Convertible

By Miriam Heddy

 

 

"So…tell me again why you're still encouraging me to date Amita?" Charlie set down the now empty beer on the rail, noticing it made a neat line beside the others, his and Larry's nearly indistinguishable but for the small amount Larry always left at the bottom of every bottle.

 

"Was I?" Larry looked down at the table, seeming to study it, though they had just finished the game and Charlie didn't think that either of them really wanted another. His own eyes were getting a little heavy from the beer, and his arm was starting to get loose and unpredictable. Larry, strangely enough, seemed relatively steady, though he was topping the puck.

 

"So you don't think I should go out with Amita."

 

"Isn't the important question whether you think you should 'go out' with Amita?"

 

"I—oh, that's good. Deflecting. You should try that on the table."

 

Larry looked up sharply and frowned. "I very nearly beat you the last time."

 

"'Very nearly'? You lost by a pretty wide margin," Charlie corrected. Larry, he'd noticed, had a thing for the Triangle defense, which was probably his weakness right now, but he was getting better at controlling the puck's drift.

 

Larry sighed and put his hand flat over the top of the table, resting it just above the airflow and moving it around in a circle. "Balanced and unbalanced forces, Charles."

 

"Which means…?"

 

"Are you asking for my advice or my opinion?"

 

"Those are different things?"

 

"Yes, I think so."

 

"Both, then."

 

Larry nodded, letting the puck drift a bit and then hitting a fairly tricky cut-shot that Charlie didn't block. "It's sometimes difficult to change direction, wouldn't you agree? Relationships achieve something of a balance of forces, and expecting to change that without acknowledging all the other things that have changed as well, well…"

 

"Well?"

 

"Ah… I suppose the analogy needs some work. But consider… teachers and their students are actively discouraged from emotional entanglements because of the inherent power imbalance, and yet, perhaps it's that imbalance that actually attracts us."

 

"By which you mean me."

 

"I'm merely speculating. I can stop anytime, of course."

 

Charlie leaned against the side of the table, crossing his arms in front of him. "No. This is… interesting."

 

"Okay, then—again, and this is only speculation, psychology not being one of my subspecialties—"

 

"Really?"

 

Larry waved his hand dismissively and continued, "Unhelpful sarcasm. Are you sure you're interested?"

 

"Yes. I'm interested."

"Well, I have long suspected that Amita's attractiveness depends, at least in part, on her being both brilliant enough to understand higher mathematics while being in no position to threat —"

 

"I am not threatened by her."

 

"No, well, perhaps that was the wrong word then."

 

Charlie waited, but Larry didn't offer another word.

 

"I'm not threatened by her. Why would I be threatened by her?"

 

Larry still didn’t say anything, and Charlie leaned over and turned off the table, the silence making him aware of his own breathing.

 

"You're wrong."

 

"That's entirely possible. I often am."

 

"I don't actually have to be the smartest person in the room."

 

Larry cleared his throat and then grinned. "Well that's a very good thing, Charles, as that would be a lonely existence, for the both of us."

 

"Point taken." He nodded. "I'll admit that I'm competitive."

 

"Hmm. I hadn't noticed that about you. And I'd like to point out that it took four beers before you destroyed my lead and came to beat me by what was, in fact, a narrow margin, all things considered, and adjusted for the fact that this is, after all, your table, so you know its particular quirks better than I do. The same might be said for Amita. Not that she's a game. Or a table, for that matter. And I won't comment on the presence or absence of hot air in that relationship."

 

Charlie decided to ignore, for the moment, the fact that Larry didn't sound altogether sure that Amita wasn't a table. Did he know Amita's quirks, really? He knew what music she listened to, and the inclination of her head as she studied, and the way her hair fell across her neck just before she pushed it back. He even knew how she did math—what problems she was likely to solve, and what she could and couldn't see, each time, and how to teach her. But all that was…superficial, really. It didn't allow him to predict with any accuracy her response to his asking her out, or that the date itself would go so horribly. It didn't make it any easier to talk to her.

 

"I don't think I actually know her all that well—as well as I probably should."

 

"Ah, now that's part of the joy of dating, isn't it? Getting to know someone a bit at a time, with each revelation bringing with it both promise and danger. Will they disappoint us? Will we disappoint them?"

 

"I'm not sure I think that's all that much fun, Larry."

 

"Me neither." And Larry sighed deeply, leaning back against the table and staring up at the ceiling. Charlie noticed the line of his neck, then noticed he was noticing the line of Larry's neck as he swallowed the last of his beer. Charlie shut his eyes for a moment, wondering if maybe four beers in three hours were beyond the limits of reason. "Charles, it's entirely possible that courtship has been overly mythologized in the literature in order to compensate for what is, in the end, a convoluted process designed around the simplest of all goals."

 

"Marriage?"

 

Larry chuckled. "Oh, no. Well, I suppose there's that, and progeny. But I was thinking more immediately of orgasm just then."

 

Charlie shut his mouth and swallowed what he'd been about to say, finding his mouth had gone strangely dry. Larry was looking at him curiously, studying him the way that a moment ago he'd studied the ceiling and the table. Charlie thought about the way that Larry had touched the table just now, his hand gliding just above its surface, Larry probably imagining that, on some micro-cellular level, he could feel every nuance of it, the slopes and angles that determined the glide, the friction that generated a small but very real heat.

 

"I—what were we talking about again?"

 

He'd somehow walked over to Larry while he was thinking, because he was suddenly close enough that he noticed the cushion of air between them being displaced as he stepped even closer, and could feel the susurration of humid air as Larry spoke.

 

"Whatever are you doing, Charles?"

 

"I—is this alright?"

 

"Your beating me at air hockey? I suppose my pride in my numerous other accomplishments will eventually salve the wounds inflicted upon my masculinity tonight."

 

"I—no. I mean—I—" He stepped back, giving his head a good shake, which did nothing to clarify his thinking but at least the dizziness was a distraction from the vertigo of almost… almost kissing Larry Fleinhardt. And that would've been really embarrassing, as Larry clearly had no idea he'd been even thinking about that. Because it was pretty ridiculous. Kissing Larry?

 

He laughed.

 

"What?" Larry asked, smiling softly.

 

"Nothing. It was stupid."

 

"Oh. I see."

 

Charlie could see that he didn't, and was really glad of that, because really, he didn't understand the impulse either. It wasn't as if he was normally even attracted to Larry. Not that way. Not that Larry was unattractive, really. He had a nice smile, and an expressive face. And okay, now that he was looking at his face again, it was hard to erase the surreal image of reaching out and pulling Larry closer and kissing him.

 

Larry smelled good—like beer and sweat and soap, familiar and very male—nothing at all like Amita. But attractive nonetheless.

 

"I think I'm a little drunk."

 

"I don’t doubt that. I'm none too sober myself, I imagine. I don't think I'll be driving home tonight."

 

"Not without seatbelts," Charlie agreed.

 

"That again? What's life without risk, I ask you!"

 

"Megan likes your car. I think—"

 

"What?"

 

"I think she likes you," Charlie said, remembering the strangely cautious way Megan had smiled at Larry and asked to ride in his car. There was something there.

 

"Me? No. No. I actually think she likes you. In fact, I was going to suggest…."

 

"What?"

 

"Well, only that given your predilection for women who are both brighter than average yet also your mathematical inferiors…"

 

"I'm insulted."

 

"Only because you suspect I might be right."

 

Charlie set his mallet down on the table harder than he intended to. "Only because I know you're wrong. You have no idea what I pred—what I want."

 

"Alright, what do you want?"

 

Charlie grinned. "I want to drive your car."

 

"My—" Larry laughed. "You're in no condition to drive my car, and even if you were, you don't—"

 

But Charlie was already headed out of the garage and into the driveway, hearing Larry just behind him, protesting as Charlie opened the unlocked door and slid in behind the wheel.

 

"You don't even have the keys."

 

Charlie leaned back against the leather seat, which was surprisingly hard. The wheel felt large and strange, the design significantly different from anything he'd ever gripped before. No airbags, no built-in horn, no power steering. It was simple and direct, the origin of the wheel before it became too cluttered—just the pure perfection of a circle, the bisection of the spokes. "'sokay, Larry. I'm not really going anywhere with this."

 

"Oh. Then I suppose I'll join you." And Larry got into the passenger seat and looked around with some interest, caressing the Ford's dashboard as he had the table.

 

"You should teach me how to drive stick." Charlie put his hand on the stick and wondered how fast the car could actually go, if you really pushed it.

 

"In this classic automobile? You'd ruin the transmission, and you have yet to demonstrate you know the meaning of the phrase 'speed limit.'"

 

"I can go slow, Larry. I just sometimes choose not to. But it's not built for function anyway, so, aesthetically speaking —you ever parked?" He looked over at Larry, who was suddenly studying his own hands, and Charlie belatedly realized what that sounded like. "I—we're not—that's not—I mean, obviously, that's not what we're doing here."

 

"And just what are we doing here?" Larry's voice was so quiet, Charlie could almost pretend he hadn't heard the question.

 

"I—I—" And he really didn't know the answer to that one, so he stopped talking.

 

For a few minutes, they sat in a silence which was oddly enough not all that awkward, all things considered, though it was by no means comfortable. That date with Amita was his new benchmark on painful silence.

 

"I'm open to your thoughts," Charlie admitted finally, uneasy, because all the lights in the house were off, which meant that his father was definitely asleep, and the impulse that had led him to get in the car wasn't really telling him how to get out of it.

 

"I think…" Larry blinked and rubbed his hands over his cheeks. "I think we should slow down."

 

"We're at a dead stop, Larry. Besides, what's life without risk?" And Charlie really wasn't sure who he was trying to convince now.

 

"Charles, I—I'm afraid you're operating under the influence of—"

 

"Alcohol?"

 

"I was going to say desperation."

 

"What's your excuse?"

 

Larry blinked at him again, and almost smiled, then did—the shy smile that he supposed was one of Larry's best quirks. There was nothing superficial about it.

 

He put his hand on Larry's shoulder, letting it slide up to his collar and then around his neck, pulling him in closer, trying to remember if it had felt this weird the first time he did this, though the first time he did this, there was a parking brake in his way, and the sixteen-year-old girl beside him was in the driver's seat and had sort of climbed on top of him before he could figure out what to do with his hands. Bench seats were a wonderful thing. So was not having to worry about unhooking a bra. He was really starting to see the appeal of an old car.

 

Larry tipped his head to the side as he had earlier, his eyes widening a little and then closing, his mouth open just a bit, giving Charlie permission to continue, to press his mouth there against Larry's, just a small gesture, a test, really.

 

And Larry kissed him back, tentatively, at first, and then Larry's own hands were on Charlie's body, just touching and rubbing, not aimlessly, exactly, but as if this was exactly what Larry wanted to do, because in the midst of these seemingly random touches, Larry's hand would brush across his lap, and couldn't help but thrust upward into Larry's hand, moaning into his mouth.

 

He reached down and unbuttoned his own jeans, struggling to unzip them and needing to arch up off the seat because they'd gotten very tight.

 

He looked at Larry, who was watching him undo his pants, and he blushed, because this was Larry reaching down and putting his hand inside Charlie's boxers, reaching inside and gripping him hard enough to make him thrust up again and gasp.

 

And then Larry was leaning over him and Charlie shook his head, no, because this was going too far—this was in public, in the driveway —but—Larry's tongue was hot and rough against the head of his dick, and he couldn't say no without saying yes instead.

 

"Larry, that's—oh. My. The top—the top —"

 

"Hmm," Larry said, the small vibration of his lips sending a shiver down Charlie's spine. Charlie put his hand on the back of Larry's neck, wanting to hold him there.

 

But Larry sat up again, and kissed him on the mouth, tasting salty and bitter and underneath that, sweet, and Charlie managed to focus enough to find Larry's zipper and pull it down, grasping Larry's penis in his sweaty fist. This was a new thing, on many inter-related levels that he couldn't avoid thinking about, though it was hard to think at all clearly with Larry doing what he was doing.

 

And then Larry whispered against the side of his neck, "If I had you on a bed, I'd finish you with my mouth."

 

"Faster," he answered, and then it was all a blur.

 

"The top is down," he said when he managed to catch his breath.

 

Larry looked up at the night sky, as if he was surprised to still see it there. "Very romantic, isn't it?"

 

"Unless my father happened to look out the window and down, yes, I suppose it is." The orgasmic buzz was starting to wear off and he was torn between a numb, happy glow and blind panic.

 

"Now that's a point you could have made earlier." But Larry didn't look very concerned.

 

"You didn't notice?"

 

"I had other things on my mind," Larry shot back, looking only a little chastened. Then he smiled again. "This really is a wonderful car, isn't it?"

 

"It's great, Larry. Really. I'm sure this is exactly what Ford had in mind." Charlie leaned back and tucked himself back in, wincing at the damp reminder of how great it had been. He debated reaching over and doing the same for Larry, whose shirt tails were at least covering him up, and decided against it.

 

This time, the silence was a little awkward. Should he invite Larry back inside? Did he really have a choice? It wasn't that he didn't want to be polite, or that he wanted to encourage driving under the influence, but that meant Larry sleeping over, and that meant breakfast with his father, and with his luck, Don would come over, too, because Dad usually made a big meal on Sundays. Of course, Larry usually came over for that whether he'd slept over or not.

 

"Larry?"

 

"Hmm?" Larry blinked at him sleepily, and Charlie reached over and patted him on the top of his hand, then gave in and took it in his own. It was nice, holding hands, though he couldn't help but notice it was a little sticky.

 

"We didn't even talk about work."

 

"Did you want to talk about work?"

 

"No, I just—why is it so hard to spend time with her and so easy to spend time with you?"

 

"Do you really want me to answer that?"

 

Larry's voice had gone hard and Charlie saw him reach for the door handle.

 

"Wait. I'm sorry. I didn't mean that—I don't regret this, or—I'm just trying to understand."

 

But Larry got out of the car and shut the door with a quiet sound that was oddly final. "When you do…."

 

"Larry—"

 

But Larry was walking around the car to the driver's side and opened the door, gesturing for Charlie to get out. Charlie did, but made Larry push past him to get behind the wheel. "I'll drive myself home now, I think."

 

"Are you—"

 

"Yes, I'll take the proper precautions, stop at all the stop signs, and avoid attracting attention to the semen stains on the windshield."

 

Charlie looked at the windshield and saw that yes, there actually were a few spots there. He didn't know how to feel about that. Instead, he looked back at Larry, suddenly realizing how he felt about that. "I love—"

 

Larry shut the door quietly and looked up at him with something like a warning in his eyes.

 

"I love the car, Larry," he said, and Larry nodded, looking relieved.

 

"The feeling's mutual, Charles. Good night. I'll see you tomorrow."

 

Charlie looked at Larry's wrist. "Tomorrow being Monday?"

 

Larry shifted in his seat uncomfortably and then shook his head, and Charlie looked away as Larry zipped himself back up, looking back again as Larry started the ignition.

 

"Alan will be expecting me for brunch. We'll just say…y'know, I'm not sure I've ever actually lied to your father. Though now would probably be an ideal time to start."

 

"No—it's okay. You're right. You should be here."

 

"I don't know if that's an entirely good—"

 

"I want you to come," Charlie insisted, and Larry leaned out the car's open window and again offered him that shy smile that now made Charlie shiver in a way it never had before.

 

"Yes, I do believe you do, Charles."

 

Charlie reached out and put his hand on Larry's arm, then leaned in and kissed Larry on the cheek, catching just the edge of his mouth as Larry turned his head at the last moment. And instead of it ending there, the kiss turned into something real again, and when Charlie pulled back, Larry's expression was thoughtful.

 

"Good night, Charles."

 

"Good night, Larry."

 

Then Larry pulled away, offering him a little half-wave as he backed out the driveway, looking over his shoulder as he eased the car onto the street.

 

Charlie turned toward the house but didn't go in right away, instead looking up at the sky, seeing a cold expanse of airless space dotted with spots of concentrated heat that raised more questions than Larry could ever answer in one lifetime. And somewhere in all of that, maybe if he squinted, romance. He shut his eyes and sighed. It was pointless to even try.

 

He was never going to fall asleep tonight.

 

It only took him ten minutes of walking the familiar route before he found Larry, who had pulled off the street and into a bank parking lot, and was sitting there, engine idling, staring up at the same sky.

 

The End.

 

 

Feed the Muse.

Thanks again to Kate, whose interlinear commentary continues to make me want to write more and better.