Heart to Heart (LGBTQ+)

Roger and Tim are both happily married, but not to each other. For how long can they keep the charade up and stay together?

Monday

It’s a Monday afternoon and the sun shines brilliantly. Rays of warm light filter through the open blinds that grant only little privacy from the school parking lot just outside of Mr. Roger Simmons’ classroom. The neatly dressed teacher stands with his back to his students - most of whom look bored out of their minds with only a few of them paying any attention, some might even be sleeping, all except for the one kid down front who’s taking notes of absolutely everything their teacher says.

“Now, can anyone tell me why the Axis Powers were named that?” Roger asks and turns around to catch how dead-eyed everyone looks.

When that one student in the front row seems to reach for the sky, waving his hand as frantically as he can, accompanied by little whines and noises that a puppy sick for attention might make. He brings his other hand to grab at his arm for support as he struggles to be exemplary.

An act that doesn’t work in this classroom.

“Anyone?” Roger insists on not looking directly at the one boy who’s almost jumping out of his seat.

Instead, indifferent and exhausted, he simply leans over his desk, arms outstretched and palms flat against the wood of his desk to support himself as he waits… and waits… and waits silently, the sound of a student snoring somewhere in the back suddenly the loudest thing in the universe until it’s overshadowed by the bell ringing.

Every student is wide awake immediately, clamoring as they stand up with their chairs screeching across the linoleum floor, each of them here shoving their books and schoolwork into their backpacks before rushing for the door.

Above the discord of it all, Roger shouts loudly, “Read page 217 to 230 till Thursday, and brush up on your knowledge on the Axis Powers because yes, it will be in the test two weeks from now!”

He stays bent over the desk as the room empties out, removing his glasses to rub his eyes, pinch at the bridge of his nose, and inhales deep before letting it escape in a long, exasperated sigh. Being a teacher can be so rewarding when a student excels in class, but the journey there is more of a battle than a leisurely walk in the park.

“Sounds tough,” an amused voice says.

Like struck by lightning Roger is standing upright again, one hand landing on a hip, the other touching his gelled-up hair to ensure it hasn’t fallen out of fashion, his smile all nervous with a chuckle near breathless as his heart soars in his chest at recognizing that voice.

In the doorway stands Tim Hayes, English teacher and Roger’s best friend since they themselves were students here. He’s leaning against the frame of the door, turtleneck collar reaching up to his strong, clean shaven jaw, the bottom of his shirt tucked into a pair of nice and pressed black slacks.

“No tougher than we were at their age,” Roger joyously admits.

He turns toward the blackboard and leans against his desk, gazing up at his polished handwriting that spells out information valuable to these young teens’ education, not that they seem to neither care nor understand the importance of recent history.

Overdramatically so, Tim says, “Ah! Retribution!”

They laugh together at that, warm and familiar, as Tim joins Roger by the desk, their hands on the wood only mere inches apart; close enough that body heat can be felt vividly. There’s a tingling in Roger’s hand that urges him to move those last few inches, to touch the other is all he can think of at this proximity.

“I have this one student, Charlie, who is… far too eager about everything I teach here,” he says, trying to distract his wandering thoughts. “Especially with World War II, should I be worried?”

Tim chuckles in a manner that makes Roger’s heart leap, before saying, “Maybe he has a crush on you and wants to impress you?” He eyes Roger up and down, from the polished shoes, his white dress shirt and striped tie, to his shiny, perfected dark hair.

Roger in turn laughs incredulously and once again touches the firm shape of his hairdo, before meeting with Tim’s burning gaze. “Or maybe he’s just a bit of an overachiever?”

Silence settles between them for a few long moments, till Tim’s slight and charming smile widens.

“That all sounds vaguely familiar.”

“Doesn’t it?” Roger hums delightfully, “I don’t think I ever saw you get anything other than straight A’s back then.”

Tim laughs, too, and as usual feigns humility whenever Roger dares say anything nice to him. He runs a hand through his gel-free hair, pushing the short and loose dirty-blonde locks away. “I got an A minus that one time in PE.”

Dark-brown eyes blow up wide in disbelief at those words, Roger’s smile stretching in the same manner. “Yeah, with your arm in a cask!” he almost shouts.

“Yeah! With my arm in a cask! And remember whose fault that is?”

Roger looks down at Tim’s arm next to his, down at where their fingers are now less than an inch from touching, where his gaze lingers as he nods lightly. “I remember.”

It was a perfect summer day, the air filled with the scent of freshly cut grass, barely a cloud in the sky, the sounds of neighbourhood kids playing could be heard from all directions, and up in a tall oak tree sits a tree-house, firmly built with impressive handiwork of someone that knows what they were doing.

Roger and Tim at the edge of 17 were playfully wrestling on the floorboards inside, surrounded by empty soda cans, a few bottles of stolen beer, and an ashtray with a still lit cigarette slumped in it.

They laughed and smiled impossibly wide, strained grunting as they tumbled around like they used to do, both of them refusing to back down from winning. Wood creaked beneath them, bottles clattered loudly around the limited space as they in their rambunctious and good-spirited fighting moved closer and closer to the entryway of the tree-house, only a red sheet to function as a door and in no way possible able to hold back, when Roger straightened out his leg, kicking Tim through the opening and onto the grass below with a loud crack.

“And we never used that tree-house again,” Tim says and that same arm.

“Oh no, we were traumatized! Besides, my parents were none too thrilled when they found out what we did up there.”

The blonde of the two leans in closer, shoulders meeting in the faintest little touch between them, as he hangs his head low to get closer to his shorter friend and colleague.

“Well, some of what we did up there,” he whispers.

Roger puts his glasses back on and angles his head up till he’s directly face-to-face with Tim; so close that they share the same quiet air, each breath tingling across lips.

When Tim moves his little finger on top of Roger’s where their hands meet on the desk, where Roger encourages the touch by moving his own into the embrace.

“School’s out, what are you two nerds still around for?” a most intrusive voice calls out from the hallway.

Hands retreat simultaneously and hurriedly, and they look at Pete Williams, the short and balding math teacher as he walks through the doorway, jacket slung over his shoulder and smiling at his co-workers.

“Me and some of the other teachers are gonna hit up the Old Shallow to cure our Monday blues, you guys up for a drink?”

Tim is quick to rise from his seat next to Roger, puts his hands in his pockets and walks till he’s standing next to Pete, over a good head taller, back turned to the now rather lonely Roger as he places a palm on Pete’s shoulder.

“Sorry Petey, the missus is cooking roasted turkey for dinner, and I’m not missing that.”

Pete grimaces slightly at that, then shrugs and looks all pathetically up at Tim. “Come on Tim, the wives won’t have to know! Just one glass before heading home to that headache.”

It’s a dry and joyless laugh that Tim offers up in response as he squeezes Pete’s shoulder a bit tighter than necessary. “Another time, yeah?” He then turns to look at Roger, his smile lackluster. “Say hi to Sally from me, will you?”

Roger doesn’t respond in as many words and simply smiles back with a nod, then waves when Tim does before the English teacher vanishes down the hallway.

“The poor guy; caught under the thumb of that domineering wife, huh?” Pete speaks in a hushed voice, as if Tim might hear and come back to defend his wife’s honour.

The nerve of this man, Roger thinks as he huffs in disbelief with a hostile smile, shaking his head ever so slightly and looks at Pete with a raised brow. “Whatever you say, Pete, he seems happy enough with Josie. Maybe you should go find yourself a pretty wife like that.”

Pete is quick to whip his head around and stares almost excitedly up at Roger. “Oh yeah? Think Sally has some pretty blonde friends she can introduce me to?”

“Sure, her and her Blonde Ladies Only club meets every Wednesday, I’ll get you some phone numbers.”

He lights up like a child on Christmas morning, eyes all aglow, till he catches on to the shitty smile on the other’s face. “Man, don’t get my hopes up like that. Most guys here are already sick with jealousy over that wife of yours - better keep a good hold on her.” His grin is nasty as he jabs Roger’s side with his elbow, wiggling his eyebrows that can only be interpreted that Pete is one of those guys.

Roger’s smile falters a bit at the thought, and he turns his gaze away, standing up to throw his satchel over one shoulder, his knit cardigan over the other arm. “And I should be oh so worried that she’ll leave me for one of you guys, then? Oh I’m so scared right now.”

“Hey, I’m just sayin’,” Pete replies with a shrug.

If there was ever a time to leave it’d be now, and Roger does just that, with a nonchalant wave over his shoulder as he walks toward the door. “Goodbye Pete.”