Again

“…and they’re like, all confident and everything, they go: ‘Jason, there’s no way three of them’ll fit in the trunk, just look at the size of ’em! ’ Like it’s my first time or something. I don’t know how big my own trunk is?” “What about the blood after? You line it with plastic or what?” “Nah, there’s not much. And I don’t throw ’em in right away. I usually toss something down first — that’s enough.” Aidan was half-listening to this thrilling exchange, deeply regretting the fact that the clients had turned out to be so friendly. Which was how he’d ended up at lunch with them — and now couldn’t even put his headphones in without looking horribly rude. He’d also made the fatal mistake of mentioning that he wasn’t originally from Wisconsin. No one had paid attention to the “I moved here ages ago” part — they were far too busy showing off their hospitality. For some reason, this included insisting that he try the beer cheese soup. In summer. In the heat. A soup he had already had many, many times — in contexts that made far more sense. Now, staring down a bowl of viscous yellow sludge — steaming, thick, and inexplicably topped with popcorn — Aidan felt nothing but regret. Regret for accepting the job. Regret that his Midwestern instincts still overpowered his survival instincts — and that he’d been raised with just enough manners to sit through a cheese-based assault. Regret for being born into polite society. Conversations about blood in the trunk, guns, and the finer points of deer carcass suspension weren’t doing anything to improve Aidan’s appetite. Someone at the table proudly shared that last season he’d “taken down” three bucks — and then two more during the holiday antlerless hunt. What the hell? How much meat can a person reasonably eat in a year? In a lifetime? Do they actually eat the stuff? Or do they all have industrial-sized freezers the size of small homes and an ongoing commitment to apocalypse prep? Aidan figured it was probably not the kind of question one should ask aloud. He bit into a pretzel instead, deciding that chewing might help disguise the fact that he wasn’t touching his soup. Naturally, that was the exact moment someone turned their attention toward him. “Aidan! What about you? What do you hunt?” The way they asked, it was like hunting was a universal instinct. You’ve got an index finger — of course it’s meant for a trigger. Deer? Bears? Coyotes? No? Traps, maybe? Ducks? Turkeys? So, to avoid justifying his total lack of enthusiasm for killing anything, Aidan offered a quick exit: “Oh, you know — hunting season always overlaps with photo season in Asia. I’m usually in Thailand or the Philippines around that time.” “Ah, that’s a shame! Otherwise we’d be inviting you out in November, too. That would’ve been epic! You’d shoot us for a day or two, and then stick around to do some shooting of your own. You have no idea what it’s like! It’s basically a cannonade from morning till night. The smell of gunpowder gets into everything, and the smoke just rolls across the whole state! Over in Madison, people are like, ‘Oh no, is that smog? ’ No, boys and girls — that’s just the biggest event of the year, finally here!” “How… interesting,” Aidan said. “Anyway, for now we’ll shoot a little in the club, then head outside to catch both daylight and golden hour. Assuming it doesn’t rain. But if it does — honestly, not the worst thing. We could lean into it. We could go for something raw and dramatic: rain on unshaven cheeks, streaks of mud across the face — that kind of gritty masculinity.” “Still hoping for no rain, though,” Jason said with a little shudder. “Didn’t bring a change of clothes.” “Well… we could shoot without clothes…” But as several heads swiveled toward him, Aidan quickly added: “Kidding. Not my specialty.” It was, in fact, very much his specialty. But this was not the moment to elaborate — or whip out his portfolio. He almost regretted the joke — because now he could picture the shoot very vividly. Even though Jason and Phil, both somewhere in their forties, didn’t have perfect bodies, there was something solid about them — a kind of energy and steadiness. You could strip them to the waist, soak them in rain, set them in confrontation: Bared teeth, foreheads colliding, arms flexed and braced— No. That wasn’t it. More likely they’d press their foreheads together, arms around each other, voices catching: “Bro, I’d die for you.” “And I’d die for you, bro.” Also good. But unfortunately, that wasn’t the concept for this shoot. The meticulously crafted creative vision he’d been given was, and it’s a quote:“There’ll be five of us. Take some shots that’ll look good in a frame on the wall.” How these men planned to admire, for years to come, framed photos of themselves in twenty-pocket vests, faded ball caps, plaid shirts, and mustaches allowed to grow in complete chaotic freedom — that remained a mystery. Still, at least they weren’t holding the guns incorrectly. But since Caitlin had, in a single night, nearly doubled the wedding budget, Aidan had to accept any job that didn’t require long-distance travel. He’d thanked the heavens more than once that hunting season was still a ways off — meaning the worst he’d faced so far were just graphic descriptions of kills and field dressing, plus close encounters with several pelts, a few heads, and one full-sized, extremely unattractive taxidermy bear. Its snout was slightly deformed, and the poorly chosen glass eyes gave it a look that was somehow both rowdy and deranged. Still, it wasn’t funny. The evening shoot helped clear his head a little — the weather had been good, and, blessedly, all visible and conversational corpses had disappeared. The farewell was surprisingly friendly. The group continued insisting Aidan had no idea what he was missing — that he had to experience the atmosphere of tracking prey, of making that final shot. A couple of them even gave detailed directions to their hunting cabins. Aidan didn’t retain much of the route, though. He was too busy fighting the wave of nausea that still surged every time he remembered the phrase “in season, the whole clearing might be stacked with deer carcasses.” It was probably an exaggeration. It had to be an exaggeration. Later, when Aidan brought it up, Noah just hugged him and said: “They weren’t exaggerating. Don’t take jobs like that again. We don’t need the flower arch that badly.” “Why did we even decide to invite people?” “Well, they’re our friends. Some are even technically family. And we wanted them there.” “What was wrong with FaceTime?” “It’s not too late to cancel all the extras.” “We’d lose the deposit.” “Let it go.” “We won’t get the toaster.” “There’s no toaster on our registry.” “Come on. Once in our lives we can put up with it. Bailey, I am so grateful you didn’t grow up dreaming about a magical wedding with fireworks, a human-sized cake, and twenty groomsmaids.” “One Caitlin is more than enough.” “Right? And I’m even more grateful that you don’t own a hunting vest or a trunk lined in plastic.” “Uh… about that.” “What?! Are you about to tell me that when you said you were going to teacher conferences, you were really out shooting beavers?” “Not exactly. But I was required to get a firearms license before the school year starts. So I’ll have to go to the range. And we may need a gun safe at home.” “You do remember this goes against our principles?” “I do. I’m sorry. But I don’t have a choice.” “How did I agree to marry a schoolteacher and end up with a park ranger?” “Honestly, they’re pretty similar some days. But hasn’t it made me just a little bit sexier?” “No. But that’s only because you already maxed out the sexiness scale.”

***

“The stag party has to be a week before the wedding,” Caitlin declared with absolute authority. “How would you know? You’re not even a stag,” Aidan shot back, with intentional discrimination. “I already have it all figured out: Bachelor party on Friday. Reception on Saturday.” “Oh really? What exactly have you ‘figured out’?” Caitlin asked, suspicious. “A plan.” “Which is…?” “We go to Woof’s and drink until we’re bored. Then we leave, take an unpredictable detour, and end up at Sotto. When we get bored there, we spill out onto the street again — and if we’re still seeing just one Capitol building and not two, we head over to FIVE. And that’s where we stay, because that place never gets boring.” “Blake, say something!” Caitlin turned to the third member of the planning committee, hoping for support. “Come on, Aidan, I told you — we should also hit The Cardinal! We can’t sit in one place for hours, it’s bad for coordination,” Blake said reproachfully — and was immediately rewarded with a jab in the shoulder from Caitlin, who clearly wasn’t impressed by this brand of useless backup. He didn’t even flinch. “You hit like a girl,” he said. “We’ll see what you say when I find you both in a ditch behind a strip club and start kicking you for behaving like that!” “Then you’ll realize it’s not us,” Aidan said, wrinkling his nose. “I truly can’t imagine what we’d be doing in a strip club. I think there’s a lot of physical interaction with dollar bills involved, and that just doesn’t appeal.” “Oh please,” Blake said, warming to the topic. “By now I’m sure the performers all have QR code tattoos — contactless tipping’s probably standard.” He pulled out his phone like he was about to check. “Well, in that case, our chances of ending up behind a strip club go up significantly! I’d be happy to support them — they’re probably single moms with student loans,” Aidan said helpfully. “Wait, you’d be staring at women?” Caitlin hissed, horrified. “Who else would we look at? What, did you think we were planning to objectify men?” Aidan scoffed. “What a ridiculous idea! And I’m not even sure a strip club with only male performers exists — it makes me want to call it something completely different.” “Something’s right on the tip of my tongue,” Blake nodded thoughtfully. “Gay… something with gay in it…” “Gay club?” Aidan offered. “That’s it! Brilliant name!” “Brainstorming with you always sparks my imagination and leads to genius ideas, my friend.” “Likewise, likewise.” “First of all,” Caitlin said tiredly, “your brainstorming leaves behind a trail of shattered ceilings and general devastation, dropping the county IQ by at least ten points. Second: how is it that the moment you two are in the same room, you start giving off this weird straight-boy energy that throws me completely off?” “You’re imagining it,” Aidan said calmly. “See?! This is gaslighting! You’re gaslighting me!” “We weren’t going to say anything,” Blake added, “but gay men are actually extremely good at gaslighting. Not us, of course. We’re not like that.” “I’ll pretend I believe you,” Caitlin said dryly. “And I’ll admit your little stag party plan isn’t completely terrible — but it absolutely has to be moved up a week.” “Why?” Aidan blinked. “Because I’m not Dr. Frankenstein — I can’t bring you back to life in the few hours we’ll have on Saturday morning. And more importantly: you’re technically getting married on Friday.” “Oh!” That particular detail had somehow slipped the mind of one of the grooms. “Exactly! And having your bachelor party after the wedding is a little too exotic — even for you.” “Don’t listen to her — nothing’s too exotic for you,” Blake said encouragingly, patting Aidan’s hand. “But yeah, we should move it.” “Finally!” Caitlin exhaled. “I’ll be ready at ten.” “…Ten for what?” Aidan narrowed his eyes. “You’re not on the guest list. Caitlin, come on — this is my day. Or evening. Or night. Anyway, I’m not spending it discussing what I’m still allowed to do and what’s already off-limits.” “And just what exactly are you planning to do,” Caitlin narrowed her eyes, “when you’re practically married already, huh, Moore?” “See? This is exactly what I’m talking about. No. Try inviting yourself to Noah’s instead — he’s probably planning something like a quick wine bar trip, then back home for a few rounds of board games and a slideshow about our journey as a couple.” “I don’t want that kind of bachelor party!” Caitlin cried, scandalized. “I want wild fun! Within reason.” “And you’ll get it,” Blake promised, kissing her hand gallantly. “But it’ll be for your wedding. Which will absolutely happen, if you want it to — and of course, we’ll be there with you. Not with whatever poor bastard — I mean lucky gentleman — ends up becoming your spouse.” “Or,” Aidan added, “we can just go out some random Saturday.” “Where do you plan on going once you’re officially someone’s husband?” Caitlin asked, squinting again. “Ma’am,” Aidan said sweetly, “please keep your patriarchal assumptions to yourself. Nothing’s going to change. They don’t revoke your club membership just because someone put a ring on it.” “Yeah,” Blake said, soundinga little less sure. “I have deep resentment toward both of you,” Caitlin declared. “We’ll do our best to go on living with that knowledge,” Aidan replied. “Cheers! I’m having a bachelor party with no grown-ups!”

***

At the first bar, as expected, everyone else was late. Only Aidan and Blake had bothered to arrive on time. Blake, who had taken charge of the group’s appearance, showed up first — arriving promptly at the door of the still-living-in-sin Moore-Bailey household. “Take it off,” he said immediately, frowning at Aidan’s white T-shirt and jabbing a finger at it in disapproval. And since Aidan looked ready to argue, Blake grabbed the hem and yanked it upward mid-sentence, tossing a casual “Hey” to Noah, who was standing nearby and already dressed to go. In place of the boring white tee, Blake produced a far more dramatic pink one — a shirt that had lost almost all its fabric in the design process. It started and ended somewhere around the shoulders. Still, there was just enough material on the back to print “Husband-to-be.” “This won’t interfere with your fun?” Noah asked, giving the Husband-to-be declaration a light pat — and then lingering just a bit, understandably captivated by the way Aidan’s back looked, framed between hot pink and denim. “Nothing will interfere with our fun,” Aidan promised. “Don’t try to find us. We’ll be back when we’re back. Possibly in four days. Possibly on a flight from Thailand.” “Or later tonight,” Blake sighed, pulling on a top just as tiny as Aidan’s — only his was red, and read: “All the best women are married, all the handsome men are gay… or vice versa.” “Thanks for the heads up,” Noah said. “I’ll be prepared for either outcome.” “Okay, okay! That’s enough of the Midwest goodbye!” Blake declared. “Noah probably has to get to some kind of orgy, or a cooking class, or one of those trendy hybrid events that combine both. Let’s not keep him.” “Yeah, something like that. Bye!” “Hey, Bailey — don’t you want to say something to me before I go?” “Have fun?” “No! Something about how much you’ll miss me.” “Is this a side effect of pre-gaming or of monogamy?” Blake asked, raising an eyebrow. “You’re just jealous because you don’t have a future husband,” Aidan shot back — and then caught Noah off guard with a kiss that was…not the kind of kiss that usually happened on the way out the door. “Ugh, this is like watching my parents make out with full tongue contact,” Blake muttered. “Are you out of your mind?! You’re supposed to be mildly aroused! Parents — please. Though your dad…” “Okay, we’re leaving,” Blake said, grabbing Aidan by the wrist and dragging him toward the elevator. And so, of course, they arrived first — and were, unfortunately, still completely sober. Which made communication even harder, especially with the insistently social man currently trying to engage Aidan at the bar. The man wasn’t bald enough to be bald — not exactly — but definitely didn’t have enough hair for it to seem intentional. You know the type: the “hanging on for dear life” hairstyle that only emphasizes the tragedy. Wearing a business suit and a look of relentless curiosity, he latched onto Aidan and started asking an alarming number of questions about life in Middleton — everything from which local farm co-ops were active to the average mosquito count in summer. “But surely it’s higher, right?” the man said, eyes wide. “Being between Esser and South Pond? It has to be!” Aidan, sensing he might not survive this sober, thumbed out a silent SOS from his pocket. Blake — who had been off to the side, dramatically interrogating the group chat about where the hell everyone else was — materialized instantly. A true knight in shining armor… or rather, a crop top so tiny it didn’t even pretend to conceal his nipples. Taking in the scene in half a second, Blake draped his arms around Aidan, rested his head on his shoulder, and asked softly: “Babe, are you okay?” “Yeah, babe. This man wants to know about the mosquito situation in our neighborhood,” Aidan said, wrapping an arm around Blake’s waist — and immediately noticing how very little fabric Blake was currently wearing. His hand could just… slip a little lower, and the shorts would be over. Okay, no. Absolutely not. Hands stay where they are. Still — for the sake of realism… “Mosquitoes are a regrettable part of an otherwise wonderful place,” Blake nodded solemnly. “But the playgrounds are fantastic. And the schools. We’re planning for three kids, aren’t we, babe?” Aidan briefly wondered how believable they looked — not just as future dads, but as the proud, slightly tired parents of three whole children. Why not? Dads came in all shapes and outfits. And really, only one of them had nipple piercings — which practically made them role models. “If we’re unlucky, yeah — three. If we’re lucky, maybe five. And I hope at least half of them take after you.” Which didn’t even seem like a bad fate for hypothetical children. Aidan had always been objective, and he could admit Blake had a better chin. And just… a more interesting face all around. “Babe, I’d have to give up my entire career,” Blake said, very seriously. “But I’m willing to do that. For you.” That level of emotional intimacy — combined with their deeply committed interest in childrearing — was apparently enough to drive off the man in the suit, who backed away like he was allergic to love, playgrounds, or both. “You do know you’re allowed to not talk to people you don’t like… or just don’t care about… babe?” Blake reminded him, making no move to let go. “Always call me that now.” “No problem. Moore?” “What?” “I’m going to miss you.” “Why? I’m not going anywhere.” “You’re going off to that magical land of married people — and none of us really knows what it’s like there. Not even Caitlin. And I was sure she’d have at least two divorces under her belt by thirty.” “She doesn’t spend enough time around cisgender straight men — really ruins her chances of marriage. But don’t worry about me. You know Bailey. He’s not the type to come up with some post-wedding plan to overhaul our lives.” At that moment, the already not-quiet bar got a whole lot louder — the rest of the stags had arrived, all five of them — and the quiet, nostalgic mood evaporated on impact. Within twenty minutes, Aidan announced that life was passing him by and he had still never done a tequila shot from someone’s bellybutton. Someone tried to object — hadn’t that literally happened last summer? — but they were quickly shushed. You don’t argue with a man in crisis, especially not one saying farewell to singlehood. Thankfully, the night’s carefully coordinated outfits made it easy to assess bellybuttons at a glance. Aidan, of course, took things further and leaned in to inspect each one up close — the only thing missing from the look was a pince-nez. Eventually, Camil’s bellybutton was declared the best suited for the occasion. Unfortunately, the winner began shrieking that he was so ticklish, even Aidan’s gaze nearly ended him. So they had to settle for the best of the remaining candidates: Tyrone was hoisted onto the bar for the ritual. (Aidan, of course, did not compete — had he entered, everyone agreed, it would’ve been no contest.) The group threw themselves into the task with such enthusiasm — licking salt, chasing tequila, trying not to waste a drop — that they ended up in someone’s Instagram story. A few strangers asked if they could join in, but their request was declined. It was officially time for dancing. Once the dancefloor opened up, everyone scattered. No one tried to form a protective circle around Noah’s future husband — no one wanted to ruin his fun. But around midnight, the night’s organizer (a.k.a Blake) gently pulled averyhappy Aidan away from two gentlemen in harnesses and out onto the sidewalk, apologizing. “It’s time,” he explained. “We’ve got another stop.” By the time they arrived at FIVE, the Miss Gay Madison pageant was just wrapping up — and, as a bonus, audience members were now being invited to join an impromptu lip sync battle… following a brief prep session. The last thing Aidan remembered from his previous life — the one where public humiliationallegedlyhadn’t been part of the deal — was a pair of false eyelashes approaching his face with the size and velocity of a peacock’s tail. It was like a medical drama scene where they press the anesthesia mask down and everything goes white. After that: dizziness. Deafening music. Crowd roaring. Victory. (At least, that’s what his friends told him — he didn’t bother checking whether the trophy he was holding was a real award or just a stolen cocktail glass.) What he could confirm was that Miss Mirage Blass, the evening’s emcee and final judge, had definitely kissed his entire face — and yelled, “Bitch, you’re the best! Happy wedding!” directly into his soul. Well past 2 a.m., Blake woke the groom — who’d been napping against his shoulder — and pulled him out of the cab. When Noah opened the door, Aidan immediately cried, “Bailey! I’m so glad to see you!” and threw his arms around his neck. “You’re lucky,” Blake said. “He’s been calling me Andrea for the past hour.” “Take it as a km… comp… comp.lee.ment,” Aidan waved him off, then added in a very loud whisper, “I need sex. Right now.” “Oh, then yeah, this is definitely the right address,” Blake said, already backing away. “My cab’s waiting. You two have fun.” Once they were alone, Aidan said, “I gave a dancer five dollars, and suddenly he was giving me a private show. It was weird. So I gave another guy just two dollars — and it happened again. What is wrong with these people?” “I think it was your charm,” Noah assured him, trying to guide Aidan toward the bedroom. “Not the fact that someone else had already paid for it. Too bad you didn’t enjoy it.” “No, it wasn’t awful,” Aidan admitted. “The second guy just kind of scared me. He was so bony. I think he’s not eating enough — I should’ve given him more money.” “And where did you even get cash?” “No ideaaa!” Aidan looked genuinely baffled. “Isn’t it weird? They just —poof!— appeared in all my pockets!” To prove it, he pulled out a few remaining crumpled bills. “What will you do for these?” “Put you to bed.” “Ugh! You’re so boring! I don’twantto go to bed! How was your bachelor party? Did you say goodbye to single life properly?” “Sure. I ran into a couple of my students’ parents. It was… strange.” They made it to the bed — though Noah had to kick off his boxers midway through, since someone had managed to yank them down in transit. “Well, I didn’t meet anyone all night who could compete with you,” Aidan murmured in his ear. “Not even Miss Blass came close.” “I’m flattered.” “As you should be. And now… get ready — I’m going to express my love in the way traditionally prescribed for spouses, and we’re basically married, right? This is going to be unforgettable!” The kiss that followed was indeed heartfelt — and flavored with at least seven different types of alcohol, plus just a hint of nicotine. But by the time Aidan’s lips started to drift lower, sleep was already overtaking him — and somewhere around Noah’s stomach, he passed out entirely. Knowing that any sudden movements might be interpreted as sabotage, Noah waited until the snoring evened out, then carefully shifted his future husband into a more sleep-appropriate position.