“Yeah,” Lain admitted. “More or less. We’re a bit farther out than we should be, but…I’ve got a good sense of direction. If no one finds us tonight, we can start walking back tomorrow.”
Sigmund nodded, trying not to let shame swallow him whole. “I’m su-such a f-fucking idiot.”
“Hey.” Heat against Sigmund’s uninjured shoulder, and when he looked, Lain was very, very close. Hand on Sigmund’s biceps, strange gaze stripping Sigmund raw. “We’ve done that already. Time for something else, okay? Sig’s a cool guy. No talking crap about him.”
And then, because—despite Lain’s protestations to the contrary—Sigmund was and always would be a total loser, he heard himself say: “Are you hitting on me?”
Lain froze.
“It’s just people at work say you like me, like, like like me, and I just thought we were kinda friends maybe, yeah? But they’re pretty convinced you’re gay and that you like me and you’ve been hitting on me, and I thought they were just gossiping, y’know, but I nearly died and you saved me, and I kinda just wanna know…Are you?”
Lain’s eyebrows had gotten very high, his eyes very wide. When Sigmund fell silent, Lain exhaled. Big and loud, puffed-out cheeks and all. Then he lifted his hand and moved away. Not far. Just not right up in Sigmund’s personal space.
“I, uh. Maybe this isn’t the best time to be having thi—”
“Are you?”
Lain was silent for a moment, then, “Yeah. Yeah, a bit. Does it bother you?”
“Yes!” Then, because that made him sound like a dick: “No! I mean, why would you? No one ever…with me.” Let alone handsome cool-kid hipster types like Lain.
Lain, who snorted. “Ah, that’s not true, man. You’ve just taught yourself not to see it. But trust me. They do.”
“Why? I don’t…I’m not…”
“You’re kind,” Lain said, “and funny, and smart—”
“When I’m not falling into holes.”
“Well, we all have off days.” Lain leaned back against the rock, eyes closed and smiling. “Believe me, some of mine have been…legendary. But you, you do this…thing with your mouth when you concentrate. It’s really fucking cute. I guess no one’s ever told you.”
“What thing?”
Lain chuckled. “And you’re honest. Always. Even when it hurts you, makes you vulnerable. There’s strength in that, you don’t realize it, but there is. It makes the rest of us—makes me—want to be…better.”
“I don’t…I don’t really think—”
“And you love things, wholly and unashamedly. Video games or comics, and you think it’s trivial, that it’s silly. But you’re wrong. The topics don’t matter. What matters is the passion and the joy. You can’t see it, but I can, and it burns so brightly. Like the fires of—like the sun. It’s life. It’s beauty.”
Somewhere, deep inside his chest, Sigmund’s heart began to pound. This time, it wasn’t shock. Not that kind, anyway.
“That’s what I see when I look at you. Strength and honesty. Joy. Life. So, yeah, man. They’re right, I like like you. How can anyone not?”
When Sigmund dared look over, Lain was still smiling, eyes closed. Seeing the Sigmund that lived inside his head, maybe. The one he’d just described, that strange and alien thing. The one who didn’t sound like Sigmund at all.
But Lain hadn’t been lying.
“Oh,” Sigmund said. “Oh…man.”
Lain opened his eyes. Sigmund couldn’t meet them.
“Too much?” Lain asked.
“Um. I just…No one’s really…ah.”
“Well. That’s their loss.”
Sigmund’s hands turned over in his lap, fingers rubbing against his palms, against each other. “You’re a really good guy. A good friend.” Then he winced. Because, wow. Great response to the guy who’d basically just declared his love and adoration.
Lain snorted. “Mate,” he said, “I’m a hustler and a liar and a thief and you don’t even know the half of it. But”—he paused, just for a moment, before confessing—“sometimes, in the past, not very often, I have been accused of using my powers for good.”
Like saving Sigmund’s life, and sitting with him and talking through the shock. Giving him something to think about that wasn’t dying.
Pretty much the opposite thereof, actually.
Sigmund still didn’t know what his answer was. Lain was…he was really cool. Really, really cool. And funny. And fun to be around. And apparently good at everything. And looked like a rock god movie star supermodel, and had saved Sigmund’s life and apparently like liked him, and…
And had huge, warm, gentle hands. And Sigmund hadn’t minded when they’d touched him, not at all.
He’d never been in love with a guy before. Never even thought about it. Except…
Except, if Sigmund was being honest with himself, maybe he’d have to admit he’d never been in love with a girl, either. Had always just sort of assumed that was the Thing to Do. And he liked girls, in the Ladies of the Internet way, as it were. But…so what? That wasn’t that unusual, right? Sigmund was pretty sure Em was into both. Heaps of people were. It wasn’t like someone was standing in front of him with a contract he had to sign in blood swearing to like only sex A or sex B forever and ever amen. Maybe sometimes it wasn’t about that. Maybe sometimes it was just about people.
Maybe. Sigmund wasn’t sure.
“Hey?”
He looked up.
“How ’bout I go get us some of this water, you hang here and nurse your arm, and when I get back, we have a badass afternoon tea of Fantales and almost-certainly-potable liquids?”
Sigmund smiled. Because Lain was cool, and fun to be around, and Sigmund’s arm hurt like motherfucking hell and he’d think about the rest of it later.
“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, that sounds cool.”
—
The Hat People didn’t find them, not that night. It might’ve sucked, but for the fact that Lain didn’t just come back with filled-up water bottles. He also brought a rabbit.
“What the hell, man?” Sigmund was laughing, not sure if he should be grossed out or impressed.
The rabbit was dead, and not exactly small. Lain was holding it up with the skill of someone who’d done exactly that on many previous occasions.
“I dunno about you,” Lain said, “but I plan on getting hungry in an hour or so.”
“Dude, it’s got, like, fur. And it’s raw. And how did you even kill it? You did kill it, right? I mean, it’s not roadkill or something?” Sigmund had been asleep, flat-out exhausted, when Lain had returned. Lain had been gone a while, judging from the way the sun was starting to kiss the edge of the mountains.
“Sig, please,” Lain said, pulling something out of the waistband of his jeans. A knife. Not a small one. “I told you, I used to do this stuff with my brother, way back when.” He flicked the knife up into the air. It spun, over and over, and Lain caught it again by the blade without even looking. “I have mad survivalist skills.”
Sigmund tried not to stare. “Yeah,” he said. “Well. You still suck at third-level support.”
Lain laughed, and went to gut the rabbit.
He also magicked up a fire out of somewhere to cook it.
Sigmund would figure out the pieces, eventually.
SEVEN
The Hat People did find them on Sunday, stumbling out of the bush. Sigmund was feeling okay about it all, though. They’d eaten rabbit and Fantales and laughed around the fire. Then Sigmund had fallen asleep on the rocks, the day’s panic catching up to him. When he woke, he was sore from the ground but less so from his arm. Then Lain had asked if he felt like a badass yet, roughing it in the bush.
Most of the rest of Sunday was spent getting fussed over by doctors and pumped full of ibuprofen for his shoulder. As long as he didn’t try lifting anything heavy, or reaching upward, he was okay.
He did have to sign a lot of forms, though. Waivers saying he wouldn’t sue the c
ompany or speak to the press. Lain scowled at his paperwork for a long time before putting his own name down.
“Do you think there’d be money in it?” Sigmund asked, only half joking. “Suing, I mean.”
“No,” said Lain. “And I wouldn’t try. LB’s lawyers are notoriously vicious.”
Sigmund signed.
—
They got driven back in a special car, which Sigmund thought was nicer than the bus, even if he did sleep most of the way. The driver dropped him off outside his house, and he waved good-bye to Lain from the lawn.
By the time Sigmund’s keys turned in the lock, the whole trip was starting to feel a long way away.
Apparently he hadn’t been missing long enough to be on the news or anything. When he walked into the kitchen, Dad was busy chopping onions and looked up with an “I thought you weren’t back until later tonight?”
“Yeah,” Sigmund said. “About that.” And he told his dad the story.
He wasn’t sure what reaction he was expecting, really. What he got was a face full of Dad’s oniony apron, and arms crushing him so tight it hurt to breathe.
“Dad,” he said. “Dad, I’m okay, really.”
But David didn’t let go for a very, very long time.
—
Tuesday morning, back at work after the long weekend. Harrison had emailed, offering Sigmund the day off. He’d declined. His arm was mostly fine and he wasn’t dead. Besides, he had things to do.
“How was camping?”
Like this.
“I nearly fell off a cliff and died,” Sigmund said. “Then we got lost in the bush and slept overnight on rocks eating Fantales.”
Em didn’t look up from where she was busy fiddling with her tablet, a Pyre Flash. “Mmm. So I heard. A good time was had by all, then.”
Sigmund leaned against the edge of the desk, feigning nonchalance. Em’s cubicle was at the end of the row, wedged between a wall and a window. Their nearest neighbor was at least two desks away and busy throwing a tiny football to someone across the partition.
(now or never…)
“Em…can I ask you something?”
“Is it work related?”
“No.”
“Well good. I’d hate to have to do actual work at work. Shoot.” She still wasn’t looking up, which made the next part easier.
“How do you know if you’re, you know. Bisexual.”
Em didn’t miss a beat. “You find yourself sexually and/or romantically attracted to both men and women.”
“Oh.” Sigmund thought for a moment. “What if it’s, y’know. Not all men and women, just, like. Some.”
Em did look up, then, arching one eyebrow above her glasses. “Then maybe you’re a two on the Kinsey scale.”
The Kinsey scale. Right. Sigmund had seen the film, the one with Liam Neeson. “What if it’s, like. Just one. Man or woman.” He had Em’s full attention now, which was not helping. She was giving him That Look, the one that made him feel five years old and two feet away from the broken vase. Em was good at that look. Sigmund hated it.
“So what, exactly, happened on your so-called adventure weekend again?”
Sigmund’s cheeks were getting darker and suddenly his shoes were about the most interesting things on the planet. He needed new ones. And jeans, for that matter. And a life.
“Nothing. I mean…nothing, really. It’s just, when we were lost, I kinda asked Lain if, like, maybe he’d been. Y’know. Hitting on me.”
“Oh?” Em’s second brow joined the first. “And what did he say, exactly?”
“He asked me if I minded.”
“And do you?”
“I…sort of…told him I’d get back to him.”
For a while, the only sounds were the staccato tap of Em’s nails against the Flash’s glass, and the distant whooping of the office football game.
“You like him, yeah?”
Another blush. “Yeah. I do. Even though he’s just so…weird sometimes.”
“But?”
“But he’s…I dunno. Nice to me. Or…something.”
“That’s not really what I asked.”
And no, it wasn’t. Sigmund took a deep breath. “He’s…attractive. I mean, he is. Isn’t he?” He looked up at her, which, in retrospect, might have been a mistake. Em looked like she didn’t want to be having this conversation, at all. And that was weird, because Em loved giving advice, loved being the Expert.
“Sigmund…” Em sighed, looked down at her fingers for a moment, then said, “I don’t think these are questions you need to be asking me, y’know? I think…I think if you wanna give things a go with Lain, then do it. But be honest with yourself, and with him. If they don’t work out, they don’t work out. It happens.”
Sigmund nodded, thinking of a too-sharp laugh and big, warm hands. Of brilliant green eyes and the smell of loam and charcoal.
“Does that help?” Em asked after a while.
Sigmund smiled. “Yeah,” he said. “It does. A lot. Thanks, man.” Honesty. If nothing else, he could do honesty.
“No problem,” Em said, and her smile didn’t reach her eyes.
—
Lain was slouching in his chair, staring out the window, by the time Sigmund got back to the desk.
“Hey, man.” Not the greatest opening line, but Lain looked up and flashed Sigmund a mouth full of sharp white teeth in response. It was nice, even with the fangs.
“I was gonna go grab a coffee, you wanna come?”
“From the place downstairs, or across the street?”
“Across the street?” The place downstairs always burned the milk.
“Sounds fun.”
They managed to sneak out without Harrison noticing, which always made Sigmund feel a little bit truant. Even if they were adults now and sneaking off-campus for ten minutes for a coffee was hardly the illicit escapade it might’ve been in high school. The air was dry as they left the building, the sun a bright and blinding orb. A postcard-perfect summer’s day by any measure, and Sigmund couldn’t help the smile on his face, even if he suspected it looked a little bit silly.
“You seem happy.” Lain’s expression was caught somewhere between appraising and cautiously pleased.
“Yeah, I guess so,” Sigmund said. “I mean, after Saturday I guess I’m just enjoying being alive and stuff.”
“Yeah, well, you should keep that up, you know. Being alive and stuff.”
The coffee place was a little hole-in-the-wall at the edge of Osko Park. Across the street from LB, but Sigmund had never been sure whether the company owned the land or the city did. Then again, in Pandemonium, maybe there wasn’t much difference.
They ordered—a flat white for Sigmund, a cappuccino for Lain—and stood around in the meager shade while the girl behind the counter fiddled with the espresso machine.
“So…I’ve had a think about it,” Sigmund said, after a while. “You know, about what you said on the weekend.” He wondered if he’d managed to convey the appropriate amount of detached cool when speaking, despite his lurching heart.
Lain frowned for a second before his memory kicked in. “Oh, yeah. And what did you decide?” But he was smiling, which Sigmund figured meant he knew. That made it easier. A lot easier.
“I’ve decided I don’t mind.” And then, because he figured part of Not Minding was being able to say it out loud, “If you hit on me, that is. If you want to.”
Lain’s grin could cut glass. “Cool.” He looked like he was going to say something else, except the girl called the order and they went to the counter to collect.
They turned to head back to LB, and before Sigmund could stop himself, he said, “So I was wondering if you wanted to, like, come to DnD on Friday night?” Then instantly felt like the biggest loser in the entire universe.
Lain, apparently oblivious to Sigmund’s desire for spontaneous death, said, “DnD? Which ed?”
“Fourth.” The reply was not, Sigmund thought, doing much to win him an
y cool points.
Not that Lain seemed to mind. “Awesome. I’ve never actually played. Collected the source books for a while, but…I dunno. Never found anyone to run a game with.”
“You should totally come on Friday, then. Em is DM and, like, there’s been this murder in some town we stopped at and because it’s Em, there’s probably, like, some huge, evil conspiracy thing going on. It’s awesome.”
“Sounds awesome,” Lain said, not even lying. “Where is it?”
“It’s in town, but I’ll pick you up. Where do you live?”
And for one single moment, Sigmund almost thought he saw panic on Lain’s face. “Uh…”
“Or you can pick me up.” He decided to let it slide, just throw it into the bucket along with all the rest of the Weird Shit About Lain. There were plenty of totally sane, rational reasons why Lain might not want Sigmund to see his place, and what did it matter, anyway, when Lain was smiling at him like that?
“Sounds like a plan. You should email me your address and the time and stuff. Do I need to bring anything?”
By the time they got back to their desks, Sigmund was deep in explanation about the role of THAC0 in second ed and why it hadn’t survived into the modern era. Lain listened attentively and asked questions whenever Sigmund took a breath. And soon—in between explaining hit dice and level modifiers and why it was always better to shoot the horse and not the rider—Sigmund forgot Lain’s weird reaction to the question about his house.
EIGHT
“Left! Roll left!”
“I’ve got it, I’ve got it!”
Five seconds later, staring up at the briar-and-circuitry-covered crotch of a Dark Faerunner, Wayne had to admit she did not got it.
It’d been a long, long day.
“I’ll res you, just gimmie a sec.” Sigmund’s voice came through the computer’s speakers, accompanied by the sharp clash of swinging axes. On her screen, the Faerunner’s gloating over Wayne’s lifeless corpse was interrupted by the arrival of Sigmund. Or, well, his avatar, at any rate.
Hack, slash, whirl. Wayne followed the motions, writ large in bright HD. A standard chain, followed by a Cleave on the follow-up. The Faerunner pulled back, lights dancing down its arms and in a whirling arc on the ground, pulling together the beginnings of its Blackstatic attack.
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