by Roe Horvat
Just like Liam, he caressed Luke’s jaw before he pushed his cock into Luke’s mouth while Liam held Luke’s head in place.
“Don’t touch yourself.”
He woke up. The gray fog of arousal and desperation made him reach between his legs and stroke himself before he even opened his eyes. He rolled onto his back, licked his finger, and pushed it into his hole. He imagined both men fucking his throat, taking turns, and then while Marcus’s cock gagged him, Liam would force his into Luke’s ass. He’d own and punish Luke, making him wail around Marcus’s cock. Luke jabbed his finger into his hole, and it hurt. He came within seconds.
Half-asleep and still aroused, he stumbled into the bathroom. He broke down there, on the tiles in the shower stall, hidden from the world’s judgment but very much exposed to the most severe of judges—his own conscience.
He would dream of Liam many times. Ridiculous, crazy dreams, mingling with sceneries from series and movies Luke had watched. Sometimes, there was sex. Sometimes, he just stood there, watching Liam and Marcus being affectionate with each other while they ignored him. And he should definitely cut down on the Game of Thrones—the rapey king and slave fantasies were most disturbing. He dreamed glimpses of the theater, and sometimes he was in a strange room he sensed was Liam’s and Marcus’s home. In all of his dreams, he was the one exposed and vulnerable, and every time he woke up, he hated himself just a little bit more.
Three
Marcus
When they finally got back from the hospital late on Thursday night, Marcus slept like the dead, grateful for their own bed and exhausted from being woken up all the time for the past twenty-four hours.
On Friday morning, he dragged himself out of bed to the bathroom, aching and disoriented. He dropped his phone, but luckily, the device survived, landing on the wooden threshold and not on the hard tile. Swearing, he bent down to pick it up. He had to brace himself on the doorframe on his way up, and his stomach heaved. This is like the worst hangover ever. He heard Liam run up the stairs before his man burst through the bathroom door. The noise sent a shock of pain through Marcus’s temple. Fuck.
“Marcus?”
“Shh!” Marcus hissed, blinking slowly through the throbbing in his head.
Liam exhaled and hugged him. “I heard a bang. Thought you fell.”
“Dropped my phone,” Marcus mumbled.
“Okay.” Liam nodded and exhaled heavily. “Okay.”
He stayed, though, sitting on the toilet lid while Marcus showered and brushed his teeth. After forcing Marcus to drink what felt like a gallon of water, Liam spent the morning on the phone, probably distributing tasks and rescheduling.
For Marcus, the day passed in a slow, murky haze. The headache was killing him, his stomach felt queasy, but the murmur of Liam’s voice in the background comforted him. He had to ask what had happened a couple of times, but then he remembered again. Time moved forward thickly, and Marcus hoped the physical pain would scream louder than his harassing, scattered thoughts. Yet he couldn’t think, not really. His brain gave him only snippets of somethings—he didn’t know whether they were real memories, stories he’d heard, or reminiscences of his own dreams. Before he managed to grasp an image, it fogged up like Liam’s glasses in their sauna.
During the weekend, the headaches grew manageable, so Marcus forced his partner to go back to work on Monday. He tried working in the garden but gave up in ten minutes. The sun rays seemed to be cutting into his eyes like needles.
He carefully washed his hands, picking the dirt from under his nails, poured himself a tall glass of water—Liam would have been glad—and sat on the living room sofa. What to do?
It was eleven in the morning when he recalled the important thing.
Luke had quit.
Only hours before Marcus fell and knocked his brains out, Luke had given his notice at the theater. Damned concussion. Marcus straightened up on the sofa, his eyes widening and breath short. Luke was leaving. The headache struck like lightning again, and Marcus’s stomach turned. He lay carefully on his side and closed his eyes, but the healing wound on his head throbbed, sending bouts of sheer misery from his temple all around his skull. He swallowed dryly and breathed. He knew stress and tension would make his condition worse. However, with his thinking dimmed by the pain, he couldn’t talk himself out of the destructive spiral. It was his fault. It was all his fault. Luke was leaving, and it was Marcus’s fault.
Day after endless day, Marcus struggled to stay patient. He felt pathetic. He couldn’t read or watch a movie, and any light or loud sound sent him into a pit of skull-splitting pain, so of course, he was bored to death. He ironed Liam’s shirts. He baked bread with figs and walnuts. He had sometimes brought his sourdough bread with him to work, and Luke loved the one with figs and nuts; he would eat thin slices with butter for snacks during practice, humming around each bite. Marcus ate half a loaf by himself, even before Liam came home.
A whole week of calm and quiet tortured him slowly. It was a relief when he began at least listening to music and took walks—baseball hat and sunglasses a must. Damn, it was hot for May. Liam fussed, coming from work distinctly early and stalking Marcus through the house like a bodyguard, but Marcus wouldn’t complain about that.
On Wednesday, the fog lifted, and his mind cleared. Somewhat. Marcus could see forward. Yes, Luke was leaving. My fault. But maybe there was something he could do. Luke’s last few weeks with the theater were going to be memorable, and Marcus would find a way to keep Luke in his life. Somehow. He only had to occupy himself until he was well enough to go back to work.
Unable to sit still, he weeded the small beds in the back garden and added some compost from the wooden box he built three years ago. The lid of the compost box needed repairing—the paint was peeling off, and one plank seemed rotten around the screws. He raked through the soil, preparing the beds for planting his salads, which already grew on the windowsills upstairs, and for the radish and sweet pea seeds. He would check the weather forecast tonight. Maybe he could seed the radishes already. The strawberry beds needed care as well, but they would have to wait for a few days.
Tired from spending midday in the sharp sun, Marcus went inside, did laundry, and cooked dinner. He prepared fucking spring rolls—he made the filling from scratch and folded the dough into tiny parcels for almost three hours straight. There were enough spring rolls for a small party. The fatigue in his limbs helped to calm his mind. The kitchen was a mess, and the look on Liam’s face when he came home at half past six said everything.
“I don’t want to hear it,” Marcus told him, turning back to the frying pan and studiously rotating the rolls one by one in the bubbling oil. Yes, I am totally using cooking as a distraction. Whatever works.
“I haven’t said a word.” Liam stepped closer and kissed Marcus’s cheek. “How are you?”
“Better,” Marcus replied. It was the truth, but he knew he sounded bitchy. “I did some gardening.”
Liam sighed. “Only a few more days.”
“Luke hasn’t answered my messages,” Marcus blurted and bit his lip. Of course, Luke hadn’t.
“I wrote to him yesterday, and this time he actually replied.”
“What did he say?”
“Just thanked me.”
Marcus harrumphed. Damn the man. Luke was so fucking stubborn. And Marcus understood; he really did. Just…
“Don’t be harsh on him,” Liam said, weaving his fingers into Marcus’s hair.
Marcus laid the wooden spatula aside and closed his eyes. “He could have messaged me too.”
“He’s trying to distance himself, and I can’t say I blame him. It’s been difficult for him, and it might get even harder.”
The thought of Luke leaving, alone and unhappy, made Marcus’s stomach protest countless times a day, and he couldn’t blame the concussion anymore. “Thanks for reminding me.” But how could Marcus save Luke when he was the one causing him pain?
Liam hugged him
from behind, and Marcus leaned his head against Liam’s shoulder. He had Liam. He was lucky and spoiled. But Luke had nobody.
“I’m sorry.”
“You are not allowed to apologize for anything. I am the one who should be sorry,” Marcus said.
“Nonsense. Let’s eat. It looks fantastic.”
He was grateful for Liam’s pragmatism. Marcus would plague himself for hours, going in circles in his concussed brain, yet there was nothing he could do. He needed to get better and go back to work as soon as possible.
After ten tedious days, Marcus finally returned to the theater, carrying two canvas bags of homemade cinnamon buns. He was still tired, but he could now tolerate normal daylight and noises in the city without any discomfort. Sometimes his mind flailed in a scary way, like he was following a slow-motion version of his own thoughts from the outside, but all in all, he was definitely much better.
Nathan tackle-hugged him right in front of the dressing room before he jumped back, eyes wide with fear.
“Oh my god, I’m an idiot!” he exclaimed, patting Marcus’s shoulder. “You’re okay?”
Marcus chuckled. Nathan’s feelings were always much faster and stronger than his sense. He was an adorable bundle of all-encompassing love.
“You didn’t hurt me, and I’m as good as new. You can hug me,” Marcus reassured him, so Nathan did hug him. Slower and calmer but tight.
“Happy to have you back, boss. You smell like butter and cinnamon.”
“Here, have one. They’re fresh.”
“Oh, god! You’re the best!” Nathan squealed and bit into the pastry with no preamble.
Just then, Marcus spotted Luke’s face over Nathan’s shoulder. Luke had his training tights on and a tatted gray sleeveless shirt. His blond hair was a mess, and faint stubble covered his sunken cheeks. He smiled softly and dropped his gaze. Marcus’s heart squeezed with a familiar ache.
Marcus patted Nathan on his shoulder and stepped around him. He reached Luke in a few steps and didn’t give him time to say anything. They were shit at talking anyway. Relief flooded him when Luke accepted his embrace, tucking his face close so his nose touched the hollow underneath Marcus’s ear. Marcus closed his eyes, one canvas bag slid down his arm, and the strong scent of cinnamon wafted around them.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
Luke squeezed him tighter before he released him and turned away, hiding his expression. The dressing room soon crawled with people, all the guys rushing in, the girls chatting loudly outside in the hall. Ann-Katrin, blatantly ignoring the rules, barged into the male dressing room and wrapped her thin, freakishly strong arms around Marcus’s neck.
“Hey!” Xiou, who was in his underwear, exclaimed.
“As if I haven’t seen you naked!” Ann-Katrin retorted. “Hi, Marcus. Welcome back. How are you?”
“I’m fine. I’m good.”
It was Adam who pulled her back. “Out of my way! I smell cinnamon buns!”
She swatted at him, grinning. Adam kissed Marcus on the cheek and beamed. It felt fantastic to be back.
The practice was exhilarating. They all worked hard to show they hadn’t wasted any time while Marcus had been away. Only Luke seemed strained, his jumps less fearless, movements more careful, unfinished. The change was subtle; Marcus doubted anyone else saw it. But he knew Luke better than anyone. He also knew Luke was very well aware of every shortcoming and would beat himself up for it. This was not how Marcus wanted Luke to experience the short time he had left with them.
Plotting, Marcus quickly rinsed off in the dressing room showers. He would drag Luke aside first thing tomorrow and talk it through. Tonight, Liam was supposed to pick him up, and they were going out for dinner with one of Liam’s business associates; Marcus had forgotten the name. He was early, so he buttoned his shirt with care, slipped into his loafers, and then paused by the exit. Luke’s jacket still hung in the dressing room. Maybe Marcus wouldn’t have to wait until tomorrow? Marcus typed a quick text to Liam while he rushed through the long corridors.
I need to talk to Luke. I’ll be out in fifteen. Please wait for me in the car when you arrive.
He turned left and strode back to the stage. He ran up the stairs but paused by the black curtain.
It shot through his chest, a familiar bout of beautiful pain, so dear and welcome. He felt a similar ache when he watched Adam dance—but that was simply because the gift Adam had transcended them all. Luke was different. Peculiar. Marcus’s own. Marcus had always felt he saw Luke when nobody else did. He had discovered Luke, found the rare subtlety, and was able to nurture it. Where other dancers impressed with exactness and confidence due to rigorous training, Luke was sophisticated yet sincere, his movements as multifaceted as his soul. Often, he would adjust the choreography to suit him—no big changes, nothing that would affect the flow or the story—because he was unable to perform what he didn’t feel in his heart. He would shrug apologetically, and Marcus would just shake his head, smiling, because whatever move Luke altered, he invariably improved. In those moments, Marcus could drown in his love.
Tonight, Marcus watched, his heart breaking, as Luke rehearsed his solo sequence from Bird’s Cage. The first flight. Arms half-spread, Luke’s hands quivered in the air, fear and excitement radiating from his posture. Then he let go of the tension, and Marcus grinned with giddiness as Luke flew across the stage in series of variating sautés. Everything was just right with Luke, exactly enough, never too little or too far. Marcus couldn’t help but imagine Luke would invest the same amount of empathy into intimacy as he gave his dancing. The thought had haunted Marcus some nights. Luke had a perfect sense of how much strength to put into a leap—while others impressed with boldness, he excelled with precision and feeling. He landed precariously, balancing, the imaginary bird’s wings stretched wide and then folded. Perfection.
However, Luke dismissed his own performance the second he loosened his posture, shaking his head and snorting softly. He walked back to the corner, tapped his toes on the floor, and tried again.
He was excellent. His depth, the true emotion gloriously portrayed, made Marcus want to stomp his foot and demand Luke stay. He also noticed how Luke squeezed his eyes shut and wrinkled his nose when he spun on his left foot, his right knee cutting through the air, a perfect ballet attitude. He landed on both feet and broke the sequence, fisting his hands.
He was in pain.
Marcus wanted to roar at the injustice of nature and coincidence. Unable to watch anymore, he took a step forward from behind the curtain.
“Luke?”
“Yeah?” Luke paused, his posture stiff, and his features spoke of anxiety. Gone were the days when he looked at Marcus with exhilarated joy in his eyes. Marcus’s throat squeezed with guilt.
“Can we have a word?” he asked.
Luke sighed. He took a towel, which lay on the floor next to him, and wiped his face. “Sure.” The fatigue in his tone didn’t bode well.
They walked back to the dressing room together in silence. Marcus was trying to prepare his words as Luke began preparing his clean clothes. Marcus wanted to be practical and only think of Luke’s well-being, but the want and ache made his mind spin. I know you’re hurting, and it’s all my fault. Please don’t leave. I know you must. I can’t bear losing you. Please forgive me.
It was Luke who lost patience first. “What did you need?” he asked with the towel in hand.
Marcus blinked and took a breath. “You’re in pain again, aren’t you?” Not the words he had prepared.
Luke bit his lip. “Was it obvious?”
You need to help him. Stop being a selfish prick and think of him. “No, I don’t think anyone else would have noticed. The hip, right?”
“Yeah. It’s the worst at night. Didn’t sleep particularly well for the past few days.”
Luke lying awake at night, alone and hurting. The thought made Marcus want to curl up and weep. “What do I do?” he asked.
Luke’s should
ers sank. “You are the boss. If you think I’m not performing as I should…”
What? “Jesus, Luke, I’m not here to chew you out. It’s not about that. You have one month left. What do you want to do? How can I help you?”
Face brightening with understanding, Luke answered quickly. “I want to keep the role in Bird’s Cage. There are only three shows left.”
Thank god there was something, anything to make Luke’s face light up. “Okay, it’s yours. What you just did up there”—Marcus waved in the general direction of the stage—“don’t do that. Don’t pressure yourself. Luke, you are fantastic at that part. You don’t have to work on it except for the sync, and that’s for the sake of others. Take it easy at the rehearsals, extremely easy, okay? Focus only on the shows.”
Luke looked down at his bare feet. He didn’t reply.
“I mean it,” Marcus insisted. Luke lifted his eyes briefly and nodded. “What about Icarus?”
“Let Xiao take it,” Luke said and shrugged. “He loves the part.”
“Do you want to book sessions with Elena?” Their chiropractor had legendary skills.
“No, I know what exercises to do and what to avoid. I know it all by heart at this point.”
“What about your foot?”
“The tendon is fine. I haven’t had a problem in two months.”
“Okay. Good.” Marcus sighed. Only one month left. Then his world would change. He wanted to reach out and touch Luke, hold his hand, kiss his cheek, anything. But it wouldn’t be fair. Luke had said no, in more ways than one, and Marcus had to respect that. He hung his head and took a deep breath. One month.
