Mended with Gold

and

Out Loud (an epilogue)

––––––––

Lee Welch

Character, like a photograph, develops in darkness

– Yousuf Karsh, photographer (1908 – 2002)

‘Mended with Gold’ was first published in 2017 by MLR Press. This new second edition, complete with the epilogue ‘Out Loud’ is © 2021, Lee Welch.

If you bought the first edition, and only want the epilogue, you can download it free from www.leewelchwriter.com/freereads

This 2nd edition:

Epub ISBN 978-0-473-60619-0

Kindle ISBN 978-0-473-60620-6

Trademark Acknowledgments:

Canon

Skype

Wal-Mart

Honda

Dr Martens

Terminator

Google

Superman

Batman

Mickey Mouse

Instagram

Uber

Tiger Balm

Chapter One

The first house Alex looked at had black mould creeping up the bedroom walls. Next was a place with a pump in the cellar because ‘the creek floods in a storm, but it’s nothing to worry about, mate’. Then came a house with a sunlit patio, glaring white, with palm trees in pots. Something about the light and dusty foliage reminded him of Laos and he backed out speechlessly, eventually managing a curt ‘no thanks’ to the bewildered agent.

Next was an apartment, outside which a dog barked as tirelessly as a metronome, then a house that smelled of rot. Followed by a 1920s villa next to the local landfill.

And then came a house with a handsome young man asleep on an old Chesterfield in the sunroom.

Alex paused in the open doorway, briars from the overgrown garden catching in his hair, the roar of sea and wind loud in his ears. A lot of old houses in New Zealand had these sunrooms. They were like glassed-in verandas; bright, warm places. They didn’t usually contain a sleeping beauty.

The sleeper was in his twenties, thin, with tangled dark-brown hair and pale skin. He was gorgeous in an angular, surprising way, with long eyelashes and a wide mouth. He breathed quietly, at peace, cheek pillowed on one hand, giving Alex the intimate sort of view he’d get if they woke up together in the morning.

If Alex was bloody lucky, that was.

Sleeping beauty wore a too-big sweater patterned with green and beige snowflakes. He was young enough, and handsome enough, that he was probably wearing it ironically. Some of Alex’s students dressed that way; deliberately dowdy, deliberately geeky, knowing it only made them cuter. Alex’s eyes scanned down. Took in faded black pants that were spattered with—blood?

Alex took a step backwards, heart beating faster, before taking in other colours—pale blue, canary yellow—and realising that blood wouldn’t show up on black anyway. It was paint. So, a house painter? An artist? If the latter, he probably thought photography was only for selfies and not really art. His feet were bare, but by now Alex knew that didn’t necessarily mean he was a vagrant, as it would have in London, New York, or Toronto. Shoes were often optional in New Zealand, and in a beach settlement like this one, they were probably more optional than ever.

There was something about this sleeper, though, that suggested poverty. His bony wrists spoke of meagre dinners, and the soft skin under his eyes had the bruised look of the terminally exhausted. Alex recognised it all too well from the mirror.

Nonetheless, it would have made a fine photograph; the sleeping man, lips parted, vulnerable, a shaft of afternoon sun hovering above him like a visiting god. There was something at once mythic and commonplace about him. He was a modern Endymion, down on his luck, ugly Christmas snowflake sweater and all. Ideally, he’d be naked. The flowery upholstery of the Chesterfield had faded to soft greys, like tumbled clouds. A disintegrating paper lantern hung from the ceiling. The lighting would be tricky, with the sun like that and the subject in shadow.

Alex had a camera; his favourite old Canon, with a standard lens. He’d been planning on taking pictures of the house. He itched to take a shot now, but for portraits of people he always asked, and to ask would be to wake the sleeper and ruin the shot. This was one of those moments you let go by then remembered ever after at three in the morning. At least, this would be a beautiful image to conjure with in the small cold hours.

But who was this young man? Had he broken in to steal something and, finding the place empty, decided to take a nap? Was he a vagrant? According to the estate agent, the house had been empty for months. The door to the sunroom hadn’t been jimmied, and although one of the windows at the far end was cracked where the bushes outside had grown too close, there was no obvious break-in.

In a way, it was none of Alex’s business. It wasn’t his house. Though the moment he’d seen it, nestled on the hillside, half hidden by long grass and overgrown shrubs, he’d felt the same internal jolt as when he’d come across sleeping beauty—something inside him saying, yes, oh, yes.

The house was small, old, and weathered. It had once been painted blue, and was now a speckled grey. ‘Not flash’ the locals would say, but its box-like, 1950s simplicity was appealing, unpretentious. It hunkered down in the wind, gazing north through a row of identically sized rectangular windows. Getting out of his car, the roar of the wild west coast had filled Alex’s ears, the sky misty with salt spray. He’d waited a minute or two for the estate agent, then felt like taking pictures of the house, and found his way to the sunroom.

On the dusty floorboards, next to the Chesterfield, lay a dog-eared paperback. An intruder who broke in to read? Alex took in the front cover and gave a huff of disbelieving laughter, for it was The Thief’s Journal, by Jean Genet. He put a hand over his grin, as if the young man might see it and think he was being laughed at. But it was so unexpected, so perfect, that it was difficult to stop smiling.

So, this sleeping beauty liked literature. Gay literature, too.

What colour would his eyes be? He looked European. His eyes could be blue, brown. Green would be stunning.

From far away, just audible over the rush of wind and sea, came the drone of a car engine. Alex pulled out his phone. Four twenty. That would be the estate agent with the keys. Finally. He glanced again at the sleeping face, the tumbled hair. Should Alex wake him? Tell him to go? Stop him getting into trouble?

But something made him turn away. Perhaps it was just bone-weary reluctance to talk to anyone he didn’t have to, even an attractive young man. Perhaps it was a kinder impulse, because there was something about those thin wrists, tatty sweater, and tired face that made him feel that here was a person who would rather not be found.

Alex picked his way back to the road through the brambles and bleached grass, and slammed his car door several times, as loudly as he could. On the final slam, the agent drew up, apologising, tugging his tie and smoothing his hair uselessly in the wind. Out here, against the wild hillsides and the flax bushes, the agent’s blue business suit seemed a bit ridiculous. Alex smiled, shook hands, made all the usual noises. His thoughts kept returning to the sunroom, warm and golden. Sleeping beauty couldn’t be a thief. In this house, there was nothing to steal.

The agent opened the front door and Alex went in to the echoing living area. There was an internal door to the sunroom to the right. The internal door was glass, covered by a faded red-and-white gingham curtain. It was impossible to see whether the sleeper was still there or not, but Alex thought he heard a creak and the quiet scuff of bare feet.

He turned his back to the sunroom door. The living room was long and narrow, north facing, bright, stale from being shut up. Bare boards, not polished. The walls were a dirty grey-pink, the windowsills scurfy with peeling paint. Of course, there was no radiator; all New Zealand houses were cold and miserable in winter. At least, there was a squat wood burner in this one, its thick glass door cloudy from years of flame and smoke. To the back of the living area was an open-plan kitchen, with a stainless-steel sink, and cracked brown linoleum. Three empty jam jars stood on the countertop, gathering dust.

Everything was dusty, and yet, the room had charm. It was warm and light. It felt safe and private, a place he could relax. The view was dramatic, with the bowl of the valley and the road disappearing between towering hills to the north. There were only four other houses to be seen, all shabby, all facing the sea, which was only a few hundred metres away. If he stood at the windows and looked left he could see the pebbled beach, and the turquoise chaos that was Kahawai Bay, the surf breaking white on black rocks. What would it be like to be here in a winter storm, with a fire blazing in the old burner?

He inspected the rest of the house—two bedrooms, both tiny, one at the front and one at the back. Both rooms would take a double bed, but not much else. He could, of course, get a single bed, but that idea was so sad he closed the bedroom door and went into the small washroom. To shower, he’d have to climb into the old claw-footed tub and use a rusty shower hose that was set way too low. There was a Victorian-looking toilet with a chain pull. An empty airing cupboard. A tiny laundry area by a warped back door. The door opened out onto a small flat area choked with weeds, amongst which stood a modern plastic water tank and a disintegrating woodshed.

By the time they got to the sunroom, it was empty except for the ancient Chesterfield. The agent stood beneath the paper lantern, into which insects had eaten a delicate filigree, and talked about internet options. Alex nodded, not listening. He wanted to get that old lantern, put a light in it, see how the shadows fell. The room had already lost the sun, because shiny-leaved shrubs had grown up outside. He’d cut them back hard, when the place was his.

If. If it became his.

Because it would be stupid to take it. In traffic, it would be a forty-minute drive to the studio in Wellington. The closest shop was fifteen minutes away down a road like a switchback. He shouldn’t buy a house because a trespasser with good bone structure and a taste for Genet had happened to fall asleep in it.

No, but he might buy it because it felt like a harbour in a storm. The wind buffeted the place again. The house creaked, in a way that was already familiar. He didn’t want to leave.

The agent locked up and they stood on the cracked concrete step at the front, looking out over the flax and brambles and the restless sea. The light had turned red, drenching the rugged hills in kirsch.

“So, about the internet,” Alex said.

The agent was battling with his tie, which kept flapping in his face. “It’s dial-up or a satellite service, like the farmers use. No fibre, out here.”

“Mobile reception’s patchy, eh?”

“It’s the hills, I’m afraid. It’s all right at Makara Beach. That’s the next bay along, where the settlement is. Or you could go up top.” The agent waved a hand at the closest hill, which was nearly perpendicular. “What do you do, Mr. Cox, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“I’m a photographer.” Or I was. These days I’m more of a fraud. “I teach a photography course at the local Tech, too. I’d need that satellite internet.” Yeah, because the stock libraries can’t wait to get my next picture of a dandelion clock blowing in the wind.

The agent nodded, gaze on the glowing hills. “It’s a lifestyle choice, this place. I have to tell you, the road closes sometimes. There are slips. Whole settlement gets cut off. It can feel very isolated in the winter. Very wild in a storm. Takes a particular kind of person to want all that.” His voice was taking on a resigned tone. Alex could see him thinking ‘no sale’. “Lovely spot though, isn’t it, on a day like this?”

That evening, Alex sat in his neat rented apartment in town and ate chili prawns with snow peas. They’d taste better if he’d spent the day sanding windowsills in the sea air. He rang his folks in Toronto and told them about the place. Mom said it sounded beautiful and he should do whatever made him happy. She asked about his work, about New Zealand winters, and when he might visit Canada again, and all the time her tone was pleading, ‘Tell me you’re all right, tell me you’re content, tell me you’re better.’ Dad asked about drains, piles, and water supply, then told him to go with his gut.

He Skyped his old colleague Marilyn in London. Once, he’d called her a friend. These days he never knew what to talk about, but he owed her several calls, and finally he had something to say.

Her eyes were bloodshot, with black smears where she hadn’t taken off last night’s makeup. Her hair—currently blonde at the roots and black at the tips—was all anyhow. She wore a silky robe, bright with Japanese-style cherry blossoms.

He told her about the house.

“It’s a midlife crisis,” she said. “Seriously, don’t buy a house in Tinpot, New Zealand. You’ll regret it. Get a convertible instead.”

“I want the house.”

“Geez, and I thought Wellington City was the ass-end of nowhere. Could you get any more remote than this beach place?” She yawned. “It sounds worse than Saskatoon.”

“That’s why I love it.”

“What does whatshisname think?”

“That’s over. What’s that got to do with it anyway? This house is for me.”

“You’ll meet someone eventually and he isn’t going to want to live in a tin shack with hillbillies shooting each other over the—” She glanced away. “Well, you know what I mean. You realise it’s eight o’clock in the morning here. Saturday morning.” She yawned again, hugely.

“There aren’t any hillbillies. It’s mostly civil servants and old hippies as far as I can tell. It’s a civilized backwoods. Big night, last night?”

If he’d still been in London, he’d have been out with her. Would probably now be nursing a hangover of his own. Except, these days, he didn’t drink. Because last time he’d left a bar he’d ended up cornering a jaywalker who’d nearly stepped out in front of a bus, yelling until the youth was crying and someone called the police.

Marilyn shrugged, waggled her head to indicate ‘yeah, sorta big’, and winced. “What if you spend all your money doing this place up then hate it and can’t sell it?”

“I won’t hate it. I wish I was there right now.”

“Are you sure you’re not running away? Geez, darling, are you sure this isn’t all part of the post-traumatic stress?”

“I’m fine.” Though I may have lied slightly to the psychologist. “I’m just old and tired. I’m forty-five. Don’t you get sick of the divas and the dawn starts and the shitty hotel rooms? I want a more regular life. I like it out there.”

“You’re at the peak of your career and you’re shooting suburban weddings and corporate away days. Listen, if you won’t buy a convertible, for God’s sake, take a younger lover. You know you have that Jeffrey Dean Morgan thing going on. They used to fall all over you. Pick someone sweet who’ll worship you. It’d be more fun than saddling yourself with a log cabin in Hicksville.”

“Someone who’ll what? You know how awful that sounds? I’m buying the house. It’s pure, out there. Clean. The light’s amazing and the locals wear gumboots to the shops. They wear those Christmas snowflake sweaters in April. No one cares.”

Sleeping beauty had popped into his mind again. Why did that feel like a good omen? He didn’t believe in omens. If he told Marilyn, she’d really think he’d lost it.

“It’s people of Wal-Mart, Alex. It’s a slippery slope. Next, you’ll be buying a onesie. You’ll never have sex again. You buy this house, you’re doomed.”

Next morning, he made an offer.

* * *

It wasn’t idyllic. When a northerly blew, the house could have been at sea. The rain roared on the tin roof and the windows bowed and shivered. The first windy night, he sat up until nearly dawn, expecting at any minute to be picking broken glass out of his bed. Cold draughts came up from between the floorboards, and it was always five a.m. when he discovered he was out of coffee and milk. He couldn’t find the key to the woodshed behind the water tank.

But nothing reminded him of Laos. Nobody bothered him. And the photography studio where he sometimes picked up work seemed to accept that he couldn’t appear at a moment’s notice any more. He went running in the hills, spent a lot of time just sitting, watching the sea and the birds and the wind-whipped grasses. He changed the locks, just in case, and found that in the afternoons it was impossible to stay awake on that faded old Chesterfield in the sunroom. Peace crept closer.

Best of all, he felt like taking photos again. He wanted to.

On a rare, still day he went down to Makara Beach and spotted a tern diving repeatedly, a white arrow into a swirling bed of kelp. Nearby, also in the water, a woman in a black wetsuit collected something, maybe crayfish, maybe the abalone the locals called paua. He set up his camera and tripod. If he timed it right, he’d get a shot of the silver diving bird and the glistening black woman, both inhabiting the same space for an instant.

He saw, out of the corner of his eye, that someone was collecting firewood on the beach behind him, but the guy kept his distance, dark hair blowing across his averted face. He wouldn’t be coming over to make comments or ask questions. Alex could always tell.

So, Alex didn’t notice, until the guy was well past him, that around his waist, partially hidden by an old grey coat, was tied a hideous sweater with green and beige snowflakes. Alex froze over his tripod, shot forgotten.

Sleeping beauty was carrying his driftwood bundled in a ripped piece of tarpaulin. He cradled it against his chest in an odd defensive attitude, as if expecting thieves to dart up and snatch it away. He walked without grace, hunched like an awkward teenager, stumbling over rocks. He got to the place where people parked their cars, put his wood into the boot of a shitty-looking white Honda with one red door, got in, and drove away.

Alex turned back to his shot, but the woman had come to shore and the moment had passed. Everything felt flat and grey. Sleeping beauty’s spell had been broken. He was a gawky local with no dress sense. He probably used paperbacks as kindling and his girlfriend threw him out when he drank too much. The memory of him asleep in the sunroom warred briefly with reality. Funny how the way a guy moved and held himself could be such a turn-off. The tern was still diving further out, but the light had gone. Never mind. Alex lived here now. Plenty of chances to get that shot another day.

He was starting to meet the locals. The people who ran the café in Makara Beach. The old guy in the towelling sunhat, who checked Alex’s water tank and pronounced it sound. Frank, who lived on the estuary and was fond of herons and native grasses. Matire and her kids, who offered Alex a taste of a raw sea urchin—kina they called it—on the beach, and laughed at the expression on his face when he tried the salty, gritty, slimy stuff.

Juleke was Dutch and ran a tiny art gallery from a converted garage in Makara Beach. He met her out fishing one day. She had a bucketful of stinking bait, masses of greying blonde hair tied back with a rubber band, and a pleasant, if talkative, manner. She also ran a local art group once a month, and Alex found himself being roped in to giving a talk about photography.

“We love guest speakers. Any sort of art. We had a quilter once; I think that’s an art, don’t you? We’ve never had a photographer before. There’s a lot of talent around here, you know. We meet at Edith’s house. That’s the grey one on the corner in Makara Beach. You know it? Well, Edith used to be a big set designer on Broadway. And you’ll meet Linda and Margaret.” She was ticking people off on her fingers, fishing rod wedged into the rocks. “And Albert. And Beryl, who has the place with the paua shell fence. And Joe, who keeps the gallery in business.” She had a lot of laugh lines and they all crinkled. “No one buys my stuff much. You must come to the gallery next time you’re passing. Maybe you’ll see something you like? Anyway, it’s great you’ll give us a talk. Thursday at six. At Edith’s. Makara Beach. You know where to come.”

He walked away with a sinking heart, wishing he’d said no. But these people were his neighbours and this was a small place. Kahawai Bay had only six houses, Makara Beach about thirty. Best to be agreeable about the art group. Especially since he had no intention of going into the gallery. He knew what he’d find: over-bright acrylics and tentative water colours. Earnest sunsets. Fussy painted beach pebbles that would have been nicer left alone. He’d have to look around, pretend to like stuff, profess lack of funds and buy a postcard before he could leave. The idea exhausted him. He was reverting. Turning back into the teenager with acne who hid behind a camera at gigs because he was too shy to talk to people. And what good is a professional photographer who can’t put people at ease?

He went home, locked the door, and lay on the old Chesterfield. He wondered if sleeping beauty’s name was Albert, and if his paint-spattered pants meant he frequented art groups with middle-aged ladies. Then he laughed at himself and, glancing up, noticed the insect-nibbled paper lantern. He fetched a light and a camera and the afternoon became about shutter speeds and angles, and that night he slept, all night, for the first time in a long time.

* * *

Edith’s house was big and square and storm-scoured grey. The blinds were always drawn. Approaching it on Thursday evening felt like walking towards the creepy house he’d passed every day on his way to elementary school. But inside it was all cups of tea and old ladies and a convivial hum of conversation. It was like being at Grandma’s house. Nothing mattered. There was no one to impress. It felt like a larger version of his own place at Kahawai Bay. He was the youngest person in the room by a decade.

Edith was tiny, with enormous Iris Apfel glasses and bright red lipstick. Her accent was resolutely Kiwi, except for the occasional surprise vowel, which she flattened like a New York native. There was a semi-circle of chairs, most of them occupied, and a coffee table for his laptop. He accepted a cup of tea, and chatted to Edith about New York in the seventies. On the wall was an enormous Warhol; bright, simple flowers. Edith had met Warhol several times. And Diane Arbus, too.

Then a young man came in clutching a sketchbook, and Edith could have been speaking in tongues for all Alex understood her next few remarks. Because it was sleeping beauty. Except, awake, he wasn’t a beauty at all. He could have been, but he hunched like a teenager trying to hide new height. His hair straggled in his eyes and curtained his cheeks. He looked mostly at the floor. He’d ditched the green snowflake sweater and wore a plain black one, black jeans, and a pair of ancient Dr. Martens boots. But he wore it all with zero style. The green snowflakes were clearly no ironic gesture; he probably just wore the thing because it was warm.

He made for the kitchen with the air of a regular visitor, got a mug of tea, then hovered in the doorway uncertainly, sipping tea, sketchbook still pressed to his heart. He glanced at Alex. His eyes were brown, with dark smudges beneath them as if he still hadn’t had a good night’s sleep. Then he caught Edith’s eye and smiled, and was gorgeous again. Damn.

“There’s Joe,” Edith said. “We can get started.”

Joe. It seemed an old-fashioned nickname for a guy in his twenties. As if aware of being considered, Joe glanced at Alex again and ducked his head, blushing. Interesting. Kind of cute. If only he would stand up straight and show that handsome face to the world. Was he shy? Or did he know Alex was the new owner of the house in Kahawai Bay? Perhaps he felt guilty for trespassing?

Joe sat in a chair a bit behind the others and curled over his tea, now appearing sulky. Perhaps he was annoyed at having been banished from the warm sunroom. Alex had once liked sulky boys. They were more of a challenge, and he felt a deeper sense of triumph when he made them whimper and wriggle like puppies. What on earth was Joe doing here, like a crow in a flock of partridges? Fulfilling a social obligation? Yet, he was far too old to be made to go somewhere with Grandma, so he must be here by choice. For art. The uncared-for hair gave him a hippy-ish vibe. Maybe he painted mandalas? But it could just as easily be pictures of cars with flaming wheels, or fantasy sunsets with dragons and women in metal bikinis.

Juleke called for quiet and introduced Alex to the group. She’d done her homework, read out a bit from his website, mentioned the awards he’d won. His stomach gave a sick lurch. Was she going to mention Laos? Why had he not thought ahead? Should have asked her not to.

But she didn’t. Either her search hadn’t thrown that up, or she had some tact. All the same, when he opened his laptop, his hands were shaking.

He’d selected three photographs to discuss: a Cartier-Bresson, an Arbus, and one of his own—a shot of dancers from the New York ballet, hanging about backstage, bored and beautiful, sharing a bag of corn chips. After the photo discussion, he added a bit about the use of photography by painters, figuring that would be relevant. That took him up to twenty minutes. He hadn’t been sure how to pitch it, but it went down fine. Except with Joe, who seemed to be struggling to stay awake.

Alex felt the same spike of irritation as he did when students texted in class. Usually, he’d say something pointed, or ask a question to see if they’d been listening. Thus far, he’d managed not to shout at any of them. But losing his temper here would be just as bad. Or maybe worse, because this wasn’t a class. It didn’t matter whether people listened or not.

Afterwards, while everyone else stayed to chat and discuss their work, Joe slunk out. Alex watched him go, unsure whether to be disappointed or relieved. Or neither. Because he had zero interest anyway in any kind of entanglement whatsoever. Zero.

Chapter Two

Alex was outside, the winter sun warming his back. He was sanding windowsills the old-fashioned way, by hand, with sandpaper. Old paint flaked and crumbled and made his fingers chalky; the red-blonde wood came clear, inch by inch. His arm ached in a good way, and the sea breeze whipped the white dust away. The rasping connection between sandpaper and wood filled his ears.

“I’m really sorry,” a young man’s voice said behind him. Something about the tone told Alex it wasn’t the first thing he’d said. Alex turned, taking off the face-mask he wore to stop himself breathing in paint dust.

Joe stood there in his green snowflake sweater. He was barefoot, a pair of gumboots clutched against his chest, and a fishing rod and bucket in his other hand. The tail of a fish protruded from the top of the bucket. He stood hip-shot, one foot cocked in an odd, balletic pose. His eyes were the colour of dark chocolate and his cheeks were pink. Even under that ugly, too-big sweater Alex could see the lovely lean lines of his shoulders and hips. Joe wobbled, appearing flustered. Well, now. Not so balletic. Pretty devastating all the same.

“Hi,” Alex said, heart beating faster, mouth suddenly dry. I want you. And this is the second time you’ve blushed at me; maybe you want me too.

“It’s just, I can’t get it out by myself,” Joe said.

“I’m sorry?”

“The fish hook.”

“What?” Alex glanced at the tail of the fish in the bucket. He hadn’t been fishing in years. Why would—

Joe wobbled again, stretched out the bucket and rod and the gumboots for balance. “Sorry, do you mind if I sit down?”

He took a limping step and sank onto the concrete slab at the front of the house.

“It’s all right, though,” he added. “It’s not all the way in.”

He angled his left foot up, balanced it on his right thigh. Out of his foot stuck the straight metal part of a fish hook, the beginning of the curve still visible. There was a smear of blood where the metal went into the flesh. Metal in flesh. And the curve of a bare foot, sole to the sky.

And a severed foot lay sole up before Alex on a ploughed field. An electric jolt of fear made his skin crawl, his heart race. There’d been an explosion. A bomb. The foot was so close he could see that the skin of the heel was a little cracked. All the toes were still there.

Blood flecked his bare arms, his sweat-soaked shirt. There was wet stuff on his camera and splinters of white. Grit in his mouth and a coppery taste. He checked his body mechanically: arms, legs, feet, hands. He was all right. Birds were screeching, or maybe monkeys, but it was muffled, unreal. He’d stopped to take a picture of women planting rice. Aoife and Khamane had gone on, across the ploughed field. He could see Aoife’s white shirt. She lay on the ground, but something was wrong; she seemed to have no legs. He couldn’t see Khamane.

He must go to Aoife. This field was supposed to be safe. But if there was one bomb there might be another. He took a step towards her, and as his boot pressed into the earth the fear pulsed through him again, so strong he believed for a split second he’d stepped on another unexploded bomb. He stood gasping, unable to believe that the world was still going on around him. But Aoife was hurt. She was down on the ground. There was no choice. He must go to her. He took another step, and another, clutching his camera, as if that might keep him safe. Someone grabbed his arm; a tiny woman in a black face-mask and conical hat. She was gabbling at him in Laotian, voice high-pitched, the terror in her eyes so naked that he stopped.

And he was staring at a man’s bare foot with a fish hook embedded in it. The owner of the foot was the guy who’d been sleeping in the sunroom and he was no threat. He sat there, holding his foot, gazing at Alex open-mouthed, white-faced.

And still Alex was rooted to the ground. He shook his head. I can’t help you, he wanted to say, but the words wouldn’t come. I would help you if I could. How long had he been standing here, sandpaper in his hand, gawping at the guy’s foot? How long, with his heart pounding and the taste of earth and blood in his mouth?

The guy with the fish hook was talking, but Alex couldn’t hear him. He was still deafened by the explosion that had killed Aoife and Khamane. A bomblet from a cluster bomb, decades old. Laos was littered with them. But the field had been cleared. Ploughed. It should have been safe. He’d had to wash splinters of bone from his hair. When he got back to London, he’d opened his camera and found blood still on the lens.

They’d been on assignment for the Irish Times, for a piece on how climate change was decimating rural communities around the world. The papers had called the explosion a tragedy, which was ironic considering how many Laotians got blown up in the same way every year, and that was seldom reported. There had been protests outside the American Embassy in London for a time afterwards, because the bombs were all American, left over from the Vietnam war. They’d been blowing people up since the 70s. But Alex had come out of the incident entirely uninjured. Not a scratch. Lucky.

The guy’s mouth moved again. Joe, his name was.

“Really, it’s not that bad. Maybe I should go. Would that be better?” He took his foot off his thigh and put it down to the ground.

Alex closed his eyes, but that didn’t help. Or maybe it did, because when he opened them again, he heard himself say, “I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s okay. Things like this freak some people out, don’t they? I didn’t mean to gross you out. It doesn’t hurt.”

“Uh, yes.” Alex didn’t know what he was saying yes to, but he had to respond because that’s what people did when they had conversations. He closed his eyes again.

Joe said, quietly, “Actually, do you mind if I sit here for a few minutes? Is that okay? I don’t know if you remember me, but I saw you the other night at Edith’s. I should have said hello, but anyway. I’m Joe. I liked what you said about light as composition.”

Alex opened his eyes to see Joe half-turn, gazing up at the house.

Joe said, “Before you moved in, everyone was saying a flash American had bought this place and was going to pull it down. But you’re not American, are you? You’re Canadian. I suppose people get that wrong all the time, although, actually, I think your accent is quite different. Anyway, if you’re sanding windowsills, you’re probably not going to demolish this place.”

Sanding windows. Yes. Alex had been sanding. His heart was slowing, breath slowing. But he couldn’t stop trembling. His right hand hurt. He had the sandpaper in a vicious grip. He let it fall and concentrated on Joe’s voice. Joe had a Kiwi accent that made Alex think of straightforward things like sheep and green grass and small country towns. An accent without pretensions. Joe hadn’t run away. Not that he could with a hook in his foot.

“This used to be the Addison’s place,” Joe said. “I used to come here as a kid with my grandma. Mrs. Addison would give me Fox’s glacier mints. Did you ever have those? I never ate them, but I liked the polar bear on the wrapper, so I took them anyway. She loved this house. She’d be glad you’re doing it up.” He seemed to have forgotten the hook in his foot. He looked at Alex as if they’d been sharing secrets. “You okay? I can go now, if you like.”

Alex took a deep breath, let it out. “I can’t. Sorry. I can’t.”

“No. No problem,” Joe said quickly.

With an effort, Alex tried to think of something sensible to say. “I could take you to a doctor. If you like. In a bit.” His voice sounded like it belonged to someone else.

For the first time, Joe seemed nervous. “No, that’s okay. I’ll try Matire’s place.”

“Sorry. You picked the wrong person.”

Joe gave him a half-smile. Not pitying, but maybe a little sad. “It’s fine.”

Alex rested his back against the house, and took a deep breath, and then another. A couple of years ago, he would have just helped. Like a competent adult. Like a grown man. He would have taken charge. He would have made the right kind of jokes, been the right mix of matter-of-fact and sympathetic. He would have done whatever was necessary, made Joe a cup of sweet tea and given him a lift home. Probably got his phone number. Maybe got himself invited in, if that was on the cards.

Now, of course, he was a fuck up. The guy with the hook in his foot was calming him down. And Joe was half his age, which was its own humiliation. It was sort of acceptable to be a mess at twenty-five; lots of people were. It could even be sexy. But at forty-five it was inexcusable. Not that Alex felt forty-five. He felt simultaneously about ninety and about nine. His hands wouldn’t stop shaking. He was like a grotesque hybrid of a palsied old man and a kid freaking out.

Since coming to Kahawai Bay, things had improved. He’d been sleeping better, feeling better, hadn’t yelled at anyone. And now this.

Suddenly, he wanted rid of Joe. Why had he brought his problem here? Why the hell did he have a hook in his foot in the first place? What kind of idiot carried his boots along a beach where careless fuckwits drop their fish hooks? Rage was washing over him.

Oh fuck.

“I’ll be back,” Alex managed through gritted teeth, and strode away down the grassy path to the sea.

Please, let there be no one on the beach. Let there be no one fishing. Let no one drop a fucking fish hook on the ground anywhere in a ten-mile radius or I’ll brain the fucking bastard with a rock.

At the beach, he took the hill path. Some hikers were coming down, but he hurried past them, avoiding eye contact, and they didn’t speak. On top of the cliffs, there was nothing but the wind, and the gulls riding the currents over a hundred-metre drop. In the distance, he could see the South Island, blue mountains across the sparkling sea. The anger was ebbing. The wind tore his body warmth away, and he felt cold and small. He wanted to be home, safe in the afternoon sun on the Chesterfield. But he’d left Joe there so he couldn’t go back. Not yet. A headache pulsed in his left temple.

Ah, God, why did it have to be the young handsome guy I freaked out in front of? Why couldn’t it have been some crusty old codger with a beard like steel wool?

Well, because that was life. The divine comedy. And sometimes it was so funny, the tears ran down his face and he gasped for breath.

After a while, he remembered the kind, plump face of his therapist in London, her rather posh English accent, her voice always calm, always quiet. After nearly a year, he’d grown sick of listening to her, and sicker still of listening to himself. Now, he often thought of her at times like this. He tried to relax in the way she’d suggested. Tried telling himself those sensible things you were supposed to tell yourself: everybody can have a bad day, it doesn’t mean you’re back at square one, it’s a long road, what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, you’re doing fine.

Wouldn’t it be nice if they felt true?

Probably the story would get around that the Canadian guy who’d bought Addison’s and seemed so nice, was actually pretty fucking weird. And Matire wouldn’t want her kids showing him how to eat kina, and there would be no more invitations to art groups or people coming to check the water tank out of a sense of neighbourliness. It was pathetic to mind, because what did it matter what these people thought? And yet it did. Because he liked it here, with these people who thought quilting was an art-form and yet had original Warhols in their living rooms, and who cared about herons and not what kind of sweater you wore. He wanted to stay and feel safe here at the edge of the world, and have ordinary good things in his life.

He had no idea of the time because he’d left his phone at home, but eventually the sun began to set, and he grew so cold that nothing else mattered. He stumbled down the stony hill track, up the grassy valley one. The concrete step was empty. Joe had gone. And Alex had said ‘I’ll be back’ like the Terminator. And of course, had not come back. So that was another mark against him, another unreliable act. He opened the unlocked front door, resigning himself to a night of hell, and trod on a piece of white paper. Wearily, he turned on the light and picked up the paper, ready for questions, apologies, or recriminations, but it wasn’t a note at all. It was a series of pencil drawings, in panels like a comic strip.

The first panel showed a young man going fishing, rod over his shoulder, bucket in hand. Joe had drawn himself skinnier and uglier than in real life, like a stick insect with soulful eyes, a big nose, and prominent Adam’s apple. He’d exaggerated his posture, lampooning his own lankiness and awkwardness. He wore the snowflake sweater. In the next panel, he stood on a rocky ledge, wind blowing his hair, line in the sea. He caught a fish, put it in his bucket, and began to walk home. But he stopped, sat down on a rock. His ill-fitting boots had chafed holes in his socks and given him blisters. Ah, so that’s why he’d taken them off. Joe carried his boots instead, picking his way barefoot along the beach.

In the next panel, a fish hook was wedged between two stones, barbed point flashing in the sun, Joe’s bare foot poised above it. At the last moment, Joe noticed it, and leapt aside. He picked up the hook, frowning, stowed it in his bucket. He went on, glancing up into a valley where a small square house faced the sun. A man was working outside the house, sanding windowsills. Although he remained a distant figure, it was clearly Alex, same hooded sweatshirt, same haircut; short at the sides, longer on top. The next panel showed Joe’s face close up, a thought cloud above his head. In the cloud was a picture of Alex talking to the art group, laptop showing a tiny approximation of the Cartier-Bresson photo of a woman on a stairway. Joe really had been paying attention.

But in the next panel, Joe sighed, and turned away, cheeks hatched. The implication was clear: too shy to say hello. Joe trudged on, posture exaggeratedly dejected, boots and bucket trailing on the ground behind him. He left the beach, went past a field with an old horse grazing. Then down a long driveway, a black cloud appearing above his head. He put the bucket by the front door of a tiny, ramshackle house that appeared to be roofed with leaves, and went in, closing the door behind him. The final panel showed the fish, upside-down in the bucket, dead eye staring at nothing.

The drawings were beautifully done, stylised but exact, leaping with life.

At the very bottom of the page was a symbol like pi gone wrong. Alex frowned at it before realising it was initials: JT.

Alex stood in the open doorway, scanning the pictures again. So, if Joe hadn’t trodden on the fish hook, he’d never have introduced himself. And that was—sad?

Alex read it a third time. The staring eye of the dead fish at the end definitely felt like a summary of how things would have ended up if Joe had not stepped on the fish hook: blank, empty, lifeless. So, since Joe had trodden on the hook, what was the alternative ending?

Alex looked again at the panel in which Joe sighed and turned away, cheeks hatched. Was he really so shy? He was brave enough to ask for help when he needed it, and brave enough to draw these pictures and leave them behind for Alex to find. And he’d done it with a hook in his foot. His lines were confident and economical. The way he caricatured himself was masterful; he was clearly used to doing it. He might attend an art group with old ladies, but he drew like a professional illustrator.

Alex had opened his door feeling like shit and expecting to feel like shit for days, if not weeks. Now, he was almost smiling. His hands were trembling again, but for a different reason. Because Joe seemed to be saying, ‘I’m not sorry I stood on a fish hook, and I don’t mind that you acted like a lunatic, because at least we met.’

I wonder where he lives? Where is this house with leaves for a roof? Surely, that’s artistic licence? Is a bit flirtatious or is that wishful thinking? Perhaps it’s just kind.

I have to see him again.

But not now. He couldn’t face anything else today. Not even a sympathetic New Zealander with a sensible accent and a shy smile.

He gazed at the drawing in his hand and wondered, suddenly, whether this was actually happening. It seemed unlikely, like something from a dream. Alex’s real life was going on without him in London. Right now, the genuine Alex Cox was heading to the Dorchester to photograph the newest face from Hollywood.

He drank a glass of water and dragged himself to bed. On the bedside table, he put the comic strip. Perhaps, in the morning, it would be gone.

Chapter Three

The next morning, Alex walked along the beach to the art gallery. He arrived as Juleke was opening the front door. Today, she wore a camouflage print fleece with her gumboots, and looked more like a backwoods hunter than a gallery owner.

“Hello!” she said. “Well! Everyone in the art group hopes you’ll come again! Now, are you a customer today, or is this a social call?”

“You know Joe, from the art group? He did me a favour yesterday. I wanted to thank him. Know where I could find him?”

“Gave you a fish, did he? People often do that around here.”

“A drawing. He left it for me to find.”

“Clever, isn’t he? Very talented. Did he speak to you? Because, if so, you can count yourself lucky. He’s all right once he knows you, though.”

“Actually, he talked more than I did,” Alex said.

“Really?” She laughed. “That’ll be a first. He must like you.”

“Sometimes I don’t say much myself.”

She nodded. “We all have our days, don’t we? Me, I talk too much. But that’s all right. Takes all sorts, doesn’t it? Joe lives up the Makara Road; it’s a ten-minute walk. Tui Glen, it’s called. It’s got a tui on the letter box—you know the bird with the white tuft under its chin? So, you can’t miss it. But he’s at work at the moment; I happen to know because his car wouldn’t start and I gave him a ride in. I’ll tell him you’re looking for him, though, if I see him. Or you could go around later. Frank’s giving him a ride home and he usually comes back around four. Try then.”

“Thanks.”

“I tell you what; want to see one of Joe’s paintings? I’ve got one in. It’s good. I guarantee you’ll want it.”

Joe’s painting showed pale blue sky, half a dozen seagulls tumbling across it, coming in to land. The gulls were stylised into a pattern of white and red and grey, and the whole thing had a cheerful, early morning feel. They weren’t noble wind-riding gulls; their peevish red beaks and paddle-feet gave them a droll look, and yet the angles of wings and heads and bodies all fitted together into perfect harmony. They were at once real birds and a representation of agile, squabbling joy. The colours weren’t over-bright. On the contrary, Joe had used a subtle palette—burgundy, dove grey, duck-egg-blue—that gave the whole thing a mid-century feel. It was fresh and new, but the viewer travelled in time to see it.

Alex had been to hundreds of art galleries, thousands of shows. He didn’t often buy, but this was charming. It would be perfect in the house in Kahawai Bay. And not a mandala or metal bikini in sight. Juleke stood at his elbow, gazing at it too. He’d gone to such lengths to avoid coming in here, and now he was going to buy something. Not out of a sense of obligation, but because he really wanted it. Would he have wanted it if the artist hadn’t been Joe? Yes. It was that good.

Juleke was nodding. “Beautiful, eh? What do you think? Will you take it?”

“Yes, thanks, I will.”

“I can get it framed, if you like. Something plain? Black? Not too thick?”

“All right. How much?”

“For you, including the framing, four hundred dollars.”

Alex frowned. The painting was quite big. “That’s not enough. A frame alone...”

“It’s mate’s rates, isn’t it? Joe would kill me if I charged full price to a local.”

“Am I a local yet? You’re under-charging. I’d happily pay more.”

“If Joe was here, he’d probably give it to you for nothing and that won’t help me pay the mortgage. You give me four hundred and we’ll all be happy.”

And with that, he had to be content. He took a photo of the picture with his phone and walked home. He was opening the front door when he realised he hadn’t even glanced at anything else in the gallery, hadn’t asked about Juleke’s work at all. He’d have to go back one day soon. He sat at the kitchen table and contemplated the photo of the seagull picture. It had a carefree, holiday feel, like a 1950s British Rail poster advertising trips to the seaside.

He zoomed in and found a signature in pencil, silvery grey against pale blue, J. Taylor. Now he had a surname, he Googled ‘Joe Taylor Wellington artist’, and clicked on images, hoping equally for photos of the artist, or more of his pictures. What he got was a website offering page after page of comics. All in the same style as the one lying on his bedside table, but in colour.

Joe’s comics were set in the small town of New Erewhon and featured an eclectic cast of real people, animals, and anthropomorphised objects. Edith made an appearance, along with a talking fish, and a bucket having an existential crisis. There was a knight in armour who was a caricature of Joe himself with a pot on his head, riding an old white horse around the country roads. The horse, named Blue, sometimes hung out in Joe’s leaf-roofed house and quoted Kierkegaard when Joe was sad. The horse smoked marijuana in secret behind its stall, and then craved oats, which Joe couldn’t afford.

For Alex, comics were a childhood thing: Superman, Batman, Mickey Mouse. As an adult, they’d barely been on his radar. But as he read, the world Joe had created began to grow on him. And when he reached a storyline with Joe’s green snowflake sweater as a character in its own right, he laughed out loud. In the comic, Joe treated the sweater carelessly, not realising that at night it came to life and roamed the dark hillsides, causing mischief and performing mysterious rituals.

No one had any money in Joe’s comics. Their lives were not glamorous. Characters sometimes died or got eaten or were simply thrown away. The remaining characters suffered from ennui or thwarted love affairs. Their ambitions were often ridiculous. Occasionally, Joe put superheroes into his storylines. They wore spandex suits and tried to do good, but they were all hopeless, with useless talents, or so pompous no one could stand them.

But a thread of joy or hope ran through all of Joe’s stories. Ingenuity and kindness always won through, and people were seldom alone unless they wanted to be. In the bleakest storylines, there was always a suggestion of redemption in the final panel. Even as the bucket concluded that life wasn’t worth living, another bucket was washed up on the shore behind him, weakly calling for help. The storylines were so tight, the art so accomplished, and the characters so nuanced, that they drew Alex in to a world he didn’t want to leave.

Defining Joe from his comics was more difficult, because while his website’s About page stated that they were semi-autobiographical, his flights of fancy made it difficult to know which things had really happened and which had not. Quite a lot of the older comics had the ‘Joe’ character pining after a beautiful mermaid, and Alex’s heart sank, because that seemed to signal pretty clearly where the real Joe’s romantic interests might lie.

But the mermaid tired of Joe, and Joe met the Prince Frog, a charmer who became crueler and more frog-like with every kiss. Of course, it was a work of fiction. Of course, it was none of Alex’s business. Of course, a comic in which a sweater came alive and horses talked philosophy was hardly proof of anything. But all the same, Alex couldn’t help lingering over the panels in which Joe lay in bed with the Prince Frog, or tried to hold his webbed hand.

Eventually, Alex tore himself away from the world of New Erewhon. He found that there was a book, a collection from a publisher called Earth’s End Comics. He bought it, and fetched the pencilled comic strip Joe had left behind, Alex’s own personal piece of New Erewhon. Perhaps he could reciprocate with a print of a photograph. There was a dark room at the studio. He knew exactly which image he’d choose.

* * *

In real life, the roof of Joe’s house was made of tiles, but covered in so much moss that it did look like leaves. The house, at the foot of a huge hill, was very small, similar in size and era to Alex’s. The walls were wooden weatherboard, painted pale yellow and overlaid with green algae. Alex parked on the road and walked down the long driveway. An old white horse in an adjoining field flicked its ears and ambled towards the house alongside him. Was it called Blue?

Joe’s white Honda with the one red door was parked beside the house. Next to the car, a concrete garage had been built against the bare hillside that loomed over the house. The garage door was open, showing a heap of driftwood, a pile of bigger logs stacked against a wall, and several bales of hay.

The air smelled of wood smoke. Someone was home. Was it Joe? Did he live alone? Heart beating faster, Alex knocked on the door.

The old horse thrust its head through the wires of the fence and tore at the longer grass at the side of the driveway. Although the time was only four thirty, the hill meant the house was already in shade, and probably had been for hours. It was cold and damp, chilling Alex to the bone. No wonder Joe used to seek out the afternoon warmth in Mrs. Addison’s sunroom.

Alex knocked again. No answer. Juleke had said Joe was shy. Joe had said it himself in his drawing. Maybe he was hiding.

Alex pushed the envelope with the photograph he’d printed under the front door. On the back of the photo he’d written: Sorry about yesterday. Thanks for the comic and his name and phone number. He’d taken a couple of steps away from the house when he heard the door opening and turned.

Joe stood in the doorway, holding the envelope. He wore his grey coat, buttoned up, as if he was about to go out. He was looking down at the envelope, so all Alex could see was his hair; he must have washed it, because it was glossy as mahogany.

“Sorry to keep you waiting. I thought you were someone else,” Joe said to the ground.

“Hi. Look, I wanted to say sorry for yesterday. I sometimes can’t deal with...situations like that. Hope you’re okay.”

“I’m fine.” Joe flipped a corner of the envelope backwards and forwards with his thumb. His gaze skittered over Alex, up the driveway to the road, then back to the envelope. In this light, his eyes were black and shiny as wet tar.

“Your picture meant a lot to me,” Alex said. “I thought you’d be pretty pissed.”

“Oh, no.” Joe stared at his feet.

“You draw very well.”

“Oh, no. I mean, thanks.”

“That’s a print, of a photo. I wanted to reciproca–”

“Thanks.” Joe spoke so fast he cut Alex off. Then he frowned and blushed and said, “Sorry. Thanks.”

“I hope you like it,” Alex said.

Joe made no move to open the envelope. He seemed quite different than the guy who’d sat and talked calmly about sanding windowsills and Fox’s glacier mints. Perhaps he was hoping Alex wasn’t going to do anything else crazy.

Alex added, “Well, I guess I’ll see you round? Don’t be shy. I hope, if you want to come and say hi, you’ll come.”

Joe shot him a glance that was almost irritated, like he’d been caught out. You put it in the comic you gave me, Alex wanted to say. But then he imagined Joe, on the beach path, seeing his house again, not coming over again. Don’t be shy was a dumb thing to say to a shy person who doesn’t know you very well.

“Why don’t you come tonight? I’ll make you dinner,” Alex said, surprising himself.

Joe’s eyes widened in astonishment, lips parting. He looked Alex straight in the eye for the first time. Then he went scarlet down to his neck, and ducked his head again. “Oh. Uh, are you sure?”

“I’d love to make you dinner. I hope I didn’t freak you out yesterday.”

“You didn’t.”

“The thing is, something happened to me. I was on an assignment. In South-East Asia. In Laos. I was sick of commercial stuff. I was moving into photojournalism. But the people I was with—a journalist and our interpreter—died. They were killed. There was an unexploded bomb, and one of them stepped on it. It’s not that I knew them well, but...but...and now sometimes I can’t deal with things like...your foot and...uh...”

Khamane’s severed foot popped into his mind and he lost the thread. Sweat was pricking out down his back and in his armpits. Why on earth was he trying to explain it to someone he’d barely met, to someone he’d just invited for dinner? He could taste blood.

“I know worse things happen to people every day, but ever since it happened, sometimes I...I just can’t.”

Joe was watching him now.

It was Alex’s turn to avert his eyes. “I was ashamed I couldn’t help you. I’m usually all right, these days.” The image of the severed foot hovered in his mind. He kept trying to push it away; it kept being flung back, like a piece of driftwood on an incoming tide.

He’d planned on saying sorry and thanks and maybe call me, if you like. Hadn’t planned on saying all this other stuff. He took a deep breath and forced himself to make eye contact again.

“Anyway, if you don’t want to come over, it’s fine. I won’t be offended. I know you don’t know me,” Alex said.

Joe bent his head again, contemplating his feet, as if he was going to refuse. “Dinner sounds nice, if you’re sure.” He shot a look at Alex from under his hair. Not smiling, but pleased. Interested. Still astonished.

And he’d said yes. Alex felt the tingle he got when going through shots at the end of a long day and realising he’d taken something special.

“Great,” Alex said. “About seven? I can come and get you, if you like. I heard you were having car trouble.”

A silver-grey Mazda turned in at driveway and Joe jerked his head up. The car bumped towards the house, coming too fast. The white horse shied away from it, catching its ears on the wire and making the whole fence rattle. As the car pulled up, Alex could see a young blond guy driving; he was good-looking, Joe’s age, hair sleek and undercut, wearing a sweatshirt with a plaid pattern printed on it in silver.

“I’ll leave you to it,” Alex said. Because of course a guy as handsome as Joe would have other people hanging around. Of course, other people could see past his bowed head and ugly sweaters.

“Hi, Jophiel,” said the young blond man, getting out of the car.

“Cut it out, Sean,” Joe said.

Alex had been intending on walking back to his car. The tension in Joe’s voice made him pause.

“Hi,” Sean said to Alex, in a who the hell are you tone. He said to Joe, “So, what’s up?”

“Sean, you can’t just—” Joe said.

“Aw.” Sean made a mock sad face. “C’mon. Don’t moan. Wanna go to town?”

“No,” Joe said, with utter finality.

“My place?” Sean said.

“I don’t want to,” Joe said. “I told you.”

“You can drive,” Sean said, with the air of one conferring a favour, and threw his keys to Joe.

Joe fumbled the catch, dropped the envelope, and had to pick the keys up off the front step to toss them back. “Sean, can you just go?”

“Why? Got a date?”

Joe opened his mouth and closed it again, reddening. Sean’s eyes widened with real surprise, then narrowed, hardening. Alex glanced at Joe. Was having dinner together a date? He wasn’t sure himself. Was Joe embarrassed because Sean had got it right, or because he’d got it wrong? When Alex glanced back to Sean, Sean’s eyes had widened again in mockery; he looked Alex up and down.

“You’re kidding,” Sean said.

“I told you not to come,” Joe said. “I told you.”

“Yeah.” Sean was glaring at Alex. “Jesus, Jophiel. He’s about a hundred.”

“At least, I’m old enough to recognise a loser when I see one,” Alex said. His voice came out perfect, bored and dismissive. He realised, with some surprise, that he felt dismissive. Whoever this idiot was, Joe wasn’t interested. Also, this idiot was a guy, and he’d clearly had some sort of relationship with Joe. So that was pretty conclusive. Good.

Sean huffed in mock outrage. “Bloody hell, it’s Bryan Adams. Joe, you are so lame.”

“Sean, go away,” Joe said fiercely.

“God, you’re pathetic,” Sean said. “You were only ever a pity fuck, you know.”

“Fuck you,” Joe said under his breath at Sean’s retreating back.

Sean got in his car, reversed into the garage wall, sped back up the driveway and was gone towards Wellington with a nasty dent in his rear fender.

Joe’s knees seemed to give. He hid his face in his hands and hunched against the doorframe. “Oh, God, I’m sorry.”

“‘Bryan Adams’? Well, I’ve had worse.”

“Oh, God,” Joe groaned, position becoming more foetal. “I’m really, really sorry.”

Alex ducked his head, trying to read Joe’s expression, which of course was impossible. But Joe didn’t seem upset as such. He was just suffering an agony of embarrassment.

“Put it like this,” Alex said. “That’s your cringe quota over for the year. So now you can relax. Nothing that bad will happen again anytime soon, will it?”

Joe laughed, sort of, but stayed curled up in the doorway.

“Was he the ‘Prince Frog’?” Alex asked.

Joe took his hands away from his face. “You read my comic.”

“Yep. I bought one of your paintings today. The seagulls. You signed it. So, I Googled you, found your website.”

“Uh, thanks for buying a picture.”

“Was he the Prince Frog? Got nastier the more you kissed him?”

“Sean was never...” Joe paused, as if deciding something. “He was never my boyfriend.”

“No?”

“I would never go out with someone like that.”

Meaning, a guy? Or meaning, a dickhead? Alex could certainly understand why Joe would want to distance himself from a charmer like Sean.

“Neither would I. You know, I really liked your comic. I loved the stories about your snowflake sweater. And Edith in New York. Does she know?”

“Oh, yes. I asked her.” Joe picked up the envelope and began playing with the corner again. “You know what? I Googled you, too. After you came to art group.”

“Is that right?” So, you were curious about me. And you probably already knew everything I just told you about Laos.

“You met Alan Moore, didn’t you? You took his picture.”

“Oh, the comics guy? With the beard and the hair? Of course, you like comics. You like his?”

Joe gaped at him, wordless, and Alex could see that had been a really stupid question.

“Why don’t you come over now?” Alex said. “Tell me about comics while I cook. I can give you a lift, if you like. I parked on the road.”

“Um.”

“I might remember an anecdote about Alan Moore.”

“Okay, thanks,” Joe said. He added, as if reassuring himself, “It’s not far, anyway.”

“We can walk if you like,” Alex said. He remembered Sean tossing his keys to Joe. “Or you can drive.”

Joe gave him a look that made his heart turn over and his balls tighten.

“I think I trust you,” Joe said.

In the car, Joe took the photograph of the sunroom out of the envelope. A shaft of copper sunlight lay across the old Chesterfield, the doorway framing the red-washed hill opposite. The moth-eaten paper lantern glowed on the floor like the ghost of a jack-o-lantern, sending unexpected rays of light across floor and wall. It was a warm, inviting image. Come in, it seemed to say. The door is always open. Lie down. Rest. Alex was pleased with it.

“Like it?”

“It’s beautiful.” Joe was staring. Not at the picture. At Alex.

“Know why I chose that picture?” Alex said.

“You saw me there. Didn’t you?”

“I arrived before the estate agent. Checked the place out. Did you hear me slam my car door?”

“That was you?”

“Yep.”

“That was my big secret. Mrs. Addison’s spare key.”

“Sorry. Ruined your afternoon naps, haven’t I?”

“It was so warm. If I’d had a bad night’s sleep I’d just...you’re not annoyed, are you?”

“Why would I be? You were a good advertisement. Made me want the place all the more. That old Chesterfield’s better than sleeping pills, eh?”

“That old—? Is it some kind of antique?”

“Chesterfield is Canadian slang. It means your grandma’s couch.”

“You’re kidding! You have a word for that?”

Alex glanced away from the road. Joe smiling at him was the best thing he’d seen in months.

Back at home, Alex offered tea, because there was no wine or beer in the house. Joe sat at the kitchen table and accepted as if tea was a perfect aperitif.

One-to-one and sure of his welcome, Joe was easy company. If he blushed easily, he smiled easily, too, and didn’t rush to fill silences. At first it felt a bit of a novelty to be with someone under thirty who wasn’t forever checking his phone, but of course there was no reception in Kahawai Bay. Joe didn’t seem bothered. He pulled a sketchbook out of his coat pocket and drew, stopping to talk if spoken to, but absorbing himself in his drawing when the silence lengthened. Watching Joe sketching was unexpectedly relaxing. It was like seeing flames flickering in a fireplace, always different, always the same. It gave the conversation an effortless, rambling quality, as if they’d known each other for years.

Joe had a part-time job at an artist’s supply shop in town. He owned the house he lived in; it had been left to him by his grandmother, who had also bequeathed him old Blue. Not having to pay rent or a mortgage meant Joe could spend a lot of time making comics. He sometimes picked up commissions, mainly illustrating educational resources for schools, or did artwork for book covers and magazine-style websites. He sold drawings and prints online and at a gallery in town that specialised in comics and tattoo-style art. But he didn’t care about money, except to keep body and soul together and buy hay for Blue.

Alex began to cook spaghetti bolognaise. He would have liked to make something more impressive, but there wasn’t much in the cupboards. Joe said spaghetti sounded great. Avoiding carbs had probably never entered his head. Joe mentioned a couple of comics artists, but kept turning the conversation back to other things.

Alex said, “You won’t bore me. Tell me some more about this Jim Woodring guy.”

Alex’s laptop was on the table, and Joe started finding pictures for him to look at, pointing out what he liked, or didn’t like, or hoped to emulate. When discussing comics, Joe forgot to be shy. He contradicted Alex without apologising. He said, “I have to lend you some comics.” He pushed his hair off his face and his features leapt into focus: smooth brow, coffee-dark eyes, strong nose, clean jawline. He had a pale scar down the very middle of his bottom lip.

The scar caught the light, a white seam on pink. Slightly raised. Alex had a sudden, electric vision of Joe kneeling before him, mouth around his dick. He could almost feel the scar catching on the head, just a little. Could almost feel Joe’s hair like silk beneath his hand. The kitchen was suddenly too bright and sweltering hot. He was longing to ask Joe if he could take his photograph, but something kept stopping him. Trust the instinct, because he’ll say no. Alex tried instead to focus on the gaudy hallucinogenic animals Joe was currently displaying on the computer screen.

Alex showed Joe some photos. Joe had a good eye, although he critiqued photos in a surprising way, valuing atmosphere over narrative. He noticed things about lighting that most beginners didn’t pick up.

After dinner, Alex said, “Why did he call you Jophiel?”

“It’s my name,” Joe said to his empty spaghetti bowl. “Awful, isn’t it? It’s after an angel. Mum’s a bit New Age. We lived in a commune until I was fourteen. Mind you, my best friend was called Blessing, and her brother was Windroval, so I suppose I got off lightly.” He looked across the table at Alex. “Don’t call me it, will you? I don’t like it.”

Alex had known a number of people in New York and London who’d changed their names to be more noticeable, more unusual, more unforgettable. It seemed telling that Joe would go about life in the opposite way.

Later, he took Joe home.

“Thanks, it was awesome,” Joe said in the dark car. “Thanks for the photograph, too. It’s amazing.”

Before Laos, Alex would probably have gone in for a kiss, because, why not? Now, he felt very conscious of his age and his many weaknesses. He was hardly love’s young dream.

“It was awesome, eh? We should do it again,” he said.

Joe opened the car door and the light went on. He shot Alex a heart-stopping smile, got out, closed the car door and was gone into his tiny yellow house. Alex drove home. He tided the kitchen, trying to ignore his incipient hard-on. He closed the browser windows and turned off the laptop. He brushed his teeth and got into bed. But there was no ignoring it now. He said shit under his breath, tugged down his shorts and took himself in hand.

He thought of Joe, lying asleep on the Chesterfield in the sunroom. Joe waking, seeing Alex standing in the doorway. Joe undoing the fly of his paint-spattered pants, staring at Alex as he did it. Joe pulling off his clothes. Joe’s limber young body, long lean muscles, hard dick leaking onto his flat stomach. Ah, yes. Alex mentally fast-forwarded. Joe lying on his back at the edge of the sofa, sunlight gilding his body. Joe with his knees hooked over Alex’s shoulders. Joe crying out as Alex thrust into his tight ass, perfectly lubed and prepared by the magic of erotic fantasy. Joe pushing up against him, pleading for more, making desperate noises, begging to be fucked...

Alex came hard and fast, and saw stars the glow of the bedside lamp. Now that he’d come, his bones were turning into limp spaghetti. Too tired to get out of bed, he tugged off his T-shirt, wiped away the come with it, and tossed it on the floor. He switched off the light.

He thought of the real Joe, flashing him a smile and closing the car door. The bed had never felt emptier. If only Joe was still here, sleepy and affectionate in Alex’s arms, warming the whole world with his presence.

Physically sated, if not precisely happy, Alex fell asleep.

Chapter Four

Alex started to see Joe two or three times a week. Of course, it was silly and adolescent to frequent places Joe might go, but he did it all the same. And it was easy to meet by chance in a place the size of Makara Beach. He might find Joe giving Matire’s kids a plodding horseback ride on old Blue. Or fishing off the rocks, or sketching. Once, Alex bumped into him at the nearest supermarket in suburban Karori, where Joe was buying cheap, sensible things like pasta and beans.

Sometimes, Joe had ‘comics people’ over, and invariably took them down to the beach. Alex met a few of them: Rawiri, who drew epic Māori mythology-inspired fantasies and who greeted Alex with a hongi, the traditional Māori pressing together of noses. Bella, who drew threatening, wordless, scratchy black-and-white comics, and who was even shyer than Joe. And Oliver, who was into autobiographical anguish and made comics about watching too much porn, losing a joint in his mother’s car, and failing at job interviews.

Alex gathered, from these meetings, that Joe was something of a celebrity in the Wellington comics scene. Joe had a book out, and another collection planned, and was generous with his time, discussing other people’s comics at length, and showing tricks he’d learned with the drawing software they all used. With the comics people, Joe talked about zine markets or comics meet-ups; he teased Oliver about the way he drew girls’ breasts, and Rawiri about his love of superheroes.

One day, Alex met Joe and Rawiri on the beach and invited them back for coffee. Rawiri wore his long black hair pulled back in a bun. He was older than Joe, in his early thirties, married with kids. Māori tattoos swirled up both well-muscled forearms. More tattoos snaked up the sides of his neck. His eyes, a lighter brown than Joe’s and slightly protuberant, missed nothing. Alex felt as if he was meeting Joe’s dad. He could tell Rawiri was making up his mind about him.

Rawiri pointed to the painting of the seagulls, now framed and hanging on the wall above the kitchen table. “That’s your work, my friend,” he said to Joe. “Nice. Very nice.”

“Thanks,” Joe muttered, squirming the way he did when complimented, and staring into his coffee.

“Ah, you kumara!” Rawiri said. “Where did you learn to be so shy? Did you not do your best work? Then own it! That’s what I tell my kids.”

“It is my best.” Joe glanced at Alex and smiled.

“Well, then!” Rawiri said to Alex. “There’s a whakatauki, Alex, a saying: kāore te kumara e kōrero mō tōna ake reka. The kumara—that’s the sweet potato—doesn’t boast about how sweet it is. Normally it’s a lesson in humility, but in this case the kumara is too shy for his own good.”

“Ra, don’t,” Joe said.

“You see?” Rawiri said, holding out his hands. “Alex, you’ve lived in London. New York. I bet you’ve seen a lot of the best art, eh? A lot of the finest artists. And yet, you bought this picture. A world-class photographer buys your work, Joe Taylor, and still you won’t stand tall. What’s going on, eh?”

“I’m hardly world-class,” Alex said.

Rawiri threw his hands up, laughing. “You too?” He looked from Alex to Joe and back again, grinning. “You deserve each other.”

“He’s right, Joe,” Alex said. “It’s a great picture. You should be proud of it.”

“It’s not that I’m ashamed,” Joe said to the table-top. “I just hate being in the spotlight.”

“Yes, but why?” Rawiri asked. “Aren’t we all friends here?”

“Okay.” Joe grinned at him, suddenly. “Help me break out of my comfort zone. Give me more compliments.”

“Ah, that’s better,” Rawiri said. “I’ll make an exhibitionist of you yet!”

Joe shook his head, still smiling. “Never going to happen. You know, when I was at school I used to make mistakes deliberately so I wouldn’t win some stupid certificate and have to go on stage to get it.”

“And yet you put your comics out there for everyone to read. I reckon you like attention as much as the next guy.”

“Maybe. But it has to be the right sort,” Joe said.

* * *

Joe wore the green snowflake sweater because someone from art group had given it to him. And yes, because it was warm and his house was freezing. In any case, Alex had started liking the sweater, because it was part of Joe’s universe, and the idea of it living a wild and mysterious life of its own made him smile. Joe called it a jumper, not a sweater, and was always saying things like ‘I found a dead possum by my back door this morning. I think the jumper did it. Do you think it’s territorial?’ or ‘the jumper’s been breaking into people’s garages to steal paint. What do you think it wants it for?’.

Alex quickly learned that the surest way to make Joe laugh was to enter into these fantasies. Joe loved ridiculous, playful ideas: sweaters stealing paint to daub snowflake patterns on other people’s laundry, a tribe of possums who thought Joe was an undertaker since he always buried their dead, mermaids trying to invent an underwater hair dryer. Cruel humour made Joe uncomfortable. He didn’t like to laugh at people. But to be teased by Joe felt like a rare, gentle honour.

One night, a southerly storm brought winds howling straight up from Antarctica. The next morning, Alex met Joe on the beach and suggested a trip to the south coast. Since Alex had arrived in Wellington he’d been waiting for a big southerly so he could photograph the huge seas people kept telling him about. Waves ten metres high thundered across Cook Strait, if the locals were telling the truth. Today, conditions were interesting; the rain had blown over, the swell was up, the sun came out fitfully through low cloud, and Alex had nowhere else to be. Joe offered to drive.

It wasn’t far to the south coast, mainly down quiet, semi-rural or suburban roads. Joe drove in total silence. No radio, no chat, giving his full attention to the sparse traffic. Alex didn’t mind. It was enough to be with Joe. When they reached the south coast, Alex understood how sheltered they’d been at Makara, and driving through the suburbs. Now the wind buffeted the car so hard it wobbled. The waves were cobalt monsters, maned with white, flinging themselves at the land. Seaweed and driftwood littered the road.

Joe parked where the road petered out into stony beach. The sea roared and seethed to the left, bare hills towered above them to the right. Walking along the narrow track above the beach felt like skirting an abyss. The ground trembled with the fury of the sea.

Over the thunder of the breakers, Joe said, into Alex’s ear, “Don’t get too close, okay? There are freak waves sometimes.” He gazed into Alex’s eyes, part smiling, part serious, making Alex’s heart skip and race. “Wouldn’t want your nice camera to get wet.”

Despite the wind, and the cold, and the spatters of icy spray, the photography gods were smiling. Or perhaps it was Joe’s presence that made Alex feel especially alert. It was only after a couple of hours in the zone that Alex realised Joe had not once asked if he was nearly finished. Nor had Joe hung around looking patient, or trying to seem interested. In fact, Joe wasn’t even watching him anymore. Joe had found a rock to shelter behind, and was leaning on it, drawing.

“Had enough?” Alex said. His fingers were numb.

“Twenty minutes?”

On the way back to the car, Joe kept rubbing his left shoulder. He saw Alex noticing.

“The cold makes it ache,” Joe explained. “Should’ve gone when you said.”

“Did you break it?”

“Yeah. Car crash.”

“Sorry to hear it.”

“No, it’s okay. It was ages ago. Two years now.”

They carried on for another fifty metres, feet crunching on the stones of the path.

Joe said, “Don’t ever drink and drive, okay?”

“I don’t. I don’t drink these days anyway. Is that what happened?”

“Yeah. Not me. The guy who hit me. He was four times the limit. Speeding too.”

“Ah, shit. I’m sorry, Joe.”

Alex remembered Joe sitting on his front step with the fish hook in his foot, talking calmly about things that didn’t matter. If he’d been in an accident, perhaps someone had talked like that to him. Was that where he’d got the idea? If so, it was even sweeter than Alex had first thought.

Joe gave an awkward, one-shouldered shrug. “No, it’s all right. I was lucky. Not to die, I mean.”

“I guess that makes two of us.”

Alex thought the conversation was over, but back at the car, in the moment of quiet as they closed the doors on the wind, Joe said, “Are you angry about what happened to you?”

Alex glanced at him in surprise. Not because of the question, but at the sudden realisation that no one else, barring the therapist, had ever asked him that. Joe was staring ahead, out of the windshield, at the waves.

“Yeah. I try not to be, but, yeah. You know why I don’t drink? Because I started drinking too much. And then, the last two times, I ended up shouting at someone. That’s not who I want to be.”

Joe nodded, rubbing his shoulder.

“Were you angry about the crash?” Alex asked.

“Yes. At first. I kind of hated the guy who hit me. It felt like a brush with evil. Not deliberate evil, just stupid, thoughtless, arrogant evil. You know what I mean? But after a while it felt pointless to go on being angry.” He paused. “Of course, it’s easier for me. I haven’t got, you know, what you’ve got.”

“Post-traumatic stress disorder.”

“Yeah, that.” Joe shot him a shy look. “I’m sorry about what happened to you.”

Alex wasn’t sure whether to smile or burst into tears. “Yeah, well. Thanks. Me too.”

He managed to glance at Joe. Joe gave him the tiniest of smiles. Alex hoped Joe wasn’t going to start giving him platitudes or trying to cheer him up. Today had been the best day in a long line of good days. He still didn’t think he’d be able to bear it if Joe began talking about silver linings.

Joe started the car. “Life’s hard sometimes, isn’t it?”

You make it easier, Alex wanted to say, but he felt too raw and the words too risky.

“I hope you don’t mind that I don’t talk when I drive,” Joe said, as he backed out and turned the car. “Ever since the crash I’ve been kind of a nervous driver. I need to concentrate.”

“Want me to drive home?”

“No, actually. I’m worse as a passenger. There’s something about not being in control.”

Alex frowned. “You’ve let me drive you. I took you to work that time. And to my place.”

“Didn’t you notice me flinching at intersections?”

“No, I didn’t. You hide it very well.”

“So do you,” Joe said.

That evening, alone at home, Alex assessed the shots he’d taken. The best ones came when he’d been waiting for Joe. The light had changed again. The sea had become a torrent of pure, glinting power, gnawing at the rocks. The fold of hill he’d got in shot was massive, unyielding, just as potent in a totally different way. Alex got the shiver on the back of his neck, the hairs standing up on his arms. He felt like a photographer again. Not a studio hack, but an artist. He’d print the best one and give it to Joe. Or maybe print two copies so he could put one on his own wall. He thought of exhibitions for the first time since Laos. These shots were worth it. What would complement them? What would make them stronger?

That night, he dreamt of Joe.

Joe, grabbing him, saying ‘don’t get too close’, but kissing him all the same, mouth as hungry as the waves. Alex woke as he came, hand on his own dick, pleasure singing through him even as Joe faded away from his embrace. He hadn’t had a wet dream in years. Didn’t think he could, any more. He should just enjoy that it had happened. But somehow, he felt lonelier than ever.

***

Alex caught Joe looking at him sometimes, with a steady, considering gaze that turned into a smile and a blush if Alex noticed him doing it. In any other guy, he’d have thought it a giveaway, but while Joe would listen to his stories or ideas about photography with rapt attention, he never quite tipped the scales into flirtation. Despite the way he bared his soul in his comics, there was something reserved about Joe in person. Even his social media was all about his art, alongside an occasional photo of Blue. As a profile picture, Joe used a drawing of himself, a big-eyed, anxious-looking caricature that was both very like and very unlike the real Joe.

And Joe always refused to be photographed, which made Alex’s heart ache in a very particular way. After a couple of hours of talking and sketching, Joe would say, “I’d better go now,” and could never be persuaded to stay. He’d smile and shake his head, not breaking step as he slipped out the front door.

Alex still wondered sometimes about the comics in which ‘Joe’ was in love with the mermaid, and the comics with the Prince Frog. He’d watched Joe kick Sean out of his life, and it was clear that Sean had been some sort of sexual partner. But Joe had told him that he’d gone out with Blessing—yes, that really was her name—for several years after leaving the commune where they’d both grown up. It hadn’t worked out. She’d gone back to commune life, somewhere up north. Joe had stayed away, though he seemed to bear the commune people no ill will. So, had Sean been a one-off? If he’d been an experiment, he’d evidently been a pretty unpleasant one.

Of course, Alex could have asked Joe outright where his preferences lay, but to ask would be to state a sexual interest, and he wasn’t ready to put everything on the line like that. He and Joe were neighbours; if Alex made an unwanted pass, they would both have to live with it. Alex was avoiding enough; he didn’t want to have to avoid Joe as well. For now, it was enough to go fishing with Joe, or find him sketching on the beach, or to have him lighting up the occasional evening with his gentle humour and fierce anti-commercialism.

One morning, Alex woke early and couldn’t go back to sleep. He listened to the birds twittering in the hedge outside his window, and thought of Laos. Of the water buffalo wallowing in potholes on the road, of women with yellow rice powder on their faces, and the taste of indifferent noodles at a roadside stand. He couldn’t help but think of Aoife, drinking Laotian beer out of the bottle, the sleeves of her white shirt rolled up, discussing the next day’s schedule. In that moment, with the birds sounding like little bells in the hedge, he was able to contemplate what had happened to her, and to Khamane, and what had nearly happened to him, and then take his thoughts away, in a way he’d never been able to before.

All the same, it seemed a bad idea to go on lying there with nothing to distract him. The severed foot and the taste of blood and the fear were at bay this morning, but they were still there. Probably, they would never go away. He got up, and seeing the dawn light at the edges of the curtains, thought he’d go down to the beach and maybe bump into Joe, who often went fishing early. He opened the front door and Joe was sitting on the step, as if he’d been waiting.

“Hi,” Alex said, warmth bursting inside his chest.

“Hi.” Joe stood up.

There was something in his tone of voice that made Alex say, “You okay?”

“Well, actually, I just wanted to see you.”

“Yeah?” Another wave of warm honey. Calm down; he probably wants to borrow a piece of string or take some bacon rind for bait.

Joe stretched, winced. “Gosh, it was cold sitting there. Can I come in?”

“Breakfast?”

Alex didn’t wait for an answer. Joe was always hungry. Alex had put on the kettle and got out the pan to scramble eggs when he realised Joe hadn’t sat down at the kitchen table, as he usually did, but was standing next to it, arms wrapped around himself, rubbing his left shoulder.

“What’s up?” Alex said.

Joe sighed. “I had a bad night. That’s all. I don’t sleep so well, sometimes. My shoulder aches. You know, from the crash.”

They were about two feet apart. It felt right to close the distance between them, to put a hand on Joe’s upper arm. “Sucks, eh?”

Joe nodded and took a step forward, letting Alex hold him. Joe’s shaggy, glossy hair was like silk against Alex’s cheek. Joe smelled of wood smoke and wool, and the cold was still coming off him. Alex’s mouth was near Joe’s jawline. He thought he could feel Joe’s heart pounding, but probably it was his own. If Joe had turned his head a fraction to the left, if he had stayed one second longer, Alex would have kissed him.

But Joe moved away. “It’s all right telling you. You get it.”

“Yeah. I do.” Behind Alex, the kettle clicked off. Joe was sitting down, getting out his sketchbook.

“Want to talk about it?” Alex said.

“Nah, just wanted to see you,” Joe said to the sketchbook. He was drawing a salt shaker with its arms around a surprised-looking bottle of wine. A couple of supercilious wine glasses were watching, eyebrows raised. “A friend’s getting me some weed today. That usually helps.”

“That’s good.”

Joe bent over his drawing. “It’s illegal. You don’t think it’s wrong?”

“I think you’re hardly a menace to society. I’d probably do the same if I were you.”

They had breakfast and Joe went home. Alex had a job that day, a shoot for an insurance company’s corporate brochures. But the sensation of Joe in his arms would not leave him. He photographed smiling families and senior citizens in brightly coloured clothes and thought of Joe.

Of course, Joe could come for comfort and breakfast after a bad night. It was a good thing Alex hadn’t kissed him. Only an asshole kissed a friend who needed a hug.

But was Joe using him? Leading him on? Joe never let things get too far. So, he’d always have somewhere warm to go, with food laid on, while Alex got more and more smitten. And in summer, Joe would probably turn up with a new girlfriend, or a new boyfriend, and Alex would wish they’d never met.

Except, it wasn’t like that. Joe wasn’t like that. And if Joe did turn up with a girlfriend or boyfriend, what would it matter? Because Alex was too old for him anyway. Joe still got pimples sometimes. Alex had started finding ear hairs like copper wire, and his stubble grew in more grey than brown these days. Joe was twenty-six. Nearly two decades younger. And anyway, Alex wasn’t ready for a relationship.

Ah, but the feel of him in my arms, wood smoke in his hair, my knees weak, and that sweet ache in my chest because I want him so much.

Chapter Five

A couple of weeks later, Alex took a call from Chris, an old friend from London. Chris and his partner Miguel were in Sydney. Coming to New Zealand for a week. Could they stay a couple of nights? The trip had been planned for the last year. Finally, it was happening. Chris proposed going out on Friday night—dinner, the theatre—then back to Alex’s.

“Sure,” Alex said, “I’ll make bookings.”

At the studio, he started to buy tickets for a play at the theatre down on the Wellington waterfront, something about love in the age of dating apps. Three tickets. But why not four? Why not invite Joe? Alex had told Joe he had friends coming to stay sometime soon. Joe had been happy for him. So, Alex reserved four tickets, and four for dinner at Logan Brown, one of the fancier restaurants in Wellington.

That evening, he almost overshot Joe’s driveway and had to brake hard to make the turn. He’d decided it would be better to invite Joe in person than to trust to patchy mobile reception, but his stomach was churning and his hands were slick on the wheel.

Always, in the past, Alex had slept with guys first, and sometimes fallen in love afterwards. To be in love with someone who wasn’t already a lover felt ridiculous, immature, like lusting after someone in high school. It was the traditional way straight people did it: get to know the person, fall in love, have sex. Did it always feel this excruciating? How on earth had he allowed it to happen? Normally, he managed his love life better than this. Though of course, since Laos, his love life had either been non-existent or a disaster.

Blue strolled over, reaching his head over the fence for a pat as Alex got out of the car.

The problem was, Joe wasn’t just another potential lover. Even the phrase ‘love life’ felt reductive when he thought of Joe. Because being with Joe wasn’t some compartmentalised thing that Alex did in his spare time. It was everything.

Being with Joe made him feel braver, kinder, more capable. And he admired Joe. Admired his dedication to comics and his determination not to be swayed by fashion or money or what was cool. It wasn’t that Joe was oblivious. He knew very well that his snowflake sweater was ugly, so he made it into a joke, but—and this seemed crucial—he wore it anyway. Joe knew his car was shitty and his hair unkempt, but he chose not to care so he could put his energy into the things that really mattered to him. Alex had met plenty of desperately hip people in London and New York who claimed never to worry about what people thought of them. But it was Joe, for all his shyness, who was the closest thing to free that Alex had ever seen.

He took a deep breath and knocked on the door.

Joe answered it. “Want to come in?”

There was a faint smell of marijuana coming from him. Perhaps his shoulder had been aching. But he didn’t look stoned. He never smoked much, or drank much, because his finances were too precarious.

“Bella should be here in a minute,” Joe added. He grinned, gorgeous as a Helmut Newton celebrity. “Guess what? I think she’s got a girlfriend. She’s been sending the most cryptic messages and her Instagram’s gone all sexy and noir.”

“Really? Well, good for her. No, I won’t come in. I wanted to ask you...remember I told you about Chris and Miguel? They’re arriving next Friday, and we’re going out to dinner and to that new play down at Circa Theatre. Would you like to come? I’d love it if you joined us.”

Joe’s eyes widened in alarm. Then he frowned. “You don’t want me along. You’ll be with your friends.”

“Of course, I want you along. I’m inviting you. My treat, obviously.”

“Oh no, really. I couldn’t.”

“I hope it’s not about me paying, because you’ve already given me a fortune in fresh fish if we’re worrying about things like that. Won’t you come?”

“It’s not that.”

“No? Good. So, what do you say? You needn’t be shy. These are my friends. It’s like me meeting Rawiri or Bella.”

But Joe had gone bright red and mulish and was glaring at the threadbare doormat. “Sorry, I...I can’t. I’ve got to get some work done.”

The butterflies that had buoyed Alex up all day flitted away. But it sounded so much like an excuse that he said, “Couldn’t you do the work another day? They’re only here for a couple of nights. I’d like you to meet them. Chris was my first friend in London, like you’re my first friend here.”

Chris had been his lover too, for a while, but he wasn’t going to mention that.

“No, sorry, but I...I mean, maybe another night.”

“Well, never mind.” Alex couldn’t hide the disappointment in his voice. “See you around.”

He got back in his car feeling like an utter fool. It was nothing like the sting of rejection from a stranger in a bar. It hurt to the bone, because the lines of the friendship had been defined. Sure, Joe might be shy of meeting new people, but he knew Alex well enough by now to be honest about that. This refusal meant something more. Hanging out at Alex’s place was clearly one thing, going out with Alex on something resembling a real date was another. Joe was twenty-six and a handsome artist. Even if he was shy, he could find the balls to make a move on Alex if he wanted. But Joe didn’t want to. So, he hadn’t.

Perhaps Joe didn’t want an aging teetotaller with mental problems and an empty social calendar. Perhaps he wanted a lover he could go out and have fun with. Quelle sur-fucking-prise.

It was true dark when Alex got home, but he went for a run anyway. Made dinner. Ate half of it. Spent hours tinkering with the shots for the insurance company, checked his email, sent invoices. If he’d had any scotch in the house he’d have drunk it. He kept thinking of Joe, saying no, not once, but several times. Since when had Alex become the kind of guy who wouldn’t take no for an answer? It was pathetic. He was pathetic. Eventually he took a sleeping pill, his first since moving to Kahawai Bay, and passed out.

He spent Friday half-waiting for a piece of white paper to appear under the door bearing a droll little sketch expressing that Joe would like to go to the theatre after all. But no such thing eventuated. As the sun began to set, Alex walked into Makara Beach to get phone reception and received a series of texts from Miguel; they were driving down from Rotorua, having seen bubbling mud. They had seen Mt. Ruapehu and the Desert Road. They were sharing their hire car with an English back-packer they’d met in Rotorua.

‘He thinks ur hot. Wanna meet him?’ Miguel sent a photo of a blue-eyed blond, about thirty-five, sun-tanned and smiling, one eyebrow crooked as a geyser exploded behind him.

They had room at the table, a spare ticket for the theatre that Joe didn’t want. Joe wasn’t interested. Why not meet this guy?

* * *

Seeing Chris and Miguel again was better than good. Alex had known Chris for fifteen years, first as lovers and then as friends. When they’d met, Chris had been a personal trainer with bleached blond hair and the best body in the club. Now, he was an Inspector for the Met and looked like a cop, even out of uniform. He and Miguel had been together for twelve years. Miguel, a social worker, had the same dark eyes as Joe, but he was twice Joe’s size, with olive skin and short-cropped hair.

There was something reassuring about being with people who’d known him before Laos, who knew he didn’t normally make brides cry on their wedding day, who knew that once upon a time he used to drink and dance and have fun and follow current events like any well-informed adult.

‘The guy who thinks you’re hot’ was called William. He was a lawyer taking a year off to see the world. Despite being a back-packer, he wore an expensive blue cashmere sweater that hugged his pecs, and he clearly thought he was the smartest person in the room. Alex was inclined to hate him immediately —for his sharp, unforgiving eyes, his over-confident handshake and the contemptuous edge in his voice when the waitress brought him the wrong drink.

Joe would have smiled and said it didn’t matter. Joe had sympathy for the human condition; he forgave people for not being perfect. Then Alex realised he was probably hating William for not being Joe. At one time, he wouldn’t have minded William’s cutting sense of humour, would have liked his snarky, sarcastic edge. He made an effort to smile at some of William’s kinder jokes.

As the evening wore on, it became clear that William was angling to come home with them—with him. Alex felt he’d rather invite in one of the huge spiky bugs that lived in the woodshed, but gradually, his revulsion morphed into something more ambivalent. Later still, it became almost fatalistic. William wanted it, and what William wanted, William got. And it would be nice not to sleep alone for once. It would be nice to have sex that wasn’t solo, or part of a dream, and to feel someone’s arms around him. He could always pretend it was someone sweeter, someone he actually liked.

When the time came to leave, William said, “Shall I join you out in the sticks?”

Alex shrugged. “It’s not flash.” A surge of self-preservation made him add, “But there’s a spare couch if you don’t mind that.”

At least that way he had an out, if William became unbearable.

William smiled under his lashes, as if to say, we all know that’s not going to happen and said aloud, “All right. We’ll see, shall we?”

They were walking along the waterfront, the black harbour reflecting the lights of Wellington, when Alex’s phone rang. He pulled it out, stomach clenching when he saw the caller ID: Joe Taylor.

“Hi.”

“Alex, I’m sorry to call, but I need a favour. If you don’t mind. I’m sorry.”

Hearing Joe’s voice, after an evening spent with William, was a reminder of a kinder, gentler world. It hurt.

“What’s up?” Alex said.

“The thing is, my car won’t start, and I—”

Joe sounded strained, like he was expecting Alex to yell at him.

“Need a ride?” Alex said. Don’t you get that I’d do anything for you? “Sure. Are you in town? I’m with Chris and Miguel, and, ah, a friend of theirs. We’re heading home. We’re nearly at the car. It’s good timing.”

“I’m really sorry, Alex, but I’ve no money, and I’ve tried everyone else. I can’t ask Juleke, and Ra’s got the kids, and everyone else has been drinking because it’s Friday night. But you haven’t, have you?”

“No,” Alex said.

He felt a spurt of irritation that Joe had rung him last and only out of desperation. But then, Joe had been avoiding him since refusing to come out tonight. So, why else would he ring? Joe was scrupulously careful about not drinking and driving, or getting in a car with anyone who’d been drinking or taking drugs.

“The thing is, I’m in Porirua East.” Joe’s voice wobbled.

“What are you doing there? Isn’t that pretty dodgy?”

Silence. He could hear Joe breathing.

“All right?” Chris said. He had a cop’s nose for trouble.

“Promise you won’t be angry?” Joe said.

“Probably. Try me,” Alex said. They’d reached the dark car park. Alex unlocked his car so the others could get in. Miguel and William got in the back, Chris in the passenger seat.

“I was buying weed,” Joe said.

“Oh, Joe. Out there?”

“I usually get it off someone else. But he’s away, and his flatmate said to come here, and now my car won’t start and it’s kind of scary. I’d walk, but it’s too far. And anyway, there are these guys hanging about and they saw me come out of the drug house and I—”

“Stay in your car, okay?” Alex got into his car. The idea of Joe being watched by street thugs made his stomach churn.

“Okay,” Joe said.

“Where are you?”

“Smith Street. Near the corner of Pahiatua Street. Can you find it?”

“Of course. Don’t worry. I’ll be there in ten minutes. Maybe fifteen.”

“Alex? I’m sorry.”

Alex rang off and explained the situation to the others, leaving out the bit about the drugs. “Do you guys want to go back to the bar? I can pick you up on my way back through.”

Chris looked at him through narrowed eyes. “Think I’ll come with you.”

“Of course, we’ll come,” said Miguel. “Is your friend all right?”

“Well, I’m not drinking alone,” William said. “Can’t you get an Uber for this guy?”

“No,” Alex said.

As they were pulling out of the car park, Chris asked quietly, “Deal gone bad?”

“It’s car trouble, like I said. But you’re right about why he’s out there.”

“Sure you want to get involved? Mig and I could go.”

“I’m going,” Alex said.

“Don’t hit anyone.”

“I won’t. Things are better these days.”

“Hit anyone?” William said from the backseat. “Good grief. How macho. I think I’m getting excited.”

“I haven’t hit anyone since kindergarten,” Alex said.

“Can’t we drop you somewhere, William?” Chris asked, turning in his seat.

“I wouldn’t miss this for the world,” William said.

Chapter Six

Smith Street was grim under the orange street lights, utilitarian state housing with broken down cars and letterboxes that looked as if someone had taken to them with a baseball bat. A smashed TV and an old fridge with a gaping door sat on the grass verge, but there were no people to be seen.

Alex realised he was gripping the steering wheel as if it was trying to escape. The lemon, lime, and bitters he’d been drinking felt like acid in his stomach. Terrible scenarios kept popping into his head: Joe with a knife in his side, Joe beaten to a pulp, Joe missing entirely. He slowed to a crawl, scanning for Joe’s white car with the one red door. He was still searching for the car when he saw running figures up ahead, first one, then another, peeling away from a dark huddle against a tall wooden fence.

“Stop,” Chris said, but Alex had already stopped in the middle of the street. He leapt out and tore across the road. Two more figures dashed away, leaving one with his back against the fence; Joe. Alex ran to him, grabbed Joe’s upper arms. The adrenaline made him rougher than he meant to be. Joe winced.

“Alex, I’m okay.”

“What the hell are you doing out of the car? I told you to stay inside.”

“They were rocking it. Said they’d flip it if I didn’t get out. I was scared. I thought it would be better to just give them the...Alex. Alex! You’re hurting me. Let go, okay?”

Alex made himself remember the terrified jaywalker he’d bailed up and yelled at. He didn’t want Joe looking at him like that. It wasn’t Joe he was angry with, it was the little wankers who’d just scarpered. Alex took his hands away from Joe’s shoulders one at a time. It took every ounce of will he had, but he did it. Chris and Miguel were at his side. William was standing by the car, arms crossed as if he was already bored.

Alex turned away from Joe, breathing deep, clenching his fists. He focused on the empty fridge. The wind was strong enough to make the gaping door swing, and swing, but never quite close. Chris asked Joe questions, voice professionally calm, a little clipped. Joe answered shakily; no, he didn’t know who they were, no he didn’t want to call the police, no he didn’t think he needed to go to hospital.

“What about your head?” Chris said.

Joe put a hand to his forehead. He looked younger than usual, even less sure of himself. “It’s nothing. Really.”

“They hit you?” Alex asked.

“No, but they shoved me, and I banged my head on the fence.”

Chris said in his cop voice. “Sure you didn’t pass out? Not even for a moment? Your vision didn’t go dark?”

“No.”

“No headache?”

“Maybe a bit.”

Chris peered at Joe’s forehead. Chris was dealing with it, making a decision. Alex longed for Kahawai Bay with a ferocity that almost swept him away. To be there, with the surf thundering on the shore, the wind rustling in the flax bushes, and the house at his back. Safe.

But it would be bloody nice to have company tonight. Chris and Miguel would go to their own bed. If sex with William was the price to pay for having a warm body in bed with him, then so be it. Christ, just to feel someone’s arms around me. If he couldn’t have Joe, it didn’t really matter who the arms belonged to.

“Alex. Alex.” Chris stood in front of him. “Okay with you?”

Alex was uncomfortably aware that he had zoned out at a time when he should have been paying attention. “Uh, yes. Fine. Home, then?”

“Yeah.” Chris gave him a long assessing look. “How about I drive?”

“I can.”

“You’re a bit distracted, mate,” Chris said. “I had one glass of wine with dinner. And two beers. Over about four hours. I’m fine. I’ll drive.”

It was too much trouble to argue. And anyway, maybe Chris was right. If Alex drove and caused an accident because he wasn’t concentrating properly...it was easier to acquiesce.

They got in the car. Chris and Miguel in the front. Alex and William in the back with Joe between them. William looked unimpressed. Joe kept glancing at Alex, face white in the dark car.

Alex closed his eyes, picturing the house at Kahawai Bay; the cracked concrete step at the front that was so good to sit on, the front door freshly painted the same turquoise-grey as the winter sea. The living room, with Joe’s seagulls hanging on the wall above the kitchen table. Alex’s photograph of the wild south coast hanging on the wall opposite. The door to the sunroom. The step down into the sunroom. The old wood, which smelled like a memory of summer. The Chesterfield, which, when he lay on it, moulded to his body like an embrace.

When the motion of the car told him that they were on the Makara Road, he opened his eyes and watched the dark hills and fields rush by. His heart had stopped pounding. He could feel Joe’s thigh and shoulder pushed up against his, the warmth like sunlight. But Joe was only touching him because, in the narrow back seat, he had no choice. This whole thing must be horrible for Joe. To be forced to cosy up to someone he didn’t fancy must be the final straw. Alex tried to lean away from him.

Joe’s place appeared, old Blue like a ghost horse in the front paddock, dozing beside the hedge. Chris drove straight past.

“Chris, Joe’s place was back there,” Alex said.

“Joe’s coming with us,” Chris said. “Remember?”

“Oh, are you?” Alex turned to Joe in surprise. He must have missed that part of the conversation. It felt right, though. He didn’t want Joe to be home alone after what had happened.

“That’s a head injury,” Chris said. “We’ve not taken him to a doctor. We’re keeping an eye on him tonight. I did ask you. You said it was okay.”

“Sorry.” Joe didn’t look up.

“No, it’s fine,” Alex said.

Chris parked the car outside Alex’s place. Alex had left the lights on and the house glowed like a beacon in the dark, showing them the way up the garden path. They got out and took backpacks and bags out of the boot.

Alex was walking around the car to get his keys from Chris, when Miguel took his elbow.

“Alex,” Miguel said quietly, and nodded his head sideways.

Joe had got out of the car, but wasn’t following the others to the house. He was leaning against the car door, face in his hands.

“Headache?” Chris said.

“No.” Joe’s voice was muffled. He didn’t take his hands away from his face.

Alex heard a stifled sob. He realised, belatedly, that not only had Joe been mugged, he’d then had to be a passenger in a car driven fast along the motorway by someone he didn’t know. It was impossible not to go back and put an arm around him. When Joe didn’t shrink away, it was impossible not to put the other arm around him as well.

“We will go in,” Miguel said. “Come on, carino, you have the keys. We’ll make a cup of tea and explore the mansion without you, Alex. William, you can chase away the spiders.”

No matter the circumstances, standing in Kahawai Bay with Joe in his arms and the sea wind icy-fresh in his face was a moment to savour. They’d made it. They were home safe. Alex murmured reassurances into Joe’s hair, which smelled of cheap shampoo, and stroked Joe’s back, making sure to stay in the friend zone between the shoulders. Even that little part of Joe was good to touch, even through his clothes. Alex found himself wishing Joe would stop crying so he could kiss him. But that wasn’t going to happen. Alex wasn’t proud of the way he’d behaved so far tonight, first grabbing Joe, hurting him, and then more or less ignoring him. Alex might be a bit fucked up, but he’d never hit on a friend who’d had a night from hell.

“Sorry,” Joe said, finally, stepping back. He pulled what looked like a painting rag from his pocket and blew his nose, wiping his eyes with the sleeve of his coat.

“It’s okay,” Alex said, wishing he could go in for a second hug.

“It would have been all right if my stupid car had started.”

“Were you so desperate for drugs?”

“No. I was just having a shit night. I thought I’d have a smoke and do some work and it would be less awful.”

“Was your shoulder hurting?”

“No, it wasn’t that.” Joe took a deep breath. Let it out. “I’ve ruined your evening, haven’t I? Sorry.”

“Not at all. We were on our way home.”

“I won’t get in the way. I really am fine. I could go now if you like. I could walk home.”

“Are you kidding? I don’t want you to go. Chris would kill me if I let you. Why would you—oh, William? No! Don’t worry about that. He just tagged along.”

“But you were going to, weren’t you?”

“I told him he’d be sleeping on the couch,” Alex said. It was technically true. But Joe was watching him, the light from the house making bright points in his eyes. Anyway, what did it matter? Why pretend anything to Joe? “I suppose I might not have enforced that. I don’t like him, but, you know; he was there.”

Joe frowned, looking as annoyed as Alex had ever seen him, but all Joe said was, “Well, anyway, if I’m not going home, we should go in. I’d better face the music.”

“There’s nothing to face. No one’s pissed at you. Chris acts like a cop because he can’t help himself, but he isn’t going to make trouble or tell you off. He’s fine. He’s a nice cop.”

“William’s pissed off.”

“I’ll drive him back to town if you like.”

“You don’t have to do that. Come on, let’s go in before I lose my nerve. Waiting makes it worse.”

“Okay, but no one’s mad. I promise. It’ll be fine.”

Inside, they’d got the wood burner lit, and Miguel had made tea. They sat around the kitchen table drinking it. Chris gave Joe a bag of frozen peas to put on his forehead. William’s mouth had taken on a discontented pinch, and he sat back from the table, affecting boredom when he wasn’t glaring at Joe.

Alex felt halfway guilty; he had sort of let William think something might happen. Something might have happened if Joe hadn’t rung. Joe sat hunched and unhappy over his tea, a lump the size of a quail’s egg on his pale forehead, bruising beginning to darken around it. William had been given a chance to bail out, and had not taken it. Suddenly, Alex couldn’t care less about William.

“I’ve got a story about a drug deal that went a bit unexpected,” Miguel said.

“Oh, God,” Chris said under his breath.

“Shut up, carino, or I’ll make you tell it.”

Chris groaned and shook his head in surrender.

“Right,” Miguel said. “This story didn’t happen to me, but it happened to someone who is not very far from here. And this person went to buy drugs at the house of someone he didn’t know. This was a long time ago, you understand, when he was very young, and had no intention of joining the police. And luckily, he never got caught and so can now look very handsome for me in his uniform.”

“All right, all right,” Chris said, smiling.

“And this person got a proposition from the drug dealer, and because the dealer was quite hot this person said yes. And so, they did what they wanted and afterwards the dealer said, ‘well, I will not charge you for the drugs because you are such a cute boy.’ And this person says, ‘thank you’ because he is an English gentleman, you understand. And he is so charming and sweet that at the front door the dealer says, ‘I’ll give you a free bonus because you are so cute’ and this person says ‘oh, thank you, that is jolly decent of you’.”

“Is that meant to be me?” Chris said. “You sound like Dick Van Dyke.”

“Shut up. And so, this person is waiting by the front door for his bonus. And we are all wondering what it will be. And then, the dealer does two things: he kisses this person with something very small in his mouth, and at the same time he unzips this person’s fly and reaches in and rubs Tiger Balm on his balls. And then, he pushes him outside and locks the door, and this person is walking through the dark streets with his balls blazing on fire, and then—”

Miguel paused, glancing around the table. Joe’s mouth had fallen open. The frozen peas sat forgotten on the table. Even William was staring. Chris was looking at the ceiling, half smiling, half wincing.

“—then the acid trip starts to kick in.”

“Yes, and I still made it home,” Chris finished. “And they were the best pills I ever had.”

Miguel smiled. “So, Joe, I think your night is actually not so bad, because you have not had to catch the Tube home with the bright lights and a thousand people staring, and with Tiger Balm on your balls and a trip coming up.”

Joe gazed at Miguel for another second with his mouth open, then smiled, ducking his head. “No, it wasn’t that bad.”

Everyone laughed, even William. Even Joe.

“Well, since you’ve told them that, carino,” Chris said. “I think I’ll tell them about the time you had too much cocaine with royalty and took all your clothes off in Trafalgar Square.”

“But it’s not true!”

“It is.”

“He was not royalty, but only an earl’s son and a bishop.”

“A bishop?” Joe said.

“It’s true,” Miguel said. “I didn’t know at the time, of course, because he wasn’t wearing his bishop’s hat in the club. He was just a nice man who was sharing drugs with me and watching the boys dancing. But then I saw him on television a few nights later. There was such an important church service, it was televised. And he was up the front with the Archbishop of Canterbury. But I will never tell who he was because I am a gentleman too.”

Outside, the wind was getting up again. Joe had taken his small sketchbook out of his pocket and was drawing quick little scribbles inspired by the stories they were trading—a bishop gyrating around a pole, a be-wigged lawyer chasing a poodle across a courtroom, a sketch of Miguel and Chris both standing with different groups of people, both looking over their shoulders, gazing into each other’s eyes.

Joe gave that one to Miguel, who said, “Look Chris! Isn’t this a talented picture? It’s just like you, carino, except back then you were thinner. And he had more hair, Joe. We will keep it as a souvenir, and one day you will come to London and see it on our wall, maybe?”

“Maybe,” Joe said, blushing.

Getting ready for sleep was awkward, because they had to make a bed up for William on the living room couch and the stony silence was bad enough. And then, Joe seemed half paralysed with embarrassment at the idea of sharing with Alex.

“I could sleep in the sunroom,” Joe mumbled, staring at the ground.

“Are you kidding? It’s freezing in there at night. It’d be like sleeping in a greenhouse. You wouldn’t rather share my bed with William, would you?”

Joe shook his head, mute.

“Didn’t think so. Come on, I’m not some jerk, you know. We’re going to sleep. Except for when I wake you at six in the morning to check you’re still all right.”

“I am all right. I could go home,” Joe said.

“Well, I wish you wouldn’t, but I’ll take you if that’s what you really want.”

There was a long pause. “I’d better stay.”

“Yeah, because otherwise Chris will give you a talking to, which is really something to avoid.”

“Yes.”

“And I’d have a go at you, too. Come on, am I really that scary?”

“No.”

“Well, then.”

Joe sat on the edge of the bed and removed his old Dr. Martens, then lay down, all his clothes still on, on his side, facing the wall. Alex thought about this for a moment, then lay down fully dressed himself. He spread a blanket over them both. The heater was on, and they weren’t likely to need more than that. He left the bedside light on out of some sense of propriety, and set an alarm for six a.m. because Chris thought it was a good idea to wake Joe early, to make sure he hadn’t developed a headache and could still be roused.

The rain had come again, but between gusts of wind Alex could hear Chris and Miguel talking quietly in the room next door, the occasional chuckle. Living alone, he hadn’t realised how thin the walls were. Christ, I hope they don’t have sex. The idea of lying there with Joe, listening to people have sex, was too much to contemplate. Alex shifted, trying to relax, and ended up on his side, looking at the glossy chaos that was back of Joe’s head. Bad idea. He twisted his neck and stared at the freshly painted ceiling instead. I did a good job with that ceiling. I’m not going to sleep a wink tonight.

“Alex?”

“You all right?”

“I...I wish I’d said yes. I wish I’d gone out with you tonight.”

“Oh.” Alex frowned at the ceiling. “So, why didn’t you?”

“It’s silly. Don’t be angry, okay?”

It’s because I’m too fucked up, isn’t it? Or too old, too boring, too much of a has been. I don’t drink, don’t take drugs. Don’t go dancing. I’ve never heard of Dylan Horrocks. You’ve never heard of Yousuf Karsh.

“Well, going to tell me?” Alex prompted.

“It’s two reasons really. It’s...you can be kind of intimidating, you know?”

Oh, great. Fucking awesome. I freak you out with my freaky ways. Grabbing you when you need a hug, storming off or ignoring you when you need looking after. Well, fair enough, I suppose. Sean treated you like shit. You don’t need another fuck up in your life.

“...because you’ve been to all these amazing places and met all these glamorous people. And I thought your friends would be the same and I wouldn’t know what to say to them. But the main reason was the theatre, because I can’t go there. I’m too scared they’ll do some awful audience participation thing and I’ll have go on stage and everyone thinks it’s so fun and it terrifies me. So, I just said no.”

“Well...fuck. But couldn’t you have told me the truth?”

“Yes. Sorry. Sean used to laugh at me when I was honest so I got out of the habit. But it wasn’t fair to you. I should have known better. Because you never make fun of me.”

“I don’t really intimidate you, do I?”

“Not any more. But I thought your friends would be all...I don’t know...scary. Talking about the theatre, and thinking comics are geeky and lame.”

“Want a recap of the evening’s conversation? I can tell you now it wasn’t highbrow stuff about theatre. What you heard earlier was a fair sample.”

Joe turned over to face him. “Do you think those stories are true? The Tiger Balm and the trip?”

“That one’s true. Chris told me himself once.”

“It’d make a great comic. Do you think he’d let me use it?”

It was hurting in some deep exquisite way to have Joe looking at him, face so close on the pillow. Alex’s heart was pounding. Because if Joe wished he’d said yes, then what did that mean? That he would have enjoyed a night out? Or something more?

“Ask him in the morning,” Alex said.

“God, I’m glad I’ve told you all that.” Joe yawned and closed his eyes. “I felt terrible. I didn’t sleep much the last few nights. It’s warm in here, isn’t it? Like lying in a bath.”

“You Kiwis need to learn about home comforts.”

“We’re tough. What’s a bit of frost on the blankets in the morning?”

“Watch it, I’ll make you sleep in the sunroom.”

Joe smiled, eyes still closed. The lump on his forehead had gone down, but the bruising was coming up. “You wouldn’t. You’re intimidating, but you’re nice.” His voice was sleepy.

“Is that possible?”

Alex thought Joe had fallen asleep, but then Joe said slowly; “Do you know that line? ‘Good is better than evil, because it’s nicer’?”

“I never heard it. From a comic, is it?”

“Mm.” Joe had his hand open on the pillow. He was lying in almost exactly the same position as when Alex had first seen him. Relaxed, unguarded, beautiful, his breathing slowing, deepening. Only now, he wasn’t just a handsome stranger. He was Joe, with all his strength and talent, and all his foibles and weaknesses too.

“Goodnight, sweetheart,” Alex said. And winced.

It had just popped out. But Joe didn’t flinch, or turn away, or even open his eyes. He was probably asleep.

And in that moment of exhaustion and relief, the truth seemed to well up. It needed to be said, even if Joe wasn’t listening. Alex added, “I wish you’d come out tonight too. Things are always better when you’re around.”

Joe didn’t reply, but he made a sound in his throat and curled closer, so the top of his head was nearly touching Alex’s chest, his knees up against Alex’s thighs. It wasn’t what Alex had expected the night to bring. If this had been William, they’d both be naked by now, possibly fucking, or sucking each other off.

This was much better.

Chapter Seven

The following morning, Alex’s alarm went at six. He’d just dozed off. Joe opened his eyes sleepily, said he was fine, obediently counted backwards from ten, and fell asleep again. Much later, they both woke up. The house was silent. Alex found a note from Chris on the kitchen table: ‘Gone for walk. Brunch at Makara Beach café’. Fine. Nice not to have William around, glaring at Joe.

Joe kept staring at him. Not in the usual way, but big-eyed, slightly dazed. Maybe he’d hit his head harder than he was letting on. Alex made coffee. He’d hardly slept until after the alarm went off, and then slept too deeply.

“I should go,” Joe said.

“Stay.”

“I don’t want to see William again. It’s too weird.”

That meant something, but Alex felt too tired to decode it. “I’ll take him into town as soon as they come back.”

Alex yawned, sipped coffee, leaning against the kitchen bench, Joe next to him. Typical that now he was up and had coffee in his hand, Alex could hardly stay awake. Joe was watching him again, sideways, through his hair. He had dark smudges under his eyes, which made him look smoking hot.

“So, I’m too nice and also intimidating?” Alex said. “I know you were half asleep, but how is that possible?”

Joe grinned and ducked his head. “It’s your superpower.”

“Great. You’re going to put me in a comic as one of your awful superheroes, aren’t you?”

“Actually, if I put you in a comic, you’d be the love interest,” Joe said to the floor.

Alex froze, cup halfway to his mouth. The silence stretched out for at least an hour. But suddenly he was more awake than he’d been in years. “Oh, yeah?” he managed. “Whose? Can I be yours?”

Joe turned, taking Alex’s hand, lifting it to his lips. At the same time, Joe pushed his face against Alex’s shoulder. Alex stood frozen, eyes wide, not sure what was happening. Was Joe making a move on him, or about to tell him, with the aid of some platonic hand-holding, that they would always be friends? Or was Joe’s headache suddenly back and he was grabbing hold of something to stop himself falling?

Alex fumbled his coffee cup down on the bench behind him and put his now free hand on Joe’s shoulder. Joe pressed against him, trembling, breath coming fast. Alex tried not to breathe for fear he’d disturb the equilibrium of whatever it was that was happening. His right arm was crushed between them. He could feel Joe’s breath on his hand.

When he felt something wet and warm on the back of one of his fingers, at first, he couldn’t identify it. Could it be a tear? Then it came again—deliberate, warm—and arousal crashed through him like a breaker. Joe was kissing his finger. No, he was licking it. Little, light, cat-licks. Then a kiss, feather-soft. Alex’s whole body was quivering. And he was hard. Joe would surely be able to feel it.

Then Joe slid his tongue in between two of Alex’s fingers. The entire world slipped out of focus. There was nothing but the sensation of the tip of Joe’s tongue between his fingers. He’d had blowjobs that were less erotic. Greatly daring, for he felt one wrong step might break the spell, he bent a finger so the knuckle stood proud of the rest. Joe took it between his teeth and bit gently, breath catching, pushing their hips together at the same time. Alex pushed back and was rewarded with a nip of teeth around his knuckle and a sound like a sob. That was definitely an invitation. But Joe’s head was still bent. Why would Joe kiss Alex’s hand when he could kiss his mouth? But then nothing Joe did was ever quite what Alex expected.

Alex put a finger under Joe’s chin to lift his head and kiss him properly—when footsteps sounded outside and the front door opened.

Joe sprang away. William. Of course, bloody William, with Chris and Miguel behind. Alex shifted position, aware that if anyone cared to look, the bulge in his pants was a dead giveaway. He was about to make some inane comment to change the subject, but he glanced at Joe, and Joe’s expression made his mind go blank. Because Joe didn’t seem a bit embarrassed, like someone caught making out; he looked stricken, guilty, like he’d sinned. Oh shit. What was going on?

“Well!” said William, glancing from Alex to Joe and back again. “God, can’t you keep it in your pants for five minutes?”

“Shut up, William,” Chris said.

“No, I won’t.” William whirled and poked a finger in Chris’s chest. “You invited me on a double date. And then this bell-end,” he jerked his thumb at Alex, “decides to pick up some little twink cock-tease—”

“Double date?” Chris said. “Where did you get that?”

William turned to Joe. Joe shrank back, averting his white, appalled face. He put his hands up in an awkward defensive position.

“You think you’re shit hot, don’t you?” William said, conversationally. “Coming in here with your scribbles and your swooning artist act?”

“Hey!” Alex said, sharply. “William, cut that out.”

William ignored him, took a step closer to Joe. “I can see right through you. You don’t even want to be here, do you? But you won’t leave and let the grown-ups play, because you’re a tease who—”

“Enough!” Alex shouldered in between Joe and William. “Don’t speak to Joe like that.”

“You’re being a twat, William,” Chris said, in a weary voice. “Don’t be that guy.”

Joe sidled out of the house, cheeks beet-red. Suddenly, William was an irrelevance.

“Shit. Joe!” Alex shoved his feet into his old sneakers, tucked the laces inside. “Chris, get William out of here, will you? Keys are on the table.”

Joe wasn’t on the step, nor on the grassy area that led to the dunes. He’d probably started for home using the back way, cutting through the scrub, up the valley. Alex jogged down to the road, then headed up, away from the sea, through a tall stand of manuka trees. And there was Joe, about twenty metres ahead of him, about to cross into open farmland.

“Joe! Wait!”

Joe turned, crossing his arms, shoulders hunched defensively, head down, staring at the thousands of tiny brown leaves that formed a fragrant carpet under the manuka. Joe had fled the house without putting his boots on. His socks were wet. Please God, don’t let him step on something sharp and take them off and—

“Alex, I never meant—what he said. I never meant to—to—”

“Of course not! What does he know about it? Joe, sweetheart, can’t you see he only said that to be a jerk?”

“Yes.” Joe still wouldn’t look at him.

“So, will you come back? In a minute, when he’s gone? Chris is taking him to town.”

“I need to tell you something.” Joe unfolded his arms, but then tangled his hands together, fingernails biting into skin.

“Okay.” Alex did his best to keep his voice level and encouraging. Here it comes. And whatever it is, it’s going to be bad.

Joe spoke to his socks. “I have scars.”

For a moment, Alex just stared at the top of his head. At that lovely glossy hair he always longed to touch and smooth away from Joe’s face.

“Okay,” Alex said, aiming for the same tone of voice as before. It came out more stunned-sounding than he would have liked.

“On my shoulder. And hip. And leg, and well, lots of places. You know, the car accident. I had compound fractures. I lost a lot of skin. They did a graft, but I got infections and uh...”

Alex remembered a dozen small incidents: Joe never rolling his sleeves up, no matter how warm the room; Joe carrying things awkwardly clutched against his chest; the way he hunched when he walked; his clumsy gait. Even last night, Joe keeping all his clothes on in bed. Alex had known all this time Joe had been in a car crash, but he’d had never thought Joe’s injuries had gone beyond a broken shoulder. And that raised scar on his bottom lip that sometimes kept Alex awake at night.

Joe managed a fearful glance at him. He was biting his lip, the scar hidden under his teeth. “I look kind of...horrible. I didn’t know how to tell you.”

“Well, you’ve told me now.” Alex wanted to kiss away the misery on Joe’s face, to kiss him until there was nothing there but pleasure. “Can I give you a hug?”

Joe made a gesture that could have been a shrug. “You don’t have to.”

“But if I want to?”

Alex put his arms around him, but Joe was rigid with tension. After a moment, Joe pulled away.

“We don’t have to mess around anymore. If you don’t want,” Joe said.

“What? You think I would stop wanting you because of this?”

Joe wiped his eyes roughly with the sleeve of his ragged old jumper and tried to glare. But his eyes were scared. “But it’s like the hook in my foot, isn’t it? It’s like...weird body stuff. Scars. They’re gross. They’ll remind you.”

Understanding jolted through Alex like an electric shock. “No. No. It’s completely different.”

“You haven’t seen them.”

“I don’t care. It makes no difference. Scars are fine. Come here. Please?”

“But, my foot.”

“Joe, you want to know what triggers me? It’s two things. Three, actually, but one seems to be pretty easy to avoid. Look, your foot...the thing is...”

“You don’t have to tell me.”

“But I want to. I’m ready. If you don’t mind hearing about it?”

“Of course, I don’t mind.”

“Well, the foot thing is because...Khamane—that was his name—our interpreter. The first thing I knew about the explosion was this terrible blast and then there was his foot in front of me on the ground. It—”

Alex’s skin was crawling, sweat pricking out in his armpits. He took deep breaths. The manuka-scented air was pungent, medicinal. The sea whispered in the background. Everything’s okay. I’m in Kahawai Bay. With Joe. Telling him.

“His foot was blown off. And it landed in front of me. Sole up. And now, if I see the bare sole of a foot at a certain angle...”

Alex closed his eyes, shaking his head, as if to dislodge the image that was tattooed there. He would never dislodge it, but perhaps, like a tattoo, it might one day begin to blur. He took more deep breaths. Consciously relaxing. Joe was standing, waiting. Not interrupting. Bless him.

“So that’s one. And there’s a certain kind of glaring light together with a certain kind of palm foliage.” It was getting easier. The worst one was told. “Don’t ask me to go to Hawai’i okay? Or into a greenhouse with palms in it. And then the other one is walking on loose earth. The beach is fine. Grass is fine. Even packed-down soil is fine. But a freshly dug garden or a ploughed field, I can’t do it. We were on a ploughed field when it happened. Crazy, eh? The field had been cleared by a bomb disposal team. The farmer had ploughed it. The chances were a million to one of anything being there. Anyway. So, I’ve told you. But scars are fine. I couldn’t care less about them. So, will you come here now? Because I could really use a hug.”

This time Joe came, hiding his face in Alex’s neck, clinging to him. Alex was trembling so hard it felt like having a fever. Or maybe it was Joe trembling. It was difficult to say.

“Alex, I’m sorry for not telling you sooner. I wanted to, I swear, but at first, I didn’t think you could possibly be interested in me...I mean, I thought you were just being kind. And then, later, I was scared because I thought when you knew, all this,” he gestured helplessly, “would stop. Dr. John said I should tell you. I knew I should.”

“It’s okay.” Alex closed his eyes. Joe was so good to hold. Alex felt he could stand there all day, just holding him. “Ah, Joe, and I thought you weren’t interested. Who’s Dr. John?”

“The psychologist at the pain clinic.”

“Pain clinic? You have pain?”

“You know I do.”

“Yeah, I guess I do. I’m sorry too, Joe. I’ve been blind, haven’t I?”

“No, you haven’t. I don’t like people making a fuss anyway. It’s not so bad these days. I got new meds, just before you came. I think it’s getting better, over time.”

“And you’ve been worrying about how to tell me about these scars?”

“Yes, for weeks.”

Alex heard voices in the distance, one raised higher than the others in complaint.

“So, can I check something?” Alex said, to cover the noise. A car door slammed, then another. “It doesn’t bother you that I’m older?”

“Do you think I’m too young?”

“Never. But sometimes I think you might rather have someone who’s a bit more fun.”

“Fun? Like parties and getting drunk?” The disdain in Joe’s voice was obvious.

“Well...”

“I just want to make comics and...and...” Joe’s voice sank to a whisper. “...be with you.”

Alex held Joe’s chin so he couldn’t look away. “Sure?”

Joe blushed, breath catching. “Yes.”

The car engine started and they both jumped.

“Okay, but you want to wait, right? To take things slowly?” Alex asked.

“No!” Joe sounded almost angry. “I just had to tell you first.”

“Oh, so, in fact, all this time you’ve been wanting to rip my clothes off?”

And there it was, that shy, delighted smile that made life worth living.

Joe put his face back into Alex’s neck. “Yes,” he whispered.

Alex smiled. “Come back to the house and tell me some more about this ‘not waiting’ thing.”

The house was empty, and the moment they were inside Alex caught Joe around the waist and kissed him. Tenderly at first, then open-mouthed, not holding anything back. He’d wanted it for so long it was hard to believe he was allowed to. But Joe was pressing up against him, mouth soft and eager. Joe was making breathy noises, one hand in Alex’s hair, pulling him close. Alex took Joe’s bottom lip gently between his teeth. He could feel the raised scar with the tip of his tongue. His knees were going weak, balls aching, hands trembling. Time to move things on. He drew away.

Joe gazed at him, lips kiss-swollen, breathing hard, eyes shining like he was about to make a declaration of love. “Alex.”

“Mm?”

“My socks are wet.”

“I...what?”

“But should I leave them on? Because, you know, bare feet.”

Alex grinned, accepting the change of pace, even revelling in it, because there was something so Joe-like about it; from passionate kisses to wet socks in a heartbeat. It was the kind of shift Joe put in his comics. But it was caring too. Joe was looking after him.

“Trust me, when we’re having sex I won’t be looking at your feet,” Alex said.

Alex kissed him again. It still felt transgressive, like kissing a friend. But then, Joe was a friend. It was just that soon he’d be something more as well. “Come on, I want you in there.”

“The sunroom?”

“Yeah. On that old Chesterfield. I’ve been wanting it since the moment I saw you there.”

“But, there aren’t any curtains.”

With anyone else, Alex would have said ‘let’s do it anyway’. But this was Joe. Adorable, shy Joe who’d had to ask a psychologist how to tell Alex about his scars.

“Okay. Not in there,” Alex said. “Though I think you should know I’ve been jerking off to the idea of fucking you on that Chesterfield.”

Joe laughed against his shoulder, part disbelief, part delight.

“So, if we’re not doing that, why don’t you tell me what you’ve been wanting to do?” Alex said.

“Well, I...uh...want you to decide,” Joe said.

“Don’t want to tell me?”

“No, that’s what I want. You to decide what happens. You to tell me what to do. I mean, if you want.”

Joe blushed, staring at his feet, his hands resting lightly on Alex’s hips. It felt as if he’d shoved his hand down the front of Alex’s pants and squeezed.

Alex swallowed. “You want me to be bossy? I can do that. It works for me.”

“But you can’t be mean, okay?” Joe added, voice wavering. “You can’t hurt me. I don’t like that.”

So, Sean was mean to you, probably. And hurt you. “No, okay. Got it.”

Alex gave him one more kiss, chaste, on the cheek. What Alex really wanted was to strip Joe naked and fuck him into the floorboards. He suspected if that was as simple as it sounded, they’d be doing it right now. He would have liked to say, “strip for me”, but that would be too much, too soon. Joe had hang-ups about these scars.

Joe was watching him, eyes wide. Tense. So, how to make it easier? Best to start off slow.

“I think we’ll start with you on your knees,” Alex said.

Joe knelt, gazing up at him. Alex stroked Joe’s face, ran his fingertips along Joe’s lips. Joe looked, already, more at ease. He could probably guess what was coming next. He was going to be right. Next time, Alex might surprise him. This time would be about a different comfort zone.

“Hands behind your back,” Alex said. “Close your eyes.”

Joe obeyed. Knelt there, waiting, breathing growing ragged.

“Lick your lips. And open your mouth.”

It was a beautiful sight, Joe kneeling there, receptive, accepting Alex’s caresses on his face. Alex could see the front of his old black pants tenting.

“God, Joe, I could not want you more.”

Alex undid his own belt and fly. He cupped one hand around back of Joe’s head. Joe startled at the first touch and then leant into it. With his other hand, Alex took out his dick and said, “Lick your lips again. Then open your eyes.”

When Joe opened his eyes, they grew gratifyingly round.

Alex said, “Suck me. Really slow.”

He suppressed a groan as Joe did as he was told. Couldn’t suppress the next one as Joe drew back, then took Alex down again in one long, smooth movement.

“Christ!” Alex said, voice strangled. “Slower. I want to see if I can feel that scar on your lip.”

He couldn’t, but Joe sucking his dick with painstaking concentration couldn’t have been better anyway. Joe was trembling with the effort of moving so slowly. Alex guided him with the hand on the back of his head, tugging gently at his hair when he moved too fast. But soon the temptation to grab Joe’s head and thrust into his lovely mouth became too much. Joe wouldn’t have minded. In fact, Alex could feel him willing it to happen. But that wasn’t what Alex wanted this to be about. Not with Joe. Not when Joe still had all his clothes on.

All the same, it was difficult to pull away.

“Stop,” Alex bit out.

Joe stopped. Reluctantly.

“Stand up,” Alex said.

Joe stood up slowly. Now, they were getting to it. Joe knew it. They both knew.

Alex said, “Come on, sweetheart, that old sweater first. Think it’ll behave itself if we leave it lying on the floor?”

Joe tried to smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. All the same, he took off his sweater. He did it clumsily, not raising his left arm. It couldn’t have been more different from a sexy striptease act in a club, and it made Alex’s heart race.

Underneath, Joe wore a long-sleeved, blue shirt, faded from too much washing. He looked over his shoulder. The closed door was behind him, but to his left was the long row of windows letting in the winter sun and the view of valley and hills. “Should we go to the bedroom?” Joe asked.

But somehow that felt wrong. Because Alex could sense what Joe hadn’t said. “So, I can hide. Because I’m ashamed.”

“Listen, Joe, you spent the morning making decisions, didn’t you? What’s best to say to me? Should you stay? Should you go? Should you kiss me? What if you tell me about the scars and I freak out?”

Joe was staring.

Alex said, “But now you don’t have to make any more decisions for a while. Because I’m making them. I won’t let anything bad happen to you.”

“Okay.”

“Good. Now, no more talking. Get that shirt off.”

But Joe still stood there, arms at his sides. “Are you sure?” he said.

“Are you doing as I tell you?”

Joe’s mouth fell open, pupils shooting wide. But then his brows knit, face falling into the same misery Alex had seen outside under the manuka trees.

“Uh...I just meant. You know, the scars. They’re not very...uh...with Sean I would always leave my shirt on, because he...I...I mean, I’m glad the scars won’t be a trigger for you, but...um...maybe I should leave my shirt on anyway?”

So, this was where Joe’s fear and shame was coming from. Alex remembered Sean, calling Joe a “pity fuck”. At the time, he’d thought it a slur from a fashionable young man to a less stylish one. Now, the cruelty of it took his breath away. He thought of the words Joe had used about himself: horrible, gross. Alex was willing to bet Joe had heard them first from Sean.

“Joe.” Alex stepped close, heart nearly breaking. He said into Joe’s ear, “Sweetheart, you’re not with that dickhead. You’re with me. And I could not want you more. Scars or no. Now take it off.”

Joe unbuttoned his shirt. The old cotton looked soft as silk. He let it fall to the ground. He had a puckered red scar all the way up the underside of his left forearm. Under the shirt, he was wearing an ancient T-shirt with a flaking picture of a unicorn jumping over a rainbow.

Alex smiled. “So, you are gay.”

“Well, I suppose I’m bi...” He broke off, puzzled. “What?”

Alex nodded at the T-shirt. When Joe realised what he was wearing, he smiled. It was a tremulous smile, but it was real. There was something hopeful about it. Joe was finally realising that everything was going to be okay.

Joe said, “This—”

“Uh-uh. Explain it to me later, if you like. Get it off. Actually, pants first. Leave that rainbow unicorn a moment.”

The sight of Joe undoing his belt and unzipping his fly, with his face as pink as a dawn sky, and his hands trembling, was so overwhelming that Alex caught hold of the back of one of the kitchen chairs for support.

“Jesus, Joe. Do you know what you’re doing to me? I’m not going to last very long at the end of this.”

Joe was holding his pants up. He gave Alex a nervous look and slid them down, pushing his wet socks off as he did it. He wore greying white briefs, and his dick wasn’t hard any more. A purple scar ran down the front of his left thigh, all the way from briefs to knee. The outside of his thigh was pink, the skin pitted and raw-looking. About a hand’s width beneath his briefs there was a horizontal scar and an expanse of coarser skin that wasn’t quite the right colour; that must be the graft. Alex couldn’t help wincing internally, not out of disgust, but from a visceral sympathy. It was difficult not to imagine the accident, to think of Joe lying broken and bleeding on some horror roadside.

“Alex?” There was a plea in his voice.

“OK, maybe I’ll help for a bit.” He took Joe in his arms.

Joe clung to him. “Are you sure you don’t mind?” he whispered.

“Sweetie, I couldn’t care less.” He took Joe’s hand. “Does this feel like I mind?”

Joe made a circle with fingers and thumb and slipped it up and down Alex’s dick, feeling its hard length. “No.”

“Good. Now, stand still. I want the pleasure of taking your dick out myself.”

Alex dropped to his knees and pulled Joe’s briefs down. Joe’s dick was beginning to plump up against his thicket of dark pubic hair. He was uncut, foreskin still loose. He was much hairier than in Alex’s imagination and the difference between expectation and reality sent a pulse of excitement through his groin. Alex put his hands on Joe’s narrow hips, feeling him flinch when he touched the side with the graft.

“Don’t like being touched there?”

“Uh...I don’t know.”

You don’t know? That seemed odd, but anyway. Alex tugged Joe closer and took his dick in his mouth. Joe gasped, grabbing at Alex’s hair. Alex set a slow pace that soon had Joe groaning and thrusting forward. Joe had a nice dick; it was thick and strong, and as Alex lavished it with attention, it blushed as fiercely as Joe’s cheeks did. But after a while, Alex tasted sweet pre-come, stopped sucking and glanced up. Joe gazed down, eyes black with arousal. Still wearing the unicorn T-shirt.

Joe’s shoulder was the worst; it hurt the most, and with Sean Joe had kept his shirt on. So, Alex was going to make damn sure Joe took it off, and didn’t get any more time to worry about how he looked. Alex stood and helped Joe take the T-shirt over his head. Joe’s left arm didn’t go as his high as the right one, so Alex took care not to force it. A big scar snaked up Joe’s abdomen, more scars criss-crossed his ribs. His left pectoral muscle appeared to have had a bite taken out of it; his left nipple was a nub of scar tissue. His shoulder was stippled pink and red.

Alex kissed his mouth and said into his ear, “C’mon. Bedroom.”

He could see the relief in Joe’s eyes. Joe might like being told what to do, but taking all his clothes off had been enough of a challenge for today. From here on, Alex would only ask for things Joe would find easy to do.

Alex stripped his own clothes off as they went. His sweater dropped next to Joe’s, his T-shirt outside the bedroom door. He toed his old sneakers off, yanked down his jeans and underwear. Joe stood by the bed while Alex closed the curtains. The chances of anyone peering in were practically nil, but Joe would be happier. Joe was holding his left hand up to his heart, unconsciously trying to hide the worst of the scars, and that ruined nipple. From the back Alex could see a great curved scar, curled around Joe’s shoulder blade like a sickle moon.

“Come and kiss me,” Alex said.

Joe liked that. He liked being told to lie back on the bed and spread his legs. He liked a wet finger up the ass and more head. Alex found his prostate. Joe gasped, writhing, eyes closed, clutching the bedsheets. He seemed to have forgotten about his scars. For now, anyway.

“Want me to fuck you? I have condoms,” Alex said.

Joe levered himself up on one elbow. The right, of course. Alex had a split-second vision of Joe standing on the beach, as he stood so often, arms crossed over his chest. Alex had always thought it a shy, defensive posture. Now, he could see Joe had simply been cradling his left arm in his right. Because it hurt.

“No. I mean, sorry. Do you mind?” Joe said.

“Of course not.”

“It’s too intense. For the first time.”

“Joe, you don’t need a reason. ‘No’ is fine.”

He told Joe to lie back again, got on top and fucked his mouth instead, nice and slow. Then he turned around and sucked Joe off at the same time, until Joe was squirming and bucking underneath him, cries muffled by Alex’s dick. Joe exploded into his mouth like shook-up champagne, and the taste of him tipped Alex into his own climax. Pure pleasure, making him shudder and shout and clench. Pleasure spiking so sweet, because he was with Joe, who’d seen him at his worst, and wanted him anyway.

He thrust one last time, and Joe gagged and spluttered, pushing at Alex’s hips. Alex pulled away.

“You okay?” Alex said, flopping down next to him.

“Uh, yeah.” Joe’s eyes were closed, his hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. “Sorry. You’re bigger than I’m used to.”

“Ah, you’re sweet.”

“It’s true.” Joe opened his eyes. He blinked. “Wow, that was amazing.”

Alex smiled. He thought it had been a bit scattershot, a bit awful for Joe, having to show his scars for the first time. Next time would be much better. And one day, Joe would forget about the scars completely, the way he forgot to be shy with people he trusted.

“Just wait until I know you inside out,” Alex said. “I’ll make you come so hard, they’ll hear you yelling in the South Island.”

Joe grinned, though it was obvious he didn’t quite know where to look. “I can’t wait.”

“You want me to keep away from that graft, eh?” Alex said.

“No, it’s just that no one’s ever touched me there before. Except doctors. It feels strange, because I can’t feel your fingers, but I can feel the pressure of your hand deep down. But...I don’t mind if you don’t.”

No one touched it before? It was on the tip of Alex’s tongue to say, ‘what about Sean?’. But he didn’t want Joe thinking about that dickwad. If Sean hadn’t wanted to see Joe’s scars, it was all too easy to imagine him refusing to touch them as well.

Alex put his arm around Joe, and kissed the closest part of him, which happened to be his nose. Joe ran his fingers up Alex’s chest, brushing a nipple. Some guys Alex had slept with had only been worth it once; the novelty had been the most erotic thing about them. With Joe, it would get better and better. One day, he’d get Joe fucking on that Chesterfield in the afternoon sun, and it would be slick and sweaty and sublime. He slid his hand down to Joe’s ass.

Joe pressed his face against Alex’s shoulder. “Remember when you came to art group? I went home afterwards and thought about you all night.”

“Oh yeah? And I thought I put you to sleep.”

“No, the opposite. Actually, I didn’t just think about you.” Joe squirmed, blushing, but smiling. “God, I wished I’d had the guts to go and talk to you. It made me realise I didn’t want Sean very much by comparison.”

“That night sounds fantastic. I’m going to have to ask for a re-enactment,” Alex said.

“We already did some of it. But I never thought, in a million years, I would get to be with you for real.”

“That’s because you’re too much of a kumara. It’s obvious you’re perfect for me.”

“I’m not perfect.” Joe’s voice wobbled.

“No, you’re not,” Alex agreed, feeling Joe go completely still against him. “You’re better than that. You’re like one of those china bowls the Japanese mend with gold. Have you seen them? They were attractive enough once, but quite ordinary. They’re much more beautiful for having been broken and mended. That’s how I’d photograph you, if you’d ever let me. Naked, with gold streaks painted on you, looking straight at the camera. It makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up thinking about a shot like that.”

Joe lifted himself up on his right elbow. “You’d photograph me naked?”

Alex smoothed the hair away from Joe’s eyes. “I’ve wanted to photograph you since the moment I saw you. Because you’re gorgeous. Nothing’s changed.”

“Naked?”

“We could try with clothes on first if you prefer.”

A car door slammed right outside. Then another; Chris and Miguel.

Joe’s eyes widened. “I left my clothes on the living room floor.”

“I left some of mine. I think they can handle it.”

“But the unicorn T-shirt! It was a present from my mum.”

Alex started to laugh and couldn’t stop. Joe joined in. And around them the old house creaked, as if it too was sharing the joke, and the voices of friends were at the door.

Epilogue: two months later

Out Loud

Joe woke to a kiss on the back of his neck and the sound of surf. He was at Alex’s place in Kahawai Bay, in Alex’s warm wide bed. Joe rolled onto his back. Alex was leaning over him, a dark outline against grey dawn light.

Happiness swelled in Joe’s chest. Now. Tell him now. Just say it. Whisper in his ear.

Joe reached up to pull him closer and got a handful of woollen coat. Of course, Alex was working. Early start. He’d mentioned it last night.

Alex sat on the edge of the bed and kissed him, soft, close-mouthed. “Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Alex—” I love you.

“Hey! No. Don’t start with that tone of voice. I know where that leads and I have to go.”

“Okay.” Joe grinned, in spite of himself. Now wasn’t the time for declarations. He switched to a formal, stilted voice, “Goodbye, Alex. I hope you have a good day.”

“Mm, slightly robotic. Much better. See you later? Back here?”

“Yeah, five o’clock. I’ve got work today.”

Joe stretched, cautiously, not letting go of Alex’s coat. Nothing hurt much, not even his shoulder. There was only that stiffness he was starting to trust in and to think of as normal. The warmer spring weather—and being at Alex’s well-heated house so often—was making a bigger difference than he’d expected. I’ll say it the moment I get back from work. I’ll walk through the door and tell him: I love you.

“Aren’t you meeting someone after work? To talk comics?” Alex asked.

“Oh. Oliver. I forgot.”

“Okay.” Alex took Joe’s chin, turned his head and kissed the side of his neck, teeth nipping the skin. The sensation shot all the way down to Joe’s cock, which twitched. His breath caught.

“Don’t forget I’ll be waiting for you,” Alex said.

Joe could hear the smile in his voice. And the promise.

“I won’t,” Joe said. Because I’ll be thinking about you all day. “I’ll be back around six thirty, okay?”

“Great. Bye, sweetheart.”

Alex’s fingertips lingered in the newly trimmed hair behind Joe’s ear, eliciting another pleasurable shiver. Then Alex stood up. Joe listened to the creaks as he crossed the living room floor, the quiet sounds as he gathered together about a hundred pieces of camera equipment, the front door opening to let in the roar of the sea, and closing. Alex’s car engine starting, and receding along the gravel road.

Sweetheart.

Joes toes curled with delight. It was two months since Alex had first called him that. Two months since Joe had told Alex his secret. Joe had expected everything to be over, but instead, the opposite had happened. Alex had led him into this room, already naked, clothes in a pile on the living room floor. Two months since they’d become lovers.

Joe still couldn’t quite believe it was true.

The first time he’d seen Alex at art group had felt a bit like the car crash. Without the nightmare element, but with the same sense of unreality, the same ‘oh, God, is this really happening?’ Because men as gorgeous as Alex didn’t usually turn up in Edith’s living room, smouldering at Joe while he tried not to die of blushing.

And now, Joe was waking up in Alex’s bed.

Alex called him ‘sweetheart’.

Alex read his comics and laughed in all the right places.

Alex didn’t seem to care that Joe was like a cobbled together Frankenstein’s monster from the neck down. Alex didn’t seem to notice the scars, except to be careful of them. He said things like ‘you’re gorgeous’ and apparently meant it. And the sex was fantastic. Joe had known Alex would be dynamite in bed, and he was.

With Blessing, sex had been good, but not very exciting because at first Joe had been too young to know what he wanted and then, once he’d worked it out, too shy to tell her. Sex with Sean had been hot in a way, but it had felt like a public affair because Sean told his friends everything. Joe knew some people would have laughed along, but he never could. And when he blushed and protested, Sean teased him about that too, and the constant minor embarrassments began to feel like a series of slaps to the face. Joe could never relax in bed with Sean, because whatever he did might become a snide joke the following evening.

Alex understood that some things were for him and him alone. He never made fun of Joe afterwards. He let private things be private. By now, Alex had only to look at Joe in a certain way and Joe’s inner critic was silenced by lust in a way that was almost alarming. Of course, it wasn’t just sex. Alex was everything Joe had dreamed he’d be: clever, kind, cultured, funny. He was also everything Joe wasn’t: well-travelled, self-confident, sexually experienced, good at public speaking. Hell, Alex could even talk to strangers.

Yes, Joe was in love all right. But what about Alex? Was the relationship as good for him? He seemed happy. Mostly. He didn’t act like Joe was just one more guy. Alex hadn’t said ‘I love you’, but then neither had Joe. Although, Joe had almost said it.

A couple of weeks ago, Joe had arrived at Alex’s place one evening to find him sitting on the old sofa in the sun room, hands over his face.

“Hey,” Joe had said softly, pausing in the open doorway. Seagulls were calling, high and harsh. The setting sun was streaming in, making everything glow.

“Hey,” Alex said. It came out part sigh. Fed up. Not inviting.

It was on the tip of Joe’s tongue to ask, “Are you okay?” but it was clear Alex wasn’t.  Either Joe had done something heinous without realising or something had triggered Alex’s post-traumatic stress disorder. Probably the latter. Joe settled for, “Did something happen?”

Alex took his hands away from his face, but didn’t look up. “No. Just more boring shit.”

“Oh. Okay.”

Joe could guess what that meant. Alex had had therapy, but from time to time he still had flashbacks. Or bad days. Joe sat next to him on the sofa and sifted through a number of things he could say, but they all felt wrong. The sea wind buffeted the old house. Outside, the long grasses hissed and the surf was a muted thunder.

Eventually, Alex said, “I had that job today—photos for the theatre company.” His tone was reluctant, as though he might stop telling the story at any moment. “At the last minute they wanted to go to the Botanic Garden. They’re doing A Midsummer Night’s Dream so they wanted some woodland shots. Fine, right? But when we got there...” Alex dragged his hand down his face. “It’s November, so the spring flowers are over and there were these empty, dug-over garden beds everywhere. Just like the ploughed field we were on when it happened. It’s not like I had to walk on them, but they were all around and it...it just fucking blind-sided me. I was sweating and shaking...and...and everything’s so great and then that happens. I had to delay everyone while I got my head together and then I did a bad job. I can’t bring myself to look at the shots. And just...fuck...this will never be over. You know? And I am so fucking tired of it.”

“I know. It sucks. I’m sorry.” Joe put an arm around his shoulders.

Alex let out a deep breath. Then another one. But the tension in his shoulders didn’t lessen. “Enough from me. How was your day?”

“It was okay,” Joe said slowly.

There was something Alex wasn’t saying, but he was trying to change the subject. Perhaps he wanted to be distracted.

Joe said, “I drew beetles for those conservation pamphlets. I did a nice huhu bug. And a tiger beetle.”

“Uh huh.” Alex was sitting hunched forward, forearms resting on his knees. He glanced at Joe, expression unreadable. “Look, I’m not going to be any kind of company this evening.”

“That doesn’t matter.”

“Why don’t you head home?” Alex stood up, leaving Joe alone on the sofa.

“Do you want me to?” Joe asked.

Alex sighed, a sound without hope. “I don’t know, Joe. Do what you like.”

Alex didn’t look around. He walked away, through the living room. Joe heard the bedroom door open and close, and then silence.

Joe sat in the red-gold light, perched on the edge of the sofa. The sun room was usually one of those magical places where it was impossible to imagine anything bad happening. And now this. He’d been dying to see Alex all day. He’d been hoping Alex might be dying to see him.

Did Alex want him to go? But Alex had said ‘do what you like’. Joe wanted to stay—in case Alex changed his mind and wanted him.

Joe took out his sketch book and tried to draw the view through the sun room windows: the wind-tossed flax, the sea, and the jumbled rocks of the northern headland.

But the sketches were lifeless and Joe wasted page after page. Alex would be lying on the bed feeling awful. Or maybe sitting on the floor, forehead on his knees. Joe had seen him sitting like that once before. But that time Alex had stood up when Joe arrived and offered him tea and seemed happy to see him.

Joe turned to a fresh page and began to draw a comic. He drew a picture of himself— all skinny wrists and bony knees—sitting on the old sofa, brows furrowed, eyes anxious. In the next panel he drew himself again, same expression, same position—only now a Joe-shaped outline was leaving his body like a ghost. The outline was transparent, but it had a heart inside it from which lines radiated bright and bold. The outline drifted past the kitchen and through the living room. It slid under Alex’s bedroom door.

In the final panel, it curled its empty arms around Alex where he sat slumped against the wall in his bedroom.

You can’t feel them. Maybe you don’t want them. But they’re there.

Joe studied the comic, strengthened a few lines, added shading. Was it dumb? Sometimes simple ideas were strong, sometimes they were cheesy, but Joe meant every line of this one. He’d left a comic for Alex once before and that had worked out okay. Alex had liked it. It had cheered him up.

Joe tore the comic out of the sketchbook, crossed the creaky boards of the living room, knelt, and slipped the paper under the bedroom door. Then he stayed where he was, kneeling on the floor, unsure what to do next. Maybe now he should go home. The comic said what he wanted to say. Alex could have some space and come and find him whenever he was ready.

But the bedroom door opened. Alex stood looking down at him, the comic in one hand. He looked tired, and not happy, but he didn’t look angry. Hope flared in Joe’s chest.

“Joe.” Alex ran his free hand through his hair, as if he didn’t quite know what to do. Then Alex was sitting down next to him, holding him close. It was like in the final panel of Joe’s comic, except their positions were reversed, as if Alex were comforting him.

“Oh, Joe,” Alex said, into Joe’s hair.

“I’ll go if you want some space. I won’t be offended.”

“I don’t want you to go. I never want you to go. I feel guilty for laying my shit on you and bringing you down.”

“You don’t bring me down,” Joe said.

“No, I’m a laugh riot. Your day got way better when you came over here.”

Joe lent into him, resting his head on Alex’s shoulder. “It’s better now.”

Alex half-laughed, a rueful huff of breath in Joe’s ear. “What did I do to deserve you?”

“You laugh at my jokes? You like comics?”

“I like your comics.” Alex pulled him a little closer. “Joe, you could probably have anyone you like. You’ll realise that soon, I think. I’ll understand, you know, if one day you decide you’ve had enough of me. I don’t want to hold you back. You get that, right? Christ, you’re twenty-six! You might want to travel. You might want a family—children, all that. I want you to be happy, not worrying about me and having to deal with my bullshit.”

“I don’t want children. Blessing and I used to argue about that all the time.”

“Well, you might want something else. I want you to know I’ll understand if you decide to move on.”

“When I was with Blessing I felt guilty—at the end anyway—because we wanted such different things. And when I was with Sean I felt like everything about me was wrong or not good enough. But when I’m with you, I just feel happy. You never bring me down. I know you’re having a bad day. I’m not happy about that, but it’s just a bad day, isn’t it? It’s not who you are. I want to be with you.”

Alex shifted his left arm, giving Joe a more comfortable angle to lean at. How did Alex do that?  How did he know how to make their bodies fit together in a way that always felt so right?

Alex said, “I used to think I was the luckiest man alive, and then I doubted that for a long time. But now I know it’s true. You’re the sweetest boy in the world and somehow you’ve ended up with me. How did I get so lucky?”

“It’s not luck. It’s because you manage to overlook all the terrible things about me. I don’t know how you do it, but I’m not complaining.”

“What terrible things?” Alex pulled back so they could see each other’s faces.

Joe relaxed a little more. Alex was looking him in the eye.

“I’m not listing them,” Joe said. “There might be some you haven’t noticed.”

“I guess there is your tendency to bring me flowers—which is very gay and absolutely repulsive.”

“You see, I knew you hated that.”

“And your other idea of a romantic gift is a dead fish.”

“At least I make sure they’re dead before I give them to you,” Joe said, with exaggerated dignity.

Alex actually smiled. “I used to think the fish was less sweet than the flowers, until I realised you always fillet the fish for me. You don’t gut fish for anyone else. Other people get given them whole and have to do their own dirty work.”

“That’s because you don’t know how, you city slicker. Everyone else around here could gut a fish with their eyes closed, but you have no idea. And Mrs. Rakete gives me the flowers from her garden because I mow her lawn. I told her I like to draw flowers, which I do sometimes. And then I bring them to you. They look nice on your kitchen table.”

“If you can’t see how that story makes you even more adorable there’s no hope for you,” Alex said.

Joe grinned. Alex was smiling at him. It wasn’t a big smile, but it was there in his eyes. He looked exhausted, but they were together. Alex wanted him; the day was golden again.

Comics were always a good idea.

Joe stretched again and sat up in bed. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the comic he’d drawn that day. Alex had tacked it to the wall above his bedside table.

I should have told him that day. I’ve been thinking it for weeks. Why can’t I be the kind of person who just says things?

It’s just...

What if he doesn’t say it back?

Joe had a shower, using Alex’s expensive shower gel. It had a fresh, citrusy scent that would make Joe smell a little like him all day. He shaved, towel-dried his hair and combed it with his fingers. It felt strange to not have hair falling in his eyes all the time. The way the air touched the back of his neck was still a surprise.

Bella’s girlfriend, Emmi, had cut it last weekend, after lunch at Alex’s place. Joe usually hated having his hair cut because the person doing it so often wanted to talk. Small-talk too, which Joe was terrible at: things like the weather and rugby and politics and celebrities he’d never heard of. It was different with Emmi. She took him outside onto the concrete step at the front of Alex’s house and began to cut his hair in the spring sunshine. The dark feathery clippings drifted off to catch in the flax bushes. She didn’t talk. She hummed a little under her breath. It was clear Joe wasn’t expected to say anything. Alex and Bella followed them outside to watch, Bella carrying the mirror from the bathroom.

When Emmi stepped away, Joe hardly recognised himself. He glanced at Alex, who had stopped smiling and was staring at him.

“Is it okay?” Joe asked.

“Gorgeous.”

“You should keep it like this,” Emmi said to Joe. “I’ll do you a deal, okay? You draw Bella for me, but as a cat. Got it? Then I cut your hair forever.”

Bella spluttered something and went scarlet.

“Okay.” Joe grinned. Alex liked it, so that was fine. He liked it himself. He felt lighter, as if Emmi had cut away more than just hair.

Joe finished combing his damp hair with his fingers. He was getting dressed in Alex’s bedroom when he noticed a streak of something white down the front of his old blue shirt. It was probably pasta sauce, but it looked like dried come. He scraped it with a fingernail and made it worse. He could get a clean shirt at home, but Alex often lent him clothes and Joe loved borrowing them. Wearing a shirt of Alex’s was proof, a tangible reminder that Alex was real. Also, Alex’s clothes were nice. Everything was high quality, natural fibres: cotton, linen, cashmere, silk. Things that felt good against Joe’s skin.

Joe chose a long-sleeved shirt in a creamy unbleached cotton/silk blend. It was so soft, and he remembered Alex wearing it around the house. The shirt settled around Joe like a caress. It was a bit loose, but all Alex’s clothes were big on Joe. Nothing chafed.

He drove the short distance home through the bright morning to check on Blue. The old white horse was growing fat on spring grass and had bidibids all through his mane. Joe picked the seeds out, pushing Blue’s nose away from time-to-time so Blue wouldn’t slobber all over Alex’s nice shirt.

Joe had an idea for a comic coming. He tossed bidibids into the hedge and thought about panels and lines. The black lines between panels were spaces in time. They were bits cut out of the action, but sometimes what happened there was as important as the main story. Because those moments counted too. Those were the times when someone sat with you in silence or said something mundane about dirty dishes. They were moments when nothing happened, but somehow, when examined all together, they made a pattern that was revelatory. Why did the way Alex park his car or button his shirt make Joe love him more? Joe wasn’t sure, but he could imagine the comic – the panels getting smaller and smaller, the bigger picture that lay underneath becoming clear.

Joe drove to work and spent the day selling canvas and graphite blocks, pastels and drafting paper. It was a good day. Not too busy. Being on his feet all day made his shoulder ache, but today he got to sit down between customers.

At four o’clock, he closed the shop and walked to the café where he was meeting Oliver. It was a new place: polished wooden floors, comfortable-looking booths, the walls decorated with old-fashioned pictures of duchesses waving fans—only someone had given the duchesses tattoos and nose-rings. Joe got a flat white and sat down. At the same time, someone sat opposite. Joe looked up, expecting Oliver, and found Sean lounging there, all blue eyes and smiles. Joe froze.

“Hi,” Sean said. “Cute haircut.”

“Thanks,” Joe said automatically. “Uh...Sean, I’m meeting someone, so...”

“Who? Not that old guy? Bryan Adams?”

“He’s not...it’s none of your business,” Joe said, trying to sound off-hand. His shoulder twinged. He took a deep breath, tried to relax.

“Jesus, settle down. I’m only being friendly.”

“Great. You’ve been friendly. Can you go now?”

“No, I can’t.” Sean smiled. “I work here. I get off soon. Got your car? You could give me a ride home if you were feeling nice.”

“Why would I do that? I’m meeting Oliver.”

“Oh, God, the comics nerd? Although, that doesn’t narrow it down much, does it? Wait a minute—he’s the ‘mum caught me wanking’ one, isn’t he? Jesus, Joe. Come home with me instead.”

“Sean!” A woman called from behind the counter.

“You have to go,” Joe said.

“Yeah.” Sean looked over his shoulder, yelled, “Just a sec!” then added, to Joe, “Text him and cancel. You know you want to.”

“No way.”

Sean leant across the table. “You pissed me off last time, but I forgive you because that haircut makes you look like you stepped out of Brideshead Revisited. You look different all round actually.”

“Do I?” Joe asked, in spite of himself.

“Yeah. You look hot. What are you doing? Yoga, or Prozac, or something?”

“No.”

It’s Alex, of course. It’s because I’m happy. But he wasn’t going to talk to Sean about Alex.

“I was always hassling you to get a haircut and wear decent clothes. You never listened to me, did you?” Sean said.

There was genuine hurt in Sean’s blue eyes. Joe shrugged, not knowing what to say. It was true that Sean had always been on at him to smarten himself up, to take some pride in himself. It was also true that Joe had clung to his crappy old snowflake jumper partly to annoy Sean.

It hadn’t started out that way. Joe had worn the jumper because it was the warmest thing he owned and it helped against the aches that plagued him in cold weather. But Sean had made such a fuss about it that Joe had begun to wear it more out of contrariness. Perhaps it had been petty, but that was Sean; he brought out the worst in Joe.

Sean said, “I don’t see how it was so hard to buy clothes that aren’t hideous, and get a haircut from time to time. You seem to have managed it now.”

“A friend cut it.” Joe ran his fingers through his hair.

Once Emmi had finished cutting it, and she and Bella had gone, Alex had grabbed Joe’s hand and led him straight to the bedroom. Alex had kissed Joe’s exposed neck and ears, and stroked the short hair on the back of his head. Then Alex had stripped him naked, and kissed him some more. Finally, when Joe was whimpering with need, Alex had fucked him, from behind, teeth on the bare nape of Joe’s neck.

It had been so good they’d done it twice. The second time had been slower, more languorous, and just before he came, Alex had whispered Joe’s name.

I should have told him then. I love you. It would have been so easy to say.

“Joe! Jophiel! Wake up!” Sean waved a hand in his face. “Come on, Joe, come home with me. I’m feeling very bossy. You’ll love it.”

“I don’t want to. I wouldn’t come with you anyway, because I’m meeting a friend, but if that’s not enough for you: I’m seeing someone. I’m in a relationship.”

“I knew it! It’s that old guy, isn’t it? It’s the daddy thing.” Sean sat back. “Oh well, I’ll call you in a month, eh? Those things never last. He’ll get bored, Jophiel. I bet you don’t know anything about his old-person crap. I bet he likes jazz. Oh, God, how fucking tragic.”

“Sean!” The woman behind the counter called again.”

“Bye, Sean. Don’t call me. I’ll be blocking you anyway.”

“Well, fine. Last time I try to be nice to you. I hope you like geriatrics wards. Hope you like incontinence pads, and zimmer frames, and...and fucking prunes.”

And with that, Sean was gone to get a hissed bollocking from the woman at the counter. Joe left his coffee untouched and went outside to wait for Oliver. They’d go somewhere else instead.

Joe drove out of town, shoulders tense, a headache coming on. Oliver had been in a bad mood—worried about his job, having trouble with his girlfriend, down on his comics. Not that Joe minded talking about stuff like that—that was what friends were for. No, Oliver wasn’t the problem.

Alex wouldn’t get bored of him, would he? They always seemed to find plenty to talk about. But it was true that Joe didn’t know much about photography—although he was learning—and he’d never heard of most of the music Alex played. Nor visited any of the countries Alex had been to. And when Alex went running, he always had to go alone, because Joe couldn’t run. Not anymore. Would Alex have preferred someone he could go running with? Someone lithe and fit and laughing? Someone who never worried about anything?

Joe pulled over and turned the ignition off with a shaking hand. This was bullshit. And he wasn’t going to take it home to Alex. He was only worrying about it because Sean had put the idea in his head. If he let it, it would circle around until it paralyzed him and he’d be silent and awkward and never be able to tell Alex: ‘I love you’.

In case Alex didn’t say it back.

But he would. Joe knew it.

Probably.

Joe took slow, deep breaths, hands on the wheel, forehead resting on his knuckles.

What did Sean know? He knew nothing. He knew nothing about Alex and how he and Joe were together.

In Kahawai Bay, Alex would be waiting. Not in a finger-drumming ‘you’re late’ kind of way, but in a pleasant ‘I’m expecting you’ way. Alex was easy-going about time. He never fussed if people were a bit late. He’d be working through the photographs he’d taken that day, weeding out any unsuccessful shots, editing the rest, and putting them in order if the client had requested it.

But the moment Joe came through the door, Alex would get up, smiling. He would hold Joe close—as if to have Joe in his arms was the most important thing in the world. And they would kiss, and the kiss might deepen and they might go to the bedroom. Or the kiss might turn affectionate and one of them would discover he had something to say. They might talk, or cook, or walk down to the beach. And whatever they did would feel right and natural and easy, and Joe wouldn’t feel like a freak who never knew what to say and who liked the wrong things. He would feel like himself, only better.

Joe started the car, checked his mirrors and blind spot twice. To be alone with Alex. That was all he wanted. He pulled out into a gap in the traffic and was soon turning onto the Makara Road. He negotiated the sharp, familiar turns, past steep fields of gorse and sheep. He passed his own place with Blue grazing out the front, and turned left, heading south along the gravel road that led to Kahawai Bay. The hills rose high, blotting out the sun and cell-phone coverage. And then there was the sea, with white surf and menacing dark patches. And there was Alex’s place, perched on the far hillside, nestled amongst the flax and the remains of Mrs. Addison’s salt-bitten roses.

There was an old red Toyota Corolla parked next to Alex’s shiny new model Mini Cooper. Joe pulled up next to it and got out of his car. The air was hot. The sea wind had dropped and a chorus of cicadas came from the stand of manuka trees up the valley. He glared at the Toyota. He didn’t recognise it, but it was parked too close to Alex’s house to look as if it belonged to beach visitors. Alex appeared, waiting for him on the concrete step at the front of the house. At least he seemed to be alone.

“Hi,” Joe said, walking up the garden path. “Whose car is that?”

“Hey.”

Alex gave him a quick kiss. He wore jeans and a pale blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his biceps. He looked so good, so handsome, arms tanned and strong-looking. Joe’s brain momentarily shut down. Later, those arms would be wrapped around him, or braced above him.

“Nice shirt,” Alex added, touching Joe’s shoulder.

“Thanks. The car?”

“We’ve got visitors. They’re for you, really. They wanted to surprise you, but they’ve gone down to the beach because the kids have been cooped up in the car all day and couldn’t wait any longer. I said I’d wait for you.”

Joe frowned. A surprise visit, with kids, in an old car. He glanced down at it. A car with a crystal hanging from the rearview mirror. A car with wooden beads on the dashboard and a pale orange muslin scarf that was just the kind of thing—

“Oh, shit, my mum’s here, isn’t she?” Joe said, breaking out in a cold sweat.

Joe loved his mother, but she was an acquired taste. Sean had met her once by mistake and treated her with a condescending scorn that had made Joe cringe inside. Mum had responded by getting extra cosmic and telling Sean that he had a spirit watching over him whether he knew it or not. Alex was polite to everyone, but he did prefer rational thinking and had no time for crystals and ley lines. Joe’s incipient headache, which had almost gone away, pulsed through his left temple.

“Uh huh,” Alex said. “And Blessing. Very pretty, isn’t she, your ex? And—” Alex ticked off his fingers, “—Summer, Thor and Kahurangi, who are kids. And Sarah and Jake, who are dogs.”

“Why are they at your place?” Joe asked.

“Okay, so I guess you haven’t mentioned me to them?”

“No, I...no.”

Was Alex hurt? Should Joe have told Mum about him by now? The thing was that being with Alex was so big, so important, so all-encompassing, that telling other people hadn’t seemed right yet. Joe had wanted to be sure it was real before he started doing that.

Alex said, “Okay. So, they went to your place first, but you weren’t there, so they drove to Makara Beach to buy ice-cream, and someone in the café told them if you weren’t home you might be here, so here they are.”

Joe could almost see them; a car-load of kids and dogs emptying out, Mum laughing too loud and hugging people she didn’t know, Blessing doing cartwheels and handsprings, all intruding on Alex’s privacy and quiet.

“Oh, God, Alex, I’m sorry.”

“Are you?” Alex was looking at him closely. “Well, I didn’t tell them anything. As far as they know, we’re just friends.”

“I don’t mean that! I haven’t not told Mum about you. I just haven’t told her. You could have said anything.”

“Could I?”

“Of course. Mum’s fine about whatever I do. Girlfriends. Boyfriends. Whatever.”

“Whatever?” Alex cocked his head. “Is that what I am?”

“No! You’re...”

All the words Joe knew were inadequate. What should he call Alex? Boyfriend? Lover? The Most Amazing Thing to Ever Happen to Me? What did Alex want to be?

“Your boyfriend?” Alex asked. He was smiling, but his eyes were serious. “Although, I’m hardly a boy.”

“I can’t say ‘man friend’. I’d have to die.”

“Partner?” Alex said.

Joe blinked. He hadn’t thought of it. Maybe because it was a word he wouldn’t have dared to use, because it sounded so permanent, so committed. To him, at least. Maybe, to Alex, it meant something else. Joe hadn’t thought about the future too much, in case he jinxed something, or tempted fate. But ‘partner’ wasn’t a word people used for a fleeting thing, was it?

“Partner,” he repeated.

“Okay. Sounds good. Hey, are you all right? This is a nice thing, eh? You get to see your mum. You get on with her, don’t you? And Blessing, who seems lovely. You two are friends now, right?”

“Yes, but don’t you mind a pack of strangers turning up at your door?”

“They’re hardly strangers.” Alex grinned. “I’ve met your mum before.”

“What? Where?”

“Well, our spirits have met before. On another plane. She recognised me straight away.”

“Oh, God.”

“Joe, I like her. She gave me a big hug, and told me she could tell I’d suffered, but that my future was clear. She can tell from my aura.”

“Alex, look—”

“I told her she was quite right and that I have post-traumatic stress disorder. They’d been here for about two minutes when I told them that.”

“Oh, God. Alex, look, Mum asks people all kinds of things. Just tell her it’s private.”

“Joe, listen. Do you know one of the worst things about having PTSD? It’s that it’s invisible. And yet it’s hard to tell people because it’s not the sort of thing that comes up in casual conversation. It’s not the sort of thing you can say to most people after two minutes acquaintance. But I could tell your mother and Blessing, couldn’t I? Because they work on a different level to most people. And they’re not scared, or embarrassed. They don’t think it’s weird or intense. They think it’s normal that I would tell them that. Do you know how amazing that is? So, stop worrying. I like them – even if your mother is younger than me, which I have to admit is slightly freaking me out. Anyway, I’ve invited them to stay the night.”

“No, she’s not younger than you. She’s—” Joe did the maths and said reluctantly, “Er...forty-five.”

“Uh huh? Same as me, eh? Well, that’s all right then. I can stop worrying about that, can’t I?”

Joe found himself smiling. But it was funny, because it was so unimportant. Alex’s eyes had sparks dancing in them. He didn’t care either. Not really.

Alex said, “I’ve also found out they’re not vegetarian, but they won’t eat anything battery-farmed and they don’t believe in processed foods, although when it comes to ice-cream for children they make an exception. Also, they’d like to get up early tomorrow because they have a wedding to go to over in the Wairarapa. It’s at midday and we’re invited to the party afterwards. There’s no dress code, except everyone should wear flowers, and Blessing is a dab hand at garlands. Want to go?”

“Do you?”

“I want to see you in a garland, that’s for sure. Maybe we could get flowers from Mrs. Rakete?”

“Maybe. Who are the kids? Summer is Blessing’s, but the others? Will more people be coming? Will anyone’s parents be arriving?”

“Not that they mentioned. Thor and Kahurangi are just friends, I guess, who came along for the trip. Kahurangi told me in confidence that if we come to the wedding she can show me her party trick. But she won’t say what it is.”

“It might be fire-poi” Joe said, absently.

He was still wondering what the word ‘partner’ meant to Alex. Maybe he should just ask. His stomach lurched and his heart started pounding. Was now the time to say it?

“Fire-poi? I doubt it. She’s only about seven,” Alex said.

“Alex, if I tell them you’re my partner—that’s important. It means something, doesn’t it? It does to me because I...” Joe’s breath had all run out. He reached for Alex’s hand and stood looking at it for a moment. Alex was holding onto him, a strong, gentle grasp. Joe managed to look up, into Alex’s eyes. “I...love you. So much.”

“Come in here a moment?” Alex pulled him inside and kissed him, slow and thorough. He took Joe’s face in his hands. “Joe, I’ve been wanting to tell you for weeks that I love you. I didn’t want to come on too strong when we’ve just got together. But it’s true. I’ve loved you since the day you sat on that concrete step out there and told me about Fox’s glacier mint wrappers, and put that comic under my front door.”

Fireworks were bursting in Joe’s belly. He was burning with joy. He stood there, alight, Alex’s hands on either side of his face.

“I’ve wanted to tell you for weeks as well,” Joe said.

Alex smiled and brought their foreheads together. “You know, I am delighted to meet your family, but I wish they weren’t here so I could take you to bed right now.”

Joe squirmed, involuntarily. “Me too.”

Alex let him go. “Well, I will get my hands on you later. I promise.”

“But we can’t...you know...do it, if my mother is in the next room. It’s not like when Chris and Miguel were staying. And even that was a bit weird.”

“Ha, listening to you trying to be quiet was almost more of a turn-on than listening to you normally. But, anyway, I have a plan. So, come on, let’s go down to the beach and find everyone, but I want you to know we’re not missing out on anything tonight.”

They went down to the beach. Alex might have walked, but Joe floated there on a golden cloud. Joe introduced Alex properly. Mum hugged them both, and said, to Alex, “I knew there was something special about you.” Blessing hugged them both too.

Alex made dinner. Alex and Mum turned out to have been to some of the same places in Morocco and India and Thailand. They talked about cities Joe had never heard of and looked at some of Alex’s photos from those places. They discussed the benefits of ecstasy as a treatment for PTSD and dance parties as a form of transcendental meditation. The kids and dogs invented a game dodging around all the flax bushes in the garden and Joe sat with Blessing on the concrete step, half watching the kids, half listening to Alex and Mum talk.

Joe couldn’t help remembering the first time he’d seen Alex at Edith’s place—how unobtainable he’d seemed, the hot-shot photographer from London. How talented and stylish and sophisticated. How absolutely out of Joe’s league. And now—Joe glanced over his shoulder.

Alex was standing by the kitchen bench, a knife in his hand, cut lemons in front of him. He was listening to something Mum was saying, smiling. He noticed Joe looking at him and his expression changed for a moment into something far more intimate.

I love you.

I love you, too.

Joe looked away, cheeks growing hot.

“Joe?” Blessing said. The sea breeze had sprung up again and her long blonde hair blew towards him. It was so fine that a few strands kept floating straight up, as if she was about to start ascending. Her eyes were pale, pale blue, clear as the evening sky.

“You’re really in love, aren’t you?” she said, quietly.

“Is it that obvious?”

“Yeah, it’s glowing out of you. I’m not big into auras like your Mum, but you’ve got one at the moment.”

“Well, okay.”

“Don’t worry, it’s just as obvious with him. When we got here, I asked about that picture of the seagulls on the wall because I could tell you’d done it. I thought you two had something going on because he lights up when he talks about you.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, he thinks you’re wonderful. Which you are. You won’t have to pretend, with him.”

“Pretend what?” Joe said, feeling exposed. He hoped she wasn’t talking about sex, although it was true he didn’t have to pretend in bed with Alex.

“Anything. You could tell him anything. You could trust him with your life.”

“Oh, yes. Of course.”

Later, when Mum was talking about going to Joe’s house to sleep, leaving Blessing and the kids at Alex’s, Alex said he wouldn’t hear of it. He said it was an old Canadian custom to give up one’s own bed to one’s guests. He added that he’d already changed the sheets, and would be devastated if Joe’s Mum didn’t take him up on his offer.

“Joe and I will go to his place. He should check on Blue, anyway,” Alex said.

“Can I come?” Summer asked. “I can help. I know lots about horses. I could sleep on Joe’s sofa. I’ve done it before.”

“You’re staying here,” Blessing said.

“But I want to see Blue!”

“In the morning, eh Joe?” Blessing said.

“In the morning, Joe and I will come back and make breakfast,” Alex said. “Maybe Joe could bring Blue along with us?”

Alex and Joe said good-night and began walking to Joe’s place using the back way, past the manuka, through farmland. The night was scented with dried grasses and crickets sang at their feet. It was about nine-thirty. There was still an amber streak of light to the west, and, in the east, a half-moon bright as a pipi shell. It was too dark to see much, but Joe knew the way.

“This is your cunning plan?” Joe said. “That we go to my place? Blessing guessed why we were leaving. Mum, too.”

“I never said it’d be cunning. Anyway, so what? I hope you realise your mother’s slept with more guys than I have.”

“Alex, don’t.”

“Ha. She’s one of the least embarrassed people I’ve ever met, and you’re so sweet you blush if I mention sex when we’re alone. Are you sure you’re related?”

“Families have embarrassment quotas. I do hers for her.”

“Young people today,” Alex said loftily. “So prudish.”

Joe snorted. Alex might as well have said ‘okay, bye, we’re off to have sex now’. But then, Alex didn’t care who knew. Mum and Blessing didn’t care. Sex was just something people did. Why did it still make him blush?

“I saw Sean today,” Joe said, surprising himself. When he was with Alex, remarks just popped out. Sometimes, even things Joe had decided not to talk about. Like this.

“Oh? Bad luck. And how is the Prince Frog? Is he taking up painting?”

“No.” Joe had to smile, the idea was so ridiculous. “He didn’t come to the shop. Turns out he works in the café where I went to meet Oliver.”

“That is bad luck.”

“He wanted me to go home with him. Can you believe it? He was such a jerk to me, and then he thought I would go with him like nothing happened.”

“He’s an idiot.”

“Yeah. He liked your shirt, though. My green snowflake jumper used to drive him crazy.”

“Ha! I bet it did! That’s its benevolent side. It drives away unsuitable lovers. Maybe I owe it something. What do you think? Would it like a bottle of fabric softener?”

Joe grinned. “I think that would offend it.”

“You’re right. I expect it drinks rum. Or maybe blood. There is something a bit terrifying about it.”

“Do you want me to get rid of it?”

“No way! If I said yes, it’d know. It’d come back to haunt me. In any case, I want you to keep it so you can write more comics about it.”

“I think it likes you. Have you noticed the strange tracks around your house when I’m not there at night? It pines for you.”

“Okay, now you’re scaring me.” Alex took his hand. “Come on, I’ve got plans for you tonight. And they don’t involve your sweater.”

They came out onto the Makara Road, crossed it, and walked the few hundred metres up the road to Joe’s house. Joe opened the door, went into the bedroom and turned the bedside light on. The house had been shut up all day and was stuffy. Joe’s grandma had been dead for three years, but at times like this he could still smell her lily of the valley talcum powder. He opened the window.

Alex had closed the front door behind him, but stopped in the bedroom doorway. “Actually, this is your place, isn’t it?”

Joe frowned. “What?”

“I’m just thinking: Your house, your rules.”

Joe frowned a bit harder. They both knew how sex usually went. Joe liked Alex to be in charge. It meant Joe could stop thinking. He could relax, because Alex called the shots and Alex would look after him. Alex always made it great.

Alex leaned a shoulder against the doorframe. “Yeah, I think you should be in charge tonight.”

There was a gleam in Alex’s eyes that made Joe tremble with anticipation. Alex had done this a couple of times before, confusing him, so he couldn’t guess what was coming next. With anyone else it would have been awful. Because it was Alex, the uncertainty morphed into arousal.

“So, you’d better tell me what to do,” Alex said.

Joe opened his mouth and closed it again. Alex had a half-smile lurking in his eyes. Joe glanced away, trying to collect himself. If he was going to have to tell Alex what to do, he was going to have to say things like—oh.

He looked back at Alex, eyes widening.

Alex smiled. “Yeah, you want it, you’re going to have to ask for it. Out loud.”

Joe blushed. He couldn’t. He’d forgotten how to speak anyway.

“Want me to start you off?” Alex said. “I think you want to take out that lovely dick, and show me how hard it’s getting at the thought of all the dirty things you’re going to have to say to me.”

Joe swallowed. Why was it easier to suck Alex’s cock than to say he wanted to suck it? It would sound so rude. But he was getting hard. And of course, Alex knew that.

“Come on, sweetheart. Do you know how much it’ll turn me on to hear you say it? And then you’ll come for me. But only if you tell me what you want. So, dick out, and the rest is up to you.”

Joe put his trembling hands to his fly. His breath was speeding up. He was already aching with the need that had been building since Alex had woken him that morning. He wanted Alex to fuck him, but quite how he was going to get them to that point was a hot blur of taboos. His face was already burning, and he hadn’t even opened his mouth.

Of course, he could tell Alex he didn’t want to do this. Alex wouldn’t mind. He’d say something like ‘okay, dumb idea. Now get over here’.

But maybe it would be exciting. Joe could start with some easy stuff. If he didn’t like it, he could always change his mind. He undid his fly, pushed his underwear down enough to free his cock.

Alex exhaled, shakily.

Joe said, to the carpet, “I...I want you to come closer.”

Alex obeyed, stopping about an arm’s length away. Joe could only see his feet. Joe glanced up. Alex had the intent expression that meant he was turned on.

“Um...I want you to take your clothes off,” Joe said.

Alex did it slowly, fingers lingering on buttons. Joe managed another glance at him.

“Faster,” Joe said.

Alex smiled, and pulled the rest of his clothes off. He was trim from all the running he did, but not as skinny as Joe. There was nothing boyish about Alex. He had a man’s set strength, a man’s broad shoulders, hairy chest and strong thighs. And, of course, a fine, jutting erection, slightly fleshy, foreskin starting to pull back. Joe was used to the size of it by now. He couldn’t wait to get his mouth around it.

Joe sank to his knees, and Alex stepped back, out of reach. Joe looked up. Not fair. Alex raised one eyebrow.

“Come closer,” Joe said.

Alex didn’t move. “Why? What do you want to do?” He put his hand on his cock and jacked himself a few times, lazily.

Fine. Two could play at that game.

“I want you to undress me,” Joe said. His left knee was hurting from kneeling on the hard floor. “On the bed.” He got up and knelt on the bed instead. Much better.

Alex knelt in front of him, smiling. “You little tease. This is not what you want, and you know it.”

Joe couldn’t help smiling back, shame-facedly. Alex took the hem of Joe’s shirt, and took it off, careful not to force his left arm too high. Alex pulled Joe’s trousers and underwear down around his knees. Joe kicked them off. He couldn’t help noticing that Alex took care to only touch the clothes, not him. Alex was going to make him ask for that.

When Alex was done with the clothes, he knelt there, almost touching Joe, but not quite. Joe twisted his head with frustration. He could smell Alex, could feel the warmth coming from him, their cocks were nearly touching. But not quite.

“What next?” Alex said.

“I want you closer. I want you to kiss me.”

“Uh huh. Where?”

“My...neck, and mouth. Just kiss me, Alex.” The second sentence came out a bit impatient-sounding.

Alex put one kiss on Joe’s neck, making him moan. A lingering kiss on his mouth, quite hard, tongue swirling over Joe’s. Then it was over.

“Don’t stop,” Joe gasped. “Kiss me again. Put your hands on my arse.”

Joe writhed against him, grinding their cocks together, letting his head fall back so Alex could have full access to his mouth.

“Alex, get the lube. I...I want...”

“Mm? What do you want?”

“You to get it.”

Alex grinned, but reached for the bedside drawer and got out the tube.

“Put some on your fingers,” Joe said.

Alex did as he’d said, then held his fingers up. “Well? What could you possibly want with these very slippery fingers?”

“Um...” I want them stroking my hole. I want them stretching me and teasing me. I want them inside me. “Uh...Alex, can we just do it now?”

“Do what?”

Joe groaned in frustration and let his head fall forwards onto Alex’s shoulder.

“Do what, sweetheart? Where do you want my fingers? Huh? Do you know how much I want to hear you say it?”

“I want them...up my arse.” Joe’s face was burning again.

“Mm,” Alex said, and slipped his fingers under Joe’s balls, first to stroke his hole, and then to push two fingers inside, quite fast. Joe gasped, grabbing at Alex’s shoulders, cock twitching. Alex slipped his fingers out, circling the rim, and then pushed them in again. Then he stopped.

Joe kissed him. Alex didn’t move.

Joe groaned, half in frustration, half in pleasure. His thighs were trembling. It was as if Alex controlled Joe’s entire being with those two fingers.

They knelt there, chest to chest, Joe with his knees apart to give Alex access. Joe could feel the sweat beading on his skin in the close air of the bedroom. Being made to say what he wanted was excruciating, but it was also making him as hard as he’d ever been. Because Alex was in charge, really. If Joe wanted more, he had to say it. And he had to have more. It didn’t feel like a choice. It was a necessity.

“Move your fingers. Do what you did before. Push them in. Oh, God, yes. There...harder.” A moment later, Joe gasped, “Fuck me.”

“With my fingers?”

“Alex, just fuck me.” It was a demand, not a request.

“Be more specific.” Alex’s breathing was hitching.

Joe pulled away, glared at him. “Fine. Stay still. You touch me and it’s all over.”

He went down onto his hands and knees and took Alex’s cock into his mouth, one long, smooth movement, making Alex say “Oh, Christ!”. Joe sucked him until Alex pushed at his shoulders to fend him off.

“Joe, stop. Seriously.”

Joe looked up. “Why?”

“Why? What’ll happen if you don’t?”

“So?”

“You don’t want that,” Alex said.

“Don’t I? What do I want?”

“You tell me.”

“You’re infuriating,” Joe said.

“Say what you want then.”

“All right. Fine. I want you to...to...” Joe blushed, but he was too turned on by now to care. “...rim me. And then fuck me. Hard. And no stopping. Fuck me until I come. Happy now?”

Alex grinned. Wolfish, not like his usual smile. “Oh, I’m happy. This evening is going great.”

He pushed Joe down onto his back and flipped him over. “God, you have no idea,” he said, into Joe’s ear. “You have no idea how much I want you right now.”

Joe was shaking with anticipation. It would feel so good. If he had to wait a moment longer, he would scream. Alex was kissing his way down Joe’s back, hands moving lower, stroking his arse. Joe could feel Alex’s breath, hot against his skin.

Then Alex’s tongue was on him, soft and wet. Joe’s eyes fluttered and closed. He could hear himself making breathy moans. He grit his teeth, but his breath kept catching. He wriggled, lifting his hips to let Alex get at him better. He clutched the bedclothes in his fists, cock aching. It was a torment of pleasure, because while it felt as if the whole world had melted away, it wouldn’t be quite enough to get him off. Although, tonight, it nearly was.

“Alex,” he gasped. “Let’s fuck. Quick. Because—”

Alex didn’t let him finish. He grabbed Joe’s hip and pulled. It meant ‘turn over’. Joe obeyed. Alex liked this position best. He liked to watch Joe falling apart, liked to see him come. Alex kissed him, mouth greedy, fingers probing and stretching again, but this time he didn’t stop. This time, his fingers were moving faster, almost jerkily, and Joe realised, with a pulse of pure lust, that Alex was coming apart too, that usually he was more in control, but this time, Alex was getting swept away along with him.

Joe turned his head away from Alex’s kiss.

“Fuck me,” he demanded. “Quick.”

Alex took Joe by the hips and pulled him onto his lap. Joe wrapped his thighs around Alex’s waist, crying out when he felt the tip of Alex’s cock easing into him. He would come any moment. He needed it now.

“Quick,” Joe sobbed.

Alex pushed in. “Oh, Joe,” he groaned. “Oh, Christ!”

Alex rocked his hips, settling himself, sending shivers of ecstatic tension throughout Joe’s body. He writhed, helping Alex find a rhythm that got swiftly faster and harder. Joe’s hips were jerking, breath gasping. He grabbed his cock with a sweaty hand and convulsed, painting his scarred chest with ropes of come. Alex bent over him with a wordless shout, eyes closed tight, jolting into him. Joe was spiralling around in that place where there was nothing but sensation. It was a black-red place, like the colour you see behind closed eyes. It was the void before life, the place you go when you die. It was the space in between panels, where nothing happens and everything does. It was pure, and he was there with Alex.

They stilled, both gasping for breath. Alex opened his eyes and shook his head like a dog to get the sweat and hair out of them. Joe gazed up at him. In these moments, Alex was truly his. The sophisticated, award-winning photographer was gone; Alex was a man and nothing more, and yet at the same time, he was more himself than ever. Joe was looking into Alex’s soul and Alex was looking into his. The taboos that made Joe blush were nothing. The memories that haunted Alex were forgotten. They were naked before each other. Two people in love. That was all that mattered. It was all that would ever matter.

Alex lowered himself to kiss Joe’s mouth, making a little surprised sound that Joe had never heard from him before.

“What?” Joe said.

“What do you mean ‘what’? That. It was mind-blowing.”

He withdrew, and groped on the floor for something to mop up with, coming up with the cream shirt Joe had worn that day. Joe made a noise of protest.

“What? It’ll wash. Here.” Alex finished with it and tossed it to him, then flopped down next to him on the bed. Joe wiped the come off his chest, and from between his legs. He was dripping with sweat. Alex was shining with it.

“Want a shower?” Joe said.

“No. Can’t stand up.”

Joe looked at him.

“You’ve fucked my brains out,” Alex explained. “I’m putting you in charge more often.”

Joe smiled, an unfamiliar feeling of victory coursing through him. He lay back too, closing his eyes. If Alex couldn’t be bothered to have a shower, neither could he.

A breeze was coming in through the open window, carrying with it the scent of grass and pine and a base note of cooling tar from the road. Joe lay, limp and naked, letting the breeze play over him, over the scars and the raw-looking, shiny red areas where he’d lost too much skin for it to ever look normal again, and over the numb patch on his hip that was the graft. He’d learned not to hide from Alex, because Alex didn’t want him to, but usually Joe covered up after sex – with a t-shirt or the covers – as soon as he could without it being too obvious.

Tonight, it didn’t seem important. His bones were molten honey. The breeze washed over him, warm and gentle, intimate and gloriously impartial. Alex touched him like that. Alex had hands like a summer breeze. He had hands like a summer night. Joe’s thoughts were scattering into sleep.

Fingertips touched his cheek, bringing him back from the brink.

Alex said, “Joe?”

Joe opened his eyes. Alex was leaning over him. There was a strange look in his eyes, so tender he might almost be going to cry.

“What is it?” Joe mumbled, dragging himself back into wakefulness. “You okay?”

“You’re falling asleep on top of the covers,” Alex said. “Get under. You’ll get cold in the night.”

Joe groaned, but Alex was right. Joe did as he was told. Alex brought the covers up over them, smiling down at him.

“You love me,” Alex said, gentle triumph in his voice.

“You love me,” Joe said. He didn’t blush. He was too sleepy, too relaxed. He could say anything to Alex and it would be all right.

“Yes, I do. Good night, sweetheart.”

Joe wanted to gaze at him forever, but his eyes were closing again. Sometimes it was like this after sex—all the tensions of life had been exorcised by Alex’s touch. Alex switched off the bedside light. Joe turned over, getting comfortable. Alex was behind him, solid and safe, breath even, one hand on Joe’s hip. Joe couldn’t feel Alex’s fingers, because they were on the grafted skin, which was numb to the touch. But he could feel the weight of Alex’s hand. He could feel it deep down, inside, where it really mattered.

Joe fell asleep to a kiss on the back of his neck.

About the author

Lee Welch wrote her first book—a pastiche of The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe—aged seven. She lives in Wellington, New Zealand, with her family. By day she works as an editor and business communications adviser, mainly persuading people not to say ‘utilize’ when they mean ‘use’. Her favourite authors include Ursula Le Guin and KJ Charles.

Website: https://leewelchwriter.com/

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This edition © Lee Welch, 2021