Archive of Our Own

The first time Irving met him, he had been Lieutenant Goodman. Freshly-promoted with a tight crewcut and ramrod posture, Lieutenant Goodman had been one of the first crewmen Irving was introduced to when he boarded the USS Nimitz. Burt had been leaner then, and his hands had been steadier. But his eyes were the same, always that twinkling and teasing blue, and he had the same curious lilt to his soft voice.

Irving was just an ensign then, a rank he never rose past. He saluted his new lieutenant as he boarded, but Burt had waved it off with a cheeky grin.

“At ease, sailor.”

It was something Irving had heard a thousand times before, but from Lieutenant Goodman it somehow sounded warmer, more reassuring. An acknowledgement that his care and attention to protocol was seen and appreciated. Irving felt the apples of his cheeks begin to warm, and he ducked his head to hide it.

Oh no, he thought. Not here. Not now.

He had always known he liked men, there was no shying away from it. From schoolyard crushes to anonymous trysts in his early twenties, he had never been able to deny it. He had always been smart about it though, had always known exactly how to fly under the radar. When he first joined the Navy and realized he was about to be constantly surrounded by hundreds of handsome men in the best shape of their lives, he had decided that his best course of action would be to become a model sailor. He had read the naval recruit handbook from cover to cover a dozen times and had committed large passages of it to memory. He attended every additional training, learned to make his bunk with hospital corners, always made sure to salute his superiors and take on extra duties. He used pedantry as a form of self-defense, made meticulousness a shield against those who saw him as damaged or wrong. He had spent years perfecting this defense and making sure that he sufficiently avoided suspicion. After a while he found it easy to compartmentalize, to keep his orientation separate from his work. Until he met Burt.

Burt, with his kind eyes and his puckish grin. Burt, with his sloping cheekbones and his dreamy way of speaking. Burt, with his love for rules and order, with his care and tenderness for everything he did.

Though he knew it was dangerous, Irving went looking for the other man every time he had a free moment. He followed him around like a puppy, asking him questions about his work and falling deeper in love every time the other man got lost waxing poetic about rigging or wind conditions. At dinner, they would have long, meandering conversations about art, philosophy, and their own complicated histories with religion. Their crewmates found these conversations to be insufferably dull, so the pair were often left alone in their little corner of the dining hall. They preferred it that way.

Irving knew Burt liked him back, to some degree. He caught the other man’s gaze falling to his lips or his derriere on occasion, saw the flush creep up his neck when he knew he had been caught looking. Sometimes when they were tying off knots or working a control panel their hands would brush and neither of them would be willing to pull away immediately. They would hold the contact as long as possible before breaking away, maintaining the faint shred of plausible deniability they needed to stay safe. But Irving didn’t know how deep Burt’s interest went – surely the other man had dozens of paramours waiting for him back on land, each eagerly waiting for a letter or phone call. Irving on the other hand was lanky and awkward, and he had never held anyone’s interest for more than a night or two. He couldn’t imagine the other man could or would ever truly take heart to him.

However, it didn’t take long for him to be proven shockingly and wonderfully wrong on that point. Several months after Irving’s assignment to the Nimitz he was assigned to do a training exercise with Burt and two other crewmen. The four men were cast off the mainship in a little dinghy in the middle of the night, tasked with facing the choppy waters and making it to shore in one piece. Irving was naturally excited to have been assigned to Burt’s crew, but that excitement quickly dissolved into fear the moment their dinghy was untethered. As the sharp waves began to toss the boat from side-to-side his survival instincts kicked in, and he immediately dug his oar into the water and began to row.

After much thrashing and swearing they managed to set a course and a steady pace towards land, and after two hours or so they all began to feel confident in their ability to succeed. The two other crewmen (whose names Irving had already forgotten) stayed towards the bow, while Burt and Irving remained near the stern. Burt shot him a cocky wink as they fell into a familiar rhythm, and despite the danger Irving felt his stomach flip. He fought past his growing exhaustion and tried to row a little harder, hoping to impress the other man.

But just a few strokes later, he felt his oar catch on the oarlock at a bad angle, which meant he was running the risk of it breaking. He quickly hoisted himself up into a crouch and moved to examine the oarlock, just as an enormous wave caught them off the port side. Irving’s knees gave out, and he was tossed into the churning waters like a ragdoll.

The icy water hit him like a thousand knives, digging deep into his flesh and enveloping him in intense, blinding pain. He opened his mouth to scream but no sound came out, and the seawater came rushing in. He was still wearing his flimsy standard-issue life jacket, but in the choppy waves it just made it easier for him to get tossed back-and-forth, submerging him for several seconds before propelling him to the surface like a possessed wine cork. After what felt like several minutes of thrashing and gasping for air, blackness began to creep into the corners of his periphery, a black ooze that rolled across his vision and blocked out what little starlight there was to be seen.

This is it. This is how I die.

Just before the blackness set in completely, there were strong, steady hands under his armpits. He was airborne for a moment, then he was back on the boat.

“I’ve got him!” someone yelled, though the words barely registered to Irving. His ears were still clogged with water, and his skin was still burning with cold. But the black ooze immediately began receding from his vision, to be replaced with dizzying pops of light. He gasped and choked, gagging on the seawater he had inhaled. But the air around him was fresh, and he tried desperately to shove it all into his lungs at once.

It took him nearly a minute to stop coughing up water, and another minute for his vision to fully return. It took yet another minute for him to realize that the hands that had pulled him onboard had not let him go. Burt was still behind him with his arms wrapped tightly around his heaving chest, and he was muttering what sounded like Catholic prayers. Despite Irving’s burning skin, he could feel faint puffs of Burt’s breath against the nape of his neck. It would have sent a shiver through him, had he not already been violently shivering from the cold and the shock.

As his breathing began to slow and even out, he relaxed slightly in Burt’s grip. In his delirium, he allowed his own hands to drift up and cover Burt’s, gripping them tightly. Burt sighed and tilted his head so that his lips just grazed Irving’s right temple. “I’ve got you,” he murmured. “I’ve got you. You’re safe now.”

Irving nodded faintly and allowed himself to be held. Safe, he thought. I’ll always be safe if I’m with him. His body was still half-frozen, but he was able to loll his head to one side and press his forehead to the crook of Burt’s neck. Burt tucked his chin down and squeezed him a little tighter.

The two other crewmen busied themselves with the task of rowing, choosing not to notice the forbidden moment of tenderness occurring in the stern.

Despite what had happened on the training mission, nothing much could change about their day-to-day life. If anything they tried to touch each other less, for there were far too many eyes on the mainship. It was better that way, Irving reasoned. Now that he knew what it was like to be held by Burt, to be held by someone who loved him, he found it even harder to be satisfied by the occasional brush of the hand.

But two months later they were both granted 48 hours of shore leave in San Francisco. They would have to check back in at the 24-hour mark; other than that, the weekend was theirs to spend however they wished. They didn’t talk about it much in the days leading up to the event, though it was an unspoken agreement that they would be spending the entire time together.

On the morning of their leave, they stood together in the line to get off the ship, surrounded by other eager enlisted men chattering about their plans. The others were excited for some drunken revelry, for picking up women and seeing the sights. They couldn’t stop talking about their plans for the next 48 hours, while Burt and Irving couldn’t start.

Irving was lost in thought, trying to plan out a date that wouldn’t look like a date. They could go to an art museum perhaps, or even a film. A wine bar or a fancy restaurant afterwards would look too suspicious if they were spotted, but perhaps they could find a quiet, seedier bar where they could hide away in a dark back corner and hold hands under the table. Maybe, if they were very careful, they could steal a kiss or two in the bathroom or the alley out back.

But Burt, always the braver of the two, had different plans.

“I was thinking about renting a motel room,” he said, looking down at his shoes intently. “Nothing…nothing fancy. I just think it might be nice to take an actual shower for once. Sleep–” he cleared his throat. “Sleep in a real bed. That sort of thing. Of course, it would be cheaper if I were splitting it with somebody.”

It wasn’t precisely a question, but it left space for an answer.

Irving weighed his options. There were no rules against getting a motel room during shore leave, technically. And the desire for a hot shower and a real mattress would be understandable to anyone else on the ship. Sharing a room would be a little harder to explain, but their paychecks were paltry and they were all used to bunking together while at sea. That reassurance, coupled with the aching desire to be held by Burt again, was enough justification for him.

“I could split it with you,” Irving said, keeping his eyes focused on the line ahead. “The thought of a real bed sounds…enticing.” He let his right hand fall to his side, just carelessly enough for it to graze Burt’s left wrist.

He heard Burt let out a soft sigh of relief. “It does, doesn’t it?”

They managed to slip away from their friends at the dock easily enough and made their way up to the Tenderloin district in relative silence. The desk clerk barely spared them a second glance as they checked in, so the excuses Irving had been formulating were all for naught. Then they were alone in a dirty motel room, and Irving’s lips were on Burt’s neck, and the rest of the 48 hours passed in a delirious haze.

When they returned to the ship, both glowing and well-fucked, their shipmates automatically assumed they had spent their time at some shady little brothel. Though that was also against policy, neither tried to correct them or deny it. Better their colleagues believe that they had been engaging in meaningless anonymous trysts than trying to explain the beautiful and tender experiences they had shared. The memory was enough to sustain Irving on his darkest days, and it was enough to give him hope for the future.

After that shore-leave, they began dreaming up the life they might have together. A small sunny apartment in the Castro, where their neighbors might be more friendly to a pair of “roommates” like them. They would grow dozens and dozens of houseplants, their own little secret garden right inside their flat. Irving would have space for an easel, and Burt could take up bookbinding (a hobby he had always secretly wanted to cultivate). They knew they would never be fabulously wealthy – Burt wanted to go into museum curation, and Irving hated the idea of a regular 9-to-5 job. But they would be happy, and their life would be theirs to live without rules or fear.

They spent the next two years like this, counting down the days until their respective contracts ended and saving all of their pent-up affection for their carefully-coordinated shore leaves.

Until one morning, when Burt didn’t show up to the mess hall for breakfast. Irving wasn’t terribly concerned at first; the other man was an officer, and it wasn’t unusual for him to get pulled into something with little notice. But as the day wore on and Burt remained absent from his usual workstations and haunts, Irving began to worry.

When he didn’t show up for dinner, Irving finally broke down and asked.

“It’s not like Lieutenant Goodman to miss a meal, is it?” he asked, in what he hoped was an innocuous tone.

The other crewmen at the table glanced at each other.

“You didn’t hear?” Ensign Mallory asked.

“Hear…what?” Irving asked. His heart began to pound out a sharp staccato rhythm in his chest.

“He’s gone,” Lieutenant Roberts said. “Dishonorable discharge. Apparently during his last shore leave somebody saw him going into a motel room with another man to…” he made a lewd hand gesture. “Apparently when they called him in for questioning, he didn’t deny it.”

Irving’s heart was now pounding so loud, it was a wonder his fellow crew mates couldn’t hear it. “But that’s…unbelievable,” he said weakly. We were so careful, he thought. How could this happen? “Did they say who he was with?”

Mallory shook his head. “He wouldn’t say, even though I’m assuming they pressed him pretty hard. I think that means it was a rentboy, though he didn’t really seem like the type.” He leaned over and patted Irving’s shoulder lightly. “I’m sorry, man. I know you guys were friends.”

“Yes,” Irving said faintly. “I’m sorry, please excuse me.” He pushed away his tray of food, the sight of which was now unbearably nauseating. He stood and headed straight for his bunk.

Burt was gone. Burt was gone, and it was all his fault. Burt was gone, and he had risked his own neck in order to keep Irving safe.

Irving collapsed onto his pitiful, empty bunk and buried his face in his pillow. He still had another year on his own contract, and the idea of spending an entire year on the ship without Burt seemed unbearable.

Then, another unbearable thought struck him — he didn’t have any contact information for Burt on the outside. No phone number, no address. There hadn’t been any need to exchange those kinds of details. He knew the other man had grown up outside of Kieron, but Burt had always sworn he would never return there. Too many bad memories, he’d said. There had been so much sadness in his voice, and Irving had made it a point to not ask him much about his childhood after that.

Irving let out a deep, soul-wrenching sob into the starchy fabric of his pillow. He felt as if he’d had an organ removed without aesthesia or consent, something vital and necessary to his survival. He didn’t know how he was supposed to carry on without Burt, how he was supposed to wake up in the morning and carry out his duties and eat cold MREs, all without the warm and steady presence of his love.

He remembered their last shore leave, the one that had apparently led to their downfall. They had been lying together on the tiny motel mattress; Irving had his head resting on Burt’s chest directly over his heart, and Burt had his arm wrapped tightly around his waist.

“I feel like I’ve known you all my life,” Irving said quietly. It was something he had often thought over the course of the past few years, but he hadn’t been brave enough to give voice to it until that moment.

“Me too.” Burt ruffled his hair with his free hand. “Maybe we knew each other in a past life. Hopefully a less complicated one.”

Irving nodded and tilted his head up, just enough to catch Burt’s eye. “I like to think in any life, any universe, I’ll always find you.”

Burt’s brow furrowed with some complicated, unnameable emotion. After a few seconds of thought, he inclined his head slightly. “I like that thought. I…I hope it’s true.” He had then hauled Irving up for a kiss, and the conversation had fallen to the wayside.

Irving rolled over in his bunk, staring up at the rust-stained ceiling.

“I’ll find you,” he said softly. “I promise, I’ll find you.”

Irv shouldn’t have been so surprised to see another employee stepping out of the Wellness Room. He certainly wasn’t the only employee to earn visits there, and Lumon would never waste Ms. Casey’s precious time by needlessly spacing out sessions.

Still, seeing the other man was a surprise, as was the first response that came to Irv’s mind – Oh, there you are. But that didn’t make any sense either; he had never laid eyes on the other man before. He couldn’t even remember the last time he had seen someone from outside the MDR department, aside from Mr. Milchick.

But this man seemed familiar all the same. It was like seeing a close friend through smoked glass, but that didn’t make any sense either – Irv didn’t have any close friends, and he had never seen a pane of smoked glass before.

So he bit down the oh, there you are and instead said “I’m sorry,” an apology that was a little more emphatic than was called for under the circumstances. But the other man didn’t question it, he simply moved forward as if propelled by some unnameable, ineffable force. It was attraction in the most literal sense, like the pull of a distant celestial body. Burt G. didn’t look like the kind of man Irv assumed he (or at least his outie) would be attracted to, but he found himself drawn in by the clear blue eyes and sloping cheekbones.

With every encounter he found himself more and more transfixed by the other man. He had spent his whole time at Lumon being mocked for his fastidiousness, for his love of the handbook and all things Kier. And yet here was someone else who shared that same love for meticulousness and order. Someone with kind eyes and a warm laugh who looked at Irv like he couldn’t quite believe he existed.

When Burt first touched his hand, he froze. He had daydreamed about holding hands with Burt, but there was a stark difference between wanting and acting upon want. They were in dangerous territory here, uncharted waters. What if they were caught, if they were fired? Eventually the fear won out over the want, and all he could think to do was turn tail and hurry back to MDR.

But even as he hurried, he found himself flexing his left hand, feeling the ghost of the other man’s touch. Burt’s hand had been calloused, but not unpleasantly so. It had been…nice to be touched by that hand. He wasn’t sure if that was just bias speaking though — as far as he could remember, no one at Lumon had ever intentionally touched him. A bumped shoulder or knee here and there, but no one had ever so much as offered him a firm handshake or pat on the back.

As he returned to his desk, trying to not look as guilty as he felt, he was struck by the inherent sadness of that idea. He didn’t know much about science, but he now thought that touch must be an important part of the human experience. He wasn’t sure how he had managed to go so long without it.

Your outie is good at kissing and at love-making. Based on Ms. Casey’s assessment, his outie was no stranger to touch, which was something of a relief. He wondered if those skills relied on muscle memory — if Irv were to…initiate one of those activities in here, would his body instinctively know what to do? As he settled into his desk and tried to focus on the data, he quietly hoped that it would. That if he could only be brave enough to cross that line, he would be able to make Burt very happy.

It was with that thought in mind that he initiated their next touch. He knew Dylan didn’t want to be in O&D and that they would soon be interrupted, but after Burt’s case of nerves in the conference room, he felt compelled to let the other man know that he was not uncomfortable with “the hand thing.” So as they gazed at the painting of Kier and Imogen, he swallowed his fear and stretched his pinky out, just enough to stroke the side of Burt’s hand. Burt moved to cover his hand with his own, only to be interrupted by Dylan’s outburst.

But even though they still had yet to properly hold hands, Irv was elated. He had done it. He had faced his fear, and he would have been rewarded for his bravery if only Dylan had been a minute later. He could do it, and now all he could think about was how to steal another moment with Burt. It was likely all they would ever be able to have — stolen moments. But Irv was emboldened; he was ready to become a thief of company time, if it meant he could hold Burt’s hand properly.

As soon as they stepped into the plant room, Irv felt safe. A secret garden, he thought. It was an amazing sight, but not half so amazing as the sight of Burt standing in the middle of it, looking at him as if he was something precious, something awe-inspiring worth hanging in the Perpetuity Wing. Then he was stepping closer, and he was properly holding Irv’s hand, and he was murmuring about lip-to-lip contact. It was all so much, so overwhelming, and Irv’s heart was pounding out a furious rhythm in his ears. As much as he wanted it, he knew that this was as brave as he could be for now. At the last second he tipped his head so that his lips were just out of reach.

“I’m truly sorry. I’m just not ready. I’m…I’m sorry.” The words tasted sour in his mouth, but he knew it was the truth. He still wasn’t quite ready to cross that final line. He would be, soon. Just not now. He pressed his forehead to Burt’s, relishing the tender intimacy of the moment.

“It’s fine,” Burt said, and it was clear he meant it. He didn’t try to move away or close himself off. “Just stay. Stay here…with me.” Burt gripped his hand with barely-restrained desperation, and Irv squeezed it tightly. He could do that. He would stay as long as he could, as long as Burt needed him.

When they parted, it was with an unspoken promise of “next time.” There was no need to rush things. He would have time to court Burt properly and be a gentleman about the whole thing.

Next time, he thought. Next time, I will be brave enough to kiss him. Then we’ll put that muscle memory theory to the test. The very thought made him blush, but it carried him through the rest of the day.

Then came the door locks and the mysterious key card. He wasn’t thinking clearly; the only thing he could think of was his need to get back to Burt. He found himself agreeing to a plan with Helly and Mark that he had no intention of following through on, which they probably knew. As soon as they cleared the locked doors he separated from them with a halfhearted apology and hurried down the now-familiar route to Optics and Design, only to be met with the worst sight imaginable..

As he took in the retirement party, he felt his stomach twist into a sharp knot. They’re taking him away from me again, he thought. He shook his head slightly, confused about where the “again” was coming from. But he supposed that was what they had been trying to do with the absurd door locks. Had they known he would find a way to escape it? Had they known he would become brazen in his love for Burt? Either way, now Burt was being forced to pay the ultimate price for their shared folly.

As he left the party, Irving shockingly (and sacrilegiously) found himself angry at Kier above all. He had spent his entire life here worshiping the other man and working to continue his legacy, and for what? His hallowed words spoke of bliss and the rewards for hard work, yet Burt and Irving were being punished for trying to follow that bliss and find a bit of happiness in their daily monotony. Kier had been able to build his empire while loving Imogen, yet two of his most loyal followers were being punished for doing the same.

He had been lied to. They had all been lied to. Again and again and again and again. To Lumon, to Kier, they were nothing more than chattel. Soldiers in a war fighting for God-knows-what. Created to serve quietly, to not feel or think independently. Irving had been so blind for so long, but his unruly, traitorous heart had finally helped him to break through the fog. He couldn’t stay here forever. He had to get out, had to alert the world to what was happening inside these cement walls, had to see this evil corporation burn to the ground before his very eyes.

But more than anything, he had to see Burt again.

Irving never did find out what happened to Lumon. One day he worked there, and the next day he got a call telling him to not bother coming in again. The company had folded, ceased all operations and left thousands of employees and stockholders without any explanation.

Irving had been granted a nice severance package (the irony was not lost on him). He didn’t know exactly how to feel about the company’s closing, especially since he had spent so much of his waking life trying to get them shut down. This was what he had wanted, he supposed. But he also wanted answers, and he now felt as if a part of himself had been permanently ripped away from him. He would never know what it was he had done for the company, or who he had been for eight hours every day. He assumed there wasn’t much difference between his innie and his outie, but it still felt like he was missing something, something important.

But life went on, as it often does. He took Radar on long walks and worked on his car. He bought a case of new oil paints and began painting the abstract, slightly fuzzy scenes of lush greenery that kept appearing in his dreams. He drank black coffee and read thick Russian novels in the park and enjoyed the sounds of his boots crunching on new fallen snow. He built a life for himself, and he was happy. He was sometimes consumed by the overwhelming feeling that something was missing in his life, but he ultimately chalked that up to being a basic facet of the human experience.

One particularly rainy afternoon, he decided to go to the Eagan Museum of Fine Art. He had mixed feelings about supporting his former employers’ philanthropic endeavors, but he did have a begrudging fondness for the masterful paintings of Kier Eagan.

As he entered the main gallery space, he noticed that the collection had changed significantly since his last visit. The walls were much more populated now, all filled with curious works in the same classical style. He was immediately drawn to a large canvas in the south corner of the room, one that most of the guests seemed to take little interest in.

But Irving couldn’t look away from the masterpiece. It was a dark scene, lit only by the eerie light emanating from a large cauldron. A man with a thick mustache (Kier Eagan, he presumed) was stirring the cauldron with a large wooden paddle. To his right stood a woman in profile, half-hidden in shadow. It was more of a Dutch Masters-style study of light and shadow than anything, but the expression on the man’s face took Irving’s breath away. The man was looking at the woman with such deep and pure longing. Not lust or desire, just a pure and plain wanting for something he clearly thought he could not have. Irving felt his heart clench tightly in his chest.

“This is one of my favorites,” said a soft voice behind him.

Irving turned and saw a man standing behind him wearing a navy blue docent’s blazer. The man stepped closer and gestured to the painting. “We just received a large donation, all of the works that were hanging in the Lumon headquarters. They clearly don’t need them anymore,” he said with a chuckle. “It’s taking ages to sort through all of them, but I fought to have this one put up early. Something about it’s just…”

“Mesmerizing,” Irving said, though he was no longer looking at the painting. He was studying the other man, mapping his sloping cheekbones and pale blue eyes with quiet disbelief. He knew it was ridiculous to even ask, but he found he couldn’t help himself. “I…I’m sorry, but are you Burt Goodman?”

The man smiled slyly, a puckish smirk that made the years melt away completely. “I am. And I think you just confirmed my working theory that you’re Irving Bailiff.”

Irving’s shocked smile threatened to cleft his face in two. “Yes. My God, I never thought I’d see you again.”

After a moment’s hesitation they both leaned in for a hug. It was awkward and a little too stiff, but Burt was just as solid and warm as Irving had remembered.

Both reluctantly pulled back after a moment and looked each other up and down.

“The years have been kind to you,” Irving said quietly, trying hard not to stare too much.

Burt chuckled. “Flatterer. But I could say the same to you.”

Irving ducked his head to hide his grin.

Burt checked his watch. “Would you like a private tour? My shift ends pretty soon, and the last of the school groups already came through for the day. Only if you want to, that is,” he added, a hint of shyness creeping into his voice. “I understand if–”

“I’d love that,” Irving said.

Burt smiled, looking more than a little relieved. “Great. This way, then.”

He led Irving through the new exhibit, showing off the latest acquisitions from Lumon. Irving squinted at each of them, trying to see if any of them sparked any kind of memory from his time at the company. He had likely walked past each of these paintings a thousand times before, and yet each of them seemed brand new to him. Though part of that might have been from the fact that Burt was the one introducing him to them. The other man’s enthusiasm was downright infectious, and he treated each tidbit of information about each piece, from the historical context to the chemical makeup of the paint, with equal amounts of care and zeal.

In the intervening years since he had last seen Burt, he had often wondered what it would be like to run into the other man. Would it be painful, or alienating? Would it be like running into a stranger, or would it be like no time had passed at all? Now that he was here, he found that the real answer was a curious mix of the two, leaning slightly more towards the latter. Time had passed, an undeniable and insurmountable amount of time. But there was still an innate sense of comfort, something warm and cozy and safe. Maybe it should have been embarrassing for Irving to realize it, but he knew he would still follow Burt to the ends of the earth if given half the chance.

As they moved between galleries there was a gentle lull in the conversation, and Irving tried desperately to think of something to say. Preferably something that wasn’t what happened to you? Or did you ever try to find me? Or do you still miss me as much as I still miss you?

Instead, he settled on something safe and innocuous. “So how long have you been a docent at this fine establishment?”

“Just a few months.” Burt folded his hands behind his back as he walked. “Turns out I’m not built for retirement. I was goin’ crazy, cooped up all alone in the house like that.”

Irving wanted to ask more about the all alone part of that statement, but thought it might be too forward. “Where did you retire from?”

“Lumon.” Burt made a vague gesture over his shoulder in the general direction of the company headquarters. “Weird timing, I’d retired just a few weeks before they shut down.”

Irving stopped dead in his tracks. “You worked for Lumon too? I…I was there until the shutdown.”

Burt’s eyes widened as he also came to a halt. “Really? I was there for seven years. I…” he shook his head in disbelief. “We coulda been working together this whole time.”

Irving nodded faintly, unsure of what to do with that knowledge. The old hatred he had held for the company flared back up in his breast, devastated at the potential loss. What if they had been working together? What if they had been friends, cubiclemates? Their innies never would have known the significance of their meeting. Though he usually tried not to think about his innie too much, his heart broke just a tiny bit for the other man, the one who would never know what it was like to be loved by Burt Goodman.

He realized he should say something, anything other than what was currently running through his head. “Yes,” he said, scratching his wrist. “We could have been standing next to each other on the assembly line, putting together the nuclear warheads.”

Burt laughed at that in earnest, and the familiar twinkle returned to his eye. “You would be a cynic about the whole thing. Here I’ve been telling myself we were in there secretly trying to find the cure for baby cancer or something.”

Irving couldn’t help but smile. “I wish I shared your rosier worldview.”

“Yes, well–”

Somewhere in the distance, another docent announced that the museum would be closing in ten minutes.

Panicked, Irving looked at his watch. “Goodness, is that the time?” He thought they had more time. He’d always thought they would have more time.

Burt opened his mouth, then closed it. “I have to go do my final rounds,” he said softly. “But would…would you maybe like to get a cup of coffee with me tomorrow? I don’t have to be here until 11.”

A small measure of relief seeped into Irving’s veins. Tomorrow. Burt wanted to see him again tomorrow. They might have some more time after all. “That sounds perfect.”

“Great, lemme give you my phone number.” Burt reached into his breast pocket and retrieved a small notebook and pen. He scrawled down the digits in slightly shaky but still familiar handwriting, then held the page out to Irving.

Before he could think twice about it, Irving blurted out, “Could you put your address too, please? Just to be…safe.” He looked down at his now-trembling hands, feeling the old sensations of anxiety and despair filling the pit of his stomach. “Before, I didn’t…I didn’t have any way to contact you. I didn’t know where you were.” He couldn’t bring himself to look Burt in the eye. It was such a shameful, humiliating admission, an apology thirty years too late. He half expected Burt to tear up the phone number and walk away all over again.

His heart was pounding in his ears, so loud he couldn’t hear the faint scratching of the pen or the soft tearing sound as the page was removed from the notebook. He didn’t register anything until he saw Burt take his own hand and press the page into it. He looked up at Burt, whose expression was solemn (if a bit wobbly), then down at the paper in his hand. Burt had written his phone number, his home address, and both his personal and museum email addresses down on the sheet of paper.

“There,” Burt said quietly. “It’s a lot harder for a fella to disappear these days.” He squeezed Irving’s hand once, twice. He opened his mouth to say something else, then closed it and nodded. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

Irving couldn’t speak, could only nod. He held Burt’s note in his hand the entire way home, lest he drop it or absentmindedly stuff it in the wrong pocket.

That night, when he was finally able to sleep, he dreamt of the sea.

Burt was at the coffeehouse the next morning, as promised. Irving hadn’t doubted the veracity of his promise necessarily, but he found it almost unbelievable that the other man wanted to meet, that he wanted to dig up the past with a familiar stranger.

After ordering their coffees (Irving’s was black, while Burt’s had cream and six sugars) they settled into a corner booth in the back where they likely wouldn’t be interrupted. Without the artwork to distract them, they were quickly forced to wade into the conversational waters of their recent pasts. Irving found out that after Burt’s discharge he had crashed with his sister in New York for a while, then drifted around the East Coast for several years. When his mother died he inherited her home in Kieron, and he hadn’t been in a place to refuse a free house. He had met his husband, Arthur, shortly after moving back, and it sounded as if they had lived a happy life together until Arthur’s death six years prior.

In turn, Irving told Burt about his cross-country motorcycle trips and about his short-lived stint as a bassist for a punk band. He told him about his work as a freelance artist and sometimes-bartender. He admitted that he’d never really found anyone to settle down with, and explained how he had rescued Radar from a dogfighting ring.

Neither of them spoke of what brought them to Lumon, or what drew them to the idea of severance in the first place. There was a shared understanding among former severed employees that it was impolite to ask. Happy people generally didn’t choose to sever themselves, and it was rude to ask others about their particular brand of despair. Irving was glad to find someone else who understood the nuances involved in the decision and didn’t turn it into some big political stance. It was something they had both chosen for themselves, much like their decisions to join the Navy, and it was over now. No use digging up that part of their pasts.

When it was time for Burt to leave for his museum shift, he hesitated after getting up from the table.

“Can I, ah…” he made a gesture that Irving understood as asking for a hug.

“Of course,” Irving murmured. He stood and wrapped his arms around the other man, careful to keep it as platonic as possible. This was made incredibly difficult by the fact that Burt still fit so well within the circle of his arms, though both of their figures had changed over the course of the last thirty-odd years.

Burt was the first to pull back. He stuck his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels, looking a little shy and flustered. “So uh, would you maybe want to do this again sometime? Soon?” he added.

“I’d like that very much,” Irving said, putting himself in the running for the understatement of the century. “Tomorrow?”

Burt smiled, and Irving took a moment to admire his laugh lines. Physical proof of a life lived well, a life full of smiles and laughter. Irving only wished he could have played a bigger part in that life, been the cause for some of those beautiful wrinkles.

“Tomorrow is perfect,” Burt said. “We could grab dinner or something?”

Irving’s stomach fluttered, and he felt the years begin to melt away. He felt like a 30 year-old ensign again, making plans to meet in a quiet corner of the mess hall to discuss politics and art.

“Dinner sounds wonderful.”

They fell into an easy rhythm after that.

There was something so comforting about the fact that they didn’t have to steal time now. They could enjoy leisurely walks and dinners, trips to the movies and museums, all without worrying that other people might become suspicious. They were free agents, able to come and go as they pleased. No one was watching over them, and their time was mostly unstructured. Burt had only to report to the museum four days a week, and Irving’s main commitment was to Radar’s walking schedule.

Irving knew he was falling for Burt all over again. It was both brand new and completely familiar at the same time – they had both changed significantly over the years, but spending time with him and falling in love with him was just as easy now as it had been back then.

But even though he was vibrating out of his skin with longing, he knew he couldn’t be the one to make a move. Burt never mentioned anything about having dated since the death of his husband, and it was possible that he saw the romantic portion of his life as being over. He also could have lost his attraction to Irving over the years. Irving was by no means the lithe and muscular young sailor he had once been, and he would understand it if the other man didn’t exactly like what he saw now. Either way, Irving was just happy to have him in his life again. He was willing to take as much or as little as Burt was willing to give, just so long as they could stay in each other’s lives.

For the next several months the men continued to meet up in this fashion. They rarely went more than a day or two without seeing each other, and though he would never admit it, Irving missed Burt terribly on those rare occasions when they were apart. He thought this was pretty pathetic, though he did nothing to change his behavior or his attitude.

One night after a rather mediocre dinner at a Mediterranean place, Irving drove Burt home. He parked in the driveway leading up to the little one-story house and leaned back in his seat, wincing as his lower back cracked. He really needed to replace the seat cushioning, though he knew that adding lumbar support to the driver’s seat of a ‘75 Monte Carlo would be deeply, deeply uncool.

He turned towards Burt and rested his temple against the headrest. Burt’s profile was striking under the halogen glow of the streetlights, and Irving fingers itched to paint it. “Thank you for another lovely evening,” he said softly, as he always did now. It was always true, every evening he spent with Burt was lovely.

But Burt didn’t say anything. He simply stared up at the house with his brow deeply furrowed.

Irving furrowed his brow as well. “Burt?”

Burt didn’t respond immediately. He continued to stare up at the house, tapping his fingers against his knee. Irving knew that Burt was a man who was careful with what he said, and that sometimes it took him a while to formulate his thoughts into the right words. Irving had always admired this trait, and he was always happy to give Burt the time and space to collect himself. However, the look on Burt’s face gave the impression that whatever he had to say was painful, which worried Irving. He bit down on the inside of his cheek to keep himself from asking what it was that was making Burt so concerned.

After nearly a solid minute of silence, Burt cleared his throat. “I…I hate watching you drive away on nights like these. I don’t…I just don’t want it to end.” He didn’t turn his gaze away from the house. He sat rigid and still in his seat, as if waiting to be slapped or sent away. “I’m always scared I’m never gonna see you again.”

Irving’s heart began to race. Those were the words he had been longing to hear ever since he and Burt had reconnected, but the jaded and protective part of his heart wouldn’t let him jump to anything. He needed to be sure, needed to know it was real this time. For he knew that if he got the chance to hold Burt again, he would never want to let go.

“What are you saying, Burt?”

Burt’s left hand rose from his lap and hovered for several seconds. After some clear mental deliberation, he gently rested it on top of Irving’s right hand, which was still gripping the gearshift. Helpless to the other man’s touch, Irving turned his hand and laced their fingers together.

That tiny gesture seemed to be enough to give Burt the courage to continue. He gripped Irving’s hand tightly and finally turned to face him.

“I’m saying stay. Please, stay.” Tears were clouding his rich blue eyes, but he did not look away. “I know it’s crazy, but we’re not getting any younger, and we’ve wasted so much time…I want you here with me, for whatever time we’ve got left.” He trailed off, searching Irving’s face for some hint as to what his answer might be.

All of the air left Irving’s lungs at once, and his heart rose so high in his chest that he thought he might choke on it. He was reminded of the disastrous training mission all those years back, when the world had turned upside-down and all of his senses had failed him at the same time. But it had been Burt he relied on then, Burt that he had clung to because he was soft and solid and smelled like home. Burt who could now finally, finally be his.

Not quite trusting himself to speak yet, he raised Burt’s hand to his lips and placed a whisper of a kiss on the knobby knuckles. He had always loved those hands, which bore the enduring evidence of Burt’s commitment to hard work in his younger years. Those hands were calloused and scarred, but their touch was always gentle and painfully soft. They were hands meant for caresses and tender touches, and Irving knew he wanted nothing more than to be able to hold them in his own for the rest of his days.

“Yes,” he said quietly. “Yes, I’ll stay.” He let his lower lip catch and drag slowly across the back of the other man’s hand before kissing the top of his wrist.

Burt seemed to give a sharp intake of breath and a deep sigh of relief at the same time. “Good, ‘cause I don’t know what I woulda done if you’d said no.” The corners of his lips twitched upwards into a shy, self-conscious smile.

This time, when he tilted his chin up, Irving didn’t hesitate. He tilted his chin down and slightly to the side before pressing his lips to Burt’s. It was gentle, albeit awkward, and Irving could feel Burt’s pent-up longing that mirrored his own. He raised his free hand to cup Burt’s cheek, and gently deepened the kiss. Burt made a small noise in the back of his throat and leaned in, using his own free hand to grip the lapel of Irving’s leather jacket. He held on with a white-knuckled grip, as if he was still half-expecting someone to burst in and rip Irving away from him. But no one did. They were left alone in their perfect little bubble, with only the gearshift and seatbelts standing in their way.

Irving had no idea how long they stayed like that, making out in the driveway like a couple of teenagers about to miss curfew. He would have happily stayed there forever, if it hadn’t been for the increasing back pain and the lack of room for other activities.

Eventually they stumbled into the house, still holding tight to one another and laughing in disbelief. Unsurprisingly, Burt’s home was cozy and well-kept, with dozens of houseplants and a carefully-curated selection of art. Irving knew at once that he and Radar would be quite comfortable there, though he had harbored few doubts about that.

As he was shepherded into the bedroom, he cast an appreciative eye at the plush comforter and the mission-style furniture set. “Much nicer than the motels of our youth, I must say.”

“‘Course it is, what do you take me for? Now take off that damn jacket,” Burt growled, tugging on his sleeve insistently.

Irving had no choice but to oblige.

When he fell asleep that night, it was with the knowledge that Burt would be right beside him when he woke up. There would be no more lonely mornings, there would be no more lonely nights. They were finally free, and they belonged only to each other. As impossible as it had seemed, he had finally found Burt, just as he had promised himself all those years before.

It was true – in any life and any universe, they would always, always find each other.