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![Back from the Future (MM)]()
Ever since his one-night stand with big, butch, bisexual Bill, Marty’s been in the hopeless grip of a passionate yet seemingly unrequited love. Housesitting for the object of his affection, all he can do is cry on the scaly shoulders of Bill’s exotic fish ... until he meets the tipsy time-traveler who lives upstairs.
Arthur Prefect (not his real name) is a refugee from a dystopian time, and he’s pining, too, for the man he left back in the future. Over the course of a drunken evening, Marty dreams up a plan to reconnect the lonely young man with his lost love ... but he’ll need to do more than dream to fix his own future with Bill.
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Excerpt
- “Hey, what kind of a welcome home is this?”
I opened the door wide once more. My Hitchhikers twain had vanished, and Bill stood there, a Greek statue come to life (only much better hung; what were those sculptors thinking of?)
“Bill,” I said breathily, to show I’d lost only 99% of my capacity for rational thought at the precious, wonderful sight of him.
“Hey,” he said. His smile, I’ve always thought, should be patented. Protected by copyright. But then again, should something so good not be freely disseminated?
No, dammit. He should keep those smiles for me.
“Are you going to let me in? Seeing as it’s my flat, and all?”
I stood back mutely, doubting my current ability to walk and talk at the same time. He entered. I blushed at the connotations running through my mind.
“Fish okay?”
“Peachy.”
“You okay?”
“Likewise.”
“That weirdo from upstairs give you any bother?”
“Not as such.” I didn’t think a few kisses and some drunken sex counted as bother, precisely. Although possibly our attempts to rearrange the fabric of the space-time continuum might be considered as such.
“Good.” Bill spun around slowly. Maybe he was looking for damage I might have inflicted on his flat while he was away.
Maybe he was just glad to be home. I clung to that thought, much as I would have liked to cling to Bill. But that was hopeless.
Was it?
Courage, mon enfant. “I wanted to talk to you. About, well, things.” I swallowed. “I know you were getting quite close to, er,” the evil witch who was trying to get her stuck-on talons into you, “Cerys from work. I wondered if that had, er ...?”
“What? Cerys? No, no, we’re just, er ...” He scratched his head. Bill had sad-face on. What did this mean? Was he sad because the witch hadn’t put out?
“Good,” I said vehemently. “Ow!” Dammit, that had hurt, I’d clapped my hands to my mouth so hard. “Sorry.”
Bill’s broad, honest brow creased in a frown. “You don’t like Cerys?”
Well, no, but it was more that I wasn’t too keen on having my fragile little heart smashed into a million pieces and then stomped upon, while he -- “That’s not what I meant. Bill,” I said, my voice trembling in my chest. “Do you ...” I broke off; took a steadying breath. Panic attacks are seldom attractive. Although on the other hand, hyper-ventilation might raise the delicious prospect of Bill attempting mouth-to-mouth ... No. I should stand firm, and impress him with my manly resolution, not my ability to ape a drooping damsel. “Do you ever think perhaps we should have tried to make a go of it?”
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