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Thomas pushed off the door, ran a finger through the thick dust on the table.
"We're not backward here, Marcus. As long as you don't shove your differences in people's faces, they're pretty tolerant. "
"Did I sound shocked?" Marcus asked mildly, raising a brow. "We had a good chuckle over it and Mrs. Dorsey talked me into some fresh squash. I know the problem isn't the community, Thomas. It's your history in it. Your family. What will Mrs. Dorsey say when Thomas Wilder shows up with that handsome Yankee everyone knows is gay? But it's not even about that, because small town people are usually a lot sharper than us big city folk believe. Most of them probably guessed it about you long ago. " He shifted, tilted his head. "Your mother, your family, is a serious obstacle. But what I've realized is that you're the true problem. What you feel you deserve, the faith you have in us. The question isn't do I belong in this world of yours, but do you want me to belong in it? I'm willing to try, because your mother is right about one thing. You need this part of your life. It's as much a part of who you are as your painting.
And. . . maybe I need it too, because it's the core of you. "
Thomas' gaze snapped up. Marcus turned then, as if he s
uddenly had a need to move, had gone somewhere he'd not necessarily intended to go. Looking out the window, his expression became more thoughtful, his gaze drifting.
"At the hospital," he said at last, quietly, "you said that if it wasn't for your responsibility to your family, you'd stay with me until I kicked you out. Are they your safety net, your mother, Rory and Les?"
"What?" Thomas' brow furrowed.
"If you believed I would never tire of you, never kick you out, would the answer be the same?"
Thomas shuffled, drew a circle in the dust. "As hard as it is to be without you now, I don't think I could handle watching you get bored with me. "
"And you think I would?"
Thomas couldn't answer. Though he thought he saw a flash of pain in Marcus' expression, his voice was still even when he spoke next. "How would you feel if you knew I had every intention of making what we had a forever deal? That I consider you mine, not just now or a year from now, but every year after that?"
"Scared shitless. " Thomas managed a smile he didn't feel.
Marcus nodded. "I can see a lot of things here, Thomas. I can see us in this kitchen, making dinner for your family. Your mother might be tight-lipped at first, but then we'd all loosen her up. She'd be giving ideas on curtains before she left. I imagine you on that front swing, your feet bare, toes brushing the ground as you sketch that way you do, like everything else has disappeared. I see a tester bed, a firm mattress, able to take punishment. Like you. "
Marcus turned now, his lips curving, voice settling into a lower, enchanting cadence. "I see you leaning against the doorway over there. I can imagine moving past you, stopping just a breath away from your mouth, pressing you back into the frame with the weight of my body. I'd be on the phone, brokering deals hundreds of miles away, and yet my hand would be on your cock, sliding around to your hip to cup your ass, watching your eyes go opaque and dangerous like they are now.
"Bending you over the kitchen table, or pushing you to your knees to suck my cock while watching the sun set over the fields, anticipating taking you up to my bed, fucking you and holding you while you sleep. . . I can imagine you and us a million ways here, Thomas. I will make my home where you are, because you are my home. I don't know any way to say it any more clearly. So now the ball's in your court. " Marcus straightened, faced him squarely. "I want you to move into this house.
Make a home with me. "
As Thomas stared at him, speechless, Marcus came across the room. "And another thing. I've had enough of this shit. " He laid a hand on Thomas' shoulder, then another on his abdomen, curving over the ache, making Thomas wince. "It ends here. You need someone at your back, making sure you're taking care of yourself, someone who's able to truly kick your ass back into line when you don't. And in the words of the country song, slightly altered, I'm wearing the outrageously expensive Italian loafers that can do it. "
* * * * *
It was unreal. Like a Twilight Zone episode, only in vibrant color and without the eerie echoing hopeless ending suggesting that human nature would always disappoint.
Thomas didn't know what to answer, couldn't think what to say. Then Marcus' cell rang. Marcus glanced at it. His eyes darkened, his lips thinning. "I'll be outside. Look around. "
As Thomas watched Marcus leave out the kitchen door, step onto the porch, he felt that brief sense of hope drain away.
He looked around the kitchen. Marcus wanted him to make the ultimate step, and yet in this fateful moment, he was demonstrating he wasn't willing to make Thomas fully a part of his life. Perhaps the Twilight Zone episodes were on target, just like Thomas' original feelings. Even if Marcus did think his feelings for Thomas were love, they wouldn't last. A passing phase, having to do with not being willing to hear the word no. Marcus' subconscious apparently knew it even if he didn't, because he continued to feel the need to keep his secrets.
As he had the thought, Thomas realized that wasn't fair, exactly. Once again they were at the point of "I'll show you my hand if you show me yours. " Whatever was in Marcus' past was apparently his most closely guarded secret. Until Thomas was willing to surrender to him completely, he wasn't going to trust. Was that how it worked? A slave's full surrender could win a Master's trust?
Or was it like gradually loosening a tight box lid, taking it up a little on either side, not able to get too far ahead of the other side until it all came up at once? Maybe it was different for every two people.
He stepped out as Marcus snapped the phone closed, exchanged a look with him.
Marcus opened his mouth.
"Don't," Thomas said quietly. "Don't lie to me about who that was. If you don't want to tell me, just don't tell me. You've. . . " He turned and looked at the house. "This is a dream, Marcus. I think it's a dream I want, maybe the dream I've always wanted, but I'm not sure of what you want, or even who you are. You always keep it to just you and me, and a person is about a lot more than that. They are what they come from, who their family is, where their deepest secrets and fears lie.
"You know all those things about me," Thomas said. "I've never hidden them from you - when I tried, you just ferreted them out. But in order to live in a house like this, you've got to appreciate the light. An artist needs light like air. To flourish and create.
To believe in the art. "
