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Marty often remembered the comment that Jeremy had later made about Peter looking like a `sausage' that cold winter day when he was dressed to leave Jeremy's apartment, completely bundled up by Marty in his parka and scarf before he was allowed to return to the cold outdoors. He silently laughed about it to himself as he was lying in bed that night, and had to admit that Jeremy was right. Peter did look like a sausage. Or a few other things.
Jeremy's sense of humor seemed to serve him well. It took a few weeks, but gradually his life returned to normal. Not to say simple or without other problems. But he had gotten his footing again, jumped back into the dating scene and had clearly come out of the experience with a better understanding of himself and what he wanted in his relationships.
These were just some of the thoughts going through Marty's mind as he lied in bed besides his boy. Unable to sleep, his thoughts careened back and forth, on one hand memories from the past few years here at school and on the other thoughts about the future and what it held for Peter and for them both.
When he remembered how Peter looked that day at Jeremy's he sometimes reproached himself about how he acted, thinking that maybe he should give Peter more space on these things. Ease up. Let him take care of himself more. But he also remembered back to their first season on the pitch, when Peter would fight his demands to take a rest. He always resisted initially but never fought too hard and always gave in at the end. All Marty could do was to take those reactions as some kind of sign that he was doing the right thing by both of them.
And now, feeling Peter once again pushing his head into his chest, trying to get closer, closer, closer: he didn't have any doubt that he was on the right course. As usual, he reached over and stroked Peter's back, now knowing just the right amount of pressure to apply between the shoulder blades to calm him down without waking him up.
"Are you OK?" he whispered, knowing that Peter couldn't hear him, but still asking. The breathing was the slightly-elevated type that he expected during these episodes. He was still asleep, but probably dreaming intensely.
What drove this behavior was clear. He knew that Peter depended on him, that they depended on each other, of course. But `depend' meant one thing while they were in school and only had their coursework and daily living needs to worry about.
But suddenly the responsibility beyond that really hit him. Peter DOES need him. He needed him that Christmas night when he fought his pneumonia, and all those times on the pitch. And he would need him not just now during school, but in the future, way into the future.
And not just in the sense of romance and emotion, but in the real bread-and-butter needs that would help him to live his life. They had decided that Peter would be a stay-at-home dad, so he would have no income. And their kids too, they would need to be taken care of and provided for and they would all depend on Marty to carry the burden.
He didn't have any problem agreeing to this when they came up with the plan. In fact, he was probably the biggest advocate for Peter being a stay-at-home Dad, like his Dad had (mostly) done. But he didn't think a lot about how he'd actually do this. The theory sounded attractive, along with the roles. And while he pondered the logistics of what he would do to support them, it didn't have a sense of urgency to it, so he thought he could just continue to ruminate and theorize about possibilities.
But now, this night, the weight of what this really meant hit him like an avalanche. "How will I do this?" he asked himself. So much responsibility. Peter. Kids. Maybe Peter's dads someday. That night, lying next to Peter and feeling and smelling him so close, it seemed overwhelming.
He drew a deep breath and lay there nervously, his jaw clenched. And then he felt Peter nudge into him again, but this time very gently, like he was just checking to see if Marty was there.
His eyes went down to his boy as he seemed to be getting some peace. The shallow breaths belied the power the he had and all that he had done for him. The fears, the panic attacks that had tormented Marty himself for so long seemed to have slowly evaporated over time. He almost couldn't remember why he was almost always on top when they had sex. Peter continued to insist on it, but he asked himself now – `what for?'
Suddenly, like when it had came on, the panic just disappeared. The nervous anticipation didn't leave, and he was glad of that. It helped to drive him. But there was no longer the sense that events and circumstances might block his path, like they threatened to before he met Peter. He could control the future and it wouldn't control him.
After that night, when all these thoughts raced through his head, he focused all of his energies on the career tasks that were ahead. Bik and Robert were more than generous with their counsel in helping him to take his and Peter's overall goals and create a plan to realize them. They had talked about Marty going to business school to prepare for some kind of career in finance, while Peter would support them with modeling (as long as his looks stayed fresh' he liked to joke.) Then it would be Marty's turn to step into the real world' and make a living for them both and the family that they would create.
Bik was especially helpful. His kids had the usual childhood problems growing up, but with Laura's illness, the challenges and burdens were magnified. It took her almost a year for her to recover from the birth of the twins and the emotional toll, not to mention financial, could be seen in the dark circles that had appeared around his eyes. But he never let his spirit flag.
"Two things," Bik told him once on during a long phone call that they had about his career. "You've got to be out there all time, Marty. You always need to be `on,' dealing with someone, figuring something out. Coming up with a solution to something. And hoping for some luck, too. Because no matter how hard you work, sometimes circumstances can kill you. So give yourself a lot of opportunities and chances."
His other point?
"You need to be social. Meet people, get to know them, share things with them besides work," he said. "On its face that doesn't seem like a bad thing. `Hey, what's wrong with getting to know people?'"
"We'll, it takes time, and not just during the day. A few people realize that you have family responsibilities and know the limits of how far they can push. They want to know you so that they can build trust, but they don't want or need spend every waking hour with you to achieve that."
"For better or worse, however, the others need stroking and attention and want to spend lots of time with you, and a good share of that in bars. I don't get it, frankly. They work with you all day sometimes, so they know who you are, plus they have families of their own. But for lack of a better word, they need to be `stroked' and so take a lot of personal time in terms of care and feeding. I hate it, frankly, especially the time spent in bars," he said, frustration apparent in his voice. "I like a good drink as much as the next guy, but my family comes first and every evening I spend with these people is an evening away from my kids and Laura and everyone else."
"I never appreciated until then how much effort my Pop and Dad made to be home in the evening. And even when they couldn't be, which seemed rare, they always called. And jeeze, as a kid, it felt kind of cool to get a phone call from anyone," he said with a smile.
"But you know what? I know why I'm doing this. And it's for the same reason that you'll be doing it, he said. "There is a certain rush in the give-and-take of finance, it's an interesting system. But I couldn't never put this much energy into it if it wasn't for the people who depend on me."
"There are folks whose entire lives are about the job. They just want to pile up money and cars and houses and titles and they'll do anything to get all that stuff. Well, that's probably enough for them but it would never be enough for me. I see how it can provide for the kids and give them opportunities and help me... um...take care of Laura, too," he added, her health an unrelenting concern with him. "But it doesn't do anything more than that."
He looked down again at Peter and knew what he was doing and why he was doing it, too. Marty had set himself the goal of being as thrifty as possible while he was in school so that when he graduated they would have a little debt as possible. He knew that Peter felt pressure too, and the he would do everything he could to prepare for the future in the same way.
And prepare he did. To get himself in shape for this blitz of work, Peter had hit the gym hard during the past fall. Where he was just trying to stay healthy with his earlier regimen, doing it more for health maintenance than anything else, he now had mixed in a financial goal.
"I need to take this whole modeling thing more seriously, at least while you're in grad school. It's not a career choice, just a practical way to make more money than your typical recent liberal arts graduate," he said as they were eating breakfast one day at the beginning of the fall semester.
"Pete, you don't need to push yourself too hard at it," Marty protested at the time. "I mean, you do pretty well just as you are, no?"
"I can kind of float by the way I am now. But to get the really good, high-paying gigs, I've got to get really buff. Not big, I mean, I'm not that kind of morph, as it were," he said, self-consciously chuckling to add some humor as Marty began to get a very serious look in his eyes. "But a bit more, as they say `cut,' than I am now."
"Has Rick egged you on about this, stepping up the workouts, didn't he?" came Marty's slightly skeptical response.
"Well...yeah, he's all for it, of course. I know that he just sees dollar signs and all." Peter then looked away, into the distance for a moment. "And I guess that I do, too."
"He probably hinted at maybe taking out the hearing aid, too, huh?" Marty added.
"Yea," Peter said. "And I have to say, for a moment, I wasn't so sure about giving up the hearing aid. I mean, this is kind of make-or-break for us, you know? We're really going to need the money."
That asshole!' Marty thought to himself. That his agent would manipulate Peter's feelings for his family in order to improve his product' made him want to retch. But he knew that Peter's intentions were sincere so had to handle it carefully.
Marty put down his fork and reached his hand over to turn Peter's head toward the table again. "We aren't at that place yet, and I hope we never will be. We don't need it that much, Pete. We can make it work without you needing to do that."
Peter head shook up and down, clearly almost ashamed of what he had said.
Dragging this thumb softly across Peter's cheek, Marty said, "We'll make it. It will be tough, but I know that we'll still do OK."
He knew how much this point of pride about his hearing had meant to Peter in the years he had known him, so to hear him say what he did made the seriousness of the situation even more clear. That's one of the first things that got him thinking about how difficult real life, not college, was going to be.
It wasn't as if they were the only ones contemplating life after college either. Wei, Jeremy, and almost all their other buddies were probing the future, too. All but Jeff.
"Jeeze, I don't see what the big deal is," he said to Peter one day at lunch. "I mean, I know my old man has a lot of dough and all, maybe that's why I don't care. He and my mom don't put any pressure on me at all." He took a small bite from the corner of his pastrami sandwich. As was usual with him, he bought lots of food, only nibbled at most of it, and left the rest on the plate.
"So you're going to do nothing? I mean, you're just going to sit around on your computer cruising porn sites for the rest of your life, are you?" Peter asked, not looking up from his own plate of food.
"Go ahead, rub it in, Kovar. You go home every night and get fucked by your full-time stud service. Meanwhile, mere mortals like me have to work for it," he said as he sniffed.
Peter smirked in response. It was always hard to keep this guy on topic, as Jeff especially liked to goad Peter about his relationship. But now he just brushed it off. At one time, he thought that Jeff flitted easily from one subject to the other because of his brilliance and hyperactive mind, until Jeremy suggested to him that it was more likely because of drugs.
"Well, back to you, Jeff. What are you going to do?"
Looking out over the large dining room filled with students, he focused on no one in particular. "Hmmm...I don't know. Probably go to Ibiza for a while, chill there. Maybe grad school down the line, who knows. I could teach. That might be interesting, all those hot lads who'll do anything to get a good mark."
"You'd be a good teacher," Peter said. "Your writing style is great, I have to say, and you're the best editor that I know. You can really pick apart a sentence. Did you ever think of stuff like that, I mean, to do professionally," he asked, holding his sandwich in his hand as he looked back at him.
"But then I'd have to grade the ugly ones, too," Jeff whined, taking a big swig from his water before turning his attention to a guy walking by.
"Well... hello there!" he muttered, leering at the tall, blond jock carrying his tray past their table, and ignoring Peter. "Didn't I just see you in the weight room," he continued, still under his breath but loud enough for Peter to hear.
But Peter just sighed. It was like a thousand other conversations between them during the past year which consistently decayed into the fantasies of Jeff's erotic imagination.
It wasn't always quite this bad, but it had gotten worse when they all became seniors. Yet it wouldn't do any good to be judgmental. Jeff could never land these fantasy guys he worshiped and the ones he could get out for an evening, or a night, never went beyond one date. It didn't do any good to confront him about the drugs. Peter had tried it once and it almost ruptured their friendship. There was nothing he could do but maybe lead by example.
"So is that what it's like with your boy?" Jeff said, turning back to Peter with a hungry grin. "You get to sleep with a stud like that lying next to you every night! What's it like?"
He had heard that before, too. Many times.
"Why don't you just finish your sandwich? You're looking thin, Jeff," he replied, taking a bite of his own.
"Oh, the thinness... that's my ...medication you know," Jeff replied.
Peter raised his head back up. "Yes, I think it is, Jeffers," he replied. "It's definitely the meds."
"But you aren't on the same meds. Oh no! I have to say, Kovar, You are looking pretty buff these days. You've always been a kind of lean fella, but something is different now. Jeeze, I can even see little veins in those biceps of yours!"
Peter immediately pulled down his sleeves. He'd never thought twice about it that day, he knew it was going to be a hot and humid when he left in the morning and so he threw on one of his lightest t-shirt.
"Oh that. It's just for work. I'll never get big, but I'm trying to give myself a bit more versatility for these modeling gigs."
"Versatile? I'll say. Is that what your boyfriend says – `Versatile?'"
"Ha-ha," Peter replied, his voice betraying a slight annoyance with the continued sexual innuendo.
"Come on, Kovar. Make a muscle for me. Let's see what all this `versatility' has been doing for you."
Peter smirked. "Sorry, no demonstrations here," he replied as he took another bite of his sandwich, conspicuously chewing it, practically with his mouth open, while looking straight at Jeff.
"Aw, come on," Jeff continued. "I never thought of you as some kind of gym rat, but I know that you'll do anything for your boy. So let's see it." He kept up the badgering until Peter finally gave up and rolled his eyes.
He drew his right arm across his chest and pulled the left sleeve up a slight amount to reveal just enough to show what it looked like, but no more. He then put his hand behind his head, like he was going to scratch the back of his head, and flexed the muscle. It was an angle that was only visible to Jeff.
"Holy crap!' Jeff cried out, just about loud enough for the people around him to hear. "It really is a Bi-Cep," he said, emphasizing the two syllables. "You can see both friggin' heads, man. You really do have those baseball biceps!" His eyes locked hungrily on Peter's flex. "Wow, even a twig like you can do it."
Mortified by the attention that Jeff was calling to their table, he was about to roll his sleeve back down when Jeff made a motion with his hand to stop.
"Wait a sec, there," Jeff commanded as he leaned forward across the table. "Keep flexing for a second," he said as he closely examined the flexed muscle. "Is that a bruise there? Has your boy been beating you? Oh, no, he hasn't..." Jeff said, his voice raising in anticipation.
"It'a fuckin' sucker bite – right on top of that damn muscle!" he said, laughing. He pulled back so fast in his chair that he almost toppled over.
Peter yanked down his sleeve and quickly put his hands back around his sandwich. He jumped up for a second as it looked like Jeff really was about to fall out of his chair, though he thought that it wouldn't have necessarily been a bad time for an accident. The thought even crossed his mind to give Jeff a push. Anything to divert attention from the scene that he was making.
"Can I feel em, maybe kiss em? Make `em feel better?" Jeff asked between laughs, "I promise I won't leave any teeth marks."
"No!" Peter shot back, focusing on his meal. He took another bite and looked straight ahead, hoping that no one around them noticed.
"So cute. So modest," Jeff teased again. "I'll bet your boyfriend likes those. I'll bet he sucks and licks them every night. Does he ask you to flex them for him before he licks?"
"Here," Peter said as he pushed the other half of his sandwich at Jeff. "stick this in your mouth before I stick something else in there."
"You promise?" Jeff replied, tracing his tongue around his lips.
"I'm going over to pick up some food from Aunt Hanna's. I'll be back about in about an hour or so. Don't wait up if you're tired, OK?" Peter said as he put on his winter jacket.
"OK," Marty responded from their upstairs room. "You have a scarf on?"
"Um...lets' see," he replied, searching his down parka.
"Wear a scarf!"
"Oh, OK, got it!" he said as he unwound it from the large front pocket. "See ya in a few minutes," he called back up the stairs before heading through the kitchen and out the back door. "You hear that, Dad, Pop," he called out to the living room before heading out the door.
"We heard, Peter, thanks," his Pop replied as he looked up briefly from his magazine.
Marty looked in the mirror. "Now or never," he said to himself.
Brad was sitting in the modern overstuffed chair, while Mike was lying on the couch, his head on a pillow near the armrest, his right hand scrolling through his messages on his phone while his left hand was propped behind his head. They both greeted Marty has he came and sat down but continued what they were doing.
Marty took the empty chair next to Brad and cleared his throat. Brad was the first one to notice. "Are you OK?" he asked, glancing over.
"Um... yea," I'm fine, Marty replied. "But, um... if you both have a second there's something that I need to talk to you about."
They both immediately raised their heads from what they were doing, with his Pop sitting up straight on the couch. "Is everything OK," Brad asked, his eyes focused on Marty as he nervously adjusted himself in the chair.
"Yes, yes, everything is OK. I mean everything is great, really. It is...I just want to say something, or, um... ask something." He was rubbing his hands against each other, a very unusual thing for him that seemed to belie his effort to calm himself down.
"You sure?" Brad asked, he placed the magazine on the coffee table next to him. Their now rapt attention made Marty even more nervous.
"Yes, it's OK. Like I said, it's all... really good. But I need to ask you both something."
"Go ahead, Marty. Whatever you need, we'll try to help."
"Thanks, but it's not a need. Well, it is, but it's not...well..."
Brad smiled. He was perplexed, but sensed that at least there wasn't some major problem. At least he hoped that there wasn't. "Go ahead Marty. We're here to listen."
"OK...well... here goes..." He took a deep breath before he started.
"You know, Peter and I have been together for a couple of years now. It's been wonderful and great and all that. We've talked about the future and having kids, where we'll live and all that stuff. It really couldn't be better. I'm very happy, and I think he is too."
"He is happy, all those things, Marty. We know more than anyone how much you've done for Peter," Brad said.
"Well...we're in school in Massachusetts, where same-sex couples can be married... and...well... I know I don't need to ask you if I can marry Peter, but I do want your blessing when I do. Because I want to ask him to marry me."
Brad and Mike both looked at each other, smiling...and then blinking rapidly.
"He's so special. I feel so lucky. So lucky..." his voice trailed off.
Before he could say anything else, he found himself in a hug from Brad. "He will be thrilled, Marty," he whispered in his ear.
Mike then traded places with him and gave Marty a kiss on the cheek and the forehead. "You have our blessing. A thousand times," he said as he squeezed his shoulder.
"When are you going to pop the question?" Brad asked.
"I told him I wanted to take him out for dinner tomorrow night, just the two of us, maybe start our own little tradition. Then, if he says yes..."
"He'll say yes!" they both interjected.
Marty chuckled. "...well, if he says yes, then I think we'll do it when you're all up for graduation, just before or after, whatever he'd like. I just want to marry him," he said, with the biggest smile on his face the either of them had ever seen.
"I don't see you dressed up like this very often. You look very distinguished," Peter said as he reached over and adjusted the knot on Marty's navy blue tie.
"You remember this tie, right?" he replied.
"Oh, yeah. I bought it for you last year. I thought you might need something for meetings or special events," he replied. "It goes nice with your eyes and hair," Peter said as he reached up and brushed a few strands off of Marty's forehead.
"I hope the food is good enough for all the dressing up. Are you sure you want to do this? I mean, gosh, the only time I ever wear a suit is if I'm paid to walk a runway or have my picture taken in it," he teased. "And you only seem to wear them when you're trying to get paid for it, like for a scholarship or job interview."
The big smile and laugh that Peter got in return was not exactly a direct answer to his question, but with a face like his, who cares' he thought to himself. If he wanted to start a tradition of a nice formal dinner-for-two at the holidays, then why not?'
Though he was usually an informal dresser, Marty was always very neat and tidy even with his t-shirts and jeans, and it was the same way with his sport jacket and slacks. And he seemed especially fastidious today. He had made sure that both of them were wearing clothes fresh from the cleaners, and had even bought Peter and himself boutonnieres.
Marty always seemed to have some kind of sentimental attachment to the Holidays, which didn't seem all that unusual to Peter. Lots of people do. Maybe he had some experiences with his Dad that made it a good time for him, or maybe with Angela, or perhaps his first Christmas with Peter's family. But since that was when Peter got pneumonia, he wasn't quite sure how that one fit in.
But the way Marty looked, heck, he wouldn't mind doing this more often, he thought. The aqua-colored tie, with flecks of yellow against the white shirt and dark blue suit looked great on him. He still couldn't understand what people like Jeff thought when they described his face as `simple.' So what if he didn't have Peter's own angular jaw. Marty's look was much softer, his whole face rounded and curvy, not like his own lean edges. But as far as Peter was concerned he was perfect.
Rubbing the back of his hand instinctively against Marty's chin, he couldn't detect any of the stubble the he usually felt at night. "Did you just shave?" he asked.
"Yeah, I thought I'd do it again, just so I wouldn't have any 5'o'clock shadow, at least not tonight."
"I kind of like that...It's hot, you know. Very virile that little 5'oclock shadow that you get. It means you've got active hormones."
Marty rolled his eyes and smiled as he reached up and gripped Peter's wrist as he continued to stroke his face. "We can discuss that later," he teased. "But we'd better get going soon. The reservation is for 8:00 and it's already 7:30 and we have to get our coats and drive and park and all that stuff."
He's certainly being organized tonight,' Peter thought to himself. Doing this must be really important to him.' He quickly gathered their coats and gloves and made sure that he was one step ahead of him in preparing to leave.
"Can you hear me OK, Pete?" Marty asked. When they had arrived almost two hours ago, the restaurant was practically empty, but in the meantime every table had become filled and there was a continuous low murmur filling the air.
"Pretty, well, I think. Lucky this is a small table and we can be close. And there's not a lot of noise in this corner here, so that helps."
"Good. I had been by here before and really wanted one of these two-person window tables and not be out in the middle of the room. I thought this little alcove would work well for us."
"Yea, it's a nice seat. It's cool looking out at the snow on the trees in the little courtyard, with all the teeny lights," he said, his hand supporting his chin as he stared outside.
"I really like being here with you. It's perfect, thanks for thinking of it," Peter said.
"Good. I'm really glad you like it."
Peter turned his head toward him. "I do. A lot. But we don't `have to have fancy meals, you know. We could do this together anyplace, even at home. It's kind of nice looking into the backyard there, too, especially when it's snowing."
"I know," Marty replied, smiling shyly back at him. "But I wanted this to be special."
"Special?"
"Uh huh," Marty replied. "Special."
Peter looked at him. "So what was the real reason you got me out here?"
Marty was silent for a moment before he spoke.
"I need to ask you something, Pete," he said firmly, but couldn't quite bring himself to look straight at him.
Peter sat up in his chair. "Is everything OK? Is Angie OK? Is anything wrong?"
Marty could see he had gotten him worried. "No, no! Everything is OK, Pete. It's OK... I mean, it's even better than OK." He tried to say it with confidence, but his voice was clearly shaking.
"What do you mean? Are you sure that you're OK."
Marty cleared his throat, but for a moment couldn't speak.
"You OK?" Pete asked again, reaching over and squeezing Marty's hands, which he had nervously folded in front of himself and, unusually for Marty, had become very sweaty.
Instinctively he took Peter's hand in his, gave them a squeeze, then gently held them there.
"Yeah...I'm OK. It's just...well...we've spent a lot of the last year making plans for the future, what we'd be doing for the next year, how we'll work, share things, where we'll live, raise kids, everything important. It's really good."
"I agree. It's been good, babe, real good. So what else is there?"
"Well...I've been thinking...you know we can just keep going on what we're doing, we don't need to do this, of course. It won't make a big difference, but..."
"But what?" Peter asked again. He could now feel Marty's hands slightly trembling.
Marty gave Peter's hands a tight squeeze, releasing some of the pressure but still keeping their hands together. "When we're back in Massachusetts I was wondering...um...if you'd like to be married there. I mean, um...would you...uh...marry me?
Peter stared back at him blankly.
"Pete?" Marty asked, his hands now completely lubricated with sweat as he continued the gentle grip on Peter's hands.
Peter's mouth opened, but no sound came out. But Marty felt him squeeze his hand. Hard.
"Are you OK?"
There was still no speaking. Releasing their hands as he rose up out of his seat, Peter stepped to the other side, pulled Marty up from this chair and wrapped his arms around back, joining their bodies together and holding them in a tight embrace.
"Yes, I will marry you." he whispered in Marty's ear as he felt a firm tug from the arms that were now wrapped around him.
"Boy, we could have it when everyone is up for graduation. Maybe have it in the Chapel? I'd really like that. And the kids, they would have a ball. We'd have a reception and..."
It was great to hear Peter's excitement as they waited for dessert. It was all he hoped it would be and more. He noted that Peter could hardly contain himself, and went on and on about the different things they could do, when they would do them, who all would be there. The enthusiasm was wonderful.
But Marty could sense something else was starting to happen, something that had happened once before with Peter when he got excited.
Just that moment, Peter stopped talking and just stared blankly at Marty. He was struggling with something but couldn't move. In an instant Marty knew what it was.
He couldn't breathe.
His heavy wooden chair fell with a thud onto the carpeted floor as Marty launched himself toward the other side of the table. He would have regretted the commotion, if he even realized it. But all he could see was Peter's desperate attempts to get air.
The only thing he thought he could do was what he had done the only time this had ever happened, when they first really discovered each other. He knelt down on one knee next to him, and with his left hand softly stroking Peter's knee, he used his right to do the same to his back.
Peter couldn't move his body, but reached down and desperately clawed at Marty's arm. His fingers were digging in with desperation, but Marty didn't flinch and just let him grab.
"Pete...easy... breathe easy...e-a-s-y..." he tried to say slowly, speaking directly into Peter's ear. His own concern was rapidly mounting as Peter seemed to now be taking breaths but much too rapidly to seem natural. They were more like gasps.
"I'm here, Pete. Don't worry. I'm here...I'm not going anywhere," he said. The grip on his arm was so strong he couldn't slide it anymore, but he still tried to at least rhythmically squeeze Peter's thigh in spite of the fingers digging through the shirt and into his skin.
"Easy...easy...,' he kept repeating..."
He didn't seem to be getting worse, but his breathing didn't slow down, either. In spite of his own panic, he tried to maintain a steady voice.
"You'll be OK...just try to slow down just a bit...you'll do OK...I'm here, don't worry."
After what felt like forever, he could feel Peter's breathing slowing down. It wasn't much, but as he continued to coax and stroke him, Peter seemed to be slowing down and getting a bit more control. And his grip was easing too, though Marty couldn't tell if that was from relaxation on Peter's part or numbness on his own.
Just when he thought that Peter's breathing had returned to normal he felt Peter's forehead knock against his own, where it stayed and rested, their breaths now mixing together. And his weight too, as it felt like he was supporting almost all of Peter's upper body.
"You OK?" Marty asked. His mouth went dry after saying it. "Please say something, Pete. Please!" he said to himself.
He realized that Peter was still struggling, drawing deep breaths, but the recovery of his lungs was clear, if not the return of his strength. He regretted that perhaps a bit of his own panic leaked out, but decided it didn't matter and just focused on supporting Peter's weight and listening to him breathe.
"I'm...sorry..."
"No need, Pete," he interrupted. Take it easy for a second. Just take it easy. Remember, I'm here, OK? I won't let anything happen to you."
Just then a waiter came up behind Marty. He barely heard him until he had bent over and tried to talk to both of them. "Sir, is he OK? Can we do something?" His voice had the feeling of urgency, almost emergency, that he definitely didn't want to transfer to Peter.
Not wanting to turn his head and risk pulling the support from underneath Peter, he just responded without even looking up. "No, he's OK, just needs little air. Maybe we'll take a walk outside in a second, to get him some fresh air. But he's OK, for now, but thanks."
"Are you sure, sir?"
"Yes, he'll be OK...just needs to catch his breath...I'll give you a holler if we need anything, OK?" he replied. Peter's hold on his arm had relaxed to the point that his hand was now just resting there. The relaxation was a good sign, but the relative limpness of Peter's entire body was something new to contend with.
"Actually, you could you bring us some water, that would help. Ice water if you can do that."
"Right away!" he replied, probably as glad to avoid more involvement as Marty was glad to be rid of him.
"How are you doing up there," he said, looking straight ahead into Peter's chest, seeing his striped tie hanging down from his neck. Without moving his head, he reached up with both hands and loosened the tie along with releasing the top button of Peter's shirt.
He just shook his head in response. "I...I hope that I don't make your life too hard..."
Raising his hand, he gently pushed Peter's face back. "You've made me the happiest guy in the world tonight, Peter Kovar. The happiest guy in the world. And by the way, you remember what we promised each other at times like this, right?"
Peter smiled weakly, but gave a firmer squeeze to his hands. "Yea, I do...thanks...and I'm happy, too," he said, his small smile a herculean effort based on what he had just been through.
"Pop, could I talk to you about something?" Peter asked, taking a seat on the couch. His Pop was in the comfy lounge chair scanning his tablet. Next to him, on the sidetable, was a picture of their entire family from last Christmas.
"Sure...Is everything OK? He said, looking up from the glowing surface, the office email inbox apparent to Peter as suddenly turned the device away from himself.
"Yea, it is Pop. It really is. But there is one thing that I thought I'd like to ask you, if it's OK." He was sitting on the edge of the couch, not really settling back into it, but keeping himself on the edge.
"You're sure I shouldn't be worrying," he asked, a lilt in is voice trying to mask his instant anxiety.
"It's all OK, Pop, don't worry. It's all OK," Peter responded, sliding over on the couch to be closer to his Pop. He finally rested his back against the seat.
"Can you hear me OK," Mike asked.
"Oh, yea, I can hear you fine," he said as he settled into his new position. "This is a bit better." Just after he said this Reese jumped onto the couch with him, putting his head in Peter's lap.
"Then what is it, son? What can I answer?"
Peter gently stroked the dog as he spoke, short little strokes with his right hand on the top of the head. "It's kind of a tough question Pop, and I'm not exactly sure how to ask it. But you're the best person to ask, I think."
"Yes, go ahead. I'll do the best I can, if I can even answer anything. But go ahead."
Peter paused for a moment before going on, fidgeting in his seat as he slipped his other hand around Reese's legs, partly to give him more attention but partly to just distract himself.
"Last night, when Marty and I went out it was all great. He asked me to marry him, and you, know it was like a dream, it really was. The only thing was that I kind of...messed it up."
"Messed it up? How could anything mess it up? I sure don't think that Marty thought that. He's been beaming all day."
"I...I had an episode, Pop. I don't know what happened, I'm not sure. But I started to get so, I guess, excited, that I started to hyperventilate. I couldn't catch my breath at all."
"He's seen it happen before, hasn't he."
"Only once."
"Can I ask when? If you don't want to tell me, that's OK," his Pop responded. He was now very focused on Peter, who was continuing to nervously pet Reece, his eyes not focused on him.
"Well...it was actually the time that we first really talked to each other...about us. He told me..." Peter also thought of that image of Marty kissing him while he slept, but decided not to go into the details.
"...well, I he told me something that was really, well... I guess I'll just I just got so excited," he continued, feeling clumsy about how he was evading a direct answer.
"What did he do? How did he react?"
"You know, I was so worked up, I could hardly tell, at least at first. But I remember him just being in front of me. I think that he was kneeling, or crouched down, something like that. I know he was kind of below, kneeling on the ground and looking up at me. And I remember him just, like stroking me, telling me it would be OK. He didn't look freaked out or anything like that...or at least he didn't seem as freaked out I was," he went on, getting a slight smile from his Pop.
"Anyway," Peter added, not wanting to lose his thought, "I wanted to ask you. I mean tell, you...I jeeze, I don't know how to exactly say this, but..."
"...that you think that you're going to be a burden on him," his Pop cut in.
He stopped stroking Reece for moment and looked back up at his Pop. "Yea. That's it. I mean, everything is so great. I'm so darn happy, and I think he is too. I mean, it's just...I hate to think what I could do to him."
"I thought you'd understand, Pop," he finally said out loud, turning his head back down at the dog, who looked back up at him panting, craving more attention.
His Dad smiled, then reached over and put his hand on Peter's arm. "you're right, I think I do understand," he replied, then sat back down in his chair, looking up at the ceiling.
"You don't know this Peter, I've never told anyone this, but in college I tried to break up with your Dad over the exact same feeling."
"You did?" Peter replied, his eyes opening wide. Maybe it was his own naiveté, or just willful ignorance, but he had just never thought of a time when his Dads weren't together. It's like people don't think of their parents as anything but their parents and they never had, or could have had, an independent existence.
His Pop continued, but in a much less confident voice, like recalling a nightmare or bad memory that he could hardly face again. "Yeah, it was not long after we first met. It would take too long to go into all the details, but I tried to break up with him for the very same reason that you are talking about now. I thought that I would be a burden to him, and make his life shit. I felt so strongly about him that I felt like I couldn't dump my life and...problems... onto him. I couldn't make him live through my epilepsy along with me."
Peter noticed that his Pop was still looking at the ceiling but had now folded his hands in front of himself, as if he was getting cold. "Except for watching you struggle for breath as a baby, it was the worst moment of my life..."
"I...I jeeze, Peter, I didn't mean to bring that up," he said, exhaling deeply out of frustration with himself as he sat up in his chair. "I'm sorry about that."
Peter's hand immediately went to his Dad's leg, "no worries, Pop. I don't remember, but it's actually kind of nice to hear."
"Well, I shouldn't have said that anyway, son, but at least it gives you some sense of what had happened, at both times in my life,' he replied as he squeezed his son's hand in return.
"But getting back to that time back in college..." he continued, telling Peter how he hardly ate for a week, couldn't study, couldn't focus, couldn't do anything.
"Until your Dad came over, and forced the issue. I mean, literally, forced the issue. He basically pushed his way into my apartment." For the first time during this talk, Peter saw a grin on his Pop's face, though he had returned to looking at the ceiling.
"He had to pull conversation out of me, I was practically catatonic. Even now, I can practically hear him speaking word-for-word. I can't remember other things, but I can remember his words." He also went back to folding his arms in front of himself, but paused and continued staring at the ceiling.
Peter was going to ask him if he was OK, but held off for just a moment, to see if he'd pick up on his own.
"I'm not sure I have any dramatic revelations here. I think in the end, what I remember most was that ...um...we just cared about each other so much that we had to simply figure out ways to deal with it and let our lives go on. But together and not alone."
"It's also affected us both, I think, in one other important way, which kind of took a while to surface. But that was that there was never anything big enough or important enough to get us to be upset with each other. If we disagreed on something, we never let it get out of control or affect how we felt or thought about each other. We always assumed that the other had the best intentions."
"And we always kiss before we go to bed. Always." Then he sat back up in his chair and looked at Peter again. "And if I give you any one dumb piece of advice, that would be it. Always go to sleep knowing you're together."
He adjusted himself, in the chair, sitting up straighter and looking back at Peter as if in a more normal conversation. "You know, when Marty and I are working in the garage, he often surprises me when he talks about you."
"Surprises you? What do you mean?"
His Pop smiled. "I've known you your whole life Peter, I'm your Pop. But he says things about you that I never realized, or noticed. He's just so aware of who you are, more than even a parent can appreciate," he said, his voice somewhat wistful. "He understands your rhythms and moods, maybe even more than you do yourself. He knows when you'll be hungry, what you might want to eat, if you should take nap..."
"He's really big on that, Pop. He thinks, and he's right of course, that I need to get a lot of sleep and all. I guess it's stuff that I wouldn't pay much attention to. But he does," he said, finishing his Pop's thought.
"And you should listen to him, and I think you do. Because he's looking out for you in ways that you probably wouldn't do for yourself. Like your Dad does for me, so I know how it feels," he said.
Peter thought his Pop would continue in the light tone, but suddenly his mood changed.
"Peter, if something ever happened to you, something bad, he would be...he...would have a hard time making it through. As you know, you're not just doing this for yourself. You're doing it for him, too."
"I've tried not to be so...how should I say..." Peter searched for the right word.
"Reckless?" his Pop filled in.
Sighing in response, he shook his head up and down. "Yeah, that's the word. I've tried to change that."
"You have Peter. And he knows it. And he knows why, too, so he appreciates your struggle...Gosh, I know how it is, you want to do everything, even though you rationally know that you can't or at least shouldn't."
"By the way," he said, seeming to change the subject. "Do you know that I used to ride a motorcycle?"
"You did?" Peter stared back at his Pop in disbelief.
"Yeah. I thought it was actually kind of cool, and great with gas and all that. But I could tell it worried your Dad. Worried him a lot. He would never have directly asked me to stop. But I knew it, and had to ask myself if the fun I got out of it was worth the worry that I caused your Dad. The answer was clear."
"So you just stopped?"
"Yup. Cold Turkey. At that time there was no Craigslist or stuff like that, so I just took an ad out in the classified of the school paper and sold it. It was inconvenient at first, but that didn't matter. I was really glad I did it."
Mike sat back in his chair, his eyes going up toward the ceiling again. "The night I sold it, I came home and just told him it was gone. I actually didn't say anything before that."
"What did he do?"
"He didn't move for moment, didn't say anything. He put his hand on my neck, and squeezed, then he just whispered in my ear. `Thanks, Pup.'"
"It's one of the few time since I've known him that I thought he was going to cry.' He paused for a moment, obviously caught up in the thought.
"I knew that he worried about it, but I had no idea how much. Gosh, he was really scared. It was just my bike to me, it was fun and all, I kind of liked driving it around. And like I said, it was really cheap on gas," he said, with a slight chuckle.
"But for your Dad, it was just a nightmare to worry about it, especially if I had a seizure while I was out on the road. And he was right. My only regret after that was that I hadn't gotten rid of it earlier. I would have trashed it in an instant if I had known."
"That's how I feel about a lot of things with Marty," Peter said. "Gosh, when I got pneumonia that first Christmas I brought him home, he took such good care of me and all. But I felt horrible about what I put him through. I knew I was getting sick, and felt worse and worse because I didn't want him to worry about me."
"I noticed your changed things after that, at least a few things," his Pop replied.
"Well, I wish I could say that made a magical transformation, but I did what I thought was important. I only wish I had done it all sooner, it would have really saved him some grief. But over time I've gotten my exercise regime going, try to get enough sleep, and stress out as little as possible if I can help it. And I also try to not rely so much on the hearing aid, too, seeing if I can strengthen my hearing as much as possible. I'm not sure it works, but I want to at least feel like I'm doing something."
"But you know, Pop, he never bugs me about any of this," Peter said, then thought for moment and corrected himself. "Well, I can't say that's always true. If I get too involved in something, like a book or website or some school project, he'll `remind' me that I need to go to bed, stuff like that," he said, smiling at the thought of it.
"I know how it feels," his Pop replied.