11. Shifting Skies

ELEVEN

Shifting Skies

T heir fingers were intertwined against the grass, warm to the touch and welcome in grip.

The mountain slope was perfect—hot enough to make a t-shirt and shorts feel fantastic, but not so fiery that they were actually sweating. From the mottled shade beneath the murmuring white oak, the sky was filled with passing possibilities, grand figures shifting among the shine.

Artair pointed excitedly to the clouds. "Oh! Do you know what that one looks like?"

"I swear, if you say a marshmallow one more time..."

"But it does!"

Luca shook his head, causing a nearby grasshopper to leap away. "Remind me again why I like you?"

"Because I'm awesome? And my butt is like a big smoochable pillow?"

"Yeah, there's that," said Luca, squeezing his boyfriend's hand. "Okay, what about that one, it looks like some kind of medieval castle. "

"Hmmm, I think it looks more like the winter ranger's cabin?"

Luca raised an eyebrow. "What the hell is that? One of your Aspen bars?"

Artair turned, cheek to grass. "Are you serious? The old cabin by the river? The place I was camping for most of the last three months?"

" That's what the cabin is?"

"Of course! Didn't Sandy tell you about it when you found my camp for the first time."

Luca gave him a superior look. "I never actually told her who was down there. As far as she knew it was just a random camper that I gave a safety briefing to."

"Except... she secretly knew it was me all along?"

"Yeah, I wasn't fooling anyone."

Artair laughed. In the distance, birds twittered and leaves fluttered. "And you never wondered why there was this great big house in the middle of the wilderness?"

"I don't know! I was pretty distracted whenever I was down there. I just thought it was some old pioneer's lodge or something."

"Nope, definitely a government building. There are a few dozen of them around the state. For scientific stuff, mostly. Measuring snow depths and lake-ice thickness and animal numbers."

Luca pictured the collapsed roof and plants growing in the exposed floorboards. "Must have been a while since that last happened?"

"Yeah. Apparently, it's been like that for almost a decade. Sandy says they've got the cash to repair it, they've just never bothered."

"Really? Why? "

"Because there's no point? Even when the cabin was livable, they could only fill the position about half the time."

"Hard job?"

"From how Sandy describes it, it's more isolated than hard. The other cabins around the state aren't too bad, and they usually manage to fill them. But out here ?"

Luca pondered their vast view to the north. In this pleasant warmth, it was easy to forget that in just a few short months, this would become one of the most snow-packed spots in the whole country. "Yeah. Brutal ."

"Totally. With blizzards that can go on for weeks, making it too dangerous for helicopters. You're pretty much on your own—no regular supply drops, no evacuations. You have to get all your supplies at the start of the season. And unlike the fire towers, they only fill the winter ranger positions in pairs. It's way too risky to have someone out here alone."

Luca stared at the fluffy sky, the word echoing through his head.

Pairs . . .

He leaned on his own side, squinting at Artair—who was carefully avoiding his gaze. "Babe?"

"Present!"

"Even with your marshmallow vision, that cloud looks nothing like the cabin. I don't want to make any wild accusations here, but were you just bringing it up to gauge my interest in being your plus one for the winter?"

Artair grumbled under his breath. "I really miss trying to slip things by bar drunks. Why did I choose to date a journalist?"

"Because I make you go cross-eyed on the regular?" he laughed. "And would they even get the cabin fixed in time for winter."

" This winter? Gosh no. And besides, I'd want a much longer lead in."

"How so?"

Despite the shade, there was a sudden glow to Artair's face. That same one as when he was describing a bag full of berries and roots. "Well, I'd want to get vegetables in right at the start of summer. Maybe even in spring. Cucumbers and tomatoes and anything else I could pickle. I'd want to smoke lots of different kinds of fish, and see if I could make flour from corn, and try some wheat or barley or even rice. And the honey ! I'd collect as much as the hive could spare and make lots of different meads, and candles from the wax. I'd want to forage for berries and nuts and any fruit trees that might be in the woods, too—see if we can find something better than sour salmonberries. And that's not even starting on the repairs . I've scoped out the foundations, and it all seems pretty sturdy. But I'd have to figure out how to reroof the?—"

"Damn, babe. You've been thinking about this for a while, huh?" asked Luca, brimming with admiration. Despite all their time together, the incredible man still managed to surprise him.

On the one hand, Artair was happy to make things up as he went along. On the other, he could dream up months-long projects that would really test his skills.

On the one hand, Artair was happy to exist in his own company. On the other, he wanted someone important beside him on the adventure.

" Maybe? " said Artair, that familiar shade of self-consciousness. "So... what do you think?"

Among the comfortable heat of the day, another warmth swelled within Luca. It was the unexpected heat of realization. That this man wasn't just thinking about what they'd be doing this summer, but for the next one, too.

And for many more after that?

As Luca looked into the hopeful gaze of the most beautiful man in the whole world, he pondered what that wondrous winter might look like.

Of him tapping away at his stories, while a crackling fire danced in the hearth.

Of Artair coming in from the cold, with frosty breath and ruddy cheeks, needing someone to warm him up.

Of snowfall and starlight.

Of blankets and hot chocolate.

Of rolling around naked on thick rugs.

Of them —together and blissful.

"Yeah," said Luca. "That sounds really cool. "

Artair cackled at the awful joke. "God, I really am rubbing off on you."

Luca walked fingertips down Artair's belly. "Not yet you aren't."

The typewriter smiled back at him in the late afternoon glow, the keys beckoning in a way they never previously had.

Before, it was menace and madness. Rage and regret.

Now, it was golden and grand. Openness and opportunity.

Luca took a new sheet of paper, luxurious across his thumb and robust in the rollers. He replaced the ink ribbon, wanting each strike to carry a weight and a purity into the fiber.

And then, without ceremony, he wrote.

As the letters clacked into cream, he didn't know if they would be read. If they would be too much and too graphic and too detailed for the mainstream.

All he knew was they were the words he needed to write.

Because this was the truth.

My plan was to spend the summer without a man, completely and utterly celibate—all to secure an opportunity that no young journalist would ever willingly decline.

Luca's gaze wandered outside. Artair was running around after Bowie, playing tug-of-war with an old shirt. Beyond, the trees swayed softly, and the sun shined. A passing cloud cast shifting shapes over the wide, green landscape.

There was no clock to this place. No deadline or place to be. Because even if the summer drifted to a close, they would not.

Luca smiled at the steel, the words weightless against his fingertips.

Thankfully, I failed.

The last weeks of summer passed in a halcyon glow—long days in water and fields and lost among the conifers. Endless nights of glowing embers and hot embraces. Hours filled with nonsense and laughter and a growing, comfortable presence.

Artair tended to the gardens and filled the breeze with lullabies. Luca stood watch over the forests and wrote page after honest page.

Hours turned into weeks, blurring happily together until neither could name the day.

Tuesday?

Saturday?

It didn't matter.

Not out here.

Not so long as they were together.

One night, late with chatter and full with freshly roasted vegetables, they spoke of where they might go next.

The Northeast, maybe. Massachusetts was apparently great. Thanksgiving in Plymouth. Halloween in Salem. Christmas in Boston.

Or maybe they'd stay in the Northwest. Artair had only visited Portland a few times, but he thought it might suit his vibe.

Or maybe they'd just make it up as they went along. Soon, the whole country would be packed with pumpkin shows and farmers' markets and beer festivals, all needing a guitarist in the corner to set the mood.

Luca would write during the day. Barkeep or barista or wait tables at night. Make enough money to eat and sleep. Enough to give him the space to discover what was truly out there.

The narrow wisdom that he'd built from his tiny corner of the country was that no one would buy his writing. That no one could buy it.

And maybe that would prove correct.

Or, then again, maybe it wouldn't?

But the only way of knowing was to explore. To head out into the great unknown, heart in hand and risk at the ready .

And there was no one more perfect to break down the stale expectations of normal , to tear open doorways into the impossible paradise beyond the mainstream , than Artair—his incredible partner on the adventure.

Bowie disappeared a few days before the summer ended. That would have devastated Luca if Artair hadn't given him warning.

"He did the same thing last year," Artair had said a week prior, while the fox was snoring on his back between the two of them. "Somewhere out there, he's probably got a mom and a dad and siblings and a big winter to prepare for."

Luca had patted behind the canine's pointy ears extra hard at that, relishing the familiar purr. "So, he's just taking a summer vacation when he comes to visit?"

Artair ran a seductive hand over his bare chest. "Can you blame him?"

Luca laughed. "And you don't miss him throughout the year?"

"Yeah, of course. But I know I'll see him again next summer. Then, he can hear all of my new stories."

There was a pause before Luca spoke again—a weight of meaning beyond the moment. "And if you don't get to see him again? What if you get tired of this place and you want something new and just... just decide not to come back?"

Artair took Luca's hand, staring deep into his eyes. There was no doubt in those perfect irises. No second guessing. "I could never, ever get tired of this place, Luca."

The door clicked closed just after dawn.

Luca felt like more ceremony was warranted. Some trill of trumpets. Some ten-cannon salute.

But there wasn't even a lock to turn. Nor was there anything left to warrant a delay.

The boards were up over the windows. Artair had cut a thick layer of grass for mulch over the garden beds. The hive was ready for their nine-month absence. They'd returned the camping gear to the more sheltered part of the winter ranger's cabin. They'd cleared coals and flattened ditches. They'd bid farewell to Sandy—who'd rung Luca's parents and confirmed that they'd collect the two of them at dusk at the trail head.

"They sounded eager to meet your new friend," she'd said. "And remember to put your applications in on time next year."

And then . . . that was it.

Luca's duties at Bleeding Heart Tower were done.

His fingers lingered on the doorknob, as if holding on to the season past. A large part of him didn't want to leave. It would be strange to return to a world of people after three months gone. Of locks and cars and busy streets. Of having to wear clothes in public and not being able to just wander off in any direction that took his fancy. Of having the mobile phone in his pocket beeping. Of having to worry about times and places and events.

And yet, the metal warmed in his hand. As if reminding him that it wouldn't be long until he returned. As if reminding him that he wouldn't be departing alone .

By his ear, Artair hummed an overly sad tune, wrapping him in an embrace from behind.

" Douche ," laughed Luca, reaching around and grabbing the man's ass. "If you're going to play a parting song, at least get out the guitar."

"But I just packed it! And for the first time all season, we actually have a deadline."

"Yeah," said Luca with a deep sigh. "How long until dusk."

Artair raised his wrist, looking disdainfully at the watch he hadn't worn all season. "Fifteen hours."

Luca paused, running his hands over the soft and inviting curves. "And remind me—how long's the hike?"

Artair was skilled at this game, sliding a slow tongue along Luca's ear. "We're professional hikers now. I think we could knock it off in fourteen?"

"Well," said Luca. "We could probably spare a little time."