1.
Ian twirls the invitation between his fingers, letting the art deco lettering blur—special guest, plus one. The “plus one” is the only thing he doesn’t have to stress about this weekend. No room for romantic entanglements. An occasional hookup, sure—anything more would just be a distraction.
From his car, he watches the ferry slice through the black water of Puget Sound, heading for the Whitman Society’s exclusive island enclave. Every ripple feels like another tally of what’s riding on this.
On the back of the invitation, a Whitman quote—Do you not see how it would serve to have such a body and soul that when you enter the crowd an atmosphere of desire and command enters with you, and every one is impress’d with your Personality?
He’ll have to work on that. He’s not a social imbecile—one-on-one, or behind a podium, he can hold his own. But two dinners, two breakfasts, and a gauntlet of interviews? The urge to skip small talk and get to the things that matter is already gnawing at him.
He checks the rearview: slight bags under his eyes. Sleep was elusive last night. “Not good, Ian.” Maybe his glasses will hide the worst.
“Look alive,” he mutters, pursing his lips, patting his cheeks, raking fingers through the stubborn crest of hair on his forehead. “It’s just a weekend. Just the culmination of everything you’ve ever worked for. No pressure.”
He climbs out for air, stretching long legs up the ferry steps to the deck. He tells himself it’s for the breeze, or to take a leak. but the only thing truly reviving is the sight waiting at the men’s room urinal: tall, ginger, and startlingly good-looking.
The guy is rough-handsome, maybe Ian’s age—twenty-nine, give or take—with a jutting jaw, a few days’ scruff in the same burnt orange as his hair, and broad shoulders that could fill a doorway. He stands with his legs wide, like he owns the place, or at least his two square feet of it.
For a second, Ian wonders if he’s ferry staff—Carhartt jacket, heavy pants, work boots. But there’s no insignia, and his clothes aren’t ferry-system blue. Caramel, pumpkin, maroon—all warm colors, matching his ruddy cheeks. Not official. Just thoroughly distracting.
The ginger shifts as Ian steps up to the trough-style urinal—one long basin, zero privacy. Ian tells himself not to look—half out of manners, half to avoid a punch if his attention’s unwelcome. But the guy’s hot, and basic bodily functions suddenly become… challenging.
Ian manages what he can, then lingers at the sink, looking past his reflection, cursing his timing, his nerves, his everything. As he leaves, he catches the ginger’s eye on him—an assessing look, and Ian feels a twist in his briefs.
He hangs around the deck, half-expecting to see the ginger again. No luck. Of course. Right guy, wrong moment. Probably for the best. He should be thinking about docking. His car. Not…that.
Back at his car, Ian notices how empty the lower deck is. He tips his seat back, hesitates, then unbuttons his pants. Not his usual style—public ferry, car, broad daylight—but stress is stress, and if he stays low, no one will see. The ginger was…unreasonably hot.
He closes his eyes—and the car door opens. Ian bolts upright. “I’m not—”
He expects security. Instead, it’s the ginger, sliding into the passenger seat with the ease of someone who’s done this a hundred times.
“What—what are you doing?” Ian blurts. Carjacking? NOW!?
But when he sees the big grin on the ginger’s face, he realizes it’s something else.
“Been in the head since we left Seattle,” the ginger says, voice rough as his jaw. Up close, he’s even better looking—blunt nose, boyish grin, blond eyebrows. His gaze slides down Ian’s body. “From the look of your arms, there’s got to be something good under that shirt.”
He leans in, catching Ian off guard. For a split second, Ian freezes. Then the ginger’s mouth is soft and demanding, and Ian is kissing back, hungry. The ginger’s hand finds his zipper, fingers strong but surprisingly deft, working him free like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“Right on,” the ginger breathes, grinning wide. He licks his palm, then wraps his hand around Ian with the confidence of someone who always gets what he wants. “Thought you could use a hand.”
2.
The ginger goes down on Ian’s cock—confident, relentless. First one gulp, then all of it on the second.
Holy fuck, Ian thinks, gasping and grabbing the sides of his car seat so hard he might bruise the it.
The ginger is ridiculously good at this, one hand tugging Ian’s balls down while his mouth works the full length, wet and relentless. He slurps and teases from root to tip and back again, glancing up every so often to make sure Ian’s face is registering every ounce of pleasure.
Ian groans and fumbles to reach under the ginger to grab his heft package, but the guy just twists away, then pins Ian’s wrist to the seat—like he’s saying, Let me handle this. And then he swallows Ian’s cock again, even deeper.
“Oh fuck! Oh my god!” Ian gasps as his cock pushes into the tight squeeze of Finn’s throat. No one’s ever done that before—not that deep, not that tight. It’s like a whole new category of experience.
Normally, Ian has a hard time cumming from just a blowjob—but the ginger’s so aggressive, so relentless, and that throat has him helpless. And he’s so good looking—honestly, just watching him at it would probably do the job.
He takes Ian’s cock all the way again, snorting through his nose to breathe. The waves of pleasure, plus that face, his coloring, push Ian right over—he swells, stiffens, and surges a load straight down the ginger’s throat.
“Oh fuck!” Ian gasps. The ginger chokes, gurgles, and swallows it all, groaning low in his throat.
When he finally lets Ian’s cock go, he looks up—eyes watery, lips inflamed, still snorting through his nose, but grinning like he just won a prize.
“Knew you had a big dick,” he rasps, still working Ian’s slick cock with his fist, sending tremors through him.
Ian, still catching his breath, reaches for Finn’s crotch. “Let me do you.”
“Nah, I’m good, bro. We’re docking soon—people’ll be heading back to their cars.”
He holds out a fist. Ian, dazed, bumps it—his elbow bumping the steering wheel. The horn blares, loud and mortifying, echoing around the car deck.
Ian jolts, glasses sliding down his nose, his heart pounding like he’s just been caught mid-crime.
Finn doesn’t even blink. “Nice pipes,” he says with a little grin. “On the car, too.” He sits back, dazzling. “Finn.”
“Ian,” Ian manages, pushing his glasses back up, which immediately fog with the heat and adrenaline. He whips them off and rubs them on his shirt. Finn just watches, placid, like this is a daily occurrence.
Finn glances at the open box, the garment bag in the back seat. “What’s with the books? And the tux?”
As if the blowjob wasn’t enough—now the hot guy’s asking about Ian’s favorite thing, and actually sounds curious.
“That’s my book,” Ian says, aiming for nonchalance as he gestures at the open box of bound copies.
Finn reaches back and pulls one out. The cover: The Silver String in elegant script.
“You’re a writer?”
“Yeah,” Ian says. He never gets tired of the question.
“What’s it about?”
“It’s a novella. A modern gay take on Orpheus and Eurydice—do you know Greek mythology? Anyway, it’s about an older gay couple, and when one of them dies, his husband goes to the underworld to get him back.”
Finn nods, studying the cover. His jaw juts, lips pressed so tight they almost disappear. When he finally relaxes them, they’re pale—then flush with color again. Ian wants nothing more in the moment than to kiss them.
“Right on,” Finn murmurs, nodding again.
“It’s told in alternating chapters,” Ian presses on as Finn flips to the back cover. “Back and forth between the underworld journey and flashbacks—how they met as young guy, before AIDS, all the way to now.”
Finn nods, eyes still on the book.
“The thesis—sorry, I know it sounds pompous—is that truth’s only visible in retrospect. You have to look back.”
Ian can’t help going on. “I’m, uh, one of three finalists for this thing called the Whitman Fellowship.”
Finn’s eyebrow lifts. “Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. The Whitman Society’s basically a club for rich gay guys—a lot of them moved out here to make their fortunes in tech, retire young, and now they’re big patrons of arts and lit.”
“Older like the guys in your book?”
Ian nods, surprised at how quickly Finn connects the dots. Honestly, the novella is practically engineered for these senior gays—most of them could be the couple’s contemporaries.
“It’s dumb, but… if I get it, they’ll cover my expenses and travel for five years. I could actually just…write.”
“Right on,” Finn says again, nodding. Has right on ever sounded so good as coming through his lush lips?
“We’ll see,” Ian says, yawning, his exhaustion finally catching up now that the adrenaline’s gone. “They decide—” long yawn “—this weekend.”
“Can I?” Finn asks, holding up Ian’s book. Ian starts to say yes, but Finn’s already sliding it into his jacket and taking a swig from Ian’s water bottle. “Mind if I hang out here till we dock?”
With post-orgasmic clarity, Ian realizes he’s got a total stranger in his car. Might be a thief, a lunatic, or worse. But he’s awfully hot to be a threat. And the least Ian can do after that blowjob is offer a seat.
He slips off his glasses and, for the first time in days, feels relaxed enough to close his eyes. Just for a minute.
3.
Ian wakes to the shrill blast of a car horn behind him, and a ferry worker at his windshield, giving him the stink eye. Shit, he realizes—they’ve landed.
He fumbles for his glasses, buckles up, and suddenly remembers the ginger—Finn. He’s gone. Fuck. Finn was the hottest guy Ian had ever been with, and he’d slept through any chance to get to know him.
Another horn honks, sharp and impatient.
Clumsily, disoriented, Ian starts his car and notices his overnight bag sitting open on the passenger seat. The contents, packed with care, are askew. More horns blare, angrier now.
Stink eye stomps over. “Is there a problem here?”
“Yeah. I’ve been robbed!” Ian blurts.
God damn it. The fucking ginger.
Once off the ferry, Ian pulls over to talk to security. Naturally, he omits the blow job, telling them instead that the ginger asked for a ride and Ian naïvely agreed, but while he nodded off, the guy made off with his things. A little white lie that eventually settles somewhere near the truth.
He rattles off the stolen items: sweaters way too small for Finn, with fifty pounds of muscle on Ian, some protein bars, and worst of all, the invitation to the Whitman Society. That he’ll miss for sentimental reasons. His laptop and phone are untouched, and his wallet remains, cards and cash inside, though clearly rifled through.
“What kind of thief takes sweaters and protein bars but leaves the money?” Ian wonders aloud.
Security asks him to stick around, hoping he can spot the ginger exiting.. Ian checks the time and grumbles, “I really have to go. I have an appointment.”
They take a description anyway and promise to check security camera footage for anyone matching Finn, alerting the Island Police.
“Oh no, no,” Ian says quickly. He hadn’t thought of security cameras and doesn’t want to find out he just accidentally made his first sex tape. “Don’t bother. It’s nothing.”
“Probably a walk-on,” the security guard shrugs. “They exit the ferry before the cars.”
Next, Ian calls his contact at the Whitman Society, Mr. Choi, his program officer, to explain the delay. Before Ian’s even finished, Mr. Choi’s voice crackles brightly over the line.
“Mr. Smith! No worries at all, truly. These things happen! We’re just so excited to have you.”
Ian hangs up and sighs. He hasn’t even arrived yet, and it’s already gone off the rails. But when he thinks of Finn—those flickering curls and that grin—it’s hard to regret much besides the fleetingness.
Twenty minutes later, Ian pulls into the campus of The Whitman Grove. Once a seminary built in the 1930s to prepare young men for religious service, it was purchased and renovated by the Whitman Society, and is now a lavish retreat for the elite gay elders of the Whitman Society—to stage their events and retreats, and—importantly—to give away fellowships to aspiring creatives.
Looking up at the glowing stained glass windows, Ian can’t help but wonder how many seminarians must have been young gay men using the priesthood to hide their desires—only to have the halls now celebrate gayness. There’s a joke there somewhere, but Ian is too anxious to find it.
He pulls on his blazer, knots his tie, and steps toward the grand central building—handsome, surrounded by towering evergreens and winding paths. So isolated it’s hard to believe it’s just a ferry ride from the city.
“My name is Ian Smith,” he practices under his breath as he enters the din of a crowded party. “What’s that? Oh yes, I’m one of the finalists for the fellowship. Did you read The Silver String? That’s mine.”
The main hall gleams with glossy wood floors and sparkling period chandeliers. Walls of leaded glass let in the soft evening light. The cost must have been staggering, Ian imagines, but the Whitman Society has the dollars to back up their aesthetics.
An attractive young man at the reception desk greets him enthusiastically. Well done, Whitman Society, Ian thinks, eyeing the guy’s angled jaw and the span of his shoulders.
“Oh, you’re one of the finalists,” the man says in a rich voice. “How exciting for you!”
“But look at how late I am,” Ian replies. “What a bum.” They both laugh.
“Mr. Smith,” the man says, “you’re just on time. Please don’t worry. And I’m so sorry about the mix-up with the other Mr. Smith. We’ve taken care of it all, and the addition will be seamless. The reception tonight is in the foyer to your left, and we’ll bring your bag to your room after dinner. Welcome to Whitman Grove.”
Ian starts to leave but stops when he hears his name again. “Mr. Smith… good luck.”
He doesn’t know who the other Mr. Smith is, but it’s such a common name he’s not surprised by the mix-up. He mentally tucks the story away—if he meets the other Mr. Smith, they’ll have something to chuckle about.
The foyer buzzes with chatter, chuckles, and roaring laughter that climbs to the vaulted ceiling. About 150 men fill the space, mostly older white-haired or bald trustees of the Whitman Society. They’re in good spirits, hugging, laughing, and passing champagne flutes as a pianist plays show tunes.
Ian runs through his introductions again, reminding himself to smile, ask questions, be curious—and smile some more.
At the far end, a growing circle of men laugh louder than the rest. A good place to break in, Ian hopes.
As he approaches, a familiar voice quips, “And I said threesome? We can barely agree on what’s for dinner, much less who to have for a threesome!”
Laughter erupts, but before Ian can get closer, he’s intercepted by a man he knows only from virtual interviews.
Mr. Choi, the program officer assigned to him, is about 40 and wearing an exquisitely tailored suit that looks just a little too stiff. There’s a faint sheen of sweat on his forehead, and his smile is wide—almost too fixed.
“Mr. Smith! I’m so glad you could be here,” he says, shaking Ian’s hand with a grip that’s just a little too enthusiastic. “We were terribly sorry to hear about your troubles on the ferry and your delay. But rest assured, everything is under control. And your husband has made quite a splash in your absence—delightful, just delightful!”
The laughter from nearby guests is so loud Ian thinks it’s rattling his ears. “I’m sorry, I thought you said my husband?”
“Your husband,” Mr. Choi repeats, fumbling with his clipboard. “Finn.”
4.
Ian blinks, wondering if he’s still on the ferry, dreaming, when he turns to see the raspy-voiced ginger, surrounded by a ring of fawning older men. “And there’s my better half now!” Finn declares loudly.
The circle of trustees turns to Ian, eyes sizing him up like they’re auditioning him for the role of husband. “What are you doing here?” Ian blurts.
Finn steps away from the spotlight to wrap Ian in a bear hug. Then, turning back to his admirers, he chuckles, “He hates that I get around faster than he does.”
“That’s my sweater,” Ian gasps, eyes wide. “You took my sweater.”
“Caught!” Finn throws up his hands, grinning. The men guffaw like on cue. “Why be married if you can’t swipe each other’s clothes?”
Ian adjusts his glasses and finally spots the ginger’s name badge: Finn Smith. He flips his own badge around to confirm—Ian Smith. At least he still knows who he is.
“I think there’s been a mistake,” Ian says, turning to Mr. Choi, the program officer. Surely he can fix this.
“Oh my,” Mr. Choi gasps, cheeks flushing as he steps forward. “A lover’s quarrel! Perfectly natural, perfectly natural.” His laugh is a bit too loud, a high-pitched flutter, as he spins on his heel. “Let me get some refreshments.”
Finn slings an arm around Ian and suddenly steers him away from the crowd. Two servers swerve around them, nearly colliding.
“What are you doing here?” Ian hisses. “Are you even supposed to be here?”
“Bro, relax,” Finn says, snagging two champagne flutes from a passing tray without missing a beat. He hands one to Ian. “This place is awesome. Did you see the shrimp bar?”
“No,” Ian replies, downing the champagne in one gulp. “I did NOT see the shrimp bar.” His jaw clenches. “You stole my clothes. You’re wearing my sweater right now!”
“Yeah, it’s a little snug.” Ian can’t help but notice how incredible it looks on Finn’s athletic frame. “You need some color in your wardrobe. You dress like a black-and-white photo.”
“You need to get out of here,” Ian snaps, voice low but firm.
“Why? I was here first,” Finn shrugs, tossing back his champagne.
“Here first? HERE FIRST? With my invitation! Pretending to be my husband! I’m calling the police.”
“Oh, I don’t think you want to do that, bro.”
“Why not?”
“You want to tell all these nice folks you hooked up on a ferry ride on the way to get their money. Dude, no.”
Ian hesitates, considering. The ginger takes his hand and, without warning, slides a simple gold wedding band onto Ian’s finger.
“What are you—STOP!” Ian gasps, twisting and tugging, but the ring won’t budge. “Oh god, it’s stuck.”
“Right on,” Finn chuckles, flashing his own matching band. “Matching.”
“No! Not right on! Not matching! Did you steal this from someone here?”
“Bro, chill. It’s not from here,” Finn sighs.
“Do you promise? Swear to me.”
Finn places his heavy hand on Ian’s shoulder. “I just want to help.”
“Help? HELP? Are you insane? How is this helping?”
A sly smile spreads across Finn’s face as he pulls a folded card from his back pocket and reads aloud:
“‘Do you not see how it would serve to have such a body and soul that when you enter the crowd an atmosphere of desire and command enters with you, and every one is impress’d with your Personality?’”
“That’s my invitation!” Ian snaps, swiping at the card, but Finn holds it just out of reach until Ian surrenders it.
“Bro, have you not been paying attention? Those old dudes love me.”
Finn flexes his bicep, the snug sweater stretching tight across the swelling muscle.
“Oh my God,” Ian gasps, pulling Finn’s arm down. “You ARE crazy!” Crazy hot. “This is serious. This is about my book!”
“You think too much,” Finn grins. “Here.”
He hands Ian his empty champagne flute and the invitation just on cue for Mr. Choi to return.
“Ah, gentlemen,” his voice cuts through the noise as he approaches, holding fresh champagne flutes, eyebrows raised.
Ian takes a flute, adding to the collection of two empties and the invitation.
Mr. Choi eyes the accumulation of glasses and then flits down to Ian’s chest. “Mr. Smith, you’re upside down.”
Ian glances down, realizing his name badge has spun completely around. Perfect.
With his hands full of champagne flutes and his invitation, Ian tries to flip his name tag with just his fingertips, all the while keeping the full flute from spilling.
Finn watches, amused. “Want some help?”
“No,” Ian snaps, voice tight. “I do not need your help.”
He takes a deep breath and finally twists his name tag into place, when the lights flicker off and on twice.
“Oh, now what?” Ian mutters, as if the universe is conspiring against his coordination.
“Gentlemen,” Mr. Choi raises his arms theatrically, “our signal! Dinner is about to be served.”
He leads them toward the dining hall, chatting nonstop about the chandelier and restored woodwork. Ian lets himself fall behind, pulling Finn close.
“Look,” he whispers, “I’m going to explain this whole crazy mess at dinner. I’ll say this was your joke gone too far. I’ll apologize, and then you disappear.”
“What do I say?”
“YOU? Nothing. You just agree with whatever I say. One hundred percent. Got it?”
“If you say so, bro,” Finn shrugs, grinning.
Together, they enter the dining hall.
5.
They sit at a ten-top, the other finalists at their own nearby tables—young, sharp, each paired with a program officer like Mr. Choi, though none quite as frantic as the man at Ian’s side. The rest of the table is filled with white-haired trustees of the Society, the same men who’ll later weigh in with recommendations to the Awards Committee.
“This is Mr. Ian Smith,” Mr. Choi announces proudly, “one of our fellowship finalists this weekend. And his husband, Mr. Finn Smith.”
“Actually—” Ian begins, but the trustees are already turning back to Finn, who’s picked up right where he left off, dropping nicknames Ian can only guess at: T-Dog, Georgie. He claps an older man on the back. “Sully, my man!” he bellows.“
Finn-Dog!” the man replies, laughing.
Caterers flood the room with trays of first-course salads. Finn steals a carrot from a passing tray, snapping it loudly between his teeth. Ian’s eyes narrow.
“And what color Rolls did you arrive in today?” Finn asks a nearby trustee, crunching the carrot. The man chuckles; Ian rolls his eyes.
Salads land, and Finn flicks cherry tomatoes into the air, catching them in his mouth like a trained seal. Ian feels the urge to stop him, but then a trustee tosses his own tomato. Finn snaps it up mid-air. Juice sprays, and the table applauds.
One trustee fans himself as if Finn’s charisma is raising the room temperature, while another tries to hide a chuckle behind a folded napkin.
“Oh, good lord,” Ian mutters, finally drawing some attention, unwelcome as it is. He tries to salvage the moment. “I didn’t realize it had gotten so late.”
He’d intended to weave into the conversation to excuse Finn, to send him on his way, but as the meal goes on it gets harder and harder to do so, even when salad plates are cleared, and dinner plates are placed. In fact, he can barely get a word in as Finn regales the trustees.
“And then Ian pulled me back,” Finn says, demonstrating by sweeping Sully into a one-armed hug, tight against his chest. “Or that escaped leopard would’ve pounced! Just missed my butt!”
“That never happened. That never happened at all,” Ian mutters, but while the trustees are looking admiringly at Finn, not one is listening to him.
Ian pulls Mr. Choi aside. “Could we talk? About Finn? I owe an apology.”
Mr. Choi’s smile tightens nervously as he repeatedly adjusts his tie, knocking over a glass of water that he hastily catches. “An apology? I couldn’t help but notice your little… spat earlier. Every couple has their moments. I mean, that’s what I’ve read. Chronically single, myself.” He sighs. “But I read a lot of self-help books.”
“Yes, but—” Ian tries again.
Mr. Choi leans in, lowering his voice. “From what I’ve heard, finalists tend to overprepare. These weekends can be stodgy. But with you two around? It must be a welcome change!”
Ian catches sight of Finn sprawling, legs wide, back arched, hand on belly. “That was awesome, but man, my stomach’s doing a number. Hear that rumbling?”
“No,” the nearest trustee says.
Finn pulls the man’s gray head to his belly, pressing his ear there, his nose near Finn’s crotch. “Oh! I do hear something,” the man declares. When his head comes back up he’s red-faced, but delighted.
“Anyone else want to hear it?” Finn asks, and half the table rises like the Queen has arrived.
Ian leans toward Mr. Choi, voice stern. “You said you heard these weekends can be stodgy. How many have you done?”
Mr. Choi’s smile falters. “Counting this one?” After a long pause, he grimaces. “One.”
Ian’s carefully maintained mask drops.
“One,” Mr. Choi brightens. “But it’s going swimmingly, no?”
“Oh for God’s sake,” Ian groans, standing. It’s time for Plan B. “Excuse me, I have something to say.”
Ian freezes, all eyes on him, the table quiets. Every face expectant, but flat, except Finn, who looks giddy.
“Mr. Smith, what is it?” Mr. Choi asks, clutching his handkerchief, knuckles white.
“Finn… Finn isn’t…”
“Mr. Smith?” Mr. Choi’s concern deepens, eyebrows raising.
“Finn isn’t… he’s not… he isn’t able to stay.”
The trustees gasp, and Ian feels the change in tone—the sudden drain of joy and frivolity. He begins to breathe fast and then faster, drawing even closer scrutiny from the trustees at his table. Ian’s breath quickens under their gaze.
“Why not?” someone asks; others shake their heads.
“Finny! No!” one cries. Another adds, “What a shame! Why not, Mr. Smith?”
Ian knows this feeling—he’s trapped himself, backed into a corner in a story. But it’s happening in real time, with the most important readers of his brief career. His armpits are damp, and his collar is itchy, and the whole room seems to be tilting, going sideways—
Except Finn. Steady, beaming, grinning ear to ear. His eyes locked on Ian’s.
He curls up an arm behind the heads of the trustees, biting his bottom lip and releasing it as his bicep swells. The sweater stretches to its limit, and Ian can see a single loose thread hanging, twisting as the sleeve begins to split at the seam, coming undone before his eyes.
There are so many eyes on Ian, Mr. Choi’s distress building, when Ian meets Finn’s gaze, his eyebrows knit together as he mouths a silent plea. Help!
“What Ian means,” Finn volunteers, dropping his arm, “is when his car got burgled, they took my tux. So I’d be super underdressed for dinner tomorrow.”
The trustees shake their heads sympathetically.
“There’s a tailor on the island,” one says. “Retired. You wouldn't believe how often those things are needed. There must be something he can pull together. Or we can have something sent in the morning so he can alter it to your fit.”
“Mackie, you’re my man,” Finn grins, hugging the trustee and slapping his back.
“Young man,” the trustee replies, “there’s little that can’t be solved with enough time or enough money.”
Mr. Choi promises to handle it and exhales with relief. “Does that settle everything, gentlemen?”
Ian gulps. “It certainly does.”
Finn beams. “One hundred percent.”
As dessert arrives, Finn spreads his arms over the backs of the trustees’ chairs and winks at Ian.
“You know,” he says loud enough for the table, “I love a morning run. Don’t you?”
Nods ripple around the table.
“I would like to propose a morning run. I’ll be ready to hit the trail by 8 a.m. and hope you can all join me.”
Ian sinks back into his seat. That went well.
6.
Finn follows Ian down the hall with an easy stride, matching his pace as they head to their—his—room. “So far, so good.”
“Good? GOOD?” Ian spins around, eyes blazing at the ginger. “This is definitely not good. I had trustees to impress, and I barely talked to any of them. I’m so far behind, and it’s just the first night!”
“Relax. It’s not a race,” Finn says, deftly swiping Ian’s glasses from his head and holding them up to his own eyes, squinting theatrically.
“Everything. Is. A. Race.” Ian arches an eyebrow and reaches to snatch his glasses back, but Finn holds them just out of reach. Exasperated, Ian turns toward the fuzzy hallway. “And now I can’t even find the room.”
“You’re literally standing in front of it,” Finn says with a smile, gently resting the glasses back on Ian’s nose.
Ian scowls, trying not to feel the heat from Finn’s solid form so close behind him.
“You crack me up,” Finn says, wrapping a strong arm around Ian’s waist and pulling him back. He feels like a wall of muscle.
The lock buzzes, and Ian steps inside, Finn right behind him, attached at the hip, giggling.
“Quit that,” Ian says, breaking free. God, he’s making it hard to stay mad. “Why are you even doing this? I just want to get my fellowship and go somewhere quiet to write.”
“I like you,” Finn replies, pinning Ian against the wall, noses nearly touching. Ian catches the faint scent of sweat mixed with something musky and clean, like soap. “Except when you act like a stiff. Ah, who am I kidding? I like it when you’re a stiff too.” He reaches down to grope Ian’s crotch. “And when you are stiff.”
“Stop,” Ian groans, sliding down the wall and turning away, his underwear bunched uncomfortably around his erection. He curses his body’s weakness and the heat rushing through him.
“That’s a funny way to say thanks,” Finn mutters, stripping out of his charcoal sweater and tossing it to Ian. His shirt underneath is wrinkled and overdue for a cleaning, Ian notes. Smart of him to cover it up.
“Thanks? THANKS?” Ian gasps, wadding up the sweater. He wants to bury his face in it, to take in Finn’s scent.
“You’re welcome,” Finn grins, unbuttoning his shirt to reveal the downy reddish hair on his chest. He tosses the shirt toward a chair but misses completely; it lands in a heap on the polished floor.
“I’m not thanking you, you crazy himbo!” Ian groans, pulling his overnight bag onto the dresser. Everything he’d so carefully packed—complete with backups just in case—is now a mess. “This fellowship means everything to me.”
“I know,” Finn says, pulling off his shirt. He’s as muscled as he seemed—not sculpted like social media influencers, more like a boxer, with a slight, manly belly. “That’s why I’m helping you. Or were you not paying attention back there?”
He drops his canvas work pants, standing in white cotton briefs and socks. Ian notices the red-gold hairs on his strong legs and swallows hard.
“Look,” Ian says, pulling clothes from his bag, “maybe you’re a nice guy when you’re not committing crimes. But I don’t need your help. I can do this. I don’t need to commit fraud.”
Finn plops onto the bed and slides back, resting his arms behind his head. His biceps peak, golden hair in his pits on display.
“What are you so worked up about?” he asks. “You’re the writer.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? I’m a writer, not a serial liar.”
“You did pretty good back there for someone who’s not a liar,” Finn says with a shrug and knowing grin. “What’s fiction but telling the truth with lies?”
Ian turns to him, mouth agape. “I don’t even have the patience to tell you how wrong you are. You’re… exasperating.” He waves at Finn’s muscled, golden form, pink nipples, and full package. “Have you always been like… this?”
“Mostly since puberty,” Finn shrugs again, biceps subtly flexing.
“Well, the rest of us need to get by other ways,” Ian replies, pulling his t-shirt over his smooth torso.
“Like writing?” Finn asks gleefully.
“Don’t make fun of me,” Ian snaps, letting the shirt drop back down.
“Quit joking,” Finn says. “You’re hot as fuck. Look at your shoulders and waist. Those veins in your arms. That sexy thing you do with your lips when you’re thinking. Your nose—”
“Watch it.”
“That dick. Unf.”
“I always appreciate a sound instead of an adjective,” Ian says. But secretly, he’s trying not to let the warmth flooding his face show through.
While Ian brushes his teeth, Finn rummages through the bedside drawer.
“Bro, look at this,” he says as Ian returns.
He pulls out a bound collection of Whitman poems, a box of tissues, and a small clear bottle.
“Lube,” he says, holding it up. “Branded. The rich gays think of everything.”
They do, and they’re making it much harder to resist Finn, sitting there in just his briefs and all that muscular goodness.
“I need some sleep,” Ian says, sliding under the sheets.
“In your underwear?”
“I can use the extra layers,” Ian answers. “In the absence of a straitjacket. Or an iron lung.”
“You’re funny,” Finn grins, leaning over him. “Wanna cuddle?”
“Don’t get too comfortable,” Ian warns. “I’ll figure this out in the morning, then you’re out of here.”
“After the morning run?”
“Ugh. Yes. After the morning run.” Ian removes his glasses and rubs his eyes. It’s going to be a long night.
“You need to relax,” Finn says, dropping the lube back in the drawer. “One sleep and a run. What could go wrong?”
“Please don’t ask that,” Ian groans. “Theft. Fraud. Mayhem. Oh wait, those things already happened.”
Ian turns out the light and curls onto his side, uncomfortable with his stiff cock. He silently invokes all the seminarians who slept here before, hoping to resist his desires as they did.
Finn chuckles, snuggling behind Ian and wrapping an arm around him. “You think I’m a himbo?”
7.
Ian wakes with a start.
He’s slept through the night without a single wake-up—even in a strange bed, with a stranger beside him. But now he’s alone. Finn’s side of the bed is empty, his pillows tucked up against Ian’s back. When Ian rouses himself, he notices Finn isn’t in the bathroom either.
It’s the second time in 24 hours Finn has vanished while he’s asleep.
Wherever he is, Finn’s backpack is still on the floor. Ian has the urge to rummage through it—Finn did the same to Ian’s bag on the ferry—but for once he decides the less he knows, the better. He doesn’t want to discover what incriminating things might be inside. Better to plead ignorance, if it comes to that.
He washes his face, tries to scrub Finn’s wedding band off his finger with soap, but it won’t budge. Like Finn, it’s not going anywhere.
There’s a café in the facility, of course, with bistro tables spilling into the main hall. Ian heads there, wondering what Finn’s up to now—and what mess he’s left for Ian to fix. Please let it not be theft this time.
Turning into the main hall, a now-familiar voice cuts through the breakfast clatter.
“Finnegan? Nah, it’s for Huckleberry Finn, actually,” followed by chuckles and approving murmurs.
There’s Finn, in a bro tank—the sleeves cut off from shoulders to hips, just a thin sheet of loose fabric, revealing the curve of his pecs and lats. His running shorts are snug, their rightful owner probably half his size. They ride high enough to show the strength of his glutes with every stride.
He’s followed by a band of older men in assorted running gear, in varying states of athleticism. Some look like they’ve trained for years; others seem to be trying hard not to pull a muscle just walking to the door.
Finn flashes Ian a wink and a smile, tugging his bro tank and releasing to give a teasing display of his pecs. Ian suppresses a low growl.
Who would have pegged Finn for such an early riser? And his name? Ian should have known. Huckleberry Finn. Another liar.
“Sullivan, pick up the pace,” Finn calls, voice loud and playful. “I want those buns up front! Don’t hide your light under a bushel! Howie, looking hot. Keep it up, bro!”
Ian orders an americano with 1% milk, no creamer, and a bagel with cream cheese and lox. He sits at a table next to a tall window where he watches Finn’s procession circle the Grove. As Finn leads laps through the winding paths, his band of followers grows with each successive loop as more trustees join in, like a trail of geriatric goslings trotting behind their mother—their unbelievably hot, handsome mother.
Mr. Choi at some point pulls up a seat at Ian’s table.
“You don’t run with your husband?” he asks.
Ian shrugs. “He doesn’t look lonely.”
Mr. Choi sighs. “I don’t imagine he often hurts for company when he wants it.”
“No, I don’t suppose so.”
Ian can see the running pack pass again, grown to at least three dozen trustees. Finn turns to trot backward to check on the stragglers, then doubles around the group, high fiving or swatting their rears, like the world’s most attentive coach, before returning to his position in the lead.
“There must be almost a third of the trustees out there,” Mr. Choi remarks, voice low, almost conspiratorial. He leans in again, so close Ian can feel the warmth of his breath. “By my count.”
The café seems barren now, with so many running, and most of the rest at the windows, watching the growing spectacle from inside.
“As I understand it,” Ian says, looking into his coffee, “all trustees can recommend candidates to the Awards Committee—to decide who wins the fellowship.”
“By lunch,” Mr. Choi adds, his voice dropping just a notch, eyes glinting with a knowing light.
“That’s a lot of recommendations,” Ian murmurs, the weight of the moment sinking in.
Mr. Choi meets Ian’s gaze directly, his expression unreadable for a heartbeat before he nods once.
“Indeed.”
Ian sighs, drafting his confession, imagining trustee votes slipping through his fingers. Coming out to his parents had been easier than this.
The runners loop several more times before Finn leads them back. Trustees flood into the hall, some simply winded, others red faced and panting, flushed, some clearly winded. Their sandy running shoes tramp over the long rug that runs the length of the hall. That’ll cost a fortune to clean, Ian winces.
“Mr. Choi,” Ian says, voice tight, “about tonight—the tailor. I don’t want you to make a fuss. Finn can just go home. He’d hate to be underdressed.”
Finn strides in last, bro tank stripped off and slung into the back of his shorts like a tail. The downy golden fur on his rising chest is dewy with sweat that catches the chandelier light.
“I see.” Mr. Choi raises an eyebrow, smiling. “But it’s no problem.”
“Shower time, bros,” Finn calls out cheerfully, herding his followers. “Don’t stink up the joint!”
Ian starts to speak, gathering courage. “Mr. Choi, about this weekend—”
“It must be difficult,” Mr. Choi interrupts gently. “Though the trustees are wealthy and have lived full lives, past a certain age… we often treat their own as if invisible. As if all that living was for nothing.”
Ian sips his coffee, absorbing the words.
“In that sense, you and Finn must have made this weekend for some trustees. Don’t you think?”
Ian leans back, a reluctant nod. “I do. But Mr. Choi—”
A particularly elderly trustee, the last in the group, stumbles, and Finn catches him under the elbow, steadying him, and then gently releasing. The touch is brief—barely perceptible—but Ian is caught by the sight of Finn’s hand, strong and ruddy against the thin papery skin of the trustee’s frail elbow.
“Mr. Smith?” Mr. Choi asks, a worried note in his voice, touching Ian's arm to bring him back.
Ian blinks, shaken out of his thoughts. “Nothing. Thank you.”
“Very good,” Mr. Choi says, rising. “The tailor’s arranged. Details are left at your door. Interviews start shortly.”
With the last of the trustees safely returned, Finn winks at Ian, then moves on. The bro tank sways over his rear as he strides down the hall, loose-hipped and unbothered.
Ian swallows hard, the line between truth and fiction blurring even in his own mind.
Ian, Ian. What are you doing?
8.
The trustees of the Awards Committee are gathered when Ian arrives. He recognizes a few from the morning run, looking a little worse for the wear—some still red-faced, collars damp from sweat. Ian is the first of the three finalists to be interviewed.
They’re friendly but organized. A setting that would make some men sweat bullets, but Ian feels a surprising calm settle over him. He tests well. He always has. All he has to do is be himself—or at least the version of himself that doesn’t accidentally knock over a water glass.
“Mr. Smith, your writing is impeccable,” says the committee chair. “You wouldn’t be here otherwise. But the point of the weekend is to assess your character. It’s important to the Society that our fellows represent its values.”
Ian nods, trying to put Finn out of his mind.
“Then let’s begin,” says the chair. “We have a lot to cover.”
They dive into The Silver String.
“My aim,” Ian begins, voice steady but thoughtful, “is to cover the whole period from pre-Stonewall to the present—through the lives of one couple. So much has happened in just a few decades—how life for gay men went from being secreted to reviled to tolerated and then broadly accepted—almost ordinary. For gay men, even a difference of five years in age can mean growing up in almost completely different worlds.”
He glances at the trustees, eyes searching.
“But what really draws me in,” he continues, “is the relationship of the characters themselves. Their story becomes more important than the sweeping history, because at the heart of all this change is something constant: love.”
His voice softens, catching slightly. “I think about closeted men enduring such risks to be together. And in the darkest days of AIDS—when gay men were left alone, scorned by their own government—I feel such a… fierce anger for how they were treated. But also, such awe. Awe at their courage, their humor, their wit. How they pull together, with such bravery and humor and wit. And what could explain all that, but—love?”
The room quiets as Ian’s words hang in the air, and for a moment, he feels he’s forgotten something—gotten it wrong.
The trustees scribble notes. It seems like he’s doing everything right—but Ian has an itch, a creeping feeling he’s forgotten something. Something vital.
One trustee asks how Ian thinks he might represent the Whitman Society, how he’d carry out their values and how those align with his own. Another asks about his aims for the five-year fellowship, if awarded, and how he’d meet those goals.
Ian blinks, then blurts, “I’m sure I can. I’m committed to having no distractions or entanglements of any kind, outside of my writing.”
The same trustee chuckles warmly. “With the exception of your husband, presumably?”
“My—oh yes,” Ian stammers, cheeks flushing. “Finn.”
Suddenly his glasses fog up. He brushes the hair back that’s falling on his forehead, and his fingers turn sweaty. His mouth feels like it’s stuffed with cotton balls, and his heart hammers against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat. The room seems to tilt.
“Mr. Smith?” asks the trustee, eyebrow raised.
“I just… I think I’m fine… just hyperventilating… a little bit,” Ian admits, dropping his head between his knees.
Mr. Choi crouches at his side. “Do you have anxious attachment Mr. Smith? I was reading that gay men—”
Ian glances up at him, seeing the sweat on his own brow as he mirrors Ian’s panic attack. “No… no…just… nerves… this must happen all the time… doesn’t it?”
Mr. Choi grimaces. “Should I call a doctor?”
Ian takes a slow breath, braces himself, and sits up. The damp in his armpits and the small of his back feels clammy, but he forces himself steady.
“No. No. It’s okay. I’m good. Let’s proceed.”
Maybe it’s the panic attack. Maybe it’s a standard final question. But the committee chair leans forward. “Ian, before we’re done here today, is there anything else you think important for us to know that we didn’t ask?”
It’s Ian’s chance to come clean. He can feel their ears and hearts open. He can tell them everything. The whole comedy of errors.
All he has to do is explain Finn… his raucous laugh, catching cherry tomatoes in his mouth, beaming. The way he high-fives the trustees. How he catches one by the elbow so carefully, with no one but Ian seeing it. The way he looks on the ferry. How he says “right on.” His grin. All the chaos and unexpected beauty.
Ian holds his breath for a moment, then blurts, “No. Nothing.”
9.
Ian walks back to his room at a clip. His shirt is clammy against his back, still damp with sweat though his body temperature has settled. When he throws the door open, he finds Finn in their—his—their bed, in just his briefs, surrounded by folders and books strewn across the bedspread, and Ian’s laptop. A cup of steaming tea sits beside him.
“You’re here!” Ian says, breathless. “I just—what is all this?” He picks up a folder and flips through it.
“Bro, these other guys got nothing on you,” Finn replies, looking up over the laptop.
“These are the finalist applications… and their writing.” Ian gasps. “Oh my God. What did you do?”
Finn winks. “Just checking out the competition.”
“How did you—” Ian looks back and forth from Finn to the contents of the folder. “You stole these!”
“Don’t insult me,” Finn chuckles. “I’m borrowing them.”
“Oh fuck, these are good,” Ian whispers, reading more carefully.
“But you’re way better.” Finn holds up Ian’s novella, The Silver String.
“You read it?”
“Back on the ferry, dummy. While you were snoring. What kind of husband would I be not to?”
“Well, the non-existent kind, to start with,” Ian scoffs. “And I don’t snore.”
“Right,” Finn smirks. “Now who’s lying?”
He’s exasperating.
“Oh,” Finn says, excitedly, turning the laptop to face Ian, “bro, look at this!”
“How did you get into my—never mind, I’m better off not knowing. What is it?”
Ian’s desktop is a scattered mess of files and images, and the browser must have two dozen tabs open.
“That’s Sully,” Finn says, showing an old photo of a thirty-ish guy in glasses, an ACT-UP t-shirt, and a leather jacket. “Look at what a regulation hottie he was.” He changes tabs and scrolls to a photo of another young guy, posing next to what has to be some early generation home computer. “And Tanaka-San. Did you even know all the software he invented? You probably use it all the time. He’s like a genius.”
He continues, flipping through the pasts of the trustees he’s gleaned. There are social media posts, professional profiles, and old newspaper stories from their younger days in the 1970s and 60s. Some were AIDS activists, some ran for elected office, some were twinks. Mostly they were just young guys no older than Ian and Finn are now, with no idea what’s ahead for them. Finn’s voice softens, losing its usual playful edge, taking on a kind of awe for these men and their histories.
“You know what?” Finn adds, “Howie told me that him and his husband are the only guys each other knows from when they were young in the 70s, because they lost all their friends. Every one of them. Can you believe it?”
He doesn’t even look up at Ian, his eyes intent on the screen, scanning and flipping between tabs to show what he’s discovered. His curiosity, usually so broad and undirected, seems genuinely focused here, driven by something more than just mischief.
“You know it’s too late to affect the decision,” Ian tells him. “The trustees are already voting.”
“I know,” Finn shrugs, still focused on the laptop screen, as if it doesn’t matter. “Just curious.”
Ian’s done his own research on the trustees, but Finn’s brilliant at it. And in such a short time. “You’re quite the detective.”
Finn closes the laptop and grins. “We’re a good team, you and me.”
“You and I,” Ian sighs, turning away. “I need to… take a shower.” He glances in the mirror and sees something—something unexpected. He slowly turns back. “Unless you want to join.”
In the shower, Ian lathers up with Finn so close behind he can feel the golden-red hairs of his chest and thighs. He feels Finn’s soaped-up hands run over his shoulders and back, and lets out a long breath.
He turns, and they kiss—for the first time, he realizes, despite the blowjob on the ferry. This is all mouth and tongue and a hungry meeting of equals. Finn’s lips are softer than they look, surprisingly giving, and Ian loses himself in the taste of him—tea and something uniquely Finn, wild and warm.
Their erections meet and the soap smacks as their bodies rub up against each other. They run hands over one another, eliciting soft gasps and sighs. Finn’s hands roam Ian’s slicked skin, fingers trailing fire over his ribs, circling his waist, tightening on the curve of his ass.
Running his hands over Finn’s chest, tracing his pink nipples with his fingertips, Ian slyly says, “I owe you for the ferry.”
He kisses the ginger’s chest and belly, dropping all the way down to his knees. The air in the shower grows thick with steam and anticipation.
Finn shudders as Ian swallows him, holding his balls secure so he can bob his head to work the big pale cock. He takes it deeper with each gulp until the cockhead is well into his throat where the tightness draws groans out of the ginger. Finn’s hands grip Ian’s wet hair, pulling gently, guiding him, a low, guttural sound building in his throat.
Ian continues to work Finn’s cock with his mouth, finally swallowing it so completely he can feel the red-gold pubes at his lips, as he pries the ginger’s pale ass cheeks apart.
“Bro,” Finn gasps as he pulls Ian’s head away from his crotch, leaving a trail of spit stretching from his wet erection to Ian’s lip.
“What?” Ian asks. “What’s wrong?”
He pulls Ian up and kisses him hard, his tongue diving in as he holds Ian’s head firmly between his meaty hands. Ian tastes Finn’s flavor and feels the tantalizing edge of desire that threatens to pull him under.
“Is this some weird edging thing?” Ian asks as they break away and then kiss again.
“Bro, no,” Finn answers in his gravelly voice, so close they almost share the same breath.
“Do you not want to…?”
Finn pulls back, his chest heaving, a desperate gasp for air. “I have to go to my fitting. I’m already late for the tailor.”
The dinner. There’s a dinner, Ian remembers.
“Right,” Ian sighs, his hands on Finn’s chest, his own heart pounding hard. “Rich guy stuff. Go.”
He stays under the shower until he thinks he hears a click that jars him.
He rushes out, wrapping himself in a bath towel. “Finn? Finn!”
The room is still. The “borrowed” folders are gone, and Ian’s laptop is closed and set aside on the desk.
Finn is nowhere to be seen, and his backpack is gone with him.
Everything is in its place, but the copy of Ian’s novella, fanned open on his bedside table.
“Finn.”
10.
The pianist plays Cole Porter as the foyer fills with gray hairs in black and white tuxedos, but there’s no sign of the tall ginger. Ian’s eyes scan the elegant room, his pulse restless. He catches a snippet of the lyrics, You’re the top, you’re the Colosseum…
“I hate the commodification of desire—don’t like the apps,” one trustee says, then turns to Ian. “I’m sorry, don’t mean to offend, if that’s how you met.”
“What? Oh no,” Ian responds, snapping to attention from scanning the crowd. “We met… on a ferry.” He almost laughs at the absurdity of it, trying to weave some truth into the weekend.
“A chance meeting.” The trustee nods. “Now that’s very romantic. That’s a story you can tell your children.”
Ian coughs up a little of his drink at the idea of telling any children about hooking up with a stranger in the ferry men’s room. “We might need to change up some details.”
“I see!” the trustee laughs.
“That’s how we used to do it, before the apps,” another chuckles, between sips of champagne. This one, a burly man with a booming laugh, claps Ian on the shoulder so hard Ian almost spills his drink. “Signaling to one another, wondering is he gay, isn’t he gay? Will it even matter?”
“It wasn’t all great. Don’t get nostalgic,” says a third. He shakes his head, a wry smile playing on his lips. “Mostly just a lot of awkward eye contact.”
Ian tries hard to stay focused, but his vision keeps straying over the sea of black, gray and white formal wear for a sign of Finn. The music swells, and another lyric drifts to him, almost a premonition—You're the nimble tread of the feet of Fred Astaire!
“Was it maybe more lust at first sight than love?” asks the second trustee.
“A little of each,” says a raspy voice from behind. “Ian took a little convincing.”
You're an O'Neill drama, you're Whistler's mama—you're camembert!
There are incredulous gasps, and Ian turns to see the handsome ginger, standing even taller than before in proper shoes, in a scarlet tuxedo jacket and bow tie. Under the chandelier his ginger hair curls up into licks of flames, and his scruff is trimmed to a fine sandpaper grit that accentuates his handsome jawline.
“I thought he was only gorgeous,” Finn continues, “but it was his writing that got me, like…”
He mimics shooting an arrow, clutches his chest, and staggers back—nearly toppling a waiter.
“Like Cupid’s arrow!” says a trustee.
“Just like,” grins Finn.
Forgetting they’re not alone, Ian tugs at his elbow. “Where were you?”
Finn turns to look him in the face, squinting, assessing the change in Ian’s affect.
“Yeah sorry, my tailor bro was setting me up, and the back kept splitting. You like?”
“What’s not to like?” Ian says, running a hand over the smooth fabric on the brick of his shoulder. He sighs, “Like a rich jewel in an Ethiope's ear.”
“Hey, Shakespeare! Right?” Finn asks. When Ian nods, he beams. “Right on.”
Good lord he’s adorable when he smiles. A warmth spreads through Ian, startling in its intensity. This, he realizes, is the feeling of being completely unmoored, and maybe, just maybe, liking it.
“Where was your honeymoon?” asks Mr. Choi, who’s joined the circle, bouncing on the balls of his feet, his eyes wide and bright, clutching a clean handkerchief.
Finn looks Ian in the eye, as if to see if they’re in agreement, and says, “Greece. That’s where a lot of Ian’s novella came from.”
He spins a yarn about their courtship and impromptu wedding on a Greek island getaway, weaving in little bits of The Silver String so cleverly Ian finds himself lulled into half believing there’s something to it.
“I have to ask: Where did you get the idea for Persephone being into boys kissing?” asks the third trustee.
“Well, who’s not, right?” Finn quips. He’s good at evading the questions he can’t answer.
“Tumblr girls,” Ian says. “The ones online who gobble up gay romances. In Japan they’re called Fujoshi, for female fans of manga about romantic relationships between men.”
“That’s right. I forgot,” Finn says more softly, cocking his head slightly at Ian.
“It’s just the right touch,” adds another trustee. “And her love of dirty jokes. Just the right humor at the right time in the story.”
Finn and Ian steal a glance at each other. They might pull this off yet.
Mr. Choi suggests they take seats at the dinner table as the program is about to begin. Finn turns to set his empty champagne flute on a tray and Ian hears a definite ripping sound.
“Damnit,” says Finn, looking over his shoulder. The back of his scarlet jacket is split halfway up his back. “Bros, sorry — that’s why I was so late. I think it’s my lats.”
“Or shoulders,” says a trustee wistfully. “That could be the problem.”
“Or maybe you just shouldn’t wear clothes at all,” adds another.
The second trustee’s partner elbows him. “That’s enough. This one’s taken.” He nods to Ian.
It’s later, after dinner, when Mr. Choi taps Ian’s shoulder for an aside.
“Mr. Smith,” he says, when they’re alone, “I hope you both enjoyed the dinner and the program.”
Ian realizes Finn was on his best behavior. He was his gregarious self, but there were no antics.
Mr. Choi continues. “I’m pleased to tell you that the awards committee has provisionally selected you for the Whitman Fellowship.”
“What?” Ian asks. “Really? Are you serious? Can you even tell me that?”
“I can, and I did,” Mr. Choi says with a smile. His voice is pitched. "It's unofficial, of course, but we prefer to give the finalists a heads up. It would be unkind to have those not chosen to learn in front of an audience.”
“So, they know too? Oh my god… Oh my god…” he grabs Mr. Choi and hugs him tight, like the world’s softest teddy bear. “I’m so… thank you, thank you.”
Mr. Choi pats his shoulder. “I’m glad you’re pleased. In the morning the executive committee of the trustees will meet before the ceremony to ratify the awards committee’s selection—which is only a technicality—and then make the announcement public at breakfast. Until then, I must ask you to embargo this information. Even most trustees don’t yet know. And I must tell you that failure to do so will jeopardize the decision, which is not final until signed in the morning.”
“Oh my god, yes, I understand.” Ian needs to get to Finn. “Can I tell…?”
“Your husband? Of course. Marriage has its privileges.”
“I don’t know what to do,” Ian admits, turning one way and then another.
“Go. Go tell your husband!” Mr. Choi says, waving him on, still buzzing with the news.
In his scarlet jacket and ginger hair, Finn isn’t hard to find.
“Come on,” Ian says excitedly, pulling him away by the hand.
“Bro,” Finn replies, caught by surprise for once. “Too tired to hang out for small talk?”
“I am. Tired. Can we go back to the room? I need to tell you something.”
He takes Finn’s hand and pulls him along.
For once Finn looks caught off guard. “You don’t look tired.”
They walk, then trot, their pace quickening with each step. Giggling, they peel around corners, laughter bubbling. They break into a breathless sprint, mixed with with tangled hands and rough kisses on their rush back to the room
11.
Finn’s breath is hot on Ian’s neck as they fumble with the card key. Just as the lock clicks, they tumble inside, twisting into each other, mouths locking before buttons or shirts get a chance.
Finn’s voice is a gasping murmur between fevered kisses. “So… what was it—” kiss “—you needed to tell me?”
Ian growls, hands already grabbing Finn’s shirt. “I want you. Or me in you. Or both. Honestly, I’m not picky.” The vers curse in full effect: wanting everything, all at once.
“Right on!” Finn whoops, ripping off his scarlet jacket and hurling it like a red flag onto the floor.
Their fingers tear at buttons and fabric, barely pausing to breathe as mouths hunt for skin. Ian catches Finn’s scent—sweat, a hint of lamb on his breath, and something uniquely him—and it sends his head spinning.
“What about that thing back there?” Finn asks, nodding toward the hall and its polished chaos.
Ian yanks off his bow tie and shucks his shirt with a careless toss. “Do I look like I care about the thing back there?” He grins, eyes sparkling with mischief.
Finn nearly growls, one hand grabbing Ian’s waist while the other trails down his chest and the streak of hair bisecting his flat belly, sliding beneath the waistband. “Fuck yeah.”
Their cocks grind together—the perfect imperfect fit: thicker and paler on Finn’s side, longer on Ian’s, but equally eager. Finn’s weight presses down, and Ian melts, tugging again at Finn’s bow tie.
“Let’s get you out… of… hnnn… this.” Finn grunts, wrestling with it.
Every effort seems to fix the bow more firmly in place. “What did you… DO?”
“That’s not how you take off a bow tie,” Finn purrs. “This is how you do it.”
He pulls Ian’s shirt open in one savage motion. Buttons rain like confetti, but the collar slips under the tie, leaving it like a cheeky ribbon around Finn’s thick neck.
“What the…” Ian breathes.
“That’s… actually… hot,” Ian admits, breath hitching. “Don’t touch it.”
Finn’s hands grip Ian’s ass, lifting him like he weighs nothing. They crash onto the bed, limbs tangling, breath ragged, laughter mixing with moans as Finn’s weight presses on Ian.
“You top,” they say in perfect sync.
“I’ll bottom,” both blurt.
“You’re the Colosseum,” Ian snorts.
“WHAT?”
“Cole Porter,” Ian answers. “Nevermind—just get in me!”
Finn groans, sliding his cock against Ian’s entrance. “But you have to finish in me.”
“Deal,” Ian says, gulping.
Finn positions himself, cock slicked with clear lube, sliding in slow and deliberate, savoring the stretch before settling into a steady rhythm that makes Ian arch into him—the sharp sting melting into fullness.
“Oh fuck,” Ian begs, voice rough, fingers digging into Finn’s sides.
Finn’s thrusts slow just enough to let Ian catch his breath, but the pace is relentless, every movement setting fire to his nerves. Ian’s hands grip Finn’s shoulders tighter, his body trembling with the tension winding higher and higher.
Then he shifts on his knees, hands gripping the headboard as his muscles flex like a living sculpture, chest swaying hypnotically, his cock hitting new depths. “That good, bro?” he pants, sweat slicking his skin.
Ian’s eyes stay locked on Finn’s face—red-gold chest rising and falling, lips pulled tight, eyebrows knitted with focus. He threads his fingers through Finn’s hair, tugging gently. “You need to… stop.”
“Too much? Hurting you?” Finn asks, voice laced with concern.
Ian bursts out laughing, clutching onto the cock in him, making Finn shudder. “No, goof. Too good. You’re gonna make me cum. And I still have to get in you.”
Finn freezes mid-thrust, a wide grin spreading. “Right on.”
When Finn slides out, Ian’s insides ache, but now he’s distracted by the sight of Finn on all fours, facing the mirror. Good lord.
Behind Finn, Ian’s breath hitches at the taut curve of his ass. Fingers slick with lube, he explores, and Finn shivers, a low rumble vibrating through him.
A growl rumbles in Finn’s chest as Ian slowly enters him. “Goddamn, you’re big.”
“Too big?” Ian asks, eyes flicking to their reflection.
Finn smirks, one eyebrow cocked like he’s silently daring Ian to say otherwise. “I’ve got this, bro.”
Ian drives into him, hands gripping Finn’s shoulders, mesmerized by the shifting muscles and the way Finn meets every thrust like a dance. He runs fingers through that wild red-gold hair, feeling his own cock stiffen further.
“You can do this all day,” Finn growls, pushing back to meet Ian, gripping with his ass.
“No I can’t,” Ian pants, feeling the edge creeping up.
He leans into Finn, slamming into him harder, eyes locked on their mirrored faces, arms wrapping over Finn’s shoulder, clutching him close. He fights to hold back, savoring this moment.
“Fuck me,” Finn groans, jerking himself off one-handed while holding them both up.
“Okay—you crazy, hot himbo,” Ian grunts, feeling his cock erupt, flooding hard inside Finn.
“Oh yeah, bro!” Finn roars, working his cock. “Fuck!”
Ian’s body shudders, pumping into Finn, then keeps going even when empty, still hard, still desperate.
“Oh fuck, oh fuck, OH FUCK,” Finn gasps, face flushed, groaning as his load surges onto the bed, ass clenching tight.
Finn collapses on the mattress; Ian follows, his belly fitting perfectly into the curve of Finn’s back.
They lie tangled, dicks still half-hard, breath mingling.
“Fuck, bro,” Finn laughs, heavy-breathed. “That was… something else.”
Ian fingers the bow tie, which unravels with the slightest pull. He rests his head on Finn’s shoulder, realizing he was so wrong about everything.
They lie there until sweat cools. Finn turns to Ian, drowsy.
“What was that thing you wanted to tell me? Or was it just the grand finale?”
Oh God. He’d meant to tell Finn, in the moment at least. He meets Finn’s eyes, trying to grasp who he is, how he got here, if any of this is real.
“What is it?” Finn chuckles. “Do I have spinach in my teeth?”
Ian leans close, whispers in his ear.
When Finn yells “RIGHT ON!” it echoes across the Grove.
Their second round is called in as a noise complaint by no fewer than five guests.
12.
“I should have known it couldn’t be that simple,” Ian thinks he’ll say one day, when he tells the story.
But right now, Finn is gone. Ian wakes to an empty bed, and soon after, the Island Police arrive—following up on the ferry robbery. Conman instincts, Ian guesses. Or maybe one of Finn’s admirers tipped him off.
They show him a mugshot. The face is Finn’s—but the name is Larry Baker. A petty thief with a history of trespass.
“I’ve never seen that man in my life,” Ian says smoothly, surprised at how easily the lie slides off his tongue. Maybe because, in the ways that matter, it’s true.
The officers speak with Mr. Choi and a few trustees. As they talk, Ian’s fingers deftly swipe the mugshot, pocketing it, as if made for exactly this job.
It surprises no one that the Island Police can’t find the photo to show Mr. Choi and the trustees later. They’re a bungling lot—there’s not much crime on their turf, and even less urgency.
The Society wants no scandal. With their influence, the officers are politely sent on their way.
Still, the visit and Finn’s absence stir unsettled questions.
“Is there something you’d like to share?” Mr. Choi asks Ian quietly.
When the moment comes, it’s strangely a relief to tell the truth.
Later that morning, the Whitman Grove auditorium is packed. The air is thick with anticipation. Rows of trustees sit in polished chairs, their faces expectant, some guarded. The soft glow of overhead lights casts a warm sheen across the room, while the polished wood floor reflects the hush settling in.
The fellowship finalists take their places on stage, one by one sharing brief readings.
When Ian’s turn comes, the room seems to hold its breath. He steps forward alone, the spotlight narrowing around him as the rest of the stage fades into shadow. His eyes scan the crowd, searching for a flash of red hair, but there’s none. He grounds himself by pressing his feet into the polished wood beneath him, even as his heart pounds in his chest.
“Trustees of the Whitman Society,” he begins, voice steady but carrying the weight of everything unsaid. He can feel over a hundred pairs of eyes locked onto him—waiting, probing for the truth at last.
He swallows tight, then presses on.
“Thank you for having me. For reasons I imagine are by now well known to you all, I’m setting aside my planned reading for something different.”
The silence stretches, thick and expectant.
“I came here with a novella—and a five-year plan. Part of that plan was to avoid romantic entanglements. Of any kind. To focus on writing.
“It’s ironic, isn’t it? That I was invited here because I wrote a book about two men in a lifelong love, yet I’d ruled out that possibility in my own life.
“We’re funny, people, aren’t we?
“It was a good plan, I thought. But on the way here, a man wandered into my life by accident—a chaotic, surprising, endearing himbo—and upended every intention.
“At first, I thought he was a con artist, trying to scam you and me both. I meant to get rid of him. I tried. But you all… you liked him so much. And I did want the fellowship so badly. So I tried to cover it with a white lie or two. No harm done. What’s fiction but telling the truth with lies, Finn said once.
“But the lies started tangling up, into a whole cloth… I don’t want to say fraud, but I suppose that’s what it was. I wanted to tell the truth… but by the time of my interview on Saturday, I was already wondering if I’d been wrong about everything. About myself. About Finn.
“You see, I really did believe I could avoid entanglements. I’d had boyfriends and hook-ups—they were fine. They were nice. They were brief. Letting them go felt easy. But like every Orpheus, my downfall was looking back.
“After the final interviews, I returned to our room and undressed for a shower. That’s when I caught sight of Finn behind me in the mirror. He did a double take as I walked by with my shirt up—and bit his bottom lip. Unf.
“You know that feeling? The first time someone wants you that much—someone you want them just as much? And then everything changes.
“And then by the time I could get rid of Finn, that was the last thing I wanted. I don’t know. I was crazy about him. And the one thing I swore I’d give up became the one thing I was terrified of losing.
“I hope you all will understand that. Not because I’m asking you to excuse it. I’m not. But because I do want you to know I never meant to deceive any of you. And neither did Finn. For all his fictions, he never really lied.
“Even now, I can’t regret it. I think Walt would have approved.
“Thank you.”
Ian’s feet almost bounce down the steps from the stage. He feels lighter than he has in a long time.
The rain starts as he walks to his car.
As he pulls out, Mr. Choi jogs up, waving. Ian rolls down the window.
“Mr. Smith,” he says, panting from the brief run, “Ian. I’m sorry things went this way.” He glances back toward the central building as the rain intensifies. “You said Finn came into your life by accident. It occurs to me it was not an accident. It occurs to me he was drawn to you. That you were, to each other. Maybe I’m just a romantic… but maybe it was... inevitable.”
He slips an envelope into Ian’s hand and his eyes catch Ian’s, clear and confident, flickering with understanding.
“Good luck, Ian.” His nod feels sincere, knowing.
Ian starts the car as Mr. Choi waves and calls out, “Good luck.”
Ian thinks maybe he doesn’t mean the writing.
13.
The late afternoon sun warms Ian’s face as he sits on the ferry deck, the city’s coastline drawing closer with every passing minute. Nearby, a group of passengers laugh, their easy chatter drifting over the hum of the engine. A kid a few rows ahead is glued to his phone, the faint sound of Bugs Bunny’s voice cutting through the air. “What’s up, Doc?”
It’s a small, ordinary moment, but it tugs at Ian’s chest in a way he can’t quite name. Soon they’ll call passengers to return to their cars, but there’s still a little time left.
It’s not so bad, he tells himself, his thumb tracing the ring Finn slips onto his finger. He still has that—he’ll figure out the rest. Write on, he can almost hear Finn’s gravelly voice say.
His gravelly voice?
Ian turns to see the handsome ginger at the end of the bench, wearing the same rumpled jacket and henley from the day they met. The matching ring still gleams on Finn’s hand. That grin—a little bashful this time, but still utterly disarming—lights up his face.
He drops his weight onto the bench beside Ian, nudging his knee with casual ease. “What’s up, bro?”
Ian breathes deep, voice catching just a little. “I missed you.”
“I know,” Finn replies softly. “Sorry about your fellowship.”
It’s the first time Ian sees a pained look on his face.
“Well. The Society isn’t used to being defrauded.”
“I just wanted to help.”
“I know.” Ian reaches for Finn’s hand, the one with the matching ring, and squeezes it.
Reaching into his breast pocket, Ian pulls out an envelope embossed with the Whitman Society logo and hands it to Finn. He watches as the ginger pulls out the letter—and the check tucked inside.
“What?” Finn exclaims. “Ian! You got it!” He leans in, arms wrapping around Ian in a warm, triumphant hug.
“Not really,” Ian says, squirming just a little in the embrace. “It’s ten grand. Both finalists who didn’t get the fellowship got this. Kind of a consolation prize.”
Finn eyes the check again, eyes bright. “Ten grand? Right on! Bro, we’re rich!”
Ian can’t help but smile, though their definitions of “rich” don’t exactly line up.
“There’s enough for a trip,” Ian says quietly. “I’m thinking… maybe Greece. For two. If you’re free.” He watches as Finn’s grin spreads across his face. “If you can… leave the country. You can do that, right?”
“Bro, you think I can’t get my hands on a passport? How long till this tub hits the dock? I’ll have one before we hit the dirt. Two if you need.”
“Oh God, please don’t.” Ian shudders. Island police he can handle, but the Department of Homeland Security? No thanks. “How about we do it the boring, normal way?”
Finn shrugs and settles back, his hand finding Ian’s knee again—a warm, comforting weight.
“Besides, what would I tell the kids if you got into trouble?”
“Kids?” Finn asks, eyes wide.
“Our kids,” Ian says, pleased to catch him off guard. “A boy and a girl. She’s got your coloring, he’s got mine. She’s a handful. He’s a little too serious. But they’re gonna be okay.”
Finn’s not the only one who can spin a yarn.
“Oh yeah. The kids,” Finn says, stretching his arms over the bench’s backrest, one casually draped behind Ian. “What do we tell them about how we met?”
“Well. The truth, of course.” Ian looks off at some distant, imaginary point. “We met on a ferry—not exactly glamorous, right? But we both had these matching overnight bags, Seriously—they looked exactly alike—”
“Leopard skin.”
“What is it with you and leopards? But yeah. Matching leopard skin overnight bags. What are the odds?”
Finn smirks. “And then what?”
“There we were, halfway across, when we each realized we’d grabbed the wrong bag. Yours and mine got swapped. Your bag? Packed with gym clothes, snacks, and a pile of books. Mine? My novella—unpublished—the only copy!”
Finn laughs, shaking his head. “Classic.”
Ian grins wider. “Yeah, we spent the rest of the trip trying to swap the bags back without either noticing. A total mess.”
Finn’s grin softens, eyes twinkling. “Sounds about right.”
Ian thinks maybe that’s the real story. Not some neat, tidy romance, but a screwball mess of mix-ups, and unexpected beginnings. What’s fiction but telling the truth with lies? he thinks, a soft smile curling his lips.
The ferry’s loudspeaker cuts through the moment. “Drivers should return to their cars to prepare for docking.”
Finn’s grin softens, the late afternoon sun catching the copper in his hair, making it glow like fire. He nudges Ian’s knee gently. “And then what?”
And for the first time, Ian doesn’t know at all.
END
If you enjoyed this story, consider supporting the author on Patreon.
To get in touch with the author, send them an email.
