Page 86 of Something Like Winter

The room grumbled like thunder before a storm, the tension desperate to break.

“Fag.”

And there it was, the first flash of lightning, the first drop of rain. Tim wondered if this was the room Eric had stood in years ago, facing accusations that shouldn’t have mattered. Instead of feeling fear, Tim felt oddly proud to be following in his footsteps. Eric was a good man, better than anyone here, and Tim wasn’t about to act like a coward when Eric had once bravely endured such hate.

“Am I a fag?” Tim glared in the direction the slur had come from. “Because last time I checked, I was your brother.”

“You can’t be both.” Quentin said.

That made it final. The others would follow his lead, no matter how they felt.

“Thanks, Big. Way to take care of your Little.” Tim made his way to the common room door, turning around to face them one last time. “I’m not the only one, you know. Not by a long shot.” Tim made eye contact with a lot of them—not the ones he knew about or suspected, but those who were probably straight. With any luck they’d start a witch hunt and end up burning themselves.

Tim went upstairs to his room—Rick fleeing for safety—and grabbed his suitcase from the closet. He didn’t have much to pack except for his clothes. He spent more time at Eric’s these days than he did here. Hopefully Eric wouldn’t mind him staying over a few nights until he found a place of his own. On the way out of the room, Tim spotted the magazine on the floor and picked it up.

“Call me whatever you want,” he said to himself. “I look damn good.”

He rolled up the magazine and stuck it in his back pocket. Then he left the frat house with his head held high. He heard laughs and jeers, but somehow they weren’t as upsetting as he’d always imagined. By the time he got in his car, he felt prouder than he had in years.

When he rang Eric’s doorbell, suitcase in hand, Tim put on his best puppy-dog eyes. “Will paint for food,” he said when Eric opened the door. “And a roof over my head.”

Eric smiled and opened his arms wide, welcoming Tim home.

Chapter Twenty

People change. Catching them in the act, that’s the trick. No one has seen a wrinkle etching itself into skin, or witnessed the moment a hair turns gray. Stomachs become flabby and muscles begin to jiggle, the transformation not hidden and yet undetectable. None of this happens overnight, but age often comes as a surprise. Usually an old photo is to blame, indisputable evidence that skin had once been tighter or eyes brighter. Other times aging is revealed in a chance reflection, a moment of confusion over this older person who looks strikingly familiar.

For Tim, the process of aging was presented to him like a play, one he repeatedly dozed off through. He would wake from the distraction of everyday life and see Eric with fresh eyes, realizing how much he had aged in the last year. Or even the last six months. Eric insisted the chemo was to blame.

Winter had been hell for them both. Tim finally talked Eric into trying chemotherapy, even sitting with him while the drugs were pumped into his veins. Then came weeks of illness, with Tim taking care of Eric as best he could during his recovery. At the end of the month, when Eric was back to being his old self, he returned to the hospital for another round of chemo, and the cycle would repeat.

Convincing Eric to return for each subsequent treatment hadn’t been easy, but they made it through together. Having recovered from the final round of treatment, Eric seemed like his old self again. Except in appearance. Chemotherapy hadn’t stolen his hair, but his face was more gaunt and his frame thinner, as if a black hole was eating him up from the inside.

“Stop doing that,” Eric said, lowering the book he was reading.

“What?” Tim said innocently from the opposite end of the couch where he was curled up.

“Looking at me that way. You promised you never would.”

Tim shrugged dismissively. “I’m a painter studying his subject. That’s all.”

“Well, study me when I don’t look like hell.” Eric set aside the book and massaged his temples. “Do you have classes tomorrow?”

“Just one. Nothing I can’t skip. Why?”

“I know it’s short notice, but I need you to drive me to MD Anderson.”

Located in Houston, MD Anderson is one of the most comprehensive cancer centers in the United States. Tim had already ferried Eric there multiple times, especially lately, since the strong painkillers he was on made Eric the equivalent of a drunk driver.

“Can we take your car?” Tim asked.

“Of course.”

“Then it’s a deal.” Tim reached out a socked foot and affectionately nudged Eric’s leg. “What’s the reason? Time to see how the chemo did?”

Eric nodded. “That, and a few other things. Bring a book. It’s going to be a long day.”

Tim knew that from experience. The next day he brought not only a book, but the laptop Eric had given him for Christmas. Eric dozed for most of the three-hour ride to Houston, which was just as well, since riding in cars made him nauseous lately. Plus, this meant Tim could drive the Jaguar XJR like the racecar it was meant to be.