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Erol sniffles toward his knees,desperately trying to convince himself to just stand up and leave. Locking yourself in the toilet for a cry feels every bit as undignified as it did when he was doing it at fourteen, and with nearly forty years of life experience since then, he finds himself wondering if he shouldn’t have matured at least a little bit.
A clear droplet drips from his nose, splatting onto the toilet lid, and he cringes. It’s just unsightly. He’s unsightly. Too tall, long limbed, curling up as small as he can in a lover’s embrace yet never feeling entirely held, wholly encompassed. Maybe if he was born six inches shorter, and met people six months earlier, things wouldn’t be as they are now.
But they are, and there’s not much he can do about that except cry, alone, in a foreign bathroom.
It’s pristine- Lots of stark white tiles and smart black grout. There’s a huge mirror, a modern sink, and a cup holding two toothbrushes. Two bottles of cologne. Two hairbrushes, one thick bristled and one fine. Erol’s toiletry bag sits stark and green, like a looming island on the marble. His toothbrush, cologne, and hairbrush don’t even know what they’re missing in there.
Letting out a shuddering breath, the pristine space echoes his misery back to him. If he was at home, in London, his leaky tap would at least keep him company. He’d given up on home renovation since the last electrical accident, and the wonkiness of his home seemed to match perfectly with the rest of his life. What did they call it ? Pareidolia ? But it was more than that, in this case. His home was him, and he was his home, and moving into other people’s spaces wasn’t something he should be doing.
He wishes he was back in London. With raindrops drumming against his windows like a desperate lover who believes in second chances, the quiet hum of his synthesizers being the warm embrace that would soothe all pain. In one room then another, a little symphony forever harmonizing with the neverending ringing in his ear.
Here though, everything is generous, expensive almost. One busies himself with the inescapable routine, a fridge and even another filled with so much, bottles of something and tubs of whatever, vegetables you barely see in stores. Erol’s stomach feels full at the mere thought, feeling as if cooking imposed itself on him as a competition, important and life-threatening.
Another tear, and another thought, for the freshly washed mat under his feet, a pebble paving motif cut in the fleece and he chastises himself for guessing how that conversation went. A decades long partnership imbued in every nook and cranny of this house way too big for two.
Perfect for three, Erol thinks. But it’s not for me.
Xavier cooks, and Gaspard keeps the home looking nice. And then they get to play with dolls in the Barbie house. Come on Erol, eat this, Erol, I’ll dress you up, walk you everywhere, cuddle with you and make you sit on the couch to watch TV when I’m done playing with you.
Xavier and Gaspard, Gaspard and Xavier. They’re growing up fast, the youngsters. And they'll get bored soon enough. So why did he ever entertain, even once, the thought that they’d ever be mentioned in some shape of form in his obituary ? Inked serif on recycled paper, a testimony of their own history. What history ?
One of missed moments and fleeting encounters, for sure. Two zigzagging routes meant to cross once in a while, never for long. Just enough for a few words, a poignant revelation, some quick fun. Maybe that tantalizing promise was part of it after all. Meant to tease and frustrate him, both having a go at it just to further the humiliation, over the years. As if that’s where he thrived, a small marble plaque at its altar, desires never meant to be fulfilled.
It’s his fault after all, putting his nose in business that will never be his. Asking him to hold his cumbersome body.
If he was six inches shorter, and six sizes smaller…
His breath shudders, chokes, rasps against the inside of his throat. He’s grateful, at least, for their equally generous soundproofing.
He supposes that’s why he doesn’t hear Gaspard approach either.
Three light chaps on the door, and Erol could shit himself. It’s no axe wielding intrusion, no threat of violence, but he jumps all the same.
With your big body, he wouldn’t dare.
Instead, a pregnant pause follows the knocking. It looms, more like a threat than an absence, and Erol finds himself snatching toilet paper from the roll to stem the leak that’s sprouted under his eyes.
“...”
“Are you okay in there, Erol ?”
“...”
“... I’m worried.”
Erol scoffs into the wad of paper he’s holding to his face. Worried ? About what ?
“... About what ?”
Gaspard seems to relax, finally hearing a response from the other room. There’s a thunk, and in his mind’s eye, Erol can see Gaspard resting his head against the wood of the bathroom door, sagging in relief.
“About you.”
Another scoff. Erol isn’t a petty man, but he’s hurt.
“... Could you come out, please ? I want to talk to you.”
“I’m fine, Gaspard.”
“... It doesn’t sound like it.”
Gritting his teeth in frustration, eyes burning, Erol wants to tell him to go. To leave him alone, for five minutes, please. But he can’t do that. He couldn’t bear it.
He loves him, after all.
Something sweet and vulnerable, that feeling. It was born somewhere between his thumb and the underside of his bottom lip, sliding along the curve of his chin. The kindest stare and words a breeze against his ear, a trickle of water from a bottle in his hand to his thirsty mouth. He felt like a young, delicate flower, his overreliance on Gaspard having been nothing but elating.
He loves him really, like a student looking up to his teacher and his patience, or a cat having made his spot on the warm belly of its owner. He loves him like a young boy whose father kneels down to dry his tears, even when it’s frowned upon.
Even when he’s the one who’s made mistakes.
And Gaspard kneeled and Gaspard listened to his struggles and regrets, with wisdom, compassion and guidance. He had let him crawl over him, curl in in lap and allowed him to grow as he was meant to. Small, sensitive, delicate, pretty at times even. A hand shielding him from torrents of rain, making sure he was safe, making sure he wouldn’t grow too fast, spiral out of control. Not being able to see his roots anymore, petals falling from way above to create a patchwork of exertion and despair, a carpet of regret.
He wishes Gaspard would hold him in the instant. Almost a visceral cry, like the confusion of a small child whose only reference and safe place is the arms of the father. When the world is cruel, incomprehensible or too much to handle. Hands clutching at his shirt, wet with tears, while sure arms hold him together.
And the arms sometimes soothe a little boy the same, when his reason to be upset is daddy himself.
It makes it even worse, the fact that he still craves it, even now.
He wishes he could be stronger.
“... Come in.”
The door opens immediately, but with very little force. It doesn’t bang off the wall, the hinges barely even make a sound. If Erol hadn’t looked up, he would have never known it had happened.
But the door and its sound, or lack thereof, was entirely secondary.
Especially with Gaspard standing quietly, still behind the doorframe, looking on like he was observing a scared cat.
It’s only temporary- Once they make eye contact, Gaspard moves into action, walking into the bathroom in slippered feet.
Erol can’t bear to look at him. He can’t take Gaspard’s searching stare, his soft, sad eyes. His pity. Erol is the elder here- At their age it’s negligible, but it still feels pathetic to be desperate for comfort from a man half a decade younger than himself.
“My boy…”
Erol can’t take it then.
He crumbles.
Curling over into himself, the sobs come freely then. It hurts so badly, and the shame of his reaction twists the knife.
A hand on his shoulder offers sweet relief, and an arm around his gnarled body, holding him tight, rubs a soothing balm over his wounds. Lips find their place in his hair, kissing gently, mumbling even more so.
“Oh, my sweet boy…”
Erol knows he should’ve never put himself in such a situation.
“It’s all my fault, I’m sorry.”
Gaspard’s whispered words waft against Erol’s forehead, unexpected and painful. He steps back and cranes his head down to observe the confusion in his eyes, hazelnut irises with tears escaping down to part against his stubble, scratchy and uneven.
Erol looks like a young man after his first breakup, overcome with emotion and no real outlet for it, strands of hair sticking up from a haircut most have abandoned two decades ago. The image is striking in Gaspard’s mind and almost takes him aback, as if the display suddenly felt too distressing. Too real.
Gaspard only wishes he could kiss away the frown, agitate a hand around and make him forget that he was ever upset. He wishes he could tell him that Xavier would never put his foot in the door, that it was never awkward or that nowhere on the way Gaspard had lost his grip on the situation.
It’s not his fault, poor, sweet Erol. His lovely, wonderful boy. It is not and never was, it could have been expected for him to start feeling the way he does.
In a way, Gaspard feels flattered. Assured in his role and the safety he managed to provide, an emotional openness well internalized to the point Erol let him in, let him see him in such a vulnerable moment. Showed him the consequences of this growing love, eating away at him in contradictory waves of deep pain and happiness, desperately trying to push back against the inevitable.
Has Gaspard never learned that you should never make your child bear the burden of your own anxieties ?
“I’m so sorry.”
Erol sobs harder, hunched shoulders shuddering in his lover’s arms. He feels so selfish, so immature, but he can’t help but revel in the closeness this disaster has afforded him.
As though they weren’t in bed together not an hour earlier.
It’s not common, but it’s often enough. Erol wishes more so, but he’s not in the position to do so. It always goes the same way. Gaspard will send him a message, a PDF of some tickets and instructions to pack lightly, before picking him up from wherever Erol has ended up with a blank-looking face but a far warmer embrace.
From there, they’ll go to the house- Gaspard and Xavier’s home - and share a weekend together. More often than not, it’s Gaspard spoiling Erol, offering him nice clothes, nice meals, and enough attention to fill the hole of loneliness that’s slowly been eating Erol from the inside out for the last five years.
The pampering is interspersed with bouts of fucking - What Gaspard and Xavier call lovemaking - and tender activities best reserved for devoted couples, rather than rarely-meeting colleagues with twenty years behind them.
How did it get this far ?
How has he fallen for a married man ?
Betraying the trust of one of his oldest friends (And the man he originally had feelings for in the first place) to instead feel an ache in his heart and butterflies in his belly whenever said friend’s husband holds him gently, and kisses him even more so.
It’s common in these situations… It must be, mustn’t it ? Sex is rarely strings unattached, even when you lay it out as such. Even when you all say it will just be fun between you, to fill the gaps where you’re both wanting him and not able to have it.
Maybe this is karma for some great cosmic misdeed he’s committed. Maybe it’s just how these arrangements are destined to work out. Either way he looks at it, it still hurts to the core.
It had started almost innocuously. Erol’s curiosity to delve into his feelings of submission and Gaspard’s equal excitement to break from the routine with his husband, discovering himself something for financial domination sprinkled with a desire to render this usually quiet and hard-working man into a tiny, tiny little thing who fits in the palm of his hand.
It came naturally to Gaspard then, to ask Erol to call him “Daddy”.
It wasn’t meant to be much more than that. A word that excites, that colors Gaspard’s cheeks and plays into the embarrassment Erol might feel using that word for a man younger than he is.
Gaspard unfortunately proved himself to be really good at what he does.
Months after months, with hands roaming with such delicacy and words carefully chosen to undo the man under him, they had both dived into something much more profound than any of them had anticipated.
Erol could finally let go. Finally, finally breathe. The first tears in Gaspard’s arms, the most unabashed solace of submission, had shaken them both to their core. Erol relieved himself of a deep rooted ache, unknown and misshapen. And Gaspard welcomed this almost ravenously.
He gradually became his Daddy. Caring, intelligent, supporting him in any way he needed. And Erol fell into it like a young boy riding a bike down Highgate Hill. He fell in love like you would bruise your knees, with the husband of the man he had confessed to merely a year ago.
Xavier.
He sees it in his mind’s eye, those blue and cloudless skies. The anachronism of his black hair floating in the wind and always, always a smirk at the corner of his mouth. The sun of July, the intoxicating man… Gaspard had been kind enough to let them frequent each other. To allow their relationship, their love, because that’s what it was. Still is.
Erol looks up to Gaspard, and sees Xavier’s expression in his eyes. Hears Gaspard’s words from earlier, like a skyscraper of red Jacks tumbling down.
“His disapproval of us would upset me. And I don’t like that I am feeling this way.”
In the current moment, Erol screws his eyes shut, as if that would do anything to stem the flow of tears dribbling down his cheeks. Of course Xavier was the number one here- Of course he was. It would be stupid to think any different. Gaspard is Xavier’s partner, husband, soulmate… If he didn’t like the shirt Gaspard was wearing, Gaspard would strip in the street. Erol has no doubt about that.
Back when this first started, it had hurt knowing that he would always be Xavier’s second place lover- A step down from Gaspard, a subordinate to him. But now, two years on, he’s feeling the same way, but the roles have been reversed. Has he learned anything at all ? He struggles to recall what he did back then, to soothe the ache. Maybe he had just tuned it out, and it’s only now, reminded of his inadequacy, that the pain comes again into sharp focus.
Had Gaspard felt like this, when Xavier had first floated the idea of opening their relationship up, just a crack in the fence for one additional playmate ? Had Gaspard’s stomach rolled, his heart raced, unable to sleep at night with the fear of knowing that he just isn’t enough for the man he loves more than anything, more than anyone ? Or was he as cool and collected as ever - As he ever appears - assured of his standing in Xavier’s life, and knowing that no amount of reminiscing about dark corners of clubs and greying stubble scraping against inner thighs could change that.
The third time they had slept together, Xavier had flopped back on his and Gaspard’s marital bed, and joked about lying back and thinking of England as he grabbed at Erol’s blocky hips. Erol had wanted to ask if that’s what he did with his husband, sometimes, but stopped himself, instead mumbling against Xavier’s throat that that isn’t a compliment. Xavier had just laughed more.
Everything just feels so confused now. Complicated. But then again, it always was.
What makes it worse is that now, Gaspard is leaning down, clucking his tongue gently. Stroking his hand through Erol’s hair. Kissing those burning tears of shame and embarrassment away. He couldn’t live without this tenderness now, he thinks, leaning into the touch despite everything screaming at him to pull away, screaming at him that he’s in danger. How could he be, when he feels so safe ?
Gaspard is warm and sure, against him. Both imposing and delicate, he’s a presence thoughtful in the ways he handles Erol’s body, wrecked with sobs and jolts. His lips feel like the kiss of a cloud, the way he shushes him kind and light.
Daddy, Erol thinks inadvertently.
Ever since they rekindled their relationship in recent years, walked the fence to bring back much more intention and tenderness, Erol has felt a weird sort of inadequacy brewing in the pit of his stomach. At the situation sure, holding a candle to a couple that didn’t need anything or anyone to thrive, but also at himself. It’s a life he had spent directionless, Erol recognizes. Bent in two, knees to the floor not in devotion exactly, but in the fear of what would happen if he stood up, tall and proud, succumbing instead to someone else’s desires. He was guided by a perceived duty to be a good boyfriend. Balanced and patient, with a bit of a sensitive soul, but not too much, as a woman would need reassurance from time to time.
He liked his ex-fiancée, independent and artistic in ways he isn’t. He was satisfied in their routine, her opinionation on everything relating to design, feminism, activism, life. Andrea Clark was a strong and sure woman, who liked to cuddle against him on his sofa as they watched Erol’s favorite soccer team lose yet another match. She taught him a lot, without expecting much.
They were supposed to get married during summer 2015, before Andrea broke it off between them.
Erol recognizes that he should’ve put the pieces together much sooner. From her criticism of his passivity to his lackluster response to her deep-rooted frustration, her polite yet repeated pleas to spend more time with him, and inversely, for him to just chill out, that she wasn’t going to disappear if she planned to come back home later than usual.
A cellphone was Erol’s most trusted tool to cope with his embarrassment over prioritizing his job and hobbies over his relationship. Though “Andrea, are you home yet?” or “Where are you baby” usually did nothing but drive her up the wall.
He still remembers the aggressiveness with which she scrolled their conversation on her phone in front of his face, drops of blue scattered in a sea of grey. She made it pretty clear then, that Erol was still just one of those guys.
He wonders if things could’ve ended differently, if he had been the one to cuddle against her on the sofa. If she came along more to his gigs, and knew how to operate around a professional synthesizer. If she was firmer to begin with, laying down her rules and forcing Erol to respect them, a velvet hand inside a fist of iron. If she loved him with more confidence, if she was the one to ask him if he was home soon, if he needed anything. If she was more open to unconventional practices in the bedroom, if her smile was more tender. If she shaved less, if she liked cheese, if she knew that he needed to be tended to…
With a last few tears rolling down, Erol realizes that it couldn’t have been any other way.
He wouldn’t have it any other way.
There’s a mild hum, coming from outside his head, now. Lower than his reedy sobs, even in tone. If he focuses on it, he can make out the words.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, E.”
Gaspard mumbles into his hair, punctuating his apologies with chaste presses of his lips into Erol’s hair.
“We’ll figure it out.”
All Erol can do is trust him.
-
After ample reassurances, and kisses to the side of Erol’s head, Gaspard is able to get him to stand, a strong arm anchored around Erol’s waist.
They’re hardly a pace out the bathroom, Erol’s leg weak from sitting on the lid of the toilet for an hour, when the door goes downstairs. The taller man’s knees just about give out, as though the weight of a whole other man had just landed squarely on his back.
The noise that comes out his mouth makes Gaspard’s head whip around.
“Shit.” Erol wheezes, stomach clenching “Shit.”
“It’s okay, E. Come on. Let’s go to the sofa.”
Erol’s legs feel shaky. Why are they shaky ? There’s nothing to be afraid of here. It’s just Gaspard. It’s just Xavier.
…
Isn’t that just the problem ?
People always mention how having any sort of discussion with Gaspard and Xavier, GaspardAndXavier, feels less like talking to two guys and more like having a talk with your parents. And Gaspard may be his daddy, but-
Erol laughs, despite himself. Gaspard looks at him, a bit startled, and even more worried.
“Let’s… Let’s get you sat down, E.”
Erol can only nod, head bobbing as though moved by a marionette’s string. Yeah, sitting down. That’s a good idea.
Just as Gaspard deposits his dizzy boyfriend onto the sofa, footsteps make their way up the stairs. Though shoes are always taken off at the front door, the sound of Xavier’s feet on the parquet are as loud as if he were wearing his heeled boots.
With every footstep, Erol feels as though fate is closing in on him. That everything is about to be over, in as much time as it will take for them to have a conversation.
He can’t do this.
But he doesn’t have any other choice.
Xavier is here, radiant like the summer sun. His usual sunglasses were traded for a much more modest pair of rectangular clear eyeglasses, a pair Erol knows he only wears in the comfort of his house and neighborhood- He’s home, taking the space like he owns it, and his stare lands on Gaspard way before it falls on him.
“Salut Gaston.”
His tone is sweet, playful, almost childish. Erol struggles to even look in his direction, overcome with stress about what’s to come.
“Houlà, t’as une mine d’enterrement mon pauvre.”
Xavier turns to him, concerned.
“Et lui aussi là, il se passe quoi ?”
Gaspard shifts on his feet, embarrassed too by this situation. He wishes he didn’t have to deal with this, Erol’s mind provides. Look at where your greediness has led you.
He looks at his laced hands in his lap, fingers turning white from how tightly he’s gripping them. He feels horrible. He wishes he didn’t know about anything. About these people, this city, about music and even about himself.
He feels like he’s going to puke.
He never wanted to be a bother to anyone.
“Bah, on a un truc à te dire, c’est assez sérieux.”
Erol looks up and sees Xavier staring right back at him. He seems confused, his face pushing itself into a scowl and his hands gripped tightly onto his hips. Xavier’s stare is intense, trying to decipher with eyes alone the matter of their upcoming conversation. And Gaspard, ever subservient, simply bows his head as he gestures to the sofa. It’s almost sickening, how straightforward their roles are in the relationship. Erol feels even more nauseous, wondering where he ever fit in such a tightly screwed dynamic.
It’s the end for you, baby.
It feels even more imminent when Xavier sits right between them. Of course he does. He’s comfortable here. It’s his house.
Erol is a guest.
It still hurts to remember that- The breath Erol draws in sounds more like a pained gasp, a quick inhale to soothe the pain in his gut, the one that squeezes ever harder as Xavier drapes his arm over the back of the sofa, his thin hand rubbing over Gaspard’s shoulders.
He has what you never will.
Caught up in his own agony, Erol misses the concerned look from Xavier, a response to his tight breaths. He misses how Xavier’s right thigh presses insistently against Erol’s left. He misses how Xavier’s hand hovers, unsure, over Erol’s own broad shoulders.
“Are you alright, E ?”
Xavier’s voice is laced with concern, but Erol struggles to pick up on it. He’s been implanted so firmly in his own head, unable to break free and see the situation for what it truly is.
“You don’t look very well…”
Gaspard clears his throat then, putting a hand on his husband’s knee. It’s easy for them.The movement is like breathing.
“Xavier…”
“Mh ?”
“Erol is… We have something to tell you.”
“Ah ?”
Erol can’t look. He ducks his head, breathing harder still. The meal Gaspard had fed him earlier- Bok choy and egg noodles- moves from his gut to the base of his esophagus. He tastes acid.
He can feel Xavier’s gaze turn from his husband to him, too. Burning holes through the curtain of hair separating them. Why did he have to be such a coward ?
“I don’t know if… He wants to tell you himself…”
Gaspard sounds as hesitant as Xavier does. Another set of eyes train onto him, through his hair. It felt like this at the start, too. Two men just… Looking at him. Deciding how to have him. It feels less hungry now, though. More scientific. Dissecting him down to the truth that roiled just behind his tongue.
“...”
“Really, Erol, are you alright ?”
Finally, he manages to get out one word. One syllable.
“No.”
And then, as if the sun propelled a ray of light right into his left eye, or if the world disintegrated under his feet, assured to end up in a seriously concerning state no matter what, Erol continues. Through gritted teeth, through his eyes welling up once again with tears and his nails digging into his palms, he continues.
“I never wanted to bring you any sort of trouble. I love you like I rarely have, Xavier, and the guilt is eating me inside.”
Erol breathes.
“I’m a fifty year old fuck up who didn’t manage to find himself a life outside of his job until now. And now I’ve found something that works and it’s like I want to destroy it on purpose. This second chance at- proving myself, at making things right too. With you, with Gaspard. Complete the puzzle after decades of-”
Erol remembers the first boy he’s ever liked. Pinkies touching in a parking lot at night. He was sixteen, for God’s sake.
“…Missing pieces.”
Xavier stares, unmoving.
“I’ve fallen in love with your husband and I didn’t tell you before. I breached our arrangement, I have wished and I still do- that I could be more in his life, just like I am in yours. Even- even if I know, now…”
Gaspard’s face contorts in an expression of sadness. Regret ?
“That it would be impossible.”
Erol ducks his head down in shame, rubbing his hands together in a futile attempt to dissipate the anxiety and nausea gnawing at his insides. His breath is almost ragged, irregular, and he thinks that this is going to be his life from now on. Existence only constant in its instability, with two clear paths ahead. Numbness and resignation, or a disgusting life of obsession that will grow cancerously, never able to let go of even the most painful of memories. And worse, that it’d probably be both, joined together like a Moebius strip. Inescapable.
He is flawed, at his very core, and music is only a bandaid stretched across the gaping wound found there, where acceptance should be.
Sometimes, at the very back of his mind, he wished his parents caught him sneaking out the house late at night. That they punished him so severely the thought would’ve never crossed his mind again, holing himself up in Giesbach until he became a disillusioned illustrator, or something…
His stomach twists at the thought.
Erol realizes he would rather choose punishment over disinterest, at that stage. Something to remind him he is even alive.
It comes as a surprise, then, when he finally feels the pressure of Xavier’s hovering hand touch down on his cramped shoulders.
And not just in a caress- The fingers splay out, mapping as much area as possible, before coming together in a firm squeeze. It’s not gentle, but rather grounding. Calling Erol out of his thought, and back into his body in an instant.
“... I understand. How could you not ?”
Xavier rubs his shoulder, before squeezing again.
“He’s so easy to love.”
Xavier chuckles at that, and Erol’s gut twists again. This isn’t a joke. This is serious.
“This- This isn’t funny, Xavier.”
“Ah ? I never said it was.”
The hand stills its steady circuit on Erol’s shoulder.
“This isn’t- This isn’t something we can shrug off. I’m sorry.”
The tears come now, the flush of shame not a second behind. Erol doesn’t need to see himself to know he looks a state.
“I just- I love Gaspard. Wholly. Just as I love you.”
His words are choked by the snot leaking down his throat. He feels like he did in the bathroom, like he did at fourteen.
“And I know- I know it’s not what we agreed. And how I can’t just- It’s too much to ask. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
“I want to leave now, before I grow any more attached. B-before I can’t extract myself properly.”
“I’ve had s-such a good time with the both of you, and I don’t want this to eh-end but I understand.”
The pressure of the hand on his shoulder lifts. That was it. The last tender touch between him and Xavier. Between him and Gaspard. It’s gone. It’s done. He asked for too much.
Shaking, Erol looks towards his knees again and sobs, pursing his lips as to not be too loud. He’s been stripped to the bone in front of two of the men he loves- Two of the only men he loves- and now he has to sit in his mess and think about what he’s done. Like a dog. Like a bad, bad dog.
He doesn’t expect the hand that just left to return, but this time cupping his jaw. The touch is even gentler than before, tilting Erol’s downcast head back up towards the ceiling, towards his two lovers. The sun and the moon in his sky.
“Oh, Erol. This is natural.”
A thumb comes up, so softly, wiping a tear off of Erol’s jaw. His cheeks are burning hot to the touch, as though feverish.
“We don’t want this to end either.”
Xavier turns, bringing his hand off his husband to cradle Erol’s face. His head feels heavy, a headache brewing at the crown of his skull, the tension of keeping in all the tears and feeling of today having pushed his body too far.
“I know Gaspard doesn’t. And I certainly don’t want it to either.”
“Trust me.”
Xavier looks up, past Erol and his hunched back, his teary face and messy hair, to look into the eyes of his husband. He smiles.
“And you ? Anything to say at all ?”
Gaspard’s stare widens, a deer caught in headlights. He tries to put words together, seemingly affected like in an echo chamber by Erol’s vulnerable display. His phrase trips, syllables stuttered and ultimately abandoned, taking a few moments to compose himself. To start again with more assurance, to be the person Erol and even Xavier would expect him to, in the situation.
“It’s my fault, Xavier.”
The words finally hit Erol. Like an anvil on the head.
“I… I have developed feelings for him too. I should have told you earlier… I’m sorry.”
Xavier’s laugh bounces through the room, bright and joyous and so, so unexpected.
“See, this is why I’m the chief of the house, Gaston. You both get so stressed out you lose sight of yourselves.
His expression contorts into one of profound fondness.
“I knew, Gaspi.”
Erol feels two broad thumbs stroking his cheeks. He feels warm. He feels Xavier’s stare on him, and the love in his touches. He hears his words.
“I knew.”
“And I want it too. I love you, Erol.”
It’s striking, the depth of Xavier’s stare, the all encompassing, gentle warmth of his features. Of his being. A bright day of summer, under blue skies and equally white clouds, simultaneously a memory and a promise of tomorrow. Xavier grabs at him, hands sliding from his cheeks to his shoulders, pulling him increasingly closer. Closer like a friend you want to comfort. Like a child you want to keep safe.
Like the person you love. Until all is left between you is the rustle of fabric, and the moisture of his lips against your forehead.
He still loves you.
The breath he draws is ragged, and yet again, tears run anew down ruddy cheeks. It feels as though all he’s done today is cry; however, this time his sobs feel more like desperate relief, than a sense of impending doom.
Xavier holds him through it, lips murmuring into his hot forehead. Maybe he could parse the words if he concentrated. ‘It’s alright’, ‘You’re okay’, and ‘I love you’ mumbled into the furrowed skin there. Little seeds of care, harmless almond-vanilla, to sprout in the spring, and to be tended to for the next few years until any fruit is borne… And then for the next hundred years after that.
It’s no casual undertaking, to love someone wholly.
But I’m lucky Erol thinks, as a warm, broad hand reaches across to rub at his knee. These two are devoted gardeners.
Erol snorts despite himself, thinking of Xavier in a large sunhat while Gaspard talks to a tomato plant, unattractively snottering down himself. Xavier tuts, reaching in his jacket pocket (He’s still got that on ?) for a packet of tissues, leaning back to dab at Erol’s messy face. Xavier clucks over him so often, just as intense as Gaspard at times. He can’t believe he thought this would end any other way.
“Gaspard, look at your boy. I think it’s been a bit too much excitement for today.”
“Mh…”
He can feel Gaspard move to look at Erol’s face, as blank as ever. He remembers when they first met, how Gaspard’s unchanging features had made him nervous that he was upsetting the guy. How Xavier hadn’t understood what he meant at all. To Xavier, Gaspard was a live wire, and a real talkative one at that.
Now, peeking up at Gaspard’s face, he can see the slight downturn of his eyebrows, the soft set of his mouth under the beard. To anyone else, he would be indifferent. To Erol- And Xavier- he’s nurturing.
“I think so. Let Daddy run a bath for you, Erol. You need somewhere to relax.”
Erol stays silent for a second, wave after wave of relief washing over him. A real outpouring of all his anxieties, emptied of all but the softness of Xavier’s embrace, the tenderness of Gaspard’s stare. Their love, their care, the soft warmth in the center of his chest, the subsequent sleepiness of having told the truth, for once.
Erol thinks back to his parents, of how they keep inside their souls this undying piece of love for him, despite their disagreements and rough patches. He reminisces about Andrea, sweet woman despite it all. She didn’t just give up at the prospect of effort. Xavier didn’t retract his trust despite his faults, his many slip-ups. Gaspard chose to believe in him, even during his worst moments. His piling insecurities at his age, his incurable shyness. His inherent assumption that it would all go down in flames, twenty-something years of friendship and more in a grandiose and dangerous fire.
Erol thinks of his relentless self-advocation. Stubbornness in a myriad of tapes given to friends in Archway, a deep desire for independence and the actual will to push it all forward, despite convention. The challenge keeps being difficult, year after year. But what else could he do, when that is what is right ?
It is right, to persevere. To not settle, to ask for consideration. For his friends, for the people he loved and keeps loving. For music, art, compassion, intelligence, emotion.
For love itself, for himself.
Erol raises from his warm spot against Xavier, fingers sliding through his long black hair until they fall to rest against the sofa. Across him, the kind stare of his other lover, patiently awaiting reciprocation. Loving him with all his might, this powerful and intimidating individual, secure like the roots of a tree in his vision of the world.
Erol launches forward, leaning in front of Xavier to come and capture Gaspard’s face in his hands, lips so surely landing on his.
Look at me, Daddy. I’ve learned.
Xavier’s laughter fills up every corner of the space, warm and happy and touched and encouraging and relieved and-
Gaspard puts a hand over Erol’s left hand, kissing back with a sort of desperation that makes it all better again.
They love you.