Page 89 of Knox's Boy

For long moments afterward, we lay together, our breathing gradually slowing, our heartbeats syncing. Florian's head rested on my shoulder, his breath warm against my skin, his fingers tracing my chest. The sheets were tangled around our legs, damp in places. His finger circled a small scar near my collarbone.

"What's this from?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

I glanced down, surprised he'd noticed the faded mark. "Sailing accident. I was twelve."

"You sailed?"

I nodded, my chin brushing against his tousled hair. "Every summer. My father insisted. He believed it built character."

Florian shifted slightly, propping himself up on one elbow to look at me. His blue eyes were serious, searching. I saw the marks I'd left across his pale skin. The sight stirred something possessive in me, but it was tempered now by a gentler feeling.

“Did you like it?” he asked, softly, as if a bad answer might hurt too badly. But I nodded, with a gentle smile.

“Yes. It was hard, sometimes, but I mostly liked it. The sun, the sea, the salt.”

"Tell me about her," he said. "Your mom. What was she like when you were growing up?"

I hesitated. These were waters I rarely navigated. The past was a foreign country I had deliberately exiled myself from. But Florian's expression was so earnest, so genuinely interested, that I found myself unable to deny him.

"She was... formidable," I began, searching for the right words. "Not just the fragile woman you met today. She ran that house like a general. The staff adored her but feared her in equal measure. We did too. But she was always soft, even when making us follow the rules or the consequences of our actions. She protected us from the world."

"I can see that," Florian smiled. "She has your eyes. Or you have hers, I guess."

"Her garden parties were legendary," I continued, surprising myself with the ease of the memory's return. "The entire country club set would attend. Women in wide-brimmed hats, men in linen suits no matter how hot it was. She insisted on proper attire. The gardens would be immaculate."

Florian laughed softly. "Sounds like someone else I know."

I pinched his side gently in retribution, earning a squirm and a giggle. "I was ten when I realized she was actually terrified of those parties. I found her in her dressing room, practicing her smile in the mirror, rehearsing small talk. She saw me watching, and instead of being angry, she sat me down and explained that sometimes, appearing strong was more important than feeling strong."

"That's... actually really sad," Florian murmured.

I nodded, memories surfacing now, impossible to suppress. "My father was different. Cold, methodical. He viewed parenting as another business to manage efficiently. Every interaction had a purpose, a lesson to impart, a weakness to correct."

"Jesus," Florian breathed. "That's intense for a kid."

"It was his way of showing love," I said, surprised to find I actually believed that now, with the perspective of years. "He wanted me prepared, I guess. The world was not kind to men like us."

"Men like us?" Florian asked, his finger resuming its gentle exploration of my chest.

"Gay men," I clarified. "He knew before I did, I think. Never said a word against it but made sure I understood that I would need to be twice as competent, twice as controlled, to earn the same respect."

Florian was quiet for a moment, absorbing this.

“I couldn't talk about that, of course. He didn't want to know any of it, but I respect that. He accepted me as well as someone who was born in 1940 could, I suppose.”

“But your mom was also born around that age, and she supported you better?” he said. Witty kid.

“Well, that's moms for you,” I said, and we both smiled, even though I knew his own mom had left him. I couldn't begin to comprehend how a mom would do that, and how he wouldn't resent her. He was too pure for this world.

"Winters were different," I continued, caught now in the stream of memory. "The house was always cold, no matter howmany fires burned. My father would retreat to his study for days, not much interested in being with us, emerging only for meals. My mother would play the piano in the evenings. She liked Vivaldi, the Four Seasons. I would sit in the library with a book, listening to her through the walls, watching snow pile against the windows. I was the youngest of four. My siblings were too old to want to play with me."

"It sounds so... formal," Florian said, his voice soft. "Beautiful, but lonely."

"It was," I admitted, the truth surprising me. "I was lonely. I had everything a child could want materially, but... and then soon they’d send me to the boarding school anyway, so…"

I trailed off, suddenly aware of how much I was revealing. I wasn't used to this kind of emotion. But when I looked down at Florian, there was no judgment in his expression, only understanding.

I watched as Florian's eyelids grew heavy, his blinks becoming longer. He fought it, clearly wanting to extend this rare moment, but exhaustion was claiming him. I stroked his hair, silently giving him permission to succumb.