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"You want to know what leverage you have," Thomas said bluntly. "When you want something to happen a certain way, you break down defenses. Then you gather pieces of information, assemble them into a plan and execute it when someone is off balance. Like 'Item One, his brother might get better, so I can use that to - '" Marcus rose so abruptly his knee hit the table, jarring the glassware. Fortunately, nothing toppled, but the clink of glass and silver was enough to stop Thomas mid-sentence.
Marcus had fixed a hard, cold gaze upon him. When he said nothing for several moments, Thomas felt like squirming. If Marcus was silent now, it was because his temper had been simmering and suddenly had gone to open boil. The passive-aggressive energy that had been moving between them - the elephant in the room -
was about to stampede. But goddammit, he wasn't wrong. He knew Marcus. He'd seen him do it before. Not in personal shit so much, but somehow Thomas figured there was a line they'd crossed where all was fair in love and war. Or had he imagined it?
"You walked out on a gallery showing we spent months planning and promoting," Marcus said at last, in a flat, deadly tone. "You called me from an airport hundreds of miles away to tell me that your father'd had a heart attack and died before you could even make the connecting flight. You told me you didn't need me - "
"I didn't - "
"Shut. Up. "
Thomas clenched his teeth, but he shut up.
"You didn't want me to come, even though I could hear your voice breaking over the phone. I told you I would do whatever you needed, be whatever, wherever you needed me to be, when all I wanted to do was go to you, stand by you, while you faced one of the hardest moments of your life. You came back, thinking you could pick up some of the pieces, but I should have known then it hadn't been resolved. Your brother got hurt and you left again. In the middle of the night, because you couldn't handle saying goodbye. "
Marcus leaned down, bracing his knuckles on the table and stared hard into Thomas' eyes. "I wanted to know how your brother was because he's your brother.
Because I haven't been able to find out from you how you're doing or how your family is doing. It matters to me, because they matter to you.
"How many times have you told me stories about you and Rory as kids? How he tagged along after you, wore overalls without a shirt? How you fished him out of a creek when he was eight so he wouldn't drown? The way you watched over him when your dad and mom had to keep a farm and a business running while you all were growing up?
"I asked," he continued in that low tone that was striping Thomas' insides,
"Because I love you so fucking much, and I wish I could change everything that's happened to you. But because I can't, I can at least ask how things are going, so maybe I can figure out a way you'll let me help you. "
Thomas started shaking his head. Marcus had never said he loved him. He was using it now like a weapon of mass destruction, trying to wipe away all his defenses, use it to. . .
"Fuck you," Marcus snarled abruptly, upending the table, sending it crashing against the railing. Crockery spun and shattered, juice and eggs splattering them both.
"For your information, you selfish prick, I can read everything in your face. I've never lied to you about anything. Ever. The only one lying to himself here is you. You tell me
'one week'. That's it, that's all you'll give us. Well, since I'm on a roll, let me continue to be perfectly honest with you. "
Marcus leaned forward again, his face hard. "That has nothing to do with your family. You've accepted a man can want to fuck another man, but you can't accept they can love each other. That's what's eating a hole in your gut. Your dad dying when he did was just an excuse. You were getting too scared of where we were going. And it wasn't just the way you feel about me. You're not only gay, you're a fucking sexual submissive. Wouldn't that just send your mother over the deep end?"
"My mom's been through a lot. You don't understand. "
"No, I don't," Marcus shouted. "I don't understand what it's like to lose someone when I'm not expecting it. Have my heart torn from me and be told it's something I just have to accept. "
He straightened abruptly, stepped back, his eyes like emerald fire, heat blasting off him. "At least she knows what she wants is dead. What I want just refuses to be with me. Maybe I should compare notes with her on what's worse, for I swear to God sometimes I think if you were dead this would hurt less. "
"Fuck you. " Thomas leaped up and backed away from the upended table, moving toward the stairs. "I won't listen to this bullshit. You're just trying to confuse me. "
"You do that well enough on your goddamned own," Marcus shot back. "Run. Run from it all you want. Go home to your little farm and pretend there are all these noble reasons to be there rather than the truth, which is you're a coward. Afraid to face who you are and what you want. "
Thomas spun on his heel, an angry retort on his lips, but Marcus was already turning away with a disgusted look. He went back into the house, slamming the sliding door with enough force to make the entire rear wall of the house quake, shuddering through the pilings below, matching the quiver of rage that went through Thomas' own limbs.
Son of a bitch. Bastard. Asshole. Fucking shithead. Thomas stomped down the deck stairs. But even as he thought it, something was shaken deep inside of him. He'd never seen Marcus have an outburst like that, the sarcasm and intellectual scorn abandoned for raw, pure feeling.
Halfway down, Thomas became aware of a sharp pain in his foot. His pulse was racing so hard in reaction to Marcus' words he hadn't noticed it at first. He hobbled to the bottom of the stairs, sat down and looked at the three bloody spots where shards of broken glass had lodged in his bare heel.
I love you. Marcus had never said the words, but Thomas had felt something from him sometimes in a quiet moment, an urgent need, a sudden powerful stillness as if there were such words there, just waiting to be said. Thomas had never said them himself, believing it was just his own desire to hear Marcus say them resonating, reflecting the desire of one heart, not two.
Marcus didn't love him. He couldn't.
I've never lied to you.
Thomas looked across the patio at his mounted sketchpads. Always a comfort, but now they mocked him, particularly the one in the middle. Just that splayed hand, the fingers inviting touch even as they gave the impression of looking for something that wasn't within reach. Was it Marcus' hand, or his soul? Thomas rose, went to it. Putting his hand over it, he saw there was a splatter of egg at the top corner, fallen from the upper deck.
