Chapter 22

Chapter Twenty-Two

The morning came, and with it, memories of his night with Noah. Like every waking moment of his life, Quinn could only think ‘if only' and ‘what if', wishing he said something more profound, or at least something bold and clever.

Yet last night felt like he had cemented a friendship with the author. They spoke openly, talking like they had known each other for more than just a few days. It almost felt like they were old souls, together again, reunited after a past life.

He was sure Ivy would know something about past lives. He texted her last night, filling her in on Hermione and her book.

As he showered, he couldn't help but think of the faceless Matty. Who was he? Why did he get Noah? How long had they been together? What did he look like?

These open-ended questions left Quinn imagining the worst. The worst being that Matty was as desirable as a film star. That he had the media-approved body of muscles and a perfect symmetrical face, meaning that whenever he went outside, a scouting agent would stop him and say, ‘Matty, you must be in our fashion campaign for Calvin Klein!' And then Matty would say yes, and he would pose in those wonderful tight boxer briefs, not needing any Photoshop on what was inside those boxer briefs, and Noah would be on the other side of the camera, a smile on his face as he swooned over his conventionally attractive boyfriend.

Yes, Matty was a Greek god, a perfect match to Noah's glorious features. Matty was no Quinn. Matty's better.

Feeling like the stalker he so desperately tried to assure Noah he wasn't, Quinn searched the internet for Matty no face. He typed in ‘Matty Noah Sage', for which nothing came up, and then typed ‘Matty model'. Being greeted with the men Quinn thought Matty would be didn't help. Any of them could be him. He found Noah's Instagram, trailing back in time to see if there were any posts of Noah with another man. There were none.

Quinn, however, did click on a photograph of a topless Noah taken on a beach somewhere tropical.

He had a V-line.

A V-line!

That classic V that seemed to point down between his legs, disappearing into red swim shorts. His blond hair was windswept, damp with salt water. Alone, the beautiful scenery paled in comparison. But someone had taken that photo of him. No doubt Matty.

A tattoo of a book was visible on the top of his arm. Quinn tried to zoom in by double tapping the image, and with horror, he saw he liked the photo. A red love heart appeared on the screen, fading away, betraying him so disastrously.

‘No, no,' Quinn groaned, triple tapping, unliking and liking the photo again.

In dismay Quinn exited the app, swiping it off his screen, his heart thumping heavily in his chest. What could he say? What could he do?

That's it. I'm moving to Ecuador.

Yes, that is what he would do. Delete all the socials, change his name, and disappear to Ecuador. He would have a lovely life there; he was sure of that. He would live in solitude, in a home that didn't have internet, and he would forever think of how he had liked a topless thirst photo of Noah Sage by accident.

And then Matty would find him. His face would be one of beauty. Only it would be angry, contorted into hatred, because by him liking the photo of Noah, which was a year old, by the way, he had come between the couple, who were about to get engaged and get married, of course. The community would then oust Quinn in Ecuador, and he would have to be a nomad, on the run from Noah, Matty no face, and an army of haters.

Tired, with not nearly enough coffee, Quinn stumbled out of his apartment building, feeling the cold winter chill, and trudged the few steps to his shop's front door, underneath his apartment. Only he walked straight into a burly back, almost falling to the slippery floor. He looked up and saw a small crowd of people, all of whom he knew by their faces, some of whom he knew by name. They were outside the shop. His shop. They were clutching newspapers in their hands. When they saw him, their voices erupted.

‘Is it true?'

‘You can't sell. You just can't do it.'

‘My daughter would never have told me she was gay if you hadn't been here to help her.'

‘This shop is Hay's heart. You can't go.'

‘Screw that developer. We won't have it.'

‘And that video on the BBC was fantastic!'

‘Woah, guys.' Quinn held up his hands, trying to calm the crowd. ‘It's not even eight in the morning. I'm tired. What's going on?'

A woman at the front of the crowd unfolded the red top newspaper she was holding. A tabloid paper. He'd gone national. On the front cover was that same photo of him from Hay's paper: mid-laugh, Noah standing next to him, his eyes bright and his laugh as big as Quinn's. The headline read queer today. gone tomorrow.

Quinn took the paper and looked at the photo, pretending as though he were seeing it for the first time. He looked happy. In that moment, when the camera snapped, Quinn had forgotten all his worries. It was almost like looking at someone he remembered from childhood, but their name and face evaded him. Only it was himself, of course, and he didn't recognise him.

This article used quotes from the BBC interview, and a few quotes from his interview in Hay's paper. The article even mentioned his dad, and for one moment Quinn thought he was going to have frozen tears on his face as the story recounted his father's own bookshop, and the way the community had loved him. But despite everything, the newspaper had captured the heart of Kings others looked annoyed at Ivy's arrival. Her eyes darted to the newspaper, but judging by the copy she held in her hand, she already knew the story.

‘Ah, yes.' Ivy nodded with vigour. ‘Look. Kings the group singing Christmas carols, and the three Maris weaving through the crowd before scurrying off to nearby homes.

‘I can't believe people are going with it,' Noah said as they watched one Mari dance through someone's hallway before running back out into the street.

‘People get on board with it,' Quinn said.

‘And people are singing in Welsh,' Noah said.

‘That's right! Now, come on. Sing with me.'

It was apparent that Noah didn't speak Welsh, let alone sing it, but he tried. Quinn helped guide him, tracing his finger across the lyric page that they shared. Their hands were close, and Quinn wanted to let his little finger brush Noah's, but he couldn't.

As they went to the next street, Blair and Ivy joined the group, giving a wave to Quinn. He smiled at them, wondering if they would join them. But as Blair placed an arm over Ivy's shoulders, he thought they would rather have their own time together.

Quinn caught Noah's eye, and he smiled. Noah smiled too, but he looked a little too long at Quinn. Faltering, Quinn sang the wrong words, throwing Noah off.

‘You did that!' Noah said.

‘I'm sorry. You have a lovely voice, too.'

It wasn't a lie. Despite Noah leaving Hay all these years ago, he had kept that Welsh accent twang, and it was even more apparent in his singing voice, which kept the pitch and its soothing tone.

‘Oh, stop it,' Noah said. ‘If I could sing, I wouldn't be a writer.'

‘What would you be?'

‘A popstar.'

A nearby Mari, hearing this, turned to face them with those wild eyes, and snapped her jaws together. Noah, now getting used to the tricks, sang the next Christmas carol to the Mari, making the woman guiding her laugh.

The trickster spirit of Mari rubbed off on the crowd, with people helping to play tricks on others. As they came to the Rose and Crown pub, their final destination, people took over guiding the Mari to unsuspecting customers, her boned jaw nipping at their clothes. Inside the pub, the lights dimmed, and the Welsh carols continued. The Maris each performed a dance, which was more of a sway from side to side, but the big skull glittering with tinsel made the audience laugh.

Noah bought them drinks, and after two whisky's, they joined the crowd, dancing along with the Maris and the rest. Quinn had to admit that Noah could move. He sang along to Wham's ‘Last Christmas', giving a very dramatic rendition and acting out the words with one of the Maris, who somehow showed emotion with her expressionless face.

Quinn laughed each time Noah committed to the lyrics, watching him give his best Backstreet Boys impression. Then he joined in and it felt like they were on stage together. During a Taylor Swift bridge, they found themselves close to one another, so close that Quinn could do divination on the light wrinkles in Noah's skin.

The crowd seemed to melt around them. Even Taylor's voice faded away.

Noah seemed to X-ray him, a hunger in his eyes like a vampire seeing his next meal.

It was sexy as hell.

Quinn placed a hand on Noah's shoulder, trying his best to muster up the energy not to move closer.

Noah's hand found Quinn's, looking at his fingers, that familiar expression of lost thought knitting across his brow.

What was he thinking?

Noah patted Quinn's shoulder, the sort of pat you do when two men want to show affection without showing affection. It was the pat he'd given him before, as if establishing a brotherly bond and nothing more. Quinn felt as though it'd stung him.

‘I should leave,' Noah said, clearing his throat.

‘Stay for one more?' Quinn asked.

‘I told Matty I'd only be gone an hour.'

This time, the sting was more than a sore spot. He was deathly allergic and it was making it hard to breathe. ‘Better get back, then.'

He hoped Noah sensed the shift, but he seemed to be a master at controlling his emotions. Noah finished the rest of his drink and then zipped up his coat. ‘Let's do this again.'

An antidote to his swelling stings.