Homebird

by Amy Lane

  “Then I shall be careful not to do anything to offend them,” he said, lips close to Crispin’s ear. For a moment the world boiled down to Luka’s smell, his heat at Crispin’s back, his breath in Crispin’s ear, and then he was gone, off earning half his income for the coming year so he could live on other people’s couches.

  Crispin would put him on his couch any day of the year, any time, in a heartbeat.

  Or his bed.

  A Pillow and a Mat

  THE TALKING and toasting went on, and the night wound down. Crispin stuck with water, but he didn’t laugh any less, and he perhaps talked more than usual.

  Deep in his stomach, in his groin, in his nerve endings, thrummed the knowledge that he was going home with Luka at the end of the night, and alcohol seemed extraneous, a weak liqueur to the heady knowledge of being wanted.

  The crowds had thinned to nothing, and the waiters had cleaned the tables and reset the condiments when Luka approached them again. He’d taken off his lederhosen and put on faded jeans and a hooded sweatshirt, and with his long hair still twisted in a knot at the back of his head, he looked absurdly young.

  Crispin’s heart did a double thump in his chest.

  “So, my boys, you closed the place down!” Luka sounded delighted—and given how much everybody had tipped him, it was no wonder. But he also sounded genuinely happy to see them, all of them, not just Crispin, and Crispin’s worry about his youth died a quiet death.

  He was not callow and not careless. He’d enjoyed Crispin’s friends, and he wanted that to continue.

  “We did,” Link said, standing up. “And now it’s time to go catch a catnap before our trip to the castle tomorrow.”

  “When are we getting up for that?” Nick yawned.

  “About seven hours.”

  There was a collective groan from the table. “Don’t the trains run all day?” Ray asked suspiciously. He wobbled on his feet a bit, and Cam steadied him with a hand under the elbow.

  “Yes,” Link said as they started for the tent entrance. “What’s your point?”

  “My point,” Cam said, yawning, “is that we can leave at eleven, see one less hour of museum, and not hate each other and you tomorrow. How’s that for a point?”

  “I like this plan,” Luka announced. They emerged into the open air, where the structures of the carnival rides were powering down and the few revelers left were making their happy way back to their homes or hotels. “Cam? Give me your phone.”

  That Cam handed it over without question was a testament to how tired and how buzzed they all were. Luka opened a text box and typed in his number before texting himself. Then he pulled out his own phone. “I’m texting you an address,” he said. “It’s on the way to the train station. You can text Crispin, no?”

  “Your phone charged, Crispin?” Cam asked, sounding more like a mother than Crispin had ever heard him.

  “Yeah—I’ve got a power pack too.”

  Everybody stared at him, including Luka.

  “Wow,” Nick said. “Just wow.”

  “Tell me you guys don’t travel without a battery,” Crispin asked, feeling his face heat for the umpteenth time that night. “Oh my God. You’re just asking to get stranded.”

  “Yes, Crispin. You’re right. We’re totally irresponsible. I’ll text you when we leave the hotel, okay?” Cam’s dripping irony reminded Crispin of what he was about to do.

  “Sure,” Crispin agreed. “I’ll be ready—I might even meet you at the station.”

  Suddenly all four of his friends were looking very sober.

  “Luka?” Link said, his voice hard.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Don’t be an asshole.”

  Luka’s expression softened. “I can promise.”

  “We mean it. We’re giving you a perfectly good Crispin. We like him this way. Don’t break him.”

  Luka nodded, taking every word seriously. “I completely understand. You shall get him back in perfect condition.”

  They shook hands. Then, while Crispin’s group went one way, toward the hotel, Luka grabbed Crispin’s hand and started towing him the other way, toward the older part of the city.

  “What?” Luka asked after they made a left and then a right, on a block with mostly brownstone walkups. “You keep trying to find words, Crispin—I do not bite.”

  “It doesn’t have to be perfect condition,” Crispin managed. “I mean… I can be a little ruined. If you want.”

  Luka’s ringing laughter bounced off the paving stones of old Munich, and he turned with a gleaming smile, his beautiful face silhouetted by the nearly full moon.

  “I can ruin you,” he said happily, and then he sobered. “But I won’t break you. I promise. No breaking of Crispin. I swear.”

  Crispin smiled, relieved. “Good,” he said, believing him. “I’m… not exactly a colossus.”

  Luka chuckled and took his hand. “You are perfect,” he said, like he believed it. “I don’t need a colossus. You are exactly who you are meant to be.”

  And Crispin wanted to argue with him right then. He could see his own weaknesses and flaws. He was a coward at heart, a homebody who would stay in the house left to him by his foster parents because he couldn’t stand one more loss. A boring paper-pusher who had lucked into friends who would rather stretch him to be more than he was than leave him behind. The guy who watched Transformers movies with his hand in front of his eyes and his migraine medication in his pocket, dreaming about the historical novel sitting by his nightstand.

  He was the guy who drank wine at a beer festival, who sat at the table during the Devil’s Wheel, who whined when asked to climb a hill before seeing something beautiful and new.

  This walk through the darkened streets of Munich was the most dangerous thing he’d ever done.

  “Everyone’s home now,” Luka said into the night. It wasn’t cold enough for his breath to steam, but there was a chill of autumn around them. “I forget how quiet the city gets after the excitement.”

  “Is it like this every weekend of the festival?”

  “Ja.” He did that, Crispin noticed. Went from ja to yes to yeah. The syntax didn’t vary but the vocabulary did. Crispin wondered how many languages he spoke, but before he could ask, Luka continued. “Did anybody tell you why there is an Oktoberfest?”

  Crispin thought about it. “No,” he said, feeling stupid. “In fact, until Link had us buy our tickets, I sort of thought it was a made-up American thing.”

  Luka shook his head, grinning like Crispin had said something delightful. “No. In fact, it is wholly Bavarian. Once upon a time Prince Ludwig fell in love with Princess Therese and got married. He called to the kingdom around him to have a celebration, and they drank beer and played games with their children—”

  “Like the Devil’s Wheel?” Crispin had wondered—there had been a children’s spin as well, and the main tent—the tent from which Luka had procured their food—had families in it and a dance floor where all were welcome.

  “Ja—exactly. It was a family celebration, and the prince and princess loved it so much, they had one for every anniversary, and the tradition has continued.”

  “That’s wonderful,” Crispin said, meaning it. “So it’s a celebration of love!”

  “Well, also of alcohol and tourism and, for a while, horse races, which I understand were very dangerous. But originally, yes. Of love.”

  “That’s nice. It’s very… very Samhain of them.”

  Luka chuckled. “Well, originally the festival was held wholly in October, but it’s cold here in October, so they made it September instead.”

  Crispin half laughed—it was the last weekend of September, and he hadn’t even questioned it. “That’s even better. Samhain is October thirty-first.”

  “I know. When the body of the Green Man is burned on the fires and the ashes are set aside to grow him again in the spring.”

  “I’d not heard of Samhain like that. America is all about the souls of the
dead wandering among the souls of the living.”

  “Mm….” Luka turned into a courtyard then, an older set of buildings made of stone with cobblestones in the yard as well. He turned abruptly into a hallway with hardwood floors and freshly painted white walls, then led him up two flights of stairs. “I shall ask you about your dead another night. This is a very nice apartment building, yes?”

  Crispin looked around, remembering the drafty cement walkways and rickety stairs of his first apartment when he was going to school in Seattle. “From the hallway, I suppose.”

  Luka laughed. “For me it is luxury. The people are friends—they leave the city during the festival, usually. A few years ago, they did not and sat at my table for a night and offered to let me sleep in their home the year afterwards. They’re very kind. I leave their apartment as clean as I found it, and their cat well-fed and their plants watered.”

  “They have a cat?” Yes! His happiness caught him by surprise. He missed Steve Rogers in the worst way.

  “Of course—a marmalade tom—he’s very affectionate.” They came to the landing, and Luka opened the first door on the left and gestured Crispin inside. True to his word, an orange tomcat came running over, berating Luka the entire time.

  “Meow, meow, meow,” Luka answered back. “Yes, I was at work. I cannot lay about here all day, can I, Ludwig?”

  “Like the prince?” How wonderful!

  “Yes. I’ve told them he needs a Therese, but since he does not come with a royal entourage to clean his litter box, I’m afraid he is destined to be quite alone.”

  Crispin looked around the high-ceilinged apartment in wonder, taking in the vaulted windows overlooking the street, the ornate window and floor moldings, and the solid but comfortable-looking furniture in the combined living/dining room.

  The area rugs were a brave combination of dark and light blues that gave the whole apartment the feeling of walking in the clouds.

  “Well, it’s rough being king,” Crispin told him, doing a full turn. “You’re right—it’s a lovely apartment.”

  Luka grinned. “And I am lucky. It’s embarrassing to bring a lover home when it’s just a pillow and a mat.”

  Crispin grimaced. “So—you’ve had a lot of lovers on your, uh, mat?”

  “A few,” Luka said, unembarrassed. “I travel to meet people. I’ve met some amazing men and women in my travels.”

  “Then how’d I end up here?” Crispin asked, turning toward him and reaching out to pet Ludwig, who was still meowing piteously.

  Luka caught his hand in midair and pulled his knuckles to his lips. “You do not have to leave home to be amazing,” he said, eyes crinkling. “Just to meet me.”

  Crispin smiled, biting his lip. “Totally worth it,” he assured.

  “I could be a terrible lover,” Luka told him, letting the cat go. He pulled Crispin into his arms and time slowed, measured by their breaths in the darkened fairy-tale room.

  “I don’t see how,” Crispin answered breathlessly. He wanted everything. They had so little time.

  Luka’s response was a lazy smile and a soft mouth on Crispin’s. Crispin gasped and savored the play of Luka’s tongue along the seam of his lips. For a moment he kept his eyes open, searching for Luka’s approval, and Luka upped the ante by nipping slightly.

  That was all he needed. He closed his eyes and parted his lips, welcoming the invasion into his mouth, welcoming Luka’s heat and the strength of his long arms around Crispin’s shoulders.

  Ah! Gods! How had he lived without this for so long? Luka’s taste—beer, the sweetness of cloves, and a pleasant earthiness that was only his. His smell—sweat and cedar, possibly an oil for his hair. Crispin raised his hands to Luka’s topknot, fiddled with the rubber band, and pulled one pin.

  Luka pulled back and grinned, raising his hands to help him. “Curious?” he teased.

  “Yes,” Crispin responded, fingers longing for it. “I… I haven’t had a lot of fantasies,” he confessed. “But… hair.”

  Luka’s hair tumbled around his face, layered at the bottom to frame his steak-knife cheekbones. It made him look older, Crispin decided, running his fingers through it. Coarse and smooth, thinner at the ends, Crispin couldn’t stop touching it, massaging Luka’s scalp through it….

  Pulling Luka down for another devastating kiss.

  Crispin’s body thrummed, blood under the skin rushing to nerve endings, powering all the goodies therein—nipples, groin, taint. Luka moved his lips to kiss the corner of his mouth, his jaw, his earlobe, and Crispin melted against his chest, wanting more. He let go of Luka’s hair so he could move his hands to the back of Luka’s jeans, needing to touch skin.

  “Getting bold,” Luka whispered appreciatively. He pulled back and yanked his sweatshirt and shirt off by the neck, dropped them on the couch, and stood for a moment, narrow and slender and almost impossibly defined. “You want to touch?”

  Of course he did.

  Crispin started out hesitant, fingers touching his ribs just enough to make Luka giggle.

  “No tickling!” he protested, protecting himself with his arms.

  “Sorry!” Crispin jerked his hand back, and Luka retrieved it from under his arm, rubbing his thumb along the knuckles.

  “Don’t be sorry,” he said, all genial good humor. “Just don’t tickle!” He slid his fingers against Crispin’s until they laced together. “Flat palm,” he instructed, all gentleness. “Your whole hand. Has nobody taught you how to make love?”

  Crispin’s whole body erupted into uncomfortable and prickling heat. “It’s been a while,” he muttered. “We never got really… you know. Good.”

  “Mm.” Luka stepped closer and unlaced their fingers, pulling Crispin’s hand to his chest, palm out. “Just touch me,” he said. “In fact, push—push hard.”

  Crispin tried, grimacing when his wrist flexed back. “Harder than that?”

  “But you see now—unless you hit me, you can’t hurt me.” His wide, generous mouth curved with such gentleness. “Just touch me.”

  Crispin closed his eyes and did. Luka’s body was tan—he’d seen that even in the moonlight coming in from the windows—but his skin was smooth. He had a small patch of chest hair between his pecs, silky and straight and fascinating. His waist tapered into his jeans, and his bony hips attested to too many nights running around serving drinks and not enough time sitting and eating, but his muscles and sinews felt rugged and raw and vital.

  Luka put his hands on Crispin’s hips and dragged him closer, giving Crispin just enough room to explore while he… pillaged was the only word. He pillaged Crispin’s jawline, his ear, the hollow between his shoulder and his neck. Crispin whimpered and moved his hands to Luka’s back, fingers shaking as he started to tremble in Luka’s arms.

  “Crispin?” Luka whispered, after nibbling on his earlobe.

  “Yes?”

  “Can I feel your chest too?”

  Crispin nodded, feeling brave, and took off his glasses to set them on the arm of the couch. He was going to take off his sweatshirt when Luka grabbed it and his T-shirt by the hem and ripped them up and over. Crispin helped by lifting his arms, and in a moment he was left standing, surrounded by Luka’s heat, half-naked in a stranger’s living room.

  His heart thudded painfully in his throat.

  “Beautiful,” Luka said, voice deep and throaty.

  “Really pale,” Crispin admitted. He’d been trying to follow Link’s regimen, but truth was, he’d rather work out in his garage than go outside. The garage he could cool down.

  Luka laughed and moved his mouth to the bare crown of Crispin’s shoulder. “So soft,” he said. “The skin, not the body.” His hands spanned Crispin’s waist, and Crispin gave a breathy little moan-grunt and pressed closer. Luka chuckled and pulled back enough to drop his head and lick one of Crispin’s nipples.

  “Nnnhh….” It was a whining sound, and Crispin wouldn’t take it back if he could.

  “You like that?” Gah
! So wicked.

  “Mmmnnnn!”

  Luka’s response was to pull the nipple into his mouth with a hard suck, and Crispin’s knees threatened to give out.

  “Oh God!” He raised his hands to Luka’s head and tightened his fingers in that glorious hair. Luka teased the end of his nipple with a quick tongue and just the hint of teeth, and Crispin bucked against him, his groin aching, his skin on fire, and his knees definitely calling a time-out. “Luka—I’m… oh my God!”

  He spurted a little bit of precome inside his shorts, and Luka pulled away so he could push Crispin’s face against his throat and whisper, “It’s okay, Crispin. You’re eager. It doesn’t have to be perfect. Go when you need to.”

  “I don’t have clean shorts,” Crispin muttered, mortified.

  “Then let’s take the ones you have off,” Luka told him, all patience. He made quick work of Crispin’s fly and shoved down, letting Crispin take over so he could toe off his sneakers and socks. Crispin’s right sock, in particular, was twisting around his ankle, and he had to bend down and work it, feeling foolish and naked and a little bit cold. When he finally yanked the thing off, he looked up and gasped.

  Luka was naked.

  Long, lithe, wrists and ankles and knees just a little bit bony because the rest of him was so lean. He stood like a god in the moonlight, a perennially young Green Man, laughing and sensual and ready to revel hard enough to last through the long winter months.

  Crispin’s mouth dried up, and he reached out a longing hand to palm Luka’s chest again. This time he allowed his thumb to graze Luka’s nipple, rewarded when Luka tilted his head back and shuddered.

  “Now your mouth,” he instructed, and Crispin started salivating again.

  An invitation to taste. He moved in, bending his knees slightly and dropping his head, and Luka’s taste burst in his mouth. He gave a hard tug, then rubbed his tongue over the end, and then again, and again, while Luka writhed in his arms.