TITLE: Milbury Tangents: Salt Circle

AUTHOR: kel

FANDOM: Children of the Stones

PAIRING: Matt Brake/Adam Brake

RATING: R for consensual incest, UA

WARNINGS: They’re family. Matt’s underage. If that bugs you, don’t read this.

CHRONO: During Narrowing Circle; pre-series reflections (mid-1976)

ARCHIVE: yes to Fabulae, Britslash, Rareslash, WWOMB

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Salt Circle
by kel

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"A remarkably futile statement, don’t you think? Like refusing
to believe what one knows to be true…"
-- Raphael Hendrick


The thing about Adam, thinks Matt, is that he’s not that together, really. People look at him and see somebody unflustered, because that’s what Adam wants them to see. Hendrick sees someone giving him cheek. And Margaret sees somebody capable of handling the weirdness the way she can.

But she’s wrong.

Matt knows she’s wrong, because Adam’s curled around him again, desperately in need of their own special sort of normality. Silly old bugger should be in a university pub somewhere, impressing the hell out of the next generation of astrophysicists, dazzling them with his not-quite-shy smile and coming home tasting of strangers. Not stuck in the country. He’s wasted on this lot.

No, that’s not fair. But as intriguing as Milbury is, it’s still strange to see Adam out here, away from his friends, away from the pretty, bright, long-haired student types that frequented the flat in London. Matt misses them and their absent-minded disregard for propriety, misses the wine- and sex- and equation- fuelled process of keeping his mother amused and Adam satisfied. All those shy, paisley boys and girls and bits-of-both with ever so many brains and a happy weakness for brilliance. He’d grown up cautiously picking his way over puddled clothing and knots of half-naked handsomes dozing on the carpet; sidling between them to make his own school lunches, and kissing the odd one or two goodbye just for fun. Well, they were practically family.

No strings, no ties, no Establishment crap; no, they were above that sort of thing, weren’t they, the Brakes. Laid-back and swinging as far as they could without the grant committee getting wind of it. And not worrying when they did, because they were brilliant and necessary, and knew it. Indispensable. And Matt at ease with it, all the way, knowing it wasn’t quite how other people lived, but never really getting around to giving a toss, because he didn’t have to. They were bright, the Brakes: clever and special. The rules didn’t apply. It’s amazing how fast people stop sneering at Progressive Parenting when the end result has a 160-plus IQ.

And then Matt’s mother died, and it had all gone to hell. Everything stopped, suddenly, more comfort on offer than either could stand, and none of it meant anything any more because being
with her friends, her things, her memories hurt. Because everything, no matter what you did, came back in the morning.

The next year had been difficult. Adam tried, really tried, to carry on, but the heart had gone out of him. It got so that hiding away kept him in one piece, more or less, so Matt had let him, and quietly kept the real world of bills and meals and exams ticking over as best he could with no legal authority and all the culinary finesse of a Northumbrian brickie. Pretty much the way he always had, although he had to forge the signatures now.

Forging and foraging. Managing a family wasn’t half as complicated as Adam seemed to think, and neither was comfort, in the end, although it took a while in coming.

=== * ===

Adam kept working at first, determined not to fall apart. Papers, lectures, research... but over the months, he just ... ran down, or it all turned into rambling, speculatory monologues that made very little sense. Nobody really minded; brilliant young scientists were supposed to be loopy, and Allowances Must Be Made. But it still wasn’t long before the words "for your own good" were mentioned. And Adam wasn’t in any state to refuse, so Matt took over and signed all the forms, handled the phone calls, braved the Arrangements.

And once Adam was home, that was it, really. The students disappeared, and Adam wouldn’t see anyone, not even his regular men-friends, and Matt, who wouldn’t have minded a bit of company,
felt disloyal letting them in. So everything ground to a halt, and after a while neither really minded. It was hard enough working out who they were now on their own without her, without anyone else complicating matters. Uncomfortable together, but lost alone, and fairly secure in the belief that things would sort themselves out. Probably when they’d sorted out her things, cleaned her ghost from the flat, but that was becoming steadily impossible.

Adam wouldn’t do it, and Matt couldn’t.

Literally. Every time he touched something of hers, he was ...what did the Danish call it? *Besat*. By exactly the sort of thing the Brakes didn’t believe in. This book, that dress, they
all held memories, her memories, and touching them forced them into his mind without warning or respite. Flung him into her life, gently at first, with stray images and sounds, snatches of conversation, sudden flashes of things he couldn’t possibly have known; then escalating suddenly, inexplicably into moments of vivid sensual possession.

Logic told him it was imagination, some kind of grief process, but didn’t explain its sudden intensification, or the hideously personal nature of the things he suddenly knew without being told. It didn’t explain the fact that he could *feel* what she had, that her sensory memory became his own.

It got worse after he’d bought the painting of Milbury, although he didn’t work that out until much, much later. The anniversary of her death obscured it.

The personal things didn’t bother Matt all that much in the abstract; he’d grown up surrounded by the constant, easy exchange of affection between his parents and ...well, anyone and everyone, really. Housefuls of’em, as long as he could remember. Theirs was a thoroughly Modern household: nothing hidden, no questions ducked, and the end result was a profound absence of registration. Sex, parties, strange men in the kitchen, whatever. It was all just stuff the ageds did, and unless it interfered with his studies, who cared? It had got to the point where he could, and did, find himself chatting absently to people for hours before noticing they were naked. Who they were and what they were doing there made no more impression than the years and years of Adam’s absent-minded scribbles on the wallpaper, or his mother’s habit of blocking off whole rooms and covering the floor with obsessively ordered punchcards.

To have her memories of the earthier part of life – if one accepted he had to have any of her memories at all -- was only to be expected. Part of him found it objectively interesting, and
enjoyed pulling the experiences apart, seeing what made them tick. He was more than capable of analysing them without prurience. And half of it was just everyday living, after all. The fun of choosing a scarf or a lover. Enjoyment of the first, jealously guarded cigarette in the morning, or the absent realisation, late one night, that every coffee Adam had ever made her went cold before she remembered to drink it. Dizziness at whirling a toddling Matt around in manic joy when he’d learned to read, or frustration at breaking her arm on the stairs at the Institute because she’d fallen, solving a problem as she walked, and never had the chance to write the solution down.

But he couldn’t ignore the fact that things were getting progressively more intense, more carnal. It made life bloody difficult, not even being able to pick up so much as a toothbrush without a bizarre sexual memory jumping out at him.

It would have been all right, if they’d been about strangers.

But after he bought the painting, every time he touched anything of hers, Adam was all he could see, feel, hear, smell... No matter what else she’d done — and one had to admit there’d been an awful lot of else — her strongest memories, her strongest feelings had been for Adam. Always. It was overwhelming. And the memories stayed, vivid and osmotic, after he’d put her things down; as strong and alive as if it had been he who was kissed, or held, or made love to. Or happily sidelined, when Adam brought his friends home.

Neither the son or the scientist in him could cope with the impossibility of it all, and it wasn’t long before he told Adam what was going on. In the broadest possible terms, of course. Because they talked about everything, they always had, but it was understood that there were times when you had to leave out the facts, to view the wood, not the trees. And he’d done that, and maybe that was a mistake, because Adam had recovered enough of himself to dismiss the whole thing out of hand.

-- Tricks, nothing but tricks of the mind, he said, -- the same process that leaves me sure I see her sitting in the garden, and makes me run after strangers with the same colour hair. Conversations never held, things undone, that’s all it is. It’s because you love her. And once you realise she knew that, it’ll pass.

But it wasn’t a trick, it was real.

And Adam had said, impatiently -- which in itself was good, because Matt was beginning to think he’d lost the energy for emotion -- for God’s sake, you’re trying to tell yourself something, aren’t you. It’s obvious, isn’t it? Think logically, Matt. There must be an explanation.

-- Perhaps you feel she... we... didn’t spend enough time with you. Perhaps you’re feeling ignored. Perhaps you need to talk to someone. Go away and think about it. And he’d turned away and gone back to looking out at the rain, with a half-empty page of nonsense numbers in front of him.

And Matt had gone away and thought, and decided that making up personal things was possible, but feeling them so vividly wasn’t. And with the best will in the world, what reason could his mind possibly have for such games?

Unless Adam was right.

And the one thing Matt was sure of was that his mother would never have wanted Adam buried here, out of his field, losing his grip. Whatever else, she’d have known what to do.

And the painting seemed to call to Matt more often, and he spent a long time just looking at it, for no particular reason. *Quod non est simulo dissimuloque quod est*, indeed. And Matt observed, and analysed, and found himself seeking out his mother’s memories with a purpose. Memories of Adam, and of sex with Adam, and of waking next to Adam of a morning, happily, ruinously late for everything.

Whatever it was didn’t work with Adam’s things, or other people’s, didn’t work at all. So he had to do it the hard way, finding out what made him happy, finding out what made him tick.

And what made Matt tick, in the process. And that was a surprise and a half.

His interest in sex had always been absently clinical; hard for it not to be with it going on around him all the time, like wallpaper. It was a bit of a shock to find that what he’d assumed were *her* responses were his own.

Maybe it was something psychological, after all.

And so Matt locked himself away with her things, and without, in the spirit of scientific inquiry, and Adam sat downstairs and kept on not quite being able to work. And all the time the real world went on outside, and the bills mounted up, because the chequebook ran out and the bank got wise and wouldn’t post the new one.

And the College called, and the Head of Matt’s school, and the landlord and the *Journal* and the tenure board; and it seemed to be time to get on with life. While Adam wasn’t any better, he wasn’t any worse, so Matt decided, finally, that application was in order. Since things were at a head. Since he knew, in theory, what it was like to kiss and hold Adam, since he knew, by proxy, what Adam wanted, and what he liked, and what he needed to keep the life in his eyes, it was probably worth a try.

And since he wanted to, when it came right down to it.

And so he looked into Adam’s clouded, stone-cold-sober eyes, one wet Saturday afternoon, downstairs with only each other and the telly for company, and kissed him. Sat on the thick arm of the couch, like he always did, and put his bare arm around Adam’s shoulders while they gazed distractedly at Tony Beckley hamming it up with a Krynoid, and that was fine. And then stroked Adam’s hair, and the back of his neck the way he now knew he liked, and watched him lean into it, contentedly, without thinking. Because Adam was miles away, as he always was these days, so he didn’t have to cope with the flat having nobody in it.

And Matt kissed him on the neck, just lightly, and Adam hadn’t really taken any notice, just hugged him closer, perfectly normal. So Matt did it again, a little more insistently, and then again; traced a line of slow kisses up under his jaw, then moved swiftly up to the corner of his mouth. And Adam started to respond, automatically, then pulled away, startled into reality.

-- Steady on, old boy, I don’t think you really want to do that.

-- Yes I do. You said to go away and think about it, said Matt, seriously, -- and I have. If it all comes down to subconscious...

-- Oh, you’re not still on about that, are you?

-- ‘Fraid so, and Matt leaned against him again, companionably. -- I’m not making it up, Adam. I wish I was.

-- It’s still happening?

-- Yes, no. Hard to tell. But if you’re right... And he’d shrugged. -- I thought it was worth exploring. I’ve been through all the other options.

-- Snogging me’s a bit of a leap, Matthew. If you’re ...troubled, it’s not exactly the first solution that springs to mind... And Adam turned to face him, ostensibly resigned to the conversation, but interested despite himself. – Look, I can’t talk about it like this. Get us a drink, will you.

And while Matt complied, Adam switched the sound off, left blue light bathing the room as Callahan goldfished away about water under those big Great Uncle Bulgaria glasses. He settled
himself, cross-legged, on one end of the couch, cold bare knees sticking out under his hapi coat. An old routine, this, taking up what they both thought of as the Serious Talk Position, somewhere they ended up every time Matt got thrown out of school, or Adam walked out on a faculty post.

And Adam took his drink, brushed his tangled hair back from his eyes and studied Matt carefully as he sat down; objectively, as objectively as possible. A teenager like any other, at first glance. Not quite scruffy, but never neat, long-haired and long- lashed, a pop-star in waiting; but then weren’t they all, these days. The familiarity of him, the sheer transparency of derivation took Adam’s breath away; for Matt was the perfect synthesis of his parents. Pretty, like his mother, with mischievous hazel eyes. Just like Adam’s, at that age, only serious. Preternaturally serious. He hadn’t realised quite how much Matt had grown in the last couple of months.

Or how much he’d grown up. Matt was a lot more together than Adam had ever given him credit for.

-- Look... I don’t really know what to say. You’re not a kid any more.

-- I’m glad somebody’s noticed. Tell your bank. They won’t take me seriously on the phone.

-- This isn’t about boys, is it? Because you know I’m perfectly happy with--

-- Oh, leave it *out*. No. It’s about Mum. I’m still seeing things.

-- Yes... well. Let’s leave that for the moment, shall we. Stick to the facts.

-- I’m trying to. It would help if you listened to them.

-- If you’re feeling... I mean, isn’t there anyone at school, with similar interests? First ports of call, and all that.

Matt shrugged, digging his feet between the cushions, and sliding off the arm onto the main body of the sofa with a soft *whumph*.

-- How would I know? Nobody talks to me about that sort of thing.

-- Oh, they must do, surely. When I was your age, we never talked about anything else.

-- Yeah, but you were a decadent and overprivileged scion of the military-industrial complex, with no respect for anything, and nothing better to think about. And--

And they chorus together -- And a raving pansy to boot. Quote, unquote.

-- Actually, he said "little respect", now I come to think of it. Good old Dad. Isn’t there anyone you fancy?

-- Plenty. But they’d knock my block off if I tried it on, and besides, I don’t see them when I try to pack up her things. Stop avoiding the issue.

-- What do you see?

-- You. I told you.

-- Well, that’s association, then, isn’t it. Transference or something, because you haven’t come to terms with her being... with her not being here. I don’t know. Look it up. There’ll be a name for it. Some syndrome or psychobabble. They’ve probably done it on *Horizon*.

-- Maybe. Doesn’t change the fact I need you to kiss me back.

-- But why? I really --

-- "Scientific methodology and a democratic spirit. Fearless weighing of all facts, views, and theories, presupposing..."?

– "Presupposing unprejudiced, unfearing open discussion and conclusions"... of course. But I don’t think these were exactly the kind of "social tendencies" old Andrei had in mind, do you?

-- I don’t see why not. Matt moved closer on the couch, snaffling Adam’s drink and taking a sip. -- "My life has been such that I began by confronting global problems and only later on more concrete, personal, and human ones."

-- Oh, well played. But there are rules about this sort of thing, you know.

-- Since when did you care about rules? And Matt had waggled the glass at Adam, and laughed when he snatched it back.

-- Well, no. I mean yes. I mean... Look, why are we even discussing this?

-- Observe, analyse, apply? Approach the subject without preconceptions?

-- You, Matthew Brake, are deliberately missing the point.

-- Am I? You haven’t actually said no.

-- Do I need to?

-- Yes, if you don’t want me to try again. Fair’s fair. Because I will. I need to know which one of us is right.

And Adam leaned forward, brow furrowing.

-- It’s not like you to be so reductivist. Have you thought about why you think you want to?

-- Have you thought about why you think you don’t?

-- I asked you first.

-- Oh, grow up. What if it helped?

-- Got it out of your system, you mean?

-- Why not, if it is some kind of fixation? I mean, objectively...

-- Objectively there are about a hundred better ways to deal with it. *Legal* ones.

-- Not till I’m 21 there’s not.

-- Very funny.

-- I won’t tell anyone if you don’t.

-- Jesus Christ, boy. Do you want to end up in care?

-- I wouldn’t. Somebody’d be bound to realise you’d freeze to death if they took me away. Or starve. Which reminds me, we’re on final notice from the electric. You have to stop messing
about and go to the bank, Adam. You were supposed to go yesterday. I made an appointment.

-- Did you tell me? You did, didn’t you... blast.

-- Only about a hundred times in the last two weeks. So get off your backside, old man, or we’ll be on cold baked beans before you know it. You’re worried about Social Services? Well, they’d love that. And there’s the lawyers want paying, too, and the rent’s up, and you’re bang out of leave...

-- All right, all right. Point taken.

-- Is it? If I’ve enough nous to run this place with you off in cloud-cuckoo land, then the least you can do is credit me with the ability to know what’s going on in my head. I need to know if this is real. Whether you believe it is or not doesn’t matter. Kill or cure.

-- Whether I kiss you or not matters.

-- I don’t see why.

-- Because, and I repeat, you’d end up in care. And I’d end up in jail. Banged up, eating reconstituted potato with priapic granny-bashers from Dagenham. Is that what you want?

-- What, just for a kiss? I don’t think so.

-- If that was all it was.

And Matt had smiled. – You’re getting ahead of yourself, old man.

And Adam had looked away, not quite quickly enough, rubbed his nose abashedly.

-- You’re as curious as I am.

And Adam had coughed a little. Harrumphed.

-- I don’t think this is healthy, Matt. You should talk to someone.

-- I’m talking to you, O Progressive One. Mr Twentieth Century. Do you or don’t you believe me about this? About what’s happening?

-- I believe you believe it, said Adam carefully.

-- You don’t. Right. Then logically I must be mental. Which means if you play ball, it might help.

-- That’s fallacious.

-- At least I’m proceeding from the available evidence. You’re not even looking at it.

-- You shouldn’t want this.

-- I don’t know if I *do*, do I? That’s the point.

-- All right. All right, said Adam, and leaned back, folding his arms. – Just say you’re right, what then? What exactly are we looking for, here? How will it help? Hypothesis on the table please.

And the old Adam showed, briefly, in the tone of his voice and the line of his back, and it was so good to see that Matthew couldn’t help smiling.

-- Either I’m seeing things, or I’m wanting to see them. Which I’m not.

-- Consciously.

-- *Consciously*. Thank you Magnus. Fact: I pick up her stuff, I see things. Feel them. Sensory hallucinations, if you like. Fact: I pick up anyone else’s, I don’t. Fact: it used to be boring stuff, routine stuff, and now it’s more personal.

-- Personal?

-- Intimate. About you. And sex.

-- How... intimate?

-- Very.

-- And my possessions don’t trigger this?

-- No.

-- Sounds like guilt to me.

-- About what?

-- About how she would feel, about you being a fairy, like me. If you are. She’d have been fine, so that means it’s you. You don’t want to admit it...

-- So I fantasise about you? Well, *that* makes sense.

-- You what? You don’t, do you?

-- If you’re right, then yes. Logically.

-- I wish you hadn’t said that.

-- Can we just look beyond the physical, for a minute? I’m not sure we can assume this is personal.

-- I’m not sure we can assume it’s anything else. People don’t just have "visions", Matthew. Not if they’re sane. No, that’s unfair. Not if they’re at ease with themselves.

-- So either I’m bonkers or I fancy you? They’re the only realistic alternatives?

-- Not necessarily. These ...imaginings of yours could be symbolic, or a proxy for something complex, or a little too intimidating. Older men, in general, perhaps?

-- What, like Mr Carradine at school?

-- If you like. Why, do you think you’re attracted to him?

-- Have been since I got there. As fashionable as it might be for your students, Adam, I’m not having a "crisis". And I’m not doolally. I couldn’t look after you if I was.

-- Then it’s... I mean... Jesus, Matt. Get me another drink.

Matt did so, pouring himself one for good measure and ignoring Adam’s disapproval. -- You know, your Bursar’s right about you. You really do have a collossal ego.

-- Meaning?

-- Meaning why do you find it so much easier to believe I’m some kind of perv? Why couldn’t it be something else?

-- Occult? Other-worldly? Mystic sexual visions? If I were you, Matt, I’d be asking myself why I suddenly found it so much easier to develop a belief in unscientific, woolly-headed mumbo- jumbo than take responsibility for your own...

-- What? Desires?

-- Isn’t that what they are?

-- First bloody principles, Adam. How am I supposed to know if you won’t help me sort it out?

-- It’s not possible.

-- Can’t you at least accept that I *might* be telling the truth?

-- It’d be easier if you hadn’t brought me into it.

-- I haven’t exactly got a choice. I don’t see that it harms anyone. I didn’t expect you to be so thingy about it.

-- I’m not. I just don’t see that the particular test you seem to be proposing is likely to reveal anything of value.

-- Is that what you told that uncle of yours, the one with the Aston Martin? How old were you... fifteen?

And Adam’s jaw drops, stunned. -- Who the hell told you about that?

-- Nobody. Mum knew. I picked it up from her hairbrush.

-- That’s not damn well funny, Matthew.

-- You told her in the car on the way to the airport, when she went to Majorca, before I was born.

-- Stop it.

-- You had a red tie on, and she almost missed the plane because you stopped in the services for a pee, and ended up chatting up the cashier. She saw you through the window. You told her he reminded you of Michael Hordern, and she said so did your uncle, and you said you haven’t seen his b--

-- You have to stop this. Now.

-- I can’t *make* it stop. I wish I could.

-- This isn’t funny. This is not funny, Matthew.

-- But it’s true, isn’t it? That’s one of the nice ones. U- rated. And they go all the way up to X, believe me. Sound and vision. Don’t look at me like that, I’m just as embarrassed about this as you are.

-- I’m not embarrassed, I’m outraged. That’s private.

-- I’d stick with embarrassed, in your position. It’s true, isn’t it? How could I possibly know --

-- You probably just overheard us talking about things over the years. Stuff you didn’t want to deal with, consciously, or something...

-- Doesn’t explain the Technicolour widescreen. Or the tactility, for want of a better word.

-- You have an active imagination. *Over*active. And you’re a very peculiar boy.

-- Wonder where I get it from. It’s true, isn’t it. About you and--

-- Even if it was, that’s none of your business, and certainly no reason to--

-- To what? Believe you have any respect for the rules? Look, I really don’t see the problem. Just kiss me and get it over with. If you’re worried about me, don’t be. I already know what it feels like, okay, whether it’s imagination or visions or God knows what. And a lot more than kissing, I can tell you. So from a philosophical perspective, from my perspective, you’ve already done it.

-- Fine. Then you certainly don’t need me to do it "again", do you? "If it be true that thought — or in this case your reasoning — is an invalid process, what better *proof* can be given, than that we could in thinking arrive at the conclusion that snogging our old man will make it better?"

-- Unfair. Context is everything.

-- And context is exactly what you’re ignoring. Everything you’ve said can be quite logically explained with reference to the fact that Jen.... That Jennifer’s dead. It’s knocked you about, Matt, and that’s fine. You’ve coped beautifully. Better than me. You’ve kept us on an even keel, don’t think I don’t know it, or appreciate it, and I’ve been off in cloud-cuckoo land, as you put it, and no bloody use to anyone. Especially you. I know that, and I’m sorry. That’s a hell of a lot for
anyone to have to deal with.

Adam squeezed Matt’s shoulder, gently.

-- I wouldn’t be in the least surprised to find it’s catching up with you. And maybe this is... I don’t know. Symptomatic.

-- Of what, a cry for help? Matt pulled away, incredulously. -- Don’t be so bloody patronising.

-- Occam’s Razor, Matthew, said Adam gently. – Are you seriously telling me you’ve dismissed the possibility?

-- I don’t like thinking that way, said Matt, sulkily.

-- I know. And I don’t like admitting I’ve been ignoring you.

And Adam pulled Matt close, and after a little resistance it had turned into a hug.

-- And the rest of it?

Adam shrugged. -- Hormones, emotions. Powerful stuff.

-- So I’m bonkers if I see things, bonkers if I don’t, and I only think I fancy you because the Gonads Have Landed.

-- Goes with the territory. I wouldn’t be your age again for anything.

-- Liar. I bet you had a ball.

-- Well, now you come to mention it... Adam smiled, nostalgically. – Look... maybe you should try a little harder to make some friends. Proper friends. As far as I’m concerned, you’re practically old enough to bring people back... I mean... it wouldn’t be any of my business, Matt, unless you wanted it to be. Boys, girls, a Green Manalishi with a Two-Pronged Crown, I don’t care. And neither would Jen.

-- And what if *I* do?

--Then wait. Wait and work it out. For God’s sake, Matt, this isn’t something anyone else can tell you how to handle. Go with your guts. That’s what my uncle told me.

-- And did you?

-- None of your damn business. Of course I did. And Adam leaned close and mock-whispered, conspiratorially. -- He never knew what hit him.

-- I still want you to, you know.

-- Well, I want doesn’t get, as your grandfather so eloquently put it whenever I needed the cash for anything useful.

-- Scratch the itch, and maybe it’ll go away. That’s exactly what you’d say if it was somebody else having the problem. Or if it was someone else I was having the problem *with*. Isn’t it?

-- Almost certainly.

-- So do it.

-- No. There, I’ve said it. You needed a no, you’ve got one. N- O, no.

-- For final?

-- For final.

-- Great time to get all heavy-parental on me, Adam.

-- Well, I’ve clearly been falling down on the job. No smart remarks.

-- And where does that leave me?

-- With far too much time on your hands, by the sounds of it. Cooped up with me, going bonkers. And he’d ruffled Matt’s hair, gently.

-- We both are, stuck here, said Matt seriously. – Sane people don’t have conversations like this. When are you going back to work?

-- Soon.

-- Soon soon, or get thy arse down t’pit soon?

-- As soon as possible soon. I was looking at something today, actually... Thinking maybe it was time to get back on the horse. That painting of yours has given me a few ideas. I don’t want to
say anything yet... but keep your fingers crossed. I might just have a grant application for you to post on Monday.

-- Post it yourself. On your way to the bank.

And Matt jabbed Adam in the ribs, and let himself be hugged, reciprocated automatically, if carefully. And it took all Adam’s strength not to crush him close, after all this time. Because he
missed his friends as much as he missed her; because he loved his son; because Adam was a very solidly grounded man, sane and sensible and revelling in the simple business of being human, and because he’d missed having anyone in his arms so very, very much. And Matt waited until Adam relaxed, until he was off-guard, and then took Adam’s face in his hands, and kissed him.

And his father gave in and kissed him back, with resignation and the beginnings of reluctant interest, the first interest he’d shown in anything for months; because he couldn’t help wanting to
weigh the evidence, after all. And when they’d broken apart, breathing heavily, the terrible blank loneliness in his eyes had receded, just a little. So that had been all right. And Matt pulled him back down before either of them could ask whether it had solved anything.

=== * ===

A true scientist has very little use for shame. At least, not till afterwards, and by then it had all got far too intriguing to regret, for both of them. His parents had trained Matt well: observe, analyse, apply, they’d said, there isn’t a thing in the world that can’t benefit from that. Matt knew altogether too much about Adam one way or another, and it had seemed only natural to scramble back into bed hours later, with toast and bacon; to look at each other and say, gravely, well now. Do I need to be sorry, and is this what we want, do you think, and do you know, I haven’t felt like that since...

And the fact that it was nobody else’s sodding business, obviously, went without saying, the way the whole love thing always had, so they saved all their energy for working out if they were all right. Heads tilted to one side, like the film critics on the telly, ticking off the problems. Still here,
still whole, still possible.

Arguing, of course, because they were both right, and wouldn’t admit it. And not in the least sorry, when it came right down to it. Either of them.

-- Will it affect your schoolwork, said Adam, quite seriously, sitting crosslegged on the bed, with a sheet puddled around him. Unshowered and unshaven, with the beginnings of griever’s grey in the long-neglected fringe obscuring his eyes, he’d looked quite, quite mad. Like a genial Edgar gone to seed; thin and distressed, but more like himself than he had been, before. -- I don’t want this to affect your schoolwork.

-- You should talk, said Matt, with his mouth full, -- you haven’t been into College for months. It’s about time you pulled yourself together, don’t you think?

And Adam had looked at this cheeky, beautiful youth with his oh- so-serious eyes, at his lower lip curved with mischief and shining with bacon grease, and tumbled him back into bed; and it hadn’t felt half as strange the second time. It made logical sense, of a sort, albeit circular. They already loved each other; had always been friends; close enough and distant enough to be sensible and carry on happily without even the most basic promises. Nothing hidden, no questions ducked, just a quiet adjustment to the way things were.

And they’d careened along aimlessly for a week or two, submerged in the minutiae of rebuilding life in a smaller, quieter mode; Jen’s friends clearing out the flat, and Adam’s friends, the
close ones, the ones who mattered, giving Matt a hand pushing Adam back out into the world. Dishevelled but respectable and right on form: the genius back from the edge. And the visions
subsided, after that, although to be honest the evidence wasn’t reliable. Matt skewed it, deliberately; avoided doing anything that brought them on. Just in case.

But both agreed privately that they were restless, and wanted more, that it was time to move on. To get the hell out and do something different. And luck was with them, because the day
Matt walked out of school again, Adam’s research funding came through. Megaliths, fieldwork, travel: perfect. So they left everything behind, everything they had and had been, and hit the
road.

=== * ===

And now, after almost a year of travelling, of study and companionship on the fly, and quiet, tender conversations in shared beds, they’ve ended up in Milbury, where nobody knows them, or knows how they’ve changed. Melded. And it’s quiet and respectable and partyless, and the only boys are... well, boys. Some of them prodigiously bright, brighter than Matt, even, which gives him the pip, but it doesn’t matter because it’s not real brains, not like his. They’re Happy Ones. Zombies. Just like their parents.

The village is a dead loss, from a fun perspective. Weird. Interesting, but weird, and it’s frightening Adam, under it all, even while he’s laughing it off. The circle of sensible people
is shrinking. And only Matt can make it better. It seems to be what he’s for, these days, making things better. He has a feeling that’s why they’re here, cosmically speaking, but there’s no point telling Adam that. He’d only laugh.

Some things never change. Matt’s still firmly lodged between Adam and the world. Mediating, directing. Protecting.

Matt should be frightened too, he knows it; the Happy Ones are completely creepy, and the sudden resurgence of the psychometry thing is giving him the heebies. And Adam still doesn’t believe him, even though he’s felt it himself. At least it’s understandable, here. The place is alive with energy. He can feel it, now, lying here; an intangible pressure, something closing in. Whatever the hell’s happening, it’s speeding up, and they’re smack-bang in the centre.

He knows, somewhere inside, that Hendrick is right, and that Milbury "chose" them, whatever that means. The painting chose, the stones chose. Which means they’ve a job to do. It’s deeply,
profoundly exciting, and he has to keep reminding himself that the danger, whatever it is, is real. Adam feels it too, he can tell. They’re very similar, under it all. The more complicated things get, the better they like it, and they’re both the sort to stare in fascination at oncoming headlights when you get right down to it. Not paralysed, just too damn interested to get out of the way.

Adam stirs behind him, gently, kisses him between his shoulderblades and moves back, the signal for Matt to turn over and fit himself along the lines of his body. It’s habit, now; pressing himself into Adam’s chest, kissing his way up his neck, breathing in all those wonderfully adult smells. Tobacco, beer... Margaret’s perfume, that’s a new one. Her hairspray, of course. It must take half a can to keep that exquisitely sculptural barnet in place. Coffee... sausages... smoke from the
pub fire...

There’s a lot of pub on Adam tonight, and touching him, tasting him, is enough to bring images of his evening to mind; of Hendrick, who he just knows Adam fancies like mad, and all that wonderful dark wood, although it’s only his imagination. Skin doesn’t set him off, just things.

And he has to laugh at that.

Because context is everything, after all.


=== © arjuna 2003 ===