To Be Free Read online

  It was a very odd request, especially since it was about one in the morning; but nonetheless I got dressed and snuck out, telling him I was on my way and that I'd pass through the back. He never replied, but he was waiting at the back door when I arrived some fifteen minutes later, his house being a short walk's away from mine.

  At first, he seemed almost reluctant - panicked, and he looked as if he regretted his decision - and didn't let me in until I managed to convince him that I wasn't followed.

  It was my first indication that something was really, really wrong.

  The black-haired man offered me a cup of coffee, having just brewed one for himself, and once I was served we went to the living room and sat down. Kenny kept about half a meter's distance between us, which was my second indication. The dude could be very clingy when he got emotional in any sense of the word - excited, angry, you name it - and while he looked way more emotional than I was used to, this time he seemed adamant on having space between us. As if either of us carried a plague.

  It was a tense silence for a while, sipping our drinks and lost in our own thoughts, mine circulating around the reason why he summoned me here and his God only knew where.

  Then he spoke.

  "Quinn, I think I'm gay."

  My heart stopped. His words were a whisper, as if the Vigils were listening in on every word and he knew it would condemn him to say it aloud, but he needed to get the words out because the burden was just too much to bear. Why he chose me to confide in has always been a mystery to me.

  "I don't know what to do," he continued, the breath of a whisper that seemed to me as if it somehow kept him alive. In this world where being different will get you shot, I don't know why he chose to confide in another soul. His blue eyes remained trained on his hands, refusing to meet mine. "I'm terrified. You're the only person I thought could help."

  I stared at the dark liquid in my mug, the bitter flavor still on my tongue. Right then and there, I felt physically ill for a reason I couldn't figure out - although I know better now, and know why his words made me feel sick.

  "...I don't know what you want me to do," I admitted quietly, cradling the mug in my hands and swallowing down the lump in my throat. "I wish I had a cure, if that's what you're asking for."

  He didn't say anything for a bit, but when he spoke again his voice shook so much I remember wondering how it wasn't scattered into a thousand pieces.

  "I need you to tell me it's not something I should be ashamed of," he pled, and I looked up at that tone of voice, the one that says its owner is barely clinging to sanity. Holding on a thread, and that there's a single person who can help them. Only one, and it depends on what they say - they can save them or condemn them. "That I'm normal. That I'm not an animal, I'm alive for a reason and I-"

  His expression was one of the rawest sorrows, the grandest pain, and I knew that with one glance I'd never forget that face. I'd never forget that expression that tore my heart to pieces and broke me, too. I realized why I'd felt sick, and it made my hands shake.

  "Never be ashamed of who we are," I told him, my throat constricting as I spoke. His lips parted when the words registered, and I forged on - the more I continued, the more I realized that it was the irreversible truth, and I'd go to hell with him. "We're special. We're alive because we're worth something to this fucking planet, and damn these people to hell for thinking they could play God. That they had the right of divine power, had the right to decide who lives and who dies simply because it suits them. That they could take away our rights because it seemed right to them, and fuck their God for making them believe that in the first place! We're people, just like they are..."

  I ran out of steam then, lowering my eyes and shaking so much a bit of coffee spilled onto my hands. I carefully put it down on the table by my feet, holding my head in my hands and breathing out a quiet swear.

  For a while he didn't say anything, regaining his composure and setting his own half-empty mug on the coffee table by our feet. He then leaned back and spoke.

  "You know, I found an old book once about the Greek creation myth," he began softly, and I looked up at him to see him smiling sadly to the ceiling. "They believed that there were three kinds of human beings at first - men, women, and a mixture of the two. The first were from the sun, second from the earth and the third of the moon. They were completely round, and Zeus cut them in half to make them less of a threat to the gods.

  "They would then search for their missing halves; those who had been completely male sought out males and females who had been entirely female sought out other females. Then the third ones, the children of the moon, searched for the half of them that was the opposite gender." He laughed once dryly, without humour. "The fucking Greeks were more accepting than we are, and yet we're the more advanced race? I call fucking bullshit."

  I laughed along with him, though not with humour. Then, he put a hand on my shoulder, suddenly much closer, and offered me a kind smile. A sad one, on the verge of breaking again.

  For a while we just stared at one-another, not saying a word, but as if it was fucking planned from the beginning to the very end, we fell into one-another. In the eyes of the N.O., we performed sacrilege.

  Because of this one fear people had, that their faith would die out and be forgotten the same way the Mayan faith was lost, they revolted. Spent fortunes on science to figure out how to pinpoint people like me and him would be born, and then kill us before we came to the world. For people so against abortion, they were keen to drag out every last one of us from the womb and kill us.

  Fucking hypocrites. All we've ever wanted was to love and be accepted - we never chose to be born into a world where people look at us and scoff, think we're going through a phase or that we're going with what's popular. That we don't know what we want and that we'll grow out of it, that we should give it time and that we'll change our ways. They make us feel like being who we are is a bad thing, and we grow up wishing that we were different, when what we are is wonderful and amazing and completely fucking natural.

  Just because you believe something is wrong doesn't make it wrong. To us it's our truth, it's always going to be our truth, and we can't change who we are. We shouldn't want to change who we are to make you happy, but when your family around you never stops saying things such as people like that only want attention or they don't know what they want; they're still young.

  Who gave you the divine right to tell us what we think is wrong? Who told you that you held power over us and had the right to make us feel weak? All we've ever wanted was to love, to love and be loved... we shouldn't have to die for that.

  If you think for a second we're making a big deal out of nothing, consider this: throughout history, we've been put to death for who we are. Have you ever had that happen to you? Have straight men and women ever had to die for their sexual life, which should be their own fucking business? Have you had to go to sleep at night fearing you'll be kicked out of your home, left to die on the street and shot for who you are? Beaten to death? Mocked and abused by your peers, so that you grow up to have social and psychological issues?

  You've never grown up in a society where you've been told that you have to state your sexual orientation if you're not straight, you're pressured to let the world know even though it's none of their business. Then, once you do, you're told to shut up and that you're wrong. To erase that from your mind and conform to what society wants, and that what you want doesn't matter one fucking lick.

  You've been eating your buffet this entire time, so why can't you just leave us our crumbs in the corner and let us enjoy them in peace?

  Seb's kneeling beside me, arms wrapped around me and face pressed into the crook of my neck as I cry without shame into my hands, the memory burned into my mind and playing, again and again. I spared him the more graphic details, but I still parted with the most important aspects that make up the story.

  He didn't say a word the entire time, simply holding my hand and playing wit
h my fingers as the firelight bathed us in its warm hues. The sun has left us completely and the moon graces our presence, and by now the flames have died to embers, glowing faintly with the wind.

  For the longest time he doesn't say a single word, letting me cry my heart out and not judging me for it - because that's what your greatest regret does to you; it forces you to shut up and to keep it to yourself, while the emotions gather on the other side of the dam anxious to be released.

  When it's released, it's pure agony.

  Now he sings a quiet song, a lullaby I don't know, and while he's not the best singer in the world, it still makes my heart throb in painful ways as I hear him attempt to calm me down. The same way I do my best to calm him down when he's upset.

  I look up as he sidles over to kneel in front of me, holding my face up so our eyes can meet and he can give me that smile of his, a smile that says it'll be okay. It forces my lips to return the gesture, albeit shakily.

  Fuck, I do love the man, don't I?

  "Now you can heal," he whispers, thumbs wiping at my eyes. His expression is timid, a shy and innocent look that's full of nothing but the purest intentions, and my hands rise of their own accord to map out the contours of his jaw, cheekbones and lips. When my finger brushes over the chapped skin, he kisses it briefly and smiles.

  "Is there a rule as to how long you have to wait before you fall?" I question, my voice catching as the memory threatens to resurface. I make a face as it tries to bring me back down, and he notices the flicker in my expression.

  Shaking his head, he rises slightly while kneeling still and presses his forehead on mine, making him temporarily taller than me.

  "I'm willing to catch you," he replies. "I heal you, you heal me. Deal?"

  "Undo what this fucked up dystopia's done to us?" I ask, and he nods. "Man, that's a tall order. Good luck."

  "I know how to go about it," he counters, and I arch a curious eyebrow, trying to force all images of that night from my mind, to varying degrees of failure. "I'll love you every day of forever, if you'll let me; I'll be your confidant, and you'll be mine, and we'll crash and burn together; and we'll only do the things we both want, not just me or you, at a pace we can agree on."

  I can't help the smile that forces its way onto my lips, his hands threading through my hair.

  "I like the we part," I muse, and the man laughs. He tips his head back to do so, and when he looks back at me his eyes shine with a mischievous joy, a new look that I can't say I don't like.

  "There's a lot more to like," he laughs, his eyes lowering briefly. Biting his lower lip a moment, he licks them as he looks back up. "Lots more."

  Then the man claims my lips, and it's everything Seb himself is; gentle, fierce, sensual and chaste.

  Basically, a fucking tease.

  I accuse him of just that against his lips, moving ever so slowly against mine, and all the bastard does is smile and laugh, returning the favour with something to do about good things coming to those who wait.

  It works wonders at making me curious about his plans.

  He leans in, hands falling to my shoulders as he settles himself partially in my lap. Then his hands slip into my hair, arms resting against my shoulders and allowing him to press his chest against mine just enough to feel his heartbeat. My heart stutters at the touch of skin-on-skin, as neither of us has put the clingy suit back on yet, and I shiver.

  He calls me passionate, so I have the right to call him sensual. Fucking tease.

  The thing with Running is that you never know how much time you have. Maybe that's why neither of us has offered a complaint about how quickly we're falling into things, knowing that we could be shot in the next few minutes for all we know. Maybe that's why we've fallen so quickly and completely, trusting each other not only because we have to and because we want to, but because somewhere deep down we have the fear that we don't have that much time together.

  And God only knows how I wish each moment lasted an eternity.

  Finally, after a small piece of eternity, the fucking tease deepens the kiss, tasting of dried fruit more than anything. He tips my head up to give himself the advantage of height even though he's already exploiting it, and my hands run down his bony back. Seb makes a small, pleased noise, leaning forward slightly and breaking the kiss momentarily to breathe.

  "I could play the xylophone on your ribs," I comment idly, and he pauses an inch from my lips, already diving back for another slow, sensual kiss.

  "Fuck you," he whispers with no venom to back up his swear, and I grin at him.

  "If that's what you want," I laugh, and he shuts me up in the most effective manner, deciding my mouth has better uses than talking. I admit, I agree.

  This time he changes tactic. His hands slip from my hair, leaving me free reign to match his movements, and instead run down along my back, and back up carefully along my stomach. When he gets back to my shoulders he pushes gently, a quiet request for me to lie down that I follow, and he copies my movements while never breaking the kiss. Finally, once I'm fully settled on the grass, he pulls away and looks at me a moment, a hand rising to brush my fringe from my eyes as he watches me try to catch my breath.

  He mutters something along the lines of I'm so fucking screwed before he claims my lips once more, but this one's a bit different. It's still got his little playful nature, but there's a hint of something else. Something I can't quite identify...

  ...until he bites my lower lip and forces a gasp from my throat, grinning in victory as I arch up slightly. I know that look, that dangerous gleam in his eyes promising a good time.

  It's desire.

  Two can play at this game.

  For a second we grin at each other, his expression letting me know he's fully aware that I've taken up his silent challenge, and without warning I grab his face and pull it down for the kind of kiss I wanted to give him earlier but forced myself not to. I pour everything into it, all my emotions - the passion and the desire I hold for this man, the anger at the pain we've both suffered, the regret of Kenny's passing, the love I've never been able to give; and, I admit it, the lust I have for him.

  This morning I was being gentle by my standards, nothing more than a passionate show of affection with no hinted promises - this time, I'm not. I'm not, and he knows it and he returns it with equal fervor, making a sound that sends chills down my spine.

  This time it's a full-on battle, and neither of us is taking prisoners. He's cupping my face as well, leaning forward and trying to use gravity to his advantage as best as he can while making himself comfortable, sitting on my stomach. I let him keep that little safeguard, giving him the reigns to call it quits when he wants to back out.

  He doesn't seem to want to back out.

  Finally, breathing becomes a necessity so we both break it, gasping for air. His hair is completely unsalvageable right now, my hands having messed it up beyond repair, and I doubt I look very different. He breathes a quiet swear, dropping his head onto my shoulder and practically shaking.

  "...what the fuck are you doing to me?" he breathes against my skin, and I bite back the sound that claws its way along my vocal chords, tensing. His hands rest on my chest, fingers digging into my skin slightly. "I wish I knew how to control all these fucking emotions - fuck, Sarah never made me feel like this, and she was smoking. Then again..."

  I ask a quiet what, still looking towards the night sky invisible to us from the canopy of the willow tree, swallowing thickly as I regulate my breathing.

  Seb props himself up onto his elbows, catching my eyes.

  "She never had the kind of sex appeal you do," he admits, his face darkening with his words - I'm proud to announce it goes all the way down to his chest the longer he speaks. "Not only that, but when you look at me like - yeah like that exactly, fucking hell Quinn - I can't be held responsible for what I do next."

  I grin at him, and he swears at me.

  "I'm serious; I'm trying really hard to stop myself from doing something
I'm going to regret right now, because we're moving really fucking quickly, Quinn," he admits, and I nod. He's right on that part. "Plus I don't exactly feel at ease with the thought that anyone could walk in on two horny twenty-two year old men who, by all rights, should be dead."

  I flush at his words, not because of the words themselves but because of the implications.

  "I won't deny it, you fucking pervert," he sighs, but he's laughing a bit too so it's a bit questionable, what he's feeling. "You managed to make me comfortable with the idea of having sex with you, and we've known each other for about a week!"

  He throws his hands up in the air, letting them smack down on my chest, and he scoffs at my honest-to-God surprised expression. I sit up a little, forcing him to readjust his position so he sits on my thighs instead. I then take his face in my hands and look at him dead-on, all sarcasm and teasing gone.

  "You get one thing straight, love," I start, his cheeks darkening at the nickname. He swallows thickly, hands having fallen to my thighs. "When you feel ready to do that and we do, I won't be having sex with you." For a moment he's confused, but he lets me finish before he speaks. "Seb, when you take me to your bed, I'll be making love to you, not fucking you. You're worth more to me than a one-night-stand or a summer love, and you're fucking precious to me. That night, and every other night should you allow it, I will treat you the way you should've been treated the first time."

  His jaw's dropped, and he watches me as I continue.

  "I will make our first time together feel like what your first time should’ve felt like," I vow, and he smiles shakily at me. "As well as every time after."

  He's shaking his head, laughing lightly.

  "You crazy fool," he sighs, looking back at me with the gentlest smile on his lips. "Fuck it. I give up; you can have my fucking heart. It's yours, okay? You win!"

  I look at him curiously, and he takes one of my hands and places it against his chest, so I can feel his heart beating.

  “My only request is that we focus on other things for now,” he informs me, and as he speaks his heartbeat slowly regulates its pace. Offering me a smile, he laces our fingers together while keeping my palm over his heart. “We can't afford to get distracted, and soon enough we'll be free. Then we have all the time in the world.”