Lucky Seven

By Miriam Heddy

 

 

It clearly started with the grey, though he still couldn't quite pin down the tipping point. He was beginning to suspect that he'd been tipped sometime before Amita even came into it, but Amita was, strictly speaking, responsible, bringing the first one into his office and putting it down on his desk, on top of the sliding stack of midterms that he was actively ignoring in favor of Don's—well, the FBI's—problem that was, in terms of frustration, making the exams look a little more appealing. In the end, though, for reasons that didn't bear close examination, he actually didn't get anything done for anyone that afternoon beyond talking to Amita about how things were going in Astrophysics. He decided mid-way through that conversation that he really needed to ask Larry for advice about his approach to defining events for Don—because it was possible that they were approaching the problem from the wrong angle, assuming it was drugs before murder, and not the inverse, or something else entirely—something as yet undefined. And that was it, really. It was a problem of definitions. After all, Megan's theory of the case was, as even she admitted, presuming causality that wasn't yet supported by the data, and that might never be.

 

All of which somehow led him back to the alien, because there was just something about the little guy—maybe the expression—that made him think of Larry, though to be honest, he'd probably been thinking of Larry anyway. It was a problem of defining events.

 

The second one joined the first one in his desk drawer that same week, and it was also grey, with large black eyes and a vaguely hopeful expression, head cocked to the side—Larry when you had just made coffee and had a paper bag that might have something sweet in it (and usually did, if he knew he was coming to see Larry, who might like to protest, but who needed the mid-afternoon pick-me-up at least as much as he did, considerations of waistlines aside).

 

The third one… well, that one he felt a little embarrassed about, because he'd actually made Dad wait while he went back into the grocery store and dug out fifty cents for the machine, and then two more quarters when the first one yielded an adjustable metal ring with a large, plastic "diamond" in it that he thought about giving to Amita, then decided no, that was probably not a good idea.

 

And sometime after that—he lost track of just when—it became something deliberate, and he was now actively trying to "collect all seven" for no reason that he could explain. So far, over the last three weeks, he'd managed to get twenty-five, at a fifty cents a pop, and he knew the last one—the one with the golf club in his little, three-fingered hand—was in the machine. He'd seen it, near the back, and it was likely there was more than one in there, though they nearly always designated one "rare" one.

 

He could have just emptied the machine to get it, but it had somehow seemed unsporting and, yes, a little strange, to stand there and admit to what was, after all, a growing, irrational, obsession considering he had no idea why anyone needed a full set of seven, injection-molded plastic aliens. He really didn't. He could barely close his desk drawer as it was, and it was only a matter of time before he'd have to actually find a new place for them. They were crowding out his pencils. According to the census of the industry compiled by Vending Times, in 2002, 675,000 capsule vendors took in $163,350,000, with an average of $242 per machine. Knowing this made him feel only slightly less gullible.

 

After he'd picked up the second, he came up with a plan to pass them on to Larry. Not that he was going to give Larry all of them, because he really didn't want to have to explain why he had this many. But just the seven, as a set, that would be a good gift—very Larry. He'd have to get a box—something—to put them in. The card was obvious: "The Truth Is Out There." Larry was out there.

 

And he was quite possibly on his way to join him, because on the way home from work, he somehow ended up at the grocery store with no intent to buy anything, apparently, since he didn't actually get past the registers, his hand in his pocket feeling around for the quarters he knew were in there, but somehow finding the metal ring, instead, which he slipped onto his finger, just to get it out of the way. He wasn't sure why it was in his pocket, and he almost put it on top of the machine and left it there, except then he found the quarters, and put them into the coin holder, rotating the dial and finding a strange satisfaction in losing them to the machine. There were approximately 170 two inch alien capsules in the machine when it was full, which it wasn't, the alien fill level being somewhere closer to a third.

 

And yet… five dollars worth of change later, he had another three, each with a rakish umbrella, alongside seven more greys wearing nothing but a pair of socks and a startled expression, which Charlie could empathize with, as he felt just as stupid having gone to the cashier to ask for change again only to end up with another eight—eight—of the business-suited aliens, who were now having a small convention on the floor around the machine. He considered leaving them there, because if he picked them up, he'd have to admit that yes, he was bringing them all back to his office in the morning, where they would join the collective.

 

"I'm fine, thanks." He didn't turn around, because he'd played the slot machines once, and he knew that when someone walked up behind you when you were popping coins into the machine, they either wanted you to leave for security reasons, because they'd seen you counting cards an hour ago, or they wanted you to leave so they could get in while the machine was hot, which was ridiculous, as it was entirely random. In any case, he was not giving up until this was finished, one way or another.

 

"I could open it up, if you like."

 

He blinked, realizing that the woman—a store clerk—was still standing there, and that he didn't have any more quarters anyway. He shrugged, looking at the glass wall that was really all that was separating him from number seven.

 

"Thanks," he nodded, moving over so she could unlock the machine. "I'm a mathematician."

 

"Are you now?" Ah, now that was a look he recognized. He wondered what it would be like to be something obvious—to do a job where you could introduce yourself and everyone would know what you did for a living, then decided that there probably was no such job, as he honestly couldn't say he knew the entirety of clerking. At best, they made a guess and pegged each other into a convenient hole.

 

"Yes. At CalSci. Professor Charles Eppes." He held out his hand, but she didn't take it because she was busy with the machine, and he still didn't know her name. At three a.m., everyone was a stranger.

 

"So, Professor is it? Which one did you want? The blue one?"

 

"The, um, golfer," he said quickly, and she nodded again, slowly, and he'd seen that kind of nod before, and was kind of used to seeing it, especially when he was out with Larry this late at night. Or morning, actually.

 

"Here—this the one?"

 

"Thanks. I—I don't have any more quarters. Can you change another ten?"

 

He smiled and she smiled back, and he put the ten away.

 

"I could—trade you for it?"

 

"Honey," she took in the army of aliens and nodded, "you earned this one. Keep it. The rest of them, too."

 

"I—I really don't need—"

 

She laughed and he realized that tomorrow, she'd be telling everyone she worked with about the crazy math teacher. And that really didn't bother him. Much. He sometimes thought he made for a more entertaining story than he did an actual person.

 

"Thanks."

 

"You're welcome. So is that it? You got what you need?"

 

"It's—for a class…that I'm teaching," he said, not looking up to see if she bought that, but instead scooping up the ones from the floor and stuffing them in his bag, keeping the golfer in his pocket, in his hand.

 

He'd been planning to go home, but now that he had all of them, he found himself needing to see them all lined up—just to make sure.

 

The walk back to his office was oddly quiet, the night air waking him up a little more, so that he was glad he hadn't gone home, because he would've woken Dad up, and then he might have had to explain this, or, more likely, Dad wouldn't ask, but he'd end up talking about it anyway, and he was just a little worried about what he might say.

 

On his desk, in the box he'd found for them (which was actually an old pencil case), they looked sort of small and… plastic. He remembered having the same feeling when he was just a kid and Don had convinced him that baseball cards were worth collecting. On the one hand, he could understand how they were valued, and why, but on the other hand, they were just paper, and the individual photos didn't signify for him what they did for Don. They weren't his dreams, and maybe that was what set them apart as kids; he couldn't ever find a way to hold his dreams in his hand and show them to Don and have that make any sense. Half the time, he wasn't sure they even made sense to him, either. Don could look at his work and it was all abstract, meaningless, and he looked at Don's cards and, again, it was more concrete, meaningful on the level of statistics, because yes, he found the game entertaining enough. But as a kid, he never could manufacture any real passion for it to match Don's, and he had finally given Don his cards—including a few good ones that Don reluctantly took, telling him he could take them back, anytime. It was strange that the last few games he'd gone to had been with Larry, actually.

 

Counting out the aliens, he realized it was crazy to just give Larry the seven, because it'd be pretty obvious that he'd collected them on purpose and not by chance.

 

Of course, he could hide them somewhere, or throw them away, and go home, and never mention this to anybody. That would probably be the rational thing to do.

 

Instead, he found himself emptying out his gumdrop bowl into an empty coffee can, and pouring in the aliens. He got his keys and walked the bowl over to Larry's office, knowing he'd need to clear a space just to find room on Larry's mess of a desk.

 

 

"Morning, Charles."

 

"I—Larry, I was just—"

 

"Now I ask you, what is this? The aliens have landed? And I assume you slept through it rather than collecting any relevant data."

 

"I guess I fell asleep here last night." He rubbed at his eyes, wondering how long he'd been down. From the page creases on his cheek, he was guessing awhile. Sometime after setting down the bowl, he'd noticed Larry's latest work, spread open on the desk, and he'd gotten caught up in correcting it, though it actually was pretty good work, the mistakes minor, more inelegant than wrong.

 

"Not comfortable," Larry observed, nodding, digging into the bowl and pulling out a handful of assorted aliens. "Hmm. I think I'd always imagined a June wedding. Though May/December has its advantages."

 

"Sorry?" Charlie lifted his head off the desk, annoyed at the crick in his neck.

 

But Larry just held his hand out, moving aside the aliens, and Charlie saw the "diamond" ring, which Larry slid onto his ring finger, fiddling with the fit. "I don't suppose there's any chance this is real?"

 

Charlie reached into his own pocket, knowing the ring wasn't still there, since it was on Larry's finger now. He must've dumped it into the bowl with the rare golfer. "I—"

 

"I've never known Alan to be especially close-minded, but you and I are both aware that he's harbored high—some might say unrealistic—hopes that you and Don will both eventually come to sire the next generation, which really doesn't look all that likely now, does it, though of course, there are still ways to make that happen. I'm partial to surrogacy, myself. Hiring one, that is, not—well, regardless. There are problems, admittedly, but none that seem insurmountable, assuming we could find a willing woman—though there's the rub. Willing women aren't as common as they used to be. And why is that? Still, there's no use being a pessimist at this point. I've lately been thinking about a daughter. Not that a son wouldn't be equally fine, but a daughter would have certain advantages, and times being what they are, it's not impossible that she might even carry the Fleinhardt standard herself. And I have to admit, I've always felt my house lacked something in the way of a feminine touch."

 

"Um—Larry?"

 

But Larry was still talking, his eyes gone distant in a way that Charlie considered worrisome. "You'll understand if I leave it to you to explain the situation to Don. Lately, I've been under the impression that he's warmed up to me somewhat, though of course this may well signal a reversal of that trend, if not the outright death of it." Larry tapped his finger on the desktop and frowned. "Cubic zirconium? Definitely not the highest grade… but then size is the important thing. Or so I've heard."

 

"I think—" Charlie rubbed at his eyes, very much hoping that if he rubbed hard enough, he could get rid of the image of Larry wearing a five carat plastic rock. "I think I need coffee before I take that one on. "

 

"Now that sounds like a very good idea. You look horrible, by the way. I see you spent some time on the Borimer equations, which I do appreciate, though I don't at all think they merit quite that much red ink. Or is that purple? The new red. I think I preferred it when you used green. Easier on the eyes. Though I ask you—what was really wrong with red?"

 

"It's apparently too much like blood. The students feel better about their mistakes." Charlie wondered if there was any truth in that. Today already felt very much like a red letter day gone horribly wrong.

 

"Now why in the world should they feel better? There are no stupid questions, Charles, or even stupid people. Only stupid answers. And those are, I think you'll agree, color blind."

 

Charlie would have agreed, but as Larry gestured toward his notes, Charlie's attention was still stuttering on the ring, which Larry seemed to have now forgotten he was wearing, having moved on to objecting, at length, to Charlie's revisions to his work, even as he somehow managed to sound grateful (and Charlie knew that, if he had not taken a look at it, Larry would've complained about that, so he let it pass). Meanwhile, Larry puttered around the office with familiar, comforting motions, except that, as Charlie watched him put on a pot of coffee, with that ring still on his finger, it occurred to him that Amita would never have actually put it on.

 

And it also occurred to him that he really wouldn't have wanted her to. And that yes, this was within that same realm of inexplicable into which collecting aliens fell, which is to say that it was all very Fleinhardt. And not at all Eppes.

 

"It's not a proposal," Charlie clarified, finally, feeling that needed to be said, and speaking as clearly and concisely and politely as possible as Larry handed him a cup of blessedly hot coffee.

 

"Of course it is, Charles. Unless you mean to say that it's not a good one, which again, will necessarily precipitate an argument. Ah, ah, ah—" Larry held up a hand, waving it in the air for emphasis, the motion stirring the steam rising from the cup. "The data, while admittedly lacking in a few key areas, is more than adequate, demonstrating that my theory is sound, despite the misgivings of a few less than stellar minds at MIT who shall remain nameless—only because you and I both know them well and invoking them at this point only gives credence to what we both recognize is jealousy, pure and simple. And I fully expect that we will get funding for this, assuming that you don't know something I don't, and if you do, I'd very much appreciate you telling me before I waste anymore time following up on this avenue."

 

Charlie shook his head, a little bit alarmed that he knew exactly what Larry was talking about, and further, that Larry very likely knew exactly what he was talking about, and very likely didn't care.

 

"You're being difficult."

 

Larry blinked and set his coffee down, leaning against the corner of the desk, crossing his legs at the ankle and his arms over his chest. Charlie noticed his eyes looked very green suddenly. "When I was young, I was easy. At least I think I was." Larry scratched at his chin and sighed. "Ah well, the things you missed being born too late. Or that I missed, I suppose, having scruples."

 

"You have scruples?"

 

Larry smiled softly and rubbed his hands against his thighs. "I have tremendous scruples. I am scrupulous about my scruples. Today, of course, I'm hard to get, or so my students tell me. I assume we are talking about work just now, though actually, the same is probably equally true extra-curricularly."

 

"Wow. Oh, wow." Charlie sat forward in Larry's chair and took a sip of coffee, warming his hands and scalding his tongue, which had a bracing effect on his thinking, as well as giving him some time to catch up. Because really, Larry was, without a doubt, flirting with him. Admittedly, sometimes Larry said things which could be taken in multiple ways even at the best of times, but Charlie had always dismissed most of them on the grounds that Larry was Larry, and coherence was sometimes sacrificed in the name of insight. But this—this was—

 

Larry uncrossed his arms and picked up his own coffee, blowing across the top of it gently only to set it down again without drinking it.

 

It was hot.

 

The coffee was hot.

 

But was Larry? And was that a question he really wanted to ask himself right now? Or ever? Then again, he probably had to ask it because Larry was flirting with him. Larry. The same guy who—well—was Larry.

 

He spent entirely too much time seeing Larry to be objective—to see him the way other people might. He wasn't sure he wanted to see him that way, though it was probably too late. Set aside the whining, which he pretty much did as a matter of course anyway, and Larry was not at all unappealing. Megan certainly liked him. And intelligence was a definite aphrodisiac. On a Likert Scale, with pornography at one end… well, no—he had no idea where Larry fit, or even if it made sense to try to quantify desire.

 

Part of him wanted to laugh, probably a little hysterically. But he didn't laugh, because Larry was taking an incredible risk here. And he had no idea what to say to that.

 

But after a few minutes of quiet between them, Larry sighed and shook his head. "So what were we talking about before I so rudely interrupted myself? Conversations with you sometimes seem to…." And Larry made a little fluttering gesture with his hands trailing off into the air before settling in his lap again, clasped loosely there.

 

Charlie set down his own coffee on the desk and leaned forward in the chair, turning towards Larry just slightly, so his knees bumped into Larry's legs. No—definitely not unappealing. He could do this.

 

"Larry, I really think you should be the one to tell Don."

 

Larry's eyes widened a little, and then were entirely obscured as he rubbed at his face so vigorously that Charlie was a little worried, seeing him reach with his free hand for his coffee cup and miss it entirely, his hand settling on a book and clutching at it blindly.

 

"Larry?"

 

"Hmm?"

 

"Are you okay?"

 

Larry nodded and Charlie was relieved to see him peek out from behind his fingers, smiling a little, his cheeks slightly reddened. He shrugged, his shoulders rising in a strange way that made Charlie think of a book closing. "Charles, I don't know what to say. I do suppose I owe you an apology. I think I just overstepped a line with you, and I have no real excuse other than, well—"

 

"Aliens made you do it," Charlie offered, trying to smile and finding the expression settling awkwardly on his face.

 

Larry nodded, chewing at his lower lip, which drew Charlie's eyes there. "As good an excuse as any, Charles, and most definitely better than any I can manufacture at the moment."

 

Charlie stood up, which brought him very, very close to Larry, which made for an odd moment when he wasn't quite sure what to do with his hands. Larry clearly thought about moving and then realized he couldn't without them bumping into each other. But then Charlie reached down and took Larry's hands in his own, and that was strange, but sort of nice, interlacing Larry's fingers into his own, with Larry squeezing his hands just a little. He knew Larry's hands intimately, having watched him build with them, talk with them, gesturing wildly, gripping the chalk and his pencil and the wheel of his new automobile, Larry's fingers curling around the gear stick, and okay, at some point his observations must have moved into new territory, because it all seemed so clearly sexual even he couldn't miss it.

 

He opened his eyes at the last second, worried he was going to bump noses or miss Larry entirely (things that had actually happened before, though that had been with a girl, and in the end, choreography had been the least of their problems, which probably should have clued him in right there), and Larry's eyes remained closed, his lips parted, just slightly, as if Larry had been planning to argue, but didn't.

 

Charlie leaned into the kiss, pressing Larry's hands between their bodies and the quick touch of lips turned into something he recognized from a far-too-distant memory as making out, the kind of thing he'd done in the driveway once back when he first got his license, except this was far, far dirtier, with Larry slipping his hands away and moving them to Charlie's back, then down to his ass, at which point Charlie nearly fell over, but instead ended up maneuvering Larry onto the desk and pushing him back and climbing up on top of him, ignoring the sound of Larry's coffee falling over onto the floor, the mug breaking there, and Larry's exclamation—something about papers and people. It was all gravity and lust taking over then, and the Likert Scale clearly needed to be re-evaluated for accuracy, because this was hot. It was a revelation. And he couldn't imagine stopping for anything.

 

"I hope I—Professors!"

 

Larry tensed up under him and Charlie scrambled up and turned around.

 

"Megan! We were just— " Panic made his own voice a little higher than usual, sounding a little like Larry, actually, and Megan shook her head.

 

"I can see that, yes, you certainly were. Just."

 

Charlie tried to ignore the smirk on her face and glanced down at Larry, who was looking surprisingly unruffled, considering he'd been caught with his pants almost down. Another minute or so, and this could have ended very badly. And in another few minutes after that, and it might've ended really well. Except for the crushing embarrassment of having Megan interrupt them post-coitally. Though on the upside, it was now possible that they could leave it to Megan to tell Don. He could see that she was turning the idea over in her head, and her grin was looking a little dangerously smug.

 

"You two boys really could have cut to the chase and saved me some trouble."

 

"Pardon?" Larry spoke, finally, managing to sit up and push Charlie's weight off of him and back into the chair.

 

"Well, obviously, I've been operating under the mistaken impression that you were interested."

 

"I am—" Larry insisted, only to be interrupted by Charlie's echo, which was somewhat disturbing.

 

"I am—wait—you are? Seriously?"

 

Larry frowned, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand. "Well, I was. I didn't realize that you—No—Charles—no need to apologize. I suppose that makes sense. She is attractive, after all, and you had no reason to suspect I was on the cusp of making my move."

 

"Um—hello? Fellas?"

 

"Wait—" Charlie held his hand up, turning back to Larry. "On the cusp? You were on the cusp?" And there was no way he was going to apologize.

 

Larry crossed his arms over his chest. "I was, yes, on the cusp. These things take time."

 

"A lot of time, apparently."

 

"And I suppose you would know nothing about that, being so very decisive in your pursuit of Amita, Megan, Val, am I forgetting anyone?"

 

"You," Charlie added, and Larry stopped, open-mouthed, unable to reply because Megan clapped her hands loudly, causing Larry to startle.

 

"Boys, focus if you can, alright? We have work to do."

 

"Hmm?"

 

"Sorry—work. Yes."

 

Megan had a file folder in her hand and put it on the edge of the desk, where it balanced precariously where Larry's coffee had been sitting. Charlie glanced at the floor and saw that the mug had indeed shattered into a somewhat interesting dispersal pattern, with the larger pieces spreading like a flower's petals at the point of impact, and the smaller and smaller shards fanning outward from that point.

 

"Well, Professors, I actually came to CalSci for a little of that Deus ex mathematica. Though I'm happy to stay for the whole show. It's a little early for a matinee, though, don’t you think?"

 

"Oh—what?" Charlie looked back up at Megan, realizing it was rude not to, and pushed the folder a few centimeters closer to the edge of the desk, considering the possibility that the weigh of the tab might be enough to overbalance it.

 

Larry shook his head and pushed it back in further from the edge, though he really didn't need to. If it hadn't fallen already it wasn't about to. Though if he balanced a few paper clips on the edge, it might. Two would probably do it. Did Larry have any paperclips? He considered using an alien, but they weren't all equally weighted, which would be a problem.

 

"Charles, I believe she's referring to federal business rather than flirtation, and your role as Deus in the criminal plot, which, I have to say is a bit of an oversimplification of your abilities, though I wonder… if you're a Deus, what, precisely, is my role? An angel, perhaps?"

 

"Dancing on the head of a pin, Larry," Charlie added, but Larry ignored him. Megan smiled, though. And he found a paper clip. Just one, though, and it wasn't enough.

 

"In any case, it bears thinking about. Ex mathematica—now that's interesting—math as a machine, which of course it is, in a sense. The human brain can be considered the ultimate model for all modern computers. Charles—you might be interested to know there was a Commodore 64 game called 'Deus ex machina.' I wonder if I still have that somewhere. I suppose one could argue that the Judeo-Christian god, as represented in arguments for Intelligent...."

 

"Right," Charlie nodded, seeing that Larry had at last gotten to the important part. The rest of what Larry was saying, while possibly interesting, was probably not as relevant as Larry thought it was. "As I told Don yesterday, I've got the beginnings of a theory of the crime, but I was hoping you could give me better data. The more I have—the more I—and the computer—can play with. Wait—you said Don said?—Don—he's not here, is he?"

 

"No, but Colby's across the street buying us lunch, so you two might want to consider just how close you came to an indecent exposure charge and think about shutting your door before engaging in—whatever it was you and the—wait—what are those—aliens?" Megan walked up to the desk and reached around behind Larry and into the bowl, pulling out an alien and laughing. "This is cute."

 

"That's a rare one, actually. I haven't verified this with the company, but the odds of getting just that one are in the—"

 

Larry cleared his throat, and Charlie stopped himself.

 

"Right. Drug case. Here—I think I've got the preliminary results here somewhere." He certainly hoped he did, and that he wouldn't have to leave and go back to his office. "Here. Found it. You can ignore the first couple of pages and skip right to the—"

 

"The end, right. I usually do. Not that I don't appreciate the effort you boys put into—whatever this is. And I suppose Don can call you if he has any questions."

 

"Yes. He can—he should call. Yes," Charlie agreed. "Definitely. Because I'm not sure where I'll be. Here, or—"

 

"Riiight. Gotcha." Megan was standing at the door to the office, that bright look still in her eyes.

 

"Megan, you—you won't say anything."

 

"Soul of discretion, Charlie. You know that. We're all professionals here."

 

"Right. Of course." He nodded and looked over at Larry, who had moved to the visitor's chair and was studiously avoiding him, leaning over the Borimer numbers and writing something down in the margins.

 

He turned back to Megan, who waved a little too cheerily as she left, setting the door to lock and shutting it behind her with a loud click.

 

"Well that was interesting," Larry offered, not looking up from his suddenly very interesting equations.

 

"We should probably talk about this," Charlie offered, and Larry rubbed at his cheek and continued scribbling but didn't say anything, and Charlie decided that they probably should talk about it, but that didn't really mean either of them wanted to.

 

Charlie waited a few minutes and then picked up his bag and found his own, half-finished work, an article on teaching to math-phobics. It had been Larry's idea that he write it, insisting that he branch out and actually publish on teaching, since that was apparently something he was good at (and at the time, he'd ignored the implied insult, putting it down to jealousy, then deciding that wasn't it because if Larry was jealous, he wouldn't be suggesting Charlie publish.) Larry had even offered to help him write it, which again, was either extremely generous or another insult, or maybe just realistic, as he really was having a lot more trouble putting together sentences than he expected.

 

"Deus ex machina." Larry's voice was quiet, and it was a moment before Charlie realized he was speaking to Charlie and not just mumbling to himself.

 

"Hmm?"

 

"Charles, you don't actually know what that is, do you?"

 

"I… maybe. I might know."

 

Larry raised an eyebrow but didn't look up, or break the rhythm of what he was writing, having now turned to a new, blank page, beginning to fill it with more notes—green ones, Charlie noticed. He must have left his green pens here, then.

 

"It's… okay, what is it?"

 

"I take it you were otherwise engaged the day you read Euripedes."

 

"I read Euripedes?"

 

Larry leaned back, setting down his pen. "No, I gather you didn't. It means, literally, 'God in the machine,' and refers to a sudden turn in the plot of a narrative. The phrase has its origins in Greek theatre, but you'll find Deus ex machina in all manner of… drama."

 

"So—it's a religious thing."

 

"No—not precisely, Charles, though religious explanations for the world have much the same function, I suppose. Calling a natural disaster an 'act of God,' for instance. It's a shortcut—a way out of a complicated situation—a rescue or solution that comes from outside." Larry gestured at the doorway.

 

"Ah. Got it. So not a good thing?"

 

"It's cheap. But effective. A real solution or explanation would, of course, take more time, more effort—"

 

"Oh."

 

"And there's no guarantee that it would end well. These things are often… messy."

 

Charlie picked up the alien that Megan had put back down on the desk, turning it over in his hand. "Come here."

 

Larry got up with a sigh and came around the desk and, when he got close enough, Charlie grabbed his hand and pulled him down to sit on his lap, the chair tipping back just a bit before Charlie steadied himself. Larry looked amused and Charlie wondered if maybe this violated a social rule, but decided it felt good to have Larry there.

 

"Were you really on the cusp of making your move?"

 

Larry shrugged. "With Megan? Does that bother you?"

 

"Ah—a question with a question. You were being nice."

 

Larry nodded, cocking his head to the side. "That's three questions now. Maybe four. Nice to Megan or to you?"

 

"Megan."

 

"Hmm. Well, if that's an explanation you can live with, by all means." Larry waved his hand dismissively.

 

"It makes sense. Occam's Razor, Larry. The simplest answer that accounts for all the evidence."

 

"Another shortcut?" Larry frowned and looked down at his hands, rubbing at one raw hangnail that Charlie saw was bleeding just slightly. Larry was nervous. "If I've taught you anything over these many years, I would hope you had come to realize that, in human terms, the simplest, neatest explanation is rarely the right one."

 

"This feels right," Charlie offered, tentatively, because he had no idea what Larry thought, really. He only knew what he felt—the sudden pleasure of everything lining up so neatly that he couldn't find the flaw—like numbers that just suddenly fit after a long struggle to make sense of things that felt hopeless, and yes, the fact that, for some reason, he was actually surprisingly turned on didn't hurt. It all had the beautiful, pristine quality that he associated more with mathematics than with people, though that made sense, too, as Larry was really one of the few people to be both at once, a man who lived his theories, who didn't just read about super-symmetry but who felt it, viscerally—a man who got down on his hands and knees to follow a line of water up a wall, and whose hands had just traced across Charlie's own body with that same, curious passion.

 

Larry didn't answer.

 

"Tell me it doesn't feel right."

 

Larry sighed and shifted on his lap. "Evidently, it does."

 

And Charlie blushed, because yes, he did now have an erection that was impossible to miss. "Sorry."

 

"No need to apologize for… well, I'm flattered, actually. Though I honestly had no idea, when I got up this morning, that I'd end up here, with that. I would have probably worn a different shirt."

 

"I actually like that shirt. Not that I don't appreciate all your shirts. They're very—colorful."

 

"Well, be that as it may, I have to admit, I'm finding it a bit… difficult to orient myself to this situation."

 

"Maybe I want a little messiness in my life," Charlie argued, sure now, pulling Larry down to kiss him, bracing himself with a hand on Larry's back, Larry's hands coming up to his shoulders and around his neck.

 

This time, the kiss was simpler, and it was easier to take in what was happening—Larry's warm weight pressing into him, brushing against his erection, and the oddness of seeing Larry—and feeling him—in this much detail just made it better—the smooth, soft skin of Larry's newly shaved jaw, the smell of coffee and the strange intimacy of being this close, of the slide of Larry's shirt over his skin, of reaching his hand up and under the tail of it to trace the curve of Larry's spine up to the spread of his shoulder-blades, then down again to dig into the soft flesh at his waist until Larry shifted and wriggled and finally slapped Charlie's hand away with a soft, not too tremendously manly giggle.

 

He moved to unbutton Larry's shirt, laughing a little himself, and things escalated pretty quickly, with Larry helping him, fumbling with his own buttons, and then undoing his own fly, and sighing into Charlie's mouth as Charlie put his hand there. It was a shock— the visceral awareness of Larry's desire stirring against his hand, which suggested that Larry had underestimated his ability to orient to these new developments.

 

"Wait—" Charlie said, pulled back with a gasp.

 

"Charles?" Larry's voice was soft and breathy, unfamiliar, though when Charlie forced himself to look him in the eye, his expression was very familiar, warm and slightly amused.

 

"Are you…?"

 

"Am I what?" Larry's eyes narrowed down to slits, his mouth narrowing as well, engraving and deepening the small lines there, reminding Charlie suddenly of just how much older Larry was, and how different they were, and how often Larry let him forget that. Maybe Larry forgot that, too. Probably, though, he didn't.

 

"Gay," Charlie answered, finally, feeling vaguely stupid saying it under the circumstances.

 

"Gay? You ask me this now?" Larry moved to get off his lap and Charlie grabbed him and held him there.

 

"It seemed relevant now." He knew he sounded defensive, and heard it reflected back at him in the slight whine in Larry's tone—the undercurrent of tension evident in Larry's posture.

 

"And if I say no, what, precisely, do you expect will happen?"

 

"So you're not gay?"

 

"Charles, I spend my day trying to explain the universe, for no reason except my own satisfaction, operating under the philosophy that we humans have a remarkable ability to do more with our bodies and minds than most of us realize. We barely understand our own origins and yet insist on categorizing human experience in terms so reductive as to be almost meaningless. And I happen to be sitting—not all that comfortably, I should add—on your lap."

 

"That's—not an answer, Larry."

 

Larry bit his lower lip and sighed. "You need to ask a different question. And you'll notice that I haven't asked you that question, for the simple reason that—"

 

"I thought you said there were no stupid questions."

 

Larry held up his hand. "I revise my opinion. It's really not a good question, Charles, and I really don't care to hear your answer right now, or spend any time thinking about my own."

 

"So what do you want?" And wow, that sounded just a little defensive.

 

"I want to take you home, to my house and to my bed, for a 'Close Encounter of the Carnal Kind.'"

 

"Oh. Um…."

 

"But that's not what I'm going to do." And Larry was standing up again, and Charlie didn't stop him, watching as Larry buttoned himself back up, a small smile rounding his cheeks but not really erasing the tension still there.

 

"You're not?" Because really—that sounded very, very good. Perhaps the best idea Larry Fleinhardt had ever had. And Charlie wondered if he'd screwed it up. He really didn't have enough friends to handle losing Larry, but he also really didn't have enough sex to handle the disappointment of losing that, either. It was a quandary.

 

"No—I'm not, because it's very nearly ten o'clock, and in twenty minutes, I have to teach thirty-one undergraduates the difference between matter and antimatter, neither of which really matters to them, and only after that feat is accomplished can I contemplate your penis at greater length. And perhaps depth."

 

Charlie laughed, finding himself only a little surprised that Larry could still surprise him. "That's really dirty."

 

Larry grinned, a slight flush on his cheeks as he leaned in to kiss him again, a warm, open-mouthed kiss that threatened to become something more but then didn't. Instead, Larry grabbed his jacket and folded it over his arm, which adequately covered the erection now tenting the front of Larry's trousers.

 

"You'll meet me later."

 

Charlie was about to say yes, of course, because sex, but then moaned, suddenly remembering what Larry hadn't forgotten. It was Monday, and… "I have an appointment to work with an advisee at noon."

 

Larry stopped at the door and turned, his jacket draped like a shield in front of him. "Pretty?"

 

Charlie cleared his throat. "I hadn't noticed."

 

"I suppose by the law of averages, some of them are destined to be unattractive."

 

"He's handsome and you asked the wrong question."

 

"Interesting."

 

"Not as interesting as you."

 

"Now that goes without saying."

 

And with that, Larry was out the door, leaving Charlie alone with a hard-on, a jarful of cheerfully invading aliens, and his own work. The thought of work, and the absence of Larry, muted the arousal pretty quickly. In fact, with Larry gone, the whole conversation took on a decidedly surreal edge, and he realized he could easily convince himself that it hadn't happen at all, except there was the mug, broken, on the floor, and Megan could probably corroborate.

 

There was something important about the broken mug. At first he thought it was the shards, but then he realized it was the pattern of the coffee. He took another look, but it was different somehow; most of it had soaked into the rug or evaporated. But he closed his eyes and could still see it, and at least an hour past before he looked up again, suddenly realizing that Larry never had removed his ring, and Charlie knew for a fact that Larry's students, who tended to ignore nearly everything Larry said, were (according to campus gossip, which somehow found its way back to him even when he wasn't particularly interested) keeping an almost obsessively itemized list of Larry's wardrobe, and who had devised a complex guidebook coding the shirts by some obscure method that claimed to predict in what direction Larry's digressions would move on any given day.

 

Charlie got up and ran for the door, then stopped, reconsidering. Because he could count on Larry's students noticing the ring on Larry's left hand. But was that really such a bad thing?

 

He stayed in Larry's office and got some work done, and by the time he was through with his advisee, he had a new, better answer for Don and a brighter outlook on the whole day. He tried not to think about Larry, preferring to focus on the few problems he felt confident he could solve, but it was like trying not to think about the grey alien in the middle of the room, and in the end, he thought of little else.

 

He somehow got to Larry's house before Larry did, and it was possible that Larry had gotten sidetracked into the library and had forgotten about him—and sex—and that he might resurface hours or even days later. Or maybe he hadn’t forgotten at all. Maybe he'd changed his mind.

 

He considered leaving and coming back later. It seemed strange that he had a key to Larry's office and his car (though Larry still refused to let him drive it) but not to Larry's house. After all, what if he had a sudden, urgent need to get into Larry's home office? Or, more to the point, his bed? Yesterday, that would have seemed unlikely.

 

Yesterday seemed a long way away. Somehow, he had managed to calmly not have sex with Larry for years now, and yet, now that the idea was out there, it seemed not just inevitable but necessary that they consummate the act now.

Had it really been that long since he'd gotten laid?

 

Yes, sadly, it really had. The sudden thought that Penfield—sparkling conversationalist that he was—probably had sex more often entered his mind, but he dismissed it as highly unlikely. Height wasn’t everything, and it didn't make up for the many areas in which the man was obviously lacking. Though it occurred to him that he still wasn't sure if Larry had just been trying to make him jealous or if he genuinely liked Penfield, which was a very disturbing thought.

 

By the time Larry arrived, pulling his car into the driveway slowly and getting out slowly, and walking up to the front door, again, slowly, Charlie had to restrain himself to keep from jumping him in front of the neighbors.

 

And the sad thing was, if he had jumped him, Larry would probably have had a heart attack, because he didn't seem to have even noticed that Charlie was there, and when he nearly walked into him on the front step, he stopped and blinked, recognizing the obstacle first and only then seeming to see that it was Charlie.

 

"Sorry—you said—But if you changed your mind, of course I'll g—"

 

"Pondering." Larry held his hand up and unlocked the door.

 

Charlie didn't say anything until Larry nodded his head and indicated he was done. Not that Larry was ever really done thinking, but one of the best things about Larry, really, was that he understood that sometimes, other people were a nuisance, even if you liked them.

 

"How was class?" Charlie dropped his bag inside the door beside Larry's bag, and removed his jacket and then his shoes, in deference to Larry's new rug.

"Is that sincere interest I hear or are you trying to get me into bed?"

 

"Um…."

 

"Regardless of motive, eight percent of the class appeared to be asleep, but as that's well below the mean for this point in the semester, I consider it a victory over somnolence."

 

"Good for you." He had no idea what somnolence meant, but he clapped Larry on the arm anyway and then wished he hadn't, as Larry flinched. It was the sort of a platonic move he made every day, and Charlie realized that, other than kissing, he didn't really know any non-platonic moves. None that he'd ever considered using on Larry, anyway.

"Hmmm. I don't suppose my newfound ring—which by the way you might have mentioned was still on when I left—had any undue influence on the state of their attentiveness. One woman in the front row appeared to be admiring it. Though she could have been staring at my—"

 

"I'm sure it was that," Charlie agreed, and he took that as permission to put his hand there, finally. It was startlingly intimate, definitely non-platonic, and a little strange, and Larry responded by patting Charlie's arm a little awkwardly—a little too platonically—and then leaned in to kiss him, as if to correct for that. And just like that, the strange awkward feeling vanished just as it had before, as Larry's hand on his arm gripped his biceps hard, the kiss turning from friendly to passionate to almost obscene in the space of a few seconds. And just as suddenly, there was no doubt at all that he wanted this. That he wanted Larry.

 

Larry was surprisingly aggressive once the hands that were always gesturing were busy, and with none of Larry's higher mental functions apparently getting in the way once he got going.

 

Charlie tried hard to shut his own brain off, but it was insistent, reminding him that Don had called his voicemail twice with new data and that Megan had called once since she left and, without saying anything directly, had managed to suggest that he was not fooling anyone, and certainly not Don. He was very much hoping she was wrong about that, since before today, he didn't really know, but he hadn't had the courage to argue. And beneath all of that he had at least two pressing problems related to his current research, neither of which he seemed any closer to solving.

 

"What's this? Is that an alien in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?" Larry's hand had found its way along the front of his jeans.

 

Charlie put his hand into his pocket and pulled out the grey, handing him to Larry.

 

"Not the prophylactic I was expecting."

 

Charlie pulled away, a little startled. Adrenaline was making him sweat, his heart beating noticeably fast. Apparently, all that work with Don was doing nothing to mute his fight or flight response. He hadn't really thought about it, and wondered if Larry had condoms, because Charlie certainly didn't have any on him. He wasn't even sure he thought they needed one.

 

"Not that I don't trust that we've both used appropriate cautionary measures in the past."

 

"Larry, you cheat at Battleship." The words came out suddenly, and he suddenly wished he had a condom for his mouth.

 

"I—what? I most certainly do not. And how is that important to this conversation? No—don't tell me. I honestly don't want any further insight into your mental processes."

 

"Trust, Larry. It's about trust."

 

"Oh, no—this is—this is—you absolutely cannot admit that you lost count, can you?"

 

"I did not lose count. I don't lose count, Larry."

 

"Well, apparently, you can lose because you did lose, and at the risk of pointing out the obvious, there is a good deal of difference between sex and a Parker Brothers game. We are still talking about sex, aren't we?"

 

"It was Milton Bradley, actually, and what are you implying?"

 

"I don't believe I'm implying so much as stating it outright in any number of ways that you nevertheless somehow consistently manage to ignore, and you know, I have no idea why we're arguing about this, or at all for that matter. Are we arguing? Is this some sort of foreplay, because I have to admit, I don't find it all that arousing."

 

"Did you sleep with Penfield?" There, he'd said it. It was a relief—like putting down something heavy, his body still trembling with the exertion of carrying it for weeks now.

 

"Did I what?"

 

Charlie shook his head, because he really couldn't say it again.

 

"No. I—no. Why would you think such a thing?"

 

"You found him attractive." He felt strangely calm now, saying it, the anger somewhere else, for the moment. "You wanted Megan, and I've seen the way you look at Amita."

 

"Charles, I—that's—"

 

"Just admit it."

 

"Charles, really, this is ridiculous. Granted, you did not win Amita, though I somehow doubt she was ever offering herself as a prize, and for that I admire her. But Penfield—using his work to restore the luster to your own, and my feelings about him are—"

 

"So you have feelings for him."

 

"I would not go that far, no."

 

"How far would you go?"

 

Larry's eyes widened and he crossed his arms over his chest. "I don't know that that's any of your business."

 

"I—"

 

"A pod person." Larry threw up his hands and then pointed at him. "Obviously, that's the only reasonable explanation."

 

Larry shut his eyes and went quiet for a moment. And Charlie took a deep breath that caught in his throat and made him cough a little. And then the last few minutes of his life caught up with him the way they sometimes did. His hands were shaking, his palms slick with sweat, and he shoved them in his pockets.

 

"Larry, I don't know why that just happened."

 

Larry opened his eyes and stared at him as if he was sure that, yes, Charlie was, in fact, a pod person. "At the moment, I'm generously speculating that you've changed your mind and were hoping to get me riled enough to throw you out, which I have to say I'm close to doing. I think you know where I keep the door."

 

"I haven't changed my mind." Though he felt so bone-deep tired the meaning of somnolence suddenly came to him. "But you're right. Maybe I should leave."

 

Charlie turned toward the door, but Larry grabbed his arm at the elbow and held him in place, and he didn't struggle.

 

"My other, less reductive hypothesis is that your remarkable intellectual ego covers an equally remarkable insecurity and that your earlier interest in defining my sexuality in concrete, narrow terms was merely a distraction so that you don't have to face your own. I have to admit I prefer that explanation, as it leaves me with a certain quiet dignity."

 

"I'm an idiot."

 

"Perhaps some combination, then." Larry sighed. "In which case I think it best if you go, now, and—"

 

"Honestly. I know who I am. When I'm with you, I know," Charlie protested, covering Larry's hand on his arm with his own hand.

 

"Not ideal."

 

"Larry, it's really all I have. You must understand… I'm…messy."

 

Larry stared at him and seemed to consider that and then nodded, slipping his hand out from under Charlie's. Charlie instantly missed the contact.

"Alright. But no more games. If we do this—"

 

"Agreed. No more games."

 

"If we do this, I do suggest you consider relocating your ego northward. In particular, it would leave more room in your pants to contain your id, and I suspect that would be easier on us both."

 

Charlie cleared his throat, annoyed at the tightness there.

 

"Now." Larry rubbed his hands together, and Charlie sensed that the worst was over. "Dinner. Is that something you'd like now or after?"

 

"After what?"

 

"Sex," Larry clarified, his eyebrows raising a little. "I understood that was still on the table."

 

"I—yes—right. Still on the table." Charlie nodded. "I think food would be a good thing, but… later." He couldn't imagine keeping anything down at the moment anyway.

 

The silence stretched on a little too long—probably his own fault—and he blurted out, "I could use your advice on Don's latest case. It's…" But he stopped there because Larry was frowning.

 

"Don's case. Of course. Would you like to talk about that right now or—"

 

"After sex," Charlie said, trying to sound casual, but his voice locked up, and he had to rub at his eyes, which still felt suspiciously moist, though that might have been his palms.

 

"Yes, I suspect Don would be something of a mood killer."

 

Charlie laughed, or tried to.

 

"So do you have a preference?"

 

"I'm gay, Larry. Really."

 

"We could order now and have something delivered, or I could cook. I can't say that I recommend the latter option. Though I suppose we could throw caution to the wind and you could cook. I've heard gay people sometimes do."

 

Larry turned toward the kitchen leaving Charlie beside the door kicking himself.

 

"Larry, I—"

 

"I had pizza for lunch. At least I think I did. I often do. White—white pizza." Larry handed him the menu and Charlie handed it back, not bothering to open it. He knew the restaurant, and the menu probably still had his usual choices circled in it.

 

Charlie watched as Larry called in the order. He knew Larry well enough to anticipate the way he'd stand while he was on the phone, leaning sideways, his shoulder against the doorway with the phone cradled against his ear, his head tipped to the side, his hip jutting out—and the quiet of his voice—different when he was talking to a stranger—harder and, not cold, but definitely less warm. He realized that at some point, too far back to pin down when, he'd actually started picturing Larry when he was on the phone with him—imagining Larry here, or in bed, on his back, arm tucked back under his pillow, legs crossed at the ankles, in his pajamas. Again, none of it was particularly sexy, really. Instead, there was this intense sense of peace and happiness that came with watching Larry on the phone, noticing the way his hair was still sticking up on the side of his head, right over his ear, where he'd run his hands through it while he was dialing. He wanted to smooth it down, but didn't.

 

When Larry finally hung up and put the menu down, he smiled at him a little shyly, and shrugged. "They said thirty-five minutes, but I'm sure they mean to say forty."

 

"That's—good. I'm not starving."

 

"Do you want a beer? Did I buy beer? Oh! The circulation desk." Larry actually slapped his own head and winced.

 

"You left the beer at the library?" He tried to smile and found it worked, and Larry smiled back at him.

 

"I think I did. I might still have some wine here somewhere. Do you think they'll drink it or keep—nevermind. Scotch. That I have."

 

Charlie shook his head, because Larry was really something. "I don't need a drink, Larry. Do you?"

 

"Not particularly, no. Not need. But I suspect it couldn't hurt." Larry poured himself a drink and drank it down quickly, then poured another, glancing up at the ceiling.

 

Charlie looked up as well and at first saw nothing there that wasn't always there, then noticed there was a spider building a web in the corner, and he watched it skitter across its web.

 

"I thought I'd see how big it gets before I call in reinforcements."

 

"The spider?"

 

"Your ego, Charles."

 

Charlie blinked and Larry laughed.

 

"The web, Charles. I don't suppose the spider could possibly get any bigger than that. At least I very much hope it can't. If it does, I may have to invest in a cat."

 

"No, you're probably right," Charlie agreed, knowing almost nothing about spiders.

 

"Well, we still have some time before dinner. I also have a bedroom ceiling. I don't suppose the fauna is as interesting, but if you lie on your back…"

 

"What?"

 

"I'll give you a blow job.

 

Charlie slapped Larry on the arm, not really caring that it was a platonic move because Larry looked so very pleased with himself.

 

They only got as far as the hallway before Larry suddenly turned around and pushed Charlie against the wall and then dropped to his knees. Charlie shut his eyes at the warm heat of Larry's mouth on the fabric of his jeans, then on his boxers as Larry unzipped his fly.

 

"You—oh—oh." He let his head fall back against the wall, wishing they had made it to the bedroom because his legs were starting to tremble as Larry breathed on him, just breathing, doing nothing more than that, steady, damp, even inhalations and exhalations that Charlie started to echo with his own breathing, in and out, slow and deep. And just when he started to feel oddly relaxed and a bit light-headed, and incredibly turned on, he felt his boxers being lowered along with his jeans, and Larry slid a hand back between Charlie's ass and the wall, drawing his hips forward a little.

 

He looked down and watched as Larry took him into his mouth, and decided that he'd been incredibly wrong about Larry. This was hot. Bare skin, the silky heat of Larry's mouth.

 

He came almost immediately, too fast to even think about pulling out, though Larry just held him closer.

 

"Sorry," he whispered.

 

Larry laughed quietly and pulled himself up, leaning on Charlie a little. "I think that's what's supposed to happen, actually."

 

Charlie laughed and took off his jeans and underwear in the hallway, not really liking the idea of damp, sticky clothing, even though it meant walking to the bedroom half-naked. He pulled his shirt off as well, figuring he was committed now, and Larry made a point of following him, keeping one hand on his lower back, though it kept slipping down and pinching him on the ass.

 

"I will avenge myself, you know." He turned just inside the bedroom and kissed Larry, liking the sensation of pressing naked against Larry's clothing. Larry was stroking the hair on his chest, which sort of tickled, and he pushed him away so he could undress Larry without interference.

 

Larry didn't say anything as Charlie unbuttoned Larry's shirt, pulling it off, and then his took off his white undershirt, dropping both on the floor, then undoing Larry's pants, pulling down his boxers. Larry looked at the wall the whole time, not meeting his eyes. He wasn't sure if Larry was shy or just thinking again, but when he touched Larry's chin, Larry blushed and Charlie kissed him until Larry seemed to forget himself, pressing their bodies together, grinding his erection against Charlie's hip and saying his name, whispering it. He'd come to associate his given name with Larry, the only person who ever called him that, but now it sounded like sex, and he realized that tomorrow, he would be working with Larry again and would somehow have to forget he knew what Larry's cock felt like pressed against him. Everything had changed.

 

"You feel amazing," he said, and drew Larry over to the bed, pressing Larry down and climbing on top of him, forcing aside the edges of panic as Larry thrust up, his cock pressing against Charlie's ass, bumping up against his testicles.

 

He moved down Larry's body, using his hands and mouth, glad he'd already come so he could take his time now. He recognized his reputation as a man who lived inside his own head, but he really did appreciate the human body. It was a wonderful thing, though he decided now that mathematics was probably the wrong approach.

 

"Wait here—" He put a hand on Larry and got up, getting the lotion he was sure was in the bedside table, not at all surprised to see that Larry hadn't bothered with hand lotion and actually had massage oil. "A closet hedonist."

 

Larry rolled over and muttered something into his pillow. Charlie heard the word "closet" and grinned.

 

"No—this is actually a good thing." Charlie came back to the bed, pouring some of the oil onto his hands. "Roll back over. Onto your back. Please."

 

"I'd really rather not."

 

"Please."

 

Larry sighed and rolled back over and Charlie sat down on the bed beside him, rubbing his hands together and putting them on Larry's chest, rubbing hard over his pectoral muscles, which were actually more developed than Charlie's own. With a little effort, Larry produced quite a bit more dense muscle mass, not that Larry spent much time or effort on that nowadays, and not that Charlie blamed him.

 

"Ticklish." Larry frowned, though Charlie was sure he wasn't tickling him.

 

"I know. Trust me."

 

The oil let his hands glide easily over Larry's skin, and he let his fingers slide over and around Larry's nipples, pleased when Larry gasped.

 

"Tickles?"

 

Larry didn't answer, and Charlie let his hands drift downward, tracing the midline from chest to belly, using a firm touch, trying to show Larry because all day, his words had been failing him. It was strange to think that he knew this body, but under completely different circumstances. This—this was like discovering a whole new set of functions for a familiar object, only more personal than that, certainly. More intimate.

 

He also realized that, in all his years of knowing Larry, he couldn't really remember seeing him with his shirt off. Even when they went swimming, Larry wore a t-shirt or tank, saying he burned easily, which was the truth. He'd seen the raw, red edges where Larry couldn't reach the backs of his shoulders, and he'd considered volunteering to help, part of him already knowing then he wanted to touch Larry, and he wondered now if they would have ended up here, and if that's ultimately why he never had.

 

He got up onto his knees and Larry turned away from his study of the ceiling just in time to watch Charlie stroke himself. Charlie used his fingers to spread the oil over his own testicles, spreading his legs a bit so he could reach back and apply the oil to his perineum. He'd done this so many times now that it had gone beyond the experimental stage and had become routine—still pleasurable, but no longer a surprise. It should have been easy, then, but even with his eyes closed, the hand he kept on Larry's belly reminded him that he wasn't alone this time, that Larry was watching, and that made it strange, a little embarrassing, a little bit more like the first time he'd tried it, when he wondered if it was possible to be any more unfamiliar and awkward with your own body. He'd found he could handle penetration with a pretty substantial dildo, but at the moment, he could barely get his finger in, which did not bode well for Larry's cock, and he really, really wanted that. But the wanting was not making it any easier to relax.

 

He took a couple of deep breaths and opened his eyes, meeting Larry's gaze.

 

"Charles?"

 

"Hmm?"

 

"Aliens?"

 

He laughed. One of the many reasons to love Larry was that he knew exactly when to take things seriously, and when not to. Charlie leaned over and kissed him, climbing over him and straddling him again, getting oil all over himself in the process, and not minding a bit of it. For a few minutes, he forgot about the destination and just enjoyed the ride—the slick ease of their bodies pressing together, and Larry kissing him again until he almost didn't notice Larry's hands coming to rest on his lower back and sliding down. He shifted up slightly and Larry's finger slipped inside of him, and it was easy and so much more intense than he expected that he almost came again, stopping himself with some effort and pulling away, sitting up on his knees again and lining Larry's erection with his hand and then lowering himself down on it just a bit, surprised by how good it felt, how easy it was, now that he was relaxed. And then he remembered.

 

"We forgot the condom, Larry."

 

"Oh. Well." Larry looked like he was going to say something more but had forgotten what, and finally shrugged, the motion enough to make Charlie gasp at the increased pressure. He wondered just how far away the condoms were. If they were in the bedside table, he would have seen them when he got the oil. If they were in the bathroom, he'd have to get up, and he really did not want to do that.

 

"I can—Larry, we can still…not too late."

 

"If you want to, I suppose—"

 

"I want to come," he protested.

 

"Bathroom."

 

"And you're telling me this now?"

 

"I've been a bit…distracted."

 

"Right. Bathroom." He sighed and lifted himself up and off of Larry, consoling himself with the thought that he would be right back. He kissed Larry on the way to the bathroom, found the condoms, brought them back to the bed, and somehow destroyed the first two he opened.

 

"Y'know, I've never seen anyone do that before."

 

"Funny. Here. Be my guest." He sat on the bed and handed one to Larry, who ripped the package open neatly and put it on with an ease that suggested he had a lot of practice, which Charlie decided he had absolutely no interest in learning more about.

 

"Should I—" he asked, and Larry looked puzzled.

 

"Charles, I swallowed. We're not worried about diseases here. Are we?"

 

"Oh. No. No. Definitely not. So—we ready to go?"

 

"Yes. Absolutely."

 

"Good. Good." Charlie kissed him again, and climbed back on top of him, lowering himself down, taking Larry in all the way this time, arching his own back and bracing himself on the bed, his fingers brushing Larry's thighs. It was considerably better than he'd anticipated. Better than sex, which made no sense except that it was better than sex had ever been before—better than he had imagined it could be. There would definitely be no going back from this. He wondered if it was Larry, or a product of how he felt about him, or if it was the novelty of the experience, though his first time with a woman hadn't been this good by any means. That really should have told him something, but it was probably not something he was willing to accept about himself at that time.

 

Larry moaned softly and thrust his hips up, and he wished he could more easily lean forward and kiss him, but the angle was definitely wrong—no way was he that flexible or coordinated. Clearly math had a place in sex after all, though now was probably not the time to do the definitive study on the geometry of the Kama Sutra. Now was the time to come.

 

"I want to come, Larry. I really, seriously, very much want to come. Very much."

 

Larry grabbed hold of his hips, pulling him forward enough to increase the pressure, and Charlie finally touched himself, and it was so intense he couldn't breathe. He gasped and Larry went very still and moaned, and Charlie gave in and went for it, stroking himself hard and focusing on Larry coming inside of him, counting out the beats of Larry's orgasm until he finally spilled out on Larry's belly and his own chest.

 

He opened his eyes and looked up at the ceiling and laughed, seeing yet another spider making a home there. Larry really needed to dust.

 

Larry wriggled his hips and slipped out of him, and he let himself fall forward, his thighs and arms trembling with the exertion.

 

"Messy," Larry noted, a smile in his voice that Charlie didn't have the urge to verify was also on his face. He buried his head against Larry's neck for a few minutes, until Larry wriggled again.

 

"Too heavy?"

 

"Hot."

 

"Um… thanks."

 

"Sweaty."

 

"Oh." He rolled off of Larry and curled against his side, ignoring Larry's protests, putting his arm across Larry's waist and holding him until the sweat dried and he started to shiver.

 

Larry pulled the blanket out from under them and covered them both.

 

"Thanks."

 

"You're very welcome."

 

He dozed until the doorbell rang. Larry sat up looking puzzled and sleepy.

 

"Chinese," Charlie reminded him, and Larry sighed, getting up slowly and looking around the room, at last finding and pulling on a blue flannel robe.

 

Charlie stayed in bed a few minutes more and then forced himself to get up, go to the bathroom and clean up. He'd somehow expected to look different, but he really didn't. Neither had Larry, actually. Maybe a little happier.

 

He borrowed a pair of sweats and a clean t-shirt and came downstairs, still smiling. Larry had already laid out the food on the table, still wearing the robe with nothing underneath. He smelled like sex, and Charlie came up behind him and hugged his shoulders, kissing the top of his head.

 

Seeing the cartons, he realized he was now starving and piled food on his plate, sitting next to Larry and digging in, not noticing at first that Larry hadn't put anything on his own plate.

 

"You okay? Larry?"

 

"Yes, I'm fine."

 

"Not hungry?"

 

"GRBs come in two classes, Charles."

 

"Hmm."

 

"Short and hard and long and soft."

 

"Interesting. Is this a sexual metaphor?"

 

Larry frowned. "Isn't everything?"

 

"Um… I'd have to say a firm no to that one, Larry."

 

"A firm no?" Larry grinned and picked up a napkin, setting it down on his lap.

 

"You have a remarkably dirty mind. I didn't know that about you. No, wait—I think I did. Eat before it gets cold."

 

"You mentioned a question about a case?" Larry reached for the tofu and Charlie watched as he carefully laid some of it out on a bed of sticky, white rice.

 

"Yes. Yes, I did. You want some soy sauce with that?"

 

"It's brown."

 

"Yes, that it is, Larry." Charlie sighed. "Tell me about Gamma Rays first."

 

"It's all about the afterglow, Charles. In the final analysis, that's all we really have."

 

"And your point would be—"

 

"We may not have to tell Don. Or Alan, for that matter."

 

Charlie set down his chopsticks. "You think we should keep this a secret?"

 

"I think that your family will take one look at your face and assume the worst."

 

"What's wrong with my face?"

 

"Absolutely nothing. You look very well-fucked, as a matter of fact."

 

"Larry, I didn't know. I hardly think it's the obvious conclusion to reach." He didn't mention that Megan had as much as said the same thing, and she'd seen him hours earlier.

 

"You're making a classic error in assuming that your own experience is at all generalizable."

 

"Meaning?"

 

"Meaning that when it comes to human relationships, you are less than expert. And I suspect your father, being somewhat more proficient than you at reading people, has always feared it would end this way."

 

"This isn't ending."

 

"Tell that to your father." Larry chewed thoughtfully on a piece of tofu.

 

Charlie leaned back and pushed his plate away, having now lost his appetite, which was probably a good thing as the older he got, the harder it was to keep his weight from creeping upwards. "You're dampening the afterglow."

 

"We can always have sex again," Larry offered. "I'm sure it's recoverable."

 

Charlie rolled his eyes.

 

"Or, after dinner, we can play Battleship and talk about this case of yours—"

 

"It's Don's case."

 

"Which you have taken responsibility for solving, which makes it your case, which somehow means it's mine as well. Funny how that works."

 

"You're under no obligation to consult, Larry. That's entirely up to you."

 

"Of course it is."

 

Charlie knew Larry had a point, but wasn't willing to concede it quite yet.

 

"So… a rematch, Charles? I may even have the actual game here somewhere. It's more fun playing with actual pieces, though I don't know quite why that is, considering that I have no real interest in sinking actual ships."

 

"I actually prefer the paper game. Fewer distractions."

 

"Ah, but it's easier to lose count."

 

"I did not—"

 

Larry frowned.

 

"Fine. I might have lost count. Once. I am only human."

 

"And me without a tape recorder handy. Ah well, the world would only assume it was doctored."

 

"Sorry? I didn't hear that."

 

"Nothing, Charles. I was just thinking that, without Amita here to distract you, there is a chance you might beat me this time."

"Amita had nothing to do with it, Larry. I seem to remember you were wearing that incredibly loud shirt with the flamingos on it and a pair of jeans that were actually tight enough to see the outline of your—"

 

"I'm quite sure I don't own any jeans that tight."

 

"Must've been my imagination, then. Here's a thought for you—"

 

"You are not buying me clothing, Charles. I draw the line at my closet."

 

"Funny, but having seen your closet, no—actually, that's not a bad idea. But I was actually thinking about the problem of afterglow as you've outlined it. Clearly, the sex was too good."

 

"That's a problem?"

 

"Afterglow is a problem, yes. But, if we apply statistical theory, we know that, given enough repetitions of the same act, we will eventually achieve regression to the mean. A baseball player will only hit so many home runs before—"

 

"I don't think that I—"

 

"No, hear me out. At this moment, you're right—if we see anyone we know, we'll give ourselves away simply by being unnaturally happy."

 

"Unnatural for you, maybe. Not all of us live strictly monastic lives."

 

Charlie ignored that, because he was sure he was onto something. "But assuming we wait and don't go home—"

 

"I am home—"

 

"Sorry—assuming I don't go home until the sex regresses to the mean, we should be able to resume our normal routines without drawing undue attention to the relationship."

 

"You're counting on the Sophomore Slump?" Larry laughed.

 

"Well, I don't think we could, practically speaking, hole up here an entire year, but it doesn't necessarily have to take that long—"

 

"Before the sex becomes mediocre? Is this a goal we really should be striving toward?"

 

"Larry, the mean isn't a goal. It's a fact, there whether we want it or not."

 

"So how long were you thinking of dedicating to this experiment? Because I suspect someone would come looking for us—well, for you. I sometimes wonder if anyone would notice if I didn't come to work at all."

 

"I'm sure someone would report you missing eventually, Larry." Charlie shrugged and picked up his chopsticks again. "And the experiment—I think we should give ourselves the weekend."

 

"The whole weekend? In bed?"

 

"Consider it a honeymoon." The words were out before he had time to consider them.

 

"Pretending you did not just say that, let's be entirely hypothetical now. What if what we just experienced was, in fact, the mean, sexually speaking? Following through on your dubious sporting analogy, it's entirely possible that, with practice, better results could be achieved."

 

"Better results?"

 

"Possibly. Yes. It's possible."

 

"An intriguing challenge."

 

"More optimistic, at any rate." Larry looked down at his hand and frowned, fiddling with the ring. "Charles, honestly, this really is all just a little, well, silly."

 

"In what sense?"

 

"It's plastic."

 

"Larry, I'll buy you a ring. I do have the money."

 

"I hardly think that's the point."

 

But Charlie stopped him before he could remove it, taking his hand and holding it tight enough that the plastic dug into Charlie's palm. And still, he didn't let go.

 

The End.

 

 

Thanks to Kate for talking back to Larry and wanting to smack Charlie. It helps. And thanks to Sigrid for the house on stilts, the wine, the food, the stream I didn't fall into but did drink from, the Doctor I fell in love with again, and for putting up with my endless Larry-lust .

 

Feed the Muse.. She eats supersymmetry for breakfast.