Yellow and green painting by Miwa Koji, via Unsplash
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WC: 2101 - Rated: M - CW: discussions of sex, lots of implied past trauma - Written for @darksideweeks Dukeceit Week, Day 6: Green and Gold
Eventually the night comes to an end.
My book bag is packed, not nearly as puffed out as it would be for school. Tonight I’ve swapped out my bible and my primers and my notebooks for spare socks and shorts, traded my bible for my toothbrush and what looks like a battered devotional Carefully concealed in its Page-a-Day Devotions for Young Men book jacket is the journal, our journal. Traded each day nestled between a bible and a prayer book, it is the thread that connects us.
Tonight is my night to hold it. My night to keep it safe. My night to bring it with us on our escape.
Beneath it all is a sealed baggie of cash pilfered a note at a time from the tithing box and our passports, freshly swiped from the lock box behind Headmaster's desk.
It’s dark out, proper dark. He was meant to be here by now. I let the bag drop, its thud muffled by the mossy bramble beneath my window. The night air is silent and so is my phone, taunting me from my pocket. I take it out again.
No calls. No messages. The signal’s strong, with four bars etched out on the tiny screen.
He’ll come. He’ll come. He’ll come. He'll come.
Heavy footsteps trod the far end of the hallway.
He won’t leave me here. He won’t go without me. And I won't go without him.
The footfalls slow as they near my door. Voices, deep and hushed. They think I'm asleep. I slide back into bed, quiet feet avoiding every creaking floorboard. I close my eyes and listen for his whistle.
He’ll come. He’ll come. He’ll come. He'll come.
The lock clicks and the doorknob turns.
He'll come. He'll come. He'll come. He'll—
“Hey, Janus. Wake up.”
I jolt, my room dissolving around me. Remus’ face swims into view, eyes wide, with pastel smudged on his cheek, his temple. My shoulder where he’s shaken me awake.
I’m naked beneath the blanket that had been tossed over the back of the couch.
“You were having a nightmare,” he explains, creeping back just a bit, like he only just realized how close he’d gotten. He's handling me with kid gloves and I want to snap him out of it. I want him to kiss me, to grope me. Feed me cheap whiskey and cheaper lines.
I want him to beg me to fuck him and prove that’s all he ever wanted out of this.
Instead he watches me from a respectful distance, sitting on the floor with knees hugged to his chest, one hand hovering close, but not touching me.
The bonfire’s worth of candles he’d lit around me burn low, loads already dark in soot-covered jars.
“I dozed off,” I say, testing my voice. It cracks and I reach up to touch my face.
My hand is wet.
“Here,” Remus murmurs, painfully gentle, and passes me a cloth. One side reads Blick Art Supplies, the embossed letters fresh and smooth under my thumb. “It’s okay,” he says. “It’s clean.”
I look away, dabbing at my cheeks, and my eyes fall on his open sketchbook. The page is covered with a full-color drawing of… my elbow? “You’ve finished.”
Worry lifts, sunshine spreading across his face, and Remus absolutely beams at me. “Yeah, lemme show you…” He lifts the book and sits, back to the side of the couch. He angles the sketchbook up on his knees so I can see over his shoulder without moving. He starts flipping back through the now full book, past countless sketches.
Sketches of me.
My leg, my ankle, my hands. Three separate studies of my left knee.
My scar.
Nothing salacious or tasteless. No details of my dick, my ass. Even my nudity looks… cherished. There are dozens of sketches, page after page after page of what had been a nearly empty sketchbook when he'd started. Remus must've been at it for hours.
“How long…”
He looks up at me, then shrugs at the window. A patch of pink along the skyline heralds the coming dawn. “You were drifting after I started the second piece.” He finally gets to the first of his sketches. It’s a full-body portrait of me, sprawled on his couch like a thirsty whor—
“You look like a Royal,” he whispers, smudging the edge of my elbow. The one on the paper, at least. I glance at the bit of pastel his hand had left behind on my shoulder and wish…
Almost absently, he reaches for a soft forest green. I watch as he blends it with the grays and yellows, giving his drawing an almost three-dimensional look.
“How long?” I ask again and he blinks up at me.
“Oh, ah…” His watch sits on the floor, the band coated in green pastel, and he picks it up. “You’ve been out for, I dunno… Um… six, seven hours?”
That’s a full night’s sleep.
Two nights.
Two fucking nights.
I've slept—unaided—two fucking nights in longer than I cared to calculate. And both of those nights were here in this flat.
My eyes land on the tea cup still sitting on Remus’ rickety table. Perhaps not unaided.
I rise and the blanket slides off me. I grab at it, pulling it tight around body. “What did you give me?” I keep my voice steady, or try to at least. Rough from sleep and whatever I was blathering on about in my dreams, it comes out shakier than I want. I point at the cup. “Was it in the tea?”
“What?” He pushes up to his feet, still holding that damned sketchbook.
“The tea, you feckin' spanner!” I shout, losing my battle for calm. “The fucking tea! What did you give me?”
He bristles, a flash of genuine—or West-end-worthy—hurt in his eyes. “It’s just… it’s just Tetley, man. It’s just cheap tea from Aldi.”
I pick up the cup and sniff at it. “You put something in it, then. You drugged me. You—”
He closes the sketchbook and lays it on the couch, almost reverently, before turning back to me. He shakes his head. “Nah, mate, I don’t fuck with that.” Jaw clenched so tight it twitches, he takes the mug from my hands and throws back the last dregs. Then he takes the tea bag and squeezes out what’s left into his mouth.
“A few drops won’t—”
Without breaking eye contact, he puts the entire bag in his mouth and yanks off the string and the tag. He chews and swallows the whole thing. “Ah…” he says, opening wide. Bits of leaves remain stuck to his teeth, dotting his gums and inner cheeks and tongue. But the rest is gone, down the hatch.
“You didn’t… you didn’t drug me,” I say, taking the cup back from him and inspecting it.
He watches me and washes down the leaves with what was left of his own over-steeped tea.
“But, no… It's not…" My throat is tight and the mug trembles in my hand. This had to be a trick. "The only two nights in years that I’ve fallen asleep without my pills, without sativa, without any of it…” I shake my head, but he puts down his empty cup and steps closer, earlier defensiveness melting. I stiffen my jaw but I can't stop the quaver in my voice. "It's not…"
Deep brown eyes watch mine, and he takes my mug and sets it down on the table. My right hand’s gripped tight on the blanket but he reaches for my empty one. “How 'bout we go for three nights sometime?” The heat hiding behind his eyes all night has softened into something gentler, something warm and kind and…
Familiar.
I look away.
His hands wrap around mine, smudges of green and gold and pink stuck in the rough callouses at his fingertips and under his nails. “I knew you just wanted to get off,” I whisper. A lie.
“I'm not talking about fucking.”
I close my eyes. I know.
Remus brings my hand close to his chest, strong, rough hands moving so gently. The dissonance is distracting. His heart hammers his rib cage, my palm. Our first night together, I’d fallen asleep with that steady beat against my back. I thought that’s all I’d needed; satisfaction and warmth, strong arms wrapped securely around me. Salt and sex and sweat between us.
But tonight… last night… I fell asleep hard up and untouched. Watched.
By him.
“Janus, I… You’re…” Remus whispers, then stops. “I don’t know what this is,” he finally says. He strokes my hand, tracing each finger from knuckle to tip. "But this past year, I…"
“Spent the year pining away for me, painting away your heartache?” I try to sound flippant but the way my voice cracks, it comes out more like hope.
He’s quiet so long I finally risk a peek.
Remus smiles back at me and steps even closer. “You really wanna know?” He waits for my nod. “I've spent the year fucking anyone—everyone—who gave me a second glance. I spent the past year trying to forget all about you.”
“Did it work?” I ask. Hope feels almost good now. Sirens ring in my head and I beg the universe to make him say yes, of course he'd forgotten all about me, hadn't given me another thought after the second hot guy who railed him. I beg the universe to make it quick.
Before I have time to beg him to say no.
“I kept your clothes,” he reminds me, that tiny fact meaning far, far more than it should.
“I kept yours, too,” I whisper and his face just bursts in a smile.
“You did?” he says, moving one hand to my back.
“Aye,” I nod, the naked joy in his eyes pulling me in. "I did."
~
I can’t tell who moves first, but Janus is the one to open his mouth, fingers twisting in my hair, as the blanket falls around his feet. After hours of touching every inch of his skin with my eyes, my pastels, I finally get to feel him once again under my hands.
His body shakes against mine. “Are you cold?” I break away long enough to whisper between kisses to his jaw, his neck. Fuck, how I’ve dreamt about this. Sweet. Salty. Soft. How I've missed this.
How I've missed him.
He shudders, pulling me closer. But he doesn’t answer, just starts tugging at my collar. My shirt and my belt come off easy but his hands shake too much to work the buttons on my trousers.
I pull back.
Molten gold fills the room as the sun breaks free of the buildings outside. The light catches in his eyes.
And in the tears welling at the edges.
I halt his hands and bring them up to my lips. “You’re not cold,” I whisper against them, willing their trembling to ease. His eyes are wide but his pupils tiny pinpricks. “You’re afraid.”
“I’m not afraid to fuck you, Remus.” His words are harsh but his voice shakes as much as his hands.
“Didn’t say you were.” He turns away from the sunrise, scar burning bright in the dying candlelight.
I touch his cheek, my thumb tracing that perfect scar. “I won’t hurt you,” I whisper and his eyes squeeze shut.
“I told you I could kill you in your sleep,” he says. “With a dull teaspoon.”
“I don’t just mean your body.”
His eyes open wide and a tear slips down his cheek. Pills to sleep. Nightmares.
I shake my head, both arms now tightening around him. “I don’t know who hurt you, but I promise you, I’m not him.”
A choked sob spills from his lips and he buries his face against my neck. I hold him as he cries, watching the sun march across the floor, up his foot, his leg, his ass. The light reaches my arms around his back at the same time his tears slow. He sighs and I nuzzle against his hair. “Maybe you’ll introduce us someday and we’ll fuck him up together, yeah?”
He laughs, wet and short, but his shaking stops and he straightens, putting distance between us. He stands tall and meets my eyes, searching.
But just as I begin to miss the closeness, he seems to find what he’s looking for. With another little sigh, he wraps his arms around my back and settles against my other shoulder.
“Aye. But you're buying more towels,” he whispers. "Unbleached cotton bath sheets. Long staple."
I laugh, curling over him to kiss his neck. “Anything you want.”
Our bed's warm beneath me when I wake. Comfortably warm, that AC me and Jannie finally caved and bought a couple years back more than earning its keep. The sky's bright outside, bleeding through my eyelids, but I'm not alone in the bed so it can't be all that late in the day.
I sigh and hold Jannie closer. I'm not fucking ready to open my eyes just yet. Last night… Fuck, I’m not ready to even think about last night, either. I sigh again, my fingers twisted in Jannie’s shirt. The material feels different, not his silk from last night, but a soft, nubby linen weave. Did he get up and change? Shit, that meant he'd probably had a nightm—
I open my eyes. My face is smooshed against Logan's deep blue shirt. I look up.
Logan's sitting propped up, my head, the whole top half of my body just sprawled all over his. He's smiling down at me. "Good morning, Remus."
"Oh, fuck, mate, sorry," I mutter. It takes me a minute but I peel away from his body and sit up next to him. My tired ass brain imagines he follows my movement. “’Morning…” I drag my hand down my face and try force my brain’s gears to move. “Didn't mean to lay all over you like that."
Logan clears his throat, still smiling, just a bit. "Last night was difficult, and not just for Jay. You… you were resting comfortably." He lays his hand on my arm, gentle. Familiar. I realize I'd woken up with his hand on my back. "I was loathe to disturb you."
"Thanks, mate." I smile back at him. The light from the window brightens the usual midnight blue of his eyes, turning them a mix of indigo and chinese blue.
Fuck, Jannie was a lucky man.
"Did you sleep well?" His eyes are on mine, examining my face like I'm a suspect Rembrandt. Or a 'copy' he thinks just might be real.
The phantom feel of a hand in my hair sends a cozy shiver down my spine and I nod. "Too good." I yawn and stretch and the rest of the night crashes down on my head. "Fuck, where's Jannie?"
“We’ve been texting.” Logan raises his phone. "He's downstairs, now, cooking. He was genuinely pleased to hear you were sleeping."
I grab my own phone, shaking away the last cobwebs of the night. There are a fuckton of messages in our group chat, loads of back and forth between Logan and Jannie. Too much to read at once. How long had I been sleeping like that, stretched out all over him?
I scroll further. Not a word from Carrot Cake. But three missed calls from—
"Oh, fuck, Emile—" I throw back the covers. "What hap—"
"Jay went down to Emile's last night," Logan's voice is low and steady and it stills me even more than his hand on my shoulder. His fingers slide up and he brushes my cheek. "Everyone's safe."
I suck in a breath and nod. "Okay. But who—"
Hand still on my cheek, Logan meets my eyes. "Jay went to Emile’s and escorted Patton back to his flat last night."
"Holy fuck," I leap up, stumbling when my feet tangle in the sheets. “Pat doesn’t dri—“
"They are both… adequate. See for yourself,” Logan says, voice slow and careful. His hand grips mine, steadying me. His other reaches for my phone from where I'd abandoned it under the covers. With a small smile, he passes it to me. I scroll through the conversation, clinging to the seeming normalcy of Jannie's responses. Logan meets my eyes when I look up.
"I…" I look down at my phone and then over to the door, frozen. I wanna split myself in two, one body to jump down and pull Jannie close.
The other to go find out what the fuck is going on with Carrot Cake.
Logan's watching me, sharp eyes catching every movement. "It is natural to feel conflicted when one's heart is figuratively torn in different directions."
I can't help my smile. How the fuck does he do that? One look and he knows everything in my head. Well, almost everything. I try to laugh. “Might feel a bit o’ conflict if your heart’s literally torn in different directions, too.”
Logan tries to hide it behind his little glasses maneuver, but a tiny smile pulls at his lips. "Indeed." Then he taps my phone, eyes serious. "Which direction are you going to go in this morning?"
I don't have to think about it. "Jannie needs me." Fuck, and I need him right now, too.
"Would sending a message to Patton would help ease your conflict?" He grips my shoulder again. "I can give you some privacy if you’d prefer to call him.“
"Nah," I shake my head. I don't really want Logan to go anywhere, either. I tap out a message then start over, simpler. I hit send before I can overthink it and almost drop the phone I’m shaking so hard.
Logan takes my hand again. His grip's cool and strong. "Shall we go talk to Jay, then?"
"Yeah," I say, pocketing my phone. We're both still in last night's clothes but changing can wait for later. I look down and I'm holding on to Logan's hand like it's a fucking blankie. I should let go. I've invaded his personal space enough for one day. Fuck, for the night and the day.
But he smiles and squeezes my hand. "We shall figure this out together,” he says and I follow him down the stairs.
Jannie's got my big apron draped over last night’s clothes and has been cooking up a storm. The scent of browned butter and garlic, spiced choley, and bright green onions reminds me we all skipped dinner last night. Jannie's got two pans sizzling and a third ready to go. He’s beating something in the big copper bowl as we approach.
"Jannie." I have just enough sense to let him set down the bowl before I throw myself against his back, arms wrapped tight around his middle. His arms cover mine with a little hum and he smiles at Logan over his shoulder.
"Good morning, loves,” he says to us, voice rough. Fuck, he’s been crying.
I hug him a little tighter.
"May I?" Logan asks, reaching for the whisk Jannie's still holding.
I peek past him to see what he’s been making. Scrambled eggs. "Had a craving?" I ask, pressing kisses against his should.
He nods and turns in my arms, melting into my hold. Face buried in the crook of my neck, he shudders, a hitch in his breathing as he lets out a soft sob.
"I've got you," I whisper. "We've got you."
One arm clinging to me, he reaches for Logan's. "I know." Turning to lay his head on my shoulder, he breathes in, still shaky. "I know, Muse. Thank you."
Logan clicks off the stove top and sets the bowl on the counter before drawing close, sandwiching Jannie between us. I feel Logan slide one arm around Jannie's middle, muscles flexing against me, too, as he strokes Jannie's hip. Logan's other hand stretches all the way to reach my back.
Jannie lets out a shuddering breath, drooping in our hold. "Would it help to talk?" I whisper into his hair.
He burrows closer and shakes his head. “I don’t know,” he whispers. "He…" he starts, then shakes his head again.
There are a thousand ways he could finish that sentence, a thousand things that could've happened between them last night. I swallow back my questions and nuzzle the side of Jannie's head.
Jannie's text hadn't said much beyond that he'd brought Carrot Cake home and that he was now safe. Didn't say if he'd been hurt, didn't say what state he'd been in when he'd left.
Emile'd been running that pub for over fifteen years and he's seen some shit go down. For him to have called for help in the middle of the night, Pat had to've been in pretty bad shape.
Or in real danger.
Logan meets my eyes and asks what I can't. "Is Patton alright?"
Jannie's hands tighten on my shirt and his breath stutters, but he nods. "He's safe."
“And you?” I ask, one hand buried in his hair.
He draws closer and sighs.
~
Eventually, Logan peels away to finish the eggs and I get Jannie settled at the table. Our giant coffee pot is barely half-full, the little red Warm light still glowing. "Tea?" I ask, eying his nearly empty coffee cup next to the stove.
Logan passes him the cup without looking and Jannie drains the dregs. "Tea," he nods and hands over the cup.
He sits with his feet tucked up on the seat, knees hugged to his chest, and watches me pull down the box of Tetley's. "What are your plans like today?" he asks us.
"You know me," I wink at each of them and click on the kettle. "Free ballin' today."
Logan chuckles. "I've cleared my schedule," he says, scraping the bottom of the pan. "My time is yours today." He turns off the stove again and plates the food, glancing at Jannie over his shoulder. "I can stay or go whenever you wish. It's completely up to—"
Jannie grabs his hand. "Please don't go," he whispers, voice wet.
Logan lifts Jannie's hand to his lips. "I'm not going anywhere without you, then."
I lean over Jannie's chair while I wait for the kettle to boil, weaving our arms together. He tilts his head back against my belly, eyes closed. "Do you feel like knocking about at home?” I ask. “Or maybe scarf down this feast and go paint the town red?"
He sighs, eyes trailing over to his reading nook. "I think I'd like to go out," he finally says.
"There is a La Cage aux Folles-Birdcage double feature at Lexi this weekend," Logan suggests, setting down the eggs and the bangers Jannie had left warming in the oven.
The kettle finishes and Jannie doesn't loosen his grip on my arms so Logan shoots me a small smile and goes to fill our cups. I squeeze in behind Jannie in his chair and he leans back, pinning me in place. "A trip to the movies sounds wonderful," he says, nodding.
~
"He's been writing to me."
Jay eats only a few bites of his food before he pushes away his plate. One hand cradles his tea. The other clings to Remus’ arm wrapped over his body.
“What?" Remus looks around the house like there was a stack of letters hidden away somewhere.
"No, not in the post, but… I mean… my… paperwork in Copenhagen did the trick. The school got their hands on it. Dead children don't talk to the press and so they called off their search for me. Páidí—Patton found it. Took it. He’s…” Jay’s eyes squeeze shut. “He was leathered when I brought him home and I don't think he was in his right mind. He's…"
Jay sets down his tea and pulls Remus' arms a little tighter around himself. Shields up. "He's got this box. It's full of letters… addressed to me."
I don’t need to ask if Remus knew about the box. The shadows behind his eyes say it for him. “Did you read them?” I ask Jay.
“One of them,” he sighs. “It was… the newest? It was… still open. He…”
When Jay’s voice catches, Remus draws him closer, pressing kisses into his hair.
“I’m not the only one who still carried a torch,” Jay whispers.
With Remus' head bowed, I can’t see his face, but his whole body vibrates with his thoughts. “What would you like to do, Jay?" I grip his hands, fingers laced together. "Whatever you choose, contact, no contact… You have my full support."
“Yeah, Jannie, you know I meant it when I said you could look him up for whatever you wanted." He shrugs. “Even now that he’s…”
At Jay's lingering silence, I shift so I can properly face the both of them. I stroke Jay’s cheek until he meets my gaze. “Yours is not the only heart that matters to you in your assessment of your options, is it?"
Eyes squeezed shut, he addresses Remus’ arms curled around him. “Would you stop seeing him if I asked?"
Shock flashes over Remus’ features then softens into a knowing smile as he presses a kiss against Jay’s temple. “You wouldn't ask that of me, Jannie," he murmurs. "I know that."
"But if I did?" Jay twists around to face him.
Remus is quiet for a bit, but even with his eyes closed, I can see the tears in his lashes as he takes Jay’s hand and presses it to his heart. "Of course I would, Jannie."
Jay nods and reaches for my hand, too. "That's why I'd never ask."
“You know he tried to warn me.” The defeat in Remus’ voice stills us both and Jay and I turn to him as one. “Pat told me he'd done something awful, that he… I shoulda pushed him for more details, I shoulda—"
"And I should have come clean with you about where I was really from," Jay says, looking down at all of our hands woven together. "The fault does not lie on your shoulders, Muse."
“Does it all lie on his?" Remus looks away, like he regrets the question but couldn’t hold it back. Instead of hurt, though, Jannie looks thoughtful.
He sighs, his eyes falling shut. "I… I don't know what to think. I don’t… want to think. Not right now.”
“Okay,” Remus whispers, nuzzling against the side of his head. Just before I can change the subject, Remus’ lips curl in a stiff smile and he winks at me. "So how 'bout them Dolphins?"
~
Through a sort of wordless agreement, Remus and I worked together to keep Jay within literal reach while we prepared for our outing.
“I bet now you’re glad you left your trousers here last Halloween.” Remus chuckles when I step downstairs after my turn in the shower.
"At least Muse didn't steal them and shove them in the washer to get you leave them behind.”
"What can I say? It worked. Look at the bad bitch I bagged with that little move.” Remus laughs and feigns nipping at Jay's fingers where they trail down his jaw. He grins up at me. “There's plenty of space if you wanna leave more behind."
"If?" I ask, then snap my mouth shut. Remus' impulsivity is rubbing off on me. I seek out Jay's eyes; have I said too much?
"Or when," Jay says simply, one hand threaded together with Remus' as he reaches for mine.
His lightness doesn't last. Jay’s, all of our eyes, really, travel from our intertwined hands to his and Remus’, then to Remus’ other hand clutching empty air. Patton’s absence screamed in its silence and Remus brought his other arm up to curl around Jay.
“Are we ready to go?” I ask and together we help Jay to his feet and usher him out the door.
~
Competing with a weekend filled with festivals and unseasonably pleasant weather, the theatre is most empty, leaving us sequestered in our own little island. We sat in the darkened theatre with Jay sat between us. His tears sparkled in the flickering light spilling out from the screen and Remus and I took turns gently brushing them away.
In hindsight, perhaps a film about husbands, old flames, and fighting to prevail over homophobic obstacles wasn't the best option for avoiding certain… emotions.
But moments of levity still managed to break through.
“Bob Dole was a yassified Nixon at his absolute peak,” Jay murmurs as the last film wrapped.
I had to cover my mouth to stifle a laugh. Remus didn’t bother, head thrown back as he cackled. “What, you don’t like tall, pale, and doughy?”
“You know what I like,” he says, bringing each of our hands to his heart. His smile falters, just a bit, and Remus drapes one leg over his.
“You know we’ve never fucked in a movie theatre before,” he growls loud enough for me to hear. I’m grateful the end credits are loud enough that the row in front of us likely couldn’t.
Jay smirked. “There are too many people,” he says. “Besides, are you forgetting Last Knights?”
“Ah!” Remus presses a hand over his heart, face drawn down in exaggerated outrage. “That wasn’t fucking, we were making love.”
I clear my throat to hide my laugh. “I think perhaps that is our cue to head back?”
~
We have a quiet lunch at Jay and Remus’ flat, the leftover bounty of that morning’s breakfast more than sufficient to sate us even after a long walk back from the theatre. As he's done all afternoon, Remus checks his phone when he thinks Jay’s not looking.
Each time, he frowns at the screen, then he puts it away, face drawn.
Each time, Jay’s looked away by the time Remus raises his eyes, a smile pressed onto his face.
"I… I nearly left was I saw it wasn't Virgil at the pub." Jay's admission is quiet. And understandable.
We're sitting together in Jay and Remus' garden, Jay cradled between us as he lays against Remus' chest, one leg crossed over mine.
Remus' hand stills in Janus' hair, briefly, before he resumes slowly carding through his hair.
"I would've made sure Emile got him home," he adds, craning his neck to catch Remus' eyes.
Remus is chewing the edge of his mustache, looking out at the clouds gathering along the horizon. “Pat doesn't drink," he finally says. "He—"
"I'd gathered as much," Jay murmurs, reaching up and stroking the back of Remus' neck. It doesn't quite hide the tremor in his hand. "He's fine, or he was, at least, when I left. He'd had two Irish Coffees."
"Emile makes 'em strong," Remus mumbles, eyebrows knit together. "One of, um, your messages said there was a… a fella?"
I had rather hoped Remus hadn't drilled in to that part of Jay's texts. Foolish, but hopeful.
Jay didn't miss his tone, either. "The bloke was just a bartick, Muse," he murmurs, looking up again. “Patton wasn’t…” He shakes his head. “The bloke latched on to him because he was drunk. I don’t think Patton even realized he was being hit on, let alone did anything to encourage it. Emile and I… we got him out of there."
Remus nods, but his eyes are still clouded. "It's really not like him to go and drown his sorrows in a bottle.”
"I wouldn't know," Jay mutters and settles back against Remus’ chest.
"I…" They both look up and it's a struggle to not look away. "I was overly… firm with him last night." My fingers trace the crease in Jay's trousers. "I… Before I came up, he… He'd wanted to go up after you. He expressed remorse and he asked me to share that with you. "I…" Understanding burns from their eyes and I look away. "I said no. I…"
I reach blindly for their hands. "I didn't realize he—that either of you—had been so young. I didn't realize you were just—"
Jay shakes his head. "Just children play acting at rebellion." He turns his head, scarred cheek pressed against Remus' chest. "With consequences."
We all watch butterflies dancing through the honeysuckle growing in the planters along the railing. “I… I’d like to go see him tomorrow,” Remus says quietly.
“I’d never stop you from following your heart, Muse,” Jay whispers. “Do you know what you'll…” His voice trails off, like he’s choosing his words with care.
Remus doesn't make him voice his worries. “Still figuring it all out.”
Jay nods, blinking slowly. His breathing steadies and his grip on our hands loosens fractionally. Exhausted after only a handful of hours' worth rest last night? Almost certainly.
Hiding from his emotions in the void of sleep? Perhaps.
Remus and I exchange a glance, a quiet, shared assent to let the conversation wind down, to let Jay escape to the questionable shelter of his dreams.
Finally, he sleeps.
When I’m certain Jay’s completely asleep, I brush the edge of Remus’ arm. He looks back at me with wet eyes. “I…" I keep my voice to a bare whisper. "I apologize for not allowing Patton to follow you last night, for not…” He starts to shake his head but I continue. “For not making it yours and Jay’s choice.”
“You were looking out for Jannie.”
I squeeze his forearm where it rests over Jay’s stomach. “And for you. I thought he… I thought… I was mistaken,” I say at last.
"It's almost too much." Still quiet, Remus' voice bursts out, rough and broken. He's holding Jay close, but his eyes are haunted. "It took me a few years to piece together just how young they'd had to've been when it all went down." He swallowed hard, adam's apple bobbing. Jay's sleeping, upper half of his body cradled in Remus’ arms. If he loses it, Jay will wake to a sobbing husband.
“And now…” He watches the slow, steady rise and fall of Jay’s chest in sleep. “Both of them… I… They’re both so hurt, Jannie especially, but Carrot Cake, too, and…” Words run dry, he rests his cheek against the top of Jay’s head. “I just want him to know he’s not alone.”
Moving slowly in case I’m overstepping, I reach for Remus' hand and brush my fingers over the back of it. He flips it over immediately, gripping mine, and looks up at me with red-rimmed eyes. It occurs to me I’m not completely sure which ‘he’ Remus doesn’t want to feel alone.
I’m not completely sure the difference even matters.
“You’re not alone either, Re.” I draw closer and Remus leans back to meet me, head on my shoulder. I wrap one arm around him, the other curling around both him and Jay. He melts against me, each breath a little easier than the last. I whisper into his hair as I watch his eyes start to close. “We’ve got you, too.”
~
Muse and Lo’s soft whispers of comfort for me—and for each other—lulled me to sleep but I wake as the late afternoon sun washes down over the terrace. And our faces. Muse’s stomach grumbles and he shifts, that sudden, deep inhalation telling me he’s awake now, too.
I reach up behind me to cup his cheek and he turns, nuzzling against my palm. “You’re awake,” he whispers.
Lo’s quiet, his hand still and relaxed where it lays on my belly. Still sleeping. He’ll lament the damage to his circadian rhythm later, but for now, he clearly needs the rest.
I nod, stretching my fingers to play along the edges of Muse's hair. He hums, jaw flexing then relaxing under my hand. I didn’t sleep long enough to dream, and I… I’m glad I didn't. Relieved, even, that I didn’t dream of him. The ache in my chest has nothing doesn't mean I missed seeing his eyes, even in a dream.
As sleep took me, what I truly didn't miss was the catch in Muse’s voice, the regret and worry and fear all wrapped up together as he spoke to Lo.
I wish I’d known. I wish I’d known Muse had spent the last year handing his heart to someone who…
Muse’s stomach grumbled again, pulling me back to him, back to where my thoughts belonged and I turn, carefully, slowly, holding Lo’s hand in place. He’d been up late and woke early, messaging me me as I peeled and crushed and sautéed my mind back to the present. Lo needed rest.
But I needn’t’ve bothered. I look up and two gorgeous sets of eyes, espresso and indigo, my earth and my sky, look back at me.
“Gentlemen…” I smile, squeezing out the whispered cry for emeralds, my seamróga, to join them. “Shall we prepare dinner?”
“Hmm,” Muse stretches again, muscles flexing against my back. “I was going to make that curry. We’re out of coconut milk, though.”
“I could—” Lo begins but I turn and cup his cheek.
“Allow me,” I say. “A bit of a walk would…” I flex my neck, listening to it crackle. “A walk would do me some good.”
Muse’s hand finds mine and squeezes, tentative, testing. Lo glances at Muse then meets my eyes and asks for them both. “Would you prefer company or space?”
“You should stay here and keep Muse away from the ghost peppers,” I laugh.
Lo opens his mouth and I can already hear his response. You’re avoiding the question.
I kiss them both, not ready to voice the answer.
“Very well,” Lo murmurs, accepting my hand when I reach to help him and Muse up to their feet. “I shall do my best,” he says and follows Muse to the kitchen as I go to the door.
“Okay, let’s chop up some peppers, then,” Muse laughs over the scrape of his favorite knife against the whetstone.
“Remus…” Their voices bathe me in warmth as I slip on my shoes and open the door. “I believe Jay asked for no ghost peppers in this recipe.”
“That’s not what I heard…”
~
By the time I arrive at Oseyo's, I’m greeted by dark windows and a big Closed sign. I stare at the locked doors for several breaths, daring them to magically open. It’s not as though they’re the only shop in town. Aldi’s is just a few more blocks up the street.
But so is Virgil’s café.
Fuck it. I turn and stomp gracelessly toward the grocer’s. This is my city, not his, and I won’t let him keep me from enjoying it. I can walk past the shop without thinking of him. I can walk past the shop without slowing my pace to search for those copper curls.
I can walk past without stopping and watching him struggle with one of the gargantuan machines Virgil insists makes the place look authentic.
A cackling knot of tourists—how they hell did they even find this street?—spill out onto the pavement beside me and Virgil spots me from the edge of the window. He looks at me, eyebrows raised behind his silly emo bangs but I shake my head and continue on my way to pick up the milk.
Having a little too much fun with my upcoming Dukeceit Week story (hosted this year by @darksideweeks)
… while I’ve the most gorgeous man in London sleeping in my arms.”
“Oooh,” I laugh, curling over to nibble at his ear. “In all of London now? Last month it was just East London.”
“Ncuti Gatwa moved to Wales,” he deadpans.
(unrelated: Tumblr, when will you give us actual yellow and indigo text? Give us the colors, please! Fanders need them.)
About a year after the end of Always, Janus and Remus are happily married—and even more happily polyamorous. Janus and Logan have been together for a little over a year and a half; Remus has been seeing Patton for just over a year and they've finally confessed their love for each other.
Time for Remus' partners to finally meet.
Hold on to your hats, theydies and gentlefolk. Because the truth is coming out.
All of it.
Chapter List - [ AO3 ]
Fourteen
Irish Coffee
Home
Hope's Battle
There Lies Faith
And the Greatest of these is Love
Always 💚💛 and About Love 💚🩵 are the first two stories in this (surprise) series.
It's a heat wave in London. Remus thought he was just looking for a cold pint before calling it a night.
He (and Janus) found so much more.
Patton's new in town, gainfully employed with the help of his internet-turned-IRL (best?) friend, Virgil. He's learning a lot and getting hi
It Was Always About Love, Ch. 6: And the Greatest of these is Love
Patton goes to Janus and Remus' flat to explain.
Prev - And the Greatest of these is Love - Masterpost - [ AO3 ]
WC: 5710 - Rated: M - CW: brief scripture references, references to the religious cult Janus and Patton were involved in (never named as a cult), brief and non-graphic reference to corporal punishment.
~
I go home for his box first. If this is the last time I’ll ever see him, I want him to have them or at least… My fingers brush the edges of the lid, catching on one frayed corner. I’d just been thinking I needed to find a bigger one soon. This box, the fourth, was already getting full and a little worn. There’d been a really nice cedar one in the shop I was saving for. Big and deep, made for storing grimoires and herbs.
I don’t think I’ll need it now.
I find a bag to carry it in, just in case the skies open up. It’s muggy out, there’s a chance we’ll see a little rain. My gaze lingers on Re’s sketch on the wall and my—the—shamrocks in the window he gave me our first night… together, but I can't make myself take them, too. If Re asks for them, I'll give them back. But I'm just not strong enough to give them up on my own. Too selfish to let them go that easily.
But his letters? I hug the box to my chest until the corner digs in to my ribs. Every word was written for him. I have no right to keep them. Even if he doesn’t want them. He can do as he pleases with them.
I take my keys and my still-dead phone and head out. I walk slower than I should, fear dragging each step. Virgil was smart to tell them I was coming over. I'd probably just duck out if I thought I could delay this any longer.
~
When Jannie leaves to fetch the milk, he takes my joking about ghost peppers with him. Logan gets right to honing the big chef’s knife—he’s been cooking with Jannie more than I realized—and I pull out the ginger and the onions and shit. I toss them in a strainer to wash and turn on the tap. I’m watching the water splash through my fingers and over veggies when Logan moves close.
“I can finish rinsing if you’d like to check your phone again,” he says quietly, turning down the water and tapping my hands.
I look down. My fingertips have gone cold and pruney. I shoot him a little smile, my cheeks stiff. “Have I been that obvious?”
He hands me a towel and smiles. “Only because we care to notice.”
I sigh and lean back against the sink, drying my hands. Logan stays close, his arm grazing mine as he scrubs a sweet potato. When my hands are dry, I pull out my phone. I know what I’ll see on the screen, or what I won’t see. Carrot Cake’s got his own ringtone on my phone, and it was set to go override everything else.
I woulda heard it, woulda felt it, if he’d replied.
Nothing. My message to him unread.
“Y’know, between the two of us, me and Jannie?” I tap the phone like it might make Carrot Cake finally reply. It doesn’t. “I’d always been the one to suggest violence was the solution when it came to the problem of his ex.” Logan hums beside me, listening. “It was just the last couple years that I’d started to think that maybe Jannie should look him up for… a different kind of closure. Or re-opening?”
“That can be a healthy way of approaching it,” Logan says over the rush of water. “Jay’s characterization of his dreams of an idyllic life with him as nightmares…” He sighs.
“What if…” I can’t even put it to words.
Logan’s switched off the water and turned to me, hand on my arm with a towel between us so he doesn’t get me wet. “I am certain something has kept—” I open my mouth, ready with the list of reasons Pat wouldn’t want to talk to me but Logan just tightens the arm he’d curled around me.
His arm is warm through my shirt and I realize the sun’s started to sink below the terrace window. The AC always took a little time to adjust to the cooler evenings. He brushes my bare arm, his hands dry now.
Time’s gotten weird while I was lost in my head. I look up and meet his eyes. He’s still smiling. “I am certain something that does not reflect a lack of desire to speak with you has kept him from reaching out.”
My laugh is bitter but he doesn’t flinch. “Glad one of us is.”
Logan looks back at me, warm steel in his eyes. “I will happily carry for you all the certainty you need.”
~
“… not back yet. Oh, wait, I hear his key,” Lo’s voice practically narrates my arrival. I close the door behind me and Lo’s on phone, Muse hovering beside him, gnawing at the edge of his mustache. “It’s Virgil,” Lo says, passing me the phone.
So much for telling them where I’d been on my own.
“Really, Virgil,” I clear my throat. My voice sounds precisely like I’d used up my control back at the shop. Lo and Muse’s eyes stay on me. They hear it, too. “I don’t need a nursemai—”
“Patton’s on his way there,” Virgil interrupts me. “And I didn’t tell them you were here,” he adds. “Not getting in the middle of your… thing… any more than I have to.”
“Wha— but why?” I look up and Muse’s eyes are red-rimmed. Páidí wouldn’t really come to break things off now, would he?
A rattling roar from the closing shop’s gate spills out of the phone and Virgil grunts. “He told me what happened.” The clang of the lock, then something rubbing on the phone mic. “I think you should listen to what he has to say.”
Muse is hugging himself, gaze fixed on me. Lo’s close to him, one hand on his shoulder. The other floats between us, like he doesn’t know which of our hands to grab on to.
“Fine,” I mutter. “I’ll hear him out, but no—”
“Yeah, yeah,” Virgil half-laughs. “No promises. I’ve heard that one before,” he says and my eyes flick up to Lo automatically.
I was meant to have a singular date with the cute curator Muse couldn’t stop talking about. Lo reaches for my hand.
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” I murmur back. “Thanks for the warning,” I say to Virgil and end the call. I stare down at the screen until it fades then pass it back to Lo. “I should have told him not to let him come. I should have told him to do this another day, to wait until I’m not so—” My voice cracks.
Muse pulls me close and they both wrap their arms around me. He whispers into my hair, “You've waited twenty years to have this conversation. You sure you really wanna to wait more?"
~
I almost don’t even feel the bag straps digging into my shoulder anymore, the steady thwack-thwack-thwack against my side as I walked the last few blocks keeping pace, keeping me going. At the first few intersections, I’d turned around, ready to go back home and leave the bag behind. If this conversation went anything like the one we’d just had… I tighten my grip on the strap, the bag’s weight more reassurance than burden. I’m going to want to hold on to this little piece of him if things go the way I think they will.
But it’s not really him I’d be holding on to, is it? These letters are a piece of me.
My hand hovers over the buzzer. And so what if he doesn’t even want them? What if he wants to burnt hem or toss them off the roof or just gives them back?
Well, then, that’s your answer, isn’t it?
I press the bell.
Everything’s quiet and it feels like hours before Logan’s—Logan is still there?—crisp voice spills out from the speaker.
“Yes?”
“Erhm, hi, I—it’s—”
The intercom buzzes and the door clicks open.
“Please come up,” his voice adds just as the door closes behind me, an afterthought, habitual manners, maybe.
Even the elevator seems reluctant on its plodding trip up to the top floor and I’m pretty sure I could walk up faster. I almost give up, press the button for the next floor and get out to find a stairwell. Before I gather the courage for it, the elevator finally spits me out on the top floor. I knock twice and the door creaks open almost immediately, like he—they?—were waiting just inside.
Logan’s the one to let me in here, too. His gaze bounces from my hair—it must be a mess—down to the tote bag on my shoulder, my hands, then back again to my eyes.
“You came,” he says.
I nod, “Aye.”
“You are surprised at my presence. Perhaps I did not make the nature of—” Logan begins then shakes his head. “After…” He looks over his shoulder before turning back and holding my eyes. “I wish to speak with you, Patton, if that is alright with you. Later tonight?”
A debrief? A chance to tell me himself to get lost? He doesn’t seem quite as angry as he had last night, but he’s unsmiling, jaw stiff. I’ve never been great at reading him, but today, I have no idea what’s going on behind his eyes.
“Aye,” I say again. “‘Course.”
He moves—to take the bag? Does he want to check it—and his eyes drop to my fingers twisting in the bag strap. He frowns, for just a second, then his face goes flat and neutral again and he opens the door wider. “Come in.”
His shoes are off and there are a few pairs lined up by the door, so I toe mine off, too, and set them beside the others. He watches me, still and patient? I can’t tell if his posture is actual patience or just really carefully controlled annoyance.
I straighten, the bag knocking against my hip. His eyes follow its movement then flick away and he nods. “They’re out on the terrace.”
He leads and I swallow back a sour sense of doom and follow. For about the fiftieth time that night, I wish Virgil could’ve just told them what he knows and…
And what? Do I really not want this chance to get to seem them again, even just one more time?
Re and Janus are curled together on a low, plush couch. Well, maybe it’s not a couch, it looks like it’s made to be outdoors, but it’s sturdy and cozy and spacious all at the same time. They’re wrapped around each other, arms and legs tangled—no, woven together. Re’s speaking softly to Janus, one hand brushing through his hair. He looks up when Logan steps out onto the terrace.
Re falls silent when I step out behind him.
Janus looks up, too. Not at me, but at Logan as he pulls up a matching chair and points me toward it. Logan waits until I move to the chair before joining them on the couch.
He fits in alongside Janus like a puzzle piece, one arm curled around Janus’ belly, ankles hooked together, fingers threaded. How long had Logan said they’d been dating—in a relationship? Eighteen months. A year and a half. Long enough to be soft and at ease with each other. With Re’s hand in his right and Logan’s in his left, Janus’s long fingers stroke each of them, gently exploring.
I used to know what that felt like.
I shift the bag to my lap and hold it, wishing again I’d left it at home.
“Virge said we should hear you out.” Re’s looking at me. His eyes are wet and Logan reaches over Janus to pat his hand. Pat’s the wrong word. It’s soft, the same way he’s touching Janus. Like they’re…
Oh.
I look up and catch Logan’s eyes—he’s watching me. Had I said that out loud? He doesn’t move away from Re, though, and I nod. They’re all going to be okay. I breathe, forcing the air in, and nod. “Aye,” I say, hoping getting something, anything out will prime the pump and get my words flowing, but nothing else comes out.
I try again. “Aye, thank you.”
“Well, this has been illuminating,” Janus mutters, looking out over the skyline. “Thank you so much for coming, Patton.” The name sounds wrong in his voice. “I feel so much better now, you—”
“I… I’m sorry,” I say, not really meaning to interrupt but desperate for those to not be the last words we say to each other. “I… I want to tell you what happened.”
Janus finally turns at looks at me. They’re all looking at me now. Re’s been crying and it looks like Janus was, too.
“Well…” he says, drawing Re and Logan closer to him. “Let’s hear it, then.”
~
An hour after Sister Margaret Mary calls lights out, I push back the curtain to let in the moonlight. It’s been dark long enough I can see perfectly clearly with the three-quarters moon shining outside and I check my book bag one more time. Socks, pants, toothbrush, comb. My pencil bag. A tiny book of poems I’d… borrowed from the chapel library. It’d had dust on the top edge when I’d first found it. No-one would miss it.
Well, Macushla would miss it if I didn’t read to him from it.
It feels weird, wrong, to not have my school books and my bible inside my bag. Like opening up a tin of fish and finding peaches instead. All the things that are meant to go in my book bag are stacked on my desk now, too heavy, too… wrong to bring with us. I nod to myself and zip up the bag, then set it at the foot of my bed.
I’m not wearing pyjamas, but regular clothes. Not my uniform, either. I’ve got on the canvas trousers I wear on garden days, a thick plaid shirt buttoned up over my undershirt. My thickest socks. It’s meant to be a clear, cold night.
I check my watch. It’s almost time. I lace up my shoes and grab my jacket and my gloves and Macushla’s cap. We’d lost mine in the woods last fall. I chuckle as I pull it down over my head, tucking in the stray curls that fight their confinement. “Ah, Mo Stór… it’s a shame to hide your locks,” Macushla’d murmured as he’d passed it to me at dinner. “But your lovely copper curls are a right give away who you are.”
Bag on, jacket zipped, I’d just begun to turn the knob when the old elevator dinged at the end of the hall. Low voices spill out, quiet and hushed. But there’s no mistaking Father Brighton’s rumble. My floor, unlike Janus’, is all third and fourth years. It’d been months since they’d done a lights out check on this floor. Why tonight of all nights?
Tip-toeing back across the room, I avoid the creakiest of the floorboards and lower my bag to the floor.
Their footsteps are growing louder, far too quickly. They’re not checking every room. And they’re headed this way. No time to take off my shoes or my coat, I climb into bed and pull the covers up to my neck just as the lock turns on the doorknob. At the last moment, I pull off Macushla’s cap and stick it under my pillow.
The hallway light spills over my bed, my face, bright enough in the dark room to bleed through my closed eyes. Mouth shut loosely, I slow my breathing as much as I can, fighting muscles screaming to run, fighting burning lungs that want to pant, to suck up oxygen.
“Páidí,” Father Brighton’s voice isn’t hushed anymore. “Pádraig,” he repeats, a little louder, and I slowly crack open my eyes. My hands twist in the blanket, keeping it close to my chin. If they uncover me, they’ll know.
“Fa—Father Brighton?” I try to sound sleepy, but my voice just comes out scared.
“Páidí, my child,” he rumbles and steps into the room. His shadow moves before him along the floor, over my bed, my desk. He picks up my book bag and sets it on the desk next to my bible and school books. “Awfully heavy bag to be missing all your books.”
He nods to someone out in the hall and Sister Mary Kelly comes in, shaking her head. I don’t know what to say when she tears away the covers and pulls me out of bed, fully dressed.
Father Brighton sighs. “What do you have to say for yourself, lad?”
“Ye didn’t go t’them?” Janus’ voice has lost its smooth boredom and he’s watching me. “Ye… you said you’d told. You…”
“Aye, I did. I—I told.” I hug my letters a little closer. “Father Brighton put me in confessional.” They made me strip right there in the pews but I don’t say that part. Janus knows how it worked. “He saw my…” I wave my hand over my heart and Janus’ eyes flickered.
“And after my twenty—”
Janus sits forward, still gripping Re and Logan’s hands, but his knees almost touch mine. “They caned you, too?” I hear a little strangled sound from Re, but I’m afraid of what I’ll see if I look up at him.
“Well, aye… It…” I shrug, not sure what it mattered now. “They said it… it was a sin for man to lie with mankind but…” I shake my head. Arguing with them had only made it worse. “I said it wasn’t like that, that we loved each other. They… said ‘love means helping him be saved—”
“‘Not helping him sin,’” Janus finishes, not looking at me.
I nod. I’d heard Father Brighton shout that at him, too. “Father Brighton’d said ‘God searches all hearts, and understands every intent of our thoughts.’” I look down in the bag and the box lid’s gone crooked. I push it back down and hug the box closer. “I thought if he knew our thoughts, too… That it wasn’t just lust, it was love, that… that loving was better than stealing or lying or anything else.” I finally dare to look up. “An’ I told.”
Janus shakes his head. He still won’t look at me. “That was feckin’ stupid.”
“Aye.” Of course I know how stupid I was.
“I mean really, really stupid. You didn’t have to tell them anything! You could have lied, you could have said you were sneaking out to see some trollop in town. That some fair lassie ‘ad stolen yer heart and they wouldn’ta done a thing to ye!”
“I… I’d thought it would be better not to lie.”
I hang my head, but I can feel his eyes burn into me and I almost, almost liked it better when he wouldn’t look at me.
“And they wouldn’ta gone after me, too.” Janus is on his feet now and I make myself look up and meet his eyes.
“Aye,” I nod. “And that’s why I wish I’d lied.”
He points at my chest and my hand comes up, rubbing the long, long-faded love bite I’d been hiding under my clothes that night.
“What about wishing you hadn’t told them it was me?”
“I didn’,” I whisper, shaking my head. “I never said I’ was you. They knew. They said ye’d already told ‘em ev’rythin’.”
He steps forward, “They lied,” he spat. He shakes his head at me, nose scrunched and lips pursed like I’m something foul he’d dragged in from outside. “They were smart enough to fucking lie.” He turns and moves to the terrace railing, leaning over it, as far from me at the space allows. “I think we’re done here.”
“Jannie—” Re begins, but Janus shakes his head. Re stands and moves to his side. Janus melts into his arms, his face tucked into the crook of Re’s neck. Re looks back at me, eyes wet.
“I’ll go,” I say. I’ve been talking so long I don’t have much of a voice left, anyway, but… I stand, the letters unbearably heavy. “If…” I pass the box to Logan. “If you want…” I say to Janus’ back. “They’re all to you.”
“There’s something I don’t understand,” Logan says quietly, hefting the box in both arms. “If it’s true you didn’t name Janus, how could they possibly know it was him? Are you certain you didn’t let his name slip during your… confession?”
“They came to my room because our passports were gone.” I shrug. It seemed obvious. “Ours were the only ones missing.”
“I had them.” Low and muffled against Re’s shoulder, Janus’ voice is nearly swallowed up by a passing aid car.
“Aye,” I nod, arms empty without the letters. Without Re. Without Janus, Macushla. I can still call him that in my head, can’t I? “They nev’r found ‘em, either.”
“Yes, I had our passports,” Janus whispers again. “They were in my bag. I’d gotten them before dinner. It was…” He finally turns then and I can see his face. The wind’s burned tears into his eyes. “They already knew.”
“Aye. They knew we were runnin’ away,” I say. “An’ I’m th’ one who tol’ ‘em why. I’m so sorry.” It doesn’t fix it. There’s nothing I can say to fix it. To fix any of it. “I’m sorry,” I whisper again.
No-one says anything. Logan’s just looking down at the bag and Re’s watching me with big, sad eyes.
Macushla’s eyes are closed.
“I’ll let myself out,” I say. “Thank you for…” I shove my hands in my pockets, nails digging into my palms so I don’t just start bawling in front of them. “For hearing me.”
Logan rises and I remember what he’d said about wanting to talk with me. I shake my head, my throat closing up. I just… I just can’t right now. “Can I… After work? Tomorrow?” I can get one more shift, maybe, and then…
Lips thin, Logan relents. “Tomorrow.”
“Pat?” Re’s voice is strained and, arms wrapped around Macushla, his choice is clear. I wanna say it for him, free him of it all right now now, but he’s wrapped so tightly around Macushla, there’s no way he could break away for a moment to…
Who am I kidding? I’m no braver now than I was then. I’m gonna need him to say it.
I look out past the skyline. The sun’s completely set, but the stars can’t quite break through the clouds.
I turn to him and nod. “We’ll talk tomorrow, too,” I promise and slip back inside their flat. Their voices are low behind me, swallowed up by the breeze outside as I find my shoes and get them on. I figure out the locks on the door and close it behind me.
My feet slowly do their job, taking me to the elevator I can’t see past blurry eyes.
~
“Is that…”
Lo reaches into the bag and takes out the box I’d hoped Páidí hadn’t left behind. He tries to pass it to me but I shake my head. I’ve already seen what’s inside. “You can open it.”
He nods and sits close to us with the shoe box. It’s a boot box, actually. I stare at the label on the side. Páidí wears ten and a halfs now.
Lo pries up the lid. “Letters,” he says, voice flat, a little distant, like he’s counting, estimating. “Well over a hundred.” He spots the dates on the ribbons right away. The one from 2005, the year we’d tried to leave, the year I had left, is right on top. Logan rubs his thumb over the year and looks up at me. “2005… you were…”
“Fourteen.”
“You’re the same age,” Muse murmurs. His voice is low and rough. I should’ve let him go after Páidí. I should’ve made him.
I tighten my arms around him instead and nod. “He’s younger, actually. December birthday.”
“You were babies,” he murmurs. His tears wet my hair.
"We were children playing dress up, on a great adventure. Our courageous, romantic escape from the priesthood.”
"But you got out,” Lo says quietly, sorting the packets of envelopes by year. They first half are all slim, no more than a dozen or so in each stack until 2016.
That year is thicker than the five sets preceding it.
I nod. “I got out."
Lo looks down at the envelopes, the calculus clear. To me, at least. 2016 was the year the seminary was finally shut down. I wonder if Lo remembers that. “He did not.”
I shake my head. “He did not.”
Lo got to the bottom of the box. His jaw twitches as he skims over the birth certificate then he re-folds it. When he returns it to its spot, his hand doesn’t come away empty.
“There’s a hat in here.”
Simple black knit, a winter cap. Had Páidí just shoved his winter clothes into the box along with the other relics? Was this a catch-all for the things he didn’t need anymore?
Lo examines it, the welcome mystery softening his features. His face shifts, though, as he turns it inside out, holding it up to the dying light. “Your hair is in it.” He passes the woolen cap to me.
“No, Macushla, you should keep your hat.” Eyes dancing, he’d laughed when I offered him my hat that evening. “I can take the cold.”
“Ah, Mo Stór…” I whispered behind my water glass. We’d sat together at dinner, a rare treat. One of the more observant nuns had muttered some bullshit about Christ not keeping favorites the past summer and we’d kept to sitting together only once or twice a week.
I winked at him. “It’s a shame to hide your locks.” I passed him the hat flippantly, carelessly, like it was just a hat, and not the last piece in our plan for escape. “Your lovely copper curls are a right give away who you are.” My fingers brushed against the inside of his wrist and I inhaled sharply at the sparks the contact spread through my hand and up my arm.
It was winter now and gardening time was in the hot house, so few chances to have the space, the room to touch.
“Just because you can withstand something doesn’t mean you have to,” I added, dropping my voice when one of the first years pass behind us. “Besides,” I whispered again, brushing against him as I reached over him for the salt, a small bit of rudeness to cover the larger sin. “If you wear it, your hair can warm my hands later when we’re finally alone.”
“Pat hasn’t left the building yet,” Muse whispers.
I look up. His eyes are fixed on the pavement below. The lobby door’s right below us.
“You could still catch him,” Lo offers, setting down the box and moving to my side. Gently, he cups my cheek. My tears collect in his palm. “You want to, don’t you?” he asks so carefully.
Muse’s arms squeeze around me, then loosen. “Hey, if you don’t go drag him back here, I will.”
“As will I. Figuratively, of course,” Lo adds, the quirk in his lips making it clear he means it literally, too.
Earth and sea look back at me, bathing me in hope and worry and love.
I want my seamróga back.
I kiss them both, hurried and sloppy, Muse laughing a quiet, “Go get him back,” against my lips. I race back inside our flat, stopping just long enough to snatch up our journal. I don’t know if this is real, but I know how to find out.
I yank open the door just as the elevator dings. “Wait!” I shout, but the doors are already closing. I dash down the hall. I can take the stairs, I can still catch him on the pavement. “Mo stór!” I try again. If he hears me, maybe he’ll wait downstairs. “Mo—”
His hand darts out between the closing doors, pressing against the safety bumper. The elevator doors pop back open. I hide the journal behind my back, the hat loose in the hand at my side.
“Risky move,” I laugh. My voice comes out wet and broken. Fuck, I’m crying again. I was meant to be smooth and suave and—I look down. My feet are bare, my shirt’s untucked, shoulders damp with tears. Mine and Muse’s.
Páidí, Mo stór, steps out of the elevator. The doors slide shut behind him, buzzing their fury at being interrupted.
“Did…” His eyes dance for a moment, a spark of joy mixing with his tears, but he takes a breath and the hope hardens. “Did you need something, Janus?” He says my name so carefully, like he’s been practicing.
I long to grab him. To pull him close, to pull him inside, to never, ever let him out of my sight again. “Ye—” Inhaling slowly, I try again. “You forgot this,” I say and hold out the hat.
He reaches for it, his hand shaking. But all he does is stroke the rough knit. “It’s yours,” he says, voice thin and broken. His fingers close on the cap, briefly, then he seems to make himself let go. “They emptied out your room, I don’t know what they did with everything, but…” He shakes his head and looks up at me, shamrocks drowning in the rain. “It was in my room, they thought it was mine. It was…” He’d reached for the hat again then. When he looks down and sees his hand on top of it, he jerks it back and shoves both hands into his pockets, head hanging. “It was all I had left of you. So kept it.”
“I kept this,” I whisper, revealing the book, our book.
Mouth open in a little ‘oh’, he stares down at it. His hands come of out his pockets, hovering over book and cap, our little time capsule. “I thought they’d got it,” he say, reaching but not actually touching it.
My own throat’s closed up and I push the journal into his hands. He opens it, tears flowing freely as he flips through the first few pages.
Then he notices the little bulge near the end of the book.
He glances up at me. “Did you…” he whispers. I nod and he turns to the page where I’d hidden his letter. He goes back another page and I watch his lips shape the date I’d printed on the top of it.
It was just about year ago.
“You kept writing,” he says, turning another page, then another.
“Do did you.” I can’t quite keep the defensiveness out of my voice but he smiles back at me, watery and beautiful.
“Aye,” he says. Looking at the floor, he closes our book and presses it back into my hands. “You should keep it.”
Still gripping the cap, I wrap my hands around his. “Only if I get to keep you, too.” He shudders, a tiny sob pushing past his lips and I let go of his hands just long enough to draw him close.
Arms locked over his shoulders, I whisper, “Please? I need you, Mo stór.”
He lets out another little sob and his arms come up around me, too, warm and strong and shaking. “Ye have me, Janus.”
I shake my head and hold him tighter. “Call me Macushla.”
Prologue*
Soup bubbles away on the back burner and the cinnamon steam rising up from our mugs of cider a welcome accompaniment. The winter was dragging on but none of us minded the excuse to stay close to home. To stay close to each other. Logan and I sit together at our new, larger kitchen table, watching Jannie and Carrot Cake take turns stirring more currants into the bread batter.
“So…” Logan draws out his words. “What is your stance on dating brothers?"
I sip my cider and look back at him through the steam. "Ah… I suppose it matters a bit how the brothers feel about it? But…" I shake my head. "Jannie and Carrot Cake are both onlies. You—Oh!" I lean in and laugh, glancing at Jannie again. Of course! They may not have brothers, but Logan sure does. “Does Virge have the hots for Jannie?”
"No." Logan tries not to laugh. "No, Virgil has his hands and his calendar full with Roman." He blows at his mug, watching me. “Your brother."
I don’t need to hide my own laugh. "Yeah, my brother can be a handful."
"Mm-hm," Logan nods slowly. "I recall that clearly from the short time he and I dated in University. Said dating which has surprisingly not made our… friendship awkward,” he adds, staring significantly at me.
I nod my agreement. Beyond a few dreams I'd rather he didn't hear about, we've been thick as thieves without a problem. We’d even spent a few nights crashed together. Fuck, waking up with him was…
I’m grateful when Jannie and Carrot Cake slide onto the bench on either side of me, pulling me away from that particular train of thought. Logan pours them each a fresh cup.
Jannie nods at him and Logan takes a deep breath. “Well, yes… I am… inquiring if changing the nature of our relationship—yours and mine—would be… problematic for you."
"Wait," I stop nodding. Eyes locked on mine, his mouth is thin, drawn tight the way it does when he’s nervous. His hands dance in the space between our mugs, like he’s reaching for my drink.
Or my hand.
He’s not… he’s not saying what I think he’s saying… is he? “Are—are you talking about…” I gesture between the two of us. Carrot Cake slides closer to me with a little chuckle and kisses my cheek.
Jannie kisses the other. “Our dear Muse,” he murmurs.
Moving slowly, Logan takes my hand and holds it between both of his. He smiles at me and presses a kiss against my knuckles. “What do you say?"
Images by Bekky Bekks (blue) and Олег Мороз (green) via Unsplash.
Prev - Diligence and Sloth - Next - Masterpost - [ AO3 ]
WC: 1903- Rated: M (this chap is T) - CW: vaguely suggestive, rather tame, tbh - Written for @intrualityweek, Day 2: Diligence and Sloth
Remus figures out just where to take Patton for their date.
At 5:58, Patton's hair was still dripping down his back and water dotted his glasses as he ran the last two blocks back to the shop. An… incident near closing time involving a tiny 'service' dog, one loose shoelace and a tray of berry iced teas had left Patton's clothes sopping and sticky. He'd managed to not get any on the books and magick displays but he'd thoroughly stained his shirt and trousers. Virgil had taken pity on him and sent him home to change before Remus was due to arrive.
And now Patton was late, two blocks from the shop and running out of time.
He'd just gotten to the corner, too afraid to check his watch, when he spotted a slash of green stepping outside the shop. Remus noticed him, too, then leaned against the doorway and watched his approach.
"All this for me?" Remus chuckled, taking in his still-wet hair and half-buttoned shirt.
Cheeks flaming hot when he realized he'd not even gotten fully dressed, Patton fumbled with the buttons but Remus tapped his hand after he'd only gotten two more done up. "Leave it," he grinned. "If you're comfortable, that is."
Patton looked up at him. Was he serious?
"Looks good." Remus' hand lingered on his, warm and dry and strong. Nails short but perfectly namicured, he'd painted them the same green as his hair. Patton let go of the next button and let Remus take his hand.
"They're rough," he mumbled, fighting the temptation to yank his hand back. "Sorry," he added when Remus looked up, eyebrows cocked.
"So are mine." Remus grinned, then went back to exploring his hand. Touching him so, so lightly, his fingertips traced over the callouses on his palms, his fingertips, his thumb. He inched up to his forearm, gently squeezing his muscles and tracing the faint white scars he'd gotten that day the ladder'd came out from under him. "Working hands," Remus murmured, almost… admiring?
"Yeah, I, um…" Remus' eyes were trained on him, but diligent fingers kept moving over his knuckles, the inside of his wrist, between his fingers. It was electric. "I was… I was a hired hand at my da's company until I…"
Something shifted in Remus' gaze. What had he seen?
Patton shrugged but Remus didn't let go, just squeezed his hand and the exploration turned to soothing little spirals over his skin. "Until I moved here," Patton finally finished.
"When was that?"
Virgil was long gone, already in his flat above the shop, but Patton still glanced through the darkened windows. Virgil and Remus were friends, he coulda asked him any of this. Probably did already. "About three months," Patton answered honestly. "I—I didn't start at the shop until a couple weeks ago. Virgil's been… he's been really great."
"Did you know him from back home?" Remus hummed, looking thoughtful, and Patton wanted to ask him how much he already knew but… asking him that was the same as admitting there was loads more to the story.
"No," he shook his head. "No, we met online about… two years ago?"
"Ah," Remus waggled his eyebrows. "Did you both swipe right on Grindr?"
"Wha—Oh, no! Heavens, no!" Patton's blush returned full-force. "No, no, no, not like that online. No, we met on… Well, have you ever heard of 'Be You?'"
"Oh, fuck yeah," Remus grinned. "Virge hooked me up with them. I helped with their art auction last year. Were you a volunteer?" he asked.
"I… No, um…"
There was another little pause, Remus' fingers just tracing shapes against his skin. "I'm glad you're here," he said after a while, smiling when Patton finally braved a glance up to meet his eyes.
Suddenly a wild grin spread across Remus' face. "And I know just where I wanna take you," he said and, hand still gripping his, turned back the way Patton had come. "It's down on Ebury, 'bout a twenty minute walk." He squeezed his hand again. "You up for it?"
Warmth spread from Patton's palm all the way up his arm and into his chest. He threaded their fingers together and squeezed back. "Aye."
~
Patton's lilt was so hot, it took everything Remus had not to just gobble him up right there in the middle of Medway. So freshly showered that his curls were still dripping wet, he smelled like coconut and shea butter. And his hands? Strong and rough, Patton had no clue how fucking sexy they were.
But that accent? Remus bit his lip and gave Patton's hand another squeeze as they headed down to his studio. Yeah, yeah, yeah, he had a type alright. What of it? It's funny, he'd always heard Dubliners' accents were nothing like culchies, but Patton sounded enough like Jannie when he let his Dublin accent slip that Remus was beginning to doubt that theory.
Those clouds brewing behind Patton's bright hazel eyes at every mention of home told Remus that his type didn't stop at the brogue, either. As they walked, Remus danced around the questions he really wanted to ask. There were a milion reasons to pick up your life and run to the nearest border.
But something told Remus that Patton hadn't left home just for the wine gums.
"So how are you finding London?" he asked instead. "Been to any o'the tourist traps yet?"
Patton scrunched his nose and laughed. "That's all too posh for me. I mean—" Eyes wide and mouth falling open, he got that same look he'd had back in Virge's shop when he'd asked if he and Jannie were swingers. "I don't mean if you—I—It's just… I'm not much for all that. It sort of…" He winced and brushed his free hand over the top of his head, letting out a whistle. "Y'know?"
"Hm." They stopped at a crosswalk and Remus waited a beat. "I grew up here and I've never been to much of it, either. Not much more than the museums—not the ones with the stolen artifacts," he added.
Patton's chuckle shot right through him.
The light changed and they crossed. "It's right up here," he said, pointing at the faded storefront. The slogan, Gogh Big or Gogh Homme just barely visible.
Patton read the sign and giggled, but then grew serious. "Wait, it looks like they're closed already."
Grinning, Remus pulled out his keys. "They are," he said. "Fancy a private throwing lesson?"
"Y—you mean like…" He scanned the small row of pottery wheels lined up alongside the big picture window. "Like with clay?"
Patton looked around the studio, at the rack of—mostly Remus'—drying paintings, the door to the kiln room where Remus had two weeks' worth of work waiting for firing. He looked out at the pub across the street where Remus would still sometimes get a drink after a frustrating day in the studio.
None of it could've meant anything to Patton, though.
The keys were heavy in Remus' hand but creativity sparked and he looked up with a grin. "Here," he said, shoving the brass ring into Patton's hand. "You control how long we're here."
"Are—are you sure?" Patton jingled the keys, looking around at the works in progress lining the back wall, the computer just visible in the back corner. The safe. "I… I could do anything with these," he said.
"Yeah," Remus grinned. "You could. You're gonna need your hands, though, so the first thing you should do is put 'em in your pocket and let's get you an apron."
~
On his way to the cubbies in the back to fetch an apron, Patton got a better look at some of paintings lining the walls of the studio. At least half of them were signed by Remus. And after Remus had left the shop that morning, Patton had lingered near the small gallery of art prints Virgil sold. They'd been nearly all Remus' works there, too.
Even the one Patton hoped to buy.
The keys tugged at his pocket, the responsibility, the trust Remus had put in him. He trusted him not to take advantage, not to make a run for it with his keys. Not to lock him in—or out.
Patton grabbed an apron from an unlabeled hook and popped the top loop over his head, glancing at Remus. Not that Remus really had much to fear from him. Tall and strong, he was in his own space. And between his husband and Virgil—and, frankly, Virgil's brother Logan, too, Remus had a wee army all his own to fight for him.
Still, Patton tapped the keys through his pocket and smiled. The tiny gesture meant something, even if the risk was actually really low.
Remus was already wrapped in his own apron and was prying up the lid on a big plastic barrel, so Patton hurried with the ties on his. Something had come loose and he struggled with it for a bit before Remus chuckled softly from behind him.
"You look like you could use a hand," he said.
With one side three times the length of the other, Patton's shoulders slumped and he nodded. It was just an apron. Why was it so hard to get right? "Yes," he said, eyes squeezed shut. Remus was too nice to really laugh at him, but he couldn't stand to see it in his face.
Remus reached around him, following the longer tail of the apron. Patton's breath caught in his throat when Remus' hair tickled his cheek. "We just got you in a right mess here, di'n't we?" he murmured.
"Mm-hm." Patton didn't quite trust his voice not to crack.
In almost no time, Remus had gotten the straps sorted out and tied. He stepped back and clapped his shoulder. "You're all set," he said, clearing his throat.
Patton opened his eyes and looked down. His apron looked just like Remus', fastened tight but not too constricting, all the straps and ties neatly tucked away. Patton's back was cold, thought, already missing how close Remus had to stand to help get him untangled.
Would Remus notice if he untied himself and had have him help again?
"Well…" Remus cleared his throat again and gestured to the pottery wheels by the window. "Would you rather work side by side or—"
A scene from an old movie flashed in Patton's head and he felt his face go warm. "Or?"
Remus shrugged. Were his cheeks a little darker, too? "Y'know… I could sit behind you."
"Behind me?" he asked, sounding dumb to his own ears.
Remus smiled and drew closer, chest pressed to Patton's back. "Yeah," he murmured. "We'd have to sit close on the bench." His voice was low, buzzing against Patton's ear. "But I can guide your hands that way," he said. "As long as it's not too much for you."
Patton was nodding before he could get his mouth to work. "I've never done this before, th—that might be best."
When Remus stepped back, he was grinning, a little crooked, and maybe a little knowing. He picked up a lump of clay and a water jug from next to the sink. He jerked his chin toward the wheels. "Why don't you get comfortable, then?"
Images by Autumn Studio (blue) and Олег Мороз (green) via Unsplash.
Lust and Chastity - Next - Masterpost - [ AO3 ]
WC: 1924 - Rated: M - CW: so much innuendo
Written for @intrualityweek's event. Prompt: Chastity/Lust.
“C’mon, lad, just give it one more try," Patton whispered to himself. Biting back a wince after banging his hand against the jammed spigot on The Big One, he wiped the sweat from his palms and tried again to loosen it up. "You can do it," he added, this time half to himself and half to the copper monstrosity in front of him.
Ignoring his pleas, the intimidatingly large espresso machine looked more like a robot from a 1960s sci-fi movie than anything he'd ever thought he'd see in a modern café. Let alone be expected to operate.
The thing became only more intimidating when he learned how much it had cost.
More afraid of breaking it than he was of it breaking his hands, he tried again, turning the release valve slowly… slowly… slowly… slowly—
He'd just gotten it open when the bell above the front door jangled.
“Mornin’ to ya!” he called over the racket and poked his head out from behind the machine’s shiny copper barrel. “Be with you in a mo—” His breath caught in his throat, saved only by the squeal of the milk steamer behind him. Over at the other end of the counter, Virgil seemed to be having an easier time of it.
The bloke standing in the doorway… where did he start? Tall—not scary seven-foot-giant-tall, but up-on-your-tiptoes-to-see-his-eyes-tall—he wore a cropped green tank over ragged denim cut-offs and old, but polished combat boots. Where his clothes didn't his skin, tattoos did, swirling abstract colors, sea creatures, even the imprint of a hand on his hip, just peeking out from the top of his jeans.
Longshoreman’s forearms with ropy muscles flexing as he tucked his hands into his pockets, he grinned back at him. “Yeah, take your time, mate," he said and meandered off to inspect the crystals and herbs displays that made this the Coffee and Craft Shop instead of just another café. He didn't give off the vibes of a troublemaker and other than a quick glance over his shoulder, Virgil didn't seem concerned by his presence.
Still working the milk steamer, he raised an eyebrow at Patton. Had he been that obvious in his gawking? “I need to fetch a part from the back. You good?” Virgil asked.
“Mm-hm,” Patton nodded back, hoping his freckles hid his blush better than they usually did. “We’ll need the steamer tip-top. I can handle the front.” He grinned at Virgil’s little salute.
When Patton turned back, the guy was watching him. "You don't keep any white sage?" he asked. Tall enough to catch his eye from behind the incense aisle, he held up a small bundle of the dried juniper that had replaced it.
"Oh, no," Patton shook his head and stepped out from behind the Big One. "It's a closed practice," he said, carefully recalling his training. "If you're not from the culture, it's appropriation to… y'know, borrow it."
Big, brown eyes wide and just trained on him, the bloke nodded, listening. They sparkled with the flickering flames of the lit candle display between them, warm and bright and…
Reluctant, Patton looked away long enough to duck behind the counter. He snatched up one of the new zines Virgil had printed up. "Mugwort and juniper are grand options for this area. You kin likely find some out in Trafalgar, too." He grinned and stepped closer, offering him a copy of the zine. He smelled like cloves, the spice strong enough to pick out from the rest of the herbs and incense in the shop. "Y—y'know, if your eyes are keen."
Still smiling, the guy took the zine, admiring the art on the front cover. An apple sat in the center of the image, all cross-hatched in pencil but still somehow almost glistening. Alive. Around the apple were a flame, a few crystals, and reproductions of fresh mugwort, juniper, and rosemary.
"Nice, innit?" Patton grinned. "The owner and his brother hired a local artist to design it." He gestured at the mural along one wall and the framed paintings and sketches for sale on the other. "He's done all this. Amazing, yeah?"
The bloke just smiled, looking around the shop. His gaze lingered on Patton's favorite piece, a sprig of seamair óg resting in a disembodied palm. Selfishly, Patton hoped he wouldn't buy it. In a month, he'd have enough to get it himself.
Patton forced his mind back to what he was meant to be doing. "And… and the herbs are all local, too," Patton added, gesturing to the little bundles drying along the top shelf. "Virg—the owner doesn't mind me telling you they're all easy to find." He winked. "Y'don' hafta buy 'em here."
"You don't say?" the guy smiled, flipping through the booklet again. More art was scattered on each page, but he was looking at Patton more than the zine.
"Mm-hm," Patton nodded again when he saw which page he was on. He plucked up a bundle from the top shelve. "Oh, and the honeysuckle there?"
The bloke took the bundle and brought it up close to his face until it almost touched his mustache. His eyes closed as he inhaled its heavy scent. "They used to warn proper young people not to keep this in their bedroom, didn't they?" He smiled, his thick, full lips crooked. "Gives you… dreams?"
There was no way Patton's freckles hid his blush this time but he nodded again. "Ah, it's an Éire cutting," he said changing the subject. "She feels so far from here but we're all one big place are't we?"
"Sure are," he grinned back, watching him with big brown eyes so dark Patton caught a bit of his own carrot top curls reflecting back at him. "I hear a bit of brogue in your voice, don't I?" he asked, passing back the zine but holding onto the honeysuckle.
"Well, yes," Patton said. "Guilty."
"What part?" he asked, picking up a small worry stone with his other hand. He rubbed the dent in one side. It looked like he didn't even realize he was doing it.
"Moved from Ballinisloe, last month," Patton said, shoving down the little hitch in his heart. Had it only been a month. But recognition flashed in the guy's eyes. "You've heard of it?" Patton forced a laugh. "Nobody's ever heard of it."
He just grinned. "'Course I've heard of it. Most famous town in Ireland off the River Suck." He winked. "Couldn't forget that when I was in school."
"Oh, well, yes…" Patton 's cheeks burned and the guy picked up another bundle of honeysuckle. His hands were getting full and Patton reached for the goods he'd gathered. First customer on his own and he was already forgetting himself. "I can get you a basket, or…"
"Just this and a coffee," he said. "You'll tell me more about the shop while you make it?" he asked as he followed him back to the counter. "You haven't told me your name yet, either."
"Oh!" Patton looked down at the blank spot on his apron where his name badge was meant to be. That little thing was going to be a real trick to remember to wear. "It's Patton. And you?"
"Re!" Virgil called from behind him. "Sorry 'bout that. The machine's been a little finicky."
The guy—Re?—shrugged. "Patty here's been taking care of me," he winked at him but smiled innocently like he didn't catch his own innuendo.
"I'll bet," Virgil drawled. "You like how the zines came out? The printer did a good job."
"Patton showed me a copy. They got the detail right," Re said.
Patton frowned as he tamped down the coffee grounds. Something was not quite right in their conversation.
"Well, thanks again," Virgil said, reaching over the counter to clap his shoulder. "I know what that coulda cost us."
The portafilter clattered to the counter and Patton just barely managed to save it before it hit the floor. "Hold on, you're the artist!" Patton looked back at him. Re was short for—"Remus Khan?"
"In the flesh," he said, hands out at his sides. His shirt rode up a bit, showing off another half-inch of caramel skin. Patton dragged his eyes away before they followed the trail of hair leading all the way down to—
"Re, are you teasing my staff?" Virgil asked, putting an arm over Patton's shoulders. He was smiling but gave him a little squeeze to check in.
"Aw, just a little," Remus said, leaning over the glass top. "He's cute." His gaze trailed from Patton's heated face and down over his body before coming back up again and meeting his eyes.
Patton's mouth went dry. Nobody'd looked at him like that in a long time.
Remus winked. "Can I keep him?"
"Down, boy," Virgil said shaking his head. "Eight am and you're already flirting."
"Oh, I—I—I don't mind, actually," Patton said, tamping down one more time on the basket.
Remus' eyes widened at that and his grin grew. "Don't mind?" he asked, ignoring Virgil's eye roll. "Or want me to keep going?"
"Second one," Patton said, ducking his head. Why did it feel like he was asking about more than flirting?
"Good," he said, watching Virgil ring him up. He passed him a card. "Hey, take a break," he said to Patton, laughing.
"Wh—why?" Patton almost dropped the basket again, eyes darting over to the backroom. He didn't want to… right here in the shop! Did he?
Remus' smile softened. "Because it would be unseemly to ask you out while you're working. You gotta be able to tell me to fuck off if y'need."
"I won't tell you to feck off," Patton said.
"Yeah?" His grin grew. "You free tonight?"
Patton nodded. "After six."
"After what?" he laughed and Patton's face burned.
Was the blushing just going to be a permanent situation around him? Remus' eyes bored into his and even if it was, Patton was finding it hard to be bothered. "Six," he said, carefully.
"My husband's got a date tonight, I'll meet you here?"
Patton definitely dropped the basket this time and Virgil went for a broom. "You—your—your husband?" Much, much too late, Patton looked down at Remus' hands. There it was, a bright, smooth silver band on his left ring finger. "Oh, I'm—I'm—sorry, I didn't—"
"It's okay, we're poly," Remus said. "Well… It's okay if that's not a deal breaker for you, I mean."
"Poly?" Patton chewed at his lip. "Y—you mean like you're swingers?"
The laugh that bubbled up from Remus' chest was strained and Patton caught Virgil's sharp glare from the corner of his eye. "Polyamorous is not the same thing as just fucking around." He held himself a little more stiffly than he had before. "More about love than anything else."
"Oh, heavens, no, I… I didn't mean to… to try to imply, I…" He shook his head. "I wasn't trying to say… I…" Patton took a deep breath and met his eyes. "I'm sorry. I'm… I'm sorry."
"Appreciate it," Remus nodded. He held his gaze for a while, searching his eyes. Finally, his earlier smile returned. "So does that mean…"
Virgil appeared by his side, Remus' finished coffee in his hand. How'd he get it done so quick? Remus took the coffee and blew at the steam. A smile quirked at his pursed lips and Patton realized he was watching him, still waiting for his response.
After a bit of fumbling, I get him out of the pub and out onto the pavement and I breathe in the night's fresher air. He smells like coffee and whiskey. And vanilla. I only stand close to hear him better. "Where do you live?" I ask.
Eyes half closed, he sways like he's dancing. Finally, he points and mumbles an address twenty blocks away. It’s going to be a long walk.
The fresh air perks him up, but only a bit and he's slow beside me, each rocking step calculated. After only half a block, he freezes in place, blinking down at his shoes.
"Come on, Páidí," I mutter and heft his arm over my shoulders. That gets him going again, but he's still swaying with every step, so I wrap my arm around his waist to steady him. I have to slouch a bit to fit under his shoulder, but not nearly as much as I used to.
"Yer shorter," he mumbles and I scoff.
"I still need to look down to see you," I say.
He chuckles, a little wet. I pretend not to notice he's started openly crying. Of course he would be a sloppy drunk. "I mean… yer no’ as much taller as…"
I wish I didn't know what he meant.
"C'mon," I change the subject. “Eighteen more blocks." He's heavy but manageable and for all his stumbling, I feel him struggle to keep from leaning too hard on me. We stop at a corner, letting a larger group of rugby lads pass. They're laughing, arms around each other in a joyous, raucous mirror of our pose. I notice him staring at me, eyes wet and shiny under the street light.
He looks away when he realizes he's caught.
“Fifteen more blocks."
The wind has picked up and his dense, muscular body is a warm refuge against the night’s chill. Eventually, we fall into a rhythm, nothing but footsteps and streetlights, our bodies moving in tandem.
He’s just begun to slow again when I see his address painted on the lintel up ahead. We’ve made it.
Páidí drops his keys twice fighting with the lock before I take them, open the vestibule door and get him upstairs. I fumble for a light switch in the dark flat. I finally find it.
And instantly regret it.
It's our flat. The one we'd talked about. The one we’d dreamt about, the one we’d sketched out together in shaky penciled drawings on the pages of our journal. It's even smaller than our fourteen-year-old brains could picture, but the plants in the window, the glorified bean bag chairs beneath… Mismatched but brightly colored dishes above the sink. Even the tacky cinder block bookcase we saw in some sitcom we weren't meant to be watching.
I kick the door closed and half-walk, half-drag him the final steps to his bedroom and turn on the light. I peel back his blanket and sit him on the bed.
His bed sheets are patterned with bright yellow daisies.
"Why? I dunno," I'd muttered, twisting the stems of my favorite flowers together as he lay with his head in my lap. "Daisies are like sunshine… " I stroked a bloom against his cheek and grinned at his soft giggle. "Sunshine you can touch."
Hands threaded at the back of my neck, he pulled me close, our lips nearly touching. "Oh, aye?" His mouth brushed against mine and I chased his lips. "Hmm… I think I know what that feels like." He sat up and kissed me again, longer, softer, then laughed, the sound of autumn's river against its banks. "What sunshine tastes like."
"Y'took me home," he mutters like he's only just realized where he is.
His bedroom's just big enough to fit his bed, a worn nightstand, a tiny closet. Not that he has much to fill the space. A handful of slacks and shirts hang in the open closet, a pair of old runners sit neatly on the bare floor in the corner. The curtains are open and a library book, Oscar Wilde, sits on the window sill, within easy reach of his bed.
There's not much else.
I turn and freeze when I face the wall across from his bed. In the very center of it is one of Muse's pastel drawings, a tiny shamrock cradled in my palm. "Where did you get that?" I demand, pointing at the framed picture. "Muse made that for—"
"Bough' i'" he slurs. He'd seemed to have sobered up some on the walk back but now I think he's just tired.
Or maybe he's just faking it.
"Virgil sol' it t'me… Saved up." Slow, his eyes drag from the picture to my hands and back again. "Didn' realize i' was you." His eyes slip shut and he almost smiles. "Makes sense. My fav'rite in th' shop."
He falls silent as I stare at the sketch. I remember the quiet morning Muse had drawn it. It had been a long, grey winter and the tiny cutting we'd planted the autumn before had seemed to think it was already spring, bursting with tender green leaves. Taking a risk, he'd plucked one of the shamrocks and handed it to me.
Muse had run for his sketchbook before I'd even gotten the words 'thank you' out of my mouth.
I look back and Páidí's eyes are closed, but he's still sitting up. I walk over and snap my fingers. "Oy! You awake?"
His eyes open and he blinks up at me, slowly focusing. "Aye," he nods, bobs, really. His eyes fill with tears. "Never though' I'd see ye again."
"Perhaps you only wished that to be true," I mutter and turn to leave. "I'll grant it for you. Goodb—"
"No," he follows and I hear the thud as he falls to the floor. "Please, I…"
His voice draws me back, my heart clenching at the crack in his voice. It shouldn't. I shouldn't care, I shouldn't feel anything for him but rage. Instead, I turn back and face him. He sits in a heap on the floor, back against the edge of the bed.
"You 'what?'" I spit. "What have you possibly got to say that could make up for what you've done?"
"I… They kep' askin' me where ye'd gone. They came ou' after—" His face crumples and he hides behind his hands, sniffling. "They'd said ye'd be saved."
I wait for his drunken blubbering to stop. Perverse curiosity? Maybe. Maybe I just need to hear him say it, hear him admit it. The memory of him kneeling in the pews, shaking in his confessional gown, sends sparks through my veins and I snap, "Did they promise ye you'd be saved for grassin' me up?"
"Wha—" He looks up at that mid-sob. "No. No, they sai' ye'd already tol' 'em ev'rythin'. Tha'… tha' ye'd be saved 'cause o' it. Bu' then… they came back an' said ye'd…'" He droops, a marionette with cut strings. "I didn' know where ye'd gone."
"We were going to go together!" He barely reacts to my shout. "But instead of meeting me, you went to them. You got down on your fucking knees and confessed. You—you feckin’ told them we were running away! You told them what we were, what we were to each other. You told them everything!”
His head hangs lower. "Aye," he says. "I di’.”
Something doesn't add up and I feel like I've almost found the root of his lies. I crouch in front of him and hold his chin, try to make him meet my eyes.
He keeps looking at my scar.
“Y’didn’ wonder wha' they were doing t'me?" I hiss. "Ye were righ' outside. Ye could've gotten someone, ye could've—"
"Aye." Again, he reaches for for me and I back away. He wipes at his tears with his sleeves but doesn't look away. "I heard ye, then y'got quie' an' they shouted an' they sai' ye'd run. They ask'd me where ye'd gone bu' I didn' know."
Ice crackles in my veins. "And you would have told them where I'd gone had you known?"
"I don'…" Eyes unfocused, he shakes his head. "Don' thin' so?"
And there it is.
"Very reassuring, thank you." I turn back, one hand on his bedroom door.
"I didn' tell 'em 'bout Edinburgh."
He's so quiet I can pretend I don't hear him. I can pretend he's the one who sent them after me.
"Didn' thin' ye'd go withou' me, bu'…"
I look back to find the lie in his eyes, but he's staring at the floor, eyes half-closed. Does he even know I'm still here?
"Bu' I still didn' say i'."
Edinburgh had been just as beautiful as we'd imagined it would be. Old stone buildings, streets bustling with students and artists and cheerful drunkards. After the first couple nights there, I hadn't even needed to…
Lifting the wallets of pampered tourists had been almost too easy.
I'd even begun to make an acquaintance or two. Never lacked for company, at least. It shouldn't've been surprising how much goodwill buying a round each night will grant a person.
Still… I saw him in every copper-headed lad on the streets, every kind smile, every genuine laugh.
Every daisy.
I moved on from 'our' city after three months. Too many parishes, too many cassocks to dodge. That's what I'd told myself, at least.
Shaking away my thoughts, I sigh and he looks up at me, his smile shaky but bright. Like he's just remembered I'm here. He reaches for me, fingers grazing my shin where I sit, legs cross-cross, in front of him.
When had I sat?
I suck my teeth and push back up to my feet. He's feckin sloshed. There's no point to any of this.
"No ma'er how many times they ask'd, I coul' ne'er tell 'em, I didn' know where ye'd run to." Drunk, he smiles. "Jus' 'at ye got away. Tol' 'em 'at… ev'ry time."
"Wait, what?" I turn. He's looking up at me, smiling with big, green, soppy eyes. His mouth trembles and he's hugging his knees to his chest like a feckin child. "Wha' did ye say?"
"Coul' ne'er tell 'em where," he says, shrugging. "Didn' know. Fin'ly they stopped."
Their pursuit sears the back of my neck, a hunter’s breath. My throat closes up and I tap Muse’s pattern against my leg but it’s shaky, uneven. Is this why he suddenly ran to London? Are they still looking for me? "When did they stop asking?"
His eyes dart up at me, then at his closet, wandering the space between us. Adrenaline surging, I pull him back up off the floor and onto the bed. He's unsteady, gaze bouncing around the room, so I hold his face still, searching his eyes. "Focus, Páidí, when did they stop asking you where I'd gone?"
“Jus’ ‘fore I turned sev’teen,” he mumbles and I let out the breath I'd been holding. He leans his head to one side, rubbing his cheek against my fingers. I let go and he wobbles on the bed but saves himself before he falls again. "So I wen' an' 'ad a look," he says, almost smiling. "Pick'd th' lock on Father Brighton's door. Like ye taugh' me. I found th' file." He starts shaking his head, smile melting, and his tears start up again.
Dammit.
"So, so sorry…" he mutters.
"Yes, so you've said," I begin, not really sure what I want him to say instead. I sigh. “Christ, you're feckin' trollied."
"I… I am… I am, I don' know how… I…" His voice and his gaze dances around a bit but then finds its way back to me. "I'm jus' so glad you're alive, Macuschla—Janus," he corrects himself. "Janus. Janus. Janus," he repeats quietly. "I… I've your death certif'cate…"
"My what?" He points, well, flops his hand up at a shoe box on the top shelf of his open closet. I pull it down and nearly drop the damn thing.
It's heavy. Far heavier than a slip of paper should be.
I set it on the bed next to him and, after a moment, I sit on the other side of it, the shoebox between us. Clumsy, he pets the lid then slowly pries it off.
Nestled inside are… dozens and dozens, maybe hundreds of sealed envelopes. Different shapes and colors, thick and thin. Some brightly colored, shaped like greeting cards. Others are those formal A4-style business envelopes in white and cream and grey. A handful sit loose at the top, but the rest are tied together in little bundles, some thicker than others, no real order I see to any of it. I sift through the stacks.
Every single one has Macuschla written on the front in Páidí's familiar scrawl.
I turn away from his tears and push aside the bundles until I find a single folded piece of paper at the very bottom of the box. I take it out and he nods.
It's a copy of that damned death certificate. The fold marks are soft and frayed at the edges, like it's been unfolded and refolded hundreds of times.
I run my fingers over Søren's signature. "How'd you get this?"
"'Twas in yer file," he says, leaning to one side. He seems to catch himself, compensating, before leaning too far the other way. "They hired someone t' fin' ye," he said, bottom lip quivering. "Th' file… i' sai'…" Tears stream down his cheeks and I have to fight the inane instinct to wipe them away. "Sai' ye were dead. Ye died."
"But this isn't a copy, this—" I frown down at the page, my thumb running over the seal. It's flattened a bit with time but it was once raised, sharply embossed on the thick paper. I lift the leaf to the light and the watermark shines through. It's an official copy of the original certificate. "This is real. This is—"
"I stol' i'" he says, patting my knee. I almost miss its presence when his hand slides off. Slowly, he nods his head and it keeps going, a broken bobble head doll. "Took i'. They shouldn' have i'. No' theirs t'keep."
I stare down at the page. "Ye kept it."
“I kept your clothes."
"I kept yours, too."
"You did?" Muse's grin had held so much hope. Enough hope for the both of us.
"Aye," Páidí whispers. "I kep' i.'"
I read and re-read the certificate, my rusty Dutch snagging every few words. For not the first time, I wonder who that young man had really left behind. Who missed him. Páidí's been quiet for a while and I look over at him.
Head drooped and chin supported by his chest, Páidí's eyes are closed. He's upright, but sways with each breath. He's got one of the stacks of letters in his lap, fingers twisted in the ribbon holding them all together. One end of the ribbon is marked.
2005.
I check the rest of the box. 2014, 2023, 2018, 2009… There's one for each year since…
I take the stack from Páidí's hands, carefully detangling his fingers from the ribbon, and put everything back inside the box. I lay him back and pry off his shoes and, after a moment of hesitation, undo his belt and the buttons at his collar and wrists. I flip him on his belly, face near the edge of the bed.
"Stay like tha'," I mutter, like he can hear me. "Ye don' wan't'be inhaling yer own sick." He shivers, running cold, just like he always did, and I pull the covers up over him.
I pick up the box and stare down at the contents, tapping the lid against my thigh. Honestly, I'm tempted to take the lot. They are addressed to me, after all. But I'm not sure I want them.
I'm about to put the lid back on and shove it all away back in his closet when I notice one of the unbundled envelopes on the top isn't sealed. I glance behind me. Páidí's just out, snoring softly, like he used to when we were young and he was catching cold. I take it and sit down on the floor to read.
Macuschla,
I nearly crumple the sheet right then but I take a breath and continue reading.
I don't believe heaven exists. Not anymore, well… I don't believe anymore that it exists. But if heaven did exist, I know for sure you're up there, safe and happy and dancing with the angels. So maybe sometimes I pretend to still believe.
And if you were there, you'd be watching over me, maybe. Maybe. I hope you wouldn't, though, because I don't think you'd want to know what I've been up to.
It happened. You were right. I fell in love again. You probably saw that coming, but I didn't plan on it, didn't want to admit it. And I didn't mean to. I did everything I could not to. But I did anyway. I love him. It feels almost as good to tell you as it did to tell him. Feels scarier.
And even worse, he says he loves me, too. It's him, Re. Of course it's him. I mean, if there was anyone else I'd ever fall in love with, I can't imagine someone better. He's so smart and he can make art out of anything. He's funny and gorgeous, and he's… and he's so naughty sometimes, too. We're naughty together.
He's just brilliant, Dee, I wish you could've met him. I think you'd really like him. I know he'd like you. And he reminds me of you so much. I guess it's not really a wonder I fell in love with him. I could never stop loving you, after all.
He… Re doesn't know about you. Not really. I told him I'd hurt someone. And I tried to tell him everything, I swear I did. I just… I knew, I know that when I tell him he's gonna leave and I know it's selfish but I couldn't let go yet.
I'm gonna tell him. Tonight. We have a date, a special date, and there's a really good chance his husband'll hate me anyway and, yeah, I know what you'd say. I know it's taking the coward's way out, I know that you'd be so much braver than me, you always were, but I want just one more nice night. Then I'll tell him.
It's time for me to leave for work and then I'm going to meet up with him and his husband—and his husband's boyfriend. Can you believe it? I've come a long way, eh? I know. Too far.
I'll tell you what happens after.
I check the date on the top of the first page. Páidí'd written it this morning. I fold the letter and don't hesitate before I put in my pocket.
It's late. I'm running on too few hours of sleep and reading his chicken scratch while sleep deprived has left my eyes watery. I scrub away the wetness before pushing the lid back down and returning the rest of the box to its place on the shelf.
~
The sun's just barely peeking up past the horizon by the time I get home. Our bedroom's quiet, my text to Lo and Muse unread. I could go and lie down with them again, curl up in their sleeping arms, but there's no chance of sleep for me now. And all I would do is disturb their rest.
I wash my hands and start a pot of coffee. While it's percolating, the soft popping deafening in the hushed flat, I creep over to the bookcases under the balcony.
I pretend I have to search for it, but it's right where it always is, where it always has been. I crouch down and take out our journal and fan through the pages. It's very nearly full.
I turn to the next empty page and take out Páidí's letter. Folded within is the shamrock I'd plucked from the overgrown plant sat on his window sill. I tuck them both inside, then I return the journal to its place. I stroke the frayed spine of the book and go back and start on breakfast.
