i have says to word at you

He goes to work, he drinks a beer with Eddie, he talks to Maddie: everything is normal. Everything’s as usual. Maybe a tiny bit more subdued, but… normal. But he needs the pills, because without the pills he dreams, even during the day. He sees her in the shadows when he comes home after a shift, hears her voice in the static of the radio. She’s always there, she’s everywhere, and that’s why he needs the pills.

Eddie says he should see a therapist, and that’s so ridiculous Buck almost laughed out loud—he only didn’t do it because he was afraid the sound, the tone of his laughter, would be too telltale. He does go to therapy, has been for a long time. His therapist just doesn’t know anything about what happened to him. That sounds paradoxical, but he prefers it that way. He didn’t really lie, just twisted the truth a little: he’s stressed at work, he said, and that he keeps dreaming over and over of lying under the fire engine. His leg hurts, he says, and that isn’t a lie either, though certainly not bad enough that he’d need the pills. No, he needs them for a reason he doesn’t tell his therapist, and that reason smells like apricot shampoo and wants him to call her Mommy.

Somewhere deep inside, he wants to scream, curl up, and cry until his eyes hurt. He can’t do that, and that’s why he needs the pills.

The pills are large, but he takes them without water, almost as if he hopes he’ll choke on them. Then he imagines what it was like back then in the restaurant, so many years ago, when he almost choked on his date. It’s not a pleasant death, and somehow he’s attached to this life, even though every woman on the street whose hairstyle resembles hers, whose gait resembles hers, frightens him. So he takes the pills without water, as a punishment, and he doesn’t choke, and he’s less frightened, and that’s how it’s supposed to be.

…——…

His pharmacy is at the very back of a supermarket. When the box is running low and he has to walk through the whole store, like a supplicant, with the new prescription in his hand, it’s always way too loud. Way too garish. The music blares from invisible speakers, and there’s always that fear that it might be the song she whistled. When the box runs low, she’s in that supermarket: the bedding in aisle 7 resembles the one he woke up in. The washcloths feel just like hers. The voices all around—

Buck thinks about the pills as he stands in line, waiting for the pharmacist. He thinks about how good it is that there’s something that helps him, that makes the dreams disappear, along with the smells and sounds and thoughts. It’s better to live in a daze than not to live at all, but it’s certainly better than living the way he did without the pills.

As he walks back to the exit with the small brown paper bag in his hand, he almost trips over the most handsome man he’s seen in a long time. Or rather, his heart skips a beat, because it’s Tommy. What are the odds? Never tell me the odds.

“Hey,” says Tommy, and he sounds as surprised as Buck feels.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, and Tommy’s frown tells him it sounded like an accusation.

“Nice to see you too, Evan.” Tommy waves a piece of paper in his hand. “I’m picking up my pills.”

Buck’s heart sinks to his guts; he stammers, “Pills?”

Guilt washes over him like a wave on the beach. He doesn’t even know why and doesn’t want to think about it, because when he does, there are her eyes, her disapproving look. The desire to forget that is greater than the shame.

Tommy shrugs. “Order from the LAFD’s medical officer. They’re just minerals and vitamins, but if I don’t prove I filled the prescription, I’m not allowed to fly.”

“Oh,” says Buck. Tommy’s eyes are still as blue as the sky on a clear day, and there was a time when they would have been enough for him to forget. “You’re doing well, I hope?”

Tommy tilts his head. “Yeah. And you?”

Does he know? Does he suspect something? In Buck’s head, thoughts are spinning faster than the carousels at the Santa Monica Pier. He’s become suspicious. He knows he told everyone he was fine. That he’s looking ahead. That the whole thing didn’t bother him, or at least not enough that it’s still weighing on him. All of that was a lie, because there are the dreams and the thoughts and the sounds and feelings, and nothing helped. No conversation, no encouraging pat on the back. Nothing, except the pills. And yet he knows one can still tell by looking at him, if one dares to look. The wounds have almost all healed, but you can see it. He sees it.

He swallows, makes up his mind.

“Yes,” he says, “No. Are you free right now?”

Tommy isn’t half as surprised as he might be, after all this time, after everything that happened. Buck has often wondered what it would have been like if they hadn’t both been so stupid. If they’d talked. If they had accepted that two grown adults don’t always act like adults, but carry on anyway. Because they know it’s worth it.

Back then, Buck thinks, he wouldn’t have needed pills. He would have just needed Tommy. Tommy, who doesn’t smell like apricot shampoo and doesn’t berate him in a soft voice.

“I—do you want to have some coffee?”

Buck nods. “But at my place. What I’m going to tell you is… well, not something for a public place.”

…——…

It’s different, completely different from back then, but as Buck drives ahead in his car—Tommy doesn’t know where he lives now—he can’t stop thinking about that fateful night. Though it wasn’t the night that destroyed everything, because that was magnificent. Even waking up and seeing Tommy standing in his kitchen making him breakfast is a memory Buck clings to on many a night.

He pushes the rest aside, all the stupid things they said, and the fact that neither of them ever mustered the courage to reach out again afterward.

Now it’s his own house they’re driving to, and they won’t stumble over the threshold, their mouths pressed together like drowning people. But the idea is beautiful; the idea is as normal as anything in his life has been in a long time.

“Nice house,” Tommy says as he gets out of his car, and Buck can only think, please don’t say I like what you’ve done with it.

He can’t take any more of the past, even though the very reason he’s invited Tommy over is part of his past. It’s crazy, the wildest thing he’s ever experienced, and he still feels like a raw piece of meat. Another thing nobody knows: sometimes he looks in the mirror and doesn’t recognize himself, because it can’t be that this happened to him. It’s simply impossible.

They step inside, and the dust motes dancing in the living room remind Buck of the test pattern on an old TV, like in a movie. That’s exactly how unreal his life has become, hasn’t it?

They both sit down, a little awkwardly, on the sofa. Now would be the time for Buck to offer his guest (what a thought) a beer, but he forgets. Maybe politeness is just for people who don’t know what really matters in life. What matters in life, Buck? Even his own voice in his head sounds strange.

“Something happened to me,” he begins.

Why is he telling him this at all? Maybe because Tommy is the only one who really listens. The only one he wants to tell because he won’t judge. Buck isn’t to blame; he knows that for sure. Does he? It’s getting harder and harder to tell the difference. The pills are in the brown paper bag, sitting on the coffee table; like some old-fashioned clock mocking him with its constant ticking. He takes a deep breath.

“I was kidnapped,” he says, and then the whole crazy story bursts out of him.

Tommy’s face reflects every emotion someone could possibly feel upon hearing such a story. Buck doesn’t skimp on details—the bedsheets, the shampoo, the pajamas. But he still makes sure to keep it superficial; a horror story without depth. Without emotion. He looks at the bag, he looks at Tommy; he hopes Tommy can’t read minds. Can’t read anything from his face.

Tommy doesn’t say anything for a long time, and that’s somehow refreshing. Maddie’s been crying, Eddie has been acting like someone who has to pound his fist on the table to scare the invisible demons (it doesn’t even work on himself), and the rest treat him like a raw egg. Tommy says nothing, but it’s not the silence of someone who doesn’t know how to behave in such a situation. Instead, in a gesture so simple yet so charged, he suddenly takes Buck’s hands in his.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there.”

It’s an absurd statement, but it breaks something open in Buck. Like scab peeling away from a wound, but beneath it there’s still raw flesh. As if the fact that Tommy wasn’t there is actually the reason why all this happened. That’s not true, but–

He leans forward, touches Tommy’s shoulders, feels warmth, muscles, familiarity; he pulls him close.

For a brief moment, there’s the impulse to press his head into the hollow of Tommy’s neck and let it all out, all of it. Instead, he seeks out his mouth, and the kiss is anything but gentle.

…——…

It’s wrong, but it feels right. For the first time in a long time, something feels right, and the voices in his head are far, far away.

Tommy doesn’t say it’s wrong, he doesn’t stop him; his hesitation is palpable in his muscles, but it’s brief. As if they’d been waiting for this—and haven’t they?—they practically pounce on each other. Just lips and skin now, hands that want to feel, emotions that want to fall.

Later, he says it after all, albeit cautiously, not so directly.

They lie on rumpled sheets; it’s unclear when they made it to the bedroom. The sun refracts in the beads of sweat on Tommy’s thighs; Buck can’t help but stare. The sight is beautiful, but fleeting: the droplets roll off, and the present returns. Post-orgasm blues, he thinks, because it’s a lovely idea.

“We should’ve talked,” says Tommy, “even if this—”

“It was great.” Buck’s voice is just a whisper. The magic disappears when you say things out loud. And if this disappears, he’ll have nothing left. The pills are still in the living room, and their call is growing louder again.

“Yeah. But it’s not what you need.”

“You’re wrong about that.”

Tommy sighs. He rolls onto his back, arms crossed behind his head; his gaze is fixed on the ceiling, but likely more inward.

“You think you need something to numb the voices.”

It’s said so matter-of-factly, but it hits Buck right in the gut. He pulls the blanket higher; the impulse to hide beneath it is childish and yet very real.

“What do you mean?” he asks.

He doesn’t look at Tommy, though he feels his gaze on him. Tommy places two fingers under his chin, turning Buck’s head; it’s not a commanding gesture. More like a caring, gentle coercion. His next words are just as gentle, but they brush over Buck’s arms like a cool breeze, giving him goosebumps.

“Three men burned to death right before my eyes when the training helicopter crashed. A training camp in Afghanistan.”

“Were you the pilot?” Buck asks breathlessly.

“No. But it should have been my flight.” Tommy takes a deep breath and blinks. The memory is old, very old, and that’s somehow terrifying. Tommy has never forgotten it, so how could Buck ever forget anything? “I’d been swapped off the roster at the last minute; I don’t even remember why. The helicopter crashed. The flames were a mile high; no one got out.”

“That’s terrible.” The compassion in Buck’s voice is, somehow, directed at himself as well; he’s surprised to find that it feels good. So far, he’s felt all sorts of things—hatred, anger, fear, and shame—but no compassion for the Buck who, through no fault of his own, was caught up in an accident and subsequently in the mind games of a crazy woman who still appears in his dreams.

“It was terrible,” Tommy replies. “That’s the point.”

“But you haven’t forgotten it.”

“How could I forget that?” Tommy’s laugh is wistful, almost bitter. “Believe me, I’ve tried. But it doesn’t work. It’s a part of me, always will be.”

Buck feels tears welling up behind his eyes; they seem to come from very, very deep within. He’s tired of the dreams he’s been avoiding, tired of trying to function.

“I don’t think I can handle this,” he says.

“Yes, you can.”

Tommy’s voice is firm, so certain. Buck thinks of the pills and nods slowly.

…——…

They’re taking it slow this time. Buck knows he went at it way too casually, way too fast the first time. The feelings are still there: when Tommy stands next to him, Buck feels large; when he speaks, every word seems meant just for him.

They go on dates, tentative and hesitant meetings amidst people who have no idea what’s going on inside them. Tommy says he wants to help Buck, but he can’t; Buck says he’s seeing a therapist and that he only wants his love, not his pity. It’s the first time he talks of love, and it feels right.

It takes weeks for Buck to find out. Just a casual remark at work, which he buries deep inside. But it’s boiling inside him. The voices are louder again, and he needs the pills just as much as he needs Tommy. He drives home and takes more than he needs—and isn’t that always the case? Doesn’t he always take too much? It’s never enough; he is never enough.

By the time Tommy arrives, who knows how much time has passed. In any case, there weren’t enough pills for Buck not to hear him, not to see him, not to be able to accuse him.

“What happened?” Tommy asks, as if it weren’t obvious. Buck is lying on the couch, the box still next to him. He laughs.

“You can see for yourself.”

“I didn’t know—”

“And I didn’t know that Howie had set you on me,” Buck spits. “Or rather Maddie, wasn’t it? I’m sure she talked him into it…”

“What are you talking about?”

“The day we met, at the pharmacy. That wasn’t a coincidence. But you never told me.”

Tommy sits down carefully on the edge of the armchair. “I didn’t lie. And you never told me you didn’t stop taking the pills.”

And that’s perhaps the worst part, because Buck knows it. Nothing was a lie, neither Tommy’s story nor his feelings. But it feels so wrong, and of course that’s because of him, Buck: he didn’t lie either, but he didn’t tell the truth either. Still, the accusation hits him hard.

“You should go,” he says. A whiff of apricot shampoo brushes his nose.

“And then?”

“Then we’ll do what we always do.”

“Long for and hope?” Tommy smiles wistfully. “No.”

He stands up, paces restlessly a few steps; finally, he drops to his knees in front of the sofa. His large, warm hands seem to hover over Buck, as if he can’t decide where to place them. Whether the touch is even intended. Buck doesn’t know himself.

“What you went through was wrong,” Tommy says seriously. “And I can’t make it right. The pills can’t do that either. And until you understand that, you’ll only destroy yourself.”

“Are you going to help me do that?” Buck laughs bitterly. “I’m already broken.”

“You’re not.” Now Tommy’s hands know where they belong; they gently stroke Buck’s cheek. “You’ll get back up, eventually. But this time, not alone.”

Somewhere deep inside Buck is her voice, telling him that he belongs to her, to no one else. But there are also Tommy’s eyes, deep and blue, a lake to drown in.

I’d rather drown there than anywhere else, Buck thinks.

“Do you think—” he asks quietly, hopefully.

In most lifetimes, they hardly pause to think how unlikely it was for them to meet, to wonder at how they might never had known each other at all if only they hadn’t been in the right place at the right time (and it was quite extraordinary, as it wasn’t until the last few lifetimes that they’re lives had seemed intricately intertwined from the start)

They may have been cursed to never remember their past lives or each other, but the universe—somehow—always managed to laugh in the face of the curse anyway.

Buck doesn’t know that in a past life, him and Tommy met while employed on the same carpentry job and that they eventually built their own house they lived in together for the rest of their days.

He’ll never remember that life, but years before LA—on a ranch in Montana—Evan pulls up a creaky floorboard he keeps tripping over. In a small cavity underneath, is a dusty, old journal. On the inside cover is the name John Woodley. At night he reads the dated entries (from the 1800s!!) detailing long work days, some hardships that Evan will never know but even more that seem to be universally human. Amongst it all, though, is evidence of a life and love shared with somebody named Jamie. Evan knows, without John ever explicitly saying so, that Jamie is a man. Every so often, there's notes written in another hand—not as if John and Jamie had written the entry together, but scribbled in the margins. Some of it's written as if a reader was annotating a book of their favorite author's. Some of the notes are utter nonsense to Evan, not having the context for them, but are the words of man who is so obviously besotted…Evan has to close the journal and stare at the wall until his heart stops aching and he stops wondering what it would be like to be loved like that. More often than not, the commentary consists of dry and witty retorts, some sarcastic rebuttal or suggestion that the narrator (John) is being unreliable in their account (usually in relation to a disagreement); they make Evan laugh out loud, fondness blooming in his chest for somebody he would never meet, but thinks he would have liked to know.

After some digging, he finds that the ranch owners have no relation to John or Jamie and know nothing of the journal, so he feels no guilt in taking it with him when he goes.

One lonely, sleepless night—months after Tommy broke up with him—Buck rediscovers the journal. It's been many years since he's read it, but some of the words are familiar to him still. But what gives him pause is how similar John and Jamie's relationship feels to his and Tommy's. And if they could make it, with all that they went through, then why not him and Tommy?

Tommy is taken aback but takes it in stride when Buck shows up at his doorstep at 8 am with coffee and pastries wanting to talk. "Actually," Buck says, slapping the old journal against Tommy's chest, "read first, then we can talk." Buck knows Tommy is well within his right to tell him to get lost, but he just raises his eyebrows, gives an exaggerated oookay, and curls up into his armchair, and reads.

Buck feels so fond it hurts and he has to turn away and stare at the wall about it.

Tommy doesn't know that his favorite epistolary historical romance novel was inspired by the tragic, star-crossed love affair that transpired between him and Evan two lifetimes ago. The novel he has every existing edition of, his favorite one yellowed with age and worn with love, all manner of sticky notes marking the pages and annotations overwhelming the margins.

He doesn't know, when he reads it for the first time or even the tenth, that he can have that love without the tragedy.

One night, they're lying in bed and Evan asks Tommy to read him some of his favorite passages. So he does.

It's almost laughable, Tommy thinks, how he can recite pages from memory, but hadn't realized he'd practically fallen in love with the same man twice; the fictional Lord Holland and the very real, even if at oftentimes unbelievable, Evan Buckley.

They never do remember or figure it out or break the curse that really isn't much of a curse. After all, they still find each other, somehow, in every lifetime. And they find these ties, unbeknownst to them, to their past lives—through journals and novels and photographs and portraits—these strangers they feel kinship with, often depicted through other people's eyes.

Over and over, they find each other and love each other and, perhaps most importantly, choose each other.

Even when it's hard. Especially when it's hard.