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He’d had been careful to read the signs, was sure that what he was feeling at that moment was tension. A buildup of tension.Years of it. The way Harry would occasionally brush his hand against Bron’s and then smile; the complete casualness with which Harry would remove his clothes in front of him, where all the other boys would keep a strict eye on him. The way he said things like“You know, you’re the best thing in the whole wide world, don’t you, Bron?”and“You know I couldn’t cope without you, right?”At his most vulnerable, Harry would curl up into a ball and cry into his open lap. He would say,“I hate it here, I just hate it here,”and Bron would gently shush him and run his fingers through his hair, telling him it was“Okay, you’ll be okay,”as he curled his hair around his fingers and lightly brushed at his nose.
Sitting beside his best friend, he knew something was bound to happen. One of them just had to do it. He’d always imagined himself as the female protagonist, had waited patiently for things to unfold, but at no point did Harry’s wrist twitch or flex in a yearning for him, or his hand hover over Bron’s in a way that suggested the moment had finally come. But they’d just seen for themselves the way two boys could kiss on screen, and if one of them would just lean in and do it, then that would confirm everything. He’d practiced kissing the crook of his elbow many times, or his own reflection in the dirty mirror. But for him to do it would be like stepping across a threshold and into a house that should be entered with caution. One that goaded him with signs to “Keep Out.” But still, it tempted him, called him in.
So he’d leaned into his friend and kissed him. A peck at first, but when Harry looked back at him, startled, he leaned in again, and more determined this time. He could still taste the mint of Harry’s toothpaste. Feel the rolling of his tongue like a wave and the little whiskers of hair at Harry’s upper lip tickle his own. The pecks and movements improving the longer that they did it. No one in the world had kissed him like that before or held him like that. He touched his hand to his lips.
“Bron,”Harry had said, gently pulling away. He was holding Bron’s hands in his and he was looking into his eyes. It was the most perfect moment Bron had ever lived through.
“Yes?”This was it, the moment he had been waiting for. Harry was about to say that he loved him.
“I think we should stop.”
Stop. The tenderness that had swept through his body left him. The hairs that had risen still stood, but guarding themselves from the onslaught of shame as it rippled across him. His buckling as he pulled farther away.
“What’s wrong? Did I do something wrong?”
“No, no you haven’t, it’s just …”His memory was a blur, the words that Harry uttered that day ranging through a multitude of narratives that changed with every recollection, though he could still envision Harry’s hand wiping across his wet mouth, a cleansing of the kisses he had given him.
“I think we should just forget about this, alright? I think that’s probably best.”
“Forget it? Why forget it? I don’t want to forget. What’s happened?”
“Nothing. Nothing’s happened.”
“Did you … did you not like it? I thought you would. Ihopedyou would.”
“I don’t—I don’t know. I don’t think so. I’m not gay, Bron. I’m not … like that. I’m not like you.”
“Oh.”The rejection. It lived on in his body. A memory. More than a sting, more than an ache. I’m not like you.
I’m not like you.
I’m not like you.
In the darkness of the room now, he felt as though he had two hearts, one that still longed for Harry and one that burst with an immediate need for Darcy. He imagined them as two separate organs, one blue, one purple. His blue heart ached with a coldness that frosted over, and all it took was a warming thought to thaw the icicles away. But no, no. Frozen it was to remain. He’d make sure of that. And the purple heart … well, that was a muscle that hardened over time, darkened through its lack of use, swelling and knotting like the veins of a bruise. But slowly, thepurple heart was turning to red, pumping blood, and working. Letting something like oxygen in.
He saw the shadow eclipse the slit at the base of the door before he heard the shuffling outside. His heart leaped, and he snatched his teasing hands away from his body.He has come back. He wants to unravel me, know me from the inside out.The intense breathing, almost like a stifled cry, carried from outside. The notion of Darcy’s body behind the wooden frame burned like a furnace, and he willed him to open it.
Darcy didn’t knock this time. He pulled open the door with a silent scrape. The point of no return. Stepping into the room, he was a great mass of shadow seeping across the expanse. The curtains, though, were soon flung open, and the moonlight casting through the window lit him up like a phantom. Bron wondered whether he should feign sleep, remain motionless and pretend to wake when Darcy came to touch his body, or should he slowly stir, sit right up and say,“I’m here, right where you left me, ready for the taking?”He’d almost made his decision when Darcy gripped him by the shoulders, shook him, and said his name, first at a whisper, then more loudly.
He simulated drowsiness, worked up a smile that would make him look surprised, doe-eyed, but also desirable as he fluttered his eyes open. Darcy’s face contorted, and there was a strain to his voice that he hadn’t heard before. He leaned in to kiss him, touched the wetness of his cheeks.
“Bron,” he managed.
“What’s wrong?” Bron’s vision blurred briefly; Darcy’s cheek and neck burning hot. “What is it? What’s happened?”
“It’s my father, Bron. He’s … he’s dead.”
PART III
13
DAYS ELAPSED, DURING WHICHthere was little to account for. The household was still, having falling into a gentle hush that made every uttered word reverberate, as an exchange would in the middle of a sermon. The air was heavy, stale. Bron burnt incense in his room to ease the ongoing headaches; only sometimes that made them worse, and in his sleep he dreamed of smoke and red glows under locked doors.
Madame Clarence busied herself with the constant cooking of meals and continued to arrange the dinner table with utmost precision, tinkering the cutlery left and right as if her employment depended on it. When visitors arrived at the door with food parcels and flowers, she welcomed them and their excessive displays of grief with open arms. Suddenly everyone had known Mr. Edwards, loved him like a sibling, and the house took more visitors than even the most populated parties had. An aunt and uncle from Cumbria, and another pair who’d made the trek back from their country abode in Aberdeenshire, were here to check on Ada and Darcy and stressed their availability should they need anything through this troubling time. Family must stick together, after all; otherwise, what else have we got? Bron watched them take in the fineries of the house, walking through as if it had already come into their ownership, commenting on the roomsthat Mr. Edwards had let go to disrepair. Their light murmurings suggested they would, in fact, one day own the place, mentions of “the incident” and “being underage” reaching his ears. “Who else would he trust if not his own brother?” And neighbors, friends—men with bulbous noses—were all here to lament “how Dickie used to laugh” and “what a bonkers man he was, our Richard.”
And how had Mr. Edwards died? Well, that Bron still didn’t know. Nobody had told him much, and he didn’t dare ask. The body had been quickly taken that same night, and a death certificate issued. Darcy broke the news to Ada and Madame Clarence first thing that morning. Since then, Ada had taken to crying in her bedroom, and Darcy was nowhere to be seen. While everybody had known of Mr. Edwards’s sudden illness, there had been no communicating, at any point, that it was anything very serious.
In his favorite memory of Mr. Edwards, from shortly after the fire, Bron recalled him marching into the breakfast room with a grin on his face—he was always mischievous with his smiles—and with his hands about his neck, failing to tie the specific knot he desired, requesting Ada’s assistance.
