Page 63 of Gideon
I nod and sigh. “It’s like you. Warm and open and the dew’s still fresh. You’re so young, Eli.”
He shakes his head. “Not that young. You make me sound like Macaulay Culkin in his heyday. Don’t use my age against me as well.”
“As well as what?”
“As well as everything else that stands in our way.” He stands up, carefully holding the flower. “Come on,” he says cheerfully, holding his hand out to me with all traces of seriousness suddenly gone.
I reel at the abrupt change of subject and mood. “Where?”
“Inside.” He shudders. “It’s fucking freezing out here, and my hair doesn’t react well when it gets wet.”
“I remember,” I say tartly. “You had more curls than Leo Sayer when we went swimming on the ship.”
His laughter follows me into the house as does the swat he gives me on my backside.
Inside, he bounds upstairs while I pull on a T-shirt and gather the late breakfast together. He appears next to me a few minutes later as I pour boiling water into the cafetière. He’s barefoot and has flung on jean shorts and a stripy T-shirt, his other shorts sacrificed to clean up jizz. His hair is a wavy mess, and he glows with something that looks very much like contentment. I hope it is because that’s my predominant emotion too.
“The croissants are cold,” I tell him abruptly, unable to articulate what I’m feeling at the moment and hating it. He’s given me so much, the least he deserves are my words, but for the first time in my life they’ve deserted me, leaving me an incoherent mess.
“Doesn’t matter,” he says happily, recalling me to the food. “Let’s have some cheese, and I noticed some deli bits. Let’s have a picnic in the lounge.”
I shake my head. “How old are you?”
“You’re only as old as the man you feel,” he whispers, goosing my arse and making me jump.
“Ancient then?”
“Oh yes,” he says smugly. “Probably older than Simon Cowell.”
I try to be indignant but can’t summon it up. “Help me with the stuff,” I say instead and, grinning, he complies.
We throw the blanket down and while I arrange the food, I nod at the old record player. “Put something on. There’s quite an eclectic choice as long as you don’t want anything made after the fifties. Although I think there’s some Bowie in there and other bits.”
He rummages through the old crate, exclaiming in pleasure as he pulls out records and stares at their sleeves. “I hate CDs and downloads,” he says. “I love vinyl.”
“You’re not old enough for vinyl,” I scoff, and he shakes his head.
“Not the first time round, no, but who is?” He laughs. “Oh, that would be you.” I raise my middle finger at him, and he laughs before exclaiming and pulling out an album. “Ilovethis one. Used to listen to it in my bedroom at home while I was wallowing in teenage angst.”
I peer at the record in his hands and try to dismiss the fact that I was probably having threesomes when this album came out. “‘Abattoir Blues.’ That’s got to be Silas’s. He went through a Nick Cave period a few years ago, and he’s always loved vinyl.”
“It’s that crackle,” he muses, taking the record out carefully and placing it on the deck. He lowers the needle carefully, and we both smile at the crackle as “Babe, You Turn Me On” begins to play. “Appropriate,” he muses, and I smile almost shyly at him before shaking it off.
“Come and eat,” I command, and he wriggles around to sit next to me cross-legged. We eat, and drink a bottle of red I found in the wine rack. Its dry, earthy taste complements the food, and I sip it slowly, watching him as he talks with his hands flying around like normal, his deep voice with that wonderful Welsh accent making even the mundane words sound like poetry. He’s tactile too, constantly touching my leg and arm and smiling at me as if this is the best time he’s ever had. Ever since I met him, I’ve envied him this ability to stay in the moment.
“Are you okay with the Niall thing now?” I ask abruptly, and immediately want to punch myself in the throat for spoiling the moment.
For a second he looks startled but then settles back against the chair. “Yes,” he says slowly. “Not being funny, it is a bit strange, but your past is your past, Gid. I haven’t got any control over what you did and who you did, just as you don’t have any control over my past.”
“So? What’s the problem? I know there is one.”
“It’s just that you have such a tie with him. I saw that at the hospital and I overheard some of your conversation with Milo, and a year ago you seemed to be singing a very different tune.”
“A year ago I hadn’t met you,” I say softly, reaching over and brushing back his hair so I can look into his eyes that are turbulent tonight. “Niall knew me.” I shrug. “Actually, he knew the bits of me I showed him. But we’re still friends. Good friends. And I felt like I was losing my chance to be me if he stopped the thing we were doing. Totally selfish and not based on anything more than hurt pride and muddled emotions that I confused with real feelings.”
“It’s not just Niall. It’s the future too,” he says slowly. He smiles deprecatingly. “Listen to me. I’m about to ask your intentions. Jesus Christ, I’m one badly behaved rake short of a Georgette Heyer novel.”
I run my fingers through the waves of his hair. “I want a future,” I say slowly. “I nevereverthought I’d say those words, but I can’t help it with you.”
