Turning The Page

by Sam Elswit

  Thomas was slapping Stevie's shoulder ineffectually, far too small and weak to do any damage at all. Stevie swatted at him like a fly, but Thomas was so angry he persisted, finally attempting to shove Stevie's shoulder, so Stevie turned, grabbed the boy's wrist, and twisted his arm. Thomas cried out in pain and spat curses at his employer and the sound of Thomas's mellow voice crying out like that was enough to make Alan forget his own hurts. He leapt up to his feet and tried to engage the bigger man, but Stevie was now intent on Thomas. Alan panicked, and when Stevie punched Thomas in the kidneys with his meaty fist, the red film of rage returned. Alan picked up a chair and smashed it over Stevie's head, knocking off his flat cap and rendering him unconscious.

  Alan let go of the splinters of chair still in his hands, panting hard, so short of breath that he started seeing spots. He staggered over to Thomas to try to make sure the boy was okay, but Alan could not speak. A riot of pain radiated from his chest to his shoulder and down his arm, Alan growled and clutched at his chest.

  "Alan!" Thomas rushed forward, bending over Alan as the older man sank to his knees, the breath wheezing alarmingly in his throat. "Fuck, Alan, Fuck! What's wrong? What happened?"

  In his mind, Alan knew that he was having a heart attack, and he knew that this might be it. Many men in his family had died fairly young of heart attacks, and even though Alan had diligently taken care of his body all these years, he supposed the stress of that blinding, primal moment was just too much. Alan's eyelids fluttered slowly as his vision blurred. He saw Thomas in front of him, desperately crying out, but the sounds were muffled and far-away. The last thing Alan remembered before losing consciousness was the feeling of Thomas's small, cold hands grasping his own, and Thomas's hot tears landing on his knuckles.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  "Your cousin is in jail, Alan, did you know?"

  "Huh? No, what happened?"

  "Little faggot got what he deserved is what happened."

  "He was attacked outside a bar one night and pulled a knife on the attacker. The other guy got away--"

  "Like he should've--"

  "Dad, how can you say that?"

  "Shut up, boy. Homosexuality is un-Christian and the Lintons are good, God-fearing people."

  "Yes, sir.

  ***

  "Hey, what the fuck are you looking at!? Are you looking at my ass?"

  "What? No, come on, dude--"

  "Are you a fucking faggot?"

  "What? No! Fuck that. I fucking hate faggots--"

  "You... you hate faggots, Alan?"

  "Er, no, Milton, that's not what I--"

  "Milton's got his little faggot feelings hurt now, aww, poor little fudge-packing cry-baby!"

  ***

  "You're nothing to me."

  "Stevie! How can you--"

  "I mean it. Useless little twinks like you are a dime a dozen."

  "I thought... I thought you cared about me."

  "I care about fucking you, but I don't care about you."

  "You-- you don't mean that! You're just drunk!"

  "Fucking little faggot, I'll show you who means what!"

  "Stevie, stop, you're scaring me-- aarrgh!"

  ***

  Alan had just been punched in the nose. Or had he? His eyes were closed and they felt so heavy that he was reluctant to raise them. Eyes still closed, his hand drifted up to his face to check for blood. There didn't seem to be any blood, but he was dimly aware of something sort of large and hard in his nose.

  The fuck?

  Still half-asleep, eyes still closed, his fingers drifted up to rub his nose again and dislodge the thing causing him mild but irritating discomfort. His nose, at least, certainly did not feel broken. Stevie was off his game, then... usually he drew blood on the first blow. Heh.

  His eyes snapped open when he felt that the thing in his nose was smooth and hard and extended well beyond his nose and face. It was distinctively tube-shaped, and it made Alan's stomach flip-flop with fear, and he forgot all about the sea of feverish dreams and memories he'd been floating through. His vision was a bit blurry, especially since his glasses were not on his head, but when his eyes focused as much as they could, he saw that he was definitely in the hospital, staring at a bare beige wall, his body covered with a knit blanket in a depressing shade of pink. He groaned aloud and shut his eyes, hoping to make it all go away. Maybe it was just a dream. Yeah. Sure. A dream. He'd wake up in bed with Kitty complaining about his dirty boxers on the bathroom floor and everything would go back to normal, right? It had to.

  He opened his eyes. The hospital was still there. A machine to his left confirmed that he was in the hospital as it monitored his vitals and made soft, reassuring beeps every second or so. Alan started to sit up, but was stopped by a thin white hand on his shoulder. He looked over.

  Thomas.

  Alan's heart clenched with affection.

  "Relax, Alan," the boy said, smoothing back the older man's hair. "Jesus, you scared the shit out of me."

  "What the--" Alan cleared his throat, as his voice sounded so hoarse and weak. He swallowed thickly and gratefully accepted a cup of water that Thomas proffered him. "Thanks, kid. What happened?" Alan frowned, trying to recall what had happened prior to his waking up in this horrible place. "I was with you at rehearsal...?"

  "Stevie happened," Thomas sighed. "You two got into a fight, babe, and right after you knocked him out, you--" Thomas's voice wavered, and he clasped his hands over his own mouth, his eyes shining with tears. "You just collapsed, Alan, oh, God, I've never been so scared in my life. You almost died."

  "I think you're being a bit melodramatic," Alan grumbled, polishing off the water in the cup. "God, I'm so thirsty."

  "Here." Thomas took the cup and refilled it from a pitcher on a stand nearby.

  "The kid is right," said a stern voice in the doorway, "you had a severe cardiac event, Mr. Linton."

  "Wonderful," Alan said, sipping the water truculently. "Eat well, exercise, still die early."

  "Well, sir, if you want to take that tack, that's your business. But in my professional medical opinion, the event was triggered by stress."

  "Huh?" Alan looked up, then at Thomas. How much did you tell them? Do they know I had a heart attack breaking a chair over another guy's back?

  "If I had to guess, you've been under a lot of stress for a while now, haven't you?" The doctor smiled faintly at him.

  "Only for the last twenty years," Alan mumbled into his cup.

  "What do you mean?" Thomas asked, eagerly gripping Alan's arm. "That's so-- tragic--"

  "We're putting you on a low dose of beta blockers-- just temporarily, until we can get your stress level under control." The doctor scribbled on her chart and handed Alan a prescription. "You'll have a consult with the cardiologist and then you can go home."

  "What day is it?" Alan clutched his head. "Shit, I have to get home ASAP. Wendy can't know I'm here--"

  "What? Why not?" Thomas put a hand on his hip. "Don't be stupid, Alan, she'd want to know! She'd be devastated if she found out you kept this from her."

  "I-I-I just... we just don't talk about that kind of thing," he sighed, burying his face in his hands. "She doesn't even know I'm gay."

  "Yeah she does."

  Alan's stomach dropped. "What?"

  "Well. She doesn't know know, not like I know, but she suspects." Thomas rubbed Alan's shoulders soothingly. "Hey, calm down, Daddy. Your stress level-- your heart, I mean--"

  "What do you mean she suspects?" Alan raked his hands through his hair. "I can't believe this. Five days ago, everything was fine. Everything was just... just fine. Perfectly normal. Perfectly--"

  "Stressful? For the last twenty years? Jesus, Alan. You need a therapist."

  "Hey." Alan wanted to be offended, but he knew that Thomas was probably right.

  "You've already had a little breakthrough, though," Thomas said with a wry smile.

  "Huh? What do you mean breakthrough?" Alan huffed, overwhelmed
and exasperated by Thomas's smugness.

  "You just admitted out loud that you're gay."

  ***

  According to the cardiologist, Alan was already doing everything "right," except for managing his stress, and that the genetic propensity for heart disease in his family just meant he'd have to be even more careful. No booze, no red meat, no stress. He even recommended cutting down on caffeine, but coffee was where Alan drew the line.

  As the nurse droned on, handing him brochures and prescriptions and giving him the same verbal warnings as the cardiologist had, Alan zoned out. He thought about what Thomas had said, about him admitting that he was gay, and with a giddy kind of lurch, Alan realized that he simply didn't care any more.

  He didn't care that he was gay. He didn't care that Wendy knew. He didn't care about Kitty or the divorce or his depressing living situation, he just didn't give a shit.

  What he did care about was living.

  "I could've died," he said, as he and Thomas left the hospital hand in hand.

  "Yeah, I know," Thomas muttered, "I was there."

  "But I mean I really almost died!" Alan reiterated, throwing his free hand up to punctuate his point. "Shit, Thomas! I can feel it! I can... I can feel my heart, I can feel that it's weaker. I'm weaker. I mean I really feel like I almost died."

  "Because you did almost die," Thomas said, pressing Alan's hand to his chest. "Don't do that again."

  "No. Hell no. Thomas, I don't wanna die. I want to live. Any day could be my last--"

  "Oh, Alan--"

  "It's true! I don't want to waste any more of my time on this earth worrying about petty bullshit. You know why it was so easy to say that I'm gay? Because I don't care any more. I don't feel ashamed, I don't feel bad-- none of the feelings that kept me in the closet for twenty years, they're all completely gone. I hope everybody and their dog sees us holding hands. I'm gonna tell Wendy everything as soon as I see her next because-- I realized-- I could've died without her knowing the truth." Alan choked back tears, scrubbing at his eyes. "She never would've known. All because I'm such a coward. Well you know what? No more. I'm not afraid any more. It's all so small, so unimportant, when you face the light at the end of the tunnel, it's like... it puts everything into perspective."

  Thomas stayed quiet, looking up at Alan with huge, sweet eyes. Alan smiled at him.

  "Let's... let's have a day," Alan said.

  "We are having a day," Thomas said.

  "No, no, I wanna make today special. I feel like I was reborn or something--"

  "Oh you're not turning Jesus freak on me now, are you?"

  "What? No! I just feel like celebrating. I want to... I want to cross some things off my bucket list."

  "Like what?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "What kind of stuff is on your bucket list?"

  "Oh. I don't know," Alan admitted sheepishly. "I never made one. I was... I was afraid to think about it too hard, because if I never did them it would be too depressing."

  "What's one thing you've always wanted to do?" asked Thomas, smiling merrily up at the older man.

  Alan stopped in his tracks and gently pulled on Thomas's arm. He wrapped the smaller man's delicate frame in his arms and pressed their lips together in a soft, tender kiss that lingered and lingered. By the time the kiss ended, Alan's face was warm, and Thomas was trembling.

  "I've always wanted to do that," he confessed quietly.

  "You're good at it," Thomas breathed. "I always thought rough kisses were better, but that was so hot."

  "Thanks," Alan said with an impish grin. He leaned in and stole another kiss, this time gently forcing Thomas's lips apart to french kiss him. The kiss went on and on. A straight couple walked by and whistled at them, which only encouraged Alan to kiss Thomas for longer, until their lips parted again. It was chilly outside and Thomas was so pale, with twin spots of scarlet on his cheeks and his lips red and pouty from the kiss. He gazed up at Alan in a daze.

  "What else have you always wanted to do?" Thomas asked.

  "It's Sunday afternoon, right?"

  "Yeah."

  "Let's go to a park. A crowded one. And we can walk around holding hands."

  "Alan!" Thomas threw his arms around the older man's neck. "Are you sure you're up for it, babe?"

  "Hell yes I'm up for it," Alan said gruffly. "I'm not made of glass. And, y'know, except for that one tiny blocked artery, I'm in pretty good shape."

  "I know you are, Daddy," Thomas cooed, petting Alan's bicep.

  "Let's go, then. I'm coming out," Alan said with a wicked grin.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  After an hour spent strolling around the park, hand in hand like a "real" couple, Alan then dragged his lover to a nearby department store.

  "You have to help me pick out clothes," he said. "I want to look... you know, good. I want to look cool. I've been wearing grandpa clothes my whole adult life because I thought it would make me fit in--"

  "That's so sad," Thomas said.

  "I guess so, maybe a little, but hey-- I get my chance now, right? I have to make up for lost time. C'mon." He dragged Thomas into the department store and headed for the men's section.

  They spent some time browsing and draping garments over Alan's arm, skinny jeans and designer jackets and funky tee shirts, stylish sneakers and even a "hip" bowtie. Alan went into the fitting room and started trying to wriggle into the jeans, only to have them get stuck.

  "Uh." The jeans clung stubbornly to his thighs. They would not come all the way up to be zipped, nor would they be pushed down, with their stiff fabric and tight fit and Alan's muscular thighs.

  "What's wrong, baby?" Thomas asked from outside.

  "I, um...." Alan cleared his throat. "Help."

  Almost as soon as the please left his lips, Thomas was in the changing room in a flash, his jaw dropping open as he drank in the sight of Alan's enormous dick bulging out of the top of the fly, which was several inches too low to be buttoned.

  "That is so hot," Thomas sighed. "You don't even know what length pants you wear?"

  "I don't know, I've never worn pants like this before," Alan said. "They're stuck. My, uh... my thighs are too big."

  "Ooh." Thomas's eyelashes fluttered and he reached out, teasingly sliding his fingers into the waistband of the offending trousers. "So you need some help?"

  Alan inhaled sharply as his member began to swell in response to Thomas's touch and his suggestive tone of voice. "Yes," he croaked.

  "Well, I don't know that there's a whole lot I can do for you, Daddy," Thomas purred, backing Alan into the wall of the dressing stall. "But I sure do like having you at my mercy like this... I bet you can barely walk in those things."

  Alan stammered inarticulately as Thomas's thin white hands pressed against his chest, and suddenly they were kissing and stifling their grunts. Thomas's hand closed on his member, still contained by his underwear, and things were about to get messy when a sales attendant knocked sharply on the fitting room door.

  "Excuse me, gentlemen," she said sharply, "only one occupant per fitting room at a time!"

  "But my Daddy is so old and frail he can't get his pants off," Thomas pouted, unable to keep the giggle out of his voice.

  "Oh, yes, I saw how old and frail your Daddy is," the sales attendant drawled. Alan could practically hear her rolling her eyes. "One occupant per fitting room. Come out here now."

  Thomas pecked Alan on the lips and scurried out of the dressing room, leaving Alan to squeeze himself out of the trousers while trying not to cum all over them, too. Eventually, slowly, painfully, he peeled himself free, but the pants had been so tight they actually hurt, cutting off the circulation in his thighs.

  He settled on a nice, sane pair of bootcut jeans, which offended Thomas deeply, but Alan protested that he wasn't paying that kind of money for jeans that acted like a Chinese finger trap. He let Thomas choose the rest of his outfit, though, and they left the store both in new clothes. Alan wore his new je
ans, plus a pale pink tee shirt and a black jacket. Thomas said the pink shirt made him look like Anderson Cooper's sexy older brother. Alan wasn't really sure what that was supposed to mean, but he took it as a compliment. Thomas was so very fashionably thin that he had slipped into a pair of skinny jeans with no problem, and finished it off with a midriff top and cropped leather jacket. Alan stared in slack-jawed admiration as Thomas waggled his little ass as they left the store, his narrow but soft hips swaying, and from the front, Alan had a prize view of the boy's enviably prominent hip bones.

  "Let's go to a club," said Alan. "I want to dance."

  "You're not supposed to drink," Thomas warned.

  "What are you, my nanny?" Alan grumbled. "I'll only have one or two."

  "I'll be your nanny if that's what it takes to keep you alive!" Thomas cried, slapping Alan's shoulder.

  "I don't want to live if I can't have one measly fucking drink after surviving a massive cardiac event," Alan sniffed. "Come on, you whipper-snapper. Show an old dog some new tricks. I want to learn." He pulled Thomas closer and teasingly grabbed his ass. "Pleeease?"

  Thomas's lashes fluttered and he leaned into Alan's touch, flushing with pleasure. "Oh, all right," he sighed.

  ***

  Sometime near midnight, Alan and Thomas were in a club across town, grinding together on the dance floor. Alan had lost his jacket and already drunk nearly twice as much as he'd promised and he was having the time of his goddamned life. Pretty little twinks like Thomas were all over him, petting him and pressing their asses against his crotch and calling him Daddy, what was with these kids and their father issues? But it was so taboo that it was hot, it was all insanely hot. It was hot that Thomas was getting jealous and possessive of Alan, and it was hot when Alan let the other boys flirt with him, then went back to Thomas. Every time. The look of disappointment on the others' faces made him feel so desirable and wanted, and his affection for Thomas grew by the minute. The look on Thomas's face was pure elation, every time, as they folded into one another's arms and started to dance again.