Kestrel

A short story by Charlie Langland

This story contains: him and him, contemporary romance, couple, public place, firsts, self-pleasure, exhibitionism/voyeurism, shower/bath, extramarital, blow job

Kestrel found me at my sister-in-law’s wedding. Surrounded by people I didn’t know, I had hidden away at a back table, pretending to be on my phone. Yet he managed to spot me. 

Isla, my wife, was somewhere else, having a good time and making friends with everyone and anyone. I, however, had long stopped making the effort. Lord knows why Kestrel approached me, why he thought I was worth his time.

“Gordon, right?” 

Kestrel was wearing a black tux, which pinched at his waist and showed off broad and powerful shoulders. He’d braided his hair—a lattice of dark interlocking fingers running down the back of his head. He leaned across the table with a smile and offered a hand.

His fingertips brushed against mine. It was electric. Startled, I snatched my hand away and spilled my drink everywhere. 

“Sorry,” I said.

“No problem.”

I sighed, wiping myself down. Meanwhile, I clawed about my brain for some words to fill the space between us. 

“We keep missing each other,” he said.

I nodded. “Yes, didn’t we chat briefly at—”

“Ian’s thirtieth.”

“Right. We were late to that, as usual. You weren’t drinking because you had an early start. A rock climber, if I remember correctly?”

He eyed me and slowly settled into a seat. 

“You have a good memory. Or you’re an incredibly dangerous man.”

He chuckled. I did the same, mourning my empty glass. Then we turned to watch the guests having fun.

Isla and the bride, Fran, were dancing with some ancient uncle of theirs. Both sisters were cackling, fluted glasses pinched in their hands. They swung the poor sod about like a ragdoll.

“Ian’s a lucky man,” Kestrel said after a long pause. 

I laughed in agreement, but also remembered the tantrum Fran had thrown at the last game night. “As long as she’s not playing Catan.”

Kestrel paused, cocked his head, and stared at me. 

Way to out yourself as a nerd. 

 “Sorry. I—” he scratched at his jaw, “I wasn’t expecting that.”

Silence. Then he asked if I smoked. I didn’t—but at that moment, I wanted one. So I followed him outside into the night and away from the buzz of people.

The air was cool against my face, and the dreadful disco music throbbed behind us from inside the event hall. Kestrel lit a cigarette, then offered me the pack. I tried to play it cool, natural. But I choked on my first drag. 

Pathetic. Absolutely pathetic. 

Kestrel stared at me with those searching grey eyes. The kind of eyes you’d associate with a man who was named after a predatory bird. Each time he looked as if he was about to speak, he instead took a deep drag from his cigarette.

“Shouldn’t have let Fran near the disco playlist.”

“Isla’s the same,” I said, “Music taste must be hereditary.”

Kestrel snorted, sending plumes of smoke out into the darkness. We stared out to where the fields fell away toward a string of hazy, yellow street lights above the distant road. We listened to the hissing trees. Kestrel shivered and pulled his jacket in close.

Our eyes met.

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