Thomas nodded.
“Well, what are we waiting for?”
Micha urged Bucephalus into a brisk trot and set off down the hill, with Thomas and Slug wheezing after him. At the bottom of the valley, Bucephalus broke into a gallop, and Thomas, with no hope of keeping up, let Slug slow before the poor creature had some kind of aneurysm. Micha’s laughter caught on the air like cherry blossom in spring.
By the time Thomas made it to the top of the next ridge, Micha had already dismounted and was standing on the chalk circle that represented the horse’s eye.
“Are you sure this is a horse?” He stared at his feet. “Looks more like a dog from this angle.”
“You shouldn’t insult an animal about to grant you a wish.” Thomas, out of breath, clambered awkwardly down from Slug.
Micha looked up. “I don’t know what to wish for,” he said, in a strange, strangled voice.
“You mean, there’s nothing you want? Then you are truly blessed.”
“There’s too much I want. And it’s all fucking impossible.”
“Tell me?” asked Thomas, softly.
“Someone to love me. Everything I’ve already lost. To be different. Maybe I want to be scouring this damn horse next Midsummer. Maybe that’s what I want.”
“That’s not impossible.”
Micha stubbed his toe angrily into the ground. “And what about the year after that and the year after that? History doesn’t want to hold my hand, believe me. I’m a man out of time. No past, no future.”
“No.” Thomas shook his head. “Whatever your past, you always have a future. Here, if you want it.”
Unthinking, he held out his hand, as though, with a single touch, he could somehow bring Micha back to the world he seemed so sure would reject him. Micha’s cold fingers closed around his wrist hard enough to bruise and yanked him forward until they were standing,close as lovers, in a circle of white dust. Suddenly, Thomas could barely breathe.
“And what do you wish for?” Micha asked, his eyes blazing hellfire-dark.
So Thomas, unable in that moment not to, told him. “You.”
The world did not reel. The sky did not crack. Lightning did not strike them apart. And, before Thomas could even begin to feel afraid or regret what he had done, Micha nodded. “Not here. Come on.”
They remounted in silence and began their journey back to Nettlefield. Finally, they came to the outskirts of a small wood, where the trees were crowned red-gold and the sunlight fell thickly through the baring branches. Micha reined in Bucephalus. “Let’s walk.”
They left the horses tethered and stepped between the trees like princes in a fairy tale. Their footsteps rustled upon a multi-hued carpet. Thomas was uncertain what was expected of him now, and Micha’s face was shadowed, and as stern as ice.
Thomas stopped walking and opened his mouth to speak—hardly knowing what he was going to say—but then Micha took a step towards him. On instinct, rather than with any intent to evade him, Thomas took a step back. Micha took another step forward. And Thomas found himself against a tree, a rough tortoiseshell of bark pressing through his coat, while the newly woken breeze stirred a fall of bright leaves around them. Micha’s body enclosed him, the hard pressure of his chest, the sharp angles of his hip bones, the thunder of his heart. His face came closer still. The edge of his cheek met Thomas’s. His hair tickled Thomas’s nose. The heat from his lips travelled all across Thomas’s skin like a magic spell.
“What are you doing?” Thomas’s voice sounded peculiar, faraway even to his own ears.
He felt the movement of Micha’s mouth as he spoke. “I’m giving you what you want.”
Thomas had never really imagined something like this would happen. Could happen. He had thought his desire a private monster, to be lockedaway and ever unspoken. His secret sin. But here was Micha, reaching fearlessly between the bars of the cage Thomas had so diligently fashioned. Thomas tried to turn his head away, just so he could think, but Micha was everywhere. Warmth and strength and subtle mysteries: the thickness of his lashes and the softness of his lips, the places where his body met Thomas’s body as though they had been designed to stand thus interlocked. Everything he had learned about right and wrong, lawful and unlawful, natural and unnatural, was flying away, chaff upon the current of Micha’s breath. None of it seemed to matter now. Mist and shadows and pieces of words. All he felt was gratitude and wonder. And no shame at all.
Thomas swallowed, his eyes closing as though they could protect him from too much truth. “You knew?”
“Of course I fucking knew.”
He opened his eyes again. Micha had not moved. Slowly, Thomas lifted his hand. With a single steady fingertip he traced the line of Micha’s jaw and the other man trembled slightly, for all the strength of his body. Micha’s lashes swept across his eyes and then he bowed his head, leaning into the touch, as though inviting it, surrendering to it. It was the tiniest, fleetest of movements. And it was, without question, the most beautiful thing Thomas had ever seen. It gave him courage. He was a pilgrim, on the road to revelation. He found Damascus at Micha’s lips—rough-smooth, almost like a scar, breath-warmed. They yielded beneath his fingers.
Micha exhaled, half-sigh, half-gasp. “Oh, kiss me.” His voice was so hoarse it was barely audible.
And so, Thomas did not fall from grace. He opened his heart and jumped, without hesitation, without regret.
He put a hand upon Micha’s hip and drew him in, letting Micha’s body shape his own, until there was nothing between them, not even air. The sheer intimacy of holding someone, the mixture of the familiar and the strange that was another man’s form, was shocking and exhilarating at the same time. And Thomas unravelled, utterly. His heart went wild against Micha’s, his breath crested in a gasp. And before he could start weeping withpure physical joy, he pressed his mouth to Micha’s. It was a kiss without knowledge and without elegance, but it was the first and truest kiss Thomas had ever given. And, to it and into it, Micha made the softest of noises, stunned and fragile.
