Page 56 of Love Language

Greg’s car was sitting in the drive and the bedroom lights were on, so he was pretty sure he was home. But when he rang the doorbell, he didn’t get an answer.

Then he waited a few minutes and rang it again.

It was possible that Greg was in the shower, but he’d texted ten minutes ago that he was running late because of traffic, and Greg hadn’t answered that, either.

It wasn’t like Greg to both ignore his texts and be late. His house was small, and he’d seen Greg jerk to the sound of the doorbell even from the back porch.

It was probably that the doorbell was broken, or Greg was using the bathroom, but he had the sinking feeling in his stomach that something was worse. He tried to push back images of Greg hurt or in danger, unable to come to the door.

Steeling his nerves, he fished out his key ring and put Greg’s house key in the lock. When he’d rhapsodized about having Greg’s key, this hadn’t been what he’d envisioned.

Inside, the living room was dark, so he flipped on the light.

He didn’t even have to search to find Greg, folded over on the couch, staring off into space.

“Greg?” he voiced his name, wanting to alert him to his presence.

Greg looked at him, and then returned to that gaze in the middle ground. He looked devastated.

Marco sat down beside him, one arm around his back.

What happened? he signed with his other hand.

My mother… And that was as far as he got.

The swirl in Marco’s belly grew to a tornado. Is your mother sick? In the hospital?

Greg slowly shook his head.

Dammit. Damn, damn, damn. Greg didn’t deserve this. His whole family didn’t deserve this.

Greg’s mother had been so alive, so warm and vivacious. He’d been down to see them once more with Greg in August, and often chatted with her for a few minutes when she FaceTimed Greg. She was a wonderful woman, an excellent mother.

It felt like it was too soon for her.

And it was horribly unfair to Greg, who’d just started to get over Richard’s death after three whole years. Marco was no psychologist, but this seemed like something that could set Greg back for a long time.

Greg was still stiff in his arms, barely acknowledging his presence. He wished there was something he could do.

Blankets or tea or just… something.

He’d drive down for her funeral, of course. Be there for Greg and his family in whatever capacity they needed him. Run errands so they could grieve together or sit with Greg wherever he went.

But that didn’t help him now.

He ran a gentle hand up and down Greg’s back.

And all at once, Greg collapsed to the floor. He just lurched out of his arms and slithered into a huddled position against Marco’s knee.

Marco’s first instinct was to catch him, to pull him back up to the couch. But then Greg shifted again until he was unmistakably kneeling. It wasn’t his usual confident pose with shoulders back and head bowed, but a cramped, crouched thing, his head resting on the outside of Marco’s knee.

It was a cry for help, if Marco had ever seen one.

Marco grabbed a wide pillow from the end of the couch, wondering if Greg had kneeled on that same pillow before with Richard.

Actually, the pillow didn’t matter. He was pretty sure that the position was familiar, a memory of something that felt calming when he did it with his Sir.

Marco had promised to avoid doing anything that would evoke those memories, so he’d be crossing that line here.