Back in the present, he had to swallow hard, try to focus on Owen and not the return of old fears.
“I am sorry, so incredibly sorry, about your dad. But that wasn’t your fault. And not all coming-out stories are that awful. Not everyone’s as dysfunctional as your parents or as rigid as JP. And I beg to differ on you and relationships. You’re doing just fine with me and you’d be the best boyfriend I’ve ever had except for the part where you don’t want me around.”
“I’m not—”
“My boyfriend. Yeah, I got that part.” Owen hung up both of their shovels, loud clatters ringing through the small shed.
“I do like having you around.” Quill didn’t want him thinking otherwise, wished he could give him more of the words he both needed and deserved. “And I’ve never felt like this about anyone else. But...”
“But it’s not enough for you.” Owen leaned against an air compressor. “What we have, it’s not enough for you to consider fighting for it, wanting to keep it.”
“I care about you too much to want to keep you here in a little box with me.” Quill truly wished it were simply a matter of want, because Lord did he ever want. In the dead of night, holding a sleeping Owen, he wanted with every fiber of his being. But wanting impossible, selfish things, even with soul-deep intensity, didn’t make them any more realistic or any more of a good idea. “There’s a whole world out there waiting for you, one filled with parties and people and exciting jobs. Even as you say, putting aside the me-coming-out issue, I’m not going to stand in the way of your future, and I’m also not going to sign up for one for myself where you come to resent me and we both have that much more pain when things finally fall apart.”
“So because we might some day in the future break up, and because you think you know me better than I know myself, you’re going to break up with me now? Stop me from giving us a chance to prove your fears wrong? What if you’re wrong? What then? What if this really is the forever sort of thing, and you’re tossing it aside out of stupid fears?”
“Break up?” Swallowing hard, Quill could barely croak out the word. “We’re breaking up?”
They’d had disagreements before, including over him coming out, and it hadn’t hit Quill until exactly that moment that this one could be it, the end, no Owen glossing things over, no pretending they hadn’t disagreed, no losing themselves for a couple more weeks in bed before the issue came up again, and definitely no sliding along to May, postponing all hurt until then. He’d become far too used to Owen’s capacity to forgive or at least forget temporarily, the way he never stayed mad that long. Even when Owen had startled him by raising his voice, he hadn’t really thought about this being the moment everything unraveled for good.
“Are we? I guess that’s kind of your call. If you don’t want me applying to stay, I’m not sure what the point is anymore.”
The ultimatum hit Quill like falling face-first into a snowbank, cold slap of pain. “Don’t do this.”
“Why?” Owen’s eyes bored into Quill, not pleading as much as demanding that Quill have a good reason, all traces of softness gone.
“Don’t take away the next few months from us. Please.” Quill was never going to be able to articulate how much he’d been counting on those months, precious weeks and days to save up all the joy he could, stockpiling memories against the coming winter of his life. He might not get that forever Owen spoke so easily of, wasn’t sure if anyone got that, and frankly, forever scared him—all the millions of big and little hurts that could happen on the road to forever. But he could have this, this one perfect interlude in his life.
“Don’t take away our future,” Owen countered, stepping forward to put a hand on Quill’s shoulder. “I can’t do this, can’t fall for you more and more over the next few months, can’t know that you’re probably falling for me too, but that you’re planning on letting me go, for reasons I just don’t understand. It’s fear, Quill, and you’ve never struck me as a coward before.”
“So that’s it?” Long, deadly icicles pierced every soft place on Quill, every hope he’d pinned on the next few months, every secret desire he’d never voice. He wasn’t being fair to Owen, but he’d had plans, damn it. Fall? He almost laughed at that. He was so far beyond falling. More like he’d already crashed on an alien landscape, one where he was inescapably Owen’s. He wasn’t ready for this to be over, hadn’t even contemplated a universe where he might have to see Owen daily but not have him.
“This isn’t some convenient fling for me. You keep thinking that’s all I wanted here, but what we’ve found together, it’s so much more than just a hookup. You know that. I know you care. And that’s what’s truly killing me. You care, but not enough. And now you want me to delay our breakup out of...convenience? Fuck that noise.” Owen dropped his hand from Quill’s shoulder, one more loss in a rapidly growing pile of hurts. Eyes narrow, mouth a hard line, Owen stalked to the door of the shed. “You want me? You want this? Then you can go all in with me. I see you your four months and I raise you a real relationship, one without an expiration date.”
“That’s not fair,” Quill whispered, even though the objection was likely futile. They’d passed fair a long time ago. And yeah, Owen was changing the rules on him, changing the parameters on what Quill had thought they’d had, but if he was truly doing it to save himself some hurt and not out of spite, could Quill really blame him? At the end of the day, they both wanted impossible things. Only difference was that Quill was a realist while Owen was determined to will his wants into existence, regardless of consequences.
“No, no it’s not fair. None of this is fair. To either of us.” Owen’s eyes were deep pools of pain, hurt that Quill had caused. Fuck. He’d known from the very first kiss that this was a terrible idea, that someone was going to get hurt. And at a certain point, he’d made peace with him being that person, knowing he’d spend the rest of his life missing Owen. But he’d been willing to grieve that loss if it meant having Owen in the here and now. He’d assumed, though, that Owen would march onward, maybe with some fond memories, into his bright future, unburdened by the sort of pain Quill had seen coming for himself.
However, Owen’s eyes told a different story, one that firmly starred Quill as the villain who’d hurt them both. And that was the last thing Quill wanted, to know he’d hurt Owen, damaged that beautiful, irrepressible spirit. Feet clumsy and hands shaking, he stepped forward.
“Owen—”
“Don’t.” Owen held up a hand. “Just don’t. Don’t make this any worse.”
So Quill said nothing, let Owen walk through that door, walk away from Quill and away from his life. He was right. There was nothing Quill could say that wouldn’t make this worse, that wouldn’t hurt Owen even more. The only thing left to do was what he’d known he’d have to do all along—let Owen fly away, not be the two-hundred-pound weight keeping him tied to a life where he didn’t belong.
* * *
Owen had no idea how dark and cold the short January days in Alaska could be until he and Quill argued, and he was forced to return to the way things had been when he’d first arrived. Avoidance. Awkward interactions. Stilted notes. Long nights in separate freezing rooms. It had only been a couple of days, and he was already almost ill from the lack of human contact. As he made himself a mug of late-afternoon tea in the kitchen, his stomach lurched, joining the low-grade throb in his head and the dull ache in his muscles. He needed a phone call, an excuse to go into town, some tourists with questions, anything to distract him from what loneliness was doing to his psyche.
Wait. That wasn’t quite accurate. It wasn’t being alone that was wreaking havoc on him. He missed conversation, yes, but this weird flulike constellation of symptoms was more than that, this marrow-deep yearning for Quill specifically, not humanity in general. He missed talking to Quill, touching him, cuddling with him, being in the same room with him. He’d gambled big, making his ultimatum, pretty darn c
ocky that Quill would give in and see both logic and the truth of what was in their hearts. Quill wasn’t a coward—he’d narrowly avoided both of them tumbling off the roof, risking his own neck to save Owen’s. While less of an adrenaline junkie than Owen, he’d never shied from calculated risks in other situations either, and Owen had legit figured that Quill would find him worth having a little courage for. But apparently Owen had either overestimated his own appeal or underestimated the inertia of Quill’s life because Quill hadn’t given in. Hadn’t budged from his “it’s best for you” bullshit lines about not being what Owen needed.
The few times their paths had crossed, Quill had looked so haggard, deep lines around his eyes, scruffier-than-usual jaw, stooped shoulders, and it had taken all Owen’s self-restraint to not go to him, wrap him up in a hug, say fuck expiration dates and arguments and do his best to make Quill smile again. But despite his inner peacemaker, he was tired of always being the nice guy, always being the one to compromise. It would be all too easy to fall back into previous routines, let Quill have the security of knowing he was leaving in a few months, let them both have a good time now. Owen had happily been that guy before, but he was done with living for the present only.
It didn’t matter how many memories they made now if they couldn’t have the future Owen wanted. He wasn’t going to trade that vision of what they could have for a few moments of pleasure now, no matter how miserable it made him. Ever since the long, lonely hours of chemo, he’d been searching for something to take away the restlessness clawing at him. Big adventures. Little experiences. Silly destinations. Long-held fantasies. But nothing had really worked until he’d come here, until that feeling was gone for weeks. Nothing had ever felt as right as holding Quill on Christmas had, and he wanted more of that, endless days and years. And yeah, Owen was being absolutist and stubborn about this, but despite his body’s strange rebellion, he was determined to stay strong.
As if right on cue though, a huge sneezing fit shook his body, making him slosh tea all over.
“You’re sick.” He’d been so lost in thought that he hadn’t heard Quill on the stairs, hadn’t realized it was already dark. Not that it mattered. Quill had kept himself downstairs in his office until late the past few days. Him upstairs pre-dinnertime would have made Owen’s heart thrill with fresh hope except for how severely Quill was frowning. And how utterly awful he felt. “I heard you coughing and sneezing from downstairs all afternoon.”
“Sorry. But I’m not sick.” Well other than the terrible heartsickness he was coping with right then, but heartbreak was neither contagious nor deadly. Unfortunately. And he sure as hell wasn’t explaining the origin of his symptoms to Quill.
“You’re sick.” Quill used his big palm to feel Owen’s forehead and damn if the contact didn’t feel amazing, cool and familiar and soothing.
“Your hands are cold.” Giving in to temptation, he leaned into Quill’s touch, a shiver racing through him. God, he missed him so much. How could he miss a person so much when he was right here?
“And you’ve got a fever.” Quill steered him into one of the kitchen chairs. Quill’s eyes narrowed, jaw stern, practically daring Owen to disagree. “What can you take? Should you be calling your oncologist for advice—like is your immune system still considered compromised?”
Ah. That explained Quill’s sudden appearance. He was worried. Ranger Worst Case Scenario striking again. Wasn’t about Owen personally. He felt his own forehead. Damn. Maybe he was actually sick on top of everything else. Great.
“I’m not about to die on you. It’s been long enough since chemo that I don’t think it’s an immune system thing. I seemed to catch every bug the year I had cancer treatment, but I’ve been pretty healthy the last year or so. I bet this is just a cold, if that even.”
Quill’s frown didn’t relent as he huffed. “You’ll keep an eye on it overnight, and if you’re any worse tomorrow, I’m taking you into the clinic in Wasilla myself. A cold is one thing, but you don’t want to mess with the flu or pneumonia. And you’ll tell them about the cancer, let them do whatever blood work that requires.”
“Gee, Quill. Better watch it or I might get the wrong idea, think you cared.”
Eyes flashing bright with pain, Quill flinched. “I care. You’re not getting hurt on my watch.”
“I’m not one of your school groups. Not your responsibility.” Head feeling like it had been replaced by a fifty-pound barbell, he gave in to the urge to rest it on the table.
“I’m making you more tea. And soup.” Quill ignored his protest and started bustling around, getting the kettle and putting it back on the stove. “Think you can talk me through that ginger thing you like? If you add some red pepper, that soup might open up your sinuses.”
Owen raised his head enough to blink blearily at Quill, trying to make sure he wasn’t having some sort of fever delusion. “You don’t have to take care of me.”
“Someone needs to.” After the kettle was on, Quill grabbed a pot and started collecting soup ingredients. They might be back where they started, but Quill was different than he’d been all those months ago. He was more confident in the kitchen now, moving with an ease born of all their shared meals together. It would be so, so easy to slip back into old habits and feelings here. “And your room is too cold. That’s probably how you got sick. You’re going to sleep out here. I’ll move the couch a little closer to the stove in a minute.”
“You’re lucky I’m too miserable to argue.” Owen rubbed his temples, startling when one of Quill’s broad hands came to rest on his neck, a light massage.
“Hey, it’s my one chance to be bossy with you.” Quill’s tone was light, but there was a sadness there too, a wistfulness that came out in his touch too. Even through his snappishness, Owen could tell from his tenderness that more than guilt was driving Quill. He cared, truly cared about Owen on a deep, fundamental level. Even when he shouldn’t, even when they should both be moving on, Quill cared. It was enough to make Owen’s eyes burn. God, this thing was such a mess.
“Quill—”
“Shh. No big talks, okay? You can go back to being pissed at me once you’re well.” After releasing Owen’s neck, Quill washed his hands and resumed soup prep, putting rice noodles on to soak exactly how Quill had taught him.
“I’m not pissed. I’m sad. Trust me, anger would be so much easier.” Admitting to unhappy pining was a level of vulnerability he wouldn’t attempt if he wasn’t already feeling so lousy.
“I’m sorry.” Quill’s voice had a depth of pain that Owen hadn’t heard before, but there was a resignation there that also said his words weren’t the start of a true apology.
Frustrated, Owen groaned as he scrubbed at his eyes.
“I hate that you’re hurting. I never wanted that. Never.” Quill, usually so precise and exact, splashed broth all over as he stirred the soup.
“If we’re both miserable...”
“I’ve got this vision.” Studying the soup, Quill took on a distant, almost dreamlike tone. “A postcard from you, maybe. Or social media post. One of those X-years-cancer-free type posts. And you’re on a beach, wildly happy, holding a book of your comics, surrounded by a big party of people who love you. You won’t be miserable forever.”
“And there’s no version of that vision where you slot yourself into the picture?” Owen had to know before a coughing attack claimed the rest of his breath.
“Here.” Quill slid a fresh mug of tea in front of him. “Drink. I don’t belong in that picture.”
“Not even as one of the friends?” Owen took a bracing sip of tea, let it soothe his burning throat. “I think I miss you as a friend most of all. I can live without sex, but I miss you. And you’re being a friend right now, taking care of me when I’m sick.”
“I’m not going to stop caring about you. You’re the one who wanted to break up. Not sure that I’m the best at being
friends with anyone, but if wanting to know that you’re safe, that you’re well and happy, is being friends, then yeah, we’re friends.”
It wasn’t much of a victory, not with Quill sounding as dark and ominous as the bottom of the ocean. Not with him feeling like crap. And not with him wanting so much more than friendship. And the worst thing was that he was pretty sure that Quill did too, but was simply never going to let himself admit it. He was going down with the you’re-better-off-without-me ship, and there wasn’t a fucking thing Owen could do about it.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Taking care of a sick Owen was one of the most bittersweet experiences of Quill’s life. And he was lying through his teeth. This wasn’t friendship or anything close to it. He’d seen Hattie through any number of winter colds, but had never fussed over her to the degree he did Owen, never made her a nest on the couch, never had this clawing worry about her welfare keeping him up at night, never wanted so badly to hold her or any other person. Only Owen. Only Owen could bring him out of his cave of grief and isolation post-breakup. And only Owen could make him feel simultaneously so fulfilled, like Quill was exactly where the universe needed him to be, and so fucking empty at the same time.
He wasn’t an idiot. He got the point Owen was trying to make, that they could have this indefinitely. He could have Owen to care for and worry over and not have a date on a calendar looming over them. And he wished he could believe that would be the right choice for both of them. All this we’re-still-friends nonsense would be so much easier if so. Friends didn’t feel like a part of their soul might wither and die if they didn’t get to hold the other person soon. Friends didn’t obsess over every cold symptom, think in worst-case scenarios, and invent reasons to check on the other person. Friends didn’t pull the covers up around their napping friend, heart so close to overflowing it was a wonder he wasn’t a puddle already. Friends didn’t do any of what was going on in Quill’s brain, missing every kiss, every touch, every murmured word.
Arctic Heat (Frozen Hearts) Page 22