Chapter 26

November 1973, New York

Their hotel was a small, unassuming place lost in the middle of Brooklyn. Bobby's heart filled with nostalgia at the sight of familiar brick buildings, a lot of them frozen to just how he'd known them decades earlier.

He didn't remember much from moving to his mother's house, when his father decided that after all, a life with children wasn't what he wanted, and he hopped onto the next plane to London with vague promises that he would visit. Fair to say Bobby had then grown up extremely wary of promises.

He watched Bill carefully pull his suitcase into their shared bedroom. Twin beds, still, because although the times were changing, you never knew who was renting you a space to sleep, and Bobby still feared, at random times, that one wrong touch to the shoulder would scare his lover away.

Bobby dropped onto the bed closest to the window, grinning as he bounced on the squeaky springs.

"Feels a bit like boarding school, doesn't it?"

Bill scrunched his nose at a stain on the carpet.

"I mean, except that we're allowed outside…" he mumbled, dropping his luggage onto his own bed. Bobby kept his next thought to himself, but he dearly hoped they could fit into only one of the beds. There was a limit to his nostalgia and he drew it at not being able to hold his partner while sleeping in the same room.

"It's so strange to be back," Bill whispered, his gaze lost outside the window.

The bustling noise of the city didn't leave much space for silence even as Bobby strayed further into his memories.

"Yeah. Longer for you than it has for me, though, right?"

Bill shrugged. "You know I've never come to this part of town since…"

They both knew. Since the summer of 1938, since Kate Rosenberg housed young Bill Mercer and gave him what was likely the closest thing he'd ever gotten to a mom.

Bobby rubbed a weary hand over his cheek. The plane journey had been a relatively long one, though Bill had insisted on it over driving and it had been worth it, if only to see how relaxed he'd been compared to his absolute hatred of the road.

He eyed the distance between both beds, and patted the mattress at his side.

"Come here," he smirked, giddy when Bill didn't hesitate for a second before joining him and they arranged themselves on their side in the middle of the narrow frame, legs tangling both out of necessity and habit.

Bobby trailed his fingertips along Bill's cheekbone, heart fluttering when the other man closed his eyes and let out a relaxed exhale. How incredible was it that his touch could still soothe Bill so efficiently – while, in other circumstances, riling him up and getting the most delicious rise out of him?

Bill nuzzled into his palm, and Bobby melted.

"You know we don't have to go," he said in the close, damp space between their breaths.

Bill shook his head.

"I want to. It was my idea after all."

Bobby's fingers crept upwards, pushing Bill's hair off his forehead and toying with the fine gray strands. With his other hand, he reached to tug on the end of his lover's bow tie, loosening it until he could have fit two fingers between it and Bill's throat, the slip of silk barely hanging on.

"Yeah but you're allowed to change your mind."

"I won't."

"You're a stubborn bastard," Bobby chuckled, touching his nose to Bill's.

"I am. And you love me just like that."

Oh, he did, Bobby mused, bringing his grin to touch Bill's own amused lips. But hearing it in Bill's voice, his friend acknowledging their feelings, understanding that he was loved after all… Bobby would possibly never get used to the soaring joy this brought him.

He didn't even realize he'd fallen asleep until he opened his eyes again and found himself plunged in darkness. A few blinks later, he remembered where he was, and cuddled further into the solid warmth of Bill's still snoring body.

One palm on his chest and the other on his plump waist, Bobby marveled at his luck.

He'd gotten him back.

Even better, Bill had worked to bring himself back, into a life they could share in the long run.

Tomorrow would be hard. And other days would, too. But for the first time in a long while, Bobby had confidence there existed a future in which he could be happy. His fingers clenched at Bill's waist a little too enthusiastically, and the other man twitched with a muffled groan.

Knowing they'd have to get up soon to grab some food, Bobby pressed a line of kisses from his lover's forehead to his mouth, humming there when he felt Bill stir to full awareness and return his affections.

Time got lost again in the wake of slow kisses, until the magic was broken by a loud growl and Bill pulled back with a wince.

"Sorry."

"Don't be," Bobby chuckled. "I promised you pizza, didn't I?"

Contrary to what it had looked like upon first inspection, Brooklyn had changed. New stores where there had been nothing, closed doors where he remembered a seamstress, a bookshop, a bodega.

The fashion, obviously. Gone were the kids running around in plain beige shorts, replaced by an array of wide colors and bold sunglasses even in the deep of winter.

It was nearly freezing when they left the hotel, swaddled in woolen sweaters, scarves and hats, Bill's nose peeking pink above his own green cashmere scarf. Bobby dared to loop their arms together and smiled, hidden as it was by his coat, when Bill let him lead towards the pizza joint Bobby remembered.

The warm scent of oregano and tomato greeted them right in the street and they had to squeeze into a long and narrow room, grateful when they found two free plastic chairs in a corner.

Bobby was reminded of their disastrous dinner in Houston. Bill, barely able to get his words out, the both of them waiting for the wine to take effect so they could finally talk without the weight of their past mistakes.

How different he looked now, relaxed, red-cheeked and licking his lips at the sight of the giant, deep-dish pizzas being served to tables around them.

"Is this how you remembered it?" Bill asked, still enviously gazing at the steaming plates the neighboring tables were digging into.

"It's changed a bit," Bobby smiled. "As has everything else."

Bill met his eyes with a mirroring mirth in his own.

"For the better?"

This time, when Bobby extended a leg out to touch his foot to Bill's, there was no surprise, no jumping, only a deepening smile.

"Obviously."

Nobody spared them a look when they pushed their chairs together to tear into their pizza when it came, filling their bellies with hot dough and wine, until Bobby couldn't feel the tip of his fingers when they returned to the biting cold outside.

They slipped into the shower together, narrow as it was, and giggled when their attempts to clean each other resulted in them knocking down the soap several times, until Bill's elbows had to hurt from the repetitive hits.

Standing in their pajamas in between the two beds, socked feet on the dubious carpet, they exchanged another one of those looks, the kind that Bobby treasured and was more and more common as time passed.

"Which one?" Bill asked.

Bobby pushed him onto the same mattress that had welcomed their nap earlier, where they fell laughing.

"I'm too heavy for this," Bill grumbled as they struggled to find a comfortable position.

"I told you to stop with those comments," Bobby scolded, digging his teeth into the fat under his lover's chin once they'd stopped fidgeting.

The small moan he got for his troubles would have been enough to get him going, but in the enclosed space and the blankets harshly tackling them to the mattress, there was no way they could get up to anything tonight.

He settled for a light squeeze of Bill's ass and said:

"I'll keep telling you until one day you're proud of your body. I love you fat. I love your belly rolls and I love the stretch-marks. I love seeing them when I eat you out."

Bill rolled his eyes and Bobby knew he was blushing in the dark, as he always did whenever he mentioned sex aloud.

"Alright, alright," Bill huffed.

"Act annoyed all you want, it's the truth. I need you to stop self-deprecating as a sort of weird coping mechanism that you're telling yourself you need in case I change my mind one day."

Bill went silent, and Bobby could just picture the stubborn kid he fell in love with, pretending he hadn't heard him.

"Am I right or am I right?" he poked.

"Yes, fine," Bill groaned. "Can we stop talking about it now?"

Bobby gentled his touch until his palm was simply resting on Bill's lower back and he whispered close to his ear:

"We can if you promise me you've heard me."

Bill grumbled some more but eventually hummed his assent against Bobby's mouth, ending in a huff and agreement that they should sleep and gather some strength before morning.

They left the hotel early, leaving their suitcases at reception to collect later on their way back to the airport.

It had snowed during the night, and Bill's mouth opened in marvel at the sight of the white blanket that he hadn't seen in several years. Car tires had traced messy lines across it on the road, but the edges of sidewalks were packed with knee-high snowdrifts.

Passersby were wrapped up to their noses in scarves and high sweaters, mothers running after kids to convince them to put their gloves back on. And in an instant, Bill was transported back to a freezing day of 1932, discovering how fast one could reach the limits of hypothermia, and how funny a snowman looked with eyes of different sizes.

Now that he was fifty-three years old, the urge to dig his fingers into the thick snow layer was dimmed and he kept his hands firmly in his pockets while they carefully walked out of the neighborhood, in the direction of Queens.

Highland Park was an even more impressive sight: pedestrian paths as pristine as where Bill assumed must have been the lawns, the bright surface only marred by the black silhouettes of crows. Not many people had thought it wise to brave the slippery slopes in this weather, but Bobby knew the way, and they had a purpose.

He looked as wistful as Bill felt, today. Neither of them had said much since breakfast, both lost deep in thought as they got closer to their destination.

Passing under a pretty stone bridge, Bobby stopped and, scuffing his shoe against the ground, unearthed two small rocks. He crouched and picked them up, rolling them into the snow for a bit to rid them of dirt, then raised his eyes at Bill and held up a hand.

Bill picked the smaller rock. He wasn't sure why, but it felt fitting.

They crossed the gates to the cemetery in continued silence, and Bill took great care in following in his lover's steps in between the rows of tombstones, his gaze drifting to carved symbols he didn't understand.

His heart tripped when at last, he recognized the letters.

KATE ROSENBERG

And suddenly, his vision blurred too much for him to read the dates. Not that they mattered much, anyway. Too late was too late.

Next to him, Bobby was mouthing words that Bill knew he wouldn't understand, and he kept his head low, eyes fixed on the tomb of a woman who had once held him against her chest and told her how proud she was of him.

When, after long minutes, Bobby moved, taking a small step forward, Bill followed. Together, they bent and placed their rocks on the worn edge of the headstone, and for a bright, brief second, Bill could have sworn the stone felt warm.

They pulled back a few feet, letting the wind and caws carry the moment away.

"You okay?" Bobby asked, finally turning to face him.

Bill shook his head with a sorrowful smile, blinking his tears away.

"What about you?"

Bobby shrugged. "I wish I could visit more often. Maybe I will, now," he added in an exhale.

"Do you think…" Bill began, realizing halfway through that he wasn't sure how to phrase his thought.

Bobby waited patiently for him to grasp it.

"She would have…"

"Approved?" the other man completed.

Bill nodded, averting his eyes from the cemetery and directing them upwards, wincing at the equal whiteness of the clouds.

"I think in a way…" Bobby croaked. "She would have. Maybe not exactly in the same way as a ‘normal' marriage. But she always loved you, as soon as she understood how much you meant to me. And I know that it broke her heart too, not getting to see you anymore."

That was what it took to open the floodgates. Bill sobbed in silence, grief flowing out until Bobby got closer and pressed their sides together, not the hug or kiss Bill would get once they left the cemetery but enough, for now.

Snow fell again. Gentle, and slow, an almost imperceptible crackling in the air as their rocks turned clearer with a fresh layer of snowflakes.

Bill stared at the grave until he could have known the shape of the letters in the dark. Then, body both heavier than ever and light, he let himself be guided out, stopped with Bobby to wash their hands on the way out, and sent a mental goodbye as they crossed over into life again, the sounds of the city growing again the longer they walked across the park.

A tug on his hand stopped Bill hard enough that his heel slipped on the packed snow and he toppled into Bobby, sending them both against a tree trunk.

Against all odds, when Bill checked his expression, the other man was laughing.

"Sorry," he said, "didn't mean to grab you like that."

On instinct and force of habit, Bill's hands had reached up to settle on Bobby's hips and, despite himself, he gave a quick glance to their surroundings before deciding he would keep them there.

Something passed in Bobby's eyes, an understanding, before he leaned in, sending Bill's heart thundering. He gasped when, instead of a kiss, his lover touched the glacial tip of their noses together.

"Thank you," Bill whispered.

"I did nothing."

"Yes you did. You allowed me to say goodbye."

Bobby cocked his head with a melancholic smile.

"I'm sure she would have appreciated it."

Bill nodded, brushing their noses together again.

They remained like this, huddled together under the protective canopy of a maple, until the cold crept through their shoes and Bill had to wiggle his toes to get the blood flowing again.

"Come on," Bobby announced, "we got a plane to catch."

Bill left a hand on the inside of Bobby's elbow, seeking a support both physical and emotional as they slipped their way back onto the path and out of the park, on the road back to daily life, knowing this time that another small wound on Bill's heart had finally healed.