by Emilia Loft
He thumbs open a book on pirates, and Michael listens raptly, living the life of a swashbuckling treasure hunter with a peg leg, then a lowly deck scrubber with big dreams, each of the stories brighter, richer, more vivid in Devin’s telling. And each night after that, they live even wilder, different lives, of vengeful ghosts and daring knights, of gods who wield the power of a storm and their wayward brothers.
It’s only a matter of time before Devin gets his hands on a copy of the fantasy series their parents named them from.
“Look!” Devin says one night, with a conspiratorial gleam in his eye, as he holds up a thick volume, its pages crinkled and yellowed with age. “I finally found it!” The book releases a plume of dust, giving off a musty, old-book smell as Devin leafs through the first few pages.
Michael squints at the title and frowns. “The Lord of the Rings?” He’s not sure how good it can be, considering how huge the book is. It looks like a grown-up book—dry and difficult to read.
But Devin makes it sound amazing, sharing stories of the great battles, and snippets of the main characters’ journeys. Michael loves the details Devin adds as he goes, and the sound effects he makes: through Devin’s re-telling, Legolas the Elf shoots exploding arrows while surfing on the shields of his fallen enemies, Aragorn the Ranger wields a set of dual pistols that go piu piu before scores of Orcs drop dead at his feet, and Gimli the Dwarf splits skulls with his katana-style battle axe.
“Can Gandalf have laser-beam eyes?” Michael asks, once. Sometimes it seems like the wizard of their company has no special powers at all, having just been ousted by his former friend in spell incantations over a mountain pass. Clearly, this wizard is no wizard of words.
Devin hums thoughtfully. “He can have laser-beam eyes. Or if you want, he can have a laser-beam staff.”
“Ooh, yes,” says Michael, his eyes growing wide, delighted at how Gandalf goes on to best an ancient Balrog by aiming his laser-beam staff at its eyes; he blinds it enough to make it lose its balance and fall off a bridge to its death.
Michael thinks Gandalf must level up quite nicely after defeating the Balrog, as he gets more spells in his repertoire and a new set of armour, though he’ll probably need more kills before he can upgrade his staff. Or before Devin will upgrade it in his stories, anyway.
Devin does the best Dwarf voices (they sound like Scottish people) and the funniest Elf voices (where he pitches his voice high like a girl), even if Michael thinks his Hobbit voices sound too much like himself. Voices aside, however, he reads Michael the most awesome battle scenes, like how some evil wizard attacks a fortress where all these people were hiding. Or how a bunch of Orcs attacked a city and Gandalf, the totally badass wizard, helps the whole city survive.
“With his laser-beam staff, of course,” says Devin, with a sanctimonious little nod. Trolls are especially susceptible to the staff, turning into stone when Gandalf aims his all-powerful light at them.
He almost never reads the stories about the human brothers though, which Michael finds immensely curious. “What happened to Boromir?” Michael asks. “Wasn’t he part of that Fellowship group?”
Devin closes the book he’s reading to Michael, which is suspicious enough in itself. “He wasn’t —he didn’t—” Devin tries, before he sighs. “He returned to his city,” Devin says finally, “and reunited with him. They both became the king’s closest advisors. Forever and ever. The end.”
“Oh,” says Michael, yawning as he shuffles deeper into their blanket. “That’s good. I always thought he should see him again.” He smiles in the dark when Devin switches off the lamp and curls in behind him.
“Yes,” Devin agrees, though his voice is inexplicably sad. “I always thought he should, too.”
And though Michael doesn’t understand why Devin’s sad, he knows he can chase the sad away, simply by winding his fingers through Devin’s beneath the blanket and throwing their joined hands over his belly.
So he does.
* * *
When Michael finally gets his own library card, he checks the series out of the library, excited that he can finally read it on his own. Checks for discrepancies between the Devin-version and the real one, disappointed to find in fact, that Gimli’s logically impractical katana-axe doesn’t exist. That Aragorn doesn’t actually wield a set of dual pistols.
He likes Devin’s version better; Devin makes everything better, in the way that big brothers do, whether it’s healing hurts, embellishing stories, or making grape jelly sandwiches.
Michael trudges his way through the rest of the story, to read about their namesakes; with names like his and him’s, they must be heroes in the book, or their parents would’ve named them something normal.
Like Jason and Jacob. Or if they had to have stuffy names, maybe Stanton and Winston.
He already knows the Boromir and Faramir of the book were close too, but he’s surprised by the similarities between their lives and his. Of how his mother had died when they were young. How the Boromir of the books had raised Faramir after that, not unlike his own brother, and how his father seemingly had little left but contempt for his youngest son.
Michael allows himself a chuckle at the description of the two brothers, with their dark hair, so unlike the honeyed hue of his and Devin’s own, and grey eyes, instead of blue. Regardless, much of their story rings true for Michael’s own life, and he finds himself empathizing deeply with the brothers of the book.
Finds himself drawn into their story, each tantalizing thread pulling him further into the tapestry of their adventure.
He reads avidly of how the brothers had spent most of their lives fighting a hopeless battle against a dark force. Of how the book-Faramir had had a dream, a hope of something that might save Gondor. And of how Boromir, deeming the journey too perilous for him, had left for a hidden valley of the Elves, to puzzle out the riddle they’d been given in their dreams. Tried to bring back the weapon that’d been found, that might finally help them win the war against the enemy.
Boromir had left, and never come back. He’d died on his quest—died a hero, Michael thinks—and all his younger brother had gotten in recompense was a dream-like vision of his body, his only keepsake of Boromir his cloven horn.
Michael stops reading after that, swallowing hard against the lump that’s built up in his throat.
He turns off the light and pads over quietly to him’s bed. Slips under the covers and slides his arms around Devin’s waist. Buries his face into him’s neck.
“Took you long enough—ugh, your nose is cold,” Devin gripes, but he turns over and lets Michael burrow into his arms. “What’s wrong?”
“I read some of the books in that series mom and dad liked so much.” His body language is explanation enough on its own.
Devin doesn’t say anything for a while. Then, “I guess you found out about the brothers, huh.”
Michael just nods into Devin’s chest and tucks his toes under Devin’s legs.
“Don’t worry,” says Devin. “I’m not going to go anywhere.” He ruffles Michael’s hair, fond. “I won’t leave you behind.” Then, more solemnly, “I won’t leave you, ever.” There’s a weight behind his words, one that makes it seem more than a childish promise whispered under the covers.
“Good,” says Michael in a small voice. He curls his arms under Devin’s shoulders, his legs twining further around Devin’s. Like he’s a sea barnacle Devin won’t ever be rid of.
He doesn’t think he could bear it if his Devin left and never came back.
Michael would go with him, to whatever end. Wouldn’t leave him to die alone on some ill-fated journey.
He finds out later that the Michael of the books turned out to be a hero of this War of the Ring, but without Devin, he wonders if his namesake only felt like half a hero.
If he’d ever felt like a hero at all.
* * *
By the time they’re both old enough to leave college, his father’s all but run Starlight, Starbrigh
t into the ground. He hasn’t had the heart for it after his mother died, and customers are less inclined to buy flowers from a surly, sour-faced man.
Devin’s not expected to take up the mantle for it; he’s supposed to be an economics major now, having graduated from the local college, but because of the same ‘economy’, he’s had to take a job at one of the construction companies in town for the past few years. Having dabbled in environmental science and horticulture for a year himself, Michael’s decided it wasn’t for him. What he has decided on, is that he wants to take over the flower shop instead. To breathe the same magic and life and wonder into the shop that he’s sure his mother had brought to it once.
No, his father had said, when Michael first pitched him the idea. Why can’t you be like Devin, and do something useful with your life?
And Devin had fought for him then: Let Michael have the shop. He knows flowers. He knows the business. And he loves what he does, something you stopped doing since mom died.
His father never rose to the bait, only countered Devin at every turn. And if the shop fails?
What then? Will you carry both Michael and the shop?
Yes, said Devin. Because Michael’s dream is mine.
And his old man had called them foolish, had hemmed and hawed and stiffed them with a huge startup bill, but in the end, before he died, he’d handed it over.
The shop was in their name.
“How are we going to pay for all this stuff?” Michael asks now, gesturing to the pile of bills for seeds, planters, a new display cooler, and ad placements.
The only good thing about all this is that his parents had bought the place where the shop was located so they didn’t have to pay for a lease. Michael wishes they’d bought the flat upstairs too, so he and Devin wouldn’t have to make the three-block trek everyday from the rental basement suite they’ve had to move to, but it’s been stuck in construction limbo for the past two years. Waiting for some restaurant to open.
“Let me worry about that,” says Devin, with what he thinks is a reassuring smile. He kisses the corner of Michael’s mouth, gentle. “We’ll be all right.”
The shadows of doubt and worry don’t leave his eyes though, so Michael tugs him into the back room, onto their soft black couch with the broken spring. Lets Devin press him into the cushions and kiss him, again and again, before they’re fumbling at belts and buttons and zippers, scrabbling for a vial of oil for the pleasure they’ve come to enjoy. Devin eases Michael open with steady fingers, before pushing into him, slow. Works his way up to sharp, brutal thrusts, just the way Michael likes, until Michael’s hands are clawed tight into the fabric of the couch. Until he’s biting the cushions to muffle his cries.
“I wish you could stay,” Michael whispers, when they’ve finished. He tucks a strand of sweat-slick hair behind Devin’s ear. Presses the fingers of his other hand into Devin’s shoulders, as if by pressing hard enough, Michael can keep him here, bolt him down, shackle Devin to him so he can’t leave.
“I wish I could too,” says Devin. He lays his head on Michael’s shoulder as he catches his breath. Winds his arms around Michael’s waist, gentle. But the bills won’t pay themselves and food won’t magically appear on their table, and they both know it. So they don’t have long at all before he has to kiss Michael once, hard, and toss his shirt over his head. “Don’t wait up for me tonight,” he says.
Sometimes he doesn’t come back from the work sites until after dark, when the dinner Michael’s made has gone cold.
“Mmh,” says Michael, non-committal, straightening Devin’s shirt and stealing a ghost of a kiss before he leaves.
They both know Michael will wait up for him anyway.
* * *
It takes another two years before the shop starts making a steady stream of revenue, enough that Michael can funnel part of it back into the business, in hardier display coolers, a wider variety of gifts and cards, and his crowning masterpiece, the little greenhouse out back. He grows a supply of their own flowers there, so that they can rely less on the wholesale florist—even sectioned it off into different areas, to simulate various climates, letting him grow some of the more difficult flowers to use for arrangements.
Word of mouth’s gotten the shop farther than most of their flyers and bench ads, and they’ve built up a decent clientele, many of them repeat customers.
Some are his parents’ old friends, elderly couples who drop by for cards, stuffed animals, knickknacks, and bouquet orders to “support Finny and Denny’s kids”. In truth, it’s probably because of them that Michael and Devin managed to keep the shop afloat when they first took it over, and it’s a fact Michael never forgets, throwing in little extras for them when the shop’s been doing well.
There’s also a young woman with long blonde hair, who comes in to buy a bouquet of white lilies every other week. An older gentleman, who looks wise beyond his years with his graying beard and cane, often coming in just to enjoy the sight of flowers and sunshine; he frequently leaves with a set of lilacs, accompanied by handmade prints of butterflies and horses. And countless others who stop by for a chat, and leave with miniature cacti or bonsai plants, or, if Michael can swing it, whole arrangements that he’s just finished.
The only annoying thing about their location is the amount of noise coming from upstairs at all hours, a cacophony of hammering, drilling, and heavy clomping footsteps. Michael puts up with it anyway, because the shop’s located at a place with lots of foot traffic, with a bus stop just out front.
He’s heard from Devin that the place upstairs finally got bought out. That it’s slated to become a Greek restaurant when it’s done, and wonders if he can barter for food with their flowers. Adornments for souvlaki, or even spanakopita. Unless the owners decide to cheap out and use those garish plastic flowers that other places resort to.
“Hey, I was thinking—” Michael tries, after Devin returns to their little basement suite and finishes scarfing down dinner. He figures he’ll ask Devin about what else he’s heard on the restaurant. When it might be open.
But when Devin gives him a sleepy half-smile, the bags under his eyes too dark and the lines at his forehead too sharp from long hours at the job, Michael can’t bring himself to say anything else. Just guides him to the bed, opening his arms to hold Devin and kiss him, nosing Thank you’s and I love you’s into his neck only after Devin falls asleep.
* * *
Michael manages not to bring up the whole staying thing for another while, before Devin blows that plan out of the water. Not with a huge, moving gesture, but with small, heartfelt tokens, the same as he’s always done.
It’s when Michael’s absently humming to himself, clipping thorns from a set of roses that he plans to set in a glass bud vase—a last-minute anniversary order—that the wind chime he’s wound over the door sounds. Like a light jingle of bells and laughter.
“Michael.”
The voice snaps him out of his dazed reverie, because this is better than thinking about Devin, it’s him in the flesh. “Mmhn,” Michael nods, shifting the rose thorns to one side. It’s so Devin doesn’t hurt himself when he leans over the counter, into Michael’s space, for a one-armed hug or a kiss, like he usually does.
Devin slips two packets across the counter, seeds for stargazer lilies and lavender. “Got you some of these from the hardware store,” he says with a smile. “They had a greenhouse out back.” He’s grown into the habit of dropping off seeds for flowers he finds new or interesting.
“Thanks,” Michael grins, setting down his scissors. He could use some of these for the arrangements he’s had in mind.
“And this,” Devin says, producing a potted maroon geranium from behind his back with a flourish, “is for you.” It’s beautiful, with its wide, flat petals, the edges tinged with an ivory-white softness. Michael hasn’t said so aloud, but he’s always preferred potted plants to cut ones because of how much longer they last. The way they’re more alive. And for Devin to have figured th
is out…
Michael swallows hard, around the knot building in his throat.
“I can grow that myself,” Michael laughs, a little forced, but he drops a peck of a thank-you kiss on Devin’s cheek, since there’s no one around. “Can you stay?” he asks, before mentally kicking himself. “Just for lunch, I mean.”
It isn’t what he means, but he can’t help asking, on the off chance that maybe this time, Devin won’t have to leave him so soon. Won’t have to leave at all.
“Can’t,” Devin says, shaking his head. “I’ve got to get back to the site.” He’s working on building a school out in one of the new communities today. Probably snuck by the shop while making a supply run. He covers Michael’s hand with his and squeezes, his palm warm, with just the right amount of roughness and weight. “One day, though,” he says. Leans over the counter and kisses Michael on the mouth, softer, sweeter, before he goes. “One day soon.”
“Sure,” Michael nods, the upturn of his lips frozen somewhere between grimace and smile. “Soon.”
Like maybe in the next decade.
Or the one after that.
* * *
“I’m sorry,” Devin says, when he’s late swinging by the shop to pick Michael up for dinner for the umpteenth time. He loops his arms around Michael, squeezes his waist in apology.
Michael shrugs. It wouldn’t mean anything, except that today—today was his birthday, and he’d been hoping Devin would remember. That maybe he’d make his excuses from work, and even come home early to spend it with Michael.
And now this, after a bad day of the movers upstairs being especially loud and clunky, lugging boxes and tarp-wrapped furniture into the floor above.
“It’s fine,” Michael mumbles. He should’ve expected as much anyway.
“It’s not,” Devin insists. “I wanted to take you out for your birthday tonight. For dinner. For that movie you wanted to see so much.”
