Fic - Hair - When We Were Caught (2/2)

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When We Were Caught (2/2)

It took them most of the night to find Orchard and Maple. Once they’d found the corner, they settled there on the bench, Berger stretched out, his head resting in Claude’s lap.

“You think she’ll even come?” Claude asked.

Berger shrugged. “She doesn’t come, we get on a bus. She’ll come for you though. She digs you.”

Claude snorted, then smiled. Berger raised his eyebrows, let his mouth fall open just a little, a silent ‘a ha.’

“She was sweet,” Claude said by way of explanation. He didn’t say that she understood him. He didn’t say that she saw right through him.

The snow started to fall as the sun came up. It caught on their eyelashes and in their hair. Berger licked snowflakes from Claude’s face and laughed when an old man walking an even older dog grumbled obscenities at them. Claude tried to push Berger away then, but it seemed to just egg him on. And maybe Claude wasn’t really trying all that hard anyway. Once the man was out of sight Berger caught Claude’s mouth in a kiss, his tongue hot against Claude’s.

A tired looking woman came around the corner and this time Claude did pull away, slid down the bench in the snow so that he could feel the cold seeping through his pants. Berger reached for him again and Claude stood, stepped away, folded his arms over his chest and said, “Come on, man. Stop it for a minute, okay?”

Berger sighed and threw himself onto the bench dramatically, his arm dangling over the edge as he stared up at Claude.

The tired woman eyed them but didn’t comment.

“Let’s just get the next bus,” Claude suggested. He turned to the tired woman. “When does it come?”

“Fifteen minutes,” she said, her voice monotone, uninterested.

“Fifteen minutes,” Claude repeated as though Berger wasn’t lying right there. He grabbed Berger’s bag from the bench, began rooting through it looking for change. He wasn’t even sure they’d have enough to get them anywhere.

His back was to the street and when the truck honked behind him he jumped, startled, and Berger laughed.

“Surprise,” Berger said, sitting up. “Look who’s here.”

Claude turned to find Julie grinning at him from the passenger seat of a beat up blue pickup truck.

**

Sandra had short cropped brunette hair. She wore dark angled glasses and painted her fingernails bright red. She looked out of place driving her brother’s well worn Ford.

Claude was pressed in beside her, Berger on the passenger side with Julie perched on his lap. When Claude turned toward her, Julie grinned at him, a smile full of teeth and gums. The kind of smile Claude couldn’t help but return.

“Was Larry – was your dad angry?” Claude asked.

“At first,” Julie said. “Until I explained.”

“Explained what?”

“That you two were that way. You know, homosexuals,” Julie said. “That I was as safe with you as I am here with Sandra.”

Claude’s mouth fell open before he could collect himself and he looked to Berger for a response.

Berger was smiling and staring out the window, seemed uninterested in joining the conversation. Berger looked exhausted. Claude imagined that he probably looked the same.

“He believed that?” Claude asked, finally.

Julie shrugged. “Sure,” she said. “Made sense, why you were dodging the draft and all. Anyway Uncle Frank swore he saw you two kissing in the back on the way up from Albany.”

Berger laughed, a loud bark of a laugh that startled Julie and Sandra.

“What?” Sandra asked.

“Oh, nothing,” Berger said, his voice rising then falling so it sounded like he was speaking in song. “Uncle Frank missed the best part.”

Claude slouched down in his seat, stared out at the road. It was still snowing and the roads were slushy, quiet.

“So are you then?” Sandra asked after another moment. “Homosexuals?” She glanced over at Claude and then back at the road.

“I don’t know,” Claude said, then speaking for Berger added, “No.”

“What if we are?” Berger cut in, turning away from the window for the first time since they left Rutland.

Claude turned, surprised that Berger was challenging her. Berger was frowning when Claude caught his eye, waiting for Sandra’s answer. Berger didn’t like labels in general, didn’t think they mattered, but even so, Claude wasn’t sure why he was bothering to press this.

“It doesn’t matter to me what you do,” Sandra said, tilting her head as she watched the road. “We’re groovy, right? I don’t care, I was just trying to, you know, talk.”

“Berger has a girl back in New York,” Claude clarified. “Her name’s Sheila.”

Julie looked to Berger and Berger shrugged, pulled her closer to him and buried his face in her neck. Julie laughed and rolled her eyes at Claude.

“Why’d you go anyway, Claude?” Sandra asked, changing the subject. Her eyes were on the road as she said it. She didn’t glance at Claude, seemed to be avoiding eye contact with any of them now, but Berger did. Claude could see Berger’s reflection in the windshield, saw him turn slightly toward the question.

“I don’t know,” Claude said.

“Sure you do,” Julie countered from her spot on Berger’s lap. “If you think about it, you do. We pretend we don’t know ourselves or why we do things, but deep down we always do.”

He’d thought before that Julie looked a little like Jeanie, now she sounded a lot like her too.

Claude was quiet and Sandra shook her said and said, “You don’t have to answer. Julie find a better station, okay?”

Julie reached for the knob on the radio and Berger stopped her, his fingers covering her hand.

“What’s wrong?” Julie asked and Claude turned to find Berger ignoring Julie, looking back at him.

“I wanna know the answer to Sandy’s question,” Berger said. “So, why’d you go?”

Berger and Julie were both staring at him now, expectant. Sandra kept her eyes on the road, but the car was tense and Claude knew that she could feel it too.

“It’s what we’re supposed to do,” Claude blurted. “It’s what I was supposed to do and – “

“Says who?” Berger asked, cutting in.

“I don’t know,” Claude sighed. “Says everyone. But even if – It seemed easier. Going was just easier.”

“Easier,” Julie frowned. “Easier than what?”

Claude shrugged again, looked down at his hands. “Than fighting it. Than this, I guess.”

Claude felt Berger look away again and when he lifted his head, he found that he was right, that Berger had gone back to staring out the window, his chin resting on Julie’s shoulder.

“Are you going to Montreal?” Sandra asked, clearly trying to change the subject for the third time. “My parents took me for my fourteenth birthday. I pretended I was in Paris. I’m studying French so that I can move there someday.”

Julie snorted. “Your father will never let you move to Montreal.”

“My father’s not gonna know until I’m already there,” Sandra countered.

Julie and Sandra continued their argument about Sandra’s plan for the future but Claude wasn’t listening anymore. Claude started at Berger’s profile as Berger stared out the window. Julie had her arm around his shoulders, her fingers twisting in his hair.

“Berger,” Claude said.

Claude thought at first that Berger was going to ignore him completely, but Berger turned toward Claude after a moment, his eyebrows raised, and Claude instantly forgot anything that he thought he might say. He wanted to kiss Berger, kiss the frown from his mouth, knock Julie’s hand from his hair and replace it with his own.

“I shouldn’t have gone,” Claude said instead, and instantly felt lame voicing something so obvious. “I wasn’t – I’m glad I’m here.”

Berger shrugged it off, smiled. He didn’t actually respond to Claude, must have had a hard time coming up with a joke, an innuendo to lighten the mood. Eventually he settled for tickling Julie around the middle. Julie shrieked, Sandra nearly drove off the road, and Claude felt everything return to normal.

**

Sandra dropped them off in front of a telephone booth in downtown Burlington. The snow had stopped and the town was blanketed in a layer of white. Berger reached for Sandra as soon as she stepped out of the truck, folded her into a hug. Claude watched as he whispered something into her ear, some sort of final bonding to make up for his harsh words earlier in the ride. Sandra laughed and shrugged and climbed back into the truck.

Berger slapped Julie’s ass in farewell and then disappeared into the phone booth, rummaging through the bag of clothes before pulling out a piece of paper.

“Here,” Julie said once they were relatively alone, pressed her own sheet of paper into Claude’s hand.

“What’s this?” Claude asked. He unfolded it to find Julie’s address scrawled there.

“Write to me,” she said. “I want to hear how it all turns out for you, okay?”

She kissed him on the cheek and then she climbed back into the truck and rolled down the window to wave as Sandra drove off.

Berger emerged from the phone booth to stand beside Claude. “He’s on his way,” Berger said.

“What?”

“Susannah’s cousin,” Berger said.

“Oh,” Claude said. “Good. Yeah.”

“Come on,” Berger said, nudged Claude as he started walking.

At a diner a block from the phone booth, Claude and Berger sat at the bench and drank cups of coffee in huge gulps.

“You could have asked her to come, you know,” Berger said.

“Who?” Claude asked. “Julie?”

“Yeah, Julie,” Berger said.

“Why?”

Berger shrugged, looked into his cup as he said, “You liked her.”

“Yeah,” Claude said, watched Berger. Sure, he liked Julie. He liked Jeanie and Crissy and Hud. He wouldn’t mind if they were here, any of the tribe, really. He wanted them to be here, but he didn’t need them. He didn’t need Julie. The only person he really needed was going to have to leave, was sitting here suggesting his own replacement. “She was okay.”

Berger laughed into his mug, shook his head, turned to smile at Claude.

“What?” Claude asked.

“Nothing, man,” Berger said. “Just you –“ he started to say, but then he looked past Claude toward the door and waved.

Claude spun on his stool. A man had just entered the diner wearing a large brown coat, his hair bright red where it stuck out from beneath the edges of his hat. This guy had to be Susannah’s cousin.

“George,” Berger said in greeting. When George grinned and held out his hand for Berger, Berger stood and pulled him into a hug instead.

“Always good to meet another George,” George laughed in response, slapped Berger’s back with a large hand as they hugged.

When Berger finally released this George, he turned to Claude, held out his hand and said, “You must be Claude.”

“Yeah,” Claude said. “Claude Bukowski. Susannah and I are good friends. Thank you for helping out. You want coffee?”

“Nah,” George said. “Nah, I’m good. I’m parked outside. You guys ready to get going?”

Berger dropped a small pile of change onto the counter and “Lead the way, man.”

**

“This is what I fucking want,” Berger said, his eyes glassy as they sat in front of George’s fireplace.

“A farm?” Claude asked, surprised. It was nice, this farm. It was nestled in on the side of a hill, almost an hour north of Burlington. When they’d pulled in it looked like something out of a story book, the red barn covered in snow, the horses and cows out in the fields.

“I don’t care,” Berger said. “A farm or a fucking shack in the middle of nowhere. I want to grow pot just like my man George and I want to fuck in front of a fireplace and run around the woods naked.”

“Cool,” George breathed, his eyes closed and lips stretched wide in a grin.

“Sure,” Claude said, then couldn’t help but point out, “You know you’ll miss out on the police chasing you if you’re in the middle of the woods.”

“I don’t care,” Berger said again, shook his head. “I’m gonna start a bakery. Get everyone baked.”

Now it was Claude’s turn to laugh. Berger talked about this bakery every time he got really good and high. Berger was opening bakeries in New York City, San Francisco, Manchester, India, now on a farm.

George opened his eyes and said, “Who’s gonna keep you in business in the middle of the woods?”

“Okay,” Berger conceded. “Okay, so I’ll bake for me and Claude. You wanna build a cabin with me, Claudio?”

“Sure,” Claude said again, laughed. He knew that it would never happen. He knew that as soon as Berger came off this high he’d miss New York. Even if he didn’t, Berger’d never get farther than a foundation before he was distracted by something else.

Claude wasn’t sure how long they sat there passing around the joint. George had supplied it from the special stock that he grew right there on the property. It was strong and it made Claude a little dizzy, a little in love with the night. Berger was feeling it too. Claude could tell as he told them all about the breads he planned to bake, the cookies and brownies and donuts. “Hashish donuts,” Berger said. “Imagine that. A plate of donuts sitting right fucking here.” He waved at the area in front of them, stood up to demonstrate.

Eventually Claude yawned, couldn’t help himself. He hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in days and the fire was warm, the flames danced like women on a stage. The yawn was contagious and George followed suit, eventually standing. He stretched and wished them both good night. Once he retreated up the stairs, Claude and Berger fell silent, their chairs pushed together so that their knees touched as they stared at the dancing women. Claude remembered the woman walking her dog as they left the city. He remembered Berger saying that he thought he was that woman once, that Claude would have fallen in love with her.

Claude was in love with Berger now, more than ever, more than anything. Berger’s knee was bouncing against his, a nervous release of energy. Claude set his hand on Berger’s knee to still him and Berger reached out, pulled Claude into a kiss.

“You want to fuck in front of the fire?” Claude asked. One last time. Our last night.

“Yeah,” Berger breathed. “Shit, yeah.” He slid down off his chair, kneeled in front of Claude. Claude leaned in to kiss him again, remembered the night that Berger found him at Sheila’s, the way that Berger had fucked him, how close it had felt to love. He remembered the stretch of Berger’s dick into him, the impossible slide of Berger’s finger. He remembered shaking afterward, feeling Berger as though he was still there the entire ride to Port Authority.

Berger pushed Claude’s shirt up now, kissed his stomach, just above Claude’s naval. Claude leaned back in his chair, let Berger pull his jeans down his hips. Berger hooked his hands behind Claude’s knees, pulled Claude forward just a fraction more. His finger was wet when he pushed it inside of Claude, his palm pressed up against Claude’s balls.

Just like that night at Sheila’s, Claude thought. Love me just like that night. Something to remember you by, something to hold on to.

He thought it over and over as Berger kissed across his skin, pressed his tongue to the hair on Claude’s thighs, pushed his fingers in and pressed again and again.

Claude imagined what it would be like. Sitting here with Berger in a place that was theirs. Some place that they’d created together, some place where there wasn’t a timeline or an expiration date. They could fuck all night, hard and fast, then slow again and again. They could lie here salty and spent as the sun rose over the hill outside and the fire burnt itself down to coals. Claude could kiss Berger until his lips were raw with it, until he forgot how anything else tasted past Berger’s mouth. He wouldn’t have to pretend that this wasn’t exactly everything he’d ever wanted, Berger would know and he’d want it too.

This wasn’t their fire though. It wasn’t their chair that was biting hard into Claude’s back. They didn’t have all of the time in the world. Berger talked about building cabins and opening bakeries as though anything was possible, as though they could do everything they’ve ever wanted and on top of that they could do it together. Berger talked like he wouldn’t be back in New York by this time next week.

“You don’t have to do that with me, you know,” Claude said as he shifted against Berger’s hand.

“Do what?” Berger asked. Claude could feel the scrape of Berger’s teeth as he asked the question against Claude’s hip. He pushed another finger into Claude. Claude grunted with it, held onto the chair. “This?”

“No,” Claude said. “Keep doing that.”

“I don’t have to do what?” Berger asked again.

“Pretend,” Claude said. He sucked in a deep breath and then continued, “We don’t have to pretend anymore. All that stuff about cabins and baking. I just don’t want you to leave without saying goodbye.”

Berger’s fingers stopped moving inside of him. Claude’s hip felt cool where Berger’s mouth had abandoned it, as Berger rocked back on his knees to look up at Claude. Berger’s expression was surprise, confusion. He looked as though Claude had kneed him in the stomach and Claude wished he hadn’t said it, wished he’d just let this be their goodbye without trying to put it into words.

“I’m just saying,” Claude said, wasn’t sure why he was still talking, couldn’t stop. “We can be honest about what’s happening, can’t we?”

“Yeah,” Berger said. He laughed a little, nervous, before he looked away and said, “Yeah, sure.”

Berger’s fingers slipped away from Claude and he wiped his hand on the leg of Larry’s pants before he said, “Okay. Tell me then. What’s happening?”

“What do you mean?” Claude asked. He missed Berger’s hand touching him, but he’d started this and he sat up in his chair, leaned forward.

“Were you telling the truth back there in Sandy’s truck? You know, when you said you left because it was easier?”

Claude sighed and looked away. He felt exposed sitting here with his pants around his ankles, Berger fully clothed in front of him. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I was telling the truth.”

Berger chewed on his lip, seemed to be thinking this over.

“Why did you come back?” he asked finally. “You left because it was easier, you said. So why the hell are you here now?”

“I don’t know,” Claude said.

Berger shook his head, leaned forward to grab Claude’s knee.

“You fucking do know,” he insisted. “I’ve gotta know.”

Claude shook his head, pressed his fingers to the back of Berger’s hand where it gripped his knee. I left because I couldn’t stand to lose you. I’m here because I couldn’t stand to lose you. I’m here and I’m going to lose you anyway. Let’s stop pretending that we have forever.

“What’s not easy about this?” Berger prodded. His fingers curled behind Claude’s knee as he spoke, as he tried a different angle.

“I don’t know,” Claude insisted. “I don’t want – “

“This is easy,” Berger said. “You and me, Claude. Look at us, man. I don’t think it’s ever supposed to be this easy, but it is.”

“How can you think that this is easy?” Claude countered.

“What’s so hard?” Berger asked. “It’s never this easy. Not with me and Sheila. Nobody else but me and you.”

“Don’t you ever think about what’s gonna happen?” Claude asked. “And I don’t mean farms and cabins and magic brownies, Berger. I mean where we’ll really be.”

“You don’t want to build a cabin,” Berger concluded. That was what he was getting out of this. Claude didn’t want to build a fucking cabin.

“No” Claude said, threw up his hands. “No, don’t you see? We’re never going to build a cabin. That’s not how this ends!”

He pushed Berger’s hand from his knee, stood from the stupid chair, reached down to pull his jeans back up around his waist. He couldn’t have this conversation like this, couldn’t sit here naked and exposed in front of Berger. With his jeans resting on his hips, covered now though they were still unfastened, Claude stood over Berger, changed his mind and kneeled down beside him.

“How does it end?” Berger asked when Claude was level with him again.

“I don’t know,” Claude said. “With you going back to New York. Back to Sheila. You can say this is easy now, but how about tomorrow, huh? How about when we grow the fuck up and turn into the adults that you hate so much? You know what happens then? We can’t be like this the rest of our lives. That’s how it ends, Berger. It ends with wives and kids and jobs. It ends with you and Sheila, with you leaving.”

Berger turned and stared into the fire for a long time until Claude was convinced that that was it, that he’d gotten the last word. He reached out, a hand on Berger’s shoulder, and when Berger turned back his face was red. Claude reached for him, tried to pull him back, but Berger knocked his hands away, stood and stepped away from Claude.

“You left,” Berger said, his voice low and serious. There was no laughter lurking beneath the surface anymore, the arousal, the easy high from earlier in the evening. Everything else had evaporated. “It was fucking easier,” Berger spit now. “You broke my heart that day, man. You broke my fucking heart.”

“Berger,” Claude started.

Berger was laughing again now, short and mean, like he was intoxicated with it, like he couldn’t stop, couldn’t believe what Claude was saying.

He paced the room once, then disappeared into the kitchen. After a moment he came back, pointed a finger at Claude and said, “Get to Canada on your own. Go to Vietnam if you think dying is easier than just telling me to fuck off. You don’t have to say it anymore. I’ve got it now, man. I’ve got it.”

And with that he turned and left.

**

Claude sat alone in front of the fire. You broke my fucking heart, Berger said. As though Claude’s heart hadn’t started breaking the moment this entire thing started. As though Claude’s heart didn’t break every time he thought of how Sheila or Julie could have exactly what Claude wanted without even thinking twice. Every time Sheila said I love you, I adore you, and Berger swept her up off her feet into his kiss.

He imagined himself in another city, Montreal, Toronto. He imagined himself there, calling Berger to hear the news from New York. He imagined the day that Berger would tell him that he and Sheila were engaged, that Sheila was pregnant, that they’d be joined forever. He imagined himself courting all the girls in the world, falling a little in love with the ones that reminded him of Sheila only because they reminded him of Berger. He imagined himself with men that looked like Berger, imagined how much he’d want them, imagined what would happen when they all grew up and became their parents, realized that it wouldn’t be okay after all.

Of course Berger didn’t understand it. Berger had never felt that, the relief that came with taking the course that everyone around you already believed was the right one. He didn’t look outside of himself, of the tribe he’d surrounded himself with. He couldn’t understand.

Eventually, when Berger didn’t return, Claude buttoned his jeans and grabbed his coat from the hook in the kitchen, stepped out the back door into the snow. It wasn’t hard to follow Berger. He’d left a trail of footprints in the snow. Claude followed him across the back lawn to the barn.

The smell of hay and horses was strong when Claude stuck his head inside, blinked in the darkness. Berger was sitting on a bench just inside the door, his arms wrapped around himself. It was warmer here, but even so Claude could see Berger’s breath in the air when he exhaled.

Claude stepped inside, pushed the heavy door shut behind him. He sat down beside Berger, wanted to put an arm around him, try to wrap his coat around them both. Berger wrapped his arms tighter around himself when Claude got too close.

Claude was still trying to decide what to say when Berger spoke.

“Fuck this,” he said, his voice low. “Fuck you.”

I’ll come with you, Berger had said under that tree in the park months ago. Fuck you, he said now. Last night on earth.

You broke my heart, Claude thought. He couldn’t stand this. Couldn’t stand that they were wasting their last night with this. He never should have said anything. Words always ruined things between them. They were better with their mouths, with their hands. The translation of a relationship through sex. The last time they’d ever have the chance to say anything at all.

“Berger,” Claude said. He slid off the bench, fell to his knees on the wooden planks of the floor. He shrugged the coat off his shoulders, let it drop, then shuffled closer until he was kneeling in front of Berger, his hands on Berger’s thighs, the exact opposite of how things had started inside. “Berger, fuck me,” he said, tried to go back to where it had fallen apart.

Berger looked hard, the way Claude had always imagined he would look if he found out the truth about Claude. He stared down at Claude like he wanted to leave Claude there, punch him, walk away. Claude wasn’t sure what had happened, what was happening between them, but he wasn’t mocking Berger, he was dead serious and he said it again now, grabbed for Berger, his hands sliding around Berger’s waist, his cheek pressed to Berger’s groin.

Berger grabbed Claude’s arms, hands firm and tight so that Claude thought that Berger planned to push him away, braced himself for it. Instead he was pulled to his feet, Berger standing now too, the kiss sudden, hard, so that Claude’s teeth hit the back of his lips and he moaned a little with the sudden pain. Berger pushed against him, his hands, his tongue, his mouth. Pushed so that Claude had to hold onto him, stumble back and was relieved when he finally felt his back hit a wall.

Berger’s hands were at Claude’s pants, wasting no time as he pushed them down, let them fall around Claude’s ankles. His kisses were deep, distracting, and Claude was surprised when Berger’s hands suddenly found his dick, pulling, sliding. Claude broke their kiss when his head fell back, hit the wall as he thrust into Berger’s palm.

Berger kissed the line of Claude’s neck, sucked at it.

“Fuck me,” Claude said again. Fuck me, Berger, I love you. And Berger made a small angry noise against Claude’s neck in response. Berger’s strokes were firm, purposeful, and Claude could feel them resonating in the shake of his knees, in the grip of his fingers on Berger’s back.

And then Berger’s hand was gone and Claude was being turned, pulled, bent. He braced himself on the wall of the barn, braced himself. Berger pushed two fingers inside, fast, not taking his time as he had inside by the fire. Claude was ready, Claude didn’t want Berger to take anymore time. He hissed when he felt Berger finally push in against him, closed his eyes as he stretched tight around him. It was too much, not enough. His groan was loud when Berger wrapped an arm around his waist, pulled him closer as he pushed all the way in. It would have been embarrassing if there had been anyone else to hear it. There wasn’t anyone else. Just Claude and Berger. Just the horses sleeping in their stalls, quiet except for the occasional heavy breath, a soft snort.

Berger slid out, pushed in again, deeper, as deep as he could go. Claude still wanted more. He reached a hand back, pulled at Berger, determined to keep Berger close, determined to feel everything, remember everything. Claude felt Berger push against him, knew that Berger understood this, that even angry, even now, Berger got it too. Claude held Berger close, closed his eyes when he felt Berger push his shirt up toward his shoulders, squeezed them shut when he felt Berger’s mouth pressing kisses across his back.

Eventually Claude grew accustomed to Berger, to this feeling of being perfectly full, complete. Berger seemed to know, seemed to sense that Claude was ready and he began to move, slow, slow, all the anger dispersed between them now, dissipated. Berger’s pace was deliberate, timed so that Claude could feel every inch, so that Berger could relish in each push. Claude pressed his mouth to his own arm, muffled his moans against his own skin. He wanted this to last forever, wished that it could, that his legs weren’t already aching with it, that his dick wasn’t begging them to finish.

Berger kissed Claude’s shoulder, kissed him through the fabric of Claude’s shirt. Claude turned his head, wanted to see Berger, the press of Berger’s tongue to the fabric of Larry’s hand-me-downs. Berger took the hint, craned forward to kiss the corner of Claude’s mouth and Claude opened to it, tried to turn more, tried to get closer.

“Hold on,” Berger said against Claude’s mouth and then he was pulling away, pulling out. Claude reached for him, tried to hold him there, but he wasn’t fast enough and Berger was gone too soon. Claude pushed away from the wall, turned toward Berger, nearly tripped over the pants around his ankles.

Berger laughed then and Claude looked up surprised, smiled, glad to have Berger back with him. He thought briefly that he should apologize, thought that he should say something.

Berger had other ideas. He reached for Claude, helped him step out of his pants, then led him back to their bench. The barn was cold but when Berger reached for Claude’s shirt, Claude helped him, pulled it up and over his head, tossed it on the ground. Berger’s shirt followed. Berger pushed at Claude until Claude took the hint, laid back on the wide bench, touched Berger’s chest as Berger moved in. He kissed Claude as he pushed back into him and Claude thought, yes, this. Exactly what he wanted, Berger’s mouth, kisses matching the rhythm of his thrusts.

Berger pushed deep and Claude gasped around Berger’s tongue, urged him on. The wood of the bench was rough against Claude’s back. He liked that, liked the scratch of it against his skin. Berger’s hand found its way back to Claude’s dick and he stroked Claude as his hips began to increase their pace, as he kissed deeper into Claude’s mouth.

Claude was close now, too close, too soon. This, this, on and on forever, he thought and he knocked Berger’s hand away, wanted to hold on, but it was only a matter of moments before he found he’d replaced it with his own. He jerked himself, sucked at Berger’s tongue, took each push of Berger into him. The bench pressed into Claude’s back and with each thrust, with each slide of Berger’s dick, Claude loved Berger even more. Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t ever let this stop.

Claude knew it was coming, but he gasped when the orgasm curled through him, surprised and unprepared.

“Don’t stop,” he said into Berger’s mouth. “Don’t stop,” even before it had faded, radiating out from his gut, sweeping through him, out toward his fingers and his toes.

Berger didn’t stop, kept moving, kissed Claude as Claude touched Berger, tried to memorize the way that Berger felt under his fingers. He touched Berger’s hair, the stubble on his cheeks. He touched the line of Berger’s neck and the muscles in his arms. He curled his arm up to touch his headband, wrapped around Berger’s wrist where Berger had propped his hand beside Claude’s head. Claude touched Berger’s stomach, felt the way it moved with each thrust, felt the way it fluttered a little beneath his fingertips. His hands curved around Berger’s back, came to grip Berger’s ass, to urge him forward. Claude could hear himself, heard the low pathetic moans, the grunts that Berger swallowed for him, hid away for him.

Claude’s hands slid down Berger’s thighs.

Don’t stop, he thought, don’t ever stop.

Berger broke their kiss, cursed and buried his face in Claude’s shoulder. “Oh, fuck,” Berger groaned, then again, and Claude knew they didn’t have much time left, could tell that Berger was close.

“Don’t stop,” he whispered in Berger’s ear.

It was going to make him crazy, this. Berger was going to make him crazy, already had. Fuck me, fuck me, Claude thought over and over. Don’t ever stop this. Don’t stop. He remembered that night at Sheila’s, the night he came back. He remembered how Berger kissed him, remembered how it felt. It had felt like a beginning, like the start of something. Three days ago and they were already at the end. Claude couldn’t let this end.

He remembered that night at Sheila’s and his hand slid around Berger’s hip. He jumped as his fingers knocked against his own sensitive dick. He reached down until he felt Berger, touched Berger as Berger held on, kept moving.

“Oh, God,” Berger breathed, remembered what came next. “Don’t,” he said. “Don’t.”

But Claude had to, Claude had to have this. He slid his hand around, thumb and fingers forming a ring and he listened to Berger moan as he thrust through, his hips hitting the back of Claude’s hand. Claude curled one finger, pressed it against Berger’s dick and Berger shook his head, opened his mouth against Claude’s shoulder, made a sound that sounded a little like he was choking.

On Berger’s next thrust, Claude pushed in, his finger sliding in beside Berger, so fucking tight, too fucking soon since the last time. He felt raw, used, in love, his finger pressing against himself, pressing against Berger as Berger slid past.

That was it for Berger. Too much, just as he’d warned. He convulsed over Claude, pressed his teeth to Claude’s shoulder, his moan low and guttural.

“Holy shit,” Claude murmured, his breathing still rapid even though Berger’s thrusts had slowed. “Holy shit.”

“Fuck,” Berger said after a moment, after he’d regained some control. He propped himself back up, pushed his tongue back into Claude’s mouth, kissed him as though he was promising him the world.

Finally Berger pulled out and Claude was left there, his finger still pressed inside. He left it there for just a moment longer, as Berger kissed him one last time and then moved to sit back on the bench by Claude’s feet. Berger reached for Claude’s hand, pulled so that Claude’s finger slid free, so that his hand could wrap around Berger’s. Berger pulled and Claude sat up, folded until his head hit Berger’s shoulder, rested there.

“You know what I keep thinking?” Berger asked. “Every time we fall asleep. On that bus, in Julie’s bed. Every fucking time I think I’m going to wake up in Washington Square, fucking hung over and high and alone, man. Sheila’s gone, you’re gone, disappeared just like that.”

“That isn’t going to happen,” Claude said.

Berger snorted, bent until his elbows rested on his knees, his head in his hands. “I thought you’d left me in the Albany bus station, you know. You took so fucking long, I thought you’d found another way and left.”

“I wouldn’t do that,” Claude said.

Berger pushed his fingers through his hair, then sighed, sat back up and said, “What did I have to do?”

“What do you mean?”

“To get you to stay? I tried, Claude. What else could I have done?”

“I would have stayed,” Claude said, thinking hard about his answer. “If you said you were coming with me, if you said you were joining, I would have stayed.” He would have had to stay. It would have been the only way to keep Berger from going.

Berger laughed, looked away.

“I’m going back to New York,” Berger concluded. Claude kept his head low, squeezed his eyes shut. “That’s what you want now?”

Claude shook his head, but he knew what he had to say, knew what Berger would end up doing anyway, so when he opened his mouth he said, “Yes.”

Berger picked up his clothes, pulled on his pants and walked out of the barn. When Claude finally pulled himself together and followed, Berger was already asleep, or pretending to be, sprawled on his stomach across the sleeping bags that George had laid out on the floor. Claude lay down beside Berger, reached out to touch Berger’s shoulder. Berger didn’t move so Claude moved closer, rested his cheek on Berger’s back and closed his eyes.

**

It was still early when George ushered them into the back of the van.

“Is this really necessary?” Claude asked as George handed them blankets to cover themselves with. He rearranged the crates that he kept there, boxed Claude and Berger in. Claude remembered Jeanie telling them that her friend just drove right across, said he wanted to see Niagara Falls and just never came back. This all seemed like a lot of drama, a lot of the kind of thing that Berger loved. Claude looked over toward Berger to see if he was enjoying this bit of adventure. Berger smiled when he caught Claude checking. It wasn’t real, didn’t reach his eyes, was more just a show of teeth than anything else.

Claude lay down on his back on the floor of the van. He waited as Berger situated himself beside Claude, his arm pressed tight against Claude’s when he leaned back.

“I’ll knock on the wall when we get close,” George was saying. “Just throw the blanket over you. They won’t check anyway. It’ll be fine. He shut the door and Claude and Berger were alone.

The van lurched forward and Claude grabbed onto Berger’s arm to steady himself. Berger felt tense under his fingers and Claude released him just as quickly.

He wanted to take Berger’s hand, feel Berger’s fingers warm around his like that morning in Port Authority. They lay there in silence, Claude wasn’t sure for how long. He listened to the sound of the road, to George whistling along with the Beatles on the radio. He couldn’t remember the last time Berger was this quiet. He wasn’t sure Berger had ever been this quiet and he turned his head just to check and see if Berger was still awake.

Berger was awake, had been staring up at the ceiling just like Claude and after a moment he turned his head too, looked back at Claude.

“What’s up?” Berger asked but it wasn’t a real question. He didn’t sound like he really wanted to know.

“When you get back to New York,” Claude started. “When you get back to New York tell Sheila – “

Berger snorted, turned back toward the ceiling and said, “Tell her yourself.”

“What?”

He felt Berger shrug against him. “Sheila and me are done. You want to ask her to come to Canada to marry you, you’re gonna have to tell her yourself.”

Claude leaned up on his elbow so that he could see Berger’s face. Berger wouldn’t meet his eyes, looked past him, his mouth a line. “No, I – “ Claude stumbled, then, “When? Why?”

“We’re moving on,” Berger said, simply in words that sounded like Sheila’s. “She’s got another guy, you know. Fuck it.”

“Who?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Berger said. “We’re good, Sheila and me. We’re good.”

Claude remembered the way Sheila had gone on for weeks about someone she’d met at a rally in the capitol. He knew, could guess, that this was that guy.

“Shit,” Claude sighed. “I didn’t know.”

“It’s not a big thing,” Berger assured him.

“I’m sorry, man,” Claude said.

“Yeah,” Berger said. “Whatever, listen, it’s no big thing.”

Still, Claude had only been gone for half a day, not even a full twenty four hours since –

“When did this happen?”

“She bought the bus tickets,” Berger offered instead. It wasn’t really an answer to Claude’s question, but the point was clear. Berger didn’t want to talk about Sheila. That was why Berger was talking like he was never going back, talking about cabins and pot farms. Everything with them always came back to Sheila.

“You can’t run away,” Claude said.

Berger laughed. “You are.”

“It’s not the same. Why would you run from Sheila?”

Berger shook his head, turned to look at Claude again. “It was the same,” he said. “I was running away with you, Claudio.”

“Why?” Claude asked. “Sheila wouldn’t – “

“Because I want to,” Berger snapped. “Because that’s the kind of stupid shit you’re supposed to do, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know,” Claude said, but it didn’t matter.

Berger was done, had turned onto his side, his back to Claude.

Claude reached for him, set a hand on Berger’s shoulder, but he didn’t have time, didn’t have time to ask any more questions before George started knocking on the wall. Claude settled back and pulled the blanket over them. Claude settled back, his nose inches from Berger’s coat where it stretched between his shoulders. And then Claude waited.

**

Claude listened to George talk to the border official. He sounded friendly, they sounded like they knew each other. Claude listened and held his breath. Berger shifted beside him, turned so that he was facing Claude again. Be quiet, Claude thought. Don’t move. But it was too late for that, Berger had already started moving and Claude reached for him, pressed his face to Berger’s chest. After a moment Berger’s hand can up to rest against Claude’s back, to hold Claude close.

Claude listened as George laughed at something the customs official said, and then the van jerked hard and they were moving, they were through.

“Welcome to Canada, buddy,” Berger said low in Claude’s ear.

**

“Told you it’d be a piece of cake,” George was saying as they climbed out of the van. Claude squinted in the glare of the sun on the snow. They were in a bank parking lot off of what looked like the tiny main drag of a tiny Canadian town.

“There’s a bus station down that way,” George was saying to Claude. “And if you walk in the other direction there’s an inn. The owner is a friend of a friend of mine. You tell him you know me they’ll understand. They’ll give you a discount. Probably even let you work for board.”

“Thanks, George,” Claude said. He folded his arms over his chest before he turned toward Berger. George did the same.

“Are you coming back with me now?” George asked. His voice was softer now, a little less matter of fact than it had been a moment before as he gave Claude instructions on where he could go next. “You want me to come back for you in a few days?”

A couple more days, Claude thought. Berger reached out and hooked a finger in Claude’s belt loop, didn’t pull, just let his hand hang there. A couple more days.

“You don’t have to come back,” Berger said to George, shook his head, and Claude felt his heart race and fall at the same time. This was it.

“You sure?” George asked.

Berger’s hand slipped free from Claude’s belt loop.

This was easier the first time. It was easier when Claude was the one making this choice, when Claude was the one going away.

Claude wanted to pull Berger in, kiss him, make George tear him away. The image was pathetic and Claude pulled his arms tighter across his chest to stop himself.

“Yeah,” Berger was saying. “Yeah, I’m sure.”

Fuck you, Claude thought. He watched as Berger walked back to the van with George. George climbed in and Berger leaned in the window and Claude’s ears were ringing so loudly that he couldn’t hear what was being said. He was in Canada, he wasn’t going into the war, but he was losing everything anyway. Berger slapped George’s shoulder and then walked around the front of the van to the passenger side.

He’s just going to leave, Claude thought. And why not? Wasn’t that exactly what Claude did to Berger just a few days ago? No goodbyes, not really, just picked up and walked down to Whitehall Street and knew he would never see any of them again. He was just going to leave.

He should just fucking leave Claude here.

‘You broke my fucking heart,’ Berger had said and all Claude could think was that his heart had been broken for months.

George was starting the van but all Claude heard over and over again was Berger’s voice, Berger’s face as he said, ‘You broke my fucking heart.’

“Wait,” Claude called to George. “Wait a minute.” He crossed in front of the van, put a hand out in case George still planned to drive off anyway. When he made it to the other side he found that Berger hadn’t climbed in yet, was pulling off his coat, stuffing it into the bag he’d brought from Sheila’s.

“You’re in love with me,” Claude said and he winced at the way it came out, like an accusation.

Berger winced too, shrugged, then shook his head and said, “No, it’s fine – I’m fine. Write me a postcard, okay?”

“No, Berger. No, I – Berger, when you said - are you in love with me?”

Berger was the one folding his arms across his chest now. He looked up at the sky for a moment and then shrugged and said, “Well, yeah. What did you think, man?”

“I thought,” Claude started. “I don’t know. This whole time, I thought this was something else.”

“It’s okay,” Berger said.

“I’m not in love with Sheila,” Claude blurted. His heart was beating fast in his chest, irregular. He could feel it jumping in his throat.

“It’s okay,” Berger said again.

“No,” Claude said. “You don’t – I told my mother I was in love with Sheila cause I couldn’t tell her the truth. I don’t want to fight in a war or find a nice girl and settle down. I don’t want our kids to be best friends or for our wives to plan us joint vacations, Berger. I don’t even care about the fucking cabin or the brownies or a fireplace. I don’t care if it means that I’m – Maybe I’m, I don’t know – “ Homosexual. Gay. Don’t leave me. Marry me. Fuck me. I can’t sleep without you.

“Why did you leave?” Berger asked.

“Because I was in love with you,” Claude said, surprised at how easy it turned out to be to just say it. “I mean, that was part of it. I thought – I thought you and Sheila. That you wouldn’t want to - I thought that it would be easier for everyone if I just went.”

Berger didn’t say anything at first and Claude realized that he was holding his breath, that even now he was waiting for every awful reaction he’d ever imagined to spring into reality. He imagined Berger turning away, he imagined George driving off. He imagined Berger’s frown, the look of rejection in Berger’s eyes even now after Berger had as much as said that he was in the same place, that he was in this mess too.

And then Berger started to laugh. He laughed and shook his head. Claude caught himself laughing too, caught himself gasping in relief at the way that Berger’s eyes were shining, at the way that Berger smiled at him.

“You’re a fucking asshole, Bukowski,” Berger said finally, his chest shaking just a little with residual laugher even as he pulled himself back under control. “I flunked out of high school, man, and you’re the stupidest asshole I’ve ever met. Why’d you come back?”

“Because I’m in love with you,” Claude said.

“Jesus,” Berger breathed. “So why the hell am I going back to New York again?”

“I don’t know,” Claude said now, out of answers. “I don’t know.”

Berger turned away, then completed the circle and turned back, his hands in Claude’s face as though he wanted to grab Claude but was holding back. He shook them a little at Claude, excited as he said, “Fuck everyone else, Claudio. Fuck your parents and fuck the military and the pope and the president and all the rest of those stuffy lifeless fucks. What the fuck do they know anyway? Fuck everyone else.”

“What do I have to do to get you to stay?” Claude asked.

Berger laughed, handed Claude his bag, kissed him, quick firm kisses.

“Don’t go,” Claude said, glad to finally say the things he’d been thinking for days. “I don’t want you to leave.”

Berger kissed Claude again, lingered this time and licked between Claude’s lips, a tease, but when Claude closed his eyes and let his mouth fall open, Berger pulled away. Claude felt Berger’s hands on his head, pushing something onto his forehead. He reached up, touched it with his fingers. His headband back around his forehead, his hair sticking out around it. It felt like so long ago, the first time Berger had done this, shortly after they’d first met. It felt like so long since Berger had pushed this headband onto Claude’s head and welcomed Claude into his tribe. Claude remembered how he was then, rebellious, lost. He remembered the first time Berger ever kissed him, the first time they touched each other, the first time they fucked. He remembered his mother standing in the kitchen and telling him that he was in love, remembered how it felt, his world crashing down around him when he realized it was true. I love you, I’m in love with you.

Berger kissed Claude once more and then he turned and climbed into the passenger seat of George’s van.

“What are you doing? Wait,” Claude said, felt a little push of panic rising in his throat. Standing there with Berger’s bag and Berger’s coat, with Berger’s kisses drying on his mouth. Maybe he’d heard wrong. Maybe he got everything all wrong.

Berger shushed him and smiled before he turned away, turned toward George.

“Good for you,” George was saying. “Good for you.” And then he embraced Berger, Berger leaning over the van into George’s arms. Claude held onto the passenger side door just in case. He watched as George slapped his hand against Berger’s back and then released him. Berger sat back in his seat, turned to look at Claude. He ran a hand through Claude’s short hair, down the side of Claude’s face before coming to rest at his neck, thumb sliding beneath Claude’s ear.

George was grinning at them from the other side of the van, nodding. Berger wasn’t leaving. Berger wanted to stay with him. Berger was in love too.

“Thanks,” Claude said, wasn’t sure what else there was to say. “Thanks, George.”

“Any time,” George said, his eyes scrunching into small half moons as his grin grew impossibly wider. “Good for you guys, you know? Any time.”

Berger’s hand slid down from Claude’s neck to grip his shoulder, leaning on him as Berger jumped back out of George’s van. Claude slipped his arm around Berger’s waist, easy, familiar, his now. His now. Berger knocked Claude’s other hand away from the door of the van, shut it and slapped it twice with his palm.

Berger shouted, waved as George drove off. Claude waved too, kept his grip on Berger as he did so. He couldn’t believe this was it, that it had come to this. He couldn’t believe that they were here in some random small town in Canada. Alone. Together. He couldn’t believe that Berger could be in love with him too. Berger, of all the people in New York.

“I wasn’t ever going to go anywhere, man,” Berger admitted. “You know, I was gonna make George drive me a couple blocks away and dump me there. Where the fuck else would I go?”

“Come with me,” Claude said. “We’ll go to Montreal or Toronto. We’ll go wherever you want to go, I don’t care.” Claude would build a thousand structurally unsound cabins in a thousand different forests if that was what Berger wanted.

“Fuck everyone else,” Berger said again, wrapped an arm around Claude’s shoulder and pulled Claude tight against him. “Fuck everyone else, yeah, love? We’ll fuck in every every city in Canada. We’ll fuck in them all twice, five times, a thousand.”

“Yeah,” Claude said. “Yes.”

Berger released Claude, slapped his ass hard so that Claude flinched and Berger, no longer in the mood to be overly sentimental, grinned. He started walking, turned and beckoned Claude. Claude shifted Berger’s bag on his shoulder, started to follow.

“You and me, Claude, baby,” Berger called to him. He turned back to walk with Claude, took Claude’s hand in his, pulled him forward. “You and me. Let’s go.”