“Dad?”
“In here.”
His father’s apartment in Cap Au Diable was a literal jungle. His office at the university was a miniature menagerie of the apartment. Some parts of the apartment were pitch black, with plants rustling menancingly in the dark; others were wide open with the bars on the windows to let in the dingy sunlight of the port. The flowers in flower boxes looked like innocent plants, but they were the “guard dogs” – grasping ivy, biting poisonous thornbushes, small mantraps.
“Marco!” Byron called.
“Polo!” he heard in the room to his left. This was the kitchen, the only room besides the bathroom which didn’t have a ton of plants. The kitchen, however, had been converted into a makeshift lab, with microscopes and slides, samples of the different flora of places he had been. Some plants were in clear bottles, in an attempt to grow roots.
“Look here,” his father said. “I am attempting to combine this simple carex davalliana with miscanthus sinensis to make it softer.” He pointed to a small flat of grass. “I believe there’s rosea in some of these seeds, because I am adding more of the sinesis in order to lessen the…” He trailed off, looking at his son. “You didn’t come here to hear a lecture.”
Byron gave him a small smile. “No, dad.”
Roger Davies sighed. “Want a beer?”
“Sure.”
Davies went in the fridge and took out two beers, one for him, one for his son. He popped open both tabs and handed one over. “You got my message.”
“Dad, I know it might not seem I haven’t known him a long time -”
“By, listen to me. I want to see you happy.”
“But I am happy.”
“This man, four times your age.” He leaned forward, “Four times.”
“That means he’s got some experience.”
“I’m not denying that.” He sighed. “I know you’re happy. I’m the one who’s sad.”
“Sad? Why?”
“Let me try and explain it.” He drank from the bottle. “You’re old enough to make your own decisions, By. But I don’t want to deal with that. I just think this is way too fast. If you had gotten a girl knocked up, I’d understand better.”
“So it’s because I’m gay?”
“No, that’s not it, that never was it,” his father said quickly. “Look at it this way. What would you think if you found out your gay best friend was getting married to someone they knew only a short time. How long?”
“Little more than a week,” murmured Byron.
Davies said nothing. Davies only stared open-mouthed at his son, the shock apparent. He recovered, saying, “I say again, what would you think?”
“He was rushing things,” Byron murmured again.
“Do you see what I mean now?”
Byron nodded, drank the beer without looking at his father.
“Byron, I know right now he’s the love of your life. It’s the first glow you get when you start discovering each other. But please, for the love of Pete, let the embers cool a bit before getting married.”
“He’s not rushing that part,” said Byron. “But we’re mated.”
“Mated?”
Byron intertwined his fingers. “Joined.”
“Wolves mate for life, don’t they?”
Byron nodded. “Most times they do.”
“So you’re already married in everything except on paper.”
“Pretty much.”
His father finished the beer with a sigh. “Normally, I would say what has gotten into you, but you were never impulsive. You always thought things through, got all the information you needed to make a decision.”
“Like my old man,” Byron said with a smile.
Davis shook the top of the bottle at Byron. “Flattery gets you nowhere, whippersnapper.” He set the bottle down. “Are you really happy?”
“Yes, dad. I’ve never been so happy in my life.”
“And he’s happy?”
“He’s very happy, dad.”
“Then I wish you both the best.” He turned away, went to the top of the fridge and pulled down a worn chessboard with a box of pieces balanced precariously on top. “Now, I’m gonna kick your ass.”
Byron, smiling, rummaged in the box and picked out a white bishop. “We’ll see about that, old timer. We’ll just see.”