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Thomas propped his chin on Marcus' skull, overlapped his arms around his back, holding him loosely. "We knew it would suck, didn't we?"
"Yeah. "
"If I could stay, if it was only about what I wanted, I'd stay until you got tired of me and kicked me out. I swear it. "
Marcus closed his eyes, breathed him in. For Thomas' wellbeing, he should let him go. Just let go.
"Okay?" When Marcus didn't answer, just sat there, breathing in everything that was Thomas, Thomas sighed, held his tense body closer. He rubbed Marcus' back, easy, caring strokes.
His steadying touch and presence were like a carefully timed release valve, allowing some of the pressure to dissipate so Marcus could breathe. Even when the doctor came back to report the X-rays were clean, he found he couldn't bring himself to draw back, let go.
Not until he had no other choice.
Chapter Fifteen
Three months later
They were done. Thomas stood back, surveying the twelve paintings critically, but he knew they were what he wanted them to be, every one of them. He pivoted on his heel to look at the thirteenth, which was placed in the opposite corner of the work shed.
He'd converted the building into his studio when he'd returned from the Berkshires three months ago. The shed was in the middle of the pasture, previously a feeding area and rain shelter for the herd they'd had years ago. He'd worked on it after store hours, getting it renovated the way he needed it. Kate sometimes came and grazed just outside while he ripped and hammered through the long hours of the night, stripped down to jeans and sweating.
Every drop of moisture rolling over his skin reminded him of the touch of Marcus' hands, the slide of his body over his. Full circle, back to longing and yearning, with too many hours to fill in the dead of night.
He hadn't spoken of his time with Marcus, pushing away his hurt that his family studiously avoided the topic as well. He told them he'd agreed to prepare about a dozen paintings for the gallery. The commissions would be enough to replace the roof on his mother's house, make sure the store had a comfortable winter with a heating upgrade. They couldn't argue with it, though his mother pressed her lips together, saying nothing to support or reject it as she finished making a new pot of breakfast coffee during the Monday morning discussion.
His dad had always joked and called them "Monday staff meetings", but over time they'd essentially become the day that the more significant store issues and strategies were discussed. Other mornings were just for being a family. On those mornings, Thomas found himself quiet, concentrating on eating as much as he could without drawing his mother's nagging to eat more. Half following Rory's latest gripes, their mother's comments about neighborhood goings-on, the volunteer work she'd do this week. When Celeste's next break was.
Thomas brought himself back to the present as he gazed at the one canvas off to itself. It was painful to look at, but he made himself do it. It was leaving in the next couple days, so the statute of limitations for the self-imposed torture was within reach.
It was taller than he, and twice as wide. When he looked at it he got pulled into it, as if the painting had the ability to stick a fist in his stomach and reel him in by his intestines.
He'd done most of it this week, working with singular determination through the day at the store, grabbing a sandwich and candy bar from his mother's kitchen and heading to the shed once night fell, the painting calling to him. The craving need to give the deepest part of himself form and substance, at least on canvas, had taken everything else away as he slashed and stroked.
At times, his arm had been wrapped around his middle like a restraint, hand plastered hard against the lower part of his abdomen to compress the burning there, his eyes watering.
Like now, for he'd finished this last painting just tonight. Before him was the finished result. Heaven, and the torments of Hell.
Sinking down on his stool, he studied it. What would Marcus think of it? Thomas wished he could be there to see his reaction when he did. He'd left a message earlier in the week with Marcus' staff assistant that the paintings would be ready by Friday and requested shipping instructions. Marcus was just completing a local exclusive on a much bigger name than Thomas. Remembering how Marcus was during the week of a show, Thomas hadn't expected to hear from him until it was over, but he knew he would hear from him eventually.
Since Thomas had returned, Marcus had called him every few days. His mother and brother didn't resort to hanging up on Marcus, but neither one, as well as the demands of the store, gave Thomas much privacy. What wanted to be said filled up the phone like static white noise that got unbearable as he rattled off inanities. It didn't matter what he said, anyway. He just wanted to hear Marcus' voice, even as it left him heavy and aching.
Marcus then mailed him a cell phone, the smartass. Even signed him up and paid for a year's service, noting that he would take it out of his commissions. Thomas left the cell phone in the studio and at night he would check the messages, listening to Marcus' voice. He wouldn't call him back - he used email to respond.
Thomas knew he was taking them back to where they were before the Berkshires, but he'd known that it had to be this way. Time and distance made it possible to do it, at least on the surface. Beneath the surface he feared he was disintegrating, being consumed by the black hole inside his gut a little more every day.
He'd taken Rory for an X-ray today, loaded up four grain trucks, helped Mrs. Smith find a socket set. Marcus had likely had coffee at Starbucks, done an interview for an art magazine, rubbed elbows with God knew who.
Over time, Marcus had begun responding on email. The first email Marcus sent had one word in the subject line. Chickenshit. But after that potshot, they started exchanging information. Not just the progress on Thomas' art, but also details about his family.
Marcus hadn't been sarcastic; if anything Thomas had been encouraged by his questions and interest. And pouring his thoughts into Marcus' ear and getting his reaction had helped. It had reminded Thomas that as well as a lover, Marcus always had been a pretty damn good friend.
Rory's doc says if he'd push himself more he could probably do more. . . Marcus' response. . . So when are you going to kick him in the ass?
Celeste's dating some guy at college we think will ask her to get married at Christmas. . . trying to convince her to finish college first. . . Geez, don't I sound like her frigging dad?
Marcus' response. . . You are. You're taking good care of them, giving her the right advice.
Don't worry. She seems to have a good head on her shoulders. . . Thought you'd want to know that Julie's friend Ellen is doing better since our night together. . . actually started to help Julie out at the theater. . .
