“How?”
“Because you’re patient and gentle in situations other people might find ridiculous.”
The instant heat that had sparked between them in the bar all those months ago flickered in Rhys’s belly. Jevon’s clothes, the rain, and the grimy hospital car park faded away, and Rhys saw him as he most liked to remember him—naked and on his back, eyes wide and curious, as Rhys fucked his mouth. Rawness tempered by innocence.
But there was no innocence in Jevon’s eyes now, and perhaps that was the disquiet fizzing in Rhys’s veins. His recollection of Jevon wasn’t real, and the man who’d never been with another fella had lived far more than Rhys had imagined.
“Anyway.” Jevon started to turn away. “It was nice to see you again.”
Rhys’s arm shot out like a coiled spring. He grabbed Jevon’s wrist. “Wait. Um—I mean—do you want to get a drink or something?”
“You don’t have somewhere to be? A helicopter to get on or something?”
Rhys shook his head. “Nope. Chopper’s grounded. I’m stuck at the Travelodge for the night.”
Jevon glanced over his shoulder, his expression giving nothing away, but he turned back with a smile. “Fuck that. Come home with me.”
Five
It wasn’t as simple as taking Jevon’s outstretched hand and leaving the hospital. Rhys had to collect his emergency overnight pack from the helicopter and tell Pater, the pilot, exactly where he was going.
Which turned out to be not very far at all. Jevon was renting a small house a couple of streets away from the hospital—the perfect distance, apparently, for unicycling home.
Still half convinced he was walking in a dream, Rhys traipsed beside him, trying not to get caught admiring Jevon’s lithe, agile frame or notice the stares they picked up along the way. “Do you, uh, cycle this way often?”
Jevon chuckled. “No. Believe it or not, I don’t spend much time roaming Bedford dressed like this.”
“Why are you here? In Bedford, I mean. I thought you were from London.”
“I am.” Jevon expertly manoeuvred the unicycle up a kerb. “But I don’t have a place there at the moment, and I wanted to save some money before I go away again.”
“Away?”
“Yes. For work. I don’t spend much time in this country.”
Flickers of past conversations echoed in Rhys’s head. “So, you’re an Arabic speaking clown.”
It wasn’t a question, but Jevon snorted anyway. “I do some clown work, but not in the scary, painted-face sense. I’m actually a play specialist. I work for the Free to Fly Project.”
“The what?”
“FFP—it’s an organisation that provides play therapy for children traumatised by conflict and war—singing, dancing, art and crafts. Just generally being silly, really. Kids need to be kids, man. No matter what we’ve done to destroy where they were born.”
“Wow. Do you work in Syria?”
“God, no. We wouldn’t survive that even if we could get in. I’ve just come back from a camp on the Greek/Macedonian border. Lots of displaced people have been stranded there since Europe started closing entry routes.”
“How on earth did you end up doing that?”
Jevon directed Rhys down a street lined with small terraced houses. “I did half a social work degree, then literally ran away to join the circus. An OXFAM guy came to a show one night with a big idea, and it went from there—from the trapeze to a war zone in less than a week. Oh hey... this is my place.”
He stopped outside a house with a red front door and leapt from the unicycle like a cat. Then he took Rhys’s hand again and tugged him up the path.
“You don’t have to pull me everywhere,” Rhys muttered dryly.
“I know. But you look a little lost. I don’t want you to fall through the cracks in the pavement.”
It made about as much sense as everything else in the last few hours. Rhys let it go and followed Jevon into the house. Inside was cosy and cluttered with circus paraphernalia. The bright colours drew Rhys in, and he wandered around the living room, fascinated, while Jevon went to the kitchen for beer.