Young Writers Society

No proper relationship existed without some sort of worries. In his head, Winslow had come to the conclusion that while he was physically stronger, James was clearly emotionally stronger. The decision came while he held this man in his arms whom he would be satisfied spending eternity with. He found his fingers in the sailor’s hair once again, stroking it as he kissed the man’s forehead. James was nettled into his chest, snoring softly and didn’t wake any the slightest at the gentle affection.

The detective glanced over to the bedside table to see the time and noticed the carefully prepared drinks. Time had managed to find its way past three o’clock in the morning. Winslow leaned back on his pillow, holding James even closer to his chest. He started thinking about the amount of time they had known each other, once again. It seemed that the only thing on his mind was the thought of how little time they had spent together and how little time he might have left. With a shaky voice he carefully said, “Do you know that I love you, Mr. Sailor?”

His sailor didn’t answer him. Winslow hadn’t expected an answer - he had hoped that he wouldn’t get an answer. He felt terrible the second after he made his little confession of love. He managed to stifle the sobs that wanted to accompany the tears rolling down his face. There was a temptation to drink an entire bottle of something but he managed to push that down as well. Somewhere amid the tears he felt the sleepiness overcome the anger in his chest. This feeling tugged him into the dark little abyss at the back of his mind, but he kept his mind focused on the warm little form curled against his chest with tender intimacy.

Somewhere at the front of the abyss there was a sharp banging. By the sound of it, it sounded like the ceiling of his apartment was about to cave in. The detective managed to pull his consciousness to the front and center. Once he turned over in bed, he saw that James was still sleeping soundly. Winslow had never expected to find a mate who could sleep through a bombing but here they were.

As the persistent banging went on, he mustered up enough strength to shout, “Oh just wait a goddamn minute for me to get my pants on.”

Winslow could hear a laugh happening somewhere outside of the apartment. He was sure that he was imaging the British tint to it until he reached his own front door. A quick twist of the lock revealed a very drunken British special agent who came spilling onto the entryway floor.

“’Ello, Winslow. I hope you’re having a good evening or morning or whatever the hell kind of hour that this is.”

As the detective pulled Reggie up from the floor he asked, “What gives me the great pleasure of seeing you tonight, Agent John Reginald Smith?”

“I had a revelation while I was talking to your captain at the precinct and then I went out for a couple of drinks.”

Reggie stumbled inside the apartment, taking his tie off as he made his way across the room to collapse onto Winslow’s couch.

“Reggie, you still haven’t answered my question. I don’t care how fucking drunk you are or why the fuck you are drunk. Either tell me where the fuck you’re here or I’m going to throw you out of that god damn window.”

Winslow didn’t realize that he was shouting until James came out of the bedroom. He realized the shock in the sailor’s eyes came from red flush spreading across his body and the white fingertips pointing out towards the living room windows. His eyes switched between his sailor, the man invading his sofa and the picture frame where he could clearly see the red in his cheeks. The image that was staring back at him was not his own - it was his father’s face. The screams that were echoing in his head were not his own either and neither were the eyes, filled with fear, that were looking up with him. Those eyes reminded him of his mother and his sister and the shocked people of God who would sometimes stop in. All of the flashbacks were quickly filling up his head, leaving no space for anything else.

“’Inslow, you’re not your father.”

Instead of the drunken, upper class proper Englishman who had greeted Winslow’s floor with his face, a young man from his past with a sharp Scottish accent rose off the couch. The voice accompanied a soft touch to his arm and further comforting. Winslow soon found that two sets of arms were guiding him down to the couch and a glass of brown colored something was being poured in front of him. He didn’t recognize anything about it beside the sound of it in the glass and the burn in the back of his throat as it passed down his throat. Drinking was not the solution for this, seeing as it would always make his father worse.

“Winslow, love, I don’t know what he’s talking about but you are a very gentle man.”

The detective looked up to see James with one of Winslow’s dressing gowns hanging off of his slight form. Different circumstances, more sexually charged circumstances, would have told Winslow to toss the sailor right onto the couch and have his way with him. A series of dirty thoughts were distracting him from the topic at hand.

Even with Reggie present, he added within his mind, it could still be a fun threesome. I have been in some threesomes with the boy before.

James was still leaning over him as Winslow looked up. The sailor bent down enough to brush the detective’s hair out of the way and kiss his forehead. It was ever so gentle. So much more gentle than what he was expecting in this situation. The very few times that he had gotten mad, while still under his father’s household, had ended ever so terribly. Winslow took James’ wrist and responded with a gentle kiss. He managed to recover himself enough to ask, “Never mind my hysterics but Reggie what the fuck are you doing here?”

“I’m here because we need to go and talk to Sean O’Keefe as soon as you’re able to about for a few minutes.”

The nervous voice had returned, with its mixture of the young Scotsman Winslow had met at the garden party so long ago and the polished, upper class Englishman that his good friend had become.