Crossing Borders (39 page)

“You little shit.” Michael smiled, his eyes on Tristan's lips.

Tristan noticed the look immediately. “Don't look at me like that!”

“How come?” said Michael, although he knew perfectly well and was already tired to the point of exhaustion from the conversation alone. Looking was all he could do for a while.

“You should probably wait till they remove the catheter before you start something, don't you think?”

“Uh, yeah,” said Michael. “But you do realize that something starts the moment you walk in here, don't you?”

“Even now?”

“Oh, yeah, my heart's on fire, but my body? Not so much.” His eyes started to close again.

“Well, lie there and get well,” said Tristan. “My time's up, and I'll see you soon.”

“And you'll consider it? Us?” Michael caught his hand.

“You just get better. The future is too far away,” said Tristan hoarsely, kissing him.

On December twenty-third, Emma gave Tristan keys to Michael's truck, and he used it to bring his belongings to the house to move in. He felt a little breathless when he thought of it. He had so very little of his own that the truck had hardly been needed, but his bicycle wouldn't fit in the Beemer, and his mother insisted he take his father's favorite art books. He hoped he and Michael could make space for them, because they were all photographic studies of architecture, and he loved them very much. He thought they would interest Michael as well, but the house wasn't that big, and he didn't want to presume.

Tristan made short work out of stacking most of the boxes either in the bedroom or the office and was placing his bicycle in the garage when a low, gravelly voice spoke behind him, and he turned to see Ron standing in Emma's yard.

“Moving in?” asked Ron.

“Yes,” said Tristan neutrally.

“Look, I know you don't have a lot to say to me,” began Ron. “But we both love Michael.”

“Yes, we do,” agreed Tristan. He closed the garage and turned back.

“I just wanted to talk to you,” said Ron.

“Okay,” said Tristan. He walked to the back door, holding it open. “I have coffee going.”

“Thanks.” Ron looked over the small kitchen. “He sure did a beautiful job on this one.”

“Yes,” agreed Tristan. “It was a labor of love. He really likes this place, and it shows in the attention to detail.”

“It does. Look, I don't know what Michael told you about me…”

“He told me you used to be lovers,” said Tristan. “And that maybe the two of you had different expectations of what that meant.”

“That's diplomatic,” grunted Ron. “I like to play games. I never made a secret of it. It still makes me sick that he didn't feel like he could tell me he wanted something different.”

“I don't think he knew how.”

“Well, he's got you now, and it's good,” said Ron. “Although you're a mouthy little thing.”

“That what you wanted to talk to me about?” asked Tristan with his chin up. He wasn't going to let Ron push him around. Ron had no idea how far he'd go to protect Michael.

“Look at you.” Ron whistled. “You aren't afraid of anything are you?”

“Yes,” said Tristan honestly. “I'm afraid of losing Michael.”

“Me too, and that's what I wanted to talk to you about.” He seemed suddenly at a loss for words.

“Cream and sugar?” Tristan asked, handing him a large mug of coffee.

“No, thank you,” said Ron. “Have you given any thought to what your presence in this home might mean to Michael?”

“Well, he
asked
me to move in. I can't say I've thought beyond that,” said Tristan carefully.

“Well, he's a little naive, isn't he? He's a cop, Sparky. Surely you know that's not the most gay-friendly occupation.”

“Yes, but…”

“In the hospital, the other cops were probably thinking,
Look at that boy
. Michael's got himself a fan club. They look at you, and they know that you love him, and you're not exactly hiding it, are you?”

Tristan blushed to the roots of his hair. “I know. I didn't say anything, but I know they could tell.”

“Still, anyone can have a fan, right?” said Ron. “And it happens. A guy makes a friend, someone younger who looks up to him. Nobody holds it against him if the kid gets a crush. But the minute you move in here, Michael is
out
. And maybe that's not so good. Maybe it's not even safe, you know?”

“Safe?” asked Tristan numbly.

“Yeah,
safe
,” repeated Ron. “Michael has a dangerous job, and he needs to know that his brother officers are going to have his back. I'm not saying anything would be deliberate, although it's certainly happened in the past. I'm saying what if someone hesitates? What if someone thinks, if it's him or me, maybe it should be him?”

“You're saying if I move in here, Michael could suffer.”

“I'm asking you to think about it very carefully, for Michael's sake. It's not jealousy talking. He's like family. We tried something, and it didn't work. Someday we'll all get past it and be family again. I'm happy when he's happy, and he's happy
with you
. But he's not a doctor or a lawyer or an Indian chief.” Tristan could tell this was probably the most Ron had said for a week. “He's a cop, and maybe he needs to hide that he's gay so he can stay a safe cop.”

Tristan put his head into his hands.

“I'm sorry, Sparky. I'm not sure I'm right; I'm just asking you to think.” Ron put his hand out and stroked Tristan's hair, and Tristan had the impression that Ron had been more of a father to Michael than a lover. That it had been a bad thing for both of them to try something different.

“He is
not
going to understand,” Tristan said quietly.

“No, probably not,” said Ron. “It doesn't mean you can't still be together, though. Hiding homosexuality is a time-honored and little-respected art these days. I ought to know. I kind of liked the drawn-out tension of seeing a big guy in leathers and not knowing. When it was all about dropping hints. What a rush, wondering if you were getting pulled into an alley to be blown or beaten senseless. Now, it seems everyone has to wear signs.” He rolled his eyes.

Tristan laughed, although he was also crying, so it made a snot bubble come out of his nose. “Shit,” he said, grabbing a napkin.

“Hey,
green wood
,” said Ron. “I'm wondering if you might actually like me someday.”

“Yep,” said Tristan. “I'm wondering if I like you already, you shit.” He blew his nose, and Ron laughed.

“Maybe I deserve that.”

“Ron?” Tristan said quietly. “I don't know if I can do this.”

“What, leave? It's not forever. There are other cities. Michael could work someplace they don't know him.”

“No,” sighed Tristan. “I'm not sure I'm cut out to marry the job.”

“Shit,” said Ron, as he began to comprehend what Tristan was saying. He took a sip of his coffee. “Michael know you feel that way?”

“Oh, hell, no, what was I going to do? Tell him when he was in the hospital? Say, 'Sorry—the job that almost got you killed? I hate it.'”

To his credit, Ron remained silent.

“I lost my dad two years ago. Never mind how
I
felt about that, I watched my mom die with him. I feel like I'm up to here with grief, and I finally,
finally
find someone…”

“Sparky,” began Ron, but Tristan wasn't finished.

“I love him. Every cell in my body is screaming his name. But then it hits me, like I'm gagging on an ice cube, and I feel nothing but cold, blind terror.”

“
Oh, Sparky
,” breathed Ron. “This will kill him.”

“Shut up!” Tristan raked a hand through his hair. “You've got no right to judge me.”

“I'm not judging you—I swear I'm not.” Ron put a warm hand over Tristan's. “I get what you're saying. I know it's hard.”

“Help me move the boxes back out,” Tristan said. “I'm not saying I'm not moving in, I'm just…I'm going to wait until I can think of something besides how close Michael came to being…not alive.”

“
Pussy
. Can't even say it, can you?”

“Can't even think it,” said Tristan, getting up.

“That makes two of us,” Ron murmured as he followed Tristan to the office and started helping him load boxes.

By the time they had all the boxes in the truck, Tristan realized all he had to say to Michael was that he didn't feel he could leave his mom right then and get his mom to understand and back him up. Ron left him with a coffee in a Styrofoam cup and a sad smile.

Tristan sat quietly in the suddenly too-silent house. He had decorated every inch of it for Christmas, inside and out, making a special effort to keep in mind Michael's love of the house and using mostly natural elements, clove-studded citrus fruits and fresh greenery. He'd kept the colors muted, earthy, and real. He'd done the tree with Emma and his family, putting up Michael's own German bubble lights and Christmas ornaments, purchasing a few of his own, and hanging elegant black velvet Christmas stockings on the mantle.
Our first Christmas together
. Emma had reassured him that Michael would be thrilled that he'd taken the time, even if he wasn't home by Christmas.

In the week after finals, Tristan had alternated his time between the hospital, decorating the house for the holidays, and baking enough tea loaves and cookies to fill not only Michael's freezer, but Emma's and his own family's as well. As the boredom became crushing, the only thought that saved him was that he was going to share his first holiday with Michael.