Chapter 20

St. Louis, 1967

Bobby met Viktor in a bar.

Over the years since his move to St. Louis, he'd never actively looked for anything more than sex.

It wasn't that he preferred one night stands. He just couldn't be bothered investing the time and energy it took to get to know someone, only to be disappointed in the end.

Again.

Sometimes, even sex failed to appeal to him. It wasn't even that he didn't enjoy it. But there were only so many nameless bodies he could fuck without starting to feel hollow afterwards.

When after his shower he found his bed empty because he'd not wanted to bear their sight for longer. When he curled up on himself, sore and, weirdly, not sated.

Oh, he knew he was lying to himself.

He knew what he craved.

But he wasn't willing to have it with anyone else.

On that too hot August night, he'd been out with colleagues, celebrating one of them getting tenure at the university.

Work was keeping him busy, and he found enough companionship with Dorothy, who was nearly living with him with how much time they spent together, which served them both well in the eyes of society and what it had to say about relationships between men and women.

She was there with him, that night, actually, dark hair tugged back in a ponytail that Bobby knew she hated. On their drunken nights of commiseration, she'd often complain how much she'd like to have it cropped short, shorter even that Bobby liked to style his curls. But how keeping it long and fairly smooth was a gateway to safety and avoiding suspicions. When she started crying, Bobby would brush it for her, or give her silly pigtails that at least managed to make her giggle through the tears.

She was the one who noticed.

"There's a man staring at you over there. Blond, mustache," she lowered her voice so only Bobby could hear.

Viktor had been wearing a felt cap inside, and a heavy coat. He looked ridiculously out of place, and glanced away when Bobby smiled at him.

"Got it wrong," he slipped into Dorothy's ear, who shook her head.

"I never do."

She'd been right until that point. The woman had an impeccable sixth sense to detect gay men, but not women, to her great despair.

So everyone made mistakes, it was alright. He carried on his night, getting slowly drunk and forgetting to drink water to fight off dehydration. By midnight, he was wasted, but so was everyone else, and therefore, nobody even noticed.

When he went to the bathroom, just before leaving the bar for a dancing club, there was a blond man nervously waiting by the sink.

Bobby tensed, bracing himself. The sharp poke of fear cleared some of the drunkenness from his mind, adrenaline taking the place of alcohol.

He'd never been a fan of those encounters. Wasn't keen on showing his cards in a public space, to someone who might be tricking him into revealing them, when he didn't wish him any good.

"Hello," the man spoke with a thick Russian accent.

"Hi," Bobby simply replied, and moved towards a stall.

"Wait!"

He turned around, ready to make a run for it if necessary.

"What do you want?"

"A drink? But, without your friends there…"

"Why?" Bobby squinted. "They don't bite."

"No, but do you trust all of them?"

Bobby thought to his colleagues, who all thought he was dating Dorothy and waiting for the right time to pop the question.

He sighed, and allowed himself a few seconds to let his eyes linger.

Blue eyes, and fair skin. High cheekbones, a big nose. Square jaw covered by light blond stubble.

Viktor wasn't dazzling but then again, none of Bobby's recent conquests had been.

He supposed the other man was good looking enough, plus, he hadn't had sex in a while. He could go for a simple, no strings attached sort of fun.

"Fine. Next Saturday, meet back here at seven?"

The man nodded, a small smile showing.

"I'm Viktor, by the way."

"Bobby. Nice to meet you, Viktor. Now get out so I can use the toilet in peace?"

Viktor laughed, and Bobby let out a relieved exhale once he was alone.

St. Louis, 1970

Viktor had been cooking, humming to himself in the kitchen. It was a late winter night and it was the last time they would see each other before Viktor's trip to Moscow.

Bobby was exhausted from long days at the clinic, and a surgery that had nearly gone wrong, and had left him with hands shaking and, a rare occasion, sharing a cigarette with a colleague once they'd finally sutured the patient up.

But Viktor insisted on visiting Bobby for a romantic dinner before he left. And Bobby accepted, because it was easier than having another fight.

‘I have a lot of work to catch up on, though.'

‘It's okay, I can make you dinner while you work,'Viktor had smiled.

Bobby had ignored the nagging feeling creeping up his shoulders and made his way to the shower. Hot water, especially in this weather, was still the fastest way to unwind him and leave him loose enough that he wouldn't snap at Viktor at the slightest inconvenience.

He hadn't noticed, over the years, how… domestic they'd gotten. He didn't think it had been his doing. He just hadn't protested Viktor going out to buy him breakfast before his shifts, taking him out, picking him up after long days… And then staying longer and longer on Sunday mornings. Going out of his way to buy kosher meat.

Now, over three years later, Bobby regretted having been so soft. He'd found it sweet, at the beginning. He didn't mind the affection, a little show of tenderness to keep him warm when the outside world got too grim. He just worried he had sort of… given the wrong message.

He was sprawled on his brand new couch, feet tucked under a blanket, and peering over medical reviews that he never had the time to read otherwise, when something hot and completely unrelated to Viktor jolted through his chest.

It hadn't been the first time that Bill's name unexpectedly popped up in those, but it was the first that Bobby came across it with a lover in his house. God, he hated how his heart still faltered at the sight of it.

He thumbed the corner of the page, contemplating turning it over, hiding the evidence before his brain could latch onto it.

Too late. When Viktor came back into the room, Bobby was so absorbed in Bill's article that he didn't even notice the glass of wine that was offered to him.

"Bobby."

"Hm?"

"Dinner's ready."

Well, I'm not, he almost retorted.

"Two minutes."

He heard Victor's exaggerated sigh, and ignored it, keeping his eyes trained on Bill's words. He only wanted one peaceful evening to snoop on what his ex was up to, was that so much to ask?

Bill's words on the page were cold, clinical. Professional. Which, Bobby could admit, was what you'd expect of a highly trained doctor in a medical review. He still lost himself in the visions that kept popping, uninvited yet unimpeded, into his mind.

Bill sat at his desk, neat handwriting lining the words onto paper. Or would he have a typewriter, these days? No, there was no way Bill would stand the repetitive, clickety noises of the keys. They'd have driven him mad. Surely, he was still putting pen to paper, and had someone type his articles later.

He wondered if Bill still had the silver Montblanc that he'd gotten him for his thirtieth. Would his wife have asked about it? Would Bill have lied?

Curiosity verged on anger. On jealousy. A different kind of heat filling him until a loud clanging noise came from the kitchen, followed by muttered Russian swears that distracted Bobby long enough for him to get his breathing under control.

He carried on reading. Because he liked to suffer, apparently. And because Bill Mercer was one clever guy, and his article was actually interesting, whether you'd slept with him in the past or not.

Later, when he finally got up for dinner, and joined Viktor in the kitchen, the other man was sullen, barely speaking a word in between mouthfuls. So when he had the gall to call Bobby distracted, anger flared again.

"I told you," Bobby curtly replied, "I have a lot of work, these days."

"You were reading magazines."

"Keeping up with research is part of my job!" he shouted into the small space of his kitchen.

So that was a white lie, and he wasn't exactly proud of himself, but Viktor had been pushy of late, and he was tired.

"Look, I thought it was clear what we were doing here, but apparently not," he continued, barely aware how cold his tone had gotten. "I like you, we have fun and in general, you're good company but… I'm not in love with you. And I'm not looking for that. So if you are, I guess… You'd better save yourself the trouble."

He was relieved when Viktor's expression turned to rage. Bobby didn't want to see him cry. The other man stormed off, muttering to himself in Russian, leaving Bobby to deal with a cold lasagna and too much wine.

That was the last he saw of him. When the house fell quiet again, Bobby took his glass to the living room, huddled on the couch again, and went back to his magazine.