What Remains

by Garrett Leigh

  No sensible answers came to him, then he remembered the business card pinned to the fridge. Fire Kat Design. Something clicked. He closed his eyes and tried to chase it down, but it evaporated as quickly as it had come.

  Fuck it.

  He opened his eyes and typed in Fire Kat Design with his birth year tacked on the end. The laptop flashed to life. Jodi blinked, but his surprise was fast tempered by the image that greeted him on the screen: a photograph of Rupert in even less clothes than Jodi had seen him in that morning.

  So much for the distraction.

  Heat flooded Jodi’s veins, burning him from the inside out. What the actual fuck? Was this Rupert’s laptop? It had to be, right? Clearly, his flatmate was some kind of narcissist. There was no other reason his admittedly sketchy logic could find for Rupert’s half-naked form filling the screen.

  So shut the damn laptop and put it back. But Jodi did neither. He growled in frustration, but couldn’t find the will to break his stare. He leaned forward and studied the image, comparing it with the virtual stranger he shared a home with. They didn’t look like the same man. Putting aside the vast swathes of flawless skin that continued to send Jodi into a tailspin, he’d never seen Rupert smile like that. Jesus, he rarely saw Rupert smile at all.

  That skin, though. Jodi took a deep, shuddering breath. It was perfect: pale and smooth, and wrapped around a body that put the dude on the lube bottle to shame. And Rupert’s eyes . . . fuck, his eyes. Jodi was lost in them and didn’t notice his hand slip under the duvet until his fingers brushed his cock.

  He froze, but it was momentary because the stolen, bewildering pleasure of the featherlight touch on his dick was too intense to ignore. He wrapped his fingers around his cock. The relief was instant but fleeting, as a desperate need for more took hold. He moved his hand up and down, squeezing and pulling. Twisting. His eyelids drooped, but he fought them, unwilling to break the thrall that Rupert’s warm gaze had cast on him. This is wrong. But it didn’t feel wrong. It felt right, like it was the only thing that had made sense in as long as he could remember, and fuck, it was good—better than good. It was fucking amazing.

  Jodi pushed the laptop back, cradling it between his thighs, and shoved the duvet away. The cool air on his dick made him shiver, but the heady heat in his veins remained, boiling over until an animalistic groan escaped him, echoing around the room, bouncing off the walls and reverberating through his bones. He jammed his fist in his mouth, biting down on his knuckles. Jesus Christ, this was insane—perhaps he was insane—but he couldn’t recall wanking ever feeling like this, arresting, enthralling, and so utterly consuming that he couldn’t see how it would ever end.

  But it did end. He came with a rush and a strangled yelp, shooting all over his T-shirt with more jizz than he’d ever seen.

  For a long moment, he didn’t dare move, but as his gasping breaths returned to normal and his sweat cooled, reality and perspective hit him like a train. Disgust crept over him, and left him empty, like his back had no bones and his stomach had sunk through the mattress. Nausea roared, an urge that, this time, he couldn’t ignore. He dove for the bin as fast as his limited body would allow, and heaved his guts up until there was nothing left but bile and shame. Great. Like it wasn’t enough that he had the brain function of an eight-year-old. Now it appeared the accident had short-circuited his sexuality too. Was that even possible? To go into a coma with a—albeit, as it turned out, imaginary—girlfriend, and come out wanting to touch your flatmate’s dick?

  Jodi shuddered, and his stomach heaved again, but nothing came up. Panting, he pulled his sticky T-shirt off and wiped his mouth, then stashed it under the bed to retrieve and dump when no one was looking—not that he expected that to happen anytime soon.

  On cue, the bedroom door opened. Jodi lunged for the laptop, slamming it shut, and hurling it clumsily into the drawer.

  Sophie frowned. “What are you doing? Are you all right?”

  “Um . . . I threw up?”

  “Shit.” Sophie bustled in, swiping the bin before Jodi could protest. “Do you have a headache?”

  “No more than usual. I took some codeine. It came straight back up, though.”

  “Ah, bet you didn’t eat breakfast either? Do you never learn?”

  Apparently not. Illicit wanking aside, even Jodi could remember the countless times the cacophony of pills he needed to take had pickled his empty stomach.

  Sophie disappeared, presumably to the bathroom, leaving Jodi to cast a furtive glance around, checking there were no stray signs of his masturbatory meltdown.

  “Now what are you doing?”

  Jodi glanced up from peering under the bed. “Nothing.”

  “Are you looking for something?”

  “Um . . .” Jodi’s brain malfunctioned, and he blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “My laptop.”

  Dickhead.

  Sophie came round the bed and peered into the evil drawer, not seeming to notice the condoms and lube that were all Jodi could see. “Here it is. What do you need it for?”

  “I don’t know.”

  It was an honest answer. Jodi took the computer from Sophie and crawled back under the covers, leaving room for her to slide in beside him with little conscious thought.

  She slipped under the covers. “We do still do this, in case you’re wondering.”

  “Hmm?”

  “Lazing around in bed together, eating shit, and gossiping like a pair of old women. It’s usually my bed, though. Plays havoc with my sex life.”

  Jodi processed the sudden influx of new information, absorbed it, and found it fit. Being in bed with Sophie felt normal, though five years ago it had been normal. “Why does it fuck with your sex life?”

  “Would you want your, uh, partner, spending the day in bed with their ex?”

  Jodi couldn’t think of an answer. Sophie drummed her nails on the laptop. “Are you going to boot this thing up, or what?”

  Jodi opened the laptop and tapped in the password, ignoring Sophie’s curious stare. Rupert’s shirtless torso filled the screen once more. Jodi looked away under the pretence of scratching his neck, but his eyes betrayed him, drinking in Rupert’s skin just a split second later. “Is this Rupert’s laptop too?”

  “No. I don’t think Rupert knows how to turn one on.”

  Jodi had some sympathy for him there. “So it’s just mine? No one else uses it?”

  “Unless you count me pinching it to shop on ASOS, no. Why, honey? What’s up?”

  Jodi turned the screen to face Sophie, giving her the full Rupert experience. “That’s what’s up. Why the hell do I have this shit as my wallpaper?”

  Sophie bit her lip, a sure sign that she was nervous, an emotion that bewildered Jodi’s already fragmented mind. “You live with Rupert. Why wouldn’t you have his picture on your computer? This is from when you took Indie to Cornwall last summer.”

  Last summer meant nothing to Jodi. Why would it? And Sophie’s answer made no more sense than the open lube bottle in his bedside drawer. “But—”

  “Anyway,” Sophie cut in. “What did you want to do on here? Check your emails or something?”

  “My emails?”

  “Yeah. I called the clients in your account book when you had your accident, but I might have missed some. Let’s see.” Sophie peered at the screen and drew her finger over the mouse pad. “The mail app isn’t on here. Maybe you have it on the iMac? Or your browser? Can you remember? What’s your email password?”

  The barrage of questions made Jodi’s head spin. He tried to catch them all as they jumbled in his brain, but it was no good. His cognition short-circuited and the axe of blackness fell. “Sorry, what?”

  Sophie moved the mouse over an icon that was vaguely familiar. “Maybe it’s this . . . Oh, no, this isn’t it.”

  “What is it, then?”

  “Haven’t a clue, so it’s probably some fancy program you use for work. Click on it and see.”

  Jodi tappe
d the mouse pad. Nothing happened.

  “You have to press a bit harder, hon.”

  Jodi pressed down and the icon sprang to life, eclipsing Rupert’s face and chest with a bigger logo that eventually merged into a convoluted interface. Jodi leaned closer and studied the tool bar. His fingers itched, and his previously heavy eyes suddenly felt jammed open. He found the file list and clicked on the first one he saw. A monochrome website template opened, modified for what appeared to be a hipster cafe that served a gazillion types of herbal tea. The site was crisp and clean . . . almost. The sidebar header was positioned too far left and the font on the interactive buttons didn’t match up.

  He made the adjustments, working on instinct. It took him a while to notice Sophie had gone quiet—scarily quiet—and was watching his every move, tracking each click and drag. “What?”

  “This software is new, Jodi. You only got it a month before the accident, and you said it was completely different to the program you were using before, that you had to teach yourself how to build sites all over again.”

  Jodi frowned. “Thought you said you didn’t have a clue what it was?”

  “I wanted to see if you did. That’s why I didn’t tell you that you don’t have the internet connected on this computer to stop you pissing around when you’re doing your layouts.”

  “You wanted to see— What the fuck? Why would you do that? I’m not a bloody lab rat, Soph. What else are you testing me on?”

  “I’m not testing you on anything.” Sophie shrank back from Jodi’s anger. “The doctors told us not to plant memories in your head. They said no one interprets the past in the same way, and we had to let you remember things on your own.”

  “What things?”

  “I don’t know. Just things. Don’t shout at me, Jodi. I’m doing my best.”

  “What aren’t you telling me?”

  “Nothing.”

  Jodi stared her down. He barely knew which way was up anymore, and the distinct sensation Sophie was keeping shit from him wouldn’t quit. Did she know about the lube in the drawer? Or why his laptop was plastered with photos of Rupert half-naked? Or was it something else? Something bigger and even more fucked up? Jodi’s anger faded, and in its place came fear. He didn’t want to know. He didn’t want to remember. He—

  “Jodi.” Sophie took his hands and squeezed them hard until he met her gaze. “Don’t be angry, please. I want to give you all the answers, but I’m so scared I’ll get it wrong and hurt you. That we’ll lose you all over again. I can’t do it. You have to remember. Please. You have to remember.”

  “Remember what?”

  “Who you are, Jodi. You have to remember who you are.”

  One Sunday morning, ten weeks after Jodi came home from hospital, Rupert emerged from a quiet night shift into the first spring sun of the year, the kind of sunshine that teased London at the close of winter, promising an end to the dreary grey frost, only to disappear again like it had never been there at all.

  Knowing this far too well, Rupert stood in the eerie calm of early morning Brixton and tilted his face to the sky, absorbing the gentle heat, letting it seep into his bones. As ever, his thoughts turned to Jodi, who was no doubt tucked up in bed with Sophie watching over him, and the warmth stalled, blocked by the cool grip of sadness around his heart. There’d been a few fleeting days when he’d almost believed they were getting somewhere, but over the past week or so, Jodi had become more silent than ever, retreating to the bedroom the moment Rupert came home, only coming out to pick at the food Rupert fudged for him, or to take a shower, an occupation he seemed to have a renewed interest in.

  Rupert sighed and opened his eyes. Jodi’s physical recovery was progressing as well as anyone could hope for, but caring for someone who wouldn’t even look at you was more soul-destroying than he could ever have imagined. Still, the situation didn’t seem like it was going to change anytime soon and the sun’s appearance had given him a faint charge of energy he couldn’t ignore. He caught the Tube to Finsbury Park and jogged the rest of the way home. With his bag slung on his back, the four-mile run was hard work—he hadn’t been to the gym in months—but the strain on his lungs and the lactic acid in his legs felt good, cleansing, and he was almost sorry when the flat appeared on the horizon. He slowed to a walk, catching his breath. The light in the bedroom was on, but that didn’t necessarily mean anyone was awake. Jodi didn’t care for the dark, and there was no reason for Sophie to be up this early on a Sunday.

  He let himself in and dumped his bag in the corner with the rest of the clutter. His makeshift bed on the couch called his name, but he needed to eat first or he’d never find rest. Empty cupboards and an empty fridge spoiled the party. A closer inspection revealed there was nothing edible in the flat save half a packet of pasta Rupert couldn’t be arsed to cook and a fun-size KitKat.

  Rupert took the KitKat and a mug with the last teabag into the living room, mentally writing a shopping list to take to the supermarket later that day, and cursing himself for letting the cupboards get so bare. Grocery shopping was one of many things he’d yet to get used to, even after all these months.

  “Morning.”

  “Jesus!” Rupert jumped, sloshing hot tea over his hand. “What the fuck are you doing sitting in the dark?”

  “Trying to figure out the HTML code for a website I can’t remember building.” Jodi eyed Rupert from the rarely used armchair, his gaze inscrutable. “Didn’t think you’d be back till later.”

  Rupert set his mug down, shaking his hand. “Why? I came off shift at six.”

  “I know, but you’re always late at weekends.”

  “So?” Rupert glared at Jodi, irrationally irritated. Jodi had often waited up for him in the past, unable to sleep until he knew Rupert was safe, but those days were long gone, and Rupert didn’t feel like explaining himself to someone who didn’t give a shit.

  Jodi took the hint and turned back to his laptop, his face a study in concentration. Despite his chagrin, Rupert was intrigued. He dropped his chocolate on the coffee table and rounded the armchair to squint over Jodi’s shoulder. What he saw meant little to him, but Jodi’s work never had. Jodi’s passion for web design had always impressed and baffled him in equal measure.

  “Weird, isn’t it?”

  “Hmm?” Rupert tore his gaze from the screen to find Jodi staring at him again.

  “That I can remember how to code, but not how the central heating works.”

  “No one knows how the central heating works in this place, mate. Bloody boiler’s got a mind of its own.”

  “If you say so. Still doesn’t make any sense, though.”

  Nothing does.

  Rupert left Jodi to it, flopped on the couch, and went to sleep.

  He woke a few hours later to the metallic clang of the weights Jodi had been given to strengthen his arms and legs. Yawning, Rupert sat up and checked the time: 10 a.m. Damn it. He’d had dreams of sleeping until at least midday, but it wasn’t to be. Unlike Jodi—both before and after the accident—once Rupert was awake, he was awake, and there was little point pretending he wasn’t, especially when there was no big, warm bed and welcoming arms to make lying around in his pants any fun.

  Get used to it, dickhead. Rupert scrunched his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose, ignoring Jodi and his weights, and willing away the cloud of pessimism he wasn’t quite ready to deal with yet, but his mind refused to play ball, instead sweeping through every nightmare he’d had since Jodi’s accident, including the ones where nothing ever changed. The ones that became more and more real with every day that passed. The ones where Jodi continued to frown at his computer screen, and Rupert spent the rest of his life rotting on a lonely couch. ’Cause even if he never looks my way again, I’ll never love anyone else.

  Rupert rubbed his eyes and focussed on Jodi, who seemed to be having trouble packing the weights away in their box. Guilt fast replaced depression as he recalled biting Jodi’s head off just a few hours befor
e. “Do you need some help?”

  “No.”

  Of course he didn’t. Rupert suppressed the compulsion to check Jodi had taken his medication and breathed a silent sigh. Jodi’s mood, like his own, was unlikely to change as the day went on. Sophie wouldn’t be back until tomorrow night, leaving Rupert at the mercy of Jodi’s apathy for the next thirty-six hours. Great.

  “You can hold my feet . . . if you want?”

  “What?”

  Jodi looked amused, an emotion Rupert had almost forgotten existed. “I’ve done most of it already, but I gotta do sit-ups now, and I can’t keep my feet down.”

  He might as well have asked Rupert to fly him to Mars. Since when had Jodi followed the daily exercise routines his recovery team had devised for him of his own accord? Without growling at Rupert and Sophie first? Or simply being too tired and ill to cope with it?

  Rupert slid off the couch and shuffled to where Jodi had lain down on the rug. “You sure about this? It’s been a while since we last tried.”

  A month, to be exact, and they hadn’t exactly tried. Rupert had got as far as holding up the abdominal exercise sheet before Jodi had called him a cunt and left the room. The time before that, he’d fainted, leading Rupert to deduce that particular worksheet was cursed.

  Perhaps Jodi didn’t remember, or care. He answered Rupert’s question by pointing to his feet. “Hold them down.”

  Rupert held them down. Jodi took a breath, then slowly, painfully, hauled himself up.

  It was hard to watch. Jodi had never been bothered by exercise or personal fitness, but with his lank and leanly muscled frame, bright smile, and general good health, it had never mattered.

  “This hurts,” Jodi said.

  “Where?”

  Jodi shrugged like Rupert had asked the most bone-stupid question in the world.