Seven Ramin
seven
Ramin
Once was a coincidence.
No, that wasn’t right. Maybe once was an accident?
Whatever the quote was, what did it mean if something happened twice?
“Noah?” Ramin blinked at Noah, standing on the other side of the fence. “What’re you doing here?”
Noah smiled, his eyes sparkling in the warm patio lights, and Ramin felt his cheeks heating up.
“I was hungry.”
“Uh.” The gears in Ramin’s brain ground for a second, making a brrrrrrt sound.
There was no way. How had they wound up at the same restaurant?
Was Noah… asking to join him?
Noah had a family, though. Except where were they?
“Are you, uh, by yourself?”
Noah nodded. “Angela and Jake collapsed. Jet lag.”
“Oh.” Ramin was determined to make it to bedtime without napping. Apparently Noah had the same idea.
Noah. Who was here. Alone. And hungry.
“Uh. Did you want to join me?”
If anything, Noah smiled even brighter, so bright Ramin nearly needed sunglasses. “You don’t mind?”
Ramin shook his head.
Noah glanced around, then hoisted himself over the fence, flexing the cords in his forearms and stretching his jeans with his leg muscles.
Ramin pressed harder at his tattoo. This could not be happening.
Noah settled into his seat and scooted in.
“You’re sure you don’t mind? If you wanted to eat alone…”
“No! I mean, I’m sure. I don’t mind the company.”
“Just like old times, huh?”
Twenty Years Ago
“Mind if I join you?”
Ramin looked up from his homework. Noah Bartlett was standing across the table from him, with his big green sketchbook in one hand and a tray of what Northland High optimistically called “the lunch salad” (really just a pile of shredded lettuce, the same kind that went on the tacos) in the other.
Ramin had already eaten his own lunch, leftover kotlet that Farzan’s dad had made over the weekend.
Farzan’s dad was an amazing cook—he and Farzan’s mom owned the only Persian restaurant in town.
The kotlet had been amazing: spiced meat patties stuffed in pockets of pita with herbs and onions and pickles.
But he was relieved he’d finished before Noah sat down.
It had been a while since any of Ramin’s classmates had made fun of him for bringing Persian food for lunch—why do that when they could call him fat and ugly?—but still.
Noah wore a gray sweatshirt with NHS WRESTLING across the front, and his Joe Boxer waistband showed where his jeans sagged a bit around his hips.
He must’ve gotten a haircut over the weekend, because his black hair, which usually flopped a bit over his forehead, was now short and stuck straight up.
His brown eyes looked right at Ramin, like he was actually happy to see him.
“Ramin?” Noah asked. Ramin realized he hadn’t actually answered.
“Oh. Sure.” Ramin looked around. All the other wrestlers were at another table, halfway across the cafeteria, laughing and shouting. “Don’t you want to sit with your team?”
Noah’s brow scrunched up. “Nah.”
Ramin’s chest gave a weird flutter. Was this a trap? But he didn’t know how to say no. “Okay.”
“Thanks.” Noah plopped down onto the bench, scooted his sketchbook to the side, and frowned at his salad.
“Everything okay?”
Noah sighed and reached for his collar, pulling out a little silver cross necklace. He rubbed at it with his thumb. “Cutting for the meet this weekend. I hate cutting.”
“Oh. Sorry.” Ramin remembered when Arya had wrestled freshman year and been miserable the whole time. He’d switched to swim team after that.
“It’s fine. As long as it helps me win, right?” Noah’s voice was deep and smooth. Sometimes Ramin wished his own voice had gotten that deep. Or at least a little deeper. He would’ve rather been a bass than a tenor.
He would’ve rather been in the kind of shape Noah was, too.
Most of the wrestlers were in good shape, but Noah was something else.
Ramin had been chubby all his life. Maybe if he started wrestling, he could lose some weight.
Be more like Noah. Just because Arya had hated it, that didn’t mean Ramin would.
“Sorry,” Noah said. “I didn’t mean to interrupt you. You can keep studying. I just wanted a little company.”
Were Noah’s cheeks turning red? No, it was just Ramin’s imagination, and anyway, Noah stuffed a huge bite of salad… well, lettuce into his mouth.
Ramin shrugged. “I don’t mind the company, either.”
Now
While Noah looked over the menu, Ramin studied the wine list. Did Noah even like wine? Ramin needed some or he’d never make it through dinner. His heart would hammer its way out of his chest. Or he’d accidentally rupture his spleen from nerves. Twenty years later, Noah still made him nervous.
He didn’t know why. Noah was kind and thoughtful and seemed genuinely happy to see Ramin.
But he was also hot, and he still wore that silver cross, and he had no idea Ramin was gay, and what if he was secretly a homophobe?
So. Wine.
Ramin wasn’t nearly as knowledgeable about wine as David—the guy was a freaking master sommelier, after all—but he did know some . The problem was, he’d never heard of any of the wines on the list. They were all Italian, and no doubt all amazing, but how he was he supposed to pick?
Finally he spotted one wine he recognized in the Tuscan section—Ornellaia, a super Tuscan he’d heard David talk about with a dreamy look in his eyes. Ramin had never actually tasted it. He didn’t usually spend that much on wine. Hell, he never spent half that much on wine.
But Interesting New Ramin liked to splurge.
And some small, juvenile part of him wanted to impress Noah.
So after they both ordered—both going for the risotta alla Milanese, short-grain rice with saffron and bone marrow—Ramin said, “And a bottle of the Ornellaia?”
Their server, a young woman with flame red hair, bugged out her eyes. “Sì. Is this a special occasion?”
“Oh. Uh.” What was he supposed to say? Yes? But what occasion? No? But then he just looked like some asshole who ordered expensive wine because he could. A typical American tourist. Probably ruining the local economy, too, and—
“It’s a reunion,” Noah offered. “We haven’t seen each other in twenty years!”
“Ah, che bello,” the server said. “Allora, we’ll bring the wine right away.”
Ramin unclenched his butt and looked back at Noah. “Thanks. Sorry, I didn’t even ask if you drank. You don’t have to—”
“I’d love to try the wine.” Noah smiled softly and shifted his legs under the table, but Ramin didn’t get out of the way fast enough and their knees bumped.
Noah had changed out of his Royals shirt and jeans into a light pink polo shirt that looked absolutely incredible against his skin (not to mention stretched across his chest, which somehow looked even more perfect than before), and a pair of shorts, because Ramin felt his leg hair brush against Noah’s.
He fought off a shiver and snapped his legs back together, though he kind of missed the feel of Noah’s warm skin.
That was the jet lag talking again, no doubt.
“So.” Noah leaned in and rested his forearms on the table. Ramin tried his best not to trace the cords there or imagine the texture of the black hairs. Noah had really hairy forearms.
“—anyone from high school?” Noah was saying. Ramin blinked.
“Sorry, say again?” Ramin gestured vaguely toward the road, though annoyingly, no cars were driving past. “I didn’t hear you.”
Noah didn’t seem to notice the lie. “I was asking if you kept in touch with any friends from high school? I haven’t talked to anyone since graduation.”
“I still talk to my best friends. You remember Farzan Alavi and Arya Nazeri?”
“Oh yeah, Arya was on the wrestling team one year. You’re still best friends?”
“We own a restaurant together, actually. Shiraz Bistro, up in Gladstone.”
“No kidding? That’s amazing.” Noah blew out a breath. “I couldn’t wait to get away from everyone in school. Leave it all behind. Move away from home. Then I realized it was my parents I was trying to escape more than anything.”
Ramin raised his eyebrows but kept his mouth shut. He remembered Noah’s mom had been… kind of awful. She taught Spanish at Northland, and she certainly hadn’t kept her opinions on Muslims and the Middle East and the “Axis of Evil” to herself.
Thankfully, before Ramin could get sucked into an awkward conversation about Noah’s parents, their bottle came in the hands of an older gentleman with a bow tie. It was topped with red foil embossed in gold and featured a simple, elegant label with a sketch of the winery on it.
“This looks fancy,” Noah muttered.
“This is a very special wine,” the sommelier said, emphasizing the very and the special . “You have excellent taste.”
Noah beamed at Ramin, but Ramin just blushed. Impressing Noah had seemed like a good idea at the time, but now he just looked like he was trying to show off.
The somm opened their bottle and poured Ramin a tiny taste.
Sweet fuck.
Okay, fine. It was very special. A luscious ruby, notes of raspberry and vanilla, a hint of tobacco that absolutely coated the sides of Ramin’s mouth. He sat back in his chair. “Wow.”
“Wow?” Noah grinned.
“Wow,” Ramin agreed, smacking his lips. The finish kept going and going.
The somm poured them both proper glasses. “Enjoy, signori.”
“Grazie,” Ramin said, but he kept his eyes on Noah as he tasted the wine. What if Noah didn’t like dry wines? Oh God, what if he only liked saccharine Missouri wines?
But no. Noah took a long, slow sip, the muscles of his neck stretching as he tilted his head back. His Adam’s apple bobbed. His jaw worked. And when he swallowed, he sighed.
“Wow is right.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. I’ve never had anything like it. It’s so…” Noah’s lips pressed together. They were already turning purple. “Special.”
“Yeah.”
Okay. This had been a good idea after all.
Noah raised his glass. “Hey, we didn’t toast. Here. To…”
Noah studied Ramin for a moment, his brow furrowing and then relaxing as another smile blossomed.
It should be criminal for any straight man to have a smile like that.