by Gregory Ashe
“Baby, are you in there?”
Shaw’s breathing came clearly from within the blanket-fort; he sounded on the verge of hyperventilating. North took a step across the room, and Shaw must have flinched or startled because a tremor ran through the Kim Possible sheets and the bed frame screeched as it slid a few inches across the floor.
“Shaw?”
Another ripple ran through the fort, and this time, North caught the bed frame with the toe of his Red Wing when it started to slide. He dropped into a squat, trying to see through the thin, over-washed cotton of the bedding. He tugged on the sheet once.
“Sweetheart?”
The only answer was harsh, too-quick breathing.
“You sound like you’re on the edge of a panic attack,” North said. “I’m going to come in, ok?”
“How do I—” Frantic gulping for air. “How do I know it’s you?”
That was a good question. Shaw was too damn smart, even on the fringe of a panic attack, for North to come up with a bullshit response.
“What do you want me to do to prove it?”
Shaw’s breathing accelerated. “I don’t know.”
Kicking off the boots, North slid out of the fishnet shirt and then dropped the jean cut-offs. The chill of the air conditioning whispered across his back, around his legs. North drew back the edge of the sheet and kicked first the fishnet shirt and then the cutoffs with their rhinestone message—Plug It!—into the fort.
“Look familiar?”
“Yeah, but . . .”
“Still not sure?”
Lots of sniffling.
“Why don’t I come in there and you can take a look at me and decide?”
“I don’t know. Yeah. I guess. I don’t—” Shaw gulped air again. “I don’t know.”
In just his socks, North dropped to his knees and pulled back the corner of the sheet and crawled inside.
Shaw had removed the drawers from one of the dressers, and he sat inside the empty frame, his knees pulled to his chest. He was wearing only a pair of briefs—and, North noticed with interest, a pair Shaw had never shown him before. These were the kind of novelty underwear that were meant to be somehow both sexy and funny; the bright yellow fabric clung to Shaw’s tight ass, and at the front protruded an extension of cloth designed to look like a banana. Right then, the banana was pressed up between Shaw’s legs and his chest.
“Hi,” North said, squirming into the tight space. His elbow bumped hot glass, and he pulled in a lungful of air thick with patchouli. Twisting around, North found the candle and blew it out, flapping the corner of the sheet to circulate fresh air into the fort. “That’s a little better,” he said after a minute, squeezing into the cramped space, but still not touching Shaw.
“It’s dark,” Shaw complained in a small voice.
“Better than burning down your house.” North waited; the still-thick scent of patchouli made him a little dizzy. “Well?”
Shaw buried his face deeper in his knees.
“Am I me?”
“Yeah,” Shaw mumbled.
“You’re sure?”
He nodded, the gesture almost hidden by how tightly he had contracted himself.
“You want to touch me? Just to make sure?”
Shaw squeezed his eyes shut, but one hand separated from the tight ball he had made, drifted out to touch North’s chest, his fingers sifted the dense blond fur. North could feel the touch like tracers glowing in a blacked-out room.
“Well?” North asked; his throat was raw.
“Yeah.”
Shaw’s hand stilled, but he didn’t let go of the mat of blond hair on North’s chest. North’s heartbeat ticked up. He shifted, and his heartbeat ticked up again. And then again. He tried to remember he’d been worried. He’d tried to remember he’d been mad.
“I’m sorry I’m so stupid,” Shaw whispered.
“You’re not stupid, baby.” North touched Shaw’s shoulder, and Shaw hissed and twisted away.
“I’m not—I don’t—” Shaw was still talking into his legs, barely audible. “I feel all electricky. Everywhere.”
“Ok. Ok, I won’t touch you.”
From outside came another crack of the bat, and another round of cheers. It was the perfect day for a game, North thought: the endless blue of the sky, the crisp September air. The smell of apples when the air shifted in just the right direction; when it came the other way, the hops from the brewery. It was perfect to be here too, like this, with Shaw holding on like he might drift away, the slight pain from Shaw gripping the dense blond hair too tight, the afterglow on North’s chest where Shaw had trailed his fingers.
“This time’s pretty bad,” North said, the words rumbling in his chest.
Shaw nodded; his breathing had eased, coming down almost to normal levels again, but he still jerked and fidgeted, as though driven by random jolts of energy.
“You want to tell me about it?”
“I’m so stupid.” It was a sob.
“One time, you tried to make a grilled cheese in the toaster.”
Another sob, but this time mixed with a laugh. Shaw sniffled and turned to look at North. “I was talking to Ricky,” he said. “And everything was going so well. I found out some really important stuff. I . . . I heard Ricky say something. He was talking about Jadon, about their relationship. He said he was . . . he was going to fight for Jadon. Try to make things work.” Shaw shook his head slightly. “It wasn’t like that; he said it better than that. But then I started thinking about us, about how messed up I am, and I thought maybe I could make it better. Only I made it worse.”
Letting go of North, Shaw buried his face in his knees and shook with another sob.
North twisted, trying to find a way to sit up straight in the cramped fort. He settled for flopping onto his belly, propping himself on his elbows, his feet sticking out past the Kim Possible sheets. He watched Shaw cry.
“Junior year,” North began.
Shaw shook his head. “I know.”
It had been Shaw’s birthday. Shaw had decided to go wild: as much Coke as he could drink, plus chocolate chip cookies, plus cannoli, plus cake. He was celebrating being alive, being healthy, being back at school after a year spent recovering from the wounds the Slasher had given him. They had started the party at seven; by eight-thirty, Shaw was locked in the bathroom having a panic attack while North tried to get everyone to leave. It had been the first time North had had to break down a door. It had been the first time North had learned to start checking rooms for sharps, for pills, for cords. It had been the first time North learned how badly Shaw had been hurt, in ways North couldn’t touch or see.
“If you say I should go to Seattle or that this is because I’m looking into the Slasher or because of Jadon,” Shaw whispered. “You’re wrong.”
North felt heavy. He wanted to drop down, rest his head on the floor, and close his eyes.
“I thought if I . . . If I had some Coke, I would be, you know, excited and I wouldn’t get so . . . so freaked out when I—when we—” Shaw snuffled. “And then I was feeling a little too, um, excited, and I thought I should slow down. I—” He glanced at North, obviously changing what he had been about to say. “But then I started thinking that the clock was listening to me and that Pari had a camera hidden in her desk
North tried to pick out the central thread. “You didn’t get freaked out last time we were together.”
“Because you had your arms tied,” Shaw said. “And I didn’t like last time.”
“Your banana liked last time.” North tried for a smile.
“Is that how I’m going to be the rest of my life? You have to . . . you have to just let me do stuff because I’m so scared, because I’m so messed up?”
“Am I worried about it?”
Shaw’s eyes flicked open. The intense hazel gaze darted toward North, away, up, around, back again. “You’re being so incredibly nice about this, but
I know—”
“Did I say something?”
“North, come on, you can’t pretend that—”
“Have I ever said anything to make you think that I care about that?”
“You’re not listening.”
“Have I ever said something like that? Don’t put your face in your knees. Have I?”
Around them, the house shifted, settled. The refrigerator hummed to life downstairs.
“No,” Shaw said in what was possibly the sulkiest voice North had ever heard.
“Have I ever done anything to make you feel like it mattered?”
“No, but—”
“I tried to tell you this before, but you didn’t hear me. I’ll say it again: I don’t care about any of that. I care about you. Having you.”
“Fine,” Shaw said. “Thank you. That’s great. But I don’t want that. I want things to be . . . better. I want things to be normal. I want to fix this so I can be . . . so I can be who you deserve.”
“Fuck that.”
A tear leaked from Shaw’s eyes, and he leaned into his shoulder to wipe it away.
“No,” North said again. “Fuck that noise.”
Shaw shrugged.
“All right,” North said. “You don’t believe me. No, don’t talk. I’m not done talking. You don’t believe me when I say it doesn’t matter. You don’t believe me. Or maybe you think that it doesn’t matter. Whatever I think, it doesn’t matter. Is that it?”
“You know I don’t—”
“If I fall down those steps, Shaw, if I fall and break my neck and I’m paralyzed from the neck down, for the rest of my life, how long before you leave me?”
Shaw pulled back so hard that he hit his head on the dresser. “Never. I’d never leave you.”
“Bullshit.”
“I wouldn’t.”
“A month. You’d be gone in a month.”
“North, that’s—” More tears shone in Shaw’s eyes, and he shook his head; they spilled down his cheeks. “You can’t honestly believe—”
“Why would you stay? I wouldn’t be able to fuck you, right? So why would you stay? Why wouldn’t you just pack up and leave?”
Shaw stiffened. The fierce symmetry of his face settled into a furious expression, and rage mottled his cheeks. “That’s not the same. What I’m talking about, with me, that’s different.”
“Bull. Shit.”
“I just want—”
“You want to fix it?”
The fury in Shaw’s face almost made North stop. Almost. Shaw bit his lip, locked his jaw, and refused to answer.
“You want to fix it, Shaw?”
Shaw slowly raised his middle finger.
“Do you want to know how to fix it, Shaw?”
“Yes.”
“Fine. You know what gets guys hard? You know what gets guys ready to fuck? Cocaine. Not Coca-Cola. Real coke. And Viagra. So that’s what we’re going to do: we’ll get some coke from Ulises, and we’ll each do a line, and then we’ll pop some Viagra, and then we’ll fuck. Baby, you’ll be hard out of your mind. You won’t be able to stop.” North dusted off his hands. “Problem solved.”
Tears continued to trail down Shaw’s face. He was shaking, holding himself together in a ball, his face white except for those thick, ugly red patches across his cheeks.
“Why are you being like this?”
North stared at him.
“You’re being really awful.”
North rolled one shoulder.
“You’re being really fucking awful to me, North.”
“Is that a yes? Should I go score that coke?”
“Get out, ok? I don’t want to talk to you when you’re like this.”
North drew his knees up under him; he rose, straightening his back, into a kneeling position.
“Get out, North. Get the fuck out of here. You’re being awful, and I don’t want you in here right now.”
“In your blanket fort.”
“Get the fuck out.”
“Out of your blanket fort.”
“North, I want you to go.”
“Sure, baby. Just give me that can of Coke you’ve got behind you.”
“I don’t have any more. I drank them all.”
North dropped back down. Waiting.
After a moment, Shaw shifted; metal chimed.
North held out a hand.
“It’s almost gone.”
“I know, baby.”
“I’ll throw it away after you leave.”
Downstairs, the refrigerator clicked off, and in its place came the air conditioner whirring to life, stirring the patchouli smell, mixing it with something like carrots and sunscreen. Some sort of face wash or hair product, North guessed.
“You’re being silly,” Shaw said. “It’s not a big deal.”
“If it’s not a big deal, hand it over.”
Indecision washed over Shaw’s face. Then, with what looked like an attempt to be casual, he shrugged and passed over a half-empty can.
“And the full one.”
“North!”
North just beckoned with his fingers, and a moment later, Shaw slapped the full can into his hands.
“It’s a good thing you can’t tolerate alcohol, baby. You’d be a world-class drunk.”
“Will you go now?”
Setting the cans to one side, North crabbed forward on his knees. Shaw leaned back, bonking his head against the inside of the dresser again; he had nowhere to go.
“I want you to leave, North. You really hurt me.”
North kept moving, inch by inch. “I hurt you.”
“You’re . . . you’re an asshole today.”
North’s knees bumped against the dresser’s frame; Shaw had curled into the corner, and he couldn’t go any farther. “I’m the asshole.”
Shaw set his jaw again, matching North’s look, the red mantling his cheeks higher.
North stuck his head inside the dresser, his face barely an inch from Shaw’s, careful not to make contact. Not yet. He drew in a deep breath.
“How much weed did you smoke?”
“I didn’t—”
“Don’t do that.”
When Shaw spoke again, the words were small. “A little.”
“The strong stuff?”
“It was just a little.”
“That shit you buy from Master Hermes?”
Shaw gave one jerky nod.
“And you don’t think smoking weed and then getting amped out of your mind, you don’t think that might have been a bad combo?”
They were still so close; Shaw’s breathing had altered, losing its last panicked edge and now sounding deeper, animalistic, wild.
“You don’t think,” North said, his voice dropping lower, reaching out to run his fingers along Shaw’s freshly-buzzed hairline, “that the weed might have made you paranoid, and then the Coke might have tipped you toward a full-on panic attack? You don’t think doing that kind of stuff when you’re already freaked out about the Slasher and what happened to Jadon might—”
Shaw jerked away, and North couldn’t keep talking. He reached for Shaw again, and Shaw whispered, “That hurts.”
“You still feel all electricky?”
Shaw nodded slowly. He was still taking those deep, animal breaths. His hazel eyes were huge, his pupils like gateways.
“Those are jitters, baby. You’ve had way too much caffeine.”
North reached for Shaw again, and again Shaw jerked away, rattling the dresser.
“What did we do junior year?” North asked.
“You made me drink a lot of water,” Shaw whispered, unblinking, unmoving. “You made me run around the quad a million times.”
“Seventeen times,” North said.
“It felt like a million.”
“You need exercise. Something to burn off the jitters.”
Shaw shivered. Goosebumps crawled up and
down his arms, down his chest, across the pale skin of his hip, his thigh, his ass. North watched the flesh dimple and contract. His own breathing was an inferno.
Slowly, carefully, he took Shaw by the legs and turned him so they faced each other. His grip slid down to Shaw’s ankles; he pulled, extending Shaw’s legs out of the dresser’s frame, exposing the yellow jock with the banana, now pointing stiffly away from Shaw’s body. North kept his hands there for a moment, his thumbs running circles on Shaw’s ankles. He could feel his own hardness. He could feel himself, wet, leaking, and the next breath brought so much patchouli that he thought he might faint.
“That hurts,” Shaw whispered.
North slid his hands up to Shaw’s knees, forcing them wider. “Tell me no.”
Twisting, Shaw made a pained sound in his throat. “North, my skin, I feel, I don’t know, I feel all electricky.”
North slid his hands up, the heat of friction warming his palms as he chafed the sensitive skin on the inside of Shaw’s thighs. “Close your legs, then, baby. Tell me no. Push me away.”
Shaw was shaking; he reached out, and for a moment, North thought Shaw might grab his wrists, peel his touch away. But instead, Shaw gripped the dresser, obviously trying to brace himself.
“You’re so sensitive,” North whispered, working the pads of his fingers along the inside of Shaw’s legs, where the skin was slowly reddening under his touch.
Shaw mewled and tossed his head.
“This is too much, right, baby? You’re so sensitive right now. You’re all jittery, overstimulated, and now this is too much. Is that it?”
“North,” Shaw said, dragging out the vowel in a sound of despair.
“Yeah, baby,” North said, ducking to run his tongue along the inside of Shaw’s legs, a wet stripe down red, tender skin. “Say my name.”
“North. North. North.” Each time, the word was the start of something else, and then Shaw would shake his head and reboot, unable to get to whatever he wanted to say.