Another Man's Treasure

by J. A. Rock

  “Mom?” Ilia said. “It’s okay. He’s not… He didn’t do anything wrong.”

  She looked at him. “You’re sure?”

  Suddenly Ilia had to stifle a smile. He and Patrick might as well have been two horny teenagers, trying to get away with doing it in Ilia’s parents’ house.

  Felt like it should be something bigger than that.

  VI

  “Guy over in Silver Springs a few years back,” Louis said one night, when it was just him and Ilia still up, the TV on mute. “He was walking home from work. Someone jumped him. Dragged him into an alley and sexually assaulted him. He was a big guy, too. You wouldn’t think…”

  Ilia stared at him, not sure he was really hearing this.

  See, Eli? It even happens to real men.

  VII

  Ilia didn’t get online much anymore. Didn’t have friends, and his parents had handled all the communication with extended family. He didn’t like seeing the news, because he inevitably felt the need to compare his tragedy to others’: what had happened to him wasn’t as bad as war or riots or citizens gassed by their own leader. But it was much worse than some actress’s red carpet nip slip.

  One day his mother left the local paper out on the counter and he saw a small headline on page four: ‘Charges dropped in CVS assault.’

  He read that charges against Patrick Rowe had been dropped following an incident at CVS where Patrick had punched a man. Apparently the man had put a hand on Patrick’s arm while attempting to squeeze past him in the soda aisle. “A friend of Rowe’s intervened,” the article said.

  Ilia stared at the article, a cruel part of him glad Patrick wasn’t coping as well as he’d pretended.

  But he was sorry for Patrick, because he knew the feeling. He didn’t like people coming up behind him. Would have lashed out at an unexpected touch. And he was glad—a deep, hard-edged gladness—that Patrick had let Ilia touch him. That he wasn’t afraid of Ilia.

  VIII

  Ilia wanted to borrow the truck, but when Louis found out what it was for he insisted on coming along. Something about many hands making light work. Ilia sat beside him in the truck and bristled, because here was Louis pushing into his life again, finding a way to put himself front and center in all the places Ilia wanted to keep for himself.

  “Hello, Patrick,” Louis said when they pulled up outside Patrick’s old place. “How’s the wrist?”

  “Better, sir, thanks.”

  Then, when Ilia was helping him shift his rusted old fridge, Patrick said, out of nowhere, “He came and visited me when I was out of hospital, you know. Your dad.”

  Ilia’s stomach dropped. “He did?”

  The thought sat so uneasily with Ilia that he could only process it as a betrayal, except he couldn’t figure out who was the betrayer and who was the betrayed. Maybe everyone wore both masks in this new universe, and there was no moral distinction, only a difference of tiny degrees.

  “To see how I was doing.”

  A small vicious voice inside Ilia laughed.

  Dad likes Patrick more than he likes me. He knows Patrick didn’t break. Every time Nick beat him down, Patrick got back up again. He probably doesn’t even care that Patrick’s gay because Patrick’s the right sort of gay. Patrick could pass.

  Patrick would look dumb in eyeliner.

  Patrick would never bring a man like Mikhail to his knees, worshipful.

  “What’s that look for?” Patrick asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  Patrick jostled the fridge onto the dolly. “It’s something.”

  There were boxes in the corner. Ilia crossed the floor and looked into one. Smiled a little.

  “You have comic books.”

  “So?” Patrick sounded defensive.

  Ilia reached in and picked one up. The cover was torn and stained. “Aren’t they supposed to be in polymer wrap or something? Should I be wearing gloves?”

  Patrick hooked the straps around the fridge, securing it to the dolly. “I keep the ones I like, but I don’t collect them. Not like that. They’re supposed to be handled. Supposed to be read.”

  “Not treasured?” Ilia ran his fingertips over a tear in the cover. The edges of the tear had long ago been frayed into softness.

  “How do you treasure a comic except by reading it?”

  Ilia dipped his head. The feathered end of his earring brushed the hinge of his jaw.

  You lock your treasures away where nobody else can touch them. Where nobody can steal them. Where nobody can covet them. You ought to worship them in secret.

  IX

  It was Ilia’s fault. “Your brother wants me.”

  “How could he not?” Mikhail whispered back.

  “He wants everything you have.”

  Mikhail kissed him again and groaned. “I know.”

  Stupid.

  Stupid stupid stupid.

  But he’d been brash, confident. His youth and beauty and Mikhail’s power and wealth; he’d been buoyed by the sense of invincibility they inspired in him.

  He’d laughed, teased, he’d been reckless.

  “You want to really make him burn?”

  X

  Patrick’s new place was in Anacostia; an older house with a sagging porch and a tiny enclosed yard.

  “Lily’s room,” Patrick said as they carried boxes down the hall. “She found the place so she claimed the biggest bedroom. I think she’s gonna ask her boyfriend to move in once he gets back from touring. He’s in a band. They’re pretty bad. My room’s down here.”

  Ilia hung back.

  Let Patrick and Louis shift the heavy stuff.

  “Come on, Eli,” Louis said, with that false cheeriness that only seemed to come out when there were other people around. “Lend a hand!”

  So Ilia carried a bag of Patrick’s clothes in from the truck.

  “Living with a musician,” Louis said. “You don’t do drugs, do you, Patrick?”

  “No, sir. And Dave’s not into that either.”

  Ilia dumped the bag on Patrick’s floor. “Jesus Christ. Who cares? You’re not Patrick’s dad. You can’t tell him what to do. What are you even doing here?”

  “I’m helping your friend move,” Louis said.

  Ilia’s scalp crawled. “He’s not— he’s not my friend. I don’t know what he is. I don’t know why I’m here either!”

  “Ilia.” Patrick reached out and curled his fingers around Ilia’s wrist.

  Ilia.

  Ilie.

  My light.

  Maybe that’s what this was; the reason he was here. Because Patrick was the only man left who called him Ilia. Maybe Ilia was that needy. That shallow.

  He stared down at his wrist; at Patrick’s fingers holding him. Comfort? Possession? He couldn’t tell. He lifted his gaze to meet his father’s eyes. Saw the same uncertainty mirrored there.

  “Your dad’s here because I told him I was moving and he said he had a truck.” Patrick’s voice was calm. He squeezed Ilia’s wrist a little tighter. “And you’re here because you’re my friend.”

  “You say things and I believe you,” Ilia said.

  We’re going to kill Nick.

  We’re going to get out of this.

  We’re going to be all right.

  “Sometimes I’m even right,” Patrick said. His smile was a little goofy.

  Let go of my wrist.

  My dad’s right here.

  He’ll get mad.

  But Ilia couldn’t bring himself to say it. He didn’t want Patrick to let go.

  Louis cleared his throat. “Patrick.”

  Patrick still didn’t let go.

  “That third bedroom,” Louis said. His voice was even. He didn’t look mad. “We’ll take a look at it.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  I

  There were moments with Patrick when Ilia liked to pretend.

  Sometimes he pretended that the warm body lying next to his was Mikhail’s, but that fantasy turned hollow too
quickly, and disintegrated into bitter ashes.

  Mostly he liked to pretend that he was living some other life entirely, and that he shared it with a boy called Patrick who had red hair and freckles.

  They were young, full of love and laughter.

  Their lives were untouched by tragedy.

  Sometimes, still half sunk in sleep and with the morning light spilling over them, Ilia traced the freckles on Patrick’s shoulders and the fantasy lasted as long as minutes.

  II

  “The worst was...” Ilia paused. “When I had to go into the house. And leave you in the car with him.”

  It was after late afternoon. Louis was home after working the day shift. Patrick was in Ilia’s bed. Ilia’s mother had the heat turned up, so it was almost too warm, the two of them crammed under the covers. But Ilia didn’t care.

  Patrick’s fingers dug lightly into Ilia’s back, nearly touching the rings. “The worst was when you put the gun to your head. Thought you’d leave me.”

  “I didn’t know what else to do. I th…” Ilia took a deep breath and tried again. “I was afraid he might just shoot you. But…scared…if I tried to shoot him, I’d hit you. Or—or Mayrsolt would…”

  “I know,” Patrick whispered.

  “But Mayrsolt tried to save us?” Ilia’s voice rose uncertainly. “And that’s…I mean, fuck. What if I’d just asked for his help sooner?”

  “You couldn’t have known what he’d do.”

  Ilia pressed his face against Patrick’s side. Breathed in. “When I first saw you, I thought you were shy.”

  “I am.”

  “I wanted to fuck you.”

  Patrick didn’t answer.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be.”

  “Are we friends?” Ilia asked.

  “I sure as hell hope so.”

  “But only because of what happened?”

  Patrick stroked his hair. “I couldn’t stay away from you. There was something there. Before Nick.”

  “I loved Mikhail.”

  “I know.”

  “What if, um…he can see?”

  “Mikhail?”

  “Yeah.”

  “See you?”

  Ilia nodded.

  “I think…” Patrick shifted, and the bed creaked. “I think he’d be sorry he wasn’t there to protect you. I think he’d be very proud of how brave you were. And I think—and maybe this is selfish—I think he’d be glad you’re not alone.”

  Tears slid down Ilia’s cheeks, wetting the sheet. He took a deep breath, keeping his voice steady. “You don’t think he’d be disappointed?”

  “I know he wouldn’t be.”

  “I need to tell him goodbye. I just—I can’t.”

  The back of Patrick’s hand brushed Ilia’s forehead. “A goodbye isn’t permanent. It’s just for the time in between. Until you see the person again.”

  You’re so full of shit.

  But Ilia thought about Mikhail, sitting on the bench in the room with the high ceiling. It wasn’t just Mikhail watching Ilia. They saw each other.

  Maybe Patrick wasn’t full of shit.

  “You still see your parents?” Ilia asked tentatively.

  “Mh-hm.”

  Ilia tucked closer, feeling Patrick’s heartbeat against his forehead. “I don’t know how to be alone.”

  “I don’t think that’s something you need to learn right now.”

  Ilia lay awake for a long time. If he closed his eyes, he knew he’d see Mikhail waiting on that bench.

  It’s all right, said a voice he hadn’t heard before. Anything you see. Anything you think or feel. You’ll never be all one thing. Never be broken or whole, good or bad. Guilty or blameless.

  Ilia glanced at Patrick, sleeping beside him.

  He looks at you, and he’s not afraid.

  He looks at you, and you’re more than bad memories to him.

  He’s here with you.

  So you need to be here too.

  III

  “How do I know you’ll always love me?” Ilia teased Mikhail

  Mikhail, lying under Ilia, placed his big hands around Ilia’s arms and looked up at him. “Ilie, Ilie. What does a man have to give you, to make you believe you are his forever?”

  Ilia leaned down and kissed him. Smiled. “The whole fucking world.”

  “It is not in my power yet. Soon.”

  “How soon?”

  “Soon!”

  “Soon you’ll control the world?”

  “Yes. I do not quite have the accent for world domination. But my ancestors did.”

  “You’re a Russian supervillain.”

  “Ilie!” Mikhail shook him gently. “Chechen!”

  “Oh, same freaking thing.” Ilia laughed.

  Mikhail let go and rolled onto his side, refusing to look at Ilia.

  “Come on!” Ilia protested. He put a hand on Mikhail’s shoulder and tried to roll him back, but Mikhail was too big. “Mikhail? Please? I’m sorry? You’re super Chechen. The Chechenest.”

  Mikhail lunged suddenly and pulled Ilia down on top of him, shoving his fingers under Ilia’s arms and tickling him. Ilia yelped and tried to pull away.

  “What is my nationality?” Mikhail demanded. “I am not sure I heard you.”

  “Chechen!” Ilia said, gasping with laughter. “Chechenchechenchechen…” He repeated the word until it lost all meaning, until he couldn’t breathe. “Mikhail, stop!” He kicked and thrashed. “M...Mikhail, oh my God, Mikhail!”

  Mikhail stopped and rolled Ilia onto the mattress. Kissed Ilia’s shoulder and wrapped him tightly in his arms, while Ilia struggled to catch his breath. “I do not know if I can give the world to someone who does not understand its geography.”

  Ilia snickered and pushed himself back against Mikhail. “I’ll settle for a promise, then.”

  “A promise?”

  “That you’ll always love me.”

  “Should I swear in blood?”

  “No. Just swear.”

  Mikhail leaned close to Ilia’s ear. “I would swear in blood, though.”

  Ilia smiled and closed his eyes. “No blood. Just tell me.”

  “I will always love you, Ilie.”

  “Then I don’t need the world after all.”

  IV

  “I think that...” Ilia’s voice trailed away.

  Patrick yawned and stretched. Propped himself up onto an elbow. “You think what?”

  “I think that it’s weird that my dad made me look at your spare room.”

  “We’re gonna talk about your dad now?”

  Ilia snorted. “Just trying to figure some stuff out. I had an apartment in Georgetown, and now my dad’s encouraging me to move into a crappy house in Anacostia.”

  “You don’t want to move into my crappy house?”

  “I do,” Ilia said. “I really do. Mikhail left me the apartment, you know. But I can’t go back there.”

  The evening light was cool and fading, throwing the room into shadow. Ilia hated nighttime. But these hours before it got dark weren’t so bad. His father was outside, repairing the stone path that led to the front porch. His mother was downstairs in the kitchen.

  “What are you going to do with it?”

  “I don’t know,” Ilia said. “It’s all tied up with lawyers and stuff. Dad says the state will probably try and seize it because it’s from the proceeds of crime. He said it like he was warning me. It’s like he thinks I want it, like that’s all Mikhail was to me, but it was my home, you know? He doesn’t get that. He doesn’t get me, but all of a sudden he wants me to move in with you.”

  Patrick reached up and touched his cheek, his fingertips warm. “I think it’s complicated.”

  “I know. And I want to think it means that he—that he trusts me to move out. Not, not throwing me out or anything. And then I wonder why the hell I spend so much time looking for a sign that he loves me, or at least that he doesn’t hate me, when he’s the man who killed Mikhail.
” His voice cracked. “I should hate him. Why don’t I hate him?”

  Patrick curled his fingers in Ilia’s hair and tugged his head up. Kissed him gently on the mouth. “It’s complicated.”

  Ilia sighed.

  He could hear the muted sounds of the TV from the living room. Sometimes his mom didn’t sleep well when his dad was at work, so she stayed up and pulled out a jigsaw puzzle. Played infomercials in the background just so the house wasn’t too quiet. Those jigsaw puzzles took over the coffee table in the living room while they were under construction. Some of them took weeks—a piece pressed in here and there whenever his mom was passing. Others she worked at for hours on end until they were done. When he was a kid, Ilia had sometimes crept out of bed in the middle of the night to help her.

  “Want me to do your back?” Patrick asked.

  “Why?”

  “Because it helps you sleep.”

  Ilia rolled onto his stomach, sighing as Patrick settled his weight onto him. He closed his eyes and tried to doze under Patrick’s ministrations. The firm but gentle pressure of his hands on Ilia’s skin. His fingers kneading Ilia’s muscles.

  His eyes flashed open as Patrick tugged at one of his rings. The sudden jolt of sensation passed through him, and lodged in his balls.

  Patrick was breathing heavily. Then—

  Svvsssh.

  Ilia gasped. He tried to lift himself up and look over his shoulder, but Patrick pressed him down again.

  “It’s okay,” he murmured. “It’s okay. I found some ribbon.”

  Tears stung Ilia’s eyes, and he wasn’t sure why. He nodded, his heartbeat ratcheting up.

  Svvsssh.

  The pressure on the rings, pulling on his flesh, felt so good. The whisper of satin across his skin.

  “Wh-what color?” he asked.

  “Black,” Patrick said. “Oh shit. Looks so good.”

  Ilia squirmed. A part of him wanted to give into this; to sensations he hadn’t felt since Mikhail’s death because Nick had never been gentle, never worshipful. Another part of him wanted to give into panic, because he was Mikhail’s. Always and only Mikhail’s. He dug his fingers into the sheets and panted against his mattress.