Wynn.

Robert Andrew Wynn.

Alfie's first love.

It felt like some kind of fairy tale—his childhood sweetheart, the twin flame of his soul had tracked him down halfway across the country and was now standing just a foot away from him in an elevator.

Alfie couldn't even begin to let himself contemplate what this might mean.

They stood quietly in the elevator, no sound but the gentle purr of the machinery. Alfie snuck a look at Wynn. Wynn was as handsome as he'd always been—dark hair and dark eyes, straight nose, high, strong cheekbones—but he had an air about him that made Alfie's heart break.

He looked like he hadn't gotten a good night's sleep in years. It wasn't just the dark circles and the way his clothes were wrinkled and travel-stained. It was in his posture, the way he seemed to sag, as though his soul could barely stand to carry him anymore.

Alfie pressed his knuckles against his mouth, because he didn't trust himself not to speak. He wanted to pepper Wynn with questions—what's happened to you? Why are you here? Who did this to you?

Do you still love me like I love you?

Alfie's stomach lurched unpleasantly.

Love was an awfully strong word to describe how he felt about someone he hadn't seen since he was eighteen. Alfie had lived what felt like a hundred different lifetimes since he'd left Niobrara. He was an entirely different person than he'd been there, than he'd been at that time in his life.

And yet, seeing Wynn again unlocked something in Alfie's heart, some deep well of emotion he hadn't realized was still there.

Alfie smiled softly to himself. Even after years of sobriety and extensive therapy, his brain still seemed to always have a few tricks up its sleeve.

Love or not, Alfie knew that, in that moment, all he wanted to do was take care of Wynn, to give him the kindness and peace and softness that was so clearly lacking in his life.

He turned to Wynn.

"When was the last time you slept?"

Wynn glanced at him, surprised.

"I look like shit, I know," Wynn said. He tried to smile, but it didn't really work.

"That's not what I meant," Alfie said, moving closer to him. "You seem exhausted."

"I—I don't know the last time I slept," Wynn admitted, looking away. "I dozed a little on the plane, but…"

He trailed off.

Alfie couldn't help himself—he reached up, smoothing the pad of his thumb along the furrow between Wynn's brow.

"You were always so worried," he said softly. "That hasn't changed, has it?"

Wynn smiled again, still hardly more than a quirk of the corner of his mouth, as Alfie's hand trailed down the side of his face to cup his cheek.

"No," Wynn said, shaking his head and leaning into Alfie's touch. "No, it hasn't."

"I'll take care of you," Alfie said, still quiet. All he wanted to do in that moment was reach up and press a soft kiss to Wynn's lips, as if that could somehow convince Wynn he was finally safe.

The elevator doors slid open and they walked out.

Alfie didn't try to say anything more, because he was afraid of what might tumble out of his mouth if he tried to speak. They walked quietly down the block—Wynn was exhausted and clearly not quite ready to talk. Alfie was fine with the silence. As it turned out, his long-lost love and first heartbreak showing up out of the blue had thrown Alfie for a bit of a loop.

He had plenty to think about.

* * *

Alfie knew the kind of life he would have had in Niobrara. It wasn't a happy story.

He certainly wouldn't have made it to

thirty. Even at eighteen, he'd been more miserable than he'd even realized. It was only once his life began improving that Alfie began to comprehend just how bad things had been. In a way, he was grateful—if he'd been fully aware of just how far from joy he was, he feared he might have killed himself long before he ever got a real shot at being happy.

And worse, perhaps, was imagining what it would be like to survive that long. To shamble, dead-eyed, from one day to the next, in search of a love he'd never receive. For the only intimacy he ever experienced to be a quick, anonymous hook ups with men too wrapped up in their own shame to see Alfie as anything more than a hole to fuck or a cock to suck. And, through it all, simply waiting for the next moment he might get to bask in the warmth of Wynn's presence, never long enough to thaw the chill in his heart.

A crude imitation of love and intimacy seemed more painful to Alfie than no love at all.

The first few years after Alfie left Niobrara were a blur to Alfie—the pulse of music at house parties, the tangle of limbs of some stranger he fell into bed with, a near endless supply of alcohol and whatever drugs he could get his hands on, a string of dead-end jobs and past due notices.

He had run and run and run from the pain, seeking any kind of relief from it, however temporary. But no high had been high enough, and even drinking 'til he'd blacked out couldn't make him forget.

And one day, at twenty-four, he woke up, fully sober for the first time, lying on the soiled sheets of some stranger's bed, and realized he couldn’t remember the last time he'd drawn anything. Couldn't remember the last time he'd wanted to do anything other than get drunk or high.

Finally Alfie decided he couldn't spend the rest of his life in love with the ghost of someone he once knew.

And from there, he began to rebuild himself, brick by brick, slowly and painstakingly creating a foundation upon which he could build a new life—a life that was no longer defined by sorrow and loss and fear.

* * *

Alfie had grieved and grieved and grieved for what he'd lost when he'd left Wynn.

But it was only now that Wynn was beside him, following Alfie quietly down the street in California on a mild spring night, that Alfie realized that a small part of his heart would always belong to Wynn. A small part of his heart was Wynn. And for years, he'd pretended he'd left the past behind.

Alfie bit his lip. It had been twelve years, but he still wasn't ready to examine the past. He'd thought the pain was gone, but really, it had only been hidden.

Alfie had to stop himself from getting carried away—already he noticed himself coming up with lists of all the things in his city he wanted to show Wynn—the modern art museum, the park with the perfect view of downtown and the bay beyond, his favorite coffee shop with an excellent selection of mismatched mugs acquired from thrift stores throughout the years.

He reminded himself that he still didn't know why Wynn was here. He couldn't let himself start planning out dates—because that's what they were, in his head—until they'd had a long conversation.

Or, more likely, many long conversations.

For all Alfie knew, Wynn still identified as straight. Hell, for all Alfie knew, he was still happily married but on the run from the law, who'd discovered a dozen bodies buried in his backyard.

He scolded himself for getting his hopes up. Alfie was slowly, slowly learning to be gentle with himself, but he felt as though part of him had been yanked twelve years in the past, and all he could feel was that same, well-worn feeling of shame, of being in love with someone who didn't want him back.

Stop it, Alfie, he gently ordered himself. You're thinking yourself in circles.

Alfie focused instead on where he would take Wynn. His original destination, by force of habit, was a trendy Asian fusion restaurant a few blocks from here, the kind of place that had things like algae foam and the kind of seafood that looked back at you when you tried to eat it. But he glanced at Wynn again, who looked half-dead, and realized that the situation called for something other than the super hip restaurants his friends frequented.

"Here we go," Alfie said, placing his hand on Wynn's arm to stop him—Wynn seemed to be in a trance, and Alfie thought he might have walked all the way into the bay if Alfie hadn't stopped him.

They stepped into a grimy little pizza joint, and Wynn looked relieved as Alfie guided him to a booth and said he'd order for them.

"Consider it my treat," Alfie said. "Happy belated birthday."

Wynn glanced up at him and smiled wanly.

"You remembered."

Oh, Wynn, as if I could forget.

It felt good, grounding, to have a task, and he erred on the side of gluttony, ordering a ridiculous number of slices for two people.

Wynn was half asleep in the booth, listing to the side, his eyes drooping, but as soon as Alfie set the food down, he began inhaling it. Alfie wasn't hungry—he'd eaten, and besides, the sheer shock of seeing Wynn again made him feel like a wind-up toy on the fritz. He picked at a slice of pepperoni and watched Wynn as discreetly as he could. Wynn was older now, of course, but there was something distinctly teenaged about the way he wolfed down the pizza, and Alfie remembered countless nights of watching Wynn devour helping after helping of meals, starving after his football practices.

He didn't want to push Wynn to talk before he was ready. It had been twelve years—a few more minutes or hours or days wouldn't hurt. He wasn't even sure what to ask Wynn first, which questions were most relevant, most pressing.

He wasn't even sure he needed to know why Wynn was there. He simply needed to know if Wynn was planning on staying.

Alfie shook himself. He couldn't start down that path again.

He shredded the crust until it was nothing more than a pile of crumbs on the plate. He glanced up. Wynn had finished eating and was looking down at his plate. He seemed slightly more alert now, and there was something about his posture—a tension in his shoulders, a catch in his breath, that told Alfie he was gathering his courage to say something important.

Alfie waited, trying to pretend like he wasn't waiting.

Wynn took a deep breath.

"I'm gay," he said down at the grease-soaked paper plate on the table.

Alfie sat there, stunned. The revelation itself was not shocking, but hearing Wynn say the words out loud was jarring. The last time he'd spoken to Wynn, after all, he'd firmly insisted on his straightness, reiterating that at every chance.

"You were right," Wynn said, his voice heavy. "It just took me twelve years to realize it."

"That was your first mistake," Alfie said with a small smile. "I’m always right, of course."

For a moment, Alfie wondered if he'd gone too far—he'd made a lot of progress reining in his runaway mouth, but it still often got him in trouble. But Wynn finally lifted his head, looking at Alfie with a fond smile.

"Good point," he said softly. He glanced up, looking vaguely at the muted television mounted in the corner broadcasting some sitcom from the nineties.

He drew in a deep breath and exhaled slowly.

"I wasn't ready to listen back then," Wynn said. "I know—I know you knew, then. And I think—I think I knew, too. Somehow. It was as though there was some locked box in my mind, with some—with this piece of… information, or something, about me hidden away inside it. And I knew the box was there, and I knew what was probably inside it, but I was too afraid to look. Because once I knew what was inside it, I'd have to deal with it. But—I wasn't ready."

Alfie realized he was crying again. He considered himself a fairly emotional person, but this was far beyond the norm. Being with Wynn, though, had cracked Alfie open, though, and he felt a deep, raw ache in his chest.

He felt so deeply, unbelievably sad. Sad for Wynn, whose sexuality was such a curse, such a burden, to him. Sad for both of them, that they'd grown up in a place that had taught them to feel shame and fear about the way they loved. Wynn looked as though this secret had been eating away at him inside for years—hollow, damaged, shamed.

It wasn't fair, but if Alfie had learned anything over his thirty years, it was that life rarely was.

But that didn't mean life couldn't be beautiful, too—case in point, the handsome, heartbroken man sitting across the table from him, who had traveled halfway across the country to find him.

"Wynn," Alfie said softly. He couldn't help himself. He reached across the table and placed his hand over Wynn's. Wynn flinched and pulled back, his eyes darting towards the cashier, who was completely absorbed in her magazine.

Alfie pulled his hand back.

"Sorry," he said.

"No—" Wynn stammered. "It's—it's me. I'm sorry—I just—I—"

"I get it," Alfie said, folding his hands in his lap. "I'm from the same place, too, remember? I get it."

"Right," Wynn said, looking down once more. He seemed to have run out of words.

"I—I'm sorry about that, by the way," Alfie said, not quite able to meet Wynn's eye. "I thought a lot about that after—after I left. I shouldn't have made assumptions, I shouldn't have pushed you—I was young, and hurting, and it made me thoughtless—"

"Alfie," Wynn said, and when Alfie met his eyes there was only warmth. "You were only doing what you always did. Telling me the things I needed to hear but didn't want to."

Alfie licked his lips but said nothing. He didn't agree, but he settled for nodding.

"I married Rebecca," Wynn said. "Six years ago. We dated off and on after high school and—well, I thought that's what I was supposed to do."

"I… I know," Alfie said, blushing slightly. "I might have, ah, stalked you pretty extensively on social media. I mean, as much as I could, given that you barely have a goddamn presence online, thank you very much—but—yeah, I, ah… know the highlights."

Wynn cocked his head.

"Really?" he asked, his brow furrowing. Alfie smiled crookedly.

"Of course," he said. "What, did you think I'd forgotten you?"

"I just… assumed you'd want to," Wynn said. Alfie swallowed hard, again resisting the urge to grab Wynn's hand.

Alfie snorted.

"Wynn, I think I put all three of my therapist's kids through college with all of the sessions I spent talking to her about you," Alfie said. Wynn looked surprised. "Oh, don't play dumb. I know, deep down, you don't really believe that I'd ever forget about you. Or try to."

Wynn swallowed hard, glancing away.

"It's—I don't make a habit of—of trusting those feelings," Wynn said.

Alfie squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. It was unbearable to listen to Wynn say things like this, to hear, even in the way his voice resonated, how deeply unhappy he was.

Life doesn't have to be like this, Alfie wanted to tell him. If I can find any kind of peace, so can you.

It was wrong, he thought, to see Wynn like this. Wynn, at his core, was a being of love and light and trust and laughter. That was the person Alfie had seen at the summer spot, when they were far removed from the constraints of their toxic town. There, beneath the dogwood, he'd seen someone free and happy and unburdened.

That Wynn was still in there, Alfie knew, locked away however deep.

"I… didn't look you up," Wynn said, sounding almost guilty. "It hurt too much."

Alfie smiled.

"I mean, my ego's a little bruised that you didn’t spend every minute of every day obsessing over me, but I suppose I'll live," he said, tossing his head dramatically.

Alfie was joking but Wynn's expression stayed serious.

"I did, you know," he said. "I thought about you all the time."

Alfie was afraid of how much those words meant to him. He was terrified that emotions this strong would only result in pain—after all, the last time he'd spent time with Wynn, that had been the only way things ever ended.

"You left a sketchbook," Wynn continued. "In the art room. I… I looked for it. Just in case. And there it was. I… I kept it. Hidden. I only let myself look at it once a year, if that. Any more than that—it hurt too much. But sometimes, I just—I couldn't resist. I could touch those drawings and it was—it was like—it was like you were there with me, just for a minute."

Alfie pressed his hands over his mouth, the tears flowing faster than ever before.

"Sorry," Wynn said, glancing up. "I don't know if that… makes you uncomfortable."

"No—" Alfie choked out. "It's—it's sweet."

It was beyond sweet. It was the most tragic and most romantic thing Alfie had ever heard, and his heart was breaking and soaring all at once.

Wynn looked unconvinced.

"In case you missed it," Alfie said with a grin, "you've made me cry about three times so far because I'm so happy. So there's your answer."

Wynn bit his lip, and Alfie could see he wasn't letting himself smile.

Alfie paused, something occurring to him suddenly.

"Wynn, does—does Rebecca know you're here?"

Wynn nodded.

"Yeah," he said. He sighed. "I—I told her on my birthday. It was—it was one of the most difficult conversations I've ever had." He halted for a moment, scrubbing his hand over his face. "God, Alfie, I didn't understand what you meant, all those years ago—that you had to go that night. I felt the same way the night of my birthday—it was like, if I kept this secret inside me for one more minute, I was just going to wither and die."

He trailed off.

"Is it okay if we don't talk about this right now?" he said. "I… I want to tell you all these things, but… I'm so sorry, I'm so tired, I just—I'm so—"

"Of course," Alfie said quickly. "Where are you staying? I can make sure you get back okay—"

He didn't want to leave Wynn, of course. A part of him feared that, if he let Wynn slip away, he'd never see him again—Alfie had been given a second chance, it seemed, and he was terrified of ruining it.

Wynn's wan face flushed slightly.

"I actually… hadn't gotten that far," he said. He was looking anywhere but at Alfie. "It was… it was kind of scary, actually. I only remember bits and pieces of actually getting here. It was all very sudden and then I was at the Denver airport and didn't have a suitcase and—" He shook his head. "It was like my body kidnapped itself."

Alfie's own exodus from Niobrara had been quite different—every moment was seared into his mind, from the chill of the November wind on his face to the strange, old sandwich smell of the bus he'd ridden west, to the swell in his chest as he saw, for the first time, the proud crest of the Rockies rise up in the distance, the sun rising at his back.

But it made sense, Alfie thought. He'd always charged headfirst through life. But Wynn had been much more cautious—caution that often turned to avoidance. Of course, to finally get out of Niobrara, Wynn's subconscious had had to bypass his waking self entirely.

Alfie grabbed Wynn's hand before he realized he was doing. Wynn stiffened instinctively, but then relaxed, allowing Alfie to squeeze his hand. Alfie gave him a questioning look, and Wynn nodded.

"You were protecting yourself," Alfie said. "Your heart was doing what it had to do to carry you to safety."

Wynn bit his lip.

"That's a very… nice way to frame it," he said. "But I just kind of feel like I had some kind of break with reality. This whole thing is—is—"

"Hey," Alfie said. He couldn't bear to hear how Wynn finished the sentence. This night had been nothing short of miraculous to Alfie, but Wynn was so fragile, so broken now. "You haven't slept in ages. Let's get you back to my place. You can sleep and we can figure it out from there."

"Really?" Wynn asked, but almost immediately, he shook his head. "I mean—no, it's okay—I can get a hotel, really. I don't want to inconvenience you."

Alfie rolled his eyes. It was as if the senior Wynn was speaking through Wynn for a moment—Wynn's father had always been vehemently against anything that might possibly be perceived as charity, even if it was as simple as someone sharing a pudding cup with Wynn at recess.

"Wynn, you misunderstood me. That wasn't an offer, that was an order," Alfie said firmly. Wynn opened his mouth like he was about to protest one more time, but then he shut it and nodded.

"Okay," he said quietly.

On the way back to Alfie's place, Alfie filled up the silence—at Wynn's request—with details about his life now. It was strange to condense twelve years of living and growing and learning into ten city blocks, but he gave it his best shot.

He glossed over those first few ugly years—he'd made peace with who he'd been then, with the pain he'd been running from, but Wynn didn't need to hear about the dark places Alfie had gone to. Not tonight, anyway. He talked about getting sober, though, about throwing himself into his art in earnest, about the exhilaration and disbelief he'd felt when he started gaining traction in the art world. He told Wynn about the long conversations with his mom on the phone, about how proud he'd been when he could first afford to fly her out to visit. He talked about the ocean, about the mountains, about the thrum of the city, about all the joys he'd found in this life he'd made for himself.

And though Wynn was quiet, Alfie knew Wynn was happy for him. He could see it in the way the corners of Wynn's eyes crinkled, even though he was too tired to even smile.

When Alfie let them into his apartment, Wynn stopped on the threshold, staring around with wide eyes.

"Alfie—" he said. "This is—this is incredible."

Alfie smiled, blushing at the praise. He was proud of his space, a converted warehouse in one of the trendier parts of the city. During the day, the space was light and airy—perfect for drawing—and on clear days, when the fog had burned away, he could even see a little sliver of the bay from his kitchen window.

Wynn glanced at Alfie.

"You're really successful, aren't you?" Wynn asked. "You really did it."

Alfie nodded, tears pricking his eyes again, because it was just a crying kind of night.

"I've done pretty well," he said modestly, though this was a huge understatement. Alfie's big break had come when he'd been commissioned by a famous designer, and since then, his career had only continued to flourish.

"This is more than pretty well," Wynn said, grinning. "Seriously, this is incredible, Alfie. I can't believe it."

Alfie let himself bask in the praise. He bit his lip, smiling.

"Yeah," he said, laughing almost nervously. "I guess… I guess I kinda did. A few years ago, Amy Mather—she's a pretty well-known designer—contacted me to use some of my prints for this show she was putting together."

Wynn glanced at a large painting hanging in the entryway, a colorful modern piece that reminded Alfie of the trip to LA he'd taken with a then-boyfriend, where they'd taken a trip down the coast and found it in a small seaside gallery.

"Is this—is this yours?" he said, jerking his head towards it, and Alfie laughed.

"I wish," he said. "No, I don't hang up my own art. It just feels a little too… masturbatory, or something." He glanced around, suddenly nervous. "Do you… want a snack?"

"We just ate," Wynn said, the ghost of a smile on his face, and Alfie snorted.

"Good point," he said. He rubbed the back of his neck. "I'm a little nervous, I think."

"That makes two of us, then," Wynn said.

For a moment, they stood there, simply looking at each other, and all over again Alfie's heart began leaping around in his chest. Wynn. Wynn was here with him.

"Would it… be okay if I took a shower?" Wynn asked at last, and Alfie shook himself, realizing that he'd simply been drinking in the sight of Wynn in his home while poor Wynn was half-dead from exhaustion.

He shepherded Wynn to the bathroom and gave what was probably a much too in-depth explanation of how to use the shower. Wynn stood in the bathroom, staring zombie-eyed at the shower, swaying slightly, so Alfie smiled and turned the water for him, telling him to take as long as he needed.

It was only after Alfie heard the shower water turn on that he realized that Wynn didn't have anything to change into, and he couldn't imagine Wynn wanting to climb back into his dirty clothes after a shower.

And that was how Alfie found himself wandering the aisle of a nearby drugstore at two in the morning, his arms full of things he thought Wynn might need—a pair of sweatpants and a truly hideous Welcome to San Francisco t-shirt, fresh underwear, a toothbrush, deodorant, plus a few other things as he got carried away.

Better this, Alfie thought, than to simply sit and wait in his apartment, feeling like a stirred-up beehive, buzzing with the thousand things he wanted to say and ask and hear. He was fairly sure that Wynn was still lucid enough not to drown himself, but he hurried back just in case.

When Alfie returned, the water was turned off, but the apartment was deathly quiet. A little apprehensively, Alfie approached his bedroom and was greeted by the sight of Wynn, a towel wrapped around his waist, curled up on his side and completely passed out on top of Alfie's comforter.

Alfie stood in the door way a moment, his heart so full he was afraid it might give up beating entirely. As surreal as the past few hours had been, there was something indisputably right about seeing Wynn in his bed, as though some puzzle piece Alfie hadn't even known he was missing had slotted into place.

And, oh, he was utterly gorgeous, even in sleep. Alfie couldn't help drinking in the sight of all the lovely little things that added up to Wynn—the dark, damp hair clinging to his still-furrowed brow, the elegant lines of his muscles, strong but softened slightly by age, the delicate trail of hair disappearing beneath the towel.

Alfie crouched by the bed and gently shook Wynn awake. He started and murmured something blearily.

"I got you some stuff," Alfie whispered. "I figured you probably wouldn't fit into size small yoga pants, so…" He held up the bag.

Wynn said something else that probably wasn't English.

"C'mon," Alfie said. He tossed Wynn the shirt, sweatpants, and a pair of underwear. "Let's get you into bed."

Half-asleep, Wynn managed to get himself into his pajamas. Alfie did his best to preserve Wynn's modesty, though it was difficult to resist the urge to let his eyes slide over the contours of Wynn's body, so different now and yet so familiar.

And while Wynn was barely conscious, Alfie, on the other hand, felt like he had enough energy to sprint to the moon and back, as he guided Wynn between the sheets. Wynn made some half-hearted offer to sleep on the couch, but he was out like a light once his head hit the pillow.

Alfie smiled for a moment, looking down at Wynn, at his dark lashes and slightly parted lips, the way his hands were clenched in fists as though he might need to fight for his life at any moment.

"Oh, Wynn," he said, softly enough not to wake Wynn up. "I'm going to take care of you."

He climbed into the other side of the bed, wishing for the first time that he didn't have a king-size bed. Wynn seemed so far away, and while every fiber in Alfie's soul wanted to curl up and lay his head on Wynn's chest, he forced himself to stay on his side.

He lay in the dark, and though it took him hours to fall asleep, he treasured every moment, simply listening to the steady rise and fall of Wynn's breath.