Page 51 of Drawn to Death
Quell’s fingers tap against the railing, restless, like he needs somewhere to put all that energy. “It means I’ve never wanted anyone the way I want you.” His voice snags on the words, like he’s afraid to say them. “It means I want things I don’t know how to ask for.”
I reach behind and turn off the stove. The silence comes down hard, making the ocean outside sound even louder, waves crashing in the dark. When I look back, Quell watches me, his face wide open, uncertain, waiting.
“I had a life before all this,” I say slowly and carefully. “Before Vincenzo. Before I became what I am.” I hadn’t meant to tell him that. Not tonight. Not ever. But the way he looks at me makes it impossible to hold back. Like he actually wants to know. “I was with someone for almost three years. A man named Julian.”
Quell blinks. Surprise, then curiosity. “You never mentioned…”
“It ended badly,” I cut in. “The kind of bad where you leave town and change your number. The kind where you start over completely. Become a killer.”
The wind kicks up, rattling the wind chimes my grandmother hung on the porch. Glass disks that catch the light and scatter it everywhere. The sound is chaotic and annoying. My grandfather hated them, but he never took them down. Not even after Grandma died.
“What happened?” Quell asks, so quietly I almost miss it.
I look out at the black water. No horizon. Just darkness. “Julian was gentle. Kind. A professor. Everything about him was careful and calm.” My hand grips the railing, knuckles white. “I wasn’t. Not with him. I wanted… different things. Control. His surrender.” My throat closes up. “He didn’t understand. When I finally told him what I needed, he made me feel like I was asking for something ugly.”
“You asked if he would call you Daddy?” Quell shifts, moving closer. He doesn’t say anything more, just watches me. He has that artist’s stare, the one that strips everything down to the bones.
“I said I wanted to be his Daddy, but he hated it, laughed at me.” That was the worst moment of my life, more than losing my parents. I'd opened my mouth and ruined my entire life in one sentence. I thought he'd say no, laugh it off, and then we'd never mention it again. And I'd be happy because that part of me wouldn't have been a secret.
“I was ashamed,” I add with a jolt, realizing how silent I've become. “Packed up and left the next day. Didn’t say goodbye. Joined the military. Put everything that made me weak in a box and buried it.” I laugh, but it sounds bitter. “And Alfie Thomas Harrington the Third became Talon. No past. No weakness. Just a weapon.”
Quell’s hand finds mine, fingers sliding in between. Just that touch, and I can breathe again.
“But the man you were, Alfie, that’s still you,” Quell says. “Isn’t it?”
I think about the years since. How careful I’ve been, cutting out every softness, every weakness. Building a fortress, brick by brick, until nothing could get in. Until I didn’t want anything I couldn’t have.
“I wanted things,” I say, careful to keep my tone even. “Things I couldn’t ask for. Someone who’d need me enough to give in. Someone who’d trust me with their safety, and pleasure.” I squeeze his hand, not too tight. “Someone who’d let me be gentle and firm at the same time, and never mistake either for weakness.”
Quell’s eyes are wide, dark, pupils huge in the dim. His breathing goes thin, shallow. “Like a Daddy,” he whispers, the word hanging there, no longer a joke.
I nod. Something in my chest loosens. “Yeah. Like that.”
He’s quiet for a while, thinking. The ocean keeps up its rhythm below, wave after wave, steady. I’ve forgotten how constant it is, how it turns silence into something you can rest in.
“I used to draw these pictures,” Quell says, voice soft. “Not like the ones you’ve seen. Before the visions. Just… sketches. Stuff I wanted. But after the visions…” His voice catches. “Sometimes I’d draw hands holding me down. A figure standing over me. No face. Just a presence.” He looks at our hands, still joined. “I didn’t know what it meant. I just wanted to feel small and safe at the same time.”
I let go of his hand, just to touch his chin, tilting his face up. “And now?”
“Now I know what I want.” He’s steady, even as his cheeks flush. “You.”
I brush his cheek, feeling the heat. “I don’t want a boy who’s obedient,” I say, not even sure where the words come from. “I want a boy who’s honest.”
Quell’s breath hitches. “Then you’ve got one.” His eyes don’t leave mine. “I want both. The killer and the man. Talon and Alfie. All of it.”
Something in me breaks open at that. Not pain, just relief. All the walls I’ve built, the distance, gone under the weight of his honesty. I pull him in, arms around his waist, lifting him until he gasps.
“Come here,” I say, low, and sit back in one of the old Adirondack chairs on the porch. I settle Quell on my lap, his back to my chest, both of us facing the dark ocean. My arms stay tight around him, holding him against the night’s chill.
“I thought you were making dinner,” he chuckles as he relaxes into me.
“It'll keep,” I say, my chin resting on his shoulder. “This matters more.”
We sit there for a while, just like that. His weight, warm and solid, pressed against me. The night wraps us up. Quiet, cool, except for the waves. I can feel his heartbeat through his back, steady against my chest. My hand finds his. The pads of my fingers trace over the calluses on his fingertips, years of gripping pencils too tight.
“I’m not Alfie anymore,” I say, voice low. “I haven’t been for a long time. Maybe I never really was.”
Quell nods, his head moving against my shoulder. “And you’re not just Talon. Not anymore.”
