Yield Under Great Persuasion

by Alexandra Rowland

If Lyford really respected Tam, then he’d stop pretending he was a considerate lover or whatever his game was. Tam could see through him. Tam could see right fucking through him. Tam did not know what Lyford’s game was, but also he could see right through him.

“Do you feel any better? Since I said sorry?” “No,” said Lyford simply. “Not much. You’ve been hurting me for years.” Tam burned with shame. “Why are you talking to me, then? Why are you... bringing my teapot back, and fetching me water, and buying me lunch, and taking me to your house to bathe?” “Because it doesn’t cost me anything to be kind, and because you’re an awful little goblin that I...” He fell silent for a long moment. Tam didn’t dare to move or breathe. “An awful little goblin that I like very much,” Lyford finished softly. “Despite your manifold goblinish habits. Perhaps because of them, sometimes.”

He could see the shape of the task he had been set—he understood what was being asked of him, and why. He could have wept with gratitude for it. It was healing. It was a second chance. It was the kindest fucking thing that anyone had ever done for him.

“Listen, seedlings,” he said, leaning down to hiss at the plants, since he couldn’t be sure Angarat was listening. “I’m fucking counting on you. I need you to really concentrate and make a giant marrow, giant enough that Lyford gets all breathless and fluttery in his favored-of-Angarat parts and swoons off his feet and changes his mind about not fucking me. Okay? This is a team effort and I’m going to need you to put your backs into it.”

Within moments, Lyford was there, gripping Tam’s shoulders and babbling desperately. Tam couldn’t hear anything but the wail of despair within his own heart and a rush of relief at homecoming so profound that it hurt. He toppled against Lyford’s chest, sobbing. Why wouldn’t it stop? Why couldn’t he claw himself apart to make it all stop?

“Let’s get a couple things straight. Number one: You like me more than that other guy. His name is Nicolau Lyford and he thinks he’s Angarat’s gift to the world.” He paused. “One part of him might be, but you don’t need to know about which one. Point is, I’m basically your Uncle Tam, and you like me so much more than him, got it? Second, men are not worth your time. Just remember that for the future. Third, you’ve got one fucking job, and that is to do your best at growing. I want to see you put in some honest bloody effort, same as me and that other fellow who you don’t like as much. I’m going to know if you’re not pulling your weight.” He paused. “Fortunately you are not that heavy, so you don’t have very much weight to pull, but you get my point. This is going to be a team effort, crabapple, and I can’t have you slacking off.”

Because Nicolau was the only one patient enough to fight his way past all of Tam’s thorny hedges. Because Tam wanted so badly to be loved, and Nicolau wanted so badly to love him, apparently.

“Please,” he whispered. “Please. I’m trying too. Please don’t give up on me yet.” “What’s my name,” Nicolau choked out from behind his hands. The emotion in his voice hurt. It hurt Tam right in the center of his chest. “Nicolau,” he sniffled. “Your name is Nicolau, and I’m sorry, I’m trying—I swear I’m trying, please.” Nicolau slid out of his chair to the floor and—and fucking wept, great wrenching, racking sobs that terrified Tam down to the roots of his soul, and all he could do was cling around him and try to hold tight enough to keep him from falling apart. He didn’t know what else to do, and he was so, so scared.

He took Nicolau by the shoulders and pushed him just far enough away that Tam could see him. “Hey,” he said sternly. “Take your hands down. Look at me.” Nicolau obeyed, wearily—gods, that expression made Tam so angry. Hopeless, exhausted, hurt. His fault. His face was wet; his eyes and nose and mouth were red. Tam set his jaw, called up every ounce of obstinance he had, and dug in his heels against himself. “Listen to me,” he said fiercely, shaking Nicolau’s shoulders a little. “I’m sorry. I fucked up, talking to you like that. And I am never going to do that again.”

What poor taste he has, Tam thought reflexively, tinged with frustration and contempt, and then viciously ripped that whole vine out of the ground: I think he has poor taste because I don’t think I’m worth loving. It all came back to that, didn’t it.

It wasn’t enough. It wasn’t, he knew it wasn’t, he knew he should have a whole list of things like Nicolau did. But it was hard. It was hard. It was hard, and he didn’t have to do it all at once. It was hard, and it was alright if he did this little bit, as long as he did maybe another little bit tomorrow, or the day after. Or next week. Little bits, here and there, that was how you kept a garden weeded.