Seeds of Tyrone Box Set

by Debbie McGowan

  “Michael…”

  “Hang on. Can I finish?”

  “Sure. Sorry.”

  Tom was chewing at his lip, his gaze watchful, anxious. Michael continued, “I wrote the letter this morning, but… When I went to my mum’s, Peter was there. He stepped outside to talk to me and asked me to move back home, for my mum’s sake. He said we both needed to make an effort for her. And I told him I was happy to make an effort, but I wasn’t going back. I’ve left home now, I couldn’t go back, even if I wanted to, and I don’t. Whether I stay here at the farm in the longer term, I don’t know. I just know I can’t go home.

  “I told him that, and he was fine about it. He said it wasn’t like he was asking me to change. He’d talked to the bishop, and he said I absolve myself if I stay celibate. I asked Peter if that’s what he meant by me making an effort, and he said yes.

  “I was set to tell him no. But the whole time we’re standing outside talking, my mum’s watching through the window, and she’s smiling for the first time in months, because she thinks we’re finally sorting things out. What else could I do?”

  “You agreed to his terms?” Tom asked. Still he stayed by the door, his hands in his pockets, trying to act casual, but Michael saw the hard set of his shoulders and neck, with disappointment, he thought. What a judgement to have served on him when he was sacrificing his first chance at love.

  “I just thought, you know, it might solve two problems at the same time, if you didn’t mean all those things you said yesterday.”

  There was no mistaking it now, that disappointment, and more. Tom was angry. He’d seen Tom’s anger so often lately he knew it intimately, every facet. When he’d seen the lads in church, and the other night, talking about what had gone on, the angry Tom had been powerful, virile…he’d made Michael beg—in his head—pin me to the wall and kiss me ’til I pass out. Being on the receiving end of that anger, it was as sexy as ever, but Michael felt like he was slowly dying. This morning, it had seemed so easy. If he didn’t act on his feelings, Peter would be happy, therefore his mum would be happy. But facing Tom made it impossible to ignore the magnitude of his decision. He was giving up his life.

  “What’s Peter going to do?” Tom asked tightly. His eyes had turned hard and dark, like the thick glass bottoms of beer bottles.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Correct me if I’m wrong, but didn’t he say you both needed to make an effort?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “So what can he possibly bring to the table that’s equal to what you’ve brought?”

  Michael couldn’t cope with being challenged. It was hard enough already, and it wasn’t what he wanted, but who cared about that? “He’s accepting that I can’t change the way I feel, Tom. That’s a huge step for him.”

  Tom’s pockets bulged outwards, the knuckle ridges of his clenched fists visible in the thick denim. “Happy days, then, eh, Mike?”

  “Tom, please, don’t be mad at me. It’s my mum.” The last word quaked with the effort of holding in his tears.

  “I know,” Tom said. He tugged one hand free with a forceful jolt and raked his hair back, flattening the styled spikes. “I’m sorry, Michael. I’m being unreasonable. But I came out here to tell you again how much I want…”

  His hand dropped out the air, and he sighed so deeply Michael felt the heat of his breath though they were feet apart. He wished he could take it all back—the letter, the date, the kiss—everything.

  “Do you still want to go out for dinner?” Tom asked. He wasn’t looking Michael’s way, like he couldn’t stand to see it; his cowardice.

  “I do.” The tears refused to stay down, his words breaking from him in a strangled sob. “I really do, Tom.”

  “OK. Then we’re going out to dinner tonight as friends.”

  Michael nodded and wiped uselessly at his still-falling tears. Jesus, I don’t want this. I don’t want this. Tell me it gets better, or just make it stop hurting. I can’t stand it.

  “Hey, come on.” Suddenly all the anger was gone, and Tom’s voice was a warm murmur. Strong arms circled him, comforting, protecting. “It’s all right. It’s all going to be all right.”

  “Y…you…you’re…hu…hugging…m…me,” Michael said, feeling so stupid for not even being able to stop bawling long enough to say one whole word.

  “Aye. Friends hug, you know?”

  Michael tried to laugh through his tears, but he simply could not.

  “You are such a brave, generous person, Michael. Do you realise?”

  Michael squeezed his eyes shut, trying to escape his self-loathing. No. There was nothing brave or generous about this. He couldn’t stand by and let his mum hurt like she had after Dad died. Not when he had the power to stop it.

  “I know how much you love your mum, and she loves you just as much.” Tom’s hold was firm and sure, and a palm smoothed his back. “Is this what she’d want?”

  Michael shook his head and felt a string of snot transfer from his nose onto Tom’s shirt. He sniffed hard, and caught the scent of spicy-sweet aftershave. He wished his nose wasn’t blocked so he could smell Tom better. He wished Peter hadn’t made him do this.

  “Did you hear what I asked, Mike?”

  Michael nodded against Tom’s shoulder. “If she knew, she’d have Peter out that door and never let him back in again. But then she’ll be on her own.”

  “And you don’t want to move back home,” Tom finished.

  “There’s nothing I can do, Tom. Nothing. And lots of gay men are celibate.”

  “But they do it for God.”

  “It’s all the same in the end. I do it for my mum, I’m doing it for God.”

  Tom eased back on the hug.

  “Don’t let me go,” Michael pleaded. Without Tom’s arms around him, he thought he might slip into the shadows. He felt empty, weightless, nothing.

  “Can I make a suggestion?” Tom asked. Michael nodded his consent. “Talk to Father O’Neill.”

  “He’s going to say the same as Peter, isn’t he?”

  “Maybe. But he’s better qualified to advise you than Peter.”

  “What do you think?” Michael asked. He wasn’t crying so hard now, just snivelling, like a wee, pathetic boy. But Tom’s suggestion gave him a tiny glimmer of hope to cling to. It was enough of a reason to keep going.

  “I think it’s your decision, and I have no right to tell you what to do.”

  “But if you had a right…”

  “Then I’d tell you…” He didn’t finish.

  Michael lifted his head from Tom’s shoulder to take in his expression. Tom brushed a thumb over Michael’s wet cheek.

  “I’d tell you…” he said again, moving his face closer and closer to Michael’s…impossibly closer, until their breath mixed and filled the sliver of space between them. “Oh, God, Michael. Have you any idea how much I want to kiss you? The only thing stopping me is your decision.” He released a long, juddery breath and stared up into the rafters. “I hope Father O’Neill gives you his blessing to tell Peter to go to hell.”

  <<<>>>

  The rest of the afternoon was subdued, but Michael felt better for having Tom there, even with Dee’s overt flirting, which Chancey ignored for a while and then told her to reel it in or spend the day in her room. She stormed off in a sulk, and Tom grimaced guiltily.

  “Ignore her,” Chancey said, one hand flipping the lid off the beer bottle clenched between his thighs while the other drew Seamus closer for a kiss.

  Seamus accepted the kiss, stole the bottle from between Chancey’s thighs, and swigged it, all with his eyes on the TV. “This is one of your dodgy crime shows, isn’t it, Mike?”

  Michael watched the screen for a minute or so and shook his head. “I’ve no idea what it is, apart from shite.”

  Seamus smirked. “Says he who watches Britain’s Got Talent.”

  “Nothing wrong with that,” Michael protested. If he could stay with the banter, he coul
d keep his thoughts from straying to the other, although with everyone else out for the afternoon, there wasn’t a whole lot of banter going down. Michael peered sideways at Tom, sitting at the other end of the sofa, a space between them where Dee had been. “Shall we go and listen to some music, or something?”

  “Sure,” Tom agreed.

  Michael got up and led the way upstairs, to his room. “See what I mean about getting in the way?”

  “Er…I suppose.” Tom didn’t sound convinced.

  Michael opened his bedroom door and gave the room a quick visual inspection to check it was presentable. He beckoned Tom in and woke his laptop. “Did you not feel uncomfortable downstairs, then?”

  “Not really. My mum and dad are worse than Seamus and Chancey. They get all smoochy in the kitchen. It horrifies our Katie.”

  “Because of our age, d’you think?”

  “Possibly, but I think with our Katie it’s a bit of jealousy. She and Mum are really close, and with Dad being out of work, they don’t get any time on their own.”

  “Oh, right. You can sit on my bed, if you like.” Michael loaded YouTube. He had his back to Tom, but the bed creaked, and he assumed he’d sat down. “I am a bit jealous,” he admitted.

  “Understandable. Like you said, Seamus relied solely on you before Chancey and Dee came here. That’s a big change, and before that—”

  “My mum married Peter.” Michael was starting to see the pattern now. Both times, even though common sense told him it wasn’t so, he felt like he’d been pushed aside, cast off in favour of new people. And both times, those new people had been kind to him. That’s why it was so hard to take Peter’s shunning, because Michael wanted to believe he was a good man. And if he believed that, then Peter’s suggestion was for his own good.

  It was a bit like eating vegetables when he was young. Carrots, cabbage, cauliflower, sprouts—he’d hated them all, but his mum insisted he eat at least a few mouthfuls, and he’d get himself in such a state he’d end up with belly ache. Of course, he always blamed the vegetables, but at some point he started liking carrots, and then cauliflower, and then cabbage…still not sprouts. Any possibility of him changing his mind about them had been buried under the tons of little green nasties he’d plucked from stalks last winter.

  So maybe all he needed to do was give it time. It would get easier, and…the belly ache would go away.

  Except this was no belly ache. This was pain deep inside that hadn’t stopped hurting for hours, and it was wrecking him. He wanted to curl up in a ball and go to sleep. Preferably forever. He couldn’t even talk to anyone about it, because they’d all be furious at what Peter had asked. Even kind, understanding Tom was livid. And who could blame him?

  The tears were forcing their way out again; Michael swallowed them down and briefly turned Tom’s way. “What do you want to listen to? Any preference?”

  “I don’t mind.”

  Tom was rubbing his hands together, slowly, deliberately, his eyes trained on the movement. Michael watched him in silence, the guilt piling up on top of the pain. This was his fault. Tom was so upbeat, always laughing and joking, and Michael had made him miserable. The hand rubbing stopped.

  “Actually, can we go for a walk?”

  Michael nodded. “I’m sorry. It was a stupid idea inviting you up to my room, after what…after everything.” Tom would rather leave him and go home, Michael could tell, but he needed him to stay.

  “It’s not that, Mike. I’m finding it hard to keep my temper, and I don’t want to say something unkind.”

  “Just say it.”

  Tom shook his head.

  “Seriously, nothing you say could make me feel any worse than I do already.”

  “Oh, Mike. I don’t mean about you.”

  “Peter,” Michael stated. Tom didn’t answer, other than his eyebrows drawing together in anger. Wheat ears. Another piece of the Drunk on Christmas Eve jigsaw slotted into place. He’d wanted to nibble at Tom’s eyebrows with his lips. Because he was drunk… No. He wanted it still, and he didn’t want to stop there. To kiss his temple, cheeks, touch the tip of his tongue to those dimples… Feel Tom’s strong arms around him, while each explored the other’s lips, delving inside, sharing breath, chest against chest… Run his hands over firm pectorals, knead those solid thighs…

  They were the first thing that had attracted Michael to Tom. He’d been wearing shorts, t-shirt, and work boots. As he’d crouched to cut crops, his muscles had rippled, sheened with sweat and smeared with dirt. Michael couldn’t stop looking, yearning to touch.

  That yearning remained, and he needed to get it under control. But being near Tom—the mere sight of him—was more temptation than he could stand. Maybe all he needed to do was give it time. And if that didn’t work, then…

  He couldn’t think about it. Giving up on love was one thing. Losing a friendship when it had only just begun? No. He had to give it his best shot. Celibacy. Just mates, going out for a meal together, something different, and fun, with no more feeling sorry for himself. Tomorrow he’d go to church, unload all this guilt for his unnatural lust, his wicked will. He would admit he was an abomination and accept his penance.

  “Come on, then. Let’s go for that walk.”

  Better than having more than thoughts to confess. Michael edged around Tom to the door, opened it and stepped outside so that they wouldn’t come into close contact. All of his senses were ultra-keen. Every breath Tom took was amplified to a deafening level, and Michael’s heart sped up at the slightest twitch of movement. He could almost taste Tom’s aftershave and the wisps of cool mint from the gum that Michael hadn’t noticed him chewing because he’d avoided properly looking at him since they’d left the lambing shed. Since he’d broken down and sobbed in the lambing shed. Since he’d put an end to his first relationship before it even got started in the lambing shed. Damn the lambing shed. Damn Peter. Damn everything.

  Michael set off down the stairs, assuming Tom was following. He heard Dee’s bedroom door open.

  “Oh, hey, Tom.”

  “Dee. You all right?” Tom was curt but polite.

  “Where ya goin’?”

  “Just out for a walk.”

  “Cool. Can I come?”

  “No!” Michael shouted and immediately chastised himself. “Sorry.”

  “Whatever.” Dee huffed. “You got things to do. I’ll just sit in my room, all alone—”

  “Sorry, Dee,” Tom interrupted. “But Michael and I need to talk. You don’t mind, do you?”

  “Of course not.” Now she was all sweetness and light. “You only had to say!” The last part was emphasised for Michael’s benefit. Their friendship was almost as new as his and Tom’s, and he’d probably just screwed that up, too. But it was only a few days ago he’d confided in Dee for the first time—does she really expect me to tell her what’s going on? She’s fourteen and thinks she knows everything, never mind that she’d be sitting in Tom’s lap the second she knew I’d knocked him back. And the day had started with such promise. Snuggled in bed, warm and cosy, Dee getting all excited about Tom on Michael’s behalf. Even being hauled over the coals by Chancey hadn’t been that bad.

  Never apologise for who you are.

  It seemed a lifetime ago, and he’d skipped right past apology to purgatory. Not even. Purgatory was a walk in the park compared to this. If it even existed. Probably didn’t. It didn’t matter. He wasn’t doing this for God. He was doing it for his mum.

  Michael pulled on his coat and stood, watching Tom finally descend the stairs. Dee was a couple of steps behind him, and she ruffled his hair as he reached the hallway, smiling at Michael over Tom’s head. He forced out a smile in response.

  “See you later, sis.”

  “Have fun without me,” Dee replied. She wasn’t being mean. In fact, he was sure she meant it.

  He wished he could have answered I will, and meant it. But his decision pretty much guaranteed that his life from here on would be completely fun
free.

  Chapter Twenty:

  Temptation

  It was raining, and the heavy sky was already turning Boxing Day afternoon to evening. But there was beauty in the glow of the distant streetlamps, studs of gold nestled in a grey-purple blanket draped over the horizon. It was the perfect kind of afternoon for snuggling up with a hot chocolate in a big cosy armchair and watching old Christmas movies. Was it only this morning that Tom’s heart had leapt in excitement as that fantasy had verged on reality? He narrowed his eyes and gazed into the distance, stretching and distorting the flares of light, while yet again trying to make sense of his thoughts and feelings and the new situation.

  They walked for a couple of hours with no direction in mind, no purpose, beyond walking off the fury until he could trust himself to speak without telling Michael what he knew. Not that they walked in silence. Michael gabbled on about all kinds of stuff—his daft memories of their days spent picking cabbages together, of the time he went to America for Patrick and Aidan’s wedding, of difficult births during lambing last year, and how he hoped it would be easier this year…

  Because, as far as Michael was concerned, he’d ‘only’ agreed to stay celibate. To not act on his feelings. To live his life alone. Either he didn’t yet appreciate what that meant, or he understood it far too well. In which case, there were two of them trying not to think about it, and Tom couldn’t push it from his mind securely enough to ask the question that he should, if he was a true friend. Hey, Mike, are you doing OK?

  What would happen when those feelings, or the loneliness, threatened to get the better of Michael? Who would he turn to then? Father O’Neill? Peter? Maybe he was overthinking it, imagining the worst, but Tom heard the conversation in his head already—the one where Michael told Peter how lonely he was, and Peter told him there was a way he could fix everything. Fix Michael when he wasn’t broken.

  Tom knew what the Bible had to say about homosexuality. He’d re-read it so often of late, he could recall it word for word. Peter had outed his stepson under the guise of saving his soul, and Tom wanted to be sure he had the facts. They were Christians; the new laws presided over the old. St. Paul’s letters were damning, sure, but he damned a lot of things—things that Peter, or any other self-proclaimed good Roman Catholic, continued to do with no concern for what the Bible taught. It was a dangerous hypocrisy, and Peter was using it to enforce his will. Do it for your mum.