Chapter 11

St. Louis, June 1973

The house was empty when Bill woke up. Or at least, Bobby had already gone – he assumed that stupid cat was still hiding somewhere, ready to pounce on him. The scratches on his hand had stopped stinging, but the bandage had come off during the night and some blood had crusted on his hand.

He made his way to the living room, mindful of his surroundings and wary of aggressive felines, until he found the same model of orange phone that had been in Bobby's office, and dialed. He asked to be transferred to the local number for his clinic, and had to wait for a whole minute until somebody picked up.

He made up a family emergency, stammering that he'd had to drive away in the middle of the night to go visit his mother who was dying – while thinking that if she was, there was a good chance nobody would even let him know.

When asked when he would be back, he said he couldn't be sure and would do his best, mentally apologizing to the patients he would be letting down, and hoping that Doctor Langlard would be able to pick up the slack.

That left him to make himself a coffee, and find out what he would be doing for the rest of the day. Assuming Bobby would kick him out in the evening, he changed into clean clothes, packed his suitcase again and made the bed in the guest room. It was nearly lunch time when he found a little note stuck on the fridge that read:

Help yourself to any food you want. Just don't leave the house for the moment since you can't lock it, I'll be back as soon as I can. Oh, and don't let Poppy outside, in his state I don't trust him not to fall into the pool.

His heart jumped into his throat and he nearly hurt himself running to the open French doors.

"Poppy?" he called, carefully stepping outside.

Well, at least there was no body floating around in the pool. If the cat had taken a dip, he'd been strong enough to pull himself out. Bill had never had a cat in his life, and he wasn't sure the usual tricks he used to get his dog to pay attention would work now. He tried whistling, and got no response.

There was also a fair chance that the cat was still inside lounging somewhere out of sight, and Bill was making a fool of himself.

He set about checking every room, embarrassed beyond belief when he opened drawers in Bobby's bedroom and found his briefs there. But there was no trace of Poppy, neither on, in, or underneath furniture. Stupid thing must have gotten outside, and if it had left the backyard, Bill was fucked.

He trotted back outside, and there he was. He breathed a sigh of relief at the sight of a white, fluffy tail waving in between the rose bushes. Then the sight was followed by a pitiful mewl, almost a protest. Mindful to make enough noise that he wouldn't surprise Poppy, Bill went to crouch behind him and inspected the situation.

"Oh you absolute moron," he grunted when it became clear that the cat had stuck his cone in between the branches of a bush, and the thorns had enough grip on the plastic that he couldn't slide himself free.

Poppy replied with a hiss but, thankfully for the integrity of Bill's hands, wasn't in any position to turn around and lash at him. However, that didn't stop him from howling like a wounded wolf when Bill touched the cone, assessing how to free the stupid animal with the least damage.

"Yeah well, you got yourself there, don't ‘weh' me," Bill mumbled, and put a hand on the back of Poppy's neck to keep him still while he worked the cone free.

It slipped away easily, once the cat stopped struggling, only for Poppy to dash away like a lunatic towards the house. Well, at least he was out of harm's way, and now maybe Bill could consider lunch.

He made sure to close the doors behind him and checked around the house that there were no other possible exits. When he made it back to the kitchen, Poppy was lying on a chair, squinting at him.

"Listen, it's not my fault you don't have your balls anymore," Bill frowned. "But I'll make you a deal: I won't tell your dad that you ridiculed yourself and in return, we won't talk about the fact that I didn't close the doors."

Poppy simply blinked at him, looking miserable inside his cone, and Bill figured that was the end of their conversation. He made himself a quick sandwich, and drank more coffee, wondering what he'd do all afternoon waiting for Bobby to come back. Other than worry himself sick at the prospect of what would happen then.

A bookshelf stood in a corner of the living room, prompting him to spend a while inspecting their contents before picking a novel at random, and settling on the couch to try and distract himself.

He managed to get engrossed enough in the story that he jumped when the door opened, and wondered where time had gone. He put the book away behind a cushion, suddenly ashamed that he'd gone through Bobby's things without his permission, and waited with his hands in his lap.

Bobby appeared a few minutes later, barefoot and having opened his shirt on the white undershirt he wore underneath. Bill swallowed at the sight of his chest, though covered, and the few curls of hair that were peaking at the collar. Stopped in the doorway, Bobby threw a wary glance at Bill and brushed a nervous hand through his hair.

"Hi."

Bill swallowed for sole reply.

"How was um… everything?" Bobby continued, his feet seemingly glued all the way away from Bill.

"Alright, yes. And you?"

Bobby nodded, looking away.

"I was wondering what you wanted to do for dinner."

Bill stared for longer that was polite, striving to analyze Bobby's facial expressions, and what he could possibly mean by… that.

Bill had expected to be sent home, after their conversation the night before.

But Bobby was still inspecting a random spot on the wall and after long seconds, Bill decided that whatever was happening, it was in his best interest to just… go along with it.

"Would you like me to cook?"

Bobby pouted and finally moved, heading for the kitchen. Bill got to his feet and followed, silent and still wondering what the protocol was here, if there was any. Bobby was standing at the fridge, holding the door open and peering inside.

"There's not many ingredients left. I think we should order in. I'm not keen to leave Poppy alone still, as long as he has the cone on. Did he behave alright?"

Bill thought back to a pact he wasn't sure the cat had agreed on, but decided to at least keep his end of the bargain.

"Yes, all fine."

Bobby smiled, a small, doubtful thing, but Bill clung to it with all the hope he could muster.

"I know we had pizzas last night and it's not a lot of vegetables and all but… I'd kill for a burger."

After how little food he'd had in the last two days, the sudden mention of grease and carbs had Bill's stomach growling, giving his answer for him. He slapped both his palms on his treacherous belly, as if he could contain the sound, and didn't mind that much when it was covered up by Bobby laughing.

"I guess that's settled. You can wait for me here, I'll go get them."

And just like that, he was gone again.

Bill was reminded that he wasn't alone when a loud thud came from behind him and he found that Poppy had stumbled off the chair he was on earlier. The cat confusedly blinked up at him, and it must have been progress because instead of attacking Bill he threw a little ‘meow?' at him.

"I don't understand more than you what's happening," Bill sighed.

Unless Bobby was being polite and he felt bad about sending him on his way without any food in him. Not like Bill couldn't have grabbed dinner for himself on the way… The number of questions only grew and he remained stuck in the kitchen, until he heard the front door open again, and the jingle of Bobby hanging up his keys.

"I'm here!" the other man shouted from the entrance of the house, and Bill had another one of those flashes overtake his vision.

The two of them, sharing a house. Coming home nearly at the same time, tired from work but happy to spend the rest of the day together. One of them bringing home dinner. Maybe they would alternate. They would have found their favorite restaurants and diners over the years, and would know what to get to make the other happy. Falling into bed together, exhausted or maybe, with still enough energy to…

Bobby emerged holding a plastic bag, his hair falling on his temples in messy strands. He still hadn't closed his shirt and Bill was shocked again at the sight of the hollow of his throat. Bobby sounded breathless, as if he'd run instead of driven back.

"I hope you're hungry," he said, "I got us the largest portions of fries I could find."

The way Bill's mouth flooded with saliva at the idea didn't leave any doubt as to whether he would finish his food.

They settled in the garden again, with the table between them, eating over the styrofoam boxes the burgers came in. With the amount of sauce dripping from their hands, they'd both had to roll up their sleeves, and there was really nothing that attractive about forearms except… Except maybe there was.

Bill remembered his first ever boxing lesson. He hadn't really known what it was, back then, but the sight of Bobby's bare arms had put him in such a state that he'd had to punch a bag for a long time to calm himself down.

He'd realized at sixteen only that there was something different in the way he looked at his friend, something he didn't find in other boys.

No, never in the showers had the sight of a classmate made his heart go as fuzzy as that of Bobby's naked shoulders, when they changed out of their uniforms at night.

He must have been staring, and forgot to eat again, because Bobby paused and asked with his mouth full:

"Have I got something on my face?"

Bill cleared his throat, feeling his cheeks go warm.

"No, sorry, just… memories."

Bobby hummed, but didn't press further. They finished their meal in silence and, later, sharing a beer and looking at the butterflies flying around the garden, Bill was still on edge, thinking about what came next when Bobby asked:

"Want to go for a drive, after? I should show you around the city a bit."

Sitting in a car together was dangerous. Not quite as much as shaving each other, tipsy and – on Bill's part at least – infatuated, but the close quarters sure wouldn't help with the conflicting feelings that were slowly but surely tearing him apart.

"Sure."

God, what an idiot he was.

But Bobby seemed oddly wistful, tonight, and not confrontational as he'd been the day before. He was still holding Bill at arms' length, but the barrier seemed to have lowered a little, just enough for Bill to contemplate seeing over it.

Bobby's car smelled clean, of new leather and the artificial scent of lavender coming from the rear view mirror decoration. Bill kept his eyes resolutely forward to avoid getting lost in the contemplation of his companion, who looked rumpled and relaxed, as if they were leaving for a holiday road trip.

The cat was loaded in the back, and as soon as Bobby started the engine, he began mewling as if possessed. Well, that was at least something to kill even the possibility of a romantic mood. Bobby seemed quite happy to ignore the horrible sounds coming from the backseat, and drove them past the Cathedral, Opera, City Hall…

They stopped, parked in front of the Gateway Arch, and Bobby rolled down the windows then, letting some fresh air inside the car. Poppy had stopped yelling and was now only growling with muted rage.

"He'll be out of the cone soon, hopefully," Bobby said, as if that was the kind of conversation they should be having.

What are you doing? What do you want me to do? Bill was desperate to ask, but as always, his throat remained painfully locked when it was really important that he speak.

"I like to have a quiet day on Saturday," Bobby continued. "Usually spend a lot of it painting, or reading. If you want, I know a shop where you can get swim-trunks, if you want to enjoy the pool."

Bill steadied his breath as best as he could. Today was a Friday. This meant… Bobby was allowing him an extra day. For what, he wasn't sure…

He turned, and Bobby's profile in the low light of the evening was striking enough that despite how much he knew this would hurt, when it ended, he couldn't bring himself to refuse.

"I don't have to do a tetanus injection, by the way," Bill spoke, which was no way to answer Bobby's offer, but still better than silence.

Bobby smiled and cocked his head at him. Please know that one more day with you is all I ever wanted, Bill hoped he could read in his eyes.

"That's good news, then. Won't have to play nurse for you again. Oh, show me your hand."

Bobby extended one of his expectantly, until Bill placed slightly shaky fingers in his palm. Bobby let out a pleased sound, turning his hand over and checking the scratches, following the healing lines with the tip of one finger.

"Looks good. Not inflamed. You should be okay soon."

"I think I would have known if I needed to worry," Bill couldn't help to point out.

They'd studied medicine together, after all. Bobby shook his head, still smiling, and started the car again.

"I think you'll find, in these matters, it's always better to get a second opinion."

Bill never asked what these matters were, but when Bobby touched his shoulder later, standing in the corridor again, he thought he had a faint idea.

"Goodnight, then?" the other man said, and Bill had no idea what to make of the question mark in his sentence.

"Goodnight."

He curled up under the blanket, despite the ambient heat that had seeped inside the house. He felt the need to be squeezed, pressured until all the nervous itches and thoughts were pushed out of him. For now, the heavy weight of the blanket would have to do.

Bill slept in fits and starts, waking up every thirty minutes until he finally succumbed to exhaustion as the sun began rising.

He opened his eyes again to be half blinded by the direct light coming in through the window, and squinted while his brain pieced together the clues until he remembered where he was. He palmed the cover off himself, sweating like anything, and grunted when he found that his shirt was thoroughly stuck to his skin. His first order of the day was apparently a shower.

Bobby had offered him a towel the day before, while they were both busy not mentioning the fact that Bill seemed to be staying for the weekend. Bill made quick work of cleaning himself and arrived in the living room to a scene he wasn't quite prepared for.

There was an easel placed facing the French windows, holding a medium canvas, oriented in portrait. Poppy was draped over the backrest of the couch, legs hanging limply by his sides, head lolling against the inside of the cone. But most importantly was Bobby, stood in front of the canvas, wearing a denim apron over casual clothes of all things, and humming to himself as he mixed colors on a palette.

For a moment, Bill forgot that he was nervous about the rest of the day, or that he had no clue what they were doing here, hanging around after Bill's confession and what he'd taken as a dismissal from the other man.

The vision he was faced with was so quiet that even Bill couldn't find it in himself to be anxious. He noticed after a while that there was jazz music playing from the radio, and Bobby's singing followed the tune, whilst he lightly swayed in place.

Bill wasn't sure what it was he was painting. There were barely a couple of brush strokes across the white background of the canvas, and Bobby still seemed deep in thought, as if considering what his next move might be.

He only turned around when Bill took a few more steps towards him, too awkward to interrupt the peace of the moment by speaking.

"Oh," Bobby said, the corner of his eyes wrinkling. "You slept late, how're you feeling?"

Bill's words got all jumbled for a second, effectively locking his mouth shut. There was a lot he could say, and ask, but too much of it and he couldn't figure out where to start.

"I suppose I was tired," he opted for a banality, rubbing at his own damp hair. "What… what are you painting?"

"I was going to do a landscape. Actually, it's a place I like to visit once in a while, for hiking. It's not that far from here, maybe an hour's drive? I was thinking maybe…" Bobby trailed off, his brush waving in the air and sending a red droplet onto the canvas. "We could go tomorrow. I need more references, I should take a few photos of it, and it'd be nice to get out of the city, what do you think?"

I think I need to know what made you change your mind about me disturbing your life.

"Yes, that sounds nice."

Bill hadn't thought to bring hiking shoes, of course, and he wondered just how badly he'd damage his black loafers if they went to that place Bobby wanted to.

"Help yourself to breakfast or leftovers in the fridge," Bobby said, turning back to his painting. "I'll take you to the store for swim-trunks later, if you want."

What Bill wanted was to tell the other man that there was no way he would strip down to the equivalent of underwear in his presence. For now. Everything felt too raw for him to even think about it.

"Is your hand okay?" Bobby asked, still turning his back to him.

Bill looked down at the faint lines remaining from the claw marks, a bare memory on his skin.

"I think if your cat doesn't attack me again I can forgive him."

Bobby scoffed, a sound close to laughter.

"Hear that, Poppy? You're on probation, apparently."

Bill chanced a look at the spaced out cat that hadn't heard one bit of that conversation, if his snoring was to be believed.

"Well, I think we're on equal footing, Poppy and I," he said, considering that they both had their reasons to be wary of each other, now.

"Just give him a chance, I'm sure he can warm up to you."

Bill stared at the back of Bobby's head, hoping that doing so with enough intent would bring answers. Was that what Bobby thought about him? That he was a feral animal, and with enough patience you could get William Mercer to tolerate you and even, given enough time, to love you?

In all honesty… It wasn't so off the mark. Apparently, Bill hadn't changed a whole lot since he was dumped by his father at boarding school, eleven and sore from his last brutal, fatherly beating.

Alright, so maybe there was a reason he was slow to trust people after all.

He went to the kitchen, made himself some eggs on toast to go with his coffee, and tentatively came back to sit on the couch with the same book he'd picked up the day before, keeping a safe distance between him and the cat.

Oddly, he found it easy enough to slip back into his reading and forget about all the unanswered questions hanging around the room. Everything was quiet save for the few cars driving down the street, or Bobby's brush strokes.

They had a simple lunch of bagels, butter and turkey ham, Bobby slipping little bits of meat under the table once in a while for the cat.

"When will he be liberated again?" Bill asked after Poppy's cone caught him in the shin.

"If all goes well, Monday. Hannah will pick him up to take him to the vet."

Bill was reminded of his afternoon spent in Bobby's sister's company and how little she had actually said about himself.

"Is she… I mean…"

Bobby smiled around a mouthful.

"A mystery? Yes, for sure. If you're asking whether I know what's going on with her love life, I don't have any more clues than you do."

Bill spluttered. "I don't care about your sister's… engagements."

Bobby chuckled and inhaled a breadcrumb, sending him coughing for a minute.

"Nobody calls them ‘engagements' anymore Bill, jeez what have you been reading?"

"Oh, actually, Emma was in your bookshelf. But… my point is your sister can do whatever she wants, it's none of my business. I'm not interested," he reasserted, knowing he must sound like a stubborn child, but still needing to clearly get his point across that Hannah was very much not on his radar.

Bobby eyed him with an amused pout but nodded, seemingly satisfied by what he had observed there.

"Fine, then, what did you want to know?"

"I was just going to ask if she works, or how she sustains herself, I guess."

Bobby let out a little sigh, almost imperceptible, but it sounded too much like relief for Bill not to pick up on it.

"Ah, well she works in an art gallery, part time. She lives in an apartment with a bunch of other people. Other single moms, artists, a few full time employees too, I think. It's like a hippie commune, but they chose to stay in the city. So they share the money and living costs. Seems to work for her."

Bill frowned. It sounded like something Helen had wanted to do for a bit, right after their divorce, and had postponed until the kids were all sent off to college and she could make her own decisions without impacting their boys.

Occasionally, when he wasn't busy feeling guilty about something else, Bill hated himself for having left her alone to care for the children. And then he remembered that he hadn't wanted to have kids in the first place, nor to get married. And he was still paying alimony.

"And Edgar? Do you see him much?" he asked.

"Oh, once a week, maybe? He's a good kid, or seems like it. We do our best to stay strong as a family."

Bobby looked to the side then, and that was when Bill realized that, ever since the conference and their first conversation there, Bobby hadn't mentioned his mother once. Ice crystallized through his chest and he could feel the tears well up before he'd even had the chance to ask. Bobby had always adored his mother and sister. The fact that he had omitted one of them could only mean one thing.

When he raised his gaze to meet Bobby's, the other man's mouth had twisted in grief.

"When?" Bill asked, his voice cracking on that one syllable.

Bobby looked down at his hands where they were squeezed around a coffee mug.

"Two years ago."

Bill knew it wasn't his place to cry over this. But Kate Rosenberg had been more of a mother to him than his own biological one had ever been. That he hadn't been there to say goodbye was something he'd have to address later, in private, when nobody would be there to see him sob.

"I'm so sorry, Bobby."

The other man was nervously scratching at his jaw, leaving red marks with his nails that Bill wanted to soothe over with a kiss, or several.

"What happened?"

Bobby took a large sip of coffee before he answered that.

"Pneumonia. She'd always had a weakness in her lungs, but…" he shrugged. "It lasted a year while they tried to treat her. After that, she sort of… gave up."

Bill nodded, and looked away. Where his heart was aching and splintering, his head was overflowing with memories. All the times Kate had left cakes with Bobby for him to sneak into school. The times she'd managed to take him out with them for a day into town. And that one summer, two blissful months that must have been the happiest of his youth.

He rubbed the corner of his eyes, and startled upon lowering his hand, when it got caught between Bobby's own. Bill still kept his eyes fixed on the table between them, knowing his heart wouldn't handle the tenderness of Bobby's thumb tracing over the healing scratches on his hand, or the pity in his eyes.

"Did she ever know?" Bill asked.

"About us, you mean?" Bobby answered, voice soft and brittle.

Bill shrugged, and his own shaky breathing was answered by a deep smile.

"I think… well, first of all, she knew about me. I told her, about ten years ago. She always suspected, I think, when all the other boys my age were getting girlfriends and all I could talk about was you…"

The pause, and the admission finally made Bill look up. There were tears in Bobby's eyes too, and the sight of his pain was enough to bring his own to the surface again. He felt the warmth of tears sliding down his cheeks, but made no move to wipe them this time.

"Actually," Bobby continued, "there's more I need to tell you. Come."

He got up, still holding Bill's hand, and gently pulled him out of the kitchen until they were standing in the corridor, facing one of the group pictures that was displayed there. Rubbing slow patterns on Bill's wrist, Bobby raised his other hand and pointed at one of the women in the picture.

"This is Dorothy," he said.