Murmuration

by T. J. Klune

  Before he can, though, Sean’s nodding his head and biting his lip and Mike thinks, Wow, look at you, just look at you. Gosh, wow.

  “I’d like that,” Sean says. “If that’s what you want.”

  “Yeah, yes,” Mike says. “I want that,” and he’s squeezing Sean’s hand tightly, like he’s afraid that maybe this is a dream, and he doesn’t want it to be, even if it’s a good dream.

  “Good,” Sean says. And Mike watches as he scoots just a little bit closer until his head rests on Mike’s shoulder. Mike turns his own head slightly until his nose is in Sean’s hair, and he breaths in deeply, smelling soap and Brylcreem and coffee and the faintest hint of cigarette smoke.

  Mike thinks, This is mine. This moment. It’s mine. It’s ours. We made it, and it’s ours.

  IT’S LATER, and it’s almost dark. Mike’s walked Sean to his door like the perfect gentleman he is, and he’s nervous now. He’s nervous because those thoughts in the park, the ones about kissing lips or cheek, seemed so much easier then, when he had all the time in the world. Any choice was hours away, but it’s here now, and Mike is almost crippled with indecision.

  Man up, he tells himself. Man up.

  “I had a good time,” Sean says, that small smile on his face.

  “I did too.” Mike reminds himself that this is one of his best friends, and that they’ve been building up to this. He knows, mostly, how Sean feels about him. He knows him better than almost anyone else. He can take chances with him. He can step off ledges for him. That low swooping feeling in his stomach is something he wants again and again and—

  Sean says, “I want to do this more with—” but that’s all he gets out because Mike’s kissing him.

  Mike’s eyes are open, and Sean’s eyes are wide, and their lips are pressed together. Neither of them are moving, and it’s the smallest of pressures, but it’s good, it’s so good. Then Sean’s eyes flutter shut, and his hands come up slowly and settle on Mike’s hips, and he opens his mouth slightly and sighs. Mike feels the warm breath on his lips, and he moves then. He turns his head slightly and the angle is different, and he brings his big hands up, cupping Sean’s face, holding him close, not wanting him to ever pull away.

  His skin is buzzing, and he feels like maybe he’s floating just a little bit. It’s chaste, this kiss, and Mike’s breathing through his nose a little too loudly, but it’s everything he could have asked for. There’s the brush of a tongue against his bottom lip, there and gone again, and then they’re leaning their foreheads together and just breathing each other’s air. Sean’s eyes are still closed, but the corners of his eyes are crinkled, and he’s licking his lips like he’s trying to chase the taste of Mike.

  “That was…,” he says. “That was real good.” He sounds dazed.

  “Yeah,” Mike says.

  Sean’s eyes open. “Yeah, big guy.”

  Mike thinks, I want this. I want this forever.

  XI

  MIKE WAKES up at the beginning of the work week thinking about mountains. Nothing specifically about them, mind you, but his first thought when he opens his eyes is mountains and he’s brushing his teeth and thinking, mountains. He’s thinking about Sean too, like he always does, and he’s thinking about the week ahead, but then there’s mountains and it’s followed by We could. I can see it now, Mikey. We could go to them mountains.

  He doesn’t know where that came from.

  He doesn’t know why he’s thinking so much about the mountains.

  But they’re there as he showers, and there as he’s dressing. They’re there as he parcels out exactly one cup of kibble for Martin, who eyes him with faint disinterest, tail flicking back and forth. They’re there as he puts his wallet in his back pocket, and he can’t quite seem to shake them.

  Maybe he dreamed about them the night before.

  He doesn’t remember the dream if so.

  But that’s okay. He rarely remembers any of his dreams.

  He shakes his head, shutting the front door behind him. He’s probably just got a case of the Mondays.

  But he’s looking at them as he walks down the sidewalk. He’s distracted by them when the townsfolk greet him, bright and cheery, as they always do. They say, “Why, good morning to you there, Mike!” and “It’s gonna be a hot one today, bet your fur.” And he’s looking at the mountains around Amorea like he’s never seen them before. They tower around the little town, like they’re caging it in, and they’re picturesque as always, steep and snowcapped, and he responds with things like, “Yeah, nice to see you” and “Looks like,” but his heart’s not in it, because he thinks, Well, maybe I could just go to them myself.

  IT’S A usual weekday morning in the diner in that it’s loud, and Walter’s laughing brightly in the kitchen, shouting out order up order up as he rings the little bell with the spatula he uses to sling hash. One of the girls is weaving in and out of the tables, tray held high above her head. Another girl is at the lunch counter, pouring coffee. Mondays are always busy, and they have an extra pair of hands on in the morning as Sean can’t handle the rush by himself. Actually, Mike thinks, he probably could, but Walter never wants that kind of stress on him.

  Okay, maybe it’s not exactly the usual, because Sean’s sitting across from him in the booth, the picture of them sitting on the dock hung on the wall above them. It’s not the usual because Sean’s tangled his feet with Mike’s under the table, and Mike’s rather giddy about it, though he tries to keep a stern look on his face. He’s a grown man playing footsie underneath a table at a diner. He’s cringing internally, but doesn’t put a stop to it. Probably because Sean’s wearing such a dopey smile that Mike desperately wants to kiss.

  Sean’s pushing his buttons. He’s got to be. Probably trying to see how far and how much he can get away with, the little shit. He doesn’t seem to be fooled by the cool look on Mike’s face, hands wrapped around a cup of joe, eyes crinkled at the corners.

  This isn’t the usual. They don’t usually touch, not like this, but Mike knows things are changing now, things are moving forward instead of the odd stasis he’s been in for years. He’s cautious, sure, and has some trepidation, but that’s all on him. He doesn’t doubt this thing he has with Sean. He’ll never doubt Sean. He sometimes thinks that Sean’s still too young, that they’re too far apart in age, but the thought of Sean with anyone else makes him feel like punching something as hard as he can. Any fears he might have don’t measure up to the thrill of what they have now.

  It’s not the usual.

  But it’s good.

  “I’m trying to eat here,” Mike says, attempting to maintain some decorum, even though he knows it’s a losing battle.

  “Sure, big guy,” Sean says, sipping his coffee without ever looking away from Mike. And if that doesn’t send a bolt of heat through him, he doesn’t know what will.

  And maybe he’s getting better at this… thing between them, because he presses his foot right back against Sean’s and doesn’t think about what shade of red his neck is or how his hand is shaking slightly.

  He thinks, It’s okay to do this, now. It’s okay to touch.

  He thinks, When I go to the mountains, I need to take him with me.

  He stops, fork partway to his mouth, eggs dangling down.

  He frowns.

  Because he doesn’t know where such a thought came from.

  Sure, he was thinking about the mountains a lot this morning, but going to them? With Sean? Why, that’s just crazy talk. Isn’t it?

  Isn’t it?

  There’s a bright lance of pain through his head, quick and hot, causing his stomach to roll. The eggs fall off his fork, and he thinks, We should go up to those mountains.

  Sean says, “Hey, you okay?”

  And before Mike can answer (yes or no or I think something’s wrong because we gotta get up to those mountains, fo sho!) there are raised voices and a loud clatter behind him.

  “Goddammit,” Sean snaps, slamming down his cup, the coffee j
ostled and splashing onto the table. Sean’s up and out of his seat before Mike can even set down his fork.

  He turns to look over his shoulder and sees Daniel Houle of Houle’s Hats and George Kettner, who might be the closest thing to a town drunk they’ve got, pushing each other, faces twisted into thin snarls. Whatever argument they’re in has escalated quickly, because Mike didn’t even hear raised voices until they started shoving each other. Granted, he was distracted, but it’s something so out of the ordinary here in Amorea that he’d have thought he would have noticed the moment it started. People don’t fight here. Not to the point of where it’s physical.

  Sean’s running toward them, ready to put himself between them, and Mike’s not liking that, not at all. Yeah, there’s a huge part of him that knows that Sean can take care of himself, that he can be downright scrappy when he needs to be, but those men are angry, furious even, and it won’t take much for someone to throw a fist and things to get out of hand.

  He’s pushing himself up from his seat, ready to end this before it can go any further, when Sean catches an elbow to the face. It’s not done with any malicious intent; no, he’s sure that Daniel Houle is unaware that it even happened. But it does, and there’s a crack and Sean groans, staggering back a step or two, hands coming up to catch the first spurt of blood.

  Things change after that.

  Because Mike’s angry now.

  He’s pushing by Sean, Walter already at Sean’s side and pulling him back. Mike’s at Daniel Houle and George Kettner. He grabs each of them by the back of the neck as George hooks his arm back to throw the first punch. George is sweating and smells thickly of scotch, but Mike’s got a good grip on him and on Daniel, fingers digging in. He’s taller than them, and wider. He’s muscle-thick to their middle-age fat, but he never uses that to his advantage. Never uses it to intimidate, because a bully is a bully is a bully, no matter what the size.

  But he’s going to do it now, and is doing it, because there are dots of Sean’s blood on the floor, splattered and bright, and it’s driving Mike up the goddamn wall.

  He’s growling low in his throat and his palms are itching to smash the two idiots together, to break their noses, to make them feel pain, their blood on the floor, covering Sean’s so he doesn’t have to see it anymore. He’s thinking how easy it would be, how angry he is, how stupid these men are in front of him, and he can barely breathe around his anger.

  He hears a voice in his head, and it’s feminine, and she’s saying, You bastard, you fucking bastard, what the fuck is wrong with you, what are you doing, what are you doing, I’ll kill you, I’ll kill you because I hate you, and there’s a sickening throb in his head, and it pulls on him. He feels like he’s slipping, slipping, slipping, and he’s so goddamn angry when he thinks, I could do this, I really could, I’m capable of doing this, it’s in me, just look at what I can do.

  It passes, though. Somehow.

  One moment he’s drowning in it, the rage slipping over his head, and the next a plug has been pulled, and he’s draining until he’s empty.

  He’s in the diner. He’s in the diner and the two idiots are still trying to get at each other. He still thinks of smashing them together, but it’s not as strong. Instead, he pulls George one way and Daniel the other. Daniel, the idiot that he is, trips over his own feet and falls back against the nearest wall, knocking a couple of Walter’s photographs onto the floor, breaking the frames and glass.

  George is panting against the lunch counter, and he’s not a young man anymore, so Mike glares at him, watching his chest rise and fall, making sure he’s catching his breath, that the old ticker keeps right on ticking. He’s red in the face, but that could just be residual anger along with exertion. Or it could be that he’s always a bit red in the face, given how much he drinks.

  “Willy’s on his way,” Happy mutters near his right ear, and Mike nods stiffly, curling his hands into fists at his sides to keep from reaching out and knocking a few heads anyway. The constable was probably sleeping with his feet up on his desk anyway. Finally, the old codger has something to do.

  Once he’s sure that they won’t go after each other again, he’s turning back to Sean, who looks more pissed off than anything else. He’s glaring at Daniel and George, who seem more embarrassed and sheepish than on the verge of fisticuffs. His hand is at his nose, staunching the blood, and it’s not as bad as Mike first thought. His nose doesn’t look broken and may not even bruise. The flow of blood is sluggish, and Walter’s telling him to tip his head back while trying to shove twisted napkins up his nose.

  Walter takes a step back as Mike stands in front of them. Sean turns his glare to Mike, but it softens some. Mike puts a couple of fingers under Sean’s chin and tilts his head up, using his other hand to dab at Sean’s chin and mouth with a napkin Walter hands him.

  “He got lucky,” Sean mutters.

  He did, and Mike’s still a little angry, but he says, “Or maybe you ran right into that elbow. Watch where you’re going next time.”

  Sean’s eyes narrow briefly, but then he snorts and shakes his head. “Funny man,” he says, but allows Mike to wipe away the worst of the blood. “I could have had it, you know.”

  “I know,” Mike says. He does know that. Just because he wants to protect Sean from everything doesn’t mean Sean needs it. “I just had your back is all.”

  “Is that all?”

  Mike shrugs.

  “Well, just as long as you know I can handle myself.”

  “Better than most,” Mike agrees. “You’re even scary sometimes.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Just because I have a knight in shining armor doesn’t mean I’ll need to be rescued all the time.”

  Mike grins at him.

  Sean rolls his eyes, but his lips are quirking into a slightly bloody smile. “Don’t look so smug, big guy, or I’ll get to you next.”

  “Wouldn’t even dream of it,” he says, and Sean jerks his chin out of Mike’s hand, evidently fed up with being coddled.

  He steps around Mike, stalking toward Daniel and George, who wince at the sight of him. Walter has his arms crossed, face stony. Everyone else in the diner is whispering to each other, and Mike knows this will be the talk of the town by lunchtime. It’s exciting and new and positively scandalous, and he’s sure the phone lines will be ringing up and down Amorea even before he opens the bookstore. That doesn’t bother him. It’s just a part of small-town life.

  What does bother him, however, is that something like this even happened to begin with. Mike knows that tempers flare (his own does every now and then), but it’s no excuse, especially not in a public place like the diner.

  “You want to tell me what that was about,” he says. It’s not a question.

  George and Daniel glance at each other warily before looking back at Mike.

  “Well, see, here’s the thing,” Daniel says, and Mike’s reminded that Daniel is a bit of a smooth talker, says a lot without actually saying anything at all. He’s soft in all the ways Mike is not and has a pencil-thin mustache that makes him look like he’s got a dirty upper lip. Mike doesn’t actively dislike him (Mike can’t actually think of anyone he dislikes), but he’s not fond of him either. Granted, Mike’s only fond of a few people in Amorea, but the sentiment remains the same. Daniel is not high on Mike’s list of people he gives a damn about.

  (It probably doesn’t help, either, that Daniel told him once that he doesn’t have time for reading, that he doesn’t think a book could add any sort of enrichment to his life. Mike was slightly aghast, not really understanding how anyone could say such a thing and mean it. Sean just laughed at Mike, calling him a literary snob in that soft voice he sometimes gets when Mike’s the focus of his attention.)

  “Here’s the thing,” Daniel says again. “It’s just a matter of a difference of opinion.”

  “That right,” Mike says flatly. “And what would the different opinions be?”

  George snorts. “It’s rather simple. I feel he
should pay me for the work I did on the roof of his house. He feels otherwise.”

  George may be a drunk and may be in his cups more often than he’s not, but he’s a good handyman, and one that people call on regularly. In fact, the more he works, the more sober he is, something Mike cottoned on to quite early on in his time in Amorea. He makes sure he always has something for George to work on every couple of weeks or so, even if he has to make up a problem to get him out to the house. He knows others have followed his lead on it and done the same.

  “That true?” Mike asks Daniel.

  “It depends on what your definition of the truth is,” Daniel says.

  Mike growls.

  “It’s probably the same as mine,” he says quickly. “In fact, I know it is. And would you look at that, on the same page as always, you old so-and-so. Gosh, I’m glad we had this talk. I think I’ll just pay George and we can forget that this ever happened. Whaddaya say, George? Soon as the bank opens, you and me take a walk and I lay some green on ya?”

  “I suppose that would work,” George says. “Agreed-upon price?”

  Daniel glances quickly at Mike before looking back at George and chuckling nervously. “Yeah, sure, full price. Maybe even a little bonus for being such a stand-up guy and all.”

  “That works for me,” George says.

  “We done here?” Daniel says.

  Mike jerks his head toward Sean.

  “Right,” Daniel says with a grimace. “Sorry ’bout your nose, kid. Don’t even know my own strength sometimes, wouldn’t you believe that.”

  “It’s fine,” Sean says.

  “Do you want to hit him back?” Mike asks. “Even it up a little?”