Archive of Our Own ^beta

Summertime’s blooming all over Paris, hot but not sweltering. A faint breeze carries the heady smell of linden flowers around the cobbled corners of the Latin Quarter, and passersby are scantily dressed in sundresses and shorts; standing in his grey suit outside of Shakespeare and Company Gale feels less and less at ease as time passes.

He’s been out here forever, part of him already feels like he’s set roots here in the pavement and he’ll soon enough become another attraction for tourists to admire — Statue of an Indecisive, perhaps, or more classically, The Fool. 

The meeting inside has been going on for a while, more than one hour according to the time wrote on the little leaflet carefully stashed into the inside pocket of his jacker. He didn’t come here on time, didn’t want to risk seeing him before he was ready, before he was actually convinced he wanted to; so he grabbed a drink in a cafe nearby, sat with his back to the window to avoid peeking like a spare glance could mean losing him one more time. For a moment he even imagined he could hear his voice, the laughter that has been haunting his dreams all this time, but he didn’t turn to check.

Come on, Cleven, he says to himself. You came all this way, this time, you can’t possibly let this pass. Just a glance, to know he’s real, then you can go the fuck back where you came from.

Another customer, probably fed up with how he’s been blocking the entrance to the bookstore, shoves him to get inside and that’s all it takes to get him to move again; like a robot or something he follows the irritated stranger inside, greets the bookkeeper in murmured French and promptly tucks himself in one of the sidelong aisles, picking up a book just to give himself a reason to be there. He has no idea where the meeting is taking place, but walking along the shelved aisle he finally hears it loud and clear enough that he can’t be mistaken this time: it’s not a dream, it’s really him.

Keeping to the dusty shadows, Gale holds his breath and peeks around the corner: there’s a small group of people all crammed in rickety wooden chairs, some are sitting on once colorful pillows on the floor, and they’re all looking in awe at the table set up in front of them where a man is holding court. Not any man, Gale’s traitorous heart reminds him picking up speed: it’s Bucky. 

John Egan, as the cover of the book propped up on the table says, but for Gale he’s always been Bucky, ever since the first and only time they’ve met all those years ago in Wien — nine years, almost to the day. The longest nine years of Gale’s life and somehow simultaneously the shortest; sometimes it’s like every day is forty-eight hours long, minutes dragging slow and thick like molasses, and other times he blinks and a fucking month has passed and he has no idea what he’s done in the past thirty days, where he’s been, who he’s been with. Only one thing’s always sure: he’s not where he was supposed to be.

But I am now, he thinks trying to stash away these painful thoughts. He takes a good look at John from the safety of his wood and paper shield; if he once was a good looking guy, he’s now become an handsome man. He’s grown into his features, sharp cheekbones and a large nose now harmonious with the rest of his face and even his ears look smaller with his curls longer and wilder than Gale remembered. The mustache on top of his upper lip is still thin but well groomed, like it’s there with intention now and not just because he got tired of shaving and wanted to try something new. 

He’s broader now, the collared shirt he’s wearing clings tightly at his muscled upper arms and shoulders in a way that makes Gale’s brain go more than a little fuzzy at the edges, and his long legs got sturdier as well from what Gale can see of them, spread under the table from where John’s slouching in his chair like a kid who got too tall too fast and still doesn’t know how to manage all those extra inches. 

That’s familiar, Gale thinks and cannot help but smile at the memory of John sitting that exact way in the seat in front of his on the train and in the small cafe in Wien where they drank hot chocolate and had pretend phone calls; and so is his smile, toothy and so wide it turns his eyes into upturned half-moons at the question of one of the women sitting in front of him.

“Tell us, Mr. Egan, is the book autobiographic or not?”

John laughs softly, kisses his teeth as he ponders on an answer. “You know, when you’re a reporter like I am it’s difficult to draw a line between what’s simply biographic and what’s autobiographic. I mean, I used to study the stories of the people I was writing about so deeply, to learn to tell them not with the detached eye of an history manual but with the familiarity of someone who actually knew them… it was hard to pinpoint exactly where they ended and I began, and vice-versa. And I’ve found out it’s basically the same when I’m writing a novel so what I probably mean is, everything we write, however we write it, it’s at least in part autobiographic. I don’t know if that answers your question,” he offers.

The woman smiles at him. “I’ll be more specific: was there ever a young American guy on a train you met and spent an evening with?”

John’s smile gets more lopsided, Gale thinks he’s faking it. “See to me, that’s not important,” he tries.

“So, that’s a yes?” The woman retorts, her own smile all teeth like a predator’s.

John lets out an exaggerate sigh. “Ok, since this is the last stop of my book tour, and I’m finally home, I will answer this question, at last: yes, there was a guy. We met on the train and decided to explore Wien together for one night, but that’s it. Everything else is just a work of fiction, I don’t kiss and tell,” John says and grants the woman a suggestive wink that makes the whole audience chuckle and sends a scalding hot shiver down Gale’s spine. He knows exactly what John’s referring to, the part of the book that’s been haunting his dreams ever since he first read it, his memory of that night merging with the scene described on the page, hotness unbearable in his belly.

“We have time for one last question,” a man standing behind John announces. “The lady over there, yes?”

“Hi,” says a young lady with red lips and thick eyelashes, standing up from where she’s sitting so that everyone can see her well. “You’ve probably had this question asked to you before so sorry if I’m making you repeat yourself. The title of your book, Ships in the Night, is a reference to the saying “like ships that pass in the night”, meaning two people that meet once by chance and for a short time, and then never see each other again. So what I’ve been wondering is, do you think they meet again in Wien six months later like they promised each other? The book’s ending is so open, you know…”

This time Gale’s sure John’s smile is fake, pulling at the corners of his mouth and not at all reaching his eyes. “Well, that’s a good starting point for a potential sequel,” he says probably hoping he’d deterred any further questions, but the woman insists. “But what about in real life? Did you meet again?”

John snorts in response, his eyes roaming around the room like he’s searching for an answer amongst the heavy, well stacked shelves and Gale takes a small step forward, instinctively — he can’t avoid it, John’s gravitational pull stronger than the Earth’s. And John’s eyes, drawn by the subtle movement, flicker to Gale. 

It takes him a second to focus on him but then the look on his face gets absolutely priceless, eyes widening in shock and lips parting in a silent noise of surprise, the hand he was combing through his hair stopping awkwardly halfway through the gesture; he looks so stunned that for a second Gale’s half afraid he’s having a heart attack, but then John unglues his eyes from him and goes back to look at his relentless fan. 

“As I just told you, not everything in the book is autobiographical. We never met again because there was no promise in reality, I just thought it was a good way to end the book. Something more poetical that wouldn’t actually work in real life. I’m sorry if my answer is too cynic,” he adds noticing the disappointing look on the girl’s face. “But that’s why we read, and write, books, am I right? To give ourselves the chance of dreaming something bigger than reality.”

“And that was the final question,” the man behind John intervenes. “Mr. Egan, thank you for joining us this afternoon. Everyone, the signed copies are over here if you want to come and collect them.”

Gale could leave now that John is busy exchanging a few last words with his fans, handing out autographed copies of the book based on their story, their night in Vienna. He’s seen him, they’ve seen each other, Gale knows he’s real. He could walk away right now and leave the memory of their encounter imperfect but untouched. An almost, as he once said.

He doesn’t. He roams around in the bookstore, never straying too far from where John’s sitting, always keeping an eye out for him to be sure they’re not gonna miss each other again.

When John finally stands up he raises his arms above his head to stretch and his shirt rises with the movement uncovering a silver of pale skin on his abdomen, a glimpse of a happy trail. He glances around, worry in his eyes like he also thought Gale might have left in the meantime, or was merely a dream, but smiles in relief when he spots him hanging around the drama section of the bookstore. He combs his hair with his fingers once again as he walks to Gale, and straightens his mustache as well; Gale feels exaggeratedly stiff in his suit, his hair neatly styled, his face fully shaved.

“Hey, Buck,” John greets him, so natural it sounds like they’re old friends who haven’t seen each other in mere weeks. “Long time no see, how are you?”

Gale swallows dryly. “Hi, John. I’m good, and you?”

“Great. You wanna get some coffee or something?” John proposes. He still hasn’t touched Gale, not even with a hand on his shoulder or a playful hug. It makes Gale a little sick to his stomach; he looks at his watch, grimaces. “I have a plane to catch,” he says and feels more than he sees John’s devastation.

“It’s in three hours, I have time,” he’s quick to add. He’s usually not one who does things at the very last moment, especially when he travels; he’s actually the kind of person that gets to the airport at least three hours before, checks his luggage about a thousand times, and pats his pockets so frequently it becomes a kind of rhythm — wallet passport glasses keys, wallet passport glasses keys, wallet passport glasses keys. But he’s already late on his schedule so he figures he can be in a rush for once, if it means spending some time with John after all these years.

He watches as honest relief washes over John, hunched shoulders relaxing and his pinched brow smoothing out. “Great! I know just the perfect place, it’s right around the corner. You’re not gonna be late, I promise,” he says, then gestures for Gale to precede him out of the bookstore as he waves goodbye to the clerks.

The sun is a tad lower on the horizon now, yet it’s still long before it’ll set. Pink hues are tinting the clouds, their margins unclear and frayed against the azure background of the sky and the irony of it doesn’t escape Gale, how the last time they were together they were waiting for the sun to rise and today they’ll be apart again before sunset.

He almost starts walking, to get away from that thought, but John puts a hand on his shoulder stopping him. He’s smiling at him all toothy and crooked like Gale remembered, the younger John from his memory and the one in front of him right now merging in the eye of his mind. 

“I can’t believe you’re here, Buck!” John says and Gale finds he’s missed it, that weird nickname no one else knows about — and it’s better this way, or those who’ve read John’s book would know who is it about, would know it’s Gale’s story too. 

“It was a lucky coincidence: I’ve been in Paris for a few days for a conference and I happened to see your face on the poster there when I walked by yesterday.”

“Oh, you recognized me even after all this time? I’m honored, Buck,” John says, a hint of something more serious in the playfulness of his tone.

“Of course I recognized you, John,” Gale tells him earnestly. “I stayed in front of that window for such a long time, I thought I was going to lose it right there and then.”

John laughs, delighted. “I know the feeling, Buck: when I saw you back there, hiding amongst the bookshelves, I thought I’d gone crazy. No, really: I thought welp, there goes the last bit of my sanity! I couldn’t believe it was actually you. I still can’t, to be honest. You’re sure you’re not just a dream?”

Gale huffs at his antics and rolls his eyes, his lips curving slightly into a smile. “I’m sure, John. As real as it gets.” 

John keeps smiling at hm, an edge of insecurity about him Gale’s not sure he knows how he feels about. He looks hesitant, teetering, the hand he keeps by his side twitching like he wants to touch Gale, to hug him or throw one arm around his shoulders like he used to do; Gale hopes he does it, it’s been so long since he’s been touched like that by anyone, the mere weight of John’s palm on his shoulder burns through his clothes like a branding iron.

But John recoils, lets go of him however slowly. He stuffs his hands in the pocket of his cotton trousers, fisted as if to keep himself from pushing too far, and gestures for Gale to follow him. They walk in tandem down the street, Gale’s feet perfectly in time with John’s as if it’s a choreography they’ve rehearsed a thousand times.

“So, when are you going back?” Gale asks to break the silence. 

John looks confused. “As soon as we part tonight I guess, Buck.”

“What do you mean? Don’t you have a plane to catch? Are you staying in Paris another day?”

“Oh! You don’t know, of course,” John says and sounds disappointed, mostly to himself. “I live here, Buck. I’ve been living in Paris for the past, what is it, five years? Since I started working on the novel, I’ve wrote it all here actually, in my tiny studio apartment.”

“I’m so happy you got to write your book, I remember you told me you wanted to write one that night but you still didn’t know what to write about, I’m glad what happened gave you the right inspiration to finally work on your dream,” Gale drones on almost panicking because now that he’s talking about it he feels like in one of his dreams, like Vienna never happened and it’s simultaneously happening right now, like he’s still twenty and can taste the sweetness of that hot chocolate on his tongue, thick and smooth with just the perfect hint of salt for balance.

“It wasn’t just that, you must know that,” John is saying now, having misinterpreted Gale’s words and thinking he got offended by the fact that John had novelized the best, weirdest night of his life when Gale’s simply astonished and so, so glad because if someone else remembers the guy he was back then it means he really existed, it means he’s still in there somewhere.

He stops dead in his tracks and turns to John, suddenly desperate. “Before we go anywhere I have to ask you one question,” he says. “Did you show up in Vienna that December?”

“Did you?” John shoots back, unwavering and unblinking. 

“I couldn’t, but did you? Please John, I have to know. It’s important to me.”

“Why? You didn’t, so why’d you care?” John asks, playful but with an edge.

Gale doesn’t let himself stray from the path. “Did you?” He insists. He doesn’t know which answer will be the worst, but he needs to know.

“No,” John says, and it breaks Gale’s heart. 

He doesn’t show it though, he just brings a hand to his chest and sighs in what he hopes will pass for relief. “Oh, thank God you didn’t,” he exclaims.

John laughs, teeth bared like a wild animal. “Yeah, and thank God you didn’t either. Can you imagine? One of us turning up there, alone, heartbroken? It would’ve sucked.”

“Oh, yeah,” Gale agrees with a breathless laugh. “A nightmare.”

They resume walking, still in perfect synch, still hovering toward each other like a planet and its moon. “So, why exactly didn’t you go?” John inquires.

“I almost did. I had my plane ticket booked, my suitcase all ready, I was about to leave my apartment when the phone rang. Only a handful of people had my number back then, it could’ve  just been one of my friends wanting to chat but I had the feeling it was something important, something bad,” Gale says, still shuddering at the memory. “I stared at it as it kept ringing and I knew that if I didn’t answer then I would’ve turned the page onto something important.”

“And what was it?”

“It was Marge. Her dad, she’d found him unconscious in her apartment. She’d tried to reanimate him but by the time the ambulance got there he was already gone. She was inconsolable, delirious with pain, and I couldn’t leave her alone in a moment like that,” Gale concludes, his heart still hurting at the memory of Marge’s pain ad his own as he’d stayed by her side and kept thinking about the plane that was taking off without him, about the hotel room he’d booked in Vienna to be sure he and John would’ve had a place to spend the night this time, about John all alone at the train station wondering what had gone wrong.

“Oh, I’m so sorry. She was just back from her time abroad in Budapest, right?” John asks, sympathy written clear all over his face but with a hint of relief in his eyes.

“Yes. How did you remember that?” Gale asks, surprised.

“I remember everything,” is John’s answer, heavy like an anvil on Gale’s chest.

“Of course, it was in your book,” he comments. Then doubt hits him, sour like bile on his tongue. “Wait. You didn’t go either, but why? What happened? I would’ve been there if I could have, I had my ticket, I’d booked us a room. Why weren’t you there?”

John stammers to find his words and Gale doesn’t need to have known him for more than one night to know what it means. “No,” he gasps, and when John blushes in response and averts his gaze he feels the searing pain of guilt through his heart once again. “No. Oh, please, don’t tell me you were there.”

John’s staring at the pavement now, cheeks and the tips of his ears just about crimson. “Yeah,” he says. Gale feels the need to walk right into the busy street they’re skirting and let a French driver end his life. “John,” he tries, pained, heartbreak clear in his voice, but John shushes him. 

“Hey, no, it’s ok. It’s been what, nine years? I got over it, don’t worry,” he says.

“And when exactly did you get over it?” Gale challenges him.

“About thirty seconds ago when you told me why you didn’t come,” John admits. “Up until this very moment there hasn’t been a single moment of my life where I wasn’t thinking about it, wondering why you’d left me behind like that, crying myself to sleep most nights at the mere memory of your face,” he goes on but Gale must be looking as sickly as he feels because John is quick to backtrack. “Hey no, Buck: I’m kidding. Yes, it was awful at the time but seriously, I got over it. Honestly I had a feeling something bad must have happened, I was mainly mad at myself that I didn’t ask for your phone number or your address.”

“I thought about that too,” Gale mumbles, shoulders sagging. “All the time when I was with Marge I kept thinking how stupid we’d been not to exchange numbers. I didn’t even know your last name, Christ, I didn’t learn it until I read your book for the first time.”

“We were young, and pretty stupid,” John consoles him. “We entrusted ourselves into the hands of fate, and fate betrayed us. C’mon Buck, don’t act all sad on me on the day we finally meet again!”

It’s no act, Gale thinks. “How long did you stay in Vienna for?”

“Couple of days. I, ah, I’d booked us a room in a nice hotel, it felt wrong not to make the best of it,” John says and Gale feels another stab of sickness at the pit of his stomach; make the best of it, of course. John had surely picked up someone else to keep him company during the nights he should’ve spent with Gale, to keep his bed warm and his mind distracted.

“Did you meet someone else?” He can’t stop himself from asking. “Some other guy, or girl?”

“Ah yes, actually. I met a guy, a German guy who looked just like you, his name was Ulrich and we hit it off pretty good! You know, the book’s actually based on him too; yeah, I kinda have mixed you two to create the perfect love interest for a romance novel,” John says and Gale’s pretty sure he’s bullshitting you, there’s the same grin on his face he had in Vienna when they were having their pretend phone call to get to know each other better, but he feels too guilty to actually have no doubts.

“Really?” He asks, trying to sound more amused than worried. John shakes his head, his grin turning downward, a little sad. “No, of course not. I even went back to the station to put up flyers with my hotel’s number just in case there’d been a problem with your flight and you’d arrive like a day later, maybe two. You didn’t call, obviously, but a lot of hookers did try and get into my pants. But I was too, how can I put it, disenchanted for that.”

“Their loss, I’m sure,” Gale tries even if he’s not quite sure it’s his place to say such things, to joke about such stuff — it’s too soon, maybe, or most likely too late. John doesn’t look appalled at his words, though; he just shrugs before he starts walking again, gesturing for Gale to follow him.

“What did you do after?” Gale asks.

“I stayed two days in Vienna then went back to the States. Tried to look you up, but I couldn’t remember your last name no matter how hard I tried.”

“That’s because I never gave it to you,” Gale interrupts him.

“Oh yes you did. Twice, actually: when we were at that amusement park and you were telling me about your dad, right before we got on the Ferris wheel, and once again when we said goodbye. You hugged me and said, “my name is Gale Cleven”. Is it not?”

“Yeah, it is. So you remembered that after a while, mh?”

“Yeah, it came back to me. But I figured it was too late then to look you up and call; I mean, what was I supposed to say? Hey Buck it’s me, Bucky, the guy you left stranded in Vienna a year ago, do you remember me? It didn’t feel right,” John says half joking and Gale wants to scream, to rip his hair out of his head because yes, John should’ve done exactly that.

They get to the café, a quaint spot with lots of round tables, two rickety wooden chairs each. In a not so accented French John greets the man behind the counter and orders two coffees, then insists to pay for the both of them. “You’re my guest, Buck. And by the way I’m rich now, didn’t you notice? Bestselling author and all that,” he says as they sit down to one of the tables, Gale’s back to the window as usual. 

“I noticed,” Gale says. Then, feeling a bit awkward, he raises his cup as if to toast. “John Bucky Egan from Manitowoc, Wisconsin, now a bestselling author living in Paris. Congratulations on achieving your dream, John”, he says, another pang of nostalgia traversing his heart when John’s cheeks become pink at his words, his eyes shining with happiness and pride. He clinks his little cup against Gale’s, delicate as if he fears to break it and the moment they’ve created as well. 

“Thank you, Buck. It hasn’t been easy but you’re right, it’s an achievement that’s worth celebrating,” he says. 

“Was it so different from the reportages you used to write?” Gale asks, genuinely curious: he’s never been one with a passion for writing, his essays at school were always short and lackluster. He’s good with numbers, not with words — spoken or written, it’s the same for him.

“It’s wildly different, I cannot even begin to describe how much!” John answers. “With a reportage I used to have my notes, my well checked facts, my statements; it was just about putting everything together in a way that would work, being interesting for the readers but not too romanticized. With this book, on the other hand, everything existed only in my mind. I put down some sort of a timeline, wrote some things we said whenever I could remember them, but in the end it was just me reliving that night in Vienna over and over again.”

“How long did it take you to finish it?”

“Give or take, three years. I kept working for some newspapers in the meantime because, you know, one cannot live on dreams only, but once I started writing the book I never actually stopped. You’ve lived in my mind, rent free if I might add, for three long years.”

“You should’ve at least let me pay for the coffees, then,” Gale jokes as lightly as he can. “Before I read the book I was convinced you’d forgotten me.”

“I could never!” John exclaims, outraged. “I had a very clear picture of you in my mind, Buck, I’ve had it the whole time. And I’m proud of myself, if I may say so, because you look exactly like you did in my memory. You haven’t changed a bit, ya know? If you were wearing a t-shirt instead of this serious businessman suit, I’d think we’re still in Vienna.”

Oh, I’ve changed plenty, Gale thinks. “I felt the same, the moment I saw you in the bookstore,” he admits instead. “I mean, you’ve changed a little, you look more adult. But I still felt like time had turned back and I was twenty something again, and you were just mere moments away from turning to me and asked me to dance to Blue Skies.”

That’s probably too much to admit, especially for the moment he’s chosen to. He sees it in the way John’s relaxed facade wavers, albeit subtly, a shadow of pain passing and darkening for a moment his sky blue eyes; but the mask slides back on immediately, John’s smile just a tad too sharp. “Enough talking about me, Buck. Tell me something about you, what have you been up to?”

There it is, the moment Gale’s been dreading ever since they started talking.

“I’m a college professor, astrophysics at NYU. I’m actually considered quite the expert in my field, and believe it or not, I’ve published a few articles myself. Mostly on black holes, and the cycle of constellations in the northern hemisphere. Nothing you’d find in a normal library, only in specialized journals but yeah, I must admit I’m pretty proud of those.”

“I’ll look them up,” John says, so sincere it breaks Gale’s heart a little more still. 

“I was here in Paris for a conference about astrophysics, actually. Been here four days, and I’m flying back to the States tonight, as you already know.”

“Of course. And, ah, are you flying back to someone?” John asks. Gale can see he’s had that question on the tip of his tongue the entire time they’ve been talking, he supposes he should be grateful it took John so long to ask.

He sighs. “Yeah, actually,” he says. Then, since there’s no more use of waiting, he blurts out, “Remember Marge?”

John’s eyes widen in surprise, his jaw actually goes slack. “Oh! Oh well, congratulations Buck! How long have you two…?”

“Eight years. She was so distraught after her father’s death, I had to stay by her side. Then one thing left to another and now we’ve been married for four years,” he admits sheepishly, almost guiltily. He shouldn’t feel like this talking about Marge, this is not her fault — none of what has happened to them in the past eight years it’s been her fault and she’s still Gale’s best friend, she’ll remain it until the day he dies, but fuck him if he doesn’t wish he didn’t answer her call, sometimes. 

“What a noble thing to do,” John comments and Gale doesn’t really know if he’s being sarcastic or if he’s just imagining it. “Kids?” He then asks, perfunctory.

“Yeah, a boy. Michael, like her father,” Gale answers. He doesn’t say, I wanted to call him John; it wouldn’t make sense, he thought about it for a mere second the moment they got to know the baby’s gender and he never even suggested it because of course Marge’s dead dad had precedence over Gale’s crush on a guy he’d met years ago — and wasn’t that the root of all Gale’s problems, really?

“Of course,” John says, nodding, because that’s the most sensitive thing to say. “How’s the kid? I bet he’s smart, if he takes after you. Is he always with his little face turned up to the sky, watching the moon and the stars?”

“He’s the best kid I’ve ever met,” Gale answers with a proud smile. “And he’s smart, yeah, but he doesn’t like the stuff I like. He’s more of an artist, you know? Fingers always stained with paint, or ink, he writes stories and then performs them for me and his mum. He’s such a fun kid, you- you’d love him,” he can’t help but add. The smile that appears on John’s face at his words is the saddest Gale’s ever seen, but then he says “I’m sure I would, Buck,” and that’s even sadder, somehow. 

“Have you got someone?” Gale asks, selfishly hoping the answer will be no.

John takes his time before answering him, sipping his coffee like he’s searching it for words. “Someone here and there, but nothing that sticks. People take one look at me and it’s like they immediately know it, that I’m not one for things that last. So yeah, a bit of fun, a few dates, sex, and then once the thrill of the novelty is over it’s goodbye, John. It’s not you, it’s me, that kinda stuff,” he says at last and Gale hates himself for the thrill his words send down his spine.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry,” he says.

“Ah don’t you worry, Buck! I’ve stopped believing in love a while ago, when I finished the novel to be exact. It’s like I poured every ounce of love and romanticism I had into those pages and when it was over, I was done. It’s not lost, it just turned into something else. There’s a physic law or something that sounds like that, right? Nothing’s destroyed, nothing’s created, something like that.”

“Nothing is lost, nothing is created, everything is transformed,” Gale recites by heart. “Lavoisier’s law of conservation of mass.”

John snaps his fingers at him with a grin. “That’s it. I transformed my belief in true love into a bestselling book that’s allowing me to live in a beautiful, tiny studio apartment in the most romantic city in the world. How about that?”

Before Gale has the time to answer him a clock goes off inside the café, shutting him up. He counts the chimes: six. His flight leaves in two and a half hours, and he needs at least forty-five minutes to get to the airport. He should apologize to John, tell him it’s been nice meeting again but he really has to leave now or he’ll miss his flight. They should shake hands, maybe exchange numbers promising each other they’ll call — and they would, maybe a few times a year for a while, for Christmas and Thanksgiving and stuff like that before losing track of each other for good, not even an almost, a what if.

“You need to leave?” John asks, his face an impenetrable mask.

Gale shakes his head. “Not yet. Wanna take another walk?”

—

“So you read the book then?” John asks. They're walking along the river now, the presence of water thick in the air around them. Gale's hair is curling at his temples from sweat and river mist alike, and he's unbearably hot in his grey suit. He's tempted to jump into the Seine like that, all dressed up; leave it to fate if he's gonna drown or not. But then he thinks John will surely follow him and that would be embarrassing, at the least — devastating, at worst.

“Yeah I read it,” he answers.

“And? Did you like it or not?” John presses on.

What is he supposed to say? That it was good? That he didn’t like it, because that’s not the kind of books he reads? That he it ruined his life?

“It was very good. Extremely romantic, as you said.”

John sighs. “You didn't like it, uh?”

“That's definitely not what I said,” Gale protests. ”I told you I liked it. I usually don't like romance novels so I don't usually read them, but something drew me to it right away. And no it wasn't your picture.”

“Really?” John asks, seemingly amused. ”I thought you'd read it just because it was my book.”

“Don't think too highly of yourself,” Gale smirks. “I read the blurb on the back and it seemed... familiar, so to say. Only when I read that name, Buck, I realized it was my story. Our story, I mean; I'm not mad that you wrote it, it wasn't mine to steal from. You went a tad overboard with your imagination but hey, I get it. A book sells surely better with some spice in it.”

John stops in his tracks. “What are you saying?” He asks, a thin veil of outrage flickering in his voice. 

Gale shrugs. “Well, we definitely didn't have sex that night. I remember it very clearly, me saying that it was exactly what I didn't want to do so yeah, that part in your book is made up.”

“I never wrote that we had sex, Buck. I remember we didn't, believe it, I've never stopped thinking about it all these years,” John scoffs with yet again disarming honesty. “But we did that Buck. We most certainly did.”

“Did what, exactly? Dry humping in a cemetery?”

“We weren't in a cemetery! Christ, Buck, have you really read the book? We were in a park. You were wearing my leather jacket because you were cold, and we were laying on the grass watching the stars. You taught me about Ursa Minor and whatnot, I told you you were beautiful, you kissed me, and then I ground my knee against your cock until you came,” John exclaims. 

It should freak Gale out, how he's talking about that out loud in the middle of the street. 

It doesn't. It sends a hot thrill throughout his body, the saliva in his mouth getting suddenly thicker. “I know what you wrote,” he says. He's lying, of course: he remembers every moment of that night in excruciating details, he's pulled himself off many times just thinking about the pressure of John's thick thigh against his cock, cursing himself for the idealistic romanticism of his twenties and his whole "let's not have sex, it'll ruin everything" stunt. But the fact is, the first time he read their sex scene in John's book he had such an abrupt physical reaction that has him blushing still at the mere thought, his cock twitching with interest in his grey suit. He can't believe John also remembered it so well — he doesn't want to believe it, because it would mean that the mistake he's made is even bigger than he thought.

“And I know what we did,” John insists valiantly. “Honestly, Buck, I don't know wether to feel offended or honored. I mean, did you actually forget what happened or it was so good that your mind refused to accept it and just blanked?”

“There might have been some grinding,” Gale concedes. “But I certainly didn't-”

“You did,” John interrupts him, mercifully avoiding to shout what Gale did, this time. “You and I both. We tried to clean ourselves in the bathroom of a cafe, I felt sticky down there my whole flight. I can't believe you don't remember that, at least: I had to toss my underwear away when I got home because it was too ruined, yours couldn't have been in a much better state.”

Gale hums noncommittally not wanting to give John a win, but he's sure the red flush on his cheeks is loud enough as it is.

“You know, my editor actually wanted me to expand that scene. Make it sexier, add something more daring than some juvenile dry humping,” John says like it’s nothing. Like Gale hasn’t had fantasies like that for years.

“Why did you refuse?” He asks.

“I told him it would’ve been more interesting for the readers if the characters remained an almost, and by the way having sex in the park in the middle of the night was a tad too unbelievable,” John answers. “Which is all true, I suppose. But I also didn’t want to write something like that without you knowing or approving, it felt like forcing myself on you in some way. And, if you want the romantic version of the answer, I wanted it to be real or not at all.”

John’s expression is less guarded than it’s been all afternoon when he speaks these words, he looks like he’s been pulling at a freshly scabbed wound and Gale doesn’t know what to do with that, how to deal with it in a way that makes sense and doesn’t include him launching himself into the Seine. So instead he says, “When did you started working on the book? It must have been pretty soon after Vienna if you remembered everything in such details.”

“Ah, so now you admit I remembered it correctly?” John jokes. “Let’s see, it was after you left me stranded in that train station, for sure. I started writing down notes the following spring, some bits of dialogue I could remember, descriptions of places, of sensations, that kind of stuff. It was like journaling at first, writing what happened as if to exorcise it. Then I stopped for a while, right when I moved to New York.”

A bucket full of ice falls down Gale’s spine. “You lived in New York? When?” He asks.

“For three years, 96 to 99. The newspaper sent me there when they opened a new office.”

Gale feels heavier, like he could drown in the Seine even without a stone tied to his neck. “Don't tell me that,” he all but pleads.

“What?”

“I live in New York. I've been living there since 1998 which means-”

“We've been there at the same time,” John concludes for him, devastated. “You know, I even thought about it. Every time I saw a blond mop of hair walking down the street I'd think, wouldn't it be fun if that was Buck? But I had no idea where you lived, I certainly didn't know you'd moved to New York,” he says. Then, kissing his teeth at himself, he adds, “I should've looked you up once I remembered your last name, I knew it.”

“You should have, yes,” Gale agrees, he's even nodding to add conviction to his words. “We should've met again sooner, not after all these years. You should've known the person I was then, not the shadow I've become now.”

John looks at him, alarm in his blue eyes. “A shadow? What do you mean, Buck? Are you ok?”

Gale laughs at his words, all bitterness and no mirth whatsoever. “I've never been less ok in my whole life, John. And that's a lot, coming from someone like me.”

John's hand flies to his arm, stopping mere inches from it. Fingers twitching as if they're remembering how to grasp he hesitates then drops it. “Come with me, let's get on that water bus,” he says but Gale remains planted where he is. “Why?” He asks.

“We can't talk about whatever you want to talk about, here,” John tries to reason with him. “You look like you want to jump into the river right this moment, Buck.”

“And how is going on a boat going to solve that?” Gale insists.

“Trust me, that’s what I do every time I need some fresh air for my brain. The book would’ve never seen the light of day without my water bus rides,” John says pushing him gently toward the small boat. “And besides, if you really really have to throw yourself in the water at least it’ll be effective if you do it from there,” he adds with a grin.

“You’re giving me tips on how to drown myself better?” Gale asks, so appalled he doesn’t even realize they’re stepping onto the water bus despite his protests.

“Sure Buck, that’s exactly what I’m doing. Come on, you already agreed to spend a whole night with me when you didn’t even know if I was a serial killer or something; I think you’re way past doubting about wether or not to trust me,” John points out and the boat starts before Gale can formulate an answer, throwing him off balance. He stumbles and reaches out, planting a palm right on John’s chest; it’s so hot he feels like his skin is burning off but he can’t bring himself to pull away.

“I may have spoken too soon,” John says and he’s suddenly too close, so Gale finally pushes himself upright again, shrugging off invisible lint from his suit. John doesn’t react in the slightest, he just walks to the back of the boat and plops down on the very last bench behind rows and rows of tourists, some of whom shoot perplexed glances at Gale when they see him walk behind him, his suit clearly unfit for the weather and the circumstances.

He must admit though, the air is fresher here now the boat’s moving, and the slowly setting sun stains the beautiful buildings of the city a shade of pink he thought existed only in his dreams. He closes his eyes for a few minutes, breathing deeply to try and get his heartbeat back to a normal pace; John lets him be, humming a tune with his face to the sun, and Gale’s achingly grateful for that. He doesn’t see him reach out, fingers extended until the tips of his index grazes Gale’s face before retracting, fast as lighting, when he tilts his head towards him.

“So, what’s that story about being a shadow?” John asks after a while.

“It’s nothing,” Gale tries, eyes still closed.

“It didn’t sound like nothing back there. It sounded like a lot of things, but certainly not nothing.”

“You wouldn’t get it,” Gale tries again.

“Try me. I’m good at getting people, you know? It was my own personal trick when I was a reporter, I could create great connections with those I needed to interview to make my articles worth reading. You should know it better than anyone,” he adds.

Gale cracks one eye open. “Oh, so you’re interviewing me now? I thought you were a writer now.”

“Ah, see, it’s for the sequel. Two guys meet again nine years after when they were supposed to; I bet it’s gonna sell double what Ships in the Night did.”

“Don’t count on it,” Gale shoots. 

“C’mon, Buck,” John nudges him with his elbow, and Gale almost melts against it. He opens his eyes, eyelids fluttering against the sudden light, and takes a look around to the people walking along the river, their voices and laughters soaring through the summer air; he’s in the city of love, with the only man he’s ever loved, and he’s never felt so alone.

“I think you might be right about what happened in the park in Vienna,” he concedes. Johns looks taken aback by the abrupt change of topic, but he goes back to a satisfied smirk in the blink of an eye.

“Yeah? Did the idea of my thigh close to your dick-”

“Oh, will you quit it?” Gale says, almost chuckling this time. “I already said you’re right, what else do you want? It’s just, sometimes it’s like I put things in drawers inside my head and forget about them. It’s probably because of the sadness, you know?”

“That night was a sad memory for you?” John asks, a little preoccupied. 

No, Gale thinks. It’s everything else. 

“Not that night in particular, but I think my brain tried to make me forget for all the things that happened after it. You know, Marge’s dad dying, me missing our meeting, you crestfallen in Vienna even if I didn’t know about that until today.”

“Yeah, I didn’t think about that,” John admits. “I mean it was a bad few days for me, but it must’ve been even worse for you.”

Gale nods, swallowing around the lump in his throat. “His death, it changed everything. Marge was my best friend, always had been, and then all of a sudden she became…”

“Your wife?” John suggests.

“Yes. Not my best friend anymore, even if that was all I needed from her. But you know grief had wrecked her, she was so alone and distraught, I had to stay with her. I moved in with her for a while to keep her company and I don’t know, one thing led to another and suddenly we were signing a lease for a flat together and she kept introducing me to people as her boyfriend. I convinced myself that was what I was, what she needed, and I figured we weren’t gonna last anyway because how could she not feel that things weren’t right between us?”

He takes a deep breath, feeling guilty for what he’s saying about Marge — not because she’s his wife, but because she was his best friend once, the only person who ever loved him without qualms, uncaring of his faults. “And then she got pregnant so we had to get married, because that’s the right thing to do. And then suddenly it’s been four years, we’re not best friends anymore, we’re not even husband and wife anymore. I mean, we’re still together, still married, but it’s like I’m married to someone I used to know and now we’re just running a nursery together.”

John grimaces at that. “You know I don’t mean to pry, Buck, but as someone who’s lived a situation just like yours on my own skin when I was a kid let me just tell you, you’re not doing it for your son’s own good,” he says. He doesn’t sound like a man to whom sensitivity comes easy, his voice hesitant but blunt, but Gale can appreciate he’s at least trying and not laughing in his face because the thing he sacrificed their happiness for it’s only bringing him misery.

“I know,” Gale answers softly. “We’re doing it because we have no good enough reasons not to. I don’t think she’s fucking anyone else; it wouldn’t bother me if she did but I think that would push her to ask for a divorce, at least not to hurt me, so I don’t think she is. I’m not fucking anyone else either,” he adds. Then, after a beat, “I’m definitely not fucking her, haven’t done that in years.”

“How long?” John asks, trying as he might to sound disinterested. 

“Four years. Since after Michael was born. I waited for her to get back on her feet after the pregnancy, supposing she would ask for it, but she never did. She looks so uninterested in it, it’s like… you know what you said about your novel and the law of conservation? I think it worked like that for her as well: all the feelings, the love she might’ve had for me before Michael turned into a deep love for our child. Or maybe she finally got the hint that I’m actually into men”, he adds with a shrug. It’s the first time he’s ever said that out loud, and of course he does it on a water bus in Paris surrounded by people who may or may not understand his language. 

John laughs at that, it sounds the most sincere Gale’s heard from him today. “Have you done something about that?” He asks and Gale shakes his head, blushing something fierce.

“No, of course not. I wouldn’t even know where to start,” he says which just makes John snort some more. 

“It’s fine most of the times,” Gale continues. “I have my job, the publications, the conferences. And my son, of course. I love him so much I always feared to have children because I wasn’t loved when I was one, but our son is loved. I may have done everything else wrong in my life, but at least my child is loved. But sometimes I feel like if someone were to touch me I would dissolve into molecules.”

John looks more somber now, like he’s ashamed he was laughing. Gale doesn’t want to see that expression on his face, that seriousness that doesn’t belong with his bright eyes and his big smile, so he adds, “But that’s just sometimes, you know. Most of the times I’m fine.”

“Fine like when you said you feel like a shadow?” John enquires, doubtful. “That didn’t sound very fine to me, Buck.”

The boat comes to a halt at the next pier and Gale takes it as a sign to stand up. “Come on, let’s go back on dry land. I think I’m depressing all these tourists with my sad conjugal life,” he says, almost offering John his hand. 

“You need to get going?” John asks, fists in his pockets. 

“I should,” Gale says, out loud this time. “Do you know where I can get a cab round here?”

“Yeah, of course. Let’s walk along here, I’m sure you’ll find one in no time,” John answers pointing to the road ahead of them. He keeps glancing at Gale as they walk, his mouth twitching like he’s trying to keep some words inside.

“So what about us?” He asks after a while, abruptly.

“What about us?” Gale asks back, his mouth drier than the desert.

“Like… like, if we knew we were both going to die tonight…”

“You have a deadly disease you didn’t tell me about?” Gale tries to joke, but it falls pitifully short.

“No but like, if we knew we could be doing anything tonight and it wouldn’t matter because we’d be dead come morning, what would you want to do?”

“What would you want to do?” Gale retorts, ashamed of the thoughts his mind is providing him.

“I would stop the first cab we meet and bring you straight to my house, to teach you where to start,” John says and God — he’s probably nothing to do with any of this but still — Gale is this close to dropping to his knees and ask, no, beg him to do just as he said. 

“Why waste time going to your house? We could do that in the cab,” he answers and this stops John in his tracks for a split second, then he’s suddenly so close he’s crowding him, hands on his waist and his nose mere inches from Gale’s. He doesn’t push any further, doesn’t cross any line: he leaves that to Gale, if he wants to.

And he wants to, he really does. All it would take is one step forward, he’d tilt his head to the side just a little and press his lips against John’s, light as a feather. He’d bring his hands to John’s face, cupping his cheeks as he deepens the kiss, he’d lick into his mouth with all the voraciousness of nine years apart, he’d mold their bodies together so tight there’d be no way to tell them apart. 

“Well, we’re most likely not gonna die tonight,” he says and watches the wave crash onto the shore of John’s blue eyes.

“Too bad,” John says, stepping back. Then he turns his attention back to the street, raises one arm and flags the first cab he sees. The white car pulls over right where they’re standing and a wave of panic traverses Gale once again: this cannot be it. They haven’t even said goodbye, exchanged numbers. He can’t let this be the last time they see each other, on a pavement in Paris right after he’s turned down John once again.

“Let me get you back to your house,” he pleads. “We can’t say goodbye like this, right?”

John hesitates. Gale can see clearly in his eyes that he wants to tell him to fuck off and he’d have every right to, but he can’t let him. “Come on, one last ride,” he adds.

“You’re not gonna miss your flight?” John wavers.

“No, it’s ok. Come on, Bucky. Please,” Gale says and he knows it’s a low blow to call him that, but it has the effect he was hoping for and John steps into the taxi with him, giving indications to the driver to get to his house.

“Thank you, I didn’t really feel like walking,” he says like that’s the reason why he’s accepted the lift.

“It’s a pleasure, to be driving with such a famous writer,” Gale tries, going for humor and falling short by about a mile. John doesn’t answer, he just turns to the window and stares outside. 

Then he starts laughing, a shaky sound that entirely lacks of humor and borders on hysterics — that’s how Gale’s been feeling since he saw his picture in the bookstore’s window so he shouldn’t be this surprised that John’s finally crashing, falling apart; and yet he is, watching in horror as John hides his face in the large palms of his hands and for a second he’s convinced John’s gonna start crying, the mere thought making him shake. But John just keeps laughing, if that can be considered the right word to describe the wounded sounds coming from him.

“Why, why the fuck didn’t you come to Vienna,” he says after a while, voice muffled by his hands and still wavering.

“I told you, I-”

“I know, I know, you told me. That’s not what I meant, I mean God, why the fuck didn’t you come? Why the fuck didn’t life let me have at least this one thing, I’ve never asked for much, just this! Can you imagine how different our lives would’ve been if you showed up that day, or even just the day after with an apology, I would’ve forgiven you in a second, no questions asked. Do you ever think about that, Buck?” John says, hands falling off his face. He’s flushed and his eyes look shinier in the early evening light but he’s not crying. He doesn’t even look sad, he just looks angry.

Gale nods. “I do,” he says.

“Because I think about that all the time. I haven’t stop thinking about it since I was standing there on that platform in Vienna and I realized you weren’t coming. Sometimes I dream about it, you know? Not about you not showing up, no — I mean, of course I dream about that, and then I wake up and drown my sorrows in whiskey until I can’t remember the shape of your face. No, sometimes I dream about a life where you showed up. I dream that I’m in bed, in my bed here in Paris or in my old one in the States, and when I turn around you’re right there with your hair all mussed up at that sweet, soft smile on your face. And it’s clear that we’ve just fucked, there’s a flush on your chest and cheeks and my limbs feel loosed, and I’m content, and you look content too. And then I reach out, place a hand on your face and you close your eyes, and sigh, and you tell me you’ve never been happier,” John says, words tumbling out of his mouth like an avalanche. “I have this dream so often, and yet every time I wake up I can’t believe it’s not real.” He adds.

He spoke without looking at Gale, his face turned to the window again. He looks so beautiful, Gale can’t help but reach out, his fingers mere inches from the unruly curl that’s fallen on his forehead before John whips his head around and he has to retract, quick as if he’s burnt himself. 

“I lied before,” he says. A confession. “I remember our night together down to every single minute detail, of course I remembered our time in the park. It’s just- I didn’t want you to remember it so well. Because if we both remembered it like that, like it happened yesterday instead of nine years ago, then it would’ve meant I’ve fucked up even worse than I thought. And I did, of course, I fucked up royally; and I haven’t stopped thinking about what would’ve happened if I showed up, John, never. Not for a minute in nine years. Not even with a wife in my bed and a child in the other room. A part of me has always been stuck there, no, stuck with you. The better part of me, if I may add, and sometimes I’m glad that’s the only me you got to know because the person I am now is so, so much worse.”

There’s an unreadable expression on John’s face as he listens to Gale speaking, but the line of his eyes softens a little at his last few words. “I’m sure this you is also worth knowing, Buck,” he says. An offer.

They look at each other, still, tense, ready for something neither of them can name.

The taxi comes to a halt before they can decide on that.

“Let me walk you home,” Gale blurts out, his eyes never leaving John’s. The other man inhales sharply then nods, tells something in French to the driver who scoffs and says something back, clearly pissed off.

“He can wait five minutes,” John informs Gale as they step out of the car, and somehow being able to quantify exactly how long they have left has a relaxing effect on Gale, his shoulders dropping down, his neck feeling less stiff. He nods, loosening his tie’s knot, and follows John into a beautiful inner courtyard full of fragrant flowers and flourishing vines; there are small balconies perched all over the buildings’ facades, with washing lines and flower vases hanging from the railings, and in the little garden in the middle of the courtyard people are setting up what looks like a party. Among them there’s a man at the grill, the heady smell of smoke rising from it into the summer air, and another next to him who’s cutting open hamburger buns with surgical precision. 

A dog is waiting patiently at their feet until it catches sight of John and starts running to him, his bark more like a wolf’s howl. John half kneels and laughs out an oof when the dog barrels right into him, licking his face and hands like he hasn’t seen him in weeks. “DeMarco!” John shouts, the man at the grill raising a hand in salute. “Control your wolf, would you?”

“You didn’t tell me you were bringing a guest!” The man shouts back, pointing the barbecue tongs at Gale.

“Oh no, this is just my friend Buck from the States. He’s walking me home but he has a plane to catch tonight so no unexpected guests at your party, you can tell Johnny there to keep calm,” John answers. The grill man takes another, long look at them then shouts something else, in French this time so Gale can’t understand him; but from how the tips of John’s ears turn suspiciously pink, he can at least guess the topic. He says something back then grabs Gale’s arm and pulls him along, up two rickety flights of stairs that smell of dust and polished wood; when they reach his door on the last floor John turns back to him. “D’you want something to drink?” He asks.

“A Coke, maybe,” Gale answers and doesn’t miss the relief and resolution that mix on John’s face at his words. He welcomes him in his house, an attic with a white beamed ceiling, paint ruined here and there and flicking off. It’s small, only one room divided in specific areas: there’s a huge bed to the side with a beautiful bedrest in wrought iron, a small armchair next to the window, a desk littered with books and loose pages, and another table in the kitchen area with an half empty bottle of whiskey on it.

Before Gale can comment on it, John says “Turn around for a minute, I want to try something.”

Gale obliges, and John hugs him. The feeling of his warm, solid body enveloping his is so sudden and strong his brain turns to white noise, a sob threatening to spill from his mouth. There’s nothing sexual about it, it’s merely a hug, but it’s the most intimate thing he’s experienced in years.

“I’m seeing if you are going to dissolve into molecules or if you stay together,” John says softly like it’s not an insane thing to say right here, right now.

“How am I doing?” Gale shoots back, with the exact same insanity.

“Still here.”

Gale swallows dryly. “Good. I’m liking still being here.”

John takes a step back, letting him go slowly as if he’s waiting for Gale to pull him back into the hug. He doesn’t, but the mask must’ve fallen off his face because when John looks at him he does it with unbearable tenderness, and a hint of mirth in his sky blue eyes.

Gale takes a look around the room, takes it in properly. “So that’s where a best selling author lives? It’s nice.”

“It’s not, but it’s not very expensive and I like the people who live here,” John says as he steps into his kitchen. “We’re tight-knitted and we always help each other when the need arises. We’re a sort of a community, you know.”

A queer community, Gale gets it even if John doesn’t say the words. People who would know where to start and probably also how to go on with it, unlike him; yet it doesn’t sound like John’s trying to lock him out of it, but more like he’s trying to tell him it’s ok — it’s ok to be queer, it’s ok to want some things, it’s ok to get them. People get them and they survive, they live in peace in rickety buildings with beautiful courtyard where they can be queer together and be happy.

“So, a Coke?” John asks when it’s clear Gale won’t respond. “Ice, lemon?”

“Ice, no lemon. Thank you,” Gale answers almost absentmindedly, roaming around John’s apartment to try and grasp his soul from it. There are pictures of John at every age, from when he was a kid with his two sisters and their parents to his graduation pic in cap and gown, pictures of him with friends, there’s even a picture of the dog they’ve met downstairs taken as he’s charging at John full speed. There are books and vinyls stacked almost everywhere, creating a maze Gale’s forced to walk through with the utmost care as not to topple anything to the ground. 

He stops in front of the desk, curious. There’s a copy of Ships in the Night, an annotated one if the colorful sticky notes peeking out of the pages are to be taken seriously, and a book of poetry from an author Gale doesn’t recognize, A.E. Housman; but it’s not the books that capture Gale’s attention, is the loose pages. “Is this your handwriting?” He asks, and John hums in confirmation, still rummaging through his fridge and cupboards.

Gale steps closer to take a better look: it’s not what he imagined John’s handwriting to look like, if he ever imagined such a thing. It’s delicate and slanted, blue ink letters looping across the page in unhurried lines like he was only focused on them when he was writing, without a care in the world for anything else; and from where he’s standing closer, he can make out some of it.

I don’t sleep on the plane, no matter how long and tedious the journey is. Every time I close my eyes I see his face, if I woke up without him in the seat next to mine I’d lose my mind and I can’t let it happen right now, not when I’m so close to getting what I want.

Something hot and then icy cold runs up and down Gale’s spine. “What’s this stuff on your desk?” He asks. 

John glances at him as he’s pouring his Coke and chuckles. “That’s the epilogue that never was. I wrote it all, to try and find closure, but I never showed it to my editor because I knew they would insist on putting it in the novel and I didn’t want that. It was for me and my eyes only. But you can read it if you want,” he adds nonchalantly, stepping closer to hand Gale his glass. He clinks his own glass against it then goes back to the other side of the room, with intent. 

Sipping his drink with lips dry as chalk, Gale continues reading. 

When I get to my hotel I’m suddenly hit by the tremendous doubt that he’s not gonna like it. What if it’s not enough for him? What if he’s used to softer linens and plumper pillows, or he prefers rooms facing east, or the smell of the laundry detergent they use here is too strong for him? 
I’ve never asked him such things, I’ve never had the time. I only know he likes his hot chocolate with cream and his bratwursts with mustard, that when he kisses he devours, and what his face looks like when he’s on the crest of his orgasm — disarmingly beautiful, that’s how.
I hope to find out more, tonight.

Gale’s face is hot as hell, so much he’s tempted to rub the glass against his skin to find solace in the perspiration. There’s a tightness in his pants that’s familiar by now, and strangely not unwelcome. He hears John in the background tinkering with something in one of the piles and then the familiar sound of a vinyl placed on the turntable with care, a soft crackling when the needle slots itself in the grooves, then a music of trumpets fills the air. Gale has heard that song only once, nine years ago in a Vienna dyed blue and pink by the dawn; still, his heart starts thumping to the rhythm like John’s playing it in his veins. 

“Never saw the sun shining so bright, never saw things going to right,” John starts crooning, quietly like he’s only doing it for himself, as he walks around his apartment like Gale’s not even here. Gale brings his attention back to the pages, flips through them to get to the end.

At the station I have the weird feeling everyone’s staring at me, like everyone knows exactly why I’m here. I wonder if they can smell it, the fear, the hope, whatever I’m feeling.
The train from the airport is two minutes away, and dread is filling my empty, jet lagged stomach. I can’t stop thinking about what am I gonna do if the train arrives and Buck doesn’t step out of it, nor of the next one, or the next one over. He may not come, this is a truth I’ve been trying to avoid for six months. He may have forgotten all about me and the promise we made. He may not have fallen in love with the idea of me like I did with him.
The train comes. I’m sweaty, flushed hot and yet shivering. I’m tall but I’m surrounded by a sea of people, everyone here to greet someone, everyone pushing and pressing forward like getting closer to the train will mean your loved ones will be the first to get off it; I’m forced to stand on my toes, to crane my neck to try and catch a glimpse of his blond hair or his face.
People start trickling out of the carriages and I’m hit with the sudden certainty that he’s not here. It’s a punch to my guts, icy cold and acid, poisonous. I can barely breathe, my head starts swimming.
Then I see him. Blond hair, round reading glasses, around his neck a scarf so blue it brings out the color of his eyes. He’s clutching his suitcase with one hand, the other shielding his eyes as he searches for something in the crowd — it’s me he’s looking for, me.
I try to call him but my voice’s been stolen. I have no more vocal cords, my heart sits lodged in my throat and I still can’t breathe but at least he’s here, Buck is here.
I don’t call him but he still turns to me, eyes squinting behind his glasses. He sees me and he stops, one foot on a step and the other suspended in mid air.
He looks right at me, and smiles.

Gale stares at the final line for what seems like an eternity and barely a moment at the same time. He puts the page back on the desk and goes to John’s bed, sits on the edge that’s facing the kitchen and looks at him; John’s still singing softly, swirling around like he’d done all those years ago. “Blue days, all of them gone. Nothing but blue skies from now on,” he sings, then flails his arms wildly in the air in time with the trumpets.

Gale stares at him, the glass forgotten in his hand.

John starts directing the trumpets like a conductor, half-moon eyes and a toothy grin on his face. Outside a bell tolls from a church nearby; seven chimes, for the time.

Gale’s made his choice by the third one. 

John’s heard the tolling too; without stopping his manic dance, he takes a look at Gale. “Baby, you’re gonna miss that plane,” he says.

Gale looks right at him, and smiles. “I know.”