Smoke and Mirrors

by Lillian T. MacGowan

  Naim howled, and Deck grinned, surprised and delighted. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you laugh this hard before. It’s awesome. Even if it is at the expense of my dick. Kind of,” he chuckled.

  Naim laughed harder.

  “I’m pretty sure I gave myself a callus,” he muttered and chuckled while Naim wiped a tear from his eye. “I’m not kidding. I mean I wasn’t, ya know, I wasn’t dating anyone so…”

  “I know, Deck. I know.” Naim shook his head for about the thousandth time and wondered how this had happened to him.

  “Seriously, man. It was bad,” Deck looked tragic just thinking about it. “I had to stop taking it because of that.” He raised their hands and kissed Naim’s knuckles absently as though he needed comforting.

  “Really?” Naim asked, trying to regain his composure. “It was that bad?” They didn’t talk about sex. He knew that Deck was still trying to navigate what did and did not make Naim disappear in that sad way that he did.

  And unbeknownst to him, so was Naim. For his part, Naim felt like he started this conversation with the intention of putting a toe in the water, and now he was up to his knees. But the water was fine.

  “Dude.” Deck shook his head. “A. Hammer.”

  Naim chuckled again. “That could be dangerous. But I mean—” He couldn’t help his curiosity, and somewhere in the back of his head he realized that he couldn’t remember the last time, if ever, he’d had a normal, real-people conversation about anything sexually related. And for some reason, it helped rather than hurt that Deck had put his free hand on Naim’s thigh and was gently rubbing it. Naim laughed to himself a bit; of course he was thinking about normal, real-people sex a hell of a lot more lately. “Was it worth it?” he asked Deck.

  Deck pulled back in surprise. His eyes scanned the room as he thought. “Yeah, yeah. It was worth it. But I only took it for about six months; just to kind of reset myself, ya know?”

  “Yeah, I know.” Naim was nodding. “I quit after about a year.” He glanced at Deck quickly. “Not for that reason but…well…” He was really trying. “It was a relief.” He shifted and blushed, but he also smiled shyly, and Deck blew out a breath, smiling himself.

  “I bet it was.” He laughed cheekily but spoke seriously. “You’re a doctor for fuck’s sake; you don’t have that kind of time to spend jackin’ it.”

  Naim blinked once, then put his face in his hands and howled. Deck laughed just as hard, wildly pleased with himself. How the hell did a conversation about depression, therapy, antidepressants, and difficulty reaching orgasm like it says on the box make them both feel better?

  All the rooms on the floor were double so Deck didn’t have a private, but Jen fixed it so that the second bed was free unless the floor reached capacity. She didn’t do it for Deck’s sake. She did it for the sake of people trying to heal. She knew Deck, she knew her husband, and she knew his crew; no sane person would be able to rest and recuperate in the same room as Deck.

  So the next day, three weeks exactly from the fire, before Naim started his rounds, he marched into Deck’s room, ducked around an IV pole sword fight, and headed straight for the second bed. He booted Peyton off it without a word, unlocked it, and shoved it up against the one Deck occupied—right there—in front of everyone. Then he locked the wheels, and turning to the staring occupants of the room he pointed at it with a deadly look on his face.

  “Mine,” he said.

  Then he left.

  And Deck was so fucking in love, it was stupid.

  Laura broke the news to them as soon as she heard: someone had bailed Play-Doh out, and the punk was back strutting the streets. They had no idea who could possibly come up with that kind of cash, but it was what it was. Deck struggled to understand Naim’s—for lack of better word—complacency. But Naim was far from complacent; he just understood Play-Doh better than he wanted to and couldn’t muster the same level of disgust that Deck had.

  Naim had no positive feelings for the kid, but he empathized with him and found himself to be tolerant of Play-Doh. Explaining that to Deck wasn’t something he was ready or able to do, so he tried distracting him instead with the cunning use of soft kisses to his throat, and a Mexican footie match as they lay on the pushed-together beds. It was a quarter to three in the morning.

  A loud commotion in the hallway shattered the quiet and startled them both. Metallic crashing, screamed profanities, and the slamming of bodies had both men up and out of the beds in an instant. Deck was much slower than Naim, and by time he got to the hall Naim was trying to shove himself between two larger men who were awkwardly trying to fight. One man’s arm was wrapped in a cast, and the other had a severe, thick line of stitches coming up vertically through the top of his shirt, all the way up his neck. They were threatening each other and still trying to fight around Naim as more faces peeked out of doorways up and down the hall.

  The men weren’t as big as Deck, but they were big. Seeing Naim try to break up the fight put Deck in a panic. He was much smaller than they were, and what the hell did he know about fighting? But just taking another step forward, Deck felt his head go light; he’d gotten up and moved too fast and wavered where he stood. A nurse was on the phone calling for security, and Naim had wedged himself between the two men, shouting at them to stop. Deck’s panic grew worse. Even in their condition, their gang ink marked them as a real threat. They could easily kill him.

  “Knock it—” Naim shoved at the man in the cast. “Knock it off.” He got a punch to the head for his trouble, and Deck saw red. He moved toward them in a rage but could do little more than wobble. “Deck! Stay!” Naim pointed at him and growled, and another nurse ran up behind him with a wheelchair as he wobbled more. Only once before had he ever felt so helpless and useless.

  Two security guards finally arrived, running down the hall as Naim stood with his back to the man with the stitches, trying to ward off the blows coming from the man in the cast. The stitched man still tried to reach past him, screaming obscenities in Naim’s ear. In a cold sweat, Deck realized that they weren’t even men, but teenagers—older, but still kids, maybe sixteen or seventeen. He felt sick and held himself up against the wall, refusing to get in the fucking wheelchair.

  The security guards tried to break up the fight, and Naim tried to keep the security guards and the patients from hurting each other more, when the nurse behind the desk came around to help. With her assistance, one security guard finally managed to wrangle the man in the cast and wrestled him away and into the elevator.

  Naim and the nurse seemed to be talking calmly to the man with the stitches as the other security guard stood by, speaking into a walkie when the kid exploded again and started screaming at the nurse, “FUCK YOU, MOTHERFUCKING CUNT. IMMA FUCK YOUR SHIT, UGLY CUNT ASS BITCH.” He moved threateningly toward her.

  Before the security guard got his walkie back on his belt, Naim’s face twisted and he smacked the kid across the mouth, then backhanded him. “Watch your mouth, little boy,” he snapped at the kid, who looked too shocked to be angry as blood trickled down his chin from his split lip. Naim’s face was hard like granite, with his teeth bared, his eyes cold and glittering, and Deck was stunned.

  The kid backed down but stared at Naim like death. Naim snarled and took a step closer to him, almost in his face. “You don’t talk to anyone in my hospital like that.” His lip curled, and his tone almost purred. “And you don’t even think about putting your shitty little hands on anyone. Now back the fuck off.” He took another aggressive step into the kid’s space, never breaking eye contact, and they both postured, two inches from one another’s face.

  Deck fell into the wheelchair and closed his mouth, hearing the nurse behind him let out a long-held breath.

  The chaos died down as the security guard gripped the kid and dragged him off the ward while Naim breathed, then made a call. The rest of the staff dispersed to rooms to deal with disturbed patients.

  Hanging up the phone, Naim took another steady
ing breath and looked to Deck, concern taking his face, changing it back to the calm, pretty man Deck knew. Naim went to Deck, rubbing at his face. “Fuck, I’m so sorry, Deck. Are you okay?”

  Deck just looked up at him, shocked into a rare silence.

  “Shit. Come on.” Naim took the wheelchair, turned it around, and pushed Deck back into his room, right to the beds. Locking the wheels, he crouched in front of Deck, who was still looking a little shaken. Naim reached up and touched his face. “Are you okay?” he asked again. “That was way too fast for you. Ya know what…?” He went to stand, wanting to look at Deck’s wounds when Deck reached out and stopped him.

  “I’m fine. No, yeah, I’m totally fine. Just got a little woozy for a minute there.” Deck blinked, then grinned. “Just gonna get back in bed.”

  “Let me help you.” Naim took Deck by the right arm. They eased his giant body back into the bed, and while he got comfortable, Naim wheeled the chair out of the way. When he turned back around, Deck sat chuckling to himself, looking shaky but delighted.

  Naim started. “The hell?” He made a face, walking back over to the beds and leaning against Deck’s side, ready to look at his wounds.

  Deck was shaking his head. “Whoa,” he said. “Just…whoa.” He chuckled even harder, his eyes shining. He looked at Naim with a particular kind of heat that went straight down Naim’s back and into his groin.

  “What?” Naim breathed out, squirming a little and starting to turn red.

  “I just…” Deck looked at him even more intensely, sitting up more, and Naim couldn’t meet his eyes. “I had no idea…”

  Nair grumbled, “What? Jesus, Deck.”

  Deck’s shining grin almost broke his face. “My honey is a total badass.”

  He reached up, slid his hands around the back of Naim’s head, into his rumpled braid, and kissed him, wet and hot and breathless.

  Naim just let himself enjoy being kissed, refusing to think about the my honey part.

  Naim woke shuddering and flexing his hips. Another wet dream, featuring Deck, of course. He lay there for a minute, catching his breath and his dignity. This was getting ridiculous.

  It was impossible not to get physical with Deck; he was a naturally tactile person, and it was obvious that he was trying to rein it in as best he could for Naim’s sake. But trying hard for Deck meant that despite his injury and the fact that he currently lived in hospital, he hadn’t shagged Naim senseless yet. This, Naim knew; he also appreciated and respected it. As a physician, Naim respected it because Deck wasn’t in any condition for doing anything senseless yet. As Naim, he appreciated it because he couldn’t deal with thinking about it. He’d avoided the reality of sex for as long as possible, but it was getting harder and harder to do, the more the base, physical need between them grew.

  He needed to tell Deck first.

  Naim sighed and rolled away from the wet spot, stuffing his face into the mattress. Did he? Did Deck really need to know?

  This was getting ridiculous. Deck was ridiculous. He was funny and beautiful and smart and kind and passionate and exciting and… Naim could go on. And on, and on. Deck was driving him crazy, and the poor bastard probably had no idea. He knew Deck had a particular impression of him; he thought Naim reserved and embarrassed about sex. Sometimes Naim worried that Deck doubted Naim’s attraction to him, yet nothing could be further from the truth. Every time Naim walked into that room, he was overcome with the need to knock Deck on his back and fuck him until he wept and bled. Why couldn’t he just…do that?

  He wanted to forget the past, forget what he knew about himself, and just mount the man. He sighed again. Yes. That would be wonderful. That would be perfect.

  That would be cruel and unfair to Deck, and he’d never be able to live with himself.

  This is getting ridiculous. He dragged himself out of bed and stomped to the shower.

  “How did your parents die?”

  Naim’s gaze snapped up in surprise.

  Deck trod on dangerous ground, and he knew it. He knew better than to ask Naim questions that personal.

  Naim’s temper flared quickly. “How did yours die?” Naim bit the words out, irritated.

  Deck stopped, a little startled. After thinking for a minute, he looked Naim in the eye and spoke quietly. “Mom died of breast cancer when I was seven. Adam was almost three.” Naim’s eyes dropped in shame. “Dad was FDNY.” Deck said nothing for a few seconds, and his cheek twitched. “He went down with the north Tower.”

  Naim’s face burned with his stomach.

  How did he do that? He spoke so simply and easily about these tragedies that were greater than Naim would have imagined. 9/11. Deck’s father was killed by Arab extremists in this gigantic way, and Naim had never even asked. And Deck felt everything, and things fell from his mouth so effortlessly. Even telling him about Adam. Naim had heard more than once that Deck didn’t talk about Adam, but he didn’t have to. Everyone already knew. Naim was new in his life, and he’d blurted it out after only a day. Deck didn’t do well handling sadness or grief, but he fucking felt it. He could process those things.

  Naim felt almost comforted by the familiar, overwhelming sense of shame.

  Neither of them said anything, and when Naim was finally able to look at Deck again, the sadness and grief that he handled so poorly were smeared all over his fair, fine face, and Naim’s spiral of shame sped up exponentially.

  Deck had lost almost everything. His parents both taken from him too young and too tragically, and then Adam, the brother he’d lived for. He lived with it and he carried on, but he carried the grief on his back like a symbiotic thing, and Naim knew too well what that was. It wasn’t something he wanted Deck to feel. This sadness written on his face like ink was something Naim wanted to take away and replace with joy and the ferocity of life that he usually saw, knowing Deck had the heart of a real person, clean and full and right.

  For a month now, all Naim had thought about was Naim. His personal drama, his personal tragedies, and how he would end up hurting when this blew up in his face. Sitting there, on a tiny, uncomfortable bed that vital, explosive Deck had tolerated for too long in a dingy, miserable hospital room, Naim finally understood that there was a life in this thing of theirs other than his own. Sadness and pain and aloneness other than his own, and he’d give anything he had or didn’t have, to take that from Deck and let him be joyful.

  And he realized that this must be what it felt like to be in love. Real, legitimate, grown-up love. The kind where you felt so much that you just wanted the other person to be happy, no matter what it cost you.

  He stared at Deck, and he didn’t know what his face showed, but Deck reached out and pulled him down to lay Naim’s head on his chest, taking comfort in the feel of Naim close to him. Naim knew this, knew that Deck needed touch and needed closeness, and he gave it willingly. Because he would give Deck anything if it would make him happy, and all at once, it was important that Deck knew that.

  “I think—” His voice was too soft, so he breathed deeply before going on. “I think I was born in Jerusalem, but at some point we ended up in a refugee camp in Beirut.” He spoke quietly, listening to Deck’s heart, giving the only thing he could. “They said I used to say ‘al-Quds’—Jerusalem—and ‘home’ a lot so they figured maybe that’s where I was from originally. I…I don’t know if my parents were members of the PLO or not. I don’t remember them.” He paused, reminding himself why he was saying this. “I like to think that they weren’t, but it doesn’t matter. Whatever, whoever they were, the Phalangists murdered thousands of people when they attacked the camp.” Deck cupped Naim’s head to his chest. “I remember that. I remember the noise and the guns. And the screaming and blood. I remember a lot of blood. And being terrified.” He breathed evenly, recognizing that he wasn’t frightened right now. “Our home—or whatever it was—was destroyed completely. They burned it down. I remember the fire too. That’s why when the Croix-Rouge took me, it was so easy to say
there was no information about who I was. Everything was just…gone.”

  “Why did the French take you?” Deck asked, petting his hair and breathing him in.

  Naim never realized before how touch starved he’d been throughout his life, and his eyes prickled as he understood how much he was coming to rely on Deck’s hands.

  “They always kept a toe in Lebanon. Even after independence. It just was. I don’t really know. I don’t. I don’t remember being Middle Eastern. I don’t even speak Arabic, yeah?”

  “You don’t remember any of it? Like, ‘mother’ or ‘father’ or anything?”

  “Nothing.” Naim sighed and closed his eyes, wrapping an arm around Deck’s chest. He was warm and solid and strong, and Naim loved him.

  “That bothers you.”

  Naim pressed himself closer, and Deck rubbed his face in Naim’s hair, breathing Naim in and filling himself with limes, honey, and love. “Yes. It does. There were a lot of us, orphan refugees. They took us to live in different ICM camps—”

  “ICM?”

  “International Children’s Mission.” Naim breathed out in a half laugh, half sigh. “They’re all over the place, especially in Europe ever since the war and the Holocaust.” There was bitterness in his voice, and he hated it. He sighed again and felt shitty. “They’re actually a good operation. They do good work and I—I respect their mission, but sometimes…”

  Deck held him closer, and he felt safe as Deck brushed his hand up and down his arm. “Things fall through the cracks?”

  “Yeah, something like that. The camp in Provençe was enormous, full of kids from all over the Middle East. They wouldn’t let us speak Arabic. French only. I guess—I don’t know. I guess they were afraid of some sort of conflict spillover. Maybe by the older kids… Arabs and Israelis, right?” Deck was spilling Naim’s hair through his fingers, and Naim thought about what it must be like for him.