Still, he was excited about boxing. It had been a while. He would probably lose, but he didn't mind that. He waited for his turn with growing excitement, feeling a tingle of anticipation in his guts.
When the men finished fighting, they headed off together to another smaller room. It smelled deliciously of fresh, hot food. They seemed eager to reach it, and not to hold any grudges against one another. In fact, the last two to leave walked off side by side, as if they were old friends falling into step. How much of their fight had been choreographed?
Did it even matter? What mattered more was, did they get paid for this, or just fed? It seemed like they should be properly paid and taken care of if they were going to risk themselves in a fight. Things could always go wrong no matter how careful you were.
Well, he didn't need the money or food. He was doing this for fun, but he'd still wait and see what happened afterwards. The boss had some contacts and might be able to do something about it.
Then again, if these men were really desperate enough to fight for food, they wouldn't thank him for helping shut down this one avenue of self-respect and earning power they still had. It wasn't like they could just go out and get any job. There were too many fears and prejudices for that. Until the average man and woman on the street no longer thought "zombie soldiers, heartless thieves and killers," when it came to mechanicalized men, there would be no easy jobs to be found.
"Your turn," said the ref, nudging Jason.
He climbed over the ropes and into the ring. People cheered when they saw his massive physique and his big metal arm. He gulped when he saw his opponent slide under the rope.
The man was slim and hard-bodied but in a very hungry way, his muscles ropey and fierce. But he was so very thin. His belt had clearly been tightened and tightened more to keep his trousers up. His arms and chest were bare, showing where he'd had his whole chest cut open with a huge Y-pattern. The cuts had been long and deep, and left strong, sharp marks, and the signs of the stitches that had sewn him up — quick and rough.
Something inside him had been replaced. He'd probably officially died before reaching the operating table, but they'd gotten to him in time to fix him.
His hair was brown, curly, and almost to his shoulders. He reached up and tied it back as his gaze travelled over Jason, gauging him. He met Jason's gaze with a wry twist of his mouth.
His gaze was arresting, clear and soft as fine whiskey with light shining through it. Jason wasn't sure if he'd ever seen such pretty, pale brown eyes before. If brown was even the right name for that soft color.
The guy's expression held a frank sort of humor and hints of communication, as if he wanted to say, "Well, aren't I in the shit now?" But at the same time, the gaze hinted that they were in it together and they'd get through this together.
Jason was determined not to hurt the man. He was littler, after all, and clearly hungry most of the time. He was shorter and thinner and not as strong as Jason, and Jason would be damned before he'd hurt somebody like that.
Which had been true most of his life. Which meant his time as a soldier had been hellish — so devoid of proper, manly fighting and filled instead with hiding and firing weapons and living in the muck, dying of disease and anonymous explosions. It was a horrible way to live or die. The only times he'd ever really been able to enjoy violence were against people bigger than himself, or at least as strong and tough as he was, and nearly his size. There had been few such men.
In the ring, they began. They felt one another out with quick sparring, but took each other's measures pretty quickly. Jason managed to convey that he was willing to lose with a "lucky punch" if the man didn't actually try to hurt him…and the two of them could make it look good.
They dragged it out for as long as they dared, making it look rougher than it was, working together easily with spare, quick movements, sparring more than actually fighting, using lots of footwork to impress the crowd.
Then, the lucky punch: Jason took the fall and went down.
Boos and cheers rose in equal measure. "Asshole! Get up! Get up! I'm betting on you!" But he pretended to be winded and unable to stagger to his feet before the ref counted him out. Then he started to get up, shaking his head.
The other man offered him a quick hand, and he took it. The grasp was warm and strong, with a fine-boned tenacity Jason liked in a man. The look they gave one another was warm. The slender man's eyes held humble acknowledgment of the good turn Jason had done him, grateful and warm, and at the same time filled with a sparkling enjoyment of the sparring match. Because, even though they'd faked some of it and pulled a lot of punches, it had been fun testing one another in the ring.
"Off you go," said the ref, and ushered the next two fighters up.
The slim man straightened his shirt and gave Jason a look that was almost a smile, almost a flirtation. He jerked his head towards the back room. "You get to eat now, if you want."
"Pay?" asked Jason.
"Yeah, but if you don't get it first, you're out of luck." He jingled his pocket, which sounded like it had coins in it. "If this was your first time, you'll get paid next time — assuming you don't plan to lose." He gave Jason a lazy wink, and then elbowed his way through the crowd towards the room with food.
Jason started to follow him, then hesitated. Someone had just tugged on his arm. "Hey," said a lazily lascivious voice. A pretty man grinned up at him and seemed inclined to wrap himself around Jason. "You busy?"
"Uh…" said Jason. He glanced around. This guy didn't appear to be altered, but he was hitting on Jason. Did that happen a lot, people wanting to be with fighters? Even guys who weren't ex-soldiers? Because this guy clearly wasn't. He had a smooth prettiness about him, and he looked just a little too young — legal, but barely, not old enough in the eyes or face to be a soldier.
Jason wetted his lips. He would very much like to have sex, as long as the guy wasn't younger than he looked or had any weird ideas. (Some guys did, and Jason wasn't comfortable with that.) But before he could determine what to say or do, he glimpsed someone standing about a pace behind the pretty guy.
That man had his arms crossed and was trying miserably not to watch. He tried to smile, but it didn't quite work. Clearly, his heart was breaking a little watching this. And Flirty Guy seemed to have no clue.
But Jason couldn't do that to somebody. So he stopped considering the guy with the cute, quirked smile, and shook his head regretfully. "I'm flattered," he said, and gently moved the guy's arm.
"Not flattered enough," he pouted. But his sad and jealous friend was moving up closer to him now, saying something to distract him, and the man turned away from Jason and smiled a little, and nodded to whatever the suggestion had been.
"You're a better man than I," said a deep voice.
Jason turned to see an older gentleman looking at him, eyes twinkling. He had a beard that was neatly trimmed and turning white, and eyes that looked both young and old at the same time. He seemed observant, and well-clothed in a neat suit that was just slightly old-fashioned but still dapper. He did not look like a working-class man or an ex-soldier, and his eyes were knowing and warm.
Jason shrugged, embarrassed that someone had caught him. "He looked so sad," he mumbled. "I guess I know how that feels."
"I guess I do, too," said the gentleman. "Isn't the world a funny place sometimes? Those who want sometimes miss what's right there, and those who want something they can't have want it most of all."
"Do you know those two?" Jason asked.
"To speak to. They're in a relationship — an open one. I don't think Leo realized how it actually stands: open on his side, miserable and filled with longing on Dirk's side." He gave Jason a light, wry smile. "Still, you can tell immediately. Isn't life a bitch?" he said lightly.
Jason blinked. "I…yeah."
"Why don't you come back to my place and tell me about the man you really want, and I'll tell you about mine?" said the man, who still hadn't introduced himself. "I prom
ise I'm not just trying something. I'll give you coffee, not a come-on. I'd just like to talk, if you're in the mood."
He knew what he wanted, apparently. Jason wasn't sure if he was telling the truth about its not being a come-on, but he was interested enough to find out. He didn't particularly find the older man attractive, but he got lonely too and could almost understand approaching a sympathetic stranger just to have someone to talk to.
"By the way, I owe you a thanks," said the man. "I believe you took it easy on my friend back there."
"Oh, yes?" He looked at the man quickly, alarmed. If he'd guessed, who else had?
"I think you could probably squash poor old Jess with one hand if you wanted to."
"No," said Jason diplomatically. "I'm sure I couldn't." He looked around. Where had that bright-eyed, wry-smiling man gone? But he didn't want to lose the chance to talk to someone, and this man was here now. "I'm not that hungry," he admitted. "Why don't we go have that coffee?"
"Thank you," said the gentleman, looking touched and relieved. "By the way, I'm Carl Havies."
"Jason Donnelly." They shook hands gingerly.
"I'm very pleased to meet you, Jason."
"You too."
They removed themselves from the crowded unused factory and went for a walk in the night air. "My apartment is close, which I suppose is why I come here so often. It's less lonely here."
"Tell me about your guy," said Jason, who wanted to feel less pathetic and didn't think anything would help unless it was an even more pathetic crush someone else had.
After all, Harrold had never given him so much as a second's glance that way. But even his warm friendship smiles were enough to make Jason's heart soften like melted butter.
"Oh, he's gone now," said Carl softly, and looked his age as he spoke. He tugged his coat a little tighter around himself and his head a little lower, introspective and sad.
"Is this your building up ahead?" said Jason just to get his mind off things.
"Huh? No, two more blocks, I'm afraid."
Well, he lived in a pretty good neighborhood then. But no surprise, from his clothing.
They walked the rest of the way in silence, Jason keeping his steps to the older man's slower pace. He could've walked faster and usually preferred to, but Carl seemed kind of fragile to him now and Jason didn't want to hurt him in any way.
They headed up the stairs at a fairly nice apartment building. There were no doormen or elevators, but the stairs were clean and wide.
Carl unlocked his door and let Jason in, smile twisting a little in reluctant apology. "My humble abode," he offered, spreading a hand towards the inside. It looked old-fashioned but tasteful — lots of polished wood and red velvet. There were a Victrola, a table-sized grandfather clock, a rocking chair, a horsehair couch, and doilies on the tables.
He had a bookshelf filled with aged-looking hardbacks, and a newspaper folded neatly beside his glasses and slippers on the floor near the heater. It was a comfortable scene that should've had a dog waiting on the colorful, round rag rug, wagging its tail in friendly greeting. But the place felt empty and rather sad.
"I'll get that coffee started," said Carl. "Thank you for stopping by. I would be glad to listen rather than talk, and I promise not to monopolize the conversation, although that can be a weakness of mine!"
"Thanks," said Jason awkwardly. Actually he wasn't a very good talker, and he wondered now at the wisdom of unburdening himself to this man. At the same time, he didn't regret coming. The older gentleman clearly relished the chance to have company. He seemed like he could use a friend, and Jason didn't get many chances to form friendships. He could be a little intimidating even when he didn't mean to be, and people rarely talked to him. He almost never started conversations either, because he was shy and quiet underneath his tough exterior.
They sat down at the kitchen table, which was small and well-polished, and drank coffee, giving each other friendly looks. "You're not saying anything. Did you change your mind?" asked Carl.
"Kind of," admitted Jason. "It's hard to talk about. I'm curious about your guy, or whatever you want to tell me. You seem like you've led an interesting life."
"Oh, I really haven't. I'm a clerk, soon to be pensioned off. Fortunately I have this place at a reduced fixed rate because I've lived here for so long." He grinned. "I should be able to support myself for the rest of my life without having to hock all the furniture. As long as I don't live too long."
Jason stretched his legs out under the table. "Was your guy mechanicalized?" he asked quietly.
Carl looked down, swallowing visibly. His hands cupped around his mug, and he was very still for a heartbreaking second. "No," he said softly. Tears shone soft and gleaming in his eyes. "But I rather wish he had been."
His throat bobbed. "He died, of course, in the war. So many did." He turned his mug around, then back again. It made a soft sound against the wood. "He was an officer, and a diligent one, very quiet in his way. He wore spectacles, and had sandy hair, and I loved him," said Carl simply.
Carl wiped at his eyes and swallowed. "We shared a taste in books, and music, and everything else. I…I like being around ex-army men, even if they weren't officers, even if they survived when my Harry didn't. I miss him so. I suppose that's why I go to the fights. We'd have gone together, if he'd lived. I'd have ch-cheered him on."
"I'm so sorry," said Jason. He put a hand over Carl's thin one. "He didn't deserve it. None of them did — not really." Well, he might have said something else in different company, but overall, that was what he thought: the war had been a terrible thing, and the men who died hadn't deserved it.
Even if they were petty, selfish, or greedy, they'd been men pushed to the brink, and their worst cracks had shown. But they hadn't deserved a punishment like the horrors of war, and if they'd been able to stay home instead of go to war, how many of them would've settled down to become good family men — on either side of the conflict — and raised children and milked cows and had small, happy, contained lives that didn't require killing or being killed — all the hardships and harshness of war? He wished once again that fewer had died, that no one had died. He wished Carl could have Harry back.
Carl wiped at his eyes and laughed softly. "Thank you for being kind. I suppose, most of all, I don't want to forget him while I live — even if everyone else has." He rose and stepped to his icebox — an old-fashioned one, not electric. "Now, I forgot to ask if you take cream or sugar?"
"No, that's all right," said Jason, and then changed his mind. "But cream if you have it."
He meant to steer the conversation, to ask about the fights. It seemed like a comfortable topic that would be interesting to both of them, and he might learn something. But just then there was a knock at the door.
"Carl? Are you home?" asked a man's voice, more shy and unsure than sounded quite comfortable.
Carl's face lit with a smile. "That's Jess. Excuse me!" He moved to the door and opened it. "Come in! We were just having coffee. This is that nice gentleman who let you win. Or perhaps, simply didn't rise in time to try again, I had better say."
Jess looked as though he'd been slapped. The glad smile on his face — shy and almost painfully vulnerable — had disappeared as soon as he saw Jason there. Now he blinked rapidly several times as if trying to compose himself and adjust to this new, unwanted reality.
Jason saw that the man wore several layers of clothing, as if it was easier to transport them that way, or perhaps that he would get very cold if he didn't, as he had nowhere warm to go. He wore fingerless gloves, at least two shirts, and a thin jacket. You almost didn't notice the layers because they bulked him up to look like an average sort of thin instead of the painfully belly-scraping-backbone sort of way he'd looked stripped to the waist. He swallowed hard and looked at Jason with level, unhappy gaze, as if bracing himself for the worst.
Jason noticed the tattered and battered canvas sack slung over the man's shoulder. It looked like the bag carrie
d by a man who owned little and needed it with him because he had no home. Jason rose slowly, feeling too big for the apartment, for his own skin. "I have to go. My boss will worry, I think, if I'm out too late."
"Oh?" said Carl, looking disappointed. "I thought you might stay over. Jess stays sometimes. I'm sure we could all find things to talk about, and there's enough room if you count the couch, and…" His voice trailed off, as if realizing he'd have to let one of them sleep in his bed or somewhere else he hadn't really planned to let them.
Jess's eyes begged Jason, not the whimsical way he'd looked at him during the fight, when it didn't matter so much. Now he might as well have groveled.
"I work for Mr. Graeham," Jason said, transferring his gaze away from Jess quickly and addressing Carl. "He's a good boss, but he does worry. Maybe that's what makes him such a good boss." He forced a smile. "Anyway, I'll need to be up in the morning to make breakfast, so I won't get any sleep at all if I stay up much later. I'll take my leave now."
It was a lot of words, for Jason.
Jess didn't look at him, bowing his head a little, adjusting the strap of the bag on his shoulder.
"I'm sorry you have to go, but I'm glad your boss worries about you." Carl gave him a warm smile and a pat on the shoulder. "Thank you for visiting with me, however briefly. I hope to see you again."
"I hope that, too," admitted Jason. "Jess," he said, nodding at the man he'd faced so much more easily in the ring. "I'll see you 'round."
"Thanks," said Jess quietly, not quite looking at him. He looked so defeated and worn down by life, and Jason wished he could help, ease the pain.
He touched the man as he moved past, a reassuring clap on the shoulder from one fighter to another, from one man with a hopeless crush to another with the same.
Then he thanked Carl for the coffee and walked home in the dark, shoving his hands into his pockets because it was cold. Of course, he only felt the cold on one hand. The other was metal.
He had fingers and joints that moved like a clockwork automaton, easily and cleverly, and he could chop fast because he didn't have to worry about cutting that hand, and a great many other things. But he missed his own hand so very much. It had been a comfort to him on cold, lonely nights, if nothing else. He missed his right hand. He was, of course, growing adept with his left, but it wasn't the same, somehow. It was strange to feel lonely even for himself, even when taking care of his needs. And thinking hopelessly of his dear Harrold. The man he most wanted to care for in the whole world.
Cold Hands, Warm Heart: steampunk gay romance Page 2