“Yeah.” Jag clenched his teeth, but it didn’t stop the tears.
“Sssh,” Michael whispered softly, holding him and stroking him. “You did what you had to.”
“I said such awful things,” Jag said, squeezing the words out of his constricting throat. “Horrible, hateful things.” He pressed his fists against his eyes. He couldn’t look at Michael whilst he made his confession. “I didn’t just pretend I was miraculously straight. I pretended I hated the gay community. And I had to keep it up for days before they finally believed me and let me go home.”
“And then?” Michael asked.
“My parents weren’t in the habit of locking me in my room, although I bet they wished they had. I ran away at the first opportunity I had, and I’ve been running ever since.”
Michael’s hands closed around Jag’s wrists. He let Michael move his hands away from his eyes and stared up into his warm blue eyes.
“You did what you had to,” Michael repeated. “It’s not something you should hate yourself for.” He brushed his lips against Jag’s. “I’m actually surprised you’re not more screwed up.”
Jag laughed, the sound thin and watery.
“Are you sure they’re still looking for you?”
“Yeah. I mean…I was convinced of it, but I didn’t know if it was just paranoia or not. I was starting to doubt myself. Or maybe I was just hoping I was paranoid and delusional and that they’d given up ages ago. But when I rang them…I couldn’t say anything, but they said plenty. They made it clear they were looking for me, and that if I went home, they’d continue to try to fix me.”
“Bastards,” Michael hissed. “You’re an adult. They can’t do that. They can’t force you to go anywhere with them, and they can’t force you into fake therapy.”
“They can if they have me sectioned.” Fear gripped his voice and made his body shake.
He felt Michael stiffen. “Are you sure they can do that?”
“Pretty sure. Look at me. I’m not exactly stable, am I?”
“I wouldn’t put it that way,” Michael said. “You’ve got some problems, because of them, but it takes more than that to section someone. Don’t you have to be a danger to yourself or others? You’re not suicidal.” Michael’s eyebrows knotted together. “Are you?”
Jag hesitated. There had been times where he’d considered ending his life: during the summer he’d spent trapped in ‘therapy’, his first few weeks on the streets, after Ian had betrayed him and his parents had almost got hold of him. Those instances were so long ago, and whilst the thought had crossed his mind that he’d be better off dead than in ‘therapy’ again, he hadn’t seriously considered it as an option in years.
“Not anymore,” he said carefully. “Not for a long time.”
Michael’s expression radiated sympathy. His eyes welled up, and his chin trembled as he pressed his lips together. He inhaled deeply and then said, “Then I don’t see how they could have you sectioned.”
Jag inhaled. He’d told Michael a lot, but he hadn’t said anything that Michael could use to identify who he actually was. Until now. “My mother is a doctor, and my father isveryinfluential. Between them, they could have me sectioned and sent back there against my will.” A violent tremor ran through him as that truth was solidified in his mind once again. He was certain they could do it. “I doubt I could fake my way out again.”
Michael’s pupils contracted, and his face paled.
He understands, Jag thought.He gets why I’m so fucking scared.
“Your mother is a doctor, and she still believes in this quack therapy?”
“Yeah.”
“Shit.”
“They genuinely believe I’m sick, Michael. And four years of running will have only convinced them of that.” He rolled his eyes. “And they know I’ve been doing ‘questionable things’.” He curled his fingers into air quotes. “They know I’ve been working in clubs and ‘practically selling my body’.” He put a deeper voice on, mimicking his father, even though it made him feel sick to do so.
Michael was staring at him, aghast.
“I told you they’d hired a PI,” Jag reminded him. “It’s why I keep moving, to try to stay ahead of their bloodhounds.”
“How do you know when to move on?” Michael asked.
“I don’t. Sometimes I get spooked. Other times I decide I’ve made enough money to be able to afford to start over somewhere else. I don’t ever want to end up sleeping rough on the streets again.” A took a couple of self-soothing breaths. “They’d use the way I’ve been earning money against me. I know they would. Claim that sort of deviant behaviour is a symptom of my mental illness.”
Michael flung himself onto his back. “Fuck!” He yelled the angry word at the ceiling.
