Mystic Wonderful : A Hell Theory Novella

by Lauren Gilley

  “You don’t get to choose who helps me,” he said through gritted teeth, angry, suddenly – furious. It was one thing to take comfort in Tris’s presence in his delirium, quite another to be fully himself, and have Tris act like a dictator in front of medical professionals.

  Tris, standing with his arms folded, his clothes rumpled from having slept in them, cocked a brow and said, “You trust that Owen not to let you fall?”

  “I trust that he’s a professional, and that unlike you, he’s used to helping injured people get around, and, frankly, if you really want to know, he’s bigger than you. So. Yes. I trust him.” He could hear that he sounded petulant, but desperation was stirring in his belly, crawling up his throat, threatening to choke him. This charade couldn’t continue, or he would start to believe it, and that would be too cruel for words.

  Tris stared at him, implacable. “Who do you think put you in the helo?”

  Francis gulped, his stomach twisting up even tighter. He could only remember it in snatches, a grayed-out blur of pain, and shouting, and strong hands gripping him, too hot on his face and throat; tight on his waist, sure behind his knees. He remembered a throat, sweaty and dirt-streaked, smelling of fear, but a calm voice rumbling above him, telling him that he would be okay.

  He forced his hand smooth against his thigh, gulped a breath, and said the thing that would finally shatter the morphine-induced illusion of the past week. “You can stop pretending now. I’m alive.” He lifted his left arm, and it felt so very wrong; swore he felt his hand open and close though it wasn’t there. “You don’t have to stick around anymore because you feel guilty or whatever. I’m fine.”

  Tris’s face fell. “I’m not–”

  “Guilty? Oh, but you are. There’s no other reason you’d be sitting beside my bed like this. Thanks, but, no thanks. I don’t – it doesn’t feel good, being pitied. I know I fucked up. I know I’m not – not as good as you. But don’t pity me.” He shook his head. “Don’t be – don’t be kind to me now, just because…” He clenched his teeth against the next words, against the tremor that threatened to accompany them.

  Tris stared at him a moment, then nodded to himself and closed the distance to the bed. Situated himself so they were side by side, on Francis’s good side, and leaned down to loop an arm around his waist. “Come on, then,” he said, quietly.

  Francis bit his lip hard, caught between the urge to laugh and the urge to scream. He caught Tris’s gaze, the warm dark brown of it, his expression infinitely patient in a way it had never been.

  “No pity,” he assured.

  Francis sniffed hard, and, without much choice in the matter, hooked his remaining arm around Tris’s neck and let himself be hauled to his feet.

  If not for the steadying arm around his waist, fingers fitted between his ribs, he would have fallen on the short, but perilous journey from the bed to the bathroom. He’d been lying down for a week, and his legs felt like jelly; even this short trip left him winded, his head spinning, which didn’t make any sense, because it was his arm he’d lost, and nothing else.

  Nothing except his pride.

  And his independence.

  And his shame, apparently, as he let Tris keep a slow and steady pace alongside him the whole way, grip tightening when Francis’s legs threatened to go out, keeping him upright when he would have collapsed.

  He was in a full-body sweat by the time they reached the en-suite. It was a small space, but the shower was big, and lipless, thankfully.

  Tris moved him around so he was leaning back against the sink, high and solid enough to hold his weight. “You good for a second while I cut the water on?”

  Resigned now that this was happening, Francis tested his balance, and managed to say, “Yeah.”

  Tris’s hands lingered a moment on his waist, both of them, such big hands, his thumbs nearly touching over Francis’s navel, and, wow, was his waist really that small? Or were the hands just that big?

  Before he could come to a conclusion – his head was spinning in earnest now, the morphine hangover and lack of solid food turning him woozy – Tris stepped back and leaned into the shower to crank on the water. He set it toward warm, tested it a moment, until he nodded and returned. Shrugged out of his jacket.

  “What are you doing?” Francis asked.

  The jacket went up on the hook on the wall, and those big hands were pulling the t-shirt from Tris’s waistband, lifting it off over his head. “Getting in with you so you don’t fall.”

  “Oh. Right.” His chest fluttered.

  Then there was Tris’s chest, which he’d seen before, but it was right there, emanating warmth, paler than his arms, the dark hair arrowing down the center of his muscled stomach to disappear into his tac pants – which were coming off, too.

  Thankfully, the black boxer-briefs stayed on.

  Francis closed his eyes when Tris reached around to pluck at the ties of his gown. They were pressed close, chest-to-chest. Francis felt his breath against his cheek, and the calluses on his fingertips against the bare skin of his back as the ties came loose one by one. He thought, for a moment, as the gown slid down his front to land on the floor, that he might swoon, nerves churning in his gut. It was the first time Tris had seen him naked, and it was after having been laid up a week, and down half an arm. Shame burned hot in his face; he didn’t want this – didn’t want to be vulnerable in this way in front of someone who’d rejected him.

  But when he finally cracked his eyes open, it was to find that Tris wasn’t looking anywhere but at his face, his own etched with worry. “Okay to get in?”

  He had a lump in his throat, and could only nod.

  “Alright. Nice and slow. Gotta keep the bandages dry. His arm went around Francis’s waist again, and this time it was skin-to-skin, the heat and intimacy of the contact immediately, unexpectedly soothing. It became apparent, as Tris helped him across the tiles that, whether it was pity or guilt at play, this moment was only about help, and being naked, or nearly so, in front of each other didn’t play into it.

  Francis relaxed, finally, and let Tris help him down to the cold, tile bench. Let him pull the handheld showerhead down and urge his head back; closed his eyes as warm water coursed across his scalp, and large fingers petted through his hair, wetting it thoroughly.

  When Tris worked shampoo through his curls, he couldn’t keep from leaning into the touch, couldn’t bite back the soft, relieved noise of pleasure that slipped from his mouth. It felt unbearably wonderful, such a normal, everyday thing after being laid up; felt better to have someone else’s hands working carefully through the tangles in his hair.

  Tris stilled, just a moment, then resumed.

  Tris rinsed his hair, and Francis, weak from the walk to the bathroom, and the heat of the water, tipped his head back against the wall, eyes still closed, and felt the last of his tension bleed out as Tris washed him with great care, never once splashing the bandages on his stump.

  When Francis cracked his eyes open, he found Tris kneeling on the tile between his knees, rinsing his feet clean with the wand, water beading and running down his shoulders, his arms; catching in his chest hair; slicking his dark hair back along his head. Half-delirious, Francis nearly laughed. How often had he imagined a scenario like this? But a willing one, one in which he had both his hands to stroke back through Tris’s hair, one in which Tris was here by choice.

  He closed his eyes again when they started to sting – and not from water. “Why are you doing this?” he whispered.

  He thought his words lost to the shush of the water, but then he felt a touch on his jaw.

  His eyes snapped open, and Tris was right in front of him, filling his entire field of vision. He cupped Francis’s jaw more firmly, thumb tracing slowly back and forth along the point of his chin. His other hand landed on Francis’s waist, squeezed briefly. His eyes were wide, and not shielded, now; water droplets caught in his lashes, the brown of his irises eaten up by his pupils. He looked…


  Awed.

  “Why are you…” Francis tried again, breathless.

  Tris’s voice was rough in a whole new way, low, and deep, and ragged with unchecked emotion. “You almost died.” His throat moved as he swallowed with an audible click. “I thought you were going to die before I got the chance to tell you.”

  “Tell…tell me what?”

  “That you’re beautiful,” Tris said, and kissed him.

  He was dreaming, Francis decided. The warm water, the exertion of getting to the bathroom, the mind-numbing shock of having Tris being so gentle with him – he’d succumbed to sleep, and this was a dream, another fantasy. Because Tris might feel guilt and pity, but he didn’t think Francis was beautiful, and definitely didn’t want to kiss him. How often had he imagined this, after all?

  Only, in his imaginings, there had always been a bed, and clothes to pull hungrily off one another. He’d never had a dull throbbing in a bandaged stump of an arm; never been dizzy and weak, and dripping with water while Tris knelt on the floor of a shower. And, to be honest, he’d never expected a man like Tris to say beautiful. Hot, maybe. He’d imagined growling, and grunting, and muttered curses, hands rough with hunger.

  But not this: the fingertips against his skin, carefully angling his head; the press of damp lips to his own; the shuddering of an unsteady breath that wasn’t his own.

  Because…because this was real. Tris was kissing him. Was pressing in closer, deeper when Francis let his jaw soften with shock. A soft kiss, a sweet one. Over too soon.

  Francis trembled when Tris drew back a fraction, expression questioning – and so earnest, so pained, sorry, and warm, and worried, and…and…caring.

  “I knew,” Tris said, haltingly, “that if I wasn’t careful, that if I didn’t keep you back – I knew it would kill me, if I let you in, and then you…” His gaze dropped to Francis’s mouth, thumb shifting up to skim along the edge of his lower lip. “Nobody gets to have what they want. Not in this world; not in this line of work.”

  Francis swallowed, throat aching. “Not even for a little while?”

  Tris’s gaze returned.

  “Isn’t a little while better than never?” He tried to smile.

  “Fuck,” Tris breathed. “Yeah. Yeah – I’m sorry.” He swooped back in to kiss him again.

  Francis was ready this time, his mouth parting right away for the immediate, hot thrust of Tris’s tongue. It was aggressive, desperate, messy and uncoordinated.

  With an inward smile, Francis realized that Tris didn’t kiss like someone who’d done it very often. But it was glorious, anyway. He wrapped his arm around strong shoulders and held on, let himself fall forward into the hot press of lips, and teeth, and tongue –

  Except, wait, he really was falling, the shower titling crazily around him.

  Tris pulled back right away, and caught him by the shoulders. “Whoa.” Eased him back upright.

  “Water’s a little hot, I think,” Francis said, weakly. Nausea rolled in his belly. “Don’t feel so great.”

  “You overdid it,” Tris said, back to his usual sour self – though his hands still telegraphed great feeling as he helped Francis slump back against the wall. As he turned off the water, and fetched a towel, and dried him off.

  Francis drifted, a little, but underneath the fatigue and vague sickness, he felt warm, and cared for, went along as Tris helped him into a fresh gown and back into bed.

  “Thank you,” he murmured, sleep already pulling at him.

  Before his eyes slipped shut, he saw Tris smile at him, an expression so tender and unguarded Francis felt his heart actually skip a beat.

  Tris leaned in to kiss his forehead, lingering there a moment, breathing. “Get some rest, sweetheart. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

  And he was.

  vi.

  Francis spent another week in the hospital wing, getting stronger every day – strong enough to take a shower by himself, which, while a victory, was far less enjoyable than showing with Tris’s steady touch keeping him grounded, reaching all the places he’d never anticipated struggling to get to. They kissed, a lot, enough that Francis grew sure that Tris had rarely kissed anyone in his life, and Tris was always stroking his face, or throat, or arm, petting his hair; he was shockingly tactile, and couldn’t seem to touch him enough. But nothing ever drifted into more passionate territory.

  That was okay, Francis resolved. They had time, now, and honesty between them.

  The others started insisting that Tris take care of himself, too, though. Forcing him out of the room so he could lie down in an actual bed, or shave, or eat a decent meal at the mess.

  “Dude,” Gavin said one day while he and Rose were visiting, Gavin in Tris’s usual chair and Rose perched on the foot of the bed. “Why didn’t you just tell me you preferred guys?” There’d been no disguising what Tris’s attentiveness meant, though Rose still got this doubtful, worried look on her face, like she wasn’t sure of Tris’s intentions. But she hadn’t been there, that day in the shower, hadn’t seen the naked heartbreak and longing on his face.

  Francis rolled his eyes. “Because you would have still dragged me to a brothel, but you would have sent me a Donny instead of a Dolly, and I didn’t want that.”

  Confusion marred Gavin’s handsome face a moment. “But…wouldn’t that have been better?”

  “Oh my God,” Rose deadpanned. “You absolute moron.”

  “Hey!” Then his brows lifted. “Wait…oh. Oh. So you mean…”

  “That’s right,” Rose said.

  Ignoring her, addressing Francis, he said, “Are you, like – seriously in love with Tris or something? Is that it?”

  Rose said, “No one should allow you access to firearms.”

  Francis snorted – but felt his face heat. “You might try it sometime, Gav. Save yourself some money.”

  Gavin waved him off as Rose chuckled. “Aw, fuck you both.” He grinned, though.

  When the doctor gave him the go-ahead to return to his quarters, it was with a soft, stretchy cloth sleeve covering his stump; much healed, but still tender, still bitterly painful at odd moments. Tris brought him clothes: sweats, and a loose t-shirt, and a zip-up hoodie that he chose to drape around his shoulders rather than walk with one sleeve dangling and half-empty.

  “Oh,” Tris said, noticing. “I should have brought a pin.”

  “This is fine for now,” Francis said, offering a smile, no longer surprised that Tris chose to walk alongside him, one hand hovering at the small of his back, ready to grip him around the waist if he stumbled.

  The walk to his dorm was longer than he remembered, and though he stopped often to thank a passing well-wisher – people kept staring at him fixedly, like they were working hard not to glance toward his arm – he was a little out of breath by the time they reached his dorm.

  “I was only laid up two-and-a-half weeks,” he complained, sitting down heavily on the side of his bunk. He’d never been so glad to see the drab little room before. “Why am I this out of shape?”

  “Pain is draining,” Tris said, matter of fact, as he set the pill bottles down in a neat row on the side table. “You lost a lot of blood. Then there’s shock, and trauma, and all the meds you’re taking.”

  Francis sighed. “Thanks, Dad.” It had slipped out automatically; he’d grown used to ribbing Gavin back and forth. He was only teasing, and didn’t mean anything by it.

  But Tris, he saw, with great amusement, froze. Retracted his hand slowly from the last pill bottle and swallowed with an audible sound before turning a careful expression on Francis.

  Fighting to keep a straight face, Francis said. “That reminds me: how old are you, actually?”

  “Is that – I mean – if you don’t–” He raked a hand through his hair, ruffling it, the light glinting off the silver along his temples. “I wasn’t trying to be–”

  Francis burst out laughing. “Your face!”

  Tris scowled. “You little shit.” A smile t
ugged at his mouth.

  “Trust me,” Francis said, still laughing, “I never even met my father, so I can’t compare you.”

  Tris’s expression softened.

  “But.” Francis collected himself. “Now I’m definitely thinking you’ve got a daddy kink.”

  He started laughing again, as Tris shoved at his good shoulder – and then sat down next to him, angled so they could face one another.

  Still chuckling, Francis wiped at his eyes, and noted the mingled affection and heat in Tris’s gaze. It was instantly sobering. “Wait.” He cleared his throat, and blinked the last few delighted tears away. “Do you, actually?” His throat went dry when he thought about the possibilities; heat moved through him, warm and slow like poured honey, as Tris kept staring, and suspicion solidified into realization. Holy shit.

  Tris shrugged, and reached to push Francis’s curls off his forehead. His expression was contemplative, and Francis thought he was recalling something in particular. “I dunno, really. Maybe.”

  “Oh my God. Did a hooker call you that?” he asked, and couldn’t keep the grin off his face. “And you liked it?”

  Tris’s face colored, and he glanced away, expression tightening. “Don’t. Forget–”

  Francis reached up with his only hand and caught his jaw; felt the hard steel of it, the rough scrape of his supershort beard. He pulled his face back, so they were nearly nose-to-nose.

  “I’m not stupid,” Francis said, gently, so Tris would know he wasn’t upset. “I know about the hookers. Call it an educated guess,” he added, when Tris started to protest. “Just like I know that you’ve not had much practice kissing.”

  The last was a gamble. Even though he’d been so soft the last two weeks, Tris was not, in general, a soft man. He was a tough one. A proud one. And Francis didn’t want to shatter what they’d managed to piece together.

  But Tris didn’t pull back. His brows lowered, but his lips pressed into a thin, bare smile. “That obvious?”

  “It’s not a bad thing,” Francis assured, leaning in even closer, thumbing along his bristled chin, holding him in place. “Like I said: you just need practice.” He closed the last distance.