Acknowledgments: Thanks to Gabriel for proofing and encouraging...and to Shadowgod for his work on this page. I'd never get it up on my own...
This story is for Evan, with much love and more hope.
How the Light Gets In
The birds they sang at the break of day Start again I heard them say Don't dwell on what has passed away Or what is yet to be...
Ring the bells that still can ring Forget your perfect offering There is a crack in everything That's how the light gets in. - Leonard Cohen, ANTHEM
Chapter 1
Montreal.
Late afternoon.
January 10th.
The Starbucks at the corner of Crescent and Rue St. Catherine's was crowded with students from McGill, the world-renowned English university in what has become an essentially French city. Fresh in the new semester, the café positively sparkled with the energy of the excited kids crowded around its tiny tables. Christmas and Chanukah money made fancy coffee a possible treat for a few days yet, and their excitement at being back together again was palpable.
Everyone was laughing and talking at once -- everyone except the boy in the corner.
No one recognized him. A few ventured friendly smiles, but he always looked away, and they stopped trying. Eventually, the empty chairs from his table were claimed by others, dragged to a chatty little cluster across the room.
But there was something about him, the boy in the corner. Something fragile, something almost... broken. The chattering kids never quite forgot his presence. The girls, especially, were intrigued and continued to steal little glances, captivated by the slender frame, the white, white skin, the mop of black curls falling into pale blue eyes that were too beautiful, somehow, for a boy. But if their eyes did chance to meet, he'd look quickly away, and eventually they gave up, too.
Luc Bedard was aware of the curiosity, though he was careful not show it. He felt almost marooned at the last table by the window, head bowed over his laptop, back to the wall. He knew how easy it would be to be one of them, but he had no desire to make the effort. He preferred to be alone, apart.
Tiny white ear buds filled his head with music, and he tried to lose himself in it.
Tried and failed. It was January 10th and he was already lost.
It was funny, really. His family was always so careful with him around anniversaries. They pulled close, did their best to guard him with their care, their concern.
But his family didn't know about January 10. They didn't know. If they had, they'd never have let him out alone.
They knew about the other anniversaries. Those had been public events -- shamefully, painfully public.
They knew about December 26. The day Daniel's father had walked in to find two boys, naked and nervous and giggly, tender teenage mouths venturing into places they had just, for the first time that afternoon, found the courage to explore.
They knew about January 17. The day Daniel had lashed out at him with fists and feet and screams of anguish, so wild and furious it had taken three other boys to pull him off, the day Luc had found himself covered in blood in the back of an ambulance, broken ribs, broken wrist, broken fingers.
And they knew about January 18. January 18. The day Daniel... the day Daniel...
The boy in the corner closed his eyes, balled his right hand into a fist. Three years later, he still could not say it. Not even to himself.
Anniversaries. His family knew all about those days.
But they didn't know about January 10th. They didn't know about the day his heart died. Because January 10th... January 10th had been just between the two of them. What happened later, with fists and feet, was... different. Inevitable.
Luc didn't think of himself as a McGill student, though in fact he was -- for now. His parents had arranged it. His mother taught there, French literature to students whose mother tongue, for the most part, was other than French.
He tried to be grateful -- but the truth was he didn't want to be here, living at home, taking a few classes. He wanted to return to St. G's, the small Nova Scotia university where he had spent his first semester. His return was still being negotiated. His doctors insisted he not live alone. His parents insisted he find a roommate to share the condo they owned there.
Luc didn't want a roommate. He didn't need one. He knew why they felt it necessary, what they were afraid of, but he also knew that he was past that now. After all, here it was January 10th, and his mind was still clear. If anything, he felt... stupid about the whole thing.
He lifted his hands to his laptop, turned both palm up. The slash across his right wrist was just a red line now, and had long since stopped hurting. His right hand was fine.
But his left hand...
His left hand, slashed deep through muscle and tendon, nerve and bone, would come out of its splint in another week. Then the serious rehab would start.
And that, he knew, would complicate things even further. Because if he started rehab here, in Montreal, they would be even more reluctant to let him go back east. He had to find a way to get them to agree to let him go. He had to.
And there was only one person he could think of who might agree to share the condo with him.
The person his parents expected him to ask.
The person he did not know how to face.
He dropped his left hand back onto his lap and turned on the Airport on his laptop. Logged in to the McGill network. Opened his mailbox. Studied the list of emails.
Only those from one sender really mattered to him, and there were a couple dozen of them now. All from Scott. All unopened.
He sighed heavily, scrolled back to the first one, selected it, hit the mouse pad with his thumb.
"It's not gonna work, Bran."
Matt Kozinski flung himself on the narrow bed of his kid brother's dorm room. It was unmade and lumpy, a twin to the one he just left, and he hated it.
Bran looked up from the text book he had propped open on his desk. "What's not gonna work, man?"
"This. I just can't do it."
And then Matt winced because there it was again, that look of supreme sorrow and disappointment in Brandon's eyes.
"Not school," he said hastily, and relaxed inwardly as he registered his brother's immediate relief. "I'm fine with school. I know I need to be back here and it's great."
Bran watched him steadily. "Then what?"
Matt chewed on his bottom lip. "Living here," he said finally. "This whole residence thing. I just -- Bran -- there are things you just can't go back to. The floor my room is on is all partiers, and I need to be away from that."
He was interrupted by another knock on the door, followed by a soft, deep voice. "Bran, you there?"
"Yeah, come on in."
The door opened and a very large, very well-built guy glided into the room with that powerful ease that said "jock." He had a huge hockey bag over one shoulder and two hockey sticks in his hand.
"You coming?" he asked Bran. Then he noticed Matt sitting on the bed, and stopped. "Hey," he said with a quiet grin. Then he turned back to Bran. "Sorry, man. I didn't know you were busy."
"It's ok," Matt said hastily, pulling himself to his feet. "Just my brother. We can talk later. You met Matt yet?"
"Nope, not yet." he turned to Matt and extended his hand. "I'm Scott."
Matt didn't need the introduction. He'd heard enough about Scott Ferguson, the wise-beyond-his-years freshman who had become his kid brother's best friend -- and Josh Templeton's lover.
He stood up, forced a grin, and took the big guy's proffered hand, studying him thoughtfully. He was pleasant enough looking, Matt supposed, in an ordinary kind of way. Mid brown hair, calm grey eyes, a nose that had obviously been broken a few times. Though there was, Matt admitted, nothing ordinary about the massive, athletic body. Still. It surprised him that that was what Josh had wanted.
Scott's grip was warm and strong, and his eyes friendly, and despite himself Matt felt this was someone he could... well, like. He wondered just how much Brandon had told Scott about his past.
"Good to meet you," he said. "You guys got something on?"
"Pick up hockey game," said Scott. "You got any equipment here? Bunch of us have rented the rink for a couple of hours, this time every week. You're welcome to join us."
"Yeah? Maybe next time. Right now, I'm heading over to the library to do some work. Haven't been able to get a fucking thing done in my room all week."
"Matt's pretty fed up with residence already," said Bran. "He's on a party floor."
Matt found Scott studying him thoughtfully.
"You can use my room," he said to Matt's surprise. "It's quiet. You're welcome to stay there tonight if you want. I won't be there."
"You planning to be there any night soon?" Bran asked with a snicker.
The big guy flushed, but ignored him.
"Seriously," he said to Matt. "I mean it. You're welcome to use the room." He reached in his pocket and pulled out his room key. "Parkdale House. Other side of the Arts Tower. Room 315."
Matt searched the calm, grey eyes, looking for something, he wasn't sure what. But all he saw in the quiet gaze was a genuine thoughtfulness.
"Thanks," he said finally, taking the key. "What do you want me to do with key?"
Matt cut in. "Give it to me or Laura." Laura was Matt's girlfriend and had the room next door to Scott. "We'll make sure he gets it."
Matt walked with Bran and Scott as far as the athletic complex, then headed off to Scott's room. Scott's floor was indeed a quiet one, but what he found behind Scott's door surprised him. Scott hadn't struck him as the compulsively tidy type, but the room so neat that it almost looked like no one lived there. Or like his mother had just cleaned it up for him.
It wasn't that the room was impersonal -- the walls were covered with art posters, the bed made up with a bright comforter, the desk and shelves lined with books and photographs. But second semester was already almost a week old, and the desk was bare and the bed was neatly made. There were no dirty clothes, no notes, no computer -- and Matt doubted that had been in Scott's hockey bag. No, this may have been Scott's room and filled with Scott's stuff, but somehow it lacked intimacy, immediacy.
Matt dropped his back pack on the bed and pulled out his laptop. As he set it up on the desk, he found himself studying the collection of photos there. Family pictures. Parents. A young woman who must be his sister. Two men who seemed like a couple, one so much like Scott that he had to be a close relative.
It was only when he went back to the bed to grab his mouse from his backpack that Matt noticed the photo beside the bed.
It was not a family picture.
It was a lover's picture.
Matt didn't touch it. But it was propped at an angle so that it could really only be seen when you were lying on the bed. Knowing it was somehow... wrong, he sat on the narrow bed, then carefully stretched himself out. He had to. It was, after all, a picture of Josh Templeton.
Josh Templeton more beautiful even than he remembered.
The photo was a candid one, obviously printed from a computer with less than perfect colour, and framed in one of those Ikea frames that's really just two pieces of glass held together with metal clips. Matt guessed that Scott had taken it himself. Josh was outdoors somewhere, against snow and rock and pine and a pale blue sky, wearing what looked like ski clothes. His short black hair was mussed as if he'd just pulled off a toque, and he was looking somewhere just beyond the camera.
At the photographer probably.
At Scott.
His green eyes sparkled with fun. He was laughing.
Laughing.
The Josh Matt remembered had never laughed.
Matt sighed heavily, fighting the sudden tightening at the back of his throat. As he studied the photograph the last three years seemed to vanish, and he found himself thinking of how he had known Josh. He's spent those three years trying not to think about it, but now it all came rushing back as if it were only yesterday.
It had been early March of his junior year when Josh started turning up at the campus Rainbow pub. He always sat alone at a table in the corner, a bottle of wine and a single glass in front of him. Guys would wander over, chat a bit. Every now and then, maybe once or twice an evening, Josh would get up and go off with one of them, returning alone ten or fifteen minutes later. Towards the end of the evening, he'd disappear with some guy and not return at all. It was never the same guy.
Matt tried to find out more, but no one who went with Josh ever spoke about it afterwards.
Matt had known who he was, of course. The gay community at St. G's was pretty small. But all Matt had known was what everyone knew. That he was gay. And brilliant. And beautiful. And in some kind of sick, sick relationship with a Scottish artist, a guy about forty who had, according to rumour, followed Josh to Nova Scotia three years before.
The artist's name was Graham Campbell and he didn't actually live with Josh. He rented a farmhouse just outside of town that he used as a studio and kind of camped in. And while Josh had never been seen alone at Rainbow before now, Campbell was known to fuck around a fair bit. Matt knew this because, well, in his first year at St. G's, newly out, newly free, he'd fucked around a fair bit himself.
That year, before he knew anything about Josh, he'd let the intense, wiry artist pick him up a few times. But he hadn't liked Graham Campbell. Frankly, there had been an edge to the older man that had kinda scared him. The last time, Campbell had taken him out to the farmhouse, and while nothing really sinister happened, there had been a hint of violence that had left Matt cold. He'd avoided the artist after that.
But then, rumour had it, Campbell had left town, and there was Josh alone at the Rainbow pub.
One night, after maybe two weeks of watching Josh's encounters, Matt decided to approach him. He remembered it clearly, Josh alone at the table, the half-finished bottle of wine, the single glass. Guys were going over to the table, but Josh waved them all away. Matt wasn't going to bother -- normally he went for the younger guys or let the older guys come to him -- but Josh had just looked so fucking beautiful and so fucking lost that he decided to give it a try.
He went over to the bar, got himself an empty wine glass, and wandered over to Josh's table.
"So," he said, putting the glass down and settling into the empty chair without an invitation. "You wanna share that with me?"
Josh looked up, and Matt would never forget the pain in that beautiful face. He almost got up and left right there. Fuck, he didn't do pain. He knew exactly who and what he was, for his student days, anyway: he was the party boy, handsome as hell and in it for a good time. He got hit on a lot and had learned to be selective about accepting. And when he did choose to make the first move, no one turned him down.
Yet here he was, making the first move, and this guy was just staring at him.
"Um, I'm Matt," he said finally.
Josh stared for another full minute, then nodded. "Josh," he said. "You got a roommate?"
Matt was so surprised he didn't know what to say.
Josh picked up his wine glass, drained it, and set it carefully back on the table. "It's what you had in mind, isn't it?"
Matt had felt himself flushing. "Uh, yeah, well, maybe."
"So, you want me to come back to your room?"
And so they left. Matt had tried to talk to him on the walk across campus, but it was a one-sided conversation.
It was the strangest sex Matt had ever had. Josh made it clear it was hands and mouths only, which was fine, and they'd stripped and performed dutifully. But though Josh's body was as stunning as he'd expected, there was just no... fun in it. Rather, there was an enormous... distance, a kind of sadness that made him want to take Josh in his arms and comfort him like a child.
Not that he knew anything about comfort or children.
Josh hardly spoke, and afterwards wouldn't stay. But when he was leaving, Matt had found himself suddenly reluctant to let him go.
"Come here," he said, taking Josh's wrist and pulling him towards him with a jerk.
Josh was a little taller, and Matt had had to reach up an arm to pull him down into a kiss. At the last second, Josh had turned his face away so that the kiss had touched down not on his mouth but on his check.
It was wet.
And all that night Matt had been unable to sleep. He could not forget the sorrow on Josh's face, or the taste of his tears.
Josh was in the kitchen checking on dinner when he heard the condo door open, and the sounds, still not quite routine, of another person coming home. Sometimes, when Scott's arrival was unexpected or he was lost in thought, he would hear the key in the lock and still would feel a flash of anguish, of fear. Then he'd remember it was Scott coming to him, and he'd stop, and breathe, and ride it out. More and more, he was learning to trust the joy and expectation that rose within him every time the two of them came together. He had to believe that those painful little stabs would soon fade until they disappeared entirely.
It scared him a little, just how fast and how far he had fallen. He had vowed never to trust another man. Yet here he was, smiling as he listened to Scott's approaching footsteps, his familiar tuneless humming. Josh kept his back to the door, pretending to be occupied with chicken and lemons and artichoke hearts. Really, he was waiting for the special thrill of contact.
And then -- there it was, the heat of Scott's strong body pressing against his back, at once familiar and miraculous.
"Hey you," Scott said softly, wrapping his arms around Josh's waist and pulling him tight against the hard length of his body.
"Hey yourself," Josh answered, leaning his head back, closing his eyes, breathing in the clean, warm spiciness. When he felt Scott's breath, his mouth, soft against the side of his neck, he groaned.
Scott laughed and grazed his teeth against Josh's neck. "Soon," he said, "I'm starving, and something smells amazing." He kissed Josh's neck once more, just there, then reached around him for the pot lid.
"Don't touch that," said Josh, swatting at his hand. "Jasmine rice steaming. You'll ruin it. Go set the table."
"So I finally met Matt today," said Scott when they sat down to dinner a few minutes later.
Josh watched him curiously. "And?"
"Hot guy," said Scott. "Very hot. I gave him my room key."
Josh placed his fork carefully down on his plate. "You what?"
Scott cocked an eyebrow and broke into a wicked grin. "I gave him my room key."
Josh kept his face expressionless and waited. Scott finally broke off a small piece of bread, tossed it at him and started to laugh.
"Poor guy can't get any work done," he said. "He's on a party floor. Bran and I were heading over to the rink and he was going to the library to work, so I told him he could use my room."
"Why?"
He shrugged. "I don't know, he's Bran's brother. He seems like a nice guy. And from the little that Bran's told me about him, I think he kinda needs to be away from that crowd."
Josh picked up his fork and resumed eating. "I told you he'd been a little wild."
"Yeah, well. From what Bran said, he's trying to put it behind him."
Tired and feeling a little achy, Josh decided to go to bed early and leave Scott to his studies. He had just finished brushing his teeth when a hand grabbed at his naked hip and he felt himself pulled suddenly back against a hard, fully dressed body. He felt that fast, uncontrollable rush of adrenalin, of fear, and with an audible gasp jerked away.
"Hey," came the soft, familiar voice from behind him. "It's only me."
Josh's next breath was almost a sob, and he fought down the burn of tears at the back of his throat. They were still so new, he and Scott. And he was still so haunted. Every now and then, without realizing it, Scott would do something that brought everything back so hard and fast, and he'd react like an idiot.
Something as simple as a playful hand on his naked hip...
"I'm sorry," he mumbled, as Scott pulled him close. "I'm sorry."
"It's ok," said Scott, turning him in his arms and taking him in, chest to chest. "I'm sorry I startled you." He nuzzled gently into the curve of Josh `s neck until, slowly, Josh began to relax against him, dropping his head to rest against Scott's broad shoulder.
Josh had told Scott that his last relationship -- his only other relationship -- had not been a happy one. Scott knew about some of the abuse, and had figured out, Josh was pretty sure, something of the violence. But Josh had still not been able to bring himself to talk about it much. Shame had made him hold back the details.
Now he nestled closer, breathing deep, letting the clean, warm smell of Scott's skin calm and relax him.
"I'm just tired," he said. "Feeling a little off."
Scott kissed the top of his head, and rubbed slow, strong circles into his back. "Come on. Let's go to bed. I could use an early night, too."
Josh kissed Scott's throat, and stayed still for a few moments. Then, slowly, he said "I want you to make love to me."
He felt Scott's hand beneath his jaw, and then calm grey eyes were searching his own. "You sure? Cause we can just snuggle, you know." Scott grinned his best grin. "I'm good at snuggling."
Josh closed his eyes and swallowed. That's what they always did, when he had one of these tense, flash-back moments. Scott would hold him until he relaxed, let it go.
But that wasn't what he wanted this time.
"I'm sure," he said slowly. "Just--," he looked away, suddenly nervous. "Just -- do me gently, ok?"
He felt Scott's lips, soft as a sigh, on his forehead, his eyelids, across his cheekbones.
"Gentle as whisper, lover," Scott said, landing a kiss as soft as a butterfly after each word. "Gentle as breathing. Gentle as gentle as gentle..."
Scott led him to the bedroom, pulled back the bedclothes and eased Josh gently down before stripping off his own clothes and coming down beside him. They kissed for awhile, softly, little nibbled, tentative tastes. Then Scott rose and knelt, straddling Josh's hips.
"Gentle," he whispered, leaning over with more sweet, soft, exquisite kisses. "Promise."
Scott's cock, hard, hot, pulsed against Josh's belly. He reached down for it but Scott caught his hand and drew it to his mouth, kissed the plam softly, then rested it against the side of his neck.
"Just hold me," he whispered, dropping tiny, feathery kisses against Josh's ear, down the side of his neck, across Josh's mouth. "This is about you. About me loving you. Gently."
Josh wrapped both arms around Scott's powerful neck and sighed.
"Gentle as rain, babe. Gentle as wishes. Softly, sweetly, wonderfully gentle..."
It had taken Josh by surprise that Scott was such a verbal lover. A murmurer. A whisperer. Words were part of the way he made love, as constant and erotic as his caresses. Who would have guessed the rugby boy had the soul of poet? Josh was fairly certain that Scott wasn't even aware of it, the steady stream of words he chanted softly into Josh's mouth, against Josh's skin.
He loved it when Scott whispered.
Sometimes it was not quite intelligible, just a soft erotic babble.
Sometimes it was a single word or phrase repeated over and over -- "I love you, I love you, I love you." "So beautiful, so, so beautiful."
And sometimes, sometimes, like now, it was pure poetry, a window into his heart. This, more than anything, was how Josh knew he was safe with a man so physically powerful. These sweet, heady words murmured unconsciously against his skin were a gift as profound as touch.
"Gentle as a heart beat. Gentle as your heart beat... Gentle as mine..."
Josh closed his eyes and let the whispers wash over him along with the gentlest of caresses.
And when finally, finally, Scott came into him, so sweetly, so carefully, he was open and ready and waiting.
When Scott finally came in to him, he allowed himself to be found.
A thousand miles away, Luc sat in his childhood bedroom and stared restlessly at his computer screen.
Except for a few days between Christmas and New Year's, there had been an email from Scott every single evening. Sometimes more than one. Luc had not responded, had not even opened them until today. But he had looked at them, longingly, as they sat boldfaced and ready in his in box.
This afternoon he had read them all.
This afternoon he had answered, and for the first time, the very first time, had asked for help.
And Scott had not responded.
Tonight, for the first time, there was no message from Scott at all.
The final moments of another January 10th slipped away.