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The second photo looked like the definition of a scientific research institute: large mysterious equipment, specimen trays holding lichen and rocks and soil, a person peering into a scope in the background. The person wasn’t Burne, not with the lack of fuzzy red hair and broad shoulders.
Devon did not know anything about the lab equipment, but he liked seeing it. He liked even more that Burne had texted.
Burnehadtexted. With gifts.
He found himself on the edge of his chair, for no good reason. Or maybe for every good reason in the world. His mouth tugged upward: he wanted to smile, to laugh.
He felt his heartbeat like a drum, rising. His watch made a sound; he slapped a hand over it for silence.
Burne had—had read his letter, as incoherent and revealing as it’d been, and had not onlynotmetaphorically run away screaming, but had wanted to talk to him, almost immediately. With complete understanding:you said you’d be working, don’t worry about not answering, these are for whenever you get this…
Burne had not said anything about the excessive personal detail Devon had thrown at him. Maybe that was a sign. A step back. Less sharing. Probably that would be a good idea. Maintaining boundaries. He could do that.
He sat up straighter. He texted back,Sorry I saw this so late, I just got out of a pointless video conference! Your fox is adorable and your lab looks complicated and extremely productive.
He meant to add a second message, but suddenly Burne was typing: dots appeared. Devon fumbled the phone in surprise, and then winced because he’d managed to bump the arm with the bruised elbow.
He wanted—oh, he wanted. He thought that maybe Burne liked talking to him, given the prompt response; but then he also thought that maybe Burne was just being nice, and he just didn’t know.
He knew how he felt. He knew the swooping trapeze-flight sensation in his stomach when he saw Burne’s name on a letter, and now, again, those dots on a phone screen. He knew he wanted more of this, as much as he could have. Excitement, yes, and also warmth, the gentleness in Burne’s words and replies, the ease with which he wrote and asked questions and made their letters into a conversation, natural and comfortable, so that Devon felt comfortable as well.
Burne’s message popped up:Sorry it was a pointless conference! I can interrupt you next time if you want. Was it about your museum?
Yes. They agreed to all my changes, but I do wish people would read their emails before asking me questions I’ve already answered.
Sounds like every faculty meeting I’ve been in! Butat least they agreed with you. Which they should, obviously.
Oh, obviously. Thank you for the photos—now I’ve got a better mental picture of where you are all day, out in nature and in your lab. More accurate art, if you’d like another drawing sometime.
There was a pause, and Devon cringed internally. The wrong words, on his end. Clumsy, the way he was with people.
He had not had many friends growing up; he had not been allowed sports, activities, anything his parents thought would be too dangerous. He generally liked people, or he thought he did: he always wanted to know about other lives, other worlds. He’d stumbled, astonished, into a couple of relationships during college and grad school, boyfriends who’d smiled at him and complimented his design work or his taste in mystery novels or the shape of his ass in the trousers he used for conference presentations.
None of those relationships had lasted, in the end: blowing in and out like the storms, pushed by the winds of career changes or envy about Devon’s growing reputation or a desire to fuss and fret and baby him in a way that hadn’t been necessary for over twenty years.
Burne Cameron had made him curious. Had made him want to share pieces of himself. Sketches, purely for fun. Terrible puns. Drowsy watching of cake-related television. A love of water and small fluffy animals and the shades of blue.
Burne had blue eyes. Bright blue, summer skies laced with sun.
And, abruptly, the eyes appeared on his phone. A picture, a selfie. At arm’s length, and grinning. Devon’s breath skipped.
Burne Cameron was elemental. Vibrant. Made of color, presence, space in the world. He was sitting on a rock by the sea, with more rocks and the white-topped sapphire froth of the waves behind him; he was wearing a wrinkled outdoorsy sort of shirt, and his hair was longer than it’d been in his faculty photo, down to his shoulders, half pulled back in an attempt to get reddish-brown wind-scrunched waves out of his face. His beard, more red, framed a wide smile; his eyes danced.
He looked like someone who did field work, who got tanned under sun and moved rocks and rolled up his sleeves and dove into ocean pools, sturdy and vital and human as the tiny sun-lines and crinkles around his eyes. He was grinning at Devon as if this was the best thing he’d done all day.
His text said,You wanted to picture me, right?With a happy face.
Devon’s watch made the concerned noise again. He might be a bit lightheaded. He didn’t think it was his heart, or only in a very specific sense.
That message was followed by,I was out here getting some readings from that sensor. The grasses here are actually unique—they’ve developed in isolation, so there’s some fascinating work to be done on evolutionary processes and the ecosystem and adaptation.
And then, hastily,Lecturing, sorry!
No,Devon wrote back,I love it. You love what you do, like we said.He made himself inhale, exhale, measured breaths. Such passion. Such presence. That grin. Those forearms. The open shirt collar. Hints of red hair and bared skin.
Hecouldhave sex, the same way he could do a swimming workout or go for a casual even-paced jog. Slower, drawn-out, gentle, was generally easier on his body; but the throb and pulse of desire was safe, as long as he didn’t try anything exceptionally demanding. One of the fleeting summer-rain boyfriends, being enamored of experimentation and sharper vistas of exploration, had found that an insurmountable condition. One of the others had asked every two minutes, not an exaggeration, whether Devon was okay, if they needed to stop, if he wassurehe felt fine.
Right now he was looking at Burne’s smile and thinking about those shoulders and those strong rough hands. His whole body tingled, shivered, crackled with want.
