Travelling Home Ch. 02

"We can go running now," I tell him.

"It won't count. I go running in the morning. It's now three in afternoon."

I peel my back off his chest and get up.

"Come on. It'll be fun."

"I'm too weak. And it'll still be day 1."

I grab one of his ankles and start pulling him off the bed, then catch the other, as well, when he tries to kick me in the ribs.

"So cheat, you obstinate, obsessive bastard. It's morning somewhere in the world. We run and you're back to day 723."

"743," he corrects me instantly and I grin, knowing I've got him.

"That's right. 743. My mistake."

We run the Regents Park loop. It's only a little over four kilometers, so we add the Primrose Hill loop onto it. At first I can tell that Mr. Day 743 thinks he needs to hold back for me, and for about a mile I let him labor under that illusion, then I pull ahead as we head into the hills. For a while he keeps up, and then he drops back, so I slow down for him.

"You're muttering something in a language I don't understand."

"Fuck off," he says, glaring at me balefully.

"Maybe you should stop smoking."

"My ass is sore," he mutters and I almost trip. I try to keep on running, but it's hopeless, and I bend over, bracing my hands on my knees, and laugh and laugh. When I'm done, he's a good four hundred meters ahead of me, so I have to sprint to catch up with him.

The hotel room has one of those old fashioned big bathtubs with the separate cold and hot water faucets, and David talks me into taking a bath with him. He lies quietly between my legs, his back against my chest, leaning his head back against my shoulder, so that his cheek is pressed against mine, and smoking a cigarette. I slip my arms under his, and caress his belly and chest.

"What are you thinking about?" I ask him and he shakes his head.

"Nothing. Just... stuff."

I kiss his temple, and rub my unshaven cheek against his, liking the rasping sound.

"Do you remember any of our teachers' names?" I ask him.

He takes a while to answer. "No. Maybe the one in fourth grade was Mrs. Lowe, but I'm not really sure."

The name sounds familiar. "Yeah, maybe."

"It's strange, you know, the things we remember and what we forget. When we got to Hungary, I didn't go to school immediately. I had to learn Hungarian first. I missed everything and everybody from my past life so goddamn much, the school, playing baseball, my dad. Then school started, and it was okay. The living standard was a bit different, but I expected that from moving before for my dad's job. The other kids were fine once I got to know them. By winter I'd forgotten a lot of my past life. Not really forgotten, but I remembered stuff like I'd read about it, not like it had happened to me."

He draws on his cigarette, and I watch him blow the smoke out in little rings.

"You wear contacts now?" he asks me suddenly.

"Nah, I had surgery years ago. Except that now I need to get glasses again. My arms are getting too short."

"Yeah, mine too. In dark restaurants I've given up on the menus, I just ask the waiters what they recommend."

"You remember I wore glasses?"

"I remember almost everything about you, Jordan. That's what I mean with strange. Years later, my dad and you, I could shut my eyes and hear your voices and see your faces, and I knew I was remembering them right. Nobody else, really, just you two. If you'd still been nine years old when we met in Stockholm, I would have recognized you immediately."

One of the faucets is dripping, the sound of the drops hitting the bathwater echoing in the tiled bathroom.

"Why did you hate me so much?"

I shake my head, because I no longer know.

"Yeah, you did," he insists, mistaking the movement of my head for denial.

"No, I don't think I did, not really. Maybe I just wanted the attention, or to show you that I was brave and a good fighter and that I didn't deserve to be left out of things."

He laughs. "You might have been brave, but you were a terrible fighter."

"I asked my dad and mom to send me to boxing lessons. They never did. Plus I got grounded when I went home with a fat lip or a black eye, because they didn't want me fighting, and the teachers all told them that most of the fights were started by me, not you."

He laughs again. "Aww, poor little Jordie," he murmurs, reaching his free hand up to wrap around the back of my neck and squeeze it consolingly.

"You could have hurt me a lot worse than you did. How come you always pulled your punches?"

He shrugs. "Maybe something told me that one day we'd meet again, and you'd be taller and stronger than me."

"Taller and faster," I correct him and he squeezes my neck again, only this time it hurts a little. "Such a better runner than you," I gloat into his ear, and he could probably still easily kick my ass, so I distract him by wrapping one of my hands around his dick and cupping his balls in the other.

We finally make it to dinner, finding a pub with tables outside that looks like it has enough locals to allow the assumption that the food will be good.

"I'll go in and order for us," David offers. "What do you want?"

"Whatever. A burger. It's too hot for real food."

"Any preferences in beer?"

"Nah, I'll just have a Coke."

He nods, and after a while returns with a Coke for me and a pint of ale for himself, and sits opposite me.

"You don't drink?"

I shake my head.

"Just beer or any alcohol?"

"Any alcohol."

"Is there a specific reason?"

Yeah, there is, but I'm not about to tell him.

"Not really. I've just never liked the taste."

He nods and takes out his cigarettes, offering me one.

"Maybe after dinner," I refuse, and he puts the pack down on the table, then reaches over and twines his fingers through mine and smiles at me.

"You're so serious," he says. "Why are you always so serious?"

"I'm not," I protest. "I'm just not naturally smiley, like you." I give him a stupid grin, showing a lot of tooth, and he grins back.

"Jordie, are you happy?"

I don't know if he means generally or right now, so I turn the question back at him. "Are you?"

He sits back and thinks about it, his eyes drifting towards his cigarettes, then up to mine again.

"Yeah, I think so, most of the time. I have a job I like, I have money, and I have a plan."

"A plan?"

"Yeah. In four years I'm retiring and I'm going to travel and see all the places I've been to and never really seen. Just wander around, be a tourist. When I get sick of one place, I'll move on. I'm going to see the whole world."

"That sounds nice," I tell him. "I dream of something like that, as well."

"It's not a dream," he corrects me. "It's a plan."

"Something like that takes a lot of money, even if you're roughing it."

He shrugs.

"I've got money."

"A lot of money."

"Oh, I've got shitloads of money," he tells me seriously.

A waiter brings us our food, and for a while we concentrate on it. It's over 24 hours since we last ate, and I try not to inhale my burger. His hand sneaks out to steal one of my fries, and I swat it away.

"Hey, you're so rich, get your own fries, Mr. Healthy Salad Man"

He folds his arms on the table and looks at me.

"You don't believe me, do you?"

"Nope."

He reaches into his breast pocket and pulls out his BlackBerry.

"Here. Google me."

I do so, and then show him the results. "Yeah, so?"

He shakes his head and sighs impatiently.

"I haven't used Ives since 1974."

I google David Hamvas and I stare at the small screen. I don't know a hell of a lot about IT, but I know accounting platforms, and there are only a handful of companies that multinational corporations turn to for solutions. And the guy sitting across from me founded and owns one of those. I can't imagine how I didn't make the connection immediately, when I saw his last name, except for the fact that was more preoccupied with who David wasn't, and, once that had been proven (or so I thought), with fucking him.

"You've got shitloads of money," I assure him numbly, giving back the BlackBerry, and he laughs.

I finish my burger and fries, and he goes into the pub for another beer and Coke, and to pay the tab. When he comes back, he offers me his cigarettes again, and this time I pull one out of the pack.

"You never answered the question."

"Huh? What question?" I ask absent-mindedly, wondering whether I should start smoking again. Most of my life, even when I was running track in college, I smoked two to three cigarettes a day; then I figured it was so little that I might as well stop. Now I'm thinking, if that's the one generally acknowledged addiction I can actually control so successfully that it only gives me pleasure, why give it up?

"Are you happy?"

I try to make smoke rings and fail miserably, until he reaches over, plucks the cigarette out of my fingers, takes a drag and shows me how to do it. He hands the cigarette back, and I practice.

"Now that you've learned a new skill, will you answer me?"

"I'm in one of my favorite cities, and I'm going to get laid in less than hour. What's not to be happy about?"

He frowns at me and glances at his watch.

"You're avoiding the question. And in less than an hour we'll be taking our seats at the Dominion."

I stub my cigarette out and get up, then yank him to his feet, as well.

"No, we're not."

"But I've already paid for the tickets," he protests. "They'll go to waste."

"You're rich, you can afford it."

"Money sure makes you horny," he smirks, trailing after me like an eager puppy.

"What can I say? I'm an accountant."

When we reach the hotel, we do the slamming against the walls thing again.

At 8:00 a.m. the next morning, I join him for Day 744, and even though this time it's my ass that's sore, he still can't keep up with me. To his credit, he tries not to show that it pisses him off. I find his effort cute and I tell him so. That really pisses him off and when we get back to the room, he has to prove his manhood by drilling me into the mattress again. I have to think of more ways to annoy him.

"Let's ride a Hop-On Hop-Off," he suggests afterwards, during breakfast. "I've always wanted to do one of those tours."

We buy tickets, and sit on the upper deck, despite the fact that it's turned cool and blustery. It feels like autumn, even though it's July. He puts on his sunglasses and smiles at me, and he looks ten years younger and I wonder what my life would have been like if I'd met David at a conference ten years ago instead of a month ago. Probably no different than it is today. Ten years ago David was still married.

"Why did you get married?" I ask him as we get off the bus in front of St. Paul's cathedral. It seems like the right place to ask that type of a question.

"I was in love," he tells me simply.

"So you're bi?"

He shakes his head. "No, not really. I mean I've had sex with both men and women, but I really only ever fall in love with men. Except for Nora. And it lasted long enough for me to marry her, and for Sandor to be born."

And to stay married for sixteen years, but he doesn't mention that.

"Have you loved a lot of men?" I regret the question the moment it pops out of my mouth. I don't really want to know, and it's not the kind of question one asks anyway.

"I'm forty-six," he answers flatly, and I'm guessing that's a yes, though I don't see what age has to do with it. I've only ever loved one. So far.

In the evening, we ride the Heathrow Express to the airport together. We're both flying out of Terminal 5, although his departure is forty minutes earlier than mine. Despite the cloudiness of the day, his face got a little sunburned from sitting in the upper deck of the tour buses, so he looks flushed, just like he looked when he bent over me just an hour ago, my legs hitched over his shoulders. I turn away from him to stare out of the window at the scenery sweeping by.

"Do you want to go to the lounge?" he asks me after we check in and go through security.

"Nah. I prefer to wander around, look at the stores and stuff."

He nods, but I know the look. Back when I was traveling as much as he is, I hated the shops and duty free, and all I wanted to do was go to a quiet lounge, where I could get some work done. I'm tempted to follow him now, but I don't want to sit for the next forty minutes just waiting to say goodbye.

"You go, though."

He looks torn.

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah," I laugh. "I hate long goodbyes. It's better this way."

He hugs me, and for a second I drop my head into his shoulder, nuzzling at his neck.

"I had fun," I whisper, kissing him in one of my favorite spots, right at the curve of his jaw under his ear, where his soft skin turns rough with stubble. "Thanks."

He steps back from me, his eyes bright.

"We didn't see much of London."

"Maybe next time."

He smiles.

"Next time," he agrees.

He doesn't look back as he heads for the escalator that will take him up to the lounge.

I wander around aimlessly, trying on sunglasses and leafing though a few books, then buy a cup of coffee at Starbucks, because standing in line gives me something to do that feels semi-productive. I try not to think of David, not to feel empty or depressed. I scan one the departures boards and see that my flight has been delayed by an hour and I groan; then I see that David's flight is delayed as well, and I can't believe what a stupid idiot I was, to be wasting all this time apart, when we could be spending it together.

I take out my phone to call him, when I feel arms wrap around me from behind and soft lips on the back of my neck.

"When's your summer vacation?" he asks me.

"Mid-August." I lean back against him, not caring who might be watching us, oblivious to everything but how good he feels against me, how good I feel with his arms around me.

"Do you have plans?"

"Go visit my mom in Athens for a few days, see some friends."

He breathes against my neck.

"Do you want to come visit for a few days?" I ask him, my voice nervous.

He's busy. He'll probably be in Beijing, or Astana, or Quito.

"Yeah. I do. I'd love to."

We spend the next hour in the lounge, at first making plans for August, and then just sitting next to each other, our fingers laced together, his palm warm against mine, watching CNN and not speaking. Finally he needs to leave, and I walk with him to his gate.