More of chapter one...

Adair Carwyn Llewellyn. How I loved to say his name aloud, though my French accent mangled it. 

“Welsh,” he once told me, though I had not asked. “Dad was a freak about that. So my brother got Gareth, which is almost normal, and I got the one for fun. Not as sexy as the French, or even French Canadienne, but...” 
“Québécois, mon ange,” I had replied, smiling. 
“C’est vrai,” was his reply, but he pronounced it, Say veray. 
I had to laugh. His French...ooh-la... 
He was four months short of his thirtieth birthday, that morning. A man but still so much a boy of his world. The mountains east of Seattle had been his home from the day of his birth. And thanks to this, his life had been one of comfort. Safety. Protection. Parents who loved him, if not each other. A brother older, who would leave him to himself. A rambling home halfway up a foothill. A community where everyone knew everyone. 
Named as Fairview.A middle-class name for a middle-class town.But it held people who liked him. Who cared for him. Who helped build his fortress against the few who did not. So he grew to be certain and sure, and willing to live the life he wanted. 
On top of this, he was one of those rare men who, from an early age, knew what they would become. And he did well, with it. Was happy and alive with it. 
And he let my world blend with his. He allowed me a taste of the joy that seemed to surrounded him. The support. The comfort. There were times at night I would hide and weep in the shadows, I could not believe how happy this made me. 
My own name? Adam Henrí Lécuyer, once of Terrebonne, by Montreal. Three years his junior, but at the very least ten years older than he, in heart and spirit. And in my own reality, twice that. Simple to say, while he had been nurtured in a world of safety and care, I had not. 
But that may be discussed at another time. For this moment, my focus remains upon that last day. 
Our last morning, together... 
Oh, dear God, how I wish I had stayed for just a little longer. Held him closer. But instead, in response to his gentle request, all I did was pat his elegant behind and say, “I would love to snuggle, but that could take all morning and I must be to the slopes by nine or your mother will fire me.” 
As reference, I was a ski instructor at his mother’s lodge, during the winter. Sophisticated and cool, was I...to the primitive minds of far too many. An example of easy, masculine grace and sexuality. Were any to mention this to me, I would shrug and reply they should see me in the off-season, when I was a handyman, gardener, and carpenter, with all of the dirt and sweat they entailed. And that would bring an end to that. 
His response to my comment? A soft purring, “She won’t. She loves you more than me.” 
“I am not sure how to understand that claim,” I said, tracing my fingers down his hip and leg to draw them back up the hairs on his thigh. 
He pulled me closer to him, almost whining, "It's late in the season..." 
I looked through the French doors. Soft flakes continued to drift down in the bare morning light."And all my classes are full," I whispered. Then I leaned over him to brush my lips over his thick, lovely lashes and he finally opened his eyes.“Café ou thé?” I asked. 
“Coffee -- no, café, s'il vous plaît.” Spoken in his hideous accent. Ooh-la, it always made me laugh.