Roller Coaster

Valeri

Outside, the weather is a non-event. Dry, neither warm nor cold, the cloud cover gray, not a breath of wind: in other words, meteorological perfection.

Valeri folds the park map along its creases with a precise snap. The overlay data on short queue lengths prove him right. His fingers tingle with anticipation.

„Most families come on sunny weekends. We have the place to ourselves.“

The park opens only on days without a severe-weather warning, and the power for the rides is built into the ticket price. Under the circumstances, one may reasonably expect at least not to be snotted on by small children. And he will not waste a single second of this costly day on inefficiency.

„If we take the Titan in the back quadrant first, the line will still be short, because most visitors work their way in from the entrance. Amateurs, ha. Maximum yield, minimum standing time.“

Samson walks beside him, both hands clamped around the straps of his old army rucksack. Both of them silently match the emergency exits on the map to the real thing.

„I packed extra snacks,“ Samson mutters, eyeing with suspicion the enormous tracks corkscrewing into the sky. „But I’m a little worried I won’t keep them down.“

Valeri snorts as haughtily as a man in an immaculately pressed coat can manage.

„I shall not touch a single one of your sliced apples today, Samson. I intend to subsist on thoroughly inferior french fries drowned in old grease and industrially dyed soft serve. It is a fundamental right of this establishment. One must surrender to excess.“

„Before the roller coaster?“ Samson asks, sounding desperate.

„My stomach survived the RVA field kitchen and the slop the ISD served its prisoners,“ Valeri says. „My stomach fears no deep fryer.“

–

Ten minutes later they are standing in the switchback fences outside the Titan’s station. Valeri did not earn his reputation as a tactical genius for nothing: the line is barely twenty people long.

His massive husband, however, is visibly shrinking, a development Valeri follows with mounting amusement. With every step Samson crowds closer, until his broad upper arm presses hard against Valeri’s shoulder. His fingers clamp around Valeri’s hand.

„Over there,“ Samson murmurs, his voice thick, and points vaguely left with his bearded chin, to where a few teacups spin in a tangle at moderate speed between the swing ride and a kiddie coaster. „Wouldn’t that be more fun?“

Valeri’s chest swells with pride and delight. That this enormous man, who once performed amputations under fire in the field, is trembling before a simple roller coaster like a recruit before his first order to shoot… It makes Valeri so soft.

„Four g, briefly. We’ve survived worse than something with a maintenance schedule.“

„That doesn’t help,“ Samson says.

Valeri turns his hand in Samson’s grip, laces their fingers together and lays his free hand on Samson’s forearm.

„You can do this,“ he whispers close to Samson’s ear, voice low and smoky, for a little extra weak-kneed effect. There’s a reason he’s a sadist. „I’ve got your hand.“

Samson swallows hard. He turns his head and scans the grounds.

„Think I can make it to the bathrooms if it comes to that?“ he asks. „Because otherwise I’m throwing up in that planter over there, and that would be undignified.“

Valeri’s grin keeps widening. „You’re into public humiliation.“

„Not in front of kids!“ Samson hisses back. His gaze wanders on, finding nothing. „Plan C is the bag. Catch the snacks, please, if I have to empty it. Be a shame to waste them.“

„Fries,“ Valeri says only. Then he stops short of the opening turnstile and lowers his voice. „Say red, and we go to the teacups. I mean that.“

Samson looks at him, long. „Green,“ he says finally. „But hold on to me.“

„Always.“ Valeri guides him gently through the turnstile. „Stop calculating. Get in.“

They reach the platform. The train rolls up on hissing pneumatics.

As they drop into the molded seats and the heavy restraints lock across their thighs with a merciless clack-clack-clack, Valeri goes rigid for a moment before his mind registers that he is safe. He counts to four. Hard plastic, foam padding, a maintenance sticker. Beside him, Samson squeezes the grips with both hands so tightly that his knuckles go the color of his face.

„Val,“ Samson gasps, his voice an octave higher than usual. „Can I still get out? I don’t think I want to, after all.“

Valeri’s hand shoots up toward the ride attendant. „Red?“

Samson shakes his head. „I— No. I just want it to be over.“

With a jerking rumble the chain lift catches. The train starts to move. Halfway up, Samson lets go of one grip and wraps his hand around Valeri’s upper arm.

„If your knees give out afterward, I’ll catch you,“ Valeri says, and presses Samson’s hand against his upper arm.

„You know full well I’d bury you under me,“ Samson grits out.

The train unhooks at the crest. They tip forward. Ninety degrees. Free fall.

Valeri’s stomach hangs in the air a moment longer than he does, the g-forces press the breath out of his lungs, and his field of vision narrows to a tunnel for a second.

Samson lets go of Valeri’s arm. Which is a shame, because it really hadn’t been so bad, having a big, warm hand to… The world around them is on spin cycle.

He turns his head with effort. Samson sits bolt upright, his massive arms thrown wide into the gray sky, his jacket whipping in the wind. A booming laugh breaks out of his chest, wild, free, childlike. It’s beautiful. Valeri would gladly watch him like this forever, if only he weren’t so nauseated the moment he takes his eyes off the horizon. A corkscrew centrifuges his blood into his feet, his head goes empty and white. Cold sweat breaks out on him, his circulation buckles at the knees.

He makes it to the end of the ride conscious, which is probably a kind of victory too.

When the train comes to a stop, Samson is on his feet at once, practically bouncing, eager as Anker before feeding time.

„You were so right! That was great! Thanks for talking me into it and asking anyway!“ He holds out a big hand to Valeri.

Valeri takes it, trembling, and lets Samson pull him onto the platform. He doesn’t have much faith in his knees at the moment.

„You’re welcome,“ Valeri says. He hopes he doesn’t sound as pathetic as he feels.

„I think I want to go on the Terminator now. Oh, that one’s bound to be even faster!“

„Samson.“

„What?“ Samson stops. His eyes flick to nothing, to the place where his lens overlays Valeri’s vitals, and then he studies Valeri, and the euphoria gives way to a flicker of concern. „Valeri? Are you pale?“

Valeri lets his forehead sink against Samson’s chest. Mostly for the theatrics, but now that he’s here, face buried in the soft fabric of the shirt that stretches across Samson’s shoulders, his pectorals outlined beneath… He pushes his face deeper in and breathes: detergent and skin, warm with adrenaline. His hands drift over Samson’s shoulders.

Shit, his body is so thoroughly conditioned to sex with this man that this closeness alone is enough to pique his cock’s interest. He can really do without having even less blood in his head than he already does. He pulls away and staggers to the nearest park bench. Sits.

Samson has followed him, takes his hand, brow furrowed.

„You okay? Did you not drink enough?“ He fishes the thermos out of the bag with his free hand.

Valeri only nods. Thirst. Sure.

He takes a sip from the unscrewed lid Samson holds out to him. Chamomile tea, still lukewarm.

„I’d rather drink a little more and sit for a moment. Go take a lap without me, okay?“

Samson still looks worried.

„I promise you I’m fine. I just need a short break. I’ll ping you if something’s wrong, even if my vitals are behaving. Go on.“

Samson hesitates. He looks at Valeri for a long moment. Valeri holds his gaze and doesn’t move. Finally Samson nods slowly, and the adrenaline wins. With a radiant grin that takes ten years off his face, he brushes a kiss across Valeri’s knuckles. Then he jogs off toward the catapult coaster.

Valeri is left alone on the bench. He rests his elbows on his knees, lowers his head, and waits for the world to stop listing like a ship on the open sea.

After five minutes he dares to stand and drags himself on shaky legs to the Titan’s photo booth. The terminal there, a much-repaired thing, flickers with every change of image, cycling through snapshots of the latest rides. Valeri taps their car number and snorts dryly.

The photo is a masterpiece of humiliation.

On the left sits Samson: arms thrust triumphantly into the air, mouth open in a cheer, wind raking through his long hair, eyes sparkling, a portrait of unchecked joy, a sun god in his chariot.

Beside him sits Valeri himself, wearing an expression that makes him consider hacking the terminal just to erase this moment of shame from the record forever.

He buys the overpriced photo.

On his way back to the bench, the smell of grease drifts over from the snack stand. His stomach clenches, warning enough. The mere thought of fries drives the sweat to his forehead again. Together with his remaining dignity, the rest of his breakfast empties itself into the geranium planter.

Afterward he feels better, which he will never admit to Samson. Valeri sits back down and looks at the rucksack Samson left at his feet.

Guiltily, Valeri opens the zipper, tooth by tooth.

The smell of fresh sourdough and cut apples rises to meet him. His fingers feel around inside and draw out a sandwich wrapped carefully in parchment paper and a tin of cucumber sticks and apple slices.

Valeri bites into the sandwich. The whole-grain bread is cool and mild, the cream cheese soothing his roiling stomach acid with every bite. He chews slowly, chin propped in his hand, and gazes toward the catapult coaster, from which another joyful bellow is rolling across the gray sky, unmistakably belonging to his husband.

Valeri munches an apple slice and, smiling, regards the terrible photo in his lap.