come here," he said, his own voice sounding odd.

 

Larry pulled off of him, and he shivered at the suddenly cool air where Larry's mouth had been. But then Larry was urging him back up onto the bed, reorienting him with small gestures until his head was on the pillow and then Larry climbed up onto him, straddling him, sitting down on his thighs.

 

He watched as Larry just looked at him, running his hands flat across Charlie's t-shirt, over his chest. He gasped when Larry pinched his nipple, and it didn't hurt, or at least not enough to argue with, especially when Larry shifted back just a bit and curled over him, kissing his nipples through his shirt, tugging at one and then the other with his lips and teeth. He arched up and moaned, startled by how loud he was. He didn't know he was loud—didn't know he was this easy, actually. There was just so much he didn't know, it was embarrassing.

 

"Again," he said, surprised to find himself demanding it, but Larry repeated what he'd done, exactly, almost… systematically, and Charlie smiled, because that was Larry—very detail-oriented once you got him focused in the right places.

 

He reached up and grabbed for whatever part of Larry he could reach, his hands settling on Larry's back, wanting more than that. He somehow rolled Larry over onto his side, stretching out alongside him and kissing him, then breaking free and kissing his neck, reaching down and tugging at Larry's clothing, getting his arms out of his blue jacket, which Charlie pushed over onto the floor, focusing on pulling Larry's white t-shirt off. Larry didn't fight him, but he didn't help, either.

 

He got his own shirt off more easily, getting rid of his jeans and underwear as well, and finally he could feel actual skin against his own, which was… perfect, strange, wonderful—strangely, wonderfully perfect—and he used his mouth to get to know someone he felt he already knew, bone deep (all 206 of them), inside-out, for once sticking to the entirely superficial—acknowledging, finally, something he'd always known on some level. He really did enjoy looking at Larry. He liked being near him. How often had he come up with excuses to come to Larry's office when they could have talked on the phone or used email, and how often had he joined in on project Larry wanted to do that he was only marginally interested in just because he wanted a reason to spend hours literally sweating over robotics or paper airplanes or building a sundial in the garage, sometimes getting distracted watching Larry work, setting aside his own work just to watch him? And that was a little embarrassing, too, because he'd joined every club Larry was a member of and he absolutely hated the guys in Larry's String Theory Lunch Club—perfectly nice people, probably—except that he had no reason to join them, and could only watch from outside while Larry bonded with them over the wonders of super-symmetry.

 

He felt a surge of irrational pleasure at the idea that nobody else had this—that this was his. Larry was his. And he pushed Larry onto his back and climbed up on top of him, straddling his legs and tracing over Larry's chest with his fingertips, Larry watching him intently, frowning slightly as Charlie counted ribs (24, though Larry laughed when he got down to trying to find the floating ones).

 

"You…." Charlie started to say, and then shook his head, not sure he could put any of it into words that didn't sound ridiculous. Words were Larry's thing, and all he was left with was the challenge of doing a full accounting of Larry's body, suddenly wanting to know how to make Larry forget everything he ever knew about astrophysics. "What planet are we on, Larry?"

 

Larry frowned at him. "Earth?"

 

He nodded. "Hold that thought, if you can."

 

And he moved down Larry's body to his jeans, unsnapping them and unzipping them and pulling them down, taking them off Larry entirely, and then moving on to his boxers, tugging them off as well.

 

"You…" he tried again. "God, you are so…."

 

"Old?"

 

Charlie frowned. "Not the word I was looking for, Larry."

 

"Short?"

 

"Stop trying to finish my sentences when you clearly don't know what I'm thinking. You're…."

 

"The smartest person you're ever likely to fuck?"

 

Charlie laughed. "I was going to say pornographic, actually, but you're close. Very close."

 

"Now that's flattering. Highly unlikely, but flattering."

 

Charlie grinned, reaching down and taking hold of Larry's cock in his hand, wishing he had some sort of lubricant, especially given the slightly awkward angle. "Hang on." He climbed back off of Larry and went over to the bathroom, picking through the selection of tiny bottles until he found what he was looking for—the benefit of a pricey hotel with a spa service. He poured a little bit onto his hands, warming it up, and got back to the bed, climbing back on top of Larry, and this time, his hands glided easily over him. He applied some of it to Larry's chest as well, liking the way the oil clung to the curly hair there, then over his belly, moving back down again to oil Larry's cock, liking the way his hips rose up with every stroke.

 

"Larry?"

 

"Hmm?" Larry's eyes were closed, his breathing rapid, and Charlie grinned, recognizing the look on his face. Larry was off somewhere, in a happy place.

 

"I was thinking maybe—if you were receptive to the idea—that I could be the smartest person you ever fucked."

 

It took a few more minutes of his stroking Larry before Larry opened his eyes. "Wha?"

 

"What planet are we on, Larry?"

 

"I don't—what?"

 

"Nevermind. I'll take the initiative here." Because really, he couldn't imagine Larry objecting to what he was about to do.

 

He kept one hand on Larry's cock and applied a little of the oil to himself, not too worried about pain. He wasn’t sure why, but this was always easy, at least with the toys he'd managed to acquire ever since he decided that it sounded… interesting, at least theoretically. He'd never actually worked up to trying it out in person, because that required, well, a person, and he hadn't quite managed to get this far with anyone before, male or female. And he wasn't desperate enough to hire someone. Not quite, anyway. But getting there. His forays into the world of nightclubs had been fine only as long as he was drinking and not talking, because for some reason, every time he said anything, well, that, more than anything, was why thirty was, he had to be honest with himself, not a milestone he was looking forward to passing alone.

 

He got into what he hoped was a good position and used his hand on Larry to guide him, lowering himself very slowly, just at first, and frowning at the first, slightly uncomfortable moment, not too concerned because it usually got better after a few seconds. And he waited, just trying to breathe, keeping his head tipped up and back, his thighs trembling from the effort of remaining still with the pressure of Larry inside of him. He was starting to think that maybe he wasn’t actually coordinated enough to do this but then he found he was able to sink down just a little farther, and then he could reach back and hold onto Larry's thighs, using them for balance as he lowered himself down all the way, until he could feel Larry's balls rubbing up against his ass, which was amazingly, unexpectedly hot.

He sighed, and looked down at Larry, who was wide-eyed, staring up at him like he was an alien, but in a "take me to your leader" kind of way.

 

"Planet?" he asked, just curious to see if Larry still knew.

 

But Larry just shook his head, opening and closing his mouth as if he'd forgotten how to speak. And then a moment later… "Uranus."

 

Charlie giggled, a little horrified to hear himself do that, feeling Larry's hips rise up a little as he tightened around him. And Larry smiled, closing his eyes. "That never gets old."

 

"Actually…" but he couldn't argue, because it helped to remember just who he was with—the side of Larry that did not normally inspire him to lust. He sometimes wondered if Larry's extended adolescence was a product of their friendship or the cause of it.

 

"This…this is really good." He felt a strong urge to move, but also enjoyed the feeling of Larry inside of him. "Really amazing. God, sex. It's really—better than math."

 

Larry suddenly laughed, the motion causing Larry's cock to press up against Charlie's prostate, and Charlie gasped, unable to wait any longer, needing that pressure again, needing to come. He lifted himself up and then let gravity do most of the work, again and again, losing count of the thrusts, too focused on the friction and heat. He reached out with his hands and Larry grabbed hold of them, and he just held on as Larry thrust up with his hips, the rhythm imperfect, both of them trying to get there at different speeds but somehow still moving together, and then Larry went still, inhaling loudly and Charlie stopped moving, and yes, he could actually feel the pulses of Larry's orgasm inside of him. And he pulled Larry's hands to his own cock, doing most of the work himself, with Larry's hands just making it that much more intense, and then he was coming, too, spilling over onto their hands, onto Larry's belly, and he laughed, because it was just so good.

 

He was breathing hard, sweating, and lifted himself up off of Larry carefully. Larry slipped out of him, which didn't hurt but was just a little weird, and he lowered his whole body on top of Larry's, not too worried about resting his weight there, not really able to do much more than that, wanting to sleep, his eyes closing almost before he could stop them.

 

Gravity:

 

He woke up before Larry did, a few hours later, and somehow got out of bed without waking him up, going to the bathroom, wanting to clean up a little, finally deciding he really needed a shower. He brushed his teeth, noticing that his legs were rubbery, like he'd been out running and really pushed his limit, and the hot water of the shower was a relief. He soaped up, glad to get rid of the sweaty, sticky mess, the water pressure and the memory of the sex itself enough to get a rise out of him almost immediately. He grabbed his dick, not really sure he wanted to jerk off in the shower with Larry out there, in bed, but he found the habit hard to break, and he put a hand against the shower wall, letting it happen, noticing now just how different it was to set the pace by himself. Not better, exactly, but still comparatively good, satisfying, especially knowing Larry was out there and that this was optional. He shut his eyes, not wanting to see himself, instead picturing Larry—the way he'd left him in bed—rumpled, curled on his side, one leg pulled up a little, one arm stretched out and holding the pillow. Charlie had woken up pressed up against his back, his cock pressing up against Larry's ass, a very promising position, really.

 

And now he pictured it, not trying for a coherent fantasy, because he wasn't really good at those, but just letting the images come—the red and grey hairs on Larry's chest, the smell of sex and sweat, the curve of Larry's ass, that moment when his belly went concave, a sudden indrawn breath as Charlie took hold of Larry's cock, squeezing just at the base and drawing his hand up—

 

"Charles?"

 

Charlie stopped at the sound of Larry's voice, so close—so very close. He took a deep breath. "Yeah?"

 

"Oh. Um…." Larry's voice was soft, close, a little muffled, and Charlie realized he was standing outside the bathroom door.

 

"You can—you can come in. If you want. I'm in the shower." And he had been reduced to stating the obvious. This was good. Clearly, the expression, "mind-blowing sex" was not hyperbole.

 

And the door opened, with Larry stepping inside, rubbing at his eyes and blinking in the steam. Charlie couldn't quite make out his expression and felt suddenly very self-conscious—very naked—which was sort of ridiculous given that he was in the shower, and what else would he be but naked?

 

"Do you mind if I…."

 

Charlie shook his head and then realized Larry couldn't see him. "No. Go ahead."

 

And Larry nodded—a quick inclination of his head Charlie didn't even have to see to imagine, and used the facilities. He heard Larry brushing his teeth. Larry actually hummed softly to himself while he did that. There were probably some things, he decided, that he really didn't need to know.

 

"I was actually considering a shower," Larry said, looking in the steamed-up mirror.

 

"There's probably room," he offered.

 

"Conservation of water. Admirable."

 

Charlie didn't mention that he'd been in the shower now long enough to have already wasted about 25 gallons of water and yet he still hadn't come. He opened the door for Larry to step in beside him, and Larry got in and promptly ignored him, pouring shampoo on his own head and lathering up as if Charlie wasn't even there.

 

It was difficult not to think of Larry sexually now, especially given that Charlie himself was still hard, apparently now having all the self-control of a sixteen year old. His eyes were drawn to the water running down over Larry's forearms, and the way his biceps flexed as he scrubbed at his head, his eyes squeezed shut, giving Charlie the freedom to just watch.

 

Larry was efficient, anyway, apparently not having to deal with tangles, and not even bothering with conditioner. Charlie watched him step under the shower head, tipping his head back, his eyes still closed, the water streaming over his face and down his chest. And then Larry opened his eyes and blinked at him, curiously, scratching at his arm exactly the same way he did when he was thinking, at work, and Charlie suddenly realized that tomorrow, or at most, after the weekend, they'd be back at Cal Sci, working together again, fully dressed. And he really couldn't imagine going back to work—sitting in his office across from Larry now as if none of this had happened.

 

"You look unusually thoughtful, Charles."

 

"Unusually?"

 

Larry steepled his fingers together under his chin, the water coursing over them, and again, the image was disconcerting—the Larry he knew and worked with, who he would have to work with, but not. "I suppose the novelty must be in seeing you do it naked."

 

Charlie leaned back against the shower wall, the tiles cold against his back. "What in the world did we do?"

 

Larry frowned. "Is that a rhetorical question or is intercourse really all that mystifying?"

 

"Rhetorical question, but thank you." Charlie pushed off the wall and reached for the shower door, annoyed, but Larry's hand came out and gripped his wrist.

 

"Don't, Charles. I'm clearly not at my best at three in the morning."

 

"It's fine," he offered, "I'm done here."

 

But Larry shook his head. "No, clearly it's not fine, and once again, a degree in psychology seems of more use than one in astronomy."

 

Charlie didn't say anything, not really knowing what to say. But Larry didn't press him further, letting go of his wrist, and Charlie leaned back against the shower wall again, going back to watching Larry, which was easier than talking to him right now, listening to the white noise of the water, which was soothing.

 

And Larry was soaping his chest, his hand making circles there, going lower, and Charlie looked up to see Larry was smiling, softly. "You are remarkable, Charles. I mean that."

 

"Remarkably easy, you mean."

 

"Only in the sense of having a young man's refractory period. Enviable." Larry nodded to himself again.

 

"It's been hours," he pointed out, then stopped, realizing that Larry must have thought he'd just come and was hard again, rather than still, which meant that Larry knew full well what he'd been doing before he came to the bathroom door. Charlie felt the blush rising to his cheeks and looked at the floor of the tub, watching the water swirl around his feet.

 

"It's going to be fine, Charles. Relax."

 

"On what evidence can you even begin to make that claim?" he argued, looking back up at Larry, who stared back at him, unreasonably calm.

 

"I only mean to suggest that you consider the worst that might happen. And what is that, precisely?"

 

"We can't work together," he answered, because that was easy.

 

"And why in heaven's name would that be the case?"

 

Charlie shook his head. "I've lost my mind."

 

"Now that's unlikely."

 

"No—no, it's really not. I can't even think about—I can't think." He sighed and rubbed his hands over his face, realizing that he really needed to shave.

 

"You're just tired."

 

"I'm not tired. I'm…." He looked down.

 

Larry followed his gaze to his erection, which was stubbornly refusing to subside as long as Larry remained naked.

 

But Larry didn't touch him, as he expected him to, instead turning off the shower, and Charlie could hear his own breathing, too loud and too fast in the sudden silence.

 

Larry stepped out of the shower and Charlie stood there a moment before following him, accepting the towel Larry held out to him and using it to dry off his hair. He reached up and took another one to wrap around his waist, knowing the first one would be soaked through and his hair would still be dripping wet. Larry used the same towel for his whole body, starting with his hair and working downward, and Charlie didn't want to, but couldn’t seem to help watching him dry off, as if Larry was intending on putting on a show, which he very definitely wasn't. Still, it was the ordinary things that got to him— that made him have to adjust the towel around his waist, moving the opening to just over his hips.

 

If this didn't stop—if he didn't somehow get used to Larry again—and really, it wasn’t as if, objectively speaking, Larry was all that… except that somehow, Larry was all that. He was paper airplanes and Oreos and whining about garage mold, and bad button-down shirts and it made no sense at all. He was, simply put, screwed.

 

He waited until Larry had hung up his wet towels over the shower door and left the room before drying himself off, spending a few minutes finger-combing through his hair because if he didn't, and it dried this way, he'd regret it. "One plus one equals two," he said to his reflection, and shook his head, spraying water droplets all over the mirror in a fan-pattern that was reassuring in its familiarity. It was irrational, but for some reason he expected getting laid, finally, would make him look different somehow. Taller, maybe. But really, except for the erection….

 

He came out into the bedroom and was surprised to find Larry getting dressed.

 

"What are you doing?"

 

"You want to go home," Larry said, stepping into his pants, his t-shirt and boxers already back on.

 

"I—"

 

"No, I can see that you do, so we'll go."

 

"I—no, this is—this is—I don't want to go home."

 

"You don't want to stay here, that much is clear to me."

 

Charlie dropped the towel that was around his waist. "Larry, c'mon. Do I look like I want to go home?"

 

"Well, no…that's—" But Larry just scratched at his temple, looking confused.

 

"Take those off."

 

"Well, I suppose… if we're staying, I should get undressed."

 

"Yes, that would be a good idea," Charlie agreed.

 

"We've paid for the room, after all."

 

And Charlie waited, because Larry was still standing there, staring at him. But after a moment of consideration—longer than it should have taken given the pretty obvious indicators of his desires—Larry started taking off his clothing, leaving it in a pile at his feet. And Charlie watched as Larry then glanced down at it and picked it all back up again, hanging it neatly over the back of one of the chairs. Before Larry could start tidying up Charlie's clothing, too, he walked over to him and put his arms around Larry's waist, pulling him close.

 

"We really should get some sleep if we're going to drive home in the morning, Charles."

 

"Let's stay until Sunday. We can go home Sunday. We can split the room."

 

"No, no—don't be silly, Charles. This is a present, well, I suppose a fairly selfish present on my part. And I'd be—you sure you really want to stay? Because if you don't—that's fine. I really don't mind."

 

"I want to stay. Let's stay. I want…." He groaned, because the extent of what he wanted did not bear thinking about. But it was possible—doubtful, but possible—that a weekend away would give him time to get used to this—to let it work its way out of his system. And it wasn’t as if Don had any—"Damn." He stopped rubbing up against Larry's leg, only then realizing that he'd been doing it, absently, and it felt so good.

 

"What?"

 

"I didn't—I should call and let Dad know where I am."

 

"Do you really need to check in on a Friday night?"

 

"Yes. I really do."

 

Larry sighed, pulling away from him and climbing into the bed, getting under the covers this time. "Go on, then. Do what you've gotta do. I'll just…rest here. Alone."

 

"Larry—I'm sorry—but I really do have to call. He'll worry." And that thought pretty much took care of his arousal, though he suspected not permanently. He found his phone and started dialing, hearing the phone start to ring.

 

"No, no, I'm sure you're right. From Alan's perspective, you've got to assume that it's far more likely that you've been run over by a car than actually gotten laid."

 

Charlie listened to the phone ring, deciding to let that one pass because it was probably true. The phone rang and rang, and the answering machine finally picked up, which wasn't surprising given how late it was, which suggested that maybe Larry was right and Dad wasn't worried at all. He should just hang up, but the idea came several seconds too late—after he'd started talking. "Hi, it's me. Look, I—" What—what the hell had he been planning on saying? He glanced over at Larry, who seemed equally interested in that very same question. "Larry and I got involved in a—a project. A project. A research project." And if he stopped stuttering, his dad might even believe that. "We had to, um, we had to do some research, for the project—" and maybe he should mention the project again a few more times, just in case Dad missed the part about the research, "and I think I'll be gone most of the weekend, but you can reach me on my cell, and… okay. You're probably already asleep. Sorry for not calling earlier. Bye." He hung up, taking a deep breath. "God, that was unspeakably awful. I should have rehearsed that first."

 

"It was fine, Charles. In order of probability, with research at the top and you getting some action at the bottom, I think that you and I together isn't even on the list. Though I certainly did put it on my 'to do' list nearly everyday. It's odd how so much of that list carries over on a regular basis. I sometimes wonder if it's even worth making it, except that seems like the road to chaos, doesn't it—and, allowing for the possibility that anything might happen, laundry rarely does."

 

Charlie set the phone down on the dresser, looking in the mirror at Larry, suddenly hesitant, having lost the momentum of a morning erection. Larry was off again in his own thoughts (laundry???), and Charlie realized that he needed to say something—that it was about time he answered Larry's question, though it was quite possible that Larry might not even remember he asked.

 

"About the birthday—"

 

"Ah. Is that what this is about? We can call this something else, then. I don't know that I ever really got you something for Chanukah last year."

 

"You got me that nocturnal. It was… a very thoughtful gift. Very…."

 

"Right. I'd forgotten that. Not terribly useful. I considered a sextant, but that seemed a bit obvious."

 

"No—it was—look, this isn't about—never mind what you got me. Or this—this is a good present, too. Hell, this is the—look, I'm just trying to tell you why I wasn't terribly excited about turning thirty, because I think you should know—not that his will come as a surprise, because I'm sure it's obvious, actually, that I have no real idea what I'm doing here."

 

"So now you do want to leave?"

 

"No—no, I don't mean I don't know why I'm here in that sense of doubting whether I should be here, or want to be here. Trust me when I say that I do. I want—no. It's not a matter of motivation. I'm speaking specifically of my lack of experience with… what we're doing here. This is just very, very new."

 

Larry sat up, propped up on the pillows and putting his arms around his knees. "It's new to us both, Charles. I hardly see what that has to do with—"

 

"New to us both? You mean you haven't—"

 

"Although it would be interesting if it wasn't. In some other timeline, I suppose it might have happened years ago. Speculating wildly now, if we were caught in a recurring time loop, we might do this over and over again without even noticing, which, all things considered, is not at all a bad fate."

 

"Speculating wildly," Charlie repeated, walking over to the bed, amazed at the things Larry came up with. "Do you actually listen to yourself when you talk, or is this some sort of fugue state you go into?"

 

But Larry either didn't hear him or, more likely, chose to ignore him, because he was still speculating wildly. "Though really, I suspect that whatever actual time loop I experienced would be less than ideal. Grading the same first year exams, for instance, correcting the same errors, row after row of them. Though given that I do that already, one might think that a sex loop is not at all inconceivable. The question is, is there any relationship between the frequency of an action and its likelihood of inclusion in a given loop, assuming there was such a thing. It would certainly account for my current level of exhaustion. It's really is remarkable just how poorly thought out some of their answers are, considering we do teach at a somewhat elite institution. Did I or did I not suggest light sabers?"

 

"You did."

 

Larry nodded, resting his chin on his knees and Charlie climbed under the covers beside him, pulling a pillow out from behind Larry's back.

 

"Hey—"

 

"I really haven't done any of this before," Charlie said again, and this time, Larry seemed to actually hear him.

 

"We are in a time loop! Or perhaps it's simply déjà vu."

 

"Yes, I said that before Larry, and yes, I'm repeating myself because you seemed to have missed the point."

 

"And your point was…?"

 

"This. Is. All. New."

 

"This? You'll have to be more specific, Charles, because I—"

 

"No—I really don't. It's a statement that adequately describes the last, oh, six and a half hours, all of it entirely new to me."

 

He could see Larry thinking about that, and then counting backwards, which was sort of… cute.

 

He shut his eyes. This was not good. Cute should not cause sexual arousal. Everything should not cause sexual arousal. Annoyance, now that should not cause arousal.

 

Larry yawned. "So that would, I suppose, not include having dinner with me, because I'm reasonably sure we've done that before."

 

"Starting right after dinner." Charlie kept his eyes shut, because it was easier. If he was Larry, he could actually fall asleep in the middle of this conversation, or rather, whenever he decided it was over, which should probably have been when Larry first went off the rails. Unfortunately, he was not Larry, and he felt wide awake now.

 

"And we've already established that you're speaking generally, so you mean to say that you've never…." And to his credit, Larry's voice only rose about two octaves as he seemed to wake up a little.

 

"Ever," he added, for emphasis, just to be clear.

 

"You're saying you're a virgin?"

 

"Give the man a prize."

 

"I think I've already taken it."

 

"You didn't just say that."

 

Larry's eyebrows drew together. "Did I say that out loud?"

 

"Yes, you did."

 

"Huh. That was rather impolitic of me."

 

"Somewhat," Charlie agreed.

 

Larry frowned, his forehead wrinkling up as he seemed to consider what to say next. "But I assume you've… with the fairer sex, at least."

 

"Remind me again which one that is?"

 

"So you're saying not—at all?" And this time, it was only one octave, which was a relief, as he was getting a headache, which might have something to do with cycling between arousal and horror.

 

"Larry, no, not at all. Not with a woman, not with a man."

 

"Not in a car or in a van."

 

"What?"

 

Larry blinked and looked confused. "Seuss. Nevermind. I seem to be drifting."

 

"Just a bit, yes," Charlie agreed, reaching over and pushing Larry's shoulder, which had the interesting effect of causing Larry to fall over sideways, his arms still around his knees.

 

"Ow."

 

Charlie laughed, possibly from hysteria. "That didn't hurt."

 

And Larry righted himself like a turtle, rocking back up to sit in exactly the same position. Charlie shook his head, because apparently Yertle was catching.

 

"I bruise easily when I'm… so a virgin. That's… well, I suppose I should say that I'm honored to have the privilege of…." But Larry trailed off again, looking distracted.

 

"Larry?"

 

"I just—Charles, surely it can't be for lack of offers, so why in heaven's name would you not….no—not relevant. I'm sure you had your reasons. I'd ask if you were considering a life in the clergy, but… even rabbis are allowed to schtup around, Charles."

 

Charlie blinked. "What makes you think I turned anybody down?"

 

"Charles, you're—no, I suppose compliments would at this point be gilding the lily. Even so, you're, by most standards, an attractive man."

 

"Thanks," he said, feeling vaguely embarrassed. "By most standards?"

 

"By my standards, certainly, and I've always considered myself someone with relatively conventional tastes, allowing for below-average expectations of height and a certain undeniable intellectual snobbery."

 

"Allowing for… thanks very much."

 

"It's not an insult. It's simply a fact." Larry shrugged and scratched at his chin, letting go of his knees and stretching his legs out, and finally rolling over onto his side, head propped on one elbow. Charlie wondered when he'd stop noticing each little gesture, but then figured that it had taken years to get used to Larry before and it was possible that it would take years to get used to him again. The thought was not a reassuring one, as people were bound to notice if he stared.

 

Then again, most people did.

 

"So you're really a virgin."

 

"I was."

 

Larry waved his free hand in the air. "Semantics. In effect, I can safely assume that you have almost no practical experience in matters sexual beyond the strictly theoretical."

 

Larry was blushing, Charlie noticed, and had now said the word "virgin" more times than was, strictly speaking, necessary. "Is this turning you on?"

 

"It's… I find I'm a little overwhelmed at the possibilities this presents. You're very… coordinated for a… virgin."

 

"I'm good with diagrams."

 

"By which you mean pornography, I assume? Because I think it might help to know what common texts we—"

 

"Larry, you aren't constructing a syllabus here."

 

"No, of course not. Though there are some commonalities in terms of—"

 

"I want you to fuck me, not teach me, Larry. Sooner rather than later," he clarified, because he really didn't want to think about this the way Larry wanted to think about this.

But Larry leaned over and kissed him on the mouth, briefly, and then pulled back, apparently not yet ready to shut up. "Fuck as a euphemism for intercourse or fuck as a euphemism for sex, inclusive of intercourse?"

 

"Fuck as in what we did before, but with me on the bottom, Larry. Can we manage that, you think? Before I suffer a premature mid-life crisis here?"

 

Larry laughed. "Better that than a premature—"

 

"Fleinhardt, I am, at this point, willing to do the deed myself."

 

Larry frowned. "I may just be too tired to object to that suggestion."

 

"Oh. Do you—I shouldn't have assumed you'd want to—it's—if you don't—that's…."

 

"No, no—I'm more than willing. It's just that the position you chose earlier is not one I'm entirely confident I can manage at this point in my life on this little sleep. Sexual accidents in hotel rooms are, I suspect, highly under-reported."

 

"Okay. No—that's fine. I'll just….because really, I don't think I can get to sleep at this point without—so I'll just…take care of it."

 

Charlie found the lube open and poured some of it on his fingertips, pouring some more out directly onto his cock.

 

But somehow, the idea of Larry watching was disconcerting. He shut his eyes, trying to ignore Larry, but Larry fidgeted, even in bed, and knocked into his arm mid-stroke, and he finally opened his eyes again, hoping that Larry would be asleep.

 

But he was awake, and looking… very interested.

 

"I'm not used to an audience."

 

"Being a virgin, I imagine you wouldn't be."

 

"That word really turns you on."

 

"You turn me on. Which is why I'm willing to forgo sleep in the interest of seeing you come." And Larry rolled over onto his side, facing away, and Charlie spooned in behind him.

 

"You're a very generous human being," he whispered, kissing Larry's back, between his shoulder-blades.

 

"Hmm. Did I ever tell you about my first time?"

 

"Larry? I don't think I can talk and do this."

 

Larry nodded, and went quiet, and Charlie felt his cock gliding easily against Larry's ass, and then Larry moved, bringing a leg up towards his chest and wriggling back against him just enough to make it easy to get inside of him with just a few back and forth rocking motions. Larry was just so tight—moreso than he imagined, and also warm, almost hot, and Larry sighed softly as Charlie eased inside of him.

 

"Is this…?"

 

"Oh yes. It's….there. Ah." And Larry went very still and then purposefully moved and then went still again, his body tensing up.

"There?" he asked, and Larry nodded.

 

And Charlie adjusted his angle and tried again, and Larry just gasped.

 

And he moved his hand around Larry's waist to his belly, liking the intimacy of touching him there, but Larry inhaled and shook his head, and Charlie whispered, "tickles?" and Larry nodded, and so Charlie moved his hand lower to stroke Larry's cock. But Larry pushed his hand away, whispering, "Just move and I'll…." And so he left his hand flat against Larry's belly, trying not to tickle, working to hit that spot with each thrust, liking the way Larry's fist bumped up against his hand as Larry stroked himself while he moved.

 

And when Larry went very still, inhaling a sudden breath, Charlie knew he was about to come, and then felt it, Larry tightening around him so hard it almost hurt, and thrusting into his own hands, his orgasm spilling out over Charlie's hand.

 

But Charlie's own orgasm, possibly because he'd already held off for so long, was building up slowly this time, and he pressed against Larry's body, closing his eyes and working to finding the angle he needed—the right rhythm—because it was just so very different than jerking off, and then finally there it was, and when he let go, it seemed to go on forever, leaving him breathless and a little shocked and just exhausted.

 

He was almost asleep, still pressed against Larry's back, when he heard Larry whisper, "So is it still better than math?"

 

"Larry, it's better than math, food, and sleep, which is not to say that I could live without any those things anymore than I… anymore than I could live without you."

 

"Now that's a very good answer, Charles."

 

He smiled and hugged Larry, after a moment, asking, "Is it better than astrophysics?"

 

But Larry didn't answer, and Charlie peered over his shoulder and saw that he was fast asleep, his face pressed into his pillow. Charlie sighed, holding onto him, enjoying the reassuring rise and fall of his belly as Larry slept. Though the window, above the mountains, he could see sunlight just beginning to obscure the stars.

 

The End.

 

 

Feed the Muse.

 

 

Many thanks to Kate, who doesn't just say, at the end, "That was funny," but who actually writes, "Ha!" and "Hee!" in her interlinear comments and lets me pretend I'm hearing her laugh, which is so much better. I'm sometimes tempted to just post her beta rather than the story itself, because she's so often funnier than I am. And thanks to my other K., who absolutely refuses to watch the show and yet still reads my L/C stories and lets me blither on about Geek!Love, and thus gives me hope that L/C can and does exist outside the narrow confines of canon.