A Promise Fulfilled [WattyAwards#2012]

Chapter XIV: Home Is Where I Belong

Chapter XIV: Home Is Where I Belong

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"There is a kind of magicness about going far away and then coming back all changed."

― Kate Douglas Wiggin, New Chronicles of Rebecca.

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For the second time in his life, Dex woke with Timmy in his arms. And this time, he could let it remain that way. He allowed the knowledge to sink in, without even bothering to open his eyes. The memories of last night resurfaced: Timmy's body pressed against his own and cemented to him with sheets of cold water, the sight of the clumps of hair falling away, that first kiss—hard and needy and unwanted—and those later ones—sweet and soft and needed. Falling asleep to the steady rhythm of Timmy's breathing.

And it was all still there. He could feel it. Slowly, Dex cracked his eyes open, waited for the blurriness to pass, and added color to the pictures his fingertips had painted.

The soft light of winter morning stretched across the bed in flickering fingers of brightness from where it had peeked in through the shades, and the hazy glow of it casted everything into dream quality, insubstantial almost, but for the actual shape of Timmy's body secured against this own. He was real, and solid, tucked into Dex's chest with breath fluttering softly against Dex's neck. The sheets molded in and around their bodies, tying them together, and Dex could feel the soft chill of Timmy's skin pressed against his own, from where Timmy had his nose pressed against Dex's jaw, down the curve of his neck, the lines of his chest, the tapering of his waist, the weight of his wood, to the length of his legs tangled in Dex's own. He was pale, like the feathers of a dove, and soft, so soft beneath Dex's hands as they rubbed down his back, playing in the dip of his spine. Like this, he looked innocent, almost like a child. Because Timmy had his childhood stolen away from him when he was nine—maybe it was the moments like these where it seeped back in, all the forgotten laughter, the light in his eyes.

Dex wondered if you could steal childhood back once it had been thieved. He would do it. He would do it an instant.

He kneaded his hands into the muscles of Timmy's lower back, gentle but firm, and wondered how Timmy could carry so much tension even while asleep. How long his muscles been wound with worries and fears and other peoples' troubles, something Timmy seemed to pick up wherever he went.

Timmy attracted broken people because he was one—people like Haley, with her broken heart, and people like Dex, with broken dreams. Sometimes it was hard to notice someone broken, unless you'd been there yourself. Sometimes you couldn't fix them unless you knew what it was like.

Timmy fixed Dex with paint and snowflakes and greasy fast-food French fries, before Dex had even realized just how broken he was.

And all this time Dex had been hoping to fix him right back, but now he realized it didn't work that way. He could give everything he had to Timmy—his money, his body, his love—but none of that could make a difference. In the end, Timmy would fix himself, because Timmy was an expert at gluing together broken pieces. All Dex could do was stand below and catch him if he stumbled. And when Timmy was all sewn up, he would have someone who loved him, stitches and all, and he would have someone to love back, if he still wanted it. If he needed it.

Dex didn't need to be a knight in shining armor. And while that realization stabbed him in every ingrown expectation he'd always had about love, he felt, somehow, that it would work much better this way.

Timmy stirred, stretching his legs and arching his back so he pressed harder against Dex, and hummed happily as he repositioned his head onto the pillow instead of Dex's neck. He cracked open one eye and smiled sleepily. "Good morning."