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(eight weeks less one day)
It wasn’t even a proper nightmare. Bizarrely, that was all he could think, waking up. Only blurred images, unclearly lingering sensations, elliptical dread and terror and ill-defined menace. Shouldn’t be this unsettling. Shouldn’t leave him weak and off-balance and breathless as if he’d been running, fruitlessly, in his dreams.
The night was cool, not rainy yet but clouds gathering steadily beyond the window, muffling the world in dull colorless fog. The scents of water and city night and sea-spray in the air. California, in the rain.
James thought about sitting up, for a while. Wasn’t sure he could. When he shifted position, on the sofa, the tendrils of nightmare clung to his thoughts, as sticky and black as oil, and more cold. Dragging him down.
After a few seconds he figured out that at least part of that feeling was a result of the blanket’s cloying attention to his legs. It’d become snarled around him, mummifying, while he’d fought with sleep. He sighed, not out loud because he didn’t want all the fuzzy purple wool to feel guilty, and carefully disentangled the two of them.
Other scents, other sounds, filtered gradually into the world. The heat of the oven, turned on, out in the kitchen. Chicken and spices and the clatter of pans. Michael’s voice, very low but instantly recognizable, that intimate Celtic lilt. Mostly singing, humming when he evidently didn’t recall the words; not a song James knew, but one he found himself wanting to learn nonetheless. Unfamiliar. Familiar anyway. Grounding. Home.
He’d been trying to sleep, in the amber glow of lamplight and living-room refuge, not in a too-large bed in the dark with his dreams. He’d offered to assist with dinner preparations, earlier, but Michael’d caught him unsuccessfully hiding a yawn, and bodily walked him over to the helpful furniture and tucked the blanket around his legs.
“Can you sleep out here? For a while? I know you were awake most of the night and…”
“Maybe yes. Are you sure you don’t need help, though? You know I don’t mind if you want—”
“James, I like cooking for you.” Michael’d touched the corner of the blanket, lightly; then, looking at James’s face, tilted his head, raised an eyebrow: can I?
“Of course you can,” James’d said, and reached out even as Michael lifted the hand, and caught those longing fingers with his, and twined them all together. Saw the answering smile.
“I love you. How do you feel about chicken? And I could do something with the tomatoes? We should use those…before…um. James?”
“Yes?”
“Did you just…kiss my fingers?”
“Maybe yes to that too. Kind of, anyway. Do you mind?” He’d been holding Michael’s hand, as Michael perched on the sturdy couch-arm beside him; their linked hands had been close to his face, when he’d tipped his head back, and he’d thought about protective arms around him in the post-nightmare cold of that morning, and it’d been easy to lean his cheek against those hands, and breathe, lips and exhalations bare millimeters from Michael’s skin.
“Not at all,” Michael’d whispered, “no, I don’t mind, please, James, do it again—if you want to, I mean, if you feel—”
“Right now I might feel good about you and the chicken,” James told him, answering the earlier question instead, and watched sunrise break across the wild Irish heather, those eyes all excited, recognizing the teasing, now.
“Then I should get started,” Michael’d agreed, not quite laughing out loud, joy too intense for that; so James’d held onto his hand a second longer, as he’d gotten up. Had mentally straightened shoulders, and moved that last millimeter after all.
Michael’s skin felt warm, and startled, against his lips; the eyes were warm and startled too, when James glanced up.
“You…that…James…”
“Yes,” James said, “I did that, and I love you, now go make me dinner, you promised me tomatoes, and they’re going to be sad if they don’t get eaten, they need to fulfill their purpose in life,” and Michael had begun laughing, at last, and squeezed his hand, hopping to exuberant feet. Had run off to the kitchen. To make James, and the tomatoes, happy.
He did sit up, finally. Peeked over the back of the couch. The blanket plopped onto his legs, cozily. From this vantage point, he couldn’t see Michael’s face, only the back of his head, that ginger hair, a little too long because Michael’d been letting it grow out; but it’d been short to begin with, and was only now beginning to curl cheerfully around the nape of his neck.
Michael was singing again, now, absentmindedly, comfortably, opening the refrigerator—the head disappeared from James’s view, for a minute, then returned—and setting items on the countertop, pausing mid-verse to admonish, “No, you stay there,” at some sort of escape-artist foodstuff making a jump for freedom.
James, listening, felt the smile spread across his face, and only belatedly realized the expression for what it was. It couldn’t quite banish all the monsters in the dreams, but it tried. Blunted the claws, a fraction, when they scratched restlessly under his skin.
Michael’d gone back to singing. Classic Beatles, this time, and very softly, half under his breath, as if fearful of waking James, disturbing too-infrequent rest. James propped elbows on the back of the sofa, let it support him, and just watched all the happy domesticity unfold.
Michael went back to the fridge, pulled out half an onion, looked at it thoughtfully for a second, observed, “He’d probably appreciate more…” then went back. For more. James wanted to cry, or to hug him, or to thank him, all at once. For everything.
He wasn’t sure he could talk, between all the emotions and the just-woken-up raggedness of his voice. He could tell without trying that he’d need to cough, to clear his throat, and that’d hurt.
So he maneuvered his legs out of the clutches of the blanket, and padded soundlessly over to the kitchen, unnoticed because Michael seemed to be focused on the task at hand and wasn’t glancing around. The floor was smooth beneath his toes, aglow with culinary cheer and the echo of that beloved voice weaving melodies into the air.
Michael finished with the onion. Moved on to a tomato. Shifted position, a hairsbreadth, not because he knew that James was there. Went back to chopping. Slicing. With a knife.
With a knife. James, leaning against the nearest wall, found himself watching the blade.
It shone, darting through the air. Caught and swallowed up all the once-adequate light. Gleamed. Wetly.
And it was ridiculous, he knew it was, a voice in the back of his head shouting that it wasn’t the same, not the same shape, not the same size, not the same hands, for god’s sake, those were Michael’s hands, here in their kitchen, and he knew he was safe, should feel protected, here.
But the tomato juice leaked across the cutting board and the blade swam red for just a second, red like blood, and that was a knife, being wielded with such ruthlessly expert precision. By Michael’s hands.
He couldn’t look away and he couldn’t speak and he couldn’t move, and if he couldn’t move he couldn’t stop it, couldn’t save himself, and the blackness came up like phantom hands on his skin and he thought maybe he took a step backwards, trying to cling to the wall for aid, but the wall wasn’t where he thought it should be and the impact, when he hit the floor, shook everything loose inside, all the pieces that’d been so precarious before.
He couldn’t see anything. Possibly he’d shut his eyes. Or they’d closed themselves.
He didn’t hear Michael running, but he felt the force of the landing, Michael flinging himself to the floor at his side.
“James? James!”
Not singing now. Melody all gone, crushed out of existence by fear. Sorry, he wanted to say, you were happy and I’ve made you scared and I’m sorry and I love you. But those words stayed locked inside his head. The memories of viciousness, of cruel metal, of unending agony, did not.
“Oh, no—” Michael’s fingers, when they found his skin, were real. Solid. That helped, in one way; in another, not at all.
“Can you open your eyes? Please? For me?”
He thought not, actually.
“Come on, you’re all right, you are, you’re here and I’m here and you’re safe—you know you’re safe, please know you’re safe, with me—James? Can you hear me?”
The world had gone all airless. Indistinct and dark. Poor world. He wanted to reassure it, to tell it to breathe, but he couldn’t talk, or open his eyes.
Someone else was talking, though. To him.
“—say something, James, please, please look at me, you can look at me, you—oh, god, you’re not—you have to breathe, James, come on!” Hands. Shaking him. He tried to protest. Couldn’t make a sound.
Michael, he remembered. Michael’s voice. Michael’s hands, on him. Touching his face, his cheek, lifting his head. Little starbursts, brightly dying colors, swam through the greyness, when Michael shook him again. Lack of oxygen, he thought dimly. There was a word for that. Hypoxia. Kind of a pretty word, in fact. Mellifluous.
Michael was swearing, frantically, desperately, in several languages. “James, no—no, you can’t, you can’t, don’t you dare, you can’t give up, you can’t leave me now—I love you, James, I need you to breathe, I need you to open your eyes and fucking breathe, James, come on, please!”
Mostly to get Michael to stop shouting at him, he tried.
“Okay—okay, that’s good, that’s better, do it again—and again, James, come on, deeper breaths, okay? In, and out? You’re here, you’re all right—” Michael’s voice cut off, for a second; when it came back, the words sounded slightly waterlogged, as if momentarily caught in a cloudburst. “Thank you. Thank you, James. Thank god. I—I think maybe I should call someone, the hospital, someone who can—”
He shook his head. A tiny movement, but enough; Michael noticed. “You don’t want me to call anyone? Can you look at me?”
Maybe. He breathed in, one more time. Tested the scrape of eyelids over raw flesh. They moved reluctantly, as if held down by weights of sand.
They did open, though. He blinked. Focused. Blinked again, because Michael’s face was right in front of his, both of them on the floor, Michael’s hands clinging to his shoulders, fear making that grip too tight. There’d be bruises, later. But that was all right. That meant they were both still here.
Michael breathed in, too. Made a sound. “James—oh, god, what happened? What did I—was it me in the kitchen? With the—oh, no, oh no, it was. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Can you talk? Can you say something? Please?”
No. He couldn’t do that, either. He did try, again—he’d already tried—but his throat refused to open. Wouldn’t let any words get out.
He looked down, away, because he couldn’t look into those overflowing eyes. Moved a hand that didn’t feel like his, and touched his throat. Shook his head.
“You—you can’t talk? Because it hurts?”
It did, but no. Not why. Why was another reason. Why was because, when he swallowed, he felt hands around his neck, relentless hardness shoved down his throat, pressure crushing him from the inside out. Heard that voice: it’s much more fun if we know you can’t do what I’m asking, so go on, pretend you can talk. Try.
He couldn’t make himself look up, when he shook his head again.
“You…no to which part? It doesn’t hurt?”
He wanted to laugh—how on earth he could manage to reply to that question, he had no idea—but he couldn’t do that, either. He could feel himself breathing, so he shut his eyes again and concentrated on that. That was something he could do.
“James,” Michael whispered, voice more uneven than James’s own had ever been. “Don’t—please don’t—do you need to hide, from me? Do I—do I scare you?”
That was just ridiculous. He had to look, if only to make certain Michael was paying attention to the headshake: of course not.
“But I…” Michael glanced down. At his own hands, gripping James’s shoulders. “You’re not—it was something I did. I did scare you. And you can’t…” Michael swallowed. Lifted one hand, started to mirror James’s gesture. Seemed to think better of it; shook his head.
“You said this wasn’t because it hurt…” And he could see the exact instant Michael reached the right conclusion, anguish exploding behind those mist-green eyes. “Oh, James…”
He struggled with the tears. Wanted to reach out. Couldn’t quite make himself move, before Michael started speaking again, slowly, one hand lifting James’s chin, making sure their eyes met before he offered the words.
“It’s all right. It’ll be all right. If you can’t—if you need to not talk for a while—I can talk for both of us. For however long—I love you. I’ll always love you. No matter what. Understand?”
He gulped in air. Felt the tears fall at last, plunging downward out of his eyes, over his cheeks, leaving burning trails in their wake. But he nodded, because he did know. He believed that. He had to.
Michael muttered one more profanity, at that. And then bit his lip. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for that too. You don’t need to hear—god. Okay. Can we get you up off the floor? Or can I at least bring you a blanket? You’re shivering…”
He nodded. Let Michael take some of his weight, on the way up. With desperate effort, kept himself from flinching, at the hideous flare of memory: other arms around him, pulling him down windowless stairs, onto a mute and sickening bed. Michael would never know how hard it was, not to pull away, at that second. Should never have to know.
His feet were a little clumsy, surprised to be asked to function, but they managed to rise to the occasion. Michael looked at him, held him upright, started to speak, stopped, tried again. “Bedroom? Away from—not here? I’ll come back and clean up, later, but…” And James managed to nod again.
They made it, somehow, through the fear and inadvertent winces, James trying to figure out how to walk and accidentally stepping on a foot that wasn’t his, Michael’s arm tightening too much and meeting fresh bruises, down the hall and into the bedroom and into the bed, Michael’s other arm shoving once-neat covers recklessly out of the way. James would’ve said something, would’ve laughed, at that uncharacteristic disregard for tidy sheets, but he couldn’t say anything, couldn’t laugh. Not now.
Michael set him down gingerly amid all the pillows, as if he thought that James might shatter into pieces at the first unguarded touch. Might not be an unjustified concern.
His hip, and his right hand because he’d flung it out to try to break his fall, hurt. A very physical hurt; that helped, in a way. He could feel something, here and now. Something that wasn’t the throb of the past, in the murky grey.
The pillows were cool, and silky, and sympathetic, against his damp face. He could feel that, too, when he curled up into them. He wondered whether he could really smell Michael’s shampoo, Michael’s warmth, the traces of that body lingering for him to find; decided that he could, because he wanted to. Gradually, he felt his heartbeat settle, in the wake of that small comfort.
Michael wasn’t, quite, touching him now. Only hovering terrifiedly at the side of the bed. “James? Are you—I can—bring you water, or something, anything, or I can leave, if you don’t want me—or I can stay, I’d like to stay with you—you’re still shivering, here—”
More blankets. Pillows. Despairing offers of coffee, hot cocoa, anything James might want. James lay there and shivered, not because he was cold, and tried to think of something he did want.
There was something, though. The world was too dark. Clouds obscuring the moon. No one’d stopped to turn lights on, down the hallway, no time for more than the single lamp beside them now in the bedroom. Making the house brighter wouldn’t change anything, of course—sharp-bladed memories could cut as cruelly in the light as in the shadows—but at least he could see the present more clearly.
He waved a hand, got Michael’s attention, the next time disconsolate ginger hair and devastated eyes came back, under a pile of guest-room comforter. Pointed at the light.
“You…want the light off? Or…no, okay, you can stop shaking your head. You want the other one on, too? Of course, hang on—” Michael sprinted around the bed, to the other table, found the switch. “Better?”
James nodded, and then waved at both lamps, and then the hallway, and then tried to work out how to make a please turn on all the lights in the house, the ones that I can see anyway, at least for now gesture. Michael, rather impressively, got it the first time. Came back breathless, almost hopeful and trying not to be, eyes begging to be allowed to be relieved, and afraid to even think the word. “Is that enough? I can move some of the lamps from the other rooms in here if you—”
James put out a hand, interrupting, and beckoned him over. Couldn’t help a flicker of amusement at how promptly Michael obeyed; and then, astonished, realized that he could still be amused. Imagine that.
Michael sat down on the end of the bed, obviously assuming—correctly—that James wanted him to stay. Wanted him there. “The light helps? Because you—you know it’s me, and we’re here? Is that why?”
The truth was a little more difficult, but that wasn’t wrong. So he agreed.
“We can sleep with the lights on, if you want. For as long as you want. Do you think you could—not now, I mean, but at night—if we try that?”
Maybe? He tried to shrug, apologetically; winced, discovering one more bruise on his elbow, when he moved.
“Do you…want ice, or something? I’m sorry I didn’t—I should’ve tried to catch you, I should have—”
James shook his head, meaning: no, you couldn’t’ve known, and you are. But Michael had no way of hearing those words, and gazed away, momentarily, at the lamplight, burning valiantly against the night, painting eyelashes with a fringe of gold when they swept down and up, settling into lines of determination when Michael looked back at him.
“I’m not going to hurt you. You can—you can believe that, right? I’m here, and I’m not going to hurt you, ever, and I’m not going to let anything—happen—to you…” That flexible voice cracked, tripped, stumbled over the words. The other words, unsaid, echoed around them as loudly as if Michael’d cried them out to the universe: anything else? Anything more? What else is left, what more can happen, that I can ever try to keep you safe from again?
Michael made a small noise. Shoved a hand across his own face, dashing away tears, achingly, angrily. “Sorry. I’m so sorry, James.”
Hands, James thought, and looked at his own, resting there in the sympathetic folds of the bed. He remembered that they’d hurt; recalled Michael saying, through the fog of morphine, you have two dislocated fingers…Among worse injuries, of course.
He wiggled all those fingers, surreptitiously, testing. They didn’t hurt, not now. Other places still did. Would, he thought, for a long time to come. But not those.
Michael spotted the movement. Gazed at him, concerned. “Do you…did you want to say something? Hang on—” and was hunting for the nearest writing implement before James could attempt to intervene.
“I thought there was—I put one right here, for you, in case you needed—I know I did—fuck!” Michael stared at the resolutely pen-less bedside table. Griefstricken. “James, I…”
James sighed. Lifted eyebrows. Pointed at the floor.
“Oh…thank you. How’d you even see that from—no, wait, you need—” Michael found the pad of paper, waiting on the table. Where he’d left it, weeks ago. Where they’d thought it could stay, only just in case these days, as bruises healed, as voicelessness eased into speech.
I didn’t. See it.
“But—”
Knew it’d be there. You did leave it on the table. I KNOW you did. So it must’ve fallen off. Only logical place.
“James,” Michael said, and breathed, as if it hurt, as if he wanted to smile, or weep, or apologize again, or kiss fingertips, as they wrote.
I’m sorry about this. I do know you’re here and you won’t, you would never, hurt me—I just couldn’t—
“I know. It’s all right, I know, I mean I don’t know, not exactly, of course not, but—I think I understand. And you don’t need to be sorry.”
James sighed again, not out loud, at that. He did. Michael’d never believe that, but it was true; he did need to be sorry, for the disproportionate reaction to a simple kitchen utensil, for his own unnerving and inexplicable irrationality. For the heartbreak in green-grey eyes, in uncertain movements, in awkward hands.
He could be sorry, but that didn’t mean he knew how to make any of it better. He glanced at his hand, again. Thought about dislocation. Bones and tendons twisted out of place. The fingers might be better, but the rest of him had no idea how to fit properly, now. All the pieces scraped and jostled together, lacking alignment.
Beyond the window, the clouds were piling up. A few scattered drops of rain hit the window, lonely, isolated, bursting themselves against the glass.
“James…?” Nearly as inaudible as the clouds. “Are you…can you look at me? Please?”
He pulled his gaze away from the wistful rain, hastily. And then nodded, for good measure, because he could do that, and the small certainty might help; Michael smiled, through the sadness. “I love you.”
I love you, too.
“James…don’t be upset with me, for this, all right? I—”
I’m not!
“You can be, if you want—I mean for earlier, in the kitchen, you should be, I should’ve thought—but I was asking about something else, right now.” Michael hesitated. Glanced away, as the rain beat a little harder on the window, a remorseful warning drum. “I think…I know you don’t want to, but…maybe we should…maybe it’s time to…”
You want me to see someone. Not a question.
“I…I don’t know. Not if you don’t feel up to—but this…” Michael nibbled on his lower lip. Stopped talking; they both knew what he meant regardless. “This is…you can’t speak, James. And I—” Another pause, not planned. Only because Michael’s own voice splintered and fell apart, on the words.
James looked down. At the edge of the bed. The bottom sheet was coming untucked, pulled loose sometime in the night. He should possibly try to fix that, before it came off completely.
If you think I should, I will. He would. Not because he thought it’d work, but because Michael thought maybe it would, and James couldn’t stand to see Michael looking so broken on his behalf.
“You don’t have to. No, never mind, you don’t have to, it was—” Michael shook his head. “You’re thinking it won’t work, aren’t you? You don’t think—” And then closed his mouth, abruptly. The words quaked in the air, unspoken: you don’t think anything will.
James set down the pen. Met those wounded eyes with his, watching the cracks in the dam widen, the lakewaters spill free. Took a deep breath, and let it out, and lifted his hand, the fingers that didn’t hurt anymore, and sketched a heart in the air, an invisible outline. Then pointed at Michael. Definitively.
Michael opened his mouth, shut it, buried his face in his hands, breathed shakily through them—not exactly a sob, but too uncontrolled to be anything else—then dropped the hands, and looked back up. “You…you’re trying to make me feel better, aren’t you? James, you—”
Is it working? He also went back and underlined the I love you, from a few minutes ago. For emphasis.
“I…don’t know yet. Is this—is any of this getting better for you? And I love you. Of course.”
I think yes. He meant exactly that. Could tell Michael understood the wording, the implied ellipsis before the yes.
He wasn’t sure. And this wasn’t good. But he was better than he’d been, those first weeks, afraid to be touched at all, unable to sleep beside Michael in a bed without panicking at the presence of another body. Even earlier than that, lying in a hospital bed, being asked questions but left with no answers to give, afraid.
He was still afraid. And he couldn’t even say so aloud. And ordinary life felt so damn far away.
But he’d made Michael smile, earlier that evening. He remembered how that felt, too.
So he meant all the words. Hoped they might lead to another smile.
Michael nodded, slowly: agreement, perhaps, or acceptance of the honesty, or both. Put out one finger, very carefully, and touched, not James, but the paper, the strokes of ink that spelled a tangible sentence, that sentence. The one James’d just underlined for him.
And, out in the kitchen, something went inexplicably plop! off a countertop, a perfectly terribly timed bid for freedom. Landed in the sink, from the resultant clatter of dishes.
They both looked, automatically. Couldn’t see anything, from that distance.
“Oh, fuck,” Michael said, eventually, “I think that might’ve been a tomato…” and James kind of wanted to laugh, but Michael’s eyes weren’t amused, or not enough so. Some other, more raw, emotion, behind the green and grey.
“I should…I left everything out, the chicken, and you’re not going to want—not now—I should go and clean up, but…”
You can. I’ll be—
“Don’t say fine. Not now.”
No. I’ll be here. And I’ve got all the lights on. Just come right back?
“Of course.” Michael got up from the bed, hesitated, irresolute. “You…if you need anything…you don’t have your phone. Where’s your phone?”
Coffee table? But it’s fine, you don’t have to—
Michael breathed, in and out, once, and then ran out, and back, and his hand was unsteady, holding out slim plastic. “Text me. If you need anything. I don’t want you to get up. Please.”
I can—
“James, please.”
All right. Love you.
“I love you,” Michael whispered, and took a step back, and then another one, to the door. “I’m not closing this, all right? But maybe partway? In case there’s noise, or something, or—”
Wait, James started to say, that doesn’t even make sense, but Michael’d already vanished, too quickly, door half-closed behind him, lean shadow retreating down the hall. James stared.
The rain, out in the night, got heavier.
He replayed those last few sentences in his head. Had he said something wrong? Hurt Michael again? Should he have asked for company instead, and let the culinary detritus wait? But Michael’d all but bolted out of the room, as if he’d had to, as if he couldn’t stay another second.
James bit his lip. Hard. That hurt, too.
He looked at his hands, then at all the lights, shining on his behalf, and then at the door again.
Which, in answer to his unvoiced request, stirred by an air current or crooked hinges or its own compassion, stealthily swung wider. And James sat up, shocked, because he could see Michael, still there in the hallway, not as hidden around the corner as he’d probably thought, and leaning against the wall, shoulders shaking. Could hear, through some twisted trick of acoustics, Michael crying, not held in or contained anymore, sobs forcing their way out through every effort not to let them be overheard.
“—so fucking stupid,” Michael whispered, and dropped his head against the wall. “I’m so—I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to do this right.”
The wall, the hushed carpet and immobile air, said nothing to comfort him; and James found himself out of bed and on his feet without thinking about the motion, because Michael was in pain and shouldn’t have to be in pain. Not if James could do anything about it.
“I want to,” Michael breathed, to the wall, to his own arm, where he was holding himself up, one breath away from complete collapse. “I want to—for him—I’d do everything, god, anything—if I could—if I knew how to do the right fucking thing, for once, if I—maybe I’m just not—not enough—”
“No!”
Michael spun around, lost his balance, nearly fell into James, who was so busy being astounded by his own voice that he took a step forward too late, and they tumbled into each other and slid to the ground and just sat there tangled up and staring.
“You…James…that…was that…”
James licked his lips. Wondered whether his own eyes were as round and astonished as the mist-green ones looking into his. Brought up one hand and rested fingertips on his own throat, tentatively. Felt the motion, when he swallowed.
One more word leapt out, butterfly escaping from a desiccated cocoon: “Michael?”
“You…you can…I thought…” Michael stopped to breathe. Kept gazing at him, incredulous. Their legs’d ended up touching, knees folded up together, and the white-washed walls stretched up towards the ceiling, and the carpet was busy being fuzzily supportive, under his hand.
He inched a tiny bit closer. Michael moved slightly, making space for him, instinctively. “James…?”
“Michael.” That one did seem to work. Those syllables behaved themselves. And nothing hurt, at least not more than expected. No one laughing scornfully at the attempt, no fingers closing around his throat, choking off air and noise. So maybe he could try more sounds.
One of Michael’s hands was sitting on that carpet, between them, being a prop. He put his own hand down beside it. Brushing fingers, tip to tip.
Michael appeared to have ceased breathing; James looked up. Thought about what words he wanted most to say.
“Love you.”
“Oh my god,” Michael whispered, the words pouring out in a rush of sound, falling over each other in disbelief. “James…”
He had to smile, at that note in that voice. “Yes.”
“You…I love you, too, James, I—oh, god—” More tears. Bright, beneath the distant and benevolent hallway lights, reflecting over Michael’s cheeks and eyelashes. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Please—”
“Please what? I love you.” He reached over. Collected one drop just before it could plunge from Michael’s chin to the floor. It glittered, on his finger, like priceless crystal. “Also. You’re wrong.”
“I’m…what?”
“You are…what I need. Enough. For me. I’m not…all right. Yet. But. Not your fault.” Words were coming more easily, the more he used them.
“James, I—”
“You don’t need to be perfect. I’m not. I’m—not. But you’re still here. With me.”
“Of course I—”
“You make this better. Me. I’m better with you. Even if sometimes things aren’t—if this—we’re better together. Here.”
“…I love you, James, yes—”
“Yes, then.” He unbent one of his legs, because his knee was complaining. Michael shifted position at the same time, no doubt for a similar reason, and their legs collided.
“Sorry!”
“No, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”
“You—I know you’re sore, from earlier, you shouldn’t be on the floor at all—”
“Oh. That’s fine. I’ve…felt worse.”
Silence, while Michael stared at him.
“Um. Sort of a joke?”
“You can make jokes about…”
“Not good ones. Apparently.” Talking continued to demand some effort. The first time had been involuntary, words he couldn’t not say, to Michael, for Michael, for them both. His brain’d caught up, now, and kept shouting at him that quiet would be safer, easier, less complicated.
It would be. But that wasn’t an option. He wouldn’t let it become one.
He thought about words again. About fear, and trauma, and the desolation in Michael’s eyes. “It wasn’t you. In the kitchen. Or it wasn’t all that.” Michael needed to know.
“It wasn’t…then what was it? Also…are you sure you…I mean, of course if you want to you should talk, I want you to, I’m so fucking grateful that you—I can’t even believe—but is this hard, for you?”
James wobbled a hand in the air, at that, side to side: not really. Sort of. Yes, but worth the hardness. All of that. “Started with the nightmare. I was already…” He ran out of words, for what he was. Offered a headshake, a small wave, gestures at infinity. Complicated, again.
“I thought you were asleep…” Self-loathing, sudden and clear: Michael thinking that he ought to’ve noticed, despising himself for the omission, those few moments of optimistic peace.
“Well,” James said, logically, picking words out when he found them, gold through a muddied stream, “I was.” And then, making sure, “Still not good at jokes. Sorry.”
And Michael blinked, and made a noise that was almost a laugh, watery and submerged. “Thank you. James, I—thank you. For—I love you. You do know that, right? I always will.”
“I know. I love you.” He was, in fact, sitting directly on one of his newly acquired bruises; he tried to get comfortable, failed, sat there for a second looking at Michael, across the tranquil space of their hallway, on the floor. Made one more attempt, failed again, pondered spaces, and shared homes, and peace. “Up? Maybe?”
“Up—oh, god, sorry, I’m sorry—again—we’re not that far from the bed, can I—”
He let Michael slip an arm around his shoulders. Assistance. Because Michael wanted to. It felt good.
And then he nearly tripped them both up, when Michael started to turn toward the bedroom and James tugged him in the other direction. “This way.”
“What—what’re we—James, where are we going?”
“Kitchen?”
“…what?”
He didn’t have any words to explain, not yet, but he did have an idea.
“Ah…James, am I—are we—going to have to learn sign language? Because I don’t know what that means.” And that was almost a joke, too, trying hard to be, but laced with bitterness, Michael’s fear that the teasing might hide truth.
“I just want to…try something. All right?”
“All right…” Michael sounded doubtful, but didn’t argue. Only stayed alongside him, radiating worry and affection and strength. The rain danced, along the sliding glass doors, the friendly windowpanes.
The lights were all on in the kitchen, too. There was half an onion on the floor, plus a teaspoon because Michael’d knocked it over in the dash across the room, and the refrigerator hummed at them companionably as they approached.
“I think it missed you.”
“It’s a refrigerator, James.”
“Yes. And?”
“And…I think it’s worried about you. You are feeling better, aren’t you? Now?”
“Better….yes.” The echo, the reiteration, helped. No need to come up with new words.
There was, indeed, a tomato in the sink. It’d knocked over a bowl, which had been and no longer was containing not-yet-washed forks, which explained the noise. It blushed at them, squishily guilty.
Michael’d stopped walking; James drifted over to the countertops, toward the ruins of dinner, and Michael’s hand trailed along his shoulders. “James…”
The whole house was so very bright. Lit up. A sanctuary, while the rain billowed outside. An oasis; or, technically, the reverse of an oasis, he decided, but it was metaphorically true. Even the pale stone of the counters promised welcome, with all its might.
He wandered over to the abandoned cutting board, smeared and streaked with tomato juice, seeds, the items of horror. They didn’t look intimidating. They looked like someone’s attempts to prepare dinner, in fact.
Of course, there was that other item, lying squarely in the middle of decapitated fruit. All metal, and shiny, there.
Michael’s hand’d remained on his shoulder, but the grip felt a lot more tense, all of a sudden. James took a measured breath, and reached out. Ran his finger over glimmering steel. It didn’t object. Didn’t pounce. Didn’t bite his hand. Only lay there trying its best to be harmless, under his touch.
To it, contemplatively, he said, “Knife,” and it didn’t object to that either.
“Oh—” Choked-off little gasp like the dying of the world. Muffled because Michael had one hand pressed over his mouth, as if trying to hold all the grief in with shaking fingers.
James considered that, too, for a minute. Left the blade where it lay, on the cutting board. Took the two steps back over to Michael’s side, and nudged their shoulders together, or more accurately nudged his shoulder into Michael’s ribs, since he’d not managed to miraculously grow any taller in the last few minutes. “It’s a word.”
“You—you can say—you can say that word—” Michael was crying, again, or maybe still. James looked at the wet and shining lines. Thought about more words. Salt. Oceans. Bleeding. Heartbreak.
He leaned against Michael a little more. Support. For them both. “I can say other words. I love you. Chocolate?”
“…what?”
“Baking?”
“You…want to…bake something? Now?” In the kitchen? said that tone.
James shrugged, as best he could without moving. “Relaxing?”
“Oh…for you…I know it is, for you. All right. Can I help? What do you need?”
“You. Chocolate.”
“You…um, I might have to move—just for a minute—if you want me to find our chocolate chips—”
“No,” James told him, “two separate words.”
“What?”
“You asked. What I needed. I need you. And the chocolate.”
And Michael laughed, a brief explosion of brightness, and then looked surprised at the sound. James smiled, not quite to himself, and stood more upright, and went to collect milk, out of the eager fridge.
By the time he’d got the dry ingredients out, Michael’d managed to clean off most of the counter space, mostly by the simple expedient of shoving everything to one side, and was offering a oversized bag of delicious chocolate bits, plaintively. “I opened it for you…”
“Thank you.”
“You said…it was a nightmare. Before everything. Can you—do you want to talk about it? To me?”
His hands slowed. Paused, over the mixing bowl. But Michael sounded genuinely curious, and afraid that James would say no, and had asked, back in the bedroom and the silence, whether James would ever want to talk to anyone at all.
“It wasn’t…I don’t even…remember most of it. A lot of…dark. I was in a room, I think. Tied down…” He rubbed one wrist, unconsciously, then noticed, because Michael was following the movement, and stopped. His fingers twinged, phantom pain. The spoon rang, bell-like, against the bowl; he set it hastily down.
“Nothing even…nothing happened. Not really. I was alone. But I knew he’d be coming back. I think I was trying to get away, but I wasn’t going to make it before…”
“…before what? James? James—!”
“I’m…all right. Sorry. You did ask.”
“You look—do you want to sit down? Please—”
“No, I’m…I can talk. To you.” He touched the bowl, graceful curve under his hand; thought about the old bakery, the one he’d used to work in, years ago. He hadn’t known much about fear, back then. But he’d always liked the magic of the kitchen, turning disparate ingredients into unexpected combinations, sweetness and richness and spice for the world to enjoy. He ran a finger over the bowl again. He liked that idea now.
“I think it does help. To tell you.”
“Really?” Michael sounded so honestly floored that James had to look up, and smile. “Really. You did say that, too. You were right.”
“I was?”
“Yes, you should enjoy it…” He looked back at the bowl. He did mean it. He’d felt alone, in that nightmare world, alone except for the certain knowledge that that other person’d be coming back for him soon. But now, saying it aloud, in the haven of light and Michael’s presence and the sweet refreshing murmur of rain, he didn’t feel alone. And he felt stronger, maybe, for that.
But he’d had to remember, in order to explain. And although he’d made cookies a hundred, a thousand times before, didn’t need a recipe, shouldn’t have to remind himself of the next step, he couldn’t quite remember the words for what he wanted next.
“Um…James? I’m sorry, I don’t…what was that—” Michael copied his gesture, hands sliding forlornly through the air. “—supposed to mean?”
“Oh. I—that was—peanut butter. Please.”
“…seriously?”
“You like peanut butter. And chocolate. Together.”
“I do…you know that I do…James, you…in what universe does that mean peanut butter, again?”
James considered for less than a second, then threw a chocolate chip at him. It hit him on the nose. “Mine.”
“What?”
“My universe. Where that means peanut butter. Michael?”
“I love you.”
“Love you. Of course. Hand me the…the knife? I did mean it. About wanting to try.”
“What—”
“Trust me?”
“I do, but—James, please don’t—please be careful, don’t push yourself, not now, you don’t need to—”
“I know.” He regarded the serene silvery abstraction. Only a shape. A word, in his hand. The weight of it nestled, hesitantly, into his palm. Trying so very much to be inoffensive, he thought. Innocuous. He said, to it, I know you’ve never hurt me, it’s not your fault, and it agreed. It wouldn’t. Never wanted to.
He shut his fingers a bit more closely around the hilt, testing the fit; he might even be able to use it, he thought, someday. And then heard Michael’s breathing catch, saw the aborted movement, the reaching out. “James—”
“It’s all right.” He looked up. Met those eyes. Smiled. And the expression even felt real. “I’m all right. I mean…obviously I’m not. But. This. I can do this.” He glanced back at the blade. Then up at Michael’s face. Then held out his hand, open, knife in it, quiescent. “Here.”
“I…think I’m not sure what you’re asking, I’m sorry—”
“You didn’t only want peanut-butter chocolate-chip cookies for dinner, did you? Because we should probably have real food. If you want that. I could. Want that.”
“Maybe…” Michael accepted the implement, out of his hand. Looked at it, set it on the counter, looked back at James. “Do you want me to make you dinner?”
“I can help. I’d like to…help you. And you can help me with this. Fair?”
“…yes. Yes. James, yes, we can—”
“One more thing. Maybe.”
“Of course, anything, just tell me what you—”
“Hold my hand?”
They stood that way, one simple touch defining the world, in the embrace of the kitchen, for an uncounted while. The countertops and mixing bowls and appliances all beamed at them encouragingly, and the air wrapped them up in scents of chocolate, and cookie dough, and oven-heat, and sweetness. Michael’s fingers, wrapped so carefully around his, were warm, too, and nervous, and hopeful, a little, at last.
“I know you can’t actually make dinner with one hand…”
“Not really, no.” But Michael set his other hand over James’s regardless, fingertips rubbing gently over freckled skin, recurring tiny movements, as if hoping that with enough repetition, the reverberations, the reassurance, would never fade.
He could believe that. Possibly, potentially, he could choose to believe that. And he knew he didn’t want Michael to let go.
So he started to hum, almost soundlessly, under his breath. And then to sing. “Love, love me do…you know I love you…”
Michael’s grip on his hand got tighter, out of shock.
“What? You were singing it. Earlier. And I actually know this one. So…I’ll always be true, so please…”
“…love me, do.” Michael’s voice shook, briefly, twining around his. “James, should you be—doesn’t this hurt your—”
“I’m not going to jump onto a karaoke stage any time soon. For all sorts of reasons. But…” He looked at their joined hands, too. Squeezed, hard enough to be noticeable. “If you touch me, if you hold me…it doesn’t hurt that much. I can sing to you.”
“—I love you,” Michael whispered, holding on, through all the tears.
“I love you, too.” He had one free hand. Used it to detach one of Michael’s. Laced their fingers together. Swallowed, shut his eyes, opened them, felt his heart thundering away inside his chest.
Lifted Michael’s confused hand, gently, and brushed it over his throat, not quite centered, the same place James himself’d touched, earlier, rediscovering his voice. And then he held very still.
Michael’s hand was shaking. Fingers quivered, over delicate skin. Remembering bruises, brutal souvenirs, marks of violence staining fragile flesh. Handprint-shaped and ugly.
Michael’s hands weren’t those hands. Michael’s hands had long eloquent fingers and felt like home, and they’d never reached for him in anger, and they weren’t steady now, skimming tremulously over his body.
New memories. New touches, layering over old lines of pain. Not erasing them—maybe nothing ever could—but building, rebuilding, shelter from the storm.
The oven, amid all the awestruck silence, chirped. Merrily. Up to temperature.
James breathed in and met Michael’s eyes and found himself laughing, helplessly, weightlessly, like liberation, or sunlight, or the promise of cookies in the air.
Michael started smiling, the anxious ice thawing and fading behind that pale gaze, and James took a step forward into those warm arms as they folded around him. Michael’s hand wandered to the back of his neck and sat there toying with idly playful waves of hair; James smiled too, understanding, and settled into the embrace a bit more securely. And then had to laugh again, when Michael began, cautiously, to sing. From the beginning.
When he got to the first chorus, James leaned against him, comfortable, and sang along.