Declination

by Gregory Ashe

  For a moment, Shaw stared, unable to move. Then he bent and picked up the knife. North’s blood enameled the steel in dark red. Shaw turned it once and then let his fingers wrap around the hilt. He flexed his grip. He was surprised by how light the blade was.

  He drove it into Barr’s back before Barr even realized Shaw was moving. Barr shrieked, a shrill noise that went on and on, and Shaw twisted the blade. The pitch of Barr’s scream rose; he lifted onto the balls of his feet, trying to escape the steel. Shaw kicked him in the back of the knee, and Barr went down as Shaw yanked the knife free.

  Barr gasped and sputtered and squealed, his legs kicking uselessly at the cement. Shaw planted a foot on Barr’s shoulder, forcing Barr onto his back, and he stared down. The dark eyes were sunken, wide with terror and pain. No gold crown in his mouth; Shaw could see easily as Barr opened his mouth in a fresh scream.

  Flipping the knife in his grip, Shaw knelt. He let the tip of the blade drill down into Barr’s throat, drawing a bead of blood.

  “Be quiet,” Shaw said.

  Barr stopped screaming, but a moment later, he began moaning, whimpers escaping between clenched teeth.

  “I just want you to know,” Shaw said as he lowered the blade, resting the edge along the curve of Barr’s throat. “This is personal.”

  “Shaw.” It was North’s voice, and Shaw threw a startled glance over. North lay on his side, one hand pressed over the red stain on his shirt, his breathing thin and whistling. “Don’t.”

  But North didn’t understand. North didn’t know what the last seven years had been like. North didn’t know what the dreams were like. North didn’t know what it was like to lose your life and have to keep on living.

  “Shaw,” North said again, and the word had a horrible, gasping quality. “Please.”

  Shaw heard North’s words from the week before, in the heat of the most terrible fight they’d ever had. You don’t realize you’ve got a good life. A great life. And you’re going to throw it away.

  He remembered the alley. The pain of the cut across his thigh, almost severing his balls. Carl dead, lying on the ground. The hand closing around his neck. Shaw felt the pressure in his hand transferring to the blade, bearing down.

  He remembered North painted by the streetlight, wearing that ridiculous Ryo costume, bending to kiss him. He remembered North walking two miles freshman year so they could eat Shaw’s favorite Chinese takeout and watch Supernatural on Shaw’s bed. He remembered North finding him in a corn maze, North putting him to bed drunk, North rubbing the short bristles of his hair and insisting Shaw grow it out.

  Some of the weight in his hand lifted. Shaw struggled to take a breath. But the next one was easier. And the next one.

  He was still kneeling there, balanced on the edge, counting out every good moment he’d had with North like he was playing out the line on a life preserver, when Kelso emerged from the stairwell and put the cuffs on Barr.

  Chapter 36

  THEY WENT BACK into the hospital. Or, rather, North and Barr went to the hospital. Shaw insisted he needed to go with North. North insisted that Shaw needed to go with him. But the detectives who had taken over the scene ignored both of them, and North was sent back inside in handcuffs and with a pair of uniformed officers. Barr had a similar escort, although he went on a gurney. The last North saw of Shaw that night, Shaw was being put into the back of a patrol car.

  According to the doctors, the stab wound really wasn’t that bad. Certainly not as bad as it could have been. They made a big deal about that, about how lucky North had been, and North nodded. The bright light and the noise of the hospital washed over him and pulled back like surf. The local anesthetic took away the pain. When the doctors finished stitching and bandaging, North checked drawers in the examination room. A scalpel, a pair of snippers, even a decent size needle. Somewhere in this building, Barr was still alive, and North had some thoughts about that. He settled for a roll of adhesive bandage that he thought would make a decent noose, but when he got to the curtain, the two uniformed officers standing outside the exam room sent him back to sit down.

  Eventually detectives showed up, and they wanted to know everything. They talked. They asked questions. North did his best to answer them. One of the men was balding and had something like limescale on his jowls, and he nodded and took notes. The other did a lot of swearing and marched up and down and made threats. The show was pretty good, North thought, although he would have preferred a matinee and some popcorn.

  Shaw didn’t show up at the exam room. When the detectives released North, he couldn’t find Shaw anywhere in the hospital. He asked the uniformed officers, and they wouldn’t string two words together. North called Kelso and got voicemail. And he called again and got voicemail again. He drove to the Metropolitan Police Headquarters and asked about Kingsley Shaw Wilder Aldrich, and all he got was a moon-faced woman who took his information down and promised someone would talk to him. Eventually. But eventually never happened, and the pain in North’s shoulder was back, so he drove to an all-night Walgreens and got his prescriptions filled. He went to the Borealis offices. He walked through the dark first floor. He checked the garage—the Mercedes was there, silent and cold. He walked upstairs and drew back the curtains, raised the blinds, and saw a peach-colored stain on the horizon. When he raised the sash, the breeze smelled like hops from the brewery and, somewhere close by, a trash fire, and after a minute he closed it. He took some of the Percocet. When he closed his eyes, he had this last, distant image of Shaw holding the knife to Barr’s throat, and then that image went up in a blaze and North could smell the trash fire again.

  When North woke up, he was dizzy, and his mouth tasted like hotel bedsheets. Still no Shaw. He slapped cold water on his face until he felt like he could walk a straight line, and in the bathroom, with the door shut, he was suddenly breathless and on the verge of tears, so he stood there with his fingers curling around the porcelain, trying to keep himself from dissolving and going right down the drain. Then he was mad, knocking combs and cotton balls and bottles of hemp-oil shampoo off the shelves, letting them pinball through the bathroom, and then he let himself out and drove home.

  He took another Percocet and slept.

  The sound of glass clinking woke him, and the first thought that went through his head, grainy and diffuse and abrasive like a sandstorm, was that someone had broken in. He found the CZ 75 that he liked to carry and took the stairs carefully, moving each foot onto the same step before taking the next. It didn’t make much of a difference because the minute North’s bare foot touched the main floor, the puppy launched himself around the corner, yipping. The little dog tried to stop, and instead he slid across the wood, his claws scrabbling for purchase. A moment later he was back on his feet, his pink tongue flicking over North’s feet, dancing backward to stay in North’s path as North moved toward the kitchen.

  Shaw was half inside the refrigerator, and he was wearing fluffy pink slippers, matching pink sweatpants with the word Juicy in rhinestones across his ass, and an enormous Purple Rain sweatshirt that basically swallowed him whole. As North watched, Shaw settled another bottle of Schlafly into a black trash bag, where it clinked against glass.

  “That’s my beer,” North said.

  “What?” Shaw glanced over his shoulder without leaving the refrigerator. “Oh. Hi. Yeah, you’re off sugar. Off all carbs, actually. And dairy. And provisionally off beans because I think they’re really inflammatory for you.”

  “That’s my beer.”

  “I know. Once you’re better, we can talk about reintroducing—”

  “That’s my beer, Shaw.”

  Shaw was inspecting a block of Irish cheddar.

  “Don’t even think about it,” North said.

  Shaw dumped it in the trash bag.

  The puppy was still yipping, so North scooped him up and then sat in a chair, the puppy on his lap, where the little dog licked and nipped at his hands and wan
ted to squirm and wrestle as North petted him.

  “I’ll be cooking for you, of course,” Shaw said, still buried in the refrigerator. “And when work gets too busy, I’ll make sure we get something really healthy.”

  “You’re going to be cooking for me.”

  “And I’ll be grocery shopping.”

  “That sounds like a great idea.”

  “And I’ll probably have to put you on all organic stuff. It’s time we did that anyway, and we might as well do it now.”

  “It is?”

  “Definitely.”

  “I was thinking about going to a Cardinals game next week. A few beers. A few brats. Maybe some pretzels with that nacho cheese.”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “No. I’m not going to allow that.”

  The puppy flopped onto his back, gnawing on one of North’s fingers, growling as he caught the tip and shook it back and forth. North reached with his good arm, caught the broom that was propped against the wall, and used it to poke Shaw in the ass.

  Shaw reared back in surprise, bonking his head against the inside of the refrigerator. He pulled himself out and fixed a look on North. “Hey.”

  “Hey yourself. Do I get to see you and talk to you, or—in addition to buying my food and cooking my food and controlling my food—do I have to spend the rest of my life talking to your ass while you’re hiding inside the refrigerator?”

  “I’m not hiding.” A flush hit Shaw’s cheekbones hard.

  North raised an eyebrow. He poked Shaw again.

  Batting aside the broom, Shaw picked up the trash bag, where bottles clinked again. “I should drop this in the dumpster.”

  “The trash bag.”

  “That’s where trash goes.”

  “Right. Except it’s full of food and delicious beer.”

  Shaw passed the bag from hand to hand. “I’ll just do it right now, then.” And he was off like a shot.

  Groaning, North set down the puppy, ignoring the irritated yips, and shut the refrigerator. He made his way to the back door, which Shaw had left open, and took up a position just in front of the door. When Shaw came back from the alley, he paused in the doorway.

  “Hi,” North said.

  “Hi.” Shaw turned sideways, trying to squeeze past. “I can’t—if you could just—”

  “No,” North said, taking advantage of Shaw’s movement, pressing closer, allowing Shaw to slip into the duplex and then forcing him toward the corner. “I don’t think so.”

  “What are you doing? Stop messing around, North. I just—North, let me through. I want to finish cleaning out the fridge, and then I have to call the nurse—”

  “You have to call the nurse.”

  “Yes, he’s coming by first thing this morning to check your bandages.”

  “You hired a private nurse.”

  “Will you move your arm, please? I can’t get past you, and—”

  “So, my food.” North pressed in even closer; Shaw had drawn himself up tight against the wall, and there was barely an inch of space between them.

  “North, stop it.” Shaw twisted and squirmed, but he couldn’t get around North. “This is—you’re being ridiculous.”

  “I’m the one who’s being ridiculous?” North put his good hand on Shaw’s chest, forcing him against the wall, and Shaw went still. His hazel eyes were fixed on the floor. North let his hand slide up; he hooked a finger, caught Shaw’s chin and forced his head back. The hazel eyes made contact and slid away. “You want to tell me the rest of it?”

  “Physical therapy. Hot yoga. Two weeks in Paris at a special clinic, and then there’s this hot spring in Switzerland where they have specialists, and I thought we could spend a month there.”

  North could feel the pressure in his jaw, and he tried to crack his neck, rolling his head, tried to find some way to ease it. “Is that it?”

  Shaw’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I’m still checking on a place in London. I thought you might like London more.”

  “Do you want to tell me if the police are charging you with anything? Did they arrest you last night? Are those detectives investigating us? Do you want to tell me anything that might matter?”

  “They aren’t charging me. They aren’t charging either of us.”

  North let out a breath, but it didn’t do anything for the pressure in his jaw. He rolled his head again and it didn’t help. Finally he settled for fixing his gaze on Shaw, even though the hazel eyes were studying something off to one side.

  “And are we going to talk about all this bullshit now?” North said.

  The hazel eyes came back now, tight with anger. “What bullshit?”

  “Fine.”

  “Fine.”

  “Fine.”

  “Fine.”

  “Fine.”

  “Fine,” Shaw snapped.

  “Fine,” North said. “And if you fucking try to get the last word on this, Shaw, I will fucking bury you.”

  They were both breathing hard. North had a dozen plans in his head for how to leave and make a lasting impression, but he couldn’t seem to peel his hand off Shaw.

  “Are you ok?” Shaw finally asked, his voice so low North barely heard him.

  North flexed his injured shoulder slightly, wincing. “I’m ok. I’m not going to be joining the Canadian curling team anytime soon, but I don’t know if they were scouting me to begin with.”

  Outside, a dog barked, and that sent the puppy into a frenzy of reciprocal barking. The heat of Shaw’s skin under North’s fingers seeped into North like sunlight, and he was trying to remember exactly how angry he was.

  “Shaw, what happened last night—” North began.

  “I need to get some more stuff done,” Shaw said, sliding past North and heading for the refrigerator.

  A growl was building in North’s throat. “Shaw, get back here.”

  “I’ve still got to finish going through your freezer.”

  The growl exploded into a shout. “This is so fucking ridiculous.”

  Shaw looked up, a heatwave of anger in his face. “I’m sorry that my wanting to help you is ridiculous.”

  “You know that’s not what I—” But another furious noise choked North, and he stomped toward the stairs. “You know what? Fuck this. I don’t need this.”

  In his room, North lay on the bed, listening to thumps and the plastic crinkle of a new trash bag. The puppy whined, circling the bed, scrambling until North leaned over and picked him up. But that ruined the whole thing because now North had lost his trance and he wanted to be asleep or drifting out into the ocean. Anywhere but here.

  Shaw’s footsteps were quiet; North almost missed them, and he blamed the fuzzy pink slippers. One instant North was lying there scrubbing behind the puppy’s ears, and the next Shaw was saying, “Are you bored?”

  “Are you going to do a one-man show? Sing a few songs? Dance?”

  “I hadn’t thought of that. I could drive back home and get my mandolin.”

  “That would be nice if you had ever learned how to play the mandolin.”

  “I learned. I learned how to play ‘Greensleeves.’”

  “You learned the first two measures and you just play them over and over again until you run out of lyrics.”

  Shaw came over and started to sit, but the puppy stiffened all four legs and yapped once at him.

  “Probably not a good idea,” North said. “Maybe you should go clean out my basement. I might have potatoes down there.”

  “You don’t have any food down there. I already checked. Oh. You were joking.” Shaw moved to sit again, and again the puppy barked a tiny, ferocious warning.

  “Sorry,” North said. “We’re all full up here.”

  “I’m not scared of him.”

  “Then sit down.”

  “He’s the size of a teacup.”

  North shrugged, which hurt, and went back to petting
the dog.

  “He wouldn’t actually do anything,” Shaw said. “He’s just barking.”

  “Then sit down.”

  Shaw settled onto the bed, and the spiky musk of his hair product made North’s pulse skip. The puppy was growling and straining to escape North’s grip, and with an invisible grin, North released him. He bounded over to Shaw, growling and barking and licking Shaw’s hands and jumping onto Shaw’s legs, still growling between licks whenever he remembered. Shaw laughed and, after a moment, ran his hand down the puppy’s back. The puppy spun around, trying to figure out who had touched him, and barked at North.

  “Don’t you fucking start,” North said.

  “I brought cards.” Shaw produced a deck and set them on the bed. “In case you were bored.”

  “I’m not bored.”

  “Remember freshman year when you thought you had mono because you’d been hooking up with all those Delta Deltoid bros? You got really bored.”

  “I wasn’t bored.”

  “You started writing songs.”

  Heat built in North’s face. “I wasn’t—those were just jokes.”

  “And after classes I’d come down to your room and we’d play cards.”

  “We didn’t play cards that much,” North said. “We watched a lot of stupid shows, too.”

  “We watched a lot of Supernatural.”

  North remembered that. They hadn’t just played cards and watched TV on Shaw’s laptop. They’d talked. They’d talked so much, in ways that North had never talked to anyone. And Shaw had brought horrible chicken soup that he’d made in the dorm kitchen. And Shaw had ordered in every kind of takeout imaginable, which to a broke kid who was still trying to pay tuition by working odd jobs on construction sites, seemed like some kind of magic. Outside, the kids from the other unit were laughing about something, and then a dull, metallic thud came from the dumpster and a fresh burst of laughter exploded. They were doing something dumb, but they were having fun. They were just passing time. With friends. North ran his hands over the bedding, and then he blew out a breath and sat up.