Liam’s chalet, Tuesday, July 21st, 7:20 a.m.

Liam is sitting on the swing bench, admiring the early daylight and questioning life and fate. Questioning why things happen the way they do, and if there is a reason for it all.

The PleinAir magazine is lying next to him on the bench. Gabriel had given it to Liam a few days ago, but the photographer had forgotten about it until Justin mentioned the article about the annual photography exhibition the day before.

Liam peers down one more time at the page, staring at his reflection - at the picture of Brian standing in that gallery, very much alive. Even though his former lover didn’t recognize him at his studio, the picture actually captures a part of the man he used to be. Maybe it’s his posture, or the fact that a picture can reveal little things the mind unconsciously recognizes, but Liam is now certain Justin saw him. And even though the blond must have thought he was crazy to believe Brian was still alive, it seems his mind is still trying to show him the truth.

Thinking about his former lover’s confession in his studio astounds Liam, and he isn’t sure how he listened to it all without freaking out, telling the truth, or something equally stupid. The depth of Justin’s feelings for a man who is supposed to have died years ago still makes him want to cry and yell and curse the fucking rulers of the universe for putting both of them through so much pain. And the worst part is, the nightmare is never-ending, Liam having to lie and pretend, when all he wants to do is take the blond in his arms and tell him everything is going to be okay, that none of it was real. But it is, so vividly real and unfair.

Next to the magazine, Liam has placed the prepaid phone he only uses to contact Horvath. No matter what happens from now on, he needs to inform the detective about his discovery and try to come up with a plan if things turn to shit again. So, he grabs it and fidgets with the keys for a moment, before finally calling the detective’s number.

“Horvath,” the cop greets him curtly after the second ring.

“It’s Liam,” the photographer answers, the false name easily slipping from his lips.

“You okay?” Horvath immediately inquires, Liam hearing the genuine concern in his voice.

“I’m fine,” Liam dismisses the query. “I just wanted to let you know I’ve discovered why Justin Taylor is in Lakevallée.”

“We haven’t found out anything,” Horvath discloses. “What have you learned?”

“He saw a picture in a magazine. PleinAir magazine,” Liam reveals as he picks up the folded magazine and quickly looks at it again, before letting it fall back on the bench. “I never realized they took a shot in which I appeared. Justin must have seen something in that picture and decided to look for me, though, considering he’s here.”

“Oh…” Horvath is obviously at a loss. “This is why he is in Lakevallée? Because he saw a photo of you in a magazine?”

“Yeah. It’s just as random as that,” Liam clarifies with a snorts. “No evil machinations or manipulations by the bad guys.”

“Hmm,” Horwath sounds dubious, but he lets it go for now, asking instead, “Would anyone else recognize you?”

“No,” Liam instantly replies. “I mean, it’s very unlikely.”

“Why would Taylor have recognized you then?” Horvath interrogates, puzzled by Liam’s answer.

“Because he is obsessed with me?” Liam half-quips, although from what Justin told him the previous evening, he is not that far from the truth. “Justin knew me. Intimately,” he asserts. “And besides, he must think his theory is crazy, since there is no indication he really believes I could be Brian.”

There is a silence at the other end of the phone, and Liam hears Horvath clear his throat. “I take it you talked to him then?” the detective finally inquires.

“I did,” Liam confirms. He doesn’t want to discuss it, however, so he doesn’t wait for Horvath’s answer, volunteering, “I’ll keep you posted if I learn anything new.”

“Brian…” Horvath cautions, apparently not realizing he has used his real name, “be careful, okay? I can’t say I know what you’re going through, but you need to protect yourself, and with Justin back in your life-”

“I’m a big boy, Horvath,” Liam cuts him off, immediately feeling his natural defensiveness kick in. “Why don’t you focus on your job, do what you’re paid for, and let me handle my life? Or, you know, what little life I still have.” he derisively inquires, enunciating the words in a low voice.

Horvath must surmise what Liam is really implying, because he assures him, “We will catch him, Liam. Sooner or later, we will.”

“Whatever. I need to go.” Liam dismisses him, not ready for yet another pity speech from the detective. He’s heard enough of them. From Horvath and from Agents Bennett and Allen, the only other two people who know he is alive apart from the US Marshals Service. He is sick of having to listen to their empty promises, to their ‘one day it will be over’, a simple sentence that doesn’t mean anything at all. It will never be over. Even if they catch Malone, Liam won’t get all those years back, already branded for life by the ordeal he has been forced to endure. Do they really think he will be able to return to his former life? Or are they just plain cruel, giving him just enough hope so that he won’t crumble and kill himself for real?

“You call me if you need anything. I mean that,” Horvath declares, obviously feeling Liam is closing off. “Whenever you need, Son.”

Liam doesn’t reply and hangs up, too overwhelmed by a sudden sadness to trust himself to respond to the detective’s words of support. “Fuck you,” he eventually whispers into the quietness of the morning, before standing up and heading back inside.

***

Decunn Hotel, 8:40 a.m

Connor knocks on the door of room eighteen, and waits for Justin Taylor to open it, hearing a bang followed by a muttered “Shit!” coming from inside. A few seconds later, the door opens, revealing a half-naked blond.

“Sorry,” Justin offers, tucking his towel more tightly around his waist, his body still damp from the shower.

Connor gazes at the blond appreciatively, purring playfully, “Hello, Mr. Taylor. What a fine way to greet me this morning. Your breakfast in bed awaits, as requested. And I added an extra bonus...” he pauses while Justin raises his eyes suspiciously. With a grin, the painter boasts, indicating himself with his hand, “Me.”

Justin rolls his eyes at the blatant pick-up line, before gesturing for Connor to wheel the cart inside. “Come in,”

“I’ll gladly come,” Connor jests, noticing the slight flush on the blond’s cheeks as he walks inside and closes the door behind him. “So, Mr. Taylor,” he again pronounces his name mischievously, inquiring, “How are you enjoying your stay in Lakevallée so far?”

“Do you always openly hit on your guests?” Justin asks, amused by the man’s attitude.

“Only the ones who’re gay.” Connor responds with a shrug. “There’s not a lot of queers in this burg.”

“Am I so obvious?” Justin replies as he goes to the bathroom to get dressed.

“Please, I have eyes.” Connor answers, his gaze sweeping around the room. He walks to the table where a couple of sheets of paper and the PleinAir magazine are lying, picking up the pages to peruse them briefly, before grabbing the magazine to leaf through the article about the annual photography exhibition. “And from the way you reacted to Liam at the studio, I’d have to be blind not to figure out you’re one of us.”

“One of us? You mean, Liam is gay?” Justin questions as he appears a few seconds later, dressed in a pair of blue jeans and a dark blue shirt, and leans against the door frame to the bathroom. Connor drops the magazine and stares at him, unsurprised when he notices the look on Justin’s face, confirming that the blond already suspected it.

“You know he is.” Connor announces, before pouring some hot coffee into a cup and taking a sip.

“Please, have a drink, why don’t you?” Justin deadpans, a small smile on his face. “And since I’m paying, why don’t you pour me a cup?”

“I’m not your servant,” Connor counters, his brow furrowing as he complies with Justin’s request. “Oh, wait. Technically, I am. Fuck, I hate this job.”

“Why are you here then?” Justin accepts the cup Connor hands him. “I thought you were a painter.”

“I’m helping my mom.” Connor discloses, snatching a croissant from the basket. He engulfs half of it in one go, raising his eyebrows and offering the other half to Justin, mumbling, his mouth full, “Ya want som?”

“No,” Justin snorts, selecting a croissant that Connor hasn’t eaten half of. He takes a bite and closes his eyes in appreciation, relishing the taste. “This is delicious.”

“Yeah,” Connor agrees, stealing a piece of the croissant Justin is eating directly from his hand.

“Hey!” Justin pushes Connor away. “What was that for? You haven’t finished your own yet.”

“What’s the fun in eating something that’s yours?” Connor argues, smirking. “Have you never noticed that food tastes so much better when you steal it?”

“You’re fucking weird,” Justin asserts with a laugh.

“Yeah, well, you need to be if you want to survive in our charming town,” Connor claims. “So, Liam…”

“What about him?” Justin inquires, standing far enough from Connor that the man can’t easily steal more of his breakfast.

“Has he fucked you yet?”

Justin’s bite of croissant goes down the wrong pipe at the man’s query, so much so that he sits onto the bed, coughing a couple of times until he swallows and succeeds in catching his breath. The painter comes to sit next to him, patting the blond on the back.

“Hey. Don’t die on me,” Connor quips, although he takes advantage of Justin’s momentary discomfort to steal another piece of the croissant from him.

“Are you always so blunt?” Justin finally manages to mumble.

“I try my best,” Connor responds, popping the piece of croissant into his mouth, making sure Justin is watching as he does. “You haven’t answered my question.”

“Why do you want to know if Liam fucked me?” Justin questions. “Why would you even care?”

“Haven’t you heard of gossip?” Connor drawls. “Besides, he’s a great lay. You’d be a fool not to fuck him. I know he isn’t the handsomest guy ever, but I assure you, once he’s naked, it’s an entirely different story. And you should see his big-”

“I don’t want to know!” Justin exclaims, standing up.

“Why not? From what I saw the other day, it seems like you experienced lust - maybe even love - at first sight.” Connor teases. “Although, I must warn you. Liam is not the most talkative guy I know, or the most demonstrative for that matter.”

“What do you know about him?” Justin inquires, choosing to move the conversation in another direction.

“Not much,” Connor shrugs. “He settled down here almost three years ago, doesn’t have any friends or family that I know of. He is one hell of a photographer, though, and only has one friend here.”

“Gabriel, the gallery owner?” Justin surmises.

“Yeah, Gabriel,” Connor echoes, his face closing off at the mention of his childhood friend. “Gabriel fucking Harrington.”

Justin frowns at Connor’s tone, but he lets it go. “And what about you?” he asks instead.

“What about me?” Connor immediately retorts.

“Are you in love with Liam?” Justin blurts out, berating himself for feeling jealous, since it’s obvious the painter has been Liam’s lover and maybe still is.

“Me? In love with Liam?” Connor repeats, staring at Justin for a few seconds as if the mere notion that he could feel something so strong for the photographer is ludicrous. “No, I’m not.”

“So why do you want to know how I feel about him?” Justin insists.

“No special reason,” Connor shrugs, finally getting up from the bed. “I’m just curious.” He heads to the door, declaring, “Well, it’s been lovely and all, but some of us have to work. I can’t stay here and chat all day, no matter how much you wish I would.”

Justin shakes his head at the man’s boldness. “You’re the chatty one, not me. Besides, you stole half my breakfast.”

“Are you going to tell my mommy?” Connor smirks, before saying in a jesting tone, “Have a great day, Mr. Taylor.”

Justin stares at the door after Connor has closed it behind himself, wondering what just happened.

***

Liam’s studio, 11:10 a.m.

Liam places the framed black and white photo of the majestic eagle Justin shot the previous morning on his desk, smiling softly. The picture is luminous, which doesn’t surprise Liam, considering his former lover always had an eye for beauty. Carefully, he encases it in bubble wrap and sets it aside. He then peers at his computer screen and starts scrolling through some digital photos he took a few days ago, but the sound of his doorbell resonates through the studio, indicating a visitor is waiting for him outside.

With a sign, Liam stands up and walks to his office door, looking through the glass-paned front door to check who’s there, frowning when he discovers a man staring off into the distance, a cap covering his hair and a camera hanging around his neck. As the man glances in his direction, however, he recognizes Agent Allen and freezes.

The man sees him and knocks loudly, demanding, “Byron, let me in.”

Liam obeys, quickly crossing the open space and unlocking the door, allowing the man to enter his studio. “What the fuck are you doing here?” he inquires as his gaze sweeps across the street to check if anyone has seen them, before guiding the man to his private office.

“I heard you had a visitor,” Allen replies, looking around the room and removing the cap from his head.

“So?” Liam can’t help it. He hates knowing the FBI always feels the need to invade his life.

“So? You’re in a witness protection program provided by the U.S. Marshals Service, and you find it normal to have a man who knew you before you were ‘murdered’ arriving in town out of the blue?” Allen retorts disapprovingly.

“And your point is?” Liam snaps.

“My point is,” Allen enunciates, “we need to know if this is related to our case.”

“This has nothing to do with your case.” Liam asserts, busying himself with reorganizing some papers on his desk.

“Are you naive?” Allen counters. “Why would Taylor be here for no reason?”

“He has a reason,” Liam contradicts, throwing the PleinAir magazine he brought back from the chalet at Allen. “Here,” he points at the article. “This is his reason. But if you’d called our mutual friend, you’d already know that since I informed him about it this morning.”

“He told me,” Allen discloses, grabbing the magazine to look at the picture that started this whole mess. “But I still have a hard time believing in coincidence. Besides, I can barely recognize you, so how could he?”

“I don’t know!” Liam is losing patience now.

“You’ve talked to him, right? What did he say?” Allen probes, not impressed that Liam is losing his temper.

“Nothing. He didn’t recognize me if that’s what you’re worried about,” Liam grunts.

“You’re sure?” Allen questions. “If he didn’t already, it’s only a matter of time. You can’t fuck this up, Brian.”

“Now, I’m Brian?” Liam derisively answers. “Fuck you, Allen!”

“Hey! Don’t take it out on me! We wouldn't be in this mess if-”

“If what? If I’d actually died?” Liam interrupts, fulminating.

“That is not what I meant,” Allen responds semi-apologetically, gesturing at the photographer with his hand, before taking a deep breath to calm down. Bracing both palms on the desk, he gazes up at Liam and insists, “Listen, if Taylor recognizes you or tells you something that could open a lead for our case, you need to call me immediately, understood? Not Horvath, not Bennett, but me.”

“He doesn’t know anything,” Liam denies, hating the idea of Justin being involved in his mess.

“That’s what you think now. But if he does, you call me. And that’s final,” Allen orders, before adding, “if you care about your life at all, that is, because - believe it or not - we all have the same goal - to keep you safe.”

“No,” Liam refutes. “You want to arrest the guy that has made you sweat for years, but you don’t give a shit about me.”

“I’m going to chalk that one up to your distressing situation,” Allen allows. “Of course, we all want this nightmare to be over. Don’t you dare doubt me.”

“Whatever,” Liam dismisses him. “Are we done?” he asks with a false smile.

“For now,” Allen  concedes, picking up his cap from Liam’s desk. “But this isn’t over,” he asserts before walking to the door. He halts, though, turning back to look at Liam. “One last thing I thought you’d want to know. Your mother passed away a couple of days ago. They said it was a brain aneurysm,” he reports, a seemingly genuine look of sympathy appearing on his face. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Joan?” Liam breathes out, his heart pounding.

“Yes,” Allen confirms. “Your sister found her in bed at home. It was most likely instantaneous. She didn’t suffer at all.”

Liam doesn’t respond, staring at the FBI agent in shock. Allen gives him a small nod, before walking out of his office and exiting the studio.

***

Dove Point, 12:10 p.m.

After parking his rental in the Point’s lot, Justin strides through the woods for ten minutes and finally reaches his destination. He notices a few people are hiking in the valley, coming to and going from the Point. Approaching the cliff, he smiles, admiring the landscape and listening to the waterfall. He has already fallen in love with this place.

He treads carefully as he travels down the winding path from the mountain. Losing all notion of time, he walks for almost an hour before turning back toward the Point. As he marches closer, he slows down when he sees a man sitting on a rock facing the lake, recognizing Gabriel. The gallery owner keeps peering up at the natural beauty of the valley and then down at the sketchbook in his hands. Justin hesitates only briefly before heading over him.

“Hey,” Justin greets the man with a broad smile as he sits next to him.

“Oh, hi!” Gabriel responds as he gazes over at Justin. “What are you doing here?”

“I was just walking around, enjoying the view,” Justin responds. “The valley surrounding Lakevallée is so beautiful.”

“It is,” Gabriel agrees. “I’m glad you’re enjoying your stay.”

“I truly am,” Justin confirms, bracing his hands on his thighs and gazing into the distance.

“Did you succeed in finding Liam the other day?” Gabriel inquires conversationally as he looks down one more time at his drawing.

“I did. In fact, I even convinced him to teach me how to shoot a decent picture. He is the one who showed me the Point,” Justin elaborates.

“He did?” Gabriel asks in a puzzled voice. “Well, you must have made quite an impression for him to accede to your request. He usually flees from tourists like they’re the plague.”

“Hmm,” Justin doesn’t react much to Gabriel’s statement. “It’s a shame. He’s a great teacher.”

“Don’t tell me he acted civil, too,” Gabriel deadpans.

Justin chuckles. “He isn’t so bad when he pulls the stick out of his ass and actually manages to form a sentence of more than two words.” He then peers at the sketch Gabriel is working on and asks, “What are you drawing?”

“I’m trying to capture this part of the lake,” Gabriel answers, pointing to his right. “The way the water crashes against that stone over there.”

Justin follows Gabriel’s signal, his eyes traveling from the landscape to the paper. “You need to show more movement over here,” he advises, before inquiring, “May I?”

“Be my guest,” Gabriel hands him his drawing, watching in fascination as Justin picks up the charcoal and demonstrates his point.

“See?” Justin’s fingers are moving naturally, easily adding structure and essence to the drawing. “You need to feel the way the water meets the stone, to consider they’re alive, joining as if they are one. You can’t draw one without the other, and the lines...” Justin adds some more strokes to the drawing, “the lines needs to fade into each other, especially if you’re using charcoal. Blur them with your finger, but not too much, so the white on the paper stands out and creates the illusion of life.” Justin describes with passion.

Gabriel stares at Justin’s hand, at the natural movement of the artist engrossed in his creation. After a couple of minutes, Justin stops and places the charcoal aside, handing the sketch back to Gabriel.

“Wow,” Gabriel comments as he peers at the result of Justin’s frenzy. “You’re a much better artist than I am.”

“I…” Justin stammers, only realizing now what he has just done. “I haven’t created anything in years.”

“Why not?” Gabriel questions, still staring at the sketch. “I’m a poor artist, but I recognize talent when I see it.”

“Well, I haven’t been inspired in a long time,” Justin offers by way of explanation. The truth is, he is completely bewildered by what he just drew without a second thought, when he hasn’t touched a paintbrush or a pencil in years. And even more astounding, he feels good about it. Hell, he doesn’t just feel good - he is elated.

“It seems your inspiration is coming back,” Gabriel comments knowingly. “If you ever decide to draw or paint again - whatever you’d like to do, I’d be happy to take a look and tell you if it’s worth exhibiting.”

“I don’t know if I will, but thanks,” Justin responds politely, although he is beaming.

“You want a pad?” Gabriel proposes. “I have some extra charcoal in my bag.”

Justin considers Gabriel’s offer for a few seconds, before responding, “Sure,” figuring there is no harm drawing for fun. Besides, he’s missed sketching.

“Okay,” Gabriel reaches for his bag. “Here, a charcoal,” he hands it to Justin before retrieving another pad. “And an extra sketchbook.”

Justin thanks Gabriel and opens the pad, noticing a few drawings that, even though they’re not very well executed, resemble Connor. He doesn’t comment on them, however, not wanting to intrude, instead opening the sketchpad to a blank page.

***

Liam’s chalet, 6:45 p.m.

Liam enters the house, heading to the kitchen to put away the food he just bought at the grocery store. Opening the bags, he pulls out the chicken breasts along with some carrots and onions, before grabbing a cutting board and a knife. Then, he places everything on the counter and begins to chop. Justin is supposed to drive around 7:00 p.m.

Ever since Allen’s visit, his mind has been screaming at him, but he fears he will fall apart if he truly lets go. He spent all afternoon trying to distract himself with work, but he barely made it through the day. Now, as hard as he tries, he can’t keep the unwanted images from returning, as he recalls the last time he saw Joan, the last words he said to her, more than six years ago.

“Fuck the Lord. And fuck you...”

His mother truly believed he was a child molester, a pervert condemned to hell, who, of course, would sink so low as to abuse a child since he fucked men. He still remembers the way he felt, the last bit of hope that vanished as he listened to the woman who was supposed to love him for who he was - to protect him - condemning him instead and wishing he would be locked up, as if that were the easiest way to cope with her gay son. He hates her for believing he was guilty, using the Lord to justify her position. He hates himself even more for hoping she would love him enough to believe in his innocence. But most of all, he detests himself for caring about the fact that she’s gone.

“Fuck!” Liam yells as the knife slices into his skin, a sharp pain pulsing from his thumb. “Fuck!” he repeats, although anger laces his voice this time.

“Liam?” Justin’s voice calls from the front door, just as the photographer walks to the sink to turn on the water, letting it pour over his finger.

Liam hears the blond enter the chalet, the sound of his steps echoing on the living room floor, coming closer.

“Hey, are you okay?” Justin asks in concern. Liam is standing still in front of the sink, blood dripping from his hand. Justin walks over to him, peering at the scene. “You’re bleeding.”

“No shit,” Liam retorts irritably, taking a deep breath to calm his nerves. He feels like he is suffocating, although Justin’s presence appeases him somehow.

“Where’s the bathroom? I’ll get something to stop the bleeding,” Justin proposes, divesting himself of his jacket and carelessly placing it on the counter. “Here, let me take a look.”

“I’m fine,” Liam resists, feeling like a fool for letting his emotions fuck with his mind.

“Just let me help,” Justin insists in a demanding voice as he grabs a sheet from a roll of paper towel, carefully taking hold of Liam’s hand and wrapping the paper towel around his thumb. “Here. Press down on the skin. And let me get something to clean this up.”

Liam swallows. Justin’s fingers feel warm against his wet hand, comforting. He eventually caves, “The bathroom is at the end of the hall.”

“Okay,” Justin nods. “I’ll be right back,” he announces, before striding across the living room and disappearing down the hall leading to the bathroom. A minute later, he reappears with some disinfectant, a couple compresses, and a few bandages.

“Sit there,” he orders, indicating the couch.

Liam complies, but he can’t help balking. “I can do it. You don’t need to take care of me.”

Justin actually smiles. “Since I’m the one who coerced you into making me dinner, I beg to disagree,” he quips, as he sprays the disinfectant on a compress. “Give me your hand.”

Liam slowly places his hand in Justin’s palm.

The blond carefully removes the paper towel from the wound. “You’re still bleeding,” he comments, pressing the compress against the photographer’s skin.

It stings, but Liam merely flinches, declaring, “You’re making a big deal out of nothing. It’s just a cut.”

“I don’t care,” Justin counters, removing the now bloody compress to replace it with another one, pressing some more, “if it means I can take care of you.”

“Why?” Liam asks, narrowing his eyes while feeling his heart thump at Justin’s statement. “Why are you doing this? You don’t even know me.”

“I’m an artist. I don’t need a reason.” Justin responds with a mischievous grin that reminds Liam so much of the seventeen-year-old boy he met so long ago. “I just want to. Now shut up and let me finish.”

Liam offers Justin a small smile of his own and stays still, his hand in Justin’s.