Chapter Five

Juxtapose (v.) To place two objects close together or side by side for comparison or contrast, or to show scale in an image; also used to suggest a link between objects or people, or emphasise distance or contrast between them.

 

Scott climbs the stairs in a dormitory that smells like socks and new paint. An official-looking form in his hand has his room number on it, and a holdall is slung over his shoulder. He’s starting a new semester at uni, but because it’s one of those dreams, he has arrived to campus after all the other students are settled in.

He opens the door to his room to find Jason inside, arranging furniture in the dark.

“Oh, hi,” Jason says. “I’d like to have this side, all right?” He moves a desk to butt up against the foot of his bed.

“Jason, can you see? Why don’t I turn on the light?”

“No, it’s better for you if it’s dark, right? Better for developing pictures?”

“Um, I guess. But I don’t know how to do that yet.” Scott hears Jason’s footsteps. “Where are you?”

“Over here. Let’s get some light in then. Watch your eyes.”

Though Scott tries to stop him, Jason grabs the heavy blackout curtain and throws it back with a flourish. The room is flooded with stinging blue-white light, and Scott is thrown back by the shock of it; he can’t cover his eyes before he’s blinded by the flash.

*

Scott wakes with a shudder, his heart pounding in his chest. It takes a minute for the furniture and fixtures of his flat to make sense. He rubs his eyes with a mixture of disappointment and relief, and checks his phone for the time. Quarter to ten. He’s been asleep almost six hours.

The timeline rolls backward in his mind, like a DVD speeding through the scenes in reverse: he sways across the flat from the bathroom, clammy and pale, and lands on the bed in a heap; he’s bent over the toilet, heaving, though nothing is coming up; he lurches to the bathroom with his keys still in his shaking, sweaty hands. He fumbles to open the lock on his flat door, taking three tries to slide the key in the hole. He tears across the street midblock, a car swerving to avoid him; his ears roar so loudly he has to grimace against the sound, and he breaks into a jog and then a run, home, home, got to get home; the shop window with all its shiny new cameras, lenses, and tripods looks blurry, as if the focus has gone wonky; Paul waves at him from inside the store, beckoning him to come in, though they haven’t seen each other since November; he walks up to the familiar white awning of Camden Camera, a little dodge in his step but his chin up and Jason’s confident voice in his head: “I know you can do this. I know you can do this.”

Scott groans out loud as he remembers. The plan had seemed brilliant in his imagination when he’d dreamed it up the other day after his appointment with Jason. Simple, foolproof, what could go wrong? Walk to camera shop. Choose camera. Purchase camera. Walk home with camera. Take camera to osteo appointment. Show Jason you’re ready to go back to work.

But he had failed. Epically.

Tomorrow was going to be the day. Jason would be impressed and say, “Good on you” with his proud smile, and together, they would slay the dragon. But Scott hadn’t even made it inside the shop before the panic had snuck up on him and sent him running.

Everything that had seemed possible when he’d left Jason’s the other day is gone. The fight he’d found again, that electric feeling that made Scott’s hands fist and his body hum had lasted only a few hours. If he’s honest, it had begun to fade as soon as he stepped out onto the street, alone. He can’t even catch a glimpse of it now, with his memories zipped up in a camera case lurking in the cupboard. He rakes his hands through his hair and recalls the message he sent to the AP when he was full of hope and Jason’s strength. At the time, “a few weeks” felt completely realistic. The thought makes him curse. At this rate, he’ll be lucky to get back to work by the end of the year.

*

Scott avoids his reflection in the bathroom mirror as he turns on the shower, unbuttons his shirt, and loosens the clips on the elastic bandage. Jason had said, “Call me if you need anything, all right?” The tan cloth slips from his shoulder, revealing the tender skin underneath, and the fresh air feels crisp against it. What exactly would Scott say? Remember when you asked me if I was ready and I said I was? Maybe I lied.

It was the look Jason had had in his eye, like he couldn’t wait to dig in and wrestle this thing to the ground. Scott couldn’t be scared in the face of that. Jason was too…compelling, and Scott had felt like maybe he wasn’t sick anymore; they could unhook that dark, heavy thing and set it aside for a bit.

I thought I could. But now I’m not sure.

The biggest of his scars is a raised scarlet S that webs into four smaller lines snaking around his bicep. The skin surrounding it looks pitted, even chewed up in some places, or streaked as though it’s been painted in varying shades of rose and coral. Strangely, there isn’t any pain at all. Or maybe what Scott now defines as an annoying tingle really is pain, but he’s just become used to it. He lifts his arm to study the underside, also rough and discoloured. There is a fresher, straight scar from his last surgery on the outside of his elbow, and a dip right above it, crater-like, that looks as if someone took a melon baller and scooped out some muscle. “It will even out,” Dr Coulter had said. “Give it time.”

Scott finally stares at his reflection, focused on the fading, rust-coloured line from his ear to down along his jaw. Time, thinks Scott ironically. I’ve got my whole life.

My whole life.

Scott spins to turn off the shower tap and strides across the flat to the bedside cabinet, where he finds the calendar propped up behind his lamp.

He picks up the Sharpie and crosses off today’s square. Day one hundred seventy-three.

One hundred seventy-three days since he woke up and Omran didn’t, forming an unbroken chain on this calendar he’d nicked from the hospital. Scott has no idea whether he’s counting up or counting down, all he knows is there’s an X for every day he has lived since then. The chain keeps him tethered to that day, bound to it. But now it seems Scott has to choose, before tomorrow. He has to figure out a way to show up at Jason’s ready like he said he’d be while keeping Omran close too.

Scott pinches his lip, then picks up his phone. This will be more than his usual, simple “Goodnight.”

He taps the conversation at the top of WhatsApp, and begins to type.

Salaam alaikum.

His thumbs hover over letters that can’t possibly spell out all he wants to say. And ask.

Ta sanga ye?

Scott shakes his head at himself. Dr Coulter was right. I really have lost it. There won’t be a response. There can’t be. He’s messaging a person who is not actually alive, after all. But.

I’m

He’s what? Okay? Still here? Getting better?

I’m doing all right

Mostly

It’s been a month or so since the last time Scott has sent this much; sometimes he’ll write simply “bad dream tonight” or “I’m sorry.” There was one time when he’d got drunk and written stream-of-consciousness ramblings about pain and guilt and responsibility. That night had ended badly, with broken glass, a vomit-stained bath mat, and Scott passing out in the tub.

I got my splint off last week

Nope. Scott deletes the words, then tries again.

I have a question for you.

He stares at the screen’s white glow, clean and full of possibilities, trying to piece this together.

I’m not sure if I should

The cursor blinks the seconds by, waiting for him to continue. He’s in no position to ask, is he? For forgiveness? Or Omran’s blessing? Scott deletes this too.

How is he meant to make Omran understand when he doesn’t understand it himself? How is he supposed to win this tug of war when he’s pulling for both sides—his debt to Omran on one, and his family, his job, the rest of his life on the other? Jason is on that side, too, pulling hard, and Scott is getting the distinct impression Jason doesn’t ever lose.

But now, it’s Thomas’s face Scott sees, asking him to jump with him on his new trampoline, or explaining how his Lego set works over pizza and cupcakes. And then Olivia, who told him she misses him even though he’s still here.

I don’t know what to do.

About you. About what happened. About getting better.

I have this doctor.

Something like pride makes the edge of his mouth turn up a bit, remembering that first day in Jason’s office.

Dr Andrews.

Jason.

He knew your name.

He’s

Scott hesitates, the fleshy part of his lip folding between his teeth. If he types it, it will be out there in black-and-white, blinking back at him. Scott backspaces again to get rid of it. He takes a deep breath and coughs over the lump in his throat, which is getting bigger.

Jason thinks it would be all right if I

Scott eyes his calendar again. He picks out the letters gently, as if it will soften the blow.

let go of some things.

But I don’t know.

He wouldn’t let it go forever, of course; he could bring it to Jason’s, slip it in the bag, and Jason wouldn’t even have to know. Maybe that’s enough.

He’s smart. And a bit strange?

I think you’d like him.

Scott sees the long white feather resting on its red cloth. Oils stand in neat rows on a tray, and hot stones lay in a pile in their pot. Jason stares suspiciously at Scott’s throat and coaches him to breathe, then keeps watch over him as Scott enters the night valley to find the fire and the stories beyond it. Together, they watch over the flames in the sink as that other lifetime burns.

The next words come before his brain even thinks them, and Scott taps away at the phone, mouthing the words after they appear.

I trust him.

*

An hour later, after he has showered and eaten some tinned soup, Scott dims the light and climbs into bed. He’s drowsy and can’t help yawning, though his heart drums lightly with nerves. He has a mission to get back to the night valley, to walk through the fire and see what, and who, is on the other side.

The last two times he’s seen it, he’s ended up somewhere else; the other day, he ended up running for his life, and lost. Still, he is drawn to the valley’s canopy of stars and beckoning fire. It’s absolutely mad, but in spite of the danger and violence he’s found there, he feels peace and safety too. Then there are the questions that have no logical answer: If the stories he finds are just his mind running away with him, then how can they feel so real? How can he know the things he does, like the signature of a king, or the map of a forest he’s never seen? How can he feel the king’s confusion, or the girl’s desperate, paralysing fear? And if they are memories, not dreams, then what is he doing there? Why is he reliving them?

Scott closes his eyes. He tries to breathe slow and deep, concentrating on the exhale first. He searches the darkness for a hint of starlight, or the silhouette of the treeline, but finds nothing. His eyes snap open, remembering that the table is warm at Jason’s, so he turns on the electric underblanket. While it warms, he opens his bottle of arnica and rubs some between his palms. He reclines again with the light pine smell rising around him. At first, it helps; his cheeks relax and his breath gets deeper. But the darkness feels flat behind his eyes, with no swirls of colour or pinpricks of light.

He can hear Jason’s voice and see his curious expression. I know you can do this. But the harder Scott tries, the shallower his breathing becomes, and the more restless his mind feels. He even calls to the valley out loud, “Where are you?” thinking that perhaps he can pull it to him through sheer force of will. But in the end, his shoulders are tense and his jaw is tight, and he gives up with a groan.

He turns over and switches off the light, thinking about another question. What is it at Jason’s that breaks open the door?

*

When sleep finally comes, Scott dreams.

He’s driving his stepdad’s old white Volkswagen on a long country road. The midday sun beats through the open window, and the breeze feels lovely on his arm. Jason’s in the passenger seat, studying a map. Up ahead, the road curves broadly, and they have to slow down, but when Scott steps on the brake pedal there’s nothing there, just a hole in the baseboard exposing the road going by underneath. We’ll coast, Scott thinks, and Jason looks at him with an easy smile, asking if he’s ever been to Land’s End.

*

Returning to Jason’s office on Thursday is like finally finding a clear channel after three days of static.

Scott swipes his hand along the surface of the counter. Those rocks, that bag, that sink where they set a fire, and that hum that is almost alive underneath it all, they are all here. He has missed them desperately.

He puts his messenger bag down on the chair, then opens it once more to check its contents the way he checks for his boarding pass eight times while he waits for a plane. He should be a bit scared, given what they’ll be doing today, but the fear won’t come. When Jason walks in with his headband and his long-sleeved T-shirt, Scott can’t help but smile because the last piece fits into place.

Scott knows their routine and can anticipate where Jason is going to go next. He always feels Scott’s jaw and neck first, then looks at his eyes and tests his hands. It’s like a dance they do, where Jason has taught him the steps and Scott catches on to the rhythm. Jason glances at Scott’s messenger bag in between, but doesn’t ask about it. Instead, he mentions that Scott’s neck is tight and asks him to turn around and look straight ahead.

“Now look down slowly, please. How’s physio going?” Jason feels for how Scott’s neck bones line up, with his thumbs on either side.

“Good. Oh, Brenna said, ‘Tell ’im to mind ’iz manners,’ whatever that means.”

“Ha. Now tuck your chin into your chest as far as it’ll go.” As Scott does, Jason presses down, and Scott hears tiny popping sounds from the inside.

“Oh, no. What did you do?” Scott asks.

“I called her a couple of times, asking for another page on you. I guess I was bugging her.”

Scott gasps. “Give her a minute, why don’t you?”

“I emailed her too,” Jason offers cheekily, starting at the top of Scott’s neck again.

“God, no wonder she’s irked. You’re being a menace.” But inside, Scott feels a warm pang of appreciation.

“Nah, just persistent. Now bring your head up slowly, all the way back.”

Scott feels about a stone lighter, and his shoulders drop away from his ears.

“Slower. Keep going.”

The red waxy seal on Jason’s biggest diploma catches Scott’s eyes on their way up to the ceiling. “I don’t want you two fighting about me. Be nice, all right?”

“Who said we’re fighting? She’s excellent, and she knows I think so. I just wanted an update, sooner rather than later.” Jason sounds pleased. “That looks better. Down again, please.”

“What’s the big rush?”

Jason holds pressure on the sides of his neck, and this time there is no sound.

“Just impatient I guess.” Jason gives Scott a light pat on the shoulder to indicate they are done. “The more information I have, the better job I can do, the sooner you feel better. You can get back to your life, you know?” Jason walks around to face him, studying him with that open, curious look. “Get you back to taking pictures again. Right?”

Surely Jason can hear the thudding of Scott’s heart; here it is, the moment of truth, and Jason doesn’t even know it. Or maybe he does, and that’s why he’s staring, waiting for Scott to say something. Something real.

“About that,” Scott begins. A wave of heat rushes down his arms, pooling in his hands. He swipes the palms against his jeans. “I don’t think that’s going to happen.”

Jason’s curious expression doesn’t change as he folds his arms. “And why is that?”

Excellent question. Scott stifles a cough. “Well. I’m having trouble with my eyes, you know?”

“Your eyes?” Jason turns to place a hand on his files. His voice is gentle, but matter-of-fact. “Doctor, um, Osborne, is it? I thought…he gave you the all-clear back at the first of May? Or am I mistaken?”

Scott remembers the day. How an ophthalmologist can complete an entire eye exam without ever once properly looking the patient in the eye, Scott doesn’t know. But, yes, the doctor had signed off, with a clap on the shoulder and a “good luck to you” as he backed out the door, already handing Scott’s file off to the nurse and taking up the next one.

“Right, he did, but it’s more like…” Scott looks across the room, and his eyes land on the framed tree painting. “It’s a focus thing. Like, I can’t hold my eyes still long enough to…see. The way I need to.”

Jason’s mouth opens slightly as if he’s about to say something, but Scott doesn’t want to stop. It feels good to finally tell someone. It feels bloody excellent that that someone is Jason.

“They slip, you know? I’ll be looking at something, but I can’t keep focused. I have to look away, like my eyes are…nervous or something. It’s hard to make them settle down.” His hands feel prickly now, and his voice is getting stronger. “It’s not all the time. It doesn’t happen when I’m here. But when I’m out, walking on the street mostly. The light’s too bright, and there’s too much going on, so I can’t focus. Almost like I’ve got to be watching everything at once. But I can’t really see anything the way I used to. Everything blends together.”

The way Jason is looking at him draws out the pieces of his story Scott thought would go away if he could ignore them long enough. Now he can look at it objectively, the way he did when he was working and there was a story to be told. This time, the story is his, and he can tell Jason all of it. Well. Almost all of it.

“But…it’s also because of the cameras.” Scott waves his hand dismissively. “One is, well, destroyed, and the other is right out there on my desk, and I can’t pick it up. I walk by it every day, and I …can’t. You know, now I can’t even step foot in the camera shop? I’ve tried, and this last time, yesterday? This feeling comes over me like…” Like I’m going to die. “I can’t breathe because my chest is so tight it hurts, and I think I’m gonna be sick. Dr Coulter said they’re panic attacks. It probably says in my file I don’t have them anymore. It was easier to tell them I didn’t. But I do. And when they happen, I’m down for hours after, you know? And I need to sleep it off. So yeah, the photography thing is…over.”

That’s more words than Scott’s ever said in a row to Jason, who’s waiting for more with his eyes fixed on him and his tablet in his hand. But there is nothing more to say, and Scott takes a deep breath.

Jason taps on his tablet. “Dr Osborne’s file says your eye injury was caused by blunt trauma, as well as penetrating debris. You got hit with something.”

Scott nods. “I don’t remember, but they think so.” Scott can still see Omran jogging toward the embassy building, calling out to a security guard. Suddenly all the heads in the frame turn at once toward a shiny silver sedan at the curb whose horn blares.

“You lost sight in your right eye temporarily.”

“Yes, until the swelling and drainage went down.”

“And your panic attacks. About how often?” Jason types without looking up.

“Once a week, maybe. Sometimes twice.”

“Do you have a bad headache after? Chest pains, or numbness in your hands?”

“No, I just get massively tired.”

Jason puts the tablet down on the counter after sliding it closed. “What you’re describing isn’t a physical problem, though it might feel like it. It’s physiological, but I think it’s caused by anxiety. You can take meds for them, but I have another idea about what we can do. Not sure you’re going to like it.”

Scott looks over to the counter, where the white feather and colourful crystals lie in front of the slow cooker. A bristle rushes up his neck. “Let me guess. Needles.”

“Yes. There’s a great success rate for treating anxiety and panic attacks with acupuncture. Even military personnel with PTSD are feeling a good measure of relief right away. What do you think?”

Well, sharp things cut. “How many needles?” Scott doesn’t know whether they’re talking two or twenty or two hundred.

“I think…six? Maybe eight, depending.”

“Near my eyes?” No matter how confident Jason is about this, Scott may have to draw the line. By reflex, he crosses his arms, building a barrier against it. But Jason wouldn’t hurt him; Scott knows that for sure.

Jason shakes his head and takes a step closer, extending his hand. “May I?” Scott finds himself offering his good arm. Jason turns it over, flipping the palm to face the ceiling, and rolls up Scott’s sleeve. “Say we start with six. First one goes here.” He presses his finger into the underside of Scott’s forearm, below the elbow. “Then three in here.” He draws a circle over the thin skin on the inside of his wrist. “We’ll need one near the knee, and on your foot too. Then maybe, if you can, the last one right here.” He touches his middle finger lightly on a spot between Scott’s eyebrows, which furrow with concern.

“They’re small, right?” Scott asks.

“Hair’s width. Some patients say they don’t feel them at all, but usually, there’s some tingling, or heat.” He tilts his head down toward the compass on Scott’s arm, then looks up with a smirk. “If you can get tattooed, Scott, this’ll be cake.”

With that, the table turns. Scott suddenly wants to show Jason what he’s made of, that he’s not delicate, that he can level up.

“Okay. Let’s do it.”

“Ah, that’s it,” Jason says, rubbing his palms together. “All right. So get ready like you normally do, just start face up instead. Unless…there was something else you wanted to do?” Jason gestures to Scott’s messenger bag with a questioning look.

“Oh, right. I brought this for you.” It was supposed to be his calendar, to put in Jason’s bag, but this morning, he’d lost his nerve at the last second. Scott folds back the leather flap and pulls out a large hardbound notebook. “I pretty much destroyed yours the other day, so.”

Jason takes it from him with a priceless look of surprise. “You didn’t have to do that. I’ve got more.”

Scott shrugs. “I went through tons of those notebooks back at school, in Studio I and all through Drafting and Design, before I switched my major.”

Jason runs his hand over the matte black cover. “Oh, you’re an artist?”

“Nah, not really,” Scott says, shrugging. “I’m much better with a camera. Or, was, I mean. Anyway, it’s more like a sketchbook, you know? No lines. The paper is thicker too. I thought it would be good for people to draw on, or write, whichever.”

“Yeah, I see. That’s a great idea.” Jason flips through the pages, nodding appreciatively. “It’s perfect. Thank you.”

Scott hasn’t seen Jason like this before, taken pleasantly by surprise. Maybe it’s Scott’s nerves, or maybe it’s the thrill of making Jason smile, but a giddy thought occurs to him, and he says it before he can think the better of it. “And that paper would make a cracking fire too. If there was to be, you know, a fire.” He makes a whooshing sound, his arms rising with exaggerated jazz hands. “Burn, baby, burn, disco inferno!” Scott whisper-sings, a smile breaking over his face, and it’s lovely because it’s completely goofy, but he can’t help it.

“Oh my God,” Jason mutters, but a laugh bubbles out of his cheeks. “You sing too?”

“Burn, baby, burn, burn that mother down!” Scott sings louder, and he swears he can see Jason lighting up. He steps toward the door, and Scott catches him when he looks back fondly and shakes his head with a giggly sigh, a shine he’s never seen before glinting out of his eyes.

“Goodbye,” Jason laughs.

“I’ll be ready in two,” Scott calls after him, just before the door shuts. This time when he says it, it sounds like affection. I don’t want you to go, I’m more myself when I’m with you, please don’t be long.

*

Scott tries not to be nervous as he gets situated on the table, adjusting the pillow under his knees and straightening the covers. It feels strange to start on his back, facing the room. It’s like waiting for a CAT scan, or the dentist. Seven needles. Wait till I tell Thomas about this. There is the beginning of a tickle in his throat, but he clears it away as he hears Jason’s knock.

“Did you change your mind?”

“No, I’m ready. Bring it on.”

“Good. You don’t have anywhere to go after this, do you? I mean, it would be best if you go home and rest.” Scott hears the opening and closing of drawers and the tearing of paper wrappers. The light fixture in the centre of the ceiling fan looks like an eyeball gazing down at him, kind and unblinking.

“I can do that.”

“Perfect. We’ll put the needles in, leave them for a while, then see where we are, okay? We might not do much more after that.”

“That’s all right.” He closes his eyes as Jason walks around him, making sure his knees are in the right place and the blanket is tucked around his feet. For a second, an orange pinprick of light dances against the darkness, but as Scott’s eyes try to follow it, it recedes far into the distance until it disappears. It makes his throat itchy, and he wants to cough. He swallows over it instead, trying to relax into the mellow tones of the cello music.

Jason slides a warm towel under Scott’s neck. When his head settles back, his chin is raised just enough to open up his throat, and that helps; when Jason asks if it feels all right, all he can do is hum. Then Jason stands quietly for a few moments. His slow and even breathing steadies Scott’s nerves a bit, and his thoughts turn to the night valley. He wonders what it will show him today.

He’s brought back when Jason pulls the blanket from his leg, from the knee down. “We’ll start here, all right? Just a little prick.”

Scott snorts before he can help it.

“Oh, Jesus, I forgot. Easily amused.” Jason deadpans without looking up.

Scott giggles for real now, even as Jason inserts the needle into the top of his foot, right above the arch. “Sorry. Can’t help it.”

“Is that okay?”

“Yeah, it’s fine.” It feels like a baby mosquito that hasn’t quite learned how to bite.

“And here’s the second.” Jason taps the firm muscle just under and on the outside of Scott’s knee. “A tap and a pinch.”

The second one goes in smoothly, and Scott realises he doesn’t feel the first one anymore.

“All right so far?”

“Yeah. I don’t really feel…anything.”

“Okay. Wrist next.”

Scott’s hand feels heavy as Jason pulls his arm out from under the blanket. He lays it palm up and kneads the forearm gently to relax it. Three needles go in quickly at Scott’s wrist. These do bite, and Scott opens his eyes to study them. He is amused to find they look like little antennae sticking up out of his skin.

“This is weird,” Scott says, genuinely fascinated.

“Maybe. But if it is, it’s three-thousand-year-old weird. And it works, so, why not?” Jason looks up from Scott’s arm, and for a moment, they share a smile.

Just as quickly, Jason’s face turns serious, back to the task at hand. “One more here.” He finds the right spot under Scott’s elbow, then places the needle guide and gives it a gentle tap. It’s tingly and hot.

“Did you heat that one up?”

Jason grins. “Nope, same as the others. Does it burn?”

It actually feels kind of…pleasant. “No, it’s okay.”

“Good. Now for the last one.”

Scott’s heart pumps a hot beat because Jason is half sitting on the table for balance, and this is truly about to happen.

“Yes, go.”

Jason’s face comes so close Scott can see the fine whiskers on his cheek and a few tiny wrinkles at the corner of his eye. His lips part a bit as he focuses on the spot between Scott’s eyes where the needle has to go. Jason smells a bit like cinnamon. And the ocean.

“Relax your forehead, okay?” Jason’s thumb gently presses over the spot to smooth it out.

Oops. Scott tries to concentrate on something else, but Jason is everywhere. The tender cello music seems to guide Scott’s eyes over the smooth skin of his neck as it disappears under his collar, the hair over his ear swept under his headband, and his eyelashes, dark over his focused blue eyes.

Jesus. Scott’s free hand stirs under the blanket, looking for something to grasp onto.

“Okay, last one.”

The needle goes in with a tiny nip between his eyebrows. Jason rises up and away, leaving Scott feeling slightly dizzy.

“That’s it, good job.”

“Now we wait?”

“Wait, relax, breathe. You can close your eyes if you want.”

“Do you stay?”

“Yep. Have to watch for side effects. Let me know if you feel any numbness or pain.”

Scott feels like a science experiment, with Jason waiting for a reaction. But there are worse things than being pinned to a table with orders to do…nothing. He settles in and closes his eyes.

His mind picks through the possibilities of what he might do instead of photography. He might be able to work at a magazine; maybe he can talk to one of his contacts at The Times to see about openings. He could be a scheduler, or maybe a layout editor. That would mean sitting at a computer every day, on a phone, in a cubicle, inside a building. He couldn’t ever picture himself doing something like that when he was in school, and still can’t, even given what’s happened. But maybe it’s time to make friends with the idea.

A question nags at him: what happens if Jason is actually the one who’s right? What if they can get the old Scott back? Could that Scott even exist again? That Scott had membership cards for every airline lounge, and stopped at home only long enough to do the washing and pack up again. That Scott’s passport had been so tattered from use that the customs officer in Prague had broken protocol to mend it with duct tape. That Scott was the photojournalist the industry said was “one to watch.” That Scott travelled, he created things, and he liked to think his work made a difference.

The thought lodges in his throat and makes him cough.

“Water?”

“Please. Can I move?” Scott asks, coughing harder.

“Slowly.”

His water bottle appears, and Scott takes a drink, which smooths things over. Jason looks concerned.

“When’s the next time you see your ENT?”

Scott mentally searches his calendar. He tries to schedule his ear, nose, and throat appointments on Fridays. “Tomorrow, I think?”

“Yes! Someone else I can pester.”

Scott rolls his eyes as he hands the bottle back. “You are…an annoying person.”

Jason shrugs. “I suppose that’s fair. Why don’t you try that breathing again? You were getting good at it.”

Scott starts to lie back with Jason’s hand already poised over the lower part of his ribs.

“Exhale first, pause, then breathe in.”

The first one goes wrong; Scott’s practice at home had been rough, and his confidence is shot.

“That’s okay. It’ll come.” Jason rests his hand on Scott’s abdomen, and the warmth makes the muscles there loosen. Scott closes his eyes and tries again, and this time it’s closer. “There, you got it.” Jason places Scott’s hand where his own had been.

Even with his eyes closed, Scott can picture Jason’s hand hovering over his body. It would make an interesting composition. The mid-afternoon light behind Jason streams in from the window, streaking across his arm and putting his tree tattoo in a kind of spotlight. The ink is an interesting contradiction in the room full of gentle colours and soft textures; its graceful black lines could be the striking focal point of the frame. All the details are visible in Scott’s mind, down to the colours in Jason’s veins and the shadows between his fingers.

But when Scott remembers that he doesn’t take pictures anymore, the vision breaks apart, and behind it is a tall pine tree silhouetted against a dark sky. He tries to keep his breath steady, but it quickens. Maybe there’s another story hidden in the stars up there, meant to show him another piece of his past.

Where is the fire?

Today, it is a warm orange glow off in the distance. He begins to walk toward it, telling himself he can find his way back because Jason is watching over him.

*

The country air smells like rosemary, and when it mingles with the scent of linseed and walnut oils, Scott thinks he may have arrived somewhere close to paradise.

This, the smaller of the two receiving rooms of the villa, is the best room for painting. It boasts a large north-facing window that gives them long hours of light, but it is private as well; they are all but isolated on the quiet side of the residence, too far away to be bothered by staff or family. Their work is too important, and they are under a fixed deadline.

Scott must create a portrait of Lorenzo, the duke’s middle son. The work must be worthy of the nobility it represents, but must also depict Lorenzo in the finest light: educated of mind, vibrant of health, and fair of face and form. It is to Scott’s advantage that Lorenzo is all of these things, so the work hasn’t been difficult. Until now.

The only portion yet unfinished is Lorenzo’s face, which has only been roughed in with flesh-coloured shades. Scott has kept it for last, partially because it is the most difficult to render, but more because Lorenzo finds this whole exercise a farce, and can’t manage to hold an expression worthy of his noble station. When they began three weeks ago, his face conveyed only disdain. As the days passed, Scott began to see hints of wry cleverness, some curiosity, and most recently, his arch humour.

This afternoon, though, Lorenzo’s expression has changed into something else entirely.

Scott watches helplessly as Lorenzo draws his hand up to adjust the embroidered collar of his own jacket, eyebrows rising in an unspoken proposition. Then there is a slant of his head and a suggestive lick of his lip. Scott turns his eyes away, feeling his face flush. He’s been trying to see Lorenzo objectively, like a tree in a landscape or a bowl of pears, but it’s no use; too much has passed between them, and now they can’t go back.

This cannot go on. We will run out of time.

“Renzo, please. You’re meant to look noble. How will I finish if you cannot behave?”

“Do not finish. It will be what it is. Or better, paint little Sandro from the stables. Isabel can marry him instead.”

“Come, this is important. You are an upstanding citizen of Firenze. Just look dignified, please, for the time it takes for me to render it, will you?”

“Why don’t you come out from behind your easel, Matteo, and see what part of me is upstanding?” Lorenzo counters, looking down to his own lap with a crooked smile.

Incorrigible, Scott thinks. But also, irresistible.

Lorenzo’s short, curly hair sweeps over his forehead. He wears his black silk waistcoat with billowed, slit sleeves, while his legs in silk hose cut a shape of youth and privilege. He is nineteen years old, one half of a smart match brokered by those in charge of such things. But underneath, Scott can see the mischievous boy who began venturing into his sleeping quarters a week ago to tuck into his bed with him. Scott had tried to resist at first; he is under the duke’s employ, after all. But Lorenzo is persistent, and gentle in his way, and very used to getting what he wants. His murmured, persuasive “Let me hold you, Matti” had cracked Scott’s resolve like an eggshell.

Lorenzo takes Scott on middle-of-the-night escapades to the kitchens, where they share cold meats and cheeses and make off with bottles of wine. He shows Scott the custom commissioned artworks in the chapel, generations old, and they talk about patronage and martyrs and the nature of miracles. After, they creep back to Scott’s room, whispering secretly, finally unable to keep their hands from each other’s skin. Their loving is by turns desperately quick or deliciously unhurried, always ending with Lorenzo reluctantly stealing away to his private apartments before dawn, the promise of seeing Scott in the daylight in his kiss.

“Lord help us, Renzo. If I don’t get this finished in time, the duke will dismiss me.”

“The plague is taking people by the hundreds in the city. Surely the Lord has more pressing matters at the moment. And as for my father…he may dictate who I marry.” A pause. “But not who I love.”

Scott turns back to his paints, shy now, and makes a show of examining his brushes.

“You don’t like it when I use that word.” Lorenzo’s voice has softened, but Scott doesn’t look up.

“Don’t speak that way. You are highborn. I am a painter. A labourer.” He is no different than the craftsmen who replace the terracotta tiles on the roof, or the stonemasons who lay brick for the walkways snaking around the vast gardens of the palazzo. They are invisible worker bees that repair the hive. When one dies, there are dozens in line behind to take its place.

Scott hears the confident click of Lorenzo’s heels against the cold marble floor as he approaches.

“Don’t look. It’s not finished.” Scott moves to pull the heavy burlap sheet over the work, but Lorenzo catches his arm. Their hands join for a moment before Lorenzo steps behind him to look over his shoulder.

At first, his expression is pleased. Lorenzo’s black waistcoat shines with richness. The gold of his ring and the delicate embroidery of his collar and cuffs mark wealth and refined taste. The books on the table denote intellect, and the model ship on the shelf behind him illustrates that he is well travelled. Scott watches as Lorenzo takes in the line of his leg, the glowing warmth of the wooden table, and the fine silk fabric of his sleeves.

“Your skill…is…it’s marvellous.” Lorenzo’s voice is a song in Scott’s ear. He rests his hand on the back of Scott’s neck.

Scott’s heart quickens. Any moment now, he’ll see it.

Lorenzo’s eyes lock on the black-on-black embellishment of the brocade. His face is puzzled, then bright with understanding. His delicate finger reaches out to the canvas.

“Matteo…what did you do?”

“I…” Scott begins hesitantly, “I put a bit of myself in as well.”

Hiding in the jacket’s decorative texture are dozens of intertwining letters. The subtle brushstrokes curve and bend seamlessly, easily mistaken for the common textile pattern of flower petals and butterfly wings, but each is an M or an L, twisted through each other to form the decoration. This is not a signature or a maker’s mark. It is a declaration that shines through the layers of paint, visible only to those who make it their purpose to see. Just as in life, Scott will hide in plain sight.

“Your eye is true,” Lorenzo says softly. “But it is your heart I treasure more.” His slender arms fold around Scott’s wider ones, and they study the painting together, the weight of its purpose unspoken but heavy on their minds.

“We have five more days, Matti. Do you know what I want to do with all that time?”

Scott doesn’t answer. Lorenzo is going to marry. Scott feels it as surely as a deed already done. It will be a strategic alliance; the couple will set up house in a stately palazzo in Firenze proper and have children, as expected. And years from now, Lorenzo will send for him to return to the country villa to paint their portraits. Scott will have to, because he will not be able to say no to Lorenzo, not ever.

Lorenzo slides his hand under the scratchy cotton of Scott’s work shirt, grazing his palm over his heart. “I want to sit for you. I want to watch you looking at me. I want all of your attention.” Kisses light on Scott’s ear. “I want to sleep in your bed and wake up in the sunlight. I want to show you every bit of me, and I want you to paint the truth. Let them see how much I want you.” It is the most beautiful and treacherous of dares, and surely Lorenzo doesn’t mean it, that Scott should capture that direct gaze full of longing and desire. But Scott can’t make himself argue, not with Lorenzo’s lips on his brow.

Scott’s stained hands feel crude against the delicate buttons of Lorenzo’s waistcoat. So many, many buttons. He could tear them away just to get to the real beating heart underneath, the fair skin that smells of clove and citrus blossoms.

They crumple to the floor, bumping the easel and chair noisily on the way down. Scott hates this, their coming together just as they must let go. But the vivid rose in Lorenzo’s cheeks rises, coaxing Scott to forget all the rest. Lord in heaven, who wouldn’t want to marry him?

Lorenzo’s hands grasp the hair at the nape of Scott’s neck and hold him there, their eyes finally locked together. “I want to make love,” he whispers boldly, with Scott on top of him and their legs tangling. “Love. Do you hear me? Love, love, and more love.”

*

Scott’s eyes crack open to the gentle colours of Jason’s room. The villa slips away as if sinking underwater, or maybe it’s Scott that is rising to the surface. He’s back now, relaxing on Jason’s table with little needles standing up from his skin.

His breathing has slowed to an effortless crawl, where he can stop in between breaths for several seconds before he has to inhale. His head feels strangely disconnected from his body, and he wiggles his fingers to make sure everything is still attached. A peaceful feeling surrounds him, of being no more than a cog in the wheel, humming along just where and when and how he should be. A man, breathing. It is enough.

Part of him wants to tell Jason how good he feels. But it can wait. He wants to hover here in this simple place, where inhaling and exhaling are the sum total of his life’s purpose, resting with the memory of a brave love letter painted with his own stained hands.

*

Jason removes the last needle and places the blanket over Scott’s foot.

“So? Everything feeling good?”

“Mm hmm, excellent.”

Jason walks around behind his head. “Good. Give me a second to check your shoulders, then you can go.”

Scott closes his eyes as Jason reaches under his back and lifts Scott’s torso off the table an inch or so, stretching his spine up and out while his lower body stays heavy and dense on the table.

The silence and slow movement give Scott time to think. Where he’d failed to find the valley at home, three times now at Jason’s, he’s found the fire door, opened it, and walked right through. It’s no mistake, no coincidence, not an accident. How many stories might there be, ten? Twenty? A hundred? How far back do they go? Will there be an end to whatever this is? Will he lie here next time and find the fire burned out, or worse, the night valley nowhere to be found?

Scott tries to gather everything he is questioning into something that makes sense.

“Do people ever say they see things when you work on them?”

“See things? Like, in the room? Or…”

“No, I mean…more like visions, I guess. Or dreams?”

“Could be. I see things sometimes when people work on me.”

“Yeah? What do you see?” Scott feels an odd twinge when he thinks about Jason being touched the way Jason touches him. Not that Jason touches him, really, it’s just…work. But still, there is a kind of intimacy in what they do; they take up the same space, breathe the same air. On Mondays and Thursdays, Scott’s world is this room and the progress they make together. The thought of someone having that with Jason makes Scott’s mouth tight.

“All sorts of stuff. At chiropractic adjustments, I see colours mostly,” Jason says, pulling Scott’s shoulder blades back and sideways to widen them. Scott’s upper body slumps like a ragdoll, shoulders caving in a little and his head drooping to the side. Jason is strong enough to support him completely, and Scott lets him. “When I go for a massage, it’s more like memories resurfacing. I’ll think of a person I haven’t thought about in ages. Or an answer to a problem will come to me.”

Hmm. So nothing like, oh, past lives or some such.

“Where does all that come from?”

“Sometimes it’s just physiology, you know? Nerves firing, circulation increasing, waking up different parts of the brain.” Jason settles Scott down on the table, gently cradling his head at the last minute so it lands softly on the surface. “But one school of thought says we store events in our bodies, actually within the cell structures. When we loosen them up and get them out, the brain ‘sees’ them. So. Make of that what you will.” Jason pulls the blanket up to cover Scott’s chest. “Why do you ask?”

Scott can’t possibly tell him. The old king in the castle, the runner in the woods, and now the painter with a secret. Either he’s holding these lives in his body or they are figments of his imagination. But either way, it feels like speaking about them out loud would…betray them somehow. And if he did, Jason might figure out that Scott has completely lost it, worse off than either of them thought, and Scott can’t stand the idea of Jason looking at him with disappointment. Or pity. He veers off into safer territory.

“Hey, do you think acupuncture would work on the ringing in my ears?”

Jason leans on the table, his hands on either side of Scott’s head. His face is above Scott’s again, this time upside down. “Brilliant idea. Next time?”

Scott picks a freckle on Jason’s forehead to focus on, so he doesn’t get distracted by all the rest. “Yeah. Next time.”

*

Jason is searching his shelves for a book when Scott knocks on his open office door.

“Come in, I want to show you something before you go.”

“What are you looking for?” Scott asks, putting his messenger bag down. A fat Buddha smiles at him from one of the shelves, and on another sits an expensive-looking metal singing bowl with a mallet beside it. A sphere-shaped turquoise crystal rests on the next shelf, along with the picture of Jason and his boyfriend. Some book titles pop out at him: Cranial Osteopathy. Human Anatomy and Physiology, Edition 10. Eastern Body, Western Mind.

“An acupuncture book. So we can look at the plan for next time.”

Scott’s eyes fall to Jason’s desk, which holds a date blotter, a vertical file, and a laptop, along with the picture of Jason with his football team. Scott takes a closer look and sees details he missed on that first day. Jason is so young, with his hair cropped shorter and cheeks clean-shaven. He balances on his teammates’ shoulders, and though Scott can almost hear the crowd roaring for him now, it’s clear that Jason’s smile looks more like a wince.

“You played?” Scott asks, gesturing to the frame.

“Yeah, back in the day. Ah, here it is.”

“Looks like you did well.”

Jason comes closer. “I suppose. That’s the day I hurt my knee. I was stupid, played the last half on it injured.”

“Ugh, sorry.”

“No, it’s all right. To be honest, it’s what got me interested in medicine. I looked at everything, no matter how mad it sounded. Acupuncture. Chiropractic. Yoga. Float tanks, guided meditation, Reiki. Of course there was some surgery and pharmaceuticals, too, but…that other stuff wasn’t mad at all.”

Scott tries to picture this footie Jason on crutches, putting on a brave face over pain. He tries to picture Jason needing help.

“Did you get to play again?”

“Nah, I tried. But that was my last game. You know, I’ll pick up with the lads on a Sunday here and there, but…that was it.” Jason stares down at the picture, stroking over it with his thumb, and Scott feels like a twat for bringing it up.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked. It must be hard for you to look at.”

Jason tilts his head and chuckles. “Well, it might be a shit picture, but they can’t all be award winners, like yours.”

“No, I mean, doesn’t it make you…sad?”

“What? No. It is what it is,” Jason says simply. “I actually love this photo. It captures something, you know? That’s why I keep it here. It’s the end of one thing, the beginning of something else.”

“That’s very…” Scott tries to think of the word. “Zen? Of you.”

“Yeah, I suppose. It took me a while to get there. Some days, I think I’m still trying to get there.”

Scott wonders if Jason had someone special back then. Someone who might have carried his books at school, or propped his leg up on ice at home, and made sure he didn’t chuck his crutches too soon. Someone who might have dried his tears and kissed the pain away. He looks at the other picture, on the bookshelf, of Jason and his boyfriend. There is comfort there, and intimacy; with their heads slanting together and their arms overlapping, he and Jason are more than boyfriends. They’re partners. Scott wonders what kind of man he must be for Jason to be in love with him.

He shifts his eyes just in time so Jason doesn’t catch him staring.

“Let me show you this.” Jason has flipped the book open to a diagram of a human head, with colourful, snaking lines drawn over it that look very much like a map of the London underground.

“The ringing in your ears is both an ear issue and a jaw issue, so let’s do these three”—Jason draws a circle on the human’s ear—“and then these, and the one between your eyes too.” He drags his finger down to the drawing’s cheek, where three large dots mark the jaw.

“Seven,” Scott states.

Jason cringes. “No, we’d have to do both sides. So that’s twice six, plus one. Thirteen altogether. Upside is, you can stay dressed.”

“Thirteen’s okay. Let’s do it.”

“Perfect. We’ll plan on it. Now, let me look at you.”

Jason holds Scott’s wrist with two fingers over his pulse and looks into Scott’s eyes. Scott stares back directly, blinking easily with no itching or welling up. His jaw feels like it’s hanging comfortably loose, his teeth not even touching. He notices that his neck feels long and open, and his shoulders rest lower on his body. He feels…tall. And bloody famished.

“Stick out your tongue, please?”

Scott complies without missing a beat, and Jason nods. He reaches for Scott’s other hand and flips it over, examines the nails. He studies Scott’s face again, the edge of his mouth turning up.

“You feel good, don’t you?”

Scott smiles. I want to watch you looking at me. “Yeah. I do.”

“Good. Lots of water today, and lots of rest. And keep up the heat. It’s paying off.”

“Will do.” Scott swings his messenger bag over his shoulder, wishing there was a reason for him to stay. He doesn’t want to lose this feeling of being healthy, being trusted, not needing to be coddled or fussed over. Strong. He has to figure out a way to stay connected to this place and this feeling, to tide him over the days when he’s not here.

Scott may not be hiding his worry as well as he thinks because Jason says, “Call me, yeah? If you need anything? I always check my messages.”

“Yes. I will.”

*

Scott drops his jacket and bag to the floor when he gets into his flat and heads straight for the cupboard. He doesn’t look up to the shelf but swims through jackets and coats to get to the six large portfolios propped up against the inside wall. He wrestles the whole pile out and spills them on the floor.

He hasn’t seen the photo in years, but it came to mind on the bus ride home, and he knows it’s the key. It’s a print from his very first photography class, the one with the older-than-Moses professor who kept insisting wistfully, “Mistakes are wonderful!” It will be the bridge Scott needs to stay connected to Jason’s office from across the city.

He unzips the largest portfolio and flips the leathery cover open to reveal a pile of prints in plastic sleeves. At first, he feels like a criminal, snooping around in someone else’s things, but soon he begins to recognise the familiar curves, lines, and colours of his early work. But the one he wants isn’t here, and he slides the portfolio aside.

His hands are hot again, and he flexes them before he opens the next one. These are the first prints he ever made for class, simple compositions with basic themes. He flips quickly through the prints he did for “candid and formal portraits,” “focus analysis,” and “motion studies.” Scott regards them with fondness, smiling at his younger self’s newly developing eye.

He passes over “self-portrait as a shoe” and “extreme close-ups,” then finds what he’s looking for.

It’s the tree at Richmond Park, for the “outdoor lighting” assignment. It was during the golden hour, and Scott had taken two thirty-six exposure rolls to make sure he got something to present. He’d finally settled on a composition with the tree off to the right of the frame, its curving branches arching down like arms in mid-embrace, with the weakening sunlight tilting through the leaves.

Look at that tree for me.

Scott slides it out of the plastic sleeve and holds it up. It’s perfect, actually better than he remembered. Of course it’s a beginner’s print, and a bit generic, like a picture on a sympathy card or an inspirational poster in a middle manager’s office. But no matter. For him, it’s just right.

Tomorrow, he’ll go to Bushey’s for a matte and frame, and he knows where he’ll hang it. It belongs right over his desk, where he’ll be able to see it from the edge of his bed.

*

That night, Scott stands with Jason at the edge of a grassy cliff overlooking the ocean. His heart pounds with adrenaline, and he rubs his hands together the way Jason does. He can’t wait to start.

“Are you sure you don’t want to? It’s easy, I promise,” he tells Jason with a hopeful smile.

“Nah, man, I’ll be here when you get back.” Jason smiles, too, and squints against the sun. Scott almost doesn’t want to leave him.

“Okay. I won’t be long.”

One last nod and Scott turns to the edge. He sets himself as if he’s running track and waiting for the gun, but there is none, just Jason’s encouraging “go,” and so he does, taking off at a sprint toward the open ocean. His last stride is a leap, and up he flies, straight into the air with his arms behind him, steering by thinking of where he wants to go. The ocean is huge and green, and Scott makes a wide shape over it, curving away from the shore. He dips and climbs easily. When he turns back toward the cliff, Jason waves at him with both arms over his head, then cups his hands over his mouth and howls happily. Scott waves back to him before turning to the horizon, soaring toward the dusk with sunlight on his face.