by Lee Rowan
“You don’t have to convince me, love.”
“I think I’m convincing myself. I’d always expected to be settled down by the time I was thirty, set in a career, at least thinking about buying a house, getting married, starting a family—then I met you, and kids didn’t seem all that important. Then I realized, a little too late, that I couldn’t have you and the SAS, and then I made a big mistake.” He shrugged. “I’d rather have you.”
“I’m sorry you lost your regiment,” John said. “But there’s something I’ve been trying to remember. From Tolkien… keep the wee beasts off my plate.” He got up and took the third volume from his bookshelf, searching the last few pages as he settled back down beside Kevin. “Here it is. This is exactly what happened to you, love, it’s the part where Sam realizes Frodo can’t ever go back to how things were before: ‘…it has been saved,’” he read, “‘but not for me. It must often be so, Sam, when things are in danger: some one has to give them up, lose them, so that others may keep them.’” He looked up and saw tears in Kevin’s eyes. “You did that for them, gave it up so they could keep it.” He put an arm around his lover, hugging him tight. “I hope they appreciated it. The men, I mean, not the brass.”
Kevin nodded, biting his lip. “Yes. They did.”
“Good. And now, instead of going off to the Western Isles, you’ve come to Portsmouth. It’s not so nice a place, but at least you don’t have to worry about elves looking down their noses at you. Welcome home.” He put the book down and leaned in for a kiss.
“It does feel that way,” Kevin agreed. “But I’ve never lived here. The closest I’ve been was the Isle of Wight.”
“I never have either. I grew up in Worcester, about as far from the sea as I could be. But when I came here, to see the campus—it felt like home. Like old Legolas, the sound of the seabirds. Maybe in some other life….”
Kevin frowned. “You believe that stuff?”
“I’m not sure. Before I started studying hypnosis, I would’ve said no. Have you ever heard of hypnotic regression?”
“A little. That’s used for some intelligence work—memory training, mostly.”
“In hypnotherapy, it’s used to get back to the original trauma that lies at the root of a problem. Whether it works is the test of whether a memory is real and significant. There’ve been psychiatrists, reputable ones, who had clients spontaneously regress to what sounded like earlier lives, and the regression cleared up the trouble. The doctors who’ve gone public about it say their colleagues tell them about other cases but won’t let their names be used.”
“It sounds pretty far-fetched, Johnny. Have you ever tried it yourself?”
“No. My problem was remembering too much, not the other way ’round. The way I see it, for most things it doesn’t make that much difference. After all, this is the life that counts. The only thing that made me a little curious is what one book—Weiss, I think—says about people who have some link to one another from an earlier life. Remember what it was like when we first saw each other in that classroom?”
Kevin smiled. “Of course. True love or swine flu.”
“It gave me a strange feeling when he described that sort of recognition in one of his books. The meeting of eyes. It’s supposed to be the way people know when they’ve found each other again.”
Logically, Kevin turned the idea on its head. “That would mean they’d lost each other. In some other time.”
“Yeah. That was why I never looked into it. People never seem to think about it, but past-life means past-death, too. I didn’t need any more death. I thought I had lost you, anyway. Once was enough. Now you’re back, it doesn’t matter one way or another. This lifetime is what we have right now, whether it’s one of a string or all there is.”
“Good enough. Are you ready for dessert?”
“That depends. I’d just as soon leave the cheesecake for breakfast and go back to bed.” He picked up their plates, heading for the kitchen.
“You’ve added mind-reading to your many talents. That reminds me, you’d better not do massage and counseling together, not unless you plan to change your name.”
“Why not?”
“D’you really want to be known as Dr. ‘Hands-on’?”
John had not forgotten that Kevin was ticklish. By the time they’d stopped wrestling, the kittens had cleaned out the carton of coronation chicken salad.
Chapter 9
“HERE WE are.” Kevin shut off the rented van and nodded at the anonymous brick building before them. “Home sweet home.” He glanced at John. “And please don’t think I’m paranoid—but it’s entirely possible the place is bugged now, so don’t say anything you wouldn’t want overheard.”
Johnny looked as though he was about to say something, but he just tightened his lips and nodded. He had seemed a bit uneasy when they had been required to leave their driver’s licenses at the gate. “Will they search the van before they let us leave?”
“Waste of their time. They’ve probably checked the apartment already. I never brought anything really personal here, Johnny—there are a few boxes at my parents’ place and some papers in a safe-deposit box, or with my solicitor.” Kevin shook his head. “Well, let’s get on with it.”
“How could you stand living under a microscope this way?” John asked as Kevin climbed into the van and started handing down the flattened packing boxes he’d bought from the van-hire agent.
“It wasn’t bugged when I lived here, Johnny. I know how to make sure of that. And it’s not as though I was required to live here—it was just simpler than having a flat somewhere else. No security worries, not even ordinary burglars. Besides, most of the time I didn’t have enough of a personal life to care if anyone had been spying on me. In some ways it was good to know that if I vanished, someone would come looking.”
“Your parents would have. So would I, if they’d told me.”
“They’d have told my parents I was on a top-secret mission, and for my father, that would’ve been the end of it. You have no idea how Byzantine the business gets.” He tossed out the last of the boxes, then caught the door handle, pulling it down as he jumped to the ground. “Come on, let’s get this over with.”
A few days ago, he had not been able to face the place. Now, with Johnny beside him, it seemed like years since he’d been here—just another temporary residence, a place to lay his head. Everything was as he remembered it: a short, wide flight of concrete stairs covered in a tan commercial carpet that led to the second-floor hall, his flat the second steel door on the left.
His key still opened the lock. Why was that a surprise? There’d have been no point in changing the lock and then telling him to come on ahead. But the door swung open to show everything looking as it had the morning he’d left for the hearing—quiet, orderly, and meaningless. Living room to the left, pocket kitchen to the right, bath to the left beyond that, bedroom right. It had been enough for his needs, when he’d been home at all. Now it seemed cold and alien, nothing to do with him.
John’s light touch on his shoulder shook him out of his preoccupation.
“Right,” Kevin said. “Let’s get the boxes taped together first, then we can start filling them.” He went around to the windows, pulling open the blinds to let the light in. “Or would you rather move the big stuff first?”
John shrugged. “You’re right, boxes first. We’ll have to clear the tops of the big things like your desk and dresser, and we’ll need boxes for that.”
“That’s how I see it.”
Kevin found it easier than he’d expected to sort and pack his possessions with John working beside him—the momentum of their activity left him no time to sit and brood. His bath towels and a spare set of sheets went into a single carton, his dress uniforms and suits into suitcases. Boxes served for everything else; the sheets that would need a wash were dumped in a laundry bag. His books took up the most space, four whole cartons.
“Still reading mysteries,” John observ
ed.
“Yeah. Sheer escapism. I think I like ’em because they’re so unrealistic—they almost always have a nice, neat solution. There’s a new historical series you might enjoy, after you graduate—a couple of Edwardian Cambridge dons who play detective between terms.”
“I’ve read Sherlock Holmes,” John said.
“Well, they’re good puzzles—I almost never guessed the endings. And unless you believe Holmes and Watson were more than good friends, this series would have something new for you.”
“Really?” If John had been a dog, his ears would have perked up.
Kevin laughed. “Really. You’ve got to get your nose out of the textbooks once in a while, Johnny.” He realized, belatedly, that he’d done what he’d warned John not to do, said something he might not want overheard. Then that resentment kicked in again. He’d recommended a book. What of it? And if the powers-that-be were having him watched, they’d soon know all about Johnny anyway. Maybe he could give them a hint—buy one of those rainbow flags and hang it out the bedroom window.
He wondered how long this was going to last—the reflexive fear and knee-jerk anger. Then he reminded himself that the first step toward clearing that away was getting himself out of this place. He got back to work.
Another hour saw the bed knocked down, everything in boxes, and the furniture lined up beside the door like soldiers on parade. Sixteen boxes, one chest of drawers, metal bed frame and mattress set, nightstand, TV stand, portable TV, computer, a small microwave cooker, and two six-foot bookshelves. Just a little too much to fit in John’s apartment and still leave them room to walk. It was a pity they hadn’t had time to look for a new place.
“Ready to start loading?” John asked. “I’ll go get the trolley.”
“We don’t need that.”
“Your arm,” John said simply. “I won’t be a minute.”
Irritated, Kevin caught hold of one of the bookcases, intending to pick it up and follow John out to the van—and nearly dropped it as a pain shot up his bicep and into his shoulder, draining the strength from his right hand.
Odd. He hadn’t noticed any problems while they were packing.
Of course he hadn’t. There hadn’t been any problems. John had unobtrusively arranged matters so that every time Kevin filled a packing box, Johnny was right there to hand him another empty one and take the full box away. And they had moved all the furniture together—none of that was especially massive.
Kevin laughed ruefully. No point in exercising his temper on Johnny for being so thoughtful. “All right, damn it,” he said aloud.
“What?” John said, rattling in with the handcart.
“Nothing. You’re right. Thanks.”
John grinned. “I want you healed up and fit when we have to move my things. Top floor, remember?”
“Ah, an ulterior motive.”
“Of course. I had to carry everything up there by myself.” He shook his head at Kevin’s look of consternation. “It was easier than you’d think. The mattress was the hardest, and that was just awkward. Everything else comes apart, and I bought the futon with a free delivery offer.”
“Using your brains instead of your back.”
“Not today.” John waggled the handcart. “Shall we?”
“Just a minute.” Kevin found the box with first-aid supplies and fished out an elastic bandage. “If I’m going to be sensible instead of butch, you’d better give me a hand with this.” It probably wasn’t necessary, but he didn’t want to drop any furniture on John.
Johnny took the bandage, stretching a length between his hands, his eyes sparking with mischief. “Did you say ‘sensible’ or sensu—”
“Just wrap the arm!” Kevin said quickly.
Laughing, John complied.
Like the rest of the task, the loading went quickly, and they had decided to drive past John’s flat—“Our flat,” Johnny corrected—to offload Kevin’s clothing and swap his larger television for John’s. That meant leaving those few items to be loaded in last, and there was nothing left but one carton and a suitcase when they returned to the flat for the last time.
“I’ll check the cupboards,” John said, stepping into the kitchen. “Just to make sure.”
Kevin did a quick walk-through of the rest of the flat. His mother had trained him to sweep up when he moved out, but this was one time he was going to disregard her instruction. Someone would be coming in to clean the place anyway, no matter what he did; when he’d arrived, it had felt and even smelled like a hotel. That hadn’t changed.
His footsteps echoed hollowly. Bedroom empty. Closet empty, even the upper shelves. Bath, linen cupboard… all empty, all clear.
Hardly surprising. He hadn’t really had a life here anyway. It had just been a place to sleep. “Let’s go, Johnny,” he said, catching hold of the suitcase with his left hand. “It’s a long drive home.”
THEY WERE lazy again and had dinner out on the way home after dropping off the rental van. It was getting on to ten, a bit late, but Kevin picked the Spice Island Inn and said he was paying in a tone that brooked no argument. They were shown to a table on the second floor, right beside a big window with a view of the lights glittering on the water and the big liners gliding silently along on their way to warm, sunny places like Spain and Greece. They looked like floating Travel Inns, with tourists standing at the rails, gazing back at the lights of Portsmouth.
“Would you like to go on a cruise sometime, Johnny?” Kevin asked, looking up from the menu. “Something really posh, maybe for a honeymoon?”
John was considering the menu’s prices. “Not until I have a job, at least,” he said, and then what Kevin had said penetrated his awareness. “Honeymoon?” There weren’t many people in the dining room; John thought his voice had been terribly loud, but no one seemed to notice. “Kev,” he said, more quietly, “are you saying ‘like’ a honeymoon, or—”
Kevin looked up almost shyly. “Yes, I’m saying a honeymoon. Johnny, we can get a civil partnership now, make it official. We could even get married in London, if you like. My mother would be thrilled.” John was speechless, and Kevin hesitated. “Too soon, isn’t it? Sorry. You don’t need to answer right now. We ought to take it slow, live together for a while before we jump into it.”
Looking into Kevin’s eyes, John didn’t feel like waiting ten minutes. But he knew Kevin was right. And how many case studies had he read that showed the stupidity of rushing something this important? “I don’t feel it’s too soon, but I want to make it right. We have the rest of our lives. Kev. I know what I want. I suppose it does make more sense to give it some time, to be sure we can still make it work.”
“I know. But this is what I want, Johnny.” He looked calmer than he had that night he’d appeared on John’s doorstep, calm and content. “I want you. A sane life. A real home of our own. I’ve never been as happy, as complete, if you like, as I was those months we were together. I want that back, and this time I want to keep it.”
“So do I.” He wanted very badly to just lean across the table and kiss Kevin, but legal rights or not, he wasn’t ready to handle a shouting match with some drunken yob. He settled for reaching across the table, his hand partly hidden by the menu. “Whenever you want, love. But let’s take time to decide where we want to honeymoon. And I do need to graduate first.”
Kevin’s hand was warm. “Of course. We’ll have to sort out jobs, too. Will you need to do a term as a house officer?”
“Yes. I’m set up with a local counseling center. It’s scheduled to begin right after the holidays, though, New Year’s week. I could postpone it until the first of February, or even cancel if you get a position somewhere else, but it’s probably best if I go into one as soon as I can so I don’t forget everything I’ve learned.”
“So long as you remember the maths until Tuesday.”
“My God, it’s Sunday already, isn’t it? There’s only tomorrow to study—”
“And we’ll be sleeping in late,” Kevi
n said with an evil grin.
“We will?” That grin sent a message right down to John’s groin, and heat flushed through him. “If we’d had anything more for lunch than a couple of apples, I’d drag you home right now.”
“Don’t we still have some leftovers?” Kevin asked.
But the waitress was already there with her list of the evening’s special dishes. She smiled indulgently at their joined hands and asked what they’d like for dinner. It was nearly two hours, a big meal, and a bottle of champagne later that they dragged each other up the stairs to their flat.
Their flat. “Who carries who over the threshold?” Kevin asked as John fumbled for the key. “Whom, I mean.”
“We carry each other,” John decided. “All for one, one for all.”
Horatio and Emma—they’d given up and gone historical—were squalling at them as soon as the door swung open, and they had their hands full keeping the kittens from escaping. Kevin made sure their water bowls and kibble were replenished while John dished up two saucers of canned kitten food.
“This having kits is serious business,” Kevin said, and snickered. “What happens when they grow up and ask for the car keys?”
“Doesn’t matter,” John said. “They won’t get far. No opposable thumbs, they can’t turn the ignition.” He tossed the cat food tin in the bin and wrapped his arms around Kevin, pulling his lover against him as he leaned back against the sink. “Damn it, Kev, I’m so fucking glad you came back.”
Kevin’s lips met his, and he lost himself in the kiss—such a strange expression, if you’d never done it, but he was just this side of drunk, and somehow it became easy to lose track of where he ended and Kevin began. Heat, warmth, closeness—the inexpressible safety of knowing that he could reach out and count on Kevin being there, that the edges of their separate, lonely selves would match and join into something bigger… and even more, the urgent hunger in his body meeting its match as their cocks rubbed together through their jeans.
