Come Back to Me

MIKEL MAXWELL stared at the empty boxes scattered around the bedroom, knowing he could no longer put off the task at hand.

Like it or not, painful as it would certainly be, he had to - he needed to - sort through Slate's clothes and send them to the Salvation Army, or some other charitable origination that could put them to good use. It was rather foolish, just leaving them in the closet to gather dust. Slate wouldn't have wanted that; he would have wanted his belongings to be passed on, to someone who needed them, and he would have scolded Mikel for having stubbornly held on to them for this long. He had been gone for nearly two years - nineteen months and two weeks, to be exact - but Mikel was still grieving him, as if only days had passed, since Drake Summerfield had broken the tragic news that Slate's latest mission for the Freedom Defense Agency (FDA) had gone terribly wrong and Slate was missing and presumed dead, along with the rest of his five-man team.

Mikel had refused to believe it, at first; he had insisted there was a mistake, that Slate would be fine. He couldn't wrap his mind around the reality that Slate was gone, and not having a body only made it easier for him to hold on to hope. He repeatedly demanded that Drake keep searching, he protested and he raged when all official searches were called off; he blamed Drake for having talked Slate into one last mission, after Slate had made it clear he wanted to leave fieldwork and take on an official office position, so he and Mikel could build their lives together. Slate had explained to his superiors that being away from his lover for weeks - and sometimes monthsm - on end simply didn't work for him; he wanted to be able to go home to Mikel every night and while Mikel would never have asked Slate to give up fieldwork, he had been relieved when his lover decided to do so on his own.

For three years, Mikel and Slate had managed to build and maintain a relationship, despite the dangerous and chaotic nature of Slate's work, but it hadn't proven easy. It was difficult on Mikel whenever Slate had to disappear for long periods of time and Slate hated it as well, because he often missed out on big events in Mikel's life, such as his first showing in a major New York gallery, to say nothing of the more minor, but still meaningfully occasions, like Christmas and birthdays and special anniversaries. Some would have grown weary and walked away, but the idea had never crossed Mikel's mind; he couldn't have walked away from Slate even if he had wanted to, because Slate was the love of his life, something Mikel had realized right away, when a friend of a friend had introduced them at a festive, beachfront Fourth Of July barbecue.

He nearly lost his breath, looking at Slate for the first time. He had never seen a man more masculine or more beautiful, with darkly lashed cornflower-blue eyes, thick blond hair, and rich, honey-toned skin.

At six-two, he was solid muscle, hard and warm; he was the picture of perfection, dressed that first day in cut-off jean shorts and a sleeveless blue T-shirt that made his eyes even more vibrant. Mikel fell into those eyes headfirst. He couldn't help himself. He was normally reserved and shy. He'd had only two lovers in his twenty-three years and neither of them had made him feel what Slate did with one look; the man made desire burn in his stomach and spread throughout his body like lava and he knew he was in very serious trouble. But truth be told, he didn't care. For the first time in his young life, Mikel allowed the emotions - the need - to guide him and while he was completely shocked when Slate appeared to be just as intensely attracted to him, there was no second-guessing himself, no reservations. And when Slate asked him to go back to his place for a drink, Mikel readily agreed.

He knew they would end up doing much more than having a drink and they did; they had the most remarkable sex Mikel had ever experienced and Slate made him feel desire and emotions unlike any he had thought possible.

Next to a man like Slate - next to most men - Mikel figured he was average at best; his five-six frame was lean, his black hair curly, untamed, his skin ivory, and his eyes more hazel than green or brown, but Slate's words, Slate's touch, made him feel truly beautiful and desirable. He lost count of all the times they made love that first night - a night Mikel had believed would be a one-night stand, but the next morning, Slate cooked him breakfast, they made love again... and the day and another amazing night went by in a haze of sensual delight. It felt like heaven. Mikel didn't want it to end; he wanted the feelings to continue and, much to his surprise, Slate wanted to know when he could see him again. As simply as that, the greatest love affair of his life began.

The following night, Slate took him out to dinner and over coffee, Slate explained - as much as he could - about his work with the FDA; repeatedly, he apologized for not being able to share very much, but most of what he did tended to be highly classified, which he admitted sounded cliche. But he had been with the FDA for nearly a decade and the work was difficult and dangerous, he didn't deny that, and his missions usually required him to be out of touch for weeks, sometimes months, and he wanted Mikel to be aware of that up front. It was more than some people could handle, Slate understood that, and he offered Mikel an out, but Mikel didn't want one; despite the short amount of time that had passed since their meeting, Mikel knew he wanted Slate - he was already well on his way to being completely addicted - and Slate was truly and openly pleased when Mikel told him he wasn't going anywhere. He didn't care how hard it might be or how complicated, because they could make it work, if they wanted each other badly enough. At Slate's request, Mikel went home with him again that night. Less than two months later, Slate asked him to move in.

Slate had a beautiful home on the beach, left to him by his grandmother. To celebrate Mikel's moving in with him, he had one of the half-dozen bedrooms converted into a fully operational studio that was more elaborate than any Mikel had ever imagined. It was the most amazing gift anyone had given him and that first night, officially living together, they made love in the studio and afterward, Mikel managed to convince Slate to pose for him for a nude painting that, once finished, Mikel kept displayed in his studio.

To Mikel's dismay, two weeks later, Slate left on a mission - the first one he had accepted, since they had gotten together - and the night before he was scheduled to leave, Mikel met Drake Summerfield for the first time and decided he didn't like the other man. It was obvious to him that Drake had an interest in Slate that went well beyond professional; he was technically Mikel's superior, but a personal desire was there and Mikel sensed it and he mentioned it to Slate, who admitted that Drake had made his interest known in the past and Slate had rejected him. He felt no attraction for Drake, who was certainly attractive, with dark brown hair and brown eyes; the only man Slate wanted was Mikel. He had the love of his life, and Mikel was confident in that knowledge. He knew Drake really wasn't a threat and never would be one.

"Nothing can pull us apart or come between us, Mikel, and when I leave, I promise that I will always, always come back to you, because I love you."

For three years, every time he left for a mission, Slate whispered those words before he walked out the door and time and time again, he kept that promise, coming back home - sometimes battered and tired - and somehow, somewhere along the line, Mikel simply began taking for granted that Slate would always come home.

Until the day he didn't.

Instead, Drake Summerfield showed up, without warning, and Mikel instantly knew something was wrong. But he hadn't expected Drake to explain that the mission had gone awry and it was highly unlikely Slate had survived.

Mikel refused to believe it; if Slate were gone, he would feel it, in his heart and soul, but Drake insisted there was no hope.

"Mikel, there was an explosion and-"

"And what? Do you know for a fact that Slate was inside the building?"

"By all accounts, yes. I'm sorry-"

"Don't you fuckin' tell me you're sorry, Drake. Find him!"

"Mikel-"

"If he's dead, where's his body? Tell me that? Where's your blasted confirmation?"

For the first six months - six months of endless, unimaginable hell - Mikel refused to accept reality; he refused to listen to anything Drake said, because the things that Drake said simply weren't the things Mikel wanted desperately to hear. Friends had to force him into eating, he rarely bothered sleeping, and when he did close his eyes, he endured horrible nightmares; nightmares about Slate lost and alone and calling out to him, but try as he might, Mikel couldn't get to him. And he hated it. He hated Drake, and he hated the FDA. They had given up so easily; they had suspended the search for Slate after a month and, after six months, Drake coldly told him it was time to face the facts and deal with the harsh fact that Slate was dead and gone and that couldn't be changed. He even went so far as to suggest that Mikel was acting like a spoiled child, a conversation that ended with Mikel hitting someone for the first time in his life. Doing so had felt damn good.

Still, when it came to a memorial service, Mikel couldn't arrange it. That fell to his and Slate's mutual friends, but he did attend; he sat in the front row, listening to the wonderful things people had to say about Slate.

Mikel didn't speak.

He couldn't bring himself to talk about Slate as if he were really gone, and the reality that he seemingly was became more and more agonizing as time passed and Mikel was repeatedly faced with a host of friends who told him he needed to move on. He needed to let go. Slate wouldn't want him to sit around and slowly waste away; he needed to begin rebuilding his life. Some even suggested the he move, but Mikel refused to leave the house he had shared with Slate, the house that Slate had left him. Needing a distraction, he began painting again. He attended the shows set up by his agent. He did what he could, to make it appear he was healing; he did what he could, to assure his friends he was okay, but on the inside, he was in never-ending pain and the chill inside of him seemed to consume everything, from his heart to his soul.

At the one-year mark, he stopped calling Drake, demanding answers that Drake refused to give; Drake had insisted everything regarding what had happened to Slate was classified. e wouldn't even tell Mikel where Slate had supposedly died or what exactly he had been doing.

"This is about more than you, Mikel."

"Damn right. It's about Slate and I... damn it, I want to know where he's at."

"He's dead!"

"So you keep saying, but how... I didn't see a body, I don't even know where his body might be, and you're a fuckin' cyborg."

"Mikel-"

"All you do is spout off about classified information."

"Because it is classified-"

"You're nothing but an arrogant, self-centered asshole and you hate me, because Slate loves me and he doesn't want you."

The parting comment was childish and immature, but Mikel was too upset to care and he decided not to contact Drake again, because it was pointless and it only made him feel worse. Not knowing all the facts was torture.

He couldn't help but wonder if maybe, just maybe, Slate wasn't dead, but even that hope faded in time, and he was left wondering if he had suffered, or if he had died quickly; he knew Drake knew a hell of a lot more than he had shared and that ate at him like acid.

He couldn't find any peace.

Nearly two years later - nineteen fuckin' months and two fuckin' weeks - the not knowing still kept him up at night and while he went through the expected motions of living, he knew he was lying to those around him, and himself.

He wasn't healing.

He wasn't moving on.

But he had to = like it or not, and he didn't like it - he had to get past the soul-devouring grief, and his best friend, Mallory, had suggested the first step in letting go might be sorting through Slate's clothes and sending them away. Mallory had even offered to help him. But Mikel had turned her down. He had to do this himself; he didn't want to see anyone else filtering through things that had belonged to Slate. It was too personal and too intimate and the idea made Mikel feel sick as he sat there on the bed he and Slate had shared, staring at the still-empty boxes.

They're just clothes, Mikel; it's not like you're giving away your memories or agreeing to stop loving Slate and missing him all the time. It makes sense to do this. Just pack the boxes. Don't think about how unfair, how wrong it is, that Slate's gone.

Reaching deep down inside of himself for strength and determination, he stood and walked to the closet, slowly opening the door and staring inside, holding his breath for a moment as his eyes fell to what had been Slate's prized clothing possession.

A tattered, borderline hideous Red Wings jersey. Seeing it, tears instantly filled Mikel's eyes and he slammed the door closed.

No!

He couldn't do this; he couldn't pack Slate's things and send them away; he couldn't let go because he simply didn't want to let go; he wanted to hold on to everything Slate had ever touched because letting someone else have it meant Slate was really gone.

Leaning against the closed door, he sank down to the floor, wrapping his arms around his legs, his face resting on his knees as the silent tears turned into heaving sobs that relentlessly boiled from deep inside of him, reminding him that he wasn't healing. He wasn't moving on. He was just as devastated now as he had been the day Drake Summerfield had shown up at the door; he was still mourning the love of his life and if others couldn't understand why, that was their problem and not his. He couldn't worry about anyone else, because it took everything he had to keep his own head above water, when all he wanted to do was curl up in a corner and cry until all the heated tears finally faded.

Mostly, he wanted the one thing - the one person - he couldn't have.

He wanted Slate.

"Nothing can pull us apart or come between us, Mikel, and when I leave, I promise that I will always, always come back to you, because I love you."

The promise Slate had made, the promise he had finally failed to keep, haunted Mikel, as he sat there, not fighting the tears, knowing in his heart and soul that he would never completely crawl out of the dark place he had fallen into. It wasn't possible. How could it be? How did anyone go on without the love of their life? Maybe he could function enough to make it seem as if he actually cared about the world around him, but harsh truth be told, he no longer had the strength or the will to really care about anything or anyone, himself included.

Physically, he was alive, but emotionally, he was dead.

There was no escaping death, not even in the figurative sense, and Mikel understood that; he knew he was little more than a walking zombie and if all he had left to cling to were his memories and Slate's earthly possessions, he wouldn't - he couldn't - pack them up and give them away, even if doing so might have been the right thing to do.