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The Parisian light was dimming as Roger meandered his way down the street. Five o’clock was approaching fast and the air hummed low as the lull of dusk began to settle over the city. Around him the buildings whispered of both history and modernity but he paid little mind—more so glad for the sharp chill of the air and the way his breath hung as clouds in it. After the stuffy warmth of the plane, this bite was perfect for chasing away the last of his lethargy.
He hadn’t strayed far from their hotel, really—had only walked for a block. It was poor timing that he happened to wander past the nearest bus stop just as John stepped off, paper bags in hand. Their eyes met and Roger raised his hand immediately in a surprised greeting. His fingers wilted in place when John’s gaze became quickly sharp, like a dagger with murderous intent. As he approached, Roger’s eyes began to bring the rows of capital M’s across the white paper bags into focus. Had it been just the two of them, they could have used multi-millions to order expensive room service, but these plans had been thoroughly thwarted by the five-year-old who had threatened a tantrum until McDonald’s had been put on the menu.
Ah. The five-year-old. Roger’s eyes snapped up from the McDonald’s bags to lock with John’s furious ones.
“Taylor, you utter shit,” snapped John. He was shivering from cold, even in his big coat. “You didn’t leave Matthew at the hotel?”
“I—”
“God’s sake,” John huffed and a plume of cloud formed on his breath.
Roger watched it dissipate. “I was just taking a walk,” he said, defensively. When John scoffed, he added, “We’re in Paris, John!”
“You’re unbelievable.”
Roger sighed and John stood there, shivering and glaring. Finally, in hopeful atonement, he unwound his scarf—clumsily, with gloved hands—and looped it around his lover’s neck. Offering raised eyebrows and a risky half-smirk, he did see John’s expression soften, if almost imperceptibly. Then he shoved past Roger, grumbling under his breath. Roger followed without question.
The light in the hotel lobby, once they had made it back, was bright white and all Roger could focus on besides glimmering gold fixtures was John’s nose, red from the cold. Fondness swelled in his chest. Behind elevator doors he leaned in—pausing to check if John was going to bite his head off—and planted a kiss right on the pink tip. John gave him such a withering look that Roger had to bite his lip to stop himself from laughing, turning away to hide his face. (Unfortunately, the elevator was mirrored on three sides and John’s gaze followed him. Roger, talented as he was, managed to keep in all but a snort of amusement.)
“How are we feeling about champagne, then?” asked Roger once they were making their way down the hall.
John snorted. “With my double cheeseburger and chocolate milkshake?”
Roger cackled, just a little. “Why not?”
“You spoil him,” said John, referring to Matthew suddenly. He glanced at Roger. There was a perplexing mixture of fondness, as well as genuine disapproval, in his eyes. “Too soft.”
“Yeah, well, someone has to be the fun dad,” said Roger, stopping at the door to their room. He wasn’t Matthew’s father, not strictly, but his heart still glowed with warmth whenever his role in the boy’s life was put in such a way. He searched for his keycard in his coat pocket. When John had divorced Veronica, years ago now, he had never expected Matthew’s mother to allow Roger to play any sort of part. But she had, and as he opened the door and heard the sound of small running footsteps, he was so incredibly grateful.
“Dad,” crowed Matthew, when they were both in the room. Roger kicked off his shoes and John powered past, towards the dining table. “Dad, Roger left me alone.”
“He’s naughty, isn’t he?” said John, setting the paper bags on the table and turning, raising his eyebrows at Roger and then giving his son a much softer look. Matthew nodded vigorously, giggling and turning to look at Roger, as if he had had more of a hand in blowing Roger’s cover than the man himself. Roger mimed sighing melodramatically and rolling his eyes, and the young boy grinned.
John had turned back around to carefully extract their dinner from the paper bags, and Roger removed his coat before heading towards the fridge to where he knew there was a complementary bottle of champagne. John glanced up at the sound of the bottle on the marble countertop and gave Roger a look, but there was a smile twitching at his lips.
When Roger had finished pouring the twin glasses, Matthew had taken the spinning top from his Happy Meal and was trying it out, on his knees on the tiled kitchen floor. He took the champagne in both hands and poked Matthew gently with one socked foot as he passed, “Come on, dinnertime.”
The young boy was clambering onto a chair just as Roger set down John’s glass. Roger settled into the seat across from John and Matthew was quick to start munching on his chips, wriggling in place next to his father. Roger was just taking a sip of the bubbles when John leaned over to ask Matthew what he’d thought of his first ever plane flight. He smiled when the boy described the lurching sensation of the takeoff as ‘bees’ in his tummy, when he held his nose and scrunched his eyes up to mimic how they’d cleared their blocked ears.
“Not on the table,” John chided when Matthew began to spin the spinning top. The initial twist was so vigorous that the toy flung off the side and clattered onto the floor. Despite John’s reprimand, Matthew dove down to collect it.
“He’s on holiday, he can have some fun,” said Roger, licking salt off of his fingers and offering Matthew a wink when the boy resurfaced. John mouthed ‘terrible’ at him. Roger grinned, holding out his glass of champagne. Matthew grinned back and clutched his McDonald’s cup in one hand, leaning across the table to touch his drink to Roger’s.
“Cheers!” he said loudly. Roger laughed.
Apparently not all that fond of lemonade (as he discovered after a couple of sips), Matthew began clamouring for John’s milkshake instead. Roger leaned back to watch the pair of them, shoving the last of his chips into his mouth. John gave in to the pleas, carefully removing the straw and lid and handing the cup to Matthew, who took it in two hands. Roger’s heart felt heavy and warm, and (unless it was because of all the salt) it was a product of the way the word family formed, mellow and sleepy inside of him.
After all, when he had given John a go he had been all too aware of the unlikelihood of ever being a father, in any respect. Resigned himself to it, in fact, as the years went on and John seemed to become more and more like a permanent fixture in Roger’s life. He swallowed. And Matthew was not his son, and they saw him only periodically, but he held Roger’s hand when crossing the street and Roger was pretty sure that exceeded everything he had ever wanted.
“Roger!” Roger’s eyes snapped open at Matthew’s voice. The boy was mimicking the no-nonsense tone of his father when he continued, “No sleeping at the dinner table.”
A wide grin split Roger’s face. “No sleeping at the dinner table?” he leaned back and caught John’s eye briefly, reaching for his glass of champagne, “But I’m terribly tired after travelling all day. Aren’t you?”
“No,” chirped Matthew, spinning top in hand.
“I think you might be,” said John, shoving rubbish and cold, uneaten chips into one of the paper bags, “Big day, wasn’t it? Why don’t you go get into your new pyjamas?”
Matthew must have be placated by the McDonald’s, because he didn’t put up a fight as he slid off the chair and ran to his room to put on the pyjamas in question. Roger heaved himself up, gesturing towards John’s empty glass. “More?”
“I’m fine, thanks,” John replied, scrunching up the top of the bag and making for the rubbish bin. Roger hesitated for a moment at the countertop, before pouring himself another half glass for the hell of it.
Sinking into the couch with a slightly undignified grunt, Roger took sip and closed his eyes again. He sat there for a while, staring at the nothing behind his eyelids and thinking of even less. He could hear the sounds of John moving around the kitchen, rinsing his empty glass, and then the little pad-pad of footsteps on the carpet. When he felt tiny hands on his knees he opened one eye teasingly, and then shut it again with a smile.
“Roger!” said Matthew accusingly, laughing. Roger opened his eyes and leaned forward to settle his glass on the coffee table.
“Off to bed then?” he asked.
Matthew nodded, “Only because dad says.”
When Roger opened his arms Matthew clambered into them without hesitation. Roger didn’t even mind that he got slightly kneed in the gut, gently patting the boy on the back.
Soon Matthew was pulling away and clambering back off, rattling off a routine “Good-night, love-you, see-you-in-the-morning.” Roger told him goodnight as John led him away to tuck him in, smiling. Staring absently at the television set. Reaching forward for his glass once more.
Maybe it was the residual torpor from the flight, or the alcohol bleeding through him slowly, but Roger felt a rare sort of bliss as he sat. He hadn’t been lying, he was tired—quite ready to go to bed, though it was barely nearing seven o’clock. But when John returned, slipping into place beside Roger, all thoughts of making his way to the bedroom dissipated.
John stood back up to turn on the television and grab the remote, but the moment he sat down again Roger had an arm around him, planting a clumsy kiss on his jaw. All the bliss had to go somewhere, even if it disrupted John’s attempt at finding something good to watch. Predictably, it was mostly in French anyway, and John soon gave up. He leant back into Roger and let his eyes flutter closed.
“Tired?” asked Roger, and John hummed in response. He downed the last of his champagne in one swallow, leaning forward to set the glass down and then falling back heavily. His voice was low and somewhat husky, “Oh dear. A shame.”
“Family holiday, Rog,” John said, but he was smiling, and let Roger’s hand creep down to settle at his waist.
“Mhm,” said Roger, feeling the warmth in his heart flare up again. A family holiday indeed, and their first—Veronica had finally and graciously agreed. One week in Paris. “Plans for tomorrow?”
“Don’t know yet,” John’s eyes opened, “Reckon we’ll leave that for the morning, eh?”
They did so indeed, instead spending an hour paying very little attention to French television and huddling perhaps unnecessarily (it was winter, but their suite was definitely heated). When Roger suggested more wine John declined, and once he was practically drifting off Roger made the decision they would retire, brushing John’s hair off of his face until his eyes flickered open.
Their bedroom was just a tad colder than the living area had been. John was unzipping his suitcase when he threw the comment. “You’re very good with him, you know.” Roger paused in unbuttoning his trousers, and John continued, “Matthew. He really likes you.”
Roger smiled, abandoning his trousers and turned to where John had stood upright, pyjamas in hand. He took John’s jaw in hand and brought their lips together for a gentle kiss. A romantic he’d thought himself for a moment, but there was enough of a hint of confusion in John’s eyes that Roger tacked on a, “Told you. Fun dad.”
Snorting, John moved past him to pull his sweater over his head. “More like a no-good uncle, always spoiling him like you do.”
Roger froze. He was glad John had his back to him, because he was entirely unable to control the distress that must have passed over his features. God, logically, he knew John’s words were meaningless additions to the banter, but he found himself scrambling to collect his heart from where it had dropped into his stomach. John was just joking. He had the power to take the word ‘dad’ from Roger in an instant, but Roger knew that John never would.
He wouldn’t. He hadn’t.
But the uneasiness didn’t fade, even once they were slipping into bed and John was pressing a kiss to Roger’s mouth. The bedside lamp was switched off and immediately the darkness filled with uncertainty.
Roger probably didn’t see Matthew often enough to be his father, really, only for weekends at a time. And god, months would go by when they were on tour… He hadn’t been there for his first word and he had never driven him to school. What came crashing down on Roger then, as suffocating as the endless shadow of night, was not upset but embarrassment. Why on earth had he so earnestly claimed a fatherhood that wasn’t his? He shifted in place and next to him a small, half-conscious sigh passed through John’s lips.
Perhaps Roger had simply wanted this so badly that his optimist’s brain had constructed some pretty lie out of whatever materials it had on hand. When he opened his mouth to take in a deep breath, he felt the darkness coating the inside of his throat. Blinking, he turned over to look at the digital clock on the bedside table.
The small red numbers were no longer there.
Roger stared for a long while, wondering with a sleepy brain if he had turned the wrong way, but he knew John was on the other side. Had he somehow knocked the clock to the floor? But when he went to turn on the bedside lamp once more, he found it was not working either.
A loud whimper came from the room next door.
Ah, shit. Roger twisted around, listening for whether John had heard it or noticed that the power was out, but his breathing had slowed with sleep. Pausing for only a moment, Roger sat up and slipped out of bed, cursing internally at the change in temperature.
Firstly, he moved to where he knew the curtains covering the double glass balcony doors were, opening them to let just enough of the outside light in to see vague shapes. Roger’s eyesight wasn’t good enough for him to identify much more than that, but finding his glasses would be much more trouble than they were worth. Instead, he crossed the room carefully, collecting John’s sweater from where he knew it was draped across an armchair and pulling it over his head in the absence of the duvet.
Finding the door proved slightly more difficult, the light from the balcony not reaching quite that far, and Roger mostly felt the way with outstretched hands. Now he could hear soft crying, and his heart broke just a little. He cursed when he kicked the doorframe on his way out, but fortunately Matthew’s room was not far from theirs.
The young boy had had a nightlight, plugged into the power outlet near the door, but that had of course unceremoniously blinked out. This was confirmed when Roger opened the door, peering in to find the sound of sniffling and the sight of absolutely nothing. “Matthew? Matthew, it’s Roger.”
There was silence for a moment, before Matthew’s trembling voice came floating over, “It’s dark.” He let out several hiccoughing sobs and Roger hurried blindly towards the noise, praying there was nothing for him to trip over.
“Shh. I’m coming over. It’s okay, you’re okay.”
His knees hit the soft edge of the mattress and he heard the sound of Matthew wriggling upright in bed. “Hey, I’m here,” said Roger softly, sitting down on the edge. Matthew reached out and grabbed his arm, and Roger took it as a cue to shift so that he was sitting against the headboard.
“It got dark,” whimpered Matthew, still gripping Roger’s arm.
“Yeah,” said Roger, “It’s okay. There’s just been a power cut. It should be back soon.”
“Okay,” Matthew pressed his face into Roger’s arm. It was wet with snot and tears.
“It’s okay. There’s nothing in the dark to, to hurt you.”
“Can you stay?” asked Matthew, teary.
Roger’s heart stuttered. “Of course, Matthew,” he said, “I’ll stay until the power comes back, okay?”
Matthew murmured something and nodded against Roger’s arm. There was silence for a little while, besides the sounds of cars whooshing past on the street below and their steady twin breathing.
“Why aren’t you asleep by now?” Roger asked, without accusation.
Taking a deep breath, Matthew explained, “I tr—I tried to sleep, but I couldn’t.”
“Why not?” Roger pressed softly. He could feel Matthew shrugging.
“I don’t know.”
Roger nodded, before realising Matthew couldn’t see him and adding an, “All right then.”
After silence descended once more, Roger began to wonder how much longer the power was going to be out. Whether he should slip under the covers so that the pair of them could get some sleep. Would it be best to take Matthew back to he and John’s room? He didn’t find the idea of potentially waking John overly appealing. He supposed, wearily, that the day had been filled with so much excitement that Matthew was going to be hard-pressed to get to sleep after the power cut had iced the cake.
“Are you and dad going to get married?”
Roger froze. He should have been used to Matthew’s out-of-the-blue queries, but never had one been this personal. His head reeling only slightly, he managed to piece together a “No, we’re not.”
“Why?”
“Because the law says we’re not allowed to.”
“Why?”
Of course. Roger had plenty of anger, opinion, and angst bubbling up in spiels within him, but he rejected the possibility of expressing each one until he was left with empty non-truth. A copout, perhaps, but a necessary one. “I don’t know, Matt.”
Roger braced himself for another ‘why?’ but thankfully, it did not come. The silence was short-lived, however.
“Are you my dad?”
Every breath inside Roger was immediately lost. He counted the seconds that passed, hoping upon hope that Matthew would suddenly register the social necessity of not asking that question in order to retain the polite and easy discourse they were presently engaging in, in the pitch black Parisian hotel room. But Matthew was a five-year-old child and couldn’t yet grasp that some questions could not be asked outright and Roger carefully began to collect thoughts and oxygen.
“No,” he finally said, and his heart sank at the word.
Matthew did not pause, “So I don’t have to call you dad?”
Roger smiled humourlessly into the darkness. “No,” the second iteration sank his heart further, like water filling a sailboat, and so he added a shaky, “But, you can if you want to. Only if you want to.”
Then there was pause. Maybe Roger was ridiculous for trying to read it like an ordinary social interaction, but nothing could stop his toes curling with the silence. Deep down, he supposed it was somewhat comforting. The pair of them, they were on the same page. Their first big holiday as a sort-of family, and Matthew needed some clarification—it was comforting because Roger needed some clarification too.
“I’ll think about it,” said Matthew finally, breezily, and Roger smiled because he knew that the boy was imitating John again.
“All right,” Roger said, and suddenly the room lit up with a soft orange glow. The nightlight was back on, and Matthew exclaimed as much, in surprise at the sudden light.
“It’s back!”
“They must have fixed the power,” Roger agreed, smiling. He could now see Matthew, illuminated wide-eyed and small. “Do you think you can try sleep now?”
Matthew nodded vigorously, kicking his feet under the duvet. “Yep.”
“Okay. Good. Big day today, big day tomorrow,” Roger leaned over to plant a kiss on Matthew’s forehead, before sliding off of the bed to make his way over to the door.
“Goodnight, Roger,” Matthew said, and Roger looked back at him, shuffling under the sheets.
“Night,” said Roger, his voice soft with fondness and with realisation, realisation that crept up on him in his pause, watching the boy snuggle down and adjust his pillow. That Matthew would never consider anyone but John his father. That no one would probably ever call Roger ‘dad’. That Roger would love this child like he did anyways, give him all he could, be it McDonald’s for dinner or protection from the darkness of night.
He shut the door gently, and padded back into his room, where John was sleeping soundly.
…