Two leather-clad figures slip into the diner with the jingling of a bell, bringing a cold gust of wind with them. The taller of the pair removes his motorcycle helmet and platinum blond tresses cascade to the hem his jacket. My breath catches in my throat at the sight, and despite the length of those silvery locks I'm sure of the biker's gender. While loose clothing conceals his figure, something in the way he moves marks him as definitely male. A gloved hand sweeps the hair from a handsome, if slightly thin, face, which grimaces when fingers snag on tangles. I notice the wide band on his slim wrist as his sleeve rides up his arm and it in turn draws my eyes to his neck. He is wearing what looks like a wide, chrome-studded dog collar. I almost choke on my sip of coffee. The look is so incongruous with his sculpted, aristocratic features. Pale brows draw together as he lowers his hand. I think my boring afternoon just got interesting.
A low, rich chuckle issues forth from his shorter companion. "Told you to braid it," he crows, removing his own helmet. His voice proclaims his gender as male, too. This one is pretty, with an open, friendly face and wide, expressive eyes. It is hardly believable, but his chestnut colored braid is longer than his friend's loose hair. Placing the helmet on the counter, he waves to the waitress topping up my coffee. "Two Chef's Specials, please," he orders when she arrives with two mugs, "extra everything! We're starved." I can hear the cheer in his tone.
"Speak for yourself," the blond mumbles, settling on a stool. I'm thankful for the quiet, almost empty diner that allows me to shamelessly eavesdrop on their banter. On a busier day, the background noise would have forced me to try to read their lips. From where I sit, in the end booth, I'm confident I can observe them without being noticed. They are bikers; a couple, I'm almost certain. A glance out the window confirms it. There's only one motorcycle in the parking lot and it looks like a vintage antique, but well kept and undoubtedly loved.
A second helmet joins the first on the counter. Sunshine, yes, his hair is the color of sunshine, pulls out a hairbrush from the pack on his lap before dropping the bag to the floor. He passes it over his shoulder to the man waiting in position behind him. I think I'll call the second man Braid. Something about him...
"Hi! I'm Kelly." My favourite waitress beams at them, filling the mugs with coffee before turning to the man getting his tangles brushed out. "Would you like a menu?" she asks. She must have heard his mumble, too. Our Kelly certainly has sharp ears and an even sharper tongue when crossed. I enjoy being a regular in these places. It gives me a temporary sense of permanence and a certain insight into the staff. I wonder how long Trowa will be; I'd love to hear his assessment of these two. People-watching is my hobby but my partner is a very astute judge of character, too.
Sunshine manages to produce a polite, if totally false, smile. "Not really," he replies. "Do you have blueberry pie?" I'm surprised to feel the hairs on the back of my neck rise at the sound of his voice. It's so familiar, its soft, sultry timbre sending chills down my spine. I glance outside, hoping against hope to see Trowa's truck, but no such luck. I put my spectacles on and sip my coffee before turning the page of the book lying on the table. One must keep up appearances.
"We do." Kelly visibly relaxes at his query. "Would you like a slice after your special?"
"Please." This smile is genuine and he leans back against the chest of the man behind him. He'll never get his hair brushed properly if he stays in that position.
"I'll have apple pie instead," Braid adds with a grin and a wink over Sunshine's shoulder. He is definitely a charmer. I could find such cheerfulness irritating.
"Don't you want to know what today's special is?" Kelly asks, pointing to the specials board which merely says, 'Happy Thanksgiving'.
Sunshine shrugs and elbows the man behind him in the gut. "I eat whatever he orders." And what if he orders something completely unpalatable? Would you swallow whatever he gives you? I find myself asking silent questions of a stranger. From the collar he is wearing I suspect that the answers might be yes. Why does my stomach churn at such submissive behaviour from this man?
"I like surprises!" Braid declares, his grin widening. "Just feed us." That cheer is certainly grating on my nerves.
"Coming right up." They both watch Kelly sashay into the kitchen in silence.
"Blueberry, again?" Braid comments when she is out of sight. I can feel my hackles rise at the implied criticism. This is getting ridiculous. "You had three slices yesterday." He wraps his arms briefly about the waist of the seemingly boneless man before pushing him upright. I force myself to sit back and relax. They'll notice my scrutiny if I'm not careful. What is it about them that provokes such a strong emotional response in me?
"Only three out of our seven stops had it." Sunshine retrieves a notebook from the inner pocket of his jacket. "The other four didn't." His foot slips through the strap of his pack and he lifts it as he swivels his chair, presenting the bag to his friend. Interesting... I do believe that he's using his movement to look around. Very sneaky. I can feel my presence being noted and dismissed. Even bald and tattooed, I work hard at presenting a non-threatening image. Perhaps my position is too shadowed for him to see me clearly. I do sit here for that very reason. I shouldn't be feeling vaguely disappointed. Where on earth is this coming from?
Sunshine makes a show of tasting his coffee, swirling it about in his mouth as one would a fine wine. "The coffee's not bad, either," he announces after eventually swallowing the mouthful. "This one is already up to two stars on my scale." He scribbles in the notebook before him. They can't possible be food critics, but what else could he be referring to when he speaks of stars and scales? Biker food critics? It seems hardly possible, and very improbable.
"Let me taste that coffee first. I'm not rating until I start eating." Braid simply gulps down half his mug as his tasting technique. How gauche. "Good aftertaste," he comments. Sunshine must be the gourmet. Here comes that look-around again, this time by Braid as he slides onto the stool. Perhaps they aren't looking at patrons after all, but assessing the appearance and condition of the diner. "The place is kinda empty." Or perhaps both. Odd how such a simple action reminds me of the way Trowa looks around whenever he enters a room. I know he notes where everything is, the exits and the people present in that single, sweeping glance. There's more than meets the eye here. I hope they aren't trouble; I've come to like this little town.
"I'll check the restrooms," Sunshine says, strolling past me while I make a show of turning my page and reading the tome I have before me. I notice that his jeans are so loose that without the two belts he is wearing they would probably fall down when he stands. Why would anyone buy clothing obviously several sizes too large? My hands clench the edge of my seat as if I resist the urge to 'check the restrooms', too. This is getting ridiculous.
"So," Braid says as Kelly tops up his coffee mug, "must be a bummer for you to be working on a national holiday. Is that why the place is so empty?"
"The place is empty because it's way past lunch and not quite dinnertime yet," Kelly replies. "I don't mind it so much. It'd be harder if I had a family to be sharing the day with." Her smile falters, but recovers almost immediately. "Hungry travelers like you boys have to eat and we cater to a lot of truck drivers. There's always a few who are on the road today and it feels good to be sharing Thanksgiving with the regulars that come." Her soft brown eyes catch mine and I can see the smile in them. She's expecting us to stay for dinner. The welcome is so warm that I smile back and nod. I'll do my best to convince Trowa.
"Thanks," Braid says and the look on his face tells me that he means it. "My name's Duo," he offers. Ahhhh.... A proper name. It suits him, short and to the point. "And here's my Honey-bunny." He holds out a hand to the approaching blond who moves past it straight into the circle of his arm. The delicate fingers come to rest on a denim-covered hip. I find the gesture uncomfortably possessive.
"A Honey-bunny today, am I?" Sunshine almost purrs at the stroking of his hip. "Are we sharing names?" It dawns on me that my fingers are tracing the edge of my cup in time to Duo's strokes. Taking firm hold of the vessel with my traitorous hand, I drain the last of my coffee in a single gulp. How can this absolute stranger, someone else's stranger, affect me this way?
"Yep. She's here just for poor hungry travelers like us," Duo informs him. "It's the least we could do." He winks at Kelly whose soft, brown eyes dance with laughter at his casual teasing.
"Mill," Sunshine says, holding his hand out to her. His name sits like a bitter aftertaste in the back of my throat. It doesn't feel right. I'd almost prefer Honey-bunny to such a simple, almost common name. Surely it's an abbreviation of something else, something more... auspicious. I watch as he formally bends to kiss the backs of Kelly's fingers. It's delightful to see her blush at such a simple and timeless gesture. Sunshine he will stay. I refuse to think of such an exquisite person as... Mill.
Kelly excuses herself to check on their meals. I go to sip my coffee to discover an empty cup. Over its rim I witness the embrace and whispers of the lovers. I'm convinced that they are lovers; two men don't touch each other the way they do without a loving relationship of some sort. Their behaviour doesn't suggest overwhelming, lustful passion and they are too familiar with each other for this to be a passing fancy. Some sort of long term commitment, then.
Yes. They're not honeymooners, more like an old married couple, but... there's more that I can't put my finger on, more that brings an odd ache to my heart. I wonder how long they've been together and feel deeply my Trowa's absence. I do believe that we are still in the honeymoon stage of our relationship, even if we have never been married and are unlikely to tie any such knots. Our secrets tie us closely enough as it is.
The strains of a country song fill the diner as they dance on the tiny dance floor by the jukebox. Sunshine mentions wanting to practice what he calls a two-step-shuffle. Apparently it's a dance Duo taught him recently. I envy them the openness of their affection, the seeming ease they share with each other, and the total disregard they seem to have for their audience. I don't doubt that they know that they have an audience. Is that it, then? Is what I'm feeling envy? Do I covet what they have?
Kelly is blatantly staring as she refills my coffee. She also brought me over a slice of apple pie. "They are so sweet," she whispers. I am definitely envious.
I nod my agreement. Something tells me that if I should speak, it would break the spell they seem to be weaving over the diner. Rather silly of me, but I feel it strongly enough to remain silent. By the time I look away from the slowly swaying pair, Kelly is gone from my booth.
The song is almost over when she emerges from the kitchen with two heavily laden plates. "Happy Thanksgiving," she says when they wander back to their stools.
"This looks scrumptious!" Duo remarks with enthusiasm. "Thanks!" Having defined my confusion, I find it easier to tolerate the extreme cheerfulness of the short one. It still bothers me to have been so affected in the first place.
Sunshine offers her a shy smile in lieu of words his partner has already expressed.
I've never found watching two people eat quite so satisfying before. Duo inhales his meal with gusto while Sunshine takes his time to savour every bite. The expression on his face at the first mouthful of his blueberry pie earns him a sloppy kiss from his lover and makes me wonder how he might look in the throes of orgasm. The man is beyond beautiful.
I'm not entirely sure how long I spend staring at the road in their wake. It's certainly long enough for the dust to settle, at the very least. There's a niggling feeling of a memory just beyond my reach that has me wanting to break things in frustration. I shred my napkin instead.
It's only a whisper of sound and a movement in the air, but it's enough to demand my attention. I turn away from the window to face the man sliding into the seat beside me. He doesn't stop until our hips and thighs touch and I have to shift forward to allow him to rest his arm across the back of the seat. When I lean back again, I can feel his entire length pressed against mine. He's missed me.
"Is everything alright?" I ask, knowing that he won't think to inform me if it isn't.
"It's fine now." The sound of his soft voice grounds me in the present and calms the uneasiness that I've been feeling since those two entered the diner.
"I've spent most of the afternoon observing a rather interesting couple," I say, eager to share the bizarreness of it all with him.
There's a certain tension in his body that gives him away, and I pause. It might be fine NOW but there's something he's concealing. His hand traces a scar he knows to be on my arm. His fascination with the disfiguring lines on my body never fails to amaze me... and I'm allowing myself to be distracted.
"What else isn't fine?" I ask, adding a little caustic sharpness to my tone.
"Mick..." There's a low, drawn out growl in the way he says my name. He doesn't want to talk about it. "Tell me about that interesting couple," he says. Ah.... The subject change, how predictable.
I now find myself oddly reluctant to share their romantic silliness with him. Why should I, when he won't share what sort of trouble we're in? I can change the subject too.
"Let me tell you about the Chef's Special for today, instead," I say. "We're in for a turkey treat if we stay for dinner. Apparently, the blueberry pie is scrumptious with it."
He stops the light tracing of patterns on my arm and shoulder.
"Shall I order?" I ask, prompting his decision.
The brush of his ridiculously long fringe against the back of my neck indicates his assent. I catch Kelly's eye and nod, giving her the go-ahead for our previously arranged menu. It's a shame that they don't serve wine in diners; a mellow red would go well with turkey.
For the time being I resolve to enjoy our meal together. I'll get it out of him later. He's always more talkative when he's naked, sated and drowsy. I do believe that I'll have a wonderful time getting him that way tonight.
The End