Escape (22 page)

But that cold February afternoon they decided to try wrestling, reasoning there'd be no bruises or broken bones to get them in trouble with their families. As usual, Luka sat the competition out. The others never gave him a hard time about it, since he wasn't just younger, but less developed and inches shorter than the other three, and winning a victory over him would do nothing to bolster their manly egos. Luka played his familiar role of referee, sitting off on the sidelines, watching the other three take turns facing off against each other.

At first when they stripped down to their shorts, Luka's only reaction was thinking they were crazy to surrender so much bare skin to the bitter cold. If they were that worried about getting their clothes dirty, why didn't they come up with a less messy way to prove their prowess to each other? But, of course, suffering the cold, enduring the lacerations of the stones and sticks on the rocky gravel by the lake was as much part of the test as the match itself.

And when Mirza and Faris wrestled, mostly Luka just yearned to be a little more like them. Broad-shouldered and tall. Sure in their strength, even when the other got the upper hand. But when Faris got tapped out, and Ibro took his turn wrestling with Mirza, that detached appraisal yielded to sudden, overwhelming arousal as Ibro pinned Mirza just seconds after they faced off.

For a few moments Luka had watched, wishing it was him, not Mirza pinned under Ibro's weight. So many nights lying in bed he'd imagined being alone with him. The first fantasies were innocent; whispered intimacies about sorrows and dreams. When he first dared to let his imagination go farther, to a shy first kiss, he'd burned head to toes with a scorching blush that lingered for minutes, but week by week, his fantasies got more daring, and every night he tormented himself for hours, building a made up world where Ibro would nervously undo Luka's fly and gently touch him, then invite Luka to caress him, too.

But what he was watching wasn't gentle. It was rough, strained, brutal. Ibro wrenching Mirza's arm overhead and crushing it against the rocky earth, Ibro's teeth bared and gritting, white and fierce, jaw flexed, tendons in straining relief down the length of his neck. Breath coming in gusts of white steam in the chill air like the illustration of a bull he'd seen in a book about Spain. Bare calves and thighs all contours of heavy muscle flexing, smoothing, and flexing again as he trapped his opponent when he tried to squirm free.

He never knew why, when their match ended, Ibro suddenly decided Luka should wrestle, too. For all their mischief, the others never coerced or even cajoled Luka into vying when they competed physically. When Ibro came over and extended his arm, saying, 'Let's go one round. I'll take it easy on you,' Luka tried to beg off, panicked half to death, not by the certainty of defeat, but by his incipient arousal, but Ibro caught his hand and hoisted him to his feet. 'One round. You can't sit on the sidelines your whole life.' Luka awkwardly tugged at the hem of his jacket, hoping it was covering the humiliating swelling in his pants, pleading more and more emphatically to be left out of the game, but now the other two were clamoring for him to take his turn.

The more he resisted, the rowdier the others got. Soon they'd circled around him and were laughing and teasing—not to be cruel, not to bully, but egging him on, the way they did among themselves—as they caught him and stripped him out of his jacket. When he still refused to go along with it, they attacked again, joking that it was time for him to start doing something to put a little muscle on his boyish frame, one of them holding him in place by his hips while the other two grabbed and tugged his sweater and shirt up over his head.

And then, after the panic and the pleading and the useless thrashing, the utter terror as Faris belted Luka down against his chest while Ibro knelt to undo Luka's belt. And under the terror, confusion. How could he be so fucking terrified, and be hard? Ibro laughed. They all laughed. Then they stopped. Somehow, in a few dreadful seconds, their amusement turned to incomprehension. Then disgust. Then rage. He couldn't remember the words they'd used, but their grimaces, grunts and hissed taunts had congealed over time into a dense, malignant growth; his gaze, his desire, his erection had infected their healthy, masculine athleticism, and raped them. As if he'd cut off their cocks, violated their orifices, and filled their virile, manly bodies with cum.

While he apologized, cried and begged, they stripped his pants down to his ankles, caught and bunched at his winter boots. They held him still, exposed, while they mocked his stiff cock, finally wilting slightly in the cold, then threw him in the icy lake, saying that's what had to be done with randy dogs that didn't know the difference between a bitch in heat and the bull in the field. Before they left, they tossed the coat and sweater they'd peeled from his body in the water.

In his heavy boots, ankles caught in the tangle of his pants, Luka thrashed in screaming terror, drowning in the icy murk. Reason crushed under panic, it was dumb luck his feet found the bottom, and he managed to splash and drag himself out of the water. His whole body numb and shaking, he struggled to drag his pants up his stiff legs, then waded back out to fish the rest of his clothes out of the water.

In the dim light seeping into the room from the fading embers in the stove, Tarik was gazing at Luka, jaw tight in anger, eyes red and shimmering.

“I lied to my parents, said I'd fallen in by accident. But it didn't matter. The guys told the story around, and the next day, even the older men who came into the shop to get their shave or their hair cut were weird with me, silent and watchful, as if they'd witnessed me being possessed by the devil. When I went with my mother to do the shopping, the neighbors smiled back when she smiled, said 'Good morning,' or 'good afternoon,' when she did, but there was something weird, awkward about how they looked at us, how they looked at me. And a couple times, as soon as we turned our backs, people would cluster together and whisper and snigger.

“My parents never asked me about what happened, never tried to talk to me about why the neighbors were acting that way with us. They knew. Or they believed whatever it was they thought they knew. And a couple months later, they sent me to work for a barber in Sovići, telling me it was about money, about giving me a chance to get out on my own and become a man. But I knew they wanted to be rid of me. That I was an embarrassment to them.”

“Luka.” From Tarik's lips, in his low, soft voice, his name sounded like a chant of devotion. “They're cowards. All of them. Those stupid, cruel boys. Your mother and father. You're so...” When Tarik finally said, “...good,” Luka had the feeling he wanted to say something else, but either couldn't find the word, or decided not to use it. “You should have been loved. Protected and nourished. I'm sorry your parents didn't give you all the affection and care you deserved.”

The relief of finally confessing left Luka drained, empty, brain buzzing. Or maybe it was how sad Tarik sounded, how his gorgeous eyes were fixed on Luka so intently, like he was trying to see through his skin, through his skull, and see all the pain and shame Luka had been hiding for six years that made Luka feel like he was going to crumple. As if the only thing giving him mass, substance, almost as long as he could remember, was the poisonous infection from the wound Tarik had just lanced.

Tarik stood and drew Luka to him, wrapping him up tight in a warm hug. So good. Luka's whole body, his whole being softening. Less empty, now, hollowness slowly filling up again.

Even though Luka was about a thousand chores away from repaying how much Tarik had done for him—giving him his food, carrying most of the weight of their supplies, saving his life—Tarik insisted on doing the dinner dishes and building the fires back up, since Luka had cooked. While Tarik washed up, Luka brushed his teeth, still almost incredulous at how good it felt.

Tarik was just drying the last of the dishes. “Are you tired?”

“No.” His body felt exhausted, but wired on the thrill of the strange, unexpected intimacy with Tarik, Luka couldn't imagine falling asleep.

Tarik grinned. “Do you want to get in bed anyway?”

Blushing, happier than he'd ever imagined possible, Luka didn't even try to hide his eagerness, the huge smile baring his deliciously clean teeth. “Yes.”

“Good.” Tarik's smile made him look almost as ebullient as Luka felt. “I just need a minute.” He disappeared into the bathroom.

Heart beating faster already, heat surging through his veins, Luka went to the bed and hurried to strip off his clothes, his excitement tempered a little by a trickle of shame for his rush to undress so he wouldn't have to do it with Tarik watching, and then a warming thrill when a bold idea occurred to him. When Tarik emerged and found him lying naked on his belly, Luka almost lost his nerve, and barely resisted his compulsion to slip under the covers and hide his body.

Without a word, Tarik took off his clothes, and a twinge of dread-laced excitement shot through Luka when he saw Tarik was already hard. Almost in a whisper, Tarik said, “I'll tell you again, and I'll keep telling you until you know it's true. You're beautiful.”

When Tarik mounted the bed and straddled his thighs, Luka's hands balled into fists as if he were expecting a punch.

“Don't worry, Luka. We'll go slow.”

Tarik lowered himself against his body, the heat of their skin melding, and began touching and kissing. A few seconds, a few caresses, a brush of lips, a touch of tongue, and Luka was panting. Warm, stiff, silky cock nestled between pale hillocks. Tarik's weight, Tarik's heat. Tarik's breath, his kisses, his sighs. Every millimeter of Luka's skin went electric, hot and tight and tingling.

“Fuck, the way you're writhing under me is making me crazy.” Tarik lifted himself and coaxed Luka onto his back. His smile released a flood of heat in Luka's chest.

Deep, slow kiss. Deep, lingering gaze. Tarik's eyes were the most beautiful thing Luka had ever seen.

Panting. Suspended. Still.

Tarik smiled, but there was something heavy about his gaze. “I have to confess something.”

Wild clash of the panic provoked by those words, by the weight in Tarik's voice, and the sweet warmth stoked by Tarik's smile. Luka tried to keep his voice calm. “What?”

Was Tarik the one blushing, for once? Luka could hardly stand the sudden swell of tender affection Tarik's trembling vulnerability provoked in him. “I've never...done
this
before.”

“You mean... But you have a baby.”

Tarik chuckled. “I'm not a virgin, obviously. I've had my share of lovers. Just, none of them have been men.”

Luka's skin went hot, from chest to cheeks, but his core went cold. He'd wondered. He'd worried. “Oh.”

“Why do you sound disappointed?”

He wanted to believe everything Tarik had said. That his want was real. That he really liked looking at Luka. Liked touching and kissing him. He wanted to trust what he felt when Tarik looked at him, have faith in the sultry sibilance of his voice when Tarik said his name.

“Look at me, Luka.”

Luka made himself surrender to Tarik's searching gaze.

“When you were upset earlier, in the bathroom, asking if I'd like you more if—. Is this what that was about? Because you're the first man I've had for a lover?”

Tarik's words singed Luka's face and throat and chest. Was that how Tarik thought of him? A man? Not a child, a boy.
Kid
, he'd called him over and over the first days after the cave. And that other word.
Lover
. How could two soft syllables on Tarik's tongue prick Luka so deeply, and drive such a staggering dose of joy and trepidation into him, leaving him trembling?

“What do you think, Luka?” Even though there was a rough edge to Tarik's voice, he was speaking so softly, intimately, it soothed Luka's confusion like a balm. “That I'm in bed with you, that everything we've done the last couple days has been out of desperation? Like emergency rations no one would eat if there was real food on the table?”

Luka shrugged.

Tarik combed Luka's hair back from his temple with gentle fingertips. “I've been attracted to men before. I've just never had the chance to act on it.”

Wild, desperate hope blossomed in Luka's chest. “And the women? You just did it, because it's what people expect?”

Tarik laughed again. “Fuck. No. I like women.”

So much for thinking he'd found someone like him.

Tarik's mirthful smile softened. “Your story about that day after the movie... you've never been attracted to a woman?”

“I don't think so. No.”

“What's wrong?”

Luka tried to smile. “Nothing.”

“Please don't pretend with me, Luka. You can talk to me. You can be honest with me.”

“I don't understand.”

“What?”

Luka's strangeness had cost him so much. Friends. His family. It had almost cost him the use of his hand. His art. How many times had he wished he was like everyone else he'd ever known? “If you like women, why are you...”

Tarik planted a row of tender kisses along Luka's brow. “I'm naked in this bed with you because the first day we knew each other, looking at you, your face, your eyes, made my chest hurt. Because something about the sound of your voice makes me happy, like listening to music. Because the smell of you makes me... I don't know... hungry.” Tarik laughed. “Like I want to hunt you down and drag you off and breathe you in...” his focus sharpened and his right eyebrow arched, “and eat until I'm sated. And kissing you, touching you, feeling the way you move and breathe against my body is more arousing, more intense than actual sex with most lovers I've had.”