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(four days since ground zero)
Michael’d had to go home. Finally. Briefly.
The nurses had tried to make him leave, after the first forty-eight hours, and that hadn’t worked, but on the morning of the fourth day James had blinked bruised eyes at him and written, on a pad of paper that Ian had brought up at Michael’s hurried text-message request, You look tired. You should sleep.
“I don’t need to sleep,” he’d tried to argue, “I need to be here,” and James had sighed, still soundlessly, the absence of noise carving slices out of Michael’s soul, and added, You can’t help me if you pass out on the hospital floor from exhaustion. And I’ll feel better knowing you’re taking care of yourself, too.
“You—that’s not fair, you know.”
Oh, I know.
“I love you.”
Love you, too. Go on. I’ll be fine.
“Are you sure?”
No, but that’s okay. Not sure about very much, right now.
“James—”
Except you. I’m sure about you. Which is why I need you to go home and sleep and be all right. Please.
“You—I—all right. Still not playing fair, though.”
At which point James had drawn a happy face, and a lopsided heart, and then had written their initials inside it, and smiled up at him. It wasn’t a smile he recognized—too many ghosts, behind those eyes—but James was clearly attempting to make him smile back.
So he’d let the attempt become a success.
“Oh…so now you’ve turned into a thirteen-year-old girl….did I miss something important? I don’t remember that being a side effect of your morphine.”
That’d got an eye-roll, and then James tore off the sheet of paper, turned it into an airplane, and threw it at his head. Missed.
“All right, all right, I’m going. I’m sending Patrick and Ian up here to keep you company, and then I’m going. I’ll be back in a few hours, though. I promise. Okay?”
Yes.
“Okay.”
And also you should eat something!
“Yes, dear,” Michael had said, and escaped out the door before James could throw something else at him.
He’d picked up James’s ridiculous paper airplane, on the way out. Had leaned against the wall, in the beige placidity of the unremarkable hospital corridor, and touched the lines of pen against paper, their initials inside that crooked heart. The tears had warmed his eyes, when he’d closed them.
Matthew’d given him a ride back to their hotel, where he’d walked through the doors and realized that they were still staying in a hotel, because they were still in Los Angeles, in California, where they’d just meant to spend the weekend and the party. They weren’t at home. Of course they had their shared flat, back in London; that domestic space felt like a lifetime ago. Another country. It was.
James would probably want to go home, eventually, but he couldn’t imagine that James would want to walk through an airport. Or be trapped on a plane with strangers.
He’d been too worn out, too weary with grief and anger and the physical toll of the ordeal, to find an answer, immediately. He’d stumbled into their bedroom, and collapsed on top of the bed fully clothed, and then realized that it’d been neatly made, because the housekeepers had come by during the interlude, because that was what housekeepers did when guests forgot the do-not-disturb sign on their doors. They made the bed, in blissful ignorance of the ruin of the world.
There’d been no trace of James left, in their bed. Not even the scent of that ludicrous apple shampoo on a pillow.
He’d lurched upright, frantically. Even the closet doors were closed, imperturbable barriers that hid any reminders of James’s presence away from him; he’d nearly tumbled off the bed, staring wildly around the room. Had finally discovered a pair of James’s stupid fingerless gloves, the brown-black pair that covered up his thumbs and were utterly useless for anything practical, sitting on a side table.
He’d picked them up. Run his fingers over the wool. The coarse fabric had welcomed his touch; the gloves missed James, too. Had been left empty, without exuberant hands to fill all the spaces inside.
Still clutching the abandoned woolen scraps in one hand, he’d fallen back into the bed that didn’t smell like James, and the pillowcases had been cold against his face, and then wet, and then he’d slid into sleep, in the midst of the exhaustion and the tears.
He’d woken up hours later, to the golden gleam of late-afternoon sunbeams, after far longer than he’d planned. Had hated his body for betraying him, even as he grabbed his phone and checked for messages, heart pounding.
Two messages. From three hours ago. From Ian: I’m expecting you’re asleep and therefore you should NOT reply to this, but for when you wake up: James is doing well. Sleeping at the moment. Patrick read to him for a while before that. He has been a bit cold; bring a sweater?
The second message, sent immediately after, said Patrick says I might have worried you with the last question. Not an urgent request! Stay asleep! James still is. :- )
Michael stared at his phone. Spent a minute processing all the reactions, from oh god I’ve been asleep all DAY to James is still here to James is cold, do something NOW to Ian should never be allowed to use inappropriately happy faces in text messages ever.
Right. Not urgent, Ian’d said. James was still sleeping. He might have time to shower. He very much needed to change clothing, at least.
His stomach grumbled at him, as he got up. Evidently it had decided to reassert certain priorities, too. Normality. How strange.
He showered as quickly as he could and made a sandwich and had to admit, reluctantly, that he felt better afterwards. Clean, anyway. And awake again, and not hungry. James would probably appreciate him being clean and awake and not hungry.
He studied the mysteries of James’s side of the closet. Wondered why James owned so many sweaters; the choice should have been simple, and wasn’t, or maybe the difficulty was only in his own head. Thought, warm, and picked up the heavy blue cardigan that presented itself, alluringly. James liked that one. Wore it frequently in the mornings, on cold and rainy days.
Today wasn’t a rainy day. But it should’ve been.
Okay, he thought, and breathed in, and texted Ian back—On my way! With sweater! If he’s awake tell him I love him—and ran out the door.
When he arrived, Ian was just tiptoeing out, closing the heavy weight of the hospital door behind him.
“Are you leaving? Why are you leaving?”
“Well, you look better…” Pale eyes twinkled at him, far too calmly, Michael decided, for the situation. “And I’m not leaving. Or perhaps I am, now; Patrick’s sitting with him, and I was rather hoping to find some tea for us, but if you’re back we can let you two have some time alone.”
“You—yes. Thank you. I’m sorry.”
“Oh, no, please don’t worry.” Ian rested a hand on his shoulder. Squeezed, briefly, a gesture of support. “Anything you need.”
“Thank you.” Again. Horrifyingly, he found himself near tears, at the words, at the warmth, at the unconditional promise.
“Of course. You should go in; he’s missed you. He’s been sleeping, on and off, and he looks for you, every time he wakes up. We showed him your text, so he’s probably rather impatient, by now. And—oh, no, I shouldn’t say that, never mind.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Please.”
“No, I’m not supposed to tell you. He wanted it to be a surprise, and I am planning to go acquire tea before I say anything else I shouldn’t, and you can send Patrick out here as well, because I’d quite like to hold his hand for a while. So do go on.”
Michael took a deep breath. Avoided Ian’s benevolent gaze, with all the irritating suggestions that he knew something Michael didn’t, and pushed open the door. “Hey.”
Both Patrick and James looked up; Michael only had eyes for one of them. The entire room got brighter, with the force of James’s smile.
“Well,” Patrick observed, “I think my presence here is superfluous, at the moment; call me if you need us, hmm?” But he was smiling, too, as he left. And the brightness stayed omnipresent, filling up the air.
James kept gazing at him, as if the sight could ease hidden tensions somewhere inside; Michael held out blue fluff and offered, “Sweater?” and amusement joined all the relief, in those glorious eyes.
He sat down in Patrick’s vacated chair, and smiled, too. “How’re you?”
The sapphire eyes sparkled at him, at the question, with something that was nearly anticipation, and Michael opened his mouth to ask, and James said, very clearly, “I love you.”
The words blossomed, in the sudden stillness. Grew brilliant profusions of color, and enthusiasm, and life.
Michael realized his mouth had stayed open. Closed it. Opened it again. Didn’t have any sounds yet.
James grinned. “So…surprise?”
“Yes…oh, god, yes. James…”
It wasn’t the voice he’d loved, not quite, only slightly above a whisper, and roughly forcing its way past torn tissue and bruises. It was a single note, not a complex symphony.
But it was still James talking to him. Everything else would come back, in time. All at once he almost believed that.
“When did you…are you sure you should be…is everything…healed enough?”
“This morning.” James lifted one hand, touched his throat, made a wry face. “It hurts…but not that much. They said I could. Just not for too long. Getting better, though. Slowly.”
“You’re amazing. And…I love you, too. Always, James.”
That smile, again, swift and sweet and lighting up all the shadowy corners of the room; Michael swallowed against the lump in his own throat, and reached for the closest hand, and then paused. “Still okay if I touch you?” He had noticed that Patrick had been carefully keeping a distance.
James nodded. Let Michael take his hand, lacing their fingers together. Shut his eyes, for a second.
“Are you sure this is okay? If you don’t want—”
“You’re fine. Might have to apologize to Patrick, though. Think I scared him.”
“What—”
“I was having a nightmare. Earlier. He touched me. Meant to wake me up. I think I…overreacted.”
“You—I’m sorry. I should’ve been here.”
“No. I’m okay. You needed rest. You do look better.”
“You sound better.” James squeezed his hand, for that. “Actually, I, um. I had a question for you.” He’d been thinking about the problem of accommodations, in the back of his head, ever since he’d woken up. Had had an idea, on the way back to the cool white expanse of the hospital, under the sunlight.
“Would you want…I know it’s going to be a couple of weeks before you can leave here—” James made a face, at that. “—sorry. But it is. But, um. I was thinking I should look for a house for us out here.”
James started to say something. Stopped, looking thoughtful. Michael could guess those thoughts; they were the same ones he’d been having, about the distance back to London and the noisy bustle of airports and the wistful desire to go home.
“Not necessarily permanent. We could rent, or something. Until you’re—until you feel ready to go back home. But…and also I was thinking probably not a flat—um, apartment—or condo, or anything. Nothing with neighbors. Would you—do you want to think about it?”
James squeezed his hand again, and looked like he might be about to speak, and then a knock rattled into their private moment.
Michael glared at the door, and at the intruder who’d opened it. Except the intruder was wearing a police uniform, and trailed by a very apologetic nurse.
“I’m sorry, he asked if he could see you and—”
“Hello,” James murmured, as politely as if the disturbance were actually welcome, and the man blinked, registering the uneven tone of that voice. Suddenly looked a bit abashed, as if hearing all the trauma in the room.
“Ah…good afternoon, Mr McAvoy. Do you have a few minutes? Just to clear up some things about this incident.”
“Incident—”
“Michael…” His name shivered through the air, in James’s hushed voice. It was enough to silence the objections. For now.
James looked up, at the newcomer, eyes outwardly composed. There were ripples beneath the surface, though. Cracks in the gemstone depths. Michael held his hand a little more tightly, and wished, futilely, for something more effective to do.
But he couldn’t change the world by wishing. And the knowledge of that impotence seared like acid under his skin.
James waited for the officer to speak; realized, after a few seconds, that the man was probably waiting for him to talk, since he hadn’t precisely answered the question, after Michael’s interruption. They eyed each other awkwardly across the collision of pauses; James gave up first, because Michael was still glaring and he was starting to worry about the ramifications of unspoken hostilities towards the police.
“How can I help?”
“I just need to ask you a few questions about what happened, if that’s all right.”
“James, you don’t have to—”
“It’s all right.” He still winced, at the sound of his own voice, scraping rawly across bruised flesh. And he had the feeling that this might be a painful conversation in more than one way. “Can I…not talk, though? Write things down?”
“Of course.”
James started looking around for his pad of paper, discovered that he’d used the last of it asking Ian for water, and tried to offer a rueful gesture with his eyebrows: sorry! The officer pulled out his own notepad, tore off some sheets of paper, found a pen, handed them over; James wrote Thank you, and the man looked at him, surprised by the courtesy, and then smiled.
“You’re welcome. The first thing we’d like to know is, what happened at the party? That is, how did you end up in the car?”
He should’ve expected that to be the first question. Sighed, inwardly, because he’d been trying not to think about it. Easier if I show you. Pushed down the sheet, and tugged the flimsy hospital gown around, just enough, not any more than necessary, until the bruising, the needle mark, became visible. Heard Michael, who hadn’t seen that one before, swear, viciously.
“Right, we did check the medical records. We understand you were incapacitated, but before that, how did he get close enough to you for that, do you remember?”
He had to think about that one, for a second. Trying to reconstruct the night, before all the drugs and the fear took over. I went outside—still in the hotel, just out in the hall—to make a phone call. Got lost.
“He always walks around, when he’s on the phone,” Michael said, quietly, maybe trying to help, or to explain, and then looked at James. “You don’t like standing still.” James squeezed his hand. Smiled. Yes.
Then went on, because the man seemed to be waiting for more. So I was trying to find the way back. Walked around a corner. He was…right there.
“Okay, and you let him get close to you?”
“What the hell are you asking?”
James tried to squeeze Michael’s hand again, a warning; punching the police officer in the face wasn’t going to help anything, but Michael was looking angry enough not to care.
It’s fine, I can answer…he said he’d been following me. And I did try to run. Couldn’t. He had to pause there; that awful fear, the black knowledge that he couldn’t get away, couldn’t do anything to save himself, was creeping up again, cold insinuating itself into his bones, under his skin.
“All right. You did have a prior relationship, though, correct?”
“It was fucking abuse, not a relationship!”
“We did read your statement, Mr Fassbender, and—”
We were…having sex. Not a relationship. Maybe ten years ago. No, more like twelve years. For about four months.
“And that ended badly?”
James almost laughed, at the understatement. But even the idea made his throat hurt. And it wasn’t really funny. Yes. I…we were…he took out a knife. When we were in bed. I mean during sex. Told me that he wanted to see me bleed. Because that would make me beautiful.
He could hear Michael cursing, softly; James couldn’t blame him for the profanities. The hand tightened around his. “You never told me that part.”
I didn’t want to remember. Or to make you…I didn’t want you to have to know that. Not when it was over. It hadn’t been over, of course. The bitter taste of panic burned, in his throat. It still wasn’t over; he hurt everywhere, inside and out, new scars pulling him into a different shape, not himself anymore. Not the person he’d thought he’d become, since then.
The ever-helpful blackness hovered at the corners of his vision, offering a retreat into silence. He ignored it, for the moment.
He thought I’d let him do it. I kicked him in the balls. Ran. Never saw him again, until…this.
“I see.” The man was looking a little friendlier, now. Believing him, maybe. “We just needed to know. In these cases, sometimes, you know, especially with this kind of history, some people might wonder whether it was consensual and just got out of hand…”
Consensual? At first the word sounded alien, in his head: confusingly irrelevant, not a part of the situation at all…and then he understood. No. No. They weren’t thinking that, were they? Uninvited, he heard that terrifying voice, one more time, swooping in out of nowhere: you love being fucked, James, I remember that…Did they all think that? Did Michael think that?
He couldn’t hear himself breathing, anymore. Couldn’t feel the pen, or paper, or Michael’s hand, in his.
The darkness suggested, kindly, that he come back into it. Nonjudgmental. Undemanding. No accusations, no implications that he didn’t have the strength to argue against. The velvety quiet asked nothing of him.
He could accept that invitation. Easily.
Michael was shouting, somewhere in the distance, loudly enough for him to hear, even if he couldn’t make sense of the words. Outrage, he thought. Of course Michael would be angry on his behalf. Would try to protect him.
He appreciated the effort, even if it wasn’t going to work. All his walls had come down anyway. Nothing left to defend in the castle. Nothing worth fighting for.
There was a lot of noise, a very emphatic scuffle, and then Michael’s voice, a little too close to his face. “James? James, please! He’s gone, he left, you’re all right, please say something…”
What did Michael want him to say? He couldn’t think of anything. And the dark peacefulness was so simple.
“Oh, fuck, no, James, no, please, oh god, I’m so sorry, I should’ve stopped him earlier, you know that’s not right, what he said, no one believes that, I was there, I saw you, and I love you, please, please, oh, no, James, no, come back, please come back to me, I’m sorry…” And then more incoherent words, some of them profanities, colorful and desperate and self-directed. Michael hating himself for, in his own mind, letting James get hurt. Again.
James stood there, inside his head, and contemplated the peace of nothingness. Right there at his feet. So simple. No more pain.
If he faced the other way, and let himself listen, Michael’s fear came back into focus, excruciatingly real. Needing strength from him. Needing him to feel.
He wasn’t sure he could do that. Too much damage waiting under the surface, if he let himself start feeling things.
But Michael shouldn’t blame himself. That wasn’t true. It wasn’t right. And James couldn’t make himself take that tiny step into serene nothingness and leave Michael alone in pain.
Idiot, he thought, you know how much this is going to hurt, and then he thought, yes, but, and then he opened his eyes.
Michael stopped talking, face shockingly white. Gasped, “James?”
He shook his head—he couldn’t talk, couldn’t think—and then, abruptly, found himself crying. He wasn’t even sure why. He knew the reasons, of course—everything screamed, inside him, everywhere—but not why now. He’d managed not to cry, at all, since waking up, until now.
“Oh, god,” Michael whispered, and started to reach for him, and then hesitated. “Can I—?”
James nodded, and Michael put both arms around him, carefully, as if he thought James might shatter into tiny fragile pieces, broken glass or amber or eggshells, lying splintered among the snow-white hospital sheets. And then held him, while James wept.
“You’re all right,” Michael breathed, holding on, the words warm against his ear. “You’re here, you’re fine, you were so fucking brave, James, I can’t even—and you’re all right, you are, and I love you,” and he could hear, in between the words, Michael battling the tears, and losing, too.
He really didn’t want Michael to cry—actually, he wanted to talk, wanted to say something, I’m all right or did you just punch a policeman in the face for me? or you’re all right, too, and I still like the way your arms feel warm against my back—but he didn’t know how to say anything, yet. And his throat stung, scalded, from the tears.
After a minute he did manage to make something that was almost a sound, and Michael let him go, instantly, obviously afraid to push the embrace a second longer than might be safe, eyes searching his face, frantically. “Are you—did I—what do you need? Just tell me—no, wait, don’t talk—”
James sighed, noiselessly. Looked around for the paper, in the snowdrifts of the sheets. Paused to run a hand across his face, rubbing away water; he felt absolutely exhausted, and empty, and hollow, but also oddly lighter, as if the tears, or maybe the choice—the ability to make a choice, again—had emptied out all the weight from his bones.
Michael found the scraps of paper, first, and the pen, which had ended up wedged between the cushion and the side of the bed; held them out, and his hand shook, small but noticeable tremors, when James smiled, taking them.
Thank you.
“For—”
For everything. For still being here. For letting me cry all over you. Sorry about that; buy you a new shirt? He tried to make an apologetic expression, when Michael gazed at him, looking wounded.
“You think I mind? James, I—”
No, joke. Sorry. Did you actually hit him?
“Um…maybe a little bit?”
James nearly laughed. Raised an eyebrow, instead, and didn’t bother to write this one down: you can’t have hit someone a LITTLE BIT…
“Just once. Not that hard. And it was more of a shove. Really.”
Both eyebrows, this time; Michael sighed. “I wanted to. I didn’t. He left. And—he did apologize. After he saw—after he looked at you. Which is the only reason I didn’t hit him more. All right?”
I appreciate the restraint. Wouldn’t want you to end up in jail. He thought about it for a second, decided that might’ve been too casual, and added, I love you.
“I love you, too. You know, I never knew you could yell at me with your eyebrows…”
I have very talented eyebrows.
Michael tried to say something, got lost in a tangle of laughter and tears, shook his head. “James…”
You didn’t really think me not being able to talk would make your life easier, did you?
“Well…quieter, maybe…for a while…when you say—oh, sorry—um, does your throat hurt? With the—you were crying—I mean, do you need the morphine, or something?”
No. He was unquestionably sure he wouldn’t want drugs, ever again, if he had an option, especially anything that made his head fuzzy and shrouded the world in softening wool. At least pain gave everything sharp and easily recognizable edges. No, just you.
“You have me. Forever.”
I know. He held out the other hand, the one he wasn’t using to write; Michael took it, reverently, as if he were being given something breakable and precious. About your idea, earlier—
“I had an idea?”
About us getting a house? Someplace to stay, out here?
“Oh…James, you know you don’t have to—we don’t need to make any decisions right now, if you aren’t—”
I think I like your idea.