The Sweetest Days

"I... Thanks," Paul says a little awkwardly, as he shrugs into his jacket.

Feeling the weight of Connor's stare on my back, I lean over and kiss Paul.

"See you soon?" I murmur, and he nods, the not-quite-dimple making a brief appearance.

"I'll call you," he promises, then walks out.

I return to the living room and glare at Connor.

"What?" he asks defensively.

"You know what. And I don't appreciate it."

"How was I to know you had company? Did you call him after I left?"

"Connor, what are you even doing here? And don't give me that crap about me wanting company."

"Well, it's true," he mutters. "I felt sort of bad for deserting you last night, and it seemed like a good idea."

"And then you figured, what the hell, ruin my morning while you're at it."

He scowls. "What's with the stick up your ass, man? I was just having some fun."

"Yeah, well, don't. Okay?"

"Fine," he mutters. "Sorry."

I sigh.

"Isn't he a bit young for you?"

"Connor," I say warningly.

He raises his hands in mock surrender. "Fine. I won't say another word."

"That'll be the day."

He smiles at me, that same bright, affectionate, sunny smile with which he's invited me to share the joke with him for over twenty years, and annoyed as I am at him, I can't help smiling back. He leans back more comfortably, making himself at home.

"So, do you want to go for lunch after Evan and Louise pick up the kid?"

"Aren't you tired?"

"I could sack out," he concedes, smothering a yawn and looking fully prepared to nap right where he sits. "Can I borrow a shirt afterwards?"

"Listen, why don't you head on home? I'll call you when I'm free."

He stands up slowly.

"Okay, I'll get out of your hair."

He actually sounds hurt. He puts his jacket on, then comes to stand in front of me, hands in his pockets.

"I don't like him," he says seriously.

"Well, I do," I retort, too surprised at his comment to take real offense. Connor might be honest and think that the whole world is entitled to his unsolicited opinions, but he rarely makes snap judgments.

He shakes his head in resignation.

"Later," he says, and walks out the door.

I collapse on the couch. No doubt this will all make some sort of sense after I get some sleep. I burrow into the cushion, which smells of Hugo Boss from either Paul or Connor, or maybe both, and I close my eyes.

*******************

Predictably enough, when I call Connor to let him know that my brother and sister-in-law have picked Theo up and that I'm free for a late lunch, the phone rings and rings. I'm about to hang up, not having really gotten my hopes up, when he answers, his voice groggy and hoarse.

"Hey, it's me."

"Whassup?" he mumbles.

"Are we still on for lunch?"

I wait for his answer, a knot in my stomach, uncertain whether I want him to say yes or no. It's always been this way with Connor; I want to be with him, even though I know that ultimately nothing will change between us and that I should be investing in anybody, anything, other than him.

"Uh, sure. Just give me half an hour to shower and dress. Where do you want to go?"

My first reaction that our lunch is still on is relief, and that probably says it all.

"Elephant and Castle?"

"Sounds good. You wanna meet there, or at my place?"

"Your place. We can ride the subway together."

Connor lives in Brooklyn Heights, a half-hour walk from my Carroll Gardens apartment. It's a sunny, crisp afternoon, and I walk up Court Street for a while, then leave it to follow a meandering path through the neighborhoods, until I reach the converted brownstone townhouse he has an apartment in. We both bought at approximately the same time, around fifteen years ago; at the time I'd been envious of Connor's ability to already afford the Heights, but as my own neighborhood has developed, I now think I got the better part of the deal. I ring the doorbell, and wait for him on the stoop. A couple of minutes later, he joins me outside.

He looks a lot better than he did earlier this morning. His blond hair is still damp from his shower, and he's shaved.

"Hey, you," he beams, as if he hasn't seen me in days.

"Hey," I smile back.

I can't imagine my life without Connor in it. He's my best friend, and I'm his. We met freshman year in college. Despite the fact that neither of us was exactly discriminating or picky in our sex partners during those first months of being away from home, the timing was never quite right between us, and by winter term I think we both realized that we were better off as buddies than anything more. We had a brief fling a couple of summers after we graduated; it started on Memorial Day, was already losing steam by July 4th and we never made it to Labor Day. At the time I loved Connor, was fond of him, but I wasn't in love with him, or, if I was, I didn't know it.

That epiphany hit me about a year and a half later, at probably the worst time it could have, and for years after, my feelings for Connor were never quite free of shame and guilt. It took Evan, my sometimes wise little brother, to get me to forgive myself. We were celebrating his 25th birthday and after probably the eighth shot, I confessed to him that I realized I was in love with Connor at our Dad's funeral. During the entire service, the priest's words droning somewhere at the edge of my consciousness, all I could do was stare at Connor. It felt like he was the only bright thing in my life at that point. Instead of remembering my Dad, I was thinking of how much I loved Connor.

"Can you imagine?" I asked Evan, almost squirming, and Evan simply nodded.

"Well, it's natural, isn't it?" he asked. "Mom and Dad were so much in love, it was so much a part of him and made him so happy, how could you not be thinking of who might make you happy that same way? I know I was."

After that, I tried to broach the subject with Connor two or three times, but I also didn't want to risk screwing up our friendship, so I was never very straightforward about it. Mostly I just threw hints, thinking that if Connor were in any way also interested, he'd read between the lines. He never seemed to, and he easily laughed off my few more obvious attempts, during which I was always sort of non compos mentis.

There have been other men, of course, though I'm never quite sure if it's a good thing (I'm rational, realistic, practical) or a bad thing (I'm inconstant, shallow, easily led astray). I've had fulfilling and satisfying relationships, which is more than Connor can say. Though even when I was with Will, who was as close to perfect as I could imagine, there was always something missing, something I could never quite define, but that kept me from committing to him whole-heartedly. Eventually and just like all the rest, Will got tired of waiting for me. Connor I know I could commit to, but he's not interested in that. And so, we're friends, and probably will remain friends until we're old, old men. And I'll settle for friendship with him, because when you get to forty you realize that a lot of people, too many, don't even have that, and that it's precious in its own right.

"So what did you end up doing last night?" I ask, as we're waiting on the platform for the train.

Connor shrugs. "The usual. A little drinking, a little fucking."

"Yeah? Whom?"

"I'm not sure you know him. The Mighty Quinn? Marty's old flame?"

"Big bald guy from Australia?"

"That would be him. I ran into him at Boxer's."

This is how I know we're getting older; we don't go dancing anymore. Before we know it we'll be hooking up at AARP events, flashing our membership card for a 50% discount on drinks. Suddenly fifty doesn't seem so far away; after all, the last twenty years have flown by, each year feeling shorter than the one before it.

Connor nudges me with his shoulder.

"What's the matter?"

"Nothing," I mutter, not wanting to admit how thinking of Quinn, a guy I once would have literally stood in line to blow, led me to suddenly worrying about my pension and COLA.

"Hey, Connor? Do you think we're younger than our parents were at our age?"

The nice thing about him is that he always follows my train-wreck thoughts and doesn't make fun of me, not too much, at least.

"Well, we certainly have fewer worries. I mean we have more spending money and don't have kids to drain our savings or come out to us."

"I never really thought about that. Jesus, you're right. My dad was only a few years older than me when I came out to him and my mom."

"Mine, too. I half-expected him to kick me out of the house, because we'd heard so many stories, you know?"

I nod. Connor's dad had been remarkably accepting, more so than mine had been at first. Then again, as far as I could tell, his dad had never much seemed to care what Connor did, good or bad, so what Connor interpreted as acceptance I'd always taken as yet more evidence of indifference. Connor's mother had been killed in a car accident when he was only two, and lacking any other measure of comparison, I guess he always thought his relationship with his dad was normal. They're estranged now, but Connor seems to think that more his choice or fault, than his father's.

Out of the blue, Connor wraps his arm around my shoulders and hugs me against his side, then kisses me on the cheek. I startle away from him, my eyes unwillingly drawn to three tough-looking guys in their twenties. One sneers at me, but other than that, they don't react.

"Connor..."

He drops his arm and puts his hands in his pockets, looking away from me and towards the direction the train will come from. He's been behaving a little strangely these past few months, swinging from moments of gentleness and affection to moments when he's even more impetuous and self-centered than usual. And when he suddenly hugs me on a station platform, even though he knows public displays sort of scare me because of the trouble they might invite, I can't tell where his head is at.

"Con, is everything okay?"

He turns back towards me. "Sure. Why wouldn't it be?"

The breeze created from the arriving train blows his hair around, and he smoothes it down again. "You gonna order the Gold'n Green Omelette again?" he changes the subject.

"Don't I always?"

"Yeah. For the last twenty years." His face grows strangely solemn. "Nate," he starts to say urgently, but the train squeals to a stop, and by the time we've dodged the people exiting and got on ourselves, he seems to have forgotten what he was going to say.

We decide to go to a movie after brunch, and after that we wander over to The Strand to look at books. It's dark and chilly by the time we emerge, me with a couple of Paul Auster books and he with "Voodoo Histories".

"I love my Kindle, but nothing beats a big old bookstore," Connor says happily, as he zips his jacket and raises his collar. "You wanna have dinner before we head back?"

"Nah. I'm still full from brunch and I'm pretty beat. I've got a long week coming up."

On the train ride home and as the familiar Sunday night blues start to creep over me, I regret having refused his invitation. Even through the layers of our clothes and jackets, I'm convinced I can feel the warmth of his arm against mine as we sit next to each other. He's scanning his new book, and he chuckles and reads me a couple of passages, so I close my eyes and listen to his voice, trying not to lean into him like I want to.

"Hey, why don't you come over for a nightcap?" he invites suddenly. "I'll drop you off afterwards."

"You'll never manage to find parking again afterwards," I stall, tempted.

He stands up and yanks me to my feet.

"Come on," he urges, and I let him lead me off the train.

*******************

I love Connor's apartment, a mix of old and new furniture, comfortable and unfussy, with splashes of bright color in the pillows and on paintings on the wall. He's messier than I am, his books, magazines and CDs strewn all over the place, pairs of shoes lying untidily in the small entrance, but I find the place warm and welcoming. I always have

"Beer?" he asks me, as he steps out of his sneakers, and I nod. I drop my books and jacket on a chair, wander into the living room and sit on the couch.

He brings us our beers and a bag of pretzels.

"I've got some left-over Chinese, if you're hungry," he offers.

"Maybe later."

"You want to watch a movie or something?"

What did people do to fill the awkward silences between them before DVDs, VHS and just plain old TV? Listened to the radio probably, Amos and Andy or The Green Hornet. Or maybe they just accepted that sometimes sitting with someone, even with nothing to say, even with a whole bunch of stuff you want to say but can't, is better than sitting alone.

"Sure."

"Hold on, I ordered a bunch of stuff from Amazon."

"You're so old-fashioned. Why don't you just download what you want to see? It's quicker and requires less storage space. What kind of an IT expert are you, anyway?"

"Ah, I can never find the good stuff online."

He rifles through the box, holds up a DVD for my inspection. According to Connor, 'the good stuff' is pretty much any Western starring John Wayne, Gary Cooper or Jimmy Stewart. Clint Eastwood, Robert Mitchum and Yul Brynner are also favorites, not to mention Lee Marvin and Charles Bronson. Come to think of it, Connor has never seen a Western he didn't find at least some merit in. As he likes to say, worse comes to worst, there's always a couple of cute guys wearing chaps and riding horses.

I shake my head at "Hang'em High" and "Hombre" and we finally settle for "The Big Country." Connor slides the DVD into the player and then comes to sit next to me on the couch. About twenty minutes into the film I've completely lost interest, and wish I'd picked a shoot'em-up instead. I sneak a look at Connor, but he seems totally absorbed, so I settle myself more comfortably, and let my thoughts drift, composing a mental to-do list for the coming week at work, trying to remember if anything needs picking up from the cleaners and if I paid my Con Ed bill, wondering when Paul might call and whether I should call him, instead.

"You want another beer?" I ask Connor, getting up.

"Yeah, thanks. Do you want me to pause the movie?"

"No, that's alright."

I make a pit stop first and then return to the living room with our beers. Despite my reassurance, Connor has paused the DVD, Burl Ives' face frozen still on the screen and looking at us narrow-eyed.

"Ooooh, the buzzin' of the bees in the cigarette trees / Round the soda water fountain," I sing, and Connor grins at me.

"Talk about old-fashioned."

"Yep, we're just two old fogies," I say, the alarm I felt this morning at my age having turned into a calmer, if slightly melancholy, acceptance after the hours spent with Connor. So what if I've wanted more from him over the years? We've spent so many Sundays just like this one in easy companionship, and we've so many more to look forward to. Connor is my family, just as sure as Evan is.

I wait for him to start the movie again, but he twiddles the remote control between his fingers, staring down at it. Then he looks at me, and what I see in his gray eyes makes my mouth go dry.

"Connor..." I breathe, as he slowly leans in towards me.

It's not the first time he's kissed me, of course, but never like this, his lips moving against mine in a slow, almost tender, exploration, his mouth opening over mine and his tongue licking gently, tentatively, as if asking for permission to be let in. I close my eyes and let it happen and try to record every second, because this is better than anything I remember from the past, and I have no idea what brought it on, but I know it's going to end soon and never happen again.

"Kiss me back," he whispers, his fingers on my jaw and at the corners of my mouth. "Open your mouth and kiss me."

I put my hand on his shoulder to push him away, but it seems to have a will of its own, and instead it gathers a fistful of his shirt and pulls him closer.

"Don't," I mutter, even though I do exactly what he asked me to. I kiss him back, let his tongue thrust into my mouth and curl around mine. Over the thundering of my blood in my ears, I can hear his soft gasping breath, and my hand releases its death grip on his shirt and slides up the column of his neck, feeling his quick pulse, the muscles moving under his smooth skin as he angles his head to kiss me more deeply.

He pushes me back into the cushions, half lying on top of me, his forearm trapped between our chests and his elbow digging into my stomach as he still cups my jaw, holding me in place. I don't know how long we stay like that, it feels like forever and then, when he lifts his head and looks down at me, like a mere instant. His lips are wet and swollen, his cheeks flushed, and his eyes glitter with a hunger that I've never seen before, not even when we were having our brief fling so many years ago.

"What are you doing?" I choke out, and he shakes his head. He continues to stare at me, his thumb brushing against my lips, and at some point he slipped his other hand under my shirt and I feel his warm palm against my ribs, gently squeezing. I arch against him, trying to push him off, but he presses closer, and lowers his head again.

"Don't ask me to explain," he whispers against my mouth.

He kisses me again, and I decide that reasons or explanations don't matter, that tonight I'm going to take whatever I can get. I want him, and what else is there to know or understand? Even if we both regret it tomorrow. I yank his shirt out from his waistband and spread my hand over the small of his back.

Sex with Connor this time is nothing like I remember. In the past he'd been aggressive and playful, and our bouts were quick, loud, sweaty, exciting and over too soon, a race to the next orgasm. Connor slowly undressing me, his mouth and hands exploring every inch of skin he uncovers, his soft murmurs of appreciation as he tongues and nibbles at my nipples and moves on down my stomach, laving my navel and nuzzling wetly at my cock and balls, almost hypnotize me. I lie passively, my eyes closed, breathlessly waiting for the next touch, then moaning at each new touch of his lips and tongue; in my armpits, the insides of my thighs, under my knees, along the length of my dick. He manipulates my body this way and that, and I willingly submit, rolling off the couch onto the thick rug with him, lifting my legs, turning first onto my side and then my belly, giving myself up to him.

"Nate," he whispers into my ear, lying on my back, pinning my forearms with his against the floor, his erection hard and leaking as he rubs it against the crease of my ass. "What do you want? Tell me what you want."

"You," I choke out. "I just want you."

He slides off of me and turns me towards him, taking me into his arms, one leg winding around my waist, and kisses me.

"Let's go to bed," he says softly.

I don't want to move from here. In the time it'll take us to get up and walk to the bedroom, to find condoms and lube, the mood might change. Our connection might break. But I need to be inside him – I need him – so much it hurts, and I reluctantly pull away.

I needn't have worried. Whatever's driving us tonight is so strong, that we make the transition easily. He kneels in front of me on the bed and lets me prepare him, pushing back against my fingers, a short, sharp cry escaping him when I first breach him, then another when I rub his prostate. He spreads his legs wider and lowers his chest, offering himself to me.

He stiffens when I penetrate him, his body initially fighting the invasion, then relaxes with a shuddering sigh, and I press all the way in. I still for a second, relishing his tight heat, the way his back gleams with sweat in the half darkness of the bedroom. Then I start to move, slowly at first, wanting to make it last, then more urgently, almost slamming into his ass, clenching my hands on his hips and jerking him back against me.