He watched the woman from his hiding place within the shadows. He was a smart boy. Very smart. Bred for his intelligence, the boy had astonishing verbal skills for someone his age. But because he was a feral child, living on his own, quite literally, inside the bowels of Section One, he had little opportunity to use them.
Aspacia raised an eyebrow as she contemplated where the boy might be. She was an excellent tracker, though that was not the primary reason Davenport had chosen her. She knew the boy’s father. While they had never been lovers, they did share a certain history. They had worked together. Often intimately. There was trust and yes, there was respect, between them. Few people lived long enough, or worked hard enough, to make friends in Section. They had. They did. The least she could do was to find and to protect the child he had unknowingly fathered, thanks to Section One’s machiavellian agenda.
"Sasha?" she whispered into the darkness.
The boy’s only experience with adults had been painful thus far. Therefore, he was careful to avoid them. They lied. They told you things to make you trust them, then they hurt you. Over and over. But he was smart. He was waiting until he was big enough to escape. Soon. It would be soon. He would find a way out.
The woman’s hand reached into his lair. He crept back, on his hands and knees, one grubby hand touching the cobwebbed wall behind him. He stole things. All the time. He was a good thief. He had to be. It was either that or starve. A metal cookie tin clattered near his feet. Empty. The last of the cookies gone. He would have to steal something else. Soon.
"Sasha? You can trust me, honey. I used to work with your father."
The boy’s forehead creased in thought. Father? He had no father. No mother either. Oh, there was a man. Long, long time ago. White hair. Scary eyes. But he was no father. He was the one who told him that his name was Alexander. Defiantly, the boy christened himself Sasha as soon as he was old enough to speak. The white-haired man laughed, saying it was just another form of Alexander. But he missed the point. Sasha was *his* choice. *His* name for himself.
He had another name, too. A last name. That was the name of the man who fathered him. Not that he ever met him. But he couldn’t remember it. His long brown hair hung past his shoulders in unkempt clumps, matted from lack of even the most routine care. He didn’t know what color his eyes were. He had no way to see himself.
He smeared his dirty hands on the tattered pants he wore. The lady with the nice voice was chasing him. Why? He was nobody important. Except to the upstairs people. They were probably still searching for him. They made him do tests all the time, tests that showed how smart he was. Heh, he didn’t need a test to tell him that. Didn’t grown-ups know anything?
"Sasha? Would you like to meet your father?"
Meet him? Heck, no. Why would he want to meet the man who left him here? To die or grow. He had no use for such a man. In fact, it made him angry just thinking about his real father. His eyes grew wet, and he swiped at them furiously. He was a real little boy. With no father. Maybe his real father had another little boy, one he liked better. Who would want such a mean, scruffy little boy like him anyway?
"Sasha, if you come out now, I’ll take you someplace safe. Where you can live. And eat as much as you want. And sleep without worrying about somebody hurting you." The woman’s voice was so kind. He wanted to believe her. He really did. But why would she want to do something nice for him? Who was she? How did she know his real father? Did his real father send her?
The sound of his own voice startled him. He hadn’t meant to say anything out loud. But he did. "If I come out, the upstairs people will get me. Make me go back."
"What people are those, Sasha?"
"Bad people. Always making me do things," the child said resentfully.
"What kinds of things, Sasha?" she asked, fearful of the answer. Would Section One do absolutely anything to anyone?
"Tests. Work." Sasha’s voice left her in no doubt of his feelings. Children should be allowed to play. That was the true work of childhood. How could they put a child his age to work?
"Sasha, how old are you? Do you know?"
He thought hard. He could count. A little. Frowning in concentration, he struggled to remember what the scary man told him. "More than three," he said, holding up his fingers, unable to make them out in the absence of light.
"Four? Are you four years old?"
He nodded his head up and down, not realizing that Aspacia could not see him. Her repetition of the question brought that to his attention. "Uh huh."
"Wouldn’t you like to come home with me? You could take a bath and have something to eat..." she entreated, hoping that the offer of food he wouldn’t have to steal might alter his reluctance to come out.
He didn’t trust her. She said the right things. But so did the upstairs people. Right before they hurt him. He wrapped his arms around himself, willing himself not to think about the food she offered. His empty stomach growled, reminding him that one way or another, he would have to come out of his lair. Soon.
He would love to be someplace warm. Someplace clean. A tear traced its way down his dirty cheek, bringing a patch of white skin to light. He couldn’t depend on grown-ups. Only on himself.
Maybe somewhere there was someone who actually cared what happened to him. But for now...there was only him.
Nikita saw the laptop sitting on the dining room table. She repeatedly tried to ignore it, but it kept catching her eye. Finally, she opened it up, looking at the monitor screen. She pushed a key at random, and abruptly, the screen went blank. Totally black. "What the--?"
Birkoff walked into the dining room, immediately spotting Nikita hunched over the laptop expectantly. "What’s wrong?"
She cursed, quite fluently, and Birkoff laughed. "I don’t think I’ve ever heard you swear before, Nikita."
"It’s this damn thing. It’s not working."
"What’s wrong with it?"
"I thought you could tell me." Glaring at Birkoff, she said, "Some techno whiz you are."
He shrugged. His fingers fairly flew over the keyboard, and the monitor suddenly sprung to life under his expert hands. "You were saying?"
"Gee, thanks, Birkoff."
"Anytime, Nikita. What were you trying to do anyway?"
"I wanted to see what’s on it."
"You mean it’s not yours?"
She shook her head. "Nope. I think it must be Michael’s."
"And he had it locked?"
"So it seems."
In a flash, Birkoff re-locked the computer, to Nikita’s great astonishment. "Birkoff!" she wailed. "Why the hell did you do that?"
"Cause if he locked it, he locked it for a reason."
"Well, obviously, Birkoff. Why do you think I want to see what’s on it?" Nikita grasped Birkoff’s wrist, subtly intimidating him, though she would never actually hurt him.
"But you could hack into it again," she said hopefully.
He was not impressed. By her reasoning or her attempts to throw her weight around. "Nice try, Nikita. But if I refused to do it to Declan, I’m sure as hell not doing it to Michael."
Birkoff started to leave, but thought better of it. "Why are you snooping around through his things anyway?"
Nikita blushed. Put that way, it did sound like she had overreached the bounds of wifely concern. But did she dare put her suspicions into words? Wouldn’t it make it more real? More possible?
Birkoff knew what buttons to push with Nikita. "You’re hiding something, Nikita. I can always tell. Come on, you know you’re going to tell me..."
Nikita played with a long strand of pale blonde hair, her fingers restlessly teasing and twirling the hair into a frizzy bundle of split ends. "He’s been going somewhere. Every week. Like clockwork. Without telling me where."
Birkoff’s startled dark brown eyes met Nikita’s forthright blue gaze. "You don’t seriously think he’s cheating on you!" It wasn’t even close to a question. For that matter, it wasn’t even a statement. It was an exclamation of total disbelief.
Nikita bit her lip anxiously. "No..." she whispered. "But he’s been doing this for over a month now, Birkoff. It would almost be better if I did think it was a woman."
Birkoff cursed. This time it was Nikita’s turn to be surprised. "Why, Birkoff, you do that entirely too well."
"What do you think is going on?"
Nikita’s eyes filled with tears. "I don’t know."
Birkoff edged closer to Nikita, feeling a strange compulsion to hold her, in a complete reversal of their usual roles. Feeling a bit awkward, nonetheless, he wanted to offer her the same support she always showed him. "Whatever he’s doing, I’m sure he has a good reason. He wouldn’t hurt you, Nikita. He loves you."
She crumpled against him, her weight barely registering, she was so thin again. Wrapping his arms around her, he did hold her then, murmuring something reassuring under his breath while she cried.
When the tears slowed to a trickle, Nikita wiped her face with a shaky hand. "I’m glad you’re being so understanding about all this, Birkoff."
He smiled.
"Cause Declan’s been going with him."
"What?" Birkoff shouted.
"You didn’t know? Oh, that’s right. You just started working at that new bookstore," Nikita commented almost absently.
"He’s sneaking out?" Birkoff snarled, his eyes narrowing.
"Well," Nikita frowned, "I wouldn’t say ‘sneaking’ exactly. But he and Michael leave together and come back together."
"Did you try asking Michael where he’s going?" Birkoff wanted to break something. Preferably something attached to Declan.
Nikita sighed. "What do you think, Birkoff? Have you ever known Michael to answer a straight question with a straight answer when he doesn’t want to?"
"Shit."
"Um...yeah."
***
That didn’t deter Birkoff from cornering Declan. And if there was one thing Declan didn’t care for, it was being cornered. Unless Birkoff wanted to seduce him, of course.
Raking a hand through his hair, Birkoff found the man he was looking for. Outside. He was pushing Emmy back and forth on the swing he and Birkoff made out of an old tire. Michael could afford an expensive swing set, but all of the kids loved swinging on the old tire hanging from the tree in the backyard. He wasn’t about to argue with success.
Declan smiled in welcome, offering his mouth to Birkoff for a kiss. But Birkoff was furious. "Emmy, go to your room."
Emerant looked from one father to the other. "Uh-oh," she said, in imitation of her best friend Chris.
Declan frowned. "Hey, if this is between you and me, why does Emmy have to be punished?"
"You want her to see me knock you on your freaking ass? Fine," Birkoff ground out between gritted teeth.
"Emmy, go to your room," Declan echoed Birkoff’s earlier command.
***
Emerant didn’t need to be told a second time. She ran, as fast as her little feet would carry her, into the house, down the hall, and up as many of the stairs as she could safely navigate. "Chris! Chris!" she shouted.
When Chris appeared at the top of the stairs, he saw Emerant immediately. Helping her up the rest of the stairs, he waited for her to catch her breath.
"Chris, the daddies is fighting," Emerant said, her beautiful silver eyes darkening.
Chris felt bad for Emmy. She felt everything. She was so terribly sensitive to every nuance in the household. It was what made her his little ray of sunshine. She embraced everyone and everything. She found something to love in everything and everyone she touched. But it also had the opposite effect. When things went badly, as they sometimes did, ordinary pain became the most exquisite torture. She wasn’t weak. She just could not turn off her remarkable ability to empathize.
"Make ‘em stop, Chris," she begged her would-be knight in slightly tarnished armor.
Chris didn’t know how to tell Emmy that he was just a little boy, not too much older than she was, but grown-ups sometimes did inexplicable things to each other. Things that children would never accept or tolerate. So he did the only thing that helped.
He held open his arms, and Emmy walked into his embrace. He hugged her, just as tight as he could, while she sniffled on his shoulder. "I’ll take care of you, Emmy," Chris vowed.
And he meant it, too.
***
"So what the hell is all this shouting about, Sey?"
"You tell me, Dec! You swore to me you weren’t out screwing around! Now I find out you’ve been going out every week! So what are you doing, if you’re not freaking cheating on me?"
"Why don’t you tell me what you think I’m doing, Sey? You seem to have it all figured out!"
His eyes brimming with angry tears, Birkoff slapped Declan across the face with his open hand.
Declan grabbed Birkoff’s wrist in an iron grip and refused to let go. Birkoff struggled briefly, a muscle jerking in his cheek as he met Declan’s anguished eyes. "I told you I wouldn’t cheat on you, Sey. My word should be good enough for you," he said quietly.
"Are you and Michael having an affair?"
Declan burst into a fit of harsh laughter. "Are we talking about the same Michael, Sey? The Michael who couldn’t love anyone but Nikita?"
"It doesn’t have to be love, Declan," Birkoff offered reluctantly.
"Oh, great. Now you’re not only accusing me of cheating, you’re accusing me of indulging in cheap, casual sex. If you weren’t so obviously hurting already, Sey, I’d smack the living daylights out of you myself."
"Why are you being so secretive, Declan? You’re demanding that I trust you, but your behavior is getting more and more suspicious."
"Oh, you’re just saying that cause I won’t tell you."
"Well, why won’t you tell me?"
"God in Heaven, you’re relentless, you’re like a freaking dog with a bone." Declan sighed heavily, weighing the options left open to him.
"If I tell you...will you let it be?"
"Yes, Dec," Birkoff promised.
"Cause it’s not just my secret. It’s Michael’s."
"Okay."
"I’m going back to school. To get my degree in Art."
Birkoff’s mouth dropped open. "You’re kidding."
"No, I’m bloody well not kidding, Sey. Christ, you wanted to know. Now you know. Big freaking deal."
"That’s what all the stuff on the computer is about?"
"Yes, goddammit. Are you happy now?"
Birkoff nearly jumped into Declan’s arms, pressing frenzied kisses all over his face and neck. "Yes, Declan, I am very definitely happy right now."
Birkoff climbed the stairs, searching for Emmy. He found her, huddled against Chris. His face fell. He felt more than guilty about making Emmy part of his jealous rage. He never meant for her to feel punished by his ordering her to go to her room, but the way she was clinging to Chris evidently told the story better than if she’d spoken.
"Emmy?" he said very softly.
Emmy turned around, her grey eyes big and wide. "Yes, Daddy?"
He knelt down on one knee, opening his arms as wide as they would go. "Come here, sweetie."
She glanced at Chris, who nodded imperceptibly. Smiling broadly, she ran to her father, flinging her tiny arms around his neck, showering him with baby kisses. "Daddy’s not mad no more?"
Birkoff closed his eyes. "No, sweetie," he said huskily. "I’m sorry, Emmy. I never meant to hurt you. I love you."
Emmy hugged his neck so tightly, he could barely breathe, but the feeling that welled up in him was unmistakably positive. "You still love my Da?"
He almost laughed at the incongruity of it. The baby leading the man. "Yes, sweetie, I still love your Da." His fingers tangling in her baby-soft red curls, he kissed her forehead. "And both your daddies love you."
Declan stood at the top of the landing, watching the three of them. Chris, sitting on the sidelines, quietly encouraging Emmy with his eyes. Emmy, enthusiastically embracing her father. And Birkoff himself offering a heartfelt apology to his daughter.
As if sensing Declan’s presence, Birkoff disengaged himself from his daughter, slowly standing up. "Emmy, honey, I want you to come back downstairs. You’re not allowed up here. It’s too dangerous. If you fell, you could get hurt."
Chris looked crestfallen. Birkoff took pity on the two would-be lovers, adding, "Chris, if you want to come downstairs and play with Emmy there, that would be okay."
Chris perked up instantly, nodding exuberantly. "I’ll take care of Emmy. Come, Emmy," Chris exhorted to the little girl, holding out his hand for her to grasp.
Birkoff watched until they were safely downstairs again, vaguely aware that Declan had moved closer to him. Declan grabbed Birkoff by the neck, pulling on his long dark hair until he snapped his head around to face Declan. They stared at one another for a long time before Declan finally moved, claiming his lover’s mouth in a rapacious open-mouthed kiss.
"Sey? Two things." Declan wound his fingers through Birkoff’s hair, gently pressing him against the wall. He kissed him again, his mouth tugging on his partner’s lower lip until it grew swollen from his attentions.
"One," he whispered against Birkoff’s mouth. "Don’t you ever hit me again."
Birkoff swallowed hard. "And two?"
"Two, you better work real hard at making this up to me."
"Oh, God, Dec, I’m sorry."
Declan kissed the tears that sprung to his lover’s dark eyes, making them gleam wetly. "Sorry is a good start. But I said work *real* hard, Sey."
"I have to leave for work in an hour, Dec," Birkoff uttered in a ravaged voice.
Declan gave Birkoff a sharp warning glance. "You know why you’re so jealous all the time, Sey? Cause you and me are apart too much."
"If I blow off work, I might as well quit, Dec," Birkoff said, obviously troubled by the implications of all this.
Declan rubbed his thumb across Birkoff’s lips. Back and forth, back and forth. Until he thought it would drive him mad. He wanted him so badly. But he would accept whatever Birkoff was willing to give him now, in the interest of keeping the peace.
"It’s your move, Sey."
"Will you still be awake when I get home, Dec?" he asked tentatively.
Declan closed his eyes. It wasn’t what he’d hoped for. But he would take it. "I’ll wait for you," he told Birkoff, knowing that his lover would be too tired to do more than collapse in his arms when he returned from work.
***
Inventory problems and one of the registers being short kept Birkoff at work quite a bit longer than he wanted. By the time he returned home, he was dragging himself through the front door.
Trudging into the kitchen, he was surprised to find Declan already there. Declan smiled faintly at him. Dressed in a white terrycloth robe, Declan had clearly just come from the shower. His long red hair hung way past his shoulders in wet ringlets.
Birkoff reached inside the refrigerator, taking a carton of milk out. Without waiting for a glass, he upended the carton, drinking long and greedily. Some of the milk trickled down his throat, but before he could wipe it away, Declan was at his neck, like a vampire lusting for a drop of blood. Birkoff shakily put the carton down on the counter next to the refrigerator, throwing his head back to grant Declan greater access to his neck.
His other arm wrapped tightly around Declan’s neck, Birkoff closed his eyes, savoring the fervent manner in which Declan lapped at his throat. "Oh," he groaned.
Declan drew back, his grey eyes bright and shiny. "You want me to stop?"
Birkoff gave Declan a crooked smile. "No..."
"You want to tell me about your night at the bookstore?" Declan said, hoping that wasn’t the case. He figured he had about twenty minutes, tops, before Birkoff fell asleep on him.
Birkoff smiled again, this time adding a soft chuckle. "Nooo..." he drawled.
"What are you laughing at?"
"You. You said you wanted *me* to make it up to *you*. But you’re the one who’s working his ass off here."
"You can make it up to me tomorrow. Christ, if I don’t get inside you in the next few minutes, I’m going to have to take another freaking shower."
Birkoff chewed his lip, unaware that it was a very sensual gesture to Declan. "Now that would seem to be a waste of water."
Declan nudged Birkoff with his mouth, pressing his tongue against his lips, begging for entrance. "Please let me in," he pleaded.
Birkoff opened his mouth further, allowing Declan to invade him even more deeply. Panting breathlessly, Birkoff suddenly realized that Declan was not wearing anything under the robe. Declan’s arousal pressing insistently against his abdomen, Birkoff whispered, "Suppose someone comes?"
"God, Sey, if anyone comes, it better be me," Declan said with a groan, sliding his tongue along his lover’s hairline to his ear.
Birkoff smiled as he struggled to open his pants with one hand. Yanking them open, he pushed his pants down, exposing his own arousal. Bending over the sink, he felt Declan part his legs. Declan opened his robe, wrapping the terrycloth around both of them, in an effort to shield them from any unexpected interruptions. Preparing himself quickly, Declan sheathed himself within his lover. His hands gripping his lover’s arousal tightly, he stroked hard and deep, each stroke held slightly longer than the last. Finally, feeling his partner climax in his hands, Declan poured himself into his lover’s willing body.
Birkoff sagged weakly against the sink, while Declan gently withdrew from him.
Declan kissed him passionately, rubbing his mouth repeatedly against his lover’s. "Mmm...I love you."
Birkoff didn’t answer. Declan looked at his lover in amazement. He had misjudged the time by a good ten minutes. Birkoff was asleep in his arms.
Declan bent over his lover, kissing him good morning. His long hair trailed over Birkoff’s chest as he lingered for a moment, a wistful smile on his face. "I just wanted to see you before I go."
"Go?" Birkoff sat up in bed, tossing the covers aside with considerable alacrity. "Where are you going?"
Declan straightened up, and for the first time, Birkoff noticed the large black portfolio under his arm. "I have class."
"On Sunday? Jeez, what kind of school has class on Sunday?"
Declan frowned. "Don’t even go there, Sey. I’m leaving. I don’t think we’ll see each other till tomorrow, love. You’ll be at work by the time I get home, and then I’ll be asleep by the time you get home. Oh, well..."
Declan turned away and strode toward the bedroom door, but Birkoff jumped out of bed, literally hopping on one foot until he could find his other slipper. He stood there in his shorts, calling to Declan, "Don’t go yet, Dec. I feel like we never see each other."
Declan shrugged. "Stay home from work."
"I can’t. It’s important to me."
"Well, school is important to me, too. See you later."
Trying to stall Declan as long as he could, Birkoff asked, "What are you going to be doing today?"
"We worked on still life last week. This week, we’re going to work on drawing the human form."
"From live models?" Birkoff looked more than mildly perturbed.
"Yeah, I guess so. Why?"
"Females, though, right? Everyone usually gets all excited cause they get to draw some babe with great tits?" Birkoff looked hopefully at his lover. But he could tell from his reaction that he was wrong.
"Usually." Declan gave Birkoff a wary glance.
Birkoff looked all too relieved to hear that. Declan hated to disabuse him of the notion, but in this case, it just wasn’t true. "Only thing is, Sey, we’re getting a guy."
"How come?" Birkoff tried to act nonchalant, but it was impossible.
Declan sighed. "How the hell would I know? Am I running the class? Can I go now?"
Birkoff’s dark chocolate eyes flickered anxiously over Declan’s entire body, as if he thought he might never see him again. "You didn’t kiss me goodbye."
"I did. You were asleep."
Birkoff wailed, "Dec-lan..."
Declan put down the portfolio, leaning it against the leg of the table. He framed Birkoff’s face with both hands and kissed him ardently. When Declan broke away, Birkoff stared at Declan. "Please don’t go," he whispered.
"You’re going to make me late, Sey."
Birkoff reached up and kissed Declan, wrapping both hands in the long red hair he loved so much. "I love you."
"I love you, too," Declan replied. "But I really have to go."
"Miss me," Birkoff said, looking almost tearful.
"Always," Declan said with a smile.
After Declan left, Birkoff sat in Declan’s chair at the computer, idly tracing the keys with his fingertips, just to touch something he recently touched. God, this is sick, he told himself. I know he loves me. I know he’s committed to me. But I feel so damned insecure lately. What’s wrong with me? A tear fell onto the keyboard. It was going to be a long time before they saw each other again.
***
They went on like this for several days. Declan going to class. Birkoff going to work. Birkoff actually began to ask for more hours at work because he couldn’t stand being alone. He, who was a loner almost from birth. He, who never counted on anyone, sometimes not even himself.
Matters came to a head the following weekend. Declan was packing up his portfolio when Birkoff came in. "You’re leaving early today," he said with a frown. They had precious little time anymore as it was. Declan was cutting things too fine.
"Yeah, well, they really like my work, Sey. So I’m going to try to grab a few extra hours with the model."
"Oh?" Birkoff sniffed. "Is he, uh, good looking?"
Declan paused in the middle of sliding a sketch into the black leather case and stared at Birkoff. "Excuse me?"
"Just wondering. If he’s good looking, I mean." Birkoff looked slightly guilty when he repeated the question, his cheeks flushing.
"What difference does that make?"
Birkoff shrugged. "I don’t know. You sounded like you didn’t mind...looking...at him for hours, that’s all."
"As a matter of fact, Sey, he’s got a great body. Does that satisfy your curiosity?" Declan seemed vaguely annoyed by Birkoff’s questioning, but he indulged him.
"Yeah," Birkoff whispered. His lower lip quivered in a telltale sign that he was on the verge of tears.
Declan abruptly stopped packing the portfolio. Bracing both hands on Birkoff’s shoulders, Declan searched his face carefully, gazing deeply into those bittersweet eyes. "Sey," he began huskily, "baby..."
His thumb flicked a tear away, but all too soon, there were too many to count. Birkoff held onto Declan, as if he couldn’t bear to let him go, finally laying his head on Declan’s shoulder, his tears soaking through Declan’s shirt.
Declan closed his eyes, stroking his lover’s long dark hair softly. "Baby, please don’t cry."
"I can’t...help it. It feels like I’m losing you."
"You’re not losing me, Sey. Don’t say that. Don’t you ever say that."
He didn’t hold Birkoff responsible for feeling this way. He was often insecure, but ever since they had begun to work through his abuse issues, he seemed even more fragile than before. Sometimes Declan wondered if therapy really helped. His lover was drowning in negative feelings, most of which he had no control over, and although Madeline was instrumental in championing Birkoff’s desire to become more independent, Declan occasionally thought that she was pushing him too hard, too fast.
"Sey? Maybe you need to quit the job."
At Birkoff’s automatic wail of protest, Declan added, "Just for now. Maybe it’s too much for us to be separated like this right now."
Birkoff laughed inappropriately, wiping at his eyes. "Would I feel any better, sitting at home, alone, waiting for you? While you’re out...looking at other men?"
"Sey, you’re not being rational about this, love. The guy’s a freaking model. He gets paid to sit in the bloody altogether. Trust me, he’s not enjoying himself as much as you think."
"But you are? You’re the one who gets off, staring at his naked body, Dec. Where does that leave me?"
"It’s got nothing to do with you." Declan pushed both hands through his hair, starting to feel a subtle undercurrent of anxiety working its way through him.
"When you’d rather look at him than be here with me, I’d say it has everything to do with me, Declan. No slow dancing tonight, huh?" he said bitterly.
Declan threw his hands up in the air. "Jesus! I’m the one who’s been chasing you all week long just to get a bloody kiss now and again! You’re the one pushing me away!"
"I can’t freaking deal with this now, Sey! I’ve got to go!" Declan picked up the portfolio, but it sat awkwardly under his arm, as if he were reluctant to claim its contents now.
Birkoff grabbed hold of the end of the portfolio, tugging gently on it. "Can I at least see what the competition looks like, Declan?"
"No! You bloody well can’t! Cause there isn’t any!" Declan pulled back sharply.
Suddenly the two of them were engaged in an angry tug-of-war, culminating in the upending of the portfolio, sending its contents spilling to the floor in a flurry of paper and art supplies.
Declan stared at the result, aghast. His work. All over the floor. Shit. He hoped that nothing was ruined.
Meanwhile, Birkoff picked deliberately through the paper, searching for the nude sketches he was sure he would find. But the first sketch he picked up was not of a stranger. His own face stared back at him. He blinked. Maybe he was seeing things.
He picked up another one, and having seen it, he soon picked up another, then another. Until he had gone through the entire contents of the portfolio.
Birkoff looked up, puzzled. Declan stared at him, his lips parted, a bit breathless from being discovered.
"So now you know."
Birkoff’s voice quavered. "These are all of me, Dec."
"Yeah." Declan shook his head. "Oh, I think there are a few of Emmy, too. But I might have put those away."
"You did all these?"
Declan nodded.
"From memory?"
Declan smiled wearily. "Memory’s all I got lately."
"But what about the model? And all those hours you’re supposed to be drawing *his* body?"
Declan sighed. "Not interested." Declan knelt down, beginning to pick up some of the sketches. "I told you, you’re the only one, baby," he said, so softly Birkoff almost didn’t catch it.
"Oh, Dec..."
Birkoff helped Declan pick up all of the sketches. He had some serious repair work to do on their relationship. But in a way, he was glad this had happened. It validated his importance to Declan in a way neither of them could have predicted.
"Declan?" Birkoff handed the last of the sketches to his lover, and Declan carefully put them away in the portfolio, closing it up finally.
"What, Sey?" Declan didn’t want to fight anymore.
"You’re really good. The art, I mean." Birkoff suddenly felt shy and tongue-tied, even though he was trying desperately to make amends.
"Thanks."
"No, no, I mean it. You should...go on to school. Really." Birkoff stood up, regarding his lover with more perspective than he was capable of last week. Or even an hour ago.
Declan studied his lover. "You really mean it." Change was rippling its way through Birkoff, and even Declan could see it.
"Yeah, I do." Birkoff leaned forward and kissed Declan. It was a sweet kiss, filled with tenderness and hope. No desperation. No impassioned claim of possession.
"I’ll see you later." Birkoff waved to Declan. Almost cheerfully.
Now Declan wasn’t sure if he wanted to leave his lover. Hesitating for another second, Declan said, "Are you sure?"
"I’ll be here, Dec," Birkoff promised.
"What about work, Sey?"
"They can do without me for one night."
Declan pressed his face against his partner’s neck, his cheeks hot and flushed all of a sudden. His one hand rubbing against Birkoff’s cheek, Declan whispered, "I love you, baby."
"Not half as much as I love you."