Now he had to acknowledge a worse feeling: a guilt that wasn’t helpless, but fully earned.
I could do something more, but I won’t. Because I’m scared I might lose everything.
His palm was getting sweaty. After one last squeeze of her hand, he let it go and disguised his distress by busily straightening the napkin in his lap. “How did you start writing fanfic? What drew you to it?”
She considered the topic for a minute, the pinched sadness leaving her face as his distraction served its purpose. “Please don’t take what I say next the wrong way, but I mostly started writing fanfiction out of sheer spite. Your showrunners fucked up Lavinia from the beginning, and I was so pissed. I wanted to fix what they’d done and put back everything I loved about her and her relationship with Aeneas.”
Well, he couldn’t blame her for that.
“So I took what was best about the books—Lavinia, the contours of her relationship with Aeneas—and what was best about the show—that would be you, Marcus—and mashed it all up into gloriously fluffy, smutty fics, and it was pure pleasure. Especially once I found a community on the Lavineas server, and . . .” She trailed off. “A good friend and writing partner.”
Another wrench in his chest.
If he could, he’d meet her tale with his own, as a sort of apology. He’d tell her how a young woman in full, impressive Aeneas regalia had mentioned Gates fanfiction at a convention, and he’d been curious and bored enough that night in his hotel room to find some and start reading. Only to discover that some of the stories, the best ones, echoed and expressed insights about his character and the show that he hadn’t shared with anyone but Alex. Only to find he could use modern technology to make reading so, so much easier than he remembered.
That night, for the first time, he read something other than scripts of his own volition. Without pressure. Without stakes. For sheer enjoyment, about something he valued. About something where he was the expert, for once.
It was life-altering. Triumphant, in ways he couldn’t fully express, to discover that he could read and love it, entirely for himself and no one else.
But even in the best fics, there were aspects of his character other authors missed. It was his compulsion to share his own insights that eventually drove him to write his first one-shot as Book!AeneasWouldNever. No one knew who the fuck he was or cared whether he misspelled the occasional word or dictated instead of typed. He did it for himself alone.
He’d expected crickets or criticism, not kudos. Not support, despite his shoddy editing.
And then, somehow, he was part of a community. Somehow, he enjoyed writing, and it was yet another proud reclamation of himself, for himself.
Somehow, he’d found Ulsie. April.
Somehow, through fandom, he’d discovered who he was. His own interests. His own talents and possibilities, after decades of pretending to be someone he wasn’t, believing he was someone he wasn’t.
But he couldn’t share any of that with April. If they stayed together, such a crucial part of his history would remain forever sealed, and she’d never hear that particular story.
Across the table, she was finishing their late dinner as they sat in comfortable silence. When she looked up and saw him studying her, her lips curved. She stretched out her leg to tease his bare ankle with her big toe. It tickled a bit, as she very well knew, and he snorted and shook his head at her.
Unapologetic grin wide, she shrugged and turned back to her remaining garlic bread.
If you’re still worried I don’t know who you are, show me who you are, she’d told him, and he couldn’t. He couldn’t. Although, last night, he’d lain awake in her bed long after she’d fallen asleep, his arm possessive around her waist, and wondered.
Whatever lay between them, he was holding it in his hand and squeezing as hard as he could, keeping it close and safe and tight in his grasp, hoping all that effort and pressure would transform them. Into a diamond, as she’d once explained to him. Brilliant. Hard to damage.
Maybe what they had wasn’t rock, though. Maybe it was water.
Maybe the harder he squeezed, the less he actually held.
But he didn’t know how to open his fist. Not when it came to April. Not when it came to his career and his public persona. Not when he knew precisely, precisely, how it felt for that outstretched hand to remain empty. Always empty.
“Marcus?” April’s gaze was gentle. Concerned. “Are you—”
Then, as if he’d summoned her with his earlier thoughts—a horrifying possibility—his cell rang, and Debra Rupp appeared on the screen.
“It’s my mother. I can call her back later,” he told April.
Much later. Possibly never.
She waved her fork dismissively. “It’s your choice. I certainly won’t be offended if you want to talk to your parents.”
He didn’t, so he let the phone ring itself to silence while they both watched. A few seconds later, there was another chime. A voicemail. His mother had left a voicemail.
With a simple tap of his forefinger, he could delete it without listening. Instead, he lifted the cell to his ear and listened, consciously straightening his shoulders and letting the back of the chair brace him against whatever he might hear.
“Marcus, Madame Fourier saw your picture in one of those trashy magazines at the grocery store. She told us you’ve apparently been in San Francisco for weeks. Visiting your new girlfriend from Twitter, according to the article. She was obnoxiously pleased to know more than we did concerning your whereabouts and activities. We had assumed you were back in Los Angeles or on set somewhere.”
He couldn’t quite decipher his mother’s tone. Was she hurt he hadn’t informed them of his proximity or visited in the past month? Aggrieved that her former colleague had been gifted an opportunity for gloating? Or was she merely stating facts?
“Call us at your earliest convenience, should you find yourself so able.”
Well, that was definitely sarcasm.
After he’d heard it all, he deleted the message, as he probably should have done when his instincts first urged him that way, and pushed the phone away a few inches. Then another few inches, more, more, until he couldn’t reach farther across the table, and April laid a light, warm hand on his forearm.
“Marcus?” So low. So sweet.
Would she still be so sweet if she knew everything?
He shook his head, shook the thought away.
Their hidden history on the Lavineas server didn’t matter, not right now. This part of himself he could show her. This story he could tell, even though it gathered and thickened in his throat in a way that made speaking difficult.
Really, the outlines of the situation were so simple. It was stupid to struggle so hard for words. “I, uh, I hadn’t told my parents I was in the area, but one of the teachers at the school where they used to work saw an article about us and informed my mom. She wants me to call her back.”
She’d want him to visit, because he always had to come to them.
From the doorway to their kitchen, he’d make himself small and watch them dance.
“Do you want to call her back?” April’s voice was absolutely neutral.
She’d taken off her glasses at some point, scooted her chair closer, and those brown eyes were soft and patient. Full of affection and trust he didn’t deserve.