Chapter 2
It would seem that he and Trey share the place; the furniture is a jumble of personalities, the walls peeling with hidden stories that Sylvan itches to uncover.
He has been confined to his bed, but once Trey has left to purchase some groceries, he rises and begins to wander about the apartment, searching, but for what?
He has harbored the quiet hope that something will jog his memory, that he will be broken from this dreamlike world which does not seem to belong to him, but as he runs his fingers across the spines of crumbling old volumes and hesitantly presses his palm into the cushions of the sofa, as his fingers find the slender bow of a violin and – much to his surprise – draw out a few whining notes by the windowsill, it becomes increasingly apparent that this will not happen.
Trey comes home to find Sylvan tucked defeated beneath the sheets, lost in the mist of the unknown past that he may never realize.
But Trey cannot know this, of course.
That would ruin the puzzle.
Sylvan is quickly seized with the need to uncover the identity of Trey Pena.
Over time he gathers that Trey helps Sylvan with his detective cases, that he otherwise works at a nearby medical clinic, that he has a sister, that he is a war veteran, that he blogs.
But this is not enough, and Sylvan begins to understand that he does not want this emotionless profile; he wants to experience Trey, to taste his heart, his motives.
Why
, his agonizes, why?
Why does he share this flat with Sylvan?
Why does he look at him so carefully, hesitantly, sometimes gently, sometimes angrily?
Why does he care for him so unconditionally?
While Sylvan is bound to his bed, Trey brings him tea, coffee, books, his laptop, anything, whatever he asks.
He tolerates complaints and he tolerates erratic periods of taciturnity and he does not ask for thanks.
If Sylvan talks, he replies, and does not flinch when Sylvan returns with cutting fragments of sentences.
Several times, when he thinks Sylvan is asleep, he smoothes back the hair from his forehead with a startlingly tender hand.
He forces him to eat.
He laughs.
He looks at him with soft eyes.
When Sylvan is almost healthy, when he has learned his way around the flat and can flawlessly tune himself to the expectations of others, they eat at the breakfast table together and fight over the newspaper.
Trey surrenders if Sylvan will eat half an egg.
Sylvan concedes and Trey smiles with warmth that he can
feel
against his cheek.
Then it occurs to him and he nearly leaps from his chair in victory, too thrilled to feel strange or question his revelation.
Trey Pena is his husband.
Obviously.
\-
Now that he has discovered his role in this intricate theatre of unfamiliar faces, Sylvan must do all he can to play the part well.
He is not daunted but rather intrigued by the idea.
The flat is not uncomfortable and Trey is not unlikeable; perhaps he can hollow out a space for himself here, regardless of his memory.
And even if he cannot, at least he can enjoy the thrill of experimentation for a time.
The series of deductions falls into place effortlessly:
Trey is his husband, so Sylvan consented to marry him.
Therefore, he was quite in love with the man.
The idea does not seem impossible; his mind wastes no time worrying over sexuality (merely chemical, that), and Trey is not unlovable.
However, it soon becomes obvious that they are not an affectionate sort of couple.
Trey does not drop kisses on his cheeks or forehead, only sugar cubes in his coffee, and he looks alarmed when Sylvan smiles at him one morning over his mug.
"What's gotten into you, eh?"
Sylvan shrugs and catalogues the data for later reference.
Weeks have passed.
He is finally released from his bed and for once Trey does not seem perplexed by his good mood.
He makes bacon for breakfast and Sylvan eats a slice and a half; he looks so pleased that Sylvan wonders if he will kiss him.
His heart is still pounding when Trey leaves the table.
He marvels at the blood rushing thick and hot to his fingertips.
They spend the day roaming about Crestmont.
The city has the insubstantial familiarity of a dream.
Sylvan nearly stumbles in his façade when evening falls and, wandering back towards Ashcroft Lane, they stop at a restaurant that he should know.
He panics –
our favorite restaurant, where we first met, perhaps the proposal spot?
– but Trey seems oblivious to his lapse of composure, and he has the time to deduce that the place is nothing more than an old haunt.
It is shabby and Trey is relaxed, and the owner booms and beams at them fondly.
It is nowhere special, just familiar.
Or so it should be.
He is relieved when they return to the flat, the more sharply-defined reality.
Since his release from the hospital, Trey has dozed at his bedside, waking him every few hours, making him walk a few paces to ensure that his concussion has not taken an unseen toll.
Sylvan assumes that the upstairs bedroom goes unused; such is the behavior of married couples, is it not?
But Trey looks stricken when he tries to stand from the bed and Sylvan catches his hand; his pupils dilate and Sylvan can see color rush to his neck.
His own breath catches.
Has he made a mistake?
Impossible; he swallows the pounding of his heart.
Impossible.
"You're not going to stay?"
The color spills from Trey's neck to flood his cheeks.
He opens his mouth.
His pulse sings, a startled bird trapped beneath Sylvan's thumb.
He blinks slowly; his chest seems to swell.
An unsteady exhale buoys his reply to the ceiling.
"Alright."
And he removes his socks.
Sylvan rolls over and closes his eyes.
He feels the mattress sink and the sheets draw more tightly across the bed.