Byron’s Epilogue #2
When Trevel and I decided to bounce; come back to the city and get a place together, we had an uphill battle. I had to go from the doom and gloom of years in Alabaster Pen to jumping back into the hustle and bustle of New York City without missing a beat. We had some help, but it still took work.
Eventually, we found a place that would rent to us without any in-depth background checks, I got a job as a trainer at our gym, and Trevel went back to accumulating odd jobs as if he were secretly three people.
Seriously, though… It’s like he’s trying to win some kind of award.
At the end of the day, as long as he’s happy, I’m happy. And he likes variety in his work. It’s safe to say neither of us are nine-to-fivers—we wouldn’t know what to do with ourselves.
For now, Trevel teaches a weekly yoga class at our gym— I know, right?
The fighter and the crunchy granola hippie, it’s pretty cute .
He’s also a freelance massage therapist, a dog-walker, he works in a flower shop, and he manages a few Airbnb rentals for people.
He could’ve stopped there, but because he’s Trevel, he also picked up a few shifts at the Starbucks around the corner.
He said he wanted to be a barista because Alice was one.
I think it’s sweet. And kinda sad, but that’s okay.
He’s working through his trauma, and I’d say he’s doing a fantastic job.
Of course, all of these things are just ways to make money. Our real passion, together as a couple, is writing. Trevel has been working diligently on a poetry book for the last six months or so, and he’s almost ready to publish.
As for me, I never saw myself as a writer until Trevel came along and read my journal. Once we were back in the real world, I decided to just start writing and see where it took me. Well, as it happens, it gave me an immense sense of joy. It still does. My Book of Secrets was just the beginning.
Last year, I wrote and published a novel based on my life called The Shadow Man , and I’m planning to turn my journal into a memoir. Keeping everything independent works for me, because I’m really not doing this for money. It’s therapeutic, the same way writing poetry is for Trevel.
I’m not saying my issues are anywhere near his. In fact, they’re light years apart. But I still carry a lot of the weight of Alabaster Penitentiary. Trevel says I might have PTSD, but I’m not sure. Maybe I should see a shrink…
If you know anyone. Wink.
I struggled with leaving the Isle at first. That place was all I knew for so long. But it was time to start a new chapter.
Separating from Luthor and Ren, Dash and Felix, was tough. After being basically attached, to losing them, getting them back, only to turn around and leave… It was an emotional seesaw for sure. But it wasn’t just us leaving. We all had bigger plans.
We promised to always stay in touch, and so far, we’ve been making good on that promise.
Trevel and I went out to Mexico a few months back to see Dash and Kemper’s house and meet Dog, and we definitely plan on frequent visits to my besties, Luthor and Ren.
We’ve also been able to see Felix and Lem, and the Velle trio pretty often.
It’s been working. Things are just… good.
Traveling sustained us for a while, but now that we have the penthouse, I don’t see any reason to leave for at least a bit… Until the next vacation, anyway. But the next AP family reunion is gonna be at our place. I just decided.
So many things have changed in the last year, it could make my head spin if I let it. But there’s one thing that keeps me sane, with just the right amount of crazy… One person who swept into my life like a storm, shaking me up in the best possible way.
My partner in the shadows and the light… Trevel bloody Fenwick.
I can’t even think about him without smiling. He’s just so perfect for me. To think there was ever a time I tried to convince myself I didn’t want it, or denied what we were always meant to be to each other is laughable.
Yes, Trevel is an utter and complete nutball.
But he’s my nutball. And I wouldn’t want him any other way.
I’m proud of him for getting help; doing weekly sessions with Dr. Love via Skype and taking his meds— prescribed only, no more self-medicating.
But make no mistake, I don’t need him to be normal to be the love of my life.
Fuck normal. It’s for chumps.
Give me an obsessive, needy, six-foot-five filthy-talking big-dicked emo Daddy with an imaginary friend any day.
Trevel doesn’t see Leo like he used to, which I am glad about, for his own sanity. But I know he still thinks about him. Ren actually drew him an awesome picture of Leo and mailed it to us. Trevel’s going to have him tattoo it next time we get together.
“Cowabunga!”
There’s my dark angel…
I chuckle and shake my head, leaning against the marble island while my boyfriend is across the room in the den playing virtual reality surfing in his underwear.
And yes, they’re still the skimpy ones that show off his lickable ass and suckable dick print.
What a delicious, sexy, dorky giant, I’m telling you.
“Baby…?” I call to him, questioning whether he can even hear me.
He loves to blast things—music, video games, movies… You name it, Trevel has its volume all the way up.
“Yea, love?” he responds, meaning he can hear me. But he’s shouting.
My grin widens. “As entertaining as this little performance is, I’m going to get coffee. Are you coming or not?”
“I’m almost done,” he yelps, arms out, knees bent like he’s actually surfing. “Oh yea! Hang ten, baby!”
“I love you, but I’m going,” I huff.
“’Kay, I’ll meet you down there in five minutes!”
That means twenty in Trevel-speak. He’s also late for everything.
I’m not kidding. Yesterday, he was late to a meeting with his boss at Starbucks to discuss his frequent lateness.
Hence why I’m going up the block to Blank Street instead.
I finally manage to pry my eyes away from his tight booty and leave, heading out into another loud, chaotic, beautiful late spring day in NYC. My phone buzzes in my pocket while I walk, and I pull it out to check. It’s a new message from Ren in our group chat entitled “AP Family”.
We went with the normal name, rather than Ren and Dash’s suggestion: Alabastard Frienditentiary. Or was it Penitentifamily?
I can’t even remember, but it was two weeks of bickering and incessant messages culminating in Velle telling us all to shut the fuck up and naming it “AP Family.” Pretty sure Ren wanted to call it “Daddy Velle’s Slut Children” after that, but was afraid to send one more message and push Dad over the edge.
Either way, I’m attempting to read the bombarding texts responsibly, lest I walk into oncoming traffic, but it’s difficult because Ren is spamming us with pictures of the baby.
No, it’s not a human baby. Jesus… Can you imagine??
Luthor and Ren adopted a ten-week-old Boxer-Bulldog puppy last month and named him Parker. Parker Tobias Deon-Xavier. I know, right? An extremely queer dog name.
So yea, they’ve immediately become insufferable gay dog-dads, and it’s massively entertaining. Ren is popping off pics of Parker at the beach, and it is highly adorable. So much so that I’m not paying attention to where I’m walking…
“Whoa!” a guy gasps when I crash into him.
“Oh, shit! I’m so sorry,” I’m apologizing before I can even process what happened.
But then I do. And I freeze like a goddamn wax figure.
“No harm.” The voice I haven’t heard in over four years chirps. “You’re lucky, though… This is my good Bud Light t-shirt,” he teases while I’m gawking. “They don’t just hand those out to any… body…”
His words roll to a stop, and then flop out of his mouth, now agape as he recognizes me. We’re both speechless. Just staring while the rest of the world moves around us like everything is normal.
Like the universe didn’t just decide to uppercut me in the soul.
“Byron??” he finally breathes out, bright blue eyes as round as saucers.
“Uh… yea. Hi,” I croak, feeling suddenly very dizzy….
Standing in front of Michelangelo Russo.
He still looks exactly the same. Sure, it hasn’t been that long, in the grand scheme, but the least he could do is have a beer belly, or a hairline that’s receding even just a little. But no . He’s still drop-dead fucking gorgeous.
Thanks a lot, whoever is controlling my simulation.
I shake myself out of it fast, because this isn’t a problem. I can handle this. It’s no big deal …
I clear my throat. “It’s good to, um… see you.”
He shakes his head in disbelief for a couple more seconds before his lashes flutter. “Sorry… this is just really tripping me out right now.” He huffs, then swallows.
God, I can vividly remember every single time I had my hands around that throat…
Shake. Away. That. Thought.
“I mean… yea. It’s good to see you too,” he says, voice awed, eyes dipping over me once.
Just once, but it’s heavier than I expected, and now my face is burning.
“You look… Did you get bigger??” He grins, but bites it off quickly.
“Thicker, I mean. Just, uh… Sorry, I’m embarrassing myself.
” He releases a breathy chuckle and clears his throat. “You look good.”
My stomach is churning. “You too.”
He must notice that I’m radiating a lot more awkward tension than he is, because he backs up and fiddles with his cup of coffee. “It’s been… a long time.”
I nod robotically, seeing nothing but the night that changed my life. Between his legs, with his hands tied, fucking and crying with him. And then his father ripping me away and the years of searing pain that followed.
Governor Russo got a hero’s funeral. I’m not sure how—what kinds of strings The Ivory had to pull, or what they even said.
I purposefully never read or watched anything about it because I couldn’t deal with seeing his face while people cried and mourned, like he wasn’t the biggest scumfuck on the planet.