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Chris is typing away on his laptop, close to halfway through his next book, when he feels Darren leaning over the back of the couch.
“Hey,” Darren says, and his breath is warm against Chris’ cheek. “What’cha doing this weekend?”
“Sleeping. Writing.” Chris deletes a few words from a line and then adds them back when Darren grunts. “And then sleeping some more. I might even go crazy and eat something, who knows?”
“Ok, cool. But,” Darren draws the word out and Chris’ belly swoops with anticipation of just what Darren’s about to say. “How about instead you come with me to Boston?”
Chris’ hands pause over the keyboard. “What?”
“I want to go away,” Darren says. Chris can hear the rustling of the couch cushions as Darren drapes himself over them. If Chris turns his head, he can probably brush his lips against Darren’s. “I want us to go away. But we don’t have a ton of time right now.”
We never have any time, Chris thinks.
“And New York is too - well, it’s New York, you know? And there’s always Canada, but I kind of have a hankering for some good old-fashioned American Revolutionary zeal.”
“Darren-“
“I already bought two tickets,” Darren interrupts. “So, either you come with me, or I get a desperate yet hopeful standby stranger sitting next to me. Don’t make me talk to a stranger, Chris.” Darren’s voice drops into a pout and Chris feels Darren’s nose nuzzle against his sideburn.
Chris bites his lip. He thinks about a long weekend tucked away in New England. Far and away from the smog and congestion and veneer of LA; out of reach of New York, where there are still way too many people who care about who they are. And he has always wanted to see the harbor. It’s nearing the warmth of spring and he thinks the air would smell of fresh dirt and salt water.
“We need to get the fuck out of LA,” Darren continues. He reaches down and touches his fingers to the back of Chris’ wrist. Chris shivers. “And if we go up to the Bay, my mom won’t leave us alone the entire time.”
Chris already knows his answer. “What time’s our flight?”
***
The bed and breakfast Darren booked for them is in an old colonial style house. It’s run by a kind, delightful older couple that greet them at the door with offers of tea and scones before Chris can even say hello. The woman looks to be in her late 60s and Darren has her wrapped around his finger by the time they make it up the creaking, winding staircase to their room. He’s sure breakfast the next morning will be extra big.
“One bed?” Chris asks, looking at the queen-sized bed that has an embroidered quilt draped over it. Darren just winks at him and tosses his duffle bag onto a chair. “She didn’t even ask any questions?” Not that Chris minds, of course.
“‘Course not,” Darren scoffs. “Same-sex marriage is legal here, y’know.” He’s got that stupid, sly, happy little grin on his face.
Chris did know, but it still makes him blush a little. Makes his heart beat a little wilder. Marriage. Family. The future is still such a vague thing. Nebulous. Ever-changing. Different train tracks stretched out before him. Sometimes when he thinks about it, it’s books, but how many stories does he have inside him before the well runs dry? And movies, too, but those are endlessly more complicated, and somehow there’s more at stake there, more to lose when they don’t turn out right. Books are more solitary; movies require so many other people. There’s risk in that. Or maybe he’ll take some time to do nothing at all, even though the mere thought of it – of purposeless idleness – makes him restless. But there’s one thing that remains the same.
When he closes his eyes, there’s someone at his side, solid and unerring. Whatever happens, whatever becomes of his life once the track he’s on ends and he has to pick a new one, Darren will be there. He knows it in his bones. It doesn’t seem to matter if Chris fucks up (he does), or if Darren does too, he’s always there. And Chris hopes that he’s strong enough to remain there next to Darren too.
“Hey,” Darren says softly. There’s a note of concern in his voice. “You with me?”
Chris blinks. Darren is standing in front of him, gazing up at him with bright eyes. “Yeah,” Chris murmurs. He raises his hand and touches the tips of his fingers to Darren’s jaw, letting his thumb brush across his cheekbone. Darren’s throat hollows on a silent inhale and his eyes widen. “I am.”
Darren’s expression softens, relaxes. He tips his head and nuzzles his cheek against Chris’ palm. “Okay.” He doesn’t push the moment and Chris loves him for it. “Let’s get moving. Daylight’s burning and that Freedom Trail isn’t going to walk itself.”
Chris accepts the quick kiss Darren presses to his mouth and he can’t wait for the rest of this little trip.
***
They take the T to the Park Street stop because it’s the closest to the beginning of the Freedom Trail. It’s a beautiful weekend in the spring, but it’s still early and the train isn’t too crowded. Darren prattles on about the cable cars in San Francisco and Chris thinks about the last time he spent any time in the Bay with the Crisses. It’s been too long and he makes a note to fix that.
There are more people milling about the Boston Commons than Chris expected for 9am – couples and families and groups of friends, all getting ready to start the walk.
“Chris, Chris!” Darren tugs at his sleeve as one of the costumed guides passes by them, leading a large tour group.
“You wanna do the tour?”
“Well, no, but-“ Darren scrunches his nose a bit. “I kind of want my picture taken with one of them. For posterity.”
Chris laughs. “We can do that.”
Darren insists that they begin at the true beginning, and he takes a picture of their feet just touching the start of the thick red line that marks the path of the Trail. Chris hopes whatever pictures Darren takes will end up in another collage on his wall.
It’s really kind of a perfect day for a walk like this - clear and sunny with just enough chill in the air to keep them from getting overheated. The red line – sometimes painted, other times laid down in brick – leads them through the meandering streets of Boston and to some of the country’s most historical monuments. The Old South Meeting House where men gathered to start the Revolution. The gilded dome of the State House. The Old North Church where two lanterns were hung to send Paul Revere on his famous ride.
“Dude, that is fucking awesome,” Darren says more than once. “It’s like – it makes it real, you know? I mean, we read about this stuff in school and that’s cool, but fuck, man. Seeing it up close and personal, it’s different. It’s fucking better.”
Chris nods and wants to take Darren’s hand right there on the cobblestone street in front of Faneuil Hall.
Chris knows he’s geeking out, but he doesn’t care. Some people make fun of his deep interest in history, but not Darren. Darren indulges him. Encourages him, even. Darren lets him read every entry in the map they bought from the Visitor Center back at the beginning, and from all of the plaques at the historical sites. It doesn’t matter how long it takes. That’s what this day – this weekend – is about. Darren has his phone out and is snapping pictures of everything. Chris is pretty sure that Darren even took a couple of videos of him reading from the pamphlet.
Along the way, they stop at a Starbucks for hot chocolates (the barista cocks her head at Chris, but doesn’t look like she recognizes him) and they grab lunch at the Quincy Market. There aren’t any empty tables, so they perch on a massive flower planter outside and watch the crowds of people milling about. A street performer picks a spot and they stay for his whole show. Darren drops $100 in his hat afterwards and claps the man’s shoulder when he gapes at him.
The walk ends across the bridge and into Charlestown at the Bunker Hill Monument. Chris and Darren don’t make the climb up the staircase to the top. There are too many people around and they aren’t willing to risk how lovely the day is turning out. It wouldn’t take much, after all. Instead, they sit down on a bench looking out over the neighborhood and rest their feet.
Darren places his hand on the bench between them, fingers nudging at Chris’ thigh, and Chris carefully rests his palm over the back of Darren’s waiting hand. It’s quiet for a long, comfortable stretch of time. Chris doesn’t know how much time passes and he really doesn’t care. Darren is warm at his side, shoulder pressed against his own, and nothing else really matters in that moment. His heart is full with it.
“You wanna head back and get a little something to eat?” Darren asks eventually. Chris squeezes his hand and smiles.
***
Modern Pastry is a cramped little bakery tucked away along the narrow, winding, cobbled streets of the North End. Chris had marked down a different bakery in the Italian neighborhood – Mike’s – but Darren had shaken his head fondly at Chris’ notes.
“Nah, man,” Darren scoffed. “My buddy told me this was the place to go. More authentic or some shit. Shorter lines anyway.”
Chris immediately crossed Mike’s off his list and scratched down Modern instead.
There’s a line out of the door when they approach and Chris doesn’t miss the way Darren tugs his beanie a little further down his forehead. He doesn’t quite have a full beard going, and his scruff is sort of well known. Chris adjusts his own cap and is glad it’s still bright outside; his sunglasses don’t look too ridiculous. As they wait in line, a burst of laughter echoes down the street and Darren turns away from a group of young girls who go fluttering by in a surprising blur of U of M t-shirts. Chris tucks his chin down and lets his fingers brush lightly against Darren’s wrist. The couple in front of them in line is pressed close together, their hands shoved into each other’s back pockets. Darren rolls his eyes at them and, for the briefest of moments, his finger catches in Chris’ belt loop. Chris can’t help but smile.
“Busy, huh?” Darren says when they finally edge into the shop.
“Oh, just a bit.” They’ve been waiting about 10 minutes, which isn’t too bad, all things considered. But it’s been a while since either of them has had to wait for anything. Chris kind of loves the sheer normality of it. There are worse people to stand in a line for sweets with anyway.
There are a bare handful of tiny tables shoved along the wall opposite the counter. Customers are perched on little wicker chairs, bent over their pastries and espresso. Chris’ mouth has been watering since he caught the first hint of butter and flour and sugar wafting out from the perpetually open door.
“Hey, go grab that.” Darren nudges at him. “I’ll order for you.” Chris nods, trusting Darren’s Italian-pastry-ordering-capabilities. He slips between tightly packed chairs to nab the sole empty table tucked against the window while Darren waits in line.
Chris takes his sunglasses off, but leaves his hat on. They really can’t be too careful; this whole weekend is pushing it already. He takes a second to look around the bakery. There’s a middle-aged couple sharing a slice of what looks like chocolate mousse. Next to them, a little girl with her parents has cream and chocolate smeared all over her face and she’s laughing as her dad attempts to clean her up. Chris smiles at the girl, and if it’s a little wistful, well, sometimes that’s how things are.
“Next person who’s ready to order?” The woman behind the counter calls out.
“Can I get a Napoleon,” Chris hears Darren order, and he’s got a slight Italian accent rolling off his tongue. Chris would laugh, but he likes it too much. “A regular cannoli with ricotta, a chocolate one with custard, and – let’s see – a lobster tail, thank you.”
“Anything else, hon?”
“Two espressos, please.”
Chris shakes his head, smiling to himself. It doesn’t matter how often he tells Darren that coffee just isn’t for him, Darren keeps making him try it.
“There are different kinds of coffee, Colfer,” he’d say. “We’ll just keep sampling until we find you one you love.” Chris has no doubt of that.
It takes just a moment for Darren to get their order from the counter and return to the table. Chris takes the little cups of espresso that are balancing precariously in Darren’s hands.
“Thanks,” Darren says, settling down in the chair and passing around forks and napkins.
Chris stares at the little mountain of food and is glad for the long walk they’d just taken.
“Buon appetito.” Darren salutes him.
The table is small and their knees brush together. The late afternoon sun glows warm through the glass, turning Darren’s skin a burnished gold and bringing out the green in his eyes. Sometimes Chris wants to stare as if he’ll never see such a thing again. Darren keeps switching the little plates around so they both have a taste of everything. After a few minutes, Darren hooks his foot around Chris’ ankle and the grin he offers over the cannoli and espresso is equal parts shy and mischievous. Chris feels his cheeks pinking up and he knocks his knee against Darren’s. Darren laughs and licks custard off his fingers.
Chris thinks he might like this the best. These quiet, intimate kinds of moments with Darren, when they can pretend, just for a little while, that things are different. That they aren’t who they are. He can pretend he’s just some writer named Chris and Darren is just Darren, and they’re just out for an easy weekend of sightseeing and dessert. And for a moment, for a day, it’s the truth.
“Thank you,” Darren says, when the pastries are mostly gone and they’re on their second round of espresso.
“For what?” Chris is contemplating licking the plate.
“For being here.” Darren shrugs and glances out the window before bringing his bright-eyed gaze back to Chris.
“Where else would I be?” There’s always so much more for him to say.
“We both know that this could, well-” Darren licks his lips and his foot shifts against Chris’ calf. “Things don’t always go smoothly.”
“You wanted me here,” Chris says. He takes a chance and reaches across the table to briefly lay his hand over Darren’s. “That’s all I needed to know.”
Darren scans his face, looking for something, and the warmth that illuminates Darren’s eyes tells Chris that he found exactly what he needed to know too.