Butterfly Page 10

  “Oh, French,” Fisher breathed. “He knew?”

  “He knew,” Felix whispered, rolling onto his side. “I barely knew, but somehow he did. We barely spoke of it after that, except for him warning me to be safe, to not give away my heart to someone who didn’t deserve it.” And then I went and did exactly that. He kept his mouth closed on the words.

  Fisher didn’t say anything. Felix listened more closely to his breathing. It had evened out into the slow, steady rhythm of sleep.

  “Goodnight, mon pêcheur,” he murmured, keeping his voice low.

  He lay awake a while longer, staring at the wall as his thoughts chased themselves around and around.

  Fisher isn’t Paul. He’s nothing like Paul. He’s never asked you for a thing. But would he, if he knew? Would he use you, too? Make you feel special, like you’re giving him a great gift, like you’re the only one good enough to help him? Take and take and turn vicious when you say enough?

  Felix didn’t know. And he couldn’t bear the thought of finding out, of watching Fisher turn against him by degrees until what they had was sour and sick like curdled milk. It was safer this way, keeping himself separate, protected from the inevitable pain.

  But oh, how he wanted.

  18

  Fisher woke up with a pounding headache and a creeping unease that he’d said too much. A quick look at his phone confirmed he’d called French the night before.

  Fuck. What had he said? Had he let his guard down? Probably. Alcohol always loosened his filters, made him a little too honest. French had probably blocked his number already.

  He flipped to his texts. One from Leo, confirming he’d gotten home safely, accompanied by a picture of a lurid hickey and then a selfie of him looking smug and thoroughly fucked out. Fisher rolled his eyes and went to the next message.

  It was from Wren, asking if she could teach some of the more athletically inclined children how to play field hockey. Fisher smiled to himself.

  Of course, he sent. I’ll put in a request for the equipment with the school and we can talk about starting a program. They’d probably deny it, because there wasn’t a lot of room in the budget, but he’d figure out how to tell Wren that later.

  The next message was from French. Fisher swallowed hard and opened it.

  Hangover? Nothing else.

  Fisher stared at it for a minute. What had he said last night? Had he really bared his soul to his stupid-hot fuckbuddy or had he dreamed the whole thing? The one word text didn’t exactly shed any light on the matter.

  Nothing a few Advil won’t fix, he finally sent back. Did we talk last night?

  French didn’t answer immediately, so Fisher took Maya out, then visited the bathroom and dug out some headache medicine. His stomach growled and he grimaced. A quick glance at his phone confirmed French hadn’t messaged him again.

  “That’s fine,” he said out loud. “Totally fine.”

  He cooked breakfast without looking at his phone, talking nonsense too loudly to Maya, curled up in her plush bed tucked in the corner of the breakfast nook. She listened to him with her ears pricked, head cocked like she could understand him, and Fisher tossed her a treat from the jar he kept on the counter.

  “For being my best girl,” he told her as she snapped it up. “And for not thinking I’m crazy. Or at least not telling me if you do think—”

  His phone buzzed on the counter and Fisher froze. Goddammit, he was too invested.

  He told himself he wasn’t disappointed when the text was from Wren.

  I’ll bring what I have tomorrow :), it read.

  Fisher sent her a thumbs-up and put the phone back on the counter to flip the bacon.

  “It really is fine,” he told Maya, who thumped her tail in response. “I mean, he’s busy too, right? I don’t know what he does but I know a lot of his time isn’t really his own. What do you think he does, baby girl?”

  Maya wagged her tail again, looking hopeful.

  “No bacon,” Fisher said. He pulled another treat from the jar and tossed it to her. She snatched it out of the air and crunched happily as Fisher flipped the bacon. “He travels all the time,” he continued, resting a hip against the counter. “And you’ve seen how he dresses—money definitely isn’t an issue for him.” He caught Maya’s stare and hunched his shoulders. “It’s not jealousy.” He turned to reach into the refrigerator and pull out the eggs. “It’s just… it’d be nice not to have to… worry, you know? Of course you don’t know, you’re a dog. It’s not like you have crippling student loans.”

  His phone buzzed again as he was cracking an egg into the skillet. Probably Wren again, or maybe Leo, although he highly doubted Leo could text with the hangover he had to be suffering from.

  Once the eggs were frying, he picked up the phone. His traitorous heart flip-flopped when he saw French’s name on the screen.

  You don’t remember?

  Thought maybe I dreamt it, Fisher sent back. He chewed on his lip for a minute. I didn’t say anything too cringey, did I? He hit send before he could change his mind and dropped the phone on the counter.

  “I’m such a fucking idiot,” he told Maya, and flipped the eggs.

  French didn’t reply for another hour, during which time Fisher ate, cleaned up the breakfast mess, took Maya for a run, and had a quick shower. When he got out, a towel around his waist as he dug for clothes in the dresser, his phone lit up on the bed where he’d tossed it.

  Fisher managed to ignore it until he was dressed and his towel was hung up. Finally, though, he picked it up.

  Sorry, French had sent. Airports, you know?

  He was on his way back, then. Fisher took the phone into the living room and curled up on the couch, bare feet tucked under himself. French hadn’t answered the question, but it wasn’t like Fisher could ask again without making it weird.

  The three little dots indicating French was typing popped up.

  You’ve never been cringey in your life :)

  Fisher put his head on his knee and tried to breathe through the relief. Maybe he hadn’t ruined everything after all. When he was composed, he tapped a quick reply. Clearly you didn’t know me in high school.

  French didn’t respond immediately, but this time it didn’t make the anxious knot form under Fisher’s breastbone. He hadn’t scared French off. Whatever he’d actually said the night before, he could handle it. As long as French was still talking to him.

  You’re falling for him. Leo’s voice was so clear in his head, he might as well have been in the room with him.

  “Fallen,” Fisher said out loud, and sighed. “Not that I’ll ever admit it to anyone but Maya, obviously, but I’m pretty sure I’m in love with him.”

  Maya, now comfortably ensconced in her bed by the fireplace, lifted her head at the sound of her name.

  “Go back to sleep,” Fisher told her. “I’m just having a crisis, nothing to see here.” He unwound himself and stood. He had lesson plans to refine; maybe that would help keep his mind off things he couldn’t change.

  * * *

  He was immersed in creating an interactive chart for identifying living and nonliving things when someone knocked on his door. Fisher jerked and his pencil slipped, making a jagged streak through the bird he’d drawn so painstakingly.

  “Goddamn it,” he muttered, and set the pencil down, wiping the graphite on his hands off on his thighs as he went to answer.

  French smiled when the door swung open, eyes warm as ever. “Ah… you said I should come over,” he said, smile slipping when Fisher just gaped at him.

  Fisher gathered his wits and reached for French’s wrist, pulling him over the threshold. “Sorry, sorry, of course. Hi. I just—you didn’t answer so I thought you were still at the airport.”

  French’s smile returned. “Portland airport,” he said. “I had to drop my bag at home and feed Henry, but I didn’t want to wait any longer. Are—” He hesitated. “If you’re busy, I can go—”

  “Don’t you fucki
ng dare,” Fisher growled, and hauled him into a kiss.

  French laughed, arms going around Fisher’s neck. He tasted like peppermint and smelled like cloves, the sharply sweet aftershave he favored, and Fisher groaned and tugged him closer, one arm around his waist.

  “Hi,” he repeated against French’s mouth. “How are you, how was your trip?”

  French nipped sharply at Fisher’s lower lip. “We can talk later,” he suggested.

  “Excellent point,” Fisher said. He kicked the door shut and towed French through the house to the bedroom. The midday sun lit the room in a golden glow as he pushed French onto the bed and landed on top of him in the next breath.

  I missed you. He didn’t say it. French reached up and pulled his head down until they were kissing again, and Fisher closed his eyes, imagining French was feeling it too, that he’d missed him just as much, that the desperation thrumming in Fisher’s blood was echoed in French’s.

  “Clothes,” French demanded, yanking on Fisher’s shirt, and Fisher almost laughed as he sat up on his heels to yank his shirt off. He helped French sit up enough to pull his own top off, and then froze at the sight of a purpling bruise covering the left side of his ribcage.

  “What—”

  “It’s nothing,” French said, reaching for him, but Fisher pulled back.

  “French, what happened?”

  French sighed, lower lip protruding. “Someone ran into me, knocked me over,” he said. “I’m fine, pêcheur, really.”

  “Who do I need to kill?” Fisher asked, tracing the edge of the bruise with a featherlight finger.

  French shivered and caught his wrist. "No one, mon pêcheur. It was an accident, I promise. Please will you get naked?”

  Something hot and possessive rolled in Fisher’s gut. The thought of anyone putting their hands on French, of touching him without French’s permission, made him want to put his fist through a wall. Or the face of whoever had hurt the beautiful man currently doing his best to undo Fisher’s belt.

  He bent and French froze as Fisher kissed the soft skin an inch from the bruise.

  “Say the word,” he mumbled against French’s ribs. “Just say it, and he’s a dead man.”

  French’s chest vibrated with his laugh. “I thought you didn’t like violence?”

  “Good point,” Fisher said, lifting his head. “Turns out I’m willing to compromise a little.”

  French grinned at him, the sunlight painting his skin gold as his white teeth flashed. “Fisher, it’s appreciated but can we please stop talking about a silly bruise and get back to what’s important?”

  “Well, if I must,” Fisher sighed, and opened his belt.

  19

  Felix rolled onto his stomach and set his teeth lightly in Fisher’s bicep. Fisher twitched but didn’t pull away, and Felix lifted his head.

  “What are you thinking about, pêcheur?”

  “You’re assuming I can think right now,” Fisher mumbled. He dropped a hand on Felix’s head, lightly scratching his scalp. “Need a pacemaker, Jesus.”

  Felix snickered. “When you’ve got it, you’ve got it, eh?”

  “You’ve definitely got it,” Fisher said through a yawn. “How long can you stay?”

  “I have the day,” Felix said, nosing along Fisher’s arm again. He wasn’t trying to start anything, just enjoying the contact and simple intimacy. Not for the first time, he wished it could be real, that he could tell Fisher who he was and not have it matter. But as soon as he did, things would change. It didn’t matter that Fisher said he didn’t care. He would care. He’d care about the way the fans treated Felix, how they felt like they owned him at least in part. And he’d care about what they said about him, if it ever got out that they were dating. They’d be vicious. Tear Fisher to shreds. Judge him and measure him and deem him lacking, and Felix would watch the warmth in his eyes fade as the hurt crept in.

  He couldn’t bear it. He shook his head hard to dispel the thought and pressed his face to Fisher’s warm chest.

  “Hey, you okay?” Fisher asked gently, big hand settling on Felix’s head again. “Where’d you go?”

  “Nowhere,” Felix said, lifting his head and forcing a cheer he didn’t feel into his voice. “I’m here with you all day if you want me. Nowhere to be until Monday morning.”

  Fisher’s smile slipped and his mouth twisted, but all he said was, “I was thinking of going to the farmer’s market later. There’s a good one down by Gresham. Wanna come with me?”

  Felix considered. On one hand, hockey fans were everywhere, and the chances of being recognized were considerable. On the other, it was a beautiful day and the thought of getting outside, enjoying some time with Fisher, no other demands on his time, was… tempting. Plus Gresham was enough out of the way that maybe he’d be able to get away with it.

  He was taking too long to answer. Fisher’s smile shaded into something almost sad.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I forgot for a minute. It’s okay, we can stay here.”

  “No!” Felix rolled to a sitting position. “Let’s go out. It will be nice, getting some sun.”

  “Really?” Fisher touched Felix’s thigh. “I didn’t mean to push you—”

  “Stop.” Felix bent and dropped a kiss on his mouth. “Get dressed. Can we take Maya?”

  * * *

  Without being asked, Fisher pulled a pair of sunglasses and a snapback from the closet and presented them to Felix as they were getting ready.

  Felix took them, turning the hat to examine it. It had a logo of a stylized lion on the front, frozen mid-roar. He looked at Fisher, oddly touched, but Fisher wasn’t even looking at him. He was crouching to put Maya’s collar and leash on, crooning to her as she wagged her tail. When he stood, Felix had the glasses and hat in place, spreading his hands in display.

  “Perfect,” Fisher said, grinning at him. “You look like you’re going to a barbeque.”

  * * *

  Fisher drove a small SUV with a space in the back for Maya and enough legroom for two tall men in the front. Felix gazed out the window at the trees as Fisher drove, appreciating the wind on his face. The leaves were orange and gold dappled between the evergreens, the bite of winter to come in the crisp air. Pedestrians lined the streets, tourists and locals alike out enjoying the weather before it turned bitter.

  “I love this city,” Fisher said.

  “Have you always lived here?” Felix asked, turning to look at him.

  “Moved here for college and ended up staying.” Fisher flipped his turn signal on and slowed. “I did some traveling when I was younger, but nowadays I stick closer to home.”

  “Family in the area?”

  Fisher slanted a glance at him but answered readily enough. “Just my found family. Leo and Rainbow, a few others.”

  “What were you thinking about, earlier?” Felix asked abruptly.

  That earned him a startled look. “When?”

  “When I mentioned Monday. You got tense.”

  Fisher’s jaw tightened briefly. “That… guy. He said he’d be back for my answer on Monday. I guess you just reminded me that I have to figure out what to say to him that won’t get me fired.”

  “Your job means that much to you, that you would consider—”

  “I wouldn’t,” Fisher said sharply, turning into a small lot and putting the car in park. “But yes, my job does mean that much to me, okay? What I do is important. If I can figure out a way to keep this guy from pursuing me and not lose the job in the career I’ve worked for my entire life, that would be great! Besides, some of us have student loans and shitty cars and we can’t just pick and choose what we want to do!”

  “Okay,” Felix said, his voice soft. “I’m sorry, mon pêcheur, of course it means a lot to you. Of course you feel trapped. Forgive me.”

  Fisher let go of the steering wheel and took a deep breath. “Sorry. I didn’t—”

  “No, you were right. I have privilege I take for granted and I speak without think
ing. What are you going to do?”

  He watched as Fisher rolled his shoulders, shaking the tension out, and pulled a smile into place.

  “I’m going to browse the farmer’s market with you,” he said. “And make you a delicious meal this evening, and then after dinner, I’m going to fuck you.” He lifted an eyebrow. “Unless you have a better idea?”

  “I think that sounds excellent,” Felix said. “Let’s go browse some farmers then, eh?” He chalked Fisher’s laugh up as a win and stepped out of the car.

  * * *

  They strolled the aisles of the market, hands brushing occasionally. Fisher bought a bushel of apples and insisted Felix share one with him as they walked. Felix licked the sweet juice off his lips and caught Fisher’s eyes following the movement. He hid the amusement and covered Fisher’s hand with his own when he offered him the next bite, holding it to his mouth and watching the way Fisher’s throat bobbed when he swallowed.

  “After dinner,” Felix said, and Fisher glowered at him.

  “You’re doing that on purpose.”

  “You blame me?”

  Fisher turned away with a snort instead of answering, but a minute later, he was buying a paper packet of roast corn and insisting Felix let him hand-feed him the first few kernels.

  Felix savored the sweet-salt burst of flavor, letting his tongue linger on Fisher’s fingers for a brief moment, knowing Fisher could read the mischief in his eyes.

  Fisher coughed and handed him the packet. “Feed yourself before we get reported for public indecency.”

  There seemed to be no rhyme or reason for the way Fisher chose an aisle to explore, sometimes doubling back and at other times skipping entire rows. Felix just followed, his arms getting increasingly laden down with Fisher’s purchases, and watched as Fisher inspected a stall brimming with gourds of various shapes and sizes.