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They were curled up in bed together, Fischer smoking his post-coital cigarette. It was the first night in their new apartment, the first one they’d bought jointly. Both their names were on the lease. It was a big thing.
“Do you miss Ida?” La Cour asked.
Fischer scowled. “What kind of question is that?”
“It’s just a question. Do you ever miss her? Or Mille?”
“I don’t know, do you miss Helene?”
La Cour thought it over. “Sometimes.”
“Thanks a lot.”
“Don’t be like that.”
Fischer untangled himself from La Cour in order to stab out his cigarette in the ashtray on the nightstand. The room was full of unpacked boxes, one stacked on top of the other, lining the walls. They all had white labels tacked on them, detailing their contents in La Cour’s neat handwriting.
The ashtray had been one of the first things Fischer had unpacked, because La Cour had threatened him with dismemberment if he found any ash on their new carpet.
“I guess I miss being with Mille sometimes, because it meant being with Victor,” he reflected. “Is that why you miss Helene? Because of Marie?”
La Cour’s fingers were tapping an idle rhythm on top of the quilt. “I don’t think so. Maybe. It’s just easier, being with a woman. My parents won’t even talk to me now.”
“They’re just angry for Marie, because you left her.”
“I haven’t left Marie, I still see her on weekends. They’re angry because it’s you. You must know what it’s like,” La Cour persisted. “I know you’ve lost friends over this... over us being together.”
Fischer fumbled for a new cigarette, which he lit agitatedly. He threw the lighter back on the nightstand. “They were bad friends. And they don’t know you. Would you rather be back with Helene?”
“No, of course not.”
“Because it sounds like you do.”
La Cour shook his head, grasping Fischer’s hand in his. “I don’t, ok? I was always afraid with her... afraid of what I might do to her. That she might cheat on me again, and I’d lose it. I don’t have to worry about that with you.”
Fischer extricated his hand. “What, because I won’t cheat?”
“No, because you’d kick my ass if I got violent with you.”
Fischer snorted. “Damn right I would.”
One corner of La Cour’s mouth quirked up. “Good.”
Fischer fiddled with the edge of the quilt. Mille’s mother had made it, but somehow he was the one who had ended up with it after the divorce. “Is that why you’re with me? ‘Cause I’m a guy, and I’m strong?”
“I’m with you because you’re you, Fischer.”
Fischer took a long drag of his cigarette. A few flecks of ash landed on the quilt.
La Cour winced. “For God’s sake, Fischer...”
Fischer half-heartedly brushed at the ash with his free hand. “What was it you liked about Helene? Apart from the fact that she’s smart and beautiful, I mean. Why did you love her?”
La Cour shrugged. “I guess she made me want to be a better man.”
“How about me?”
La Cour’s hand, snaking under the quilt, came to rest on Fischer’s naked thigh. “With you, I can just be myself. That’s the difference. That’s why I won’t need to run away this time.”
“Jesus, you’re a fucking romantic,” Fischer said, but he was grinning.
La Cour’s hand found its way to Fischer’s dick, and he gave it a tender squeeze. “I love you, too.”
Fischer extinguished his cigarette before diving on top of him. “Good. Now stop talking.”