can’t accept they can love each other. That’s what’s eating a hole in your gut. Your dad dying when he did was just an excuse. You were getting too scared of where we were going. And it wasn’t just the way you feel about me. You’re not only gay, you’re a fucking sexual submissive. Wouldn’t that just send your mother over the deep end?”
”My mom’s been through a lot. You don’t understand.”
“No, I don’t,” Marcus shouted. “I don’t understand what it’s like to lose someone when I’m not expecting it. Have my heart torn from me and be told it’s something I just have to accept.”
He straightened abruptly, stepped back, his eyes like emerald fire, heat blasting off him. “At least she knows what she wants is dead. What I want just refuses to be with me. Maybe I should compare notes with her on what’s worse, for I swear to God
sometimes I think if you were dead this would hurt less.”
“Fuck you.” Thomas leaped up and backed away from the upended table, moving
toward the stairs. “I won’t listen to this bullshit. You’re just trying to confuse me.”
“You do that well enough on your goddamned own,” Marcus shot back. “Run. Run
from it all you want. Go home to your little farm and pretend there are all these noble reasons to be there rather than the truth, which is you’re a coward. Afraid to face who you are and what you want.”
Thomas spun on his heel, an angry retort on his lips, but Marcus was already
turning away with a disgusted look. He went back into the house, slamming the sliding door with enough force to make the entire rear wall of the house quake, shuddering through the pilings below, matching the quiver of rage that went through Thomas’ own limbs.
Son of a bitch. Bastard. Asshole. Fucking shithead. Thomas stomped down the deck stairs. But even as he thought it, something was shaken deep inside of him. He’d never seen Marcus have an outburst like that, the sarcasm and intellectual scorn abandoned for raw, pure feeling.
Halfway down, Thomas became aware of a sharp pain in his foot. His pulse was
racing so hard in reaction to Marcus’ words he hadn’t noticed it at first. He hobbled to 56
Rough Canvas
the bottom of the stairs, sat down and looked at the three bloody spots where shards of broken glass had lodged in his bare heel.
I love you. Marcus had never said the words, but Thomas had felt something from him sometimes in a quiet moment, an urgent need, a sudden powerful stillness as if there were such words there, just waiting to be said. Thomas had never said them himself, believing it was just his own desire to hear Marcus say them resonating, reflecting the desire of one heart, not two.
Marcus didn’t love him. He couldn’t.
I’ve never lied to you.
Thomas looked across the patio at his mounted sketchpads. Always a comfort, but now they mocked him, particularly the one in the middle. Just that splayed hand, the fingers inviting touch even as they gave the impression of looking for something that wasn’t within reach. Was it Marcus’ hand, or his soul? Thomas rose, went to it. Putting his hand over it, he saw there was a splatter of egg at the top corner, fallen from the upper deck.
It hit then. Sometimes the pain in his lower abdomen grew to such proportions it compressed his chest, and then he couldn’t breathe through the pain of it. Couldn’t breathe…
I love you… Coward… Father was just an excuse…
Thomas dropped to one knee as if shoved. Holding onto his chest, he tried to suck in air that wasn’t there. Perspiration, cold along his skin. God, don’t do this here.
There was broken glass on the tile, one of the saucers that had been propelled off by Marcus’ violent reaction. Despite the pain in his foot, it wasn’t enough. Thomas grabbed one of the shards, gripped it hard enough it pierced his palm, competing with the pain in his gut, but it was too far gone. The cut of the glass was just a feather brush compared
”My mom’s been through a lot. You don’t understand.”
“No, I don’t,” Marcus shouted. “I don’t understand what it’s like to lose someone when I’m not expecting it. Have my heart torn from me and be told it’s something I just have to accept.”
He straightened abruptly, stepped back, his eyes like emerald fire, heat blasting off him. “At least she knows what she wants is dead. What I want just refuses to be with me. Maybe I should compare notes with her on what’s worse, for I swear to God
sometimes I think if you were dead this would hurt less.”
“Fuck you.” Thomas leaped up and backed away from the upended table, moving
toward the stairs. “I won’t listen to this bullshit. You’re just trying to confuse me.”
“You do that well enough on your goddamned own,” Marcus shot back. “Run. Run
from it all you want. Go home to your little farm and pretend there are all these noble reasons to be there rather than the truth, which is you’re a coward. Afraid to face who you are and what you want.”
Thomas spun on his heel, an angry retort on his lips, but Marcus was already
turning away with a disgusted look. He went back into the house, slamming the sliding door with enough force to make the entire rear wall of the house quake, shuddering through the pilings below, matching the quiver of rage that went through Thomas’ own limbs.
Son of a bitch. Bastard. Asshole. Fucking shithead. Thomas stomped down the deck stairs. But even as he thought it, something was shaken deep inside of him. He’d never seen Marcus have an outburst like that, the sarcasm and intellectual scorn abandoned for raw, pure feeling.
Halfway down, Thomas became aware of a sharp pain in his foot. His pulse was
racing so hard in reaction to Marcus’ words he hadn’t noticed it at first. He hobbled to 56
Rough Canvas
the bottom of the stairs, sat down and looked at the three bloody spots where shards of broken glass had lodged in his bare heel.
I love you. Marcus had never said the words, but Thomas had felt something from him sometimes in a quiet moment, an urgent need, a sudden powerful stillness as if there were such words there, just waiting to be said. Thomas had never said them himself, believing it was just his own desire to hear Marcus say them resonating, reflecting the desire of one heart, not two.
Marcus didn’t love him. He couldn’t.
I’ve never lied to you.
Thomas looked across the patio at his mounted sketchpads. Always a comfort, but now they mocked him, particularly the one in the middle. Just that splayed hand, the fingers inviting touch even as they gave the impression of looking for something that wasn’t within reach. Was it Marcus’ hand, or his soul? Thomas rose, went to it. Putting his hand over it, he saw there was a splatter of egg at the top corner, fallen from the upper deck.
It hit then. Sometimes the pain in his lower abdomen grew to such proportions it compressed his chest, and then he couldn’t breathe through the pain of it. Couldn’t breathe…
I love you… Coward… Father was just an excuse…
Thomas dropped to one knee as if shoved. Holding onto his chest, he tried to suck in air that wasn’t there. Perspiration, cold along his skin. God, don’t do this here.
There was broken glass on the tile, one of the saucers that had been propelled off by Marcus’ violent reaction. Despite the pain in his foot, it wasn’t enough. Thomas grabbed one of the shards, gripped it hard enough it pierced his palm, competing with the pain in his gut, but it was too far gone. The cut of the glass was just a feather brush compared
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