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“How did you find Marcus Aurelius?” he asked.
“Load of self-help bollocks.” I offered a contemptuous huff to the darkness. “I would have expected better from a Roman emperor.”41
Leo laughed sleepily. Which I didn’t even know it was possible to do. “That’s kind of the whole point. That he was the emperor, maybe the most powerful person in the world, and he still had all these feelings.”
“That he turned into repetitious directives for others.”
“He didn’t, though. These are his personal diaries, I guess.”
“His meditations?” I suggested sardonically.
“That was what someone else called them. They were never intended to be published.”
“Isn’t it a bit shitty that they were, then?”
“Well…” Leo seemed to ponder this. “He’sverydead. He’s probably over it.”
I spanned my fingers across his hip, nothing possessive in the motion at all, no desire to hold him close. “And a stressed-out Roman’s ramblings really brought you comfort in prison?”
“Yes. I thought it was kind of amazing that he had all this power and he still wanted to figure out how to be a good man. That he didn’t have all the answers. That he was scared of failing and dying and—”
“And being distracted by pretty slave boys.”
“I mean, who isn’t? I mean, not slaves. Slavery is bad. Just, you know, pretty boys.”
“And are you distracted by pretty boys, Leo?”
“I wouldn’t say prettyboysexactly.” He made a sweet, flustered sound. “Maybe just one pre—”
It was probably for the best I kissed him then. It wouldn’t have been good for either of us if I’d let him finish his sentence. Of course, it likely wasn’t good for us to be kissing either. Not like this anyway—slowly, endlessly, falling into each other, deep, then deeper, and deeper again, drowning your soul in someone else’s mouth until it felt, for those pocket-forever moments, freshly untarnished. We kissed like we didn’t know better. Like we’d never known fear or hurt or self-destruction. Like there was nothing in the world but kissing. Not even sex. Not even tomorrow.
10
Tomorrow woke me too early. It filled the boat with silver light. And suddenly, I could not bear Leo sleeping beside me. Slipping out of bed, I pulled on my trousers and Leo’s hoodie. Then paused, restless and uncertain, until some impulse—curiosity probably—took me, hobbling still, to the doors that led to the bow. I unlocked them and dragged myself up the stairs and out. There was a comfortable space to stand, even with what looked like a pile of paint cans and other tools wrapped up in a tarpaulin, and the front of the boat formed an elegant curve, its nose slightly uplifted as if inquisitive.
Dawn was just breaking, like an egg cracked upon the sky, pouring unruly gold across the horizon. The mist that curled over the river, as wayward as Leo’s hair, was pearly grey, shining almost lilac when it caught the light. And upon the pale, ice-smooth surface of the water flickered the smudged reflections of the leafless trees—silhouettes of a thousand possible scenes, a thousand possible stories. Here a tall woman with a wineglass, there two lovers entwined, six cats fighting, a rooster upon a farmhouse roof,a basket of flowers, a man fleeing. Everything was still. Utterly silent. Not even a bird or the rumble of traffic on the Abingdon Road. It was so fucking wasteful, so cruel sometimes, the way the world cared nothing for its own beauty.42
And I—
“Marius?”
I didn’t even have to turn to know Leo was standing on the steps behind me. Confused, concerned. “Go back to bed.”
“Are you all right?”
“Obviously I am.”
“It’s a lovely morning.”
“Yes,” I said. My brusqueness should have been a wall. Against him. Against myself. But I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t protect either of us. Not when I was choking on all the mornings that lay behind me—lovely and unlovely alike, crumpled up and tossed over my shoulder like discarded sketches—and grieving, pointlessly, preemptively, a blur of mornings yet to come that I might never know.
“Marius.” Leo again, refusing to take the hint. To flee from me as Edwin would have done. “Won’t you talk to—”
“I have RP.” It was the first time I’d said it aloud. This thing that had cracked me like dry earth reduced to a word that barely broke the air.
An uncertain movement from Leo at my back. “RP?”
“Retinitis pigmentosa.” Another wall failing me. All my walls, maybe. Crumbling into dust and me along with them. “It’s a degenerative eye disease. Genetic. I mean, my dad’s dad is as blind as a bat, but we always thought that was because he’s old.”
