Last Song (Heinlein's Finches Book 3)

by Robin Banks

I corner him. For a moment he looks panicked enough to smack me one, but he breathes deeply a few times and relaxes. I tug his shirt off to the side to look at the base of his neck. I wonder whether the next thing I will see will be his fist rearranging my nose, but he seems to go distant instead, as if he was giving up on his own body.

  “Is that a fucking bite mark?”

  “Dunno. Probably.”

  I pull the tatters of his shirt off his back and lean over to look there. The whole of it is covered in long, deep scratches. I run through a couple of breath cycles to steady myself.

  “Ok. Before I totally lose my shit, tell me that this was recreational. And consensual.”

  He shrugs my hand off. “How is that any of your business?”

  “Because you’re my friend, asshole.”

  His eyes widen. “Ah. Yeah. I didn’t say no, if that’s your problem.”

  “My problem is that you’re hurt. Take your shirt off.”

  “What?”

  “That needs cleaning up.”

  “I can do that myself.”

  “Ok then. You give it a go, and when you’ve finished running around chasing your own tail, then I’ll give it a go. We’ve got all night, don’t we? Or until Alya gets back, anyway.”

  “You’re not gonna tell Alya, are you?”

  “Don’t insult me. Take your fucking shirt off.”

  A muscle twitches in his jaw and his eyes go hard. “You are starting to piss me off.”

  “Will you please let me fix that up? Then we can go back to ignoring each other’s existence.”

  He looks exasperated, but he still turns around and takes his shirt off. His back is in a real state. Most of the scratches are bleeding, and the worst ones have ribbons of skin hang off them. At least the bite mark didn’t break skin. I feel like screaming, but I know that wouldn’t help.

  “I need some disinfectant and some gel to seal this up.”

  “In the sink. I got them on the way back.”

  “Is our med kit not good enough for you?”

  “Alya would notice it’d gotten used up.”

  “Your priorities are as reasonable as ever.” I spray the disinfectant all over his back. His skin ripples in response. “Does it hurt?”

  “Nah. Stings a bit. You’re making a fuss over nothing.”

  “Really? Some of this is bad enough to scar.”

  “I’ll add it to the collection”.

  He’s not kidding: he’s covered in scars. They all look superficial, but there are a lot of them and his skin is so fair that they all stick out. He has what back home is called a grubber’s tan: dark arms, neck, and face, pale everywhere else – everywhere I can see, anyway. I thought he was dark all over.

  I start to rub the worst of the scratches clean. I am being as gentle as I can but bits of skin still fall off.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I’m sorry too.”

  “Why?”

  “I can hear your teeth grinding. You’re dying to tell me off.”

  “It’s none of my business how you get your fun. As long as it was fun.”

  “Have you finished yet?”

  “No. It’d be easier if I just covered your whole back up.”

  “Go for it.”

  “Not enough gloop.”

  I start to smear the gel along the lines of the scratches. They run up and down his back and along his ribs. The gel becomes translucent as it sets, sealing up the cuts and transforming his back into a painting. I find the work hypnotic: I keep forgetting what I’m doing and why. My canvas is warm and responsive, twitching faintly under my touch. Every line I draw takes away some of the damage and replaces it with an eerie beauty. The more scratches I cover up, the less his back looks real. When I’ve finished I stand back and look at it. For a moment I can only see the shimmering crisscrossing pattern as if it was suspended in the air. Then he takes a deep breath, the pattern expands and contracts with it, and my eyes snap back into focus.

  Under those lines is his back, with its own lines and patterns. I can see the outline of his ribs and his spine and the crest of his pelvis, he’s that thin. I can see muscles too, and my fingers remember how they felt. I can feel the heat radiating from his skin.

  There is a long, irregular scar running along the bottom of his ribs just over the spot where his waist is narrowest. I find my finger following it towards the front until he twitches.

  “Does it hurt?”

  “Nah. It tickles.” His voice sounds croaky.

  He hasn’t moved yet. I finished treating his back I don’t know how long ago, and he hasn’t moved. I am inches away from him, my hand still on his waist. If I took half a step we’d be touching, my chest against his back, my lips at the base of his neck, my…

  He’s standing there clutching the sink, immobile, and suddenly the barrier between us drops and I can feel how much he wants me. It’s just as much as I want him. Feeling both those pulls makes my brain go soft and my dick hard.

  I pull him around and he turns, head bowed, eyes shut, lips slightly parted, burning with something that isn’t pure lust but has a lot of lust in it. He opens his eyes and looks right into mine. There is no way he can mistake what he finds there: I doubt I could hide it if I wanted to, and I’m not trying. We’re inches from each other, quivering and breathing hard. I wait for him to close up the space between us. I want him to do that, I want it to be his choice, because we both already know that it would be mine. All he has to do is make a move towards me.

  Instead he just throws that mental wall of his back up, cutting everything off. It’s so sudden and so final that it feels like a physical blow. I'm left outside; stranded, alone, and mortified.

  He pointedly looks away from me, but his eyes keep flashing blue at me through the curtain of his lashes. “Don’t look at me like that.”

  “Why?”

  “It makes me want to kiss you.”

  “Kiss me then.”

  “No.” He shakes his head. “This isn’t gonna happen.”

  He looks panicked and horrified, as if I’d asked him to do something awful. I don’t want to cry but my eyes are filling up with tears that have nowhere else to go. When he sees that, his panic disappears and his horror intensifies.

  “No. Don’t. Look, it’s not you, it’s me.”

  That converts all my hurt into rage. “Of all the hackneyed clichés out there, that’s the one you go for? Fucking spare me.”

  “It’s true! Have I ever lied to you?”

  “How could I possibly know that?”

  His eyes start dashing all over the place, skittering off things, looking at everything but me. “You wouldn’t, but it’s true. It’s not that I don’t like you. That doesn’t have anything to do with it.”

  “Do you though?”

  “It doesn’t matter!”

  “It matters to me!”

  “We’re here to do a job. We’re going to do it and then we’re going home. This is going to be over. There is no point starting it.”

  “You just spent two days banging someone you will probably never see again and it didn’t seem to bother you any.”

  “That was different!”

  “Why?”

  “Because it wasn’t you!”

  We both got louder and louder as we were going, and now we’re both panting. I don’t think much about it until I see him wince and curl around his chest, and I remember about his heart.

  “Luke? Are you ok?”

  “No. Of course I’m not. Don’t be nice to me. Please.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Because it makes me want to kiss you!”

  He bellows that at the top of his lungs and runs off, and I don’t understand anything anymore.

  In the morning, Asher opens his eyes, takes one look at me, and wraps himself around me as tight as he can.

  “You know I love you, right?”

  “Yes. I love you too.”

  “What happened?”

  I manage
to get the story out in dribs and drabs. It takes longer to tell than it took to happen because I don’t want to make a scene. I keep having to stop to get myself back together. I’m not sure whether Asher can make much sense of what I’m saying, but he understands how I’m feeling and that’s what matters to me right now.

  “Quinny, I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s not a big deal.”

  “Did you get any sleep at all?”

  “Not so much.”

  “I wish you’d woken me up.”

  “I don’t. Watching you sleep is the best thing ever.”

  He hugs me tighter. “What are you going to do?”

  “Either we pretend it never happened or we’ll have to talk it out. I don’t know. It’s not just up to me. It’s going to be awkward either way. Maybe I will just avoid him forever.”

  “On a six-berth ship?”

  “You think I should talk it out with him?”

  He shakes his head. “I don’t know. I don’t understand him. I don’t want to give you the wrong advice. Most of all, I don’t want you to get hurt.”

  “It’s a bit late for that.”

  I’m in no fit state to be seen and there is no need for me to get out yet, so Asher brings me my breakfast and news.

  “Alya and Raj are still out. They sent over a message late last night that they won’t be back until after lunch. Departure is pushed back until late afternoon.”

  “Oh, goody. I really wanted today to drag on.”

  “Luke is in the lounge. He doesn’t look terribly happy.”

  “Would I be a terrible person if I didn’t feel bad about that?”

  “I don’t think so. I think you would be a human person.”

  “You’re human, and you’re not a petty, vindictive asshole.”

  “Quinny, I am the luckiest person who ever lived: I fell in love with the two most wonderful people in the universe and they loved me back. It’s easy to be charitable when your life is perfect. Don’t compare me in my joy with you in your sadness. That would be unfair.”

  “You might have a point.”

  “Don’t sound so surprised.”

  “I have a point too: if you were in my situation, you wouldn’t be skulking around waiting to see what comes next. You’d go right at it and get things squared off.”

  “That’s because I’m a coward.”

  “Eh? What?”

  “I’m not brave enough to go to sleep wondering about monsters in my closet, so I have to open the damn thing up and find out one way or the other. And because I’m a coward, I usually go armed. It may look like bravery from a distance, but it isn’t. Just don’t tell Gwenny, ok? She gets it consistently wrong, but I enjoy that.”

  I give him a kiss. “You are a very confused man, and I adore you. I’m going for it.”

  “Are you sure? Please, don’t do it because you think I’d do it. I don’t know that I would, and anyway I do all kinds of unwise things.”

  “You do all kinds of wise things, too. But no: I want this over and done with. I couldn’t stand another night like the last one.”

  He brushes the hair off my face. “Remember I love you, ok?”

  “As if I could forget that.”

  I get up, go to the ‘fresher, and straighten myself up. I do it as quickly as I can because I know that if I give myself enough time I’ll talk myself out of this. I don’t think that how I look matters right now, anyway. I think we’re well past that point.

  I give Asher a kiss on the way out. He is worried about me, so I try to look brave and confident though I feel anything but. Everything I told him was the truth: this is too painful to keep it dragging on. By getting this over and done with I can hope to leave it all behind when we lift off. All and still, I have to force my feet to take each and every step.

  When I get to the lounge, a millennium later, I can’t get past the doorway: Luke’s eyes pin me into place. He is infinitely sorry and sorrowful, and at least as scared as I am. I can feel him as clearly as I can see him, his feelings echoing mine, until he shuts our contact down. I don’t know for whose benefit he’s shielding and I’m not sure he knows either, but it doesn’t change what I just felt.

  When he finally speaks, his voice is calm and distant. That makes no odds either: I know it’s an act.

  “I am sorry. I need you to believe that.”

  “I do. I am sorry too.”

  “You shouldn’t be. You haven’t done anything wrong.”

  “So you’ve made your decision?”

  He shakes his head and curls fall into his eyes. “It’s not like that. It’s not a decision. It’s not about you. I’m not dragging anyone into my bullshit.”

  “What bullshit is that?”

  “There are things you don’t know about me, ok? I swear, if you knew them we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

  “But you’re not going to tell me.”

  He just stares at me as I stare at him, until something in his eyes breaks and he looks away. “Don’t look at me like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like you… Just don’t, ok?”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m asking you to. Because I want you to forget this.”

  “That’s really what you want?”

  “I want what’s best for you.”

  “That doesn’t answer my question.”

  “No, it doesn’t. I want this to be over. I want everyone to get home.”

  “And that is all you want?”

  “What else is there? That’s what a happy ending is: everyone gets to go home.”

  “I want more than that. I want you. I’ve been thinking about nothing else for I don’t know how long.”

  His eyes flutter. He’s not crying, but his eyelashes are wet.

  “I never meant for this to happen. Gods, I didn’t.”

  “Neither did I, but it happened. You want me and I want you. It’s not complicated.”

  “It’s totally fucked up.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m in it,” he croaks. “When you mess around with fucked-up people, shit gets fucked up.” He rubs his hands all over his face. When he lowers them, his expression has gone blank again. “Ok. Listen. This is how this is going to go down. This never happened. We’re going to finish this godsdamned mission, then you’re going to go home and forget about it.”

  “No.”

  “What?”

  “No. I’m not doing that.”

  He looks straight at me, eyes wide in terror. “You have to. I can’t be with you.”

  “Can’t? At least have the guts to say that you don’t want to.”

  “I don’t want to fuck shit up with you.”

  “Then don’t. Don’t fuck it up.”

  “That’s what you don’t get. I fuck shit up. I can’t be with anyone. I don’t know how. I never fucking learnt. I had nobody to learn from.”

  “Luke, there isn’t a fucking manual to any of this, particularly when someone like me is in the picture.”

  He squints. “Someone like you?”

  “Yeah. I’m not precisely standard issue, in case you haven’t noticed.”

  “Shut the fuck up,” he growls. “You’re fucking perfect, is what you are.”

  “I’m so perfect that you don’t want to be with me.”

  “Yeah.” He nods. “Now you get it.”

  “I don’t. This doesn’t have to be anything we don’t want it to be.”

  “Yeah, it’s that easy. All I’ve got to do is decide that it’s going to be good, and it will be. That’s how life works. People always get their fucking wishes. You need to grow the fuck up.”

  I have to hand it to the guy: he has a talent for converting anything I feel to barely coherent rage. “I need to grow up? You’re too scared to even kiss me, and I am the one who needs to grow up?”

  “It wouldn’t work, ok? You couldn’t deal with my shit. I can’t fucking deal with it. You shouldn’t have to.”

/>   “Shouldn’t it be up to me to decide? Or am I too feeble to do that?”

  “You have no idea what you’re talking about. You don’t know where I’ve been and you don’t know what I’ve done. You don’t know me.”

  “You’re damn right I don’t, but that’s your damn fault. I’m not a mind reader and you won’t talk about anything.”

  “No, that isn’t it. I could tell you everything about it and you still wouldn’t have a godsdamn clue.”

  “Am I too dim to comprehend the intricacies of your life? Too superficial to handle the depth of your personality?”

  “You’re too fucking nice!”

  “Eh? What?”

  “I could tell you my shit, and you wouldn’t get it. Or you would, and then you wouldn’t want anything to do with me. That’d be a good thing. You might get it in your head that I’m bad news.”

  “You know, your tendency to mythologize yourself is not among your most charming characteristics.”

  “Mythowhatthefuck? I’m not saying any of this is good! I’m saying the fucking opposite!”

  “Yes, sure. You’re a big-time baddy and we should all avoid you at all costs. Do you realize how pretentious you sound? As if none of us had ever done anything questionable.”

  “Questionable? I’m not talking about some kind of moral gray area! What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done?”

  Now he’s done it, the pompous little asshole. “I killed a guy. Shot him in the back in cold blood.” That floors him. I know it’s spiteful, I know I will regret all of this, but right now I’m getting a real kick out of his reaction. “How’s that? Am I bad enough to join your special little club now?”

  He shakes his head as if he was trying to dislodge the thought out of it.

  “No. No way you just went and offed someone.”

  “I just fucking told you that’s what I did. You can ask Aiden: he was there. Everyone knows about it. Well, Gwen, Asher, and Sasha do. The kids are too young to be told and we don’t advertise it outside the family.”

  “I’m not saying it didn’t happen. You’re not the kind of person who says something like that to sound cool. I’m saying that you’re not telling that right. You’re leaving stuff out, so it’s coming out sounding wrong. You must have had a reason and no other options.”

  “What makes you so sure?”