Transposition

by Gregory Ashe

  “You’re a goddamn mind-reader.”

  “About tonight.”

  “Bought any lottery tickets lately?”

  “When you came back to the room,” Hazard said slowly, “what I said to you. I didn’t mean for you to—”

  “Hold on.” Somers’s voice had lost some of its heat, and uncertainty flickered in his expression. “When what happened?”

  “You came up to the room. You got on the bed, and you were—” Hazard stopped. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “Go on,” Somers said. “Tell me.”

  It took Hazard a few more moments before he realized; he blamed his slowness on the thumping in his head. “You don’t remember.”

  “I remember going back to the room,” Somers said, his voice stiff. “I remember . . . I remember you shoving me.”

  “You crawled on top of me.”

  “I had some to drink.”

  “You had more than some. You were blacking out.” Through the haze of pain, Hazard realized something else. “You don’t remember. So what are you angry about?”

  “What am I angry about?” Somers muttered, running a hand through his blond hair. “I don’t know, Hazard. I’m still kind of drunk, and I had a huge fight with Cora. I feel real shitty, inside and out—worse, now that I know I made an ass of myself. But mostly I’m mad because my partner got beaten almost to death. And I’m mad because he decided to come down here and—” Somers swept an arm out at the basement. “Jesus, I don’t even know. What were you thinking? Did I fuck things up so badly that you didn’t want my help?”

  For one tempting moment, Hazard considered saying yes. At some instinctive level, he knew it would give him leverage over Somers—more of the same leverage that he already held, the uneven balance of power between them that rested on their history. This new offense, the brutality of Somers’s comments, would give Hazard another edge over his partner.

  Then the moment passed, and Hazard shook his head. “The bastard had broken the gas line. The house was flooded with the stuff. I knew I had to get to the shut-off before everything blew up. If I’d taken the time to go upstairs and wake you up . . .” Hazard trailed off with a shrug.

  “Damn it,” Somers said, shaking his head. “I should have been here.”

  “We’re just lucky one of us was here. We’d all be dead otherwise.”

  “We’re lucky,” Somers corrected, “that I’m enough of an asshole to drive you out of our room. Otherwise, we both would have been asleep, and we both would be dead.” He blew out another booze-soaked breath, and now Hazard could see the fogginess in his eyes, the slight slur to his speech. Somers might have slept off the worst of his binge, but he wasn’t functioning anywhere near full capacity. “Go on.”

  “What?”

  “What’d I do?”

  “Forget it.”

  Conflict played out in Somers’s face—a visual struggle that Hazard was sure he wouldn’t have seen if Somers had been fully sober. Then it settled into grim resignation. “All right. So what happened down here?”

  As Hazard told him, part of his brain was trying to figure out what had just happened. Was Somers angry that Hazard hadn’t told him what had passed between them in the bedroom? Or was he relieved? When Hazard had finished explaining the fight, he said, “Whoever this guy is, he’s tough.”

  “He’s more than tough. He sounds like the Hulk.” Somers thought for a moment. “The guy from the stable?”

  “It must be.” Hazard picked at the bandage on his cheek. “It was luck, Somers. All the training, all the preparation, and it came down to fucking luck. He might have killed me just as easily.”

  “I doubt that. You’re too damn stubborn to let anyone win a fight. Now stop picking at that bandage.”

  Hazard studied his partner for a moment. Then he said, “Where’d you get the jeans? And the sneakers?”

  “What? Oh. Meryl wasn’t real specific about what had happened when she woke me. And I wasn’t in the clearest state of mind. I figured I could take my time, so I stopped in Ran’s room and borrowed some of his clothes. They’re not really my size, but they’ll do.”

  “And Ran didn’t own any shirts?”

  A cocky grin slid over Somers’s features, but before he could answer, Meryl’s steps sounded on the stairs. She appeared with a small tote in one hand and a glass of water in the other. “I brought everything,” she said. “I don’t know what you want.”

  “Let me see,” Hazard said.

  But Somers shook his head and moved to join Meryl. With his back to Hazard, he sorted through the bottles, stopping twice to shake a few pills into his hand. He brought them back and held them out. Two small pills and two horse pills.

  “Tylenol,” Somers said, pointing to the smaller pills. “And antibiotics. Just until we can get out of here.” Without waiting for an answer, he forced the glass of water into Hazard’s hand.

  Hazard collected the pills and swallowed them. He took a second, longer drink of water.

  “Let’s get you upstairs,” Somers said.

  This time, Hazard let his partner help him to his feet. Meryl fluttered around them, her deep blue eyes filled with anxious worry. Hazard took a step, and a deep ache resonated up from the spot where the man had kicked him. The pain made him stumble, and Somers caught him before he fell.

  “Jesus, just how bad are you hurt?”

  Hazard tried to push away Somers’s arm, and Somers gave a painful tug on Hazard’s hair.

  “Did you just pull my hair?”

  “Hey, stupid. I’m trying to help you. What happened to your leg?”

  “That guy landed a pretty solid kick.” Hazard gestured to the upper portion of his thigh along the back. “Nothing broken, I don’t think, but I can’t put a lot of weight on it.”

  “He kicked you right here?” Somers probed the portion of muscle that Hazard had indicated, and Hazard let out a hiss.

  “Will you stop that?”

  Somers started to laugh; for the first time since Somers had arrived, Hazard could hear the booze in his voice, in the sudden recklessness of his laughter. Still laughing, Somers shifted some of Hazard’s weight to his shoulder and helped him towards the stairs. And he was still laughing.

  “Just what’s so funny?” Hazard finally asked.

  “You’re telling me that this guy literally kicked your ass.”

  Hazard wondered how hard he’d need to push to send his partner flying down the stairs.

  IN THE END, THEY NEVER made it to the attic room. Hazard’s body weighed more than he had ever remembered, and his muscles were loose and rubbery. By the time they reached the second-floor landing, he was leaning so heavily on Somers that the smaller man canted sideways. Meryl, trotting ahead of them, glanced at the cramped attic stairs and then back to them.

  “I can’t get him up there,” Somers grunted.

  “I’ll climb.” At least, that’s what Hazard tried to say, but it came out like sludge.

  “Thomas’s room,” Meryl said. She sprinted to the next door and flung it open. “You can stay here.”

  Hazard shivered as Somers maneuvered him towards the door. The storm had penetrated the house; icy winds curled up the staircase, stealing the heat from the air. That was a problem, perhaps the biggest problem, but Hazard couldn’t focus on it—it lingered on the edge of consciousness, slipping out from under his grip like a soap bubble. He tried to help Somers, tried to move his feet in the right direction, but his legs kept folding under him, and Somers was swearing under his breath as he half-dragged, half-carried Hazard towards the door.

  “Ree,” Somers said through heavy breaths, “you’re going on a diet when we get out of this.”

  Thomas Strong’s room was by far the nicest of the ones Hazard had seen at Windsor. The details blurred at the edge of his vision, but he had the impression of dark, polished wood, expensive curtains, and a bed the size of a small ocean. When they reached the bed, Somers spilled Hazard into it.


  “All right,” Somers said to Meryl, rolling his shoulder. “Leave the bag and the water.”

  “Are you—do you want me to stay?”

  “No offense, but not a chance in hell. Get behind your door and lock it.”

  “The two of you—” Meryl’s voice wavered.

  “Goodnight.”

  “Yes. Yes, goodnight.”

  Then Hazard heard the door closing, and he heard the lock turn, and he heard the scrape of wood on wood and a rattling, lumbering thump. Somers had moved something in front of the door, he realized. A dresser, maybe. Or a bureau. A house like this seemed like it would have something called a bureau.

  A moment later, Somers’s face floated above Hazard. The electric lights produced an aura around Somers, as though Hazard were staring up at him from the bottom of a lake. He was vaguely aware of Somers unbuttoning his shirt, rolling him out of the garment, and dragging off his pants.

  “Something’s wrong,” Hazard tried to say. It came out as “somfng wrng,” and so he tried it again. It was a little better, but not much.

  “Nothing’s wrong,” Somers grunted as dragged the blankets over Hazard.

  “Tired.”

  “Of course you’re tired. I gave you two of Thomas’s sleeping pills.”

  “What?”

  “Those weren’t Tylenol, buddy.” Somers grinned down at him, but it was worn-out, patched-up version of his usual smile. He patted Hazard’s uninjured cheek. “You need some rest. And you’re too much of an asshole to sleep when you’re supposed to be sleeping.” Somers disappeared, and again came the sound of moving furniture. Hazard managed to turn his head to the side, and he saw Somers had pulled an armchair next to the bed. Somers sat there, shirtless, his skin pimpled with goosebumps as he shivered, but he kept his eyes on the door and he had his Glock at his side. In his other hand, he dialed and held the phone to his ear. After a full minute, Somers dropped the phone and swore.

  “Busy signal.”

  “Swinney?”

  “I tried Swinney earlier. And Cravens. I just tried the station, for kicks, and nothing. A tower’s down, I bet. Or the networks are overloaded. Or this storm is just screwing up one more thing.”

  Sleep was coming for Hazard, but it had a kind of luxurious slowness, like Hazard was waiting for a train at the station and nothing he could do would speed it up. So he studied Somers, the perfect shape of his shoulders, the taut lines of his chest and stomach, the dark, curling script of ink and muscle. He reached out with his good hand and caught Somers’s wrist.

  “Go to sleep,” Somers said absently, his eyes fixed on the door.

  “Cold.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “No,” Hazard said, struggling to enunciate. “I’m cold.”

  Somers’s eyes darted towards Hazard and then back to the door. “You’re fine.”

  Hazard squeezed Somers’s arm. Sleep was still rolling in, maybe a quarter-mile out, and Hazard was surprised at how easy it was to find the words he wanted to say, as if he really were going to board a train and this were goodbye, and you could say anything you wanted at a goodbye. “Please?”

  A flush darkened Somers’s neck, spreading across his upper chest. He lifted the gun, circled the bed, and crawled under the covers next to Hazard. Propped against the headboard, Somers lay the gun at this side and drew the covers under his arms.

  Everything was easy, now. Everything seemed so simple, so straightforward. It wasn’t like a goodbye, Hazard realized. It was like a dream. Maybe this was a dream, and that was why he could finally do what he wanted, say what he wanted. He rolled towards Somers, nuzzling against the hard muscle of Somers’s side, throwing one arm around Somers’s waist. He breathed in the smell of Somers’s skin. He’d wanted to do this since he’d been a boy: just this, even if it never went any farther. A moment later, Somers’s hand rested gently on Hazard’s back, skin against skin, rubbing small circles.

  “You need to go to sleep.”

  Hazard made a noise of assent, but he didn’t want to go to sleep. Even though he knew sleep was coming, even though he knew it was puffing towards him, getting ready to pull into the station, he didn’t want to sleep. He wanted to stay like this, where it was easy to talk and easy to act, he wanted this forever.

  “You did a good job today,” Hazard mumbled, speaking into Somers’s side. “In the snow. You’re good at everything. I didn’t know where I was going, but you always know. That’s a, that’s a metaphor, right? You always know what you’re doing. You always know where you’re going. And I’m—I’m queer, right? Always a little off.”

  Somers’s hand froze on Hazard’s back. When the other man spoke, his voice sounded thick—partly with drink, and partly with emotion. He pitched his voice lightly, though, as though trying to make a joke. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” Then he resumed rubbing Hazard’s back, his touch barely more than brushing the skin.

  “You’re going to be mad at me in the morning,” Hazard said, nuzzling closer. Sleep was steaming in towards him now, great clouds of steam filling that dream train station, swallowing everything from sight, and Hazard felt himself disappearing into that steam. “I do that. You’re a nice person, but I make you angry.”

  “You don’t make me angry.” Somers made a noise, as though trying to clear his voice, but his words were still thick when he spoke. “You’re goddamn impossible, but you don’t make me angry.”

  “I did,” Hazard managed to say. He was fading fast now, being carried away by the drugs, but he forced the words to the surface. “I don’t know how I do it, but I’m sorry.”

  “Ree,” Somers said, and then he stopped.

  “I like it when you call me that.”

  Somers’s hand moved up to Hazard’s head, brushing the hair along one side until his hand came to rest on Hazard’s neck: possessive and protecting. “Ree, can I tell you something?”

  “Anything,” Hazard managed to murmur.

  Somers started to talk, and the words made a pleasant buzzing as Hazard drifted farther and farther. The noises rumbled in Somers’s chest, and those tremors hummed at the edge of Hazard’s consciousness. The words were a story, but the details eluded Hazard. Something about Somers’s father. Something about football—a game, maybe? And then silence snipped off the end of the story, and Somers laughed, and his thumb followed the curve of Hazard’s jaw.

  “I’ve never bored anyone to sleep before.”

  “No,” Hazard mumbled. “I’m listening.”

  “No, you’re not. You’re asleep.”

  And then Hazard was asleep, carried far, far away into a gray emptiness.

  AT SOME POINT TOWARDS DAWN, Somers had finally slept. The combination of weariness and the last of the alcohol still working through his system had combined to drag him down into unconsciousness. It hadn’t helped, either, that Hazard had been wrapped around him, warming the bed like a big electric blanket. Now, as Somers woke, he realized three things: he had a hangover burning at the back of his head like a welder’s torch; he had slept funny, propped against the headboard, and his neck felt like it was bent at a permanent angle; and Hazard was gone.

  The last realization shocked Somers out of his lingering sleepiness, and he jerked upright, wincing at the stiffness in his neck and the sickeningly hot pain in his head. His hand found the gun, but the big piece of furniture—what was it called? A sideboard? Hazard would know—still stood in front of the door. The room was otherwise empty, though.

  It was a large room, and morning light picked out the details that had escaped Somers’s notice the night before. Everything was made of the same dark wood, and the bedding and the curtains and the rug made a pleasing combination of browns and golds. Abstract sculptures—figurines, Hazard guessed—stood in a row on the nightstand, and they looked more like a family of melted candles than anything else. A second door opened onto an ensuite bathroom, and from inside the bathroom came the sound of running water. Then the water stopped, and Hazard s
tepped into view.

  There was something so raw about him, something so brutish and primal, that it Somers felt a flush of arousal just looking at his partner: huge, defined arms; thick, muscled legs, the stiff, bristly black hairs across his chest and stomach. At the moment, Hazard wore only his tight-fitting black undershorts, almost obscenely tight across his crotch and around his legs. And that butt. That butt had a shelf you could build a picnic table on.

  “No hot water,” Hazard said, his tone brusque, almost curt. “Must have been running on gas. I cleaned up as best I could; you might want to do the same before the pipes are solid ice.”

  Somers noticed, then, that his breath stirred faint white clouds in the air. The room was freezing.

  “Yeah,” Hazard said, in response to Somers’s realization. “We’ve got to move, or we’ll freeze to death here.”

  Cleaning up—even with cold water—sounded vitally important to Somers right then. But first he dug through the canvas tote that Meryl had brought them, sorting through the pills until he found a bottle of acetaminophen. He dry-swallowed two and made his way to the bathroom. He drank two glasses of water—cold enough to make his teeth ache—and lathered a washcloth with soap, cleaning as much of himself as he could stand in the frigid temperature. When he’d rinsed his skin, he dried himself with a big, fluffy towel, and emerged from the bathroom.

  Hazard had pulled on his day-old clothes and was staring at Somers, his expression closed and impossible to read. Somers tried to ignore him as he pulled on the borrowed jeans and sneakers, but Hazard’s glance didn’t move, and it started to make Somers’s skin prickle.

  “So,” Somers said, looking up as he tied his laces. “How are you feeling?”

  Hazard’s wounded hand drifted upwards, hovering a half-inch from the bandage on his face. “I’ve been better. But I’ve been worse too. You?”

  The cold water and the acetaminophen had done something to ease the hammering in Somers’s head, and he shrugged. “I’d like a few more layers of clothing, but otherwise I’m fine.”