by A. F. Henley
Ian had eyed Oyama as if his sensei had gone insane. "So every time I'm angry, I should what? Punch someone out? That'll be good stress management. Nothing says rest and relaxation like a good stint in the state lock-up."
Oyama had laughed out loud and shook his head, black bangs falling over his forehead. "Just because you speak against something doesn't mean that you are fighting it," he'd corrected. "You are under no obligation to accept abuse or foster negativity for someone else. I am angry!" Oyama had suddenly shouted and dropped a palm on the table between them. Ian had jumped but Oyama had continued without reaction. "See, how that would make you feel more in control already? Nothing extinguishes an emotion like recognizing it and confronting it. 'You are making me angry,' you say. 'And I find that unacceptable.'"
It was a system Ian found oddly easy to use once he started it. And people began to change around him as he practiced it. They were more respectful. They were cautious over what they insisted on and supportive when they had to.
The only thing Ian had been unable to accomplish to satisfaction was the peace. When Oyama had begun a discussion on breathing, dispersing negative energy, and how to find safe places inside one's mind, Ian had to step away from the table and start pacing. "Think of a place when you were at peace, Ian," his master had said. "And bring your mind there." So as he paced, Ian had struggled to find the words he needed to tell his sensei why that was impossible.
There was only one memory of peace in Ian's mind. Perhaps the others cringed away from their lack of ability to stand against it? Perhaps there'd never been any others to begin with? Because try as he might, Ian could not find another second of peace to think of. When his mind said, "calm" Ian's subconscious instantly sought out the feeling of Justin's body against his own. When thought offered up the prompt of "tranquility" Ian found himself sinking into the recalled warmth of Justin's eyes. His ears opened to the way the words "I love you" had sounded on Justin's tongue. The sensation of releasing inside Justin's body and the soothing radiance he'd felt bloom in his chest when Justin had responded in kind. That was the peace his soul reached out for. And that peace wasn't coming back. So instead of the beautiful thing it should have been, the comfort that it could have been, it left an ache more crushing and painful than the heart attack itself.
So Ian would practice the few katas he had learned and he would breathe when the anxiety got too great. He would tell people around him when he was losing his patience and he would speak his emotions if they needed to be said. That would have to be enough.
"I'm going home," Ian told his empty office. He took its silence as acceptance, grabbed his jacket and his keys and flicked off the light.
*~*~*
"Maybe I should get a cat," Ian told the black and silent screen of his television. "Or a big fucking bird." He was listing potentials in his mind, knowing full well he'd more than likely not consider it after the night had passed, when he heard the knock on the front door.
It was a familiar rap, three short, sharp bursts that defied the process of needing a code or a buzz in to get past the front doors; a disconcerting fact considering no one else lived on Ian's level.
It wasn't until Ian had unlocked and opened the barrier that Ian realized why.
"Hello there, gorgeous," Madison stepped into the center of the doorway and slid a boot between door and jamb at the same instant that Ian reacted by trying to slam it shut. "Come on down, Aubrey. We got him."
"Yeah, well, congrats on that, Maddie," Ian offered him a tense, fake smile and rattled the door against Madison's foot. "Not that I've been hiding. Although it makes no difference to the fact that I'd like you to turn your ass around and go the fuck away."
"No way," Aubrey said, pumps clicking on the concrete run of the hallway from elevator to front door. "You haven't been returning my calls and I've had enough. It's been six months, Ian."
Ian glared at his ex but spoke to Aubrey. "Which is why it's a good thing I'm the math major around here and not you, Aub. It's actually been seven. That makes your comment only eighty-six-percent accurate. In my line of work that is not nearly viable enough for consideration. Do enjoy the rest of your evening though." Once again he tried to slam the door on an unyielding foot.
"Steel toes," Madison grinned at the expression Ian gave him.
"I figured." Ian gave up trying to destroy either appendage or door and crossed his arms in front of him. "How's life, Maddie? New boyfriend treating you well? Or have you moved on to someone new already?"
Madison offered him a wide and far too beautiful smile. "I am ... let's say ... between boyfriends at the moment." He pushed past Ian without requesting entry and kicked his boots off. Ignoring Ian's grunt of disapproval Madison eyed the loft. "Place is looking great as usual, Ian. How've you been?"
"Fucking peachy," Ian growled. "And between boyfriends, hmm? That why you're here? Need a place to stay?" He shut the door after Aubrey stepped in as well and followed Madison's advancing steps. "Because I mean, by all means, let me help you get your stuff." His voice dripped with sarcasm and he could feel his jaw tightening.
"Enough," the little warning in his head began to chirp. "You know how to deal with this, so do it right."
Ian forced his shoulders to relax. He tilted his head to one side and then the other. Instead of grabbing for Madison and halting his progression, Ian waited until Madison sat on the leather sofa and dropped into an opposing chair. "Maddie, I have to be honest with you–showing up out of the blue like this is an annoying and intrusive inconsideration. I don't need to remind you that not only did you cheat on me," he held up his finger to stop Madison's reply. "Not once, but three fucking times, but you also left me for asshole number three. I grieved for you. I prayed that you would change your mind. And it took me a long time to get over you. I'm not going to deal with any of that bullshit again. So unless you're here to tell me that you left behind something very valuable and need to get it back, or you have some kind of communicable disease that you're required by law to inform me of, it would be best for my health and sanity if you left."
Madison turned bright baby blue eyes to Ian and Ian had to clench his jaw at the absurdity of the puppy-dog expression Madison wore. "I did, Ian. I left something very valuable."
Ian sighed heavily. "By all means then, do tell."
"You," Madison purred, features transforming into alluring smile.
A weight fell on Ian's shoulders that he was just too tired to shrug off. "Maddie, no games—"
"It's not a game!" Madison's voice changed as quickly as his expressions did. He slid off the couch while Ian watched with repulsed shock and knee-walked towards Ian's chair, resting a hand on Ian's knee when he was close enough to do so. "It's not, Ian. I miss you. I was an idiot and a coward and I know that but ... damn it, Ian." Madison paused, his voice hitching dramatically, "Even though I know I don't deserve it, I want you to forgive me. I want you to take me back."
It took everything Ian had in him not to laugh at the tears that filled Madison's eyes. Not because he was heartless, but because he knew. How many times had he seen them before? They weren't oh-God-I'm-sorry tears. They were oh-God-I've-been-caught tears. A ploy. A trick. A cold game to pull undeserving empathy.
Ian caught Aubrey's eyes in an angry glare. "Was this your idea?"
"He missed you," Aubrey replied.
"You seem to have a lot of ideas on what needs to happen in my life lately, Aub."
"I'm your friend, Ian." She dropped into the couch vacated by Madison and sighed. "I want what's best for you."
"And you know that so much better than I do?"
Madison's fingertips began to slide from knee to thigh and Ian flicked them off.
"Sometimes, yes," Aubrey insisted, lifting her chin.
"I'm a big boy," Ian said, standing with a snarl to get away from the creeping touch of his ex. "I don't need anyone to look after me."
"Oh, come on, Ian!" Aubrey stood to follow, shaking a fistful of envelopes. "Baby,
you can't even remember to grab your mail." She smiled when he snatched the paper out of her hand and reached up to push wayward hair off his forehead. "I'm sorry you were hurt by what I felt I had to do. That was never my intention even if it was an unavoidable consequence. What that young man was doing was wrong and it needed to be made right. I was protecting you—"
"You were interfering," Ian smiled coldly. "Just like you're doing now with Madison. Just like you do every time something or someone that doesn't fit into your plans comes into my life. Because at the end of the day, Aubrey, you want to know that I'm going to be there when you need someone to go shopping with. Or drinking with. Or man-bashing with. My gay friend, right, Aub? The one guy in your life that you can actually control." Ian shook his head. "I'm done with your instances of self-benefiting moral superiority. I'm done with you."
He turned back to Madison. "Get off your knees, Maddie. I won't fall for your little farce of guilt. I'm done with you too. No matter how much you pretend to grovel, no matter what pretty little things you try and whisper in my ear, we're over."
"Justin isn't coming back," Aubrey hissed.
"I know," Ian lowered his eyes to hide the tears that sprang up at Justin's name. "But that doesn't change anything." He studied the words that swam on the paper gripped between his fingers. He frowned. He swallowed. He blinked hard and focused his eyes.
Finally he lifted his gaze. "Aubrey, you offend me with your lack of respect for me and my life. Madison, you're a slut and a user and you disgust me. I would appreciate if the both of you would get out of my home. This is not a request."
He walked back to the door, clenching paper that suddenly seemed to burn in his palm. He could feel his blood picking up endorphins as he reached for the knob, a little here, a little there, and his heart started to beat in a way that would have been frightening if it hadn't felt so thrilling.
"You're making a mistake," Madison warned, stopping to shove his feet back into his boots.
"You can't hold this against me forever," Aubrey told him while Ian waited patiently for the two of them to step into the hall.
"Have a wonderful evening," Ian smiled. He shut the door with an easy swing and snapped the lock closed.
Only then did his hands start trembling. Only then did he stumble back towards the living room before he gave up and just sank to the hardwood. He let the rest of the mail tumble through his fingers, catching only the one envelope that had caught his attention. He lifted it to his face, still unopened and held it there. His stomach twisted. His balls felt like they were trying to climb back into his body. His mouth was dry and his breath was heavy. And none of it felt wrong. Not a single reaction had him rushing for the bottle of nitroglycerin tablets.
The handwriting was perfect, more exact than a stencil: the careful, straight, beautiful lines and perfectly curved circles and bends that made up Ian's name and address. And there, in the top left-hand corner, sized with precision and in the same flawless print: Cole Matthews.
*~*~*
Please come to my recital.
Your friend, Cole Matthews
The words were limited but they almost made Ian weep. "And now he's eight years old," Justin had said, with that awful look on his face, "and he can't even print his name."
"It didn't take long did it, buddy?" Ian asked the paper. He had mental images of a concentrating child, bent over a kitchen table with a pencil that was too long and practice sheets to the side, methodically printing words. For him. Had it been Justin that had sat alongside? "Please say it was Justin," Ian whispered.
He slowly unfolded the flyer that had been tucked into the invitation. One school year. No, Ian shook his head. Not even. Not quite one turn around the school system and Cole had learned to print better than Ian could probably manage. How proud he ... they ... whomever must be. And a piano recital! A spike of jealous pride shot through Ian's body and he gripped the two bits of paper to his chest like it could somehow soak up and pull the poison out of his blood. Who sat with Cole and practiced with him? Who got to teach him the new notes and buy him the sheet music?
The only thought Ian shut down was the one that crossed his mind too often when he thought of Cole or Justin–that one image that could leave him shaking in fear like no other. The one that came along when he wondered what had happened. No news had ever been sent his way; no calls to appear in court, no notices of required statements witnessed by burly police officers. No fines. No arrest. No lawyers.
But with those nos came the No letters. No cards. No phone calls. No "I've missed you." No "Please come see us."
Was Justin in jail? Pretty Justin with his gorgeous eyes and his cocky attitude? The thought always made Ian nauseous and weak-kneed. He shook his head to dispel the images that cropped into his mind and began to play like one-second shots of erotica through horror.
If only Ian had known what had happened afterwards, if only he'd been allowed to help.
So, now what? After all these months? There was no way Cole had remembered Ian's address? It was far more likely someone had helped him look it up. But who? Justin? Or someone else? And why? To finally confront the one person who'd yet been held accountable? Or was there another reason?
Ian stared at the invitation and as the questions rolled through his mind, one thing he could answer without a doubt was the answer to the "would he."
Because that was an unequivocal yes.
Encore
"Ah," the florist said, walking up behind Ian and nodding at his selection. "A single lavender rose. You must be quite enchanted then."
It was the nicest one Ian had seen in the cooler: a ridiculously long-stemmed, soft purple rose with the head just starting to curl open, and even though the bloom itself was mostly closed it was as big as a child's fist. It stood straight and proud, the leaves a dark forest green and Ian had been drawn to it immediately.
"It's actually for a child," Ian chuckled. "A piano recital. Maybe something a little more appropriate then?" He slipped the flower back in its basin.
The florist shook her head, her tight bun wiggling furiously as she plucked the rose back out. "No, no! When it comes to picking out a rose you have to go with your heart." She handed the flower back. "Who can say what the universe's plans are for you tonight? Perhaps there's a need for you to be holding the gift of love at first sight in your fingers, hmm?"
Ian cleared his throat to force down the lump that was suddenly wedged there. "Again," he repeated, "this is for a child. Let's hope love is neither the reaction I'm looking for nor the consequence of the gift."
He smiled at the florist and kind eyes crinkled back at him. "So shall I ring that up for you?"
"I ..." he tilted his head and frowned at the woman in the oversized apron, the ladybug rubber boots and the age-undeterminable face. "Why do I think that you'll just keep handing this back to me?"
She patted his shoulder and turned him towards the cash register. "Because you're smarter than you look."
The rain was still falling when Ian's heels found pavement yet again. It made a pleasant hum on Ian's umbrella as he sidestepped puddles and strolled over the wet sidewalks. Children and parents were few and far between however. He was late, as per plan, although the distance by which he'd had to park the car away from the school was out of necessity, not choice. The streets were lined up block after block with everything from the rattiest looking pick-up to the water-beaded BMWs and Mercedes. He wondered how Cole was doing with all the people–if they were making Cole antsy. He wondered if Cole was watching for him or if Cole had given up hope that Ian would show. He wondered if he'd be allowed in the school without an escort, though he'd slipped the invitation inside the breast pocket of his jacket just in case he was questioned. The only thing he didn't wonder was if anyone else would be there. That was a question he refused to allow his mind to focus on, shutting it down the second it tried to spring. Then once more when it tried to do it again. And again. Then again.
He'd forgone wrapping
and the complimentary sprigs of baby's breath and fern that was offered for the rose and held nothing but the bare thorn-stripped stem between his fingers. The rain was doing beautiful things to the petals, teasing them open in soft curls and plumping the head of the flower from the inside out. Within the eight or so minutes it took for Ian to walk to the parking lot of the building, the rose appeared to have doubled in size.
It wasn't a huge school, nor was it small. To the right sat the large square with the peak that could only be the gymnasium, with the rest of the building sprawling out to the left. A huge trampled lawn, a flag drooped with precipitation and a well-kept walkway led towards a building complimented only by a row of bushes that struggled to strive. They lined the entire front of the school under wide, curtained windows where unseen posters and pictures turned their back on the world but offered friendly advice and sayings to sleeping classrooms. The only entrance that was lit was at the double doors to the right, so Ian didn't need the hand-painted banner that was showing its distress at the weather to direct him.
He nodded at the one parental figure foolish enough to be sneaking in a cigarette so close to the doors, gritting his teeth to keep back a self-righteous demand to step away from the school, and told himself to breathe. He had no rights here. These were not his children.
The interior was bright, an abandoned table set up at the left with programs and pamphlets, and Ian secured one of the programs while telling himself not be upset with the apparent ease of which a person could wander into a school full of kids.
