by Cole McCade
He waited three minutes, watching the clock, and hoped Fox just didn’t answer because he was driving. Though Summer knew the real reason, and he sighed fondly.
Fox had probably let his phone die yet again.
He wasn’t a technophobe, but God, he never remembered to charge the thing unless Summer stole it from him and put it on the charger himself.
Smiling to himself, he gathered up his class materials, stacked them in his arms, and headed out to find the man he only wished he was brave enough to call his boyfriend.
Chapter Thirteen
Fox had come seconds away from never coming back, today.
And he didn’t think the gorgeous, artlessly sprawled young man stretched out in the bed next to him had any idea.
He’d slipped by the library hoping to find a copy of Gustav Fechner’s Elemente der Psychophysik for a class presentation, because someone had stolen the school library copy Fox had donated, one of many from his personal collection that had gone on the shelves only to disappear into one student’s hands or another’s over the years.
He’d checked out both the German and English versions, as well as a few other books he’d thought might be useful for a more organic approach to teaching. Something that might be more Summer’s style than his own, but just from watching Summer work with the students Fox had started to think perhaps, just perhaps, he could relax his more rigid teaching methods to try something that might work better with young, malleable, and easily distracted brains.
Then he’d sat behind the wheel of his car, books stacked high in the passenger’s seat, and asked himself...
Why.
Why was he making plans to adapt his teaching methods, when he was leaving in a year?
Why was he thinking about a future here at Albin as if...
As if something could change somehow, could make everything new and different and bright?
Nothing had changed.
Nothing, he told himself.
And yet everything had changed, from the moment Summer had kissed him and Fox had kissed him back and some rusted-shut door inside him had opened, a tiny voice whispering please, come in, it’s dark and lonely here, please...please.
While the rest of him had screamed what’s the point?
What was the point of any of this?
Why was he doing this, letting Summer believe there could ever be anything between them when Fox just...just...
He’d wanted to lie down and just...quit, he realized.
In that nebulous grayness of his plans after he left Albin...it had just been this open-ended desire to do nothing. As if he could blank out and simply cease to be.
But now images were forming in that haunting grayness, that darkness, that shadow of an undefined future, and those images didn’t promise nothing. They promised something, everything, this idea of a life again, this idea that he could care about things again and actually wake up every day not terrified that caring would just mean he would lose them all over again.
He watched Summer sleep, following the way the moonlight fell in soft outlines over his bare shoulders, his neck, his jaw, his hair, as if he was an illustration of a beautiful man traced in lines of silver ink. He was so young, and yet somehow years had transformed him from a nervous boy into a quiet, sweet, still entirely nervous man who somehow had found some sort of serenity and strength nonetheless. It was as though he calmed himself by terrifying himself.
As if Summer was more afraid of not trying...
Than he was of trying, and failing.
Of trying, and losing.
He’d been willing to risk losing Fox completely, losing his job, just for the thin chance at having him for just a little while.
And Fox was letting himself get sucked into that idealism, when he knew better.
He knew better, when unlike Summer...
He knew how it felt to believe in forever, only to have it cut short.
And just thinking about the idea of forever with someone like Summer, thinking about letting himself get tangled that deep and giving in to this quiet feeling of longing that kept pulling him into the vibrant young man as if they were tethered by unbreakable strands of fragile, glittering spider’s silk...
It had terrified him.
It had terrified him, and he’d almost driven away from the library, out of Omen, and out of Massachusetts without ever looking back.
Summer would never know the struggle of will it had taken Fox to turn his car around, drive back to the school, and show up just in time for his class blocks with some murmured excuse about not being able to find the books he’d wanted and losing track of time.
And Fox didn’t want him to know.
He was already going to hurt Summer by leaving him, by leaving Omen, once this charade was over.
While they were here, while they were together...
He could at least keep his fears, his hesitations, to himself—and not use them as blunt objects to hurt Summer even more.
Right now, though...
He suddenly couldn’t stand to be idle, in this moment.
Couldn’t stand to lie here playing at domestic bliss, with Summer’s body heating the bed.
And so, gently disentangling his hair from the snares of Summer’s limbs, he slipped out of bed and into the living room, drifting to the window.
The plants along the windowsill were hardy succulents, and he ran his fingers over their dry, waxy leaves, stopping on an aloe plant. He hadn’t made anything, from the simplest aloe salve to herbal pain relievers, in so very long; even the salve that helped Summer not be quite so obvious about why his nethers were smarting was from older stock that Fox had tinned and set aside ages ago.
And he smiled faintly, bitterly, to himself as he tested the jagged edge of another thick leaf with his fingertip, then let go, lifting his head to stare down at the spindly trees below and the way the mist crawled and rolled through the nighttime forest like a strange, smoky thing.
He used to create things. To take pleasure in making things simply for the sake of building something useful with his hands; simply because that was one of the things that made him feel alive.
He would say he didn’t know why he stopped, but he knew.
The same moment when he’d stopped doing anything that wasn’t the bare necessity to function, and to fulfill the duties that were expected of him.
He drifted his hands along the shelf beneath the windowsill, stopped when he found the familiar gritty shapes of an old, pecked stone mortar and pestle, an antique piece he’d picked up on his last visit to Japan, when wandering shops in Sapporo. He didn’t know why he felt so hollow, right now. So pointless, so devoid of purpose, his hands aching for something to do, but...
Gathering his hair up behind his head, tucking it into a knot, he dragged a chair over and pulled over the aloe plant, the mortar, the little carved wooden box he kept on the shelf full of various dried herbs and ingredients.
He didn’t know what he’d do, not just yet.
All that mattered was that he was doing something.
Instead of continuing years and years of doing absolutely nothing at all.
* * *
Summer wasn’t sure what woke him.
Maybe the emptiness of the bed, the sheets cooling around him when he was getting used to the warmth and weight of Fox against his back, heavy arm over his waist.
Maybe it was the chill of the night air, prickling at his skin.
Or maybe it was the overwhelming scent of peppermint, drifting through the suite and powerful enough to sting his nostrils.
He creaked one eye open, sniffling and rubbing at his nose, then pushed himself up and squinted drowsily around the room. No sign of Fox, but that smell was overpowering. Had something spilled in the essential oils in the bathroom...?
Yawning, rolling
the stiffness out of his shoulders, Summer stood, rubbing the back of his neck and padding out to the living room—only to stop at the threshold of the doorway, as he saw Fox.
Silent, his posture gracefully taut, Fox sat at the windowsill, using the shelf beneath it as a table. He was surrounded by many of the potted plants scattered through the apartment, different herbs, some of them delicate, some thick and succulent. A carved wooden box with multiple compartments sat open next to him, and he worked over a mortar and pestle, grinding something green and strong-smelling into a waxy, oily paste against the carved stone basin.
And his expression was...
Summer didn’t think he’d ever seen Fox with his expression so relaxed, so gentle, calm and at peace.
Completely transfixed on what he was doing, Fox worked his hands with a quiet, knowing deftness, a delicate touch, constant rhythm stopped only by a pause to add a leaf plucked here, a sprinkle of something dried there. His lips were subtly curled in a soft, thoughtful smile, his eyes half-lidded, gleaming like captured moonlight, the shadows and light from the window falling over him in soft gray shades to make him a misty, ghostly thing, ethereal and silent.
And Summer had never seen him more beautiful.
Not even when he arched over Summer in a moment of captured pleasure did he look so serene, so...content.
And it hurt, in the strangest way. Lovely and odd and hollow all at once, when Summer loved to see Fox like this—open, unguarded, and doing something that clearly made him happy when he’d seemed so determined to punish himself with misery for so very long.
It just ached that...
That Fox had never looked at him that way.
That Summer couldn’t make him happy that way, and instead just seemed to bring Fox more and more trouble, more and more heartache.
He shouldn’t look at it that way. It was selfish—but then Summer himself was so very selfish, for clinging so tight to what he craved so desperately with a man who clearly only tolerated him because it was easier not to argue; easier to indulge him.
It felt like a knot lived in the back of Summer’s throat lately, one he couldn’t ignore every time he stopped letting himself believe in hope and remembered just what their situation was. A casual arrangement. A dalliance. A way to pass the time until Fox could escape Albin...
Escape him.
And that knot in Summer’s throat grew to the size of a fist, as he stepped backward soundlessly, slipping from the room to return to bed.
And leaving Fox to his peace, without Summer there to intrude.
* * *
Fox still hadn’t returned to bed by the time Summer woke on his own without an alarm the next morning.
He had a moment of panic—until he remembered it was Saturday.
But he curled up on his side for long minutes, just staring at the empty half of the bed, and wondered if Fox had even come back last night and Summer had just slept through it, or...
Or if Fox was avoiding him.
He was starting to think the latter, when he dragged himself up to shower and there was no sign of Fox anywhere; the scent of mint still lingered, though not as strong or overpowering, but his tools and herbs had been put away.
But there were several fresh muffins left warming in the oven for Summer.
No note this time, but...
This was starting to become routine.
And he smiled to himself as he settled in to read the news on his phone over breakfast, before ducking himself into the shower and then dressing and heading out into town. He’d promised his mother he’d stop in today, both to help with the yard and just to visit; considering she was half the reason he’d moved back, she’d been remarkably adamant about insisting she didn’t need anything, no no, get settled in, don’t worry about her.
But she was all smiles, as Summer parked outside her house and stepped out—and she came tumbling out to meet him again. That was just how Lily Hemlock was; why wait for guests to arrive when she could be so very happy to see anyone who came to her door that she just went rushing out to greet them?
“Summer.” She grasped him in a tight hug, nearly squeezing the life out of him, then laughed when he grunted, wiggling his fingers, arms trapped against his sides. “I missed you.”
“You kept telling me not to come,” he protested with a laugh.
“Oh, you know, I know you’re getting settled in, and so much work to get used to—I didn’t want to be a bother.” She swatted his chest lightly, then caught his hand and nearly dragged him inside. “It doesn’t mean I didn’t miss you.”
Summer just smiled down at her fondly, letting himself be ushered into the house. “I missed you too, Mom. And I’m here all day, if you need me.”
“Don’t say that or I’ll put you to work in the garden.” Her eyes glittered as she glanced at him, then pushed him toward one of the kitchen chairs. “Let me feed you first. I’ve still got some pancakes left over. You just missed Fox, by the way. By fifteen minutes.”
Summer nearly missed the edge of his chair, and went plunking half toward the floor before he caught himself on the edge of the kitchen table and dragged himself up, settling clumsily on the seat and staring at his mother.
“Fox...was here...?” he asked, mouth dry.
“Oh, yes.” Bustling about busily, his mother piled a plate high with pancakes, even though Summer had no appetite—but no heart to tell her that, either. “Showed up quite out of the blue. I haven’t seen him in months, and I...well.” She clucked her tongue. “He was smiling. And actually stayed for tea. He always says no, but he’s...well. Something’s different. Whatever do you think has gotten into that man?”
It’s more like who he’s gotten into, Summer thought, but clamped down on his tongue hard.
He didn’t want to think it was because of him, anyway.
But he could hope.
“I, um... I really wouldn’t know,” he said, fumbling around his teeth, his tongue. “He’s pretty hard to read sometimes.”
“Is he?” She slid the stack of pancakes in front of him, the bottle of syrup following almost like a challenge. “I’ve always thought he was quite painfully simple.”
“Really?” Reluctantly, Summer picked up his fork. He loved his mother’s cooking, just...he’d already eaten at Fox’s, but he didn’t want the hangdog, sad look that would come if he turned her down. “Maybe you could explain to me, then, because he’s driving me sideways just trying to understand what he wants.”
“Fox wants what anyone wants, dear.” Lily settled in the chair adjacent to his, and rested her warm, thin hand to his wrist, watching him with her eyes clear and soft and sympathetic. “To never hurt again. The problem is...even as old as he is, he’s never realized that that’s not possible. Not unless you shut yourself away completely, so that you can’t feel anything at all. And that’s no way to live.”
Summer bit his lip, poking at his pancakes, leaving little rows of four holes in the stack. “I want to tell him hurting is just a part of life,” he murmured. “But I... I can’t imagine what he feels to even say that. It feels disrespectful. I was so young when Dad died... I don’t even remember how it hurt.”
“I do,” Lily said softly. “Your father was the love of my life, and there’ll never be another. Losing him shattered me, but that doesn’t mean I would let myself stop feeling everything just to avoid that pain.” She smiled, then, and offered her hand to Summer. “If I had, I’d never have been able to love you...and I couldn’t live without that, my precious boy.”
Summer set his fork down and slipped his hand into his mother’s, clasping tight. It ached to think how old she was; that one day she’d be gone, too, and he’d learn what that pain felt like all too deeply.
But he had her now.
That warm, soft hand in his, so very real and here and now.
Sometimes that was a
ll that mattered was having now, instead of worrying about what might come later, or when now would inevitably end.
Everything ended.
Just because things ended was no reason to avoid beginning them at all.
He smiled, running his thumb over his mother’s knuckles. “Love you too, Mom. I just...wish it was as easy to say that to Fox.”
His mother arched a sly brow that said she knew far more than she let on. “Oh, I think he knows how you feel. Considering the way he nearly spilled his tea all over himself when I asked how well you were performing at the school.”
Summer choked, inhaled, wheezed, then stared at her, the tips of his ears going vividly hot. “Mom!”
Lily only smiled that innocent smile of hers. “Well. I hadn’t been one hundred percent certain, but that reaction certainly confirmed it. I do hope you’re being safe, darling. And using plenty of lubricant.”
“I—you—I cannot have this conversation with you!” he garbled out, every word twisting and tripping over his tongue horribly; he just stared at her in horror, fingers rigid in hers. “You—you knew?”
“I do now.” With a pleased smile, Lily pulled her hand from his and patted his knuckles, then rose to her feet, briskly dusting her dress off. “Eat your pancakes, dear. I’ll get you some milk.”
Summer just...stared after his mother, as she bustled to the fridge.
And Fox wondered why sometimes, Summer just bit the bullet and dove in, no matter what outrageous things were in his head.
Summer had learned from the best.
But even on his worst day...
He’d never be as incorrigible and wonderful as Lily Hemlock.
* * *
The fact that Summer wasn’t back yet shouldn’t make Fox so restless.
Fox shouldn’t be so...so needy.
Shouldn’t want to be around Summer so much.
He was the one who had set the time limit on this.
Even if he was greedy to want to make the most of it, to enjoy what he could while they had something...
