Again

The table—described in the CB2 listing as “perfect for Sunday lunch with your whole extended family”—was currently losing a battle against two adults and one determined cat. It was completely buried under notebooks, markers, pencils, laptops, tablets, chargers, and enough paper to repopulate a small forest. Right in the center, sprawled across the sheet designated for the final layout, lay Ewan—fast asleep and absolutely unbothered. He’d passed out sometime around bullet point three, which naturally meant everything had to be redone. Because let’s be honest: there’s work, and then there’s the sanctity of feline rest. And the priorities here were clear. To the untrained eye, the scene might’ve read as pure chaos. But look closer, and it was actually well-zoned and surprisingly efficient. Location photos didn’t get mixed with portfolio shots, and the gear checklist lived comfortably near the budget spreadsheet. Noah, who didn’t make it home until after seven, took one look at the table and accepted his fate without a word. Dinner would be eaten wherever there was space—or not at all. “How’s it going?” Noah asked, casting a brief glance at the sketchy outlines of human figures beside three photos of young men posing at sunset, each wearing a slightly different flavor of pensive expression—as if they were all trying to remember where, exactly, they’d left their clothes. All their clothes. “You’ve been at this since morning?” “Yup,” Aidan replied, his earlier manic focus now softening into the first signs of exhaustion. “Turns out, when you’ve only got a couple grand for a shoot but you want it to look ten times more expensive, you actually have to think about stuff. Creating visual deception is so hard!” “If anyone can pull it off, it’s you,” Noah said with a smile. “Hey, Kiran.” “Hey yourself, Aidan’s husband,” Kiran replied, taking advantage of the lull to sip what was very clearly flat beer. Only Ewan bothered to stand in greeting—everyone else seemed afraid to move, as if shifting positions might break their flow and cost them the thread forever. “So, what’s new in English class?” Kiran asked. “Any big comma-related discoveries?” “Nope, still the usual,” Noah said. “But this week we’re tackling Antigone, and what could possibly be more thrilling for a bunch of fourteen-year-olds than Sophocles? Noah sighed. “Although now, instead of ‘Essays are dumb, I’m never gonna finish this,’ they say, ‘Nothing painful is there, nothing fraught with ruin, no shame, no dishonour, that I have not seen in thy woes and mine.’” “They probably just stopped reading after that line and are just trying to impress you,” Aidan offered. “That’s what I would’ve done.” “I’m pretty sure that’s exactly what’s happening,” Noah nodded. “And now that I’ve helped you with your work,” Aidan announced, sweeping an arm dramatically, “you have to help me with mine.” “I’m not doing nudes.” “I’ve already stopped asking. I respect your boundaries.” He paused, then added, with grave seriousness, “But just know that we are missing a once-in-a-lifetime chance to pay off our mortgage early.” He shoved a photo under Noah’s nose. “Look. What do you see here?” “Uhhh… looks like a guy, early twenties maybe? Wow, that’s a lot of tattoos.” “Forget the tattoos. Look at the dick.” “I’m looking.” “Do you see it?” “Uhh… kind of?” “Don’t say what you wish were true—say what you actually see!” “Well, not nothing…” “Exactly! It looks like a single oversized mushroom cap and nothing else! And we’ve only got three models booked!” “Okay, okay,” Kiran cut in diplomatically. “It’s just curved to the left. I checked his portfolio—found another angle. It’s all there. We’ll shoot him from the right side—problem solved.” “Why is it that we can only afford models with such tragically weird proportions?” Aidan sighed, leaning back like a man wronged by geometry. “Don’t tell him that,” Noah said quietly. “A comment like that could make your shoot harder—and destroy what’s left of his will to live.” “Of course we won’t tell him,” Aidan said, scandalized. “What do you take us for—monsters?” “Clearly you’ve got everything under control,” Noah said, backing away. “So I’ll leave you to it, and finally go eat something that isn’t just fast carbs. Then I’ll devote the rest of my evening to something thrilling.” “Grading papers?” Aidan guessed. “Mmhmm. And drafting lesson plans.” “Remember any good essay quotes—save them for our Golden Quote Archive,” Aidan called after him. “‘Her eyes were like stars, but not because they shone—more like because…’” “‘…they were so far apart,’” he and Noah finished in unison. Noah sighed. “And I still get blamed for the collapse of literacy. God, I love my job.” “And I love mine. Kiran! Did you just switch to Insta? Isn’t that the photographer equivalent of a doctor sneaking off to read patient files for fun?” “Exactly. It’s research,” Kiran said, eyes still on the screen. “I’m trying to figure out why this guy’s post is still up, but ours got flagged. He’s showing the exact same amount of frontal real estate.” “Fine, keep investigating. I’m gonna dig through the location shots, see how much driving we’ll actually have to do.” After dinner, Noah tried to get some work done in the living room, but between the endless conversations and bursts of laughter, concentration was a lost cause. So he stole the cat and retreated to the bedroom, where he finally ran into Aidan about four hours later. “I thought this was going to be an all-nighter.” “It almost was,” Aidan mumbled, faceplanting into a pillow. “But I think we found a spot where there’s desert on one side and industrial decay on the other, so we can do the nudes and the boring stuff in the same location. Now we just have to hope the pre-dawn cold doesn’t, y’know… cause any unfortunate shrinkage. But I haven’t worked with these guys before, so I don’t know how cold-resistant they are.” “Don’t you have industry-standard tricks for that by now?” Noah asked, massaging his back. The strokes weren’t soothing—they were firm, persistent, bordering on persuasive. “We do, but we were hoping to avoid that… Bailey, please, can we do this in the morning? I’m so tired.” “You’ve got your clinic appointment in the morning.” “Shit! I completely forgot. Does it have to be tomorrow?” “You can’t keep putting it off. Walking around without insurance isn’t exactly safe—especially if you’re about to go gallivanting through the desert.” “Fine, fine! It’s not like it takes long, right? What are they even checking for? ’m a picture of health—I don’t even remember the last time I had chlamydia!” “Comforting.” “Text me the address again?” “Sure.” “Night.” “But since you’re busy in the morning…” “Oh God. Are there any options where I don’t have to do anything?” “Not that I recall.” Aidan groaned, rolled onto his back, then scooted closer—just as Noah tensed and said, horrified, “Did you just spit into your hand?” “Yeah. So?” “I feel like we’re on a farm, secretly meeting behind the barn.” “Hot. And you’ve got such a vivid imagination! You’ve never even been to a farm.” “In that case, I’m good.” “Suit yourself,” Aidan said, rolling away. Two minutes later, he burst out laughing, curled back over to Noah, and kissed him—still shaking with giggles. “Glad you’re having fun,” Noah muttered, though he didn’t stop himself from grinding a little against Aidan’s thigh. “You should’ve seen your face! Sometimes I think I’m the adult in this marriage.” “You are.” “Let’s not go crazy. So—what do you wanna do?” “I’d be fine with something… energy efficient.” “I think I can manage something… just don’t expect me to swallow. I’ve got a blood test in the morning.” “You say that like it was ever on the table.” “It was. Back in the days of very enthusiastic Aidan with very questionable ideas about the ingredients of true romance.” “I’ll take whatever I can get.” “Well then… mmm. Finally, a dick I actuallywantto look at, not one I’m professionally obligated to.”

***

“Aidan?” the doctor asked, stepping into the room like there’d been ample opportunity for someone else to switch places with this patient between the ID check, the endless forms, and the ritual humiliation of putting on a flimsy hospital gown that clung to everything and crackled with static. “Yep, that’s me. It’s just a routine exam for insurance. I’m very healthy. How long’s this going to take?” “Not long. I’ll just start with a few standard questions about your general health and lifestyle, all right?” “I can’t say no, can I?” “Afraid not—if you want the insurance. Are you currently taking any medications?” “Nope. Nothing chronic.” “How much alcohol would you say you consume per week?” “Well. We do live in Wisconsin.” “We’re still nowhere near New Hampshire, if we’re talking ethanol per capita. Just give me your best estimate. Daily average is fine if it’s a regular habit.” “Maybe a pint of beer a day? Wine’s harder to say—probably a bottle a week, maybe two. Saturdays sometimes involve cocktails, but that’s rare. Couple times a month, max. I drink very little.” “Uh-huh. Do you smoke?” “Almost never.” “Recreational substances?” “Rarely.” “Can you be more specific?” “Well… once, maybe twice a month. Sometimes edibles. I’m careful.” “I see. And how many sexual partners have you had in the past month? Doesn’t have to be exact. Zero, one, up to five, six to ten, more than ten.” “Wow. Okay. I got married two months ago, so—yeah. One.” “Two months ago… then I need your best estimate for the past six months.” “And why exactly is that relevant?” “I need to assess risk. Otherwise, if something happens, your policy may not fully cover you.” “Awesome.” Aidan could feel irritation prickling at his skin. The hospital gown, already staticky and shapeless, was starting to stick to his back. “I need a number,” the doctor repeated. “I can go over the options again—zero, one—” “No need. Up to five.” “When was your last round of tests?” “Recently. Do I have to give a date too? I think… May?” “Results?” “Negative. Look, do you realize how weird that ‘up to five’ option is? Like—two is technically ‘up to five,’ but there’s ahugedifference in the risk level you’re so eager to nail down. What if someone just had a threesome?” The doctor gave him a strange look, then, a little more gently, said, “Aidan, I didn’t design the questionnaire. And I’m not saying it’s perfect. Just a few more questions…” Those “just a few more questions” ended up taking nearly fifteen minutes. But by then, Aidan had grown numb to the absurdity of the whole thing, and onlyalmostrolled his eyes when the doctor followed “Do you practice safe sex?” (he did) with “And what do you consider safe sex?” Honestly, it still wasn’t as ridiculous as the County Clerk’s Office, where—alongside their marriage license—they’d been handed a cheerful pamphlet about fetal alcohol syndrome and its long-term effects on children. Having thoroughly sniffed around every corner of his sex life, the healthcare system breezed through questions about diet and exercise with considerably less interest. Apparently, there wasn’t much to critique. Then the doctor stood, pulled on a pair of gloves, and said something deeply unsettling: “Go ahead and undress.” Aidan blinked—and could practically hear his brain humming, “Let me see you stripped, down to the bone.”. “I mean… I’m barely dressed now. You can see through this thing.” “Not well enough. I’ll be touching you shortly—but only as much as necessary.” “Great.” The clinician’s expression was so blank, so professionally absent, that it was easy to believe he looked at patients the same way he looked at the wall—unless something on or inside them gave him reason to focus. So far, Aidan seemed to be a pretty dull specimen, based on the even, almost muttered commentary: “Within normal range… all fine… normal… age-appropriate…” “Hold on—age-appropriate? What does that even mean? I can’t possibly have anything old-age related! I still get carded sometimes! I literally just got married! My skincare has SPF and peptides!” “You have some gray hairs.” “What are you even talking about?” That, apparently, was not a question worthy of response—or maybe something finally broke through the monotony, because the murmuring stopped. The doctor’s tone sharpened, just slightly. “Raise your right arm higher.” He stared intently into Aidan’s armpit, then walked over to the tray of instruments, returned with a handheld device, and examined the area again before asking, calmly, “How long have you had this mole?” Aidan glanced down, but didn’t see anything horrifying. “I don’t know.” “Try asking someone who might,” the doctor said, already moving to the other side of his body. “What is happening?” “Most likely nothing. But we need to be sure.” Nothing else caught the doctor’s attention for the rest of the exam. But once Aidan was dressed and back in the office, the man gave him a more thoughtful look, tapped his pencil against the desk, returned to his computer screen, and after a pause—apparently having come to some decision—said: “You don’t have a primary care physician yet, do you?” “Nope. This is the most medical attention I’ve had in a decade.” “I don’t think it’s urgent, so here’s what we’ll do: you’ll get your results and final calculation in a few days. Then the paperwork—probably another ten. Once you’ve got a doctor assigned, go in and have them refer you for a closer look at that mole. I imagine you’ll have clarity within a month or so.” “Am I dying?” Aidan asked casually—mostly because he didn’t feel like someone who was dying. The whole situation felt more surreal than serious. “Unlikely.” “So… that’s not a no.” “It’s not my specialty.” The doctor looked up. “Do you remember which area I’m talking about?” “Kinda hard to forget.” “All right. Have a good day, Mr. Moore.” The day, as it turned out, did not take the doctor’s advice and promptly became worse. Back home, Aidan felt an overwhelming urge to scrub the appointment off his skin entirely. After that, and not without hesitation, he finally worked up the nerve to actually look at the source of concern. He didn’t remember it. He had no idea when it had appeared. But he was absolutely certain it hadn’t been there before. He still hadn’t eaten, and he’d refused the post-blood-draw candy—maybe that’s why the room started to spin a little.

***

“Huh,” Noah said a couple days later, sorting through the mail. “That’s weird.” “What?” Aidan was already knee-deep in photo editing, with maybe thirty percent of his brain still tuned into the outside world. “Your insurance premium is higher than mine.” “By a lot?” “Noticeably.” “So what? I’m paying for mine separately anyway.” “That’s not the point. Why would that happen? You haven’t even been hospitalized before.” “Probably the gray hair.” “The what?” That actually got Noah to look up from his screen, brows knitting. “I was shocked too. But yeah, I checked. You can congratulate me.” “You’re not upset?” “Why would I be?” “Aidan… is there anything you want to tell me?” “Oh, yeah. Kiran can’t make it today, so you’ll have to help me set up the lighting when I get there.” “O…kay. That’s it?” “Can we not talk right now? I’m trying to focus.” “Fine. Three o’clock.” “I remember .Have I ever been late?” Deciding it was safer not to push any further, Noah returned to his own tasks—glancing up at Aidan every couple of minutes, but only barely pretending not to. Aidan, meanwhile, was trying to determine which was the greater hell: photographing a pack of hunters or a herd of high schoolers. It was a genuinely tough call. The hunters were fewer in number and paid significantly more. Noah, of course, had used his particular brand of gentle sorcery to secure a discount for his students—despite Aidan resisting at every step and demanding increasingly dramatic compensation. Mr. Bailey had agreed to all of it without blinking, and had fulfilled the terms long ago. Backing out now wasn’t an option. And the worst part? He’d locked it in last school year. Not even a “sorry, I’m too busy” excuse could save him now. So here he was, doing work that could’ve easily been handled by any random person off the street—endlessly photographing the exact same portrait over and over. Which is to say: capturing a rich tapestry of unique and special individuals, of course. Some of those individuals threw full tantrums. Others looked so painfully stiff and unnatural, it was hard to believe they were born and raised in a world dominated by the selfie. A few even tried flirting—not just with the camera, but with the man behind it. That produced a cocktail of reactions: amusement, mild surprise, and the faintest edge of nausea. And then, the inevitable happened: someone found his Instagram. Both of them. The personal one was harmless enough—mostly infrequent glimpses into a social life centered around the cat and friends who, if guilty of anything, had a tendency to shed layers at the slightest excuse and occasionally showed up with pupils that told their own story. That feed sometimes got interrupted by a surprisingly wholesome series of wedding photos. The professional account, however… Aidan was, for the first time, deeply grateful for content moderation. “Are you Mr. Bailey’s husband?” asked the girl who wasalwaysin the center of attention, and clearly knew she was unmatched. “What a strange idea,” Aidan replied. “Didn’t you know teachers aren’t allowed to have personal lives?” He said it with a smile he hoped would signal that the conversation was now over. But she didn’t budge. “But that’s him,” she insisted, holding out her phone screen. “Nope,” Aidan said, still clicking away with the camera. “Just a guy who looks like him.” “But you tagged him.” “I did?” he blinked, genuinely surprised. “Why would I do that?” “So…?” “You got me,” Aidan sighed. “That’s your Mr. Bailey. But it’s cosplay.” “That’s the dumbest cosplay I’ve ever seen,” announced a redheaded boy nearby, with the confidence of someone who considered himself an authority on niche internet content. He was so tempted to say something about the kind of outfits that kid’s mom had been seen in—and then ask what he had to say about that.But just in time, Aidan remembered that he was currently in a high school, surrounded by minors, and probably supposed to be pretending to be a respectable adult. So his response got a last-minute rewrite: “That’s just the kind of ridiculous person I am. Unlike your Mr. Bailey. Took ages to convince him to go along with that whole photoshoot—he swore half the school would judge us like we’d ruined Pride and photography in one go.” “Where did you go on your honeymoon?” asked the girl who looked like she might actually burst into sparkles from sheer delight. “Verona.” “Really?!” “Yep. Just outside the Sugar Ridge Airport.” “Mister Baileyyyy!” a chorus of girls groaned in gleeful disapproval. “Where?” Aidan turned around, like he expected his husband to actually be standing there. “That’s you!” “Excuse me, that’s quite the assumption! I’m not Mr. Bailey. We’ve both achieved great professional success, so we kept our own last names.” “Oh, so that’s why you’re doing yearbook portraits,” said the boy currently being photographed, dry as toast. “And look at you,” Aidan replied, faux-impressed. “So brave—talking back to the guy who controls how you’ll be remembered in this school forever.” The whole cheerful event lasted just under four hours—by the end of which Aidan was so completely fried, he didn’t even have the energy to respond to the students’ allegedly witty remarks with so much as a murderous glare. When Noah showed up at the very end for the group shot, he took one look at Aidan’s pale, vaguely greenish face and the slight tremor in his hands as he wound up the cables, and asked, worried: “You okay?” “I feel amazing.So refreshed. So full of life. I strongly suggest keeping your distance, though—unless you want to discover fanart of the two of us on your classroom whiteboard tomorrow, with very creative content choices.” “You need to rest.” “You need to get everyone out of here. I haven’t been stared at this intensely since the one time, a hundred years ago, I deluded myself into thinking I could model. Still, I’ll give them this—high schoolers are easier to work with than some of my regular clients. At least none of them spent half the shoot whining or demanding a TriMix injection.” “I’m not giving you an assignment like this again.” “Please don’t.” “Where should we stop for food?” “I’m not heading home.” “You’re not?” Noah looked at him with even more concern now—Aidan didn’t look like someone who should be doing anything except finding a quiet place to eat something soft and maybe sleep until tomorrow. “I’ve got something to take care of in Cottage Grove. No idea when I’ll be back. Don’t wait up.” “Cottage Grove?” Noah blinked. “So… you can’t give me a ride?” “Well—uuuh—I can, if you need one, but I was planning to take 30 straight through.” “No worries. I’ll grab the bus.” “Cool. Can you help me load the gear?” “Of course.” Once everything was packed into the trunk, Bailey—ignoring the half-hearted resistance—wrapped his arms around Aidan and felt the trembling more clearly now. “There are definitely fifty people watching us right now.” “Don’t care. I’m allowed to touch my husband,” Noah said firmly. “And don’t forget—we’re in Madison. Reality works differently here.” “Right. Of course.” Aidan let out a soft, strangled little laugh that sounded way too close to a sniffle. He sucked in a breath like he was about to say something, then didn’t. Instead, he pressed a fast kiss to Noah’s cheek, pulled away with effort, and climbed into the car. Fifteen minutes later, he pulled up in front of a small two-story house on Yarrow Hill Drive. A blue Nissan Altima was parked out front. Before getting out, Aidan hesitated—then sent a quick message: “You home? Busy?” The reply came almost immediately: “Not that busy. Come in.” Blake took one look at him after opening the door and his whole face changed. “What happened to you?!” “I…” Aidan tried to breathe evenly, kept his gaze bouncing between the floor and somewhere vague off to the side—but then he looked his friend in the eye. And that was it. He fell against him, arms wrapping tight, face buried in Blake’s shoulder as he muttered, “I can’t. I just—this is hell. Why is this even happening? Why the hell is this happening?”