Island of Icarus (5 page)

The afternoon and evening passed dismally. It rained, as Marcus had said it would. It was a monotonous, unending drizzle. I retired to my room to nurse my aching body and black spirit. Before the rain started, I had managed to clip several intriguing plant samples, and now I hunched over the table, describing them exhaustively on paper. If I didn’t keep my mind busy, my thoughts turned to self-pity or—worse—to the image of Marcus’s round, muscled chest rising from the water.

Marcus came in once, apologetically, to ask how I was doing and to take the bird mount from the bench. My skin prickled as he crossed the room. “Fine,” I lied, swallowing a dry lump in my throat. I gave him the barest of glances and flat smiles, afraid of staring if I looked at him or appearing rude if I did not. He invited me to supper, but I had no hunger, only a hole inside of me that had nothing to do with want for food.

Finished with the samples, I began a log of all that had happened to me since the shipwreck, hour by hour, detail for detail. Eventually I bored of this dry recount and started a list of every plant genus I had recognized so far. I described my observations of the altered finches, mused on how the introduction of rabbits into a predator-free environment would alter the island’s ecology, and made a list of all of the topics I would research when I returned to England, for—while I might never attain a tenured position or publish ground-breaking research—I could at least continue my career in biology. There was nearly infinite room for underdog intellectuals in the realm of science. Hundreds—nay, thousands—of jobs needed to be completed so that the true savants had literature to draw upon, like cataloguing new species and writing article drafts. These jobs took intellect, but not genius. Intellect I had, and I was good at these things. I even survived on them. Scientific inquiry was the fire inside of me. Indeed, it was all I truly had. It had always been enough for me, and it must always be enough.

I wrote until well after dark, and then doused the lamp and went to bed not because I was tired, but because I was out of things to write and because habit demanded it. However, sleep would not come. Instead a sort of nervous pressure pressed against my mind, urging me to wakefulness. Pain worried me like a knife in my chest and a burning in my leg, and though Marcus had changed the wet bandage once I’d returned to the cabin, I wondered if I shouldn’t have taken that bath in the lake, after all. I tossed fitfully, thoroughly uncomfortable in body, in mind, in spirit.

After a small eternity, the door quietly opened. I had just turned to face the wall, so I could not see Marcus, but I could sense his hesitant presence. Surprised, I turned. I could see him silhouetted by soft lamplight from the living room. He eased forward, slowly and quietly. In a low voice, he said, “You are awake. Are you all right? I can hear you tossing.”

I sat up, wincing with pain in my rib and then stumbling because of the wooden unresponsiveness of my right arm. I gripped it with my left hand and worked it back and forth to wind the clockwork. “I apologize,” I said, abashed. “I suppose I have a good bit on my mind.”

“And you are in pain, I imagine.”

I grimaced. “It is tolerable.” A sudden thought struck me. “Where are you sleeping?” The cabin had but two rooms, this one and the study. The only bed I had ever noted was the one I occupied.

Marcus now stood but a foot away, so I could see the shadow of his shoulder as he shrugged. “On the floor.” Immediately, I let out a cry of “Oh!” and began to swing to the side of the bed, but he planted a warm hand against my shoulder and said, “A jest. I sleep in the chair in the study. It’s actually quite comfortable.”

“The chair!” I said. That didn’t seem much better than the floor.

“
Shh
, it’s all right. And I came here for you, not for me.”

“I’m fine,” I said, both embarrassed and flattered. “Although now I’m afraid I will
never
be able to sleep knowing that I’ve put my host out of his own bed.”

“Then I suppose there is only one choice. We shall have to share it,” was his quick reply. I gaped at him, unable to speak, and he held up a hand. “A jest! Simply a jest.” He took a step backward.

A deluge of emotions broke over me like a sudden, violent wave. Guilt, alarm, a breath-stealing fear. Respect, humility. And there, yes, was
want
—a need for human closeness, for this presence that cared for and acknowledged me—and shame because of that want. And more than that, greater than the shame, was the need. “No,” I said before he had made it halfway across the room. I chose my words with care. “No, it seems…like a fair compromise. I have a suspicion you would not allow me to take your place in the chair. So.” I shifted in the bed closer to the wall. It would be wide enough for the both of us, but only just so.

He hesitated a moment, and then closed the distance to the door. With his hand on the door he asked, “Are you sure?” At my steadfast, “Yes,” he closed it, then came to the bed and slid carefully onto the linens next to me. I threw the sheet over him and sank back into the pillow with every muscle tense. The warmth of his body traveled quickly under the covers. For many moments, I dared not move, lest I bump against him. Indeed, I barely breathed.

“Are you all right?” he asked. “Do you have enough room? If you become uncomfortable, let me know. I don’t want to make matters worse.”

“It’s fine,” I said, closing my eyes and taking a deep, slow breath, mindful of my ribs. “I will let you know.”

I felt rather than saw him nod. There was silence after that. I focused on the sound and character of his breathing, which lengthened and deepened after a time. When I was sure he was asleep, I opened my eyes again and slowly relaxed. In truth, I had just as much difficulty falling asleep knowing my host was in bed next to me as I would have knowing he was in a chair. I wondered if I should have insisted on taking that chair myself. Of the two of us, at least he could have benefited properly from the bed, and I would have had a ready supply of texts to occupy my wakeful hours.

But then, he wouldn’t have allowed that, would he? He continually expressed genuine concern for my well-being, and not just as a test subject. Even Cara had not shown me this deference. If she did anything for me without immediate personal gain, she made sure that I knew how fortunate I was to have her. She thrived on attention. Apparently I had never given her enough.

I was afraid I may have been unfair and incorrect in my earlier judgment of Marcus. For all that he was a genius well on his way to fame and fortune, he was a shipwrecked man, like me. And, also like me, he was an outsider of society. Who else could live like a hermit on a remote island? He had built his own home and his own life here and had even found the means to continue his research. Now, he shared this all with me without asking for anything in return.

I was aware of Marcus’s warmth next to me, and how much I needed it, how much I needed that closeness. It came to me as a wrenching yearning, and I understood at once that this was not something new. It had been buried inside of me for so long that I had for all intents forgotten it. My eyes burned, and tears sprang up as they had two nights ago in his study. This time I let them come. They welled in my eyes and tipped down over my cheeks.

A memory came to me then, almost as vivid as if it had happened yesterday: Cara, calling upon me at work, and me distracted and vaguely annoyed. She wanted me to walk in the park with her and perhaps come home for dinner. I told her I’d work to do, and her features screwed into an expression of pouting anguish. She reached a hand to me before she went, perhaps a last attempt to connect, or to supplicate, or simply to feel me. I grasped her hand in mine stiffly and awkwardly, no more personally than a handshake. A dim awareness caused me to pull her into a hug, but even that embrace was tense and brief. However, it was enough to douse the anger in her eyes. When she departed they were like wet coals, dark and damp. I recognized her anger and disappointment, but at the time did not think much of it. She was bold and impulsive, calling upon me at the university without warning and expecting me to drop what I was doing. If she was disappointed, it was not my fault. Did she not respect the importance of what I did?

That was not it at all, though. No, she had not been impulsive or bold or selfish, but human. She had been seeking connection with me and I had avoided it, repeatedly and frequently. Often, when I’d thought I was busy with work, or too tired, or in need of personal space, I had truly been avoiding her. The pouting and the demands for attention had simply been her desperate efforts to draw from me what I should naturally have been giving her; affection and genuine regard. In the end she had simply done the only thing she could have. She left.

It had not been Cara at all. It had been me. I had been hurting her, and in return I was now in every sort of imaginable pain—physical, emotional, spiritual. It was my fault. I was the cause of all of this pain.

At that, my throat closed and the tears flowed freely. Every muscle in my chest tightened, but the pain did not stop me from beginning to shake. It only served as a sharp reminder of what
I
had done to
myself
, and I began to cry harder.

My God, I’ll wake him up,
I thought. I turned to the wall and curled into myself, attempting to quiet the silent, shaking gasps. A moment later, Marcus stirred.

“Jon?” he asked, sleepily. Then, more clearly, “Are you all right?”

I took a deep breath. “I’m fine. I’m sorry. I’m fine.” My voice trailed into a strained whisper.

“No, I don’t think you are. Come here.” He was propped on his side, facing me. I turned minutely to see that he had lifted his arm.

I relaxed and uncurled my body. I twisted to say,
No, I’ll be all right. I’m so sorry. I’ll take the chair,
but my speaking muscles spasmed and I only groaned. Yes, to the chair, where I could continue to cry in loneliness and leave Marcus to his bed.

He did not give me the chance to decide. He lowered his arm across my chest and pulled me against him, strong and warm and secure. I gasped with surprise, dismay, and pain. His voice near my ear murmured, “It’s all right. There is no one here but me. It’s all right.”

His words released the floodgate. Like a fist around my heart, every muscle in my chest twisted tight, and I convulsed in his arms with a wrenching sob. It was followed by another, and another—one after the other, broken only by sharp, strident breaths. The bed shook with the sobs. Marcus’s arm tightened across my chest, holding me steady as my body bucked fitfully.

My eyes poured tears, my nose grew runny, and my body shuddered. I had lost all composure, any control I’d had. The only thing left of me was tears, and wailing, and my ragged breaths, and my body shaking against Marcus.

If I began to quiet for a moment, another thought would come, unbidden, to trigger the sobs again. I clung to Marcus’s arm, held it to me fiercely. Teeth chattering, jaw clenched, I cried, “I never loved her! Oh, God, I never even loved her!” and curled around his arm as another fit ripped my breath from me. They were reaching a hysterical note.

There it was. The truth I had been hiding from. It had all been a lie. I had never really loved Cara at all. I had been fond of her, certainly, and had even thought I had wanted her as my wife. But I had never loved her.

My breath was stolen by a long series of hissing, convulsive, dry sobs that never seemed to end. The muscles in my back, stomach, and jaw locked and burned. They threatened to burst themselves. An involuntary, animal groan squeezed up from my gut.

“
Ssshhh
,” soothed Marcus, rubbing his trapped hand against my shoulder. “Calm down, now. Slow your breathing. You’ll faint.”

I reigned in the next sob and shuddered on the long, sharp intake of breath. I let it out with a gush through my clenched teeth. I groaned helplessly with it. My stomach muscles trembled with the force of another sob that attempted to take me, but I swallowed it back with a miserable cry.

“
Sssshhh.
That’s it. It’s all right,” said Marcus, massaging my shoulder painfully now. I hadn’t the breath to complain. It was strangely centering.

Slowly, I relaxed into him. Every few moments I was seized by a sudden, spontaneous sob that threatened to break me apart again, but Marcus anchored me with his strong arms around my chest. Finally, the convulsions ended. I lay panting, spent and hollow. My face itched with tears. My mouth hung open, and my nose was thoroughly stopped up.

With the calm returned a vague sense of dignity, and with that, an awareness of how I clung to Marcus. Yet, I could not muster the strength nor spirit to care. I was only grateful, and—vaguely, weirdly—rebellious.
God, let me have this. At least let me have this.

I closed my eyes. Shuddering softly, I sighed. With that, the last of the crying went out of me, and I relaxed finally, completely.

“There,” whispered Marcus. I worried that he would release me, but he did not. He only relaxed his arms a little so that I could breathe fully once again. He said nothing more, and neither did I. There were no words for the depth of my gratitude.

I fell asleep with his breath warming the back of my neck.

I awoke feeling quieted. For many moments, I remained on my side without moving, regarding the wall with a sense of peace.

Marcus still slept, his back pressed against mine. His breathing was heavy and steady.
Odd,
I thought.
Odd that he is still asleep and it’s morning.
I had always found him awake and active.

With awareness of Marcus came awareness of the night before. Matter-of-factly, I thought I should feel shame for what had transpired, as if I had somehow taken advantage of his kindness. Yet I could not. There was only a calm awareness, as if I had been purged.

I slowly sat up, careful of my inert right arm, and looked down upon Marcus. I did not care to encounter him awake just now. Quietly, I wound my arm and then picked my way over his body. He remained blessedly undisturbed.

The light of the sun, largely hidden by the trees, became brighter as I approached the open beach. Here, the light was clean and new and evenly cast. I walked to the surf and stood there with my feet meeting the waves, watching the western horizon grow slowly lighter.

My eyes unfocused so that I took in the whole of the panorama—the long line where the dusky sky met the dark ocean waves. I felt vacant inside, as if I’d been cored. It was a filled emptiness. No loose fittings rattled inside. Just a serene feeling, as if nothing but breath filled me, or cloud.

I really should not have broken down like that, I thought at length. Eventually my rational mind talked me into misgivings, regrets. No, I should not have broken down like that. I should have composed myself like a man. Instead I had acted like a child spoiled with attention. I had taken advantage of Marcus’s kindness and shamed myself. However, I could not take that back now. I had done the thing, and now I had to live with it.

The sky lightened to the familiar new blue of early morning. I am not sure how long Marcus stood there before I became aware of his presence. He seemed to be silently regarding the horizon, and was dressed in fresh clothes. For a while we simply shared the breeze, the horizon, and the waves. At length, I said, “I hope you can accept my apologies regarding last night. I lost control of myself.” I dared not look at him as I spoke, lest I lose the courage. Instead I spoke to the ocean, which wouldn’t have cared had I cried a lake.

“It’s all right,” said Marcus, stepping next to me. “These things happen. It is what makes us human. How do you feel now?”

“Purged.”

He did not reply immediately, and I interpreted his silence to be a negative response. Disdain, perhaps, or disapproval. My throat suddenly grew tight and my eyes threatened to burn. So I was not purged after all, but fragile like blown glass. I swallowed back the emotion and filled the silence with words. Perhaps, at least, I could somehow make him understand. “My life has been stressful and confusing. As you can imagine—as you possibly experienced—being shipwrecked is…disorienting. You have been very kind to me. Too kind. I am very grateful to you.” I struggled past a lump and forced life into my words, though my voice was failing me. “I’m just rather afraid I’m weak.”

“Is that…what you think?” asked Marcus.

Now, my treacherous eyes watered. I only prayed that they did not overflow. “Of course. Don’t you?”

He said, “No. No, of course not. Jon, you are a strong and courageous person. And as tough as a nut!”

I was so startled that I looked at him despite my brimming eyes. Firmly, he continued. “You survived a violent storm at sea, and not
just
survived. You thrive. Yes, I know what it is like to be shipwrecked. I’ve experienced madness. My own, that of others. I’ve seen men die. No, I certainly don’t think you are weak.”

I looked away again. “You say that while I have tears in my eyes,” I scoffed.

“And what is your point?” he asked. “You are a proud, brave, resourceful, beautiful, dignified man. Even with the tears. Hell,
because
of the tears!”

I had focused every ounce of my concentration on keeping my face turned from him. So much so that I did not sense him moving closer until his hand was under my face. He took my chin gently and tipped my face toward his. “Don’t you see?” he asked, while I searched his eyes with confusion and surprise. Tears began to roll down my face. The edges of his mouth tipped up in a rueful, tender way. “You are an amazing person.” Then, he leaned in and placed his lips against mine in a short, sweet kiss.

His hand fell away as he pulled back, gaze locked with mine. I stared, speechless, the fresh tears still wet on my cheeks and the memory of his lips still imprinted on mine. Surprisingly soft, and as considerate and sure as his hands had been.

Marcus took a step backward. I caught his wrist before he could take another, and pulled him back toward me. What I would do once he was close again, I was not sure—not until his face was inches from mine. My hands rose to his face, and I winced slightly as my cold metal fingers touched his skin—not because I could feel them, but because I knew that he could. But then, I was guiding his mouth toward mine. He curled his hands around my neck with a sharp intake of breath that I felt as much as heard. Our lips touched, and this time they were exploring, kneading, needing.

A wave of energy and
want
flowed into me from that kiss—out from him and up from my gut. Our fingers tightened and we pressed closer until our bodies were molded against each other and I could feel his cock, hard against my thigh. I groaned reflexively against his mouth—surprised, alarmed, joyful. He groaned back and I was aware of my own member pressed stiff against him. His hips dipped down to grind wantingly against it. His tongue flicked against the crease of my mouth, invitingly. I parted my lips for him. I could taste him now, yes, and somehow I felt his caressing tongue and the heat of his loins as one sensation.

I broke away from him, panting heavily for breath. Sweet fresh salt air rushed in around our faces. “How? Why?” I gasped.

Marcus rested his forehead against mine and his arms traveled down to encircle my shoulders. “
Thank you,
” he said, breathlessly. “Oh my God, thank you.” He laughed and squeezed me and said, “You have awoken a passion in me I have not felt for years. I had begun to forget what it was like to be with a person, to be with a man. And here you came, so perfect, so desirable. If we’d have met on the mainland, I would have considered myself just as lucky.” He smiled at me. “Do you see now?”

“You desire men?” Puzzled, I pulled back.

“I’m afraid so,” he said, wry and sheepish.

“I never thought—” What? Never thought it was possible for an educated professional man to exhibit such unnatural, wanton cravings—or that those cravings may not be unnatural or wanton at all? Never thought that my nervous regard for beautiful, intelligent men may have been more than just admiration?

“You didn’t know,” he said, an explosion of mirth lighting his eyes. It was neither a statement nor a question, but a realization.

I shook my head. There was a great deal I didn’t know.

He drew his eyebrows together and pursed the lips I had just kissed. He hesitated, then said, “I…would like to show you, if you would let me.”

My gut clenched. “I…” I could not find the words. I could only stare at him standing before me in the clean morning light, a shadow cast across his eyes. God, I could still feel him against me—his skin, his lips, his cock—and I
wanted
him. I wanted to touch his face, to run my hands over his chest and through his sun-bleached hair. Wanted to feel his breath against my mouth. I wanted— Oh, God, I wanted to hold his stiff cock.

A twist of horror shot through the desire. What was I thinking? Here was the man who cared for me and showed me tenderness—beautiful, intelligent, and gracious. And I—I was exiled, stranded. Fractured.

“I can’t—” I choked, but did not know the rest of the words. Oh, but it suddenly made sense, didn’t it? The realization turned my blood to ice. This was the thing that had been wrong with me, the secret so shameful that I had kept it even from myself. I desired men.

I desired men, and I desired Marcus.

When I did not answer straight away, Marcus turned his face away. “Forgive me,” he muttered. “I have acted out of line. It’s just… When I found you on the beach, you were so perfect, even broken. And then you opened to me last night, and I thought perhaps… Well, it’s been so long, and I hoped so hard that you would want me as I want you.”

My breath hitched. He stood there, a picture so tragically beautiful it made my throat close. I wanted to touch my fingers to his cheek, to comfort him. “Marcus.” My mouth had gone dry, my voice hoarse.

He looked at me with an expression of raw hope and need. Tears swelled in my eyes, and I looked away. “I…do. I want you.” My lips twisted into a tortured smile, and I laughed, a harsh sound. “I feel passion for you that I have never felt for a woman.”

The warm press of his fingers on my cheek made my heart lurch. I looked at him and for a long moment, he searched my gaze. “It’s not easy being this way,” he murmured. “I couldn’t live the lie anymore. It’s why I left. I don’t want you to…regret anything.”

I pressed my good hand to the one he held against my face. “The lie is what destroyed me.” I had never loved Cara, nor any woman. Denying my attraction to the same sex had only led to my ruin. I gripped his fingers and steeled myself against the fear I felt. “Please, show me.”

“Are you sure?” he whispered, pressing his forehead against mine.

I nearly moaned. I sought his mouth with mine. “Yes,” I said against it.