KNIGHT
Chapter Thirty-One
Iwasn’t expecting Sullivan to react so strongly to what I did with the lake house. I guess I figured—it’s Christmas. Seems obvious I would have put a tree up, right? Like who wouldn’t do that?
“This is so beautiful.” His face shines with a continuous stream of tears.
I’m afraid to touch him after the hug I gave him yesterday had him backing away from me, so I gesture for him to sit on the pillows I laid out on the rug I brought over. I might not have been able to fix up the entire house, but this one little corner, I was able to make merry and bright, I hope.
“Want some egg nog? Beer? It’s Christmas-themed beer, but I thought it tasted all right for an IPA.”
“Whatever you’re having,” he says.
I go to the cooler on the kitchen table and pull out two of the IPAs, opening them before I walk back over to sit near him.
He takes a bottle from me and wipes his face with the side of the same hand. “Sorry. It’s been a day. I wasn’t expecting this.”
“And here I thought you’d roll your eyes because it’s such a cliché.”
He shakes his head, staring up at the tree. It’s a half-assed decorating job at best. Ten strands of multi-colored lights, a couple of boxes of shiny, white balls, and that’s it. He looks at it like it’s the Rockefeller tree. “It’s beautiful,” he says again.
I let him take it in while I take him in.
His breaths are deep and deliberate, and his eyes shine in wonder, reflecting the lights.
His face glows warm in all the colors, and he’s never looked lovelier.
I’ve always thought his face was perfect, from the first time I ever saw it, but there must really be something to knowing someone better—seeing their inner beauty shine through.
His head moves subtly to the hypnotic beat of the Arabian Dance, and he seems like he’s part of the music. Like he’s of it.
“Why would you do this for me?”
“I did it for us,” I tell him.
“Why?”
“Because I thought we’d like it. Maybe because we need it.”
His eyes close, and he drops his chin nearly to his chest. “I want you so much,” he whispers.
I swallow hard. That was the thing I wasn’t expecting, especially not one beer sip in and a Christmas tree later. Maybe on FaceTime in a few weeks when I haven’t left him alone and dropped several more hints, but not right this second. And still, “I want you, too.”
“How?” he asks, looking back up at the tree. “How do we do it?”
“I mean…are you okay keeping a secret?”
Finally, he looks at me, and with a level of sincerity that seems wrenched from the deepest part of him he says, “Yes.”
“I need something from you, though,” I say, because I do have a condition. If I’m going to risk literally everything I have for this chance at a life I never thought I’d be able to live, then I have to ask.
“What? Oh…yeah, I’ll stop,” he says.
“You’ll stop?”
“The parties at the house, right? You want me to stop giving head to guys for money?”
I nod. “Or for any other reason.”
“Yeah, that’s…not a problem.”
I don’t miss the shudder that runs through him.
Maybe this was an awful time to bring that up.
Ever since Sullivan told me what happened to him—the night in the tunnel, I mean—I’ve been wondering how he thinks about sex.
I’ve thought of the first few encounters we had.
The way he didn’t want me touching him or “returning the favor.” The way he wanted to set the terms, top, whatever, even when I was the one inside him.
And I thought of how it was last spring when his walls started coming down, and he let me explore him, pleasure him.
The way he let me want him more openly in a way I no longer felt ashamed of.
But now…now something’s different. Despite him saying what happened last week wasn’t any different than any other time, it’s beyond obvious that it was, and so much worse. I think it shocked him as much as it shocked me, and it’s impossible to know yet what kind of lasting damage it did.
“Okay, good,” I say. “You’re mine, then. It’s official.”
He laughs, a soft, genuine laugh. “No. You’re mine.”
We don’t touch, but we do share a smile.
“You’re gonna fucking hate me for this, but I got you a present.”
His brows draws together, and his expression morphs into a glare. “This is so fucking unfair. You ambushed me with Christmas.”
I stand to retrieve his gift from behind the couch. “It’s all very obvious if you take two seconds to think about it.”
“Well, I didn’t have two seconds today. My dad’s practically dying, and my mom is dating. Did I mention I think my dad’s also gay and somehow has health insurance? It’s been a lot.”
I hesitate before bending over to grab the box. “Wait. What?”
“Maybe not dying, dying, but he looks like shit. He’s clean, though, so I guess that’s something. And so’s the boyfriend. Davy.”
“He has a boyfriend?”
“He calls him his roommate, but he also slipped and called him babe like twice while I was there, so…you do the math. You’re good at math.”
“Yeah, it all adds up. Can we circle back to the dying part?”
“He has atrial fibrillation. It’s a heart condition. I mean, again—this shouldn’t be surprising. He basically did everything he could to stop his heart in his thirties, so, of course it sustained some damage, but—”
“A-fib is super common,” I tell him.
“I know, but…just with everything else. I always feel like this time was the last time. So, yeah, I’ve been crying all day, and I didn’t get you anything, so now I feel like an asshole.”
“When were you supposed to get me something? I’m just glad you came.”
“Because my presence is such a gift?”
I shrug. “To me it is.”
I’m pretty sure he’s blushing. “Just give me the present. Let’s get this over with.”
I chuckle and lift the box with both hands, walking it over to the tree and setting it down carefully in front of him. He looks up at me suspiciously. “Why is it so big?”
“Because I put it in the box my mom’s new office chair came in. Just open it.”
This seems to satisfy him enough to rise to his knees and take the bow off.
“You need help?”
“Maybe.”
One-handed gift opening is a neat trick, if a little hard to watch. He gets the paper off fine, and manages to pry the chair box open, but he can’t grab what’s inside because that takes two hands, so I do it for him, and the gift, while still technically hidden in its case, becomes obvious.
“No…” he says softly, staring at the hard leather rectangular box.
“The idea of you not having one felt like me not having a football. It wasn’t right. Didn’t make sense.” I move the cardboard box out of the way and sit down in front of him. I rest the case between us and watch him work open the clasps, then the zippers.
“I didn’t know what kind you had, but…”
“Holy shit, Knight,” he gasps when he opens the case and stares down at the instrument. “This is a Gagliano.”
“Yeah—I mean it’s used, but—”
“No, fuck, I…ugh, I don’t want to fucking cry again.” He leans away from the case and puts his hand over his eyes, squeezing them with his fingers. “How did you find this in bumfuck Michigan?”
“Christmas miracle?”
“These are rare—they’re expensive.”
“It’s not perfect,” I rush to say. “The luther guy said there’s some scuffs on the back he couldn’t buff out, and he had to replace the bridge and the tuning pins, and the bow is nothing special, just the best one they had, but he said the sound is good. I’ll let you be the judge of that.”
“Luthier,” he corrects me.
“Right. Yes. His name wasn’t actually Luther, to be clear. But that would have been funny.”
I think I’ve managed to steer him away from crying when he lets out a short laugh.
“Anyway, it’s a violin,” I finish.
“I see that.” He’s running his fingertips over the body of it now, then he delicately touches the strings, and I think of the way he used to touch me like that. I lick my lips, take a deep breath, and try to tamp down on those thoughts.
He plucks a string and smiles at the sound it makes. “Thank you,” he says, breathless.
“You’re welcome.”
He closes the case, slides it out of the way, and reaches for me.
I lean in, keeping my hands on my legs as he takes hold of my face and presses his mouth to mine. “Thank you,” he whispers again.
I part my lips slightly, and the kiss turns into something more.
A place we’ve been before. My body responds like someone switched on all the stadium lights.
Suddenly alive. The electricity between us sizzles and pops, and for a moment—a few good moments, really, the kiss is deep, intense, and all-consuming.
I even manage to put my hands on him, lightly on his sides, and hear him whimper softly in a way that sounds nice, pleased.
Then he moves in, getting closer, pressing our chests together. Instinctively, my arms tighten around him, my kiss deepens, and suddenly his hand is on my chest, and his mouth isn’t on mine anymore, and he’s saying, “Wait, wait,” and it sounds like he can barely breathe.
I let him go, lift my hands in the air, and stare into his startled, panicked eyes.
“I’m sorry,” he says. His hand remains on my chest, but he releases the pressure. “I got—I don’t know what that was. I’m sorry.”
I nod. “It’s okay.” I know exactly what that was, and would it kill him to just admit it?
He’s not fine. This isn’t okay. I’m angry again.
Not at him, but at whoever would do this to someone with a mind like his.
Beauty like his and the talent. What kind of monster can’t just sit back and appreciate something perfect without trying to shit all over it and break it?
“I feel safe with you,” he says. “I promise.”
“Okay.”
“It’s just been such an overwhelming day.”
“I understand, Sullivan.”
He appears to bite his inner cheek while he looks down at his hand on my chest. “Can we go slow?”
“As slow as you want.”
“It was a great kiss. I don’t want you to think—”
“I don’t. It was a good kiss.”
“I do want you.”
“Same. I’m not going anywhere.”
“I just don’t know how to have you anymore.”
He has me. That hasn’t been in question for a long time now.