Best Gay Romance 2009

At this time of day, the ornate pump on its circular stone base was in shadow, as was the palm tree to its left. The lower part of the village hall was also in the shade, but the top was in the sun, along with the bell tower and the church. Light and dark, sun and shade. Chiaroscuro.

It was a view he never tired of looking at. But for how much longer would he be able to see it?

They’d come here in 1965 and had fallen in love with the place. Even when the law in Britain changed, they’d not returned. The people accepted them, welcomed them, even.

The square had been different then. The pump didn’t work, so they had repaired it. No one seemed to care about the plants, so they had weeded and watered the soil, and watched as the garden flourished. And the people watched them. So what if they were both men? That was life.

Michael learned the skills necessary to survive in a small community. Carpentry and joinery; painting and decorating; cleaning windows and mending shutters. Peter, usually a shy person, began to teach English in the school and to anyone who wished to learn. The women practiced as they sewed, their menfolk not jealous of the attention they paid to another man.

As the years passed, they absorbed the language, customs, and culture of the people. The local children—now fluent in English—grew up and had children of their own. Michael and Peter were asked several times to be godparents.

Antonio cut him off angrily. “You are good people. Who better to be godparents?”

One day, Michael caught sight of their reflections, and realized they’d grown old. Where had the time gone? When had their hair turned gray, their shoulders begun to curve, and their skin become fine like parchment?

“See a doctor,” Michael begged. But he knew how Peter hated hospitals and wasn’t surprised when he refused. They were old, they had to accept these things.

Events moved swiftly after this. They saw a doctor—not the one in the village, but one at the hospital in the nearby town—who asked if Peter could come in for tests.

“Of course,” Michael said immediately, overruling Peter. He felt guilty for not having realized Peter was ill, not simply old.

Peter remained in the hospital for a week. The tests came back. The doctor said he was very sorry. There was nothing more he could do.

“I want to die at home,” said Peter, clasping Michael’s hand in an unprecedented show of public affection.

“All these people…” Michael indicated the villagers gathered around Peter’s grave.

The new priest—the old one had passed away—looked at Michael. “Faith, hope, and charity,” he said, speaking in his precise English. “But the greatest of these is charity.” Another word for love.

When Michael next went for his daily walk, he hesitated at the point where the path forked. He and Peter would usually take the easier route to the right. Today he headed left in the opposite direction toward the village’s small cemetery. He stood by Peter’s grave for a few minutes, then he went and sat on the nearby bench in the pale, winter sunshine.

The days grew longer as winter gave way to spring. One morning, as he returned from the cemetery, Michael saw an easel had been set up in the square. In front of it stood a young man. Michael was curious but did not wish to disturb the stranger.

The young man was there again the next day when Michael returned home from his walk, and for several days afterward. They began nodding at each other.

Michael hurried back. If he was lucky, he’d escape the rain. The painter was in the square, seemingly oblivious to the darkening skies. Suddenly, there was a clap of thunder, and the boy looked up in dismay. He gathered up his brushes and paints and began struggling with the easel.

Michael knew the young man would never make it back to his lodgings before the heavens opened.

“This way,” he said, taking the easel from the boy’s hands. He led the lad into his house, and into the small sitting room. “Just in time!” Michael said, as the rain started to lash the window.

“A towel,” Michael suggested, and went off to get one. When he returned, he said: “And some soup. I always have soup after my walk if I’m not too tired.”

The young man looked worried. “Please don’t go to any trouble on my account.”

“It’s no trouble at all. I don’t get many visitors nowadays.” He turned on the gas, then began to get out bowls and spoons, and to cut bread. Soon the aroma of soup filled the room.

The boy wolfed down his food before Michael had barely started his own. He must have been starving. No, he was simply young. Michael smiled.

A look of mortification crossed the young man’s face. “I’ve eaten all the soup—”

“Pretty well. I’ll show it to you later. Of course, it’s not quite finished.” He hesitated. “That’s if you’d like to see it.”

“I’d be delighted to. Though my eyesight isn’t what it used to be.”

Michael put on his glasses. Even he could see that the colors had been captured perfectly. He could almost feel the warmth of the sun on the stones.

They chatted while the rain continued to fall. Daniel had taken a year off from his studies to go around Europe but had been captivated by the village. He painted during the day and, in the evening, helped out in the bar.

During the following days, the weather reverted to its usual balmy state. Michael would go for his walk and on his return invite Daniel to share some soup or a cold drink.

They talked. Daniel told Michael about his home and his hopes of becoming a professional painter. Michael was more reticent but, after prompting from Daniel, told him about Peter. He even found a photo from their days at university together.

Michael could hardly make out Peter’s face now his eyesight was so poor. He blinked.

“It’s my eyes. My father went blind and I’m losing my sight, too.” Realizing that his candor had distressed Daniel, he changed the subject.

“It’s finished!” Daniel announced one day as Michael returned from visiting Peter’s grave.

Michael felt a dull ache of melancholy. The boy would surely be leaving soon. “Will you still be here for the harvest?”

“Antonio’s talked me into it. He’s got me down for treading the grapes. He said he didn’t want me to damage my hands!”

“He was telling me that the harvest suppers have hardly changed since he was a boy. In the evening, everyone eats and drinks and then makes love in the open air.” Daniel caught sight of Michael’s face. “I’m sorry I didn’t mean to remind you—”

“It’s all right. We used to make love here. We never dared to outside.” Michael remembered the warmth and dark, their two bodies entwined. They’d been so young, so full of hope.

The harvest supper wasn’t the only thing Daniel and Antonio had discussed, as Michael found out a few days later.

“A hospital?” Michael frowned. “Shouldn’t you have asked me first?”

“We looked it up on the Internet. You aren’t going blind. Medicine has moved on since your father’s day. They can cure you.”

Antonio intervened. “Peter’s gone,” he said gently. “It was too late to save him. Do you think he’d want you to suffer in order to expiate your feelings of guilt that he died and you’re still alive?”

Michael sank wearily into his battered old armchair. Antonio was right, of course. There’d been a time, just after Peter’s death, when Michael thought he had nothing to live for. No wonder he’d accepted his deteriorating eyesight without question.

At last the day of the harvest supper arrived. There were toasts to the crop, the village, and God. People congratulated Michael on his “miracle cure,” and said their good-byes to Daniel, who was leaving the following day.

“Come and see me before you go,” Michael said, his hands resting lightly on Daniel’s shoulders.

“Of course I will. How could I leave without saying good-bye properly? Or even improperly!” He gave an impish grin, and then added: “Thank you.”

“Come on, you two! Don’t look so serious. This is meant to be a party.” Antonio turned to Daniel. “There’re lots of pretty, young girls wanting to dance. What are you waiting for?”

“You’ll miss him. I’ll miss him,” said Antonio. They watched as Daniel whirled around the makeshift dance floor. “And the girls will certainly miss him.” They both laughed. “Here, have some more wine.”

The next day, Michael didn’t go for his usual walk. Not only was he afraid of not seeing Daniel, but his head ached. A hangover at his age! A pity to pass up his visit to the cemetery, but Peter would understand.

Daniel stood there, looking shy but apparently none the worse for the previous night’s celebrations.

There was some small talk, which dried up quickly as neither knew quite what to say.

“Wait! I have something to give you.” Michael picked up a box from the table and gave it to the boy.

“I have a present for you, too.” Daniel handed him a parcel. “I did two paintings.”

“Of course I like it. How could I not like it? Thank you, Daniel.” Michael paused. “Peter said he’d never leave me, but some promises you can’t keep. I wish you could have met him.”

“Don’t forget your present,” Michael said, his voice suspiciously gruff.

“A folding easel,” Michael amended. “I thought it might come in handy.”

“Antonio’s here with the car. I’ve got to go. Thank you for everything.”

Michael shivered. He fetched a pullover from the bedroom, and sat down in the old armchair. With the arms of Peter’s sweater wrapped around him, he was soon fast asleep.