Page 69 of Hilarina and the Ogre

“I don’t think I move a lot.” Trenton wasn’t sure what information would help Hilary form an opinion. “I usually wake up in the same position I fell asleep in. But I do take up a lot of room. I don’t know if I snore.”

“You don’t.”

Was that an educated guess? No, it was more than that. Hilary seemed to know it the way he knew all those other impossible things. It had Trenton’s heart rate kicking up, and, still feeling daring, he sat down on the edge of the bed. There were even fewer personal touches in the bedroom, so even though the music box atop the dresser was small enough to fit in the palm of his hand, he found himself drawn to it. “Can I…?”

“Go ahead.”

When Trenton twisted the handle on the side, the little ballerina on top spun to a tinny version of Tchaikovsky’s theme for Swan Lake. He was surprised he knew the title. He listened to music sometimes, but this was more than the kind of passing familiarity he’d have from overhearing the song in a store or played in a movie. Déjà vu some people would have called it, but he knew the answer was less mysterious. The memory was simply one of the very many locked behind the walls in his mind. Walls that became more transparent with Hilary—and that was frightening. The flash at the restaurant had proved that whatever was hidden inside him ought to remain hidden. And yet, he still looked up, blinking the wet out of his eyes to ask, “Why didn’t you come for me sooner?”

It was the first thing he’d said to evoke surprise. Hilary looked at him, and for the space of a moment the man was entirely open. A thousand things seemed to flit across that face, scrambled emotions Trenton couldn’t identify, their hidden meanings unknown to him. And that was unfair. To be known and yet not to know back. Unfair to Hilary, that is, because Hilary needed to be understood. Hilary, who was far less stable than he had shown himself to be all the past year—who was maybe just as lost as he was.

Trenton took hold of those hands. That was something else he might have done before if he’d just been brave enough. It seemed so stupid to be afraid now. Yes, he was a murderer with no memories, but if anyone might have listened—might have given him a chance—it was this person in front of him.

“It’s difficult,” Hilary finally said. “To get the balance right. To know how much to interact and be with you. So I keep away sometimes, but I always come back.

Hilary’s hands were cool and dry, and the veins on the back of them fairly pronounced—a man who used his hands often.

“Can you explain that a little?” Trenton felt guilty for asking, knowing he was pushing into territory Hilary found painful, but he felt it was important to understand. He’d been too lax before, and too selfish. If he had any hope of making this work, he had to get serious about making up for his faults.

Hilary didn’t seem to mind the hand-holding. He hadn’t back at the restaurant either. “I become agitated when I spend too much time around you. The having you but not having you—it makes me—I don’t know how to describe it. I get fucked up in my head and I know it shows, so I stay away, but then it’s even worse away from you. I get anxious, and I need to be there. And sometimes that’s enough, just making sure you’re okay, but most of the time once I see you, I want to talk to you, and once I’m talking to you, I keep thinking of touching you, and then I’m well on the way to getting messed up in my head again. Do you see?”

No, Trenton didn’t see. He couldn’t understand how someone like Hilary—handsome and educated and clever and charming—would be this obsessed with his welfare. But he could understand anxiety. He could understand the fear of losing someone. He was feeling it too. “What if—” For fuck’s sake, why was he such a coward? Hilary was there—had taken him home—if the man was going to be scared away so easily, it would never have come to this. “Once you see what I am—”

Hilary smiled, and the relief—it was like all Trenton’s insides being scooped out. All the anxiety, the overthinking and the darkness and the worry, all pulled away, and in its place was that calm, a simple lightness of being he hadn’t known he could feel. “That’s not going to happen.”

“But—”

“If I could grow tired of you, if there was anything that could turn me away at this point, it would be shocking enough to kill the both of us. It’s not going to happen, Trenton. If you run, I’ll follow you. If you come to hate me, I’ll follow you anyway. There’s no ridding yourself of me.”

If Trenton could have drunk down those words any faster, he would have. He tried to iron them in deeper since there were too many forgotten memories already. Though it didn’t seem possible he could forget something like that. “Why should I have this?” It was a question as much to the universe as it was to Hilary, or maybe those two were the same thing. “Other people don’t get to have you, so why should I—"

“Because I don’t give a fuck about anyone else, Trenton.”

It came out sharp, but it wasn’t anger. It was the agitation Hilary had mentioned, and Trenton knew it was his fault. Prodding like this. Poking to see what would bleed out. But how could he resist? When Hilary was giving him all these words, every last one an impossible treasure.

Hilary took him by the chin, and God, how Trenton wished he could glue the touch there. “You trusted me at the restaurant, didn’t you? So even if it’s difficult, trust me in this. Can you try?”

It was like being blessed again, and he was so hungry for it. His hands caught at Hilary’s wrists to extend the touch. He’d do anything to extend it. “I will. I’ll try.”

Hilary smiled, satisfied. “Hungry?” he asked.

Trenton didn’t know the answer to that. The buoyant, weightless kind of feeling had taken over so that ordinary feelings like hunger or thirst didn’t seem to have a place. “Are you?”

“I could eat.”

That was all Trenton needed to put him on his mission. He stood up properly. “What are you in the mood for?”

Hilary’s kitchen was wonderful. Not especially large, but everything was where he wanted it. The ingredients were on the scarce side, but that was easily remedied. Hilary put in an order while he cooked. Trenton was happy to see the Instant Pot, though it had clearly been languishing a while. Do you mind if I…?”

Hilary speared him with a look. “Don’t ask.”

“Sorry, I—”

“You’re not a guest. You’re a hostage. Everything here is yours.”

Trenton had to duck his head, his lips pressed tight. How wonderful it was to be the hostage of such a man.

Chapter Twenty