Untrue: Scientific Method Universe, #9

Chapter One

Truman

Truman sat crying in his car in a parking structure across town from his house and tried to figure out how the fuck this had happened.

It got out of control so fast.

No. Truman forced himself to acknowledge that he’d allowed it all to happen. That it  had been within his control to say no at any time, and he hadn’t. He’d been flattered. At first. Then flattered and a little…excited. It was a thrill, that a handsome young man flirted with him. That he received text messages like Just wanted to let you know I’m thinking about you or Wish you were here with me.

A crush was a heady thing. Heady on the receiving end. Heady on the having end as well. Once he realized he’d possibly crossed a line, he’d gone too far to bring it up to Hugh. Or at least that’s how it had seemed at the time.

His chest constricted and he laid his head on the steering wheel. God. Hugh. How had he managed to push Hugh so far to the back of his mind that he’d let the first kiss happen? Or the second?

For a thrill, for the heady blast of a harmless crush, for feeling desirable and attractive, which was so fucking unfair, because Hugh had only ever told him how good he looked, how sexy he was. It wasn’t Hugh’s fault that he didn’t believe it.

Was it Truman’s fault that he only believed it when a relative stranger said it? Maybe not. But kissing a stranger: his fault. Running his hands through someone else’s hair, plundering his mouth, feeling his hands without flinching.

Jaron. For weeks he’d hoarded the name to himself, unable to share a new friendship because of the other thing it was: validation, attention, fresh jokes. A new flavor beneath his lips. How many times had he imagined introducing Jaron to Will? Jaron was bisexual, and engaging, and twenty-five years old. He would like Will. And Will loved everyone.

But it could never happen now. Because of what he’d done.

He didn’t deserve to cry over this. He’d done it to himself. More than that: he’d done it to all of them. To Hugh, to Will. To their family. He wouldn’t let himself hide behind ignorance; this would affect everyone, even if they didn’t explicitly share it. Though in their family, there wasn’t much that was really kept secret.

Dammit. Tears squeezed out his eyes and fell into his lap. He had to go. This was the first time he’d lied, the first time he’d claimed he had to stay late with a client when he’d really driven to Jaron’s apartment.

Even the apartment would have felt like home to Will. Video game consoles. Beer bottles in the recycling bin Truman had glimpsed for a moment as Jaron led him through the kitchen. On the way to the bedroom.

Truman bit down hard on his tongue. He shouldn’t have lied to Hugh. He shouldn’t have come here. He definitely shouldn’t have let Jaron pull off his shirt in between kisses, and everything else aside, he shouldn’t have felt so much more appreciated in the presence of another man than he did with his husband. Jaron didn’t have a model physique. He had a belly, an ass with flesh to it. His every muscular shift wasn’t apparent from looking at him.

It wasn’t Hugh’s fault that his beloved body was also a weapon Truman used against himself. How could it be both things at once? How could it be beloved, and also hurt so fucking much every time Truman thought about it? And why was it harder now than it had been in the beginning?

Was all this just an excuse? The thing he told himself to excuse this inexcusable thing?

It could never happen again. It would never happen again. He’d tell Jaron they couldn’t talk, it was too hard. Jaron would be hurt, but he’d understand. Well. He might not understand, exactly. Truman had been slightly less than forthcoming about the state of his relationship, though it was technically true they had a degree of openness, that was…in certain circumstances, with certain people.

And oh god, that was the worst thing of all. The hardest thought of any he’d had so far. If he’d confessed his crush to Hugh, if he’d shared that Jaron was interested, if he’d let his husband in on his excitement…Hugh may well have told him to go for it. He almost certainly would have. Hugh didn’t worry about infidelity. Hugh worried Truman would die. It had probably never even entered his head that a comparatively minor tragedy like betrayal could strike them.

He would never imagine, in a million years, that Truman would cheat on him.

He would never have to know. It was one time. It was over. It wouldn’t happen again.

Truman started the car, drove through fast food—because he was hungry; to cover the unfamiliar smell of an unfamiliar man—and made sure he didn’t look like he’d been crying by the time he got home.

* * *

Three weeks later, after a tense fuck in Jaron’s apartment, Truman broke down. Crying in his car after was now a ritual. He hadn’t meant to lose it while Jaron was watching, but he couldn’t do this anymore. He couldn’t deceive Hugh anymore.

He blubbered apologies to Jaron, who eyed him with distrust and dismay.

I don’t get it. You said it was okay.

There was so much more nuance than okay. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. It doesn’t feel okay. I have to leave. Please… What could he say to end this thing? To this man who’d done nothing wrong but offer a measure of himself to Truman, not knowing how poor a caretaker Truman would turn out to be?

Are you…was this not okay the whole time? Jaron’s eyes narrowed. You said you and your husband had an arrangement. Was that a lie?

Not—not exactly. We do. But it’s not for this, or at least we’ve never done anything like this before. He wasn’t making sense. Mostly because he was lying. Truman rubbed his eyes and took a deep breath. I didn’t tell him. If I’d have told him, this would have been within our arrangement, but I didn’t.

But…why? Jaron’s face, so bewildered. He backed up a step. I don’t understand. You could have told him, but you didn’t, so now I’m like your piece on the fucking side? You made me into your shitty little secret?

The anger was good. Truman deserved it. I’m so sorry.

Jesus. Dude, get out of my house.

I’m so, so sorry, Jaron—

You have to leave because I’m gonna get real drunk. Go away.

Truman bit off anything else he might have said and backtracked through the apartment. There was no avoiding it. He’d done this thing. He’d cheated on Hugh. He’d made Jaron complicit in an affair after acting like it wasn’t. He’d lied to both of them, and to himself.

And now he had to tell Hugh. It wasn’t a question. He could try to keep it a secret, but Hugh was smart, and knew him well. And Truman didn’t think he was strong enough to not confess.

Even confessing was probably selfish. But he had to. If he didn’t, the secret would hang between them until it did far more damage than confessing it could possibly do.

Unless he says, Get out of my house.

Truman almost hoped Hugh would be angry, but he suspected—knowing Hugh as well as Hugh knew him—that he’d get something else entirely. And it didn’t matter. Because he deserved whatever Hugh’s response was.

* * *

Dinner was on the table when he came home. Of course it was. Hugh smiled, kissed him hello, then stopped. Because he didn’t move, didn’t smile, could barely breathe.

Truman?

I have to tell you something. I slept with someone. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. The words were hard. He couldn’t look at Hugh as he spoke. He sank into his chair and started crying.

You’re so useless. First you screw up, then you cry about it as if you’re the one who’s hurt.

Still, he forced himself to keep going. He was…he was a friend, someone I met at the running group, and then he…and I…I didn’t mean to…I didn’t realize… He took a breath, fought for calm. Hugh hated displays of emotion. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean for it to happen, and then I…I lied to you. I told you I had a client, but I didn’t, and Hugh, I’m so, so sorry. I never meant for this to happen. I don’t even understand how it did.

Hugh said nothing. He blinked, and breathed, and stared at Truman so hard that he couldn’t maintain eye contact for more than a moment.

Into the vacuum of Hugh’s non-response, Truman kept talking. Rambling. Crying. His name is Jaron, and he’s—oh god—he’s so nice, he reminds me of Will, and I think you and Will would have really liked him, and I didn’t mean to…I should never have…I don’t know how it happened. I’m so sorry. The first time...the first time it just sort of happened, and I swore I wouldn’t do it again…

But you did. Voice flat. Face impassive.

Yes, yes, I’m so sorry, I don’t know…why, or how, but he called and I…yes, I went, I’m so, so sorry, it will never happen again, I swear. It’s completely over, I promise you, I will never do…anything like this ever again. I’m sorry.

Hugh cleared his throat. Truman waited, expecting questions, expecting to be nailed to the wall and interrogated. But Hugh only cleared his throat again.

Dread settled, a heavy weight in Truman’s stomach. I’m so sorry. Oh, god, Hugh, I’m so fucking sorry.

Why tonight?

What? Why tonight what?

It’s been more than once, correct?

Yes. Yes, it’s been—

So why tonight? Why didn’t you break it off last time? Or next time? Why are we having this conversation tonight?

How could this possibly matter? Truman shook his head. I don’t know.

Please think about it for a minute.

Of all the things he could think about right now, the timing of breaking it off with Jaron seemed least relevant. Should he leave? Would Hugh? They hardly ever had fights lasting longer than the course of a conversation, he had no idea how they’d handle this. He could sleep on the proverbial couch, if that would make Hugh feel better. But would it?

Truman took a drink of water, wishing he knew what Hugh wanted now. Certain it wasn’t to talk about the exact reasons why the affair had ended at the moment it did.

I don’t know, Hugh. I don’t plan everything down to the finest detail. Tonight it felt awful, so I broke it off with him. Last time it must have felt…less awful. Or something.

You reached the point of diminishing returns as it relates to infidelity. And oh, god, he smiled. A horrible parody of a smile.

Truman flinched. I’m sorry. I thought it was a harmless crush. And then it just… I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry.

Did you take a shower? Before coming home, I mean, after you were with him.

"Did I take a shower?"

Hugh waved a hand. Do I need to clean the shower? If there are skin cells and hairs of some other man in my shower, I need to clean it.

The ball of dread grew heavier. Don’t do this. Don’t pretend this is all you care about. How can you think about the shower? Can we talk about what we do now? Because I have no idea, and if you want a divorce, then we have a lot to talk about that’s a hell of a lot more important than the shower.

The shower is important to me.

And it was Truman’s fault, all of it, he knew that, but he could barely resist the impulse to scream at his husband until he said something, anything, that mattered.

What have I done?

___________________________

Hugh

Everything was cold.

And numb. Everything in Hugh’s body was both cold and numb. Not too numb to feel the cold. Just too numb to feel the pain.

Truman was weeping into his hands, apologizing over and over again, incoherent.

The facts, then. What he could make of them.

Fact number one: there was another man.

Fact number two: there had been another man for at least a few weeks, but probably not more than a few months.

Fact number three: the problem client of the recent past was, in fact, a fabrication to cover Truman’s absence while he was with this other man.

Fact number four, now revealed with a fresh wave of tears: the man’s name was Jarren/Gerran/Jaron. Multiple spellings possible.

Fact number five: Truman swore he’d broken it off, that it would never happen again, and that it was an accident.

Fact number six: there is no such thing as accidental sex. Certainly not more than once.

Fact number seven: the food on the table no longer had any flavor. Hugh put down his fork and took a sip of water. Water reliably tasted like water. His fingers were numb on the cool glass.

Fact number eight: Hugh had no idea how to feel about the preceding facts. He knew he must feel something, but it was all a low hum of white noise.

He took three breaths. He cleared his throat. He sipped his water and cleared his throat again.

I’m so sorry. Oh, god, Hugh, I’m so fucking sorry.

And he was. Truman was sorry. Sorry he’d been unfaithful? Sorry he’d felt so bad about it? Sorry he was now in the position of telling Hugh?

Why tonight?

Truman blinked. What?

It’s been more than once, correct? He waited for an answer. Perhaps just to be cruel.

Yes. Yes, it’s been—

So why tonight? Why didn’t you break it off last time? Or next time? Why are we having this conversation tonight?

I don’t know.

Please think about it for a minute. Maybe there was no real reason. That was possible. Maybe it didn’t matter. Hugh hardly cared. He waited for Truman to straighten his back, to dab at his eyes, to drink his own water and take his own breaths.

Three, of course. Thank you, Mom. For the record, I could really use some help on what exactly I’m supposed to say now.

I don’t know, Hugh. I don’t plan everything down to the finest detail. Tonight it felt awful, so I broke it off with him. Last time it must have felt…less awful. Or something.

You reached the point of diminishing returns as it relates to infidelity. Hugh attempted a wry smile, but Truman recoiled. Right. Smiling was probably not appropriate at this juncture.

I’m sorry. I thought it was a harmless crush. And then it just… He bit his lip and Hugh wanted to reach across the table, gently coax Truman’s teeth to release.

He didn’t. Did you take a shower? Before coming home, I mean, after you were with him.

"Did I take a shower?"

Hugh waved a hand. Do I need to clean the shower? If there are skin cells and hairs of some other man in my shower, I need to clean it.

How can you think about the shower? Truman’s forehead creased in frustration. Can we talk about what we do now? Because I have no idea, and if you want a divorce, then we have a lot to talk about that’s a hell of a lot more important than the shower.

The shower is important to me, Hugh said, keeping his voice mild and even and impenetrable. "Do you want a divorce? Are you unhappy? Is that why this happened?"

"No, god, Hugh, no, of course I don’t want a divorce! Truman shifted forward and this was the moment he would normally take Hugh’s hands, but not tonight. Not tonight. I would never want a divorce. And I’m not unhappy. I don’t know what I am. I don’t know why this happened. Dammit. He wiped his eyes again. I don’t know why I did it. And kept doing it. And each time I swore it was the last time."

I do not want a divorce. I do want a clean shower.

Truman’s face hardened into a mask. Fine. Go clean the shower, then.

Okay.

Hugh pushed back from the table and started gathering dishes.

Stop, for fuck’s sake. Let me do that. Truman’s movements were jerky, inconsistent. "Don’t you have anything to say to me? Anything at all?"

Hugh paused at the bottom of the stairs to study the back of Truman’s head as he angrily stacked their half-eaten plates of food. I’ll sleep in Mom’s room tonight. Please change the sheets on our bed. And please shower down here if you didn’t shower before leaving his apartment. Actually, that wasn’t quite good enough. No. I need you to shower again, even if you did. I’d prefer that nothing that touched him also touch me. Please.

Truman made a sound—a snort? a sob?—and Hugh went upstairs.

Was he being petty? He couldn’t decide. It was possible. He was not above pettiness. But then, he’d never unilaterally had sex with someone while committed to only doing so with the approval of someone else. In the grand scheme of things, perhaps Hugh could be forgiven his pettiness about the shower.

If only it made him feel better.

He gathered clothes, books, his phone charger, and took all of it to Cordelia’s room. Showered or not, he couldn’t possibly share a bed with Truman tonight.

And that—that—was a dangerous thought. He steered his mind toward logistics. Carefully removed the quilt he always left over his mother’s bed. It was a quilt she’d never liked, which made it appropriate to use as a dust cover; plus, whenever he looked at it he remembered her saying, Do I really strike you as the ‘please make me a quilt in varying shades of feces’ type of person? Do you think there’s a secret message in the design? Is she calling me shitty? He had laughed, as she’d undoubtedly known he would.

Laughter would surely exist again. But not at the moment.

Clean sheets on the bed, pulled from one of the sealed plastic bags where Lucy had meticulously stored everything of Cordelia’s she didn’t want to have the option of borrowing. She still thought of it that way: borrowing from Cordelia.

Hugh focused on the sheets, the pillows (also pulled from plastic bags), the blankets. When was the last time he’d made up this bed? Years ago, when Will still slept here? Or during the wedding, for Will and Molly after Truman’s brother showed up? They didn’t often have guests.

To think he’d been imagining different uses for this room. Entirely different uses. The fantasy had grown in recent weeks. Or rather months. Since they started volunteering at the Queer Youth Project. Since he started thinking about what impact