How The Light Gets In - 17. Chapter 17

It should have been pleasant, this late afternoon visit with friends. The coffee was good, the music classical, and the dull and fading light of the winter day had been banished with the flip of a switch. But for Luc, sitting quietly on the black leather sofa, it all seemed strained, forced, a little unreal. That he and Scott had walked in on something between Matt and Josh was obvious, but what it was, Luc had no idea. He had no map to where Josh and Matt seemed stranded, and there were no clues he knew how to read.

Josh was calm and quiet – and as unfathomable as Luc always found him. Even though Josh was the same age as Luc’s twin brothers and had been friends with them, he had always seemed so much older to Luc. Robert and Micha were his big brothers, safe and familiar older boys. But Josh was a man. Almost another generation, another world. There was nothing safe about him.

But if Josh was quiet, Matt was silent. Hostile. Tense as wire. Luc could think of no way to draw him out.

Even Scott seemed at sea, tumbling words into every extended silence, trying too hard. He kept glancing from Josh to Matt, trying to ease them into conversation. Josh, in perfect host mode, responded easily, but Matt would not be drawn.

Luc had made a space for his roommate beside him on the sofa, but Matt couldn’t sit still. One minute he perched beside Luc; the next he was pacing the room, staring now at the ocean through the expanse of window, now at the huge and marvellous painting of the ocean that hung on the wall opposite. Luc could not help but watch him. He could see the tension of his jaw, the deliberate way he kept flexing his hands, forcing the fingers open every now and then, as if he’d just realized that they were flirting with fists.

Matt seemed about to explode, and as much as Luc wanted to soothe him, he had no idea how to go about it.

The enormous painting seemed to have something to do with it. It filled the wall behind Luc and to his left. Matt couldn’t seem to leave it alone, returning to it again and again, staring at it, clenching and unclenching his fists. Scott and Josh were sitting on the opposite side of the room, facing Luc, and saw only Matt’s back, but Luc could see his face. It seemed to him that Matt was studying not the storm, which was what fascinated Luc himself, but rather the naked figure standing in the foreground, off to one side.

Luc turned his own attention it. It was an interesting figure, male, naked, slender and strong, caught somewhere between boyhood and manhood. He appeared in profile to the viewer, from slightly behind, so that one saw the line of head and throat, shoulder and back, buttock and thigh, the long, long length of leg. His head was thrown back, his throat exposed, and wild, black curling hair was plastered to his head by rain and wind.

He seemed so alive in the storm.

Alive and wild and beautiful -- and lit in a way that seemed to balance the fury of sky and sea.

The painting made Luc think of myths, Greek and Roman and Norse. Myths of heroes daring the abyss, conquering creatures of the deep and the wild.

A strong sudden shudder of Matt’s entire body drew his attention away from the canvas.

“I can’t do this,” Luc heard him mutter. “I can’t fucking do this.”

His hands were clutched in hard fists. His entire body seemed to be trembling in its attempt at containment.

Luc glanced across at Scott and Josh, and realized that neither of them had heard.

Luc didn’t know how to soothe Matt – but it was suddenly very clear to him that perhaps he could rescue him. He put his coffee cup carefully on the glass table.

“This has been great,” he said quietly to the two men sitting opposite him. “But I really think I should go now. My hand–” He looked down at his left hand, which lay protectively on his lap, palm up. “I have to do my exercises. And I think perhaps I need a tablet.”

He stood up and made his way to Matt, touched his arm gently. “Are you coming now, or will I see you downstairs later?”

Matt turned towards him slowly, as if the painting had a literal, physical hold on him from which he had to break free. His face was dark and troubled, but his eyes were grateful.

“Now,” he said.

It was Luc who accepted Josh and Scott’s thanks for bringing Josh home. Matt merely nodded; his curt “bye” bordered on rude.

Luc waited until they were in the elevator before he said anything. “What happened?” he asked.

Matt poked fiercely at the button for their floor and said nothing.

“Can you tell me about it?” Luc persisted.

Matt was staring hard at the elevator door. “Tell you about what?”

“About whatever happened between you and Josh.”

“Nothing happened.”

Luc was surprised at how angry Matt’s response made him. “Don’t,” he said, as the elevator began to move. “Don’t tell me if you don’t want to – but don’t insult me by lying to me. I’m not a kid. I’m not blind or stupid. And I’ve never lied to you.”

The elevator stopped, the doors opened and Matt stormed out; Luc followed more slowly. By the time he entered the condo, Matt had disappeared into his room, slammed the door shut.

When he emerged half an hour later, Luc was sitting at the kitchen table. He heard Matt enter the room, but he did not look up. He was exercising his hand, calmly fighting through the pain of precise movement. Every flex, every grasp, hurt. But it was a familiar hurt. Almost soothing. He was studying his fingers carefully as he stretched and tensed, seeking signs of curling, deformation. He didn’t see any; it hurt like hell, but he could force his fingers straight.

“It’s all about you,” Matt said bitterly, throwing himself down into the chair opposite. The table jolted and Luc fought to contain a gasp of pain.

He looked up from his throbbing fingers, meeting Matt’s eyes, seeing the fury there. He waited, and did not look away.

“They’re worried about you,” said Matt, finally.

Luc sighed heavily. “Oui. They all worry. My parents. My brothers. My doctors. Everyone worries about me.”

“You don’t get it. They’re worried about me being here with you.”

Luc winced. Did they really think he was so dangerous, so close to the edge, that even have Matt here was not enough protection?

“I’m sorry,” he said. “That’s not fair to you. If you don’t want to stay–” He bowed his head. How could he say this?

“I know that it is my fault, what I did. We’ve never talked of it, you haven’t asked, but–” He looked away. This was too hard. He could not say it if he had to look at Matt’s anger.

“I know they told you what happened before Christmas. You must know that they are all afraid I will do it again. That’s the real reason you’re here. But you don’t have to worry about that. Really. I won’t do it again. I believe that, even though no one else does.” He sighed heavily. “I feel the weight of it, you know. The weight of all the worry. It doesn’t make it easier.”

Matt slammed his fist down on the table and this time Luc could not contain the gasp of agony. He drew his hand away, curled it against his chest. To his surprise, Matt, who was normally so sensitive to his pain, didn’t seem to notice. He pushed himself way from the table, started pacing the room with fast, angry steps.

“You don’t fucking get it,” he spat out. “It has nothing to do with that. That I could understand.”

Luc stared at Matt in confusion. “Then what?”

“They don’t trust me,” he said furiously. He continued to pace, refusing to look at Luc.

“Trust you? Why wouldn’t they trust you?”

“They’re worried I’m going to corrupt you.”

“What?”

“It has nothing to do with what you did before. Or not much. It’s me. They’re having second thoughts about slut-boy here. They’re all worried about my sordid past.”

By now, Luc was totally confused. This made no sense at all. He wished Matt would sit down so they could talk.

“That’s stupid,” he said.

Matt froze mid stride. He turned slowly, met Luc’s eyes, stared hard.

“Is it?” he demanded.

“Of course it is,” said Luc. “What has your past got to do with anything? It’s my past that they’re worried about. What happened at Christmas wasn’t – wasn’t the first time.”

Matt’s mouth twisted with something Luc couldn’t read. “They think I’m going to fuck you around,” he said, brutally. “Seduce you, and leave you in even more trouble than you are now.”

Suddenly, the fury seemed to drain out of him, and he sounded weary.

“They don’t think you’re safe with me,” he said. “They don’t trust me.”

Luc could hear the pain in Matt’s voice, and something in him wanted to reach out, to comfort. He wasn’t sure what to say.

“Then they don’t really know you,” he said quietly.

Matt’s seemed about to say something, then he didn’t. “Maybe they do,” he said bitterly. “It’s not like I haven’t done it before.”

But Luc felt an odd sort of certainty. “This isn’t before,” he said.

Matt was looking straight into Luc’s eyes. He looked… lost.

“Luc – there’ve been a lot of guys,” he said slowly. “And I wasn’t always... nice about it.”

Luc wasn’t sure exactly what that meant, and he didn’t want to know. Matt had hinted at this, called himself these things before. Luc had thought then that it was some kind of brashness, bravado, that made him do it. Now, he realized he had been wrong. That’s what Matt meant it to sound like, but really it was something else. Something deeper. Something harsher.

Really, it was shame.

He glanced over Matt’s shoulder to the living room, where he could see the end of his piano, the piano bench, the new rug beneath it. It was brightly coloured, but Luc knew that beneath it, the broadloom was stained with traces of blood that could not be removed.

Luc understood shame.

He studied Matt for a moment, then pushed himself away from the table and walked toward him. As he looked into Matt’s anxious face, he found himself thinking of how Matt had been with him these last few weeks. How he’d held him that first night. How he’d come to him with pain tablets, all those nights when Luc’s pain had awakened him. How he’d shared with him such soft, soft kisses.

He reached out with his good hand and wrapped his fingers around Matt’s tightly clenched fist.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and his voice was almost a whisper. “Whatever you did before is in done. It has nothing to do with now, with me.”

Luc felt like he was on a moving ice flow; nothing was solid, everything was moving beneath him. He didn’t know what to do. All he knew was that Matt looked lost, and that even though it felt like an enormous risk, somehow, somehow, he had to take it.

Slowly, he raised his wounded hand, and laid it against Matt’s cheek. Beneath his fingers, he felt Matt tremble.

“I know what you have done for me,” he said. “Scott and Josh mean well – but I know you better than they do.”

Matt looked at him uncertainly. Luc’s damaged fingers could feel the tension in his jaw.

“I trust you,” he said. “You have given me every reason to trust you.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes. I’m sure. And I know it’s not easy. I’m not easy – and maybe Scott and Josh won’t let it be easy. If you don’t want to stay, I understand.”

The silence stretched like fog between them. Luc was very aware of his right hand wrapped around Matt’s, of his wounded left hand against Matt’s cheek. He could not move.

“Okay,” said Matt with a sigh. “I want to stay.”

He turned his head swiftly and kissed the palm of Luc’s hand. Then he was gone.

Luc stared at his wounded fingers, aware of the depth of his relief.

***
As soon as the door had closed behind them, Scott turned to Josh and groaned.

“Just how bad did that go?” he asked.

“About as bad as it could have,” Josh admitted.

He told Scott about the long, silent drive, and how he’d invited Matt up for coffee. “I really think he expected me to hit on him,” he said, shaking his head.

“Fuck,” said Scott in disgust. “Talk about reading in his own motivations.”

“No,” said Josh firmly. “It wasn’t like that at all. He seemed almost... scared. Sad. We talked about it. What happened between us. How he felt about it.”

“And?”

Josh saw the worry on Scott’s face, and leaned over and kissed his mouth.

“And Bran’s right,” he said softly. “Matt’s hung up on me. Badly.”

“Why?”

“I’m not sure. But I think – I think when we, well, when we did what we did, he knew I was a mess, and I think he really wanted to help me and somehow feels guilty that he couldn’t.”

“Guilty?”

“Yes.

“Not just rejected?”

Joshua ignored that. “He – he wanted to know about Graham. About why I stayed with him. We talked about that for a bit.:

“Why?”

“I felt I owned him an explanation.”

“And you told him?”

Suddenly Josh felt scared and ashamed and defiant.

“I told him the truth,” he said fiercely. “I told him I loved Graham. That I don’t know why, that I know – knew -- that he was an unworthy bastard – and that I loved him anyway.”

Josh turned away as he spoke, hating to admit this again, hating above all to admit this to Scott. He felt as he always felt – as if loving Graham was a betrayal somehow.

As if it sullied what he felt for Scott.

As if it made him unworthy.

He felt Scott’s hands on his face and for a moment he resisted. Then he allowed his face to be turned. Their eyes met and held for a long time.

“That’s good,” said Scott softly, dipping to kiss his mouth, then looking at him again. “That you can see it for what it was and be honest about it. That’s good.”

Josh felt all his defiance fall away. “It is?”

Scott nodded. “Yeah, it is. I think it’s important. I think if you can’t be honest with yourself about it, it’ll never heal.”

“I don’t think Matt’s even started healing,” Josh said slowly. “I think he hates himself for all the screwing around – and I think we just made it worse.”

He told Scott about what had happened just before he and Luc had arrived.

“I’m worried about him,” he said. “Really worried. I think he’s changed a lot, but he is so full of pain, so full of anger. And we just added to it.”

“Oh, God, I’m sorry,” said Scott. “This is my fault.”

“I’m not the one you need to apologize to,” said Josh.

 ***

Matt spent the evening in his room. He could hear Luc moving about, and he knew the Quebecois boy wanted to be with him. But as much as he wanted to go, he knew that he couldn’t. Not now. Not yet.

He didn’t trust himself with Luc.

He didn’t trust the way those pain-filled silver eyes spoke to his heart, or the way the touch of those wounded fingers on his face had made him feel.

When he heard the sound of the piano that he knew he could no longer stay away.

He pushed open his bedroom door and music filled the room. For a moment, he stood and listened. Luc was playing achingly sad riffs with his right hand.

Matt moved slowly into the living room, toward the piano. Every now and then, he saw Luc’s left hand wander to the keyboard, heard it strike a single note, a simple chord. Matt wondered if it hurt – but he couldn’t stop him. The sound of it was so sad and so sweet and so beautiful.

He could see that Luc was lost in it; his shoulders were swaying and his head was nodding in that dream-like way. All Matt could do was stand there and listen. He felt like an eavesdropper, but somehow he couldn’t leave.

This, he knew, was Luc playing for himself. Matt had no idea what he was playing, or for how long it continued. He was mesmerized by the beauty of the music and the beauty of the boy who was playing it.

And then it was over.

But when Luc stopped, he turned and smiled, and Matt realized that Luc had known he was there all along. It felt like an enormous gift, that Luc hadn’t stopped, but had allowed him to stand there and listen.

“That was beautiful,” Matt said, finally.

Luc nodded slowly. “Sometimes,” he said softly. “I feel that maybe I’m going to be ok.”

***

Moonlight drenched the bedroom, spilled silver and radiant onto rumpled sheets, sweat soaked bodies. Even the air was heavy. Their loving had been wild and unrestrained, the giving and the getting by turns slow and fast, gentle and intensely physical. At times it had been almost violent; Josh had demanded that, as he sometimes did.

Scott was there with him, as only Scott could be, understanding the need, the wild. And still so very careful, as he always was in these times, taking Josh to the edge, and keeping him there, safe. And Josh, even on that edge, was never afraid. Not of Scott. Not of himself.

Now, drained and trembling, Josh closed his eyes, breathed in the heavy scent of desire fulfilled. It had been very, very good, and his limp body felt too lethargic to move.

Scott rolled onto his back with a heavy sigh, and as he did drew Josh close, wrapped him in strong arms, tangled their legs together. Josh closed his eyes, willed himself to let go, to fall into it, Scott’s strength, the connection between them.

He was almost there when, suddenly, somehow, he could not.

Suddenly, though they were skin on skin, he felt alone, afraid, almost unbearably open. He felt like the naked core of himself had been fearfully exposed.

The black thoughts rolled in and he could not push them back.

He tried.

Close as he was against Scott’s side, he forced himself to shift, rise, until he was half lying on top of his lover, his cheek pressed to the damp, cooling skin of Scott’s chest, his ear over the powerful beating of Scott’s heart.

Scott laughed, low in his throat, pushed one arm underneath Josh’s body, and pulled him up, up, so that he was completely on top. Now they were chest to chest, belly to belly, Josh stretched out full length on top.

Scott wrapped him tight in strong arms, turned his head, kissed Josh’s neck.

“Love you,” he murmured, his voice sleepy and sated. And as Josh listened, Scott’s breathing eased into sleep.

The strength of the powerful hug was slowly released, until he was held there only by the weight of the arms wrapped around him.

He reached his left arm up, clung hard to Scott’s neck.

He felt like he was drowning.

He trusted Scott – as completely as he could ever trust anyone. There was something so pure, so innocent about this man-boy; Josh had never met anyone like him. So open. So honest.

Scott...trusted. He trusted Josh. He trusted his own heart. Josh knew that every time Scott loved him, he gave himself completely. When it came to what was between the two of them, there were no boundaries around Scott’s heart.

Sometimes, it scared him.

Josh wanted to be able to love that way. Sometimes he thought he was almost there. He was learning to drop his defences. In the months they’d been together, he had let them down to the point where they hardly existed.

Now he felt the urge to rebuild them.

Because there was a darkness in him. A darkness, a fear… And while loving Scott, and being loved by Scott, had let the light in, still it came only so far. The darkness in him was deep. Sometimes it was a quiet darkness. Sometimes it was loud. Right now, it was so loud that even the rhythm of Scott’s steady breathing was not enough. The black thoughts shouted and pressed and would not be held back.

Josh trembled, and when the trembling did not stop, he carefully extricated himself from Scott’s embrace. For a moment he stood, alone and naked beside the bed, looking down at Scott who looked so beautiful, sprawled on his back in the moonlight, skin glowing pale. How did he deserve this, Josh wondered. What made him worthy of this man who shared his body and his heart?

He pulled the duvet up around Scott’s shoulders, bent a little further, touched Scott’s mouth softly with his own. The rhythm of Scott’s sleep caught slightly, and Josh felt a small surge of delight.

When he walked into the living room, he was instantly aware of the cold. His skin contracted. Partly it was Scott’s heat leaving him. Partly it was the warmth of the bedroom. But mostly it was frigid ocean air that whipped in from the one window he always left slightly open, no matter the weather. He needed the ocean, the sound of it, the smell. They were as important to him as the view out over the cold, grey Atlantic. They made him feel strong.

He made his way to the window, where he always went for solace. But instead of looking out, as he almost always did, he turned his back, and instead found himself facing the opposite wall, staring, as earlier that afternoon Matt had been staring, at the painting that Graham had left behind. .

The painting that, in the catalogue of Graham’s work , was called Emancipation.

“But we know what it’s really called, don’t we, Baby Boy. We know it’s really called “Graham, get the fuck out of my life.”

The painting looked different in the moonlight. Only the lines, the planes, Graham’s idealization of Josh’s own naked body, were clearly delineated. Most of the storm-swept sky, the water, had been swallowed by deep shadow.

The brave boy in the painting, head thrown back, throat exposed to the storm, seemed about to be swallowed by the darkness too.

That was exactly what Josh felt: like there was a blackness inside him as deep and endless as the storm- wracked North Atlantic. A deep and endless blackness that seemed to call out to Graham, or to whatever it was in him that had drawn him to Graham. A blackness that wanted to pull him back and back and back –.

 

What did that say about him?

What did it say about what Graham had really seen in the boy in the painting?

What did it say about Josh in the here and now, alone and naked and shivering in front of this enormous painting?

He had no idea how long he stood there, looking at the moonlit outline of his own body being swallowed by the night. It seemed like forever.

And then he felt a warmth behind him, the length of a hard, naked body against his back, strong arms wrap around him and pull him close. Josh did not resist the touch, but he did not lean back into it either. The moonlight was growing weaker. He stood still, continuing to stare at the painting as the night seemed to eat it away.

“What is it?” Scott asked finally, nuzzling into his neck.

But Josh stood still and stiff. He did not answer. He could not speak at all.

Scott didn’t ask again, just held him quietly for a while longer. Then Josh felt a quick, soft kiss on the back of his neck, and Scott’s arms dropped away, and the warmth of Scott’s body behind his back vanished into the night.

He was alone again.

Alone.

Like the boy in the painting.

And the blackness was blacker, and deeper, and the room was colder, and the scent of the ocean was the loneliest thing in the world.

He could drown in it.

But before he could, Scott was there again, and this time, when he wrapped his arms around Josh, he had, as well, the duvet from their bed. He drew it silently around both of them, pulling Josh close so that they were skin to skin and enveloped in cotton and down and the heat and the heady scent of their own bodies. For a long while, Scott just stood there, holding him, silent.

Until Josh began to shake.

It was then that Scott turned him slowly away from the painting, and towards the window, to the real night, the real sky, the real ocean. And Josh could see the moon, white and brilliant in the black sky, and the dark shadow where water met air, and the magic bits of silver reflected from ice grey ocean waves.

Josh stared out into it, thinking of this quiet, certain man who loved him, thinking because he could not stop thinking, of what he had suffered for another man who had not. Close now to the open window, though protected from the frigid air, he could hear the faint pounding of waves, smell the moon-soaked winter air.

“Tell me,” Scott said finally. “It will be better if you tell me.”

He sounded so very certain.

Josh thought about how to say this.

“Matt told me something else,” he said finally.

Scott said nothing, simply pulled him closer.

“He told me he was with Graham.”

Now Josh felt Scott tense behind him. There was a part of him that knew he should turn, comfort, explain that the pain he was feeling was not the pain Scott feared. He couldn’t do that. He could accept Scott standing there, listening, but the only way he could talk at all was to talk to the ocean, to the night.

“Graham fucked around. I always knew that. He didn’t even try to keep it secret. Said it was just about sex, not about me. I was his muse. I was different.”

Josh laughed bitterly.

“Sometimes I’d even have to meet them. They were older mostly, guys he’d known for a long time. They were from all over, Europe, Canada, the US. They’d stay with him a few days. Agents, artists, writers, dealers...“

He looked out at the night.

“The thing is... I very rarely slept at the farm. I didn’t like it, and for some reason he was ok with that. I modeled for him there, but I didn’t stay there. When he wanted... to be with me, he came here. He said he liked to keep the studio separate.”

Josh stopped. This was so unfair. He was hurting Scott, who was standing so very rigid behind him, holding himself hard in check.

But Scott seemed to know what he was thinking.

“It’s okay,” he said, as the silence stretched out. “I can deal with this. We can deal with this.”

“I just didn’t let myself think about it,” Josh said finally. “It was like it didn’t seem to have anything to do with me. But the thing is...he took Matt to the farm. He wanted to fuck him and he took him to the farm, and Matt – .”

“Matt what?” asked Scott finally.

“Matt said no.” It came out on a sob.

“He was 18, Scott. The same age I was. He was 18, and Graham wanted to fuck him, and Matt said no, and –”

“And what?”

“And Graham stopped. He stopped! Matt said no, and Graham stopped. He didn’t make him, didn’t force him. They fooled around a bit on Matt’s terms, and then Graham took him back to campus and Matt just avoided him after that.”

Josh was shaking. His voice faded to nothing.

He felt Scott’s arms tighten around him, pulling the duvet closer still so that the length of his skin and bone and muscle became a hard anchor against the blackness that threatened. Josh felt Scott‘s strength like those great shield rocks of his Muskoka boyhood. His embrace was firm and without compromise; it was an embrace he could lean back into and never fall.

“I said no,” said Josh in a voice that sounded small even in his own ears. “I said no and he didn’t stop. He never stopped. He –”

He couldn’t say it. He didn’t know how. He allowed himself to lean back against the warm, hard body behind him and closed his eyes. He felt tears running down his cheeks, his jaw.

How had Matt, at 18, been able to avoid what Joshua had endured, simply by saying no? What was it about Josh that had allowed Graham to do what he had done? What had made Josh forgive him, again and again and again?

He’d always told himself it was because he had been so young.

But Matt had been the same age and Matt had said no.

He felt Scott press against him, the sheer mass of Scott’s muscular body, the warmth of Scott’s bare skin, solid and real against his back, his spine. Josh stiffened, afraid to trust completely. There were things Scott didn’t know, didn’t understand. Things Graham had done to him, things Josh had allowed. Not just to his body, but to his heart, to who he was.

The harder he tried to pull away, the closer Scott pulled him, rubbing his cheek against the top of Josh’s head.

“It’s okay,” Scott whispered, dipping and placing a soft, careful kiss on the side of Josh’s neck, underneath Josh’s ear. “Whatever it is, there’s nothing we can’t make good.”

“But you don’t understand. I let him,” said Josh. “I let him. Matt didn’t. He said no and he meant no and Graham listened. He was 18, and I was 18, and I said no, and he didn’t listen to me. I said no. But Matt meant no. He meant it. Didn’t I mean it? How did he know? He didn’t listen... He let Matt go but he didn’t let me go. I let him. I–”

“You didn’t let him do anything. He just wanted so much more from you, and he took it,” said Scott softly. Soothingly.

“You don’t understand. I let him. I said no, but I let him. I went back. He – raped me.”

Josh was crying hard now, and trying hard to pull away.

Scott did not let him go. Instead, he turned Josh in his arms so they were chest to chest, and tucked Josh’s head under his chin, rocked him slowly.

“I know he raped you. You didn’t have to tell me. I figured that out almost from the beginning.”

“But I went back. Again and again. I went back.”

“You need help with this,” said Scott firmly. “Maybe more help that I can give you. It doesn’t matter. We’ll get that. We’ll get whatever you need, do whatever it takes.”

Josh felt himself relax a little, lean into Scott. “You knew? You don’t think I’m...” How could he put that into words?

“I think you’re very strong,” said Scott. “Stronger than you know. In the end, you didn’t just walk away, you threw the bastard out. And then you spent a long time alone, working it all out. You still have a way to go, but you’ll get there. You have to trust yourself.”

“But I–“

“No buts,” said Scott firmly. “Think about it. You didn’t go out looking for another guy like Graham. There’s no pattern, no repetition. Nothing that you’re still looking for from someone like him.”

Scott held him close inside the duvet, as if it were a shield that could keep their warmth in, the world out. “You’ve chosen me,” he said fiercely. “And I will keep you safe.”

Scott sounded so certain, so very certain, that Josh allowed himself, finally, to fall into the safety of those arms.

He allowed himself to believe.

***
The dream was a familiar one.

Luc was waiting for Daniel’s soccer game to finish. Parents and younger children lined the perimeter of the field, watching intently. Luc sat on the grass alone, separate. It was early evening and the sun was low in the sky, breaking through the trees in dark, mottled shadows. Daniel was the only boy who did not have a parent watching. He said he didn’t care, but Luc knew it wasn’t true. Daniel cared very much.

Luc didn’t like soccer. He’d been an acceptable player– the twins had made sure he was reasonably competent at most sports – but now, at 13, a growth spurt had made him suddenly tall and gangly and disconnected from his feet. He’d never been as graceful as Daniel, but now running was clumsy and awkward and he could never connect with the ball. Even the twins couldn’t coach or encourage him to decent play.

That clumsiness had never happened to Daniel. Though only 12, and already taller and much larger than Luc, he had never lost his superb coordination. Even on this team of 14 year olds, he was a star player.

Luc was reading – the first volume of The Lord of the Rings. The part of him that knew this was a dream shuddered; he knew how this must go. In this dream, he was always reading the first volume. Always at the same place: Frodo at the Ford, losing the battle against the embedded knife tip.

So Frodo was fading, and the river was rising, and in his dream Luc looked up from his book to check on the progress of the game. That was when it happened. The way it always happened.

In that instant, looking up, Luc was suddenly aware of a boy, running.

Just that.

A boy.

Running.

This sudden awareness was unlike anything Luc had ever before experienced. His breath caught at the sheer and sudden beauty of it. He was moved, deeply, profoundly, in a way that was completely new to him. He didn’t understand – and yet he knew, in that instant of perfect grace, that everything he was and everything in his world had somehow shifted.

That it was Daniel, and that Daniel was running toward him with the grace of victory, was almost incidental. What Luc saw running toward him was the boy who haunted his most secret, most private dreams. The perfect, golden boy, beautiful and strong, with the sunlight dancing in his golden hair.

Luc could only look up, and wait for him, wait...

And then it was another time, another place.

Luc was in a room, on a bed, and as is the way of dreams it was sometimes Daniel’s room and Daniel’s bed, and sometimes Luc’s own room, Luc’s own bed. Daniel’s room was bathed in the pale light of a winter afternoon, and smelled of surprise and wonder and newly washed boy. Luc’s room was bathed in candlelight, and smelled of hurt and want and beeswax.

Luc was spread across the bed, at once in Daniel’s room in the winter afternoon and in his own room in candlelight. His skin was bare, and he was lost in it all, in the touching and the breathing and the wonderful, wonderful warmth of being held, cared for, wanted. The hands that caressed him were at once Daniel’s hands, clumsy and urgent and beautiful, and Scott’s hands, slow and careful and beautiful.

Luc buried his face in a shoulder, Daniel’s shoulder, Scott’s shoulder, and let himself go in the wonder of it. Large, strong hands touched him lovingly, clumsy hands, careful hands, sliding down his chest, his hips, and lower, lower, uncertain now, but brave, so very brave.

He could hear Daniel’s voice in his ear – God Luc, Oh God Luc – desperate and wanting.

And Scott’s voice too, deeper, more controlled. A man’s voice.

Daniel’s voice...

And then his own hand, daring that once and forever trip, slowly, uncertainly, gliding over hot skin, smooth skin.

And the trembling voice, Scott’s voice –Like this, like this – and fingers wrapping around his hand, guiding him, guiding–

The part of Luc that was real and aware and knew this was a dream, tried, as he always tried, to stop there, to warn his dreaming self.

Wake up!

But Luc dreaming would not listen. Luc dreaming trembled and wanted and loved. He was with Daniel, Daniel, so brave, so wild. Daniel as he once was, as he was meant to be, his caresses warm and clumsy and magical. Daniel as he should have become, so graceful and strong and sure. Making Luc feel ... like that, like that.

Luc wanted to be in this instant forever. Forever.

Lying beneath Daniel’s large boy’s body, Luc was trembling and acquiescent to Daniel’s urging, looking into Daniel’s eyes, lost in Daniel’s bravery and wildness and certainty. For an instant it was all right, all good, there beneath Daniel...

And then he was lying beside Scott, and the hands on his body were Scott’s hands, and the eyes looking into his eyes were Scott’s eyes. Scott’s eyes were troubled, and Scott didn’t seem certain at all. Luc couldn’t bear it. He wanted the uncertainty to go away. He wanted Scott to be certain as Daniel had been certain, that winter afternoon. He wanted Scott to be Daniel...

He closed his eyes tight, and even though he know it was not real, could never be real, even though he knew it was only a dream, and a dream that could only go bad, he willed Scott’s hands to be Daniel’s hands. Daniel’s hands.

And the dream shifted again, as Luc knew it must.

A winter afternoon, still, that pale cold light. But Luc was no longer in Daniel’s room, no longer warm and safe, skin on skin. Now, the winter afternoon filled a school yard, snow scraped away from the black asphalt, snow piled up, snow hardened into banks of sand-sullied ice.

Daniel was moving in the winter afternoon, but this time he was not running towards Luc. This time he was walking away. He was still so beautiful that Luc’s breath caught, and he was stabbed with the perfect grace of his movements.

In his dream, Luc began to run, icy wind on his face. Daniel was there, just there, just beyond his reach. He tried to call out–

Daniel!

But no words come. In his head, he’s crying, screaming, begging, but the winter afternoon is silence, overflowing with frozen air.

Daniel. I love you. I love you.

Nothing.

He stretches out his hand, reaches out for Daniel’s arm, the arm that had held him so close, so safe...

Wake up! Wake up!

But Luc dreaming can’t wake up. Luc dreaming won’t wake up– even though he knew what would happen next. Luc dreaming knew the deeper truths, as one sometimes does in dreams. He knew that this is the only way left for him to be with Daniel, and that he must endure.

Even though he also knew that Daniel would turn on him, against him.

Break him.

He reached out, touched Daniel’s arm, braced himself for what he knew would come next, what always came next. The cursed knife is buried too deep in this dream, and there is no magic that can turn it away. The river would rise, but in the end it would drown them both.

Luc dreaming tightened his hand on Daniel’s arm. Daniel tried to pull away, but Luc grabbed on to the fabric of his jacket.

Daniel turned. His eyes were filled with terror. His face contorted with fear.

Luc dreaming fisted his hand on Daniel’s sleeve. His grip was tight and fierce; he would never let go. He tried to say It’s okay, I understand, I understand.

Even though he didn’t understand.

Even though Daniel didn’t understand.

And when Daniel lashed out, as Luc dreaming knew he would, all Luc could say was non.

Non!

Though he was trying to yell, all that emerged from his mouth was a small, frozen sound.

Whispered.

Helpless.

And then was Luc spinning, falling, soundless, and his hand–

His hand.

“Luc.”

In his dream, Luc froze. This was new. Another voice, cutting through the horror. Another voice–

“Luc.”

More clearly now.

And then a touch to his forehead, the graze of fingers brushing back his hair, against his cheek.

Luc turned his face so that his cheek curved into it. The fingers against his skin were warm and still and strong and unbelievably gentle.

Luc’s own hand screamed and pulsed in agony.

“Luc, Luc.”

His name over and over.

And slowly, slowly, Luc realized that he was awake, and that the voice in his ear was a real voice, and that the hand curved gently around his cheek was a real hand.

Matt’s voice.

Matt’s hand.

And then there were fingers wiping tears from his cheeks – because the agony in his hand was real, too.

“Luc, “Matt said, his voice a little louder, a little more urgent. “Wake up. I’ve brought you some tablets. I need you to sit up and take them.”

Luc opened his eyes. Matt was sitting on the edge of his bed, his bare chest glowing in the light that spilled in from the hall. Luc could see the concern, the caring, in the handsome face. Something in him drank it in.

His hand was screaming. He tried to move it, but the pain was so intense, he cried out.

Matt slipped an arm around his shoulder and helped him sit up.

“Take this now,” he said firmly, putting a tablet in his mouth, holding a glass of water. Luc swallowed obediently.

“Another,” said Matt. And Luc swallowed that, too.

The tears running down his face were no longer about the dream. “Hand,” he said, and even to his own ears the sound was small and pathetic. “Hurts.”

Matt eased him back against the pillow. Luc felt the pain shooting in waves from his fingers to his elbow. He bit his lip and tasted blood.

He felt Matt’s fingers gentle against the back of his hand, pushing back the too-long shirt he wore to bed.

“I think you need to relax your hand,” Matt said. “Let go of the fist.”

Luc followed Matt’s eyes, and only then realized that his hand was indeed clenched in a tight fist. He tried to relax it, but couldn’t. The muscles were too tight, beyond his control

“Spasm” he said. “Can’t.”

Matt wrapped both his hands gently around the clenched fist. “Tell me what to do,” he said. His voice was calm and quiet.

“Rub,” Luc managed. “Gently.”

Luc closed his eyes, tried to force his hand to relax as Matt rubbed the poor, desperate fist between his hands. At first, he could not unclench his fist. Gradually, Luc was aware of the pain medication taking hold, but it was the warmth of Matt’s hands, the slow, gentle movements, that finally eased the spasming muscles of his fingers.

He let out a sigh.

“Better?” Matt asked, his hands still moving slowly, gently.

“Some,” Luc said.

“Has this ever happened before?”

“A few times,” Luc admitted. “Not this bad. But I knew it could happen.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t have been playing,” Matt said.

Luc looked into Matt’s worried face, and, for a moment, said nothing. He knew it wasn’t the playing; it was his fist clinging to Daniel’s jacket. How could he ever explain that?

“You can’t push yourself too hard,” said Matt.

Matt sounded so concerned that Luc found himself thinking about it, the way it had felt to have his fingers on the keys, even for a few notes, a few chords. And he thought of how it had felt to know Matt had been standing there, listening.

“It was worth it,” he said. “Just to know what’s possible.”

“Can you have done damage?” Matt asked, still massaging Luc’s fingers.

Luc’s hand was almost fully relaxed now, his fingers open between Matt’s palms. “I don’t think so,” he said.

“When do you see your physiotherapist again?”

“Next week.”

“Not soon enough,” said Matt. “Promise me you’ll call him in the morning to ask.”

Luc promised.

The medication began to take hold, and Luc felt himself grow drowsier. Matt’s hands were warm and comforting. His eyelids felt heavy.

“Hey, you,” said Matt softly. “You’re falling asleep.”

Luc tried to smile.

Matt placed Luc’s wounded hand carefully in the centre of Luc’s chest, then slowly withdrew his own hands. He bent over, kissed Luc’s forehead.

“Night,” he said softly.

“Night,” said Luc, feeling inexplicably sad.

He stayed very still, feeling the numbing wash of medication and following Matt out of the room with his eyes. Matt flicked off the hall light, and the room was plunged into darkness. Luc was alone again.

Abandoned.

Remembering that it was not just the pain in his hand that had awakened him.

“Matt?” His voice was lonely in the dark. He listened for the sound of Matt returning, and he didn’t feel so alone.

“Yeah? Everything ok? You need something?”

Luc swallowed hard. He didn’t know why he wanted this so much – why he needed it.

Or why he felt that Matt needed it, too.

“Would you – would you stay with me?” he asked. “Just – for a while?”

“Sure.” Matt’s voice was quiet. Luc heard him cross the room, felt him sit on the side of his bed. “I’ll sit here until you fall asleep,” he said.

Luc took a deep breath and shifted over. “Would you – would you hold me?” he asked.

The silence was a dozen breaths long.

“You sure?”

Luc heard the strange catch in his voice. “Please,” he whispered.

Matt moved to lie beside him, on top of the duvet.

“No,” said Luc. “Get in with me. You’ll be cold.”

He heard the quick, hard intake of Matt’s breath, and, for a moment, thought that Matt would refuse. Then Matt moved away from him, and there was an instant of cool air as the duvet was pulled back, and then Matt’s body was next to his.

“Come here, then,” Matt whispered in the darkness.

Luc went, and Matt drew him in.

Matt was wearing only pj bottoms, and the bare skin of his chest felt cool beneath Luc’s hand, beneath his cheek. The beat of his heart, however, was strong and comforting. As Matt drew the duvet up around the two of them, Luc pressed close and curled his wounded hand carefully in the centre of Matt’s chest.

Luc was barely conscious now, and vaguely aware that Matt was trembling. He had no idea what that meant. What he did know was that at this moment, he needed Matt – and that some way, somehow, Matt needed him, too. He settled himself, turned his head, and dropped a sleepy kiss onto the warming skin beneath his cheek.

“Matt?” he said sleepily.

“Mm?”

“They’re wrong, you know.”

“Who’s wrong?”

“Scott and Josh.”

“About what?”

“ About you,” Luc whispered fiercely. “ They don’t know you at all.”

Luc felt Matt’s arms tighten around him, and the night and the medication and the powerful beat of Matt’s heart combined to lull him to sleep.