by Anyta Sunday
As if he was already planning on running.
His grip tightened on Rory and his throat swelled, hurting when he swallowed. “I will see you later.”
There was a threat in that. No, a plea.
Don’t run.
Eric left, just as Rory asked, but as soon as he’d dropped his hand from his elbow, he wished he hadn’t. The ghost of Eric’s touch whispered over his skin, pleading Rory to call back the man shrinking in the distance.
He could taste Eric’s disappointment as if it stained the air. Knew the guy wondered if he’d be seeing him again after this. And God, he hated the slumped shoulders he had as he carried himself away. It hurt that he was hurting Eric, and it stung that Eric didn’t trust him to know he wouldn’t back out of his promise. If you want to run, tell me in person.
He stopped himself from leaping out the door after him. He’d chase after Eric later. First he had to . . . had to . . .
His gaze refocused on Uncle Davy, and his kind, worried eyes bored into him patiently waiting for him to say something. Anything.
Lily’s suitcase rolled into the hall. It made him think of wheels, his own motorbike, and fleeing away from this moment. But then the sound stopped, a breath of air skipped over him, and Lily had her arms around him. Did she know he wanted to run? Was this her way of bracing him down? Perhaps was it merely a hug?
Or maybe it was a warning. The world using her to tell him to stop running. He hadn’t listened before.
He would now.
Because yes, his stomach flapped like it wanted to grow wings and let him fly out of there, but somewhere deeper down, more important, he didn’t want to leave at all. Wellington was home.
Of course, staying here meant facing things. Meant finally admitting how things were to Uncle Davy. To those that mattered.
“You coming in, Dad?” Lily asked, her arms still around him. Even tighter, maybe. “Or are you just gonna stare?” To him, she said, “Nice to see you again, cuz. And, if I can just say, that guy was hot.”
Lily had been a nice warmth against his side, but now she was too much. He shuffled away from her until she dropped her arms.
“Um,” he said. Just acknowledge it. Then it’s over and done with. “You’re back already.”
“Time just flies when you’re having fun,” Lily chimed in, wagging her eyebrows, “doesn’t it?”
It was true. It felt like barely a week had passed since he, Lily, Sammy and Uncle Davy were having their good-bye dinner. And it was because he was having fun. Because he was happy.
With Eric.
“Yeah,” he said, then to Uncle Davy, “What about June?”
The lines around his uncle’s eyes deepened as he smiled. “Our flight was full. She arrives tomorrow.”
“So you got her back.”
“I wouldn’t be here otherwise.”
Lily pulled Uncle Davy’s suitcase into the house. “I told you the snake was worth it,” she said. “Really, Dad, you ought to be showering me in gifts, not this grounded nonsense.” She sighed dramatically, and Uncle Davy grinned when she turned her back. But it didn’t last long, he met his gaze again and the mood sobered.
He finally stepped over the threshold, with a wave of sweat and deodorant and unspoken questions.
Rory swallowed the acrid taste in his mouth—the taste of needing to leave. “I—”
Uncle Davy shook his head. “You don’t need to say anything, Rory.”
But in fact, yes, he did. “I need to say it. I mean, I know you know it now, but I need to say it.” Admitting that made him feel lighter, more assertive and confident somehow. The last Shearwater song had come to a finish and it made his next words seem louder. Or maybe it was the truth of them. “I’m—I’m gay. And that”—he pointed to the path Eric had left—“that was Eric. The guy I’m thinking of moving in with.”
Rory entered Eric’s place and padded down the hall, peering into each room until he found Eric and Yowler curled up on his bed. Taking a calming breath, he went in. If it, them, were going to work at all—and he hoped it would. God he hoped it would—then they were going to need to sort things out between them once and for all.
Eric jerked his head up. Then he was scrambling to his knees, Yowler tumbling off him. “Rory.” He breathed the word, so rich in relief that Rory felt the sting.
He stopped at the end of the bed, just before a line of light coming through the opened blinds.
Eric, in the early evening sun, was in the spotlight, and he could see every cloud of uncertainty that chased across his face. The uncertainty was made up of mostly of love, of that he was sure, but it was framed by fear and hardened by mistrust.
“I . . . Jesus, Rory, I wanted to be there with you.”
He shuffled toward him, rippling the surface of the duvet. Rory held out a hand, his fingertips just reaching Eric’s chest, his own t-shirt.
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“Did it go okay? Are you all right?” Eric’s green eyes searched his, a thorough, kind caress that had him aching to wrap his arms around the guy and forget talking.
He dropped his gaze. “I’m fine. I was nervous, but in the end—it felt good telling him. Even if he already suspected. And Lily . . .” Hot tears suddenly welled up behind his eyes and he swiped the back of his hand over them, still refusing to look at Eric. Lily and Uncle Davy had accepted him. Had told him they loved him, that he was their family, that they would always stand behind him. The kind things they’d said and the thousands they didn’t have to—it was like he’d finally found his roots, his home.
Wellington was the place he wanted to stay.
“They were great,” he finished, struggling to keep his voice even. He managed, just, but his limbs decided to betray him and he sat on the end of the bed.
“The fact is,”—he laughed at his uncle’s turn of phrase—“no matter what I’ve done in the past, no matter what shit I still manage to throw at my uncle, he always forgives me and moves on. They’re home. I’m home around them. And”—he looked up at Eric, who, through his watery eyes looked blurry but just as beautiful. “I feel that with you too. You stuck by me, you forgave me so much, and while I’ve tried to show you I’m sorry, I never had the guts to say it to you and I owe you that.”
He steadied his breath and stilled his hands from fidgeting. “For the first time we met, for the way I acted to you, I am sorry. For the second time we met, for the dick that I was, I’m sorry again. For all the times I hurt you, angered you, annoyed you, I’m really—”
He was cut off by the softest lips slanting over his. “Stop. Please,” Eric said. “I know you are. And . . .” he pulled back, his cheeks flushed. “I—there’s something I didn’t tell you. When you came over at Christmas, I’m sorry, but I had a Skype call running and forgot about it.”
Rory frowned. “So?”
“So I was speaking to Will and Heath.”
Now he froze. “And?”
“They saw us together, Rory. I should have told you right away, but you’d just brought Yowler back and it was a precious moment—I didn’t want to ruin it.”
“So they know, huh?” He nodded. “I guess,” he swallowed, “I guess that’s a couple of people less I have to tell, then. Did Heath—what did he say?” A small tendril of fear uncurled in him. “Does he know about William?”
“I never said anything about William, and neither did he. But he might have guessed he meant something to you.” The way Eric said William’s name had a tendril of a different kind unfurling in him. He heard it in the strained tone and saw it in the darkness that curtained his face. Eric was afraid.
“What is it?”
Eric shook his head. “Don’t worry about it.”
“How about I decide that? What’s wrong?”
Eric tried to grab Yowler, perhaps as a distraction, but the kitten squirmed out of his grasp. He clutched the duvet at his sides instead. “What if I’m not there to stop you if you want to run again?”
; This was it. The heart of Eric’s distrust. Rory gazed at him, until he understood. He didn’t believe he’d stay. He was frightened if he did leave, he’d be completely alone.
“It’s just,” Eric continued, “I want to trust you’ll stay. But William is always going to be there, hanging over us.” He told him of why he’d really been at his place last Friday—that he’d even bought a fake gun to scare off the Forster’s. “I just can’t bear the thought of something sending you for the hills. I thought if I could get scare the boys off—”
“I get it.” In fact, in some bizarre way hearing the story touched him deeply, and had him landing a comforting palm on Eric’s thigh.
“But getting rid of one symptom isn’t going to solve the problem. There’ll be other Williams out there—I won’t be able to stop you from seeing them all.”
Eric’s hand landed on top of his, a solid warm weight to keep him right where he was. Rory flipped his hand and threaded their fingers together. He didn’t believe he would ever lose the ache of William in him completely; it might one day be dormant, but there would always be moments when it boiled up again. “I wish I could promise you that I’ll be fine if I see him again.” He shook his head. “If it were a simple switch like that, I’d have turned it off long ago. All I can say is that we need to learn to trust each other. You need to trust that I will stay even if I do “see” him.” Rory looked toward the bedroom door as if he could see through walls right to the fireplace in the living room to the ashes there. “It’s a big thing to ask of you, I know.” He looked into Eric’s eyes. “Please trust me.”
It was Eric’s turn to look toward the door, and Rory believed he was thinking the same thing. He squeezed his hand and stood up off the bed.
“You’re right, Rory. I have to trust you. I will. It’s my turn to show you how much.”
Chapter Nineteen
Eric twisted the apricot jam jar in his hands; the heat from his hands made the glass warm and alive. He could feel his pulse pounding against it and, closing his eyes, he imagined it was his grandpa’s spirit begging to be let free.
He tucked the ashes carefully into his bag. When he’d told Rory what he was ready to do, Rory had asked him to wait until morning. Had said he wanted to take Eric to a beautiful hidden bay and be there with him.
Rory rolled up to his place on his motorbike. He didn’t get off, just motioned Eric over to him and handed him a second helmet. Eric took a second to stare from the helmet to Rory and decided if he was going to trust him—and he would—there wouldn’t be any exceptions. He placed his bag where Rory motioned next to the guy’s art container—What could he want with that?
He smoothed any hint of a frown, donned the helmet, and swung onto the back of the bike. The thing lurched into motion and he clutched Rory, bringing himself tighter against him, fingers digging into his sides.
And he was clutching not just from the force of the bike and the wind that tunneled around them, but because he needed to hold on to the guy he was giving his heart to. Hold on to who he hoped would become family.
In minutes the city gave way to rolling hills and rocky roads, then cliff faces and jagged rocks, pummeled by waves. The road narrowed and Rory ventured off it onto a small dirt track. Dust clouds whipped up around them as they peeled downhill and around corners. In the space of half an hour they’d gone from civilization to a place so remote that apart from the tire tracks in the path the land could have been untouched.
Rory stopped the bike at the edge of a steep hill leading to a cove of rocks and turquoise sea shimmering in the morning light. The wind continued to swirl around them as they silently took their gear—Rory, his container—and descended to the water’s edge. The salty, fresh smell of the sea mixed with the tussock and foliage behind them. He drew in a refreshing breath. Somehow it tasted of courage. He could feel it gather in him, and he knew he was ready to say goodbye to his grandpa.
The spot was beautiful for it too. Much like the places his grandpa had taken him to swim as a kid. If he squinted, he could almost see them both chasing each other amongst the waves. Yes, there he was, dunking his grandpa under only to be lifted and slammed under himself.
He smiled and closed his eyes, taking in the memory. He could hear Rory moving over pebbles, collecting rocks. It was comforting, knowing they were somewhere private where no one else could intrude on his goodbye, and knowing he wasn’t entirely alone, either.
His feet slowly sunk into the pebbles as he held his backpack, watched and just . . . breathed.
Rory had built a small fortress of rock and gathered twigs and dry tussock. He was kneeling at its side, staring at his art container. His mouth moved, but Eric couldn’t hear his words, neither did he think they were for him.
But when Rory glanced at him and their eyes locked, Eric saw his own vulnerability reflected there. Flicking his gaze to the opened container, paper peeking out from the top, and back to Rory with tears filling his eyes, Eric knew what was going on. With heavy feet, he moved to him. As he fell to his knees he saw the lighter in Rory’s shaking hand.
“If you’re trying to prove something to me, you don’t have to,” Eric said, brushing a thumb under Rory’s eye, smudging a tear away. “I trust you.”
Rory looked down and struck the lighter with his thumb. Flame leapt between them. “I’ve wanted to do this a long time now. This is not proving anything, this is moving on I need to do. And I feel strong enough to do it with you by my side.”
Eric nodded and opened his bag. Taking out his grandpa’s ashes, he said, “Together?”
Rory’s lip curled up slightly at that—as if he remembered with fondness the first time they’d said that to each other. “Together.”
His art came out, handfuls of pieces at a time, as if Rory didn’t want to dwell on each portrait too long. Maybe he feared if he looked too hard, he might not be able to do it.
“Do you want me here? Or . . .?”
“Just being here is fine.” He motioned toward the sea. “Unless . . . did you want me . . . ?”
“No, I—you here is good, but I need a moment. I understand.” He picked himself from his crouch, taking just his jar. He took off his shoes, pebbles biting into the soles of his feet helping to keep him in the moment, then rolled up his jeans and waded into the water.
The cold sea licked at his ankles, pulling him further in until the rolled up jeans were lapping on the water’s surface. “This is it,” he murmured. “Time for me to let you go find grandma.”
With raw breaths stinging his throat from the salty air, he settled a hand atop the lid. Wind whistled over him, burrowing up his sleeve, and with it he heard his grandpa once more: Accept that death’s a natural part of life, Eric. Let me go. Then live your life. Really live it . . . Find some real friends, a real future.
He felt that future at his back, and it gave him the courage to unscrew the jar.
“Sorry for everything. For you getting sick, for making you suffer to fight it, for waiting this long to let you go.” Making sure the wind was behind him, he closed his eyes and tipped the glass. “Goodbye, Grandpa.”
A wave crashed into his thighs and he reopened his eyes to see the last of the ashes settle on the water.
Looking over his shoulder, he saw Rory, hunched next to his paper cocooning his lighter from the breeze and bringing it to his Williams.
The flame took off, racing over the paper, burning bright and fast, and that flame was both the saddest and sweetest he’d ever seen. Sad, because it made Rory weep. Sweet, because it felt like William was leaving them to be. Maybe leaving wasn’t quite right, but he was moving from hanging between them, to behind them.
He lumbered back to shore and crouched behind Rory, who was on his haunches. The man shivered as he wrapped his arms around him and held him against his chest. Eric sighed onto his neck, resting his forehead against the back of Rory’s head. He loved the smell where his hair met skin, just below his ear. That one spot was him. Rory. And breathing i
t in calmed him.
“Anything I can do?” he asked.
Rory shook his head.
They sat in silence and watched until the last of the smoke had curled up and been carried with the wind over the sea. Then Rory moved from in front of him to his side, their sleeves just touching. Eric dropped one of the two pebbles he rolled in his hand when Rory spoke.
“Yes, by the way.”
“Yes?”
“I’ve been an insomniac for years, but I always manage to sleep around you or in your bed. I want to move in.”
Eric shouldered his arm lightly. “So you can sleep, huh?”
Rory kept his gaze in front of him, but a lip quirked. And that was all Eric needed. He didn’t need words when he could feel them. He nodded. “Me too.” A large bird swooped close to them before lifting up again. He hummed, a thought coming to him. “Rory?”
“Yeah?”
“Rory Albatross Phillips?”
A snicker warmed him. Then suddenly he was pushed back against the pebbles, Rory on top of him, dropping a single extended kiss onto his lips. “Fuck, Eric.”
And that single “fuck’ was the softest, kindest word he’d ever heard. It was the exclamation mark to his next words, and Eric would never forget it.
“I love you.”
They got home, the door puffing air into their faces as it shut behind them. The entire ride back, Eric had been pressed so tight and warm against his back . . .
Rory closed his eyes briefly as he kicked off his shoes and shrugged out of his jacket.
It’d been comforting, almost like they were sheltering something special and fragile between them, imprisoning it, keeping it safe from the hurt and rawness of the world around them. He could still feel the ghost of Eric’s grip on his stomach. And though Eric was right there, peeling off his own jacket, the distance felt too wide.
