Children of the Knight, Michael J. Bowler [classic book list txt] 📗

No!

He pushed those thoughts aside whenever they appeared.

At night, however, within the almost suffocating quiet of the storm drain, fidgeting uneasily on his bedroll, Chris breathing softly beside him, Lance’s thoughts sometimes drifted back to the “g” word, and his breath tightened in his chest.

His eyes would settle on the small blond boy nesting beside him, the little brother who idolized him as a hero. Even though Lance never saw himself in such grandiose terms, Chris did. What would Chris think if Lance turned out to be… that way? Would he still admire him as an awesome big brother? Hell, would Chris even wanna be near him anymore? Or would he suddenly be… afraid?

And what of Esteban and all the others who had accepted him and willingly agreed to follow him and take orders from him? What would they think? He’d gained Esteban’s respect and that of the other hard guys through strength and force. He knew the macho mentality of Mexican guys, and most guys, for that matter, when it came to gay boys. At best, they were held in contempt and at worst they were shunned or beaten up.

Arthur said he didn’t care if Lance favored girls or boys, that he’d chosen him for his character. But the others would care. He knew that.

Lance desperately wished he could talk with someone about his worries, but Arthur was too busy. He couldn’t tell Jack either because Jack was already suffering too much pain over Mark and didn’t need any more. Mark wasn’t an option, either, obviously. Despite opening his heart to him that one night, Mark had since shut himself off from the world, and from him. He had all too quickly lost the friend he’d gained, and that hurt, too. A lot.

It was now October and Lance was tired of the gap between he and Mark. It had gone on too long. He’d grown up apart from friendships and didn’t really know how to navigate his way through issues like this, but he felt a desperate need to do something. He knew from hints Jack had given that Mark’s melancholy had something to do with Arthur, and suspecting Mark’s feelings toward the king similar to his own, he sought the boy out one night when everyone was asleep, and a peaceful silence blanketed the tunnels.

He found Mark seated on the cold concrete in one side tunnel, resting dispiritedly against a wall beneath a hanging lantern, which framed his blond head in a glowing halo.

Lance let out a nervous breath, then approached and cautiously slid down the wall to sit beside his friend, who didn’t even acknowledge him. The drip, drip of water was so omnipresent that it no longer even registered as sound.

Lance’s eyes swam with memories as he gazed at the brooding boy beside him, wild blond locks tumbling loosely about his gentle face and draping his shoulders like waves of falling snow. How many months had it been since he and Mark had become friends, since he’d confessed his long-suppressed secret, and Mark hadn’t laughed or mocked, but just accepted him unconditionally? Lance wanted that Mark back—needed him back—but didn’t know how to do it.

“Arthur’s been super busy, Mark,” he tried lamely, as much for his benefit as Mark’s. “You know that. I miss him more than you.”

The emptiness in his soul, the absence of Arthur’s smile and words of encouragement, coupled with his other doubts and fears, often pulled tears from his eyes when he least expected them. He fought them off now. Mark needed his strength, not his weakness.

Mark’s legs were pulled up and pressed against his chest, his arms wrapped tightly around them. His deep blue eyes brimmed with tears. “I don’t think so.”

His reaction confused Lance. “Well, I mean, in the beginning it was just him and me, remember, and… well, you know, I kind a started to think of him like my—” He stopped himself, and dropped his head between his own knees, feeling small and awkward.

Mark looked at him forlornly. “Like your what?”

Lance let his hair fall like a curtain across his face, his old defense mechanism, and eyed Mark from behind it. “Nothing. It’s stupid.” He tried for that smile the media loved, but Mark’s expression of profound loss pierced his soul, and the smile faltered. “Look, Mark, I know it seems like he’s ignoring us, but—”

He stopped when Mark leapt to his feet abruptly and ran off into the darkness. Lance gazed after him, mystified, wondering what he’d done wrong.

A cleared throat drew his eye to a different tunnel, and out of the shadows stepped Jack, dressed for sleeping in his drawstring pants and no shirt. Lance forced his eyes up to Jack’s face, and then cleared his own throat. “Did you see all that?”

Jack nodded, padding his way across the chamber to drop down beside Lance. Even though he was fully clothed, he felt oddly exposed next to the shirtless Jack.

He wanted to move away, but then he didn’t want to. He forced himself to focus on Mark.

“What’s wrong with him, Jack? You know, don’t you?”

Jack pulled up his knees and wrapped his arms around them. “Yeah.”

When he didn’t say anything more, Lance prodded, “Well? I thought we were all buds.”

“We are. It’s just… you can’t tell Arthur, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Mark’s in love with him.” It was almost a whisper.

Lance took a moment to process that, and then his lower jaw dropped. “Arthur?”

Jack nodded, his breathing almost coming in gasps.

Lance was stunned. He knew Mark idolized Arthur like he did, but he’d thought it was for the same reason. That’s why he’d been a little jealous. But this? He’d had no clue. It made him feel… he wasn’t sure, but his heart beat faster.

“But,” he began, almost stammering, “but Arthur’s a grownup, and not, you know, gay.”

“I know. So does Mark.”

“It sounds crazy, I know, but Mark and me, well, we hadn’t, you know, had sex with anyone before being out there on the streets, so all the guys we been with were older, like Arthur, you know… grown men. So that’s what Mark’s used to, ’cept he’s used to men treating him like crap. I never got as much crap ’cause I’m big, and the johns figured I might beat ’em up. But Mark, he’s small and sweet-natured and… anyway, Arthur’s a good man who treats Mark like he’s special. So, Mark fell for him.”

Lance turned away, dumbfounded by this news, but suddenly replaying in his mind Mark’s up and down moods these past months beneath the light of these new revelations. He shook his head with incredulity, thinking how horrific these guys must have had it out on the streets, and feeling deep down a powerful kinship with them because of his own past. But at least his torment had ended when he was nine.

“What can we do for him?”

Jack shrugged, and his eyes welled up.

Despite his skittishness at touching Jack, Lance guardedly slipped his arm over his friend’s shoulders, and they sat together. The closeness felt good to Lance, natural and necessary. After all, pain needed to be touched before it could be healed. “You still haven’t told him, have you?”

Jack shook his head again and threw his arm over Lance’s shoulders and pulled him in tightly.

Lance shivered, both loving and hating that embrace, that press of Jack’s strong arm wrapped around him, the warmth of Jack’s skin seeping through his tunic.

But he couldn’t push Jack away, not in his hour of need. And he didn’t want to, anyway. He liked comforting Jack. He liked the closeness.

No, he needed it.

And so, like Lance had done with Mark so many weeks before, they sat huddled together in mutual pain and despair, pondering what the future held for all of them.

Jenny sat on a newly refurbished bench, courtesy of Arthur’s crusade, in Eucalyptus Park under a mournful crescent moon, lamenting the fact that she hadn’t spoken with Arthur, or Lance, since the night of their first interview. She gazed sadly at a brand-new mural painted on the retaining wall before her. It depicted Lance proudly holding up the banner with Arthur on horseback behind him.

She knew she’d made a connection with Arthur. She’d felt it, and so had he, and she’d been hoping he’d call her, ask her to help, make her part of his campaign—not because she needed the attention, but because he’d want her near. Because he felt… well, something for her.

She knew she could call him—she’d called many men in her time. If she wanted something, she went after it. But it’s not like Arthur had a cell phone… or did he? She supposed he might by now, so his kids could keep in contact with him. And it’s not like she didn’t know where he lived. With all the media hovering about, she marveled that his hideout hadn’t been discovered. The police had been called off; she knew that. The sleazy mayor had assured the public that the incident at the pizza parlor had been “an unfortunate misunderstanding, and would not happen again.” Yeah, Jenny had snorted at the TV, because he made you and the LAPD look like idiots.

Arthur was busy too—that was more than obvious. Swamped would be a better word. He just didn’t have much time—no, he didn’t have any time for socializing. That must be why he hadn’t called on her. She’d give him a little longer, she decided. Then, if he still didn’t call on her, well, she’d just have to call on him.

The following morning, Lance drifted out of sleep into an uncertain wakefulness, forgetting for a moment, where he was. Then he felt the heavily muscled arm draped around him and remembered. He nudged Jack, and the older boy awoke, his face still streaked with dried tears. Disengaging themselves stiffly, they rose to stretch their legs, and Jack flexed and unflexed his arms to get the circulation going.

As Lance stood up, two envelopes dropped from his tunic and fluttered to the ground by Jack’s bare feet.

Jack noticed also. “What’s that?”

“I don’t know.” Lance stooped to retrieve them. “Two letters. One’s addressed to Arthur, and the other… to you.”

He handed Jack the plain white envelope with “Jack” written in florid, almost calligraphic style on the front.

“That’s Mark’s writing!” Jack tore open the letter and began to read, his mouth dropping open in shock, his face dissolving into sorrow.

“What is it?” Lance asked breathlessly, fear gripping his heart like a clenched fist.

Fresh tears dropping from his eyes, Jack handed over the letter.

Lance took the paper. He could almost hear Mark’s gentle voice in his head.

Dearest Jacky,

I know you’re gonna be pissed at me for ditching you, but I gotta get out, and you know why. I just can’t be around him no more. I’m goin’ back to the streets where I’ll get treated like the lousy stinking queer boy I am. That’s all I deserve. My parents were right about me—I’m worthless.

Arthur was way too good for me. But you, Jacky, you’re a real somebody, and you got a home there with him and the rest. You got a future. Oh, and Lance, tell him I’m sorry, too. He’s a good friend, like you, better’n I deserve. And he’s really awesome, and I know you think so, cause you told me. So if it turns out, you know, that he’s gay, you two would be good for each other.

Lance blushed at that part, but Jack