Believe

by Garrett Leigh

  It rang a bell, but the chaos in Rhys’s mind was too loud. He let Harry tackle him onto his back and promptly fell asleep. When he woke up, it was afternoon and Joe had taken his place.

  “This city is all kinds of fucked up.” Joe unfolded his long legs from the crappy plastic chair he was wedged in. “Three dudes with machetes killed eight people last night. Why does shit like that happen?”

  Rhys had no idea. He sat up and glared at the heavy strapping on his swollen left foot. “Have they said when I can leave?”

  “Not to me, but I’d imagine they won’t keep you any longer than they have to. The hospital is full.”

  “Why are you here?”

  “To stop Harry crashing the van. I think a piece of him died when the police called yesterday to say you’d been hurt.”

  Guilt washed over Rhys. The last—fuck, however many hours it had been—had passed in a blur of headaches, swelling, and nurses with big syringes of drugs that made his head swim. And in his panic to find his phone, he hadn’t stopped to wonder why Harry and Joe had appeared in London in the first place. “Sorry, man. I’m fine . . . honest. I didn’t get hurt—I fell on my face and sprained my ankle.”

  “Uh-huh. You sprained it carrying a dying man across the street when you were the only paramedic on scene for more than an hour. Don’t fuck with perspective, Rhys. Not today.”

  Joe was fierce. Always had been. Rhys was growing to love him like a brother, but nausea rolling in his gut stopped him from saying so. “I need to talk to Jevon.”

  “I know. My mum’s helping Angelo look for his phone, and my sister is trying to get in touch with the organisation he works for. We’ll find him, dude. I promise.”

  There wasn’t much else to say, and Joe wasn’t one for small talk. He fed Rhys a Snickers bar, then fell silent, tapping his fingers against the bed rail until Rhys dozed off again.

  Harry was back when Rhys woke the following morning—Joe had stayed at Rhys’s flat to pack him some things.

  “You’re coming home with us.”

  “No.”

  “Yes.” Harry’s fists clenched at his sides until he folded his arms across his chest. “You can’t be alone right now with a head injury. Besides, you’re going to be on crutches for six weeks, need physio and rest. I’m not leaving you to rot in that flat by yourself when rehab and recovery are the only things I can do to help.”

  “Right. So you’re going to collect me like you do everyone else who can’t walk to the bogs by themselves? Save me from myself? Piss off, Harry. I’m not going to the arse crack of Cornwall with you.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  Ten minutes later found Rhys huddled up in the back of Joe’s cosy camper van. “Just take me home,” he pleaded.

  Joe stared stoically ahead while Harry shot Rhys an exasperated glare. “I am.”

  Lies. It was all lies, but Rhys was too tired to argue. To fight. And to worry over something he couldn’t fix. Angelo had lost his phone too, and all of Joe’s sister’s attempts to contact FFP had come to nothing. Jevon would probably think Rhys had given up on him. Had changed his mind about quitting London for life on the road. Without a phone, there was nothing Rhys could do to make that right.

  And without Jevon, nothing would ever be okay.

  London slipped away. Harry and Joe talked quietly in the front of the van while Rhys lost his mind in the back. Common sense told him he’d find a way to contact Jevon eventually, and that Jevon would understand about the radio silence—of course he would—but the anxiety demon having a party in his brain wouldn’t quit. His ankle throbbed in time with the disquiet beating in his chest. Joe cranked the heat up, but still Rhys shivered.

  “You’re in shock,” Harry said when they stopped for petrol. “I know you’ve got Jevon on your mind, but don’t forget what you’ve just been through. You saved dozens of people, bro. By yourself.”

  “I wasn’t by myself. Tarryn was there, and so were a bunch of coppers.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” Harry put his arms around Rhys and held him in a fraternal embrace that meant everything and nothing while Rhys’s head was in bits. “I’m just reminding you it’s okay to be shaken up. Your supervisor said there’ll be counselling and—”

  “Jesus Christ, Harry . . . stop, will you? It was two days ago, and I’m fine.”

  Rhys disentangled himself from Harry as Joe returned to the van with more chocolate and sweets to make Harry scowl. Any other day, his face would’ve made Rhys laugh, but not today.

  Joe was the only one capable of laughing, apparently, when they pulled up at the farm in Newquay, six hours after they’d left London behind. His chuckle came from deep in his belly, and he exited the van without explaining.

  Harry watched him go, still scowling, but then something seemed to make him smile too.

  He slid out of the passenger seat and opened the sliding door, holding out his hands to help Rhys to his feet, crutches ready to slip onto his arms. “I’d help you to the bungalow, but something tells me that won’t be necessary.”

  Rhys didn’t even look up. All he wanted was a shower, a bed for the night, and a plan to fix the mess his life had become in the last twenty-four hours. Avoiding the news usually helped when he’d been on a clusterfuck call. Perhaps a stint in Newquay would do him good after all, of course, he’d found a way to—

  “Rhys?”

  “What?”

  But when Rhys snapped his gaze up, it wasn’t Harry in front of him. It wasn’t Joe and it wasn’t Angelo, who Rhys could somehow sense nearby. Harry’s big hands were replaced by warm, elegant fingers carrying a current that travelled straight to Rhys’s heart, straight to his soul, eclipsing every hurt in its path. Rhys blinked in wonder and lost himself in liquid brown eyes and a gentle smile. “Jevon?”

  Nineteen

  “I don’t understand.” Rhys sat on the edge of the bed, his eyes hooded and bloodshot and his face so pale Jevon could see bone. “How are you here of all places?”

  Jevon knelt in front of Rhys and eased his shoe off his good foot. “I made tracks to come home as soon as I got news of the attack in London and I couldn’t get hold of you. I was at the airport when Angelo called this morning and told me Harry was bringing you home, so I switched my flight. Some crazy old dude picked me up in a horse box, and I got here ten minutes before you.”

  Rhys blinked, shaking his head. “This is mad.”

  “I’ll say.” Jevon brushed Rhys’s hair back from his forehead, his fingers lingering on the tender bruise on Rhys’s temple. “You have amazing family and friends, but I’m sorry you had to go through something so awful for me to meet them.”

  “Awful?” Rhys stared with dead eyes Jevon had seen in hundreds of traumatised refugees.

  “Yes. Awful,” Jevon said. “I know you’re hardened to some pretty terrible things, but that doesn’t make them okay.”

  Rhys said nothing. Just stared around the feminine bedroom that apparently belonged to his brother’s boyfriend’s sister. “Where are we?”

  “Joe’s mum’s bungalow. She’s gone to stay with a friend, and Emma—Joe’s sister—is staying with Angelo. They said you can use this place as long as you need.”

  “Oh.”

  “Uh-huh. Emma seemed pretty nice.”

  “She is.”

  Jevon squeezed Rhys’s hands. “Help me out here, man. What do you need?”

  “Need?”

  “Yeah. Need. You hungry? Wanna shower? I can help you?”

  Rhys shook his head slowly. “Nah, Jevon. I just need you.”

  For all that, it turned out Rhys did want a shower. Jevon held him up, then eased him into the bed Joe had slipped in and made up with fresh sheets.

  Jevon saw him out. “Thanks, man.”

  “No worries,” Joe said. “There’s food in the fridge and cupboards, and everything the hospital gave us is on the counter. Harry will probably come by to check you’re not dead, but no one else will bo
ther you. Call me if you need anything—my number’s on the side.”

  He left, and Jevon drifted back to the bedroom. Rhys was sitting on the bed, looking every bit as lost as he’d seemed since Jevon had practically shoved Harry out of the way at the van door. Flashes of the news reports Jevon had seen invaded his mind—blood, blue lights, horror, and death . . . things that were Rhys’s constant companion when he was at work, but knowing they’d stemmed from hate this time made it all seem so much worse.

  Jevon ran a towel over Rhys’s wet hair. “Does your ankle hurt?”

  “Hmm?” Rhys tilted his head sideways and studied his purple-black foot. “Um, not really, no. I can’t feel it, to be honest.”

  “Numb, huh?”

  “Yeah.”

  Jevon dropped the towel and slid his fingers up Rhys’s neck and into his damp hair. “How about now? Can you feel this?”

  “What? Your fingers setting me on fire? Of course I can.”

  Relief flooded Jevon’s veins, and he persisted in his journey over every part of Rhys he could reach, retracing steps his hands had last made more than a month ago. Damn . . . was that all? It seemed like a lifetime had passed since he’d last put his hands on Rhys. Last felt his heated skin glide beneath his palms. Last heard his soft intake of breath as Jevon’s fingers grazed a sensitive spot.

  A spot that was marred by bruises from where Rhys had hit the pavement.

  Jevon’s fingers stilled. Adrenaline and relief that Rhys had made it through the horrible events in London relatively unscathed had carried him this far, but the reality that things could’ve turned out vastly different hit Jevon hard and fast. The attackers had been gunned down by police twenty feet from where Rhys had fallen. What a difference ten seconds either way could’ve made.

  “Jevon?” Rhys had turned around and was staring right at him. “What’s the matter?”

  “I—uh, nothing. I’m fine.”

  “Liar.”

  There was no accusation in Rhys’s tone. Only fact. In spite of himself, Jevon smiled and cupped Rhys’s face, absently thumbing the dark smudges beneath his eyes. “I’m okay. Just struggling to believe we’re both really here.”

  It was a vague version of the truth, and Rhys seemed to know it. He sighed and pulled Jevon into a tight hug. “I’m sorry it had to be this way too. I was supposed to meet my boss whenever Monday is to discuss if he could let me out of my secondment to join the NGO. He’s a good bloke . . . I was hoping he’d say yes.”

  Jevon closed his eyes. Three days ago, getting Rhys to Lesbos had been everything. Now counting the thud of his heart against his own was more. So much more. “Don’t think about that right now. You’re going to be off your feet for a while.”

  “Foot.”

  “What?”

  “Foot. My other one is fine.”

  “Dick.”

  “But you love me?”

  “I do.” Jevon leaned down and kissed Rhys deeply, reconnecting the wires that had been flailing in the wind for four long weeks. “Do you love me?”

  “More than you know.”

  “Show me.”

  An hour of shifting awkwardly on Joe’s sister’s bed, kissing the hell out of each other, wore Rhys out. After hustling Jevon under the flowery duvet, he knocked out. Jevon held him for a while, watching him sleep, like a creeper, while he poked around on his phone, but restlessness and a craving for Newquay’s fresh air eventually drove him outside to take a walk.

  It was dark and cold on the farm. Wind whipped up the lane and swirled around the yard Jevon meandered to. Close to midnight, he didn’t expect to see anyone, but Joe was sitting on the doorstep of the main house, drinking whisky and smoking a cigarette. “Everything okay?”

  “Think so.” Jevon leaned on the cold stone wall. “Rhys is knackered.”

  “Harry too. He hasn’t slept since it kicked off on the news.”

  Neither had Jevon, but fatigue seemed far away. He accepted the whisky bottle Joe held out and took a deep swig. The amber liquid burned wonderfully, scraping away some of the terror still scratching his soul. “Thanks.”

  “Welcome.” Joe took the bottle back. “You okay? Must’ve been a hell of a day for you too.”

  Jevon shrugged. “I’ve had better.”

  “Not much for complaining, eh?”

  “What’s the point?”

  “Truth.” Joe looked as though he wanted to say something else, but Harry opened the front door, looking every inch Rhys’s brother, though he was broader and his eyes softer.

  Joe stubbed his cigarette out. “Don’t start.”

  Harry smiled and kissed Joe’s cheek. “I wasn’t going to. The RSPCA are on the phone, though, so I hope you haven’t necked too much whisky to drive.”

  “How dare you? I’d better call George, though.”

  Joe unfolded himself from the step and slipped inside, leaving Jevon with Harry, who regarded him with obvious curiosity.

  “I’ve never seen my brother so attached to someone,” he said.

  “Attached?”

  “Invested. Emotional. Sorry, I’m not good with words when I’m tired.”

  “Who is?”

  Harry laughed quietly. “Not Rhys. Come inside. I’m making tea.”

  Tea turned out to be some herbal infusion that tasted like dusty flowers. Jevon sipped it and mourned Joe’s whisky bottle.

  Harry sat beside him at the kind of kitchen table that instantly made Jevon hungry. “It’s nice to meet you. I was beginning to think the others had made you up.”

  “Others?”

  “Joe. Angelo. They like you.”

  “I like them. It was nice to see Angelo looking so well. I barely recognised him when he came to meet the horse box.”

  Harry’s weary smile widened briefly. “Amazing, isn’t he? He works so hard to keep himself upright, it breaks my heart when it’s not enough.”

  Before today, Jevon had only seen Angelo on his knees, so he could only imagine how tough it had been to crawl his way back to the lithe dancer who’d greeted him with a hug and a kiss to both cheeks. “Where’s Dylan?”

  “Romford. He’s coming for Christmas in a couple of days.”

  “That’s nice.”

  “Yeah. I’m kinda hoping you and Rhys will stick around too.”

  “For Christmas?”

  “It’s next week.”

  The festive season had slipped Jevon’s mind. “I hadn’t even thought about it.”

  “Don’t blame you. Rhys usually works, but I guess that’s off the table for now. What about your job? When are they expecting you back?”

  Jevon’s stomach tightened. “I don’t know if they are. I literally ran out on them with ten minutes notice.”

  “Will they sack you?”

  A hysterical chuckle burst from Jevon’s chest. “I’ve had moments these last few weeks when I’ve wished they would, but, no. I’ll have to go back as soon as Rhys is okay.”

  “You’re welcome to stay here as long as you like. We have plenty of room.”

  “Thanks.” Jevon toyed with the teabag in his cup. “I wasn’t sure what to expect when I met you.”

  “Why? Does Rhys slag me off?”

  Humour danced in Harry’s dark eyes, but Jevon shook his head emphatically anyway. “No. God, no. I just got the sense that you have a complex relationship.”

  Harry shrugged. “Me and Rhys aren’t particularly patient with each other when shit gets real. Old habits die hard, but basically, we just want the other to be okay.”

  “I see that,” Jevon said. “And I know he loves you.”

  “So do I.”

  A comfortable silence stretched out. A cat appeared from nowhere and draped itself across Jevon’s thighs while he tried to summon the energy to walk back to the bungalow. The warm mass on his lap didn’t help, but the desire to be as close to Rhys as possible won out. He finished his tea and bid Harry goodnight and was crawling into bed behind Rhys before he could blink.

  Th
e heat between them roared to life as Rhys stirred in response. “Jevon?”

  “Shh,” Jevon whispered. “I’m here.”

  Rhys rolled over, his eyes blazing. “Show me.”

  Twenty

  Jevon kissed Rhys, devoured him, and for once Rhys didn’t lose himself in the madness that came with having Jevon’s lips locked with his. Couldn’t. Because he was too busy reacquainting himself with Jevon’s taste. His warm skin. Every sound he breathed into Rhys’s mouth. Committing it all to indelible memory for when they inevitably had to part again.

  A month without contact had left Rhys starved, and he couldn’t get enough. He drove his tongue wetly into Jevon’s mouth and arched up into him as much as he could with his weighted left foot.

  Their hips met clumsily, roughly, and it was perfect. Rhys unbuttoned Jevon’s jeans and squeezed his dick, pumping his hard length until Jevon broke their kiss, eyes rolling back, a groan escaping from his hung-open mouth. He thrust into Rhys’s hand, then drew back to pull his hooded sweatshirt over his head. His jeans disappeared, and he slipped into bed with Rhys. “Your turn.”

  Rhys’s sweatpants and underwear followed Jevon’s clothes. Naked, they clung to each other, kissing, hands roaming, the only sounds in the dark room their increasingly frantic gasps and moans. Jevon rocked his hips, his cock sliding in tandem with Rhys’s, sticky with precome. Rhys had to taste him. “Fuck my mouth.”

  “Are you—”

  “Do it.”

  Jevon straddled Rhys’s sweat-damp chest and eased his thick cock into Rhys’s mouth. Steady moans tore from him as Rhys sucked him, revelling in the suffocating bliss of having Jevon’s cock crammed down his throat. Jevon’s quivering thighs went straight to his own dick, and he jacked himself in time with Jevon’s stuttered thrusts until he forced himself to pull back.