Something Beautiful (4 page)

"Well," Stuart said, "it's up to you, of course, but I think you should finish your journey. I think you could learn some insightful things about yourself before you're done that you wouldn't have if Lucas stayed with you."

"I hadn't thought about it that way."

Stuart smiled and put down his knife and fork, his meal finished. "Where are you going next?"

"Barcelona, and then Madrid, and then Rome. I'm supposed to leave the day after tomorrow."

"That's too bad. I was hoping to see more of you."

Micah pressed his lips together a moment. "I'd stay, but I only have the hotel booked until then."

"There are other places you could stay."

"Yeah, a hostel or something, I guess."

Stuart drank his wine and then said as if making a decision, "Or my chateau, if you'd like. I was there anyway."

"Oh, God, I interrupted your vacation," Micah said, stricken. "I'm sorry."

"You didn't interrupt my vacation; Jamie did. And I'm glad that he did. This has been far more relaxing than my other plans for the evening." He regarded Micah with some amusement. "I'm very glad that he did."

Micah blushed and quickly drank some wine. "You -- um --"

"I expect nothing," Stuart said. "Require nothing. I merely have found I desire company more than I expected and the workers in my vineyard aren't engaging conversationalists."

"I wasn't -- I mean --" He blushed deeper and drained the glass. "I mean, you know you're hot." Stuart raised both eyebrows at him, faintly smiling, and Micah fumbled on. "And I know I'm your type -- you know, young --"

"Young and exquisite," Stuart said softly.

"But I wasn't assuming -- I mean, I'd never think --"

"Neither would I," Stuart said. "No matter how beautiful you are. You just had your heart broken, after all. And," he leaned forward and laid his hand over Micah's, "even if I feel the best way to cure heartache is to lose yourself in someone uncomplicated, I know you don't necessarily feel the same way."

Micah shook his head, but wondered if Stuart didn't have the right idea. Losing himself in someone sounded wonderful -- someone to help him forget Lucas, someone who'd look after him for a while.

He had a sudden need to talk to Dune, but squashed it. Even though talking to Dune usually made everything better, Stuart's method of dealing was sounding more and more appealing.

After they had finished eating and said good night to the staff, Stuart took Micah to the Pont Neuf. Everyone who visited Paris, he said, should to see the oldest bridge in the city.

It was raining, so Micah huddled close to Stuart under his umbrella, inhaling the scent of Stuart's cologne as they stood in the middle of the bridge and watched the Seine flow. Stuart was warm, one arm strong around Micah's shoulders, and Micah couldn't stop himself: he was a little giddy from wine and Stuart's company and Paris, and so he turned into Stuart's arms and cupped his face and carefully kissed him.

Stuart held his face in his free hand and kissed him back gently, taking a deep breath when their mouths parted. "Micah-child," he began, and Micah clutched at his jacket.

"I'm not a child. You said so yourself."

"You are certainly not a child, and yet in many ways you are. Don't do anything you'll regret." He looked at Micah seriously, the tips of his fingers in Micah's shaggy hair.

"It's only rebound sex," Micah said brightly, but he wrapped his arms around Stuart's waist and held onto him. "I need a place to plant my feet," he murmured, and Stuart quietly laughed at that.

"You need some time in the country, I think. If that won't ground you I can't think of what else might."

"Jamie painted some murals there, didn't he?"

"He did," Stuart said, "and I've left them up. They're too beautiful to paint over. You should see them." He nodded to himself. "Yes. We'll get your things and then you'll come out to the chateau with me for a few days."

"Thank you," Micah said. "Thank you so much."

Stuart kissed him again, but whispered, "You needn't do anything merely for the sake of pleasing me, Micah-child."

"Then I'll do them for the sake of pleasing me," Micah answered and kissed him back.

***

Micah stayed with Stuart for a week -- a good week, a self-indulgent week. The old, stone chateau was cool in the summer heat, sheltering when it rained, beautiful outside and in with Stuart's art collection and family photographs and Jamie's bright, curvaceous murals on various walls. Micah took pictures of the murals, of the chateau, of the vineyards and wine casks and workers tending the grapes, and of Stuart. Many pictures of Stuart, who was as superb as the art he owned.

The only problem with the chateau was that it had no Internet connection. Stuart said the vineyard was where he came to get away and didn't want the demands of email and news sites while he was there, so Micah typed up emails on his laptop to send later and tried not to feel disconnected. He suspected his friends would start worrying about him if he didn't update his blog every few days, but he'd just have to explain about it later.

And the truth of it was, it was a relief not to have email and his blog roll calling to him all the time. "This is a real vacation," he said to Stuart, who chuckled and said, "I knew you'd see it my way eventually."

***

On his last night, Micah wandered down to Stuart's study. Stuart was reading, glasses on his nose and the light low, and looked up with a smile and shut his book when he saw Micah hesitating in the doorway. "What can I do for you, dear boy?"

"Everything's ready for tomorrow. I've got all my stuff packed and my Eurorail pass and my visa and everything." He went to Stuart, and when Stuart put the book aside Micah made himself comfortable on Stuart’s knee and leaned against his chest. Stuart kissed his forehead and rubbed his back.

"What are you going to do about Lucas when you get home?"

"I don't know. I guess we're broken up. I'll give him back his stuff and go on with my life. I mean, my friends will look after me and -- and I'll be okay."

Stuart went on rubbing his back and then said quietly, "You could stay." Micah looked up at him. "I could teach you French and you could get a job in Paris. Or come back with me to England, if you're worried about the language."

Micah hugged him, arms around his neck. "I really like you, you know -- but my life is in California, my family and all my friends."

"I thought as much." He slowly exhaled. "I should get to California more often."

"Yes, you should." Micah lightly punched his chest. "You should come and play with us."

"I don't think Jamie's boyfriend would like that."

"There are more people in San Francisco than Ben Gallagher," Micah said grumpily and got off Stuart’s knee. Stuart caught his hand and pulled him back.

"I'll come to California to see you, if you're certain you don't want to come to England and live with me a while."

Micah nodded, even though the prospect was tempting. He'd loved London while he'd been there, and living with Stuart would be amazing. Jamie had told him what it had been like when they were together, how Stuart had taken care of him and taught him how to dress and order wine and appreciate jazz.

But Micah knew he didn't want to be looked after, not really. It was nice to be pampered for a few days but it was time to move on.

He tugged on Stuart's hand. "Come on. I'm sleepy."

"Then you should go to bed," Stuart said, not moving.

"Exactly, Stuart," Micah said, and Stuart laughed and put his hands in Micah's, using them to help himself to his feet.

"I'm going to miss you when you're gone, Micah-child."

"Then come see me soon," Micah said and pulled him up the stairs.

***

There was free wireless at the train station in Paris, so Micah powered up his laptop and wrote a blog entry.

I see from the comments on my last entry that you all think I've fallen off the Alps or that I've been kidnapped by pirates. The truth is a lot less interesting. I've been at a chateau in Champagne (See what I did there? Alliteration! I really am a college graduate!), visiting Jamie's friend Stuart. The French countryside is just gorgeous and Stuart has been an amazing host. And oh my God, the wine...

I'll be on the train to Madrid in about two hours. Jamie, I'm going to go to all those museums just like you said, and Dune, I have a hotel room booked and everything you can stop worrying.

Lucas decided to finish the trip without me. Yeah, it sucks, but that's life.

Chapter Three

There was no one waiting for Micah at the airport. He supposed he shouldn't be surprised -- it was three a.m. by the time the flight from Houston landed -- but still, he was disappointed. He'd expected to take BART home from the airport, but still he'd hoped someone would surprise him and welcome him home.

The terminal was quiet and nearly deserted -- not unexpected for this time of night. Micah felt jet-lagged already: he'd been traveling for nearly thirty hours straight, and even though he fit into airline seats with relative comfort, given his small stature, he hadn't slept at all since he left the hostel in London. And even that hadn't really been sleeping -- more like jerking awake every ten minutes because someone else coughed or moved.

At least the airport in Houston had Wifi, and he'd been able to update his blog and upload his last photographs. "I feel really proud," he'd written after recounting all the mechanical issues that were keeping the plane grounded in Houston. "I've been promising myself for years that I'd do this, and now I have. I'm a world-traveler."

He wondered if anyone had commented on the entry yet -- Jamie probably would, since he liked to tease Micah about delusions of grandeur, and Dune definitely would, since he commented on every entry Micah had made -- but Micah told himself it was silly to check on it now. It would wait until he got home. He could talk to everyone as soon as he'd gotten some sleep.

Micah leaned against the nearest wall as the baggage carousel began to rotate with a groan. There hadn't been many people on his flight and even fewer suitcases came off the line. He tapped his fingers rhythmically on the straps of his computer satchel as he waited for his backpack.

He wondered if he looked different.

It was time to be a grown-up now. There was the job waiting for him at the
Chronicle
, Dune had offered to put him up in his loft until Micah could find an apartment of his own, and maybe he'd find somebody serious now, too. Somebody who liked him and understood him, somebody would be his best friend and biggest fan, like Ben and Jamie were for each other, like Dune's moms.

Someone jostled against him and Micah said, "Hey, careful," and opened his eyes -- and threw his arms around Dune's neck. "Dunie!"

"Hey, world traveler," Dune said, hugging him tight. He held Micah's face in both hands and kissed his forehead. "It's good to see you."

"Good to see you, too," Micah said happily, hanging onto him. There was nobody he'd rather see first off, really, than his beautiful best friend. Dune looked better than ever after so many months apart: tall and slender and handsome, like a young god from one of the paintings Micah had seen over the summer. "I didn't think anybody would meet me. How did you know when I'd be in?"

"I read your blog, of course. You sounded so sad that your flight was delayed, and I thought, that's no way to end a trip to Europe, all by yourself with no one to greet you. So here I am. Plus," he added as he hung his arm around Micah's shoulders and steered him towards the baggage carousel, "this way I get to hear all your stories first."

"You've heard all my stories already," Micah said and darted to the carousel to pick up his backpack, which had finally tumbled down the conveyor belt.

"Right," said Dune and shouldered the backpack for him easily -- but then, Dune made everything look easy. "So there's absolutely nothing you've left out of your blog or even your emails."

"In the car," Micah said, and refused to answer another question until they were in Dune's silver Beetle. Dune turned the radio off when he started up the car, and Micah remarked, "They laughed at my Spanish in Madrid," as Dune drove the car out of the airport parking lot.