Under the Perseids

8:47 p.m.

The parking lot of the community center was nearly full when Marcus arrived, his sedan sliding into one of the last spots between a minivan and someone's ancient Buick. He sat for a moment, engine ticking as it cooled, wondering what exactly had possessed him to sign up for this.

A stargazing event. For seniors.

He was sixty-two, which he supposed qualified him, though he didn't feel senior. He felt invisible, which was different. Felt like someone had turned down his volume gradually over the years until he'd become background noise in his own life.

The email had arrived two weeks ago from the city's recreation department—"Summer Stargazing: Perseid Meteor Shower Viewing Party." He'd deleted it twice before finally clicking the registration link at eleven o'clock on a Wednesday night, half a bottle of wine in, thinking about how long it had been since he'd looked up at anything.

Now he was here, clutching a folding chair and a thermos of coffee he'd probably regret later, watching other people stream toward the field behind the center where someone had set up what looked like serious astronomical equipment.

"First time?"

Marcus turned. The man beside him was tall, lanky in the way some men got when age refined them down to essentials. He wore a flannel shirt despite the warmth of the August evening, sleeves rolled to his elbows, and carried a battered canvas bag over one shoulder. Silver hair, sharp features, eyes that looked genuinely curious rather than politely friendly.

"That obvious?" Marcus asked.

"Little bit." The man smiled. "I'm Daniel. I've been coming to these for three years. Fair warning—Ted's going to talk for at least twenty minutes about light pollution before we see any actual stars."

"Ted?"

"The astronomer. Amateur, but serious about it. Good guy. Just... thorough." Daniel fell into step beside him as they walked toward the field. "What brought you out tonight?"

Marcus considered lying, saying something about always being interested in astronomy. "Honestly? I was bored."

Daniel laughed—a real laugh, surprised and appreciative. "Best reason I've heard. Most people claim they've always been fascinated by the cosmos. You like coffee?"

"I brought some."

"Me too. We can compare later. See whose is less terrible."

9:15 p.m.

Ted was, as promised, thorough. He stood beside an impressive telescope on a tripod, gesturing at a projection screen showing light maps of the county, explaining in patient detail why they'd driven twenty minutes out of town to this particular field. Marcus tried to pay attention and found himself distracted by Daniel, who'd set up his chair beside Marcus's in the back row and was listening with the expression of someone who'd heard this lecture before but didn't mind hearing it again.

"You really come to these often?" Marcus whispered.

"Every event they do. Summer, winter. Last February we stood out here for two hours looking at Jupiter's moons." Daniel's breath was warm near Marcus's ear, closer than strictly necessary for whispering. "I like the quiet. The dark. The reminder that we're small."

"Depressing when you put it that way."

"I think it's comforting." Daniel's shoulder brushed Marcus's as he shifted in his chair. "Means our mistakes are small too."

Marcus felt something catch in his chest—recognition, maybe, or just the simple relief of being understood by a stranger.

9:45 p.m.

The lecture ended. Ted invited people to queue up for the main telescope, but there were smaller ones scattered around the field, and Daniel led Marcus to one set up slightly apart from the others.

"This one's better anyway," Daniel said. "Ted's is more powerful, but the queue will be forty-five minutes and everyone will rush you. This one's just for looking."

The telescope was sleeker than Marcus expected, mounted on a sturdy tripod, pointed toward the eastern sky. Daniel bent to peer through the eyepiece, made a small adjustment, then stepped back.

"Take a look. That's Saturn."

Marcus bent down, closed one eye, and felt his breath catch. The planet hung there like a painting—distinct rings, golden and impossibly distant and absolutely real.

"My God," he said quietly.

"Right?" Daniel's hand rested on the telescope's barrel, steadying it. "Never gets old."

Marcus straightened, and they were standing very close now, close enough that he could smell Daniel's soap—something plain and clean—and see the way the limited light caught in his eyes.

"Want to find something else?" Daniel asked.

"Sure."

They spent the next twenty minutes moving between celestial objects—the Andromeda galaxy, a binary star system, a cluster whose name Marcus immediately forgot. Each time they traded places at the eyepiece, their hands touched on the focus knob, adjusting, searching, never quite pulling away as quickly as they might have.

"Here," Daniel said, his hand covering Marcus's to guide the adjustment. "See how if you turn it just slightly left..."

Marcus saw. But he was more aware of the warmth of Daniel's palm, the way their fingers interlaced briefly before Daniel pulled back, clearing his throat.

"Sorry. Didn't mean to—"

"It's fine," Marcus said quickly. "Helpful, actually."

Around them, other seniors chatted in small groups, sharing thermoses and exclaiming over views through various telescopes. Someone had brought cookies. Someone else had a laser pointer and was tracing constellations across the sky, telling stories about Greek myths that may or may not have been accurate.

But Marcus and Daniel stayed at their telescope, speaking in near-whispers, taking turns looking up while the other watched the sky with naked eyes.

10:30 p.m.

"The meteors should start soon," Daniel said. He'd spread a blanket on the ground beside the telescope, gestured for Marcus to sit. "Better to watch them without the scope. You need the wide view."

Marcus lowered himself onto the blanket with the cautious precision of a man whose knees didn't bend like they used to. Daniel settled beside him, close enough that their thighs touched.

The sky above them was impossibly vast, spilled with stars.

"I forget," Marcus said quietly, "that this is up there. All the time. Every night."

"Most people do. We light up the ground so much we can't see past it."

"That's poetic."

"I have my moments." Daniel tilted his head back. "There. Did you see it?"

Marcus had missed the first meteor, but the second one streaked across his vision a moment later—quick and bright and gone.

"Yes," he breathed.

They came more frequently after that, silver scratches across the dark. Each time one appeared, someone in the field would call out, and there'd be a collective murmur of appreciation. But Marcus and Daniel stayed quiet, just watching, shoulders pressed together now, the warmth between them building despite the cooling night air.

"Can I tell you something embarrassing?" Marcus asked during a lull.

"Please."

"I don't actually know most of the constellations. I can find the Big Dipper and that's about it."

Daniel laughed softly. "You want to know a secret? Half the people here can't either. Ted's very polite about not calling us out on it." He shifted slightly, his hand landing on the blanket between them, pinky finger extending until it touched Marcus's. "See that bright one? That's Vega. And if you follow from there..."

His hand moved to point, which meant his arm crossed Marcus's chest, which meant they were suddenly much closer, Daniel's breath warm against Marcus's cheek as he traced invisible lines between stars.

"That's Lyra," Daniel murmured. "Orpheus's lyre."

Marcus turned his head slightly. They were nearly nose to nose now, Daniel's hand still raised, both of them frozen in the pretense of stargazing.

"I don't see it," Marcus whispered.

"You're not looking up."

"No."

Daniel's hand lowered slowly. His eyes searched Marcus's face—checking, asking, hoping.

"No," Marcus confirmed. "I'm not."

11:15 p.m.

The crowd had begun to thin. People packed up chairs, rounded up grandchildren, headed back to cars with promises to see each other at the next event. Ted was breaking down the main telescope with help from a few dedicated volunteers.

Marcus and Daniel hadn't moved from their blanket.

"We should probably..." Marcus started, without conviction.

"Yeah," Daniel agreed, not moving either.

Another meteor streaked overhead. Then another.

"I don't want to go yet," Marcus admitted.

"Then don't."

They sat in silence, watching the sky, acutely aware of every point of contact between them—shoulder, hip, hand. The field emptied further. Car engines started in the distance. Ted called out a general goodnight to whoever remained.

"You still there, Daniel?" Ted's voice carried across the field.

"Still here," Daniel called back. "Just watching a bit longer."

"Lock the gate on your way out, would you? You know the code."

"Will do."

They listened to Ted's footsteps fade, his car start, gravel crunching as he pulled away. The parking lot lights clicked off on a timer, leaving only starlight and the faint glow from the community center's security lights a hundred yards distant.

"He trusts you with the gate," Marcus observed.

"I helped him buy that telescope. He trusts me with more than the gate." Daniel turned his head, studying Marcus's profile. "How are you doing? Cold?"

"No." Marcus met his eyes. "The opposite, actually."

The air between them felt electric, charged with all the words they weren't saying. Another meteor fell, brighter than the others, and neither of them looked up.

"Marcus," Daniel said quietly.

"Yes?"

"I'm going to kiss you now. If that's not okay, you should probably say something."

Marcus's heart was hammering. "What if I want you to?"

Daniel's smile was slow, warm, certain. He cupped Marcus's face with one hand—palm rough with calluses, touch impossibly gentle—and closed the distance between them.

The kiss was soft at first, tentative, two people remembering something they'd almost forgotten they were allowed to want. Then deeper, more urgent, as Marcus's hand found Daniel's shirt collar and pulled him closer.

They broke apart, breathing hard. Daniel's thumb traced Marcus's cheekbone.

"That okay?" Daniel asked.

"More than okay."

They kissed again, and this time there was no hesitation. Daniel's hands slid into Marcus's hair. Marcus's palms mapped the plane of Daniel's back through his shirt, feeling muscle and warmth and the rapid beat of Daniel's heart.

When they separated again, Daniel was smiling. "I've wanted to do that since you said you were bored."

"That's a weird thing to find attractive."

"It was honest. I liked it." Daniel glanced around the empty field. "We're alone here."

"I noticed."

"The blanket's big enough for two people to lie down."

Marcus felt heat flood through him—desire sharp and startling after years of careful neutrality. "Are we really doing this?"

"Depends." Daniel's hand rested on Marcus's chest, feeling the rapid thump of his pulse. "What do you want to do?"

Marcus looked at him—really looked. Saw the hope there, the want, the patience to wait for an answer. Thought about his empty house, his careful life, all the years he'd spent being sensible.

"I want," Marcus said slowly, "to lie down with you naked under these stars and stop thinking about all the reasons I shouldn't."

11:45 p.m.

They stretched out on the blanket side by side, facing each other. Above them, the Perseids continued their ancient fall, indifferent to human desire, but Marcus had stopped watching the sky.

Daniel traced his fingers along Marcus's jaw, his throat, the collar of his shirt. "Tell me if I should stop."

"Don't stop."

They kissed with the slow thoroughness of people who'd waited a long time to be touched. Daniel's hand slipped beneath Marcus's shirt, palm warm against his ribs, and Marcus gasped at the contact—skin on skin, simple and electric and wanted.

"Okay?" Daniel whispered.

"Yes. God, yes."

Marcus's fingers trembled at Daniel's buttons. One by one they came undone, revealing the lean plane of his chest, silvered in starlight. The night air kissed their skin with cold lips as shirts fell away. Daniel's torso was narrower than Marcus had imagined, taut with wiry strength, a trail of dark hair disappearing beneath his belt.

"You're shivering," Daniel murmured, running his hands over Marcus's broader shoulders, the softness at his middle that spoke of years and comfort.

"Not from cold," Marcus answered, though goosebumps had risen on his arms. The contrast of the chill air and Daniel's warm palms made every touch electric.

They moved together with increasing urgency. Daniel's mouth found Marcus's throat, his collarbone, the hollow of his shoulder, placing kisses like claims. Marcus arched into the touch, dizzy with sensation, with the simple fact of being wanted after so long feeling invisible.

"Beautiful," Daniel murmured against his skin. "You're so beautiful."

Marcus pulled him down into another kiss, this one deeper, hungrier. Belt buckles clinked in the darkness. Fabric rustled as trousers were eased down thighs, over knees. Then they were naked under the vast canopy of stars, two bodies pale against the dark blanket, legs entangled, nothing between them but night air that seemed to retreat before the heat they generated.

"Daniel," Marcus breathed, feeling the press of Daniel's narrow hips against his own, the hardness of him, the way their bodies fit together like puzzle pieces designed for each other.

"I know. Me too."

They moved against each other, finding rhythm, friction, the building heat that made thought impossible. Daniel's hand slipped between them, and Marcus made a sound he barely recognized as his own—need, pure and uncomplicated.

"Touch me," Marcus whispered. "Please."

Skin on skin now, their bodies pressed together in the night air. Daniel's fingers trailed down Marcus's stomach, then wrapped firmly around his penis. Their eyes met in silent question. Marcus nodded, breath catching as Daniel brought his palm to his mouth, coating it with saliva before reaching between them again. The slick heat of Daniel's hand encircled them both, stroking their lengths together before Daniel's fingers moved lower, circling Marcus's hole. The initial breach burned, Marcus's body yielding to the intrusion as Daniel worked a finger inside him. Daniel stilled, waiting. "Don't stop," Marcus whispered. They moved as one beneath the falling stars, Daniel's member pushing deeper with each thrust, a rhythm that Marcus met with rising urgency. The sensation built at the base of his spine, pleasure coiling tighter with each press against his prostate, inevitable as gravity.

"Daniel," he gasped. "I'm—"

"Let go. I've got you."

Marcus came with a sound caught between his teeth, pleasure rolling through him in waves, and felt Daniel follow moments later, heard his breath catch, his quiet oath against Marcus's shoulder.

They lay tangled together in the aftermath, breathing hard, the night air cooling the sweat on their skin. Daniel pressed a kiss to Marcus's temple, his cheek, the corner of his mouth.

"That was..." Marcus started, couldn't find words.

"Yeah," Daniel agreed. "It really was."

They cleaned up as best they could with the tissues Marcus had in his pocket, helped each other dress with the tender care of people who'd just shared something precious. Then they lay back down, facing each other, unwilling yet to break contact.

"I should probably be embarrassed," Marcus said. "Making love in a public field at my age."

"Why? It's dark. We're alone. And age is just—"

"If you say 'just a number,' I'm leaving."

Daniel laughed. "I was going to say it's just irrelevant when you've found someone worth forgetting about it for."

Marcus felt something warm bloom in his chest. "That's better."

They watched the meteors together, Daniel's arm around Marcus's shoulders, Marcus's head resting against Daniel's chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart.

"Come home with me," Daniel said eventually. "It's late. The drive back. You could stay over."

"I don't have—"

"I have everything you need. Toothbrush, coffee that's probably better than yours, a bed that's definitely more comfortable than this blanket." He paused. "And I'd really like to wake up next to you."

Marcus thought about his empty house, his careful routines, all the sensible reasons to politely decline.

"Okay," he said simply.

They packed up slowly, folding the blanket, collecting their things. Daniel locked the gate with the code Ted trusted him with, and they walked to the parking lot where only two cars remained.

"Follow me?" Daniel asked.

"I will."

They drove through empty streets, Marcus's headlights following Daniel's taillights like a promise, like the path of meteors across a summer sky—brief and bright and headed somewhere worth going.