Between Two Waters

by J.R. Whittington

Richardson & Finch (A Gay Black Love Story Untold)

Time ain't nothing but a circle, and 1847 was just yesterday when you measure it against the weight of what came before. In the big house where magnolias grew fat on secrets and Spanish moss hung like the ghosts of unspoken truths, there lived a man they called Richardson. He was forty-something, with skin the color of café au lait and eyes that held too much knowing for one lifetime.

Every morning before the rooster could clear his throat, Richardson would rise from his narrow bed in the servants' quarters of the big house—a privilege that tasted like copper in his mouth. His hands, soft from indoor work, would smooth the wrinkles from sheets that cost more than most folks' lives. His reflection in the master's mirror showed him everything he was and wasn't: the slope of his nose that whispered of his father, the curl of his hair that sang of his mother, the fairness of his skin that granted him access to rooms where his heart could never belong.

Master's blood ran through Richardson's veins like a river that didn't know which way to flow. Born of violence disguised as desire, he carried the weight of two worlds on shoulders that were strong enough for neither. The master would look at him with eyes full of possession and disappointment—loving what he'd created, hating what it meant. When Richardson's skin caught the light wrong, when his features reminded the master too much of midnight confessions, those same hands that had caressed his mother would crack across Richardson's cheek like thunder.

"You ain't white enough to be mine," the master would say, "but you too much mine to be anything else."

In the evenings, when the big house settled into its dreams of cotton and coin, Richardson would slip through shadows thick as molasses to visit the quarters. His mother lived in a cabin that leaned against the wind like a prayer, and she was something to behold—skin dark as river stones, cheekbones that could cut glass, and hips that moved like music even when she was standing still. Quiet as kept water, but her mind sharp as any blade ever forged.

She had taught herself to read by candlelight, tracing letters in dirt when no one was watching, storing words in her heart like seeds waiting for spring. When Richardson would visit, she'd share those stolen pieces of knowledge, her voice low and careful as a lullaby.

But one night, when the moon was playing hide and seek behind clouds, Richardson pushed open his mother's door and found more than he bargained for. There, pressed against the far wall like he was trying to become part of the wood itself, was a young man who looked like he'd been carved from the night sky. Dark skin gleaming with sweat and fear, muscles that spoke of work that would break lesser men, eyes that held the kind of fire that could burn down plantations or light the way to freedom.

"His name is Finch," his mother whispered, and the name settled in Richardson's chest like a bird finding its roost.

Finch was twenty-something, with hands that knew the weight of cotton and the sting of the overseer's whip. He was running—following that underground river of hope and whispered directions toward something that might be called life. His voice, when he spoke, was deep and careful, each word chosen like he was counting out his last dollars.

Night after night, Richardson found himself drawn to that cabin, drawn to Finch like metal to magnet. They would sit by lamplight, Richardson teaching Finch letters while Finch taught Richardson about the kind of strength that doesn't come from privilege. There was something building between them, something that felt like recognition—like looking into still water and seeing not your reflection, but your truth.

The night before Finch was set to meet his conductors, Richardson tried to convince him to wait. There was to be a party at the big house, guests coming from three counties over, and Richardson could feel danger hanging in the air like smoke.

But Finch had tasted freedom on his tongue, and it was sweeter than anything he'd ever known. "I can't wait no more," he said, his voice breaking like morning. "I got to go while I still got the courage."

When Richardson's mother was called to the big house to prepare the feast, the two men found themselves alone in the cabin. The air between them was thick with everything they hadn't said, heavy with want that had been growing like kudzu in the dark spaces of their hearts.

They started talking about routes and safe houses, but their eyes were saying something altogether different. Finch reached out and touched Richardson's face, his rough fingers tracing the line of Richardson's jaw like he was memorizing it.

"You beautiful, you know that?" Finch whispered, and Richardson felt something inside him crack open like an egg.

What happened next was like falling into a river that had been waiting your whole life to carry you home. Bodies finding each other in the lamplight, skin against skin, breath mixing with breath until they couldn't tell where one ended and the other began. They moved together like they'd been practicing this dance in their dreams, like drums calling to each other across impossible distances.

Richardson tasted salt and sweetness on Finch's lips, tasted freedom and something holier than Sunday morning, and knew this was what his body had been made for—not servitude, but worship of another soul that recognized his own. And when Finch whispered his name like it was something sacred, Richardson's body opened like a flower blooming in darkness, every nerve singing with the sweet ache of being truly, completely claimed Richardson had never known his body could feel like this—not like the tool of his master's will, not like the bridge between two worlds that wanted to claim him, but like something that belonged to him, something that could give and receive pleasure like a gift freely given.

When they reached that place where the world stops spinning for just a moment, they heard footsteps on the porch. Richardson's mother, returning earlier than expected, her voice calling out softly.

They tried to separate, tried to make themselves decent, but there was no hiding what had happened. It was written in the air between them, in the way they looked at each other, in the tenderness that lingered in their touches.

Richardson's mother took one look at them and understood everything. Her face went through a dozen emotions—fear for her son, fear for this boy who was so close to freedom, and something else, something that might have been recognition of a love she had never been allowed to choose for herself.

But before anyone could speak, before anyone could explain or apologize or make sense of what couldn't be made sense of, the cabin door burst open like the world was ending.

Master stood there, his face twisted with rage and something that might have been betrayal. Behind him, torchlight flickered like the fires of hell, and Richardson knew that everything was about to change forever.

Finch stepped forward, still naked, still proud, his fists clenched and ready to fight for something that had just become more precious than freedom itself. But the master's eyes were fixed on Richardson, on his son who had dared to want something for himself.

"Boy," the master said, his voice low and dangerous, "you forgot what you are."

Richardson's mother moved then, placing herself between the master and her son like she had done so many times before. And something happened that no one expected—the master stopped. His eyes met hers, and for a moment, time folded back on itself. Twenty-some years fell away, and he was looking at the woman who had haunted his dreams and shaped his nightmares, the woman whose body had given him a son he could never fully claim.

In that moment of hesitation, Finch grabbed Richardson's hand and pulled him toward the back of the cabin. They ran into the night, branches tearing at their skin, roots trying to trip them up, but they ran like their lives depended on it—because they did.

At the river's edge, a small boat waited, bobbing on the dark water like a promise. Finch jumped in, his hand extended toward Richardson.

"Come with me," he said, and his voice held everything—hope and fear and love and desperation all mixed together.

Richardson looked back at the big house, its windows glowing like eyes in the darkness. Everything he had ever known was there—his mother, his strange half-life of privilege and pain, the only world he had ever been allowed to inhabit.

Then he looked at Finch, at this man who had shown him what it felt like to be touched with tenderness, who had given him a glimpse of what love might look like when it wasn't built on ownership and violence.

The boat began to drift, and Richardson found himself running toward the water, his feet splashing in the shallows, his heart pounding against his ribs like it was trying to break free.

But the current was strong, and the boat was moving faster now, carrying Finch away into the darkness. Richardson stood waist-deep in the river, watching the only man who had ever loved him disappear into the night, and feeling like his soul was being torn in two.

He never knew if Finch made it to freedom. He never knew if the love they had shared for one perfect night was enough to sustain a man through the long journey north. All he knew was that he had let love slip through his fingers like water, and that some choices, once made, can never be unmade.

Years later, when the war came and went, when slavery crumbled like a house built on sand, Richardson would sometimes stand by that same river and wonder what would have happened if he had been brave enough to jump. He would wonder if somewhere, in some city where a man could love who he chose to love, Finch was thinking of him too.

But memory is a cruel master, and the heart keeps its own accounts. Richardson lived the rest of his life between two waters—the river that had carried away his love, and the tears that he shed for all the freedoms he had been too afraid to claim.