The Boy Who Came in From the Cold (5 page)

flowed into him, like water filling a vessel. Todd wrapped his arms around Gabe and began sobbing, near convulsing with tears. Gabe did the only thing he could. He held the boy—rocking him, hugging him— and just let him cry.

T
O HIS horror, Todd found himself sobbing like a baby. All the pain and suffering and heartache. It just started to pour out of him. His frustrations, the lost hopes….

He cried for parents—a hard mother and a cruel stepfather— people who might as well have been as dead as the father he couldn’t remember. He cried for Joan, and all that she wasn’t, and for betrayal and the final shock of realizing he really didn’t care what she’d done. Or with whom she’d done it. Did it really matter in the end? He cried for the pain of taking chances, believing in his dreams—looking for the best only to find the worst. For a fantasy that wasn’t coming true. For having never fit in a world where he wanted nothing more than to find a place that was his. He cried until he could cry no more.

Through it all, Gabe was there. A queer. The kind of man he’d been warned about—the worst kind of man—was there for him when no one else was, not even flesh and blood.

What’s more, he couldn’t believe how it felt in Gabe’s arms. He felt so safe. Gabe’s embrace was strangely soothing, peaceful even. The huge pecs were a wonderfully strong pillow for his head, and the big, muscular body made him feel so protected.

Was this how it felt when a father held you?
He had no idea. No frame of reference. He couldn’t even remember being held by his dad. There was a picture of it—him still in diapers, sitting in his father’s lap in a porch swing—but that was it. That man had been smiling. But he

was dead and the man Todd’s mother married six months later (the bitch!) had never smiled at him. Not that Todd could remember anyway. Unless it was when Todd was in pain.

Yet here was a total stranger, one who’d smiled at him, and more. Todd knew his mother held him once. There were pictures of that too. And he thought he remembered one time when he was very little— he’d been crying then also; he’d scraped a knee or maybe an elbow— and she’d even kissed him. But that was it. All Todd could remember.

Sometimes Todd wondered what his life would be like now if his real father had lived. What if that smiling man on the porch swing had raised him? How might life be different? Would the man be willing, or even have the desire, to just give him a hug every now and then? Wouldn’t that be amazing?

When Joan wanted to be held, he thought he might like it. He’d been looking forward to getting intimate with a girl for forever. All his friends said it would be great, and that he would love her tits. But he never had. Not really. Being so physical with her felt alien and somehow wrong, although that didn’t make a lick of sense.

And now? This man holding him?
It felt good
.
It was the first time Todd had felt good in as long he could remember, and he didn’t even know the guy’s last name. Did he? Had the fat man said Gabe’s name? He couldn’t remember. All he knew was that it was a wonderful feeling, lying in Gabe’s big arms, resting his

head on a hard yet pliant chest. The tears began to abate, slow down. It was like some heavy blanket had been lifted off of his body. Not even knowing he was doing it, Todd snuggled in even closer, melted against the man, was amazed at how their bodies fit together, like two puzzle pieces, even though he was so much smaller than Gabe.

That was when Todd realized his body was responding. He was getting hard—
No!
—and he didn’t know what to do.
No, no. Why am I…?
Why was this happening to him?

No. No. No!
He couldn’t be getting this aroused while in the arms of a man.
Not the first time
.

He’d gotten hard when Gabe had kissed him.
No. Can’t be.
And it wasn’t the first time something like this had happened.
No
. He couldn’t be getting a hard-on over a guy.
(
“You a faggot or something?”
)

Todd pulled back and as he did his arm brushed a hard knot in Gabe’s lap. Fuck! The guy had a hard-on. “No,” he cried and pulled away as if he’d been burned.

Gabe was turned on too!
“Todd, I’m sorry.”
Not a fag! I’m not!
Todd trembled. Saw his glass of wine on the coffee table—when

Memory: Cooking breakfast for his mom when he was ten. It was Mother’s Day. Pancakes with white chocolate chips. Dribbling dark chocolate in flower petal patterns on the plate before placing the pancakes in the center. A few real flowers added made it all even prettier. He wanted a smile from her. A “That’s lovely, Son.”

“Todd!” His stepfather. “What the
hell
?”
His stepfather standing over Todd, looking down at his creation. “What the hell is that?”
“Pancakes?” Quiet, tiny voice.
“What man makes pancakes like that?”
“They’re for Mom.”
“I don’t care. What are you, a fucking fag?”

He didn’t take the breakfast to his mother. Threw it out. Made new, boring pancakes and used Mrs. Butterworth instead of the syrup with just a hint of cocoa that he’d invented out of his head.

Todd looked up and somehow Gabe was standing over him with a bottle of wine. He hadn’t heard the man return. “More?” Gabe asked, and Todd saw he was tugging his shirt down in a ridiculous attempt to hide an all-too-prominent erection that traveled down one leg of the man’s sweats. They weren’t exactly made from a fabric that could hide anything.

Dammit. Look away. Stop staring. Not a fag! I can’t be a fag. Not that too. Not fair!
Trying not to even look in the man’s direction, Todd held out his glass for a refill, left it held out when Gabe only half filled it. Gabe took the hint and poured more of the deep-red, almost purple, wine.

Todd gulped half of it as fast as the last time, then caught himself. He was probably sucking down wine more expensive than he could possibly guess.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered.
“No,” Gabe said quietly. “I’m the one who should be sorry.”