by Laura Stone
Oliver sighed and sat back against his headboard, frustrated yet again by the distance between them. How their lives were slowly pulling away from each other as Seth became more and more enamored of New York City, his school and all of the possibilities stretched out before him. Oliver thought that his own life was in a constant state of limbo, with nothing to look forward to but Seth’s trips home for the coming holidays—or months down the road, when Oliver finally graduated. He was beginning to feel that he had nothing of interest to offer. There were so many people Seth was surrounded by in New York who could sing, perform, be interesting. He felt small and stupidly provincial next to the glamour and excitement that came from living in the greatest city on earth.
And it wasn’t that Seth made him feel insignificant. It was that Seth barely had any free time, with his demanding schedule, and Oliver felt guilty when he wanted to have a long conversation about the latest assignment in school or his student council campaign. Seth surely saw far more interesting things than his high school boyfriend back in Atchison, Kansas.
Oliver couldn’t blame him. His life was boring. That’s why they both wanted to get out of Kansas. But Oliver couldn’t yet, and he worried that Seth would get tired of waiting for him to finally join him. After all, Seth had bigger things happening in his life. New York things. Things that had nothing to do with his lame high school boyfriend back in Nowhere, Flyover State, USA.
Later that night, while laying in bed, Oliver tried to let go of the earlier feelings of hurt. He didn’t want to be upset, didn’t want to have a knot of worry eating away at his insides about Seth’s new friends, Simon and Geoffrey. Geoffrey. And Seth had pronounced it “JOFF-rey,” as if it was the most amazing thing. No. No. He was not a jealous person. He wasn’t going to start being a jealous person. Being jealous implied that he didn’t fully trust his boyfriend, and he absolutely did. Seth was simply happy to have new friends who liked music and performing and fashion. God knew boys like them weren’t easy to find in their hometown. Oliver was happy for him; he knew how hard it had been until they’d found each other.
He was happy for Seth. He was. He was just feeling sorry for himself.
Oliver went to sleep that night staring at their prom photo on his bedside table. He wanted Seth to be the first and last thing he saw each day.
* * *
Oliver went through the motions of collecting data during the experiment on conformity that he and his research partner were working on that year. Oliver had dubbed it the “Three Men Make a Tiger” project and one of his fellows, Moira Byrne, shortened it to TMMaT, or “team mat.” Oliver would be the first to admit that he had not resembled anything close to a team member today. He was constantly distracted. Moira elbowed him at one point and muttered, “Pay attention, Yank.”
Shaking himself a little, Oliver straightened in his chair and focused on recording reactions, feeling slightly ashamed at being called out for not being diligent. His team had devised a series of photographs of people, people who were dressed unobtrusively: office workers, teachers, shop owners; and people who matched LGBT stereotypes: women with severe haircuts, men dressed in flamboyant outfits, pre-operative transgenders, and the like. Groups of three, all people chosen at random, were shown the pictures together, and Oliver’s team recorded their reactions when presented with the images and asked two questions: Is this person gay or straight? Would you be comfortable in close proximity to this person? After the group completed the test, the real test began: it was revealed that every photograph was of a person who identified as LGBT. The group’s reaction to this was what they were studying.
Oliver sorted through the cards until one photograph jumped out at him: a slender young man dressed in pair of skintight trousers, his brown hair styled in a severe pompadour, a pale sweater hanging off one shoulder, a pouty, pink mouth and an almost coy look on his face. Oliver had chosen this particular person at the local LGBT center, thinking he would be a perfect example of how inoffensive a more effeminate gay man could be, a “See? See how charming and handsome and lovely? Nothing here to be offended by” sort of example. Surprisingly, it had turned out to be one of the more polarizing images—it and the photograph of a muscled woman, her breasts bound by an elastic bandage, staring defiantly back at the camera with her thumbs hooked through her blue jeans’ belt loops.
He stared at the picture, not seeing the rounded cheeks of the young man whose name he didn’t know, but superimposing high cheekbones and a full bottom lip and a faint spray of freckles across the bridge of the young man’s nose. Just like Seth’s.
Did he really think he was fit for a degree in psychology? Oliver scrubbed his face with both hands after putting the testing media away. What was the old saying, “Cobblers’ wives go barefoot and doctors’ wives die young?” Apparently people who studied the mind and behavioral patterns were idiots. Hmm, he’d have to work on the phrasing, give the saying more contemporary oomph, maybe make it rhyme.
Later that day he shouldered his way through the front door of his flat, shivering as he unwrapped his thick scarf and peeled off his coat. It was always freezing in this house. Kansas was no small shakes when it came to heavy-duty winter, but something about the cold in England sank right into his bones.
Janos looked over the screen of his laptop and jerked his head towards the small kitchenette. “Coffee is made.”
Oliver sighed gratefully. “Thanks for picking some up.”
Janos grunted, his eyes darting back to the screen after watching Oliver move toward the other room.
All right, that’s enough.
“Janos?” Oliver leaned his weight onto his hands at the counter that divided the two rooms. This had the added advantage of showing off the muscles in his arms—sometimes, straight boys needed a reminder that Oliver had been an athlete and could hold his own. “I’ve offended you somehow, and I can’t for the life of me understand why. If you don’t tell me, how will I know not to do it again?”
Janos stared at him over the top of his laptop with a distasteful look on his face. “I am not interested in a relationship like you want, Andrews.”
Oliver gaped at him, his face all confusion. “I don’t—okay.” He huffed out his breath, running a hand through his hair. He’d had odd roommates over the years; the guy who hid food in his bed “for emergencies” was definitely the weirdest, but Janos was quickly moving up the list.
Shaking his head, Oliver said, “Hey, I get it. Not everyone has to be best friends, but just because you don’t want to be my friend doesn’t mean we can’t be friendly, right?” He raised his eyebrows, hoping Janos would jump in and talk to him.
Janos crossed his arms in front of him and glared back. “I told you when I moved in that I am a Catholic.”
“Yeah? And?”
“I do not do those sex things that you do. You are your own person; it is not for me to judge you. But I am not going to do those things with you.”
Oliver was utterly gobsmacked. “Janos? And I mean this will all due respect: What the fuck are you talking about?”
Janos crossed his legs and looked back at Oliver coolly. “Clearly you desire me. But you cannot have me.”
The sheer force of the laugh that exploded from Oliver should have made the windows rattle in their casings. He clapped a hand to his mouth, trying to stifle the noise, when he saw the look of anger that flashed across Janos’s face.
“Janos, I don’t know where you got that idea, but it never even occurred to me to desire you. Honestly.” He rubbed the back of his neck and smiled. He noted that Janos was looking confused, so Oliver said in a teasing tone, “And just because I’m gay doesn’t mean I want to hook up with every guy I meet. Sorry, you’re not my type.”
“What is this? Type?” Janos looked at himself and Oliver took a moment to really look at him as well. Huh. Janos was pretty attractive. Well-built from soccer—football, Oliver tried to remember—not as tall as Oliver, who stood at a lean six-two, but not too short. He had
that pretty-boy, square-jawed fraternity-type look about him, also not unlike Oliver (or so he’d been told). It just wasn’t something Oliver was attracted to; he’d had his fill of it back home.
Janos had an almost permanent sour look about him; he had a terrible personality, practically nonexistent. Oliver definitely favored someone who lit up a room when he entered, someone engaging and interesting. Someone witty and fun. Janos Feczesin was none of those things—at least, not with him.
Laughing a bit before responding, Oliver said, “It just means that I am not ‘wanting to have you,’ as you put it.”
Janos settled back in the armchair and studied Oliver’s face. “But you tell me things like a man does when they desire a woman. And you honored my… backside, my asshole last night. I cannot have that, Oliver Andrews. This to me is unacceptable.”
Oliver bit his bottom lip for a moment, waiting for his brain to finally put the pieces together. “I did what? Look, I wanted to try and make you feel at home by learning some Hungarian, but I’ll be the first to admit that my accent sucks. That’s why I got some links off the web to show me how to pronounce conversational phrases. Here…”
Oliver grabbed his laptop and loaded the page in question; Janos, curiosity evidently getting the better of him, wandered over to stand beside Oliver and look at the screen.
“This is the website where you think you are learning my language?”
Oliver turned slightly to Janos before furrowing his brow and reading all of the fine print. Nothing looked weird. “See? It’s free-translations-for-lovers-of-hungarian-dot-com. What’s wrong with that?”
“Stupid American,” Janos sighed, rubbed his face with both hands and then shook them at the ceiling. He pointed at the URL on the screen, his free hand on Oliver’s shoulder, pushing him to look at the monitor. “Yes. For lovers of Hungarian. Hungarians. Me. I am Hungarian, Andrews, so you are telling me you love me by using this.”
Oliver blinked at the screen for a minute and felt his entire face heat and flood red. “I am going to kill Todd,” he muttered. He turned and darted around Janos to grab his cup of coffee. “So, are we okay?” Oliver made a thumbs-up with a questioning face. “Are we cool?”
Janos eyed him and then nodded once, tightly. “We are cool, Andr—”
“Oliver. Just call me Oliver. You don’t have to be so formal.”
“Okay.” Janos turned on his heel and flopped back in his chair, his demeanor completely relaxed now. He picked up his own laptop and began typing speedily. “I am telling my teammates that you do not want to be with me sexually, so they do not need to find me a new place to live.”
Oliver spluttered into his mug. “You told your team I was hot for you?”
Janos shrugged. “Now I tell them other. This is good, yes? Now we both do not have to find a new roommate to live with.”
“You know what? I think I’m gonna call it.” Oliver looked at the clock on his computer. “Time of death, 9:48 p.m. This day is officially dead to me.”
He scooped up his computer and his coffee and walked straight to his room, shutting the door with his heel. If it slammed a little, it was just because it was a heavy wooden door, and he wanted to make sure it closed. He wasn’t trying to slam the door. He set his mug on the small, wobbly table next to his bed and tossed his laptop carelessly on the duvet. After a moment of struggling with his clothes—remembering too late to remove his shoes before his pants—he moved to stand in front of the window, where half the panes of glass were wavy from so many years of gravity pulling on them, and looked out into the dark, shivering a little as the cold seeped through, purposely avoiding his laptop.
His fingers were itching to bring up his email. He didn’t want to watch the video again. He didn’t. What good would it do? It would just reopen more hurt, unlock more memories that didn’t matter anymore. Except, he needed to email his professor. He’d send the email and that would be it. Just that one thing. He climbed into bed and piled the blankets over his cold limbs.
After he deleted some spam, the email from Gus was at the top of the screen. Oliver closed his eyes for a second and clicked it open. His index finger hovered over the trackpad as he worried his lip. He clicked play and waited for the video to load again. He opened a new tab and typed “Seth Larsen” into the search box on Google. Several news articles were listed.
“Wow, I’m really out of touch,” he murmured.
Oliver clicked back to the video and fast-forwarded beyond the inane banter of the hosts to the point where Seth began singing. Now that some of the initial shock had waned, he was able to really absorb what he was seeing. Seth still had his amazing vocal range, but his control over it was even more impressive. His shoulders looked a bit broader, his neck was still impossibly long; the handsome angles of his face made him look masculine, and yet he was still, well, pretty.
No, that wasn’t the right word. Delicate and easily broken things were pretty. China plates were pretty. Satin dresses were pretty. Seth was beautiful. He hit pause just as Seth looked directly into the camera and Oliver’s heart thumped so painfully that it radiated out to every corner of his being.
Sighing heavily, he rested his head against the crumbly plaster wall behind his bed and just looked. A part of him was filled with such happiness. Seth had made it. He made it. The world was finding out how amazing he was. Is, Oliver corrected himself. How amazing he is. Oliver had fantasized about these moments years before: how he would bring Seth flowers, finding just the right color of golden yellow rose tied with a deep blue ribbon as a nod to their prep school’s uniform, where they’d met. How Oliver would wrap his arms around Seth, so delighted and just plain happy for him. The fantasy was usually accompanied by Seth’s Tony Award acceptance speech, but a performance on national television was pretty great, too.
He came crashing down from the elation of those daydreams. He wasn’t there to do any of that. Didn’t have the right to do any of that.
He checked the email one more time, looking for a clue from Gus. Why would he send this? As a reminder of how stupid Oliver and Seth had been when they were teenagers? Gus was the furthest thing from a jerk, so it didn’t make sense.
“Keep-vid-dot-com.”
Oliver hadn’t noticed the URL typed in after the video. A quick Google search found it, and while he installed the program (well, Gus was right about that much, he would definitely want to watch it again and not be at the mercy of his slow Internet in this abominable Edwardian stone house) he clicked back to the news articles, rubbing his long feet together to warm them up.
“Understudy’s Dream Come True!” was the title of one listed in the Theater section of the New York Times. “David Falchurch, star of yadda yadda,” Oliver read, “inexplicably broke his leg in the closing number of the musical written by blah blah that specifically highlights his vocal range…”
Oliver skimmed the article looking for information about Seth. “Understudy Seth Larsen stepped in for the Saturday performance while production decided whether they would close the show until Falchurch had healed.
“As the saying goes, ‘The show must go on,’ and so it did to wildly positive reviews. Larsen is being referred to as the Cinderfella”—Oliver groaned—“story for modern times. With his vocal range exceeding even the jaw-dropping range of his predecessor and his angelic looks, more fitting for the part of Shakespeare’s Fair Youth, the powers that be behind the show should consider dropping Falchurch completely and sticking with the real deal. The standing ovations after performances have become a test of endurance, it seems. New York is smitten. Let’s see if we can’t hold onto this gem as long as possible.”
Oliver noted that the play’s ad on the web page featured Seth, dressed in a simple linen Elizabethan-period shirt, on the cover of Playbill magazine. He clicked the image and realized after a moment that he was searching for available tickets after the term let out, the first week of December. Three short weeks away, and he was free for more than a month…
What, I think I’m just going to show up? This is stupid. This is also sold out. Damn it.
He couldn’t find tickets anywhere. He told himself that was great, because it meant that Seth was shooting up the ladder to success. He worried his bottom lip with his teeth as he wracked his brain, trying to think of how he could get to New York.
What am I doing? The last thing Seth would want to see would be me. Hmm, still? I mean, I’m happy for him. I wanted this for him, and it’s the right thing to do to let him know. Sending flowers or a note would be too impersonal.
His mind flashed to a letter, the first one Seth had sent from Juilliard, one that he had read every night for a week before going to sleep.
Dear Oliver,
That sounds so formal. Well, I suppose it doesn’t get more formal than a handwritten letter, but don’t you love getting things in the mail? That was a huge hint, by the way.
I already told you about my room—a.k.a. The Glorified Broom Closet—and my roommate when we talked this afternoon on the phone, so I just wanted to tell you in this, my first letter from New York City, that I love you. I miss you. I know, we promised that we’d be strong and not mope, but I’m not moping. I’m just expressing how I feel, in case there are times when you worry that I don’t love you completely. Because I do. So, so much.
I spent the better part of the day walking through the city, imagining your hand in mine, me showing you my favorite café and the place where I love to sit and people-watch. I haven’t found them yet, and people get very mad at me when I stop in the middle of the sidewalk, but when I do and when you’re here, I’ll show you how, on each and every corner of this city, I could pull you to me and kiss you. I could wrap my arms around you. I could hold your body against mine when I did. No one here would care. Or, if they did, they would get over it. Here we’ll be safe.
