Transitions

by Jesikah Sundin

  “Something like that.”

  “I want to grab your ass and kiss you.”

  “Pity. No ass grabbing.”

  They stared at each other. Expressions serious. Their faces tight with restrained humor. Mack winked and blew a kiss and Fillion erupted in laughter. God, how he loved that sound. He loved cheering up his best friend even more.

  “Since, you’re a bad, bad boy,” Mack continued, “we might as well give the otaku the yaoi story they’ve always wanted. I’ll title it ‘Imprisoned by His Love: A Memoir’ by Mackenzie Patton Campbell Ferguson-Nichols. Damn. I need another last name to add to my collection. Notice I dropped ‘the Third’ at the end? Only for you, lover.” Fillion started laughing again, so hard that he had to press a hand to his stomach and lean against the wall for support. Mack added, “I’ve been taking my job as your official fake boy seriously, too.”

  “Oh god, don’t tell me.”

  “Making the fangirls cry out in pleasure on all the forums, thinking it’s you, when really it’s me, is the best thing. Ever.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Lots of action.”

  He cringed with the image of the cougar in his bed this morning. Really? Of all the hook-ups he could insta-remember? Then he thought of the brown-eyed-goddess and shuddered. That freaky night came flooding back to his mind. As did her words.

  Wait.

  Mack narrowed his eyes and said, “Still telling girls I’m a virgin, bishounen? Even in jail?” Fillion tried to look bored, sparing him a passing glance. Puffed on his cigarette. Exhaled smoke. The hint of a smile still touching his mouth. Mack’s eyes narrowed even more. “And that I like to cuddle? And cry after messing around?”

  “Stop your gritching. It makes you look more pathetic.”

  Mack scratched his ass with his middle finger and Fillion flashed that smart-ass smile of his. “I think you’re just jealous,” Mack goaded in reply.

  “I think you like attention.”

  “True.” Mack lifted his shoulder in mock-surrender, then laughed.

  The decaying walls faded from Mack’s peripheral vision. Instead, all he saw was faint, golden happiness. Smoking with his friend?—good times. Laughing with his BFF?—awesomeness. Talking about girls with his new husband?—nothing better. Except the girls themselves. Add a bottle of whiskey and this day would be complete. Mack wouldn’t complain, though. He was soaking up every moment with Fillion, good and bad. He needed this. Fillion needed this. Hell, the whole world needed this. Yin-and-yang had slipped into alignment. Global feng shui om’ed with balanced harmony. Hanley hadn’t ruined all the fun, after all.

  The humor eventually gave way to reflection, however. Both meditating on their own thoughts for a minute. Two minutes. Mack pulled out his pack and placed a new cigarette between his lips, offering another to Fillion. He blew smoke rings in the air and tossed the lighter through one to his friend.

  Fillion lifted his gaze to his for a nanosecond, then flicked the lighter. “You have a plan?”

  “Yeah. I’ll file for annulment within a month or two. Hanley lost his shit.” Mack scooted to the edge of the tabletop once more. “But I convinced him to seize the public support to rebuild market stability. Stock prices nosedived when you were taken into custody. News of our marriage reversed the curse.” With a sly smile, he said, “True. Love. Bitches. It’s magic.” Fillion smiled back but darted his eyes away. “I advised him to convince Japan that our marriage was a sham for business rebuilding. After all, their honor wouldn’t allow their tech heiress to settle for a loser, blah, blah, blah.”

  “He’s satisfied?”

  Mack feigned offense. “Hey. When have I ever failed a business negotiation? Making deals with devils is my specialty.” Fillion rolled his eyes with another nervous smile and dragged on his cigarette, peering across the room. Sensitive to Fillion’s subtle shift in mood, Mack lowered his voice. “He confirmed that all agreements you held with him previously still stand as before. I wouldn’t have followed through with the marriage otherwise. But, in fairness—because I’m an honest criminal mastermind—I didn’t know what the agreements were until we talked.”

  Fillion nodded, his fingers trembling again. “What’s your plan?”

  “To smite thine enemies by gaining power of attorney over your financial and mental health decisions.”

  Fillion’s eyebrows rose. “So you did talk with my lawyer?”

  “Uh, no.”

  His face tightened with confusion. “He hasn’t contacted you?”

  “His courier droid rammed into my car at a stoplight and I’ve been trying to settle through my lawyer. He wanted to talk to me privately, but—” Mack’s eyes widened. “You asshole.” Fillion’s mouth curved with amusement. Damn his arrogance. “Not only did you steal my idea but you asked your lawyer to harm Susani? Willingly damage, Susani? I thought you loved me. I now question everything.”

  “Wi-Fi is jammed in law offices. Conversations can’t be tapped.” He lifted a single shoulder in a taunting gesture. “Doc’s can be hacked. I know this is hard for a noob. Need me to repeat this basic lesson more slowly?”

  Mack flipped him off while shaking his head. “Bit dump, pretty boy.”

  “I asked him to draw docs for durable power of attorney, but I didn’t want Hanley to find out. Court ordered a mental health evaluation at prosecution’s insistence. I was put on suicide watch for a week.” Fillion’s face paled with what must be gruesome memories. The world faded to red once more. “Now I’m expected to take anti-anxiety meds and pass each day sedated. It doesn’t take much imagination to conclude the rest.”

  “He won’t screw with the results now. Don’t worry. I’ll pick up the docs on my way home and hand deliver them to my lawyer.”

  “Thanks, mate.” Fillion smiled with relief. “I trust you with my life.”

  “I’d do anything for you, husband.” Mack locked eyes with this friend. His words were said in jest, but they both knew their lives were already married. From the first day of preschool when they met—both wearing the same red shirt featuring a decapitated robot on the front—they were inseparable. Two hearts beating as one. For richer or for poorer. Sickness and in health. Until death. No ceremony necessary.

  Fillion bit his bottom lip in a flirty smile. “Because you’re my bitch.”

  “Damn straight.”

  “So, Lyn is cooking?” Fillion’s expression turned dubious.

  “Yeah.” Mack waggled his eyebrows. “To feed Farm Boy.”

  “He’s good to her?”

  “The best.” Mack sobered. “Hey, he gave me something to keep safe until you get out. A gift from Willow Oak.”

  “I don’t—”

  “It’s her dad’s harvest token or something like that.” His friend stilled and, for a few beats of time, Mack saw an entire story unfold in Fillion’s eyes. Memories. Emotions. Endings that would never be. The crushing pain in Mack’s chest returned. “The only thing that survived from your room, I guess,” he continued, softly. “The fire burned the rest to ash.”

  “Thanks.” Fillion closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath. A few seconds later, he asked, “How was your mom’s wedding?”

  “I officiated. You should’ve seen the shirt bio-mommy had me wear. Lyn thinks I should frame it.”

  The next hour moved along to the pace of conversations that ebbed and flowed between humorous and serious. Fillion smiled and laughed more readily than when Mack first arrived on the scene. The end, however, appeared like the sneaky bastard it was. Mack wasn’t ready. Five months of longing boiled down to two quick hours. Not enough. Didn’t even come close for making up for lost time. But it was a start.

  “Time is up,” a correctional officer said from the doorway. “Say your goodbyes and come with me,” he instructed Fillion. His friend pushed off the wall, an apology darkening his eyes.

  “See you next week,” Mack comforted.

  “Yeah.” Fillion rubbed out his cigarette in the as
h tray. “Tell Lyn that ... that I love her. And to stay out of trouble. Especially with Farm Boy. Or I’ll kick his ass.”

  “I’d pay money to see that.”

  “And sell tickets to the show.”

  “That, too.” Mack stepped in front of Fillion’s path. “Hey, come here.” He opened his arms and pulled Fillion in tight before he could protest, and whispered, “Love you, friend.”

  “Love you, too, mate,” Fillion whispered back.

  “Well, shit,” he said, pulling away. “Better go before you want to cuddle.” Mack’s eyes stung and he swallowed back the sudden emotion. “You’d cry after messing around.”

  Fillion smirked. That damn smart-ass. “Another time.” With a wink, he passed by and followed the officer out of the room, resuming a sedated posture, hair covering his eyes.

  Four hours, eighteen minutes, and eight seconds later, Mack left his lawyer’s office with durable power of attorney over Fillion’s financial and mental health affairs, and walked into his apartment to the smell of sizzling steaks. Lynden bustled around in the kitchen, oblivious to his return.

  “Honey, I’m home.”

  She turned around, eyes wide. “Holy shit.”

  “I’m silent like a ninja.”

  “Too bad you don’t look like one.”

  “Ouch. Is that anyway to treat your brother?”

  Lynden smiled, a full-on grin. “I can’t believe you married, Fillion. So are you a Nichols or is he a Ferguson?”

  “We’re modern men and hyphenated.”

  She rolled her eyes. “If you were truly progressive, you’d declare that you didn’t need a man’s name.”

  “I do declare, Lynden Norah-Leigh Nichols, that in the name of a man, your culinary skills smell delicious.” With a harrumph, she flipped her hair, and returned to the stove.

  “Dinner will be ready in five.”

  Under the kitchen drop-lighting, Lynden appeared to beam. It made him smile. She was happy. He could tell by her light, whimsical movements in the kitchen. Life was finally beginning to brim with purpose. He’d done his job. And he’d freed his friend from a few strings of control. Ones the puppet master could never manipulate again.

  Weep, Hanley. Drown in all the tears. Consider this a lesson in preparation for a necessary future. Because it was coming. Mack would continue to liberate and empower his friend at any cost.

  “Oh god,” Lynden said, dropping the spatula. “I know that look. Whatever you just schemed up in your I-just-married-my-best-friend high, don’t do it.”

  Mack laughed. He was so going to do it.

  LYNDEN

  ***

  Ah, dear Juliet,

  Why art thou yet so fair? Shall I believe

  That unsubstantial death is amorous,

  And that the lean abhorrèd monster keeps

  Thee here in dark to be his paramour?

  ––William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet, Act 5, Scene 3, 1597 *

  She has secrets you know nothing of.

  Her heart is unexplored territory,

  her secret soul is virginal still.

  She awaits an intimacy more naked than skin.

  ––John Mark Green, Poet, “Foolish Manboy,” 21st century *

  Shadows cannot see themselves in the mirror of the sun.

  ––Evita Peron, First Lady of Argentina, 20th century *

  ***

  Seattle, Washington state

  Wednesday, February 28, 2057

  Year two of Project Phase Two

  Lynden tapped the side of the coffee maker. The screen continued to flash the happiest words on Earth—“brewing”—while throwing digital confetti in celebration. Yet, the apparent party in a cup didn’t pour into her unicorn mug. The one Fillion bought her when she was eleven.

  She groaned.

  “Come on,” she pleaded to the machine, half desperate, half irritated. Popping open the side compartment, she inspected the mound of freshly ground beans and shoved the tray back into place with a threatening, “Behave.”

  The screen refreshed and...

  Brewing.

  Confetti.

  The internal screams of torment.

  Why wasn’t this piece of high-end shit working? Lynden tilted her head in thought. Under the kitchen light, a distorted reflection in the coffee maker’s screen glared back at her. Ugh. Last night, she had treated herself to an impromptu makeover—new hair, new clothes, the works. It had seemed like a good idea at the time. Now, she felt stupid. Blowing a strand of blood-red hair out of her eye, she refocused on the machine. But she had no clue what to do.

  Mack’s door opened and she sighed with relief—too soon. The sigh morphed into a low growl of annoyance. A girl, wearing a furry eared headband in her sea foam-colored hair, tip-toed into the hallway in nothing more than an oversized shirt and shaggy fur boots, clutching the remainder of her belongings and smothering a giggle. Then she spotted Lynden in the kitchen. The graceful doe perked her ears and froze in catatonic fright. Her perfect lips formed an “O” as her eyes blinked.

  Lynden turned around.

  More giggles. Different giggles.

  No. Dear god.

  She glanced over her shoulder to confirm. Another girl, one with pinks, lavenders, and blues through her otherwise vanilla brand of blonde hair, giggled her way on happy tip-toe dance steps to the other girl. What was with the fawn-ear headbands and shaggy fur boots? This one sported a tail, too. They whispered in each other’s ears. Giggles. It couldn’t be born. Lynden had yet to savor one cup—one blessed cup—of coffee. There should be rules about this.

  “Oh look, his cook is here,” one of the girls said. “I’ll take a cappuccino in a to-go cup.”

  Lynden ignored her and continued to tinker around with the coffee maker.

  “Maybe she doesn’t speak English.”

  “Who cooks wearing that?”

  “I saw her face earlier.” The girl made a sound like shuddering. “She looked at me and I froze. It was like she was eating my soul.”

  Lynden snorted, though embarrassment wormed holes into her confidence. Thin air thoughts. They couldn’t really see her. Didn’t know her. Talk shit, Bambi. Go ahead. Freeze at the sight of her ugly, freckled face paired with her fine, designer clothes. Beware of the soul-eater who makes coffee.

  Giggles—more irritating, bleating giggles—shot toward her.

  Normally Lynden kept quiet and ignored the ignorance, trying not to cower with shame. But, this morning, all she wanted was coffee, in her own home for that matter. It should be a harassment-free event. Finding boldness, she spun on her heel, waved her hand at the wildlife, and said, “Shoo!”

  In a loud, slow voice, the girl with decorated vanilla hair said, “We. Want. Coffee. Do you understand?”

  “Listen Ms. Fawn-bitch,” Lynden replied. “This point in a hook-up is known as the ‘walk of shame.’ So, tuck tail and giggle your asses out of here.” She looked at the other girl. “Yes. I eat souls for breakfast. Better hurry.”

  Ms. Fawn-bitch narrowed her eyes and opened her mouth to reply. But nothing came out. Instead, her body writhed in a tail wag of excitement followed by high-pitched chatter with Bambi. Mack emerged from his den clothed in what appeared like a loincloth, with blue painted swirls on his skin like the savage he wished he was. Gag. Was there a convention going on or something? The girls squealed. He lifted a corner of his mouth in a sleepy smile.

  Ready to projectile vomit all over the kitchen, Lynden had resumed her task when Mack caught her eye. His golden brown eyebrows furrowed slightly. Dark blue eyes darted to the girls. Thing one. Check. Thing two. Check. And back to Lynden, confusion still on his face. He blinked then looked once more to the pastel demons still haunting the living room. Red fish. Blue fish...

  “Who are—” His mouth fell open and his eyes about popped out of his head. “Rainbow?”

  “Is it hunting season?”

  His lips twitched. “Damn. Your hair, Niji Doragon Ōjo. Your clothe
s.” He wiggled his eyebrows. “Mack like. Very sekushī. Farm Boy is going to nosebleed all over the place.”

  “What about us?” Ms. Fawn-bitch asked with a pout, shooting a disgruntled glare at Lynden from beneath her thick lashes.

  Lynden arched her eyebrow. “He’s done with you.” She cupped her mouth and whispered dramatically, “Walk. Of. Shame.”

  “Rainbow, play nice,” Mack chided. His face was perfectly serious, but his eyes were laughing. “Princesses don’t snarl. I might have to put you back in the closet if you don’t use your manners.”

  “You told me we couldn’t have pets. Can I keep them? Please? Pretty please?”

  “She really does eat souls for breakfast,” Bambi mumbled. Then it hit her. “It’s... It’s... ” She leaned in close to her friend and whispered, both pairs of eyes riveted onto Lynden.

  Ms. Fawn-bitch replied in Bambi’s ear, loud enough for Lynden to hear, “She’s telling us to take a ‘walk of shame’?”

  Lynden’s stomach clenched.

  “It’s time to go my little doe sprites,” Mack said, acting as if he heard nothing. Maybe he didn’t. Sleep still creased his face. The girls wiggled while batting eyes at Mack, who strutted over and kissed both girls goodbye, before walking them to the elevator. “Alas, parting is such sweet sorrow.”

  The giggling wails of the pastel banshee fawns faded as the elevator sealed them away. Damn, Lynden thought, taking a deep breath and uncurling her fists. She had kinda hoped Ms. Fawn-bitch’s tail would get caught in the door.

  Mack sighed, a silly grin on his face.

  Yuck.

  Percolating gurgles cut through the awkward silence, and she swiveled toward the coffee maker in surprise. It was working! Unicorn mug in place, she lowered to eye level and watched as dark happiness poured into her cup. The machine chirped a song, happy with its achievement. Easing the mug away, she brought it to her nose and inhaled appreciatively.

  “Thanks,” Mack said, plucking the mug from her hand. To her horror, he pressed her pure, innocent unicorn mug to his filthy lips and chugged. He. Chugged. She couldn’t even have the satisfaction of watching him cry out from scalding. That was too kind of a punishment, anyway. With a satisfied sigh, he plopped the mug back into her hand and headed toward the hallway, tossing a reply over his shoulder, “I needed that after last night. Those fawns put up a good chase.”