There was nothing threatening about Michael McFerran. He was the sort of lad that made you want to take him under your wing and teach him how to protect himself, keep him safe from nasty people, like that disgusting bunch of bullies—even Mike’s own stepdad. Tom, like everyone, had heard the rumours long before Michael braved saying it aloud. Or not aloud. On Facebook, obviously. Perhaps that was how Mike and the American fella had met, and now he was here, in Omagh. Seamus wouldn’t let Mike come to any harm, Tom was confident of that, so why was he still sitting in his car, in the dark, on Christmas Eve?
There was someone else now, approaching the man up ahead—still not Mike, that much Tom knew, because the other man was much broader, and his hair was…normal, whereas Mike’s hair was wild. Brown-black unruly curls that made him stand out even more from the crowd. He was tall, skinny, bare-faced—he couldn’t have blended in if he’d tried, and why should he? He was a handsome lad, for sure. And he deserved a better deal than he was getting in Omagh.
Tom could see now that he was intruding on whatever was happening. The second man had been steadily moving closer to Mike’s friend, and there was something so odd about the way they were behaving, like each was expecting the other to bolt. And then, just as it looked like the second man was leaving, Mike’s friend grabbed him by the arm. Tom had his hand on the door handle, ready to go and step in if it turned nasty, but it didn’t.
They kissed.
Tom closed his eyes and put his head down. He shouldn’t be here, watching this. He felt like…ha. A peeping Tom, actually. He opened his eyes, just a crack, and peered through his lashes to see if they’d stopped. They hadn’t.
“OK, so, what do I do now?” His heart was pumping hard, and his face was burning. What a nosy parker he was, watching two strangers kiss in the lane. Because he was watching them, even though he was trying so hard not to. It was just…nice. He couldn’t think of any other way to put it. There was something happening, right before his eyes, that was beyond his understanding. These two men, they were so passionate, like the kiss they were sharing was the kiss of life, and when it stopped, they’d both cease to exist.
All these thoughts in Tom’s head…he’d always had them. Out in the fields, he’d get caught up in the experience, trying to find words that did justice to the beauty of a butterfly taking off for the first time, or the scent of a sunny morning after a night of rain. His mum said he was a poet at heart, just like his grandad, but Tom didn’t know the words, or how to make them do what he wanted them to. He’d messed up his exams, and he’d gone out to work, when what he wanted to do was go to college, and university, read books, learn about politics, write stories…
Be himself.
It was all well and good being Michael’s hero. He wasn’t sure why he’d stepped up in the first place, but now it had become a way of dealing with his own lack of courage. He wasn’t like the other lads. He wanted more than working to pay the rent and buy a couple of pints of a weekend, and he admired Mike, for knowing who he was and being true to himself, regardless of the hell the lads were putting him through.
Tom could only imagine what it was like to be ostracised like that. He’d only ever been attracted to girls, only had girlfriends. He wasn’t gay, like Mike, but at the same time, it was no longer enough to be Michael’s distant protector. He wanted to be his friend. He wanted to get to know him, spend time together at the pictures, or in the pub, or wherever. He liked him, respected him, felt a tremendous amount of affection for him.
Leaving the lights off, Tom turned the ignition key and quietly advanced along the lane, riding the clutch as he passed by the two men, still locked in an embrace. How in God’s name are they still kissing? Have their lips frozen together? He shook his head and laughed to himself. They were completely unaware of his presence. He turned in at the gate, stopped the car, and reached over to the back seat to retrieve the gifts he’d brought. Nothing special—just a little bottle of port for Seamus and his partner, a bangle for Dee, who he only knew because she was attached to seventy-five percent of Mike’s status updates, and for Michael, a guardian angel on a chunky chain. That one was special.
Tom’s palms were sweating, and he could barely push the button on the key fob to lock the car as he nervously set off across the farmyard, towards the big wooden door with the welcoming holly wreath. He could see Michael watching through the window, but Michael hadn’t seen him, and when Tom knocked at the door, no one came to open it. He wasn’t sure what to do. He supposed he could leave the presents on the doorstep and go home.
He gave it another half a minute and was stooping to set the presents down when he heard a noise. The door latch? He froze, half crouched, and watched as the door opened, slowly and only by a few inches. Intrigued, Tom pushed on the door. A black nose poke through the gap. Seamus’s border collie—he recalled her coming to work with him a few times.
“Hello, lovely girl,” he said quietly. She backed off, and Tom followed her into the warm farmhouse kitchen, filled with the smells of Christmas. Spices and alcohol and fruit and wood smoke. It was overwhelming, but in the best way, and suddenly he didn’t feel quite so nervous.
The dog was still watching him. He took a careful step towards her, and she spooked and fled through another doorway. Entranced, Tom followed her through a hallway. The whole house seemed to be deserted, and Tom was thinking he should probably leave, when a door at the other end of the hallway opened and Michael charged out.
“Tess? Where are ye—oh! Hi.” He saw Tom and stopped, like someone had pressed the pause button. His face was a picture. A red picture.
Tom smiled. “Hi. I thought I’d drop in on my way to, er…well, anyway. I wanted to wish you a Merry Christmas.”
Michael blinked at him, his eyes straying upwards.
Tom self-consciously ran his hand over his hair, but it wasn’t that. He tilted his head back and looked up at the ceiling, saw what was there, and looked back at Michael. He shrugged. “It’s mistletoe, so…we should probably do the right thing? It doesn’t have to—” mean anything was the rest of a sentence that Tom realised, right then in that moment, when Michael McFerran’s lips touched his, would never be finished.
Chapter Nine:
Afterburn
Michael backed off in horror. “Oh my God! I’m so sorry. I…I’m really sorry, Tom. I don’t know why I did that. Sorry.” His face was burning, although it had been burning before he rushed at Tom and kissed him.
He’d kissed Tom.
Why, oh, why, oh…why? He couldn’t even get his head around what he’d done, and Tom, he was just standing there still under the mistletoe. He’d said what? Something about doing the right thing, and some kind of weird…force had just pushed Michael forward. Mistletoe, crush standing under mistletoe, Christmas Eve, the right thing, and bingo! He’d kissed Tom.
As if that wasn’t bad enough, Tess was running up and down the stairs and getting all worked up again, Pru was in the living room—he could only thank God that most of the household had gone to the pub and not seen him make a complete fool of himself.
“Mike, are you all right there?”
He blinked and squinted at Tom under the mistletoe. Tom under the mistletoe. It sounded like a dodgy Christmas song. Michael’s blush renewed.
“I have no idea why I did that, Tom. I’m so sorry.”
“Stop apologising. It’s fine.”
“It’s not. I mean, you’re…and…um…well, the thing is I…what I mean to say is…” Michael stopped jabbering and scratched his head, aware of Tom’s eyes on him, a tiny grin sneaking onto his face.
“You’ve made your hair all stand on end.”
“Oh, it always looks like that.”
“Yeah, I noticed.”
“You…noticed my hair?”
“Well, you know, you’re kind of hard to miss, Mike.”
“Oh.” He wasn’t sure how to take that. “Did you…did you see a couple of fellas run through here lately?”
&nb
sp; “I didn’t, no. But I think the men you’re looking for are out in the lane.”
“Right. So…” Michael shuffled forward, trying to step around Tom, keeping his back stuck to the wall to maximise the space between them, but it was a narrow hallway and Tom was standing in the middle of it, and he had broad shoulders, and…and…why did I have to go and kiss him? Agh! And now he’d moved to one side, but not out of the way. Oh, no. He stepped in front of Michael, blocking his exit.
“You probably should leave your mate to do whatever it is he’s doing.”
“Why? What’s he doing?”
“Well, I think there must be something in the air.”
“Huh?”
Tom smiled, and Michael’s world tipped ninety degrees. He grabbed the wall behind him and clung on for dear life.
“They’re kissing, Mike.”
“They’re…” Michael shook his head in confusion and wobbled. “Oh, I shouldn’t have done that.” His cheeks ballooned, and he swallowed back the surplus saliva he suddenly had.
“Have you had a drink or two?”
“Um, yeah, more like kind of five or six. Or seven? I lost count at the…” Michael held up his hand in front of his face and tried to use his fingers to count, but he had way too many of those. “I need some air,” he said and pushed off the wall—a little too forcefully—catapulting himself straight into Tom.
“Whoa, I’ve got ye there now, fella.” Tom’s strong hands gripped Michael’s arms and held him steady. “I’ll come with you, all right?”
“Oh, no. It’s OK. Plus there’s men out there kissing, you said.”
“Aye, there is, but there’s an even chance of me stumbling upon men kissing in here.”
“Yeah. There’s a lot of men here.” Michael’s head hurt, and the words weren’t quite there. “Actually, no, there isn’t. They’ve all gone to the pub. But there is usually. They didn’t make me gay, you know.”
“I know.”
“Right. Good. It’s just that…I don’t want you to think that cos I kissed you, you’d catch it.”
Tom nodded and cleared his throat.
“Are you laughing at me?”
“No.” Tom put his head down and snorted. “All right, yes, I’m laughing at you.”
“Well.” Michael attempted to fold his arms, feeling very indignant. The motion threw him off balance again, or would have done if Tom hadn’t been standing so close! Michael straightened up and huffed. “That’s a bit rude, laughin’. I didn’t know that you knew, or somethin’, um…I… What did you say again?”
Tom was still laughing. “Sorry, but you’re funny drunk. But seriously, does anyone really believe you can catch being gay?”
“Other than everyone in Omagh, you mean?”
“You don’t want to listen to them, Mike. They’re wrong.”
“Maybe they are, maybe they aren’t.”
“No. They’re wrong, I’m telling you. I can’t believe I used to think of some of them as friends.” Tom’s nostrils flared in anger, and his voice came out as a low gravelly hiss. “They disgust me.”
Michael found it a bit scary, seeing Tom angry, although it was doing nothing to kill the crush, because even in his drunken state, he realised Tom was angry on his behalf. “Hey, I never said thank you, for sticking up for me.”
Tom waved Michael’s thanks away. “No need. And anyway, you haven’t seen me to thank me. But they were way out of line, Mike. I hope you know I don’t think the same as them.”
“Why? Because Seamus’d rip you apart with his bare hands?”
“Aye, he would, too, but that’s not why.”
“How did you know about the Facebook thing?”
Tom’s furious expression returned. “Connor added me to the conversation, thought I’d find it funny. I was mad as hell when I saw it.”
“And then you were at the church, when I came out of confession.”
Tom looked away, his square jaw even more powerful with the tightly clenched muscles. Under the hall light—and that bad, bad mistletoe—Tom’s hair shone like gold, and his eyebrows, though knitted in anger, reminded Michael of ripe ears of wheat. The urge to lean forward and nibble at them was almost too great to fight—not bite them or anything, just nip at them with his lips. They’d be so soft and…
Tom looked back at Michael, and his frown deepened. “What’s the matter?”
Michael started to laugh. He was too drunk to care anymore. He let go of the wall and took a step to the side. His legs didn’t want to play along, and he toppled forward into Tom, again.
“Come on. Let’s get you outside.” With one strong arm around his back and the other hooked under his own very feeble and floppy arm, Tom led him through the kitchen and out into the chilly evening. “We’ll go this way,” he said, steering them away from the lane and across the farmyard, towards the dark outbuildings.
“We can go in there,” Michael suggested, pointing at the closest building.
Tom released him momentarily and opened the door. “Has it got a light?”
“Here.” Michael flicked the switch, and the barn filled with pale yellow light. “It’s dim so it doesn’t distress the lambs,” he explained.
“Oh, right. So this is the lambing shed?”
“Aye, it is. I got to help deliver lots of little ones last winter and spring.” His mind filled with memories of sitting out in the barn for hour after hour, Tess at his side, the heaters blowing, his laptop on his knee, talking to Harrison to fill the time between births. Harrison, his friend. A good friend. He hoped he was all right, but he supposed if Tom saw Harrison and Paulo kissing, it was all working out OK.
“You enjoyed it?” Tom asked.
“Huh?”
“The lambing?”
“Oh!” Thought you meant Harrison and his boyfriend…God, I’m a dope. “Yeah. It was amazin’, Tom. They’re so tiny and helpless, and sometimes they come out all limp and they need a bit of resuscitatin’. It’s scary, but it’s the best feeling ever.”
Tom nodded, still taking in his surroundings. “I suppose I can’t grumble about being outdone by the wee lambs.” He turned to face Michael and gave him a cheeky grin.
“What d’you mean?”
“My kiss doesn’t rate, no?”
“Oh.” Michael’s face was so hot it could have warmed the lambing shed for the rest of the season.
“I’m teasing you, Michael.”
“Right. Sorry.” With a bit of effort, Michael managed to pull a hay bale down from the stack and sat heavily on it. “I don’t know why I did it.”
“It was my fault for saying what I said.”
“Yeah. I heard ‘do the right thing’, and I thought you meant, well, with the mistletoe and everything…”
Tom pulled another bale of hay down and positioned it in front of Michael’s. He sat on it and leaned forward, his hands dangling between his knees. “That is what I meant, Mike.”
Michael squinted at Tom, forcing him into focus. “I’m really confused. And drunk. But confused especially. You’re straight.”
“Yeah. But that’s not the point.” Tom sat up straighter. “We should have this conversation when you’re sober.”
“No. I’ll be too shy to do it then. What were you gonna say?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never even thought about kissing a boy before. But you were there, and the mistletoe was—” he pointed up, and Michael, foolishly looked up into the bare, mistletoe-free rafters. He toppled backwards, his feet lifted off the floor, he was going to fall…
But he didn’t. He glanced down at Tom’s steadying hands on his knees. Saved again. “Did you want me to kiss you?”
“Like I said, I’ve never thought about it. I’ve been watching you for a while—not like stalking you, just keeping an eye out, making sure you don’t come to any mischief. And I thought we could maybe be friends. That was all.”
“Friends who kiss?”
Tom laughed and shrugged. “I think that’s a di
fferent kind of friend. The thing is, if you were one of my female friends, I wouldn’t think twice about sharing a quick peck under the mistletoe. D’you know what I’m sayin’?”
Michael nodded. “Oh yeah. You’re so cool, Tom.”
“Thanks. You’re pretty cool yourself.”
“No, you don’t understand. You’re like the most totally amazing person, who just gets that two boys kissing doesn’t mean they’re gay for each other, even though I do actually have an epic crush on ye and…I didn’t mean to say that. Shite.”
“Ah.”
Tom quickly pulled his hands away from Michael’s knees and shifted back, only a little, but the gesture said everything. He might as well have fled from the barn screaming help, I’m being pursued by a gay boy! Michael considered just letting himself tumble backwards, off the hay bale. With any luck he’d conk his head, knock himself out and get amnesia so he’d never ever again be reminded of what a stupid stupid eejit he was.
“I’m so sorry, Mike. If I’d known…”
Michael shook his head, mumbling, “Not your fault. Mine.” He wanted Tom to go, just leave him alone. This was all so embarrassing, and sad. Really sad. They could have been friends. A real, actual friend of his own age. OK, so Tom was a wee bit older, but Michael turned twenty-one soon. At least they’d both be in their twenties, not like him and Dee, which was a terrible thing to think. She was a good mate, and he’d messed it all up. He’d messed everything up. He sighed. “I’m a bad person.”
“No. You’re just drunk, and it’s making you blue.”
“This is all my fault.”
“It’s not.”
“It is.”
“Not.”
“It—”
“It’s not.”
“Tom! Please. I feel pathetic enough already. Don’t pity me.”
“Pity? Who said anything about pity?”
So confused! “I don’t…I need water.” Michael leaned forward, pushed up, pushed…nope.
Seeds of Tyrone Box Set Page 67
