OFF THE PLANE OF THE ECLIPTIC
by Miriam HeddyIf so much as one more person asked him what he thought of Pluto, he was going to... well, he wasn't sure what he might do, but violence was a distinct possibility.
As he'd already told Charles, it hardly mattered what you called something. The re-categorization of a thing did not affect its gravity, nor did not change its orbit one whit. A thing was what it was, regardless of the label one chose to attach to it, regardless of what one might hope....
"So you're saying you aren't the slightest bit annoyed that it all came down to size?"
"Charles..." Larry very nearly said something he would almost certainly regret, but instead settled for taking a very deep breath, which left him just a bit light-headed. Charles often had that effect lately. "As you well know, that's a crude oversimplification of a—"
"Complex, yeah, yeah." Charles waved a hand dismissively, though he was smiling. Apparently, one of them was enjoying this discussion.
"Size, Charles, in and of itself, is irrelevant. It didn't clear the neighborhood around its orbit. That was the final test, and it was, perhaps, an arbitrary test—"
"But it doesn't bother you. That it was all so... arbitrary."
"No, it really doesn't." And never-mind that Charles probably couldn't spell the word—
"Really."
"All definitions are, by definition, arbitrary, relying on comparison, even metaphor to—"
"Now that's—" Charles stopped, and Larry turned to see Amita across the commons, not coming any closer but acknowledging them with a smile and a half-wave. Larry started to wave back and then dropped his hand back to his side, realizing that, if Charles had asked him just one more time, he might have admitted that perhaps it did bother him, just a little. But Charles hadn't asked, and he told himself it was futile to mourn the arbitrary nature of attraction.
"He really..."
"Apparently," Larry agreed, turning the page of his journal on his lap, still unread and likely to continue to be, given Charles' preoccupation—nay, obsession—with Perelman's work. Larry finally gave up and set his own article aside, as he really couldn't remember where he was on the page. Or off of it, for that matter. A glance at his watch reassured him that he was not due in class, and he assumed that Charles would remind him if he was late for office hours, though given Charles' hunched shoulders and nervous tapping at the pages in his lap, perhaps not.
"Larry, I don't get how you can be calm at a— with this— How can you sit there when... And it's just... I don't even know what it is— it's..."
Charles had been having a great deal of trouble finishing a thought today, though from the copious notations on the pages before him, it seemed to be strictly a verbal problem and not affecting the right hemispheric functions.
"I'm as stunned as you, Charles. In fact, I would go so far as to say that my entire worldview has been shifted to a degree I can only begin to fathom."
"Then how can you—"
"As you should know by now, reactions to such key revelations are often subject to a time delay before we can begin to comprehend that which, at least initially, seems incomprehensible."
"I think your students are praying that's true." Charles glanced up from the proof with narrowed eyes. "So in other words, you're still in shock and you're going to start panicking long after I'm done."
"I do hope that I'm above panic at this stage of my life. As for my students—"
"You are in denial."
"Well, as that's inarguable and you know that, I don't suppose I should bother to argue with you, though I would point out—"
"But you will anyway?"
Larry sighed, realizing that he was, once again, fooling himself in thinking he would win this—or any—argument with Charles. Capricious and stubborn didn't even begin to describe the man. Pig-headed was apt, though. Which begged the question of just why he was still here and not doing something more productive with his time.
A rhetorical question. Keeping Charles company regardless of mood... wasn't that what defined his place in the grand scheme of things? And if he walked away—always presuming that doing so was still possible—
Charles' head tipped up from his study of the extant proof—or some part of it—and his pencil drew a jagged line through one line of text. "Speaking of revelations, Larry, I... I know—"
"I thought I'd find you here." Whatever knowledge Charles had been prepared to impart was now lost to the moment, as Charles had already turned his attentions upward towards Amita with a bright smile that Larry preferred to think of as forced—a social gesture and nothing more. And where would the world be without such gestures? Barbarism and savagery, neither of which promoted the elaboration of seemingly impossible problems.
Amita was still talking—something about a difficulty in locating Charles. "Okay, so I'll admit I tried your office and the lab before I came here, and your assistant said check the library, but then I realized it was such a nice day—and I should've just started here, shouldn't I..." She trailed off with a sigh and then added, "Hi Larry," an afterthought which he appreciated, for what it was worth.
He glanced up at and nodded. "Amita. I'm frequently in the last place I think to look."
Charles elbowed him in the side and Amita looked puzzled, then smiled. And she was speaking again, "So... you two seem somewhat... intense just now. What's today's topic?"
"Did we have a top—"
"We were just talking about Poincare," Charles cut in just a little too quickly as though it were a lie. Charles also looked like he was lying, glancing down at his notes, scratching out something and revising it with shifty eyes and nervous gestures. But when Charles looked back up again, his hand had resumed its nervous tapping on the page and he was smiling to himself. It was puzzling, and Larry wasn't at all sure he wasn't imagining it. Charles was, even after all these years, still something of a mystery, and, like any bright object, extensive study of him could illuminate but also blind.
"Poincare, hmm?"
"Specifically, the nature of paradigm shifts and panic," Larry clarified, still studying Charles with a sidelong glance—the only safe kind and, oddly enough, the only one available with Charles sitting so close beside him.
"Paradigm shifts and panic. That sounds intriguing."
Amita made for a fine echo chamber, as it turned out, which was a shame as she often really did have interesting things to impart.
Charles was silent, and so Larry felt the onus was on him to elaborate. "Yes, well, Charles here believes I'm insufficiently excited by this latest development and I was seeking to reassure him that I—well, suffice it to say that I recognize the magnitude of this discovery without being unduly overwhelmed by it."
"It's just another Millennium Prize, after all, nothing to get excited about," Charles muttered under his breath, scratching out another line of his own notes. "It's not like he solved P vs. NP—"
"Or anything impossible," Larry added, warning Charles even though he knew, by this point, that he would be ignored.
"The jury is still out on that one, Fleinhardt."
"If the numbers fit, you will acquit."
"I. Don't. Quit."
Amita chuckled, but the tension in Charles' shoulders bothered him and Larry scratched at his own arm, trying to think of something else to say that wouldn't drive Charles deeper into a self-pitying sulk.
He could feel Charles glaring at him, so Larry refused to meet his eyes, turning to watch the students walking by in small groups, laughing and talking amongst themselves, oblivious to the way the entire world had changed so very recently he could still feel it reshaping around them, though, to be fair, maybe nothing at all had changed. After all, Perelman had merely described the shape of things as they always were. It was up to the rest of them to find a way to live with that. It was a shame, really, that things were so awkward now with Laurel, because she was exactly the right sort of person to talk to at this moment. Forays into cognitive mathematics notwithstanding, Charles sometimes tended toward an almost pathological literalism that was... worrying. Really, except for some overlap, they lived in essentially two distinct epistemological worlds bridged only by a shared language and a passion for time-wasting robotics and the problem of obstacles far more concrete than....
And then, in the way that such things often happened, with bridges and tunnels on his mind, inspiration struck and he knew just exactly what to say to Charles. He cleared his throat and Charles glanced at him warily.
"An otherwise excellent student was doing miserably on his oral final exam in General Topology."
Charles chuckled, the tension easing out of his shoulders. Amita looked puzzled, so Larry turned to her and clarified, "Charles has apparently heard this one, so maybe I shouldn't—"
"No, go ahead."
"Now Charles, I wouldn't want to interrupt your funk just when it was getting incredibly—."
"Fleinhardt..."
Larry nodded, feeling he had scored at least a point, and continued. "Yes, well, exasperated by the student's abysmal performance up to that point, the professor asked the student 'So, what, if anything, do you know about topology?' The student paused a moment as if considering this deeply and then replied, 'I know the definition of a topologist.' The professor asked his young protege to elaborate, expecting to get the old saw about how a topologist is—"
"Someone who can't tell the difference between a coffee cup and a doughnut," Charles interjected, and Larry nodded.
"Yes, but instead, Charles, the student replied: 'A topologist is someone who can't tell the difference between his ass and a hole in the ground—'"
"But who can tell the difference between his ass and two holes in the ground. Badap bump."
As Charles was smiling broadly, Larry found he couldn't begrudge him the punch-line.
Amita laughed appreciatively, though it was a fairly bad joke as jokes went, and as she laughed her long hair tumbled across her shoulders, reminding Larry suddenly of that commercial for that shampoo that he used to like... now what was that called? He realized with a start that the commercial for the product he was thinking of had aired long before either of them was even born, so they could hardly be counted on to remember the name. He frowned and decided not to bother sharing that, feeling suddenly tired.
And now Charles was saying something and Amita laughed again, but he'd missed it, whatever it was, catching only the tail-end of the exchange—the mood had turned and their faces turned toward each other, now, Charles squinting slightly at Amita's dark silhouette, backlit by the sun like an eclipse.
He rubbed his own eyes and sighed, glancing down at the proof that, by all rights, should have moved him—and would have, once.
Was it simply youth that provoked Charles to assume a public display of every emotion was necessary? Though he knew that wasn't quite fair. In the proper setting, and with the proper provocation...
"So don't you two ever just take a coffee break and talk about, oh, I don't know—"
"Donut?" Charles cut her off but didn't seem to notice her sudden frown.
"No thank you, I—I just had breakfast."
Have to keep that girlish figure. Larry added to himself, feeling less than charitable all of a sudden. And hungry. He'd missed breakfast himself, though his own figure could probably do without another donut. Charles probably could as well, for that matter.
Charles shrugged and held the donut out to him, and he considered rejecting it, in the interests of his own health but moreso on the grounds that Charles could have offered it to him first. But then he relented, taking it, or trying to, because as he did. Charles took hold of his wrist and pulled the donut up to his own mouth, taking a bite of it before letting go of Larry's wrist with a grin.
"Hey—" Larry protested.
But Charles shrugged and grabbed Larry's coffee cup from the bench, his grin widening as he lifted it as if in a toast and then took a sip and frowned. "Too much milk."
"Yes, and I happen to like it that way. It's my coffee. Go—go drink your own."
Charles laughed and ducked his head, looking for all the world like Pan again, minus the flute, and for a moment, Larry could almost pretend Amita was not standing behind them, darkening the sky.
He had an urge to brush away the sugar that clung to Charles' lower lip and then saw that he'd somehow lifted his hand as if to do just that, though he caught himself in time before he could complete the gesture. For a strange, awkward second, his hand hung in the space between them before he dropped it to point to Charles' notes.
"Hmm," he offered, considering whether it were even possible to catch oneself in time—as if a moment, like his hand, could be suspended, indefinitely... as if a person could be suspended within a moment? Could one catch oneself out of time? Certainly, one could be out of time...
Amita broke the silence before Larry could get much further with that thought, which was just as well as he didn't like where it was going.
"So did you come to any great insights?" Amita had moved around the bench to sit on the other side of Charles, forcing Charles to turn towards her, putting his back to Larry, so that Larry could, for a moment, stare at the curls at the nape of Charles' neck where they clung to his collar with sweat that must also be dampening the back of his shirt, though with the jacket on, Larry could only speculate.
"Insights, yes," Larry said softly, "Though whether they deserve to be called great I will leave to others to determine."
"Ah," Amita said, knowingly, though Larry wondered how she could feel so confident at her age when he was so often puzzled at his own.
And Charles, still facing Amita, reached behind him and absently patted Larry on the leg as if to reassure, but his fingers landed about mid-thigh and brushed against the inside seam of Larry's jeans as the pat turned to a squeeze which felt...
Larry swore as the first few drops of his still hot coffee spilled over onto his trembling hand, then onto his jeans, a few drops of it splashing against the back of Charles' hand as well.
Charles flinched, but, oddly enough, didn't remove his hand, though his grip on Larry's thigh did tighten as he looked over his shoulder, then turned slightly, apologizing and handing Larry a slightly used paper napkin which Larry used to dry his hand while Charles, none too efficiently, used another crumpled napkin to dab at the spreading warmth on Larry's leg, making the situation harder, if that were even possible, even as he very casually pulled Larry's own discarded jacket over and onto his lap to cover him. And again, that errant hand brushed up against Larry's erection in what might have been another accident, though one side of Charles' mouth quirked up as Larry drew in a sharp breath, torn between abject horror and a strong desire to press into that touch, company be-damned.
Larry had no real idea what Charles was thinking and, to be honest, he wasn't sure he wanted to know. Amita was there, they were in public, and Charles had never so much as indicated that he—
"I do that all the time," Amita offered, and Larry nodded, dumbstruck. If she was in the habit of groping other faculty members, he honestly didn't want to know about it.
Larry cleared his throat, trying to pull in some much-needed air.
"Was it very hot?"
"She means the coffee," Charles clarified when he didn't respond.
And he nodded in response and then, when it seemed necessary to say something added, "I'll recover." His left hand felt sticky and he wiped it on his jeans and then looked down to see that he'd crushed the donut at some point and had just now wiped white smears across his pant-leg, which was very fitting somehow.
Charles shifted on the bench, moving just a bit away, allowing Larry to breathe, if rather shallowly. He felt light-headed again, and could still feel his cheeks burning, though the blood, unfortunately, must have been coming from his brain rather than points south.
"Charles, Amita, if you'll excuse me, I should probably go clean this up before..." As he got up, he held the jacket in front of him as well as he could and Charles rose, rather carefully positioning himself in front of Larry, keeping his body between Larry and Amita.
Amita got up off the bench as well. "Well, then, I'll see you two later. Larry, you might want to put a cool compress on that."
"I—"
"Yeah. That sounds like a good idea, Larry. Why don't I come with you and... help you take care of that."
"I don't—"
But Charles was gripping his bicep rather tightly and was already steering him somewhere... toward his office, he supposed, though when they turned again and walked in the wrong direction, he realized they were headed to the parking lot.
"Charles—"
"What?" Charles stopped and turned toward him, and for a moment, Larry almost believed the wide-open expression, but then Charles blinked and grinned and Larry had no doubt at all that Charles was fully aware of the extent of his actions, if not their import and consequence.
At the car, Charles waited as he unlocked the door and got behind the wheel, then slid in beside him.
Larry put his key into the ignition and then stopped as Charles' hand landed squarely in his lap again, this time with a firm squeeze that was unmistakable in meaning.
"Ah—oh—I don't think that's—"
"Is that a planetoid in your pocket, or are you—"
"Charles! This is no laughing—Oh. Someone could see this and—" He glanced around frantically, but he'd put the top up to protect the upholstery and had parked under a tree and in the farthest corner of the lot, away from the SUVs and other hazards, and at this time of day, there seemed to be few people in evidence, so it was entirely possible that no one would notice if he—
"Should I stop?"
Larry shook his head no, and slid down further in the seat, making it easier for Charles to get his jeans open and unzipped. And then Charles was wrapping his dick in a warm, sweaty palm and whispering, "Come on, come on, come on," as his hand started to move.
Larry shut his eyes and spread his legs and used one hand to hold onto the steering wheel for support. Beside him, he could hear Charles unzip himself, and then the low soft moan—almost a hum— as Charles took himself in hand, in full view of the Cosmos, not to mention any security cameras the school had trained on the lot.
"Oh," Charles sighed, "That's... So damned good." He sounded surprised.
"Yes," Larry agreed, and reached over to help Charles, sliding his thumb over the head of Charles' dick, liking the way Charles' moan deepened and then faded out to a breathy panting.
Charles adjusted his own grip, their arms awkwardly overlapping in the space between them as Charles gasped out a choked laugh, "Left-handed is... hard. So hard. Oh God. Larry, this is so—so— ohhh."
And after a few more adjustments, they both found a rhythm that worked and Charles proved at least slightly ambidextrous as they both sped up and tightened their grips, urging each other on.
It might have taken longer—it usually did—but novelty and fear pushed him over into orgasm even before Charles got there.
He felt Charles' hand resting heavily on his now soft dick, a heavy, reassuring weight as he recovered.
He forced his eyes open and thought about the upholstery and whether semen was likely to stain it, and then looked over at Charles, who looked... shocked, as if he'd never...
And maybe he never had.
Larry frowned and thought about asking, thinking that really, he should already know this about Charles. But he couldn't bring himself to ask, and Charles did not look capable of forming a coherent response, and Larry felt Charles' dick twitch in his hand.
He gave it a tug, watching Charles' face, liking his wet-lipped, open mouth and the sweat sticking the curls to his brow. He used his other hand to lift Charles' shirttails out of the way. Charles would taste like sweat, and precome, and he licked his lips, wanting that so much he finally gave in and leaned over, finding there was more than enough room to take Charles in his mouth, keeping his fingers circled at the base of his dick as he focused at first just on the head, licking there and listening to Charles breathe loudly, uneven, stuttering breaths.
Charles' hands moved to the back of Larry's head, not quite forcing him down, though he really needed very little encouragement at this point. It all had the inevitability of a dream and even the prickling unease of knowing that they were in public and that he could no longer blame this on being overcome, on needing to come, didn't stop him. If this was something he would live to regret, he was going to regret it wholeheartedly.
One of Charles' hands was moving down to his neck and then rubbing over his shoulders and back, but not pulling him up, while his other hand still holding him in place as Charles' hips rose up, his pelvis thrusting.
Larry reached up and found Charles' hand with his own, holding on as Charles started to come in his mouth, bittersweet pulses spilling out faster than he could swallow, though he certainly did try.
Charles came quietly, even his panting breaths stilling to one long, indrawn breath exhaled slowly as his hips thrust and then he relaxed against the seat, his fingers unclenching from their tight grip on Larry's head, stroking there and almost petting him.
And when it was over, Larry climbed back up and onto his seat, banging his lower back on the steering wheel. He wiped at his mouth with his sleeve. "Well, that was..."
"What?"
"Highly inappropriate," Larry concluded, though he might have said many things.
Charles' eyebrows drew together and then he chuffed out a laugh. "Larry, that was... what was that?"
Larry hoped that was a rhetorical question, and when Charles didn't say anything more, Larry decided that it probably wasn't, and that he didn't know the answer.
But Charles was smiling at him, uncertainly, and looking entirely too young.
Larry looked away and turned the key in the ignition, feeling the engine in the soles of his feet, vibrating the seat beneath them, the car's hum and rumble filling the silence as he pulled out of the spot and out of the lot and onto the street, awkwardly zipping himself up one handed. He hoped Charles was doing the same, but couldn't bring himself to look over and see.
At the third red light in a row, Charles cleared his throat. "Is your leg alright?"
Larry turned and stared at him, his foot almost slipping back onto the gas. "Is my what?"
"The coffee. You—"
"The coffee. Of course, the coffee. Yes, Charles, my leg is fine. Though at this point, I suspect I could have third degree burns and not give a damn."
"Oh."
The light turned green and Larry frowned, putting his foot on the gas again harder than the car might have liked.
They rode in a strained silence for a few miles before Larry realized he had no idea where they were heading. He had no home to go to, after all—a situation that was taking on a new resonance. Losing the house and, with it, shedding a lifetime of meaningless objects—that had been a crucial step toward a belated but explosive midlife crisis of near epic proportions. Though he had no idea how Charles could explain his own participation in this carnal fiasco. Perhaps it was the strain of turning thirty, catching up with him at last. In which case, one might view this as inadvisable yet inevitable.
Charles was shifting around in the seat beside him and he glanced over, dismayed to find Charles had not yet done up his pants, offering up a view that was not conducive to the
concentration necessary to keep a steady speed and distance from the cars ahead.
Charles turned an interesting shade of red, vying for his attention with the light he almost drove through before braking, hard.
Charles threw his hand out to brace himself on the dashboard, though he only slid forward on the seat a few inches. "What the hell? Where the—"
"Charles, zip up. Please. For the sake of my sanity and spotless driving record."
"Oh. Right. Sorry."
Larry turned the wheel, pulling into the lot of a bank with a drive-thru ATM.
"You're getting out money?"
"Yes. I'm supposed to—oh."
"Supposed to what?"
"Nothing."
"No—what were you—oh God. You have a date tonight? With Megan? You have a date." Charles had zipped up and was now trying to tuck his shirttails back in, lifting his hips up into the air and breathing hard in a mockery of his earlier arousal.
"It's not a date," he answered quietly, and beside him, Charles sighed.
"No, it's not a date. Of course it's not—You're what—taking her to dinner?"
"A movie. I—"
"What movie?"
"I—Does it really matter what movie?"
"What movie," Charles demanded, and behind him, another car honked.
He didn't answer, instead going through the comforting motions of punching in the appropriate key combinations and withdrawing one hundred dollars from checking. "I can call her and cancel."
"No—don't cancel. You can't cancel."
"I can't?" Larry frowned, tucking the money into his wallet and starting the car back up. "So we go on as usual. Is that your plan?"
Charles leaned his head against the window and sighed. "I don't know. I don't know. I think so. A plan? I think—"
"I take it you and Amita are similarly engaged?" he asked, because Amita had come by looking happy to see them, and she never did when she and Charles were on the outs.
"It's— Not engaged. We're not—"
"I meant figuratively. You have plans to see her tonight."
"Oh. Yeah. Yes. We have a standing—We sort of talked about dinner if I didn't have other... obligations. We're keeping it casual. We decided we... I'll just shut up now."Larry nodded. "I think that's a fine idea. I haven't decided where to take Megan tonight. I don't suppose I'll be able to find a reservation at—"
"There's that new Greek place at—" Charles stopped and frowned, then made a sound that was somewhere between a laugh and what Larry was feeling at that very moment.
"Y'know, I don't even know if she likes Greek. Feta, though, is very—"
"White?"
"Yes," Larry agreed. "It is."
The suburban landscape provided a fine backdrop to the silence that settled around them after that, and it gave Larry plenty of time to think, though oddly enough, his mind had become something of a blank. "Charles?"
"Hmm?"
"That panic we were talking about earlier? I think—I think that's becoming a problem now."
"Yeah. Me too."
Larry nodded and held fast to the wheel as he drove in what turned out to be a wide circle that eventually brought him back to CalSci again, where he pulled back into the faculty lot. The spot under his favorite tree was still empty, so he pulled in again, keeping the car running.
"I have no idea what to say, Larry. Just—no idea."
"You don't have to—"
"I think I should. This is my fault."
"I don't think you can claim full responsibility for what was a mutual—"
"Mutual," Charles repeated. "A mutual what?"
"A mutual, spontaneous, and likely unrepeatable event with unpredictable repercussions."
"I can predict repercussions. With enough variables, I can—Larry, stop me before I try."
Larry shook his head. "No, go ahead. You're welcome to apply yourself to the problem, Charles. I'll be interested to hear what you come up with, but until then..." Larry leaned his head against the back of the seat and shut his eyes for a moment, the vibrations of the idling engine soothing as always. He took a deep breath and inhaled the sharp musk of sex and opened his eyes again, blinking at Charles, who was staring at him with something very close to a smile hovering around his mouth.
And then Charles' face moved in closer and Larry shut his eyes again as Charles pressed a kiss to his mouth. It was strangely intimate and shy, as a first kiss should be. Charles' lips were a bit dry, though when he licked them, they were perfect, and Charles punctuated the kiss with small flicks of his tongue that were very nearly enough to inspire another erection. He wondered if Charles could still taste himself. He wondered if Charles might be convinced to reciprocate. The kiss went on long enough that Larry suspected he might.
There was something incongruous about the order of events, though in the long view, it fit a pattern established long ago—working backwards in order to go forwards, and slowly fumbling toward enlightenment.
He felt Charles' hand move to rest on his lap again, and moaned into his mouth as the kiss deepened, and he reached out to stroke Charles, who seemed similarly renewed. "Unrepeatable event?" Charles murmured—a rough-voiced question pressed against his cheek before Charles finally pulled away, leaving Larry breathless and a little afraid to open his eyes.
"Larry."
"Hmm?"
"Look at me."
"Attractive as you are, I think I'd rather not, Charles."
"You think I'm attr—never-mind. Stupid question."
"There are no stupid questions, Charles. Only stupid people."
Charles kissed him again. "Well, the feeling's mutual. And it's going to be okay. We'll—we'll fix this."
"I didn't realize anything was broken." Larry forced himself to open his eyes and Charles had a hand on the car door, opening it and stepping out but then leaning back in as if he'd suddenly remembered something.
"No, you're right. Nothing's broken. It's—Larry—I—that's it. Nothing's broken!" Charles went silent, staring off into the middle distance, and Larry sighed, recognizing the look on Charles' face. Charles was thinking. And then he blinked and smiled. "Wait. I'm sorry, I was just—"
"It's alright, Charles. Go—write it all down before you forget."
"I—Are you sure? I can—we'll talk about this—I'll call you. Can I call you when I—"
"Later, yes. Now go."
"Going."
He suspected that Amita and Charles would not be having dinner tonight—at least not together. He wasn't sure if he should be taking any pleasure in that, as he'd had no hand in getting between them. No, now was not the time for gloating. He was still left with the question of where to take Megan, after all. And he also had to come up with just what to tell her, though Megan was an uncommonly bright woman who might already suspect that something was amiss, if not altogether missing, from their relationship, and might well be able to articulate the problem—and perhaps even a solution—with more grace than he could manage.
Larry watched Charles walk away, head bent, shoulder's hunched, and he wished, not for the first time, that he could crawl into Charles' head and peer into the inner workings of the miraculous organic machinery hidden by those curls. The desire to do so was often as compelling as the fantasy of actually getting Charles out of his clothes and penetrating him bodily in a more traditional manner—something that he realized now was considerably closer to being within the realm of possibility.
Now there was a thought worth pondering.
He turned the engine off and tipped his head back, closing his eyes again. A short and much-deserved post-coital nap and then he would drive back to the hotel, shower, and hopefully come to some decision or other.
For now, he could rest easily with the knowledge that, when Charles had figured it all out (or at the very least, when he got stuck and couldn't go on alone), Larry would still be the one he would call.
It really didn't matter what name they gave it, really. Imperfect and cluttered with debris though it might be, the distance lengthening and then diminishing and then lengthening again, it was still strangely, perfectly, balanced. Harmonious. Even an elliptical orbit, however eccentric, was beautiful in its own right.
—FIN—
© 2006
Thanks to Lucia Tanaka, for remaining enthusiastic enough to beta the slash even when the show itself has lost its luster. I should note that this was written just after "Two Daughters," and before Larry used a similar cosmological metaphor in canon.
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