Page 34 of Saving Sparrow (Slow Burns & Tragic Beginnings #2)

Then

Miguel looked so tiny and scared in Quentin’s lap. He’d said stop, tried to shove Quentin away, but Quentin just grunted, slamming Miguel up and down while making dangerous promises.

“Fuck, you feel good, Guelly,” he panted. “I’m pumping you full of baby-gravy tonight.”

Sweat trickled down Quentin’s wide back, and the bed rocked every time he forced Miguel down on him. I needed to do something. I needed to help Miguel, but the sudden headache attacking my brain paralyzed me.

The edges of my vision turned black, and it felt important that I stay here, stay present, and that I didn’t pass out the way I sometimes had before. I didn’t want to lose any more memories.

I took a wobbly step forward, reaching for Miguel, but I was too far away to touch him. He shook his head, trying to say something, but he couldn’t get it out, not with the way Quentin overpowered him.

“This tight ass is mine, Guelly, you hear me? You let anyone touch—”

My ears were ringing, making it impossible to hear the rest of Quentin’s threat. I stepped back like a coward, the pain in my head expanding to my temples.

“ S-stop ,” I mouthed, eyes stinging.

“I’m coming,” Quentin shouted. “Fuck, baby… I-I’m coming…”

Quentin flipped Miguel onto his back, lifting his legs into the air, spreading them wide. He was facing my direction now but was too focused on Miguel to notice me trembling near the door.

“Q-Quen…” Miguel tried, but he was too out of breath. He pushed himself onto his elbows but slipped to his back again.

“Gotta stay like this for just a little while, Guelly. Gotta make sure it takes.” Quentin rolled his hips. He was still inside Miguel.

“Stop!” I said louder, then stammered, “Y-you’re hurting him.”

“Shit!” Quentin scrambled from between Miguel’s legs, falling backward onto the bed. “Elliott?”

Miguel took his time sitting up, almost as if he were too scared to. They both watched me with wide eyes. They looked even more afraid than I was.

“Shit,” Miguel muttered, seeming to realize they were still naked.

He glanced toward the headboard for a pillow, but they were all on the floor.

He crawled off the bed, quickly gathering the chunks of broken glass off the floor and setting them on the nightstand.

Scooping up a pillow to cover his private parts with, he then tossed one at Quentin, who seemed less concerned about his nudity.

“Elliott, it’s not what you think,” Miguel said, still out of breath.

Quentin stood next to him now, and they both took a step forward.

I backed away so fast that my shoulder banged into the doorframe.

I hissed, rubbing the area as Quentin cursed.

Miguel placed a hand on Quentin’s chest, preventing him from charging over to me.

“I don’t understand.” I glanced between the two of them. Why wasn’t Miguel upset with Quentin? How could he stand next to him after what he’d done?

“I can explain,” Miguel said. “What you saw… it’s not what you think it is.”

“He didn’t just r-rape you?”

“Fuck no,” Quentin exclaimed, seeming hurt by my question.

“H-he told you to stop.” I looked at Miguel. “You told him to stop!”

“Yeah, but I didn’t mean it. At least not at first.”

“ What? ” Quentin rounded on him. “What do you mean , not at first?”

“I mean I didn’t… Well, I did, but not in the way you think. I…” Miguel sighed. “Can we just sit and talk?” He looked between the both of us, his gaze begging me to stay and hear them out.

I rubbed my aching temples, then nodded. “Fine.”

“Just give us a second to, um”—He glanced down at himself—“clean up.” If Miguel blushed from his embarrassment, his complexion hid it well. Quentin grabbed his hand, leading the way to the bathroom.

I fell onto one of the chairs, drumming my fingers against my thighs as I tried to unsee what I’d walked in on. How long had this been going on between them? How did I not see it?

Quentin and Miguel stepped out of the bathroom a few minutes later, both with towels wrapped around their hips. They gave me small, encouraging smiles before disappearing into the closet and returning dressed in sweats.

They were quiet when they sat across from me on the couch. Miguel blew out a long breath, ruffling his damp hair.

Quentin’s leg bounced, almost like he was ready to explode and say whatever unfiltered thoughts were crowding his mind. Patience wasn’t one of his strengths, and I wondered if Miguel coached him on what not to say and how not to react.

For once I took the lead, unable to wait them out any longer.

“You were having sex.” I recognized what it was.

There were sex scenes in some of the fantasy books Miguel and I read together.

I tended to skip past them because they filled me with shame.

But that was different. This was different.

What I walked in on wasn’t the type of sex condoned by God. It was the kind the Bible condemned.

“Consensual sex,” Miguel said. “It’s my fault he didn’t stop when you showed up. I couldn’t think of the right word.”

“The right word?” I was so confused. Hurt and scared by my own thoughts but mostly confused.

“ Para. That’s what I’m supposed to say when I really want him to stop. Sorry,” he said to Quentin.

“That’s why we created the backup plan,” Quentin replied.

“Yeah, I know.” Miguel sounded frustrated with himself.

“Backup plan?” I asked.

“Yeah,” Quentin answered. “We’ve got a code for when his mouth is full of—”

“Quentin,” Miguel cut in under his breath.

“I mean, when he can’t talk. You know, because it’s too good or whatever.”

Miguel groaned, covering his face with his palms, and Quentin seemed to genuinely not know what he’d said wrong.

“Anyway, if he can’t say the safe word, he taps me twice on the hip. So, it’s consensual, like he said.”

I felt something surfacing in me, making my stomach queasy.

They may have cleared up the consent part—mostly—but I was still confused as to why .

Why were they doing it in the first place?

“T-this is wrong…” My words sounded weak because I wanted it to be right.

I wanted him to be wrong. “H-he said it was wrong.” That I was wrong.

“We’ve gotta get the devil out of you, boy.”

I squeezed my eyes shut until those words vanished from my mind, then focused on Miguel again.

“Who said that?” he asked gently.

“Yeah, who?” Quentin seemed upset, but I knew it was with the world outside of this room, not with me. I was upset with the world too. It hadn’t been fair to me. To any of us.

“It’s not wrong.” His tone was much softer now, probably because of my tears. “Loving someone isn’t wrong, no matter who they are. Whoever told you that lied. They’re just as bad as Dickhead-Delaney and the homophobe punks he hangs out with.”

“B-but you were doing more than loving each other. You’re… h-he…” I couldn’t stop stumbling over my words. Too many thoughts were jumbled up in my head all at once.

“We wouldn’t be doing what we were doing if we didn’t love each other, pretty girl. I’m not that kind of guy.” Neither his joke nor his pretend smile made me feel better.

“He… He said…” My body felt jittery. Quentin knelt in front of me, wiping my tears away. His touch was gentle, his proximity overwhelming yet somehow comforting.

“Who’s he?” Quentin asked. “Your dad?”

I jerked when Miguel tucked my hair behind my ear. I hadn’t noticed him kneeling to the right of me.

“It doesn’t matter who said it,” Quentin continued when I just stared instead of giving him an answer. “What matters is what you think. Do you think it’s wrong?” He looked hurt, and I hadn’t even confirmed or denied yet. I realized everything would change if I didn’t give the right answer.

“Submit yourselves, therefore, to God. Resist the devil, and he shall flee from you.”

I looked toward the closet, to where the gowns and slips I often wore hung.

I thought about the things I kept hidden at the back of my mind—the lies and all the secrets.

I thought about one day in particular a long, long time ago.

The day that led to the worst years of my life, when I’d already believed life couldn’t get any worse.

I’d never been good at resisting the devil. Not then, and not now.

“I don’t understand,” I breathed.

“We can explain, Ellie. Whatever you want to know.” Miguel leaned in, kissing my cheek before taking hold of my hand and Quentin’s.

“Yeah,” Quentin said, cupping the side of my neck.

My every breath was filled with their scent, my vision consumed with the sight of them, my body buzzing from their touch.

They were in and around me, overtaking me.

I never wanted to live without this feeling.

I never wanted to live without them. How could this be wrong? How could they be wrong?

I needed them to explain it all, every detail. I wanted to understand because maybe then I would feel less wrong.

I took several deep breaths to quiet the chaotic thoughts in my head, to get rid of that feeling I sometimes had—the feeling of slipping away. “When did it start?”

“We started having sex freshman year,” Miguel said, his voice a little shaky. Quentin tugged him closer, then let go of his hand to wrap his arm around his shoulder.

“We’d loved each other for a long time—like brothers, though.

We’ve always been affectionate with each other.

Too affectionate for most people,” Miguel said dryly.

“I just never grew out of that phase of always wanting to be with him, the phase where hugging him all the time was seen as cute and not weird. When sleeping together wasn’t about being scared of the boogeyman anymore, but about not being able to sleep without my human security blanket.

I never stopped wanting to tell him how much I loved him.

But as we got older, that love started to change. ”

Quentin scoffed. “Kind of hard not to after waking up every day in middle school to his morning wood stabbing me in the back.”