Chapter Twenty-Six
Cut Me Free
Hilary fell asleep before the sky outside had gone fully dark.
Trenton must have followed, because when he woke, the bed was empty.
It was embarrassing how quickly he panicked, and not just at the thought of having Hilary gone.
For the first time, it hit him just how vulnerable he was.
He could die there. Tied up in the dark, alone in a house that wasn’t his.
Or was it? He still didn’t know what Hilary meant to do with him, mostly because he was sure Hilary didn’t know that answer himself.
It took him almost a minute to hear the crying.
It was partly because the panic had his blood pumping loudly in his ears, and partly because Hilary was trying to be quiet.
The man always seemed ashamed of his tears—a sentiment Trenton couldn’t understand.
The crying had always struck him as an integral part of his friend’s goodness.
He himself hadn’t been able to cry until after he’d met Hilary, like the man had unlocked the part inside him that allowed it.
Strangely, it was hearing that quiet crying that had the panic subsiding.
His situation hadn’t changed. He had still betrayed and broken Hilary, but the fact that his beloved could still cry over him, and that he had moved out of the room to do it so as not to disturb his sleep, reminded him of the most crucial point.
That Hilary still loved him. Despite everything. Because of everything.
Eventually, he heard the sound of water and clinking dishes, some lights flicking on and off.
He might have dozed again but came around when Hilary returned.
Maybe it was because he was no longer afraid, but as Hilary climbed into bed, Trenton turned, forcing his awkward taped-up body to fall over onto the side facing his friend.
Hilary froze, but when there were no other movements—and clearly no signs of escape—the man relaxed again.
No, it was more than that. Hilary crept closer, and when he lay down, their knees bumped, close enough to feel the heat off his beloved’s body.
Trenton could have accepted that. It was already a victory.
But his reassurance made him greedy, and he squirmed that little bit closer, and his hands, mostly covered in tape, but still with bits exposed, brushed up against Hilary’s stomach.
He felt Hilary tense, and prepared himself for the rejection, but the man didn’t move away.
And then, just a little, the barest amount, Hilary pressed closer.
Against each other now, Trenton could feel the man’s breath on his neck.
And again, it was impossible that he might have forgotten him.
This man his body recognized no matter how many memory wipes it went through—this man he obsessed over every time, who he fell madly in love with every time.
Over and over, this rope that tied them together, the bond he would choose no matter what it cost him.
Maybe it wasn’t the act of forgetting that was meant to have his attention, but the remembering, and the inevitability of remembering.
How no matter how deeply his mind tried to bury it, or how often it tried to run, not once did he ever resist the pull of Hilary, throwing himself toward him and into that life again at again, hooked on him at the first sighting, and still his after the parting, his body and mind simply going dormant whenever they were apart, waiting for the inevitable next meeting, since there was no lifetime and no set of memories that would keep there from being that next meeting.
In the morning, Hilary prepared for work, and he seemed more or less stable.
The man’s hands weren’t shaking as he dressed, and he went through his morning routine without incident.
Only at the end, when he was dressed and ready, his bag packed and his phone in hand, did the panic come.
Hilary stood there in the doorway, unable to take the step that would carry him any further, eyes pinned to his partner, his breath coming quicker with every inhale.
It was madness to go. To leave him there, tied up, alone.
Not because of what might happen to him, but because Trenton knew his friend’s mental state couldn’t take any more strain.
Leaving him when he wouldn’t know what he was doing or whether his memory was fading again.
No, Hilary couldn’t leave. It was impossible.
But still, the man stood there, fighting it and fighting it, until he came back to the bed, grabbed Trenton by the back of his hair and said, “Will you wait here? Will you wait right here for me?”
If he’d been a bastard, he would have refused. That would have kept Hilary in the house, and he might have even gotten the tape off his mouth that way. But he looked his friend in the eyes, trying to give off what steadiness he could, and nodded.
Hilary shut his eyes and creases cracked all along his face. The man took some breaths, and each could have been a sob. Fighting and fighting. “I can’t skip again. I’m out of hours and the shift is short-staffed.”
It doesn’t matter, Trenton tried to tell him, but of course it was useless without his mouth. Even if they fire you, it doesn’t matter. We’ll be okay. It’s all okay.
But Hilary still had his eyes shut, his breathing labored. “If you leave, I’ll go crazy. I really will go crazy this time, Trenton. If you forget again after remembering. I can’t do it. Please, I can’t do it anymore.”
I won’t forget. And he knew even if he’d had his mouth free to speak it wouldn’t have helped. He had failed seven times. A few words couldn’t undo that. But he meant it. He knew it was true.
Hilary stayed there, pressed against him and trembling. He seemed young again, not an adult at all, but the same boy who had confessed to loving him as if it was some kind of crime. “Please be here. I need you to be here. I’m sorry—” He stopped, unable to continue.
Trenton pushed up against that face. It was all he could do.
If Hilary had punched him for it, he would have gotten up and done it again.
He would always reach for this man, memories or ignorance, he would grow toward him.
His friend. His beloved. The only one who would cry over a broken fool like him.
Hilary pressed back against him, his cheek to the tape, as close as he could get. “You’re crazy to want this. To not be fighting me. Is this Stockholm syndrome?”
I love you. He wished he’d said it more. He should have known to say it more. Every chance and every day he ought to have said it.
Hilary kissed him, the tape, a single hard kiss that was meant to be the strength he needed to break away, and it seemed to work.
Hilary left the room. Trenton heard him putting on his shoes and then his windbreaker.
It was still cold in the mornings. But though the door opened, it didn’t close again.
Instead, there was the sound of running steps, and Hilary was sobbing as he climbed back into the bed and kissed him and kissed him, unable to stop.
The man needed so much more, and oh, how Trenton wanted to give it to him.
He jerked hard against the tape, breaking the skin on his wrists again, but it did nothing.
He couldn’t do anything but take those kisses and make some sounds, but what else could he do?
He couldn’t stand it. This hurt, this panic he had caused.
Axel, at least, had died, limited to only a single hurt, even if it was a grievous one.
But himself—how much longer would he hurt this man?
He couldn’t bear it. Not any of it. Every good thing between them now a weapon to make the hurt worse.
Hilary tore at the tape using his fingers, which was nearly as useless as nothing, but in the right spirit at least. The feeling of it sent Trenton’s heart surging up in his chest, and he pushed harder at him, trying desperately to get at him, to grab onto his shirt with only the tips of his exposed fingers and get him closer.
It was the scissors, still on the dresser from the previous night, that saved them.
Hilary accidentally scratched his cheek with urgency and shaking hands and then tore off several layers of skin without the benefits of the oil, but God, Trenton would have sacrificed so much more to speed it along.
He was kissing Hilary before anything more than the barest edge of his mouth was free.
His hands were still uselessly pinned down, but he got Hilary under him, somehow, simply the weight of him keeping him there, and Hilary’s mouth was cruel in its need, biting him, tearing through skin already inflamed from the trauma of the tape, but he would have given him anything just then to keep the man from stopping.
But his beloved did stop, twisting his face away to gasp, and then it was crying again.
Hilary at first, but then it was together, both weeping like fools.
But then Hilary wasn’t only crying, but laughing into it, because really, it was so ridiculous, being squashed under a man-insect larva creature in a cocoon of duct tape, snot mixing with tears, the least romantic pair of morons in the history of anything, both howling like drunken wolves at six in the morning.
“Shit,” Hilary said after he’d pushed Trenton over onto his side.
It was to get better access to the tape, though he was working with his fingers again.
The scissors had gotten tangled in the blanket somewhere, and finding them would have required separating for at least half a second—an impossibility. “You should have me arrested.”
“I won’t go anywhere you aren’t.”
It was difficult to speak. The tape was still on most of his mouth, so he had to force the words out through half-pursed lips.
“Your hands are bleeding.”
He’d forgotten. It was only Hilary's saying it that brought the throbbing back. “Sorry.”
“What?”
“I think it got on the sheets.”