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The pharmacist knows him well by now. Stopping by the pharmacy after work once a month, usually during the first week, usually on a Wednesday, has become more than a habit for Theodore – it is part of a routine.
The shrinks said it would be better if they had a routine, as close to what they used to have before it happened as possible, but perhaps more organized and structured. It is supposed to create stability and security. For both of them, although Theodore had felt an intense desire to tell the shrink that he was perfectly secure and stable, thank you. He’d finally voiced this opinion, somewhat loudly as well, and had only gotten a sad shake of the head in response.
The doorbell rings as the glass door of the pharmacy swung open. Theodore stepped in and looked around, the warmth of being indoors spreading pleasantly over him. It is colder than fresh outside and he’d walked from the subway instead of taking the bus, thinking he’d end up waiting for it longer in the wind than it would take him to walk.
He walks through the isles at the front, the ones stocked with Pepto-Bismol, Tylenol, Tums, Claritin and condoms, and hands his list to the pharmacist.
Timofei Gavrilich takes a long look at it and nods, seemingly pleased. “Two less this time I see,” he says pleasantly, turning to take the medication off the shelves and put the various medicine tubes, bottles and boxes into a small, white, plastic bag.
Theodore shoves both hands into the pockets of his jacket and shrugs. “What’s the use in it though?” He watches with a clear gaze as Timofei packs things up and rings him up.
“No change then?” The elderly man looks earnestly concerned and it makes Theodore’s expression turn just the slightest shade of contemptuous. He should be feeling something very different, perhaps gratitude that someone in this country finally cares about someone else. Instead, he feels squeamish and disdainful, wishing the man would just stay out of things that did not concern him. “You’re a good friend, sticking this out with him.”
Theodore pays, takes the bag and leaves. He doesn’t need the compliments. He’s done nothing to deserve them. It would have been far less selfish for him to hand Anton over to his family but he’d chosen to keep the boy closer, rather than farther, demanding that the doctors had stressed the need for familiarity in all aspects of life. This had not made Anton’s parents happy, especially since they were now suspicious of what truly lay between their son and his “roommate.” But Theodore couldn’t have left unless Anton had outright told him to do just that. Even then it may have taken the boy a few attempts to get rid of him. Most people called it selfless and heroic, Theodore called it some sort of sick form of separation anxiety. Maybe Tony wasn’t the only one with PTSD, or whatever it was they’d been trying to label – apologies, diagnose – him with for the past two-three months.
Theodore makes his way across the street, between the houses, by the grocery store – he’ll need to make a trip that way come the weekend – across the back lot and into the courtyard of their house complex. He crosses the large circular courtyard which houses a playground and a few scattered benches, the rain puddles from last night have almost dried, but as the autumn wears on they will only increase until it is raining every single day and the dirt turns into running mud weeks before the snow begins to fall in earnest and covers it up.
These houses contain mostly luxury apartments and the courtyard is gated. Meaning that the playground has stayed intact. There’s still sand in the sandbox, the swings aren’t broken, the slides still have their stairs and the paint on the benches is fresh and smooth instead of pealing, the metal underneath rusted to a sickly iodine color. Some kids are playing on the monkey bars. They laugh as they swing around and try to kick each other’s shins and ankles. Their laughter rises up and echoes in the well that the circle of four sixteen-story houses creates. It’s an eerie sound, like something from another lifetime although the kids are only several meters away and the sound is simply a projected echo. But it pierces something deep inside Theodore, something connected to his own childhood, perhaps, and he stops dead, reaching out to grab the first thing he can grasp for support.
He leans against the poll of a swing set and throws his head back to look at the sky. It is a broad circle at the top of the well. The sky is darkening, oranges and pinks giving way to maroons and purples. In the summers, at this time, the sun would have not set yet and it would glint gold off the top windows of the houses. Theodore looks at the house across from him and counts the windows to locate his and Anton’s apartment. Some of the windows are glowing a warm yellow, others are still dark. All three windows of their apartment that are facing in this direction are dark.
This snaps Theodore out of his stupor and he begins to walk briskly again, crossing the rest of the courtyard in a matter of seconds. He puts the key to the lock and slips into the lobby. The elevator takes a couple of minutes and he taps his foot impatiently. The plastic bag in his hand is suddenly unreasonably heavy.
The elevator is smooth as it rises, jerking slightly only a couple of times. It opens onto the landing and Theodore already has the house key poised by the time he gets off. The lock clicks and the door gives. He steps into the front hall which is dark. “Tony, it’s me!” Theodore kicks off his shoes and drops his briefcase. He looks around to make sure… Anton’s set of keys is on the hook, so he is certainly home but he does not answer. “Tony, you better not be up to anything,” Theodore mutters as he proceeds deeper into the apartment. It’s unlikely – Anton hardly gets worked up these days enough to do anything destructive, but Theodore still worries sometimes when he can’t place the boy. It’s a habit by now.
He finds Anton sat cross-legged on the floor of the sitting room. The light is off and the gloom of the room and its heavy silence are oppressing. In the dark, Anton is just an outline, a dark shape against more shadows. What dim light does fall on his face only makes more shadows rather than highlighting distinct features. He makes no move when Theodore walks in and remains as he was, staring at somewhere between the opposite wall and the floor. Theodore flicks on the top light and the room is suddenly flooded with bright yellow. Anton winces from the sudden contrast of lighting but makes no other move.
“Tony, what are you doing?” Theodore asks, already running through several possibilities of what could be going on. Anton doesn’t reply and he crosses a few things off his mental list. “Tony? Are you pissed off for some reason?” Again no reply and Theodore’s brows draw together. He drops the plastic bag he’d been clutching onto the couch and squats dows in front of Anton. The boy’s eyes are open and he is staring silently into space. “Tony!”
Anton blinks and his gaze becomes more aware. He shifts it to Theodore and blinks slowly at him.
Theodore sighs and straightens again. It could be one of those silent spells. Anton had only gone into one of those once of twice but they were disturbing each time. “I bought the meds so we’ll have a full stock again,” he supplies in as casual a voice as he can. “I’m gonna go cook some dinner, anything specific you want?”
Anton looks up and regards him with wide, innocent grey eyes. Theodore had always loved Tony’s large grey eyes and the inherent boyishness he radiated. But lately all of that charm had become more akin to somber childishness, especially in Anton’s more vulnerable moments.
Theodore waits a moment, then realizing Anton isn’t going to say anything, repeats, “I can do spaghetti or rice. Which one?”
Anton stands, slowly, painfully, with a purposeful concentration. Theodore reaches out to help him but Tony only swats his arm away and gains his feet independently, a feat that they’d only managed to achieve in the past couple or so months. It makes Theodore feel like he is torn in half. The victory makes him want to smile but the memories of Anton slowly making unsure steps like a toddler first learning to walk, across the padded floors of the physical therapy room still weigh on him. Those had been heavy, painful moments. He had felt utterly helpless and worthless, the feeling of uselessness of not being able had gnawed deep into him like a strong acid. “You can’t do everything for him, he needs to struggle through it if he’s going to learn to walk again,” the doctor had told him sternly and Theodore had listened, albeit reluctantly. It was nearly impossible to bear – Anton’s constant tears of frustration, the constant after-session pains that left him on codeine for the next day and a half, the knowledge that the only way he could get Tony to focus, to not give up, was to be borderline cruel. That had all hurt, despite the fact that he’d refused to show it. But, at least, they’d been focused, they’d been hopeful. Every extra five minutes of walking time had been a relief. Anton had even managed to smile a decent amount of the time.
That had ended over two months ago. No more sessions were scheduled, the medication’s list is slowly shortening, and Tony’s progress has slowed, then stopped. There is nothing wrong with his mechanical ability to walk. but Anton still had immense balance problems. The doctors have even suggested that part of it may be simply in his head, part of the psychic trauma, wherein there are so many mental blocks that he cannot function properly in certain physical aspects. Others say it’s just part of the brain damage. This is all on top of the migraines, the still occurring back pains and strange tinglings. Just two-three months ago, Anton had been talking about going back to school and finishing his degree. Now, half the time, all he wants to do is stay in bed, hidden under the blankets like a child hiding from imaginary monsters or their own nightmares. .
“You’re doing good,” Theodore says, looking at the younger boy with fond eyes as Anton finally stands firmly before him, looking into his face with a slight edge of agitation in his expression. “You’re doing so good, Tony.”
“I was thinking,” Anton says slowly, meeting his eyes, then looking away, then meeting them again. The agitated, uncertain gaze has become a normal thing, although it sometimes frustrates Theodore to the point where he wants to scream, Look at me! Please, just look at me like you used to!
“Right now? In the dark?” At least it’s not one of those silent spells.
“Yes. I was thinking what I would do if you didn’t come back. Tonight. And tomorrow. And ever.”
Theodore’s eyes widen and he reaches out to gently touch Anton’s elbow. “Tony, why wouldn’t I come back? Nothing is going to happen to me.”
Anton shakes his head very slowly and deliberately, almost sadly. His strawberry-blond hair falls into his eyes but he doesn’t seem to notice. “Not that something would happen, I don’t think about that, it would drive me crazy, but … You just wouldn’t come back.’
“Where would I go?” Theodore reaches out and pushes silky strands of Anton’s laid back out of his face. His forehead is warm, and he wonders if Tony has a low-grade fever.
“I don’t know. Away. Somewhere that is not here. Where you wouldn’t have to deal with me and build your life and your schedule around me and deal with…with all my shit.”
Theodore sighs and brings both hands up to his temples. He rubs circles into them to relieve the pressure that has been building in his head. “Tony, we’ve had this conversation before. I wish you wouldn’t say that. It’s insulting – after all the tine, after all we’ve been through, you still don’t trust me.” He is trying to not get mad, to not be so frustrated that he becomes selfish. He had promised to put everything aside for Tony and he is determined to do that. Sometimes, however, like now, after a long day, it is hard to see things in perspective, to stand in Anton’s place and see how frightening it has to be to know you are trying your lover’s patience and that most sane people probably would have left by now.
“I trust you more that I trust myself,” Anton says.
“Then what’s wrong?” Theodore drops his hands and gives Anton a searching look. “Why do you keep expecting me to leave?”
“Because you don’t need to do this. Because you…you had all these plans and goals and no one needs to be around someone who is always negative and I wish I wasn’t I wish—Oh God.” Anton wavers and Theodore instinctively reaches out to steady him. Anton grabs his hand and brings it up to his face, pressing it to his lips once, then twice.
Theodore sighs tiredly. He frees his hand and pulls Anton into him. The boy’s slimmer frame fits perfectly into his arms and he rocks him gently like one would with an upset child. “Tony, I wouldn’t leave. I’m here because I could not stand being anywhere else, never knowing if you are alright or now, never being close enough to protect you. I’ve told you I love you. I don’t do those sorts of things lightly. So why don’t you believe me?”
Anton clings to him, almost desperately. He’s shivering slightly and his hands tighten painfully on Theodore’s shoulders. “I…it’s not that I don’t believe you.” He sniffs and wavers on the verge of tears for several long moments, then overcomes them and runs one hand down Theodore’s back and the other into his hair, clinging onto him. “I just keep waiting until you fall out of love with me. I don’t want to push you away but I don’t always know what to do with myself.”
“That will never happen,” Theodore reassures him and holds him closer, nuzzling Tony’s neck. His nose is cold but Anton doesn’t seem to mind too much as he only holds on tighter. “I promise, that will never happen. I will always be here.”
*~*~*
It has been over a year since Bradno. A terrorist action, cried the media, reported the police, and whispered every crone and paranoid mother.
It had been the most ordinary of days. Anton had gone to the Brando Shopping Center for the big new collections exhibitions. This was one of those malls which catered specifically to the upper class. Every high-end, foreign brand was represent in one way or another. The number of boutiques was preposterous. But this was just the sort of atmosphere that Anton enjoyed. He’d gone in the later half of the morning, saying he wouldn’t be back until late in the afternoon or maybe for dinner time. Theodore had waved him off with a kiss and some snide comment about him being “such a girl.” Tony had, of course, asked him to come with but Theodore had declined. Shopping was a something he just did when he needed to, not a pleasure trip and shopping with Anton was especially painful, not just because of the high prices that Anton’s favorite stores and brands shoved in the face of every working individual on the face of the planet, but because Tony had a love for clothes and fashion that could rival that of any woman.
Theodore had spent most of the day working, thinking that since Anton was off having his girly fun, he was due for some fun that night. Maybe, if Anton bought a new scarf, they could use it for some X-rated enjoyment. Around six in the evening, Theodore was staring to think that Tony should be back within the hour or he’d have to call the boy and hound him to come home. Thinking about sex and anticipating it had made him impatient. That was when Gene’s phone call had come.
“Teddy, didn’t Anton say he was going to Bradno for the spree?”
“Yea, he should be home soon. Why? Did you need him?”
“Turn on the tv.”
“What?”
“The tv. Turn it on. Channel One. The news is on.”
Theodore had glanced at the clock and thought that of course the news was on, it was six. This was the usual time. “Gene, what are you getting at? Is there something I should know?” Regardless, there had been something so urgent and tight in Gene’s tone that he’d reached for the remote and flicked on the television.
“Just turn it on, Theodore. You need to see this,” Gene snapped in an irritated manner which was not very like him.
Theodore clicked over to Channel One and, at first, did not understand what was going on. A blonde woman, a reporter, was talking about some explosion that was supposedly – suspected – an act of terrorism. “Most likely a bomb but no one’s ruling out a gas leak just yet,” she was saying. She had then moved aside to show the remains of the building that had been hit. What had once, obviously, been a large and fancy structure, at least half of it all glass, was now torn open, parts of it just piles or rubble.
That’s when it had hit Theodore like a speed train. Bradno. The wreck of a building was Bradno Center. “Oh Jesus Christ.” He’d nearly dropped both the remote and the phone that was still pressed up against his ear.
“Teddy?” Gene sounded concerned.
“I’ll call you back,” Theodore told him distractedly as he hung up and dialed Anton’s number frantically. Please, please, please, pick up. Please, God, let him have left before this. Let him be stuck in traffic somewhere and that’s why he’s not home yet. Please, please, please…
The phone rang and rang and rang...
On the television, the blonde woman was now talking to a man who had been close by when the explosion happened. He looked shellshocked. A woman in the background was crying. Sirens or ambulances, police cars and fire trucks were making it hard to hear what was being said.
Theodore hung up, then tried Anton’s number again. Once again there was no answer. He waited ten minutes, trying to find some other explanation for the silence before trying again, still no answer. He turned off the tv, pulled himself together and waited twenty minutes. Then called again. Still nothing. A painful tightness had begun to constrict his chest in an iron ring. The feeling was nauseating. Turning on the tv again, he found another channel with news and watched the report on the terrorist attack, as they were now labeling it, with or without sanction. “The casualty count continues to rise,” the reporter said, and this had broken Theodore’s tense stupor.
He threw on clothes, grabbed his keys and bolted out the door, all along begging God or Life or Karma or whatever was responsible for these things to no, please, please, not let the worst happen to them.
*
The worst hadn’t happened. Tony spent the next month in a medically-induced-comma and then the next month almost completely drugged out of his mind, going from surgery to surgery. His parents had moved him to a private clinic, which was good for Theodore because he wouldn’t have had visitation rights in any public hospital. There had been talk, around December of that year to take Anton to Sweden for further treatment but it had finally been concluded that the worst was over and with Vasili Kudrin’s connections, the finest medical staff in Russia was taking care of Tony.
Anton had spent New Years in the hospital and Theodore and his family had been there with him. Theodore had brought tangerines and chocolates. “Stay brave, darling, you’re doing better every day. Soon you can go home,” he had told Tony in the more serious moments.
Winter was spent mostly in recovery, first in the hospital, then at his parents’ apartment. Once Anton entered the physical therapy stage and was able to, mostly, take care of himself, he had made the choice to move back in with Theodore into their apartment. Spring and June were spent in therapy. Anton made no progress at first, then began to make incredible progress, then… Then, in early August he was released from therapy, at least temporarily. He still went in regularly for check ups and took more medication in a week then most people do in their entire lives, at least the pre-retirement portions. His biggest happiness was that he could now walk and mostly without a cane. He abhorred the wheelchair and despised the cane, sometimes choosing to walk without it around the house, even if it meant stumbling and even falling, which gave Theodore great cause for concern. When he had suggested that Anton go back to his parent’s place if he insisted on acting in ways that would require constant babysitting, Tony had thrown a fit, cried and accused Theodore of not loving him enough to understand that he would rather die than have to put up with the cane.
So they had practiced, together, until Tony could walk without the cane. He was still far too shaky on his feet and was not “allowed” to venture outside the apartment alone unless he was with the cane, but at least he could mostly walk without being a hazard to himself and the people and things around him. If they had ever connected more intimately and deeply then during that last month of therapy, Theodore couldn’t remember it.
*~*~*
If anything knocks Anton off kilter the most and frustrates him to no end, it’s the migraines. They happen at least once a week, usually more often. Their onset is sudden and the pain rises to nauseating levels before Theodore can get to the medicine cabinet for the medication, even when he’s home. If he isn’t, Anton has to struggle to get there himself, quickly, which usually only makes the pain worse. Thankfully, they are more common in the evenings so Theodore is usually there to take care of the boy. He carries Anton to his room and puts him to bed, finds an extra blanket and tucks him in. He draws the curtains and turns off the lights after Tony takes the meds. Anton will hardly ever let him leave at these moments, pulling him down onto the bed beside him instead. Theodore obliges and pulls Tony into his arms, places feather light kisses across his forehead and temples at intervals. They lie in darkness and silence until Anton finally falls asleep, sometimes still flat on his back, sometimes, if the pain had receded somewhat, curled up into Theodore’s side, resembling a small kitten.
That night, after Theodore’s reassurances that he won’t leave, Anton had seemed relatively happy but had ended the evening with one of the migraines. He tried to hide it, saying it was just a headache, but Theodore could tell the difference. “I can’t help you if you lie to me, it does no one any good,” he’d told Anton, then, once the boy had fallen asleep, whispered against his temple, “You silly idiot, I would never leave you. Certainly not over a migraine. Not over anything.”
*~*
The late autumn has brought on more that just heavy rain and low temperatures. The weather is unsteady and there is something heavy in the air. Atmosphere pressure varies, sometimes sharply and suddenly. This is cause for everyone’s annoyance and irritability, but on Anton it seems to have an especially averse effect. Theodore had expected the migraines to increase but instead what he got was impossible to predict, sometimes almost violent mood swings.
Theodore finds him one night in the kitchen with a bottle of wine opened and holding a full glass. He is looking at the glass which is stood on the table with a thoughtful expression. He doesn’t look up when Theodore comes into the kitchen, instead reaches for the glass, slowly but deliberately.
“Anton, what are you doing?”
Anton looks up and in the dim light of the kitchen his expression is impossibly solemn. Behind him Theodore can see the grey, autumn rain cascading in torrents. It hammers on the window creating a steady rhythm. Anton looks at his lover, then down at the wine, then to the single light that is on – the homely lamp above the table which glows a comfortable yellow. He gives no answer.
“You’re not supposed to drink with all the meds you’re taking,” Theodore reminds him. “You know that.”
“Who told you I was going to drink it?”
“Were you?”
Anton looks back at him and his eyes are blazing hot, stifled anger that would have made someone with less self control step back. “I’m tired of not being able to do anything!”
“You know that’s not true. You can do a lot. And once you’re off the meds you can drink again.”
“Will I ever be off them?” Anton looks despondently at the wine. “All of them? Or will you find some other excuse afterwards too?”
Theodore sighs inwardly and tries to collect his thoughts and shoves his feelings aside. Tony had been so relaxed the past few days that Theodore had almost forgotten what it was like when he was this wound up. It had also been a while since Anton tried to put blame onto him for something to do with his current condition. “Anton, you know I am not the enemy here. The meds are helping you and I’m not even the one prescribing them. You just have to—“
“That’s not the point!” He almost shouts it and Theodore is forced to fall silent. “Stop telling me what I should or shouldn’t do. You have no idea what it’s like to be like this. I know what you’re thinking. You’re going to call me childish or selfish or whinny but you have no clue what it’s like, what any of this is like. It’s not even my fucking fault!”
Theodore takes several steps into the kitchen until he is nearly touching the side of the table across from Anton. “Tony, I’m just trying to help. If there’s something else I can do—“
“You can stop pretending like you know everything!”
It hurts when Anton is like this. Rationally, Theodore understands that his lover is hurting – badly. He’s not over what had happened and the aftermath has left him afraid and hurt and uncertain of what sort of future he has. He’d lost touch with many friends, people who couldn’t stand the angst and the fear, people who never called anymore. Tony has no one to blame so he shifts it onto the nearest person possible. But understanding it is not the same as feeling it. It’s insulting and upsetting and just not fair. He puts so much time into this, builds his schedule and his career plans around what Anton can and can’t do, what he needs, what would make him happy. And then he’s treated like a problem or a nuisance at best.
“Fine,” Theodore snaps, suddenly losing the control he’d been working to maintain. “Alright, Tony, I don’t know. Fuck, ok, go on and get as trashed as you like. Just don’t expect me to clean up afterwards.” He grabs the glass and thrusts it at Anton, some of the liquid sloshing out over the side.
Tony stares at him, eyes wide and eyebrows raised. “Teddy…” Anton tries to find the softness in his lover’s bright blue eyes that has always been there. But it’s gone and he feels a tight emptiness throughout his body and his knees start to buckle. He holds onto the edge of the table, unwilling to let the weakness take him.
“Go on! Maybe you’ll teach yourself a lesson.”
“Stop it!” Anton lashes out, knocking the glass out of Theodore’s hand. It goes flying, crashing to the floor with a sickening breaking sound. Shards of glass go flying and scatter all across the kitchen floor. They glint ominously in the dim light, their sharp edges stained with red wine. Red rivulets begin to trickle through the landscape of broken glass. Splotches and splashes of wine cover the walls, the tablecloth and the bottom cabinets under the counter.
There is a deep, pregnant silence for a while. Anton stares at the broken glass and the dark, streaming liquid on the floor and suddenly lets out a sound between a gasp and moan. He sinks into the chair behind him, still staring at the floor as though transfixed. “No. Nonono. Please,..”
“Tony, it’s just broken glass,” Theodore says, not quite looking at his lover. He reaches over to the wall and flicks on the top light. The kitchen floods with light and Theodore sighs tiredly, thinking of what a mess they’d made. “Here, I’ll clean it up.”
Anton isn’t listening. He’s not even there anymore. In his mind he only sees the white, sudden flash of …something. He’d been holding a bright, white turtleneck at that point, checking the size…
Glass shatters around him and the store sirens go off, then sputter and fade. The first explosion takes out most of the windows, some of the light and the far wall which crumbles and pieces of plaster go flying. He is knocked back against one of the racks, hitting the back of his head painfully. Screams fill his ears and he looks down at the turtleneck. There are splatters of something bright red on it and he throws it aside in confused, instinctual disgust. He looks up and tries to sit up. The first thing that catches his eye is all the broken glass and the blood and the screams. Some child screaming for their mother. Only a few feet away where the wall had collapsed, something is sticking out from under the broken plaster and concrete slabs. It looks like an arm. He feels ill and then there is another flash, brighter and closer. The noise is deafening…
Anton can’t get the images out of his head, they play over and over again as the glass glints up at him. He feels like he’s there again and he can almost smell the smoke and burning plastic and fresh blood. “Oh God no. Not again, please!”
Theodore looks over at him, now concerned. “Tony, what…?” Anton is pale and his hand is fisted so tightly in the tablecloth that his knuckles have turned white. His gaze is fixed on the mess on the floor and he doesn’t seem to notice the hair that has fallen into his face. He holds out one hand in front of his face as though trying to ward off an attack.
“Oh fuck.” Theodore goes over to him and kneels down in front of the boy. “Anton, look at me. Look. At. Me.” He pushes the hair out of Anton’s face and puts one hand under the other boy’s chin, forcing him to look up and tries to meet his eyes. Tony’s eyes are suddenly everywhere, he’s agitated and obviously somewhere else in his mind. Most likely there. “Anton, look at me, damn it. Tony!” Theodore shakes him slightly until Anton’s eyes lock with his and there is a small dose of sudden awareness in their smoky depth. “Anton, listen to me, you are here, with me, in our kitchen. You’re ok. It’s just glass and it’s just wine. You’re ok. Nothing is happening.”
“Teddy? Why…where? …You can’t be here! It’s going to happen…there’re people…” Anton can’t seem to tie his thoughts together. They pull away from him and shift around and he struggles to catch hold of them but all he can see is the glass and the red and his head spins, spilling over into vertigo.
“Tony, I need you to listen to me,” Theodore says a little louder than usual but calmly and steadily. “We are at home. You are with me. Nothing is going to happen. You’re safe. Jesus Christ. Baby, you’re safe.” He cups Anton’s face in his hands and looks up at him, almost pleadingly. He needs the boy to understand, damn it, to come out of whatever flashback universe he’d fallen into.
Anton’s gaze focuses slowly and he reaches out gingerly, putting his hands on Theodore’s elbows. “Home?”
“Yes, darling, we’re at home. I’m right here. You’re safe, you’re with me and you’re safe. No one is going to hurt you.”
Anton watches him, a little unbelievingly. His face goes from flushed to pale so quickly that Theodore is a little concerned. He stands, as to block, more or less, the mess on the floor, then, sits down in another chair across from Anton. He slides his hands over the boy’s shoulders and arms and finally takes his hands. “Believe me?”
Anton blinks and Theodore can almost see him trying to concentrate. “There was glass and blood…” He looks down and sees the wine stains on the knees of Theodore’s jeans. He jerks back but Theodore holds him still.
He reaches out and takes the wine bottle, showing it to Anton. “No, Tony. Just wine. It’s just red wine.”
Anton’s eyes fill up with tears and he puts both hands over his face. “I was so scared just now,” he admits, staring to shiver. “I just…I was so terrified.”
Theodore pulls him into a hug and puts one hand on the back of the boy’s head as Anton hides his face against his lover’s shoulder, taking comfort from the strength that Theodore had always represented to him. He rocks the younger boy gently murmuring silly comforts and endearments into his ear, repeating over and over again, “You’re safe, you’re safe with me.”
Sometimes, Theodore thinks that this is the very reason he could never leave. No matter how bad it got, no matter how tired and frustrated he was, he could not leave and still consider himself a decent person after that. Nor would he ever forgive himself. Sure, there were other people who could and would look after Anton – like his family – so he would unlikely end up harming himself or be alone. But Tony had made the choice for them to live together again for a reason. Theodore doesn’t care how arrogant it sounds – he is sure that Anton takes strength from him, that he is the one that Tony can always hide behind, no matter what life throws to come barreling at him. If Theodore leaves it would be like taking all of those crash buffers from under Anton, at least until he adjusted to someone else in his support system. There are only a couple of other people Theodore knows, that Tony can be as honest with as he is with him.
No, leaving right now would be beyond cruel. It would also only send the message to Anton that his lover could not handle him, could not love him enough to go through this with him. That he was no longer worthy of love and care and warmth. Theodore could never allow that, could never allow himself to be the cause for Anton’s loss in a sense of security. He’d never forgive himself.
That didn’t make the hysterics, the temper tantrums, the depression any less difficult. It didn’t mean he didn’t sometimes consider taking a break, even for a few days. Say he had a work trip he had to take and just go on vacation. Hardly mattered where. But he needed time to himself, time to be around people who didn’t know him or Tony or their situation. People who were just happy and carefree and would not look at him like he was either a hero or a martyr or just a “good friend” or anything but just someone who wants to have a few drinks, an interesting conversation, no shit and maybe a good fuck in the end.
“Shhh it’s all gone now,” he mutters against his lover’s hair and kisses his temple. “It’s all gone.” Sometimes, Theodore wonders how many other things are gone now too, most of them good. Anton hadn’t asked for this to happen. Theodore hadn’t either. They were both in for a whole ton of shit.
“I’m here. You’re safe with me. You’re safe.”
*~*
“Hasn’t anyone told you that you are allowed to take time for yourself? I know you’re very good at building your life around the people you love, Teddy, but you don’t have to do it at impossible costs.”
“I don’t understand what you’re talking about.” Theodore refuses to look at his sister, preferring to focus his attention on his tea bag instead. Galina usually brews herbal teas. Theodore can’t stand their taste but he likes the smell which now fills the cramped kitchen of his mother’s flat.
She leans against the counter and crosses her arms over her chest, giving him a pained look that clearly says, “you’re a stubborn idiot, brother.”
“I do take time for myself,” Theodore feels obliged to add. He hates it when Galia corners him like this. He’s incapable to lying well to her. She simply knows him too well.
“Oh, Theodore, when was the last time you did that? When you’re not at work, you’re with Anton and when you’re not with Anton you’re at work.”
“Tony and I live together, he’s my lover. Why does this surprise you?”
She pours herself some tea and goes to sit across the table from him, opening a box of chocolates as she sits down. “You know what I mean. You’re so caught up in what Anton needs and what’s good for him and watching out for him that you forget to de-stress. When was the last time you went out?”
“I…well just a couple of weeks ago. I was here.” He takes a chocolate and gives her a smug look.
“We’re not in court, Teddy,” she says with a notable edge of frustration. “You don’t have to find loop holes in everything I say. I mean with friends, just to do something fun, like to a club or a bar or a hockey game. Anything.”
He shrugs, honestly having a hard time remembering when this happened last but not wanting her to know about it. “A few weeks ago, with Gene. I see him from time to time and some other people. I mean, everyone’s busy with other things anyways. My life goes on just fine Galia.”
They sit in silence for a few moments. She seems to contemplate something and finally half-asks, half-states, “Anton gives you a hard time when you go out without him, doesn’t he?”
“No,” he denies, before he’s even able to think about it properly. Anton never actually gives him a hard time, but he does always look so abandoned that Theodore ends up on a rather unwelcome guilt trip. “I would like to be able to go out with Tony again, though,” he concedes after a pause.
“So why don’t you?”
“It’s not that easy.” Theodore doesn’t know if he wants to tell her but he certainly feels a lot more comfortable confiding in his sister than most other people. He has a couple of good friends but guys don’t typically discuss feeling and he tries to not shove his problems in other people’s faces, even though Gene has been surprisingly considerate through all of this. “I mean, we’ve gone to friends’ places from time to time and we go on walks, especially to get his practice and exercise in. Sometimes he’ll come with me to the grocery store a block away when he’s in a good mood but… Any attempt to take him out into a public, crowded places has ended badly. Usually with him having something of a panic attack. It’s not the people he’s afraid of, I think, but…well…”
“He’s afraid something might happen again. Another explosion, another disaster.”
“Yea, I think so.” It’s unnerving sometimes how understanding and insightful Galia can be. He and she have some resemblances, but mostly, he had inherited their father’s traits and she – their mother’s. Theodore has his father’s curly hair, handsome, cocky smile and bright blue eyes. He also has his father’s willfulness, ambition and stubbornness. Galina, on the other hand, inherited their mother’s high cheekbones, velvety brown eyes and sleek, mousy brown hair. She, like their mother, is also patient, understanding, and compassionate.
Galia reaches out across the table and takes his hand. “Maybe you should try again, maybe start with small things? For short periods of time? I know it’s hard and it might not work right away, but that’s why I’m saying you should take time for yourself. I know you love Tony, he knows you love him. But you need a break, Teddy. It’s hard to be around all of that all the time. It won’t make you a bad boyfriend.”
“I don’t like the word ‘boyfriend’ you know that.”
“Don’t change the subject.”
He looks up and they smirk at each other. She squeezes his hand and he squeezes back. “Thanks, Galia.”
*~*
The thing is, it’s not always horrible. Actually, a lot of the time, it’s not so bad at all. They have a routine, certain mutual understandings. Theodore goes to work, they have dinner – half the time it’s take out because neither of them likes cooking but they also don’t want live-in staff – sometimes they will go on a walk, or if not, glue themselves to the tv. On the weekends there are friends or, especially on rainy days, lazy afternoons in bed. Sometimes Theodore will make himself balance their monthly budget and Anton will read, then sneak out of the room and come back with two cups of hot chocolate. Sometime’s it’s even great. Not too often, but sometimes, and that’s enough to keep going.
*
Theodore is awoken one morning in early December by soft kisses against his lips and closed eyelids. He shifts after the warm covers and reached out instinctively, finding Tony where he was supposed to be and drawing him closer. He doesn’t bother to open his eyes even as Anton giggles quietly. The younger boy is almost never awake first and there is something sweet about knowing he is being watched over by his aware lover as he enjoys the last moments of sleep.
“Teddy, wake up. You need to see this,” Anton whispers, giving him one of those Eskimo kisses which are somewhere between annoying and adorable.
“It’s early, Tony. It’s Saturday, let me sleep, damn it,” he mutters, without any actual irritation, hiding his face against the pillow
Anton just laughs again. “It’s almost eleven, besides this is important.”
Theodore mutters something about nothing short of the end of the world could be very important right now.
“You can go back to sleep right after,” Tony promises and stokes some stray curls out of his face.
Theodore opens his eyes reluctantly and regards Anton in the bright but not-sunny light of the room. His lover smiles softly at him in an almost carefree, rapturous way that had evaded him almost entirely since it happened. This gets Theodore’s attention instantly and he blinks some of the sleep out of his eyes. “What?” he asks in a tone which matches Anton’s half-whisper.
“It’s snowing,” Anton tells him innocently.
“What?” This is taking a few seconds to sink in.
“Look, it’s snowing.”
Theodore turns his head and looks over his shoulder toward the window. Through the gap in the curtains he can see a white mass of what must be snowflakes cascading down from the grey winter sky. First snow. Tony would notice something like that, especially in the sort of childish state of mind he often has been in since then. Theodore turns back toward Anton with a small, exasperated sight. “You woke me up to show me snow?”
“Yes?” Anton just looks at him and Theodore looks back with a look that says that he is not very impressed but he can’t bring himself to get mad with Anton. Not when he’s smiling like that, like everything is suddenly alright.
Please, God. Let there have been a miracle. Let it always be like this now. I can do anything, we can do anything, if only he can be his old, optimistic, happy self again. What do you want, God? I’ll give you anything you want, just let him stay like this. That seems to be the only really coherent thought running through Theodore’s head at the moment.
“Besides, you were already awake,” Anton adds finally, with the same soft smile.
Theodore laughs and leans over to kiss him. They kiss rapturously, happily, like they do only so often these days. Nothing is in their way, nothing is bearing down on them they’re not fighting anything. Theodore runs one hand over Anton’s back and stops at his waist but Tony’s hands are exploring his body as well. He starts to think that maybe they can actually… It’s not that they don’t anymore...well, they do get each other off sometimes but this is rare and they haven’t had actually intercourse since it. But they’ve had other forms of sex – Anton went for oral on Theodore’s birthday in August and it was beautiful – and Theodore had managed to convince himself that it was ok, he could make that sacrifice too since it was needed.
He leans back slightly and looks deeply, longingly into Anton’s eyes, then smiles and his smile is echoed on the boy’s face. “How about…later, when the ground is covered, we go out and I can kick your ass in a snowball fight?”
The smile on Anton’s face wavers and Theodore instantly realizes that he has said the wrong thing. With Tony’s problems, even a child could beat him in a snow scuffle right now. Fuck. Agh, baby, that’s not what I meant, he thinks, frantically trying to find something else to say. He decides to try to burry it with a kiss.
Anton, however, surprises him when, in a rare moment of optimism and un-irritability, he says, “I’d rather make a snow angel, if that’s ok.”
Theodore laughs and kisses him tenderly. “I’ll indulge you,” and they continue kissing. The passion has ebbed just a bit and Anton doesn’t seem eager to take it beyond making out but Theodore feels lightheaded from just the fact that he was forgiven his slip up, and that Tony seems so content that it could all almost be alright again.