Murmuration

by T. J. Klune

  “I know,” Mike says. “It’s… an island. Or… I don’t know. There’s nothing. Outside.”

  Sean turns to look at him, eyes wide and frightened. Mike hates that he’s scared him. “Out… side?”

  “Of Amorea. Sean, there has to be an outside of Amorea. There has to be the whole world.”

  Sean laughs, but there’s no amusement in his voice. “I don’t understand.”

  “I know,” Mike says. “And that’s okay.” Because he’s starting to get a little hopeful, maybe more than he should, but it’s there. Maybe this is all it takes. “We’ll figure it out. There has to be something we can—”

  Sean’s eyes roll back up into his head, his body tensing like he’s being electrocuted.

  “No!” Mike cries. “Goddammit, no!”

  He’s able to catch Sean before he hits the ground. It’s close, but he won’t ever hurt Sean more than he already has.

  It takes almost an hour for Sean to wake up, shorter than the time before, but it still feels like an age. Mike sits with Sean cradled to his chest, face buried in his hair, rocking them back and forth.

  And this time, when he wakes, his migraine has returned worse than ever.

  “Hey,” he croaks when he opens his eyes. “Oh damn. Oh shit, that hurts. Mike, oh Mike, my head, it hurts.”

  “I know,” Mike says. “I know, and I’m sorry.”

  IT’S POKER night with the boys.

  Sean’s at home, still recovering from the day before. He’s on the mend, almost back to his usual self. He says he just needs one more night of good sleep, and he’ll be right as rain, bet your fur. “Can’t be sick for the Harvest Festival,” he says, eyes sparkling. “Got a date with a handsome man.”

  And because Mike needs this, needs to give him this, he plays along. “Yeah? Someone I know?”

  “Maybe,” Sean says coyly, and it’s sweet and tears his heart to little pieces. “He’s big. And strong. And his eyes.” He sighs. “Dreamy.”

  Mike snorts. “Don’t know that I can compete. Sounds like quite the catch.”

  The just-for-Mike smile flashes, quick and radiant. “He is.” He leans in and brushes his lips against Mike’s. He feels it all the way down to his toes. “See you in the morning, big guy?”

  “Yeah,” Mike says.

  “Yeah,” Sean says with a little laugh. “Have fun with the boys.” Mike stares after him for a moment too long, even after the door is closed.

  And here he is, feeling ridiculous that he’s sitting in Happy’s house around the kitchen table, cards in his hand, a Falstaff sweating at his elbow. Happy and Donald and Calvin are bickering around him and he’s thinking, This is all there is. This is all that I have. And it’s enough. It can be enough. It’s been enough. And it still will be.

  “Mike.”

  He looks up. The others are staring at him. “What?” he says, trying not to sound defensive.

  “You all there, buddy?” Calvin asks.

  “Yeah,” Mike says. “I’m here.”

  He thinks, Are you?

  “He’s daydreaming,” Donald snorts, elbowing Calvin. “Thinking about Sean.”

  They all sigh and flutter their eyes at him.

  He blushes furiously. It’s his curse.

  They laugh at him, and he laughs with them, and thinks, Yeah, this can be enough. You might not be real, or I might not be real, or I might just be crazy, but this is enough. This is enough. This is—

  There’s a knock at the door.

  “Huh,” Happy says. “Didn’t think he’d show.” He pushes himself up from the table with a grunt and moves toward the door.

  “Who is it?” Mike asks Calvin and Donald.

  Calvin shrugs. “Probably Walter.”

  Donald says, “You gonna look sharp for the Harvest Festival?”

  “Oh, Mrs. Richardson will make sure of it,” Calvin. “If she had her way, Mike here would be in a suit and tie every day.”

  “That woman,” Mike mutters. “She’s—”

  “Boys, good to see you.”

  Mike’s hands shake. Just a little.

  “Doc,” Calvin says, a wide smile splitting his face. “Long time, no see! How the heck are ya?” He stands and shakes Doc’s hand, pumping it furiously.

  “Good,” Doc says, sounding amused. “Thought I could use a night out, so here I am.”

  “Here you are,” Donald echoes. “Well, pull up a chair. Getcha a cup of tea? Happy’s got the beans and weenies cooking in the Simmer Crock. Should be good to go soon.”

  “That sounds lovely,” Doc says.

  “Get you served right up, Doc,” Happy says as he and Donald head for the kitchen.

  Doc says, “Mike. How are you?”

  Mike hears, What do you know about schizophrenia, Mike? What do you know about being fucking insane? What do you know about losing your goddamn mind?

  “Good,” Mike says. “Everything’s good.”

  It’s not good, he thinks. Because I don’t know what I am. I don’t know what you are. I don’t know what’s happening. Events are happening, Doc. They’re happening, but I’m the only one who knows. I’m the only one who knows that something’s wrong. And gosh, doesn’t that just sound paranoid? Isn’t that what you told me? “There are subsets to schizophrenia,” you said. “Did you know that? It’s not all the same. There are types, Mike. There’s paranoid schizophrenia, which causes you to question things that you didn’t question before.”

  “That’s nice to hear,” Doc says. He pulls out the chair next to Mike and sits.

  Mike just downs the rest of his beer.

  The night passes. It’s loud and raucous, and maybe Mike’s a little quieter than he normally is, and maybe he catches Doc watching him curiously every now and then, but that’s the only thing that’s off. Happy’s drunk again, and goddammit that’s… amore.

  “I really do love that song,” he says, cheeks flushed, eyes slightly glazed.

  “We know,” Donald and Calvin groan at the same time.

  Doc laughs.

  Mike thinks, Do you know more than you’re saying? Do you know anything about this? You seemed awfully quick to point out schizophrenia when you did. How did you even think that? Why didn’t you ask me about my family’s medical history? I don’t know it, I don’t know where I came from, but why didn’t you ask?

  “It’s late,” Mike says. “I gotta get home. Shop will probably be busy tomorrow since I’m closed Saturday for Harvest Festival.”

  “You sure, Mike?” Happy asks. “It’s still pretty early.”

  “Next week,” Mike promises.

  He stands, as do the others. He shakes hands with his friends and they smile and promise to see him in the morning, even Happy, who’s probably going to have one hell of a hangover. He’s thinking of just ignoring Doc altogether, but then he’s saying, “I may as well head out too. Gotta make sure my medicine bag’s packed and ready for Saturday. Mike, I’ll walk with you.”

  Mike grows cold at that.

  The others bid them farewell, with only Happy stopping Mike at the door, hand on his arm. “You okay, buddy?” he asks, and Mike thinks, Bucko, bucko, someone used to call me bucko. Right? Or was that—

  “I’m fine,” Mike says, even though he wishes Doc hadn’t shown up at all tonight.

  “You’re a little drunk.”

  “Happy, that’s you.”

  “Damn right it is. I’m pro’bly gonna go pass out. Ain’t that somethin’?”

  Mike pats him on the shoulder. “It’s something, all right.”

  Doc’s waiting for him at the end of the walkway.

  He says, “I get the feeling you weren’t too happy to see me tonight.”

  Mike says, “Don’t know what you mean. You’re always welcome, Doc. You know that.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  Mike starts walking. Doc follows, of course. He lives on the next street past Mike. They go in the same direction.

  “I’d never say anything,�
� Doc says, huffing a little as he catches up to Mike.

  “About?”

  “About what we talked about.”

  “It’s nothing.”

  “It’s not nothing, Mike. You’ve gotta take care of yourself, you know?”

  “I am.”

  “How many more events?”

  It takes all Mike has to keep his face neutral. “None. I think it was probably just bad dreams.”

  “That right? Bad dreams, you say.”

  “Everyone has them.”

  “Do they? People here in Amorea have bad dreams? That’d be the first I’ve heard of it.”

  And that… well. That gives Mike pause. The only sounds around them are crickets chirping in the dark, and if it’s aliens, Mike thinks, or if it’s the Reds and their experiments, or if it’s just some old-fashioned Crazytown, then the attention to detail is astonishing. Because he can hear those crickets. He can see the way the grass on the lawns sways in the breeze. He can feel the chilly air around him, the air that smells like autumn.

  “People have bad dreams,” he says slowly. “It’s how things are. It’s part of life.”

  “So others dream,” Doc says, coming to stop in front of Mike. Not—okay, not quite blocking his way. He could go out into the street, after all (and just why do they have streets if they don’t drive #&*&&? #&*&&. #&*&&. He can’t do it. He can’t even make out the goddamn word). Doc’s just on the sidewalk in front of him. That’s it. “And they dream badly. And they tell you this?”

  No. No they don’t. But they have to. They’re human. It’s what they—“Sure,” Mike says.

  Doc frowns. “Mike.” Like he’s disappointed. “Could this just be another one of your delusions?”

  There it is. There’s that swell of anger that’s becoming familiar. It’s oily and writhes in his chest and stomach. “It’s not—”

  “Listen. Mike. We’re friends, right?”

  No. No, they’re not. They know each other. That’s it. He says, “What do you want?”

  Doc laughs. “I don’t want anything. I just want to make sure you’re happy. Are you happy here, Mike?”

  He is, yes. He’s happy. He has Sean. He has the guys back at Happy’s house. He’s got his bookstore. Yes, he’s happy. He’s good. If only he’d stop seeing and hearing things that weren’t there, if only he’d stop having someone else’s memories, if only he’d never tried to step outside Amorea as it was. Aside from that, yes. Yeah. Sure.

  He says, “Why do you care?”

  Doc shrugs. “It’s my job. The well-being of this town and its people. I’m the caretaker, after all. It’s why I became a doctor.”

  “Really?” Mike asks. “And when was that?”

  “Pardon?”

  “When did you become a doctor?”

  Doc laughs. “Years and years ago. I’m not the young man I—”

  “What year?”

  He stops laughing. “Why?”

  “Because I don’t think you can tell me.”

  “Of course I can, Mike. I just don’t see why it’s relevant. It’s—” He shakes his head. “I won’t be pulled into this with you, Mike. These… these events of yours. I just want to help you. I’m not going to say anything to anyone unless you ask me to. It’s part of the Hippocratic oath. Mike, I’m just worried about you. What if you hurt someone?”

  “I’m not going to hurt anyone, you—”

  “But you don’t know that for sure, do you?” Doc says, taking a step toward him. “You don’t know that for sure, Mike. You could be fine, just dandy, even. One moment everything is bright skies and stolen kisses, and the next you’re standing above someone you love as they cower beneath you, skin broken and bloody. You won’t know how you got there. You won’t know what happened. Do you know about that, Mr. Hughes? Do you know what it means to have someone absolutely terrified of you? Why it’s—”

  “What did you call me?” Mike whispers.

  “Mike,” Doc says. “I said Mike.”

  “You said Mr. Hughes.”

  Doc takes a step back. “You misheard me. That’s all.”

  “No, I didn’t. You called me Mr. Hughes. Are you okay there, Doc? Maybe you’re the one that’s hallucinating.”

  “It’s not like that—”

  And then Doc’s eyes slide unfocused, and his jaw slackens. He’s not falling forward, somehow able to keep himself propped up. But his shoulders slump and his head tilts forward, and it’s like he’s shutting down, like They Came from Outer Space and are turning him off. It lasts for four, six seconds.

  Then he coughs.

  Rolls his shoulders. Shakes his head.

  Looks up. Says, “Hey, Mike. I was just on my way to Happy’s to play poker. Must have gotten sidetracked. It got dark quick, huh?”

  This is the moment when Mike Frazier realizes there’s nothing he can do to stop it all from happening.

  So he doesn’t.

  exeunt

  XVIII

  THAT NIGHT, he lies awake, listening to the voices in the living room. He can hear them louder now. This doesn’t surprise him. He’s curious about what they say, but it’s a mild thing. Barely there.

  “You can’t go back. You can’t. You can’t go back in there, Malcolm.”

  “Julienne, look, it’s not as if—”

  “What are you hoping to do?”

  “You know what I’m doing. You know what this is for. You know what’s happening. What he is. What if we—”

  “At what cost?”

  “I don’t—”

  “At. What. Cost.”

  “It doesn’t matter. Not anymore. There’s no cost too great. Not now. Not if it means what we think it does. You’ve seen the scans. He’s reversing. No one has ever—”

  “I can’t watch you do this.”

  “I’m not asking you to. I’m asking you to do your job.”

  They fade out, after a time.

  It’s easier to fall asleep than he thinks it will be.

  IT’S EASIER the next day.

  Because yes, there’s slipping, and yes, his wrist itches, and yes, he sees starlings in the trees, but it’s easier. He hasn’t given up. He hasn’t accepted anything. But somehow, it’s easier.

  It’s easier to smile that morning in the diner. He makes fun of Happy as he groans about how his head hurts. He blushes when Sean calls him big guy and steals a kiss that Mike would have freely given. He laughs at Calvin and Donald as they shovel bacon down their throats just to see Happy turn a little green. He winks at Walter back in the kitchen. He says good morning to everyone he sees.

  “Hey,” Sean says before he leaves for Bookworm. They’re standing outside the diner around the back where Sean had been taking out the trash. The trash that never seems to pile up.

  Mike arches an eyebrow at him, because who cares about trash when it doesn’t matter?

  “I was thinking.”

  “Uh-oh.”

  “Har, har, real comedian over here.”

  “Tell me.”

  And Sean blushes, eyes darting left and away. He reaches up and rubs the back of his neck. Mike doesn’t think he’s ever seen anyone more handsome than him, even with grape jelly smeared on his apron and smelling like eggs. “I was thinking.”

  “About….”

  “Tomorrow’s the Harvest Festival.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Yeah,” he says. He huffs a laugh. “So. You don’t work tomorrow. And I don’t work tomorrow.”

  Mike can see where this is going, and it makes his skin buzz. “Right.”

  “Maybe I could, or you could, or—just.” He groans and covers his face with his hands. “I told myself not to make a big deal out of this.”

  “Sean.”

  He peeks out through his fingers. “Yeah?”

  “You want to stay with me tonight?” Or forever, but he doesn’t say that part.

  Sean nods, head snapping once, twice as he drops his hands. “Yeah, yes. Sure. Yeah, I’d like that. If that
’s okay with you. I don’t want to pressure you or anything. I know we’re taking it slow, even if we’re going steady now—”

  Mike doesn’t care about that anymore. He’s already so deep that slow is a distant memory. He can’t even be sure any of this is real, so why wait? Why not take what he wants? Why not finally get to see what he’s dreamed of since that first day, the sight of Sean stretched out in his bed, chest slick with sweat, mouth open and panting?

  He covers Sean’s mouth with one big hand, effectively shutting him up. Sean’s eyes are wide and only for Mike. Mike takes a step forward until his arm is folded between them. Sean’s back is against the side of the diner and Mike’s pressed up against him, enough so Sean knows he’s serious, but not enough to hurt him. “You want to stay with me tonight?”

  Sean nods.

  “In my bed?”

  Another nod.

  “This is really what you want?”

  Sean’s breathing heavily now, and not because Mike’s cutting off his air. Mike knows Sean can take care of himself, that he’s downright scrappy if he needs to be, but that doesn’t mean Mike won’t use his weight a little to hold him up or hold him down. He won’t hurt him. He never could. But he can sure as hell make sure Sean feels him.

  Sean’s pupils are dilated and Mike likes that. He likes that quite a bit. He laughs quietly, thinking that he can’t remember the last time he did this. For all he knows, he’s a virgin. How could he possibly know? But he does know what he wants, and it’s an itch that he wants to scratch, unlike his wrist.

  He’s grinning, and he knows it’s a dark thing, and he knows that all Walter has to do is stick his head out the back door and see that Mike’s got his waiter pinned up against the wall in an improper fashion, but Mike’s not sure he cares. Sean doesn’t either, by the feel of him. Mike’s a little reckless right now, a little punch-drunk, but he’s floating on this strange, vibrating cloud, and he’s not inclined to find a reason to stop.

  “I’ll be here,” he says. “At six. You be ready. We’ll go to your house. You can pack a bag for overnight. And then we’ll go home. That okay with you?”