by W. M. Fawkes
For Life
W.M. Fawkes
Sam Burns
Copyright © 2020 by FlickerFox Books.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
Content Warning: terminal cancer, biting, blood, hospital ICU
Cover art © 2020 by Designs by Morningstar; morningstarashley.com
Editing by Clause & Effect
Contents
1. Timothy
2. Michael
3. Timothy
4. Michael
5. Timothy
6. Michael
Also by Sam Burns & W.M. Fawkes
About Sam Burns
Also by Sam Burns
About W.M. Fawkes
Timothy
Timothy was going to die.
His parents said it was a punishment from God. He’d left home for school and moved across the country, left the church, “turned” gay—what else did he expect?
His teammates said it was rough, all while sharing uncomfortable smiles and sympathetic gazes. He hadn’t seen them since he’d stopped going to class two weeks ago.
His doctor said it was glioblastoma. It was the first of a string of new terms Timothy was expected to learn while his world crumbled around him. They’d all started to blur together—astrocytoma, lymphocytes, hypoxia, inoperable. The last he could parse out, but it blurred into the rest, just as incomprehensible.
His roommate, Robin Dubicki, said it was complete bullshit. It wasn’t going to happen.
“I just want you to call,” Robin insisted, brandishing Timothy’s own phone at him. Since he’d gotten home from class, he’d been riding Timothy’s ass about calling some podcast. He said the people who called in got what they needed—incredible, life-changing stuff. Already, he’d typed a number out. All Timothy had to do was hit call.
But it was a complete waste of time. Magic wasn’t real, and it would take a miracle to save Timothy’s life.
“Nope.” Timothy threw his arm over his eyes to block out the light from the screen. He’d spent all day on the couch while Robin had gone to class. He wasn’t going to graduate, so there was no sense in doing his homework. He’d dropped out weeks ago—they’d called it medical leave, but there was no going back. He wouldn’t be alive for that.
“You have to. Because,” Robin said, pushing Timothy’s arm out of the way, “because it’d do you some good to talk to someone outside all this. It might help.”
When Timothy slung his arm up again, Robin gripped his wrist. His thumb chafed the ridge of bone—shit, was he losing weight?—and he pulled it away from Timothy’s eyes again. “Sometimes these people can help. The Heart2Heart podcast is amazeballs. I’ve seen a bunch of callers posting about how calling in changed their life. Give it a shot?”
Robin sat down on the edge of the couch. His smile was full, his light blue eyes gleaming with hope, and Timothy sighed. Robin had been the first man to tell him how completely full of shit he was when he talked about how wrong it was to be gay, and the first man to stick around long enough to show him why.
Timothy had moved to the West Coast having never traveled past the Mississippi River. He’d spent his entire life up to that point on his knees for capital-G God, trying to convince everyone around him that his way—his church’s way—was the right one. From the Fellowship of Christian Athletes to summer mission trips to protesting the “liberal agenda,” he’d been a dyed-in-the-wool zealot, all the while stuffing down those parts of him that didn’t fit what he thought he should’ve been. All his life, he’d been told the things he wanted, the impulses he felt, were sinful. He’d swallowed it all down, never thinking how that kind of poison could burn him up from the inside out.
When he applied to school across the country, he wasn’t thinking about escaping, exactly. He’d just wanted something new, some space to be who he really was. He hadn’t gone off with the intention of changing everything about himself. Maybe he hadn’t done a complete one-eighty, but when he came out, it felt like he’d turned his back on everything he’d ever known. His parents sure thought so.
It was Robin’s patience, his confidence, that’d given Timothy the safety to finally admit he was gay. So now, when his best friend asked him to call into a podcast to whine about his shitty life, Timothy didn’t have much choice but to do it. He owed Robin that much.
He groaned, snatching the phone. “Fine.” With his thumb hovering over the button, he cocked a brow. “But I’m not spilling my guts while you’re sitting here staring at me like that.”
Robin laughed. “Fine. I’ll go get ready. After this, I’m taking you out.”
Timothy flinched back into his pillow. “Not a chan—”
“You cannot stay on the couch all day, Tiny Tim. We’ve got to get you some positive life experiences to hang onto.”
Oh shit. He did not like the grin spreading on Robin’s face.
“We are going to get you laid,” Robin announced, like that was the solution to all life’s problems. For Robin, it seemed to be.
Before Timothy could tell him what a hugely fucking awful idea that was, he darted off to his bedroom, probably to find a crop top and go-go boots.
Alone in the dim light of the living room, Timothy traced the texture of the soft throw blanket with his middle finger. As dismissive as he wanted to be about the whole idea, he did want that—to get laid. He’d kissed guys before, fooled around a little, but there always came a point where he held himself back. For so much of his life, he’d stuffed himself down. And now that he was out, after being so wrong about everything, did he really deserve to connect with anyone on that level?
Hell, his parents had taken him to protest in Washington when gay marriage had been legalized. Why did he deserve any of the things he’d protested his own right to have?
Well, no time for that. No time for anything. Timothy’s only chance now was a one-night stand. He couldn’t start a relationship just to have the guy watch him wither away.
He lifted his phone. Biting his lip, he glanced down the hall to make sure Robin had disappeared. The radio was on in his room. No way he’d hear anything Timothy said.
He could absolutely fake it, call and not leave any kind of message. Timothy wasn’t sure he believed in much anymore, but Robin had so much faith in him. And he believed in this. Timothy couldn’t lie to him.
He hit send.
The whole time the phone rang, his stomach twisted up like a pretzel. This was ridiculous. He didn’t have the words to pour into an answering machine of a podcast that was probably only equipped to deal with relationship problems.
Still, when the mailbox invited him to open up, his feelings spilled out of him. Awkwardly—god, he hoped they wouldn’t play this on their podcast.
“Hi, so, my roommate wanted me to call, to, I don’t know, talk about . . .” Timothy stared up at the ceiling. “To talk about cancer, I guess. I, uh, was diagnosed about a month ago, and, like, it doesn’t look good.”
Timothy tugged on a loose thread on the blanket. “And I guess that sucks, because I’ve been a dumbass forever, and it feels like I was finally getting my life on track, you know? Like, school’s going okay. I’m pretty good at lacrosse. Making friends. I, um, I came out. That was a whole thing, but just—I’m not . . .” All of a sudden, the world spun. The small table lamp behind Timothy’s head was too bright. His eyes stung, so he squeezed them shut and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m not ready to give it up.”
His breath escaped in a shaky exhale. “But I’m going to have to. I’m dying. And I just”—his voice broke—“I just wish there were some way I could hold onto my life, all the progress I was making. Get . . . better.”
Blinking tears from his eyes, Timothy swallowed past the lump in his throat. This was ridiculous. He was crying at nobody. “Anyway, thanks for listening, I guess. Have a good day?”
Suave. Anyone who listened to his voicemail would be best served deleting it right off.
He hung up and took another shaky breath. His chest trembled, and he squeezed his eyes shut tight. He couldn’t do this, pretend like everything was normal. Not even for Robin—not even if Robin was promising something Timothy really wanted.
Robin bounced into the doorway from the hall. “Done?”
“Yeah, I’m done.”
As stupid as it felt to talk to someone’s voicemail, maybe when his breath stopped shaking, the air would come a little easier. He could be vulnerable to strangers in a way he couldn’t with people who were counting on him to get better—or at least to try.
When he thought he could hold it together, he looked over, and Robin held out his arms and sashayed in a circle. “You like?”
Timothy grinned. Robin’s pants were painted to his body, gleaming and as gold as his light hair. “I love. You look fabulous.”
“I know.” Robin turned up his chin. “What are you going to wear?”
With a huff, Timothy pushed his legs off the couch and turned to sit up. He was wearing an old white T-shirt and his gray sweats. He hadn’t bothered changing when he’d crawled his way from bed to the couch to alternate between rewatching Sense8, napping, and staring at the ceiling.
“You saying this isn’t acceptable club wear?” Timothy gestured down at himself, earning an exaggerated eye roll from his roomie.
“Absolutely not. If we’re going out, we’re going out with a bang. And banged.” Robin swooped in and grabbed Timothy’s hand. “Come on. I’m giving you a makeover.”
It was way too easy to hand the reins over to Robin. Timothy didn’t care what he wore or where they went as long as Robin was smiling. For a little while, he even allowed himself to believe that Robin’s hope was enough to beat all the darkness back.
His best friend could accomplish a lot with a smile, a flutter of his eyelashes, a sway of his hips. And sure, it was a little cold out. No one, not even the severe-looking bouncer out front, wanted to watch Robin shiver on the sidewalk when he could be dancing inside.
Getting in the club was no problem, and the second they were, Robin started scanning the crowd. “We need to find you a Daddy.”
All the air punched out of Timothy’s lungs. “What?”
There were things he looked up at home alone on the internet for fun, and then there was that D-word, casually thrown around like that was a thing they could find here.
Smirking, Robin swayed toward him and shrugged, the very picture of innocence despite how some of the men in the club were already starting to gawk at him. He grabbed Timothy’s hands and squeezed tight, like he just knew what Timothy’d always wanted, even though he was scared to say those words out loud himself.
“Tell me,” Robin said. “Was Captain America hotter before or after he grew a beard?”
“After.” Timothy’s answer was immediate.
“So”—Robin’s arm twined through Timothy’s—“we need to find you someone who knows what they’re doing. Someone who knows how to take care of little Timmy.”
Timothy’s heart sped up. “Okay, I’m gonna need you to never call me that again.”
“What do you think about him?” Robin pulled his attention toward the bar, where a big, tall, dark-haired man in jeans and a red flannel shirt was smiling at him.
Timothy stared, his mouth going dry. “I think he’s got a better beard than Captain America.”
Squeezing his arm, Robin leaned in. “Damn straight. That’s better than America’s beard. So you’re gonna go talk to that hot lumberjack, or I’m gonna make you dance with me in front of everybody.”
Normally, Timothy would’ve flinched at the idea of dancing out there in the middle of the floor. His flag wasn’t waving quite that high yet. But he could barely hear Robin’s threat. The guy—lumberjack man with the sexy trimmed beard—tipped his head invitingly, and Timothy only had one syllable left for Robin.
“ ’Kay.”
Michael
The vampiric community was full of old people who looked forever young, but deep down, belonged in nursing homes. Or a step beyond nursing homes, if that were possible.
“Are you serious about this place, Michael?” Luke shouted, far louder than necessary, to be heard over the music in the club. “I can’t hear myself think.”
Michael raised a brow at him and responded in his natural speaking voice, “I’d have thought you’d be happy they took the lyrics out. What heathens, to put words to music, right?” He shook his fist at nothing in particular. “Darn those kids, ruining everything with their hot running water and untainted food!”
Luke was a good friend, and a good man, but he was definitely one of those vampires who was struggling to remain tethered in the modern world. He didn’t like modern music or modern food, and he downright refused to carry a cell phone, let alone a smart phone.
Michael had been an early adopter, and why not? His Apple shares were worth more every year.
Having gone from the horrors of triage tents in the Civil War to squeaky sterile hospitals that could save lives, not just struggle to avoid losing a precious few, Michael fucking loved the modern world. Luke still called the misery of their youth “the war between the states,” like the long dead great-great-great grandfather he was. Michael called it a lesson in why there was no such thing as the good old days.
Luke waved him away. “Do you honestly pick these kids up for dinner? Or are you trying to date someone a fraction of your age?”
“Why?” Michael asked. “Do you think I should be trawling nursing homes for someone half my age? Everyone is a fraction of my age.”
Luke sighed sadly and nodded. Unlike Michael, he longed for the “good” old days. Considering the fact that they’d lived them—and died—together, Michael didn’t know how.
He’d performed a surgery three days earlier on a little girl who, in their youth, would have been dead by the time anyone had realized she was sick. As it was, she had an excellent chance at seeing adulthood.
Michael was just accepting his drink from the bartender—their top shelf bourbon, neat, because he was willing to be old fashioned about a thing or two—when Luke’s mouth fell open and his eyes went round, staring at the door.
Michael tipped the bartender and casually turned to look. Anything that put that expression on Luke’s face had to be good.
When he laid eyes on the man in the tiny gold hot pants, he had to hold back his laughter.
“This is not funny,” Luke whispered furiously. “We live in the rain capital of the universe. He’s going to get rained on on the way home and die of pneumonia.” He started yanking at his jacket, like he was planning to rip it off and cover the young man up.
“He’s not going to die of pneumonia.” Michael put a hand on his best friend’s and looked him in the eye. “Which of us is still a doctor? That’s an old myth.”
Luke sighed and leaned against the counter, then petulantly looked back over at the scantily clad boy. Unless Michael missed his guess, there was some combination of want and jealousy in his eyes.
That was when Michael noticed the young man with the hot-panted spectacle. While the scantily clad man was beautiful, he wasn’t Michael’s type at all. He liked the club, and the music, and even dancing, but he was never one to be the center of attention. That kind of thing was dangerous when you were a creature that wasn’t supposed to exist, flying under the radar of a world full of camera phones.
But the young man who had come in with little Mr. Hot Pants . . . he was right up
Michael’s alley. His jeans and T-shirt were on the tight side, showing off a leanly muscled, athletic body, but his hands were in his pockets, and he looked a little uncomfortable.
Michael wanted nothing more than to go over there and make him comfortable.
He couldn’t help it. He was a fixer.
Meanwhile, as much as Luke would never admit it, hot-pants guy wasn’t just his type, he was precisely who Luke would have been, had he been born in the twenty-first century. Well, except that with Luke’s cool pale coloring and black hair, he’d have chosen something like hot pink.
Heh. Hot pink hot pants.
Michael was still grinning when he caught the other man’s eye and gave him a wink. The guy turned and looked behind him, like he didn’t believe he was the most delicious thing in the whole damn club. With a friend who was so good at being the center of attention, that probably wasn’t a huge surprise.
Michael wasn’t the kind of guy to let ideas like that go unchallenged, so he inclined his head toward the bar in a silent invitation to a drink and raised his brows. The guy actually looked around again and pointed at himself in question. Michael couldn’t help but grin at that, so he didn’t try. He nodded and waved the man over.
His reward was a nervous expression, bitten lip, and then the man started toward him. Excellent.
“Are you sure he’s over age?” Luke asked from beside him. “He looks twelve.”
“He looks nothing of the kind, and they card at the door, remember?” Michael motioned to get the bartender’s attention, so he’d be able to order the young man a drink. “Now go dance with your golden crush so I can talk to him without my grandpa listening in.”