Archive of Our Own ^beta

It was an odd thought, but Willem was the most natural person Jude knew. 

He wasn’t particularly concerned with sourcing organic ingredients or disavowing pharmaceuticals – if anything, Jude had him beat in both categories. Rather, there was an ease about him that was rare in human beings, a primal sort of lack of self-consciousness with his body and his person that his friends and colleagues had always envied. 

With all his trauma and scars, Jude should have been at the top of the list, but it was precisely those factors that led to his not even considering himself in the same genus as his partner. Maybe not even the same tribe, order, phylum, kingdom. A Jude St Francis and a Willem Ragnarsson were as different as a pigeon and a lion. Any potential jealousy was stemmed at the source, replaced with genuine, bottomless awe at this objectively perfect person – who, against any semblance of sense, was his perfect person.

Seeing him in the thoroughly synthetic environment of an expensive upstate hospital room was a daily knife in the guts.

With tubes snaking in and out of his body, bandages holding his fractured skull together, he was utterly unrecognisable to all but those closest to him – the well-worn grooves of the lines of his hands, minute marks from childhood shenanigans on the farm, the curve of his lips. Jude cast a quick glance his way and moved to pick the wilting plants out of the floral arrangement at his bedside. He’d seen him die a hundred deaths on the stage and screen, but nothing could have prepared him for this. He didn’t like to be in the presence of this strange entity, this Willem-without-Willem, but at the same time, he couldn’t imagine being anywhere else.

Standing with a handful of damp stems in one hand, he could almost project back to the moment everything changed, when the doorbell of Lantern House rang and he found two police officers darkening his door, there to awkwardly deliver the news of the catastrophic car crash that had almost snuffed out two of the most important lights of Jude’s life.

Almost. But not quite.

Poor Willem’s gorgeous face practically exploded when he was thrown from the driver’s seat, smashing through the windshield and into a passing vehicle. He’d been in an induced coma since his first surgery, the main purpose of which was to reconstruct his skull with a metal plate and save his mangled legs. A few subsequent operations had taken care of nascent infections and minor niggles, as well as conducted a few cosmetic touch-ups, but his features were obscured by thick gauze, and regardless, his face was far too swollen to look recognisably human, let alone like his old self. Jude hated how upset he felt at the thought of never seeing Willem’s signature grin, or the softness in his eyes, or the surprising, opaque depth that overtook him when he was engrossed in a script. So he didn’t think about it.

Malcolm had been more fortunate in some ways, less in others. When the drunk truck driver ploughed into the car, Sophie took the brunt of the impact. They’d had to install steel rods in his back, and he’d broken every limb, but the prognosis was good for a full recovery as long as he kept to a prescribed exercise regimen. Although he was swimming in opiates, he was mostly conscious, even though he didn’t want to be.

Because his wife was dead.

When Jude had the presence of mind to visit his friend, about two weeks after the crash, he’d found a surprisingly mellow Malcolm surrounded by his doting family, and his heart blossomed as he greeted him. Though his mind was fuzzy, Malcolm managed a little conversation about projects he’d had to give up and the vagaries of long-term hospitalisation. When the two men were left alone for a brief moment, he’d taken Jude’s hand in his own, shaky and delicate, and murmured, ‘I’m sorry, Judy.’

‘You’re –’ Jude had to stop himself from chuckling in utter disbelief, ‘you’re sorry? Why?’

‘If Willem hadn’t come to pick us up, none of…’ he gestured with his free fingers as best he could, and even this slightest waggle made him wince, ‘... this would’ve happened. They’d. They’d still be here. Sophie. Willem.’

‘But Mal –’

Jude was good at keeping secrets. It’s how he’d managed his whole life. But he was tired. He was overwhelmed. He didn’t know that the Irvines had told their son a lie. Perhaps they really didn’t know, perhaps they thought it would be easier to accept than hearing that only his wife and unborn child had been killed. Those realisations ran through his head, and Jude clammed up at once, but Malcolm was perceptive. He was sensitive. That’s what made him such a good friend.

He stared at Jude, cracked lips half open. He was missing a few teeth, set to be replaced when his more serious injuries had been taken care of, and Jude’s eyes tripped on the darkness of a gap, a little tunnel into the depths of his friend’s body, his being. Malcolm squeezed Jude’s hand, and he could still hear Malcolm’s loud sobbing when he was walking down the corridor, after Mrs Irvine gently asked him to leave.

Standing at Willem’s bedside, Jude noticed that, having run out of dead flowers to sort, he’d moved on to plucking the petals off the survivors. Although Rosen Pritchard had ordered him to take time off before he could even put in a request, Jude spent half his nights meticulously planning out exactly how he was going to squeeze the truck driver for all he was worth. The other half of his nights was spent in deep slumber, too deep for dreams. The kind of dark pit caused by total physical and mental exhaustion. The kind of gloom he’d seen in Malcolm’s mouth.

If he dared to lay down before he was completely, utterly exhausted, his thoughts would wander, and he might pass out with enough critical capacity to dream, and he’d dream of some hellish alternate reality where the police officers at his door told him Willem was dead, and the last dregs of humanity sluggishly pumping through his veins would dry up for good.

Jude heard the soft beeps of the machines monitoring Willem’s condition, keeping him alive. The sounds put him on edge at the best of times, reminded him of Ana wasting away from cancer, leaving him alone when he needed her most. Willem wouldn’t do that. Willem couldn’t do that. Not after everything they’d been through.

Not now .

Jude blinked, and realised he was crying. Great, childish, gulping sobs, tears streaming down his unshaven cheeks. Through blurry eyes, he managed to toss the flowers into the small metal bin beside Willem’s bed, freeing up his hands to cover his face as he desperately tried to get ahold of himself. JB was supposed to visit today – he didn’t need to add a layer of pathetic instability to the grotesque construct he represented in JB’s mind. Their truce couldn’t survive that added facet of truth. Only Willem could be trusted with – this .

Jude cut through his own stifled moans with a gasp, fingers bursting off his head like his skin was red-hot. Something clung to the front of his untucked shirt, tugging weakly, but insistently.

When he saw Willem’s fist clenching the fabric of his top, he spilled a whole new wave of tears.

—

A few months after Willem woke up, he moved back into Greene Street. They had to wait until he was well enough, but it made sense: unlike the rest of his body, which was recovering remarkably well, his legs always seemed to run into an issue or another, and he was mostly wheelchair-bound. With all its accommodations for impaired mobility, the flat was a great place to convalesce, and closer to his main social circle, too.

Actually getting him there was another story. It wasn’t exactly difficult to sneak a celebrity anywhere in the hubbub of New York, even in an ambulance, but when the EMT opened the doors, Jude’s stomach dropped at the sight of seven or eight paparazzi loitering outside the doors to their home. People knew what he looked like and where he worked, which were levels of exposure he’d accepted first when he rose in the ranks of his profession, then when he embarked on his relationship with Willem, but he didn’t need the public to know where he lived , too. As they hustled into the foyer, he had to consciously shrug off the paralysing memory of being cast out onto the street by Caleb, of his hideous, deformed body bared for all to see.

His heart was still beating hard when the medical staff left the two of them alone in their home. Despite his anxiety, Jude realised this was the first time in months they were actually in private , without the risk of a random visitor or nurse barging in. It seemed Willem had the same thought, because he turned to look at him and smiled.

It was an odd sight. On one hand, it was definitely Willem’s smile. Its shape, the emotions it provoked, the slight tinge of Nordic sadness it never seemed to shake off – all of this had worn grooves in Jude’s brain that tingled and sparked when he saw it. On the other hand, the face it was attached to was different. There were more reconstructive surgeries to come, but the doctors had already worked miracles, turning what was little more than hamburger meat into a semblance of Hollywood’s finest farm boy heartthrob.

That was it, though. It was a semblance . It was like glimpsing Willem through a rain-streaked window. He was recognisable, but different, and the impact of such a massive change had yet to fully hit their relationship.

‘Kit called me,’ Willem said, parking himself near the sofa so Jude could sit beside him. ‘He was losing his mind about the paps. Says somebody must’ve ratted us out and he’s gonna find out who. Hasn’t lost any of his bite. I’m thankful he hasn’t dropped me.’

‘Why would he drop you? You’re his biggest client and you’ve still got decades of work ahead of you.’

‘All the scar tissue makes it hard to emote, and who knows when all of this ’ll get resolved,’ he replied, patting his legs. Jude had grown used to his prosthetics, but right now, he was acutely aware of how his stumps sat in their sockets, a little loose from the weight he’d lost worrying, but serviceable when he wore all his specialised socks at once. With how different they’d always been, Willem soaring miles above his wretched form in health, looks, life , it gave Jude a smidgen of perverse pleasure to finally have one point where they were equals, where they could actually relate to one another.  He hated thinking that way, and he’d never vocalise it, but he couldn’t ignore the fact of this secret satisfaction. Willem continued: ‘We’ve talked about it, me and Kit. If I turn into another Christopher Reeve who only gets a handful of pity roles thrown my way, I’m hanging it up.’

His tone wasn’t particularly cynical or distraught. He approached the possibility with the same practical, no-frills attitude he’d had to the entire nightmarish situation, something Jude found ceaselessly fascinating.

‘No one could ever pity you, Willem,’ he murmured, before leaning over the armrest and planting a chaste kiss on his lips.

It took a long time for Jude to feel halfway comfortable initiating physical affection. He’d surprised Willem with an embrace or a kiss on the face a handful of times, but the crash forced his hand. Over the years they’d been together, he’d grown accustomed to the soothing nature of full-body contact, the joy that flooded his system when Willem chose to kiss him – him! - and the sheer normality it added to his life.

Willem had been awake for about three weeks when he said, clearer than anything he’d uttered since the coma, ‘I want you to touch me.’

Jude’s hands stilled on his laptop’s keyboard. He closed the computer and spritzed a little sanitizer on his palms. He’d been liaising with Sanjay at work about the drunk truck driver whose life he intended to systematically destroy, and he didn’t want any of that filth to cling to his skin. He hadn’t told Willem the full extent of the prosecution he was preparing, because Willem, unlike him, was a good person. He’d find out about the driver’s sick child and dire financial straits and want to go easy on him. And that wasn’t acceptable.

Once the alcohol solution dried, Jude moved closer to the bed, eyeing up Willem’s broken form. ‘What do you want me to do?’

Willem smiled as best he could. His jaw was recovering and the swelling on his face was going down, but this was long before additional practical and aesthetic surgeries gave him back most of his expressiveness. He’d specifically requested the lowest opiate dose, and though he often groaned and winced in pain, his one uncovered eye shone with presence of mind. ‘Kiss me, Jude. Put your hands on me. I miss it. I miss you.’

‘I don’t want to hurt you.’

‘You won’t hurt me.’

‘How can you be sure?’

‘Because the only times you’ve hurt me is when you’ve hurt yourself. This is the opposite of that.’ He paused for a second. His throat was still scratchy from the recent intubation, and his freshly postoperative jaw became sore when he spoke more than a few words. ‘I know I’ve looked better, but if you aren’t too grossed out, it’d make me happy.’

Willem’s tone was wry, and Jude snorted. It helped put him at ease. Careful, he rested his hands on the top of his exposed chest, and leaned in to press a soft kiss on one of the few unbruised parts of his forehead. Then, even gentler, his lips fluttered over Willem’s cheekbone, then the corner of his chapped mouth, and finally, even as Jude’s blood fizzed with unjustified anxiety, he kissed his best friend on the mouth. 

It was almost unbearably light, and still, he could feel the toothless gap in Willem’s upper jaw, where all his natural teeth had been knocked out. After decades of refusing the eerie hyper-perfection of bright white veneers, he was going to need a full set of fixed dentures. Anger roiled in Jude’s stomach again, but he felt the warm air of Willem’s sigh escaping through his nose and onto his top lip, and the rage dissipated at once. Jude’s fingers slipped under the scoop neck of Willem’s hospital gown to rest on his broad shoulders. If these simple acts could make him happy in this dreadful time – Jude could do it.

Though he would never be glad about this horrific situation, the impossibility of sex and triggers made it far easier for Jude to initiate affection. To start with, he made a point of kissing Willem once per “shift” – that is, during the morning hours before lunch, the afternoon block afterwards, and during the short period between his ten-minute tea break in the hospital cafeteria and his reluctant departure for the night. He was sure Willem noticed this lack of spontaneity, but he never said anything, and after a couple of weeks, Jude had internalised the routine to the point where it really was somewhat casual.

Over time, bandages and casts fell away, and Jude was surprised to find himself wanting to touch these revealed parts of Willem’s freshly scarred body. Maybe he wanted to make sure Willem really was all there, maybe he wanted to check that the skin was healing properly, based on the amateur expertise he’d acquired from a lifetime of being torn apart and knit together over and over. His motivations were selfish, but his self-loathing was limited by Willem’s reactions. He was happy to be seen and caressed by Jude. He was comfortable . By the time he’d improved enough for the nurses to hand over spongebath duty to Jude, they could carry on a regular conversation while he manipulated and cleaned Willem’s body in a way that would have been inconceivable mere months ago.

If he’d had the time to fret, Jude might have interpreted this as his defences becoming too lax, as predatory instincts finally coming home to roost, almost fifty years after his abuse, taking advantage of Willem’s need in order to prey on him. But between constant trips to the hospital and mounting his extracurricular legal case, he was too tired, too busy to focus on his chronic anxieties, and his acts of service towards Willem remained untarnished.

The first serious pang of guilt came once they were back in Greene Street. With the accommodations built into the apartment, Willem would easily be able to take care of his own hygiene. The excuse for their cleansing bonding ritual was gone. 

And Jude would miss it.

Awkwardly, he moved away from Willem and stood up, grasping for a distraction before the implications of his feelings could throw him into a panic – and landing on, ‘I’m gonna make lunch.’

‘After months of reheated tupperware meals and hospital food, that sounds pretty good.’

‘What’re you feeling?’

Willem thought for a second. ‘Don’t suppose you can whip up some Chooser’s Chicken?’

Already at the doorway to the kitchen, Jude smiled. That was the name they’d come up with for his spin on chicken confit , the meat cooked in an oil bath to render it incredibly tender, the skin almost melting onto the juicy flesh – as opposed to the traditional Chinese Beggar’s Chicken, which, ironically, involved the more time-consuming method of wrapping the bird in lotus leaves and clay before roasting it. It was a delicious if somewhat decadent meal, something Willem allowed himself between roles, when he didn’t have to watch his figure as closely.

‘Waiting in the fridge for your approval, Mr Ragnarsson. Just have to sear it and make a side salad. Twenty minutes, tops.’

‘Now that , that’s what the doctor ordered.’

‘Shout if you need me,’ Jude said, headed to the counter to set things up. The exchange took his mind off his anxiety, for a fleeting moment, but as he lifted the chicken pieces out of the oil and watched the skin slip and bunch up, the prickling in his neck returned.

Where Willem’s skin was once almost completely flawless, pale and smooth, swathes of it were now rigid and plasticky, shiny regenerated tissue tight over coils of shrinking muscle. Jude knew this texture well from his own body, and when he’d delicately wiped Willem’s limbs with a damp cloth, he couldn’t help comparing the two, marvelling at how – despite everything , despite his own injuries being comparatively mild for once in his life – there was no way for Willem’s body to be ugly. It had changed, but only on the surface. Only in ways that didn’t truly matter, or which gave it a seductive ruggedness. Jude’s body, in contrast, bore his sins like a billboard, each line and mark another witness to his perversion.

With his upbringing, maybe it was inevitable that he’d think of Mary Magdalen. If he had to, he’d gladly wash Willem’s feet with his hair, though he’d kept his style short since his early days at university. The androgyny of his longer cuts had brought nothing but grief.

He realised he’d been standing still over the cutting board for minutes when the chicken began to hiss on the cast-iron skillet, and quickly shook the spring onion shavings off his hands to tend to the meat. The great thing about cooking was its immediacy, the way it monopolised his attention and anchored him in difficult times. Moments later, he was watching Willem eat the fruits of his labour with a blissed-out expression, and it made everything a little more bearable.

They’d moved on to a light fruit salad dessert when, during a lull in the conversation, Willem set his spoon down and cleared his throat. He’d been able to feed himself for about a month, but his grip remained uneasy and he often had to take discreet breaks to avoid overexerting his arms, which he ably disguised when they were among friends by focusing the attention on someone else’s anecdotes or by regaling them with an old story from the set of a major film shoot. When it was just him and Jude, though, there was no pretence, and he could pause to collect himself as much as he needed.

‘So. When I spoke to Kit, he mentioned something else.’

‘They’re doing a gritty superhero movie where he recovers from terrible injuries so they can shoot you in real time?’

Willem chuckled. ‘I’ll tell him to pitch that to Linklater. But you’re not far off. A studio’s asked to make a documentary about me – and with me. They want to tie in stuff about my family, about Hemming, the work I’ve done for disability rights and awareness. It’d wrap up with me attending the premiere for my next feature – which is pretty optimistic of them, but maybe they know something I don’t.’

A beat passed between them. Then, Jude asked, ‘Do you want to do it?’

Willem sighed. ‘I don’t know. I think so. You need to get back to work, Judy, and it’ll give me something to focus on that isn’t shuttling to and from physio. They’re making it sound like it’s going to be sort of a retrospective on my life and projects. Which is crazy, and makes me feel old as hell, but if there’s demand for it…’

‘There is demand for it. From me.’

That got a genuine laugh out of Willem. ‘You’ll show up in the flick with the credit “Ragnarsson Fanclub Leader.”’

‘Better than “prosecuting attorney, comma, Rosen Pritchard.” Your fans never like finding out what I do. They’re all on Harold’s side.’

‘That’s my worry. It’d be invasive. I don’t totally get why people want to know about my private life when there’s a lot more interesting stuff out there to cover, but it’ll bring attention to some good causes and it’ll get me out of the house. Thing is, none of that matters if it’s going to be too much for you.’

‘I can handle myself. You’ve been open about our relationship for a while and the media’s long since realised I’m far too boring to bother following.’ He paused. ‘And I don’t – I mean, it’s a movie about you. About your health. I won’t be more than a background character.’

‘Kit said you can be as involved as you want. I told him not to expect much, and that that was non-negotiable. I don’t care if the public wants to know the real me ,’ he said the words sarcastically, aping a marketing executive he’d long derided to his friends, ‘your comfort comes first. It always does. I hope you know that, Jude.’

Jude smiled. ‘Alright. When does it start?’

‘You don’t want some more time to think about it? There’s no rush. I’m not about to get up and do a tap routine anytime soon.’

‘I’ll just work late when they’re here to film.’ Jude speared a grape with his dessert fork. ‘It’s fine.’

Through the stiffness of his facial scarring, the corner of Willem’s eyes wrinkled in pleasure, and he tucked back into his fruit. Jude watched him. His fork remained propped against the edge of his bowl, and he didn’t eat another bite.

It was, of course, not fine.

—

They’d both been looking forward to their first night together in the flat. Towards the end of Willem’s involuntary healthcare vacation, when he’d ceased to be held together with gauze and glue, he’d cajoled Jude into cuddling up on the hospital bed for a handful of minutes every other day, when both were fairly sure no nurses were waiting to check in. These moments of togetherness were a balm, but a fleeting one, marred by the discomfort of outdoor clothing, canulas, and the cramped single space.

Willem still had to sleep on his back, the upper part of his half of the mattress raised up to prevent him rolling his shoulders and ribs, both of which had cracked when nearly healed after he’d pushed himself too hard during a rehabilitation session. Privately, both had worried Jude might struggle to actually face him during an embrace – but that night, they went to sleep with his head on Willem’s stomach, one arm slung over his hips to hold him close.

Most surprising of all, they were both nude.

Jude had helped Willem move to the bed and, knowing he liked to sleep naked, helped him undress completely before he got under the sheets. Afterwards, Jude took off his button-up shirt, and after a second’s hesitation, slid both his trousers and underwear off in one motion before sitting down on the edge of the mattress to set an alarm on his phone. 

Probing too deeply might make the evening take a turn for the worse, so Willem just murmured, ‘You sure?’

Setting his phone face-down on the bedside table, Jude scooted over and settled against his partner, careful not to put pressure on the areas he knew to be most tender. He hummed in acquiescence and said, ‘I’ve seen you every day, but I’ve missed you.’

Willem wrapped his arm around Jude’s shoulders and revelled in the sheer intimacy of the moment, the mixture of familiarity and novelty of Jude’s naked skin against his own – patches that welcomed back the contact, and others that reacted dully, thick with scar tissue. It didn’t take long for him to succumb to a deep slumber, and sleep better than he had in years, secure in this closeness with the man he loved more than anyone.

He was so cut off from the world that he didn’t wake up when Jude quietly slipped out of his grasp at two o’clock in the morning and headed to the bathroom.

He stood in front of the sink, before the mirror. The room was well-aerated, and the floor tiles didn’t even have the decency to be cold. There was no discomfort, at all, even though he’d abandoned the embrace of the love of his life to come here. But inside, he was shards of glass and red-hot coals. Automatically, his fingers wandered underneath the sink, palpating the razor blades and bandages in their plastic bag, taped firmly to the underside of the bowl. The instant relief he felt at confirming their presence only made him feel worse.

Things weren’t perfect. Willem still had a lot of healing to do. But they’d skirted disaster, and their lives were as good as they could be, given the circumstances. Why couldn’t he just be grateful?

The prospect of being in the public eye made him sick, but it wasn’t as though he’d worked particularly hard to avoid it so far. It would’ve been easier to remain at the General Attorney’s office, getting his job satisfaction where he could – but higher wages meant more exposure, and he was greedy. He always had been. That’s why he bore the scar on the back of his hand. The marks inside and outside that made him so viscerally repulsive.

If the documentary made people look into him and his past and the photographs and videos surfaced and everybody knew the extent of his depravity, he only had himself to blame.

Groaning, Jude hugged himself tight and dug his nails into his flesh. They were too short to do damage, but the little crescent pressure points still scratched the itch to self harm, if only marginally. The fear he’d felt when he saw the paparazzi outside that morning was amplified tenfold. A hundredfold. Even if he didn’t participate in the documentary at all, even if they purposefully cut him out of the frame or blurred his face, everybody would know what the inside of Greene Street looked like. Caleb was dead, but what if another Caleb was inspired by this privileged insight, snuck into the house while Willem was away on a shoot, and ambushed Jude when he came back from Rosen Pritchard, defences down, sleepy. Vulnerable.

But he couldn’t ask Willem not to do it. 

Even though he didn’t really understand why people wanted to know about him, Jude did. Willem was a fantastic actor, an amazing person, utterly beautiful inside and out. Everybody wanted to know the man behind the star. Jude wasn’t jealous of this prospect – he empathised. Every day, he was stunned that Willem allowed him to stand nearby, illuminated by the dazzling aura he projected, lights that made Jude almost human, perhaps even a little pretty in certain lights. He couldn’t keep that brilliance to himself.

In fact, fully acknowledging just how gorgeous Willem was, he shouldn’t have been surprised that, when they were getting ready for bed, he’d felt the urge to have sex with him.

The documentary threw him off balance, but the startling desire had him completely floored, and he was just grateful he’d been able to conceal his emotions long enough for Willem to fall asleep. He couldn’t explain it. The days after the crash had been a blur, the time in hospital a limbo, during which he’d become familiar with Willem’s body in ways he hadn’t over years of their romantic relationship. But what sort of creep had a sexual awakening caring for someone in their weakest moments? Was it some sort of engrained muscle memory, telling him to welcome the king back to his castle the best way he knew how?

Because that’s what he was born to do?

The door to the bathroom was closed, muffling the sound of the side of Jude’s head hitting the wall. Pain throbbed at his temple, and each sharp wave radiating through his skull helped stave off the urge to cut. The guilt coursing through his veins was excruciating, a sickening sensation that reminded him of the monastery and innumerable hours of Catholic education. Had he, unknowingly, struck a mad Faustian bargain? Willem will live, but your true nature will emerge from the depths, like mob hit surfacing in the Hudson after his legs had decayed enough to free him from his cement shoes. 

Still leaning on the wall, Jude bent forward and vomited. Fatty chicken and brightly coloured fruit swam in bile, and he gripped the sink as a second spasm sent more puke splashing down into the bowl. The tips of his fingers prodded the bag of razor blades. It would be so easy. So freeing.

But Willem needed him. If he cut too deep and had to rush to Andy, he couldn’t be there for him, and when he came back, Willem would announce that he’d called Kit and rejected the documentary project, and the resentment would weigh on them until Willem was fully healed and could walk out on him for good.

He wouldn’t.

He would.

He could.

With a grunt of effort, Jude forcefully moved his hand away from the bag, and staggered back until he hit a wall, which he slid down until he was sitting on the ground, breathing heavily. After he’d calmed down enough to stand, which could have taken minutes or hours, Jude cleaned the sink, brushed his teeth, and headed back to the bedroom, where he slithered back into his spot at Willem’s side and closed his eyes.

—

‘Willem being the first to have a movie made about him,’ JB said in disbelief. ‘ Willem .’

‘You’ve had documentaries made about you. We all went to your place to watch the first one two years after your big break. And there’s the other two.’

‘Okay, that first one was Vice , which doesn’t count. They do “documentaries” about people who believe they have sex with aliens in Mount Shasta. And the others were more like – retrospectives.’ He dipped his fry into his aioli sauce and ate it with gusto, nodding at the other side of the street. ‘I’ve never had a real crew follow me like that.’

Jude followed his line of sight, to the two PAs standing outside the physiotherapy centre, talking and smoking. He usually accompanied Willem to his sessions, when he could, but they were filming today and they’d be interviewing the therapist, too, so he’d called JB to pass the time at a nearby restaurant. They’d all go to a show afterwards, Willem’s first live event since the crash.

‘I feel like even you ’d get sick of them hanging around pretty quick,’ Jude replied.

‘Uh, what do you mean, even I’d get sick of ‘em? You implying I’m some sort of attention seeker? Me ?!’ JB raised his voice on the last word, prompting startled looks from the other patrons seated at the tables outside.

Jude laughed. Being around JB was a welcome distraction from the upheaval they’d been going through. Eight months had passed since he’d come back home, and Willem had improved in significant ways: he could sleep lying down, and on his side, which meant the triumphant return of their nightly cuddling routine; his most recent cosmetic surgery had done wonders to restore his capacity to emote almost back to where it used to be; he had the presence of mind and range of motion to do almost everything by himself. 

Still, he remained wheelchair-bound a good 90% of the time, only really able to shuffle back and forth from the living room or bedroom to the bathroom, and though he joked that rolling himself around helped keep his upper body in good condition, Jude saw how impatient he was to be able to walk freely. If anyone could relate to that, it was Jude, who had no love lost on the excruciating pain that had plagued him for decades and mostly disappeared after his double amputation. 

In a way, it made sense that Willem would be the one to truly understand his mobility struggles – though Willem would ultimately get better. He threw himself into physio, diligently doing the prescribed exercises at home without overexerting himself, conscious of how far an injury would set him back. Despite his good health before the crash, his positive outlook, and his efforts, however, his recovery was behind schedule on account of the frequent problems in his legs. 

The bones had been so badly shattered, first by the truck smashing into his vehicle, and then by the car that crushed them with its front wheels before the driver could swerve, that doctors had replaced Willem’s tibias with rods that kept becoming infected. The last time they’d had to go to the hospital, the cameras captured him gritting his teeth, squeezing his rubber therapy ball so hard the whole back of his hand was white.

It was the first time Jude appeared on camera, holding Willem’s other hand while they waited for his painkillers. They’d been shown the footage a few days later, shot in ways that obscured Jude’s face, and the director assured them that the few clear glimpses of his features could easily be hidden in post-production. Willem looked over at his partner and asked, ‘is that okay, Judy?’

The director watched him carefully, without expression, and Jude just nodded. ‘Yeah. I like the shots of us holding hands. You can keep those in. You can keep anything, as long as you can’t properly see me.’

‘Which is a shame, because you’d look great on the big screen,’ Willem joked, raising his eyebrows at the director. ‘Doesn’t he?’

‘Not to mack on your man, but yeah.’

Jude smiled. It was strange, having this third-party witness to their relationship. Someone they weren’t friends with. The whole situation was surreal. In some ways, having the crew around was less invasive than he’d expected, and in other ways, more. They always announced their arrival, and most of the time, they were in and out of the house before Jude came back from work, the only traces of their visit evident in light scuffs on the floor or objects placed where they usually wouldn’t be. The director had a real cinema vérité angle for the piece, meaning he was loath to arrange a scene in a way that felt scripted or designed, but photographs were moved at Willem’s request, as well as the JB’s painting of Jude, and that meant the world.

‘There he is,’ JB said, pointing at the door. 

One of the PAs pushed Willem’s chair through the doors and onto the pavement, where he immediately sought out his friends, gesturing for the crew to wheel him to the outdoor seats. ‘Hey, JB, Judy.’

‘How’d it go?’ Jude asked, shuffling over so Willem could sit at their table.

‘Good. Twenty whole steps and I only feel like my legs are a little bit on fire. I’ll be running the New York City Marathon before you know it.’ He ordered a drink from the waitress, confirmed that yes, he was Willem Ragnarsson, and thank you so much for your well-wishes, then continued: ‘The crew’re getting some food, then they’re coming with us to the theatre.’

‘I remember.’

‘So, JB, on your best behaviour, alright?’

‘I don’t care if you’re in a wheelchair, it’ll be a cold day in Hell before a white man can tell me how to act.’

They continued to poke at each other throughout the meal while Jude watched, commenting when prompted, and thought how nice it was to see Willem in his environment: kidding around with friends while a slew of rubberneckers basked in the privilege of being in his presence. It reminded him of old times, not just from before Willem’s injury, but earlier. Their thirties. Their twenties. Their late teens.

It made them miss Malcolm.

He’d recovered much faster than Willem, and JB let the others know that he was even back to work on a part-time basis. Malcolm and Jude had exchanged a few polite messages, but they hadn’t seen each other since the visit over a year ago. The wound of Sophie and his unborn child’s deaths was too fresh, Willem’s survival a fistful of salt, and though Malcolm wasn’t the vindictive type, Jude had too much on his plate as it was to contend with the emotional bomb of greeting his bereaved friend – because of his status as a widower, and because Jude was sure he’d have unkind thoughts about the swiftness of his recovery compared to Willem’s struggle. And he didn’t deserve that. He didn’t deserve that at all.

It was also unfair to posit Willem as some sort of helpless waif. Now he had a full set of teeth and a decent amount of energy, he’d picked up a number of voice acting gigs: a lone wolf type in an animated children’s feature, several video game roles, and even a standout performance in a cryptic Hideo Kojima game project with a story even Jude struggled to wrap his head around. It gave Willem new avenues in which to flex his acting muscles, and once, when they were relaxing on the sofa, he likened it to active recovery.

‘Like yoga or a walk after a strenuous workout. Healing without letting up. Not that this isn’t real acting, but I’m not using my full range, you know?’

‘So the crash was the workout in this scenario.’

‘I mean, it’s taxing my body like the worst gym session I’ve had, times a million.’

From where he lay with his head on Willem’s lap, Jude lifted himself up on his elbows and gave him a quick kiss on the lips, tucking a stray strand of blond hair behind Willem’s ear. They’d shaved his head to operate on his skull fracture, and he’d only just reached the shaggy medium length he preferred in his off time. It was long enough to comfortably play with, which Jude hadn’t realised he’d missed this whole time, and it was another piece to the puzzle of making Willem look and feel like himself again.

It wasn’t about looking better or worse, though Jude liked Willem with longer hair. It was about authenticity. About being able to control something about his body when so much was still up in the air. Willem had never stopped being beautiful. In fact, it was a mixture of surprise and relief that the sexual impulse he’d felt their first night back in Greene Street hadn’t struck Jude again.

The possibility of it happening still hovered over him like a storm cloud, but perhaps it really had been a case of crossed wires. Relief and stress and joy and overwhelming love short-circuiting a part of him he’d thought long settled. They slept together every night, naked more often than not, but Willem was almost completely independent now and could manoeuvre himself in and out of his chair, change his own bandages and clothes. If some part of him had been titillated by having the man he loved so fully at his mercy, Jude was extra glad it had only twitched in some semblance of a death throe rather than awakening for real, or he would have been even more aware of his intrinsic filthiness.

No matter.

He was out with a friend and the man he valued above all else. Willem had had a good session with his physiotherapist, the documentary was going smoothly, and his career was starting to pick back up. They were going to see a show starring one of Willem’s friends from the Ortolan days, who’d finally managed to break through. Everything was fine.

There was no need to worry.

—

Harold held out the steaming takeaway cup of tea. ‘It’ll do you good, Jude.’

With an immense amount of effort, Jude reached up and took the drink, almost dropping it when the heat shocked his hand. Instead, he held on firmer, took a sip, and felt the warmth pour down his throat and radiate out from his empty stomach. It made him feel a little more present. A little more alive.

‘Thank you,’ he mumbled. Harold took a seat beside him, and after another sip, Jude rubbed his eyes, sighed, and looked at the clock.

‘Two hours since he went in,’ said Harold. ‘It’s going to be at least another one, I’d say. It’s dicier with the infection… but you don’t need me to tell you that.’

It started with a routine irritation, the sort of thing both of them were used to with their problematic legs, something so mundane Willem hadn’t even asked Jude for his opinion. Jude had seen the red patch at the front of his left shin when they were in bed, the swell of his skin. And he’d said nothing, because the slightest ingrown hair could become an issue, and it faded as quickly as it came. Neither of them were fond of hospitals, so why subject themselves to an expensive consult where they’d merely tell Willem to take penicillin if he wanted it to clear up faster?

When his phone rang in the middle of a pre-trial briefing, the number unlisted, Jude almost declined the call, but he remembered that Willem hadn’t texted him from the physiotherapist’s office. He excused himself, picked up, and found out Willem had collapsed on his way to the session and was being treated at New York-Presbyterian.

Osteomyelitis. An infection which had wormed its way into his left tibia, circulated through his system, and was well on its way towards attacking the sensitive bones of his lower right leg, too. The same thing that had taken Jude’s legs.

Almost a year and a half had gone by since their lives changed forever, and sitting at Willem’s bedside a few hours later, Jude had a horrible feeling of déja-vu – and unlike when he woke up from his coma, there was nothing hopeful in Willem’s bearing now. For once, Jude saw a tired man in his fifties rather than the actor who exuded permanent youth, and this only scared him more.

‘Harold’s on his way. Julia’ll come tomorrow.’

‘That’s good,’ Willem said. Even his voice had aged ten years in as many hours. ‘I don’t want you to be alone right now.’

‘I’m not. You’re here.’

Despite everything, he smiled. His face never looked more like it did before the crash as when a grin crinkled the corners of his eyes. ‘I’m sorry, Judy. I thought we’d been through the worst of it.’

‘We have.’ Jude took his hand, and placed his other hand on his shoulder, touching his warm skin. ‘Willem, the weeks where I thought I might lose you were the worst of my life.’

‘You can’t say that,’ Willem said immediately, ‘Not with – what you’ve gone through.’

‘You can’t tell me how I felt. When I – when I was young, I didn’t know things could be better. I wanted them to be. I dreamt they could be. But every good thing turned out to be rotten. And then, I grew up. I met you. I’ve got something to lose. A lot of somethings.’

‘So I’d better stick around, huh.’

‘Yes. You’re going to bounce back and be better than ever. And this’ll be the Oscar-winning moment of the documentary. The tear-jerker.’

The crew did show up to film Willem the following day, sitting in on conversations he had with his doctor and when friends came to visit. They were there when JB dropped by – with Malcolm, who’d agreed to be interviewed about the day of the accident. Jude knew he’d be coming, and he’d mentally prepared himself for awkwardness or apprehension, but the moment he clapped eyes on his old friend, he felt nothing but joy and relief.

He’d kept up with Malcolm on social media, following his recovery photographs from his own blank, pseudonymous profiles, but in real life, he looked even better. A weak arm and scarified patches of uneven colour on his tawny skin were the only lasting physical witnesses of his ordeal. Jude stood up to greet his friends, and when he faced Malcolm, he awkwardly put his arms around him. It was the first real hug they’d shared.

‘Mal,’ he murmured, thickly. ‘It’s so good to see you.’

‘You too.’ Malcolm briefly squeezed Jude, then let go and stepped back to smile at him, guilty and a little sad around the eyes. The crew were setting their cameras up, and he knew they could speak unfiltered. ‘I’m sorry, Jude. About the last time we talked. I shouldn’t’ve – I didn’t want you to feel guilty about not being bereaved. I just –’

‘It’s okay. I don’t know what I’d do if Willem…’ With the infection still holding strong against the steady drip of antibiotics in Willem’s arm, Jude didn’t even want to speak the possibility of his death out loud. He settled for, ‘I didn’t know what to say then, or after. I’m sorry I didn’t reach out. I didn’t want to hurt you.’

‘I didn’t want to hurt you .’

‘You know who’s feeling hurt?’ JB cut in, walking between his friends with a swagger to reach Willem, whose shoulders he hooked his arm around in a tight side-hug while shooting the other two and accusatory frown. ‘The sick kid you’re both ignoring. So much for charity, right?’

‘I can’t believe Make-A-Wish got thee Jean Baptiste Marion to visit me. It’s the happiest day of my little life.’ Willem raised a hand, weakly. ‘Hey, Mal.’

The group had some time to talk amongst themselves before the documentary crew wanted to get their footage, at which point Jude left to grab lunch for everybody. They spent a good couple of hours chatting over a meal of soft drinks and bagels from the Jewish deli down the street, and briefly, regardless of the lines on their faces and the place they were in and Willem’s tiredness, it felt like being back in college. When visiting hours ended, Jude didn’t feel a hint of shame kissing Willem goodbye in front of their friends, and at home, he had a remarkably comfortable night’s sleep.

As punishment, he was woken up at half past six in the morning with the news that Willem had taken a sharp turn for the worse. By the time he’d pulled some clothes on and rushed to the hospital, his partner was already in the operating room, undergoing emergency debridement. A not overly kind, not overly nasty, exhausted doctor informed him that depending on what the surgeons found once they cut into Willem, they might have to amputate one or both his lower legs. It was too early to tell. They’d just scrubbed up.

About half an hour later, Harold showed up with his shirt awkwardly buttoned and his cardigan inside out, and they waited together in Willem’s private room for updates on how the surgery was progressing.

The tea was warm in Jude’s hand. Two hours had passed since the operation began. Sitting beside him, Harold reached out to touch his shoulder, and recoiled when Jude flinched away – which only made the pit in Jude’s stomach wider.

‘Sorry,’ Harold sighed. ‘I’m… I’m here for you, Jude. My ex-wife and I sat through too many moments like these to count, when Jacob was at his worst, but I still don’t really know how to act. Being forced to wait, powerlessly, is excruciating, particularly to people like us. It’s a little like waiting for a verdict. You and Willem have done everything to ensure the best outcome, and you’ll get it. That’s what you should focus on.’

Jude wanted to tell Harold he hadn’t done everything to ensure the best outcome. He wanted to tell Harold he’d noticed the irritation on Willem’s leg, and neglected to follow up on it – that he was never this sloppy in the courtroom, that it was pathetic he’d faltered in his private life when it came to a matter more important than any legal case. He wanted to tell Harold that he’d doomed Willem’s recovery with his filthy impulses, the comfort he found in proximity to someone so much better than himself. He wanted to tell Harold that Willem wouldn’t be going through any of this if he hadn’t selfishly agreed to embark on a relationship with him, knowing the baggage he carried, the fact that he must have been the fruit of serpent seed to bring so much misery to everyone around him.

Instead, throat tight, Jude said, ‘Can you tell me he’s going to be okay?’

Harold couldn’t stop himself from holding him then, pulling him into a solid embrace that smelled of books and cheap aftershave, so similar to Brother Luke’s scent in a way that was both comforting and paralytic. ‘Oh, Jude. Darling. He’ll pull through, and he’ll bounce back. Willem’s made of strong stuff. You’ve shared more with each other than any of us could imagine. That sort of tether won’t break this easily.’

It was their first hug since the incident with Caleb, and Jude was scared to admit how good it felt even to himself, lest he doom Harold to the same misfortune Willem was battling. Jude’s fists held the baggy wool of Harold’s cardigan, thin under his thumbs where it was worn at the elbows. He wanted to cry. His eyes were overflowing. But he couldn’t.

After a few minutes of soothing words and pressure, Harold gave Jude's shoulder a final squeeze and moved back. There were tears in his eyes, too, and the compassion he projected broke Jude's heart.

‘Now Jude,’ he started, which was always a bad sign, ‘I know how you feel about therapy –’

‘Harold –’

‘-- but whatever the outcome of the operation, Willem's going to need you. You have your own medical hurdles, and a high-pressure job. How can you take care of him if you get overwhelmed?’

‘We have friends who can help us,’ Jude replied, lamely. He felt his face heating up. ‘Can we talk about this later, please?’

Harold clearly wanted to say more, but they both pivoted to the door when a woman in scrubs and a surgical mask around her neck walked in. She was visibly tired, but putting on a professional front, likely exhausted from the physical demands of the surgery. ‘Mr St Francis?’

‘Yes,’ Jude said, standing up. The doctor looked at Harold, questioning.

‘I’m his father,’ said Harold, nodding at Jude. ‘How did it go?’

‘First, I’d like to tell you that the surgery went well. Mr Ragnarsson will be moved back here when he wakes up from anaesthesia. We’ll need to keep monitoring his progress, but we think he’s mainly out of the woods.’ She paused for a second, figuring out how to phrase what she had to say, and Jude knew instantly what that would be. He held his breath. ‘I’m sorry, but there wasn’t enough salvageable tissue. We had to amputate.’

‘Both legs?’ Harold blurted out, incredulous, shocked.

‘Below the knee. The infection coupled with the previous fractures was too much. I’m so sorry.’

She spoke a while longer, outlining the next moves, and Jude was distantly glad Harold was there to soak up the information, because he could only hear the throbbing of his own heart. How could it be happening again? How could it be happening again? He was intimately familiar with dissociation, and for the first time in decades, he felt himself a step behind his body, watching himself walk down the hospital corridors to the post-op recovery area. He must have asked to see Willem before he was moved back to his room, or maybe Harold did. He watched his face turn to look through the window, and though he didn’t want to, he allowed himself to do the same. 

They didn’t spot Willem right away. There were several beds in the room, with patients hooked up to IVs, some visibly bandaged, others seeming merely asleep. Jude watched the patients slowly, as though his brain were reluctant to land on the right person, discarding them based on sex or race instead of simply looking for Willem’s characteristic shaggy haircut or impressive physique. Eventually, though, there was only one body left to acknowledge, and Jude’s eyes took it in fully.

Willem’s face was free of the stress it exhibited in wakefulness, his arms by his sides, over the blanket. The rise and fall of his chest was a relief, even though Jude knew he was alive. His body was bulky beneath the sheets, with his slim waist, his hips, the powerful thighs he’d sculpted training for The Happy Years , and then – emptiness. His form ended far sooner than it should. No tenting where his feet ought to have been pointing at the ceiling.

Just a flat, empty space at the bottom of the bed.

‘He looks – relaxed,’ Harold said, hesitant.

‘He’s heavily sedated. It’ll be a while before he wakes up, and he’ll be very sluggish when he does.’ She spoke to Jude now. ‘You should probably go home, regroup, and come in early tomorrow morning so you can be with him to process this.’

Jude couldn’t find it in him to speak, but he nodded, and Harold informed him he’d be driving him back to Greene Street. He did his best to invite himself to stay the night, but Jude firmly told him he wanted to be alone that evening, and that further protest would only make him feel that Harold didn’t respect his autonomy. He saw the concern in Harold’s eyes as he reluctantly agreed to go, promising to return the next day to shuttle him to the hospital.

Then, Jude undertook the laborious climb up the stairs to the apartment. Unhurried, on autopilot, he walked to the bathroom, closed the door, and removed the bag of razors from the underside of the sink.

That night, he sliced his arms to ribbons like he hadn’t done in years. Afterwards, he cleaned the floor, cleaned the sink, cleaned himself, and went to his home office to book an appointment with one of the therapists Andy had recommended years ago.

—

‘How are you doing today, Jude?’

Jude crossed his legs and cleared his throat. The therapist watched him with a neutral expression. She smelled of cigarettes, and he’d seen the double Venus symbol sticker on the back of her tablet. 

He liked her better than Dr. Loehmann. She reminded him of Ana. That ought to have made things easier, but the reality was more complex. They had a decent rapport, nothing extraordinary, and in many ways, it highlighted that she wasn’t Ana, could never be Ana, would never be the person who pulled him out of the darkness and set him on the path to his current life. 

He was trying. He really was. He could never reveal the full extent of what he’d been through, but he forced himself to give a little context when discussing his ongoing problems – the barest, most vague descriptions, just enough to justify reactions he knew to be irrational – and he was grateful that she didn’t push him to further draw back the veil. They were here so he could be a better partner for Willem, after all, and although that meant confronting certain facets of himself he’d rather not prod, Jude kept the conversation tightly focused.

He could talk about his excruciating new brush with eroticism. The day started off well enough.  They’d been cuddling in bed on a rare lazy Saturday when Willem kissed the top of Jude’s head, sat up to look out the window at the sunny winter morning, and said, ‘Let’s go for a walk. Training wheels off.’

He meant the crutches. About six months had elapsed since Willem’s amputations, and he’d just been able to set them aside, his gait on his prosthetics awkward, but serviceable. Jude’s first instinct was to ask if he was sure, but he stopped himself. He knew first-hand how irritating it was to be condescended to about one’s health, and after the nightmare spiral of his osteomyelitis, Willem wouldn’t be underestimating any potential health concerns. So he smiled broadly, nodded, and replied, ‘Okay. Let’s do that.’

While they were washing and getting dressed, Jude kept glancing over at Willem. Watching him slip his prosthetics on with ease, wander through the apartment naked to brush his teeth and deal with his hair – it was like watching an afterimage from two years ago. He still dealt with pain in his shoulders and legs, and he’d need a few more months to perfect his walk, but he was so much more comfortable and confident, so much closer to his old self. It was spectacular.

Soon, they were walking down the street together, unaided, an action so unremarkable that both were all the more aware of the fact they hadn’t done so in over a year. Maybe they weren’t doing it. Maybe it was a dream. Without thinking, Jude reached out and hooked his hand into the crook of Willem’s arm to make sure he was real, that they were both real, and he felt the swell of muscle under Willem’s coat and saw his pearly smile and his heart felt full to bursting.

‘Wanna walk arm-in-arm?’ he said, bringing his arm closer to his body to trap Jude’s hand between them. ‘Like a couple of old fogeys.’

‘ Like a couple of old fogeys?’ Jude deadpanned. He kept his hand on Willem until they got to the end of the street, where there was more foot traffic, at which point he let go and put both hands in his pockets. They ambled to a breakfast place they often frequented, and over açai bowls full of fresh fruit and granola, they discussed the documentary.

Willem was going to fly out to Wyoming with them to visit the place where he’d grown up. He wasn’t sure what had become of the farm, whether it had been acquired by another family, abandoned, or razed, and though he assumed the film crew knew, he’d deliberately decided to keep it a surprise for himself. He wanted to see how he’d react to whatever he’d see, and though he’d asked Jude if he wanted to come, he was somewhat relieved when the answer consistently returned in the negative – because of the awkward incident when he was recovering from surgery.

About two days after Willem’s amputation, HBO turned up to get some footage, and as Jude was leaving to wile away the time in the cafeteria, maybe get some work done, the director followed him into the corridor and asked him to wait.

‘I just wanted to thank you for being so accommodating,’ he said, gently. ‘I know it’s weird, but I think the film’s gonna resonate with a lot of people. I swear it’ll be worth it.’

‘Okay,’ Jude said. He was tired, emotionally depleted. His back ached and the hidden cuts on the soft underside of his forearms itched as they scabbed over and pulled on his skin. The director was projecting an air of empathy, and it was too deliberate for Jude to feel at ease. He’d dealt with too many people who’d hidden their true intentions to approach these situations in good faith. 

‘So, I was hoping you might… reconsider not participating. We think it’d really heighten the emotional impact if the viewers could see that Willem has such a caring partner, and it’d be huge for queer representation –’

‘I don’t want to be in the movie. I told you. Willem told you.’

‘I know. But we’ve been following him for over a year now, and I figured –’

‘What? That you could exploit me like you’re exploiting him?’ Jude’s nails dug into his palm, fist tightly clenched. He’d barely spoken to the director at all over the course of the project, so this outburst had the other man quiet with shock. ‘This isn’t the circus. It’s our life. You’ve had more than enough access.’

Then, he’d loped off, and in the intervening months, he’d made sure to not even be in the building when the crew were set to stop by. In the restaurant, between bites of fruit pulp, Willem apologised on the director’s behalf for the fifth time, and assured Jude he was welcome to be on the premises without being hassled for participation. Jude nodded, murmured about thinking it over. He wasn’t an artist, but he was friends with a fair few, and he understood why he’d been asked. Of course it would make an impact to see Willem’s partner on screen, particularly with how private Jude was, but he didn’t know how to explain why he couldn’t, why the thought of having his face out there made him shake, why he’d fear the contents of his physical and internet mailboxes for the rest of his life, anticipating ill-gotten images of his violated youth. It wouldn’t be the first time. He knew it could happen again.

Not wanting to spoil their morning, Jude tried his best to use the techniques he’d learned in therapy to compartmentalise this embarrassing memory, deciding he’d bring it up in their next session. Though he’d been reluctant to go, he forced himself to engage for Willem’s sake, and over the past six months, he had picked up a couple of mechanisms that let him deflect anxiety attacks fairly successfully – even some psychosomatic aches could be lightened, if not removed entirely. He paid the bill and they headed to Washington Square Park to enjoy the weather, wandering under the trees at their own comfortable pace. With clothes covering their scars and prosthetics, they looked like any other couple in New York, and they felt like it, too.

Eventually, the lack of crutches got to Willem, and Jude’s back started to complain, and they made their way back home, where he flopped onto the bed and let out a pleased sigh. When Jude got closer, he lifted one leg so the cuff rolled back and exposed the metal sheen of his prosthetic leg.

‘That went pretty well,’ said Jude. He braced Willem’s foot against his thigh and pushed his trouser leg up some more to unstrap his prosthetic, then repeated it with the other. ‘You’ll be running across rooftops and sprinting in the savannah in no time.’

‘Yeah, Kit’s gonna call me with that Bond role any day now.’ Willem stretched, his back audibly cracking, and pulled his sweater off. ‘The Bionic Bond.’

Jude smiled, and watched him lazily shuffle out of his jeans and spread out on the duvet like a contented cat. During the first few postoperative weeks, Jude felt pangs of sadness when he helped Willem bathe and saw his healing stumps, every shower permeated with horrific guilt. Now, there was only fondness and relief. Willem was able to start exercising again, he threw himself into physiotherapy just as hard as before and this time he actually got results , and he’d starred in a short film where his character relied on crutches, too. His body wasn’t as defined as before, filled out with a little softness around the stomach and arms, and he was happy. He was gorgeous.

Jude’s stomach dropped, and he averted his eyes from Willem’s near-naked body.

It happened again. The urge .

A little too fast, he murmured something about letting Willem take a nap and headed to his office, where he busied himself with a spreadsheet. He realised the throbbing in his back only intensified when he sat down, and somewhat pathetically, he lowered himself to lie down on the floor as an episode seized him in its crushing fist, the first real one since his own double amputation. The searing pain cut the uncomfortable arousal pooling between his legs short, but as he did his best to regulate his breathing and ride out the wave, sweat pouring down the sides of his head, he wondered why . 

Why was he reacting this way?

Last time, he’d been able to eventually rationalise it as some fundamentally broken relief response, but he’d seen Willem improve every day, gradually. This wasn’t some rush of endorphins that activated the wrong neurons. The only commonality was Willem’s position of relative vulnerability. Was he really so sick he’d – fetishise his most precious person’s weakness?

No. It wasn’t weakness. If anything, Willem was strong, and healthier than he’d been since the crash. Jude gritted his teeth, near tears from pain both physical and mental. What was wrong with him?

What was right with him?

He had a complicated relationship with his faith at the best of times, leaning heavily towards agnosticism at the very least, but he knew that the agony he was experiencing then and there was punishment for his arousal. If it wasn’t God striking him for his base perversion, it was his body acting in self-defence, you can’t pollute Willem like this, and you know nothing good ever comes from sex .

Delirious from the ache stabbing his body, Jude sat up slowly, wading through the thickest molasses, and blindly felt the top of his desk until he hit on the leather handled letter opener Julia had gifted him when he started working at Rosen Pritchard, as he’d be “opening a lot of hate mail,” Harold dramatically explained, only half serious. If he’d ever been sent any, the mail room filtered them out before they hit his desk – but maybe that was another sin to add to the pile. His selfishness and greed rewarded with the anguish of alien impulses.

Vision blurry, he dropped back down to the floor, lifted his arm, and stabbed the pointed blade straight into his thigh.

He gasped, but he was so paralysed by the pain in his entire body that this added spike only served as a momentary distraction. It seemed to shift something in his countenance, however, and as his muscles and nerves cooled off, the fizzing agony seemed to be drawn to the new wound he’d created, and when he was able to peer down at himself, the back of his shirt dark and sticky with sweat, he saw the handle and half the knife sticking out of his leg, and the wine-red blood soaking into his camel-coloured slacks, and he let out a small, watery laugh.

No forgiveness without the shedding of blood. He’d heard that plenty of times from Father Gabriel.

Jude waited until his heart rate was almost back to normal, took off his belt to bite the leather strap and stifle any cries of pain, and dislodged the letter opener from his flesh with a grunt. He hadn’t heard Willem stir, so he’d probably not been busy with his attack too long, but he still wanted to get rid of the evidence before he woke up. Later, Willem questioned him about the bandage on his thigh, and with its small size and lack of accompanying wounds, it was easily passed off as a genuine accident. He didn’t have any reason to suspect Jude had self harmed. Things were better. They were happy.

There were other episodes Jude could have described to his therapist. It had been an eventful week. He, JB, Malcolm and Willem attended the premiere of the big budget animated film Willem had lent his voice to. He’d had a spat with JB, which was resolved through Malcolm’s mediation. The group had celebrated Thanksgiving at Harold and Julia’s together for the first time in a while, and Harold had actually turned out a serviceable dish – even if it was only green bean casserole.

The whole time, however, the prospect of eroticism followed him like a wolf in the shadows, and to his dismay, it reared its head more than once. It wasn’t a daily occurrence, by any means, but he felt himself stir while being held by Willem in Harold and Julia’s guest bedroom, and he’d had the urge to kiss Willem’s body all over when he stepped out of the shower on an otherwise unremarkable evening, which made the spit in his mouth sour as though he was about to throw up.

He hated speaking about these things. But he’d stuck with therapy this long, and there was no denying that having someone to vent to, bounce thoughts off of, and learn from had carried him through the toughest parts of Willem’s recovery. So, although he kept the facts rather truncated and skipped over what he’d done with the paper knife, he explained his dilemma and hoped he’d receive a coping mechanism in return.

She listened carefully, thought about what she’d heard – mercifully didn’t flip through her notebook, never did, which was part of why Jude liked her, not having to consciously think about intimate details of his life filling her files – and, in her soft, measured tone, said, ‘Have you considered that you might just be comfortable ?’

That almost made him laugh. Jude St Francis had never been comfortable.

Although.

He thought of being held in bed by Willem, or their slow walk Saturday morning. Of cooking together and becoming experts in each other’s needs, united by the end results of their vastly different journeys with disability. Of mustering the courage to kiss him and touch his body with the care of a mother, even though neither of them really knew what that felt like.

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean that you may feel like you can let your guard down, fully, for the first time in your life. And that’s given you time to heal. To focus on things that may be sensual rather than overtly sexual, non-threatening, non-painful. Maybe you’re feeling empowered, and you don’t know how to react.’

Empowered. Jude hated that word. He hated circuitous corporate style speech, and he hated being lumped into some vague amalgam of victimhood who’d jump when authority figures said how high.

‘I’ve been with Willem for years. Why would things change now?’

‘Because you took care of him the way you haven’t cared for yourself, and he’s made you see that the parts of you that you think are ugly,’ she shrugged, fingers laced, ‘aren’t.’

Jude shook his head, exhaling hard through his nose in a disbelieving chuckle. That wasn’t true. Willem was a good person. His beauty radiated from the inside and made him gorgeous. The loss of his legs was immaterial. Whereas Jude –

Jude…

‘I hurt myself,’ he said, calmly. ‘This past week. I stabbed myself in the thigh. I’m nothing like him.’

‘Maybe that’s for him to say.’

They didn’t make a huge amount of progress after that. The hour ran its course, and Jude’s driver took him back to Greene Street, where he was relieved to have the apartment to himself while Willem was interviewed for a magazine feature downtown. It gave him time to change into pyjama bottoms and a branded hoodie Willem got on set. He smiled grimly at himself in the mirror, chest emblazoned with The Happy Years . 

Chance would be a fine thing.

He figured Willem would probably go out for dinner that night, but he spent a couple of hours in the kitchen regardless. He made beef wellington from scratch, preparing an extra large portion of flaky dough so he could segue straight into assembling the decadent salted caramel apple pie whose recipe he learned when he worked at Batter. Unlike the specialty orders he’d been trained to fulfil, the pie had no elaborate icing or sugar paste details, and was best served by a rustic appearance granted by a loose lattice of unevenly cut strips of dough for a top, sprinkled with coarse sugar, and by being presented in the beige parchment paper-lined metal tin it was baked in. Still, Jude couldn’t resist slicing the apples thin enough to shape them into delicate roses with pistils of molten caramel, a touch which would only be glimpsed through the dough criss-crossed above it, but which would please him.

He’d just taken the pie out of the oven when Willem walked through the front door. He managed on prosthetics alone most of the time, but for all-day engagements, he still liked to bring his cane, which could almost pass as an affectation rather than a real mobility aid. The cane was a gift from Malcolm, something he’d designed with the Scandinavian simplicity befitting Willem’s origins, made out of wood salvaged from the family farm, which he’d brought back from his trip out with the documentary crew. He said having it on hand grounded him, kept his head from getting too big, though Jude couldn’t imagine a more humble performer.

‘That’s what I like to come back to,’ Willem chirped, leaving the cane in the umbrella stand before tiredly walking into the open-plan kitchen to kiss Jude on the cheek. ‘A lovely meal by a lovely man.’

‘You haven’t eaten?’

‘I was hoping you’d cook something up. And if you hadn’t, hey, there’s worse places to order a pizza than New York City.’

They ended up splitting a bottle of red over their late-night dinner, and the alcohol helped loosen Willem’s tongue. He spoke about his day, asked about Jude’s, and every once in a while, he’d heap on another compliment about his cooking, which Jude accepted silently or waved off with a pithy remark. They were finishing their dessert, plates bearing only the traces of mixed caramel and liquid vanilla ice-cream they hadn’t managed to scrape off, when Willem leaned his chin on one hand and threaded the fingers of his other through Jude’s.

‘Feeling romantic all of a sudden?’ Jude said with a smile.

Willem shrugged. He was tipsy, eyes shining, pale skin rosy, and he stroked the scarred back of Jude’s hand with his thumb. ‘Just thinking that I’m lucky.’

‘Lucky?’

‘We were close before, but I feel like we’re even closer now. Like you’ve really seen me at my lowest, you know? I mean, it’s been hard . I miss how uncomplicated living was before the crash,’ Jude had browbeaten him into saying crash instead of accident , and he’d dutifully complied ever since the case against the drunk driver started. ‘I took a lot for granted. I think everyone does. Except you.’

‘I don’t know, Willem. I think you’re overselling me just a little.’

‘Yeah? We can ask Harold. Or Malcolm. Or the guys are Rosen Pritchard. JB, even, if we catch him on a good day.’

‘Unbiased sources, then.’

‘If it’s a crime to be biased towards your boyfriend, lock me up.’

Jude laughed, and he leaned over and kissed Willem, because he wanted to, and it felt right, and it didn’t feel shameful.

—

Willem Ragnarsson and Jude St Francis quietly married by civil registry.

The giggly clerk who issued their licence clearly recognised Willem, and Jude wondered if they’d find the news plastered across Page Six, but to her credit, she seemed to keep it under wraps. A few days later, they signed the contract in front of an eclectic crowd made up of a local judge who’d frequently presided over Jude’s cases, Willem’s agent Kit, and the HBO documentary crew.

It was a pragmatic move. Willem’s recent health rollercoaster made them both aware of how quickly things could change. If either needed to make medical decisions on the other’s behalf, they didn’t want to be stopped by regressive legislation, and they wanted to ensure they’d always have visitation rights. Neither had really proposed to the other. It was a mutual decision reached quite naturally over the course of a conversation one evening.

‘Well, you’re officially off the market,’ Kit told Willem, as they left the courthouse. ‘You know, if you sold exclusives to the ceremony, it’d pay for itself. Good publicity, too.’

‘We’re not worried about cost . We just don’t want it to be out in the open yet. I think I’m allowed a little privacy.’

‘You know it’s all on camera, right?’ 

Kit gestured towards the crew, who were still recording them, and Willem feigned shock as he looked into the lens. ‘Oh, God, you were filming that?! Jude, did you know this was going on?’

Jude, still in the suit he’d worn to work and a pair of sunglasses to protect his eyes from the bright midday sun, smiled nervously at the camera and said, ‘No comment.’

During the same conversation where they’d decided to wed, they’d agreed to a few other things. First, they wanted to keep it to themselves for the time being, and they’d let their friends and family know in the fullness of time, at the latest when the documentary was announced, at which point they’d hold a little party at Greene Street. It would give them both time to get used to the idea of being married, and Jude time to get used to being the centre of attention, even if only for a small, private occasion.

Second, they’d coexisted with the documentary for a little over two years now. A few weeks back, Willem had wrapped shooting his first live feature since the crash, a psychological drama about two codependent artists raising their daughter in a commune, called The Sometimes War . The documentary’s director wanted to get footage of the premiere, in several months, and informed Willem that they had most of what they needed, otherwise. He hadn’t pressed Jude for his participation since their argument.

Now, though, he wanted to appear. They’d film them signing the contract, which would allow the crew to double as witnesses, and he’d allow them to use past footage without cutting him out. They were opting for a naturalistic style, without too many talking heads, so he was spared the stress of having to sit down for an interview and revisit his past. He’d be a bit part of the documentary, but an integral one.

‘They’ll be really pleased,’ Willem said. ‘But why’d you change your mind?’

‘We’re committing to each other for good. I’m not going to make a habit of appearing on camera, but I’m – proud of being your partner. I think… that you’re proud of me, too, and that you’d like people to see me care for you. So I’ll let them.’

Jude’s heart beat fast when he said that. He still didn’t completely believe it, couldn’t truly countenance how someone like Willem could love someone like him, but in the face of overwhelming proof, he had to accept it. In a way, appearing in the film would confirm that this was all for real.

It still scared him. He worried about being recognised. But he was so much older now than he had been when he’d received the gut-punch letter containing those horrific photographs, and he couldn’t let this sword of Damocles hang over his head for the rest of his life. He’d already been through so much. They’d been through so much.

Still, when they got home from the courthouse, Jude took off his tie and jacket and collapsed on the bed with a guttural sigh. Willem came in a few minutes later with an uncorked bottle of champagne and two glasses, and laughed when he saw him.

‘You look like you just fought the hardest legal battle of your life.’ He sat down beside him, poured him a glass, and held it in his line of sight enticingly. ‘No second thoughts, I hope.’

Jude sat up and took the glass. The wine was cool from the fridge, the bubbles delicate and the flavour fresh. He’d worked in the morning, but had taken the rest of the day off for the marriage, so he shouldn’t have been as tired as he was. ‘No second thoughts at all. I think I’m just anxious about being in the movie, and happy about us being – married, and nervous and excited about everybody finding out. So it’s more like an emotional exhaustion.’

‘You can tell them you’ve changed your mind. I’m sure there’s plenty of footage they could use where we only see you from the back.’

‘I know. But I’m…’ Jude chuckled, shaking his head. It sounded silly, but he went ahead: ‘I want to be… brave?’

Willem finished his sip, and smiled with all the affection in the world. He held his glass up, prompting Jude to clink it with his, and both drank to their relationship. He set the champagne down on the cabinet on his side of the bed. ‘Do you mind if I get a little more comfortable?’

Jude shook his head, and watched Willem take off his button-up shirt and dark jeans, then roll down the gripping silicone top of his prosthetics and the cotton and silicone socks that allowed his stumps to more comfortably sit in the socket, leaving him in his boxer briefs and sleeveless undershirt. He was very familiar with how Willem’s body looked, but over the past months, he’d gradually allowed himself to really appreciate every inch of him, from the blond hair dusting his arms and thighs to the different textures of his scarred skin, the muscles he’d built back up in the gym and the ease with which he navigated the world as an amputee. Jude ran his fingers over Willem’s strong, thick thigh, the thin hair standing up with the trail of goosebumps he left behind.

‘Your hand’s cold,’ Willem said, smiling, as Jude shyly covered the round end of his leg with his palm. ‘From the glass.’

‘Sorry.’ Jude set the drink aside, and pulled himself up the mattress to be closer. He kissed Willem, chilly fingers cupping his square jaw, and allowed their lips to touch for a long time, kisses on kisses and the tips of their tongues meeting haltingly between their mouths, wetting one another’s lips.

When they paused to look at each other, Willem’s cheeks were flushed red, and a quick glance down showed he had the beginnings of an erection. He said, ‘I guess we’re actually married now, huh? “You may now kiss…”’

Jude’s blush was less apparent on account of his olive skin tone, but he felt his face warm up, from the kiss and Willem’s words. He felt other things, too, deep in his gut, a mixture of fear and desire. ‘Can you undress me?’

That was one of the hardest things he’d ever said, and initially, his whole body was stiff as Willem gently unbuttoned his shirt and slid it off his shoulders, and even stiffer when he pulled off his slacks. Although he felt exposed, lying on the bed in his briefs, he started to relax a little when Willem expertly took off his prosthetic legs – after checking with a look to see if he could, and receiving a nod back. It was the first time he’d ever been allowed to do this for him.

When he’d set Jude’s prosthetics beside his own, Willem took off his undershirt so they were both bare-chested, in just their underwear. He had a semi, by now, and his eyes briefly widened when he saw that Jude did, too.

Jude’s heart was beating a mile a minute, and it felt like he had a thick lump in his throat. He was scared, of how he was responding to Willem’s touch, of what Willem might expect from him now, of the future. He held Willem’s hands, and both saw that he was shaking, ever so slightly.

‘Jude,’ Willem murmured, ‘we don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. I hope you know that. I don’t need sex. I just need – you.’

Jude nodded, though he could never totally shake the fight-or-flight instinct he’d adopted in his youth. He’d done his best to process his feelings, though he was reluctant to explore every aspect of his feelings, and he hadn’t made as much progress as he’d hoped in the near-year he’d diligently been seeing his therapist. He knew that, despite the persistent urges he felt towards Willem, he didn’t want to have penetrative sex, or really touch his own genitalia or Willem’s with his hands.

But the truth was that he did feel uncommonly comfortable with Willem since this part of their lives had started, and sitting here with most of their bodies on display, with the marks witnessing all they’d experienced, their shapes so similar, he felt like they were, on some level, embodying the axiom of equality. Their newlywed status only reinforced that. X equals X.

‘I think…’ Jude began, forcing himself to keep eye contact with Willem. ‘I can’t explain why I’ve changed. I don’t know if I’ve changed. But I’d like to try – I liked helping you, when you were in the hospital. Touching your body. I like having your arms around me. I like it when you hold me so tight it makes breathing just a little harder. And maybe… maybe we could work on that. Learn how my body works, and how your body works. Slowly.’

‘Like active recovery. Processing stuff instead of jumping back into a workout and hurting yourself.’

Jude hadn’t thought of it that way, but his therapist sometimes talked about healing , and though it sounded like another buzzword to him, maybe there was some grain of truth to the idea. He didn’t know if he’d ever have sex again, but, in truth, through overheard conversations and plays and films and talks he’d attended with his friends, he’d known for a while that what he conceived of as “sex” was limited to a very specific set of actions, when it really could encompass a lot more than he’d previously thought. He trusted Willem with his life. At length, perhaps they’d carve out their own meaning of the word.

‘What do you want to do now?’ Willem asked.

Jude thought for a moment. ‘I think. I’d like us to keep our underwear on. If that’s okay. But I’d like to… I’d like to touch you again. Your body. If you’ll let me.’

Willem kissed him, letting it linger like their last one, a flurry concentrated into one longer embrace, then pressed a series of quick, little kisses to his cheek, his chin, his nose, and finally sank down to properly lie back on the bed with a confident grin. ‘I’ll let you do whatever you want, Judy, and I want you to know that I’ll love it, because I love you.’

Tears suddenly rose to Jude’s eyes, but he was smiling, too. He was going to caress and massage Willem’s body, and later, they’d lay in each other’s arms, beneath the covers, skin on skin, and maybe he’d even be able to kiss him while they did so. He wanted to.

‘I love you, too,’ he said, and ran his hand from Willem’s chest to his navel, feeling the different textures of hair and scar tissue from surgeries and burns and soft, pliable skin.