Lilies

Lilies (Part 1 of 2) copyright 2015 Seth Kirkcauldy seth-kirkcauldy@sbcglobal.net

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Lilies (Part 1 of 2)

On the day he buried his family, a grey sky pressed down heavily upon his shoulders while blackened clouds boiled on the horizon, threatening to soak the mourners with unrepentant cliche. The surreal, jaundiced light rendered the cemetery like a movie set; but perhaps that conceit was only his denial, a way for him to see the events of the day as a type of drama without accepting them as real.

The memorial service in the chapel had been brief and palatable; it was non-religious just as he and Marc had been. There had been the bad moment when he had risen to speak about his husband and daughter, only to discover he had no words to describe their life together. He'd stood, stoic and trembling, trying to remember what he had meant to say; but was led back to his seat by a friend after he'd stood there for an eternity of aching, grasping silence.

On the walk from the chapel to the viewing room of the crematory, he considered the emptiness that paradoxically suffused him, and he decided that he was afraid. All of mankind had evolved on the fear of the cold and the dark, and had learned to embrace the fire and light to survive. Now his fire was snuffed, and the only light remaining was a green-yellow parody in the sky that made his friends peer heavenward, afraid of the coming rain.

His fears were of more mundane things: he was afraid of his empty bed; he was afraid of his daughter's toys; he was afraid, frankly, of just about everything in the house. Marc's running shoes still waited neatly arranged by the front door; Lily's little-girl clothes still filled the dryer. There was terror in every room of his home-suddenly-house. Sorrow was fear, and he found himself to be a coward.

His hands were shaking by the time he reached the viewing room. His friends looked at his gaunt, pale face and gathered around him in a protective circle. His best friend since childhood, Lizbeth, grasped his cold, ghostly hand within her warm brown ones, and tried not to mind that he gripped much too tightly. What earlier had seemed a good idea - to gain closure - now seemed more like self-flagellation.

But Sawyer spent hours there, first watching unflinchingly as Marc's plain, pine crematory casket was rolled into the furnace and burned; and then much later as they followed it with Lily's smaller, white casket. It still had the spray of white lilies upon the lid as it entered the yawning maw of the crematory.

He felt perversely cold after watching the fire devour everything he thought his life would encompass. More appropriate was the taste of grey ashes that clogged his throat and shrouded his future. He stood blinking when it was all done, numbly rotating his wedding ring.

He discovered on that bleak day that the full sum of a man's life could fit easily in two small boxes and be taken to an otherwise empty house and set upon a mantle.

He spent the night of the funeral staring at the ceiling in his bedroom, clasping Marc's empty running shoe to his chest while silent tears fell to the sheets. He wondered where he fit now; and he wished he was upon the mantle with his family.

The simple human smell of Marc's foot, where it had sweated in his running shoe only three days earlier, was a source of comfort. He hugged the shoe tightly; and as he breathed, molecules of Marc's flesh and sweat entered his own body, becoming a part of him once again. But this was a poor substitute for the rough and primal way Marc's body had once entered his, and he finally threw the shoe across the room so that his arms would be free to hold nobody.

Lizbeth's brown eyes were narrowed at him in a peculiar mix of fondness and exasperation.

"Get your skinny white ass up that gangway or I swear to God I will start doing Meg Ryan's screaming orgasm scene from When Harry Met Sally."

"You wouldn't."

Lizbeth moaned loudly, eyes going wide and hands rubbing her abdomen suggestively. "Yes. Yes! Yes! I would!"

People turned to peer at the two of them and Sawyer slumped in defeat. He silently admitted he had no dignity left to gather, so he grabbed their carry-on bags instead and made his way to the cruise ship's gangway to board with his friend. She took his arm and patted it consolingly.

"We'll try not to have fun, though," she said with a pout, and he laughed.

"I'm sorry, Lizbeth. You've got to be getting tired of it by now."

She shook her head. "One year, Baby. You get one year to be in a mourning funk and you're only nine months in." She patted his arm again. "Get it all out in the next three months, though; cuz then I start kicking ass."

He cocked his head so that their skulls bonked gently. "I love you."

"I know, Baby. Who wouldn't?"

As Sawyer climbed the ramp, he took a moment to acknowledge the clear San Diego day. The late- October sky was a cheerful bright periwinkle, mocking the darkness within him; and the air was filled with the mixed tang of fish from the sea, and garlic from Little Italy only five blocks behind him. His brain registered the beauty, but it moved nothing within him.

There was a smattering of cirrus clouds looking like cotton stretched until transparent; a thinning of the veil as the earth turned closer to Samhain. The thought made Sawyer shiver in the breeze, and he hastened his steps upward.

Since they had a suite reserved, they received a few extra amenities including expedited boarding, and they were met at the top of the gangway by their hostess.

"I'm so glad you reached us safely, Mr. Sawyer," she said, filling his hand with hers, and then immediately swapping it for a glass of very nice champagne. "My name is Giglio, please call me Gi."

"Just Sawyer," he replied. "Everyone calls me Sawyer."

Lizbeth sipped her own flute of bubbly, eyes rolling back in her head expressively. "Oh, gawd. This is good."

Gi grinned at her and said, "I'm so glad you chose to share your anniversary with us. I understand this is your twentieth?"

Sawyer managed not to drop the glass, but he stuttered until Lizbeth laid her calming hand upon his arm.

"The cruise was booked a year ago for Sawyer and his spouse; but his husband passed away in a car accident this past year. I'm here as a friend."

Sawyer blinked rapidly, and tried swallowing around the knot in his throat. He finally just slid her hand along his arm until it clasped with his own, and he squeezed it gratefully.

The hostess touched his arm gently. "I'm very sorry for your loss, Sawyer. I'm glad you decided to sail with us. The sea offers many things for people; for some it is solace."

"Does it offer endless orgies for others?" Lizbeth asked. "I could sure use one of those."

Gi stifled a laugh, but looked relieved when Sawyer offered a broken smile to his friend. They turned and entered the security checkpoint to make their way toward their suite.

"The Grand Entry was just redesigned last year. The Lillehammer was in dry dock for about nine months while many of the rooms and public areas were updated. The one thing that did not change was this beautiful piece..." Gi gestured to a massive female figurehead mounted in the center of the atrium. The woman burst from the wood like Athena from the brain of her sire, a ligneous form of curves and strength.

"Wow," Lizbeth murmured, looking up into the blank eyes of the carved beauty.

"She is fifteen feet long, carved from Norway Spruce," Gi told them in the professional tones of a museum docent. "She is from the 17th Century and was found washed up on a remote arctic island in Norway. Because of the climate, the wood has been almost completely preserved. Her name, "Lille" is carved into a space at the bottom."

"She looks so sad," Lizbeth said.

"There is a Norwegian story dating to the time of this figurehead of a woman named Lille who was married to a ship's captain. She was deeply in love, but while he was enamored of her beauty, he liked little else about her. It is said that he commissioned a figurehead in her likeness for his ship, and thereafter became more married to his work than he was to his wife. She eventually died of a broken heart, wanting nothing more than to be with the man she loved."

Sawyer touched the swirling grain of the Norwegian conifer. "You're saying that she's still pining away?"

There was a snort from behind him and Sawyer turned to find a blonde man of about forty years looking at him with humor dancing in his grey eyes. The man was dressed in brilliant officer whites, and a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, exposing fine laugh lines around his eyes.

The man reached out his hand and grasped Sawyer's. "Perhaps she is," he murmured with a sly smile, "But I think she spruces up the place."

"Sawyer, please meet First Officer Christian Jansen. Christian, this is Sawyer and his friend, Ms. Myers."

"I believe it's your turn," the blonde invited Sawyer with a raised eyebrow.

Sawyer released the man's hand and shrugged. "Sorry. I'm stumped."

The first officer grinned, "Nice," and then turned to greet Lizbeth with a handshake and a handsome smile. "Welcome aboard, Ms. Myers."

"Are you single?" Lizbeth asked baldly, and the officer laughed again, this time quite loudly.

"I am," he acknowledged. "My tenth wife just passed away under mysterious circumstances. You look so much like my eleventh, I feel I know you already."

Lizbeth grinned appreciatively. "Darlin'! My twenty-eight children don't care how many wives you've had; they just want a daddy to pay for their braces and college."

Christian laughed delightedly. "Gi, please tell me these marvelous guests will be joining me for dinner at my table?"

The hostess gave a small nod. "Of course," she acknowledged. "I'll just need to make a minor adjustment."

"Wonderful. Until dinner, then?" He smiled openly at Lizbeth, and then let his eyes linger a moment on Sawyer in question.

Sawyer found himself nodding at the invitation; the first officer winked at him, then turned and walked away.

"That is a freakishly hot man," Lizbeth whispered to their hostess. "Blonde hair, chiseled face, blue eyes..."

"Grey," Sawyer murmured, causing Lizbeth to turn and regard him with surprise. "What, Lizbeth? They're grey."

"Well, well, well. You noticed the man has eyes."

Sawyer blushed and looked away to the other side of the large atrium where he was surprised to find someone staring back at him. She was wearing a Halloween costume a few days early: an old-fashioned dress that looked as if it had been made for her, rather than bought in a costume store. The attire appeared to be grey, but not the arresting color of a pair of eyes; it was the grey of something once vibrant that had been washed away. In fact, her entire appearance bore the look of an old photograph, a monochromatic image in a modern world of color. Even her hair and eyes were pale, her lips and cheeks pallid, as if siphoned of color. She regarded him somberly.

"Your room is right this way," Gi told them, pulling his attention away with her words; and when he looked back just a moment later, the woman was gone.

Their cabin was impressive for its size as well as decor, an extravagant use of space and color.

"What in the world was he thinking booking such a large suite?" Sawyer wondered. "It's our anniversary; presumably he'd planned on us sleeping together. What did he think we would do with two bedrooms?"

"You know exactly what he hoped to do with multiple rooms, and I'm glad he went big," said Lizbeth, slipping into her bedroom to begin unpacking her carry-on.

Her words flushed him with unexpected warmth. He DID know what Marc wanted to do in each of these rooms, as well as the large living area and small dinette. He glanced at the round table and wondered if it would have held up. They'd probably be half undressed and on that table right now if Marc...

"Stop it, Sawyer," Lizbeth's gentle rebuke drifted from the bedroom. "It's okay to miss him, Baby; it's not okay to pretend he's still here."

Sawyer jerked his head in a quick nod and took a shaky breath, clenching his jaw against the burn in his eyes. He retreated to his own room and opened his leather satchel. He carefully lifted out two small boxes and placed them gently on the table beside his bed.

"Oh," Lizbeth whispered from his doorway. He looked up at her guiltily and saw her fingers pressed to her lips.

"I had to; it's our anniversary." He blinked at her rapidly, and she was suddenly in his arms and squeezing him tightly before he had time to defend himself.

"There's a whole bottle of that champagne out there," she said into his chest. "I say we drink it all in the next hour and then go get some more and drink that, too. We can go to dinner roaring drunk and make passes at the first officer."

Sawyer tightened his hug on his friend so that she grunted.

"He was awfully handsome," he murmured, "but I'm not really sure which of us might be successful at the passes."

"You. No question."

"It was only a brief chat..."

"You didn't see him staring at your butt before he introduced himself. You thought his puns were about the spruce figurehead, but no; he was sprouting wood."

Sawyer laughed and let her go. "I can't really hug you while you talk about sprouting wood. It's too weird."

"I'm gonna go open the bottle of champagne out there. Bring your glass." She glanced quickly at the small shrine beside the bed before leaving his room.

As it turned out, he was not drunk at dinner that night, although there were moments when he wished he was.

The first officer's table was large and round, accommodating eight. It was set formally with small place cards indicating each guest's seat. Lizbeth smirked when they found that Sawyer was positioned next to Christian while she had been seated several places further around, between an older woman from Nebraska and a very handsome Italian man in his twenties. Scattered around the table was the Nebraskan woman's husband, their adult son, and the Italian man's beautiful-as-a-model girlfriend.

Christian was bedecked in his immaculate dress whites, and greeted each guest with a smile and handshake; but even his charm did not keep dinner from getting off to a bad start. The two Italians spoke across the people between them, continuing an argument they'd been having as they entered the dining room. Their two beautiful faces were taut with anger, and the typical lilt of the Italian language was roughened with abrupt, harsh words.

The man brushed off his companion's tirade with a wave of his hand and then looked around the table at his uncomfortable dining companions. Switching to heavily accented English, he said: "You must forgive us. My girlfriend gets jealous when I flirt. I love beautiful women; and they love me."

The couple from Nebraska didn't seem to know how to respond, so they carefully studied their white china plates and spotless silverware.

Their son, however, broke into a broad grin and said with enthusiasm: "I love beautiful women too!" His voice and manner of speech clearly indicated that he had some type of intellectual disability. The overall effect of his words and manner was very childlike; everyone laughed in relief at the broken tension.

The blushing man then looked at Lizbeth and added: "You're a beautiful woman. I'm Ralph."

Lizbeth laughed with delight and winked at him. "Thank you, Ralph. I'm Lizbeth."

The gorgeous Italian man's dazzling smile and velvet voice sliced between the two of them. "You really are quite beautiful, Lizbeth, if a little heavy. You're... Rubenesque, I think they say. I'd like to take you dancing after dinner. My name is Romano; you may call me Roman."

Lizbeth's smile showed a bit of teeth.

"Really?" She asked mildly. "You look a bit more like a Pecorino. May I call you Pecker?"

There was a stifling hush at the table except for the first officer's sudden fit of coughing.

"What is it that you do for a living, Roman?" Christian rasped, moving them all to safer ground.

Sawyer found himself staring at Christian's hand while Roman answered that he and his girlfriend were both models, of course. The hand was larger than his own, with calloused fingers showing short, blunt nails. The first officer was holding a glass of wine as he listened. The purpose of holding the glass brought forth the character of strength from under the skin. Veins stood upon the surface of the flesh, mapping the hand's strength and showing it capable of holding a sword or a gun or a cock - any weapon of destruction.

He watched a vein throb slowly, as if sending him a message in Morse code; he wondered what it was trying to tell him.

The cuticles looked a bit ragged, as if Christian kept the nails trimmed but was not fussy enough to keep them perfect. It was a balance that made Sawyer's mouth turn dry. It was so very masculine, but civilized, and it was causing a deep yearning to grow within him; or perhaps it was only pulling an existing yearning from out of his depths.

"Sawyer?" There was a furrow of concern between the first officer's grey eyes when Sawyer finally looked up at him. It had been a struggle to look away from that hand; it had been a long time since a hand like that one had traced a ragged trail along his skin.

"Huh?" He was at a complete loss, and Lizbeth seemed to treasure it.

Rather than come to his rescue, his best friend threw back her head and laughed at him, the bright peals pulling attention from around the room toward them.

"What's so funny?" he growled at her, but Lizbeth was still laughing and wiping tears from her eyes.

"I was asking you what you did for a living," Christian said kindly.

"Mostly..." Sawyer answered, realizing belatedly he was in a horrible mood for shallow niceties, "I just think about the dead."

Lizbeth stopped laughing with a gasp, and Sawyer was immediately sorry for his words.

He did this: stopping the lives of others in a shocking manner as if to punish them for the way his own had been stopped. He glared at the green martini on the table and gritted his teeth, trying not to taste the self-loathing that was bitter upon his tongue. It was appropriate that the drink set before him looked like embalming fluid; he imagined the alcohol would make him appear quite lifelike on the outside while he rotted within.

The part of him that had once enjoyed simple dinner conversation had died with Marc; he found he had nothing to talk about except the things he no longer had. He was so full of sadness that it had nowhere to overflow but to other people.

"Gi told me about your loss. I'm very sorry," Christian murmured. His voice was pitched so the other passengers at the table could not hear them. "What was his name?"

Sawyer's gaze floated up from his Halloween-themed cocktail to meet the placid, steady regard of Christian. "Marc... And Lily, my daughter."

Christian winced. "She hadn't mentioned Lily. It must have been devastating. I can't even imagine it. I've never been married, but I hope to have a family someday."

Sawyer didn't know how to respond to that, so they simply looked at one another for a moment before they were distracted by other loud voices at the table.

"You stabbed me with the fork!" Roman angrily accused Lizbeth, rubbing his hand and scowling.

"How clumsy of me," she demurred. "I meant only to stab my thigh; I wonder how your hand got in the way?"

Roman's girlfriend was suddenly up from the table and stalking away with her boyfriend chasing behind her; they rapidly spit words in Italian that the other guests could not understand. The couple left the dining room in much the same way they had entered it.

Christian's mouth was agape, but he looked back to Sawyer again. "I'm gay myself, Sawyer. But I have to admit I think I'm in love with your friend."

Sawyer cracked what felt like his first real smile in months; like a split in a glacier, it broke open in a wide, but cold crevasse.

"Join the club," he said.

Their party was now only six, but they all seemed to enjoy the gourmet presentations of bisque, salad, and lobster tails. The Taylor family from Nebraska became absolutely chatty with the departure of what they called the ferners.

"Ferners?" Sawyer whispered to Christian.

The man's lips quirked, but he left his eyes on the talking Mrs. Taylor while whispering his response out of the side of his mouth. "Foreigners."

Sawyer choked on his green drink and tried to hide his laughter.

"Lizbeth says you're a homosexual," Mrs. Taylor told him suddenly. "I don't believe I've met a homosexual before. You're not at all what I was led to expect; you seem very nice."

"And handsome," Ralph added. "You're a handsome homosexual."

Sawyer found himself genuinely smiling again; the second time easier than the first. "Thank you, Ralph, that's very kind of you."

"No wonder Lizbeth is with you," Ralph replied. "You're handsomer than me, but not as handsome as the ferner she stabbed."

After a moment of amused silence, he demanded at all the grins, "What?!"

"I like how you say what you think," Sawyer told him. "You've very honest, and it's refreshing. You share that trait with Lizbeth."

"And you're also very handsome," Lizbeth told Ralph. When he started to object, she added, "not in the way you see on TV. But you're very attractive. And I am not really "with" Sawyer; we are best friends. Being homosexual means that Sawyer is attracted to men instead of women."

"Oh. Like Robbie. But he's gay instead of homosexual."

"Robbie's gay?" His father interjected. "Robbie Wilson down the road?"

Ralph waved him off. "He's been gay since high school. When we were swimmin' once, he asked me if he could suck on..."

"I was wondering if you dance, Ralph," Lizbeth interrupted smoothly just as Mrs. Taylor was reaching her hand to grasp her son's arm. "Pecker got me thinking about how fun it is. Would you like to go after dinner?"

Ralph turned very red at the question, his face blotching darkly. "I'm really bad at it; and I think his name was Roman."

"Well, I'm really good at it, so maybe together we'll be just alright; and his name IS Roman, but I'll likely continue to call him Pecker."

Ralph screwed his face up and his laugh honked across the table like a goose. "Okay."

The two of them departed together after dessert, and Mr. Taylor, who was watching her leave, quietly said of Lizbeth, "That woman is a force of nature."

"Hurricane Lizbeth," Sawyer agreed. He rose and shook their hands, and then thanked Christian for hosting them. He relished the rough feel of that strong hand in his own before he took his leave of the table.

He was in no mood for dancing or crowds, so he headed out to the starboard rail to stand on the deck and contemplate the dark expanse of ocean and sky. Sheltered a bit from the wind, he still felt it rip frantically at his hair and clothes, clutching at him like a frenzied lover. It was invigorating and depressing all at once. He wished Marc was beside him, his solid presence to block the wind, his strong hand to warm his fingers. He leaned his stomach against the rail to stop the ache that bloomed there.

Ship lights illuminated the inky water, a somber and still expanse except where it met the ship's hull and fountained into indigo spray. Sawyer found himself wondering about the universe below, the type of things that lived in the cold darkness, and what it would be like to plunge into their midst. It was not so much a suicidal thought as it was an inviting fantasy of belonging to a cold, silent world in which his drifting would not seem so out of place.

He was distracted from his thoughts by the sudden, thick scent of lilies. The flowers had been everywhere at the cremation, and he recognized their syrupy perfume immediately. When he looked up from the water, there was a woman just next to his elbow, and he gasped in surprise. With that intake of breath, the taste of the funereal perfume filled his mouth.

"I'm sorry; but you startled me."

The woman was wearing the same old-fashioned dress as when he had seen her in the entry, a colorless and ethereal garb for Halloween that seemed untouched by the wind. Her eyes were chips of pale ice, glittering in the darkness; and her ivory face was taut with an ageless melancholy. She turned her head from him and wordlessly looked back out to sea.

"I think your costume is beautiful," he told her.

Returning her gaze upon him, she frowned. The fingers of her hand reached up toward his face and quivered as if she longed to stroke his cheek. She looked as if she might cry, but then her eyes dropped and she lowered her hand.

She exploded in a rush of sea mist and darkness that left him gasping with cold. He stood shivering alone on the deck, gaping at the empty space where she had been.

"Do you believe in ghosts?" He asked his table companions the following evening.

The place cards had all been relocated to alternate seats, situating Romano as far as possible from Lizbeth; but Sawyer had only been moved from Christian's right side to his left. Lizbeth's knowing smile had been maddening, but Sawyer flushed with unexpected pleasure at their host's gesture.

"I believe in demons. And I think they sometimes pretend to be people," Mr. Taylor told him. The man was seated on Sawyer's left, and was examining his gazpacho skeptically. "My soup is ice cold. Is your soup cold?"

"Demons and souls are both real, yes," Romano answered firmly. "I think spirits lose their way or have been forgotten by the angels who should have taken them. Demons, though. .. They were never people to begin with."

"You celebrate Halloween in Italy?"

It was Gabi, Romano's girlfriend, who answered. "Eet iz new to us, no? We have de... de..." She turned to Romano and said some rapid words in Italian.

"Shambling dead," he said. "Zombies. We have a zombie party in Rome on Halloween now. Everyone comes out dressed like a zombie. It's all new to us in the past ten years or so. All imported."

"Do you go?" Ralph asked loudly, his eyes wide.

"He goes," Lizbeth muttered. "Dead girls don't run fast."

Mrs. Taylor choked on her iced tea, but then salads were served to replace everyone's uneaten gazpacho.

"And you, Christian?"

Christian thanked his server for the salad and then met Sawyer's eyes. "I do believe, yes." He shrugged. "It's more a romantic notion than a religious one, I suppose; but I believe our loved ones watch over us. I have trouble believing they are gone; it just doesn't feel like the truth to me."

Sawyer bit his lip, but he neither smiled nor frowned.

Lizbeth was frowning, though; looking at Sawyer with concern. "What has you asking, Sawyer? Have you seen a ghost?"

Sawyer's eyes flicked to hers and he sighed at the inconvenience of a friend who knew everything about him. He'd have to tell her later that he'd seen something, even if he didn't yet understand what it was; but in front of the other guests, he strove to delay her with honesty. "I am haunted every day, Lizbeth."

He toyed with the greens in his salad while Lizbeth glared at him. She abruptly turned her attention to Christian though, a shrewd look upon her face.

"You're running out of sides to put Sawyer on, Christian. I mean, there is your front side, I suppose, and your backside..."

Sawyer raised his head in alarm.

Lizbeth was smirking now. "It's just not fair the way you have to always sit by the authority figure, Sawyer. Everyone should get to sit by Christian, and everyone should have a chance to stab Pecker."

"Agreed." Christian said, not noticing Romano's scowl. "Tomorrow night Sawyer will have to have a drink with me after dinner since I'll not be able to sit beside him."

"I will?" Sawyer yelped.

"Yes," Lizbeth and Christian answered at once.

Lizbeth laughed deeply and glanced at Christian. "Oh. I like you. Tell us about life aboard a cruise ship, Christian."

And Christian did so, explaining his odd shifts, his responsibilities for navigation, and his duties while the Captain was sleeping. Lizbeth watched Sawyer watching Christian. She smiled through her salad, and smirked through her salmon, and giggled through her chocolate mousse. Sawyer didn't notice at all; he listened to Christian with his mouth slightly open, and mostly forgot to eat his dinner.

Late in the evening on Halloween, Sawyer paused in the Grand Entry on his way to meet Christian for drinks, and gazed at the beautiful figurehead that dominated the space. He walked around it slowly, studying the lines of glacial beauty. There were others walking through on their way to various events, most were dressed in costume, but he hardly noticed them as he examined the piece. It was amazing the way the carved lines depicted her beautiful sadness. Her eyes especially seemed to peer out from the wood and see his sadness right back.

Even after a pleasant exploration of Mazatlan with Lizbeth, and then a dinner in which every time he looked up from his food he found Christian's gaze upon him, he still felt the fundamental sorrow that lay beneath it all. And now he saw that sorrow looking back at him from sylvan eyes.

The small bar Christian had chosen was obviously set up as a gentleman's club: dark wood, maroon leather chairs, and a moose head upon the wall that had large white fangs sprouting from the corners of its mouth. Sawyer stared at the head perplexed until he heard the laughter of Lizbeth and Christian as they watched him from their small, private table for two.

"Lizbeth?" He asked as he approached. While always bewitching, she had dressed the part this night, her ample form squeezed into a whispy black dress, a peaked black hat upon her head, and her long nails shining with obsidian lacquer. He had not expected her there, and hadn't known she'd been invited.

She rose and brushed her lips on his cheek.

"Just doing my job," she whispered in his ear. She paused and grasped his arm while her dark eyes met his own. She leaned back in to whisper again. "I've been rethinking that year timeline, Sawyer. Nine months is enough time to create an entire human being; couldn't it be enough time to bury one?"

She pressed another kiss to his cheek and departed.

Christian, like Sawyer, was not in costume. Perhaps in deference to the holiday, he was in a pair of black slacks, along with a black polo that showed off his biceps very nicely. Sawyer managed not to gape; he saw a safe path, and he took it.

"You've been interrogated."

Christian shrugged. "She loves you."

"I see. It must have been pretty thorough."

Christian actually blushed and then laughed. "Let's just say that she knows my salary, my dating history since I was four, and the brand of condoms I buy."

"Oh my God."

Christian laughed again self-consciously as Sawyer collapsed in the empty chair. "I'm somewhat relieved I only asked you for drinks. I'm imagining she'd hire a private investigator if I'd asked you to a movie?"

"She took Marc's fingerprints from a glass when I first met him, and tried to get the FBI to do a background check."

Christian's face blossomed into a wide grin. "She's really like that all the time?"

"I've only known her for thirty years, but I can vouch she's been like that since the age of seven."

"Ah. So you're over thirty-five? I had guessed younger."

"Actually, she's a couple years younger than I am; I'm turning forty this year."

"I passed that milestone two years ago, thinking it was the end of the world, but have finally determined I like it quite a bit. Well, except dating. I haven't liked that part much."

"Why so?"

Christian sighed. "Men are pigs."

He motioned over a server who greeted him with a smile.

"No duty until 0400, Robert. I will have a dry martini, please. Sawyer?"

"Scotch, please; a Glenfiddich or Glenlivet if you have it. Neat?"

Christian nodded with approval while their waiter departed. "Very manly drink."

Sawyer smiled in response, "I'm still trying to forget the neon green atrocity from the first night. I have no idea what makes a drink that color. And it's not that I don't agree with you, but in what way have you found men to be pigs?"

"The general way." The first officer motioned vaguely and frowned. "I've had two real relationships in which I thought we wanted the same things: long-term commitments and a family, you know? Although we'd agreed on monogamy, fidelity... they both cheated on me. After Stephen, I decided to concentrate on my career and just have casual encounters with other men. But, I've tried enough of that and decided I'm not constructed for casual sex. Besides, I've discovered that men at my age are still preoccupied with youth. They want a lot of sex but only with those much younger than themselves. I don't get it."

"I don't have much experience with that; I met Marc when I was nineteen."

"You're kidding."

"No. In fact, I went to a bar a month or two ago. I had gotten in a really lonely funk, and... well, I finally just left the empty house and went to a gay club. It'd been a decade at least since I'd been in one; Marc hated them. I was nervous as hell, couldn't see in the dark, couldn't determine the gender of most of the people there, and then a kid in his twenties - cute as a button - tried to pick me up."

"Well, hey; that must have been fun..."

"At first it was flattering, sure. But at one point, he told me without any irony at all that he liked all of my vintage clothing. He wondered where I got it."

Christian laughed loudly, his grey eyes crinkling at the corners. His teeth flashed in the dim lighting of the bar, and Sawyer felt a brief thrill at the deep sound of his mirth.

"Youth," the first officer offered, "It's the only brain damage that eventually repairs itself. On the bright side, we have not yet reached the age where our foreheads look like our abs used to."

"But forty! I never expected to be here... at this age... without Marc. I don't know what to do."

"I don't imagine it's easy being alone at any age; but you certainly don't seem alone to me. Lizbeth is... well; she's what she is, right?"

"No, I'm not alone," Sawyer said softly. "I didn't mean to be maudlin. But you're also single, right? So you know; you know the difference between being alone and being ALONE."

Christian nodded grimly. "I do. I sometimes think the most alone I ever feel is in a room filled with people."

Their eyes met in complete understanding. "Exactly."

Sawyer finally looked away, feeling his stomach warm as if he'd already taken a sip of the scotch he did not yet have.

"I don't think it was even sex I was looking for that night in the bar. It's the intimacy I was missing. Reaching across a mattress in the dark and finding a hand to hold. I miss that."

Christian's lips were parted. "I don't think I've ever really had that."

Sawyer wondered what it would be like to never have had what he'd had. Was it harder? Easier?

"You're thinking thoughts," Christian observed.

"I am, yes. But not troubling ones."

Their drinks were set before them, but went ignored while they continued to stare at one another. The unbroken gaze caused an uncomfortable but exciting twist in his stomach, and Sawyer cracked an unexpected grin at recalling this same sickening euphoria upon meeting a certain boy twenty years prior.

"Thinking of Marc?"

Sawyer blushed. "Yes. Well, sort of. I suddenly remembered first meeting him. I recall feeling rather sick with excitement, and I never wanted it to end."

Christian's hand dropped to his own flat stomach and rubbed it. "I happen to be remembering that feeling myself right now."

"Whew. I'm glad mine aren't the only guts squirming."

Christian pursed his lips and then said slowly, "I have a suggestion. Let's go to bed."

Sawyer sputtered, and then laughed. "Oh my god; Men really are pigs."

"We are. It's true. But hear me out. Let's go to bed... and sleep."

"Right." Sawyer bit his lip and looked away.

"Please look at me, Sawyer." Christian smiled ruefully as the other man met his eyes again, and then shook his head gently. "I know what it sounds like, but I'm actually serious. You see, I'm not really built for sex without commitment. It's something I discovered in a very slow and painful process of leaving behind important parts of me in other men's bedrooms. And YOU are still in terrible grief from the loss of the great love of your life. I don't mean to presume, but you really shouldn't be having sex with twenty-year old boys or anyone else until you've been able to say goodbye to Marc, right?"

Christian lowered his voice and his eyes while Sawyer took a silent sip of his whisky. "I've been watching you for almost three days now, and I can't think of anything I'd like more than just to hold you tonight. You know, just sort of...." He shrugged.

"Spoon," Sawyer said hoarsely. He sipped again, and then searched Christian's eyes to make sure there was no teasing. "Merely hold each other?"

Christian shrugged again. "Hold each other, yes. I don't think I'd say 'merely', though. Tonight, it seems..."

"...like enough. Like everything." Sawyer completed the thought. "You mean it?"

"I do. I know that you might want something different..."

"I don't. I didn't have sex with the twenty-something, and I'm not ready for it with anyone else either. You are absolutely right about that. I ended up running from that bar, as a matter of fact." He swallowed roughly. "But to be held? I would really, really love that."

Christian licked his lips, his eyes wide with expectation. "So....?"

"I suppose we should finish our drinks, and then we can..."

Christian picked up his martini and knocked it back in a single go, replacing the glass, licking his lips, and gasping with the burn of the alcohol.

"Hell," Sawyer rasped. "Man on a mission?"

"You've no idea how much I want this."

Sawyer took a deep breath and rose from his chair. "I think I might have an idea. Let's go."

They strode toward the elevators, Christian's hand lightly touching Sawyer's back. "You're welcome to come to my quarters, but I have to get up at four o'clock tomorrow morning for my watch, and I'd hate to disturb you. Unfortunately, I can't leave you in the crew area unaccompanied."

"My cabin is fine. I'm sure Lizbeth is waiting in there right now for us to arrive."

"My quarters it is, then. This way."

The room was quite small and sparse, not at all what Sawyer expected for an officer.

"No wonder you call them 'quarters'. It's about one-fourth the size of mine."

"You should see the staff quarters."

"Really? They're smaller than this?" There was a desk, a closet, and a double bed.

"No. The staff rooms are exactly the same size as this. But there are four people in stacked berths."

"Jesus. Are we even going to fit in that bed?"

"Oh yes. The way I'm planning to sleep tonight, we'll fit just fine."

Sawyer snorted. "Fair enough. Do you want me to...?"

"Let me brush my teeth first; you can borrow a brush if you like."

It was only a few minutes before Christian was standing right in front of him, leaning in so that their foreheads touched. He trailed his big hands down Sawyer's chest and then returned them to his neck to unbutton his shirt slowly, exposing Sawyer's skin in an unhurried discovery.

"Mmmmm. Hair."

Sawyer chuckled and then gasped as a calloused fingers trailed slowly up and down his torso.

"God."

"Feel good?"

Sawyer bit his lip and nodded, reaching up to start his own task of getting the handsome officer out of his clothes.

"How does the crew refer to you? Is it 'First Officer Jensen'?"

"Hmmm. No. My title is civilian - corporate, really - and most of the staff refer to me as 'Mr. Jensen' if they're being polite, and 'hey, you!' if they are not." As Sawyer's palms spread out over the exposed planes of his pectorals he closed his eyes. "You may call me absolutely anything you like."

"Virginia?"

"Hmmm?"

"My late grandmother's name was Virginia, so I thought maybe I'd call you..."

Christian's eyes opened in alarm, but when he saw the expression on Sawyer's face, he guffawed. "Just get in the fucking bed."

"Yes, First Officer Jensen." Sawyer stepped back and peeled off his shirt, then toed off his shoes and worked the button of his fly.

"You're a mighty fine looking man, Sawyer."

"I'm forty."

"And there is a very good reason twenty-year-olds want you."

"I think he wanted my clothes."

"I do, too; hand them over, please. Yes. Now, into the bed."

Sawyer complied and then watched Christian carefully drape the clothes over the desk and chair before removing his own, snapping off the light, and joining him under the covers.

"I'm sorry about the, uh... I can't really help..."

"Don't worry about it," Sawyer breathed in relief as the warm arms surrounded him. He pressed back against the man behind him and felt the problem rubbing against the cheeks of his ass. "I've got the same issue. We'll just ignore them. Could you squeeze me tighter?"

"Oh, God yes."

Sawyer grunted at the strength in the arms, luxuriated in the feel of that long, warm body pressed against his own, and shuddered.

It was within this unexpected circle of safety that his last defenses abandoned him. His shuddering became convulsing, and the convulsing became sobs. There had been times in the past year when Sawyer felt he was the famous Wailing Wall, crumbling to pieces with only scraps of prayers filling the cracks, and this became one of those moments. Scalding drops from his eyes traced down his face and plopped upon the sheet. Christian ignored the tears like a gentleman, and snuggled his face against Sawyer's neck to kiss him gently. He held the wall together with only the strength of his arms.

And they slept.

It was about three o'clock when Sawyer awoke in the darkness of the room, alone in the bed. He heard Christian whispering in the bathroom. Although he was trying to be quiet, the conversation was fully audible in the cramped confines of the officer's quarters.

"No... no... I feel all right; it's not that. I just sort of, well... met someone, you know? And I wondered if... Really? You will? I can take your watches next week, Stuart, really. No, that's perfect. Just the one day to spend a little time? Excellent. Thank you."

As Christian climbed back into the bed, Sawyer turned over to face him.

"Did you just play hooky?"

Christian wrapped his arms back around Sawyer, and this time their hard cocks rubbed against one another.

"Damn. You're hard again, too," Sawyer gasped.

"I've had an erection going for about three years now, I think."

That pulled a laugh from Sawyer's slender form, vibrating their bodies together.

"Mmmmmm," Christian groaned. "You should probably turn back around, now... We're reaching a point where my self-restraint is, uh..."

"I'm afraid that might be even worse for me," Sawyer replied hoarsely, "if you were pressed against me there, instead."

"Ah. Okay. I see. Well... then maybe we should... well, you know; we could..."

Their lips met in the darkness as just a soft caress, moist with promise and longing. There was one's sigh accompanied by the other's groan, and then their mouths opened to taste more deeply.

Their tongues twined wetly as they grunted and heaved against one another, muscles straining as they finally found the mutual rhythm of need and purpose. Their bodies just fit, as bodies are meant to do, and they found a slick, gliding pleasure that burned through them.

To Sawyer, it was a sweet torment, feeling this strong body that was not Marc's wanting him so desperately. He knew that Christian's torture would come after, when the question of what came next was answered by disembarkation.

But the excruciating flames finally licked their way into Sawyer's brain so that he could think of nothing but how Christian's panting was inflating his own lungs, how Christian's tongue languidly explored every crevice of his mouth, and how Christian's body pummeled and slid against his own in a rough, punishing cadence.

Then even those thoughts were burned away as he clenched his eyes closed so tightly that he could see green and pink phosphenes explode beneath his eyelids. The colors brightened until they were only white, and then the pressure built inside him until that whiteness escaped the cage of his body, erupting into the dark.

Christian groaned loudly as the fluids lashed across his midsection, and he redoubled his efforts, sliding in the slickness provided by his partner, before he, too, was adding his expulsions of semen and breath and groans to the air.

They gasped against one another, suddenly exhausted and sated. Their kisses slowed and became a bit shy.

"That was... unexpected," Christian gasped.

"Really?" Sawyer laughed. "I don't suspect there is a single person who would have looked at this situation and not known that was going to happen."

"Men are pigs."

"We really are."

"Ready to sleep?"

"Can we wake up later and be pigs some more?"

"God, yes."

A slow, deep kiss, and then they were back asleep, entwined together with relaxed smiles on their faces and drying fluids binding them together.

*This ends part 1 of a 2 part story. I appreciate hearing from people who are reading my stories. Shoot me an email and let me know what you think. Your feedback is the only way I know you're reading and whether or not it makes sense to continue.

I have other stories, too. Look up Seth Kirkcauldy in the author's section.

seth-kirkcauldy@sbcglobal.net