by Jude Sierra
He didn’t know if it was a confession he wanted or an apology—ease or tenderness. He didn’t know what he could do to fix tonight, but he could at least help Erik with his shoes. River unzipped Erik’s jacket. It would need to be laundered, and even then River wasn’t sure it was salvageable. Blood was smeared across Erik’s torso. The bandage was bigger than River had expected, a too-stark white that stood out even against Erik’s pale skin.
“C’mon,” River said. In the bathroom, he sat Erik on the toilet and began to run the water to warm it up. “Does it hurt?”
“River—” Erik’s hands on his waist were so gentle. Looking down into Erik’s eyes in the fluorescence of his bathroom was too familiar. How many times would they do this? “I’m sober.”
River’s eyes must’ve spoken for him, because Erik sighed.
“C’mon, I’m serious,” Erik mumbled. “And yeah, it hurts.”
Never trust an addict. Hadn’t Val taught him that? His mother? Not that Erik was an addict, unless pain and penance counted as addiction.
“Okay,” River said. He ran his fingers over the shorn hair behind Erik’s ears. “Let me get a washcloth.” He touched Erik’s cheek, examining the damage. “Ready?”
“I can do this,” Erik assured.
Don’t ask me to trust that you can take care of yourself.
“I know.” He looked into Erik’s eyes. “But I want to.”
He wiped Erik’s torso carefully with a warm washcloth. River remembered discovering that Erik was ticklish—Erik’s indignation and surprised laughter. No one laughed when he traced the line of the Svara up his ribs. Why do you want to poison everything you touch? Erik flinched, soft in River’s hands, and whispered a gentle, “It’s okay, keep going.” River knelt next to Erik. Kissed his bicep. His forehead barely touched the Ouroboros placed there. He’d used colors for healing. How foolish, to think that some ink and a too-big heart could fix this man.
Erik’s palm was hot, wrapped around the back of River’s neck. “All set?”
“Yeah. Let me get you a shirt. Can I get you anything else? Water? Food?”
“River, I’m fine.”
“No, it’s not a problem.” River shifted his weight from one foot to another. “We have some leftovers—”
“Babe, please, chill.”
It was only with training in mindfulness and how to move his body that kept River from rearing back, or walking away. Instead, he clenched his fists, curled his toes, three of them cracking and popping.
Erik hooked a finger in one of River’s belt loops. “That was—”
“No, no. It’s fine.” River stepped away, couldn’t let himself be pulled in. “You must be tired.”
Erik closed his eyes. River felt his sigh in each bone, echoing in the pit of his stomach. “Yeah.”
…
River woke at the first spill of sunlight, when dawn was orange and gold. Erik was curled away from him, on his good side. River watched him breathe, traced every line and curve of his Svara. Like this, still and farther away than usual, River could see every imperfection in his work. Erik loved the tattoo; he loved everything River had put on him. But he could have done better.
He climbed over Erik as carefully as he could. In the kitchen, Pax was making coffee.
“You working today?” he mumbled.
“Pax, it’s Saturday. Of course I work.” River never could pass up on the money he made on weekends even when things weren’t tight. He didn’t know if he would cave and give his mother the money she needed. But if River was going to live always trying to be ready when others failed him, he might as well be ready to fail himself.
Matted hair flat against one side of his head, shirtless and with flannel pants barely hanging on, Pax’d had a rough night, River could tell. He got like this from time to time, and River still had no clue what he got up to or where he did it. “Fuck this noise,” he said. “I’m going back to bed.”
River snickered and took the empty mug Pax had set out. Angry always looked sweet on him.
“Hey.”
River startled, badly. “Jesus, warn a guy,” he said. Erik came up behind him. His hands over River’s belly and his lips on River’s shoulder resonated remorse or apology. It did nothing for his heart, though, which was still jumping in his chest. River pulled away.
“Coffee?”
Erik blinked. “Sure?”
River smiled, trying his own hand at soothing the confusion written on Erik’s face. “Go sit. I’ll bring it out to you.”
“It doesn’t hurt that much,” Erik groused.
“Just go.” He folded his lips into fondness, softened his eyes, and thankfully, only had to maintain the pretense for the moment it took Erik to leave.
A knock at the door took him by surprise. Coffee splashed over his hand when he jolted. He gasped over a curse and squeezed his eyes shut. “What the fuck?” River put the coffee down and wiped his now burning hand on his pants. He wrenched the door open to find Steve on the other side, a bag of bagels in one hand, phone in the other.
“Oh, shit,” River groaned and banged his head against the door. “I forgot.”
“Of course you did.” Steve pushed past him. “We agreed, bagel and bitch da— Oh.”
River took the bagels from him. He glanced over his shoulder and watched Erik’s gaze sharpen, head tilted and lips pursed. His brows furrowed, and he shifted to get a better look at Steve, who stared from the doorway, surprise filling the silence.
“Uh, so. Steve, this is Erik.” River put the bag next to the half-filled mug of coffee. There was a small puddle of it on the floor. “Erik, this is Steve. No, don’t get up—”
Steve’s lips pulled down in a grimace. “Yeah, no. Don’t. You look—your face—”
“Has seen worse,” Erik interrupted.
“Stephen Bailey, shut up,” River said, hissing under his breath in the hopes that Erik might not hear. “Sit. I’ll get you both coffee.”
“Riv, I can get it.” Steve’s brow furrowed. River pushed his shoulder lightly.
In the kitchen, River shook his hands out and poured more coffee, only spilling a little. He closed his eyes and inhaled, mindful of his lungs filling and the buzzing anxiety in his body, held it for a suspended moment then exhaled, imagining that anxiety pouring back out, dissipating into the quiet.
The too quiet.
Steve and Erik sat, utterly still, regarding each other. Of all the moments for them to become real to each other, River could think of few worse.
“Here.” He shoved Steve’s coffee at him unceremoniously. Steve snorted but blessedly kept his mouth shut.
“Thanks,” Erik said, taking it from River. “Is your hand okay?”
It was red but not really burned. “It’s fine.” He sat next to Erik and twisted their fingers together, trapped in anxiety he couldn’t shake off and the tension ratcheting between his lover and best friend.
“River told me you fight,” Steve said. His eyes moved from one bruise to the next. River resisted the urge to kick him.
“Yeah.” Erik’s voice was even, but his shoulders were rigid with nerves, poorly masked by posturing that perhaps only River could read.
“Looks a little rougher than I imagined.” Steve offered a conciliatory smile.
“It’s probably nothing like you imagined.” Erik’s lips squirmed into a mean half smirk.
“Erik,” River said, a small warning. He touched the back of Erik’s hand.
“I should go,” Erik said, refusing to be gentled. His wince was too pronounced, his stitches most likely pulling as he tried to push off the couch.
“Hey,” River said, low and only for him. Erik’s eyes were tight, his lip red from being bitten. Here was his fear, one River had never read. He wanted to be good enough, River realized. Erik wanted to be but had no idea how. “Don’t leave.”
“Don’t think I could if I wanted to,” Erik said on a sigh.
“Do you need something? All I have is Tylenol.
”
Erik shook his head. His hand on River’s thigh was warm and tight.
“C’mon, tough guy.” River touched Erik’s cheek. “A couple days off, a few good meals, maybe a movie marathon, and you’ll be back on your feet.”
Erik leaned into the touch for the briefest moment before rolling his eyes. “Sure, pretty boy. Whatever you say.”
River laughed. Steve hadn’t moved, still watching. River cleared his throat. “So, I kind of forgot that Steve and I had breakfast plans—”
“Okay, first of all, what the hell is going on?” Steve broke in. He pulled his fingers through his already messy hair and barreled on without waiting for an answer. “Second, when River said you were a fighter, he didn’t say you did…” Steve gestured to all of Erik with a wave of his arm. “…this. What exactly is this?”
“Steve,” River warned.
Erik licked his lips and turned his gaze to the floor.
Steve’s eyes flashed, a cutting, startling, blue that clearly read shut up. River flinched. He couldn’t remember ever having been on the receiving end of that look. Steve tried to find Erik’s gaze, but Erik refused to look at him. “The thing is, River sees the best in people. Which people take advantage of—”
“Okay, that’s enough.” River grabbed Steve by the arm and bustled him toward the door before he could do any more damage. He closed the door behind them. “What is your problem?”
“I can’t believe you,” Steve said, too loudly. “I can’t believe you lied to me.”
“I never lied—”
“Lying by omission is lying, River. You want me to be on your side but then shut me out and push me away. That guy’s trouble.”
“You have got to be kidding me. You sat in a room with him for ten minutes. You don’t know shit!”
“I know you, River. I know when you’re messed up over someone, and you’ve been a wreck for weeks. I thought, I really thought, that it was something I was doing wrong. I get it now. How can you tell yourself you weren’t lying when you were hiding that?” Steve was flushed with anger, lips whitening and cheeks pinking. He gestured toward the door. “He’s covered in bruises. He had… What even was that? Was he bleeding? This isn’t good for you, none of it, not him, not whatever it is he does, not who you’ve become with him—”
“Look, you’re not my mother—”
“Thank God, or you’d be surrounded by people fucking with you from all sides.”
“It’s a fucking expression, for God’s sake. Will you shut up?” River modulated his voice; neither the neighbors nor Erik needed to hear this. “This… It’s not usually like this, okay? Not this bad, at least. You can’t see somebody when they’re at their worst and know any of their best. But to be perfectly honest, that’s beside the point. You don’t need to protect me. I can take care of myself.”
“Sure, it’s not usually like this. Is that how you’ve justified the way you’ve been acting?” Steve said through a laugh. “River, you’re gonna end up with another broken heart.”
“You need to leave… Now.” It wasn’t often that River got mad. Not like this. The kind that broke things, that laid waste to others and himself.
“River.” Steve reached for him, a hand to the shoulder River didn’t want.
He knocked it away. “Just go.” River backed into the apartment and shut the door behind him. The wood was cool against his flattened palms and forehead.
Chapter Thirty-One
Erik listened to River and Steve’s fight escalate on the other side of the door. He winced at the accusations—the truth—and gripped the hot coffee cup between his folded hands. You’ve been a wreck for weeks. Erik closed his eyes. Thank God, or you’d be surrounded by people fucking with you from all sides.
There it was. River’s mother. Erik dredged up the expression River had worn after the first Warehouse fight, when Erik had told him about the coke. It matched the strange, guarded look that masked River’s face when Erik had shown up weeks later, slowed and gentled by Xanax, and had lingered since. He remembered the way River flinched when he spoke of her, deflected and closed up. He didn’t want to jump to conclusions, but Steve’s tone was enough to add to his suspicion.
River slipped inside and closed the door. Erik stared at his shoulders, mapped the tension there, and noticed the slight shake in his hands.
“You okay?” Erik asked.
“I’m fine.” River cracked his neck and nodded. He picked up the abandoned bag of bagels and shook them at Erik. “You want one of these?”
“You’re joking, right?” Erik narrowed his eyes. His heart pounded, and he glanced away, unsure if he should stay or go. “River—”
“No, I’m not joking. Are you hungry? I’m hungry.” River’s lips were pressed in a thin line. He stalked into the kitchen and Erik made the painful turn so he could see him over the breakfast bar. River tore at the bag with nervous, trembling hands. “I bought that cream cheese you like the other day, the jalapeño one. I’m sure there’s an everything bagel—”
“River, c’mon, would you stop?” Erik set his coffee cup on the table and threaded his fingers through his hair. The apartment was in a state of silent unrest, living in the moment before something shatters. He closed his eyes and tried to will it away. River’s breathing went rigid. The bag crinkled when he stopped digging in it.
“You need to eat something, Erik.”
“Weren’t you just yelling at your best friend about being able to take care of yourself? I don’t need you coddling me, either, all right?”
“Someone has to.” River stepped out of the kitchen. Anger sharpened him, turning his soft, boyish charm into deep lines and unmistakable stubbornness. “Since you’re doing such a good fucking job of it yourself,” he snapped, gaze flicking from Erik’s torso to his eyes.
Erik’s jaw flexed. He looked away, toward the floor and then the hallway. His throat burned. Explanations came to a screeching halt.
“Look at you, Erik.”
“I know,” he said through an irritated sigh.
“You don’t.”
“I know, River!”
“You don’t!” River shouted. His chest heaved. He waved his arm and gestured to Erik with a jerky flick of his hand. “You’re covered in bruises. Covered. Your ribs weren’t even remotely healed from your last fight. You…” He paused to swallow and inhaled another deep breath. Whatever had held River together was gone, and this, his fury, silenced the compassion and worry from the night before. “You’re using. You’re not taking care of yourself. I mean, come on, Erik, you got into a cage with a fucking lunatic and came out with three inches of stitches, and—”
“I said, I know!” Erik’s voice trampled over River’s. “You think I’m not aware? You think I don’t know? I’m fucking everything up. My body, myself—”
“Me,” River interrupted. A sad laugh clung to the word. His nostrils flared, cheeks blotched red. “You’re fucking me up, but that doesn’t matter, does it? It’s about you, right? Your shit, your life, your goddamn ghosts.”
Erik’s heart lurched. River’s accusation hit him like a fist, and it would bruise just the same. They’d both carried secrets—ugly, vicious things. But Erik hadn’t imagined how deep River’s went, how those same secrets shaped fear and distance inside him. Not until right then, standing before him, speechless and wounded in more ways than one. He chewed on the inside of his cheek, running his tongue over the gash Locke had bestowed, and allowed the silence to creep back in. It was enough time for River’s breathing to escalate, for what he’d said to take up space.
It was the truth. They both knew it.
“I should go,” Erik whispered. He stood and reached for his shoes.
River’s venom wasn’t gone, but his voice quieted. “That’s the plan, isn’t it? You’re leaving. Going to Texas, right?” He folded his arms across his chest and shook his head. “Right?”
“Yeah, well, maybe I should. I don’t wanna fuck you up any worse,” Erik sa
id, eyes on the floor, voice lost in the sea of River’s anger, mouth shaping words he knew were eviscerating the best thing he’d had in a long time. He shrugged on his jacket and ignored the scrape of crusted blood.
“You don’t get to walk out now,” River snapped, but his voice betrayed him, watery and too full. He grabbed Erik’s hand, stopping him before he got to the door. “Please, just…” River sounded helpless and exhausted. “Erik, don’t.”
Erik turned to look at him. He traced the shadowed line between River’s brows where confusion met anger, recognized the acute flash of pain that lived behind River’s eyes. “I know what I am,” Erik said softly. “I know what I’ve done. You need to think, okay? We both do.”
“No, don’t tell me… I don’t—I just—”
Erik thumbed at River’s jaw, cradled his chin in a gentle, feather-light squeeze. “Bye, babe.”
River leaned forward when Erik dropped his hand. A breathy wait came from River, gasped and sudden, but Erik shut the door and didn’t look back. He limped down the stairs. Wet tires shushed through rain-soaked streets. He zipped his jacket and replayed River’s voice again and again.
You’re fucking me up. You’re leaving.
Erik swatted a tear off his cheek. His phone didn’t ring. River didn’t follow him.
“Okay,” Erik whispered to himself. He swallowed the lump in his throat and tried to breathe. “Okay,” he said again.
A storm brewed overhead.
He swiped another tear away and hoped for rain.
…
Ten weeks.
That’s the time it took for Erik to understand the mortality of love. That love could prowl around him, hungry, and would inevitably tear him apart. He sifted through the beginning. Lust that hit like something else. Tenderness that made him reconsider brutality. Intensity that turned into familiarity. Erik was accustomed to cycles. He knew his well, the one-night stands, the emotional distance, the emptiness after, and the snipped strings.
Ten weeks ago, Erik’s cycle warped and broke.
He dabbed antiseptic on his stitches and taped a fresh bandage over his side. Silence filled every corner of the studio, broken by the muffled clank of dishes and chatter from the kitchen below. He glanced at the bathtub and remembered River’s voice, shredded and raw, saying his name.