Chapter 29 #2
With a frustrated sigh, Samuel tossed the phone aside.
It skittered across the table. He pressed the heels of his hands hard against his closed eyes, seeing bursts of color in the darkness.
This was useless. Wallowing was a luxury he couldn’t afford.
He had to move. He had to do something, even if it was just washing the tear-salt from his skin.
He pushed the blanket off and stood up. His limbs felt heavy, stiff from hours of sitting hunched in misery. A shower. A shower would help. It would force him into motion, give him a task, clear the fog from his head.
He was halfway to the bathroom when a knock on his apartment door stopped him.
He paused, frowning. It was late for casual visits. Maybe it was Mrs. Henderson from next door, needing a cup of sugar or complaining about a noise he hadn’t made.
He turned, padding barefoot to the door. He didn’t look through the peephole, just turned the deadbolt and pulled the door open.
And froze.
Gael stood on the other side of the threshold.
He was still dressed in the clothes from brunch, but they looked rumpled now, as if he’d been driving or pacing for hours.
His hair was slightly disheveled. But it was his eyes that held Samuel captive.
They were dark, intense, but the usual cool focus was gone, replaced by a raw, undisguised worry that seemed to carve lines into his face.
Samuel’s breath hitched, a sharp, painful sound in the quiet hallway. The sight of him here, at his door, was so profoundly unexpected it short-circuited his brain. All the rehearsed apologies tangled on his tongue.
“I’m sorry…” he began, the words a brittle whisper.
He didn’t get to finish.
Gael was moving. He crossed the threshold in one swift stride. His arms came around Samuel, pulling him close against his chest. One hand cradled the back of Samuel’s head, fingers tangling in his hair. The other arm wrapped firmly around his back, holding him as if he might vanish.
The dam broke.
A sob tore from Samuel’s throat, muffled against Gael’s sweater.
All the tension, the shame, the fear, the dizzying relief of Jacob’s acceptance, the crushing guilt of what he’d done to Gael; it all surged up and out in a hot, uncontrollable flood.
He wept, his body shaking, his fists clutching handfuls of Gael’s shirt.
Gael didn’t speak. He didn’t tell him it was okay.
He didn’t try to shush him. He just held him.
He stood solid in the doorway of Samuel’s apartment, an anchor in the storm, his chin resting on the top of his head, his hands a steady, warm pressure.
He held him through the ragged sobs, through the tremors, until the storm began to quiet, leaving Samuel spent and limp against him, breathing in the familiar, safe scent of his skin.
∞∞∞
Later, the room was dark save for the amber glow of the streetlamp filtering through the blinds.
They sat on Samuel’s sofa. Samuel was tucked into Gael’s side, his body angled into the solid warmth of him.
His face was pressed into the curve of Gael’s neck, breathing in the scent of his skin.
One of Gael’s arms was wrapped around his shoulders.
His other hand was in Samuel’s hair, his fingers slowly, rhythmically combing through the strands, smoothing them back from his temple.
Samuel felt safe. It was a simple, profound sensation that seeped into his bones, loosening knots he’d carried for years. He felt cherished. It felt, though he was almost afraid to name it, like being loved.
The story began to spill out. He didn’t plan to tell it. The words just found their way up from the dark place where he’d locked them away.
He spoke into the hollow of Gael’s neck, his voice a low, broken murmur.
He started with the bus ride, the silence full of other boys’ fear.
He described the “welcome sermon” in the cold chapel, the Director’s sorrowful voice laying out the terms of their corruption.
The surrender of his books, his music, anything that was him.
The first night in the bunkroom, the rule of silence so absolute you could hear a boy crying three beds over into his pillow.
He talked about the posture drills. Standing for hours, a book balanced on his head.
The lashings. Three strikes for a slouched shoulder.
Five for a wandering gaze. He described the sting, the heat, the shame of having to thank the counselor for the “correction.” He told him about the “shame chairs” in the corner of the dining hall, where you sat facing the wall if you’d been deemed especially weak.
His voice grew thinner when he came to the cube.
The Reflection Room. The darkness so complete it felt like being buried alive.
The cold of the concrete floor seeping through his skin.
Being forced to recite scripture until his voice gave out, until the words lost all meaning and became just sounds in the dark.
Then, Elias.
His name was a whisper. Samuel’s fingers tightened in the fabric of Gael’s shirt.
He described the other boy; wild, beautiful.
The furtive, desperate alliance in a place designed to isolate them.
The single, stolen kiss at the lake. A moment of terrifying, beautiful connection.
And getting caught. The Director’s profound, crushing disappointment, which had somehow hurt worse than any lash.
The public confession. The extended time in the cube after that, with new verses about abomination.
He didn’t look at Gael once. He kept his face hidden, speaking the horrors into the safe darkness of his collar, as if giving them voice directly to his skin would somehow neutralize them.
When he finally finished, the words trailing off into a shaky exhale, the room was very quiet. The only sound was their breathing. Gael’s hand in his hair had stilled.
Then he moved. Gently, he untucked Samuel from his side. He shifted off the couch and knelt on the floor in front of him. The movement was so unexpected that Samuel finally looked up.
Gael’s face was in shadow, but the streetlight caught the hard line of his jaw, the intensity of his gaze. He reached up and cupped Samuel’s face in both hands. His palms were warm, his touch firm.
“I am so sorry that happened to you,” Gael said. His voice was low, but it vibrated with a iron strength that filled the quiet room. “You did not deserve that. Not one second of it.”
Samuel tried to look away, but Gael’s hands held him gently in place.
“They were not men of faith,” Gael continued, each word deliberate, clear. “They were criminals. What they did to you was not righteous. It was a crime. You were a child.”
He leaned in then, pressing his forehead against Samuel’s. The contact was startlingly intimate. Gael’s thumbs swept over Samuel’s cheeks, wiping away the tears that had begun to fall silently.
“But you survived,” Gael murmured, his breath warm against Samuel’s skin. “You are here. They lost.” He paused, his grip on Samuel’s face softening into a caress. “And now,” he said, his voice dropping to a hushed, fierce whisper, “you are mine to protect.”
He pulled back just enough to look Samuel directly in the eyes, his gaze unwavering. “No one will ever hurt you like that again. Do you understand? No one.”
Samuel nodded, a small, jerky motion. A fresh tear escaped, traced a path over Gael’s thumb.
Gael leaned in again and pressed a kiss to Samuel’s forehead. Then he kissed the tear-track on his cheek. Then the other.
Then he found Samuel’s mouth.
Gael kissed him as if he could kiss away the memory of every lash, every hour in the dark, every cruel word. He kissed him with a relentless tenderness that left Samuel dizzy.
He didn’t stop. He kissed him again, and again, his hands framing Samuel’s face, his mouth a soft, insistent pressure that spoke of sanctuary, and possession, and a future where the past held no power.
And Samuel kissed him back, pouring every ounce of his relief, his gratitude, his dawning, terrifying hope into the kiss.
Gael didn’t pull away for a long, long time.