And now I face the final curtain (redux)
It’s like I’m flying and it’s the greatest feeling, my smile stretching my cold face to cracking point, the freezing wind rushing past my face making my teeth tingle, goggles digging into my cheeks. My knees are working like oiled pistons, absorbing all the little jolts of rutted skied-through snow, getting some of my old magic back now as I hit a series of moguls, jabbing my poles with each switch of direction to get a rhythm going, letting out a loud Whoop! of pure exhilaration as I fly a couple of foot into the air going over the last one. My heart is singing with joy. It’s been too fucking long.
It’s early enough that there’s still some virgin snow down here on the black diamond slope, most people still taking it easy up on the intermediate slopes so soon after breakfast. Probably stupid of me to try it as it’s been forever since I’ve been skiing, but the lure was too strong and I’m not regretting it. I take a route down the side of the trail alongside some trees, swooping up to my knees in pure powder with every turn, the air clear in my lungs, shooting a grin across the trail at some chick in a pink headband and seriously short skis taking a low jump off a slight hump as she speeds past me.
I hit a patch of ice under some outstretched tree branches where a thaw’s refrozen overnight, and nearly lose it, my arms flailing for a second before I pull it together, knowing I’m going to feel that in my back later. But the snow’s more compact further down, older and faster, a little crunchy under my rails so I tuck into a downhill crouch and take the last kilometer as fast as I can, slaloming around occasional rougher patches of ice that show up a pale grey a split-second before I’m on them. It’s a rush headier than any pill, trees rushing past me, my face frozen, mouth open and laughing, my thighs burning. Eventually I have to stand to twist and dig the sides of my skis in, sliding in a long sweep of a parallel stop at the base of the run, gasping, my breath making huge clouds of smoke in front of my face as I turn to look back up the mountain I just flew down. It’s huge, craggy and cloud-topped. My grin widens in response and I’m still smiling to myself like an idiot as I make my way slowly down to the chair lift again, poles clutched in one gloved hand as I glide easily across the shallow slope where the trails join.
My ass pocket buzzes as I’m waiting in line for the chair lift. I dig my phone out and immediately grimace. Fuck. Seven missed calls, seven, all from Zach, all within the last twenty minutes. Three texts. I tug off a glove with my teeth and thumb up the most recent, and my pulse jumps in slight concern.
seriously im going to die hello?
Fuck. A little worrisome. The one before isn’t any better,
im about to die out here alone thinking you dont even care about my imminent painful and no doubt bloody death
The last, seconds after my last missed call from him.
answer your phone butthead
I hit 2 and the call button, wincing before he even answers. This isn’t going to be good. That his voice is an octave above where it usually is isn’t a good starting sign.
“Chris? Where the hell are you and when are you going to send out a helicopter or dog with that flasky thing or whatever to come and rescue me from Death Mountain? Did you even check your voicemail?”
“I’m at the bottom of the hill. What the fuck happened? Where’s Paul?”
An exasperated snort that I swear I can feel down the phone line. “Do not get me started with Paul. Are you on the chairlift yet?”
“No, I’m waiting in line.”
“Then push to the front, this is an emergency.”
“It’s only a short line and,” I drop my voice, press my mouth against the phone, “I thought we’re trying to stay incognito. I don’t want to draw unnecessary attention to myself by being an asshole.”
“Your eyes and your ass are hidden from view, nobody’s going to have the slightest clue who you are.” I used to think it was cute how bitchy Zach is when he’s pissed at me. “Go on, push to the front. I don’t hear you pushing and fuck!” As close to a shriek as I’ve ever heard from him, followed by a torrent of cursing in someone else’s direction before he returns his attention to me. “I’m going to die. Someone just jumped over my head. I swear to God, I am five frigid inches from a fucking avalanche carrying me off to glacial doom and it will all be your fault.”
“Listen, it’s my turn next, I’ll call you back in a second. One minute, that’s all.”
“Christopher Pine, don’t you da-”
I hang up, stuff my phone into a jacket pocket and move into place to sit in the oncoming seat, smiling warily at the two teenage girls who climb into the chair beside me because the lift’s too oversubscribed to allow people to ride alone during peak hours. “Hey.”
They giggle and ’Hi’ shyly at me before I hold my poles between my knees, dig the phone back out and note a new text from Zach,
puttana. vaffanculo.
Jesus, two of the five Italian words he knows, and punctuation, no less. That’s not good. I smile at the girls again. “Sorry guys, I know this goes against lift etiquette but I need to call my friend. He’s having some difficulties.” Hit 2 and call and wait for him to start bitching down the line at me. What’s worse is that it doesn’t come, just the sound of his breathing coming down the line, a little unsteady.
“Zee? You there?”
“No.”
“I’m on the lift. Where are you?”
A pause and a soft, sudden intake of breath that sounds like he’s actually scared. “I’m stuck on the Devil’s Dipper.”
Shit. I feel a chill that’s absolutely nothing to do with the ambient temperature. “You’re what? How the fuck did you -”
“Don’t even, just, get your ass here and come rescue me already. You can’t miss me, I’m the one clinging to a snow-covered precipice with his fingertips rapidly turning gangrenous as his legs dangle helplessly over a six-hundred foot yawning chasm.”
“Seriously?”
“Sure, the phone’s on hands-free. No, dumbass, I’m clinging to a tree for dear life while the Austrian junior fucking ski team takes it in turn to laugh at me. I’m not kidding. Hurry up before I die of either humiliation or overexposure.” His turn to hang up. Wow. That’s the double diamond slope. He might actually break up with me over this one.
---
Zach wasn’t kidding about clinging to a tree. I spot him only a couple of hundred meters down piste, wrapped around a thin tree trunk, his arms looking absurdly muscular in the fiber-filled jacket, his legs long and skinny in thermal salopettes that he thought did nice things for his ass. Which, to be fair, they really do. It’s like the matador pants all over again. The beanie’s still in place, tugged down hard over his ears, his nose red with cold, his top lip disappearing repeatedly into his mouth as he worries at it in annoyance and, I’m guessing, a little fear. He wasn’t completely exaggerating about the precipice, a drop-off just fifty feet from the tips of his skis. I can’t see his eyes as he’s in wraparound goggles a lot like mine but I can tell the minute he notices me as his body starts and his mouth sets in a grim line. Yeah, half his face is covered and I can still tell when he’s frowning at me.
It takes a few minutes to work my way across the trail to him as it’s a tough one, wide but filled with large rocks, drifted snow around them, little copses of trees, and the Austrian junior ski team who do actually appear to be training here today in matching jackets, a couple of the younger kids definitely pointing his way and sharing a laugh before diving down beyond us with a kamikaze bravado that screams insanity. I was going to avoid this slope, at least until the end of our visit, as it’s known locally as the Devil’s Dipper, probably in an effort to work up the tourist trade. But it’s pretty notorious with sudden rocky drops at either side and surprisingly sheer slopes, so precisely what Zach, and his one ski lesson on a dry slope when he was fourteen, is doing up here is somewhat beyond me. I traverse the last fifty feet towards him, watching him try to get to his feet.
I can’t laugh. I can’t even smile, I know it will mean bad times for me if I do so I put every last bit of mental strength into keeping it together and not laughing at Zach as his arms and ski poles windmill, one pole getting momentarily caught in the tree as his skis shoot out from under him in two different directions and he almost does the splits, landing face first. A low curse is spat out as he brushes a bunch of snow out of his face, flips one ski over to match the other’s position, pushes up and does the exact same windmilling-splits thing again. It’s like watching Donald Duck trying to ice skate. Times like this make me wish I had a clue how to use the video function on my phone because everybody we know should see this. God knows they’re going to get it described to them in exacting detail.
“Why don’t you take your skis off? It’s easier to stand that way.”
A look so dirty that I can sense it through the mirrored lenses of his goggles. “Say, that thought hadn’t occurred to me once in the last forty five fucking minutes of sitting freezing my ass off in a snow drift.”
I’m suddenly in range as he reaches out and hits me on the butt with a pole, which makes him fall over again. I move to jam his skis with mine, reach out to grab his hands and pull him up. “Hoopla.”
That earns me another sour look. “At least it gave me time to plan your murder.”
“Yeah?” I push my goggles up onto my head and risk a grin at him, noticing how his lips twist in the effort it’s taking him not to smile back.
“Yeah. It involved an icicle. A big pointy one.”
“Brr.” I stand closer, looking down and using the edge of my ski to kick off his bindings one by one, releasing his boots before doing my own. “Sounds chilly. Also, kinky.”
“Very. And it’s too fucking cold out here to jack off, and I was too busy hanging onto that tree to do anything about a persistent boner.” Zach turns into me, gloved fingers grasping at my jacket as he pulls me towards him in a brief, relieved, angry kiss. “You’ve got a lot of making up to do for this one. A lot.”
I submit to another kiss rather than arguing that it’s not precisely my fault, knowing it’ll pacify him and I have absolutely zero problem with Zach kissing me whenever, even like this, semi-public with Austria’s future gold medalists whizzing by every few minutes. Back on firmer ground now he’s rid of his skis, Zach’s making heroic attempts at getting under the red puffa jacket he says makes me look like ’Mountain Rescue Santa Ken’ to grab at my ass and, again, I’m all good with that. I pull him back to flump down into the snow with me, some of it working its way into my collar and down my neck making me shiver against him as he lies between my legs and shoves his tongue into my mouth. It’s irresponsible, mindless and completely burning me up, public necking in full daylight like this, wrapping my legs around his hips and grabbing at his waist to thrust against him, my ski boots knocking together in rhythm with my movements. Our inability to keep our hands to ourselves at the moment was a big part of the reason behind spending the morning apart. So much for that.
“I guess we have to cut this out.” His mouth is wet, regretful and soft against mine, the lightest of kisses brushed there before he moves away enough to push his goggles up. It’s stupid, a few hours since I saw his eyes last but they still make my stomach warm through, my dick aching with an extra throb of arousal. I move against him once more then free him from the embrace of my legs, letting them fall away to bury themselves in the deep snow around us that’s not already been flattened by Zach’s ass. Nose my way into his collar to kiss and suck once lightly before rolling away and pushing myself up to my feet, feeling clumsy now I’m off my skis.
“Yeah. Frostbite of the, uh, extremities can’t be pretty.”
“Plus we still have to figure out a way to get off this godforsaken peak. I think you should make like James Bond and ski down with me clasped swooning in your arms.” Zach takes his skis from me once I’ve clipped them together for him and hefts them up onto a shoulder as if he’s been doing it all his life. “I’ll pass out from terror halfway down and you can stop to give me the kiss of life.”
“I like how your libido has helped you bounce back from this whole traumatic experience. No, we go one of two ways. Either we snowplough in formation all the way down with you holding onto my pole and, no, that’s not a euphemism so quit smirking. Or we walk, which’ll take over an hour, but there’s less risk of you killing us both.”
He sighs heavily, grabbing me and pushing me a few steps down piste. “This is all so not my fault. An hour will probably give me just about enough time to point out why. Lead on, MacDuff.”
“The correct quote’s actually -”
“Don’t make me hit you with my skis.”
---
“You may recall I suggested staying in bed and fucking all day. But no, you said. Let’s go skiing, you said. It’s easy and fun, you said. Hot instructors, you said. You promised me a hot instructor, and I got Paul, the fat Canadian with cystic acne. Who’s a Trek nut, by the way.”
“No. You’re shitting me.”
“Chris, I shit you not. He figured out who I was in, like, five seconds.”
“Nose?”
“Apparently. I didn’t think it would be that recognizable under the hat and goggles -”
It is, taken in context with the quirky curled bracket of his upper lip. It’s adorable. “It is.”
“Seems like it. He started bitching me out for not knowing sixties Trek inside and out, I mean, I’ll lie back and take that off Leonard but not some Canadian nerd in padded overalls. So, to escape him and to punish you, I figured out how to turn, sort of, and followed a built guy in spandex down towards what I thought was the direction of the button lift. Needless to say, it was not.”
I halt in my tracks, legs aching from tramping through knee-deep snow for ten minutes as it’s my turn leading again. “You’re telling me you came down this trail by design? After a hot piece of tail?”
“No.” It’s prickly, offended. “Not by design, by accident. Because you booked me the only ugly ski instructor in the northern hemisphere. Totally your fault. I could’ve died.”
“Because you followed some ass in spandex rather than sticking your lesson out. That’s not my fault.”
His eyes get all dreamy for a second. “It certainly was some ass. Skiing must do stuff for butt muscles.”
I let my skis roll from my shoulder and make like I’m unclipping them. “So what you’re saying is that you can find the rest of the way down alone while I ski down and go climb in the hot tub I’ve been fantasizing about for the last half hour.”
A low groan as he swaps places with me and starts his ten minutes in lead, starting to walk off as I heft my skis again and follow in the narrow trail of trodden-down snow created by him. “The hot tub. I admit, I was too quick to dismiss the hot tub last night.”
“Wood-fired. Canadian cedar. Hot water bubbling up to your armpits. The vista of Snow Valley all around you, fresh, brisk mountain air. Snow falling softly on your shoulders. Me, naked beside you. Possibly jacking you off.”
He groans again, his ski boot slipping in the snow with his next step. “Do I get to fuck you in this little scenario you’ve got going on? In the tub? Like, bent over the side?”
“I’ve got the whole scene figured out.” I’ve been thinking of little else but the hot tub for the last half hour of freezing winds and Zach’s bitching, trying not to worry about the clouds drawing in. “I already blew you indoors in the shower once we get inside.”
“You did? Aw. I guess you’re somewhat forgiven.”
“Then we eat and rehydrate after this whole double diamond Devil’s Dipper fiasco -”
“Fiasco’s a bit harsh. And on your conscience.”
“- and then make out some on the rug by the fire while we proceed to get wasted and drink some wine. And then we go fuck in the hot tub.”
Zach slips again and I reach out to steady him, appreciative that he’s taking the strain of the deep snow for awhile, my thigh muscles woolly with exhaustion. He turns to flash a wide grin over his shoulder at me. “So, our night basically involves getting drunk, high, and making out a lot, sometimes in hot water?”
I shrug at Zach’s back. “I didn’t say it was exactly imaginative. Although I was thinking more in terms of me straddling you where you’re sitting than you bending me over the side. I know the cabin deck’s pretty secluded but we agreed to err on the side of caution where al fresco fucking is concerned and that’d be a little more discreet.”
He shakes his head. “Your ass would be underwater if you straddle me. Lube doesn’t hold in water.”
“Says the voice of experience.” It comes out sounding more critical than I’d intended and he halts, turns towards me, his eyes dark where his goggles are still pushed up on his head.
“Chris . . . you say it’s okay but sometimes, you’ll get this tone and I don’t know -”
I pull his arm towards me, cut him off with a quick kiss, my goggles clunking against his. “Halfway down Death Mountain with a blizzard threatening is not the time for this discussion. Besides, oil could work. Like, olive oil or something. Right?”
“Not with rubbers.” I give him a long look and he smiles, a little embarrassed. “Oh, right, I forgot. But we don’t have any oil.”
“There’s a convenience store at the bottom near the chairlift. Remember?”
I laugh as he wrenches his arm out of my hand and starts pushing through the snow with sudden determination.
---
Oil works. Oh, fuck, oil works good. We have to be slow as moving too fast means water sloshes noisily out of the tub and every muscle aches after a whole afternoon spent trudging down a mountain. So I’m leaning back against the far side of the wooden half-barrel, snow falling soundlessly against my upturned face and closed eyes as Zach’s hands grip my hips harder beneath the simmering water, his dick stretching me deeply as I fuck myself on him. The air’s almost too cold on everything above water, my wet hair, my throat, my chest and shoulders, snowflakes melting across my nipples as I rise up again before slowly pushing back down, biting back a moan. But the water’s so hot, everything’s so hot, his touch, his fingers sliding over my wet skin, his dick in me, the burning stretch of my asshole that I thought I’d nearly forgotten.
I hadn’t. It’s as good as I remember, better even, as Zach gasps and mutters again about how tight I am after too long between visits, even after last night, getting loud now with a heartfelt curse as I squeeze on him so I sit down on him hard and stay there, waiting till we’re both a little more under control. He reaches behind him to grab the plastic bottle of canola oil that was all the store had, pouring some into the palm of his other hand, rubbing it into his fingers before reaching beneath the water’s swirling surface to grip my cock, hissing as I let out a sharp fuck! and squeeze on him again. Open my eyes to look at him in the dim light coming from the cabin, Zach’s hair covered with a light dusting of snow that’s slowly melting, spiking his short bangs and dripping over his face. He’s so fucking beautiful that my dick pulses in his hand, making him smile and grind his hips up into me, and my head drops back as I’m lost again, in him, the sensation of his dick fucking me, the hot and the cold, his strong, oiled hand working my dick hard beneath the steaming water.
There’s no more words. I look into his eyes as I ride him, surrounded by the caress of the water, the snowflakes falling like white feathers, the cold air and his hands, his mouth at my neck now sucking gently at the melted drops of snow. I drop back and close my eyes, biting into the ball of my thumb as I slide over the side of the mountain and fall forever, my body arching out of the water. He comes with a grunt, and a warm splash somewhere deep in my gut. I float back into his arms, feeling the drips of cold water off his bangs cooling my face.
I don’t want to move. I’m still wasted from three fat joints earlier, fucked out and exhausted from the day on the mountain. Everything aches good. We’ve turned the bubbles off and I can feel a stream of warmer water against my ass where the tub’s heater is valiantly attempting to battle against the freezing air. But it’s getting too cold out, the tub lukewarm now, my fingers pruning as I rub over Zach’s furry thigh one last time and poke at his butt with my big toe. “Go on. You first.”
“Fuck no. I did all the work, you just lay there. You first, and bring me a robe.”
“You really think that’s going to happen?”
“After that? Actually, I kinda do.”
“I never took you for an optimist. If anyone asked, that’s not how I’d describe you.”
He’s glaring at his lighter, trying to get it to work, flicking at the flint wheel but his thumb’s wet and gotten it too damp to light the cigarette he’s holding daintily above the water. “No? Out of curiosity, how would you describe me?”
Every single complimentary thing flies from my head. There’s nothing I could say right now out of what’s left: Bitchy. Sarcastic, moody and prone to pre-menstrual tension. Unnaturally attached to his phone. Blue Steels at himself in the mirror when he thinks I’m not looking. Finicky beyond reason. Completely unable to remain monogamous for more than a month at a time when far from home. It all makes him sound like a dick, and he’s not. He’s just Zach. He makes it look good, he makes it all charming. Except the last thing and, eh, I’m working on that.
“I’d say that you’re indescribable.”
He pfts at me, managing to get a light, taking a draw on his cigarette, blowing it back out again. “That’s a cop-out, I’m totally describable. A few examples, off the top of my head: Scorchingly talented, blazing hot, great in bed, witty conversationalist with a legendary back catalogue of pick-up lines, snappy dresser, or style icon, if you will . . .”
“Ohh, I see, I get it. You want me to lie.” I yelp as he reaches out to pinch my nipple hard. “That hurt. Gimme a drag.” The pads of his fingertips are soft against my mouth as I take a draw, thinking on it harder. “Okay, I’ve got it - I’d say you’re complex.”
“Me? No. You’re complex.”
“Zach, I’m about as complex as a three piece puzzle for babies. You’re one of those five thousand piece puzzles that are, like, a big photo of popcorn.”
He looks at me as if I’ve gone crazy. “What the hell kind of analogy is that? I’m a popcorn puzzle? I’m not sure if I should be insulted or what.”
I wriggle my toes under his ass cheek. “Totally a compliment.”
He raises an eyebrow at me, narrows his eyes in suspicion and hunches further down into the cooling water, up to his shoulders, looking out across the valley as he smokes. I give him a minute before I get impatient and poke him in the ass again. “Well?”
He blows out a smoke ring that hangs perfectly in the cold air. “Well what?”
“How would you describe me?”
“Lazy. Get your fat ass out of here and go get me a robe already.”
---
It’s only the second night and I’m beginning to hate this bed. I miss my bed. Fuck, I miss Zach’s bed in LA, it’s a latex thing hand-tufted by Amish people or something, I don’t know but it’s like sleeping on a cloud of awesome and I think I may miss it more than I actually miss him. This cabin’s supposed to be high-end but the mattress here’s too hard, probably good for backs or something because we lie rigidly against each other, no sink-in, no give. I thought I’d like any bed with naked Zach in it, but this one’s pushing that theory to breaking point.
He takes a deep breath. It’s his fourth in the last twenty minutes and each time I wait, thinking he’s about to impart something of great importance, and then he doesn’t. I keep trying to prevent my mind from inventing things that he’s scared of telling me. Or the thing, the one thing that keeps going around in my head every time he takes a deep breath and doesn’t follow through. He’s met someone else in NY. Again. But there’s nothing, his body relaxing back against mine, his arm tightening around my waist as he nuzzles into my shoulder. Maybe he’s simply sighing in pleasure at being in bed with me again, fuck knows it’s the greatest thing ever as far as I’m concerned. Stupid to ascribe such gravity to an intake of breath.
Only he does it again now and, I swear to God, I’m going to punch him in the balls if he doesn’t either cut it out or say something.
“Chris? Are you still awake?”
“Why yes, Zach, I am. What’s on your mind?”
Another deep breath let out slow. “The run’s extended again. I meant to tell you last night but we got distracted so fast once I got here, and there hasn’t been a right time since.”
Fuck. “How long?”
“Couple of months.”
I suppose I should be happy for him. “That’s - that’s great. I’m glad for you guys. That’s awesome.”
“Chris . . . “
“No, it’s good. I’m proud of you. And we’re okay with the distance thing. I think.”
He hugs me into him closer, pushing his nose into my neck, his words damp against my skin. “We’re better than okay. But we need to do this more, get together, get more organized. If you got a PA -”
“Zach, I’m not hiring someone to organize my sex life. Between us we should be able to manage a night every month or so. What would it take? How often, for you not to . . . not to need to . . . ?”
“Screw around?” It’s muffled, his lips pressing beneath my earlobe. I don’t like him even saying it.
“You and me, like it was. What would it take?”
His hand, warm and dry, sliding across my chest. “That’s what you want?”
“I want it. I don’t need it, but I want it.” I kiss the top of his head and he sighs, rolls away from me to his side of the bed, lying on his back.
“I want it too, but it’s not like there’s a formula involved. I have a crappy day, or I fluff a line or two and cringe internally for the rest of the night. And I’ll get back to the apartment and it’s late and I’m tired, and nobody’s there to pet on or kiss or make me feel better, and phoning you makes me feel worse, I’m sorry but it does.”
“I know.” I shuffle over to him, lay my head on his stomach, his fingers finding my hair immediately. “I hear it in your voice.”
“You know what NY’s like. There’s always a party or a dinner or someone to hang out with or a new bar opening and I love that stuff. And the guys are so much hotter than LA guys. They’re smart. They’re literate, and you of all people know I go for that. Some of them have even seen the play.”
I pinch his thigh, tugging at a thumbful of hair. “That’s a low blow. I’m working.”
“I’m an egotistical bastard. I realize this about myself, and accept it. I’m an ego on legs.”
“Long, sexy legs.”
“They analyze my performance, Chris. In minutiae. In hot, adoring detail. I realize you don’t want specifics but you have to know, you’re all I want. But I’m me. I need the attention. I get that it makes me a weak person, but I do. The ego needs feeding.”
My turn to sigh. “And the way to a guy’s ego is through his dick.”
He strokes his thumb over my cheekbone, his voice warm with humor. “You’re sure I’m the first guy you’ve dated?”
“Consider yourself a crash course.”
It sends us both into silence, a sort of truth in it even though I was trying to make a stupid joke. I turn my head to kiss his stomach, rubbing my nose into him. “I’m sorry. I know because I’m a dude, and I know what works for me.”
“Yeah?” He turns into me, his thigh sliding between mine, a hand rubbing down my stomach to glide over my dick and cup my nuts. “This works for you?”
“We’re in the middle of a serious discu-huhhh. Discussion. Come on, we need to figur- stop that.” Zach’s way too good with his fingers. “Wait, I want to finish talking firstahh fuck.”
He starts working his way down my body and he’s also way too good with his mouth, mumbling something about not wanting to speak with his mouth full against my treasure trail, then swallowing my dick to the root. Conversation over. Advantage Quinto.
---
So it’s not exactly flying down the mountain with the wind singing in my ears, but watching Zach’s mouth disappear on itself in concentration as he takes a shaky snowplough turn at the far side of the nursery slope and begins to traverse back towards me has its own kind of wonderful about it. He only falls over three times on our way down the green trail, cursing at me each time, eventually grabbing me to tug me over on top of him when I ski over to pull him up the last time. He stuffs a gloveful of snow down my neck and I eventually manage to wrestle him onto his back, straddling his hips, ready to crow in triumph until I hear a gentle snick, a tug at one of my skis where it’s knocking against his, and turn to watch my ski take itself off down the rest of the slope by itself.
“Shit.”
“Hey, look at that. Seems like you’re walking again. I guess me and my awesome snowplough skills will meet you at the bottom.”
I climb off him, pulling him up, grinning into the face that’s smiling back at me inches from my own, and I’m having to consciously tamp down the desire to suck at his mouth right here, surrounding learners be damned. I look down, knock the snow off my other boot, checking that its binding’s still holding firm. “Nope. I got one rail, I’m good. A good skier works with what he’s got. Did I ever tell you about my silv-”
“Silver medal in the Mount Baldy junior downhill, ninety one, despite a torn hamstring. Yeah, you may’ve mentioned it once or twice.”
“Come on.” I hold out a stick. “Hold my pole. Take a firm grip. Don’t be shy, wrap those fingers all the way around, nice and tight.”
“Subtle as ever, babe.”
We probably get more than a few strange looks as we go, me scooting myself along on my one remaining ski, towing a determinedly-snowploughing Zach behind who grumps copiously at me and flails the poles held in his free hand every time I take a corner too fast for his liking. We make it to the bottom without falling over again and it’s somehow more of a triumph than my run yesterday, Zach’s eyes gleaming as he pushes his goggles up to stare up to the top of the slope.
“We skied all that way down? Wow.” His whole face is lit up as he smiles over at me, making my stomach roll around like a puppy getting its belly tickled. “We got time to do it again?”
I begin to lead the way to the button lift now I’ve retrieved the wayward ski that someone had helpfully stuck into the snow for me and stepped it back into place. “All the time in the world.”
He falls over a third of the way up the button lift and it drags him a few feet before he manages to disentangle his skis from each other, then he lands face first in the dirty snow pile at the side of the lift. I’m so in love with him that I get off the lift to lead him back down rather than cracking a rib laughing like I would’ve a year back.
---
I don’t know why I thought this would be a good idea. Back in LA when I was booking the whole thing it made a bunch of sense. A romantic firelit dinner, the two of us gazing across a delivered meal into each other’s eyes in our private snowbound cabin beneath the stars. A long overdue declaration of love, on my part, at least. Now, with two hours to go before he leaves and a further two before I do, it seems like the height of stupidity. We’re clothed, for a start. Zach’s morose like he always gets towards the end of a visit, spitting out monosyllables and the occasional insult while I overcompensate and let him get away with way more than I should.
“You like the gnocchi?”
“Sure. It’s sagey and carbilicious.” He slugs back the rest of his glass of wine and refills it, topping mine up with the dregs of the bottle.
“That a joke? Tell me you’re not dieting again.”
“No, Christopher. I’m an NY resident now. It’s all Chinese takeout and beer, twenty-four seven. My ass is going to need its own zip code soon.”
“You’re describing yourself as a resident? To me? Thanks a lot.”
“Jesus Christ, what?” He throws down his fork and grabs his cigarettes, lighting one in the huffiest manner I think I’ve ever seen, slapping my hand away when I reach out to take one. “I moved away. We know this. You want me to strip off and flay myself at the table? I get it - I’m a bad, bad man.”
“No, you’re not.” Directed at him over my shoulder as I dig in my jacket for my smokes.
“Wow. Convincingly said. Thank you.”
“No. You’re just a crappy boyfriend.” I’m too addicted to my Tivo, and mentally reach for the rewind button as I sit back down. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean that. You’re not a crappy boyfriend. I guess I might still be a little mad at you for moving.”
“No shit.” He flicks his ash into the ashtray and manages to make even that one small action snottier than anyone else could.
“Mom says I’m sublimating the denial of my natural masculine urge to dominate you by instead focusing on the issue of your absence and apportioning blame where none exists.”
“Your mom knows you bottom?” Zach chokes a little and snorts two puffs of smoke out his nose, then starts laughing in shock. “Holy shit, I’m glad my mother’s not a therapist.”
“God, no. She knows I didn’t want you to move. She knows you moved regardless. She has opinions on the matter.”
He grimaces, grabbing his wine protectively. “Okay. Note to self: avoid Gwynne for awhile.”
The gnocchi’s a big mess, congealing on my plate where I’m playing with it with my fork, the butter and lemon juice of the sauce separating into little puddles of slime in varying shades of pale yellow. A damp log on the fire sparks and I jump, knocking my wine glass with my fingers, only just catching it before it dumps into Zach’s lap.
“Sorry.”
“You caught it in time.” He smiles slow, and it breaks across his face like a sunrise, one of his real smiles and it feels like my heart’s beating at the base of my throat. “What is this all about, Chris? Why aren’t we fucking right now?”
I push my plate away, cover my face with my hands. Rub them down over my mouth, propping my elbows on the table and leaning towards him. “I don’t know. I didn’t want this whole weekend to be about sex, because that’s not what we’re about. Is it? I’m not sure. It’s been how long now, and I’m still not sure.”
“Almost nine months.”
“That’s it? Really? Seems like longer.”
“Again, thank you.”
“You know what I mean.”
He shakes his head, leaning back in his chair with his wine still clasped to his chest. “No, Chris, I don’t. I honestly don’t know what’s bothering you. You say you don’t mind me sleeping around, but you don’t want details, but now you do, but you won’t say you do. I tell you I’m going to be away even longer and you tell me it’s good, when I’m so fucking homesick for you that I’m sleeping with anyone who looks like they may’ve read a book at some point in their lives in the hope that I’ll actually get some kind of conversation out of it because, no, it’s not just sex with us. You know that and, God, I miss it. I miss us. I don’t know what else I have to say to convince you that I’m with you and committed to this whole thing.”
My arms collapse and I fall forward, my head thunking on the table making the silverware jump. I talk into my plate. “You don’t know what else you can say? You’re kidding me. Even you’re not this emotionally dense.”
“Do I need to learn sign language? Semaphore? Are you speaking in code, because no, I’m not kidding you. I don’t know what you want me to say.”
My dramatic push up and away from the table’s slightly ruined by a salad leaf sticking to my forehead. Fucking thing. I screw it up and throw it down. “You could tell me that you love me. I know you don’t like the word and God knows I’ve been trying to avoid it for your benefit but I love you, Zach. I’m in love with you. Nine months and I have no clue if you’re in love with me.”
A log sparks again and he looks at it, then back at me and his mouth’s gaping open. Like, cartoon gaping open. He shuts it, places his wine glass on the table and takes another drag on the last of his cigarette before looking at me with this incandescent intensity that I’ve never seen on him before.
“Of course I love you, you idiot. I walked down a mountain. A whole mountain, in ski boots. Hell, I nearly fell down a mountain. I’ve swallowed more snow this weekend than I’ve swallowed - okay, you possibly don’t want me to complete that thought. I’ve been frozen solid. I hurt, everywhere. I probably could’ve persuaded you to drop this whole ski trip idea in favor of spending my one weekend off in the last millennium shacked up in a hotel with my boyfriend reacquainting myself with his delectable butthole. Somewhere warm, and sunny, with a bed that’s not like lying on a church door. But no. I did all this, I did sports, Chris, and even tried to enjoy myself, because I’m in love with you and want you to be happy.” He drops the cigarette butt in the ashtray. “I can’t believe you don’t get that. You call me a popcorn puzzle? You’re a - I don’t even know. You’re a ten thousand piece puzzle of a clear blue sky.”
All I can do is look at him blankly. “You’re in love with me?”
“Jesus fucking Christ.” He gets up from the table and grabs his ski jacket off the hooks by the door, beginning to pull it on. “I’ve had it with you. It’s icicle time.” But I catch the corner of his jacket, swinging him towards me, wrapping my arms around his waist tight.
“You love me.”
He cups my face with his hands, his long fingers tracing the line of my jaw. “Yes. I’m in love with you, Chris. I’m sorry I didn’t say it before. I thought you knew.”
“No.”
“You’re so stupid.”
“Yeah, I know. But my hot ass is compensation. And,” I check my watch, “We have precisely an hour and seventeen minutes before your cab arrives for me to prove it.”
---
He’s gone, his scent still clinging to me. Or that might be the sweater I stole from his weekend bag that I put on the second the brake lights of his cab disappeared from view. Zach’s absence hurts, a heavy burn like always, made worse now I know how he feels. It was supposed to make it all better, like his love would be some sort of salve to soothe the ache while he’s away. It doesn’t, it makes the impulse to cling to him and not let go tougher than before and I swear I start channelling Dirty Harry in my efforts to remain stony faced and unemotional at the door, seeing him out. Waving at his cab as it drives away from me as if he’s just some guy. Zach never was some guy, even when we were just buddies. But he leaves, and knowing he’s leaving me, willingly, loving me, to go do some fucking big gay play to reassure himself he’s still an Artist, capital fucking A, hurts. I’m not too busy to go see the play. I’m too fucking pissed.
His absence hurts. Maybe I should move to NY, I don’t know. I’m gazing out over the valley smoking the last of one of our joints down to the roach, little lights in the windows of cabins dotted about the foothills, the warmer glow of the town lighting the snow-covered slopes in pinks and oranges against an indigo sky. Fuck, it’s ten minutes till I’m due to leave and I’m going to stink of weed. A breeze lifts my hair and I breathe it in, the cold, hoping it’ll freeze everything, the ache for him, the disappointment that the weekend didn’t last forever after all.
My scarf’s gone. I notice it soon as I’ve put my jacket on and got all my stuff together by the door. I’ve got a couple of minutes before I go, no longer, and I tear the place apart but it’s disappeared, and I know I had it on when we got back to the cabin after skiing down the green slope together a third and final time, Zach managing it alone without falling over once until he got to the bottom and had to stop. I know I won’t exactly need the scarf on the way to the airport or whatever but it’s my favorite. He gave it to me, the first thing he ever gave me, the sort of gift you give a friend you don’t know all that well yet. I’m biting back tears of frustration as I toss all the stupid little designer throw pillows off the couch to look for it again, before it occurs to me exactly where my fucking scarf is. It’s wound around a neck on its way back to NY.
I pull my phone out, opening the door when the cab driver knocks. “One second, thanks.”
Scarf thief!
Hit send, lock the door and post the keys back through the mail slot, throwing my bag in the back of the cab and grinning at the phone still in my hand when it buzzes at me.
consider it payback for the sweater and thanks for getting me in trouble with the flight attendant as im supposed to be in flightsafe mode and he heard the beep
I hit call, knowing there’s no way in hell he’d ever turn his phone off. “It’s a flight attendant. Trust me, you’d have come to his attention without my assistance.”
“True. You know something? Flight attendants are definitely hotter than ski instructors. Oh, champagne. Thank you, how nice.” A flight attendant somewhere up there is rock hard and blushing his ass off right now.
“Look after my scarf. I mean it, it’s icicle time if there’s a single mark on it.”
“Nope.” I can hear him taking a sip of his drink. “I’m holding it hostage. I’m cutting off one strand of fringe for every day you don’t come see the play.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“Oh, wouldn’t I? Watch your mail. Your move, Pine. Or is it - checkmate?”
He aims a melodious, villainous laugh down the phone at me, cutting off midstream as he hangs up abruptly, leaving all sorts of shivers running into wherever I can still feel the touch of his teeth and tongue. Then he ruins the effect by immediately texting me with a plea to call him the second I land. This is the man that loves me. I tuck my nose into his sweater and close my eyes, and smile all the way to the airport, the cab bumping over the rutted snow like Zach caught up in the button lift.
Farevell!
