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.fic: La Familia - D/M (PG13/R) 4.4
Title: La Familia
By: HF
Email: aesc36 @gmail.com
Pairing: D/M
Rating/Warnings: PG13/R? Mention of sensitive material. Very strongly implied underaged sex here.
Disclaimer: Not mine, damn it.
Advertisements: Part of the ALTC/Distance series, taking place about one year after "Biscayne." Previous parts are: Sons; ALTC; Every Distance; Sons & Lovers; Blue River; Biscayne. For![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
wordclaim50 09 (find; Character Study) and philosophy_20 20 (Reflection).
Previous chapter: 01; 02; 03.
Notes: I feel unaccountably sad about finishing this up, considering it's only four chapters long. *depressed*
CHAPTER FOUR
The kid had a sunburn, and asked if he was legal.
That’s almost all Danny can recall about the first guy he’d ever had sex with. Blond and pale under the red coating of sunburn, one of the thousands of northern college students down for break, and he had smelled like aloe and marijuana. Bored cops and the lights and the noise of South Beach not fifteen feet away, but it was been dark and quiet where Danny said, Give me a hit, and I’ll give you what you want.
“Okay,” the kid said. “C’mere.”
Danny stayed away from pot after that night and became a good legal addict, sticking to alcohol and cigarettes.
Sometimes Danny wonders about that kid, the boy who’d snuck out of his foster parents’ home and hitched his way down to the seamy districts of Miami, wonders what he was looking for. Twenty years and more removed from being that boy, he still can’t say. The shrinks would say he was looking for love, acceptance, or maybe a way to deal with the overwhelming guilt of believing – however mistakenly – that he’d been responsible for his parents’ deaths, and the worse guilt of being glad they were gone. Danny thinks they’re probably right, but that there’s something more, maybe something having to do with the way he is: stubborn, the kind of child who has to learn about pain by touching the hot stove himself.
It’s a miracle that he’s here right now, the grown-up version of a kid who’d been stabbed, been wild and stupid with anger and his own pride. Sometimes he thinks this is all a dream and pow he’ll wake up in prison, in the foster care system again, wake up dead because God knows at any one point during those few years he could have – should have – died. Maybe he would have vanished, become one of those kids Missing Persons units don’t bother to look for because no one misses them at all.
It scares him sometimes, thinking how close he came to that.
But that kid... Curly blond hair and strong, strong as Rafi when his arms wrapped around Danny, and Kid, if you fucking tell the cops I’ll fucking kill you said when he pushed Danny’s face against the unforgiving bark of a palm tree, harsh and ugly, like his father’s voice. He froze and tried to concentrate on the marijuana insinuating itself throughout his veins, trying for the cloudiness and absence he’d seen in Rafi’s eyes sometimes, when the heroin got hold of him. Tried to concentrate on the hands under the hem of his shirt, calluses on the fingertips – a sort-of musician, the kid played guitar, probably bad Hendrix and Marley in his dorm room – that made him shiver, and Danny couldn’t tell if the shiver was pleasure, anticipation, fear, or some alchemy of the three.
Miami air moist, humid as the other kid’s breath on his skin, strangely cool, even though it was almost summer. He had no idea what to expect, had only heard vague descriptions from his friends, no one who’d actually done it, though Tony had claimed he’d fucked a girl that way (but Tony was a miserable liar, and couldn’t look anyone in the eye when he said this), a porn flick in George’s secret stash that cut away before the guy and girl onscreen really got to it, like the cameraman was ashamed of what was going on.
Ripping sound and for one second he thought Oh God, that’s me, jitter of fear that had him tensing and waiting for the pain, but in the corner of his vision he saw the brief glitter of a foil wrapper where it landed on the sand. The smothering weight of the other boy (and in his memory, Danny absurdly thinks of this kid – practically twice his scrawny size – as a boy) vanished for a moment, enough for Danny to reach for one desperate breath.
“Here, take a hit, and fucking relax,” the kid advised, and one long-fingered hand offered him the joint, soggy and ragged at the end where the other boy had been smoking it.
What happened after that couldn’t have been horrible, though Danny can’t remember much. Breath mostly, the other boy’s body straining against his, clumsy like maybe being eighteen didn’t magically unlock all the secrets of sex, which Danny had always assumed to be the case. Clumsy and sweaty, and it hurt – sometimes he imagines he can still feel the boy inside him, like the nerves and muscles themselves have memory – but there had to have been pleasure, something that felt right enough for him to seek it out again.
Only he’s been a sucker for punishment all his life, the shrinks would say, and maybe he got off on the pain of it all. Maybe he still gets off on it, because being with Martin is pain, happiness and pleasure that cuts like a knife, sharp and acute and it’s wonderful, how much it hurts.
But he’s remembering now, what it was like to be a lost boy trying to shake off the haze of the marijuana and find his way back.
He spent the remainder of that night straggling home, trying to walk properly and ignore the pain. The kid, who had a car – a Mustang, probably a high-school graduation present –, didn’t offer him a ride.
“Clear the fuck out before the cops pick you up.” Sunburn on strong thighs, skin glowing redly, and Danny watched with a distant sort of fascination as the kid fastened his shorts. “And don’t tell anyone. Got it?”
Danny assured him that he got it, and cleared the fuck out. He caught the bus back out to the Fosters’ neighborhood, walked from the shopping center through back ways to their yard, avoided the motion-sensitive lights George had installed, and crept into his room.
That was the beginning of all the thinking, the trying to figure out part of his life. He’d drunk in Catholicism with his mother’s milk, knew what he did and what he liked was wrong, wrong on the “mortal sin” level of wrong, and while George and Eileen hated Catholics they at least agreed with them on one thing: that Danny was probably going to go to hell, unless he shaped up.
He stopped going to church near the end of his time with the Fosters, because his parents had left him and the system had fucked him over, and maybe that was because he liked other guys and God was pissed at him. Because George realized that, no matter how much he threatened or hit or shouted, Danny wouldn’t go. Pissed at Danny Alvarez, who got ignored by his case workers, at a kid who did his best to pay attention in church and pray and be good and... and this was what he got?
He went to church for a while after Father Orlando got a hold of him, but then stayed away throughout college and law school.
Dragged himself to confession two days after his tenth AA meeting and confessed to seven years’ worth of failings, to everything except being gay, which he managed to keep to himself. And in the years of stumbling his way through the twelve-step dance of being an alcoholic in perpetual recovery, he’s managed to feel his way through the tangle of faith and what he is, and who this God is who’s supposed to hate him.
This is who I am, that’s what he’s left with in the final analysis. It’s what he’s left with when he wakes up in the morning and Martin’s there, warm and solid and taking up all but a fraction of the mattress. Sometimes it amazes him that Martin seems to be more at ease in their relationship than he is, when all along it was Martin who’d been uptight, repressed, chasing desperately after Sam and validation.
Wrong, Rafi had said, but Danny, with Martin next to him, now and then and through everything, can’t agree.
* * *
“Mr. Taylor, it’s Serene from the Center?” Yvonne, the secretary, always spoke as though she were asking a question – she always looked it too, her eyebrows raised and chin tilted inquiringly. “She wants to talk to you about the Braddock case?”
“Uh, put her through.”
“Are you okay?” This was actually a question, and Yvonne was peering at him concernedly through her glasses. “I can tell her to call back, if you want?” A pause, then: “I’ll tell her you’ll call her back.”
“Thanks... I’ll call her first thing in the morning, if she’s free.” Danny rubbed at his temples, trying to banish a headache and guilt over brushing off Serene. The case was important, due to go to trial in a few days and Serene, the advocate for Hannah Braddock, needed to go over the file with him. But that could be done tomorrow, on the other end of another difficult night.
“Are you okay?” Yvonne asked again.
“Fine.” Danny frowned at her from under the shelter of the palm pressed to his forehead. “Are you going to take the message not?”
Yvonne gave him an exasperated look, shook her head but said yes she would take the message, and headed out the door.
Danny followed her not long after; it was late, and he’d been staying away from home on purpose. He wasn’t sure what the purpose was, some strange paranoid belief that Rafi would be waiting for him. And why he believed that, Danny had no idea.
The only person waiting for him at home was Martin, as always – or, not always. Danny walked into a silent apartment, the shades drawn and the lights off, Martin’s suit coat nowhere in sight and not a sign of Martin anywhere, which alarmed him for a minute.
And that, strictly speaking, was not true. Martin was everywhere, in the shelves and shelves of books, the photographs, the odds and ends Martin had collected over the years, the scribbled note on the refrigerator that said Case broke this morning, back late, the half-empty bowl of Frosted Flakes abandoned in the sink.
Small things they were that spoke of Martin’s presence, huge and sometimes startling, if Danny thought about them too much.
Wander into the bedroom to shower and change, Martin’s running shorts and sneakers kicked into the corner, a forgotten and hideously-colored tie dangling off the bed. Two razors in the bathroom, Martin’s practical deodorant and cologne in the medicine cabinet. Good memories in the shower, which smelled like soap and when Danny inhaled he breathed in steam, the memory of Martin’s breath; the tiles were cool against his back and he could feel the indentations between them, and the only thing missing was Martin pressing against him, Martin who liked water and sex in the shower.
Dissatisfied suddenly, Danny switched off the shower and climbed out, dimly aware of the phone ringing – on its third or fourth try, and he was never going to make it in time before the voice mail kicked in. He dried off and dressed, wandered back into the kitchen to find something to eat and tried to ignore the flashing red light.
Pressed the button anyway, on the off-chance it was Martin surfacing from his case for a few minutes.
“Danny, it’s Rafi.”
A pause made of static and held breath.
“Danny, it’s Rafi... I wanted to call to see how you were. Call back, okay?”
And that was it. A pause, fifteen words. Call back, Rafi said, and I wanted to see how you were, three weeks after Memorial Day and Danny’s confession. He’d been hoping for the call, fearing it, half-tempted to pick up the phone and call Rafi himself, but he’d made his admission, and now the ball was in Rafi’s court.
Or not anymore; the click as Rafi hung up and the beep of the voice mail turning off meant it was Danny’s turn now.
He deleted the message and wished he could delete the call altogether, all the time back to the moment when Rafi picked up the phone to dial his number. Play it forward again, and this time maybe Rafi would call for pizza or call the hospital to see when Sylvia was getting off-shift, not his gay, damned-to-hell little brother.
Most of his appetite had vanished into the anxiety Rafi’s voice had caused, but Danny rifled through the refrigerator anyway. Everything looked vaguely spoiled, smelled wrong to him – the milk sweetly rancid, though he’d bought it yesterday, the meat livid, vegetables and fruit bruising under his fingers. He shut the refrigerator and turned to the cupboard: crackers, cereal, inoffensive and bland, carbs and sugar he probably needed to deal with his headache, to deal with all of this.
He was debating between crackers and giving up and going to sleep when he heard the door open and shut, the emphatic thunk of a backpack landing on the floor.
“Hey,” Martin said as he walked in the kitchen a moment later. Tired, lines under his eyes but victory in them, and Danny had to smile.
“Big break?” he asked into the quick kiss Martin pressed against his mouth, a kiss tasting of Martin and the day.
Soft huff, breath satisfied on Danny’s lips and Martin’s fingers were in his hair. Sudden glow of happiness, warm, but this sharp edge when Danny thought how much he needed this, needed Martin, an edge like happiness and pain. Rafi’s words tried to resurrect themselves – wrong, wrong, it’s not right, Danny – and he tried to ignore them.
“What’s up?” Martin had picked up on his tension, backed off, and was now looking at him curiously.
“Rafi called.” Anxious to show Martin this was no big deal, he turned back to the cupboard. “Anything you want for dinner?”
Two nights after Memorial Day they’d made love, making love so Danny could forget that day, what Rafi had said, the ghosts of the Fosters and his upbringing and everything. Martin hadn’t said anything then, or maybe he’d spoken in touch and taste, inarticulate and eloquent against Danny’s body.
The two nights before, Martin had stayed on his side of the bed, space Danny hadn’t wanted but had needed.
“No,” Martin was saying now. “What’d he want?”
“He left a message.” Danny pulled out a package of pasta and some sauce. “Is spaghetti okay?”
“It’s fine. So what’d he say on the message?” Martin pulled himself up on the countertop, which he usually did when he was settling in for a long discussion, or watching Danny cook.
Danny shrugged. “He wanted to know how I was.”
“Oh.” And Martin sounded disappointed, like he – Danny looked at Martin over his shoulder, but Martin was absently sorting through the mail, muttering junk, junk, bill, postcard, junk again under his breath. Danny scowled and turned back to the sauce, tried not to splatter it all over the place.
“You going to call him back?” This punctuated by a stack of junk mail landing in the trash.
“Eventually. Maybe. I don’t know.” He was too tired to boil water for the pasta, much less deal with Rafi. And why was it they always had conversations in the kitchen? They almost never talked in bed, and sometimes when they watched TV, but they didn’t talk talk, the uncomfortable kind of talking that made Danny recoil just thinking about it.
No, apparently painful conversations were reserved for the kitchen. Maybe it was the space, claustrophobic as most older apartment kitchens were, with a small door between it and the dining area. Difficult to escape, and Martin was cunning and ruthless and could probably keep him trapped in here for ages.
“You know,” he said, “he’s my brother, but if he’s got a problem with me – with us – then the hell with him. I did fine without him for fifteen years of my life. I’ll call him back when I’m ready, okay?”
“So is that going to be sometime this century or the next one?” The absent-mindedness had left Martin’s voice, and determination had replaced the tiredness in his eyes.
“I have no idea,” Danny snapped. “Look, Martin, he’s going to have to deal with it, okay? And if he can’t, that’s his problem, not ours.” The pot began to steam and shriek behind him; he ignored it. “Why the hell are you pushing this, anyway? Your dad got over it, and if Rafi does, great. If he doesn’t, like I said: the hell with him.”
“My dad’s had three years to get used to it,” Martin said defensively. “And you didn’t see him right after I told him.”
You didn’t see him because you left, and then I had to leave, Martin meant, and that... That hurt. Hurt almost enough for Danny to say something nasty, just to see Martin’s reaction, the split-second of hollowing, shocked pain before Martin would stand up and leave, cool and collected, armor drawing over the wound.
Danny stopped himself in time, made himself turn down the heat and dump the spaghetti in the water. Not a good idea to be around boiling water and hot stoves, probably, but it was either that or let Martin know how close he’d come to making a huge mistake.
“He called, Danny. Come on.”
“What the hell’s the big deal? Did you go out and get your family psychology degree when I wasn’t looking?”
“I don’t like seeing you like this,” Martin said tightly. He slid off the countertop, back straight, eyes dark with the anger barely present in his voice. “It’s been weeks since we saw him, and you’ve been obsessing about it and tying yourself up, and I’ve let you do that. And all Rafi wants – ” Martin broke off, bright red now and looking away, and Danny knew that look.
Knew what it meant.
“You talked to him, didn’t you?”
He knew Martin’s answer before Martin gave it: the deepening flush, Martin’s mouth tightening as though to keep the yes from escaping.
“Oh, fuck. You did. You talked to him. He wasn’t sure if it was a question, a request for a confirmation.
“He called me,” Martin said, crossing his arms over his chest. He still wore terrible shirts, and this one was no exception, some checked fabric probably left over from the seventies. It clung damply across his shoulders. Dimly, Danny realized he was sweating, his entire body drawn tight with adrenaline. “He called last week, and I tried to tell him about us – when we worked together, a bit about the Silverman case, how we got together.”
“Yeah? So was everything magically okay?”
“No, but he agreed to think about it and give you a call,” Martin said. “And you should call him back.”
He should, of course, not only because somewhere along the way someone had pounded politeness into his head, but because Martin was right, which Martin had an annoying habit of being when it came to Danny’s issues. That the reverse also seemed to be the case was not particularly comforting, but realizing that Martin was right (even after an argument in which Danny had tried to prove him wrong) took the wind out of his sails, left anger out of reach and him leaning back against the refrigerator. The metal was cool through his dress shirt.
“Okay,” he muttered. “You might be right.”
“Of course I’m right.” Martin offered him a slight smile, but the reward was those hard blue eyes softening, Martin copying him and leaning back against the counter again. “I’m happy you’re starting to realize this; it makes my life easier.”
“You wish, Fitzie.”
Martin rolled his eyes and glared, which didn’t fool Danny at all, and after a few seconds of futility Martin gave up and grinned.
And Danny had to kiss him, had to promise him to make up the past three weeks, promise without words, just the two of them, and kissing Martin was great, even better after a fight when Martin wanted to make it clear he’d won and Danny wanted to make it clear he’d let him win. Just the two of them like this, Martin’s body familiar against his, and this kind of familiar was great too, Martin’s sweat and the line of his chest, distinct under the starched shirt, and Martin’s mouth and his together, just the two of them –
The two of them and a boiling pot of spaghetti, and the sauce was going to burn.
Martin offered him a subdued, rueful grin as he stepped back and muttered something about setting the table, not quite meeting Danny’s eyes like he was embarrassed.
They ate, though Danny didn’t have much of an appetite, and Martin filled the silence – rare for him – with random comments about the idiots in charge of the New York office, a Star Trek marathon on the science-fiction channel that weekend, prognostics for the Mets, other stuff Danny didn’t really hear. Martin’s voice flowed around him, slightly rough like fine sand, warming as he found some topic he liked, his usual reserved tones abandoned, and Danny enjoyed that.
Silence settled down again as they began cleaning up – or as Danny tried to begin cleaning up. Martin took the plates from him and nodded in the direction of the phone, headed over to the sink, far enough away not to intrude but close enough to be there, like he always was.
Like he always was, and that felt good, sharp jolt of memory thinking that, for a time he hadn’t been, and Danny wasn’t entirely sure he could go through those two years again.
He picked up the phone and dialed Rafi’s number automatically, eyes mostly for Martin, who was standing over the sink, the shirt stretched over his shoulders and untucked, sleeves rolled up. And Martin knew he was looking, had to, because when he looked over one shoulder at Danny he was smiling – really smiling, and Danny had to grin back, and he was so distracted he missed someone picking up the phone on the other end and saying Hello.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Rafi,” he said, snapping back, the plastic of the receiver warming under his hands, his shaking hands that wouldn’t steady. “It’s Danny.”
“Hey, Danny.”
“Yeah, I got your message.”
-end-
One of my favorite passages of all time is from Tolkien's Return of the King, near the end when the armies of the West are celebrating in Cormallen, and their happiness passes into pain--"their joy was like swords," is what Tolkien says. I've always loved that, that description of how keen, how sharp beauty, happiness, and love can be.
By: HF
Email: aesc36 @gmail.com
Pairing: D/M
Rating/Warnings: PG13/R? Mention of sensitive material. Very strongly implied underaged sex here.
Disclaimer: Not mine, damn it.
Advertisements: Part of the ALTC/Distance series, taking place about one year after "Biscayne." Previous parts are: Sons; ALTC; Every Distance; Sons & Lovers; Blue River; Biscayne. For
wordclaim50 09 (find; Character Study) and philosophy_20 20 (Reflection).Previous chapter: 01; 02; 03.
Notes: I feel unaccountably sad about finishing this up, considering it's only four chapters long. *depressed*
CHAPTER FOUR
The kid had a sunburn, and asked if he was legal.
That’s almost all Danny can recall about the first guy he’d ever had sex with. Blond and pale under the red coating of sunburn, one of the thousands of northern college students down for break, and he had smelled like aloe and marijuana. Bored cops and the lights and the noise of South Beach not fifteen feet away, but it was been dark and quiet where Danny said, Give me a hit, and I’ll give you what you want.
“Okay,” the kid said. “C’mere.”
Danny stayed away from pot after that night and became a good legal addict, sticking to alcohol and cigarettes.
Sometimes Danny wonders about that kid, the boy who’d snuck out of his foster parents’ home and hitched his way down to the seamy districts of Miami, wonders what he was looking for. Twenty years and more removed from being that boy, he still can’t say. The shrinks would say he was looking for love, acceptance, or maybe a way to deal with the overwhelming guilt of believing – however mistakenly – that he’d been responsible for his parents’ deaths, and the worse guilt of being glad they were gone. Danny thinks they’re probably right, but that there’s something more, maybe something having to do with the way he is: stubborn, the kind of child who has to learn about pain by touching the hot stove himself.
It’s a miracle that he’s here right now, the grown-up version of a kid who’d been stabbed, been wild and stupid with anger and his own pride. Sometimes he thinks this is all a dream and pow he’ll wake up in prison, in the foster care system again, wake up dead because God knows at any one point during those few years he could have – should have – died. Maybe he would have vanished, become one of those kids Missing Persons units don’t bother to look for because no one misses them at all.
It scares him sometimes, thinking how close he came to that.
But that kid... Curly blond hair and strong, strong as Rafi when his arms wrapped around Danny, and Kid, if you fucking tell the cops I’ll fucking kill you said when he pushed Danny’s face against the unforgiving bark of a palm tree, harsh and ugly, like his father’s voice. He froze and tried to concentrate on the marijuana insinuating itself throughout his veins, trying for the cloudiness and absence he’d seen in Rafi’s eyes sometimes, when the heroin got hold of him. Tried to concentrate on the hands under the hem of his shirt, calluses on the fingertips – a sort-of musician, the kid played guitar, probably bad Hendrix and Marley in his dorm room – that made him shiver, and Danny couldn’t tell if the shiver was pleasure, anticipation, fear, or some alchemy of the three.
Miami air moist, humid as the other kid’s breath on his skin, strangely cool, even though it was almost summer. He had no idea what to expect, had only heard vague descriptions from his friends, no one who’d actually done it, though Tony had claimed he’d fucked a girl that way (but Tony was a miserable liar, and couldn’t look anyone in the eye when he said this), a porn flick in George’s secret stash that cut away before the guy and girl onscreen really got to it, like the cameraman was ashamed of what was going on.
Ripping sound and for one second he thought Oh God, that’s me, jitter of fear that had him tensing and waiting for the pain, but in the corner of his vision he saw the brief glitter of a foil wrapper where it landed on the sand. The smothering weight of the other boy (and in his memory, Danny absurdly thinks of this kid – practically twice his scrawny size – as a boy) vanished for a moment, enough for Danny to reach for one desperate breath.
“Here, take a hit, and fucking relax,” the kid advised, and one long-fingered hand offered him the joint, soggy and ragged at the end where the other boy had been smoking it.
What happened after that couldn’t have been horrible, though Danny can’t remember much. Breath mostly, the other boy’s body straining against his, clumsy like maybe being eighteen didn’t magically unlock all the secrets of sex, which Danny had always assumed to be the case. Clumsy and sweaty, and it hurt – sometimes he imagines he can still feel the boy inside him, like the nerves and muscles themselves have memory – but there had to have been pleasure, something that felt right enough for him to seek it out again.
Only he’s been a sucker for punishment all his life, the shrinks would say, and maybe he got off on the pain of it all. Maybe he still gets off on it, because being with Martin is pain, happiness and pleasure that cuts like a knife, sharp and acute and it’s wonderful, how much it hurts.
But he’s remembering now, what it was like to be a lost boy trying to shake off the haze of the marijuana and find his way back.
He spent the remainder of that night straggling home, trying to walk properly and ignore the pain. The kid, who had a car – a Mustang, probably a high-school graduation present –, didn’t offer him a ride.
“Clear the fuck out before the cops pick you up.” Sunburn on strong thighs, skin glowing redly, and Danny watched with a distant sort of fascination as the kid fastened his shorts. “And don’t tell anyone. Got it?”
Danny assured him that he got it, and cleared the fuck out. He caught the bus back out to the Fosters’ neighborhood, walked from the shopping center through back ways to their yard, avoided the motion-sensitive lights George had installed, and crept into his room.
That was the beginning of all the thinking, the trying to figure out part of his life. He’d drunk in Catholicism with his mother’s milk, knew what he did and what he liked was wrong, wrong on the “mortal sin” level of wrong, and while George and Eileen hated Catholics they at least agreed with them on one thing: that Danny was probably going to go to hell, unless he shaped up.
He stopped going to church near the end of his time with the Fosters, because his parents had left him and the system had fucked him over, and maybe that was because he liked other guys and God was pissed at him. Because George realized that, no matter how much he threatened or hit or shouted, Danny wouldn’t go. Pissed at Danny Alvarez, who got ignored by his case workers, at a kid who did his best to pay attention in church and pray and be good and... and this was what he got?
He went to church for a while after Father Orlando got a hold of him, but then stayed away throughout college and law school.
Dragged himself to confession two days after his tenth AA meeting and confessed to seven years’ worth of failings, to everything except being gay, which he managed to keep to himself. And in the years of stumbling his way through the twelve-step dance of being an alcoholic in perpetual recovery, he’s managed to feel his way through the tangle of faith and what he is, and who this God is who’s supposed to hate him.
This is who I am, that’s what he’s left with in the final analysis. It’s what he’s left with when he wakes up in the morning and Martin’s there, warm and solid and taking up all but a fraction of the mattress. Sometimes it amazes him that Martin seems to be more at ease in their relationship than he is, when all along it was Martin who’d been uptight, repressed, chasing desperately after Sam and validation.
Wrong, Rafi had said, but Danny, with Martin next to him, now and then and through everything, can’t agree.
“Mr. Taylor, it’s Serene from the Center?” Yvonne, the secretary, always spoke as though she were asking a question – she always looked it too, her eyebrows raised and chin tilted inquiringly. “She wants to talk to you about the Braddock case?”
“Uh, put her through.”
“Are you okay?” This was actually a question, and Yvonne was peering at him concernedly through her glasses. “I can tell her to call back, if you want?” A pause, then: “I’ll tell her you’ll call her back.”
“Thanks... I’ll call her first thing in the morning, if she’s free.” Danny rubbed at his temples, trying to banish a headache and guilt over brushing off Serene. The case was important, due to go to trial in a few days and Serene, the advocate for Hannah Braddock, needed to go over the file with him. But that could be done tomorrow, on the other end of another difficult night.
“Are you okay?” Yvonne asked again.
“Fine.” Danny frowned at her from under the shelter of the palm pressed to his forehead. “Are you going to take the message not?”
Yvonne gave him an exasperated look, shook her head but said yes she would take the message, and headed out the door.
Danny followed her not long after; it was late, and he’d been staying away from home on purpose. He wasn’t sure what the purpose was, some strange paranoid belief that Rafi would be waiting for him. And why he believed that, Danny had no idea.
The only person waiting for him at home was Martin, as always – or, not always. Danny walked into a silent apartment, the shades drawn and the lights off, Martin’s suit coat nowhere in sight and not a sign of Martin anywhere, which alarmed him for a minute.
And that, strictly speaking, was not true. Martin was everywhere, in the shelves and shelves of books, the photographs, the odds and ends Martin had collected over the years, the scribbled note on the refrigerator that said Case broke this morning, back late, the half-empty bowl of Frosted Flakes abandoned in the sink.
Small things they were that spoke of Martin’s presence, huge and sometimes startling, if Danny thought about them too much.
Wander into the bedroom to shower and change, Martin’s running shorts and sneakers kicked into the corner, a forgotten and hideously-colored tie dangling off the bed. Two razors in the bathroom, Martin’s practical deodorant and cologne in the medicine cabinet. Good memories in the shower, which smelled like soap and when Danny inhaled he breathed in steam, the memory of Martin’s breath; the tiles were cool against his back and he could feel the indentations between them, and the only thing missing was Martin pressing against him, Martin who liked water and sex in the shower.
Dissatisfied suddenly, Danny switched off the shower and climbed out, dimly aware of the phone ringing – on its third or fourth try, and he was never going to make it in time before the voice mail kicked in. He dried off and dressed, wandered back into the kitchen to find something to eat and tried to ignore the flashing red light.
Pressed the button anyway, on the off-chance it was Martin surfacing from his case for a few minutes.
“Danny, it’s Rafi.”
A pause made of static and held breath.
“Danny, it’s Rafi... I wanted to call to see how you were. Call back, okay?”
And that was it. A pause, fifteen words. Call back, Rafi said, and I wanted to see how you were, three weeks after Memorial Day and Danny’s confession. He’d been hoping for the call, fearing it, half-tempted to pick up the phone and call Rafi himself, but he’d made his admission, and now the ball was in Rafi’s court.
Or not anymore; the click as Rafi hung up and the beep of the voice mail turning off meant it was Danny’s turn now.
He deleted the message and wished he could delete the call altogether, all the time back to the moment when Rafi picked up the phone to dial his number. Play it forward again, and this time maybe Rafi would call for pizza or call the hospital to see when Sylvia was getting off-shift, not his gay, damned-to-hell little brother.
Most of his appetite had vanished into the anxiety Rafi’s voice had caused, but Danny rifled through the refrigerator anyway. Everything looked vaguely spoiled, smelled wrong to him – the milk sweetly rancid, though he’d bought it yesterday, the meat livid, vegetables and fruit bruising under his fingers. He shut the refrigerator and turned to the cupboard: crackers, cereal, inoffensive and bland, carbs and sugar he probably needed to deal with his headache, to deal with all of this.
He was debating between crackers and giving up and going to sleep when he heard the door open and shut, the emphatic thunk of a backpack landing on the floor.
“Hey,” Martin said as he walked in the kitchen a moment later. Tired, lines under his eyes but victory in them, and Danny had to smile.
“Big break?” he asked into the quick kiss Martin pressed against his mouth, a kiss tasting of Martin and the day.
Soft huff, breath satisfied on Danny’s lips and Martin’s fingers were in his hair. Sudden glow of happiness, warm, but this sharp edge when Danny thought how much he needed this, needed Martin, an edge like happiness and pain. Rafi’s words tried to resurrect themselves – wrong, wrong, it’s not right, Danny – and he tried to ignore them.
“What’s up?” Martin had picked up on his tension, backed off, and was now looking at him curiously.
“Rafi called.” Anxious to show Martin this was no big deal, he turned back to the cupboard. “Anything you want for dinner?”
Two nights after Memorial Day they’d made love, making love so Danny could forget that day, what Rafi had said, the ghosts of the Fosters and his upbringing and everything. Martin hadn’t said anything then, or maybe he’d spoken in touch and taste, inarticulate and eloquent against Danny’s body.
The two nights before, Martin had stayed on his side of the bed, space Danny hadn’t wanted but had needed.
“No,” Martin was saying now. “What’d he want?”
“He left a message.” Danny pulled out a package of pasta and some sauce. “Is spaghetti okay?”
“It’s fine. So what’d he say on the message?” Martin pulled himself up on the countertop, which he usually did when he was settling in for a long discussion, or watching Danny cook.
Danny shrugged. “He wanted to know how I was.”
“Oh.” And Martin sounded disappointed, like he – Danny looked at Martin over his shoulder, but Martin was absently sorting through the mail, muttering junk, junk, bill, postcard, junk again under his breath. Danny scowled and turned back to the sauce, tried not to splatter it all over the place.
“You going to call him back?” This punctuated by a stack of junk mail landing in the trash.
“Eventually. Maybe. I don’t know.” He was too tired to boil water for the pasta, much less deal with Rafi. And why was it they always had conversations in the kitchen? They almost never talked in bed, and sometimes when they watched TV, but they didn’t talk talk, the uncomfortable kind of talking that made Danny recoil just thinking about it.
No, apparently painful conversations were reserved for the kitchen. Maybe it was the space, claustrophobic as most older apartment kitchens were, with a small door between it and the dining area. Difficult to escape, and Martin was cunning and ruthless and could probably keep him trapped in here for ages.
“You know,” he said, “he’s my brother, but if he’s got a problem with me – with us – then the hell with him. I did fine without him for fifteen years of my life. I’ll call him back when I’m ready, okay?”
“So is that going to be sometime this century or the next one?” The absent-mindedness had left Martin’s voice, and determination had replaced the tiredness in his eyes.
“I have no idea,” Danny snapped. “Look, Martin, he’s going to have to deal with it, okay? And if he can’t, that’s his problem, not ours.” The pot began to steam and shriek behind him; he ignored it. “Why the hell are you pushing this, anyway? Your dad got over it, and if Rafi does, great. If he doesn’t, like I said: the hell with him.”
“My dad’s had three years to get used to it,” Martin said defensively. “And you didn’t see him right after I told him.”
You didn’t see him because you left, and then I had to leave, Martin meant, and that... That hurt. Hurt almost enough for Danny to say something nasty, just to see Martin’s reaction, the split-second of hollowing, shocked pain before Martin would stand up and leave, cool and collected, armor drawing over the wound.
Danny stopped himself in time, made himself turn down the heat and dump the spaghetti in the water. Not a good idea to be around boiling water and hot stoves, probably, but it was either that or let Martin know how close he’d come to making a huge mistake.
“He called, Danny. Come on.”
“What the hell’s the big deal? Did you go out and get your family psychology degree when I wasn’t looking?”
“I don’t like seeing you like this,” Martin said tightly. He slid off the countertop, back straight, eyes dark with the anger barely present in his voice. “It’s been weeks since we saw him, and you’ve been obsessing about it and tying yourself up, and I’ve let you do that. And all Rafi wants – ” Martin broke off, bright red now and looking away, and Danny knew that look.
Knew what it meant.
“You talked to him, didn’t you?”
He knew Martin’s answer before Martin gave it: the deepening flush, Martin’s mouth tightening as though to keep the yes from escaping.
“Oh, fuck. You did. You talked to him. He wasn’t sure if it was a question, a request for a confirmation.
“He called me,” Martin said, crossing his arms over his chest. He still wore terrible shirts, and this one was no exception, some checked fabric probably left over from the seventies. It clung damply across his shoulders. Dimly, Danny realized he was sweating, his entire body drawn tight with adrenaline. “He called last week, and I tried to tell him about us – when we worked together, a bit about the Silverman case, how we got together.”
“Yeah? So was everything magically okay?”
“No, but he agreed to think about it and give you a call,” Martin said. “And you should call him back.”
He should, of course, not only because somewhere along the way someone had pounded politeness into his head, but because Martin was right, which Martin had an annoying habit of being when it came to Danny’s issues. That the reverse also seemed to be the case was not particularly comforting, but realizing that Martin was right (even after an argument in which Danny had tried to prove him wrong) took the wind out of his sails, left anger out of reach and him leaning back against the refrigerator. The metal was cool through his dress shirt.
“Okay,” he muttered. “You might be right.”
“Of course I’m right.” Martin offered him a slight smile, but the reward was those hard blue eyes softening, Martin copying him and leaning back against the counter again. “I’m happy you’re starting to realize this; it makes my life easier.”
“You wish, Fitzie.”
Martin rolled his eyes and glared, which didn’t fool Danny at all, and after a few seconds of futility Martin gave up and grinned.
And Danny had to kiss him, had to promise him to make up the past three weeks, promise without words, just the two of them, and kissing Martin was great, even better after a fight when Martin wanted to make it clear he’d won and Danny wanted to make it clear he’d let him win. Just the two of them like this, Martin’s body familiar against his, and this kind of familiar was great too, Martin’s sweat and the line of his chest, distinct under the starched shirt, and Martin’s mouth and his together, just the two of them –
The two of them and a boiling pot of spaghetti, and the sauce was going to burn.
Martin offered him a subdued, rueful grin as he stepped back and muttered something about setting the table, not quite meeting Danny’s eyes like he was embarrassed.
They ate, though Danny didn’t have much of an appetite, and Martin filled the silence – rare for him – with random comments about the idiots in charge of the New York office, a Star Trek marathon on the science-fiction channel that weekend, prognostics for the Mets, other stuff Danny didn’t really hear. Martin’s voice flowed around him, slightly rough like fine sand, warming as he found some topic he liked, his usual reserved tones abandoned, and Danny enjoyed that.
Silence settled down again as they began cleaning up – or as Danny tried to begin cleaning up. Martin took the plates from him and nodded in the direction of the phone, headed over to the sink, far enough away not to intrude but close enough to be there, like he always was.
Like he always was, and that felt good, sharp jolt of memory thinking that, for a time he hadn’t been, and Danny wasn’t entirely sure he could go through those two years again.
He picked up the phone and dialed Rafi’s number automatically, eyes mostly for Martin, who was standing over the sink, the shirt stretched over his shoulders and untucked, sleeves rolled up. And Martin knew he was looking, had to, because when he looked over one shoulder at Danny he was smiling – really smiling, and Danny had to grin back, and he was so distracted he missed someone picking up the phone on the other end and saying Hello.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Rafi,” he said, snapping back, the plastic of the receiver warming under his hands, his shaking hands that wouldn’t steady. “It’s Danny.”
“Hey, Danny.”
“Yeah, I got your message.”
-end-
One of my favorite passages of all time is from Tolkien's Return of the King, near the end when the armies of the West are celebrating in Cormallen, and their happiness passes into pain--"their joy was like swords," is what Tolkien says. I've always loved that, that description of how keen, how sharp beauty, happiness, and love can be.