Chapter 18
Axel limps into Ranger’s quarters, still sore from their battle against Omega’s automatons that afternoon. They’d been unable to capture Omega himself, who’d absconded while his mechanical minions kept the two of them busy, but Axel knows it is only a matter of time before they’ll see that psychopath again. There are three things he is learning you can count on in this part of the universe: death, taxes, and assholes who call themselves geniuses refusing to leave well enough alone.
I’m going to feel this for a week, he thinks, rubbing his sore shoulder, before he is jolted from his reverie by the sight of Ranger’s muscular back. His comrade sits stripped to the waist on the edge of the couch, doing his best to clean and bandage his own wounds, occasionally muttering a pained “ouch” or “dang it.”
Axel can’t help but smile. He has reveled in learning every curse word this planet has to offer, in as many of its gorgeous languages that he can comprehend. He has collected profanities from across the galaxy, luxuriated in their foulness, savored how they feel in his mouth. Ranger’s strict adherence to propriety, in contrast, baffles him. But he also finds it charming and a comfort. Ranger is the physically strongest man on this planet: He could crush his enemies like insects if he so wished. His constant gentleness, then, is a choice. And to choose kindness, in the face of the countless horrors and injustices the two of them have witnessed together, to lead continually and defiantly with love, takes real strength.
“Here,” he says softly, although he is sure Ranger heard him approach. “Let me help.”
Ranger turns gingerly to face him, and Axel steps forward to tend to the many cuts and scrapes that mar his torso. They will heal quickly, and in all likelihood be gone by morning, but in this moment, they look like they smart.
“Thanks,” says Ranger.
Axel tries not to notice the warmth of Ranger’s chest beneath his fingers as he swabs the disinfectant, or the way his muscles tighten and harden as Ranger winces in discomfort while he dresses the worst of the cuts.
“All done,” he says, and is about to pull away when Ranger’s hand closes around his own.
“Thank you,” Ranger says again.
“It was nothing,” Axel replies.
“I don’t mean this,” says Ranger, shaking his head. “I meant, thank you for being with me. Today. And so many other days like it.”
“That’s the job,” says Axel, smiling lopsidedly. “Sworn and sacred duty, remember?”
“Don’t give me that,” Ranger huffs. “Whatever obligation you might have once had toward the people of Earth, you have more than fulfilled it. There are doubtless other planets out there in need of saving, other perils…”
“This crazy planet keeps me more than occupied,” Axel protests. Ranger laughs ruefully.
“Don’t I know it. I guess what I’m trying to say is, I’m glad you stuck around.”
Ranger’s hand, Axel realizes, is still on his: grip firm, hot, unyielding.
“Ask me,” he says, almost choking, as if, after all this time, he has just learned he is unable to breathe in Earth’s atmosphere.
“Ask you what?” Ranger says. Is it Axel’s imagination, or does he sound breathless, too?
“Why I stay,” says Axel, edging forward slightly.
“So many bad guys,” Ranger murmurs. “So many people in need of saving.”
“One,” Axel whispers. “One person.”
Ranger’s lips are on his before he can finish the thought, and he responds hungrily, kissing him with every ounce of the fervor he has repressed since he first laid eyes on him in that crater in the valley. How strong and brave he had looked. Axel had fallen twice that night.
“Richard,” he whispers into his friend’s cheek.
“Axel,” Ranger whispers back. With one hand, he reaches under Axel’s shirt, ghosting his fingertips along the grooves of his abs. With the other, he deftly unbuckles Axel’s belt. “Axilon P’Shar.” His hand reaches into Axel’s underwear, closing around him with such assuredness that all Axel can do is gasp into the crook of Ranger’s neck. “Axilon the Brave,” Ranger says, pushing Axel backward onto the couch and sinking to his knees.
“My prince,” he whispers, keeping his gaze fixed up on Axel while lowering his mouth onto—
“April.”
April slammed the laptop shut at the sound of her name, neck snapping up to face Will, who stood in the doorway to the screaming cupboard.
“What’s up?” she asked.
“Anything good?” he asked, gesturing at the computer. “Let me see.”
“It’s not done yet.”
Will knew enough not to push. He had come straight to the shop after Patrick had left him at the cinema, mind and pulse racing. His first instinct had been to find April and Jordan and debrief them in giddy detail like they were all adolescents giggling at the back of a school bus. But as he made his way up Corporation Street, the specifics of what had happened began to blur in his mind—Who had initiated the kiss? Had it really felt as exhilarating as he was remembering? Could things like this even happen to a person like him?—until the entire thing felt like a daydream. And then, of course, there was the way Patrick had practically bolted afterward. By the time Will walked into Gilroy’s, nodding to Yvonne behind the counter, and found April busy typing away in the cupboard, his burning impulse to tell her everything had faltered. He doubted that Patrick would appreciate Will spilling his private business. And this was just so typically him, getting carried away prematurely.
So they’d kissed. So what? People kissed all the time. For a lot of gay men, kissing was like talking about the weather or playing cards: something they did to pass the time until a better option came along. Only somebody truly naive would go running to gush to his friends about snogging a man at the grand age of twenty-nine.
He was too excitable, he knew. Too intense, according to some guys.
Too much.
“Why are you even here?” April asked, slipping her laptop under her arm and shimmying past him in the cramped back room to flick on the kettle next to the sink. “You don’t work Mondays.”
“I…forgot.” He stood there awkwardly, knowing exactly how odd he was being. “I should go! And enjoy my day off. So. That’s…” He made a big deal of pivoting toward the front of the shop. “That’s what I’m going to do.”
“OK,” said April, expertly uncapping the tin of teabags, placing one in a mug, and filling it with hot water, all one-handed. “See you later. Weirdo.” She placed her laptop on the small counter while the tea steeped, and as Will left the room, he heard her mumble to herself: “Now. Where were we…”
How soon was too soon to text somebody after making out in the back of a cinema? Will tutted at himself instinctively even as he silently posed the question. How juvenile. How 2003 of him. How deeply stupid this all was. And yet none of those very true things stopped the question from doing shaky laps of his mind, like a nervous student driver stuck on a roundabout.
The longer Patrick didn’t text him, the longer he agonized over whether he should be the first one to reach out. As a rule, Will rejected dating etiquette and did his best to keep game-playing to a minimum. If he wanted to contact somebody, he did. If he liked someone, he told them. But this was far enough removed from his usual playbook that he didn’t know. One of the many things he loved about being gay was that both participants were men. And while for some that meant transcribing the stereotypical traits of men and women onto the top and the bottom, that was nonsense he had never trafficked in.
But there was a power differential here, and he couldn’t pretend otherwise. Patrick wasn’t just the usual kind of privileged that came with being white, male, able-bodied, cisgender, and attractive. He was a literal movie star. Money and fame changed things. Didn’t they? Patrick was probably used to having people throwing themselves at him, to having secret hookups with people he never called again. Will didn’t necessarily want to be another notch on what he had no doubt was a very expensive and tastefully designed bedpost.
And so Will didn’t get in touch. For days. He composed and deleted countless messages but stuck to his resolution that Patrick might be rich and famous and one of the most talented kissers he had ever encountered (and that wasn’t to be discounted because it was actually surprising how many men got to their age without ever mastering the basics), but Will would not give one more inch of ground. If the man who could have it all wanted him, then he would have to bloody well make the next move. For the first time in his life, Will Wright decided that he would play hard to get.
Until the following Thursday.
I’m so sorry for going quiet on you, the message from Patrick read. We’ve been shooting crazy hours this week, but that’s no excuse. Can I see you tonight?
Will was finishing up a shift at Gilroy’s when the missive came through. He read it three times, and then handed his phone to April.
“Could you hold this for exactly ten minutes, please?” he asked. “And don’t give it back to me a second before then?”
April shrugged, tucked the device into her back pocket without even looking at it, and returned to scrolling through her own phone. Will took a pen and paper from the front counter and recused himself to the back room, where he proceeded to draft a dozen or so responses to Patrick’s message, each of which articulated some aspect of what he intended to say. At first he thought he would scold Patrick for going dark all week, but then again, so had he. He thought about telling him it was fine, no worries, he understood, but that didn’t feel right either. For a single white-knuckle ride of a moment, he considered not replying at all. That would be one way to retain a shred of mystery after Patrick had rested a warm, heavy hand on Will’s upper thigh in the cinema and felt just how keen he really was.
But he knew himself. “Mysterious” and “aloof” were right up there with “mindful” and “financially stable” in the pantheon of descriptors that applied pretty much exclusively to other people.
You’re right, he typed, once April returned his phone to him. That’s no excuse at all. But I am willing to be the bigger man and forgive you.
It’s more than I deserve, Patrick texted back, thankfully leaning into the bit. Then, seconds later: If you still think I need to be punished, I will understand.
It was clearly meant in jest, but unaccompanied by emoji or emoticon, it was perhaps the most brazen thing he had ever witnessed Patrick do. It also flew in the face of any expectations Will might have had about their potential dynamic, should things get that far—a scenario he might or might not have speculated about in depth all week.
So…Patrick texted again before Will could reply. Tonight?
There was something about walking into a fancy hotel and taking the lift straight up to a man’s room that would never not make Will feel like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman. As he knocked on the door of Patrick’s room, he looked down at his oversized shirt and ripped jeans and wished for a moment he had worn hotter clothes, then remembered he didn’t have any. Not in his boy drag, anyway.
“Hi,” said Patrick, opening the door and ushering him inside. He looked as devastatingly handsome as ever, all-American in blue jeans and a white T-shirt.
“You look nice,” said Will. “Like, I don’t know. Bruce Springsteen for Calvin Klein.”
“Thanks,” said Patrick, rubbing the back of his neck. He couldn’t quite look Will in the eye, and for a second Will had the horrid feeling that he was about to be preemptively dumped.
“This place is lush,” he said, casting a glance around the suite.
“Yeah, it’s cool,” said Patrick, as if just noticing his environment for the first time. “I’ve definitely stayed in worse.”
“Living in hotels must lose its shine after a while,” said Will. “I mean, after a week in Gran Canaria, I know I’m desperate to be back in my flat, with my own things.” He paused. “I just realized. You must have an amazing place.” He tried to picture what kind of dwelling Patrick would call home. A Spanish-style villa in Bel-Air or glass-walled mansion on Mulholland Drive, no doubt.
“I just bought a house, actually,” said Patrick. “In Studio City. I’m having it decorated while I’m here. I’m about forty emails deep in a chain with an impeccably stylish, devastatingly expensive interior designer named Asa.”
Will scanned the room furtively for clues as to Patrick’s taste, but there were no strewn belongings, open suitcases, or homey touches. The entire place looked like it was still waiting for somebody to check in.
“When I moved into my flat, I just had Jordan come round and help me paint in exchange for a bottle of wine,” he said. “So…what’s going on?”
“About the other day,” said Patrick. Here we go, thought Will.
“The other day?” He feigned nonchalance.
“The other day,” repeated Patrick. “When we…”
“When we?” Will tilted his head, intentionally obtuse. If you’re going to ditch me, that’s fine, but I’m going to make you say it. It happened. I didn’t imagine it.
“When I kissed you,” said Patrick, finally bringing his gaze up to meet Will’s. And in what he would come to think of later as a minor miracle, all of Will’s self-doubt fell away. Nobody had ever looked at him the way Patrick was looking at him now: with abject, unfiltered desire, free of guile or condition.
He wants me, Will realized, and he dropped his tote on the floor just in time for Patrick to grab the back of his head and pull him into a kiss. This wasn’t the playful, tentative kiss of the cinema. Patrick was forceful, hungry, exploring Will’s mouth with his tongue and breathing hard. Will pushed back with equal ardor, running his hand through Patrick’s hair, biting his lip and delighting in the groan that elicited.
Who knew how long they stayed that way, pawing at each other’s clothes like animals, until Patrick finally tore himself away, as if remembering something important, like he had summoned Will here to fix a leaky tap or replenish his towels.
“I need to talk to you about something,” he said. “Before we go any further.”
“OK…?”
“It’s…kind of awkward.”
“Oh. Oh. If it’s a safety thing, I’m on PrEP. And I…not to be presumptuous, but I brought the essentials.” He nodded to the tote bag on the floor, which contained everything he had deemed necessary for the occasion: poppers, lube, condoms, chewing gum, ChapStick, as well as a granola bar, bottled water, and a novel for the bus home.
“It’s not that,” Patrick said. “I mean, it kind of is. And that’s all good to know. Really good to know.” He pulled his phone out of his back pocket. “Did you get an email this week from somebody at Summers and Chase?”
“I did. It sounded like spam for a new soap brand.”
“Summers and Chase are a talent agency. They’re who my manager, Simone, works for.”
“Your talent reps are emailing me? That’s very nice of them, but unless they’re planning on opening an office in Brum, I don’t really see the point in them wanting to represent me.”
“That’s not…Shit. Sorry. No. That’s not it. I mean, I’m sure they would. You’re great! But.” Patrick exhaled deeply. “I’m not doing this very well. Here.” He walked over to a desk in the corner of the room, picked up a sheaf of official-looking papers, and handed them to Will, who glanced down at them just long enough to see his full name—William Oliver Wright—at the bottom of the first page. Had he even told Patrick his middle name?
“If we’re going to, you know? Then I need you to sign this.”
“What is it?”
“A gag,” said Patrick.
“Sounds hot.”
“It just means you can’t talk about anything that might happen between us. Or anything that already happened. There’s a retroactive clause in there that covers what happened at the movie the other day.”
“That sounds considerably less hot.”
“I know. I’m sorry. This is just how these things work where I’m from.”
“Jersey?”
Patrick smiled, as if pleasantly surprised that Will had remembered this biographical detail. Of course, it was easy to remember things about the guy you were into when he had his very own Wikipedia page.
“Hollywood,” said Patrick. “It’s how everything works there. Lawyers, nondisclosure agreements, fake relationships constructed by PR firms and real ones covered up by the same people.” He rubbed his mouth and looked at Will with a sorrowful arch to his brow, as if to say, I wish it didn’t have to be this way. I hate asking this of you.
This was all utter bullshit, of course. What could be sillier, more of an instant mood killer, than doing paperwork before having sex with someone for the first time? Will understood why it was necessary in principle, but to see it in black and white was another thing entirely.
“I can’t say it’s the most romantic proposition I’ve ever had,” said Will, walking slowly over to the desk. “But you’re also not the first man to ask me if I can be discreet.”
“It’s not that I don’t trust you,” said Patrick. “I truly cannot stress that enough.”
“I haven’t told anybody about what happened the other day,” said Will. “Which is honestly kind of amazing, actually. I’ve been dodging texts from Jordan about it all week because he already thought you fancied me.”
“He wasn’t wrong.” Will felt a warmth rush to his cheeks upon hearing this.
“He’s all but guessed, though. Which means he’s probably in a side chat with April about it. Also, you came to dinner at Margo’s, so she almost definitely thinks something is going on. So…” He tapped the documents in front of him. “It’s technically already out there.”
“Hmm.” Patrick looked down to the paper, then back up at Will. That look had not yet fully left his eyes. Will hoped it never did.
“Do you trust them?” he asked.
“With my life,” replied Will.
“Then that’s good enough for me,” said Patrick. “I like them. I hope they like me. I don’t think they’d rat us out either.”
“OK then.” Will picked up a pen from the desk. “Just promise me,” he said, his eyes drifting from the bed behind him to Patrick, “that it will be worth it.”
Patrick’s breathing deepened. He approached Will, towering over him until he backed up into the desk, leaned down, and whispered in his ear: “I promise.”
His fingers traced down Will’s arm, extracted the pen from his fingers, and, still leaning over him, signed his own half of the contract, then handed it back to Will. Will turned to face the desk and wrote his own name at the bottom. He felt the heat of Patrick behind him, the sheer bulk of him, and coyly moved ever so slightly backward until there it was: unmistakable hardness. He dropped the pen onto the desk with a satisfying plonk, and they both watched as it rolled backward toward the wall, vanishing over the edge of the polished wood.
“Signed, sealed, del—”
He felt Patrick’s lips against the side of his neck, nuzzling him. Patrick’s arms enclosed him from behind, one of them circling his chest to hold Will tight against him while his other hand lightly caressed his lower stomach through his clothes, drifting up and down between his navel and his jeans, his touch infuriatingly light even as it strayed lower. Will bucked into his hand slightly and was pulled back by Patrick’s other arm, a vein bulging visibly in his bicep. Patrick spun him around and hauled him up onto the desk, and Will immediately, instinctively wrapped his legs around Patrick’s waist.
Following the same unspoken impulse, Patrick gripped his buttocks firmly and picked him up, making Will gasp in surprise.
“I’m sorry,” Patrick said, bringing his head back. “Is this too much?”
“Not even close,” said Will, pulling Patrick back to him. “Don’t worry,” he added. “I can handle it.”
Patrick smiled, touching his tongue between his teeth, and something about it made Will even harder. Then he went to carry Will toward the bed, but paused on the way—how big was this room?—to pin him violently to the wall. Will yelped upon impact, and Patrick paused.
“You’ll let me know if I go too far?” Patrick asked. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Patrick.” Will pushed him away now, held him at arm’s length so Patrick could see the earnestness in his eyes, and told him with every ounce of feeling he had: “Ruin me.”
The longer they kissed, the more their hands explored each other, the hungrier Patrick seemed to become, and Will didn’t dare even ask how long it had been since this man, this hewn sculpture of a man, was last touched. Last felt the impossible heat of a body on his. Will committed himself to Patrick’s pleasure, to help him make up for lost time, to remind him just how good this could feel. To reintroduce him to a part of himself that he had kept locked away, to reassure him that his desires were not wrong. To draw that side out, to wrap him in his arms, and to say, You are safe here.
Hours later, when concepts like time had lost any concrete meaning, Will sat up in bed gingerly, wincing in delicious soreness.
“I should go,” he said.
“You really shouldn’t,” retorted Patrick, yanking him back down like a rag doll. Will sighed and consented to being spooned for a little while longer, their breathing finally returned to normal, chests rising and falling in unison.
“I just thought,” he said, “it would probably be better if I left under cover of darkness, rather than in the harsh light of day?”
“Damn.” Patrick kissed the back of his head softly. “You’re probably right.”
They fell silent again for another minute; then Patrick asked, “Can I see you tomorrow?”
“Dylan’s band are performing downstairs at the Flapper tomorrow,” said Will. “Margo and I agreed to go, because that’s the kind of thing a supportive mother and gay uncle do. They’re going to hate it.”
“Oh. Well, have fun.”
“Ugh!” Will rolled onto his other side so he could face Patrick. “The implication was that I wanted you to come with me.”
“Yeah?”
“Obviously. Christ. It could be. I don’t know. A date.”
“I’d like to,” said Patrick. “Really. I want that. To go on a date with you in public. But there’s the whole…” He nodded over to the desk, where a document forbidding exactly this lay signed and dated. “Getting into full drag again to go to a gig unharassed sounds like it might draw focus.”
“You wouldn’t need to get all bitched up this time,” said Will. “I’ve thought about it, and it’s kind of genius actually.”
“What?”
“It’s a teenage band playing to other moody teenagers.”
“And…?”
“And what is more cringeworthy to that kind of crowd than, well, us?” Will grinned, and Patrick began to smile, too, as realization dawned. “They won’t even look at anyone over the age of twenty. They’ll think we’re the most boring people on the planet. Invisible, almost.”
“So what you’re saying is…” Patrick gestured at his own face.
“If we deck you out in the lamest clothes ever, they won’t see Patrick Lake, star of the Kismet movies. They’ll see a normcore guy in a baseball cap and assume you’re someone’s older brother. If they even see you at all.”
“That…that is kind of genius.”
“I know, right?” Will kissed him briefly on the mouth, and it felt like punctuation.
“Is the band any good?”
“If I admit that they’re bloody awful, will you still come?”
Patrick pulled him closer, looked into his eyes, and said, “I can’t think of anything I’d rather do tomorrow evening than see a terrible band play terrible music with you.”
Will kissed him again, a firm and languorous full stop this time.
“Then it’s a date,” he said. “I am going to dress you up so ugly.”
“Oh yeah?” Patrick grinned.
“It’s going to take all of my considerable talents.” Will nodded. “You’re quite good-looking, I don’t know if anybody has ever mentioned that.”
“You’re pretty damn gorgeous yourself,” Patrick said.
Will laughed. “I’m all right.”
“No. Really.” Patrick’s gaze grew serious, his voice deeper. He flipped Will onto his back, that strength making quick work, and pinned him to the bed. Will’s breathing quickened as Patrick leaned down to growl in his ear: “Let me show you what I mean.”