Chapter 3
Trey fumbles noisily with the lamp for a time, and then they are enveloped in darkness.
The silence is fractured by his breathing; he is far from sleep.
For the first time it occurs to Sylvan that they will eventually have to perform sexual intercourse.
Oh.
"Sylvan." Trey's voice carries that curious scratch again.
Sylvan is still not entirely sure of its meaning.
"Sylvan, what -"
"Hush, Trey," he interrupts, forcing the panic from his tone; he will need more time to prepare for
that
.
He rolls across the bed to meet his gaze.
"I'm not in the mood right now."
Even in the almost-darkness, he can see Trey's jaw slacken in shock.
Do they really have sex that often?
Sylvan will have to do some research, evidently.
He realizes with a jolt of shock that the idea sends his heart into his throat again.
He swallows thickly and turns away, drawing the sheets closely around himself.
"Goodnight, Trey," he manages, shuts his eyes.
Silence stretches between them, and then Sylvan feels a hand come to rest at his forehead, feels fingers tentatively smoothing back his hair.
His heart stutters.
"Right, Sylvan," whispers Trey, voice still scratching.
"Goodnight, then."
\-
The world remains nebulous and strange, and Trey remains the lone anchor in the murk of the dream.
Sylvan wants to breathe him in like cigarette smoke, to touch and taste him, to absorb the unique tangibility that is Trey.
He finds that his hands wander; his fingers dance over the bumps of his spine, the dip of his lower back; they linger too long at his wrist, trapping the frantic metronome of his pulse.
Trey occasionally asks what's gotten into him; more rarely, he returns the touch, smoothing the curls back from Sylvan's forehead or letting their fingertips bump together for an instant.
But he is always wary, as if Sylvan might shatter to bits beneath his hands, as if the jagged fragments might dig into his skin.
But how Sylvan likes touching Trey!
Perhaps it is because Trey is familiar and sharply defined; perhaps it is because the Sylvan lost in the gloom of his memory is fighting back into his consciousness.
Perhaps it is because Trey spells his heart in boldface whether he means to or not; perhaps it is merely because Trey is there.
Regardless, Sylvan lies awake at night tracing shapes over the strong lines of his back; he marvels at the sharp angles of his shoulder blades, the powerful curves of his hips, the gentle slope of his stomach.
He listens intently to the rhythm of his breathing and thinks what luck that he married such an intriguing man.
After another few weeks, Sylvan takes up work again to combat the restlessness and the pain of unfamiliarity.
He finds the cases thrilling and the people disgustingly stupid.
Vane – the silver-haired man from the hospital room – can scarcely function for his idiocy, and his subordinates are worse.
In fact, it seems the entirety of The Constabulary is dull and listless, while the criminals boast admirably sharp and interesting minds.
Only Trey is bearable.
He is hardly quicker than the rest, and yet he is indispensable.
Sylvan will not work without him.
Soon there is an ugly murder; Trey crouches by the body and says the woman was asphyxiated, though there are no fingerprints at her throat, no traces of inhalation.
Sylvan struggles to disguise his pleasure.
Trey will have none of it and scolds him, but his eyes shine.
They gather evidence, they test theories, and Sylvan berates Trey when he fails to meet his deductions halfway.
They shout and throw things and Trey banishes Sylvan to the couch several times.
They have never been happier.
Or at least as far as Sylvan is aware; it seems improbable, but perhaps lost somewhere in the recesses of his subconscious exists some memory of a time when they were still more engrossed in one another.
Trey never talks about their relationship, so Sylvan knows agonizingly little.
How did they meet?
Where did they go on their first date?
When did they have their first kiss?
Then Sylvan realizes that he does not know what it is like to kiss Trey at all.
He cannot stand not to know something, let alone something to do with Trey Pena.
They solve the case and quiet settles over Ashcroft Lane.
Sylvan takes to lingering at the windowsill and worrying his violin; Trey reads and blogs.
They sit on the sofa for hours with their computers on their laps and their hands wound together.
They don't speak.
They don't need to.
Touching Trey is no longer an essential part of Sylvan's role; rather, it is an essential part of Sylvan.
At some point, the indistinct grey shroud of evening falls over the shoulders of Crestmont.
Trey orders food, turns on the telly, sets the kettle on the stovetop.
When he sits down again, Sylvan unthinkingly shifts closer and grazes his temple with his lips.
Trey stares at him.
His throat convulses in a swallow.
And then he kisses Sylvan.
The kiss is gentle and firm at the same time.
It fits his personality.
He tastes like tea.
Sylvan sighs.
He closes his eyes and tries to memorize the taste of Trey Pena on his lips.
At last
.
They break apart and return to opposite sides of the couch.
Trey reaches for his hand.
A comfortable silence settles on their shoulders.
They do not need words.
Their fingers intertwine.
Trey turns up the volume of the telly.
Sylvan, for his part, realizes that he is falling in love.
Never has he missed his memory so much.
\-
Their relationship is simple.
They wake early.
Sylvan might find himself nestled into the crook of Trey's shoulder, breathing against his skin, or Trey pressed into the hollow of his chest, his hands curled on his ribcage.
More likely, however, they are on opposite sides of the bed, enjoying the singular peace that comes with familiarity.
They know each other too well to be uncomfortable with separation.
The irony therein is hardly lost on Sylvan.