by P. W. Davies
Peter furrowed his brow. “What does that mean?”
“Am I a pair of shoes you’re trying on for size, love? Are you walking around with Victor and me, trying to see if the feel of us suits you, or do you want to be let in further?” Christian considered Peter for several lingering moments, an impassive expression on his face. “You asked me if I stabbed Mark Talbot. Would you care if I did?”
The question took him aback, even if a part of him knew he should’ve been ready to face the question. Peter glanced at Victor, who seemed to be hanging on the answer to the question as much as Christian was. “I don’t know,” he finally settled on.
Nodding, Christian stepped back several paces and finally shed his coat. Peter couldn’t be sure if the answer he’d given had upset the other man or not. For the moment, Christian inhabited a vague sense of neutrality, pacing over to the closet and hanging his coat. “I didn’t,” he said. “For the record. Talbot nosed around in the wrong places and received a warning for his trouble. I would hope that underscores my point. Navigating my world without a guide is dangerous.”
Christian walked closer again once his coat had been secured. While he kept his distance from Peter – a space which felt hollow for some reason – he trained his focus back on the other man. “I wish I had, though,” he said. “I won’t apologize for feeling that way, either.”
Peter felt his frown deepen. “Who is he, then?” he asked.
The question made Christian freeze. While it hung in the air, unanswered, Peter waited, asking himself, when precious additional moments had passed, how such a simple inquiry could cause a hitman to struggle for a response. Victor seemed to recognize it, too. While his eyes shifted back and forth between the two men, they occasionally settled longer on Christian, either to will the answer from him or to wait for whatever his response would be. Christian finally tensed and when he did, both sets of eyes shifted back to him and remained focused.
“No,” he said, his voice low. Christian shook his head. “You don’t get to know that. Not so long as you’re still trying me on like a pair of shoes. When I’m convinced you’re here to stay, I’ll determine if I can trust you with anything else.”
Before Peter could respond, the hitman bypassed them both, walking from the living area and headed toward his bedroom. Neither Peter, nor Victor spoke or moved, and when the door slammed shut in the hallway, Peter flinched and Victor sighed. “He does this,” Victor said. “When you get too close, he pushes back against it.”
“That’s a mature way of handling things,” Peter said.
Victor’s gaze shot toward Peter and as the latter felt the weight of his stare, he straightened his posture. A frown tugged at the corners of his mouth, but rather than succumb to whatever thought Peter’s words had inspired, his tone became terse. “He does that,” he said, “because he needs to know if you’ll leave when things become difficult.”
“Isn’t that emotional manipulation?”
“I can’t say it isn’t. But even I don’t know how many times he’s been hurt in the past.”
Peter sighed. “I don’t know, Victor,” he said, reaching to scratch at his neck. As his hand lowered, it created an audible smack when it hit his side. “I can tell he’s used to living his life a certain way, but if this is the way he always is, don’t you get tired of it? He comes and goes, and withdraws whenever he feels like it. Don’t you ever wish things were different?”
For the second time that night, a question he’d spoken had rendered the other person mute. Victor maintained his subtle frown like a soldier holding ground and when it started to collapse, he looked toward the hallway where Christian had disappeared. “I should check on him,” he said, but rather than sound like a man bound by restraints, his voice carried an indiscernible edge. Victor started for the corridor as well, but when he reached Peter, he paused, looking up at the taller man. His hand lifted, and when it settled on Peter’s shoulder, the small bit of selfish surrender he offered defied whatever conclusion he’d made.
“What did he get arrested for, Victor?” Peter asked.
“He created a disturbance at the police station,” Victor said. As Peter opened his mouth to ask another question the hand on his shoulder shifted to cover his mouth, its owner shaking his head. ‘I don’t blame you if this isn’t what you want,’ his eyes seemed to say as they delved into Peter’s. The words never made it past his lips, though. Instead, Victor reclaimed his hand and consummated his departure.
Peter turned to watch him walk away and, even after the other man disappeared, he floundered for what he should be doing now. Part of him wanted to stay, in defiance of what felt like an active shove, but staying seemed doomed to only make matters worse. A swirl of anger, confusion, and uncertainty brewed inside of him like a hurricane and only when he walked out the front door did even a fraction of it subside. Striding with purpose toward the elevators, he glanced back at the condo as if expecting one of the two men to emerge, pleading with him to come back.
When neither did, Peter entered the elevator and descended to the main floor.
His keys jangled as he unlocked his apartment door, left in their customary place before his weary footsteps led him first to the bathroom, then his loft. Collapsing into bed with all his clothing still on, Peter kicked off his shoes and stared at the ceiling. Producing his phone offered no further messages from either Victor or Christian. Both, it seemed, had left Peter to make a final decision - continue forward or retreat, before any of them got more invested.
Frowning, Peter ignored the time stamp on the screen and navigated to a string of previous text messages. Before he could stop himself, he’d added Victor into his phone contacts and read through the exchanges he and Christian had written out to each other. His thumb brushed over Christian’s name, envisioning the other man in scenes both lewd and sweet. Was this what he wanted? Could he handle the instability?
Sighing, Peter changed screens, finding Robin’s number. ‘Are you home from work yet?’ he typed before hitting send. It took several minutes before the answer came, waking Peter as he began dozing off.
‘Slow night at the hospital?’
Peter groaned. ‘No. I didn’t go to work. Still not sure if that was smart.’
‘That doesn’t sound good,’ Robin replied after another brief pause. ‘Would you like me to pick you up or would you prefer I come over?’
‘Either. I don’t care right now. Maybe your place? I can bring my scrubs for work in case I pass out.’ Peter pressed send and tossed his phone to the side, where it landed on the mattress beside him. “You’ve got better coffee than I do, anyway,” he said, his eyes not shifting from the ceiling for countless moments; seeing the images of his possibly-estranged lovers. The urge to masturbate never made its presence known and by the time his buzzer rang, he’d collected his work clothing and shoved it into a duffel bag. Robin waited by the door and led the way to his car once Peter emerged from the building.
“Tell me all about it,” he said once they’d both buckled in. “You look like the rug’s been swept out from beneath your feet.”
“Something like that,” Peter said. Robin started his car and shifted into drive.
Along the way to Robin’s house, Peter divulged the entire story.
Fire crackled in the hearth, empty wine glasses deposited on a side table with warmth filling the space around them. As Robin propped his feet up on the coffee table, his fingers idly combed through Peter’s hair, soft delicate strokes which added to the comfort saturating Peter. His head on Robin’s lap, he curled his long legs enough to fit on the rest of the couch, settled enough to wonder if he’d fall asleep this way.
“Can I ask you a question?” Robin said, breaking a period of prolonged silence. His fingers caressed the lobe of his friend’s ear before threading through his hair again. “Are you in love with either of them?”
Peter considered the question for several quiet moments. “I don’t know,” he said. “The last few days have
been manic and there’s a part of me that’s enjoyed tumbling down the rabbit hole, but I don’t know if that’s what I’m more attached to.”
“You like the thrill.” A soft chuckle preceded the next question. “What about your symphony lover?”
“Victor.” Peter shut his eyes and sighed. Those last touches sprung to life like several wildfires erupting over his skin. “He’s incredible. I am not exaggerating when I say he could do things…”
“… Maybe less detail in that department.”
“No, not like that.” Opening his eyes, Peter sat up, shifting to face Robin once he had slid his legs up onto the couch cushion. “I mean, it’s in his music and his cooking and the little ways he arranges things in his condo. He drives a Mustang, not a Beamer, and he’s dating the last person you’d expect someone like him to be with.”
“So, he likes the diamonds in the rough.” Robin smirked, his hands coming to rest where Peter’s head had just been. “And now, Christian?”
Peter sobered, leg bending and arms wrapping around it. As he lowered his chin onto his knee, Robin raised an eyebrow at him. “He’s barbed wire with a soft center. Something fragile with shattered glass imbedded in it. I keep wanting to reach inside and pluck out the shards.”
“You’re waxing poetic again. You can’t tell me you’re not at least a little enamored.”
“It’s not a question of being enamored. It’s whether I should be or not.”
Robin chuckled. Reaching for his wine glass, he lifted it to his lips and allowed what few drops of wine remained to slide down his throat. “You’re looking at him all wrong,” he said, peering first into the glass, then using it to gesture at his friend, his gaze lifting to meet Peter’s. “You’re still a doctor wanting to cure a patient, not a man falling in love with another man.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means, at some points, you let yourself be with him without thinking about things like broken glass or dubious lifestyles. What’s it like during those moments?”
Peter shrugged. As Robin continued staring at him, he rolled his eyes, then paused to think. The dancer came to mind, as did the charmer. The hidden romantic. He imagined running through Rittenhouse Square with Christian and layered different times of year – different circumstances – over the image. He saw the shorter, roguish man with flakes of snow in his hair, his breath spilling from his nostrils while a smile reached to the corners of his eyes. He imagined the sultry way he would close the distance between them, hiking up to the tips of his toes to kiss Peter. Peter could still feel the shivers which raced through him whenever Christian kissed him. Two different men, and each of them did something unique to him.
“In those moments, I think I do love him,” Peter said. “I loved Victor in the moment I heard him play his piano.” Taking a deep breath, he reclined against the back of the couch, letting his arms relax. “I think I am falling for them.”
“I know you are. It’s funny, how you try to deny it.”
Robin lifted to a stand, taking his glass with him to the antique liquor cabinet poised in the corner of the room. Opening it, he reached for a decanter containing amber-colored liquor. “You want permission to get more involved,” Robin said, removing the plug and filling his glass two fingers full. “You’re scared and you want to be shoved in their direction.”
“No, I don’t… have any trouble being with them. It’s just that…” Peter trailed off, reaching to scratch the back of his neck. Exasperated. Like the itch had chosen that moment to spread from his throat to his extremities. “I’m tired of all the secrecy.”
“Are you really, though?” Robin pushed the plug back into the decanter and took his glass closer to the hearth. “The mystery’s what pulled you into this mess. What is it that really has you bothered?”
“I’m afraid he’ll get hurt.”
“Now that, I might believe.” Leaning against the wall, Robin sipped from the glass. His eyes penetrated through Peter, unnerving the other man with their intensity. “You’re starting to finally believe him.”
Peter frowned. “I think the run through Kensington did that.”
“No, it didn’t. It painted a façade, but this didn’t hit home for you until you found yourself falling for Victor. Barely a day passes and you notice what you did?” Robin pointed his glass at Peter again. “You invited him over and then, you went to his bar.”
“Yes, I did,” Peter said with a shrug. “What about that?”
“You went somewhere tangible. You’re trying to wrap your head around the fact that loving him means accepting him. I know you, Peter. You don’t have this any other way. And when Victor took you to the police station, that was the last nail in the coffin.”
“Last nail in the coffin, how?”
Robin set the glass down on the mantle, freeing his hands for gesturing. “You’ve finally come to the point where progressing forward means allowing this all to become real. Victor won’t have you without Christian. Which is fine, because you want Christian, too, but you’re the Hippocratic Oath. He’s not.”
“He kills people. I mend them.”
“More importantly for you, though… He could get hurt. And you don’t want him to.”
Peter arched a brow, lips surrendering to a half-smirk. “Are you saying I don’t take the Hippocratic Oath seriously?”
“Oh, you live in gray areas, Peter. Your criminal-killing criminal suits you like that.”
Breathing a chuckle, Peter shifted in the couch to rest his head against the back and groaned. “He’s after something. Or someone. Maybe both, for all I know. Something about this Mark Talbot guy has him worked up. I never asked him what actually brought him into the Emergency Room, but I’m starting to think that might be connected.”
“I think it’s all connected,” Robin said. “Him running from the bar. Getting arrested. I think the man fell in love with you despite himself, at the absolute worst possible moment, and hasn’t known how to talk to you about it.”
Peter lifted his head to look at Robin. “He’s in trouble?”
“Or creating trouble. Which oddly supports my conclusion. That he’s risking whatever he’s gotten himself mixed up in to pursue you.”
“Why do you think he would be doing that?”
Robin chuckled. Walking over to where Peter sat, he lowered his hand to tousle the other man’s hair. “You know, just because you and I didn’t work out doesn’t mean there isn’t something beautiful about being with you. I relish our friendship.”
Batting away his friend’s hand, Peter snorted. “It’s late and I think the Scotch got to you.”
Laughing, Robin came to rest on the couch beside Peter. “I love you in my own way. I know you love me, too.”
“So, why aren’t you warding me away from this?” Peter smirked. “I keep expecting the usual voice of caution that you offer, not this weird enabling you’ve taken up.”
Robin shrugged. “Oh, I can think of a hundred reasons why you shouldn’t be anywhere near this, but I’m trusting the lawyer, at least, knows how to keep your noses clean.”
“Maybe. He’s in deep, too.” As Robin lifted his arms, Peter settled his head on his best friend’s lap again. A hand settled on the other man’s thigh, thumb brushing the fabric of Robin’s pants. “Christ. I am falling in love with them, aren’t I?”
“Welcome to the current page. Glad you could read ahead.”
“You’re a jerk sometimes. You know that?” Sobering, Peter stared into the fire, watching the flames lick the logs and char them further. “So, what should I do about that?”
“Figure out what you need to do, both for yourself and for Christian. I’ll grant you some loathe of the secrecy, so long as you admit that’s not the actual problem. He’s in trouble. You know it and I’m sure Victor does, too. Maybe it’s up to the two of you to figure out how to get him out of it.”
Peter hummed in agreement, allowing silence to settle between them. The lateness of the hour worked i
ts wiles on him, causing him to lose moments until Robin shifted out from under his friend and covered him with a blanket. As Peter fell asleep, Robin’s advice sank further into his mind, planting a seed where it settled. While he didn’t give the matter any further thought that side of sleep, he dreamed about Victor and Christian as if the universe had decided to give him the nudge he sought.
For once, the dream didn’t involve sex.
What little he could remember the next day left his skin buzzing and infected his thoughts throughout showering and dressing for work. As he sat on the subway, his earbuds playing music, he stared at the underground tunnel passing him by and visualized Christian. He saw him laid out on the couch, his back against one side with his legs draped over Peter’s lap. His feet rested on Victor and as the musician curled up against the doctor, the three of them talked. Peter couldn’t remember later what they’d discussed. What lingered was the way it felt to be with them.
Peter disembarked from the subway train, ascending the stairs to go topside, he found purpose in his stride. They couldn’t have that harmony yet. Whatever hung over Christian’s head prevented it for the time being.
But somehow, some way, Peter was tempted toward realizing it.
Fifteen
It took until the initial wave of patients had subsided for Peter to issue the request. He’d asked under the guise of curiosity, though whether Chloe bought that wasn’t apparent at first. “Not supposed to be fanning these records out for everyone to read,” she said, logging onto the terminal at the nurse’s station. Inserting her employee card into the electronic reader, she turned to look at Peter while the computer read it. “Good thing I like you or I’d let your card be the one taking this hit.”
“I owe you one,” Peter said, reaching to pat her shoulder. His palm lingered in place when she pivoted to face the screen again and navigated to their patient records database. “His name was Mark Talbot.”
