hardly demonstrating that you’re a paragon of health and vitality. Old Murdoch’s bulls breathed quieter than you.”
“Git!” Mike’s gentle punch to his side caught him by surprise. “Truth hurts.”
Robert huffed but couldn’t help the laugh that followed. “That it does.”
“Why do you do it?” asked Mike, his finger tracing a fresh scar on Robert’s collarbone.
“Eh?”
“The hero stuff. I mean there’s others out there—why do you choose to take the risk?”
Robert peered down at where Mike’s head had come to rest on his chest, not sure if he could give a suitable answer. “It’s what we do. I couldn’t imagine not doing it.”
“Your dad doesn’t.”
“He keeps the farm going, and that’s where everything’s from.”
Mike looked up. “I get that the farm and the land is where the magic lives that gives you your powers, but now you’ve come to terms with everything, couldn’t you help him rather than putting yourself in the firing line?”
“The farm will always be somewhere to retreat to, but it’s not where I see the future—our future. And I can’t not use my powers… so few of us are gifted with them it would be criminal not to do something. And staying here, while others were out saving people, would just seem wrong.”
Mike pushed himself up onto all fours, and Robert wondered what he was doing until Mike clambered over him, knees either side of his hips. “I see many sleepless nights in my future, and not the fun type I’d be looking forward to.”
Robert reached up and threaded his fingers into Mike’s hair “I’ll make it up to you—I promise.”
Part Five: Living Life
O NLY his reflexes saved Robert from ending flat on his face.
The contents of one of Mike’s boxes lay scattered across the hall floor, abandoned mid-emptying by the look of it. A trail of books and associated crap Mike had been unable to part with created a path from the front door of their new flat toward the living room.
He stooped to pick up a Superman figure that had only just survived Mike’s repeated attempts one summer holiday to prove that Superman wasn’t only susceptible to kryptonite; there were still traces of concrete on the Man of Steel’s plastic cape, and he was missing a foot.
Having returned from his early-morning shift, Robert was surprised to find Mike was out of bed.
Based on the complaints Mike had made the night before about the behavior of class 11C, he’d expected Mike to spend his Saturday morning sleeping off the aftermath of a double lesson with the hell spawn that haunted his Friday afternoons.
He picked up a Rubik’s cube, missing three squares, and Mike’s old fake ID that originally had been created for a game of private detectives and had miraculously, years later, helped them get their hands on a four pack of lager from a less than fussy local shop. He chuckled to himself at the memory: Mike’s clammy hand shaking as he handed it over when the clerk behind the counter had asked.
Robert put the items on a side table next to the telephone and an African violet; it shuddered happily as he stroked its velvety petals and fed it a few bursts of the energy it needed since it wasn’t anywhere near a window.
Wondering what had grabbed Mike’s attention so fully that he’d left a trail of childhood nostalgia in his wake, he toed off his trainers, kicking them into the corner of the hall, where a pile of shoes had begun to grow of its own accord, and headed into the living room.
The sight that met his eyes was certainly a most welcome one. Mike’s overlarge wireless headphones filtered out whatever he was listening to, but what Robert could tell was that the headphones and the silk gold cape were the only things his boyfriend was wearing as he swayed and gyrated in the middle of the living room. The sofa and armchair had been moved to make way for Mike’s dance floor, and Robert let his appreciative gaze travel up the bare legs, lingering on the
“Git!” Mike’s gentle punch to his side caught him by surprise. “Truth hurts.”
Robert huffed but couldn’t help the laugh that followed. “That it does.”
“Why do you do it?” asked Mike, his finger tracing a fresh scar on Robert’s collarbone.
“Eh?”
“The hero stuff. I mean there’s others out there—why do you choose to take the risk?”
Robert peered down at where Mike’s head had come to rest on his chest, not sure if he could give a suitable answer. “It’s what we do. I couldn’t imagine not doing it.”
“Your dad doesn’t.”
“He keeps the farm going, and that’s where everything’s from.”
Mike looked up. “I get that the farm and the land is where the magic lives that gives you your powers, but now you’ve come to terms with everything, couldn’t you help him rather than putting yourself in the firing line?”
“The farm will always be somewhere to retreat to, but it’s not where I see the future—our future. And I can’t not use my powers… so few of us are gifted with them it would be criminal not to do something. And staying here, while others were out saving people, would just seem wrong.”
Mike pushed himself up onto all fours, and Robert wondered what he was doing until Mike clambered over him, knees either side of his hips. “I see many sleepless nights in my future, and not the fun type I’d be looking forward to.”
Robert reached up and threaded his fingers into Mike’s hair “I’ll make it up to you—I promise.”
Part Five: Living Life
O NLY his reflexes saved Robert from ending flat on his face.
The contents of one of Mike’s boxes lay scattered across the hall floor, abandoned mid-emptying by the look of it. A trail of books and associated crap Mike had been unable to part with created a path from the front door of their new flat toward the living room.
He stooped to pick up a Superman figure that had only just survived Mike’s repeated attempts one summer holiday to prove that Superman wasn’t only susceptible to kryptonite; there were still traces of concrete on the Man of Steel’s plastic cape, and he was missing a foot.
Having returned from his early-morning shift, Robert was surprised to find Mike was out of bed.
Based on the complaints Mike had made the night before about the behavior of class 11C, he’d expected Mike to spend his Saturday morning sleeping off the aftermath of a double lesson with the hell spawn that haunted his Friday afternoons.
He picked up a Rubik’s cube, missing three squares, and Mike’s old fake ID that originally had been created for a game of private detectives and had miraculously, years later, helped them get their hands on a four pack of lager from a less than fussy local shop. He chuckled to himself at the memory: Mike’s clammy hand shaking as he handed it over when the clerk behind the counter had asked.
Robert put the items on a side table next to the telephone and an African violet; it shuddered happily as he stroked its velvety petals and fed it a few bursts of the energy it needed since it wasn’t anywhere near a window.
Wondering what had grabbed Mike’s attention so fully that he’d left a trail of childhood nostalgia in his wake, he toed off his trainers, kicking them into the corner of the hall, where a pile of shoes had begun to grow of its own accord, and headed into the living room.
The sight that met his eyes was certainly a most welcome one. Mike’s overlarge wireless headphones filtered out whatever he was listening to, but what Robert could tell was that the headphones and the silk gold cape were the only things his boyfriend was wearing as he swayed and gyrated in the middle of the living room. The sofa and armchair had been moved to make way for Mike’s dance floor, and Robert let his appreciative gaze travel up the bare legs, lingering on the
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