Author's Notes
***
As the number of significant figures increases, the more certain the measurement.
--Signifcant Figures, towson.edu
~~~
Alex was not the last, but he was the first.
This doesn't sound nearly as impressive as "wasn't first, but was last" or "was first and last." But as it's the truth, it's all Sergei has to go on. Alex was the first. And it was cold.
That simple fact may have started everything, Sergei muses. In the barracks of the Red Army, the cold seeped through walls, floors, blankets, skin. There, heat was for the weak, and the strong endured the cold.
Every night for quite a long time, Sergei and Alex were weak together, in a small bed with a lumpy mattress. The springs squeaked alarmingly, Sergei remembers, causing shivers of lust to turn to shivers of fear. But both were better than shivers of cold. There were years of all three, years of an almost unbearable joy, hidden beneath shabby coverlets and cover stories.
It was always cold then, Sergei still associates his teen years with it. But nothing Siberia had to offer was as cold as the look in Alex's eyes the night he fled across the sea and into the West.
"I won't even ask how long it was with you and Pasha." Every movement appeared to cause him pain as he threw clothing into bags. "I don't think I want to know."
"Sasha... please don't leave."
"Go. I don't want you here when the Americans come for me."
Pavel was second, Sergei recalls. Pavel had snickered when he found this out, whispering some version of "if at first you don't succeed" before sucking Sergei's cock deep into his throat, making Sergei forget everything he had been trying to justify at the time.
Alex was first. Alex was hands stroking, mouths tasting, exploring and testing and finding wonderful results. Alex was cuddling, huddling together, always watchful for the least sound that meant they were discovered. Alex was sweet whispers and moans and gasps. Alex was wonder.
Pavel was second. Pavel wasn't sex so much as Pavel was FUCKING. The Big Word, the one that proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that they were adults now. Pavel was fast and hard and exhilarating. Pavel was talking loudly and arrogantly afterwards, because they were the young and gifted future of hockey and they could do whatever they pleased. Pavel was power.
After he himself had crossed the continents, the numbers continued on. Sergei can't really remember what number Steve was. There were several in between Pasha and Steve, but Sergei can no longer remember exactly how many. Sergei is pretty sure Steve was a number like seven or ten or twelve. A number of inherent power and magic, a significant number. Steve was nothing if not significant.
Sergei remembers being amazed more than anything else as the sweat dried on his naked skin, as Steve's roughened breathing evened out next to him in the dark. One minute, Sergei had been struggling in his limited English to tell Steve something trivial and unimportant (it was something about his hockey equipment, Sergei thinks now; he isn't sure). Then time seemed to bound forward in a smooth, blurred motion, and suddenly, the two of them were sharing a bed, wrapped together. The slow rub of their tongues against each other were outmatched by the quick thrusts and eager hands. Sergei sank himself deep inside Steve and decided then and there that he was done with Russia. Not just done living there, but done thinking there. The memories of that time would be dead and gone. He vowed that his future would be as smooth as Steve's skin, and as beautiful as Steve's voice as he begged for more.
Sergei thinks now that he was both wrong and right, and on both accounts.
"You.... are power number," Sergei had stammered out afterwards, lying next to Steve, sweaty and awkward and at a loss for anything else to say. He half turned, leaning up on one elbow to gaze down at his new young Captain and new young lover. Sergei wondered if Steve understood what he was trying to say. Steve turned his head and simply looked up at him, a secret smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
"I'm not sure what you mean by that," Steve had replied honestly. Sergei can remember how the moonlight streaming in through the window had danced on his pale skin. "But I like how our jersey numbers are the same, only reversed, you know? It's like we're reflections of each other."
For the rest of their time together, Sergei never forgot this seemingly innocent statement. And inevitably after sex, Steve would fall peacefully into sleep, and Sergei would lie awake, thinking of all the things Steve was and he himself wasn't. In particular, that Steve was a number to Sergei, and Sergei was just Sergei to Steve. Steve was one before nine and not nine before one. That thought had left a bad taste in Sergei's mouth, although he'd been too stubborn to admit it at the time.
At some point, Sergei had learned in school that the continents of North and South America are drifting slowly apart from the continents of Africa and Eurasia. It's nothing really noticeable, Sergei remembers; maybe an inch or two of movement per year. But the ocean between the continents is nevertheless growing ever wider in a constant, gradually subtle stretch.
Sergei dreams long, slow dreams of this whenever he remembers what it was like with Steve.
The split wasn't sudden or dramatic; there were no accusations of failing regard, no angry shouting matches, no storming out. There was simply the sensation, on both sides, of backing away slowly from a mirror, until the reflection becomes only a blurry, wistful image.
And although he wouldn't admit it to himself, when he saw how happy Boyd and Steve were together after Sergei had counted higher, it hurt, just a bit. It hurt the way it would if something one had owned for a long time, but never really used, had been taken away. Sergei hadn't been able to make out exactly why that should be, and so he'd kept counting.
Cheli came soon afterwards. He wasn't the next number (by a long shot, Sergei recalls somewhat sheepishly). He was the next significant number, though Sergei can't remember which. He didn't know which, he is slightly ashamed to realize, even when it began. This lack of knowledge had slipped drunkenly from Sergei on the very first night, as the two of them stumbled in the dark, clumsily removing clothing.
"Number?" Chris had snorted, annoyed but not disbelieving. "I'm a fucking number to you? Fuck that. Number this!" And then Sergei was being fucked through the wall, through the floor, through the bed, through his memory of the way Steve's breathing sounded as he slept quietly. Sergei had welcomed the explosive euphoria with everything he had, embracing it as moving through and on and up. Afterward, Sergei sleepily thought of Boyd's hopeful face and dreamed of the continents.
Sergei wonders now, as he watches Stanley laugh his way through his newest video game, what Boyd and Steve are doing today. Are they making the most of their final weeks together, before Boyd leaves for the hot, dry desert? Are they making plans for the future? Don’t they know, Sergei muses almost angrily, that long-distance relationships never work? Sergei and Chris are proof of that. Sergei and Pavel are proof of that. Sergei and Alex are proof that it was cold and is cold and will always be cold.
Stanley laughs again and Sergei almost flinches; the happy sound grates against his unhappy thoughts. It's an odd discrepancy, Sergei thinks as he settles back down against his faux-silk cushions. He ponders, lounging on his couch and watching as Stanley plays his video games on Sergei's game system and Sergei's television, sitting cross-legged on Sergei's Oriental rug. He himself, Sergei, was not cold. Alex himself was not cold. Alex had the most inner fire of any man Sergei had ever known. He had more than even than Igor; while Igor burned with the slow coals of thought and precision, Alex exploded in fireworks that could drive his coaches to acts of rage in the middle of games, and indeed had on several occasions.
It seems, Sergei thinks, that when he and Alex had added themselves up together, their joined fire had flared briefly, and then had mysteriously gone out.
Or had it? Perhaps (and here Sergei shifts uncomfortably, so suddenly that it distracts Stanley momentarily from his game) he was wrong. Perhaps their own small fire had been burning quite willingly in the icy wastelands, but he himself had chosen to leave it. Chosen to add his fuel to another that had seemed to burn more brightly, and Sergei thinks about Pavel and about the cold fire in Alex's eyes the night he left.
Does Alex still burn alone? That's the significant question. Sergei doesn't know the answer.
He stands suddenly, earning another quizzical look from Stanley. Sergei brushes Stanley's face absently with his fingertips as he leaves the room, this time earning himself a grin. Stanley is a great kid, Sergei thinks, and most definitely a significant number, but he wasn't the first. But maybe, Sergei thinks as he reaches for the phone, maybe he's the last.
Sergei knows someone in Anaheim who's sleeping with someone in New Jersey. That person knows someone in New Jersey who's sleeping with someone in Pittsburgh. That person knows someone in Pittsburgh who's sleeping with someone in Toronto, although that second someone in Pittsburgh isn't the easiest man in the world to get a hold of. The someone in Toronto, however, is more than happy to let Sergei have Alex's new cell phone number.
The phone rings five times before Alex answers it, Sergei makes sure to count. Five isn't as powerful a number as one or three, but it's hopeful.
"Hello?"
"You were the first; I want you to know that."
A pause.
"Sergei?"
"Alex."
Another pause.
"What the fuck difference does that make?"
And Sergei sits with his mouth open. Of all the responses he'd ever received or expected, that was one he'd never gotten. And he is stunned by the simple fact that he has never thought about that before.
"I... Sasha?"
A pause that might have contained an intake of breath, Sergei isn't sure.
"Yes?"
"Can I see you?"
Another pause, the longest one yet, and Sergei thinks briefly of the continents again.
"It's been a long time." Alex sounds as if he is merely pondering this, rather than trying to buy himself some time.
"Longer than you think," Sergei agrees.
There is more talking, and agreements-with-stipulations are worked out. And one sunny day not too long afterwards, Alex steps off a plane in California and into Sergei's arms. A friendly hug to anyone who might happen to be watching, but it's much more than that. Sergei finds himself realizing, for the first time, that even though those ageless, ever-present continents are drifting apart in one direction, they are moving closer together in the other. Sergei realizes with a start that he has never thought of the flip side of it; he has never considered the reflection. Sergei thinks vaguely that maybe he should call Steve, but not just now.
There is yet more talking to do (awkward at first but soon growing in confidence) and more catching up. There is a LOT of catching up to do, but their bodies are way ahead in this regard, and soon Sergei's bed is fuller than it's been in a decade.
Alex strokes gently, and Sergei gasps. He wonders at how Alex knows exactly where he likes to be touched, exactly how to elicit the right response, and realizes that Alex has an excellent memory. Sergei moans in pleasure as Alex enters him and smoothly thrusts at the perfect angle, and realizes that Alex has learned a lot since they were last together. Sergei wraps himself around Alex and thinks that maybe he hasn't been the only one counting the years and the partners. As he clings to Alex and cries aloud with his orgasm, Sergei forgets all the numbers he ever knew in light of one amazing fact. This is Alex. And it is warm.
And maybe it always was.
***
