Virgil (Greg)

Hearing Greg pick up the telephone, Sean shifted on the sofa to make himself more comfortable, since he would be on the line for a bit, as opposed to leaving a brief message. He was glad of that, as it had been a while since he and Greg had last had the opportunity for an in-depth conversation. Such was the end of the winter term on his end, and he knew that the blond was keeping busy one way or another.

“Hello, Greg. It’s Sean.” He assumed that the other man would recognize his voice, but he was formal in some ways.

“I wanted to check in with you and see how you are,” he explained, pausing then to sip from his cocoa. “What do you think of the snow? It’s doing its best to make sure that the children have the ability to sled, and that my car is trapped in the garage.”

Snow could be comfortable and romantic in some ways, but for people sensitive to the cold, it held a less pleasant reality. However, the weather was a good segue into a more serious conversation, and it would give him insight into the other man’s mood. At the very least, his friend sounded chipper, and that was an important development.

Fortunately, Sean wasn’t calling with good news, and Greg needn’t worry about impressions or embarrassment. The telepath had more direct ways of contacting others when there were pressing concerns or tragedy. Occasionally, he had to dispense with traditional politeness and cut right to the point when tragedy loomed.

Fortunately, this was a social call.

“Giddy as a school girl, you say?” The telepath asked, smiling to himself at the mental image that conjured. “Is that complete with uniform and pleated skirts?”

Four and a half decades had passed since Sean had attended Catholic school, and yet the uniforms had remained the same. Time ticked forward, the world changed, and yet Catholic school girls still wore the same uniforms to school year in and year out.

“And I’m glad to hear that,” he said sincerely. He was quite glad to hear that Greg was doing well, since that had been his primary motivation in calling. While he couldn’t see his blond friend’s expression, his voice sounded more genuine, which was also encouraging.

“Are you accusing me of being unable to prepare for a snow storm?” He asked, feigning indignation. Sean had lived in the middle of snow storms for most of his life, and he engaged in preparedness enough not to be snowbound. Even if he was, he would call Kateri first, because she was a weather manipulator, or a pyrokinetic to melt the snow if possible.

At the question about his partner, Sean again smiled to himself. Leaning back on the sofa, he stretched out, putting his feet up on the ottoman to make himself more comfortable. “Josh is fine. The court system goes into a break for the holidays, which means I get him all to myself for a week or two.”

Sean chuckled lightly as well. “I know a club in Boston where you would fit in well, if you felt like taking that outfit out of the mothballs. There’s a clothing and shoe store near that club, actually, in case you needed to replace the skirt. Should it no longer fit.”

The telepath smiled to himself. “I know, and I appreciate it. But we can both hope that neither of us ever has to find out how useful you’d be in shoveling me out of my house.” Sean was perfectly content never to require such assistance. Two hurricanes in two years, as well as the typical Vermont winter snow, was more than enough.

The telepath cradled the telephone receiver between his ear and his shoulder, while he reached for his pad and pencil. He’d written down a couple of notes to himself, not the least of which involved his secondary reason for calling. The first was to check in with his friend. The second concerned New Year’s Eve.

“I know. I’m a horrible partner,” Sean said, deadpan. “Josh is with his parents tonight to celebrate Chanukah, and we thought it best if I didn’t tag along.”

Mama B was slowly coming to terms with her son’s sexual orientation, and the true nature of his relationship with Sean. Still, there was no reason to rock the boat.

“Aside from wanting to hear your enchanting voice, I called to ask whether you had plans for New Year’s Eve.”

“The hospital is only a short ambulance ride away,” Sean assured the blond. Any hip injuries could easily get healed, and then he could return to the club for more drinking, dancing, and cross-dressing. “You can get discharged within a few hours, before the club closes for the night.”

He followed his friend’s change of topic easily. The telepath had opinions about the Doomsday prophesies, since they were a misunderstanding of another culture. As well as appropriation for the purposes of pushing an agenda of fear. It was also based in nothing. “Supposedly, although we lived through the new millennium, eight years of Reagan, and then another eight years of Bush. I don’t believe in the apocalypse anymore.” Nor had he ever. “Everyone will wake up embarrassed on the twenty-second, and there will be a lot of clean up.”

Just in time for the holidays.

“It’s up to five dollars a minute now?” Sean asked, feigning surprise and curiosity. “How time flies. I still remember when it was fifty cents per minute.” The telepath shook his head to himself in faux reflection, although it was a wasted gesture, since Greg couldn’t see him over the phone.

He then took his cue from the other man, and explained, “My nephew is coming into town for the end of the year. For some reason I can’t fathom, he enjoys spending time with AARP members, and I wanted to invite you over for supper and New Year’s festivities.”

“Why not both? Although we might want to have your memory tested,” Sean remarked. “As part of your physical.” It was all in good humor, of course. If the telepath had been concerned about Greg’s memory, he wouldn’t make jokes about it, as that became cruel rather than humorous.

“Then you should have a very entertaining last day of the thirteenth Baktun. Be sure to keep hydrated and use protection.” Those were his typical bits of caution, and they were applicable in fantasy as well as in reality.

“I wish that I could apologize for reminding you of our true age,” the psychiatrist said. But he couldn’t.

“Good,” Sean replied with an exaggerated sigh of relief. “If you hadn’t agreed, I would have had to kidnap you, and I don’t know where my masking tape is. Fortunately, you’ve saved me the need to turn the house upside down in search.” He then chuckled lightly at the joke.

Turning more serious, the telepath added, “You can bring anything you want, although, of course, you aren’t obligated to do so. The only thing to remember is that Ryan might bring his girlfriend, and she doesn’t eat pork.” Shiya actually kept to some of the dietary restrictions of her culture and religion, unlike Josh. They needed to be accommodating for her, since Sean wanted her to be comfortable for this party, should she attend. If not, he, Greg, Josh, and Ryan could all cope without bacon or ham for a night.

“End of the year surgery and exams for both of us. Let’s call it a date,” Sean said with a chuckle. Fortunately – quite fortunately – this was all in good humor. They were fine, physically and mentally, even if they were no longer as spry as they had been in college.

The telepath had known that about Greg, but he was glad to listen as the conversation turned serious from their absurd discussion. Despite the blond man’s flirtatious nature, Sean had expected nothing other than the romantic withdrawal after the death of his husband. It wasn’t easy to adapt to under the best of circumstances, and Nathan’s death and the aftermath for Greg were at the other end of the spectrum. “That’s common,” Sean said, which he meant as encouragement. If Josh died under similar circumstances, the psychiatrist knew that he wouldn’t move on easily to a new relationship. “You can only move at your own pace.”

Then the conversation turned humorous once more, and the telepath snapped his fingers in response. “The night cabinet drawer. Of course. How could it have slipped my mind?” That was all of the insinuations that Sean would make about kidnapping, bondage supplies, or similar topics for the evening. They had covered it enough for now.

“I would hope that your desserts don’t involve pork,” the psychiatrist remarked, which was mostly said in humor. He had full confidence in his friend’s ability to either bake or buy a proper dessert for this get-together. “Both Shiya and Ryan like chocolate and fruit. You know that Josh and I are fine with anything, so go wild and use your best judgment.”

There were plenty of options.