Double Your Age - 4. Chapter 2 - Scarlet

A streak of sunlight seared across Rich’s face through a crack in the curtain. Moaning, he turned over. Although his body demanded it of him, he did not go back to sleep. He wouldn’t allow it. Not a single night had passed where he didn’t dream of that fateful day, three months short of a year prior, when his life had been turned upside down. Drifting back to sleep would mean revisiting those images, succumbing to the night terrors yet again. When would he know peace? He hadn’t been able to rest at his own house, at his parents’, at his best friend Elle’s, when he’d come to her at his worst, broken down and disheveled, looking for solace and shelter. And now, in his uncle’s guestroom, where he’d found himself after he’d cried all his energy out, and Evelyn had carried him, weary, up the stairs.

The sun burned bright that day, too. So bright that merely glancing at the blanket of snow outside would leave one temporarily blinded. The fire in the living room was still crackling with the last of the embers, its heat slowly fading. Rich clutched a mug of hot chocolate, bringing it to his face and blowing, its contents too hot to drink. He looked again at his watch. Where had Quentin gone this early in the morning, and why hadn’t he returned already? It wasn’t like him. Rich found himself pacing the room, occasionally picking up a book to read, only to find he couldn’t concentrate. There was no other entertainment in the room, and that was the way they’d wanted it – just a quiet lodge, where they could focus on each other, and nothing else.

Rich walked up to the window. To say the landscape outside was picturesque would be to do it a disservice. Observing the window from afar, one could mistake it for a painting, if not for the almost imperceptible movement of chairlifts on the southern face of the mountain opposite. A singular cloud floated across the valley, serene and harmless. He stepped outside onto the front porch, tightening the belt on his robe. Down in the village, the first signs of life were starting to appear. There was the bakery from which they’d bought a fresh sourdough boule on the day of their arrival, and next to it the deli where they’d stood over the counter, looking at the endless selection of cold cuts and preserved meats. The chalets they’d passed on the way to the gondola were topped with a perfect layer of icing following the prior night’s snowfall.

He looked at his watch. The church bells would chime shortly. And yet, Quentin had not yet returned. The chocolate was cold now. Shivering, Rich made his way back into the lodge.

Just then, he heard the crunching of snow coming from over the hill by the side of the lodge. A grey helmet emerged, and then Quentin’s figure followed. He was dressed as though returning from an Antarctic expedition; heavy, fluorescent orange parka with a fur-lined hood, pink-lensed photochromatic goggles, and heavy-duty mittens. Hoisting himself up over the hill, he found his boyfriend running to him, dressed only in a robe and sunglasses.

“Quentin! Where the heck did you go?”

“Hey, hey, calm down! What’s all this about? I just went on a little hike, that’s all!” Quentin prised his boyfriend off him.

“I woke up when it was dark and you were gone. Do you think I like waking up in an empty bed and worrying about you?”

“Come on now, Rich. You knew I was going out for an early morning hike. I told you that yesterday. Or the day before – I think.” Rich shoved him, and Quentin laughed. “Hey, look, I’m sorry. You don’t have to worry about me, OK? I know these mountains. I’ve been coming out here since before I even said my first words.” Rich softened in his arms. “Come on, let’s get some breakfast in us and hit the slopes.”

*

Quentin gave his hair a shake after removing his helmet. The dark strands of his fringe were wet, plastered against his flushed, snowy complexion. Rich looked around. It was a queer place; the design was Tyrolean, and game hung from the walls, although hunting had been banned in this place for many years. Quentin summoned a waiter to their booth. “One croissant please, and a latte.”

“I don’t think their croissants are going to be any good, Quentin.”

“And why’s that?”

“I mean – look around.” Quentin swiveled his head, feigning that it was is first time here and that he was enthralled by it all. “Oh stop it!” Rich reached across the table and shoved Quentin’s chest, who, giggling, acted as though he’d been shot.

“Trust me darling,” Quentin put on a faux posh accent, “the croissants here are delightful.”

Quentin hadn’t been wrong; it was the best croissant Rich had ever had. There was so much Quentin knew that he didn’t – not just about this place, the country, the village, this particular brasserie, or about snowboarding – at which he was far more skilled than Rich – but about everything. Before Rich had even stepped aboard his first flight – which itself was the result of Quentin’s influence – Quentin had seen the world. Before Rich had heard a foreign language spoken in person, Quentin had learnt two. And before Rich had known love, Quentin had loved and lost. Here, seated in front of him, was a man who, despite having seen it all, despite having lived a depth of experience deeper than Rich could dream of, had chosen him. Four years in, and it still did not cease to amaze Rich.

There was no reason to be wary or fearful of anything that day. The sun’s rays lay a blanket of reassurance over the mountains. Yes, Rich could barely complete a blue run without falling over. Yes, he’d have to watch as Quentin expertly made his way down the hill at full speed, throwing in the occasional jump, to the delight of onlookers, and accept that he couldn’t ever hope to match his prowess. But this was their time; a time to bask in each others’ company. A time to be alone and apart from the world, to be away from Quentin’s unaccepting father, to be away from the stresses of Rich’s academic obligations, to be away from everything. A time to let loose on the slopes, to feel freedom rushing over their faces; the freedom they’d lacked growing up, which did not materialize as they got older, but transformed into something different altogether.

And yet hours later, on that same, fateful day, the person lying still, motionless, behind a morass of people, their brightly-colored neon attire mockingly forming a ring of color around a tree on the edge of the piste they’d descended many times, and whose blood turned the pristine snow scarlet, the rays of sun saturating the cruel painting, was this person for whom he’d give up anything, and left Rich on his knees, begging, pleading, and indeed offering anything and everything, his life, his limbs, for him to be okay.

And yet all the pleading did nothing, and scarlet sank down to the earth, and stained it forever.

*

Rich sat upright in bed, his chest heaving, trying with all his might to prevent another downpour of tears. It had been nine months; two hundred and seventy-eight days, and yet the pain still felt fresh. He hated himself for coming back here; and yet, he hadn’t predicted just how intense the pain of revisiting this place would be. This town, where they had met, where he shared a life with Quentin. He couldn’t avoid it forever, but he’d thought that enough time had passed, that enough pages of the calendar had turned.

It hadn’t.

The ray of sun had turned into a beam, curlicues of dust swirling softly within. Rich wanted to shut it out. He wanted to lie in darkness, counting the days until hunger, thirst, anything, took his life and he could pass the threshold, when he could see Quentin again. But first, he needed to leave this place. Dying was one thing, but drowning in agony was another, and this place was a black ocean without end. Yet he could barely muster the energy to move out of bed.

Just then, the door cracked open.

An unsolicited gasp emerged from Rich’s throat. It was Jonathan; the last person he’d expect. The room was still dark, a relief to Rich, who did not want to be seen in this state. He had a notion to hide his face, but instead wiped his cheeks with his forearms, and sat upright. “Jonathan?”

The boy did not reply. Standing there, alone, his silhouette painted against the doorway, he had a presence that felt different to when Rich had seen him with his family. He stood with a demeanor and posture that belied his age, like something inside him was holding him upright. Strangely, both his hands were behind his back.

He took two steps forward.

Now, he was three paces from the foot of the bed. He turned his head towards the beam of sunlight, his eyes tracing its line from window to solid hardwood floor. Rich looked for a hint of what he thought he saw the previous afternoon, that aura, the figment of his imagination, the manifestation of his delusion, but it was too dark. Would the boy ever speak? What did he want from him? What did he make of his presence in his home? They felt like questions Rich would never have the answer to. Until –

“Left or right?”

His voice was deeper than Rich had expected; deeper even than Adrian’s. It seemed incongruous with his small body.

“Excuse me?” Rich spoke after clearing his throat and processing the situation. The boy said nothing, continuing to stand in the middle of the room, hands behind his back. When Rich realized he wouldn’t get anything else out of him, he said, “left.”

Jonathan tilted his head slightly, cracking his left cheek with his tightened lips as though to say, I know you heard me, you just needed to hear me again. He approached Rich, pulling his left hand out from behind him, and presented him with a brown paper bag. Rich felt his presence as he stood by the bedside table, heavy and nostalgic. He accepted the bag tentatively, and watched as the boy walked backwards towards the door. Looking inside the oil-stained bag, he found a singular croissant.

“Wait –” he whispered, not sure whether he really wanted Jonathan to stay. By the time he’d repeated, Jonathan, whose right hand was still behind his back, was under the doorframe. “What’s in your right hand?”.

Jonathan had already closed the door before he’d finished the sentence.