Page 60 of Our Own Light

“Well, think about it,” Oliver said. “When you told your parents that you liked men... you were essentially telling them that you wanted to sleep with men. Sexually. And, Floyd, they sent you to sleep with a bunch of men.”

Floyd snorted.

Oliver continued, “So, on second thought, it sounds like they were very supportive people.”

He said this with as straight a face as possible, which luckily had the intended effect of making Floyd laugh, though he was obviously trying to hold back because of how late it was. Watching Floyd’s body silently shake from barely-contained laughter was... oh, God, it was everything.

“Thank you, Ollie,” Floyd said once he calmed himself.

And, thank God, Floyd had the biggest smile, one that was so large, his beautiful blue eyes were nearly closed from the size of it. Oliver’s chest warmed from the sight. He felt so incredibly proud of himself for helping Floyd through that painful memory.

“You’re welcome.”

“It’ll be easier for you one day,” Floyd said. “I can always listen to you if you need me to. If you’re ever upset about how we have to be or what people think about us, I can listen.”

“I really appreciate that,” Oliver said. “Can I ask you one more thing, though?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“What about church? How can you make yourself sit there like that?”

“I like church.”

“Even though—”

“Yeah,” Floyd said, cutting him off. “Even though.”

“Why?”

Floyd shrugged. “All of this—it’s between me and God,” he said, as though it was the simplest thing in the world. “I like the rest of the teachings. Or, most of them.”

“Does part of you attend because of the, uhm, the role you’re playing?”

“Yep,” Floyd admitted. “I need to keep an image.”

“Smart,” Oliver said with a nod. “Thank you for talking to me, for being honest with me.”

“Anytime.” Floyd’s fingers trailed lower, caressing Oliver’s cheek. “It’s late.”

“I know,” Oliver whispered in response. “But this is so nice.”

“It is. We have tomorrow, though.”

Oliver smiled wistfully. “Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, creeps in this petty pace from day to day, to the last syllable of recorded time.”

Floyd shook his head, confused. “What’s that?”

“Shakespeare.”

Floyd hummed and repeated, “Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.”

Oliver reached up to catch Floyd’s hand and then brought Floyd’s knuckles to his lips.

“To the last syllable of recorded time.”

Chapter Nine

Floyd