Chapter Text
"Dr. Carter?" The clerk at the hotel desk called out.
"No, Dr. Robinavitch," Michael replied, reaching for his wallet as he stepped forward. "My flight's been cancelled and I was hoping-"
"Here, sorry," Michael knew that voice, but he couldn't place it. He turned, and for a moment couldn't place the face either, but then it clicked. Oh. Oh.
"I just wanted to leave these here for lost and found, they were on a table in reception hall." John smiled and slid an expensive looking pair of sunglasses across the granite countertop to her.
"Thank you, Dr. Carter, we'll get them back to their owners as --"
"John," Michael blurted out the name before his common sense could remind him why it would be awkward and strange. He didn't know what the etiquette was for greeting someone you had hooked up with once, more than 20 years ago, at a medical convention not unlike the one Michael was trying to leave. Except it was Chicago, and the snowstorm had been stronger than anticipated, and Michael's flight was cancelled. He'd been hoping to book his room for another night, as were apparently a couple dozen tired, irritable doctors standing in the hotel lobby.
John Carter jerked his head up at the sound of his first name, and looked at Michael. For a moment his face was blank, and then Michael saw recognition slowly bloom across the other man's features. "Michael, but they call you Robby. It's been..."
"A minute or three," Michael replied, and reached out his hand to shake John's. John looked good. Older, naturally, but somehow still boyish. Slender and clean shaven, hair a little longer, no more preppy bangs. Eyes still a little sad. "It's good to see you."
"Oh, ha," the clerk smiled. "The two of you look a bit alike, sorry for mixing you up. Dr. Robinovich, I'm sorry, but due to the storm the hotel is fully booked, your room has already been turned over and is occupied. I would reach out to the airline to see if they can get you a voucher somewhere else."
"Yeah, I'll do that, thanks," Michael didn't sigh. It was more of a groan. He picked up his duffel from where it sat at his feet.
"Care for a drink?" John asked. "Seems like a beer might ease the pain of waiting on hold for the airline." He smiled, and Michael remembered clearly what he'd seen in the other man. Just a handful of years younger than him, smart and eager and driven. Eager and earnest and inexperienced in bed. They'd exchanged numbers and Michael had even called a couple of times, but John never returned the calls. Michael could take a hint. What happened at the national association for emergency medicine convention stayed there, etc etc.
"Uhm, sure, that sounds... that'd be great." Michael scratched at the back of his neck. Would it be great? Did he want to spend this miserable Sunday afternoon reliving his greatest hits, or go find some other hotel and drink his way through the minifridge while watching some godawful crap on the History channel?
John Carter smiled widely, and that seemed to decide it for them both. Michael followed him to the bar and sat down at the small table, signaled to the bartender. "Chivas for me and you wanted a beer?" He asked John.
John shook his head. "Gin and tonic, thanks." The bartender turned away and Michael toyed with a napkin on the table.
"No bag?" He asked. "Are you one of the lucky few who still has a room?"
John smiled again. "No, I'm local. Lucky me. You want to call the airline now? Or, if you wanted, I could call my travel agent, I don't mind."
"People still use travel agents? I booked on Expedia," Michael fumbled his phone from his pocket and reached for the glasses in his shirt pocket. "I think there's an app..."
A waiter arrived with their drinks, and John took a sip from his, then looked at Michael. Terrible smooth jazz hold music played faintly from the tinny speaker of his phone. "I, well, I thought about calling," He said softly. "I got the messages when you called. But life had gotten really complicated, and the timing was just-"
"Don't worry about it, really," Michael said, waving his hand before reaching for his own drink. "We had a nice evening, it didn't need to be more complicated than that." Michael remembered John's soft hands and clever tongue and bashful smile. The way he ducked his head when he was embarrassed. A little mole on the small of his back. Michael hadn't really thought about this man in decades, and was surprised now at how readily those details came back to him. "So, you're local. Where are you working? Are you enjoying it?" Talk shop. Keep it simple. Michael didn't know what else to talk about with anyone anymore.
"Cook County, I'm ED chief, have been for a while. It's good. And terrible," John smiled. "You know. Medicaid reimbursement rates and insurance companies and Fentanyl in everything and venture capitalists taking over healthcare. Love the people, hate the system."
"Yeah, something like that," Michael nodded. He knows all of these things, all too well. He found that he didn't really want to talk shop after all. "So, ah, what got complicated?"
"What?" John frowned, reaching for his glass. Michael looked at his hand. No ring.
"You said life got complicated. Want to tell me about it?" Why was he asking him this? Did he actually want to know?
"Well, I was-"
"Thank you for calling Oceanic Airlines. Your call is important to us. The next available representative will be with you soon. You are caller number 368 in the queue. We estimate your hold time will be 2 hours and 47 minutes." Michael stabbed at the red icon, ending the call.
"Since you're local, you must know this weather pretty well. Any chance I'll find an uber to the airport? I'll make a nuisance of myself there until I can get a flight." Living in Pittsburg meant Michael was no stranger to snowstorms himself. If he'd rented a car, he might even be tempted to drive home, snow be damned. He had a book in his duffel bag and some dumb Sudoku app on his phone, he'd survive a night waiting for a standby flight.
"Or." John said, rubbing his thumb against the rim of the glass. "I could give you a ride to my place. You could crash there for the night. I have a guest room. We could... I guess catch up isn't the right phrase, we didn't really talk enough to have anything to catch up on." John smiles a little, then looks down at his drink, the ring of condensation on the table, the little container of artificial sweeteners. Anywhere but at Michael.
"That's kind of you, but I don't want to be an imposition." Michael thought for a moment before he spoke again. "And, I, well, I don't really do that kind of thing anymore, so..." he scratched at his beard, his face warm. He remembered how John had tried to kiss him before leaving his hotel room in the wee hours of the morning, and how he'd flinched away and given the other man a perfunctory peck on the cheek before wishing him a safe flight home.
"Do what, sleep?"
Yes. "Hook up with strangers."
John barked out a laugh, then looked around as if afraid someone might hear. "This is a friendly gesture, not an overture. Your virtue is safe with me."
Michael hadn't hooked up with a stranger in a long time. Hadn't hooked up with another man in over a decade. Long enough that he had called them one night stands, not "hook ups". He wasn't ashamed of his sexual interests. He was comfortable calling himself bisexual. But he'd never actually considered dating a man. Male bodies were to scratch an itch. Michael had wanted the typical - what the kids now called "heteronormative"- family. A wife, kids. The kind of life that would have made his parents proud. God knows he'd tried. But wherever you go, there you are. And wherever Michael went, no matter who he dated, he was still him, and that simple fact seemed to derail every relationship he'd ever attempted.
Michael had wanted, and now he didn't think much about wanting. He just was. He got up, got through the day, wash, rinse, repeat. Michael couldn't remember what he'd felt the night he'd taken this man to his room. Michael couldn't remember feeling much, and he wasn't going to think about what that said about him.
John looked at his watch. "Look, no pressure, the offer's for a place to crash for the night, nothing else. But I do have to go soon, I'm due for a dose of Prograf in two hours and I don't know what the traffic will be like."
"Prograf," Michael frowned. "You've had an organ transplant?"
"Kidney," John confirmed with a nod. "That story's the beginning of why I never called you back. But it's a story for another time. Do you want my spare room, or are you going to take your chances with Expedia?"
"Sure, why not? I appreciate it." Michael finished his drink and set the glass down. "And I'm sorry if I assumed that you were offering.. something else."
John laughed a little. "It's okay. But no, learned my lesson about that years ago. Come on, my car's in the garage."
The drive to John's was quiet. The storm was still active, with fat, wet snowflakes coming down in white cascades. It was pretty to look at, but the snowplows couldn't keep up and would wait until it stopped falling to clear all but the major roads. Michael let John focus on the road, and instead sent a handful of emails from his phone giving instructions to his staff since he wouldn't be back for his shift the following day.
Home for John Carter turned out to be an obscenely expensive looking condo with enormous windows and a small but well-appointed kitchen. It was tastefully decorated and cozy; there were small piles of books with bent spines and thumbed pages on various tables, throw pillows and a top of the line turntable with stacks of albums in tasteful Anthropologie crates.
"Your job must pay well," Michael said as he knelt down to flip through albums.
"I have family money," John replied as he dumped keys and wallet in a bowl on the kitchen counter. "I chose medicine over the family business to piss my father off."
"Yeah, how'd that work out?"
John smiled. "Dad's 84 and it's still working." He moved to the coffee maker and started to prepare a pot. "Please make yourself at home, if you'd like to listen to something, feel free."
Michael pulled out Joni Mitchell and put the album on the turntable. Music filled the room, and John gestured for Michael to join him. He gave him a tour of the guest room and bathroom, then left Michael to settle in.
It was mid afternoon. Michael wasn't sure now that this had been a good idea. He didn't know John at all. Were they supposed to make small talk all day, or could Michael hide out in this guestroom of tasteful grays and... do what, exactly? He looked out the window at the heavy snow that still descended from the sky. He changed from his travel clothes into jeans and a comfortable sweatshirt from his bag, then emerged from the bedroom. John was in the kitchen, now dressed in navy sweatpants and a faded Cubs t-shirt. He popped an impressive handful of pills into his mouth and gulped down a glass of water to wash them down. Michael watched his throat work as he swallowed.
"Looks like quite the regimen," Michael said.
John put down his glass and turned to pour a cup of coffee. "Typical transplant regimen. You know how I said that life got complicated? I was attacked by a patient, lost a kidney. And a coworker. Then later I was working in Africa and got FSGS, that took out the other one." He shrugged. "Otherwise I've been blessed with good health. Typical middle aged aches and pains."
"A coworker?" Michael couldn't tell if the nonchalance with which John had stated that was feigned or not.
"Yes. She was just a kid," John said softly. "So, I wasn't in the best headspace when you called. Ended up addicted to opioids, in rehab, the whole nine yards."
Michael had met John in January of 2000. Very nearly 26 years ago now. They'd all been kids. Michael had called John on Valentine's Day. A silly, overly sentimental gesture and while he'd been convincing himself that he absolutely could not care less that John hadn't called back, John had been...
"You said you were attacked. How?" Michael looked at him evenly.
"Kitchen knife," John raised his shirt and turned to expose the long, thick scars on his back and side. Some were neat, careful. From the surgery. Others weren't.
Michael shoved his hand in his pocket when he realized he was reaching out, to do what he couldn't say. "I'm sorry," Michael murmured. "That's pretty terrible."
"It was," John replied quietly. "But life goes on, right? I try to do what good I can for my patients, for the community. I run the ED and the Carter Foundation -" John dropped the hem of his shirt back into place.
Something clicked in Michael's brain. "Wait, you're a Carter foundation Carter? As in, the Carter pediatric HIV clinic?"
"Guilty as charged," John nodded. "In mem--" He stopped, blinked. "You know what? Enough tragic backstory for today," he said, putting his mug down on the counter. "Did you have lunch? I'm starving."
"I had an apple and a bagel from the breakfast buffet at around 7:30." Michael checked his watch. It was nearly four.
"I'm not much of a cook, but I can throw together a pretty good sandwich." John replied, and turned to the refrigerator. He pulled out containers of deli meats and jars of mustard and a bag of lettuce.
Twenty minutes later they were seated on John's couch eating enormous Dagwood sandwiches and chips, watching some mindless renovation show on HGTV. Michael didn't know what to say. It seemed he'd forgotten how to have a conversation that wasn't about work. Yet it wasn't an awkward quiet, John didn't try to fill it with small talk. He ate his sandwich and drank his coffee and then snagged a throw blanket from the back of the couch and pulled it over himself, settling in to watch some petite woman with bleached hair talk about the merits of different wallpaper pastes.
The show was boring, and John seemed to think so too, as he started to nod off after a while. When his eyes slid closed, Michael let himself look. He remembered that this man once looked like an innocent boy. Now he looked like he'd lived in his body. There were fine lines that radiated from the corners of his eyes and a few gray hairs at his temples, widow's peak a bit more pronounced. Michael was vaguely surprised to find that he was curious. He wanted to know why John worked at a county FQHC instead of running the gold standard clinic that his family had founded, how he came to be in Africa, why he wasn't married. He wanted to know John Carter. But knowing comes with being known, and he wasn't sure he could manage that. He smiled a little to himself when John began to quietly snore, and took himself away to the guest room. He stretched out on the admittedly very comfortable bed, paperback in hand, his own eyelids feeling a bit heavy.
When Michael woke, it was dark in the room. He looked at his watch and found that it was after 11pm. He got up, used the in-suite bathroom, and wandered back out to the living room. It was dark and the television was off. He assumed John had gone to bed, and turned to the sink to get a glass of water. He saw movement on the patio and realized John was outside, smoking a cigarette. He saw the red glow of the cherry brighten as John took a drag. He sipped his water, watching for a moment, then set the glass down and was about to go put on his shoes to join him when the patio door opened.
John dusted snow from his coat and startled when he saw Michael. "Oh, sorry, I didn't wake you, did I?"
"No, I woke myself. It's still snowing?"
John nodded. "Yes, but not as heavily. Hopefully you'll be able to fly out tomorrow. I'm sure you're anxious to get back to work."
Michael hummed a noncommittal response. Was he anxious to get back to work, worried about his cancelled flight? Or was this nervous thrum in his stomach something else? He went to John and reached out, brushing his hands over the cold fabric of John's coat, and looked in his eyes. John smiled softly, tilted his head like he might lean in, but then took a small step back. "I was serious when I said there were no strings attached," He said softly.
"There don't have to be any strings," Michael replied quietly.
John smiled again, but it was tinged with something that made Michael want to look away. "That's the problem. I'm pretty ready for strings. I miss the strings. And I get the impression that's the last thing you'd be interested in."
John was right, and Michael didn't know what to say. He cleared his throat. "You had strings before?" He asked softly. "Good looking guy, wealthy, educated, I'm surprised that you're single."
John sighed. "I was married. It didn't work out." He turned away and took off his coat, hung it over the back of a dining chair. "We had a son in 2004. He was stillborn. After that... she couldn't stop being sad every time she saw me. The marriage was just a reminder. So it ended. Joshua. My son was named Joshua. He'd be 21 now." The words sounded like they were being scraped from somewhere deep inside of John.
Michael moved without thought, following the tug of gravity that pulled him into John's orbit. He went to him and silently slid his arms around the other man's waist, leaned his head against the back of John's. "I'm sorry," he whispered. He was. John seemed like the kind of man who would have been a great father. Michael thought of Jake, who hadn't spoken to him in months now, and let the ache of that loss bloom bruised and sad in his belly.
"I can't even remember the last time I said his name out loud," John whispered.
"Thank you for saying it to me," Michael could feel the solid thud of John's heartbeat pressed to his chest. The sturdy, sure heat of him as Michael held onto him. One of John's hands stroked along Michael's forearm. Michael pressed a soft, chaste kiss to the back of John's neck. John shuddered, and then Michael felt the first heave of his chest as a wracking, pained sob tore from him. Michael tightened his arms around his waist and just held onto him as John cried like a man who'd forgotten how. After a few minutes John's sobbing abated, and his body stilled. He carefully pulled away, and turned to look at Michael. His eyes were wet, but he was composed.
"Thank you," he said softly. "I think I should turn in. Sleep well," he said, and then walked away, down the hall and out of sight. Michael heard his bedroom door close.
Michael stood there in John's dark kitchen for several minutes before going back to bed himself. Sleep was a long time coming.
As was his habit, Michael woke with the light. The snow had stopped, or at least paused, though the sky was still a worrying shade of slate gray. He lay in bed for a while, orienting himself to wakefulness, and scrolled a bit on his phone. A quick look at the Expedia app informed him there were available flights into PIT later that day.
He was almost disappointed. Last night hadn't been enjoyable in any conventional sense of the word. John had cried about his deceased child, they had both admitted they were failures at adult relationships, and John had solidly rebuffed Michael's halfhearted pass. And yet Michael... wouldn't mind another day here. A quiet afternoon hearing more about John's life, maybe even telling him about Jake, about Monty. What had John's life been like during those first horrifying months of Covid? Michael tried to recall that last time he'd had a real conversation with someone outside of his own ED about that topic, and realized that he hadn't. Talked about it. To anyone.
The needs of his bladder pushed him from the warm, comfortable bed. He showered, using the expensive soap John had in his guest bathroom. The ceramic tile floor was heated. The fucking towel bar was heated. Michael wiped moisture from the mirror and appraised the face that looked back at him. Gray in the hair, in the beard. More forehead than he'd remembered. Somehow the older he got, the bigger his nose was. But still handsome enough, he supposed. Handsome enough for what? To attract someone to share his bed for the night? To find a lover, a companion?
"What are you doing?" He asked the face in the mirror. The desk clerk at the hotel had said he and John looked a bit alike. What did lonely, middle aged men look like to the outside world? He wasn't sure he wanted to know. He brushed his teeth and dressed.
By the time he emerged from the bathroom, he could hear music coming from somewhere in the condo and smelled coffee brewing. He let the scent carry him towards the kitchen, where he found John chopping spinach while listening to some song that had been popular in the early aughts. John smiled at him, big and genuine.
"Morning," he greeted. "Coffee's fresh, and I'm throwing together a couple of omelets, ham and spinach okay? Oh, shit, do you eat ham?" John nodded towards Michael, made a gesture near his neck. Michael frowned for a moment, then his hand went to the Star of David around his own neck.
"Oh, this? Yeah, ham's great, this is more... superstition than faith," Michael laughed a little. "I don't keep kosher, if you're asking."
"Good to know," John replied, and busied himself tilting the contents of the cutting board into a pan. "How'd you sleep? Find everything you need in the bathroom? I don't really have guests, god knows how old that tube of toothpaste is."
"I used my own, but thanks. I slept well, actually. It's a nice bed. Thanks for the hospitality, this has been a much better experience than another night at the Hyatt." Some part of Michael wanted to say more, but the smarter part of him kept his mouth shut.
"You don't get a free midnight meltdown at the Hyatt," John said, smiling. He chuffed out a laugh and shook his head, reached for his cup and sipped his coffee. "Sorry about that. Weird mood."
"Nothing to be sorry for," Michael replied. "I'm glad you shared him with me. Joshua. It meant a lot." He looked at John, watched his expression soften and a sadness that looked like a long-held companion tug at the corners of his mouth.
"You'd think that with as much loss as we see that I'd be... not over it. You're never over it. But in a different place with it by now." John tried to shrug, but it came out more as a shudder. "Anyway, the weather looks better and I'm free all day if you want a lift to the airport once you get that sorted out."
Michael wasn't sure if John wanted him to take the easy out or not. John treated Michael like an old friend, but they barely knew each other. Maybe John was just really friendly. Michael wished that he knew what John was usually like. Before he could respond, John had turned back to the stove to slide the omelet onto a plate and start another.
"Yeah, I'll call after breakfast. Do you have any half decent bread for toast?" He asked, and moved into John's space, reaching for an empty mug next to the coffee pot to pour a cup.
John gestured. "That sourdough just came from the bakery Thursday, should still be good toasted," he said, making a complicated gesture with a spatula, then laughed. "This is more scrambled egg than an omelet."
Michael smiled. "I'm sure it's great, got some hot sauce?" He slid a bread knife from a butcher's block on the counter and made quick work of the sourdough, popping four slices in the toaster.
"Probably. Oh, look at you," John said, laughing again. "You look like you know your way around a kitchen. How did I end up making breakfast if you're the one who knows how to cook worth a damn?"
"Because it's your kitchen," Michael smiled in response, then... there it was again. That pull. That want. His fingers itched with it. He reached for the hem of John's shirt and tugged him closer. You were supposed to ask nowadays. Can I kiss you? Consent. Consent was important. Then his mouth was against John's. John's lips were a little chapped and he tasted of coffee and toothpaste and he kissed back, hesitant at first, but then his lips parted a little at the same moment that he took a step back.
"Michael, I--"
Michael shook his head. "No, that's on me. Sorry. I just... I like you. Not because we slept together once 25 years ago, but because--" he laughed, raked a hand through his hair. "Christ, I'm really bad at this."
"No rizz," John murmured, a little smile tugging at his lips. "As the kids would say." He folded his arms across his chest. The gesture felt pointed. "Bad at what, exactly?" His tone softened. "Liking someone or wanting to get laid?"
"Yes?" Michael replied, and the ache in his chest and the fluttering in his belly burst out of him in a nervous titter. John laughed too, and they stood there, letting their breakfast cool as they laughed softly at themselves and each other. Michael startled when the toast popped, and John laughed again and then they were both howling with laughter, letting the tension slip away as they both cackled until John had to blot at his face with a dish towel. The moment was over, and he reached for a plate and shoved it in Michael's hands. "Go eat, lest my questionable culinary skills go to waste."
They chatted quietly through breakfast. Work was a safe topic of conversation, so they discussed CPT code billing rates and OSHA inspections and employee retention. They discussed the Cubs and the Pirates. They talked about the doctor from Seattle who mentioned the time he met Barack Obama every five minutes the entire weekend of the convention. And then Michael had to admit he had no more excuses to prevent him from calling the airline and rebooking his flight. John stepped out onto the balcony to smoke and left him to make the call.
"Did you get a flight?" John asked when he came back inside, shucking off his coat, laying it over the back of a kitchen chair. Michael's nose twitched a little at the smell. He hadn't had a cigarette in a few years now, but he could feel his hand wanting to reach for a lighter.
"Yeah, 6:30, so I've got a little time to kill. I hope I'm not messing up whatever you had planned for today, if you want I can get an Uber and go earlier, get out of your hair."
John looked at him for a long moment, hip leaned against the table. "You like me," he said slowly. "But the idea of just spending time with me freaks you the fuck out, doesn't it?"
"Yes." How was that even a question? Couldn't John tell that Michael had no social skills left whatsoever? If he'd ever had any in the first place, he'd left them back in 2018. Before Covid. Before Monty. Before Pittfest, and Leah. Jake's Leah. He hadn't spoken to Jake since that day. His throat tightened. "I suppose I'm not very good at opening up nowadays."
John's eyes narrowed. "You keep telling me what you're not good at. That a defensive mechanism, or a nervous tic?" John moved to the couch and flopped down, reached for the remote and put his feet on the ottoman. He looked over at Michael, who was still seated at the kitchen table. "I heard the Patriots destroyed the Bills yesterday, let's watch. No opening up or sharing of feelings required."
Michael smiled. "I'm sorry, John, but you sound almost pleased about this outcome. The Patriots, really? I regret coming home with you now." He got up and walked over to the couch, sat down a bit closer to John than necessary. John put his arm across the back of the couch, fingertips brushing Michael's shoulder.
"I regret inviting you," John said, smiling widely at Michael before turning back to the tv.
They spent the next few hours on the couch, occasionally yelling at the tv and ribbing each other. It turned out that neither of them really gave a damn about football, but it was a way to pass the time. John made popcorn, then they ordered pizza for lunch. Michael liked John's laugh. He liked that after John got up to get a soda, he sat back down close enough that their legs were touching. Over the course of the afternoon, something loosened in his chest that he hadn't realized was coiled tight. It was nice. And then it was time to leave for the airport.
John pulled into the departure lane and put the car in park. Michael had only the duffel bag and didn't need help, but John got out with him anyway. He was dressed in a navy pea coat over a well worn Medecins sans Frontieres sweatshirt and jeans. As he stood before Michael, he seemed unsure of what to do with his hands. Michael remembered those hands curled around his biceps, John's lips parted, panting, eyes glazed as Michael pushed into him. That was a lifetime ago.
Michael wasn't the same man he was then, and neither was John.
Who did Michael want to be now? The idea that he could choose was dizzying.
"It was good to see you again," John said. "Maybe if we're both at the '26 convention we could have dinner."
"I'd like to call you," Michael said, and reached for his phone, handing it to John. "Put your number in."
John held the phone like he thought it might burst into flames, but then he typed in the number and handed it back. "Michael, it's okay to not call. This doesn't have to--"
"Maybe I want it to." Michael held his gaze, and felt... he felt. It was warm and curious and cautious and real.
"Maybe," John said softly, smiling a little. He reached to squeeze Michael's forearm. "Be well, Michael. Take care of yourself."
"You too," Michael reached for John's hand, letting his fingers brush along John's.
John smiled again, and turned back to his car. And then he was gone, and Michael was standing at the doors to the terminal with a strange, twingy sensation in his chest. He shook his head, then went inside to make his way home to Pittsburgh.