The Bachelor

by Miriam Heddy

 

 

 

Skeuomorphs are material metaphors. They are informational attributes of artifacts which help us find a path through unfamiliar territory. They help us map the new onto an existing cognitive structure, and in so doing, give us a starting point from which we may evolve additional alternative solutions. They provide us with "a path" instead of "no path" at all, but as scientists we are ultimately interested in an optimal paths well suited to the problem at hand, if not simply the best solution possible.

—Nicholas Gessler, "Skeuomorphs and Cultural Algorithms"

 

 

Charlie got the tuxedo on without incident, with the exception of the cummerbund, which somehow turned into a moebius strip before he figured out what was wrong and made the necessary corrections. He came down the stairs, still working on tying the tie.

 

"Nice. Very nice." Don laughed.

 

"Thank you. I'm sure that's sincere."

 

Dad came in and clapped him on the shoulder, timing it just right so the tie came out skewed. He sighed and started over.

 

"Looks like prom night all over again."

 

"Yes, Dad, except this time, I'm being auctioned off to the highest bidder. But other than that, it's exactly like prom night."

 

Don had his hand over his own mouth and Charlie turned around, daring him to speak of prom night. And he waited, but Don didn’t say anything, so he turned back to the mirror.

 

"Hey—at least this time you might be taller than your date. What was she—five eleven?"

 

Charlie frowned, trying to decide if it was worth giving up on the bowtie and just strangling Don with it. "You do realize that when you're horizontal, height is, for the most part, irrelevant? No, I suppose it's been so long now that you've forgotten that."

 

Don's smile twitched just a little bit and then froze.

 

He shoots—he scores. "And on that note, I am leaving you to—what was it you were doing tonight Don?"

 

"Don't settle for less than two hundred, Charlie."

 

"Dad, I have no control over the winning bid, but thank you for your vote of confidence."

 

"What—you're not having a plant in there to bid you up, get a little energy going?"

 

Charlie sighed. "No. Because that would be unethical. Now I really have to go or I'll be late for the line up."

 

 

 

The stage was dressed in some sort of foil wrap that really did look a little too much like prom, and Charlie sighed, peering out through the gap in the curtains and looking out at the tables, where a somewhat frightening array of well-dressed women were finishing their dinners and, from the looks of them, somewhat eager for dessert. There were men there as well, most of them grouped together at tables separate from the women, like elementary school, which was sort of funny. He'd anticipated the men being there, given the charity, but it was still a little… strange. He had no idea what to do on a date with a man—which was not to say that he had a helluva lot of experience dating women. He told himself it was probably not all that different, and in this case it didn't really matter, because nobody would actually be expecting… anything. A good time, some polite conversation, but no romance or flirting required. Which actually made it that much more likely to turn out the way his dates always did. He frowned, realizing that he hadn't mentioned the possibility of a male bidder to Dad or Don, not really wanting to get into that discussion with either one of them at the moment, if ever. But eventually, he knew, it was going to happen.

 

Charlie glanced at the other men seated backstage who were, not surprisingly, keeping their heads down while the two women in charge—both very nice when things were calm during rehearsals—now issued curt orders to get up, go there, stand up straight, sit down, playing choreographer and making last minute changes. Charlie was relieved to note that he was still neither first nor last on the list, which took some of the pressure off.

 

At the rehearsal, they'd taken care of the awkward small talk, sharing the story of how they came to be here, with each story ending with who would owe them what for it later. Charlie had spent the time coming up with a very unreliable formula by which he estimated the likely value of each of the other guys who'd been coerced into this. He'd scored them on various criteria, giving weight to things he expected mattered to the women doing the bidding, and having examined the winners the last five years (photographs and biographies helpfully provided on the charity website). Height seemed relatively important, which, while not surprising given that it mattered everywhere else, did not bode well for his own earnings. Intelligence seemed only somewhat important, though "Professor" in your title was, he'd been assured, a good thing. But he suspected that as soon as the word "math" was uttered, his own stock would plummet sharply, as the women in the room during rehearsal had laughed when he introduced himself and immediately begun sharing stories of how awful they were at adding and subtracting.

 

"This is humiliating." John Andrews—the stockbroker who, based on Charlie's calculations, could bring in as much as three thousand—stared at his hands and frowned.

 

And then the music started, signaling they were about to begin.

 

 

 

"Please give a round of applause for our next bachelor, Professor Charles Eppes."

 

He took a deep breath and stepped out onto the stage, a little annoyed to discover that their emcee was wearing three-inch heels which, when added to the several inches of hair piled on her head, put her at about five eleven. He tried to stand up a little straighter and then stopped a few inches behind and to the left of her, counting on perspective. She waved him over with her hand but he smiled and tried to look like he had no idea what she was talking about, and she, being forced to remain at the microphone, continued, gesturing a little behind her as she spoke.

 

"Charles Eppes is a Professor of Applied Mathematics at our own California Institute of Science, having received his own doctorate at the age of… could this be right?"

 

He nodded as she continued on with the biography he'd had no real hand in writing, wincing at the words, "child prodigy" and trying not to look too closely at the faces in the crowd, but seeing a few of them near the front already closing off, glancing down at the tabletop, pretty familiar expressions that suggested that, essentially, senior prom was a lifelong event rather than a one-time experience. And it never did get any better than this.

 

The chef who'd been out right before him had been a hit—and he felt a little bad for the guy slated to come out after him, though maybe the relief alone would increase his net worth. That was a definite flaw in his formula—not knowing the order of bachelors in advance.

 

 

 

"Five hundred dollars."

 

"Five fifty."

 

"Six hundred."

 

With the stage lights on, he couldn't quite make out anyone beyond the front row of tables, with the tables at the sides in shadows. He listened to the voices, though, trying to determine possible ages, but in the end just giving up, the sounds blurring together.

 

And then a male voice.

 

"Seven hundred."

 

A relatively high male voice.

 

And he squinted, but the next bidder was speaking—this one definitely a woman. "Seven fifty."

 

And Charlie waited, wondering if that was it.

 

"Eight hundred." That same male voice again, and this time he could at least make out what part of the room—a table near the back. And there were a couple of men there, sitting together, but he couldn’t make out any details, and had no idea which one it was. Not that it mattered, really.

 

"Eight fifty." Now that was a familiar voice, and he blinked. Amita?

 

"Nine hundred." The guy with the high voice sounded vaguely annoyed, Charlie thought, though with only two words to go on, he really had no idea.

 

"Nine fifty." Amita again, he was sure of that even though he couldn't really see her. He frowned, because she was a graduate student—his advisee, after all—and even if it wasn't a real date, it wouldn't really be appropriate. On the other hand, at least they'd have something to talk about.

 

"Nine seventy five." Oh, and yes, Mr. High Voice was clearly annoyed. And were they allowed to bid up in twenty-five dollar increments? He felt just a little insulted, and decided that, after this, he really needed a drink.

 

"One thousand dollars." And Amita was definitely annoyed, which she always masked by sounding especially cheerful.

 

"Two."

 

Oh.

 

The emcee cleared her throat. "Did I hear two thousand dollars?"

 

"Two thousand one hundred," someone—not Amita—called out, having apparently decided that the guy in the back must know something she didn't. He'd seen this phenomenon on eBay as well, though it was something else to be the overvalued object in question.

 

"Twenty-one hundred," a baritone said, and then….

 

"Three." Mr. High Voice had spoken, and Charlie blinked. The chef hadn't even hit three thousand, and he was huge, in every respect, and his "date package" had included a home cooked meal. Charlie's own package was, well, not small, per se, but certainly more intellectually-oriented. Dinner out, of course, and a private tour of the Griffith Observatory, arranged through a somewhat circuitous cross-departmental favor swap, because he couldn't think of anything more obviously mathematical that anyone else would enjoy.

 

Several women in the front started a round of applause that the emcee picked up on and encouraged. She was beaming. "Do we hear any challengers?"

 

The room was silent for a moment, and the emcee nodded. "Three thousand dollars is the winning bid for Professor Charles Eppes. Thank you so much. You can collect your prize now, if you like."

 

And this was actually the part Charlie had been dreading, because in each case, the past bidders had awkwardly approached the stage, often accompanied by hooting and catcalls, and the bachelor was forced to go down with them and sit at the table with the winner until the auction was over, presumably in case some bidder got it into her head to win her own harem.

 

His harem.

 

Charlie frowned as his bidder—Mr. High Voice—approached the stage, a little shocked to actually see him, finally.

 

He was short, for one thing. Short and… well… middle-aged, greying temples, wearing a black jacket, a neatly-pressed white shirt, a black bow tie, black trousers and… white sneakers. Charlie told himself he wasn't disappointed. From what he'd seen of the audience from onstage, it could've been worse.

 

The bidder didn't step onto the stage as some of the others had done, instead waiting for Charlie to come down, and he glanced at the emcee, who nodded. Sold for three grand to the guy with the close-cropped curly hair, who reached up and handed the emcee a small, pre-printed card with the charity's logo on it. Charlie noticed the winning bidder had small hands, and his jacket was just a bit too long, the sleeves coming down past his wrists. And then some flashes went off, and the winner frowned, lines engraving his forehead, his close-set green eyes narrowing at one particularly bright flash.

 

And then they were both blinking and facing each other, and Charlie almost laughed, because they actually were very nearly the same height, and the guy was looking at him as if it had only just occurred to him that he'd actually purchased someone and now had to do something about it. And up close, the guy was… well, not really handsome, but interesting and not at all unappealing, especially given that he was only going on a single, make-believe "date" with the guy, and, given that they were slated to go to an observatory, they'd be spending most of the time in the dark, staring up anyway.

 

"Odd, isn't it?" he offered, speaking softly so the mike wouldn't pick it up, and the guy frowned and nodded, bringing his hand up. Charlie put out a hand, expecting to shake, but the guy just rubbed his hand over his face and then sighed.

 

Charlie wondered if the guy knew that, buyer's remorse or not, the charitable donation was non-refundable.

 

And he opened his mouth to say something else, but the guy turned around and started heading back to the table, and Charlie stood there a minute before following him, deciding that he'd been wrong.

This was actually nothing at all like prom.

 

 

 

They got to the back of the room but his bidder slowed down just enough to lean down and murmur something to the guy who'd been sitting beside him—a remarkably non-descript person wearing glasses, who nodded and whispered something back. And then his bidder walked out of the room through the auditorium doors, which closed behind him, leaving Charles standing beside the table, a little baffled, but finally deciding he probably should follow.

 

He ended up catching up to the guy, just as he entered the hotel lobby's men's room.

 

He contemplated whether it would be more embarrassing to go in or to stand outside and wait. Going back to the table was impossible at this point, because there was no way he was sitting down and making small talk with the bidder's friends.

 

And so he opted for going in, because he did sort of have to take a piss anyway.

 

The bidder was washing his hands when he stepped into the room, and he walked past him and into the farthest stall rather than standing at a urinal. He heard the hand dryer start up, and when he came out, his bidder was staring at the mirror, but, Charlie guessed, not really seeing himself, his expression distant, thoughtful, and somehow very familiar.

 

Charlie washed his hands and dried them under the blower and walked over to stand next to his "date." "Charlie Eppes," he offered, and his bidder focused on him—looking mildly surprised, as if he hadn't noticed he was there until Charlie spoke.

 

"Nice to finally meet you in person."

 

Charlie laughed. "Yeah, I really didn’t feel much like a person up there."

 

And his bidder smiled, and Charlie decided that again, while not handsome, he was definitely, if oddly, attractive, though Charlie was damned if he could pin down why that was.

 

"So you know my name, but I don't know yours," Charlie prompted after a moment of being watched and feeling vaguely self-conscious about it.

 

"Oh. I'm…." But his bidder paused and looked flustered, and Charlie waited. And then his bidder blinked and stammered, "L—Langer. Frank Langer. A pleasure to finally… to finally meet you."

 

And Charlie decided that, although it was high, Langer's voice wasn't annoying. And when Charlie held out his hand, this time Langer took it in his own, and Charlie noticed Langer's hand was very warm and dry, his grip strong but not overly aggressive.

 

He'd read a study somewhere that attempted to quantify handshaking, analyzing such factors as: eye contact, facial expression, verbal greeting, pressure, positioning, velocity, number of shakes, plane, temperature, texture, and humidity. Context was not part of the study, but Charlie guessed that it meant something as well.

 

Langer glanced down at their hands, and Charlie realized that neither of them had let go yet, though they had, strictly speaking, clasped hands longer than convention typically allowed for two men who did not intend a sexual relationship. The study had not, unfortunately, quantified that, though it did focus on gender, and now that he was in the middle of a handshake that really had gone on long enough that they were no longer shaking, it all seemed strangely intuitive.

 

Langer wanted him. And the feeling was, he decided, definitely mutual.

 

He nodded, still not letting go of Langer's hand, making eye contact and really hoping he was reading this right, and Langer looked at him, his eyes widening slightly, and then said, very softly, "I have a room here."

 

Charlie nodded again, wanting to smile but trying not to, because he was afraid he would laugh. He was more than a little nervous, and somewhat shocked to find himself doing this. He really didn't do this. He wasn't even sure how to do this. But he was clearly doing it anyway.

 

"I should probably buy you dinner. I think I'm supposed to… or are you supposed to buy me dinner?" Langer asked, his voice soft and a bit lower.

 

Charlie shook his head. "I already ate. And I think you did too."

 

"Oh. You do have a point there. And I'm not really dressed for the occasion."

 

"I think we're supposed to set up the date for later in the week, actually. The Griffith observatory?"

 

"A good choice," Langer said. "I do like observing."

 

And now Charlie did smile, because Langer did as well—a small, uncertain smile— and Charlie decided he liked Langer for that, which was good as they were now apparently holding hands, and as far as he knew, that could only mean staying here and risking exposure or going up to Langer's room, which was infinitely more appealing.

 

They let their hands part and stepped out into the lobby, and he followed Langer into the elevators. They got off on the third floor, and walked down the hall to the last door, across from the ice machine, which had an "out of order" sign on it. Charlie wondered just what it was about ice machines that caused them to break down so often.

 

He shivered and leaned against the wall beside the door as Langer got out his keycard.

 

"So, what do you do?"

 

"I—" Langer dropped his keycard and reached down and picked it up off the floor, this time very deliberately placing it in the slot. The door lock went green and Langer stared at it but didn't turn the handle, and by the time he did, it was red again and Charlie frowned, wondering if Langer was drunk, and took the card away from him and opened the door himself, stepping inside.

 

"I'm not sure I understand the question." Langer's voice was barely a whisper, and he hovered in the doorway, swaying slightly.

 

"Pardon?" Charlie asked, and Langer looked at him and frowned, bringing both hand to his face and sort of hiding behind them.

 

"I suppose I do the—well, the usual things," Langer said finally.

 

"The usual things?"

 

And Langer peeked out from behind his hands and frowned at him, and Charlie laughed, suddenly figuring Langer out.

 

"I was wondering what you did for a living, Mister Langer."

 

"Oh. Oh. No—of course you—and that's a valid question." And Langer stepped forward, allowing the hotel door to close behind him. "I'm a—"

 

"No—let me guess. You're a— professional basketball player."

 

Langer smiled and shook his head, and Charlie noticed he had dimples. And he decided Langer probably wasn't drunk after all, because his eyes were very clear—very… observant. And Charlie was being observed—studied.

 

Charlie felt his face go warm and looked around the room, at last spotting the refrigerator and opening it up, pulling out a little bottle of scotch and frowning, because it wasn't especially good scotch, and probably cost ten dollars for the bottle. But if this guy could spring for a three thousand dollar date with a geek, he probably could manage to calm his date's nerves with some bad hotel scotch. And the nerves really needed calming. He rubbed his sweaty hands on his pants and looked around for the glasses, finding them in the bathroom, unwrapping one and pouring in a bit and tasting it. Mediocre scotch in a plastic cup. Very prom, though this time, he was pretty sure he was not going to drink enough to spend the next day sick in bed.

 

He held out the cup and Langer took it and took a sip, and Charlie went and got another for himself and when he got back, Langer was sitting down in the chair beside the bed.

 

"Now, okay, let's see if I can really do this." He rubbed his hands together and Langer smiled softly, his dimples showing again.

 

"Twenty questions?"

 

Charles shook his head. "I can do it in ten, I think."

 

"Okay. In ten questions. Shoot." Langer waved his hand, still smiling, and Charlie turned on the other bedside lamp and sat down on the bed, taking off his jacket and loosening his bowtie.

 

There were at least a few clues to go on. Langer seemed shy, easily distracted, and, Charlie decided, definitely not drunk, so just nervous about this. His tennis shoes suggested… Charlie wasn't sure what they said about him, but they certainly did look more comfortable than Charlie's own dress shoes, which he decided to take off.

 

And as he did so, he considered his first question, deciding to start with education, as pretty much everything followed from there. "Do you have an advanced degree?"

 

"Now that depends… What do you consider advanced?"

 

"Same question, revised. Do you have a doctorate?"

 

Langer nodded, kicking off his own tennis shoes. "Yes."

 

Well that wasn't too big a surprise given that he'd just bought and paid for a college professor. If Langer had said no, he would have assumed he had a Masters or MBA, because nobody with just a bachelors would ask him to define "advanced."

 

"Words or numbers?" Charlie asked next, deciding to narrow the field the easiest way he knew how.

 

"Before I answer that, is that a single question or does that count as two?"

 

Charlie frowned. "Animal, vegetable, or mineral counts as one question."

 

"Okay. Numbers, then. And I notice that you discounted the possibility that I study people, mammals, rocks or plants. Now why is that?"

 

"People seemed… unlikely. No offense."

 

"None taken. Though I do like people. And I think I like plants. I like cauliflower."

 

"I'll have to remember that. But you have no dirt under your nails. And I have no idea why, but I just don't see you as a veterinarian."

 

"No—your instincts are good. I'm allergic to most pet hair. So… next question?"

 

Charlie smiled, because Langer had slid down in the chair and had his legs crossed at the ankles now, and looked considerably more relaxed than he had since they first met.

 

"Applied or theoretical?"

 

Langer steepled his fingers together on his belly. "Theoretical."

 

"Why?"

 

"Why? Because! No—wait—don't tell me you're one of those people of limited imagination who value knowledge only if it's useful? Because if so, I think I will have to ask for my money back."

 

"You should have read the fine print, Langer. All sales are final." And given that Langer said "useful" the way most people said "math," Charlie decided he liked this guy a lot more than he probably should. "Did that last one count as a question, Langer, because I notice you didn't really answer it."

 

"Ask me a better question—one worthy of an answer. And please, call me Frank."

 

Charlie nodded, trying to think of a good question. He'd said he could get this in ten, but he really wanted to beat five. "Okay. Terrestrial or Astral?"

 

"Astral. Though you do realize that I could be a programmer, which could go either way."

 

"No, I don't think so. A programmer would be useful," Charlie argued, and Langer smiled broadly.

 

"Charles, I've seen some absolutely useless code in my life, so I would have to take issue with that statement."

 

Charlie decided to let that one pass, allowing for the fact that Langer really had no idea who he was talking to. "So astral would mean…. astronomy, astrophysics—"

 

Langer nodded, holding up a hand. "Cosmology, actually."

 

"Now that is useless," Charlie said, finishing off his drink and setting the glass on the floor next to the bed. And Langer—Frank—stood up and walked over, leaning over him, his index finger pointing somewhat menacingly.

 

"Your c.v., Professor, left out a few important details. For instance, no mention was made—not even in the fine print—of the fact that you're a smartass."

 

"Unwrapping the package isn’t as much fun if you already know what's inside," Charlie said, leaning back on the bed and smiling, because there was something amazingly freeing about this, though there really shouldn't be. He shouldn't even be here. He wasn't sure he even know how to flirt, because he usually got it wrong, saying the wrong thing at some point and ending up with a lot of awkward silences. But they were actually flirting. He was somewhat sure of that. And it was remarkably easy.

 

Frank put his drink down on the dresser and sat down beside him on the bed, very close, and now they were getting down to business.

 

"So how old are you now?" Frank asked.

 

"Is that important?"

 

Frank frowned and nodded.

 

"Twenty-seven years, two hundred and thirteen—"

 

"Twenty-seven. That's…."

 

"What about you?"

 

Frank frowned. "You like guessing games. How old do you think I am?"

 

Charlie considered that carefully, not wanting to insult him, and not even terribly comfortable talking about this, but still curious. "Somewhere between forty-five and fifty-five?"

 

Frank reached up and touched Charlie's hair, just moving it away from his eyes and smiling like Charlie had said something amusing before dropping his hand back onto his lap. "Between there, yes. And I won't ask you to narrow that rather broad estimate, though I don't doubt that you could."

 

And he was right in that Charlie was pretty sure that he could guess. Frank hadn't reacted to "forty," but at "fifty," he'd twitched just a little, his hand on the bed closing into a fist, then relaxing at "five." So twenty-three years and about two inches of bedspread lay between them. He wasn't sure what to think of that. Age was one of those things that shouldn't matter—but somehow always did—and he had spent years—twenty-seven of them now— never being the right age, so it was disturbing to think that it could be a problem here as well. It really wasn't as if he had much success with people anywhere near his own age, and everyone he knew who was younger was also a student and therefore very much off-limits. He's spent most of his post-adolescent life talking to older people—specifically older men—in the field. Maybe that explained why fifty really didn't seem all that old, though an age difference like that was likely to cause problems for other people, and of course that was presuming this was a relationship and not a one-night affair. The fact that they were spending more time talking than anything else suggested something more was happening.

 

So far, they hadn't even gotten to the affair yet. Though they were both on the bed, which was closer than he'd ever gotten before. He shifted over slightly and put his hand on Frank's face, tracing the edge of his jaw, which was still remarkably smooth compared to his own, and kissed him, sliding his other hand around Frank's waist to his back, under his jacket, where Frank's shirt clung to his damp skin. The room was a bit warm, but more than that, he could tell that Frank was nervous, and that was somehow exciting.

 

He pushed Frank back on the bed, and Frank relaxed under him, arching up against him and… testing, Charlie would have said, though that was a little strange. Still, it felt less like one long kiss than a whole series of them strung together, with Frank quickly taking over, moving through his repertoire one kiss at a time—beginning with soft, shy kisses and then moving to something far more sexual. Frank smelled like aftershave, something citrus-y, and it was old-fashioned and sort of sweet, and Charlie realized that he was really, finally doing it—really making out on a hotel bed with a complete stranger.

 

"Where—where do you work?" he asked as he took a breath, his fingers fumbling over Frank's shirt buttons, the tiny things difficult to do on his own shirt, and nearly impossible to undo on someone else's when his hands were sweating. He rubbed his hands on his thighs and tried again, this time getting a few of them undone.

 

"I don't know that I should—"

 

"Do you even know what a cosmologist does, Frank Langer?" Charlie was mostly kidding, as it was highly unlikely someone would lie about something like that. People claimed to be doctors, or lawyers, and even teachers, but not usually theoretical astrophysicists.

 

"Hmm. William McCrea once said 'I am always surprised when a young man tells me he want to work at cosmology; I think of cosmology as something that happens to one, not something one can choose.'"

 

"Very deep, this William McCrea."

 

Langer laughed. "Yes. Very. And as you earlier pegged me as a misanthrope who couldn't possibly work with people, I should note that, although some of my students might be mistaken for plants, and others are, I've long suspected, pet rocks with trust funds, I am somewhat fond of teaching."

 

Charlie laughed, because that sounded remarkably familiar. "Alright. You've convinced me you're not a misanthrope. But you didn't tell me where you work."

 

Frank frowned. "I'd rather not say."

 

"Ah. Mysterious. I actually like mysteries."

 

Frank had managed to unbutton Charlie's shirt while he was talking, and his hands were very warm, tracing over Charlie's chest and making it a little hard to think. Charlie let his eyes close, both because it made it easier to concentrate on what he wanted to ask, and because he was having trouble looking at Frank while Frank did this. And then he opened his eyes again, because he suddenly realized that he'd seen a suitcase on the other side of the bed, by the windows.

 

"You're from out of town?"

 

Frank sighed. "East Coast."

 

Charlie frowned, batting Frank's hands away and sitting back up again. The sign on the door of the auditorium had said, "Private Function" and not "Men for Sale," for which he'd been profoundly thankful. And though it was possible Frank might be on the charity's mailing list, that pushed the coincidences a bit far, considering the sheer number of other things they appeared to have in common.

 

"How did you know about the auction?"

 

Frank sat up and stared at his hands, finally bringing them up to his face again. "I have a confession to make, Charles."

 

Charlie got up off the bed and moved to stand by the dresser, seeing Frank's drink and picking it up and downing it, rubbing at his eyes. "Is this a confession you could maybe save until later?"

 

"Light thinks it travels faster than anything but it is wrong. No matter how fast light travels it finds the darkness has always got there first, and is waiting for it."

 

"I have no idea what that means," Charlie said, and Frank bit his bottom lip and looked distressed.

 

"Simply put, there's a very real possibility that if I wait and tell you later, you'll be angry, and thus delaying the inevitable does not necessarily change the outcome for the better."

 

"And if you tell me now, will I be angry now?" he asked.

 

Frank sighed. "Quite probably, yes. Though naturally, I don't know you well enough to say for sure. And it may be small consolation—but I'm not at all sure that evasive maneuvers are possible when dealing with the inevitable."

 

Charlie sighed, thinking that it really was too much to expect that he might actually have a successful, near-anonymous sexual encounter with someone who both made sense and intentionally chose a short, large-nosed mathematician.

 

"I'm afraid I have you at a significant disadvantage, Charles Edward Eppes," Frank said, his voice very quiet. Frank nodded to himself, staring at his hands and then ticking things off on his fingers as he spoke. "You were a child prodigy who quickly outpaced most of your private tutors. Your mother died not long ago of cancer—a terrible tragedy which has strengthened your resolve to get to know your father and brother better. At the present time, you live with your father, Alan, and though he has his own apartment, your brother Don, who is a federal agent, also spends an inordinate amount of time at your house, which has led to his conscripting you into consulting with the FBI, which you enjoy, conditionally, although it's taken a toll on you, and at some point, I think we should talk about that, because… well, that's assuming we are still talking at that point and that you still consider me someone from whom you'd take advice—and honestly, if there's anything that most pains me about this, and recognizing that I am entirely culpable—it's that I might have unwittingly undermined by my credibility with you through a series of errors in judgment I can only attribute to—well, lust is certainly no small part of it but I do think there's something more at work here. In any case, for that, I do apologize because I do value your thoughts on matters both professional and, well, obviously, the personal is, at this point, more than a little complicated but—"

 

"Hang on a minute."

 

And Frank stopped, which was a relief, as Charlie had pretty much lost the thread of Frank's speech sometime at the point at which he realized Frank was not about to say, "I'm married."

 

"Do I know you? Because none of that—well, most of that—is not public knowledge. Not in the auction information."

 

"No. It wasn't.," Frank agreed, and Charlie swallowed hard.

 

"So… how do you know that?"

 

"You mentioned it?"

 

Charlie tracked back over what he'd said and decided that he hadn't. "No. I'm pretty sure I didn't mention that."

 

He tried to get Frank to look at him, but Frank continue to stare at his hands, casting only a brief, sidelong glance in Charlie's direction, which was only enough to make out that he was blushing.

 

Charlie set the empty cup down on the dresser and it cracked as he squeezed a bit too hard. "You know, Frank Langer, I really am bad at word games, but I'm going to take a wild guess that that's not your real name."

 

"No." Langer rubbed the back of his head and winced.

 

"And your real name is…?"

 

"Lawrence Fleinhardt."

 

"Larry Fleinhardt?"

 

"Should I have waited to disclose that until later?"

 

Charlie wished very much that there was a chair nearby, to throw, or to sit on. "Oh no. Oh no. No. I'm…."

 

"Pleased to finally make my acquaintance?"

 

"Yes, that's exactly what I was going to say," Charlie agreed. "Because why wait for the faculty Christmas party to get drunk and fall into bed when we can just…" he gave up, finding himself at a rare, complete loss as to what to say, in part because Langer—Larry—was looking genuinely upset.

 

"I was, I have to admit, somewhat hopeful this would come as a pleasant surprise."

 

"Pleasant? Pleasant? I— No. Go back to where you were when you thought I'd be angry, because that—that—What in the world would make you—? No. I cannot believe you did this. This. This is—unconscionable. I don't even know where to begin with why this is not a pleasant—" He felt vaguely nauseous and was almost glad when Larry interrupted.

 

"Now consider, Charles. As you did bring up the faculty Christmas party, doesn't it seem likely we would have come to some sort of similar place anyway, given the undeniable attraction, and if that's the case then the where and when—aren't they just… details?"

 

"Details? Details matter, Larry. Little things, like the fact that….like your name. Who you are. Who I am. That— that matters." And he stopped and just looked at Larry for a moment, trying to make sense of this.

 

Larry Fleinhardt. This was Larry Fleinhardt— the man with whom he'd exchanged ideas for about five months now, making plans for joint projects next year, having already begun joint projects this year in anticipation of Larry's arrival. He'd actually been starting to like Larry—as much as you could like someone you knew only by email, their correspondence largely limited to things mathematical, though certainly, other things sometimes crept in—not personal things, really, but baseball… they'd talked about baseball. And he'd come to like the way that Larry thought, professionally speaking, even though it was sometimes a little unconventional—a little strange how he came to his insights, and he was sometimes wrong and didn't always like to admit that, which made some of their correspondence a little less than friendly. But in the end, they'd always worked around it, and once in awhile, Larry had caught him in an error, so there was more than a little mutual respect there. Or, he reconsidered, he'd assumed there was.

 

They'd spoken once on the phone—just the one time—but Larry had had a cold and sounded… well, not like this.

 

Not like Mr. High Voice here, with his shirt-tails pulled up out of his trousers, smelling like citrus and sweat, a man with whom he'd been perilously close to going to bed without knowing the first thing about him beyond the fact that he was both marginally attractive and highly interested, two very important details, arguably essential, but not to the exclusion of all other considerations.

 

Charlie started to pace, all too aware that Larry was watching him. He reached the door and turned around, heading back, pointing at Larry. "You—you've been operating this whole time under the assumption that this is inevitable, and it really isn't. I don't even know who you are."

 

Larry stood up, and Charlie saw the barest twitch of a smile on his face, which was really infuriating. "Now Charles, that's not entirely true, and I don't know that I need to point out that, just a few moments ago, you seemed pretty damned interested in someone you thought you didn't know, so I'd say a certain amount of uncertainty seems to appeal to you."

 

Charlie almost laughed, because that much was true, which didn't make it something he was particularly proud of. "So this insight of yours into my sexual proclivities—this suggests to you that there's nothing wrong with having lied to me?"

 

Larry shrugged. "I didn't lie about anything beyond my name, and you actually knew my name, so it seemed a relatively small omission in light of the reward."

 

Like cutting the tag out of a piece of clothing, Charlie thought, rubbing at his temples where a headache was building. Or cutting the security tag out and walking out with it, and then getting caught, of course, because eventually, everyone did, which made it a very foolish—very risky thing to do, which told him a little about Fleinhardt that he hadn't known and wasn't sure he wanted to know. Charlie glanced down and realized his zipper was undone and quickly zipped back up. His shirt was unbuttoned as well, but the damned buttons were too small, especially given that his hands were trembling.

 

"You—Larry Fleinhardt." Saying it again helped somewhat—helped fix the idea in his head—making it real. "Larry, you lied about—who you are is more than—"

 

"Yes, I do realize that, and I'm deeply sorry because I can see that this has—"

 

"You lied about where you work," Charlie continued, giving up on his shirt, too aware that the moral high ground was slipping beneath him as Larry moved closer, and so he stepped back away, because whomever Larry Fleinhardt really was, he was someone to whom Charlie was still very much attracted, and he was not going to let that cloud his judgment—not again.

 

"I did say the East Coast, and Princeton is on the East Coast, Charles, so that wasn't a lie. And the semester hasn't yet ended, so contractually, I very much still work at Princeton."

 

"For what—a few months?"

 

"You yourself said that details matter."

 

"Oh—oh— do not go throwing my words back at me, Larry. Do not do that. Do not argue with me about contracts."

 

"Honestly, I don't know what we're arguing about, Charles, but I—"

 

"We're arguing because you just paid three thousand dollars to—"

 

"I did not." Larry had raised his voice, and it was actually pretty satisfying to see him finally get a little rattled—a little defensive.

 

And apparently, when Larry got defensive, he waved his hands in the air as if he was lecturing, his voice going a bit softer, though he was flushed—still upset, which was… Charlie took another step back away from him.

 

"Not to deflate your sense of sexual self-importance, Charles—because I'm sure that you're worth every penny and more—but I came to the auction because I happened to be in town, on very short notice, and as I was here, I wanted to meet you in person, as a person."

 

"Most people come to my office to meet me. They do not bid on me."

"But wouldn't it be easier if they did? Imagine how we could shorten our office hours if we required students to put a price on our worth, with all of the proceeds going to charity, of course." And there was that smile again—just a twitch of it, and Charlie was really finding it difficult to be as angry as he wanted to be.

 

"They do that with tuition, Larry."

 

"That's capitalism, not serving the public interest."

 

"Yes, but—Larry, stop trying to distract me because at this moment, I'm really not interested in debating with you the merits of the American educational system."

 

"Then what are you interested in doing, Charles?"

 

Charlie took a deep breath, because if he didn't, he was going to say something regrettable. There was something to be said for bodiless interactions in virtual space. For one thing, you didn't have to worry about lust.

 

Because of course now that Larry Fleinhardt was right there in front of him, in the flesh, he wondered at the fact that he hadn't guessed, and wondered if someone else—someone more aware of people—would have. It was embarrassing. He'd never been particularly attuned to the subtleties of relationships, but he'd always thought he was at least marginally competent.

 

But here Larry was in person, and granted, he'd always imagined Larry was taller and had a lower voice, but even online, he'd liked him. Alone in his office, he'd laughed at Larry's jokes and rolled his eyes at his seemingly endless references to things that often seemed entirely irrelevant to the problem at hand, especially as those diversions often turned out to be relevant after all, if you had the patience to sit through them. In fact, part of why they'd spent so little time making small talk was because they didn't need to. Unlike most people, Larry didn't seem to require emoticons or office gossip, or really any of the things that Charlie found a little difficult to summon up and which might have kept them from getting on with the work.

 

And the work mattered. They worked well together. He'd never found anyone like Larry Fleinhardt before, and that mattered, too. That was a detail he couldn't afford to overlook.

 

Feeling calmer, and at least slightly in control, Charlie started again. "You could have simply called me and—"

 

"I don't have a cell phone, and it seemed easiest to just stop by as I was already going to be there, at the office. But the plane was late in arriving this morning and I had a meeting to attend, and by the time I was free, you'd already left, and so I checked with the department administrative assistant, who very helpfully pointed out that you were attending a black-tie charity event at this hotel—my hotel, as it happened, which seemed as good a sign as I could get that I should show up unannounced."

 

"Under an assumed name?"

 

Larry didn't answer, but his hands came up to cover his face again, and Charlie was a little annoyed to find that sort of charming.

 

Charlie took another deep breath, feeling a bit calmer. "So explain that part to me. When you came to the auction, you really didn't know that I didn't know what you looked like."

 

"Well, no, I just assumed that you did. My photograph's on the Peyton page, as my students continually remind me."

 

Charlie struggled to remember Larry's picture but really couldn't. "I don't think I spent very much time looking at it."

 

"No—no—that's not at all surprising. It's not all that flattering a photograph. It was raining that day, and my hair really was… well, regardless of atmospheric conditions, I've been told that I don't photograph particularly well even on a good day."

 

Charlie sighed, restraining the urge to offer reassurance that he did, in fact, find Larry attractive. Because of course he did. And yet, the possibility of this being a one-night stand without complications or repercussions had been replaced by the complicated reality that, come September, he would be working alongside Larry in the department, regardless of how this turned out. And there was Larry's inevitability theory. "You fly out tomorrow?"

 

Larry nodded. "My flight leaves at noon. Well, it's supposed to leave at noon. I don't suppose it actually will as they almost never do. But regardless, I should definitely be at the airport on time. Security on the way in was a nightmare."

 

"But you'll be coming back," Charlie pointed out, trying not to be swayed by Larry's meanderings which, again, he was finding more attractive—and more annoying— in person than online.

"I'll be making the move here over the summer, of course. There's no stopping that at this point. And I suppose there's no reason why I can't return before then, if we were to…."

 

Charlie frowned.

 

"Or not, depending on your preference, of course."

 

"My preference would've been something along the lines of you walking up to me and introducing yourself as yourself, preferably without putting a price on my ass."

 

And this time, Larry grinned, not even trying to hide it.

 

"I really don't know why I did that, Charles. I didn't realize at first that you were a part of the program. I expected to find you sitting at one of the tables, and then when I did discover you were a participant, and then you came onstage, I have to admit that I hadn't anticipated the extent to which you'd be…."

 

"What?"

 

Larry rubbed at his chin and then waved his hand in the air. "Gay, I suppose."

 

Charlie laughed, and Larry looked relieved. "You didn't know that."

 

Larry frowned. "I knew as soon as you came out."

 

"I—"

 

"When you came onstage," Larry clarified.

 

"Onstage, you could tell? "

 

Larry nodded. "Don't ask me to explain it, but yes, I very much did, from the moment I saw you."

 

"From the back table, you knew."

 

Larry nodded again. "It's a skill of sometimes dubious value now that it's relatively easy to meet other men of… like minds. Not that many men have minds like mine, but… well, regardless. I suppose it must be a matter of eye contact or… body language? I suspect the mechanics of gaydar are quantifiable, though I can't imagine who would be served by that. Still, knowledge for its own sake…."

 

And Larry trailed off, looking as if somewhere inside, he was still considering the problem, along with several others that Charlie assumed he was destined to hear about at some point.

 

Larry was right in that he very much was a singular mind, unique and baffling.

 

The disturbing thing was that Larry might be right. He'd never before considered his sexuality in any way obvious, and it was a little disturbing to think that Larry had just known, assuming that Charlie could believe a self-admitted, self-serving liar. On the other hand, he'd sometimes wished that it were obvious, because it might have increased his odds of finding someone to go to bed with. The problem with the bars, which he'd tried, once, was that he could easily find someone to sleep with, but it was a lot harder to find someone to talk to, and he'd ideally hoped to find someone… well, someone like Larry, actually. If Larry was singularly strange, there was at least something about him that mapped onto Charlie's own peculiarities. Though in an ideal world, Larry would be younger and female and Charlie would be just as interested in him.

 

Clearly, this was by no means an ideal world, because Larry was definitely male, definitely older, and Charlie very much preferred it that way, which was a definite problem.

 

He remembered Amita, and suddenly realized they had more than a few problems. "Larry, one of my advisees saw you put up the winning bid, and I think she must have seen us leave together, and by now, I suspect she's wondering where we went, and if it's really that obvious—"

 

"To me, not… well, I don't think it's obvious to everyone."

"Hopefully not, no, because you were bidding against her, and she has a… she's very attentive."

 

"Ah… academic crushes. I do miss those."

 

"I'm sure you still have—"

 

Larry shook his head, sitting down on the bed and picking at the comforter, which was a truly hideous shade of green. "No, I'm afraid I've moved on to the unenviable position of having students who take my classes simply because they admire my mind or because they're under the mistaken impression that I'm easy."

 

"You're definitely not easy, Larry."

 

Larry smiled. "No, I suppose not."

 

"And you're missing the point."

 

"Which is that you wish to remain in the closet."

 

"Let's just say that I haven't had a good reason to come out of it before now."

 

"And now?"

 

Charlie leaned back against the dresser and considered that. "You're really of the opinion that if we'd met, say, in June, under different circumstances, and with full disclosure, we still would have ended up here?"

 

"Well, not here, per se. After all, I bought a house—an absolutely delightful Victorian, and it needs some work, of course, but it's a thing of beauty, Charles. Original tile in the bathroom and original fixtures. So I imagine that we'd have ended up there rather than here."

 

"In the bathroom?"

 

Larry frowned. "In the house. Though… do you really want to have sex in the bathroom? Because I'm not against the idea, but I think that my renovation plans might have to change accordingly."

 

Charlie decided to ignore that, because he was fairly sure Larry was kidding. Probably.

 

And Charlie came back over to the bed, sitting down heavily beside Larry, close enough that when Larry moved, their arms brushed. And he moved a lot. Larry was extraordinarily twitchy, actually. But that was good, as the brush of his body was a reminder of the part of Larry that had first sexually attracted him—the silent part that didn't make him crazy in that bad way that had nothing to do with lust, and in fact seemed contraindicated to getting laid.

 

Larry was looking at him with a question he had the good sense not to ask, and Charlie leaned over and kissed him, feeling tired, and resigned, and a little overwhelmed by the magnitude of what they were discussing—not sex anymore, or even simply a relationship—but coming out to friends and family and colleagues, Larry moving to town, his own many small worlds colliding with very little warning, and all of it centered around this one man with two names and, he decided, two very different ways of kissing, which was, in and of itself, interesting.

 

Kissing Larry did not feel anything like making out with Frank. Frank had been precise, as if he were working on solving a problem, finding the best way to go about it and then going there, aggressively and with confidence, whereas Larry was holding back, uncertain, distracted. And Charlie didn't really want that. He wanted Frank, he decided. He wanted the uncomplicated thing they had when they first came into the room.

 

Charlie pulled back and Larry looked concerned, but Charlie smiled, or tried to. "Could we just… could we pretend we're strangers, go back to that? No revelations, confessions, no talking… Just… just for this. Just this once. Because that was good. That was… that was easy, wasn't it?"

 

Larry nodded. "Yes. I think I can manage that."

 

And something did change—something about Larry changed, because it was definitely a stranger who got up and went around the room, quietly turning off the lights, one by one, leaving only one on beside the bed, and Charlie watched as Langer stood beside the bed and undid the cuffs of his own shirt, still without comment, pulling it off and hanging it on the chair, then pulling off the sleeveless undershirt he wore underneath that, letting it drop to the floor with a small flourish. And Charlie had a near-instant response to the sudden sight of skin, getting back into the fantasy again. He tried to recapture some of that earlier sense of danger, but no matter how serious Langer looked, Charlie couldn't help but see kindness in his face, too, and humor—things he'd maybe seen the first time he walked off the stage with this guy, things that went along with those rounded cheeks and that strange tendency to gesture with his hands, and hide behind them.

 

But he wasn't hiding now, and that was very nice, though he was standing in the shadows just a bit, and Charlie leaned over the bed and turned the switch on the lamp so the other bulb lit up, wanting to see him, not wanting to miss any of it. He'd put on a show onstage—and now it was Langer's turn.

 

Larry—Langer—blinked at the sudden brightness and Charlie saw that his ears had gone red, so yes, it was Larry after all. But then his expression went serious again, determined, his eyes narrowing, and Charlie saw resolve there. Larry understood—they were on the same page with this thing.

 

Charlie stood up and started to unbutton his own shirt the rest of the way and somehow managed to only rip off one button in his hurry, and Langer watched him struggle and then walked over to him and slid the shirt back over his shoulders and down his arms, stopping for a moment when Charlie's arms were pinned back behind him, then pulling it all the way off, leaving him in just his undershirt, and then taking that off, too, his hands lingering on Charlie's arms before tracing over Charlie's chest, curiously, with that same intensity that made him think that Langer was testing hypotheses, testing something.

 

And Charlie tried to mirror those same actions and couldn't help comparing their bodies, intrigued by the differences and as always, pleased by the similarities. Langer had far less hair on his chest and belly, and it was far lighter, too, in contrast to Charlie's own dark hair. He'd never been all that pleased by body hair, and had considered waxing his own off, but hadn't, because he was pretty sure that his family would notice unless he wore turtlenecks for the rest of his life, and he'd never worked out how he'd explain that choice without sexual orientation coming up. And now was glad he was still hairy, because Langer seemed to really like it, stroking over his chest and belly and murmuring things that Charlie couldn't quite make out, but which sounded very much like compliments.

 

Langer ran his fingers down to Charlie's ribs, and Charlie inhaled as it tickled just a little, and then Langer's hands settled at his waist, and Charlie was just a bit self-conscious about the extra weight that had settled there while he wasn't paying attention, and about which he was continually vowing to do something. It shouldn’t be all that hard to lose. He understood the mechanism of calorie expenditure and conservation, but there was apparently a vast gulf between theoretical knowledge and practical application, because no matter how many times he lost it, those same ten pounds kept coming back. He sighed, and reminded himself that Langer in no way seemed displeased, if the erection pressing against his leg was anything to go on.

 

Charlie moved his own hands down Langer's body as well, reassured by its familiarity. The roundness of Langer's face was reflected in his slightly more pronounced belly, which explained—but did not excuse—the overly large shirt Langer wore, which actually seemed to be wearing him, and Charlie smiled, suddenly vividly recalling that picture on the Peyton page—not Larry himself, but his shirt—something with a pattern on it—palm trees or flamingos, or maybe both, and possibly flamingos on palm trees. Oh yes. And the flamingos had little fishing hats on their pink heads. Remembering it, Charlie was not at all surprised that he'd been a little too distracted to notice Larry's bad hair day, or that his eyes were green. He much preferred Larry's white shirt, and naked was even better.

 

They were standing very close now, and Larry—Langer unzipped his pants with rough efficiency, tugging them and his briefs down his hips, his hand lingering just a moment over Charlie's erection, but not nearly long enough, though Charlie tried to encourage him, thrusting against his hand, kissing him again, very much liking the feel of their upper bodies pressed together, skin to skin.

Charlie thrust against Langer's trousers, aware he was smearing precome on them and probably staining them, but unable to stop himself because it all felt so good—intense and inspiring, and if Langer minded, he didn't say anything, his hands kneading Charlie's ass, his fingers just shy of intrusive, but Charlie didn't pull away, because the idea of penetration was a little scary, but also good. Right now, everything was good, and he very likely would say yes to any question.

 

And when Langer undid his own pants and unzipped them, Charlie sank down on his knees, wanting this so badly his hands started shaking again, which did nothing at all for his confidence.

 

Langer chuckled, and Charlie looked up. "What's so funny?"

 

"I just realized—this is probably the most expensive orgasm I'm ever likely to have."

 

Charlie laughed, because that was Larry, no doubt about it, and it was clearly beyond Larry to be anything other than himself at this point. But maybe that was okay. "Larry, you realize there's no way I can possibly meet that standard—"

 

"No, you are a perfectionist, and I should be more sensitive to that fact, being something of one myself."

 

Charlie sat back on his heels and then stood up, curling his fingers in the air. "Fantasy, Larry. You do understand that concept, right? At this point, you have my full consent to lie and tell me how fabulous I am in bed, and I really won't hold it against you or doubt you in any way."

 

"Sorry. I'll just shut up now and let you….work."

 

"Yes," Charlie nodded. "Why don't you see if that's possible, because I could do without the additional pressure to perform."

 

And he didn't wait for Larry's reply before getting back down on his knees again and taking Larry into his mouth, pleased to find that Larry was capable of being silent, with the exception of a few incoherent and encouraging moans.

 

And then Larry's hands were on the back of his head, not really applying any pressure but reminding him that Larry probably wanted to thrust, and he sucked harder, stopping only when Larry tugged his hair back and whispered, "Not yet, not yet, oh not yet."

 

He pulled off of him and Larry sighed. "Let me… I want to reciprocate. Let me—"

 

Charlie nodded, standing up and kissing him on the mouth and moaning a little himself when Larry kissed him back a little roughly, biting his lower lip and then murmuring what might have been an apology before doing it again, which was more than a little hot. And Larry's hands gripped his biceps, hard enough to almost hurt, so he stopped being as gentle himself, hoping that was what Larry wanted. He kissed Larry's shoulder and then sucked hard enough to very likely cause a bruise, and Larry moaned quite loudly and tipped his head back, inviting more, and he was happy to oblige, carefully biting all the places he'd only kissed before, and finding that Larry was very into that, and that was good—that was very good, because again, there was that danger—and it was a strange thing to discover about himself, but not all that surprising considering he'd somehow ended up in the line of gunfire twice this year, which was not all that common for a math geek, though maybe it was and he just hadn't talked to the right mathematicians. Maybe some risk-taking was endemic to the field. He would have to ask Larry about that, later.

 

They got onto the bed, and he pushed Larry onto his back, and Charlie knelt over him and held him down, drawing his nails across Larry's pectorals, over his nipples, which caused Larry to thrust up into the air and squeeze his eyes shut.

 

"More?" he asked, softly, and did it again even as Larry hissed out, "Yes."

 

He pinched one of Larry's nipples, and that got an even better reaction, a long, breathy moan, with Larry biting his own bottom lip. Charlie kissed Larry on the mouth, and Larry's lips parted, and Charlie bit down on his lower lip as Larry had done to him, not hard enough to hurt, but just enough to cause Larry to draw in a breath and hold it.

 

And then Larry took hold of his own erection and Charlie sat back on his heels and watched, torn between watching Larry's hand on his own cock and watching his face. But finally, he couldn’t wait anymore, and he stretched out beside Larry, his head down by Larry's thighs, and he maneuvered Larry onto his side.

 

"Ah yes. The only number whose square and cube contain once and only once all numerals from zero to nine when written in decimal notation."

 

Charlie laughed, deciding that it was very possible that he was falling in love.

 

 

Charlie woke up several hours later with a crick in his neck and Larry's erection pressed up against his ass, and he wiggled a little, just to see, but Larry was still asleep, apparently dreaming happy dreams, as he sighed softly but didn't stir.

 

And that was fine, really, as he wasn't sure he was ready to go there yet. This was, he considered really their first date, though he wasn't really sure if anal sex was really a second or third date thing.

 

He shut his eyes again, smiling broadly, and fell asleep thinking about emergence theory, which led to thoughts about chaos, and at some point, his thoughts drew back to Larry and at last sleep rescued him from a truly unsolvable problem.

 

 

 

When he woke again, Larry was out of bed and coming out of the bathroom, his hair damp and curling, wearing jeans and a white t-shirt that was partly tucked in. Charlie sat up and propped both pillows behind his head, watching Larry shrug on and zip up a blue jacket, and after a moment, Larry seemed to suddenly notice him watching, and smiled tentatively.

 

"Hi," he said.

 

Larry gestured towards his suitcase, which he'd moved by the door. "I have to—the plane doesn't leave until noon, but I like to get there early. Just in case."

 

"Do you have to leave right now?"

 

Larry looked at his watch and shook his head. "No—not just now."

 

"So we have time for breakfast."

 

"I—I suppose we could go to the hotel res…."

 

Charlie swung his legs out of bed and stood up and noticed Larry's sudden silence.

 

"What?"

 

"Nothing.

 

Charlie shrugged and looked for his clothing, which wasn't where he remembered leaving it. Larry pointed to the closet, where Larry had thoughtfully hung it up for him. He put on the undershirt shirt and slacks and left the jacket off, and didn't bother to button up the dress shirt, and all the while he was aware of Larry watching him.

 

He slung his jacket over his shoulder and walked over to Larry, leaning in and kissing him on the cheek before heading to the bathroom. "Just give me a second," he called back, and relieved his bladder, washed his face, and ate some toothpaste, wishing he had time for a shower, but very aware of the way Larry was looking—like he was halfway to the door already.

 

When he came back out again, Larry was facing the bed, looking at his watch again, and he put his arms around Larry's waist from behind and squeezed.

 

Larry jumped and said, "Oh!"

 

Charlie laughed, because there was Mr. High Voice.

 

"Don't do that."

 

"Hmm," he agreed, kissing Larry's neck just below his ear. Larry hadn't shaved, and his skin was rough, though not as rough as Charlie's own. He rubbed their cheeks together for a minute, shutting his eyes and enjoying the sensation.

 

"You're very…."

 

"What?"

"Affectionate," Larry said.

 

"Try not to sound quite so much like you're describing someone's pet," Charlie protested, and Larry shrugged his shoulders, forcing Charlie to back off.

 

"It's not a bad thing, Charles. I'm just… not accustomed to it, particularly not this early in the morning."

 

Charlie sighed and weaved around Larry, grabbing Larry's bag for him and carrying it out the door, ignoring Larry's protest.

 

"It's all part of the deluxe rent-boy service," he noted.

 

"That's not funny." And Larry frowned, grabbing the bag by the handle and tugging at it until Charlie let go, which caused Larry to stumble back a step and glare at him.

 

And then Larry stopped abruptly in the hallway, in front of the broken ice machine, turning around and setting the bag down beside him.

 

"You're never going to let me live this down, are you?"

 

Larry's finger was pointing at him, and Charlie reached up and put his hand around Larry's hand, pushing it down to Larry's side and stepping very close to him, close enough for a kiss, though he didn't do it.

 

Larry held his ground, and for a moment, they were seemingly at an impasse, but then Charlie reached down and picked up Larry's bag again, and this time, Larry didn't fight him for it.

 

"Thank you," Larry said very softly, and Charlie nodded.

 

"You're welcome. And no, I probably won't."

 

He headed down the hallway, and Larry walked at his side, head down, until they got to the elevators.

 

The doors closed and Charlie examined their reflection, somewhat warped in the curving metal interior. Larry was pressed into the far corner of the elevator, away from the buttons, and Charlie let him stay there.

 

The restaurant wasn't too crowded, and they got a table with a view of the parking lot. The waitress poured a cup of coffee for each of them, and Larry put in enough half and halfs to turn it a pale cream. Charlie drank his black, burning his tongue at the first sip. Larry sat opposite him, and when he leaned forward to get a sugar packet, their knees bumped under the table.

 

"Sorry."

 

Charlie sighed, looking at the menu and settling on an omelet, and when the waitress returned, he ordered and Larry ordered a bowl of grits.

 

"Grits?"

 

"What's wrong with grits?"

 

"Nothing. I've just never seen anybody order them before."

 

"Well I'm always happy to broaden your horizons, Charles."

 

"I'm not going to read into that."

 

Larry frowned and stirred his coffee, which didn't really need stirring. "No, I don't imagine you will."

 

"When are you coming back?"

 

Larry finally looked up at him. "I—I really don't—"

 

Charlie reached across the table and put his hand on Larry's arm, and Larry flinched.

 

"Inevitable," Charlie reminded him, and Larry sank lower in his seat, so that their knees bumped again.

 

"I suppose you do still owe me a trip to the observatory."

 

"I was actually expecting to take someone who didn't know anything."

 

"Charles, it's a fool who looks up at the vast expanse of stars and believes he knows his place in the universe."

 

"Who said that?" Charlie asked.

 

Larry blinked. "I did. Didn't I?"

 

"Yes. Yes you did," Charlie agreed, and something in his chest eased up a bit, as Larry picked up his coffee cup and blew across the top of it, taking a sip and sliding down further, which Charlie really didn't think was possible without Larry ending up under the table.

 

"I can drive you to the airport after breakfast," Charlie volunteered, thinking that would mean at least another couple of hours with him.

 

"I would like to get to the airport in one piece, Charles."

"I got my license back, Larry."

 

Larry nodded. "I do recall your mentioning that, yes. Though whether you deserve it is still an open question."

 

The food arrived just then, and they settled in to eat. Getting through half his omelet, Charlie picked up his spoon and reached across the table to Larry's bowl and scooped up some grits and ate them, deciding that they weren't horrible.

 

Larry pretended to ignore him, and so he did it again, though this time Larry's spoon came down on his own, pinning it to the bowl.

 

"I'll try to get down here at the end of next month, Charles, but I make no guarantees. And please leave my grits alone."

 

"I'm definitely going to miss you."

 

Larry rolled his eyes. "You won't. We'll email."

 

"I'll miss sex," Charlie clarified, possibly a little too loudly, as Larry winced.

 

"Charles, I…."

 

"Are you saying you won't?"

 

Larry hid behind his coffee mug, or tried to, finally resting it against his forehead like a hot compress. "I can probably manage a short visit in two weeks."

 

"You can stay at my house."

 

"At your father's house?"

 

"Well, yes. Did I mention he thinks he's selling it to some stranger and moving to an apartment?"

 

"He thinks he is?"

 

Charlie grinned. "We'll see."

 

"Oh, you're not." Larry sounded outraged.

 

"It's already in the works, and I'm paying the market price."

 

"Well, I suppose I should offer my congratulations to a fellow homeowner, and my condolences to your father, who I suppose will be staying on with you?"

 

"He's free to move out to that apartment."

 

"But you don't expect he will," Larry guessed, and Charlie realized that he must have told Larry more about his family over email than he'd intended to, and that should have told him something about the nature of their relationship, had he been paying attention.

 

"I gave due consideration to everyone's interests," Charlie said, ignoring Larry's skepticism.

 

He didn't bother to add that it was probably a good thing as it meant that he and Larry wouldn't have to make any decisions about cohabitation. At least not yet. In a few years, it was possible that he could give the house back to his father and move in with Larry. Or maybe Don would want it, assuming that Don ever got married, which was not looking terribly likely at this point.

 

Of course, he realized that planning out the future on the basis of a single date and a few hundred work-related emails was quite probably insane, but when he looked at Larry now it was impossible to imagine an alternative ending that made any more sense, and in retrospect, he was beginning to think that perhaps it wasn't destiny at all, but something more along the lines of a fixed set of rules defining, rather than determining, a more or less likely outcome. Emergence theory was useful in unexpected ways. Skeuomorphs, for instance….

 

"What are you thinking that's put that silly grin on your face?" Larry asked, and Charlie shook his head, unable to stop grinning.

 

"Just thinking about skeuomorphs," he offered, and Larry's eyebrows raised.

 

"Now that's interesting, Charles, because I was just telling someone the other day that, as alluring as biological metaphors are in designing AI, we really should be cautious about the wholesale application of them into evolutionary computing. Now who was that I was talking to?"

 

"That was me, Larry."

 

"Ah. And you're really convinced you'll miss me?"

 

"Every day, Larry. Every day."

 

 

"Dear Charles,

 

While I very much appreciate the photos you attached to your last missive, you might keep in mind the vulnerability of our servers to hackers who I suspect would very likely enjoy those photos as much as I, though I don't doubt they would share them far and wide, which may well not be what you had in mind. Though I really have no idea.

 

In light of your generosity it may seem churlish on my part to inquire whether you've made any progress on the work we discussed last week. I assume the photo of you working at the blackboards in the nude was a candid shot and therefore indicative of your dedication to the task? Was that shot in the garage, by the way? Because I believe I saw goosebumps on your skin. Keep an eye out for a package delivery from Princeton. I am sending you a robe.

 

Yours,

Frank Langer."

 

 

 

"Dear Charles,

 

Your theory that mathematicians may be more likely to engage in risk-taking behaviours is intriguing, though would caution you that your sample size is rather small (and by that I am in no way referencing you personally, as I think we can both agree that, well, regardless….). I do agree that your anecdotal evidence is compelling, so far as it goes. Remind me next week to tell you about my own sordid past. And anticipating, here, your speculation, it has nothing at all to do with sex. Well, beyond the obvious connections between risk-taking and base arousal mechanisms.

 

Frank Langer

 

P.S. Did I happen to mention to you at any point that the name Langer comes from the Old German word "lang," which means "long"? (Of course, the surname was primarily referencing an extremely tall person, though one can read dimensions any number of ways that are not quite so ironic). Frank of course means honest."

 

 

"Dear Charles,

 

Yes, I do thank you very much for your suggestion as to where I might put my criticism of your latest insights into the field of combinatorics. Might I politely offer you a suggestion that you consider the possibility that you are, on occasion, wrong?

 

Sincerely,

 

F."

 

 

 

"Charles,

 

No.

 

And I do mean that.

 

FL."

 

 

 

"Professor Eppes,

 

Of course I'm not angry with you. I find your hubris to be absolutely charming—one of your finest qualities, in fact, as it makes working with you a continual challenge.

 

When I join the faculty at CalSci in worshipping at your feet, I very much look forward to the opportunity to convey these sentiments in person and to your face.

 

Professor Larry Fleinhardt,

Department of Astrophysical Sciences,

Princeton University."

 

 

 

"Has anyone ever pointed out to you before that 'child prodigy' is a descriptive of a stage in life that any accomplished scholar is expected, at some point before he turns thirty, to outgrow?

No—don't answer that. The question is entirely rhetorical.

 

P.S. Yes, I do miss the sex, which is irrelevant to this discussion."

 

 

 

"Dear Charles,

 

My flight gets in at nine p.m. tonight. I don't expect, nor do I particularly want, an escort from the airport to your house, which I believe I can find on my own, but thank you for the implication that I am both vague and inept. I appreciate the maps you sent on, but I would like to remind you that, in an emergency, I can find the North Star and a taxi.

 

And no—I refuse to get a cell phone, and yes, I realize that payphones are on the way out. But that in and of itself is by no means a compelling argument in favor of my carrying around a piece of technology that would make me available 24 hours a day to you or anyone else with designs on my ass.

 

—Larry."

 

 

The doorbell rang just after eleven p.m., and Charlie set down the book he'd been reading and got up, wiping his hands on his thighs because they were sweating. He looked out the peephole and saw Larry there, wearing a reasonably subdued and slightly wrinkled green shirt, jeans, and those white sneakers. His suitcase was beside him and he was frowning and biting his thumbnail, looking incredibly unhappy.

 

Charlie leaned back against the door a moment and took a few deep breaths before opening it.

 

"Hi."

 

Larry blinked at him and for a moment, they just stood there awkwardly, and Charlie wondered if this was a mistake. They'd been at odds with each other since Larry returned to Princeton, their emails becoming more and more abrupt, more work-centered, and an entire week had passed with Larry refusing to answer his emails at all. After that, he'd half-expected Larry to write and say he wasn't coming, but instead Larry was here, just as he said he'd be.

 

"Charles, I—"

 

"Come in," Charlie said, stepping aside for Larry, who picked up his bag and stepped into the house. "How was your trip?"

 

"Tiring. You have a very lovely home, Charles. I've always had a weakness for Craftsman architecture." Larry walked around the room, looking at the photographs in the picture frames, touching the woodwork and the furniture, and Charlie shivered because it felt so strange to have him in the house. He'd thought about what it might be like to have Larry here, had even indulged in a little fantasy of Larry moving in with him, but there was something unsettling about seeing Larry—Frank—staring at a photograph of Charlie's mother.

 

"You look like her," Larry said, very softly, and Charlie swallowed, hard.

 

"Yeah. I guess."

 

"She was very beautiful."

 

And Larry turned around and tipped his head to the side, and Charlie felt himself become the object of Larry's curiosity, which felt somehow more comfortable—more familiar.

 

Charlie looked at the staircase, wondering if Dad was asleep yet. "We can… let me show you to the guest room," he offered, and reached down and took Larry's bag, glancing at Larry to see if there was going to be another fight over it. But Larry just nodded and waved his hand.

 

"Thank you. It was a very unpleasant trip. Turbulence, and then a mix-up at the baggage claim. I really can't imagine why it's so difficult to coordinate air traffic through a major hub."

 

Larry followed him to the guest room, keeping up a litany of complaints about the poorly designed systems and the half-assed programmers who designed them. Charlie did not mention that he knew a few of those half-assed programmers.

 

"But you got here in one piece, and that's what's important."

 

"Charles, now that is debatable." Larry yawned and leaned on the door to the guestroom, looking at the bed, and then at Charles. "This looks comfortable."

 

"I thought about turning it into another office, but Mom always insisted we needed a guest room, just in case."

 

"Well, I can't fault her logic."

 

Charlie nodded and set the bag down beside the bed, and Larry came into the room, stopping beside him and standing very, very close.

 

"I missed you, Charles. A tremendous amount, in fact. I really had no idea."

 

"You mean the sex?" Charlie asked, and a small smile passed over Larry's face, along with a few hundred other expressions that Charlie couldn't identify.

 

"Oh, very much," Larry agreed. "Are we alone?"

 

"In this room we are."

 

Larry glanced at the door and then shut it, coming back to him, and again just standing there, staring at him.

 

And then Larry put a hand up and touched Charlie's face, moving his hair back behind his ear.

 

"Larry, did we argue like this before we met?" Charlie asked, because it had been worrying him. He'd looked through his old emails, but couldn't get enough distance to be able to tell.

 

"I think we did argue, yes, though perhaps you didn't take it as seriously, because—"

 

Charlie nodded, leaning into Larry's hand. "Because I didn't take you very seriously. People don't usually tell me I'm wrong," Charlie admitted, knowing how awful that sounded.

 

"Well, if it's any consolation, Charles, your mistakes are unusually interesting and rarely simple to identify. It's your pigheaded refusal to admit you've made them that bothers me."

 

Charlie laughed. "Yes, that makes me feel better. Much."

 

"Hmm. I think I know what will make you feel much better." Larry's other hand came up and held onto the back of Charlie's head, drawing him closer, and then Larry kissed him, the softest of kisses that did feel much, much better than arguing.

 

Citrus, Charlie noticed again, inhaling deeply, the scent having associations that had nothing at all to do with Larry's online bitching, and that made him almost instantly hard. But Larry pulled away from him, resting their foreheads together.

 

"So are we going to keep arguing?" Charlie asked, pretty much anticipating Larry's answer but needing to hear it anyway.

 

"Absolutely, yes, and I'm sure our work will be the better for it."

 

"I'm not worried about the work," Charlie argued, leaning in for another kiss, this time letting it last longer, liking very much the way that Larry's hands tangled in his hair, even though it pulled a little. "I'm worried about us. This," Charlie added, taking a breath.

 

"We'll be fine," Larry said, moving them both onto the bed. "This is… this is separate."

 

Charlie shook his head. "No. It really isn't."

 

And Larry sighed. "Well it damn well should be. Pavel Sergeevich Aleksandrov and Andrei Nikolaevich Kolmogorov are a case in point."

"Kolmogorov—he worked on Markov processes and Lebesgue measure theory on the axiomatic foundations of probability."

 

"Yes," Larry nodded, "And he helped develop the Kolmogorov turbulence model. But more important at the moment is that he lived with Aleksandrov in Soviet Russia for over fifty years."

 

"Hmm. As lovers?"

 

Larry frowned. "Yes. And I'm sure they must have argued."

 

"That's… reassuring," Charlie said, kissing Larry's frown off his face while unbuttoning his shirt. Larry wasn't wearing an undershirt, and Charlie sighed as he came into contact with bare skin.

"I think so, yes. Oh. That's…."

 

Charlie ran his fingernails across Larry's chest again, pinching one nipple on his way down to unzip Larry's jeans.

 

"So, Mr. Langer...." Charlie rubbed his hand against the erection pressing against Larry's boxers, then reached inside to run a fingertip down the curving length of him.

 

"Hmmm. What?"

 

"Exactly how much did Kolmogorov pay for Aleksandrov?"

 

Larry inhaled and shook his head as if to clear it. "Adjusted for inflation, and converted from rubles to dollars… I really have no idea."

 

Charlie laughed and tugged Larry's jeans over his hips, getting down on his knees.

 

"Welcome home, Larry. I'm very glad you could come." And Charlie took Larry into his mouth, and Larry came.

 

 

 

Three days later, after Larry had returned to Princeton, Charlie received a four page email outlining the many and varied reasons that he was, once again, "fascinatingly wrong in so many ways that the mind boggles at how many years your errors went unnoticed," with a short, almost terse postscript that ended, "My frequent flyer miles are set to expire. Please advise. Love, Larry."

 

And he wrote back a five page email correcting Larry, in detail and with illustrations, pointing out that he was not so much wrong as misunderstood by someone who, quite clearly, failed to appreciate innovative ways of approaching common problems, and included his own postscript that read, "Have you ever had sex in an observatory? The correct answer is, 'No, but that sounds intriguing.' Please advise."

 

Larry's response was short and to the point. "No, but that sounds intriguing. I look forward to seeing your…. telescope. Love, Larry."

 

And that week, in the mail, Charlie received a check written out for five thousand dollars, and a note asking him to "donate to your charity of choice. Please advise if I am outbid. I can go as high as ten." The check was signed, "Larry Fleinhardt" but the note was signed, "Frank Langer," and Charlie laughed, deciding that Larry was right. They were going to be just fine.

 

 

The End.

 

 

 

 

Many thanks to Lucia, who encouraged me to write this even when I balked, and who made it an official "Numb3rs Crackfic Challenge," which I apparently couldn't resist. Sometimes the old stories still need writing. And thanks to Kate, who made me glad I stuck it out even during those moments when I wondered what the hell I thought I was doing.

—FIN—

 

© 2006

 

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