by Anna Martin
“I didn’t mean to insult you.”
“And I didn’t mean to kiss you—not if it was going to get that reaction.”
Ryan reached up to rub his lips again, the gesture both unconscious and disturbingly erotic. “I didn’t mind that much,” he admitted.
When Henry’s stomach flip-flopped, he pressed his hand against it, suddenly aware that he was out in the middle of the night wearing nothing but a thin shirt. And it was fairly cool here in the breeze. As that thought formed, his arms broke out in goose bumps, and he shivered.
“Ryan… I’m going to bed.”
Ryan’s eyebrows shot into his hairline.
“Alone,” Henry qualified, more than slightly amused. “I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?”
“Yeah, okay,” Ryan said. “’Night.”
“Good night.”
Henry had to pass him on the stairs, and it was interesting, that slow push of one body against another. He jogged lightly up the rest of the stairs, determinedly not looking back down, not even after he’d unlocked the door, let himself in, and pulled the curtains closed.
A shower was completely necessary to wash the smell of sweat and cigarette smoke from his skin, and his arms were slightly sticky from the accumulation of spilled drinks that had run down his forearms.
Water sluiced down his skin from the deliciously powerful shower, and Henry didn’t even try to stop memories from the night playing on a loop in his mind. Ryan smoking, Ryan angry, the look in Ryan’s eyes when he kissed him, apologetic Ryan sending him messages through a gay cruising app.
The poor closeted, probably bisexual man, who was a paradox wrapped up in an enigma smothered in contradiction, who didn’t know himself yet portrayed this calm, easy-going nature to the rest of the world. There was no way anything between them could progress at anything less than snail’s pace, and even then there was no guarantee it would ever get anywhere in the end.
Was it even worth it?
Henry pressed his hand to his crotch, where one part of his body certainly thought so. The images in his head changed their theme. Ryan’s desperately blue eyes, his strong, muscled arms, the stubble on his chin that was starting to grow out into a beard, the streaks of blond in his hair, the way the tops of his ears were permanently red. The way he always wore his comfy jeans too loose, so they slipped down on the curve of his ass. How he didn’t have any sense of shame regarding his little beer belly and would happily push his T-shirt up to scratch it.
The man was, at the same time, unrestrainedly sexy and decidedly unappealing.
Wrapping his fingers around his cock, Henry took a moment to let all of his fantasies be washed from his skin and down the drain. He’d have to be so gentle with Ryan, so careful not to startle him and chase him away.
Henry imagined teaching Ryan how to suck his dick, where to put his hands on Henry’s body, how to make it feel good. He imagined teaching Ryan about his own body, showing him how to make his skin fizz and sing with pleasure.
When the heat of his climax spilled over his fingers, Henry allowed himself one long, slow moan of pleasure. With his heart still thumping hard in his chest, Henry forced the image of icy blue eyes from his mind and opened his own just in time to see the last of his semen swirling down the drain.
Henry expected the next morning to be uncomfortable, for there to be something between them over breakfast—something more than jam and tea and toast.
He expected more. Not the calm smile over the top of the morning paper, the offer of coffee, bacon, eggs, toast. It was worth having a big breakfast, knowing that it would be amazing. Henry sat in what was becoming his usual spot, with his usual mug, eating and waiting for Ryan to say something.
“Do you mind if I walk down to the orchard?” Henry asked when he’d finished his breakfast, mostly to break the silence. And he’d wanted to take a better look around the farm anyway, especially the areas that were more tucked out of the way, but hadn’t felt confident enough to ask.
“Sure, don’t see why not,” Ryan said, buttering a slice of toast and dropping a crust for Hulk. “It’s a bit of a trek, though, and muddy at the moment because of the rain. You’ll want to put boots on, or wellies if you’ve got them.”
“Wellies?”
Ryan smirked. “Long Wellington boots. They’re waterproof. I’ve got a couple of spare pairs in the mudroom if you want to borrow some. Just make sure you put thick socks on so they don’t rub blisters on your heels.”
That sounded like a good idea—he really didn’t want blisters—and so, after dumping the dregs of his coffee in the sink and putting the empty mug in the dishwasher, Henry went back upstairs to find some socks.
He’d anticipated that, since Ryan spent so long on the farm during the week, the last thing he’d want would be to spend even more time there on his weekend. Apparently not. After returning to the kitchen, socks in hand, Ryan was pulling his own boots on, his tea now transferred to a thermos.
“There’s something I could show you,” Ryan offered, by way of an explanation. “If you want.”
It was easy to agree.
The morning was bright and crisp, the blue sky promising warmth after the sun had a chance to warm the air. They walked in easy silence down the dirt track that bisected the top half of the farm, stopping to check on the pigs and chickens and goats as they passed. It wasn’t so long ago that the thought of sharing his living space with pigs and chickens and goats would have sent Henry running back to New York as quick as his feet could carry him. Now they were almost like part of the family.
Ryan’s farmhands had already been out working for several hours, so all the animals were fed and tended to, looking fairly happy with their surroundings. Hulk had elected to join their walk but made no apparent effort to stay to heel—this was his farm, after all. Neither did Ryan seem too worried about keeping track of his dog. For a while, Hulk would disappear out of sight, sniffing around one thing or another. Just as Henry started to worry that he was lost, the big shaggy beast would round the corner and fall back into step with them again.
It took nearly half an hour to walk down to the orchard. Ryan shared his tea, occasionally pointing out things on the farm, work that he was doing or crops that were nearly ready for harvest. Far from things being awkward from the night before, they both seemed to be doing their best to make their usually easy relationship as normal as possible.
From his bedroom window vantage point, the building next to the orchard seemed very small. Of course, now he was here, it turned out he’d been a victim of perspective, and the outbuilding was actually fairly substantial.
“This,” Ryan said with a little twinkle in his eye, “is where the magic happens.”
Henry raised an eyebrow as Ryan undid a series of locks with a bunch of keys he pulled from his pocket and pushed open the heavy wooden door. He commanded Hulk to “stay,” and the big sheepdog settled himself at the door, apparently content to wait. Inside, the scent of wood, stone, damp, and overwhelming alcohol spilled forward. Henry coughed a little and stepped in.
“What the hell?”
“This is where the cider comes from,” Ryan said. And as an afterthought, “And the gin.”
“Gin? You make your own?”
“I try to,” he said with a shrug. “Come on. I’ll show you.”
Through another locked door on the left was a darker room, the one window obscured with years of muck and grime. Just enough light filtered through to reveal a line of old tin baths, each covered with a thin muslin-like fabric.
“I’m trying to grow the juniper myself, on the edge of the orchard,” Ryan said as he peeled back the fabric covering one of the baths and inhaled deeply. “It doesn’t like the weather here too much, though. Needs more sun. Less rain.”
“What are you making?” Henry asked, stepping farther into the room, mindful of the loose flagstones that covered the floor.
Ryan stood and read the labels on the edge of the tin. “This one is just your class
ic gin. Next one is sloe gin, and that one’s got a lot of lavender in it.” He shrugged, almost apologetically. “It’s an experiment. That one has got more rosemary in it, and some other herbs I pulled up from the garden.”
“What about the last one?”
“You don’t want to try that,” Ryan said darkly.
Despite himself, Henry chuckled. “Well, now I do.”
“It’s not good.”
“Then why haven’t you thrown it away?”
After a long pause, Ryan said, “I don’t know.”
This time Henry tried to suppress his laugh.
“Can I try any of them?”
Ryan paused in his job of looking under the fabric covering each bathtub in turn, gently agitating the liquid within, then moving on to the next one.
“I’m not sure,” he said. “I feel like you should sign a release form before you do. To say that you won’t hold me responsible for any side effects.”
“I promise I won’t sue you,” Henry said, holding up his hand in a mock Scout salute.
Ryan agreed, although warily.
There was a heavy oak cabinet on one side of the room that had years of paint peeling off the sides and looked possibly antique, possibly expensive if it hadn’t been left to rot in a small farm outbuilding. Ryan selected a ladle from a cracked vase, gently relocated a brown spider back to a nice corner, and hastily polished the spoon with the edge of his T-shirt.
He took a chipped mug down from a hook on the wall and looked to Henry expectantly.
“Which one do you want?”
Although tempted by the lavender, Henry had a soft spot for sloe gin. Ryan dipped the ladle into the bath, gave it a good few stirs, then carefully decanted a small amount into the mug.
“Thanks,” Henry murmured, accepting the mug and taking a small sip. “Fuck!”
“It’s not quite ready yet,” Ryan said, apparently stung at Henry’s reaction.
“No, it’s good,” Henry said and took another sip. “It’s just really strong.”
He could feel the liquor burning a trail all the way down to his stomach. Ryan held his hand out for the mug, sampled, shrugged, and handed it back.
“It’s not so bad.”
Henry drained the mug. “I can’t wait until it’s ready, if you’re saying it’s going to get better.”
“It will,” Ryan said with some confidence. “I’ve been making sloe gin for years. It’s only recently that I’ve branched out into other varieties.” He paused for a moment. “But considering your reaction, there’s no way in hell I’m letting you at the last one.”
“I’m not that much of a lightweight,” Henry protested.
“Yeah, you are. But that’s okay. I want you to try some cider next, and I don’t particularly fancy having to carry you back up to the house.”
They sealed up the gin room again, and Ryan led the way to the only other door, again locked for safety and presumably against thieves and tramps.
“Everything in here is pretty much homemade,” Ryan said as he opened the door and let Henry through first. “A lot of the equipment, the press, the scratter…. One of the good things about working on a farm that has been around for donkey’s years is that you find all sorts of good bits hanging around.”
The room was fairly large, about four or five times the size of the gin room, and with more natural light. On the far side of the room was a large set of shelves, each built to carefully cradle a barrel. Stacked three across, three high, the barrels were fairly large and filled the entire wall. The slightly rough edges of the shelves suggested that Ryan had built them himself, and Henry added carpentry to the list of things that Ryan was apparently good at.
“What are you going to do with all of that?”
“Dunno, yet. I’ve got a personal license, so I’m allowed to sell it. Stella said she wants it for the pub, says it’ll do well, but I’m not making enough yet to do any real business. I’ll probably break it out for the Cricket Club end of season party, see how it goes down, then start on the next batch in the autumn.”
“Could you just go into producing this?”
“Probably not,” Ryan admitted. “It’s just a little side thing I set up since mum and dad moved away. Dad was always messing about with making cider, just the odd few bottles of the stuff, though, not a proper production like this. It’s fun, though. It’s nice to be doing something other than the day-to-day crap, and it’s all mine, you know?”
“Yeah,” Henry said softly.
“I can make my gin, make my cider, and no one’s telling me how to do it or putting in orders or demanding more carrots and less parsnips.”
Henry laughed. “It makes sense,” he said. “I understand, honestly. Can I try any of this?”
“I suppose so,” Ryan said. “I’ve got a few bottles as well.”
They squeezed past all the cider-making equipment, which took up most of the room, and down to a small door next to the barrels. It wasn’t really a door at all, or not one that was designed to cover the small cubbyhole. It looked more like a rotten fence panel. But when Ryan pulled it open, the light through the window shone on dozens of glass bottles of cider, carefully labelled and lined up like sentries on the stone shelves.
“Wow,” Henry murmured.
“Mhmm,” Ryan agreed. He selected a milk bottle filled with amber liquid, stopped with a wide cork, and shut the door again. “This is one of my favourites,” he said, uncorked it, and held it out.
“No mugs in here?”
“No. I can go back and get you one if you’re precious, though.”
Determined to show he wasn’t precious, Henry gamely took a mouthful and swallowed. It was at once just like the stuff they served in the pub and nothing like that at all. Better. Much better.
Rich and sweet and tart and with a nasty bite of alcohol that stung the back of his throat. Not wanting to let free an exclaimed curse again, Henry nodded.
“That’s really fucking good.”
“I know,” Ryan said and took the bottle, taking a swig himself without bothering to wipe the top of the bottle first. “Bloody lush.”
He corked the bottle again and slipped it into his jacket pocket to take back to the house. “No point leaving it here once it’s opened,” he explained. “And it’s too good to waste.”
Turning, Ryan seemed lost in thought as he ran his palm over his equipment, both possessive and lovingly. “I can show you more,” he offered. “How it all works and stuff. If you’re still around in October.”
“I’m not sure what my plans are yet.”
“Okay. Do you want to see the orchard?”
On the walk back to the house, Hulk leading the way, Henry found the courage to ask something he’d wondered about for a few days.
“Would you tell me about your wife?” he asked.
“Ex-wife,” Ryan quickly corrected. “How did you know I was married?”
“There’s a photo of you and Stella in the lounge,” Henry said, trying not to look guilty, as though he’d been snooping. It wasn’t like the photo was hidden—it was right on the sideboard for anyone to look at. “You’re in a morning suit, and it looks like she’s wearing a bridesmaid’s dress.”
Ryan rolled his eyes and muttered something about being too perceptive for his own good.
“What do you want to know?”
“What will you tell me?”
It was Ryan’s past, after all, and Henry knew he didn’t have any right to ask for details. There was definitely a part of him, though, that was curious about what he was competing against.
Ryan started talking with his head down, rarely looking up to meet Henry’s inquiring gaze. He and Sarah both went to the same school, the private school that the farm now supplied. At that time Ryan didn’t identify as even bisexual. He’d repressed any same-sex attraction he felt as part of the “perfectly normal” aspects of growing up.
On Sarah’s eighteenth birthday, they’d gone to a bigger town to celebrate in
the bars that they could now all legally drink in. From the way Ryan put it, Henry got the impression that the doormen when he was a teenager were far less likely to check ID than they were now. But it was a big celebration, nonetheless, and their group of friends….
“We were smashed,” Ryan admitted. “I wasn’t very good at holding my drink back then, and it didn’t take that much to get us drunk. We were talking about all the things that we could do legally now—smoke, drink, have sex—and I said ‘get married’. She just looked at me and burst into this big smile and said ‘yeah, okay’. I wasn’t even aware that I’d asked her a question.
“Next thing I know, the DJ is congratulating us and there’s free champagne. I woke up with a raging hangover, but Sarah dragged me out of bed and made me drive into town. We bought this fucking cheap, tiny little diamond ring from a high street jeweller, and she announced it to our families that day. A week later she was talking about booking venues and dresses and colour themes.”
“And you didn’t even ask her?”
“Nope,” Ryan said and kicked at a stone on the path. “I just sort of got swept up with it all. She was the first one out of all her girl friends to get engaged, and they were all jealous as hell, you could just tell, and she liked the attention. We got married just over a year later.”
“Wow.”
“And we were divorced about six months after her twenty-first,” Ryan said with a bitter laugh. “It was a disaster from start to finish.”
“No kids?”
“No, thank God. She wanted them, though. I didn’t. I hardly stood up for myself at all during the whole mess of a marriage, but I did put my foot down as far as children were concerned. I told her I wanted to wait until we had more money saved up, and a bigger place, and we were more settled and a bit older.”
It was one part of the story that had filled Henry with hope. He wasn’t completely opposed to the idea of having children in the future, but he wasn’t sure how he felt about dating a guy who already had them.
“Is the story of the divorce one for another day?”
“Not really,” Ryan said. “Basically, Sarah told me I was gay.”
