by Ezra Blake
Ash’s eyebrows dip, and when he speaks, his tone is less assured. “I jus’ mean, y’know…” His glass overflows and drips red wine onto the tablecloth. Jake gently takes the bottle from his hand, dabs the spot with a napkin—it’s hopeless—and all the while, Elliot is kicking Ash’s ankles under the table.
“A disease is a condition that impairs normal functioning,” Elliot says. Even as he speaks, he can divine Ash’s drunken counterargument. “Impairment, meaning you can’t live your life.”
“I can’t.”
“Other people can. There are gay firefighters, cops, lawyers—”
“But I ain’t lived at all. Why d’you think I’m doing all this crap?”
Elliot shakes his head. “Let me guess. Catholic?”
“Shut up. I don’t even know what you’re s’posed to be.”
“Ash,” Jake pleads.
“You’re jus’ as bad as him, you homo! You raped me!”
Every cell in Elliot’s body stops respirating. Jake is frozen with his fork halfway to his mouth.
“I dunno what it is, like God puts a big red sticker on some people, says take advantage of me, I’ll like it.” He pauses to finish his wine in one great gulp. Without looking away, Ivan pours him another glass. “Some people are only good at being victims. That’s the point of—”
“I’m so sorry,” Elliot says. “Please excuse us.” He grips Ash’s wrist and yanks him to his feet so hard that his shoulder pops. There’s a time and place for damage control, and this isn’t it.
Before their hosts can respond, he’s dragged Ash into the mouth of the hallway. “You too,” Ash bellows. “Father Reiner told me ‘bout you people. God’s gonna strike you down—his followers will watch in awe and they will laugh and say, see what happens to those who despise God…”
Ivan’s hand is on Jake’s shoulder, anchoring him to his seat. “Breathe,” he says.
“But I need to—”
“You don’t need to do anything.” His voice is clear and quiet. “Stop thinking.”
“That’s easy for you to say.”
“It is.” His grip tightens. “He doesn’t need you, Jacob.”
“Hey Ivan, come on. Leave him alone.”
“No, he’s right.” Jake tips his head back to stare at the crown molding. A black stain is spreading outward from the corner. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—” his voice cracks. He didn’t mean to alienate his friends, get Ash hooked on drugs, or sabotage everything halfway decent in his life, but he did.
“No need to apologize. The three of you are far more interesting than I could have hoped.”
“That’s one way of putting it,” Chris mutters.
Jake laughs and wipes his nose on his sleeve. The napkin is too fancy to soil. “I…I should check on them.”
“No,” Ivan says. His voice is jarring, but when Jake looks, he’s wearing a gentle smile, and he adds, “Please stay.”
He settles himself reluctantly in his chair. Only in dead rotting silence can he hear the constant murmur under everything, the way his joints creak when he so much as thinks about moving. He’s aged ten years in the past two weeks.
“I can’t imagine how difficult this must be for you,” Ivan says. “Moving to a foreign country with companions you can’t trust.”
“Don’t put words in his mouth,” Chris says.
“Ashton accused him of ‘taking advantage.’ Clearly, he resents—”
“Ivan.”
When Jake finally wrenches his gaze away from the ceiling, he finds the two of them making eyes at each other over his shoulder. Maybe he’s oblivious, but that’s not how his parents looked at each other when they argued.
Chris shoots Jake a pitying glance—God, his face is so familiar—and says, “He’s always playing therapist. You don’t have to talk to him if you don’t want to.”
“This might be above my pay grade,” Ivan admits, “but if you simply need an ear, I can offer my unconditional positive regard.”
Jake picks absently at the scabs on his arm.
“Please remember the company I keep. In my experience, even murder can be justified.”
“Well, I didn’t kill anyone.” He laughs, but it trails off into pensive silence. “Okay. This might sound a little crazy.”
It’s hard not to pity Ash, especially when he’s alternating between spells of puking and crying, mumbling garbled confessions about drugs and beards and someone named Riley.
He looks dead, now, small and paper white in the four-post bed, but that’s nothing new. Elliot is far more concerned about the rug. He didn’t move fast enough, and now it’s soaked in vomit, and it’s his problem. Ash an invalid. He can’t be held accountable.
He sneaks around the house searching dozens of cupboards, but most of them are empty. The rest hold embroidered towels and matched linens. There’s an entire shelf of brandy but no goddamn Windex. He snatches a roll of paper towels from the bathroom cupboard and scrapes up little bits of Camembert. One stupid mistake. He’s done everything else right, but that doesn’t matter because Ivan will forever remember him as the kid who ruined his billion dollar rug.
He peeks beneath the woven fabric. It’s soaked through, and there’s no mat protecting the hardwood. How much damage has he caused, as a dollar figure?
He heaves the massive rug off the floor, dips the towel in his little dish of water and hand soap—
And pauses. The floorboard glimmers.
Elliot presses his face to the wood. It looks like a gold coin inlaid in the boards, smooth and flat with a hole drilled through the middle. He tries to hook his nails under it, but it doesn’t budge. It’s stuck. An eighteenth century design trend? A master carpenter’s signature?
He pokes around for a moment more and then sits back on his heels, flips down the rug. Frowns. The soap and water barely made a dent. It’s red wine on beige, and if they don’t act quickly, it will be permanent. He should really tell Ivan. He’d rather die.
They’ve been here for five hours and they’re already causing property damage—and what’s he supposed to say about Ash? Should he apologize? Is there any way to leave things on a good note? He should try, at least. That’s the honorable thing to do. Ivan might respect his honesty.
He mentally rehearses the conversation as he steps into the dining room, but when he looks up, the dialogue stops.
Chris and Ivan are sitting on either side of Jake, their chairs pushed a few feet away from the table. The candelabra makes their faces flicker and warp; they’re familiar one moment, strangers the next. Ivan’s hand is on Jake’s shoulder and Christopher’s is on Jake’s thigh—a reassuring gesture, except it really, really isn’t.
“Hey,” Elliot says. “Uh, I hope I’m not interrupting.”
Jake’s head whips around to face him. His eyes are red. He quickly ducks again.
“Of course not,” Ivan says. “I didn’t expect to see you again this evening. I’m afraid we’ve cleared the plates.”
“It’s fine. I’m finished.”
He takes a seat at the head of the table and tries to get a good look at Jake’s face. “I’m sorry for interrupting,” he repeats more firmly. “I wanted to apologize for Ash.”
“I expected you to arrive with baggage.” Ivan smiles slightly. “If anything, your friend owes the two of you an apology.”
“It doesn’t matter. Really. He doesn’t know any better.” He balls his fists in his lap. “There’s something else, though. He sort of vomited on your rug. I tried to clean it up, but—”
“Is he okay?”
Chris and Ivan catch Jake before he can leap out of his seat.
“Yes, but—”
“Once again, you needn’t apologize for him,” Ivan says. “In any case, this home belongs to VMM. I’m sure Stefan will be happy to discuss the rug, if it is truly an issue.” He smiles, here. His hand leaves Jake’s shoulder and settles on Elliot’s wrist. “Would you like another drink? Or we might have some herbal tea, if yo
u prefer.”
“No thanks,” he says, perhaps too quickly. “I’m pretty tired.”
“Naturally. I imagine your life is in total upheaval, these days.” His voice is smooth and measured. “Nobody joins VMM because things are going well.”
Elliot can’t help but smile. “Yeah, you could say that.” He rises, eyes the doorway, and takes an unconscious step toward Ivan instead.
“This is deliverance, in a way.”
“Deliverance,” he muses.
“In your old life, you felt…stifled, perhaps. But by whom?”
“Everyone. Bureaucracy, my supervisor. My mom. She was in a wheelchair,” he says. “That’s not why she was stifling, but it didn’t help.”
Ivan gestures him closer—or does he? Is it a gesture, or is it Elliot’s idea to take another step toward him, to lean on the table and meet his eyes?
“It must be a relief,” he murmurs, “releasing all your responsibilities, all your stress…”
Elliot nods mutely.
“It feels good to finally relax, doesn’t it? To follow the current, to let go, and allow yourself to…” his hand brushes the small of Elliot’s back “…drift.”
His nervous system jolts online. He shakes his vision back into focus and steps away, saying, “I should probably turn in, but thanks again for dinner. It was wonderful.”
Ivan nods. “Thank you for your company. Get some sleep.”
“Yeah. Thanks.” He gives Jake a meaningful glance as he passes—you coming?—but Jake just blinks up at him, dazed.
Ash wakes in a puddle of his own sweat. The pillowcase is stuck to the back of his head, and Jake’s bare, hairy leg is stuck to his leg. He shimmies down the bed, one shoulder adhered to the wall, and climbs over the footboard. He was dreaming about something with embers for eyes. The specifics have evaporated, but as he crawls around the floor in search of his bag, the pitter-patter of demonic feet follows behind.
It should be in the pocket of Jake’s jeans. Jake isn’t wearing them now, so they must be in the duffel, but it’s not under under the bed or tucked in the corner where he left it. His head is throbbing and his stomach is all bile. “Please God,” he whispers, sliding open the dresser drawer. It’s empty.
He braces one hip against the door and pulls before he pushes, but it still creaks. He glances over his shoulder—no movement—and slips into the hallway.
The laundry room must be around here somewhere. Where else could their clothes possibly be? But half the doors are locked, and the ones that aren’t open onto closets, a library, another master suite—Ivan’s. He’s a motionless glint of copper in the streaming moonlight. He shuts the bedroom door a millimeter at a time, dreading the click of the latch, and though the whole ordeal is silent, he can’t help but picture Ivan leaping out of bed and hissing, what are you doing awake? You’ve been abusing yourself, haven’t you?
Ash reflexively pats his crotch to ensure it’s still smooth. Nothing there. He steadies his breath and steps into the living room. Dozens of pattering feet stop dead in their tracks.
Christopher is sitting on the hearth, his hair ringed orange by the light of the roaring fire. “There you are,” he says.
Ash halts; he stands with his arms hanging off his shoulders like those awkward few minutes lined up in the church aisle, waiting to consume the blood and body of Christ.
“Come sit. Is it Ash, or do you prefer Ashton?”
It takes a few tries to get his voice working. “Ash,” he repeats, tasting his own name like some unpronounceable foreign cuisine. “Yeah. Have you seen my—”
“Right here,” Chris says, patting the hearth beside him.
“My bag?”
Chris doesn’t answer. Ash steps forward, bare feet on the warm stone floor. “D’you got my bag?”
“Here,” Chris repeats. Ash sees it as he rounds the coffee table: an empty duffel surrounded by his sparse belongings, dirty underwear, take-out wrappers. Chris says, “You packed a lot of trash, didn’t you? Left in a hurry?”
Ash kneels on the rug and picks up a pair of jeans, but they aren’t Jake’s. His joints throb with every movement. “Why are you…?” He doesn’t know how to finish the question. Every thought circles back and eats itself. His eyes lock on the baggie in Christopher’s hand. The fire snaps, hot orange and blue.
“Sit down.” Chris rolls his head around his neck, popping vertebrae. “I’ve never done this by myself, so you’ll have to show me.”
“I don’t got much left, but…” Ash trails off.
“Don’t worry, I’m in recovery. I just want to watch you.” He pats the hearth again. “Up here.”
But Ash waits, sunk deep in a steady, trance-like patience. No choices. No judgement to pass. Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the Earth.
Chris smiles a little and lowers himself to the floor. They’re knee to knee, and he says, “Take this.”
He reluctantly accepts the spoon and water and cotton. Not his supplies. Christopher’s. How long has he been out here, waiting?
“Um. Lighter?” He asks.
Chris takes his wrist and guides it toward the fire, and together they extend their hands into the billowing heat. The tar melts and bubbles. He pulls back, but Christopher’s grip holds steady—scorching, boiling. When he lets go, Ash scrambles away from the hearth, nearly dropping the spoon.
“Give it here. I’ll do it.”
He guides Ash to the floor and positions him precisely between his legs. When Ash turns to face him, he says, “No. Lie back.” It would be inappropriate even if they were best friends, but Chris is a stranger. Somehow, that makes it harder to say no.
His veins bulge under the belt’s pressure. Suddenly, Chris yanks his hips back until they’re flush together, and together, their breathing shallows. There’s no space or time to pull away because Chris is already wiping his arm with freezing alcohol, is pressing the needle inside. He holds it steady as his other hand slips around Ash’s torso and under his waistband.
“W-what are you—?”
“Shh,” he coos. “I want you to imagine how good it’s going to feel to be completely devoid of pain.” He slides his palm down the smooth mound of Ash’s crotch, casually, as though he isn’t expecting to find anything there. Ash can’t move with the needle in his arm. When he twists his head around to get a better look, he only finds a mass of golden curls.
“Can you feel this?” Chris grinds his knuckle into the spongy flesh where Ash’s cock used to be.
“N-no,” he chokes, even as a warm, prickling sensation fills his belly. “Stop. Please, just gimme—”
His hand locks on one side of Ash’s skull. Something hot and wet slithers into his ear canal, and then a tsunami of unbelievable pleasure crashes over and into him, anesthetizing his very soul. He’s innocent again, curled up in his mom’s twin bed, listening to her read choose-your-own-adventure books, with a pause here and there for Ash to choose his adventure.
If you decide to stop breathing and see what happens…
Chapter 29
The groans of settling wood and plastic siding are markedly absent. Even the lifeless hospital made noise—hinges creaked and wind whistled past the third floor windows—but a house this old has practiced keeping secrets. Jake pads across the cool stone floor and into the brilliant sunlight streaming in from the patio.
“Good morning. We’ve just finished making coffee.”
“It’s an endeavor,” Chris agrees. “Help yourself.”
His two hosts swim into view, basking in sleek lounge chairs around a glass table laid out with pastries. They’re hemmed in by conifer trees in every direction, thick like a forest of pubes. Thick like tar. There are no shadows out here, which means the sun is overhead. Which means it’s noon.
“I slept forever,” Jake says, taking a seat.
Before he can protest, Ivan pours him a mug of steaming coffee from the crystal carafe. “We have no schedule.”
He swirls the liquid in the
mug. The smell makes his stomach churn. “Have you guys seen Ash anywhere?”
“Wasn’t he sleeping with you?”
“I saw him leave a few minutes ago,” Chris says. “I think he’s taking a walk.”
“By himself?”
“He’s more independent than you give him credit for.”
“And you’ve travelled through several time zones. The sunshine will do him good,” Ivan says. “It recalibrates the sleep-wake cycle.”
Jake plucks an almond croissant from the tray and begins stripping it, layer by flaky layer.
“We all cope differently with losing time. Some insist on reclaiming it, but others are happy to come unmoored,” Ivan says. “Perhaps the same can be said of…” He pauses to gaze off into the distance, brow furrowed. An unearthly roar is rippling through the forest, preceded by a wave of humidity like lion’s breath—and then they’re drenched. It’s pouring rain.
“Shit!” Jake says, leaping to his feet. Ivan is already inside. Chris ducks through the doorway, wrings his hands, and then lunges back out to grab the coffee.
Ivan shuts the door, plunging them into static. The three of them stare out at their soggy breakfast.
“I’ll make omelettes.”
In the guest room, Elliot is still snoring and Ash is nowhere to be found. As he tugs on a dry shirt, Jake is assaulted by images of his skinny arms hugging each other for warmth, of Ash sprinting blindly in the wrong direction. Nobody could have anticipated the storm.
He returns to the smell of sautéing onions and to the cold, impartial comfort of rain pummeling the stone walls. Ash’s coat is still on the rack. He must be freezing. Jake could take a lap around the house and hope they stumble across each other. Ash isn’t exactly hardy; he would have turned back at the first whiff of rain. Jake will find him. He slips on one sneaker and bends over to tie it.
Ash’s shoes are still here.
His blood runs cold. Parasitic doubt burrows under his fingernails and up through the soles of his feet. He spins around and comes face-to-face with Chris.
“Shit!” He yelps, hand flying to his heart. “Jesus, you scared me.”