What the Heart Wants

by Jerry Cole

  Was he supposed to wake Marc up?

  He pushed himself up to hover next to the bed, worried about the way Marc was twisting in the blankets, his chest tight with worry. Marc was making soft, pained noises in his sleep, and his face was scrunched up. He was kicking out with a foot, straining his body against the mattress. Brent’s hands curled into fists.

  “Fuck,” Brent muttered, kneeling on the edge of the bed and resting a hand on Marc’s arm. It was only there for a moment before Marc turned away from him, curling himself up and letting out something that sounded like a sob. Brent’s heart ached, feeling useless as Marc’s body was wracked with shudders and shakes.

  “Marc?”

  Afraid to touch Marc, Brent waited another five minutes, Marc shuddering and sobbing, and then Marc’s face was smoothing out, tear tracks on his face, and fingers twisted into the sheets. Brent’s heart was hammering in his chest and though he wanted to run—anywhere in the fucking apartment would do—he forced himself to wait long enough to be sure Marc was back to sleep before snatching his sweatpants from the floor and stumbling out into the bedroom. Both Juliette and Stanley were awake, eyes trained on the doorway, Stanley standing to attention just outside the closed door.

  As soon as Brent stepped out of the way, Stanley rushed into the bedroom, and Brent left him to it, brushing a hand over Juliette’s head as he collapsed onto the couch. He buried his face in her fur as she put her front paws up on his legs, and he fought down the urge to cry.

  Fuck, it hadn’t even been his nightmare. There was no reason for him to cry. Belatedly, he realized he’d left his phone in the bedroom. Not that he’d know what to do with it. He was too keyed up to mess about on it, and he wouldn’t break Marc’s trust by telling someone about this.

  Brent fell back onto the couch, curling up against the arm, Juliette dropping back to the floor, curling up on the floor next to him, head on her paws in the perfect position to watch him.

  It was one thing to know Marc had PTSD, but the more time Brent spent with him, the more obvious it as becoming that there were areas of his life Brent would never be able to touch—or want to, if they left this kind of mark on Marc.

  Brent wondered if he was having nightmares because Brent had drawn the stories out of him. It had been three years. Did PTSD last that long? What if he was making it worse?

  Cursing himself, Brent buried his face in his arm and sucked in a breath, swallowing past the lump in his throat, refusing to cry. If Marc could be strong about this, Brent couldn’t be anything less. He closed his eyes, trying to get control of his emotions.

  The next thing he knew was a touch to his shoulder and a quiet, “Brent?”

  Brent jerked awake for the second time, rolling back and away. Marc was hovering over him, looking apprehensive, his hair stuck up in all directions. He’d clearly just climbed out of bed. The clock above the television told Brent that it was almost 7 a.m., and he groaned, rubbing at his face with his hands. “Fuck.”

  “Why are you out here?” Marc asked, arms folded across his chest, almost an embrace rather than angry.

  Was Brent supposed to tell him he had a nightmare? The urge to lie caught Brent off guard, and he shoved it down just as quickly. “You had a nightmare.”

  Marc’s face shifted into distress and then guilt. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.”

  “You didn’t,” Brent said, and instantly regretted it. He sighed, frustrated with himself, and didn’t have to see the incredulous expression on Marc’s face to know it was there. “All right, you did, but I didn’t know what to do.”

  Marc frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “I realized,” Brent started, and sat up, shuffling against the back of the couch. He took his time answering, and Marc perched on the edge of the coffee table, scratching at his chin. The box of photographs was still half-open behind him, and the camera still delicately sitting on the glass. Brent swallowed and stared at the carpet so that he wouldn’t have to look Marc in the eye. “I didn’t know if I could touch you. I wasn’t sure if I should wake you up and then you started crying, and I—”

  “Hey,” Marc said, reaching out and curling his fingers around one of Brent’s wrists. “There’s no right way to handle a nightmare, Brent.”

  Brent closed his eyes, feeling the burn of tears in his eyes and refusing to give in to the urge. “I’m sorry.”

  “Fuck,” Marc muttered, and when Brent found the courage to look at him, he was staring at Brent, eyes wide and stunned. “Why are you sorry?”

  “Because I don’t know how to help you,” Brent said. “It’s not—I can’t look at you and do nothing.”

  Marc didn’t say anything for a long time. “Do you want to—are you breaking up with me?”

  “What?” Brent shook his head, twisting his arm so he could tangle their fingers together. “No, don’t be an idiot.”

  There was a pointed silence.

  “You know what I mean,” Brent said. He felt guilt and anger warring in his chest and wasn’t quite sure which one he should latch onto and hold. “I don’t want to break up with you or leave. I just don’t know what you usually do.”

  “I don’t know,” Marc said, just as emphatically. “I haven’t been with anyone either, Brent. Sometimes I don’t even know if I’ve had a nightmare until I see Stanley sitting by the bed.”

  “So, I shouldn’t wake you up?” Brent asked. He didn’t mean to press. “I’m sorry if you don’t wanna answer. I just wanna make sure I don’t do it next time.”

  Marc looked startled. “Next time?”

  Brent gave Marc a weak smile, squeezing his fingers. “Yeah. There’s gonna be a next time, right?”

  Sometimes, with how awkward they were around each other, Brent wondered how they managed to stumble their way through a relationship. Brent was new to a monogamous relationship, something long-lasting, and Marc had clearly isolated himself to the point that a relationship was just as new for him too.

  “I’m not leaving you,” Brent said, when Marc still hadn’t answered. Something in him needed Marc to understand that. “I don’t care how many panic attacks you have, how many nightmares—”

  “Don’t,” Marc said, voice barely above a whisper. “I believe you,” he said, in the tone of someone who didn’t, but desperately wanted to. “I know you want me to hear it, but I can’t, not right—not now.”

  “All right.” Brent sat up properly, brushing a hand over Marc’s shoulder, pulling him in for an awkward hug. “I won’t say it, but I’m staying, all right?”

  Marc nodded, his hair tickling the side of Brent’s face, but Brent just held on, hands rubbing up and down Marc’s back. They were so fucked, and Brent feared them both giving up, but he didn’t want to. It was hard, he couldn’t pretend the nightmare—and his feelings about it—hadn’t happened, but he could try and not let it bother him.

  Chapter Twenty

  “I need your help,” Brent said into the phone, struggling to keep a hold of the four dogs currently tugging him down the path. He planted his feet, managing to tangle two of the leashes curled around the wrist with the phone.

  Marc sounded distracted. “With what?”

  “One of my clients desperately needed me today,” Brent said. “But I had a client from the VA. Now I have four dogs and Juliette, and I really, really, need your help.”

  There was a sound like a muffled snort on the other end of the phone. “You need help walking your dogs?”

  “Please,” Brent whined, one of the dogs jerking the leash enough that he let out a noise. “Marc, they’re gonna kill me.”

  Brent could practically see the eyeroll Marc was giving on the other end of the phone and narrowed his eyes.

  “Don’t roll your eyes at me.”

  Marc’s laugh was kind of awesome, but Brent was too busy trying to corral the four dogs to appreciate it too much. “Fine, tell me where you are.”

  Brent gave him the name of the park and where he hoped he would still be w
hen Marc arrived, and slipped his phone into his pocket, managing to get the four dogs back in line. Juliette was back in his apartment, and though Brent was glad he had left her there, she was going to be a pain when he got back. The four dogs currently fighting against him—Geno and Lika, and two from the VA client, Freddie and Haven—were exhausting him and that was without the client he had that afternoon.

  Though he was grateful for the VA clients Marc had handed him, there were a few too many for him to deal with on his own, and though Marc hadn’t said anything beyond handing Brent contact details, Brent still hoped that Marc would see how he was struggling and help him out.

  It might have been easier if he’d just ask, but they were still trying to find their footing as a couple, he didn’t want to throw working them together into the mix.

  Brent sighed, wondering how he was going to pick up two lots of poop without the dogs walking all over it, when a hand touched his arm, sending him tumbling back against a solid chest.

  Marc was grinning down at him. “Hello.”

  “Fucking scared me,” Brent muttered, and thrust two of the leashes into Marc’s hands. “Please take these, I need to clean up.”

  Waiting only long enough to make sure Marc had the leashes in hand, Brent picked up the mess, tossing it into the nearest bin and sighed. Marc was scratching at the heads of Geno and Lika, looking amused, and Brent fought down the urge to punching the smirk off his face.

  “Thank you,” he said, clasping his hands together, eyeing the way Freddie was sniffing the ground. “Don’t even think about it.”

  “I have Stanley in the car,” Marc said, cutting across Brent’s threats. Brent didn’t tear his eyes away from Freddie, internally begging him not to poop, and then Marc touched his chin, forcing his head up. “You want a lift back?”

  “Sure,” Brent said, breathing out a sigh of relief. “I was scared to take them on the train. I love you so much.”

  Marc’s eyes widened a fraction, but before Brent could backtrack, he was throwing an arm over Brent’s shoulders­—and why were Geno and Lika being behaved for him but not Brent—and steered him toward the park’s exit. “You know, they smell fear.”

  Brent stared at him. “Oh, fuck off. They just know I’m a pushover and take advantage.”

  “Yeah, dogs to tend to do that,” Marc said, fingers brushing against Brent’s neck. Brent shivered pleasantly, relishing the touches even if they weren’t going to go anywhere.

  They walked in silence toward the parking lot, Marc almost absentmindedly stroking at Brent’s hair, his shoulder, his bicep. Brent was happy to lapse into the silence, the dogs calming down now that Marc was here, and he figured it was good a time as any to ask Marc, right?

  He chewed on the inside of his cheek, trying to find the best way to ask, when Marc sucked in a breath.

  “You know,” he said, almost conversationally, but Brent could feel the tension in his shoulders, the hesitation in his voice. “This would be easier on you if you had someone helping.”

  “Yes,” Brent said, feeling his forehead furrow. “It would.”

  “So, maybe,” Marc said more slowly, and maybe Brent wasn’t going to have to ask after all, unless of course, Marc was about to offer up someone else in his stead. “I could help you out?”

  There was a moment where Brent didn’t know whether to cheer or say yes immediately, and in the silence, Marc seemed to lose his nerve.

  “You can say no, it’s not like—”

  “No,” Brent said, and as Marc’s face fell, cursed. “I mean yes, yes I do want your help! I’ve been trying to figure out a way to ask you.”

  They both laughed a little, Marc’s eyes doing that soft crinkle thing they did when he was really happy, and Brent couldn’t resist kissing him “We’re idiots.”

  “We have established this,” Brent told him, sighing as Freddie squatted on the sidewalk and did his business. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

  “You love me,” Marc said, deliberately misinterpreting who Brent was talking to.

  Brent’s chest tightened with how much love he actually had for Marc, but he managed to keep his nod at least somewhat restrained, and when he’d finished picking up after Freddie, he gave Marc a blinding grin. “I do.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “You actually said I love you to this guy and this is the first I’m hearing about it?”

  Brent rolled his eyes, shoving his phone between his ear and shoulder, and carried the laundry back from the laundry room. Polly was muttering something unsavory under his breath, and he pretended he couldn’t hear her. “Don’t be dramatic. Rachel has probably told you by now.”

  Not that Brent could blame her; he had been asking her to keep quiet about it for months.

  “She said there was someone in your life, but Jack and I just assumed you were fucking around again.”

  Brent winced, sighing as he balanced the laundry basket against the wall, grabbing his keys out of his short’s pocket. “I didn’t ever fuck around. Would you tell Rachel that’s what she’s doing?”

  “Yes,” Polly said immediately, laughing a little. “I do all the time.”

  It was obvious that Brent needed new sisters. “Well whatever, I’m not. Marc’s great.”

  Polly let out a noise. “So, it’s Marc is it? What’s he like?”

  “Fuck off,” Brent said, knowing from her tone she was mocking him. “I’m not gonna speak to you if you’re gonna be a dick about it.”

  Polly gasped, and Brent figured she was doing her dramatic chest clutch. “You should be groveling to me, Brent Strome. You’ve been holding out on me and Jack for so long.”

  “You should have been an actress,” Brent pointed out, dumping the laundry basket in the hall, and shutting the door behind him. It was a rare free day, and he’d be spending it with Marc, but Marc was busy with appointments and the VA and they couldn’t meet till dinner. “You have the dramatics down.”

  Polly laughed, and Brent couldn’t help but grin. He didn’t want to admit to himself how much he missed calling her, because then he’d have to admit he’d made a mistake not telling her, then he’d have to tell her that, and it would be a disaster. He settled for toeing the basket through the hall into the living room.

  “How’s my daughter?” Polly asked eventually.

  Brent cringed. “Stop calling her that. It’s weird.”

  “Please, as if you don’t coo that at her when she’s been a good dog.”

  As if she could hear the words on the other end of the phone—or maybe she could just hear Polly’s voice—Juliette perked up from her spot in front of the window.

  “She just heard you say that, please don’t give her false information.”

  “False information?” Polly let out a frustrated noise and then started listing the many ways Brent was a terrible owner and hadn’t trained her properly and that was why she was a pain in his ass. Brent had, in fact, told himself this on many an occasion, so he wisely kept his mouth shut on denying the accusations.

  He folded his laundry as Polly segued into whining about Jack and Rachel, and how their mother was dating again—eww—and she was going through a midlife crisis or something because they were all considerably younger than her.

  “Marc’s not like, eighteen, is he?”

  “Fuck you, no,” Brent said. He’d never really gone for the younger guys, even when he’d been picking up in bars. “He’s actually older than me. And was in the military.”

  Polly sucked in a breath. “Wow, Brent, how’d you bag a Soldier?”

  She was off again, talking about all the Soldiers she’d tried to date, and even if Brent didn’t care about any of it, he was glad to listen and keep her on the phone. He would have to call Jack at some point, of course, but those conversations were always awkward. Not that Brent wasn’t close to Jack; when they had been kids, she had always been his favorite sister—not that he would ever admit to playing favorites—but sometime after he’d gone to college and h
er anxiety had rocketed out of control, they had drifted apart.

  Brent was ashamed to admit he’d never tried to find common ground with her. Now, perhaps, he had it.

  “So, anyway,” Polly was saying, when he actually tuned back in. “Mom wants to take a road trip down to Chicago for your birthday.”

  There was a moment when Brent panicked at that, wondering how he could have forgotten his birthday and then sighed, immediately figuring out where he was going to have everyone. “My apartment is tiny.”

  “She’d obviously book a hotel,” Polly said. “And we’d help pay for it, before you start.”

  Brent closed his mouth. “Fine.”

  “As long as Marc’s there.” Polly sighed. “I want to meet him, I know Rachel does, and Mom will kill you if you don’t introduce her.”

  “I should tell her,” Brent said, rubbing at his forehead. “I just—Marc’s not really got anyone, and I don’t wanna overwhelm him.”

  “Please,” Polly said, but before Brent could get mad at her dismissiveness, she continued. “You’d never overwhelm him. He’s lucky to have you.”

  Brent wisely didn’t tell her that he was the lucky one, because he appreciated the sentiment—and his life. “We’re not having a party,” Brent said eventually, deciding it was the safer topic. “Just you guys and Marc.”

  Polly made an assenting noise into the phone. “Amanda would come if you asked her. “

  “Yeah, yeah,” it was Brent’s turn to roll his eyes. “You just want to gossip together.” He paused, waiting for Polly’s gentle laughter to subside. “I suppose I should invite Brandon around too. He’s a client that’s actually more of a friend. He and Amanda had a drinking contest.”

  Polly demanded to hear the entire story, and Brent was happy to do so, having forgotten all about the request for the family to turn up on his birthday right up until he was hanging up.

  “So, I’ll let Mom know she can plan the trip,” Polly said, and hung up before Brent could make his opinion known.