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A week ago Nigel had been certain Adam returned his amorous affections. Yet, every one of the romantic overtures he has made during their jaunt up the coast has gone woefully ignored. Though, and Nigel does take note of the subtle but all-important difference, he has yet to be outright rebuffed.
“Night, Nigel,” Adam murmurs drowsily, fiddling with the cuff of his pale blue pajama top. It’s at least two sizes too big on his narrow frame, plunging low to reveal a slice of smooth, pale chest. He stands in the doorway to his motel room, head tilted to one side as his eyelids droop. A dreamy little smile plays with the curve of his pink mouth.
“Goodnight, sleepyhead,” Nigel huffs a laugh, grazing a knuckle under Adam’s chin. The younger man ducks his head, pulling away with a forced chuckle before retreating to the safety of his room.
The door clicks softly behind him.
Pursing his lips, Nigel turns to unlock his own room next door. He tosses his suitcase and a battered copy of the local gazette onto the large mattress. Peeling his three-piece suit off layer-by-layer, he pauses, black silk tie wrapped around a fist, to flick on the bedside radio. Chopin fills the cheap motel room, lilting notes sinking into the tatty beige comforter as it bows beneath Nigel’s weight. It washes over him in soothing harmonies. He toes off his shoes and socks, staring down the eyesore of faux wood paneling and powder blue carpet that separate him from Adam.
Nigel scrubs his hands over his face, raking them both through ashen hair as he draws in a sharp breath through his nose. Letting it out slowly, he gets up to retrieve his dressing gown and the half empty bottle of brandy. Slipping into the garment, he tips three fingers into a chipped tumbler from the dingy bathroom. He takes a swig from the bottle before screwing the cap back on. For a brief moment, he debates returning it to his suitcase but opts to leave it on the nightstand. He cinches the belt tight at the waist; silk slithering over silk in a harsh tug.
After hanging his discarded clothes, Nigel returns to his suitcase. He pulls out a cigar box, running a finger along the worn edge before flipping the lid open. The rich scent of fresh tobacco wafts out of the container in warm waves. The dark musk beckons to him. Bringing one to his nose, Nigel inhales deeply—a gift from his associates in Boston. A dozen hand rolled Cubans. Just a small taste of the imports on offer for illicit export to Nigel’s domain in the Eastern Bloc.
He fishes out the filigree cigar cutter and makes short work of clipping the cap, ready to unwind and forcibly push every last lingering thought of Adam Raki, his sweet face and windswept hair, out of his mind.
At least for one night.
He props up a couple of flat, lifeless pillows and settles back on the stiff bed, long legs crossed at the ankles. With a scowl, he stares at the temptingly lush cigar. Adam hates the lingering stench. Nigel turns it over in his hands and grabs the glass of brandy, downing it quickly. As he refills the drink he brings the cigar to his lips.
Nigel tries to turn his mind to his gorgeous Gabi and the long flight home that awaits him upon returning to Manhattan. He shuffles through the vast catalog of extravagant presents he purchased during his trip, all with the hopes of regaining her favor. A few weak visions of her face, painted with excitement at the dazzling offerings, play across his imagination. But each avenue of thought seems to circle back to the young man slumbering next door. All he can see is bright blue eyes flitting about as he suggests dozens of suitable gifts blurring into smiles forming detailed explanations of glittering constellations and theoretical imaginings of space travel in their lifetime.
The cosmic beauty of his strange soul.
“Pula mea,” Nigel swears, taking another sip of brandy and pointedly ignoring the heat pooling low in his abdomen. The tumbler clatters loudly against the nightstand. An unlit cigar soon joins it.
The music fades in to one of Bach‘s Cello Suites.
A brisk knock disrupts Nigel from his torment.
“Nigel!” Adam calls from the other side, high and tight. Before he has the chance to knock again, Nigel has the door unlatched.
“Is everything alright?”
“Yes,” is the only explanation offered as Adam nods impatiently several times. He brushes past with a broad smile. The look overtakes his entire face and Nigel recognizes that it is perhaps the most genuine looking smile he has seen from Adam. The sight arrests him; transfixed holding the door open while the man heads straight for the radio. He plops down on the bed and begins spinning the dial, navigating away from the gentle swell of music. “Listen,” he implores with a jerky wave of his hand, curling over to closely examine the radio face.
Nigel settles on the mattress beside Adam, careful to leave an appropriate amount of distance between their bodies. He imagines they are in the convertible once again, rolling down the county roads while Adam watches the celestial bodies dazzling above.
Static and snippets of music and disparate news reports pour out of the radio until Adam settles on a station. A series of otherworldly beeps leap out of the speaker. Metallic and insistent, the odd, rhythmic noise sounds wholly unremarkable to Nigel’s ears—until he notices the peaceful expression spreading across Adam’s face. He bites his tongue and waits. Every line of tension, of awkward, forced contortion into trained expressions melts away. Adam’s eyes fall shut.
The vision ensnares Nigel so completely. The electronic pings continue on, filling the thick silence between them.
“Incredible,” Adam whispers in a daze. “It’s Sputnik,” he clarifies, his tone returning to its customary odd inflections. He turns around to look at the space just above Nigel’s shoulder. A brilliant light from within shines in the man’s face as he begins a rapid-fire explanation of the significance of the broadcast. “It’s a satellite, like the ones I told you about over dinner,” he pauses to listen again to the short staccato pulse of Sputnik circling hundreds of miles above them.
“This transmission is coming from outer space?”
“Yes! It’s first man made object to orbit Earth,” Adam beams, near vibrating with delight. “People all over the country have been picking up the signal. There have even been reports of sightings in the sky. With the aid of telescopes and binoculars.” He runs his hands over the material of his pajama bottoms, following the ironed crease in the thigh. Adam repeats the motion several times before speaking again. “I—I know it’s too dark now, and I don’t have my telescope, but maybe we can try and look tomorrow evening?” He asks in an awkwardly measured cadence, his eyes flick up to catch Nigel’s, holding his gaze for as long as the young man can stand. The look sends a white-hot spark zinging up his spine at the speed of light and suddenly Nigel understands. Adam’s eyes darts back down, scanning the length of Nigel’s body before settling on a pair of large hands.
“Adam.”
Nigel brushes an errant curl from Adam’s forehead, tracing the wide curve of his ear, delicate and gentle. His fingertips flow down along the tendons of his neck as his skin blooms a soft pink in their wake. A fluttering heartbeat pulses at the base of his throat. The young man leans into the touch, tipping forward as he pursues the contact when Nigel withdraws his hand.
They are so close.
“My angel.” Warm, shallow breaths puffs lightly against his mouth. A small sigh slips from Adam just before his lips fall open, brushing against Nigel’s own in a chaste parody of a kiss. “Flung out of space,” Nigel breathes, pure wonderment threaded through each syllable.
“I—” Adam starts to draw back, confusion writ large in the furrow of his brows.
Nigel hushes him with a proper kiss. Soft and innocent, as if it is the most natural thing in the world. Adam returns it eagerly, pressing closer when Nigel touches the hard line of his jaw.
“It’s just an expression,” Nigel assures him with a grin.
“Oh,” Adam nods to himself, swallowing thickly and licking his lips, no doubt tasting a hint of fruity brandy. He traces the expanse of red silk stretched across Nigel’s chest, once, twice, before gripping the lapels between itching fingers. “Say it again,” he demands, staring intently at the man’s mouth. Nigel repeats it over and over in kisses against Adam’s cheeks, his throat, collarbones and chest slowly glowing with the warm flush of arousal.