"In a good way," Don added, suddenly, and Charlie nodded, not entirely sure that was true.

 

---

 

 

He slept uneasily that night, holding onto the cell phone Don had given him, which had Don's number and Alan's home number (which was also his home, apparently) and Professor Fleinhardt's number, but not, he noticed, Ms. Ramajuan's number, which told him that Don had programmed it. Of course, it wasn't really his phone; his phone was lost somewhere along with his wallet, and he was glad he hadn't had his laptop with him at the time, or it might have disappeared as well. But he hadn't opened the laptop up yet, not sure why he hadn't, but he was just too tired to face the possibility that none of it would make sense to him—that he might have lost the "applied" part of his life as well as his identity, though he suspected he hadn't, as he'd been surrounded by a steady stream of equations since, well, since he came to be where he was, whoever that was. But he was a math freak, that much was clear, and he wondered how it was even possible to remember the math and forget who he was. Wasn't the math who he was? Wasn't that the thing that defined him—the first thing Don had told him about himself, apart from his family? He wasn't married, had no children, nobody in his life but his family and one colleague and a former student, who might've come by just because she was in a meeting with Professor Fleinhardt, or because she was his girlfriend, or…something.

 

If he remembered the math, and he suspected that he did remember it, what part of him had he forgotten, and more important, perhaps, why?

 

Hours before dawn, when the hospital's noises were strangely muted but still present, continuous, and oppressive, too loud to be white noise, but too soft and blurred to follow, he sat up in bed and considered the laptop again, but still didn't open it. Instead, he flipped open the phone and called Professor Fleinhardt—who was listed under "Larry" in the phone's very short list of programmed numbers. He paused to wonder whether his own phone's list was any longer, or if the few people who'd come to visit him today were everyone who mattered to him, and if that was a good or a bad thing. Did he actually have any friends outside of work? Was this group of four people basically his life?

 

At least it meant he had slightly less to catch-up on. Fewer people to get to know.

 

And as he listened to the phone ring, he realized he had no idea what he was planning to say to a man who, while a colleague, must also be a friend. At least he hoped he was, given that Charlie was waking him up in the middle of the night for no apparent reason.

 

"Hello? Charles, is that you?"

 

"Larry?" he asked, though he knew it was, since he'd done the dialing.

 

"Charles, is everything all right? No, of course it isn't. Nevermind, I'm more than half-asleep, obviously. You're still at the hospital, I assume?" The man's voice was a little lower than he remembered, a little rough from sleep, but still warm somehow, still pleasant, if not familiar.

 

"Yes," he answered, whispering, though he wasn’t sure why. The bed next to him had been empty since he'd gotten here, and the nurses had been by a half hour ago to check on him, and wouldn't likely be back for at least a little while. He felt vaguely guilty about using his cell, wondering suddenly if someone's monitors were being interrupted, but he couldn't bring himself to hang up just yet. He wondered why he hadn't called Alan.

 

He wondered if he'd ever felt so alone before in his life.

 

"Charles, should I come to the hospital?"

 

"No—no, I just—I don't know why I called, actually," he admitted, and he heard Larry nod over the line, not sure why he was sure Larry was nodding. "I'm fine."

 

"A relative assessment, I'm sure," Larry said softly, some humor in his voice, and Charlie laughed suddenly.

 

"I don't know why I have this insane urge to reassure everyone."

 

"You're a fine person, Charles."

 

"Am I?"

 

"Yes," Larry said, in a voice that brooked no argument. Charlie was suddenly glad he'd called.

 

"Why don't you call me Charlie?" he asked, getting to another of his growing list of questions.

 

For a moment, there was quiet on the line, and Charlie wondered if they'd been disconnected, but then Larry spoke. "I really have no idea. Is that a request? Would you prefer it if I called you Charlie? I think I sometimes do, actually, though Charles seems to be my default setting."

 

"Y—" Charlie started to say yes, but then realized that he didn't actually know what he preferred. And logically, if Larry was still calling him "Charles," he must not mind, or he would have said something. Unless he was the sort of person not to say anything. "Have I ever said I'd prefer Charlie?"

 

"I don't think you have, no. Though I can't guarantee that if you had, I would have called you that. I'd probably have tried, though, I suppose."

 

"Then never-mind. Charles is fine. What, um, what do I usually call you?"

 

And again, a silence, though this time, Charlie knew the other man was thinking.

 

"That depends on where we are," he answered at last.

 

"Okay." So at work, he probably called him Professor Fleinhardt. But did he see him anywhere but at work? Well, anyplace other than at the hospital? "Larry?"

 

"Hmm?"

 

"So Larry's okay?"

 

"Yes, it's… it's fine, Charles." Charlie heard Larry sigh and suddenly realized he'd essentially woken the man up to reintroduce himself, which was sort of insensitive, not to mention strange.

 

"Sorry—it's really late."

 

"Or early," Larry answered. "Depending on your perspective."

 

"Sorry."

 

"No—don't apologize. I'm… I'm glad you called. Our visit today was a good deal shorter than I'd expected it to be, and there were things I didn't—"

 

"Yeah. Sorry. Family only. Do I usually… I don't—So I'm really a college professor?"

 

"Yes. Is that what's troubling you at this hour of the night?"

 

"No—it's just strange. I thought—it makes sense. I have these equations in my head, buzzing around."

 

"I'm sure that's a good sign. Well, though the buzzing—that doesn't sound at all pleasant. Do they always buzz? No—I suppose you can't answer that, can you."

 

"No, I guess I can't. Do I—this is strange. Is this strange?"

 

"Are you asking about your calling me? Or my not making sense in the middle of the night, because the latter is—well I suppose that's another thing you can ask yourself when you get your memory back, though by then I suppose it might not matter very much. As for the first thing, there's nothing really usual about this situation, though I suppose the answer you're looking for is sometimes, yes, we do talk late at night, though I don't think I usually remember much about it by morning. We—"

 

"I just—it's strange here."

 

"Are you sure you don't want me to come to the hospital, Charles?"

 

"No—no, I'm—I'm getting out of here tomorrow. Today. Later today. It's okay."

 

"It's most certainly not okay, as I think we already established, but I will come by the house tomorrow and we can talk then, Charles."

 

"Um… okay. That'd be…good."

 

A longer pause, though this time, Charlie could hear Larry breathing on the line. "Did you have any other questions, Charles? Because I think I'm actually awake enough now to answer them."

 

"I—no. Look, I'm sorry I called so late. So early. Do you—is something—they said that—the doctor said—this is usually triggered by some sort of… trauma. Traumatic event. Did something—is there something I should—

 

"Charles, trust me when I tell you that if I had any idea what's caused this, I would tell you, though I suppose that whatever it is, it's something you'd rather not know about, or you already do know it, which suggests that if I knew, it might be just as well that I not tell you and let you discover it for yourself in your own time. Though again, I honestly have no idea, so it's all speculation on my part at this point."

 

"Okay. Yes. That makes sense. An amazing amount of sense, considering it's four in the morning and I'm not sure what you just said."

 

And he heard Larry yawn over the line, and found that, for the first time in two days, the sense that there was an invisible barrier between himself and the world was gone, and the only barrier between them was the ordinary one of space. He wondered where Larry lived, and how far away it was, and how long it would take him to get to the hospital, even though he knew he wasn't going to ask that he do that.

 

"We're friends," he said, instead, trying not to make that a question.

 

"Yes, yes, we definitely are that, Charles. In fact, we—"

 

"I'm glad. I'm glad I called. And I'm sorry that I woke you, but I—"

 

"Don't apologize, Charles. You—it's good to hear your voice. You really have—no, you have no idea."

 

"Do I sound like myself--still?"

 

"Now that's a question I can't even begin to answer at four in the morning, Charles. Though the simple answer is that you do, of course."

 

"You're not just saying that."

 

"Go to sleep, Charles."

 

"I—alright. You'll come by tomorrow?"

 

"Yes. That's a promise."

 

"Okay. Not that I could hold you to it. I don't even know where you live."

 

"The corner of North Hill Avenue and East Mountain Street, in Pasadena, near McDonald Park. It's a Victorian, lovingly restored, by me, I might add."

 

"That sounds… nice," Charlie said, though he wondered if he cared about Victorian houses in his other life. "So, um, have I ever mentioned that you'd be a good candidate for making a mountain out of a molehill?"

 

On the other end of the line, Larry groaned. "At this moment, I do wish amnesia was contagious, Charles, as I'd very much like to forget you just said that."

 

"Sorry." But he wasn't, actually. He felt strangely happy. Free. "Goodnight, Larry."

 

"Goodnight, Charles. I l—I'll see you tomorrow."

 

And with that, Larry hung up, and Charlie at last shut his eyes and fell asleep.

 

---

 

 

The morning brought several nurses, the attending, then the psychiatrist, who had virtually nothing to say—but spent a bit of time listening. In the interest of getting out, Charlie was as honest as he could be, talking about how it had felt to see his family--in sum, strange, but they seemed nice--and his colleagues--again, strange, especially finding out he was a math freak, though he used the word "prodigy"--and didn't mention that he called Larry in the middle of the night and thought he might want to sleep with him, if Larry was into casual sex with a complete stranger.

 

Because Charles Eppes apparently was.

 

Though it might have been just Larry.

 

The psychiatrist nodded a few times then wrote something in his chart, telling him not to worry, that it could take time, that he shouldn't pressure himself to remember, but that he might find himself recalling things a bit at a time, and he should write those things down, but not worry too much. Charlie wondered whether worry might be a rational response at this point, but again, didn't argue. And finally, they let his father and brother in, and he signed his release papers, stopping a moment with the pen in his hand and wondering if he knew how to write his own name. He had no identification to copy, and so did the best he could, trying not to think about it and just writing it, though it felt like he was forging papers, and his hand shook a little as he finished signing.

 

The comfort of Larry's presence over the phone was, not to put too fine a point on it, a distant memory at this point. And it wasn't afternoon anymore but early evening, the whole getting out of the hospital taking far longer than it should, so that he wondered, now, if Larry was going to come over at all. By the time he got "home" with these people, it would be dinnertime, and it wouldn't be appropriate to duck out to Larry's house. His father would of course want him to stay in, and play another round of Twenty Questions (and he had those, written down, in fact, during the endless time when there was nothing to do but avoid opening his laptop and watch Jeopardy, which he was ridiculously good at, actually, considering that he couldn't remember his own address.)

 

"All set? You've got everything, Charlie?"

 

"Me, my laptop, and a complimentary drafty robe. I think I'm all set."

 

Don chuckled, a bit too heartily, and Charlie rolled his eyes, then realized he'd done so and that Don had seen him do it. Don looked startled for a minute, then clapped him on the arm, another of those manly expressions of manliness that made Charlie want to roll his eyes again.

 

They walked to the car in near silence, Alan's hand on his arm steering him to it, and into the front passenger seat. He looked out the window during the ride, feeling like a tourist. The laptop case weighed more than it should, and he started to wonder whether it contained the trauma, which was a good reason to open it. There was always the possibility that whatever it was that triggered this was right there, waiting for him, which was an equally good reason not to open it.

 

He glanced in the rearview mirror, seeing Don there, looking anxious but smiling at him when he caught his eye. Amnesia-inducing computer files or small-talk about the weather with the Fed in the backseat. None of these were particularly good choices, and both felt potentially traumatic. Charlie pulled the laptop out of the bag and opened it.

 

But the laptop didn’t speak to him at all. He clicked through and saw a variety of files that appeared to be work-related, all nicely organized, which was good to know. There was quite a bit of password protecting, which he wasn't even going to bother with, at this point, because there was also some accessible stuff to look through. There was a separate folder marked "Larry" that appeared to have mathematical work that he recognized, or could make some sense of, though the context was a blank. It was like reading the middle few pages of a book, not knowing the genre or the author. He could make educated guesses, but he realized it would take him awhile to reconstruct the reasons behind the equations, and he would probably need Larry to do it.

Not that that was a bad thing.

 

He opened his email program, seeing less organization, a huge "inbox," and separate folders marked "students" and "advising" and "Committees" (with several subfolders) and "Amita" and "Larry" and "Dad" and "Don" and "Stuff"—the last being the largest. He considered looking at the family ones, then felt weird about that, because what was he trying to find out? If they were nice? And what if he found a nasty email from Don? Was he in any condition to respond to that? No, at this point, it was probably best to go with first impressions and hope he was a good judge of character, because "Dad" (who he was going to have to stop thinking of as "Alan") seemed like a good person, and Don seemed… well, he didn't dislike him, anyway. Amita… he almost opened that one, but didn't.

 

He opened up "Larry" first. It seemed fitting, somehow.

 

The most recent email was like the files he'd opened—in media res referencing of things that made no sense, with no introduction or commentary—just the numbers—and he recognized enough of it to see it was work-related, had something to do with super symmetry, and at least part of it was…wrong? The equation Larry sent him was definitely wrong. He made a note of that, wondering how he could possibly know that. But it was like the buzzing in his head, background noise until something suddenly jumped out and demanded his attention. He saw Alan's sidelong look as he started typing, and then stopped, not wanting to have to explain it all, especially since the equation, while wrong in ways that made his head sort of ache, wasn’t traumatic, per se. Annoying, yes, but not traumatic. Not really what he was looking for.

 

Going back two emails, he almost dropped the laptop, catching it just as it hit his knees.

 

"Love, Larry."

 

He scrolled back up, realizing he hadn't actually read the email itself.

 

Again, his eyes settled on the signature and failed to track upwards. Still not tracking. And the buzzing had faded to background noise again.

 

"Remembering something there, Charlie?"

 

They'd stopped at a light, and his Dad leaned over, and Charlie tipped the monitor down so Alan couldn't see it. "No, not really," he said, hearing the crack in his voice. Was he a good or a bad liar, he wondered? Could he keep a secret like this? Had he kept a secret like this?

 

And why was he so sure it was a secret? Maybe it was a platonic "love" because they were… no. That made no sense at all.

 

"There's probably some stuff on there you can't access."

 

"Yeah, Don. I, um, noticed that." There was apparently a whole helluva lot he couldn't "access" at the moment.

 

"You do some consulting for the government. High security clearance stuff."

 

"That was what I figured," he said, though he hadn't actually given it a lot of thought. Still, it made sense. College professor, specialty in Applied Mathematics and, apparently, also Astrophysics. It made sense.

 

"Love, Larry" didn't make sense. Why the hell hadn't Larry said anything?

 

That question went right to the top of his list, above "Do I have any food allergies I should be aware of?"

 

"Here we are."

 

And Charlie looked at the house as they pulled in, not recognizing it at all, not even really seeing it, but suddenly seeing a different house—a vague flash that was there and gone so quickly, super-imposed on this one, that he almost didn’t notice it, and couldn't say what it had looked like, though he knew without a doubt it was at the corner of North Hill Avenue and East Mountain Street.

 

He blinked, focusing on the unfamiliar house that was there, shut the laptop, and got out of the car on unsteady legs, following Alan and Don to the front door. He was "home."

 

---

 

 

"Oh, Larry called earlier, while you were still with the doctors, and said he'd be by for dinner."

 

"He—he's coming to dinner?"

 

Alan looked at him strangely and then nodded, as if he'd forgotten that Charlie didn't know the ins and outs of his own life, much less his house, and wasn't actually even sure where the bathroom was, which was becoming a pressing issue, but not as pressing as this.

 

"He said he said he'd come by tonight. Is that okay? If it's too much, I'm sure he wouldn't mind coming over—"

 

The doorbell rang, and Charlie found the nearest chair and sat down in it. "No—it's… that's fine. I had some questions about some of the files I found—some… work."

 

Alan nodded, and walked to the door, and Charlie realized that Alan was a nice guy, having not asked him once if he remembered anything in the house (he didn't), and getting him a beer like it was something he always did, which Charlie drank slowly, having no real idea what his limit might be.

 

"Charles? Or should I say 'Charlie'?" Larry smiled at him tentatively, and Charlie debated whether to get up or not. The polite thing was to get up, say hello. The "you didn't happen to mention we were sleeping together" thing was to sit there and glare at Larry, meaningfully. Larry had on a black t-shirt and Charlie tried not to notice that he could see more of him than the last time, and that he still liked what he saw.

 

He got up and smiled at Larry, holding out his hand for Larry to shake. Larry glanced at it curiously and took it, and yes, held it just a little too long, though Alan didn't seem to notice anything. Don was in the bathroom upstairs, and Charlie heard, and took note of, the apparent location of the flushing sound, apparently near the back of the house.

 

"I'll be right back."

 

He gave Larry another wide grin and headed up the stairs, brushing shoulders with Don on the way up. "Larry's here for dinner," he said.

 

Don cocked his head to the side and headed down, calling back to him, "Yeah, he does that. Eats dinner."

 

In the bathroom, Charlie emptied his bladder, washed his hands, and took a second to reacquaint himself with his own face, testing out a few more expressions. He hadn't gotten anymore attractive since he'd left the hospital, though he had managed to shave before leaving, which was a relief, as the beard had been starting to itch. He was only slightly better looking without it, and tried on a grin, then stuck his tongue out for good measure. Now that was attractive. He could see why Larry was smitten. At least the clothes Alan brought him weren't bad. A blue t-shirt with an abstract design on the pocket and a faded pair of Gap jeans. He had better taste than he expected, for a math geek.

 

The man in the mirror smirked at him, not looking at all as smart as he was supposed to be.

 

He went downstairs, reluctant to face them again, but pretty sure he could not hide in the bathroom all day. On the way down the hall, he spotted what must be his bedroom, but didn't stop to look around, because Larry was downstairs.

 

"So—do I have any food allergies I should know about?" he asked, ignoring his anxiety and heading for the table, sitting down in the only available seat, glad he didn't have to figure that one out.

 

"Nothing here you can't eat, although you might—" Alan stopped.

 

"What?"

 

Don grinned, a real grin that Charlie decided he liked. "Don't tell him. Let's see if he likes it first."

 

"What?" he asked, looking at the table, trying to see what might turn out to be secretly disgusting. It all looked fine. Chicken, a big bowl of mashed potatoes that had a slight crust around the edge and was obviously cooked earlier and reheated. Gravy. Broccoli. Did he like broccoli? Did anyone really like broccoli?

 

The chicken was good, and he ate some and used that as an excuse not to say anything. But it turned out that he did not like the mashed potatoes. At all. It wasn't the taste. It was the texture. They were… buttery, smooth, sticking to his tongue and—he grabbed for his beer, washing them down.

 

"Oh, thanks very much for warning me. That was nice. Did I do something to you in my former life that you want to tell me about now?"

 

Don laughed. "You should have seen your face just now. That was—"

 

"I can't really fathom what it is you dislike about them, Charles, because they really are delicious," Larry broke in, and Charlie took another drink of his beer, noticing he was getting close to the bottom of it and wondering if he could risk having another, just to get through dinner with Larry without saying something stupid.

 

"They taste like papier mache glue."

 

"And he's tried papier mache glue," Don added, still laughing at him.

 

"In kindergarten, I think it was," Alan added.

 

"I'm assuming you fed it to me personally?" he asked, and Don nodded. "Nice. Very nice."

 

"Y'know, you should actually consider this an incentive to remember," Don said and Charlie set his beer down on the table harder than he meant to.

 

"I'm trying," he said, and Alan looked at Don, who looked at the table and shrugged.

 

"Your brother is actually right, Charles, though of course he meant that, in your current state, you'll need to be especially wary of being taken advantage of."

 

"Yes," he nodded, "I can see where that would be a concern. It would be very easy for someone to be selective in their truth-telling," he offered, speaking to Don and Alan and not looking at Larry at all, though he could peripherally see Larry's face—the way Larry opened his mouth, wrinkling his nose just a little, a look of surprise that was actually kind of cute, or would have been if Charlie wasn't currently pissed off at him.

 

"Precisely the point," Larry agreed, nodding slightly, gesturing with his fork. "The world is, as I'm sure you'll come to remember eventually, a complicated place," Larry added, and Charlie finally had to look at him, because he was in his line of sight, so it was getting a little hard to avoid, but right at that moment, Larry chose to look down at his mashed potatoes, his shoulders a little turned inward, possibly chastened.

 

Charlie lifted his fork and grimaced at the mashed potatoes still stuck to it, and got up to the kitchen, coming back with a clean fork. As he sat down, he realized that he hadn't needed to hunt around for one. He'd opened the right drawer on the first try.

 

"I know where the forks are," he said, and Don actually gasped. Alan just nodded and said, "Good. You can help with the dishes afterwards. You never do that, by the way, but I think this is something I should take advantage of. And who knows? You might actually find that you like doing the dishes."

 

---

 

 

Dinner was easy after that, as Larry hardly said anything at all other than asking Charlie to pass the bread, and if their hands brushed and lingered, nobody seemed to notice. Don got a little carried away telling him about the time he'd bought the house from Dad, and Charlie listened, trying to hear himself in the story, because this was his house.

 

After dinner, Don left to take a phone call, and Charlie followed Alan into the kitchen. He knew where the forks and knives were, which meant he actually did feel he had to help with the dishes, which, like the mashed potatoes, he really did not enjoy. Alan was quiet as they passed off pieces of silverware and dishes, and Charlie took each one as a personal test, mapping out the kitchen from memory (from memory!) and trying not to get too excited by that, because there was so much he didn't know.

 

"I was thinking about going to see Larry tomorrow," he said, hoping it sounded casual.

 

"Now that's a very good idea. I was going to suggest that. Who knows. Maybe you'll see your office and everything'll come flooding back."

 

"I—I meant his house, actually," he clarified, and Dad stopped, mid-motion, a plate in his hand. "When we pulled in, I think I… I think I saw it. Remembered it. Maybe." He shrugged, not wanting to make too much of it, and Alan nodded. "I'll go to CalSci afterwards. It'll be easier… fewer people. At Larry's place."

 

"Hmm. And the doctors—you'll be seeing them too, I imagine?"

 

"Tomorrow afternoon. I can probably—Larry can drive me over to the hospital." He suggested it, not even sure Larry had a car. Though he realized he'd heard Larry drive up, and this was California, and didn't everybody drive a car?

 

"So you want another beer?"

 

The last dish was put away, and Charlie considered that. "I—yeah, actually. I'm not—" He wasn't really feeling drunk, but he wasn't sure he was the best judge of that, given that he didn't remember what drunk felt like.

 

"I think you can handle two with dinner."

 

He took it, gratefully. At least it would give him something to do with his hands while he talked to Larry.

 

Alan went outside to check on Don on the porch, and Charlie tried to ignore that, knowing they were talking about him, comparing notes and talking about "silverware."

 

He took his second beer back out into the dining room, not at all surprised to see Larry still sitting at the now-cleared table, his head resting in his hands. He might have been asleep. His eyes were closed. But when Charlie sat down, next to him this time, Larry opened his eyes and smiled.

 

"Charles."

 

"Larry," he said back, and he couldn't help it. He smiled. He was still angry, but suddenly the whole thing seemed funny, too. He checked to see that his family had not snuck back in the house and, seeing the coast was clear, tapped Larry's beer bottle with his own. "To secrets," he toasted.

Larry picked up his beer, his eyebrows drawing together and then he nodded. "To making new memories."

 

The bottles clinked again, and then Charlie sighed, closing his own eyes and taking a drink. The beer was cold, easing some of the tightness in his throat he hadn't realized was there. And then he felt it—the softest of touches, tracing down from his jaw-line to his collarbone.

 

He shivered.

 

"I'm sorry," Larry said, his voice very soft. "I did try to say something last night, but you—"

 

"Oh, do not try to pass this one off. I did not keep you from telling me," Charlie argued, his eyes still shut. He was almost afraid to open them. Larry's hand had moved down his arm with the most delicate of caresses and was now tracing light circles on the top of his hand, and he turned his hand over, so that it was palm up, and Larry took his hand, holding it tightly.

 

"Forgive me, then, because I just—I wasn't at all sure—I thought it was entirely possible that you…."

 

"What?" Charlie opened his eyes, and saw that Larry was frowning, looking at their clasped hands.

 

And then the screen door shut, given them just enough time to let go of each other's hands, but not enough time for Larry to figure out a good excuse for not telling him that it felt like that to be touched by him.

 

"Well, Alan, I think I really should be going, give Charles here a chance to rest." Larry stood up from the table, putting one hand on Charlie's shoulder in a way that was casual, easy, though Charlie felt it all the way to his toes. "Charles?"

 

Charlie nodded, feeling wide-eyed and awake, wondering how he was ever going to sleep tonight. "What time—when should I come over?" he asked, suddenly realizing he didn't even know Larry's schedule. He'd just assumed—invited himself over, actually.

 

"Whenever you get up is fine. Tomorrow's Saturday, and I don't imagine I'll be sleeping in."

 

"Oh. I—okay."

 

And Larry left, and Charlie hoped that, however weird he might seem, his family would assume it was stress, which was an accurate assessment, actually.

 

Alan walked Larry to the door and outside, and Charlie could tell there was another debriefing going on, and then Alan came back and Charlie said goodnight, accepting a pat on the shoulder that turned into a slightly less awkward hug.

 

"Don had to leave, by the way. He, um, does sometimes. Work. And said he'd see you tomorrow night. He's still working the case—your case. He wanted you to know that."

 

Charlie nodded, knowing but still being surprised to think of himself as a case—as his brother's case. And it was weird thinking of Don as someone who got urgent phone calls at dinner from the US government.

 

"I think I will… go to bed," he said, suddenly, and realized that wow, he was exhausted.

 

He made it upstairs on his own, found the room he thought was his, and fell asleep with his clothes on, in a bed that might have been his or anyone else's, but was comfortable enough that it felt wonderful.

 

His dreams, though, were restless, and when he woke up the next morning, he knew he had remembered something, though he couldn't remember what he'd remembered, only that it had made him sad, and tired, as if he had not slept much at all.

 

---

 

 

His father drove him to Larry's right after breakfast, because it turned out he had a license, but didn't have a license, because it was gone, with his wallet, which still hadn't turned up, or washed up, and besides which, he didn't know his way around anymore.

 

Larry's house was just as he'd seen it in that brief flash of memory, and he said a distracted goodbye to his dad, nearly forgetting his bag with the laptop in it, presumably his reason for seeing Larry today.

 

He made it all the way up the steps and into the house, hearing his father's car pulling away, the door closing behind him, and then he felt Larry's arms close around him, and he put his hands on Larry's waist, where it was just a little bit soft, and pulled him closer, ignoring the strangeness of knowing and not knowing Larry, of the way that Larry fit neatly against him, and his own awareness of Larry's body, unfamiliar and exciting even though it was a somewhat chaste hug—a hug meant to give comfort, though he was getting an erection anyway, and wondered if he should apologize for that.

 

But then Larry was dragging him along to the bedroom, and onto the bed, having said nothing at all as yet—not even hello—though it didn't seem to matter at this point. He did feel properly greeted.

 

Larry kissed him and tasted like coffee and smelled like soap, his hair curling tightly and still damp, and Charlie didn't know where to put his hands, wanting everything at once, not even knowing what he wanted.

 

He had no memory of sex, with Larry—with anyone—no memory of ever even kissing anyone before.

 

It occurred to him that he was probably doing it all wrong, fumbling like the virgin he apparently was, at least at the moment, as of two days ago, though of course he had managed to shave this morning without killing himself, so apparently there were some things his subconscious was taking care of in his absence.

He laughed, reaching for Larry's zipper, pulling it down, because it felt very dirty doing this—very presumptuous—and Larry arched up against his hand, moaning a little into his mouth as they kissed.

 

He wondered who usually took the lead, and whether he should ask what Larry liked, or what he liked, thinking about those mashed potatoes, suddenly, though it was hard to imagine that anything with Larry would be anything but good, and very likely excellent. This felt very good.

His body was thrumming; his pulse was fast and he felt dizzy with lust, light-headed and impatient, and needy. And for some reason, Mersenne prime numbers were gliding by when he shut his eyes, seemingly endless strings of them that also felt kind of like sex: rhythmic and beautiful.

 

And Larry was still kissing him, long, lazy kisses as if he didn't know that Charlie was all need, primed for it—that he was going to come, just from kissing, from the shockingly hot length of Larry's penis curving into his palm, thrusting into his fist.

 

But then Larry pulled away from him with a gasped, "Wait," and Charlie waited as Larry took down Charlie's zipper and freed his erection, holding it and pressing them together on the bed, Larry's weight holding him in place, pinning him cock to cock, and Larry was kissing him again, and Charlie realized they were both a little frantic, panting. Then Charlie shut his eyes and pushed hard up against Larry's body, using his other hand to pull Larry's hips closer, and as he was coming, he remembered: Larry, naked, on the bed, his cock curving up against his body, his eyes fluttering closed as he touched himself, knowing Charlie was watching him come.

 

---

 

 

"I'm trying to solve P vs. NP?"

 

Larry blinked at him. "You remembered that? Now?"

 

He nodded and laughed against Larry's shoulder.

 

"I suppose I should be…flattered." And Larry patted his back softly, rubbing between his shoulder-blades in small circles.

 

"You know that it’s considered unsolvable?"

 

Larry looked at him very strangely. "Well, certainly, people who have failed to solve it might think that."

 

"You have a lot of confidence in me. That's… touching."

 

"Well, on that note, and while I'm unburdening myself and touching you, I should probably inform you that we're involved in a sexual relationship. Though I suppose you might have noticed that."Charlie curled into Larry's body, wishing they were naked, so that he could feel him, skin to skin.

 

"Hmm. Yes, I actually picked up on that. So I'm guessing I'm gay?"

 

Larry did that open-mouthed, nose-wrinkling look of shock and then smiled. "Appearances can be deceiving, and sexual orientation is, after all, a complicated thing. But I suppose the evidence does point to certain conclusions. Does that bother you?"

 

Charlie lifted his head up slightly. "No. Why—did it bother me?"

 

"I'm not sure, but probably," Larry answered, and Charlie nodded, appreciating the honesty.

 

"So… this… do I love you?"

 

He watched Larry's adam's apple as he swallowed. Larry looked up toward the ceiling, not meeting his eyes.

 

"Now Charles, isn't that really something you should be telling me, instead of asking me?"

 

"No. Maybe. But you—you love me," Charlie wished he didn’t need to ask, and that he could be patient.

 

Larry shut his eyes.

 

"You signed your email, 'Love, Larry.'"

 

"I did? I don't usually do that. In case somebody…well. I suppose if you can figure it out, I've been right all along."

 

Charlie nodded. "I can see where we might be discrete. I can't even begin to imagine Alan's reaction to this."

 

Larry blinked at him and then actually giggled.

 

"What's so funny?"

 

"What makes you think your father doesn't know?"

 

Charlie pulled back, sitting up. "I assumed—you—how can he know?"

 

"That would be a long story, and one I'm sure I can't tell as well as you can. But Charles—"

 

"When he came in—if he knows, why did you pull away?"

 

"Knowledge is a complicated thing—"

 

"Is anything in your world simple?"

 

"No, nothing in my world is simple, and if you were yourself, I'm quite sure you'd disagree with me on that, so I won't bother arguing the point now, except to point out that my world is your world, at least while you're in my bed. And now I've lost my point entirely." Larry frowned, reaching down and belatedly tucking himself back into his pants and zipping up.

 

"My father," Charlie prompted him, more than a little shocked at Larry's candor.

 

"Right, yes, as I was saying, I suspect that your father, who tends to share my view on the state of the world, is, in fact, very much hoping that, if you remember everything else, you forget this, and I can't say that I don't understand his logic. In fact, he suggested to me last night that our relationship might be responsible for your condition, to which I—"

 

"But—"

 

"—agreed," Larry finished, drawing his hand to his face and rubbing at his eyes.

 

Charlie looked down at him. "That's ridiculous."

 

"Then tell me, honestly, that the same thing hasn't already occurred to you. As far as I know, I was the last person to see you before you vanished and turned up…somewhere that I find deeply troubling."

 

"I—" He stopped, wanting to protest that it hadn't occurred to him that Larry was the cause, though actually, everything had occurred to him. He'd made a list of possibilities, all of them vague, none of them any better than any others.

 

But this—this was not something he'd ever voluntarily forget.

 

"Is it always like this?" he asked, deciding to change the subject before he got upset, though it might actually be too late for that. "Us—Do we actually get along?"

 

Larry shrugged. "As much as two people of independent minds can be expected to. I would say our moments of congruence are often more often carnal than theoretical, though you do like the outdoors, as do I, so— "

 

"So in other words, you'd say that we were happy."

 

Again, Larry didn't look at him.

 

"We were happy," he said again, not making it a question.

 

"I wouldn't presume to speak for your emotional state, under the present circumstances, Charles."

 

"No, but you'd presume to get me naked and—"

 

Larry raised an eyebrow at him.

 

"Maybe you lied. Maybe we're not even involved in a sexual relationship and you just—"

 

"Took blatant advantage of your confusion for an imperfect orgasm that necessarily required that I argue with you about it afterwards. Yes, that's entirely possible."

 

Imperfect. Score another one for Larry's candor. Charlie fell back onto the pillow with a sigh. "Possible but not probable."

 

"I haven't studied the odds of it, but no, not probable. And why ask me? After all, I might lie. Everybody lies, or so I've been told."

 

"No, if you were lying you'd tell me the sex was great. So I'm thinking I must love you."

 

"Are you sure you weren't hit in the head? Because your logic really is appalling today."

 

Charlie ignored that, knowing that Larry was right. If he were thinking clearly, he wouldn't be in this mess. "So is this a long-term relationship?"

 

"Wait here." Larry rolled off the bed and left the room.

 

Charlie listened to him go downstairs, and while Larry was down there, Charlie stripped, getting under the covers, because if he was going to be emotionally uncomfortable, he might as well be physically comfortable. And there was nothing comfortable about damp, come-stained clothing.

 

Larry came back and didn't comment on his nudity, instead tossing a large book onto the bed. "Here."

 

A photo album.

 

Charlie opened it, amused to see several really cute photos of what had to be Larry as a kid, large-eyed, curly-haired, and small even as he grew up. And then some photos of him later, riding a bike, sitting on an ugly sofa next to a dog, one of him graduating high school, another college, a photo of Larry with some friends, geeky looking guys that Charlie hoped weren't boyfriends. Then what had to be grad school. Some people who had to be his family were in some of the photos here and there, and Charlie knew he was going to come back to those. He was skimming through Larry's life, no insult to Larry but really wanting to get to the place where he entered it, and then, there it was.

 

"That's—"

 

Larry, he noticed, hadn’t sat down on the bed, and was standing by the doorway, as if ready to make a quick exit.

 

"I've got short hair."

 

It wasn't really the first thing Charlie noticed, but the other thing—he couldn’t actually figure out how to ask that. And then finally he did, because seriously. And besides which, "imperfect sex"?!

 

"So just how old are you?"

He held the album open to the page with a slightly yellowed newspaper clipping: one Charles Edward Eppes, clearly in early adolescence, in all his geeky glory, sitting at a desk, in front of an open book, and standing behind him, a much younger Larry, one hand on his shoulder, the both of them looking at the camera. Charlie was wearing a t-shirt, but Larry was wearing a suit—a tie—and the caption under the photograph read: "Boy Genius, Princeton Bound. Professor Larry Fleinhardt, astrophysics, with his new star pupil and local prodigy, 13 year old Charlie Eppes."

 

Larry still hadn't answered, and Charlie looked up from the clipping and saw that Larry had slid down in the doorway and was leaning against it, his hands pressed against his cheeks, frowning and looking vaguely miserable.

 

Charlie did the math, and even if Larry had just gotten his doctorate minutes before the photo was taken, assuming he didn't skip any grades (and granted, it was entirely possible he had, but Charlie was estimating conservatively here), Larry might be 26 in that photo—twice his age at the time.

 

Charlie flipped back through the photos again until he came to the one with Larry in the mortarboard and actually pulled the photo out of the album, ignoring the photo corners that came out with it. On the back was the year.

 

Not 26, then. Not twice his age.

 

"Um… okay. Unexpected, but okay."

 

Wow.

 

"You don't really… I mean, it never really occurred to me. You're really very…" What was the right thing to say here? Hi, we've just had nearly anonymous sex, apparently not for the first time, and you're pretty hot for a guy two decades older than me, even if I do suck in bed.

 

Two decades. Twenty years.

 

He could sort of see now why Alan might not be too thrilled with this. Not that there was anything wrong with experience, per se, though really, the expectations were a little daunting.

 

"Wait—we weren't—"

 

Larry's eyes widened and his hands came down off his cheeks, leaving pale handprints where he'd been blushing. He really was pretty cute.

 

"No—of course we weren't," Charlie said quickly, before Larry could pass out. "But still—that's—a long—"

 

Shut up. Shut up. Shut up.

 

And strangely enough, he did.

 

Not that it helped, because Larry still hadn't said anything, and the silence was making him pretty aware of just how naked he was in Larry's bed, and how much Larry looked like he was never, ever planning to come near him again, and might, in fact, consider moving out of his own house to avoid another mediocre sexual encounter.

 

"I'm an idiot," he said finally.

 

And Larry sort of almost smiled. "No, you're a 'Boy Genus' ironically experiencing early senility."

 

"I am never living this down, am I?" he asked, and Larry sighed.

 

"There's still the remote chance that amnesia is contagious, I suppose."

 

"Maybe it's transmitted through genital contact," Charlie offered. "We could try again."

 

And Larry actually laughed, getting up from the floor and standing there a moment, swaying slightly, as if making a decision. And then he nodded to himself and started to unbutton his shirt, and Charlie watched.

 

Larry didn't look at him at all as he pulled his shirt off, and then took off his jeans and underwear, and Charlie had to force himself to breathe, because even though Larry was undressing mechanically, as if he was entirely unaware Charlie was even there, it was still the hottest thing Charlie had ever seen. No—the hottest thing he could imagine seeing.

 

Because he'd remembered Larry naked, but it had been just a flash of memory—nothing he could hold onto—but this… he stared. He couldn't really help it.

 

And Larry was youthful, but not young, and Charlie realized he'd known that, but hadn't really let himself think much about it. It hadn't mattered, because what mattered was the way Larry looked at him, and touched him, and how Larry could be both gentle and incredibly cuttingly sarcastic at four in the morning, and yeah, there was also the fact that on whatever level, his body remembered Larry, because seeing him naked triggered an instant, immediate response that said that his penis did not really care about doing the math.

 

His heart apparently didn't care either.

 

Larry was now watching him, a little defiantly, and Charlie got up out of bed and walked over to him, putting his hands on Larry's shoulders and kissing him again, and now it was easy because he knew exactly what he wanted to do.

 

"Charles, you really don't...."

 

And then Larry was silent again, letting him learn Larry's body, realizing that he apparently already knew this, the way that his hand knew the contours of his own face. He could make Larry gasp and shiver with surprising accuracy, and then he was on his knees, looking up, and it was easy to do this, entirely too easy, and he had a brief moment of uneasiness as he considered that in a few hours, he had to talk to the psychiatrist and that this was probably going to be among the things he'd have to figure out how to explain.

 

He stopped just as Larry was starting to pull his hair. "I wouldn't want you to have another imperfect orgasm, so if you want, we could—"

 

Larry's fingers tightened against his scalp, not directing him, but not letting go, either.

 

"Okay then. I'll take that as a 'Please, Charles, I beg you to make me come.'"

 

Larry moaned, closing his eyes, and then nodded, just once.

 

Charlie smiled up at him and continued. And this time, he took his time, not distracted by Mersenne (because now it was twin primes, which seemed almost nonsensically romantic.)

 

Larry's legs were trembling slightly and Charlie moved them over to the bed, which gave him better access and better control, and eased Larry's grip on his hair. Larry turned to randomly stroking over his body, though of course it wasn't random, because Charlie could and did track the movement as a series of concentric circles that narrowed in on his ass, ending just as Larry slid a wet finger inside of him and…pressed.

 

He shifted back onto Larry's finger, trying not to think about the fact that he was now wiggling his ass in the air. He supposed that, by now, he was actually pretty blasé about the whole thing, but at the moment, it was deeply weird—deeply deep, and just about the most intensely good sensation possible—just short of coming, but only just.

 

And then Larry had other hand on Charlie's hip and was shifting him over and onto their sides, and Larry still had his finger working inside of him, but now Charlie could feel Larry's tongue on him as well, bypassing his erection entirely until it was in him.

 

And 69 was just possibly the most beautiful non-prime number in the world.

 

---

 

 

Larry stretched, drawing his hands over his head and rolling over onto his front. "Definitely very close to perfect."

 

"I wasn't going to ask."

 

Larry raised an eyebrow at him and he sighed.

 

"Okay, so how close is very close? Because I'm thinking we should try again, while I still remember what I just did."

 

Though really, he couldn't get it up again if he tried. Probably.

 

And even if he did, Larry's eyes were fluttering shut, and Charlie watched as he fell asleep.

 

"I love you. Larry?"

 

Larry didn't answer except to snore softly, his head pillowed on his hands, his breathing even and peaceful.

 

"I love you. I know I do."

 

But when he fell asleep again, he again dreamed, and this time, he was in Larry's office.

 

---

 

 

"We need to go to CalSci. Larry?"

 

"Wha?"

 

He patted Larry's back and then put his hand on Larry's bare ass, slapping him.

 

"Ow. What are you doing?"

 

"Waking you up. We have to go. Now."

 

"Go where?"

 

"To your office," Charlie repeated.

 

"It's Saturday." Larry blinked and looked at the alarm clock beside the bed. "Don't you have a doctor's appointment today?"

 

"This is more important."

 

Larry nodded, getting up and rubbing at his eyes as he sat on the edge of the bed, still looking sort of half-asleep.

Charlie managed to interrupt his own panic long enough to remember that he really did love Larry. It was, strangely, not as reassuring a thought as it should have been.

 

"I'm going. I'm awake. Let me get some clothes on and I'll drive you over."

 

Charlie nodded, suddenly looking down at his own clothing and realizing he absolutely could not be seen in public like this.

 

"I'll lend you something. And calm down. If you haven't remembered something, you will, and if you have, you're not going to forget."

 

"No, you're right. You're right. I'm just—" He gestured helplessly and Larry nodded, looking serious.

 

"I know. So did you remember something?"

 

Charlie shook his head no, then stopped. "Not remembered, but I have this feeling that I need to go to your office."

 

"Okay, then that's where we'll go. Here. Sweatpants."

 

"Princeton?"

 

"You went there too."

 

"Yes, but these are clearly yours," Charlie protested, pulling them up. They were an okay fit, but there was no way he wore these when he was thirteen.

 

"Nobody notices what you wear, Charles. They're too busy looking at—"

 

"What?"

 

"Nothing."

 

"No—what?"

 

Larry grinned. "Your ass."

 

And Charlie laughed as Larry tossed him a t-shirt that said, "String Theorists Do It In Multiple Dimensions."

 

"Oh, and nobody will know this is yours?"

 

Larry looked at the shirt and Charlie realized Larry had grabbed it at random.

 

"You do have a point. Though perhaps this is a good time to definitively claim my rights to your ass, while you aren't able to remember all the reasons you argued I shouldn't."

 

"I argued we should stay in the closet?"

 

Larry sighed and offered him another t-shirt, which was entirely generic.

 

Charlie ignored it, picking up the string theory shirt and putting it on.

 

"You might regret that later."

 

"I'll take that chance."

 

And Larry looked like he was going to argue, then didn't.

 

---

 

 

CalSci looked like he expected it would, with pleasant, arched walkways and an assortment of students who not only didn't look at his ass, they hardly seemed to notice him at all. Most of them sort of purposefully found something else to look at when they noticed he and Larry walking by and Charlie wondered if Larry was aware of that. He sort of assumed Larry was popular, but then again, nobody else knew what Larry was like in bed. Hopefully. He really wasn't going to ask at this point.

 

And there was Larry's office, and Larry unlocked it, looking at Charlie first, who nodded. This was scary, because he knew that he'd been here, and he'd known all along that it was entirely possible that whatever happened, happened elsewhere. But his gut—and the vestige of those dreams he'd had—was telling him the answer was here.

 

Larry opened the door, and Charlie walked in ahead of him, Larry following and shutting the door behind him, and just as he did so, there was a knock and Larry opened it up again.

"Hi—Larry, I thought I saw you and—oh. Charlie!"

 

Ms. Ramajuan, who he was apparently not interested in, but who was still so beautiful and looking at him so intently, he had a hard time figuring out what to say. Larry saved him again.

 

"I thought it might help Charles get his memory back if he looked over some of the research notes he left here."

 

"That's a good idea. I didn't—I didn't realize you were getting out of the hospital yet. I'm really—really glad."

 

"Me too," he agreed. "Amita," he said, testing out her name, because his email said they were on a first name basis. She smiled brightly, as if he'd done something right, and then she clasped her bag to her chest, momentarily obscuring what was a pretty spectacular view.

 

Not that he noticed anything but Larry. And speaking of which, he leaned closer to Larry, whispering, "You were right. Appearances can be deceiving." Amita either didn't hear him or pretended not to. Larry's eyes widened, but he didn't comment.

 

"And here they are," Larry said, handing him a pile of papers that were, unlike the computer files, in no apparent order. Though that might have been the way that Larry gathered them up, watching him the whole time as he definitely did not look at Amita in a sexual way.

 

Much.

 

And wow, there must be some seriously interesting reasoning he was not remembering for why he ended up with a cheeky male astrophysicist twenty years older than himself and not this woman, who was definitely checking him out.

 

"That's a…a funny t-shirt."

 

Charlie looked down at it as if he hadn't noticed what he was wearing. "Yeah."

 

He realized she was waiting for an explanation—and probably anything would do. He'd borrowed it after he spilled something on his own shirt. Larry had left it over his house after he spilled something on it and it had ended up in the laundry where he'd taken it out without noticing it.

 

"Larry gave it to me," he said, and Amita's eyes widened. She looked over at Larry and Larry sat down behind his desk, looking small but somehow still surprisingly imposing, though he was now looking up at them both.

 

"Well, it's very…amusing," she said softly.

 

"And true," Larry added.

 

Charlie put down the pile of papers he was holding. They no longer seemed necessary. Amita was staring at him.

 

Larry cleared his throat. "Y'know, I saw one that said, 'Combinatorialists do it as many ways as they can' but it seemed a bit cheap."

 

"Combinatorialists do it discretely," she shot back, and Charlie grinned, not sure if he was rooting for Larry on this one or not.

 

"Point taken," Larry said, nodding.

 

"Wait—so how do Applied Mathematicians do it?" he asked.

 

"The better question, Charles, is 'What is the difference between an applied mathematician and a pure mathematician?'"

 

"Um… I don't remember."

 

"I thought not. Suppose a mathematician parks his car, locks it with his key and walks away. After walking about 50 yards the mathematician realizes that he has dropped his key somewhere along the way. What does he do?"

 

Amita nodded and answered for him: "If he is an applied mathematician he walks back to the car along the path he has previously traveled looking for his key. If he is a pure mathematician he walks to the other end of the parking lot where there is better light and looks for his key there."

 

"Riiight. Yes. Thank you."

 

Amita looked at them both and then put her hand on Charlie's arm. "I—we can talk when you—later."

 

"Absolutely."

 

And then she was gone, leaving Charlie alone with Larry, a set of missing keys, and a choice that wasn't really a choice.

 

He retraced his steps.

 

---

 

 

"Where were we?"

 

"Specifically? I'm afraid that even I don't precisely remember, Charles. Somewhere in this room is the best I can do. It didn't seem significant at the time."

 

"At your desk?"

 

"No. I don't think so. No."

 

"Process of elimination. What were we talking about?"

 

"Nothing important."

"You don't know that."

 

"Charles, I don't know that. And I'm sorry. We were talking about the conference, I think. I was worried—"

 

"No—wait." Charlie shut his eyes, willing himself to remember.

 

It was no good.

 

"Maybe you should fuck me."

 

"Charles, I do hope you're joking."

 

He opened his eyes, staring at Larry. "Yes, I'm joking."

 

"Oh. Disappointing."

 

"Be serious."

 

"I am serious."

 

Charlie balled up one of the pieces of paper scattered on the desk and threw it.

 

"Very childish. And you missed."

 

"I'm trying to get my life back and you're distracting me."

 

"I'm distracting you because you came in here looking worse than I've ever seen you, and I'm worried and trying very hard not to be."

 

Charlie walked over behind the desk and put his hand on Larry's shoulder, squeezing it.

 

"Ow."

 

The paper on the floor. The paper on the floor. Something about the paper on the floor.