A World Apart

by Mel Gough

  And with that, Donnie got to his feet, took Ben’s hand, and pulled him up and toward his bedroom.

  Donnie’s bedroom always evoked mixed feelings in Ben. It was small, narrow, and dark, and while Donnie kept it neat like the rest of the place, it had a neglected, dingy quality about it.

  Not that the rest of the house was much better. While Corinth was comprised mostly of middle-class homes, it had its share of run-down neighborhoods like the one the Saunders brothers lived in. In the line of duty, Ben had seen his fair share of poorly maintained homes. Living in one of them, however, was another matter entirely.

  But it wasn’t just the shabbiness of the place that lay like a heavy fog over his and Donnie’s attempt of a new life. Floyd’s continued absence was a constant silent specter, and the longer he stayed missing, the heavier his strange non-presence was felt. Donnie never went into Floyd’s bedroom, which was the first room off the short hallway, and Ben never asked to see it. But Donnie would glance at the door every time he passed it, and a few times, Ben noticed him standing very close to it, not moving. Then Donnie would shake his head and find something to do as far away from that room as was possible in the tiny house.

  But sometimes, just like now when they were together in Donnie’s room, all of that was forgotten for a while. Simply because this had been the first place he had ever made love to Donnie, this tiny room would hold a special place in Ben’s heart forever.

  Ben let Donnie take the lead. They’d had sex once since their first night together, and that time had been awkward. Donnie had been tense and fearful, and Ben had wanted to stop. But every time he’d asked Donnie if they should just leave it, Donnie had shaken his head. So Ben had persevered. The guilt over that night had been niggling at the back of his brain ever since. All through the act, Donnie had looked like he was in pain. They’d both come quickly, but when Ben returned from the bathroom, Donnie had been curled up on his side and didn’t look at him. They’d gone to sleep without speaking, their backs to each other, awkward and uncomfortable on the narrow mattress.

  Now everything was different. Donnie was eager, even enthusiastic, and his hands just wouldn’t hold still. Eyes closed, Donnie crowded in, rubbing against Ben until Ben’s crotch was on fire. Hungrily, he claimed Ben’s mouth while pushing Ben’s shirt up his chest and out of the way.

  They didn’t speak, barely made eye contact now. Wordlessly Donnie commandeered Ben down onto the narrow bed. They lost their clothes in a haphazard fashion, rushing to get skin onto skin. Soon Donnie, buck naked and panting, was straddling Ben. For a brief moment, Ben contemplated telling Donnie to slow down, but a look at the flushed face, the broad chest that was already glistening with sweat in the balmy evening heat, told him that all was okay. This wasn’t desperation or fear. This was uninhibited lust, and if Donnie wanted it this way, then Ben would let him have it.

  Donnie leaned down, supporting himself on his left forearm, their chests nearly touching. A flash of indigo caught Ben’s eye, but Donnie was intent on his task and didn’t look up again. He retrieved condoms and slick from the nightstand, then straightened up and scooted back.

  He took Ben’s erection in one hand and gave it a few quick strokes. The heat built as blood rushed to Ben’s groin. He moaned softly.

  That made Donnie look up, at last. He gave a small smile and tightened his fingers on Ben’s erection.

  “God…,” Ben breathed.

  Donnie didn’t torture him for long. A few more strokes, to make sure Ben was fully hard, then Donnie rolled down the condom to the base of the shaft. A small amount of slick, quickly warmed between Donnie’s fingers, and Ben was ready. Donnie straddled him again.

  “Ya good?” Donnie’s voice was a low growl. His fast breathing could be nervousness as much as arousal. Ben pushed the thought away.

  “M’real good. You?”

  Donnie gave a jerky nod. “So ready,” he murmured, then reached behind himself and took hold of Ben once again. Ben placed his hands to either side on Donnie’s hips while Donnie lowered himself slowly. As Donnie’s tightness closed around him, Ben allowed his eyes to glide shut.

  Soon Donnie was moving faster and faster, and Ben opened his eyes again, instantly mesmerized by the view. Donnie’s body moving above him, the narrow hips, the broad shoulders. Ben let his hands glide up Donnie’s sides, and Donnie hummed, let his head tip back. Ben could feel the muscles ripple, the skin heat up under his hands. Donnie felt like silk, like granite and marble, smooth yet firm. Ben loved every inch of him, loved how the emaciated look left over by the painful illness was finally giving way again to health and strength. He glided his right hand down now, brushing the ginger hair on Donnie’s belly, which was fuller again, too. Ben took hold of Donnie’s erection.

  The position was working like a dream for them both, but the peak almost came too soon. Before Ben really knew what was happening, a sudden flash of heat erupted behind his navel, and Donnie was tightening around him. He felt the spasm at the same time as Donnie’s hot cum started running down his fingers. Listening to Donnie’s moans of pleasure, Ben rode the endless wave.

  The only thing moving for a long time was Donnie’s chest, expanding in rapid breaths, and the veins on his neck, pulsing. Donnie savored his own orgasm with eyes closed, as the flush of sex slowly receded, the skin around his collarbones returning to its milk-white luminescence. Ben’s own heart slowed, his own breath returned to equilibrium, and finally Donnie looked down. His eyes were glowing; his smile was lazy and lopsided. He reached out and placed his hand against Ben’s face. For once, he seemed unconcerned about bodily fluids, momentarily confident that their various medications kept them safe.

  “That was incredible, Donnie,” Ben said with feeling. Donnie nodded, the broad, soft tip of his thumb stroking Ben’s cleanly shaven chin.

  “Yeah,” Donnie murmured. “Had no idea it can be like that.”

  DONNIE HEARS THE car tires on the gravel road outside, then angry voices. By the time he gets to the door, the Dodge truck is reversing at top speed out of the cul-de-sac. Donnie catches a glimpse of the guy in the passenger seat. His blood freezes.

  Philip.

  There’s a body lying crumpled by the fence to their yard. Donnie hurries toward it, heart beating frantically in his throat. When he gets to Floyd’s side, his brother is already trying to push himself up.

  “Christ, Floyd…”

  Donnie crouches down quickly and grabs his brother under the arms, suppressing a shudder at the feeling of bones rolling under the skin on Floyd’s emaciated frame.

  Afterward, he knows what happens next is a reflex, fear and fever and a life spent fighting, always. But when Floyd’s elbow comes up and hits him hard in the mouth, Donnie’s own automatic emotion is rage.

  “Ya asshole!”

  Donnie lets go suddenly, and Floyd hits the ground hard. Donnie steps back, breaths coming fast with the painful shock. He feels his split lip gingerly, then spits some blood onto the ground. He regards the sorry sight before him, and rage turns to pity, then despair.

  A wet cough starts deep from within his brother’s skeletal chest, and Floyd rolls over onto his back, all strength sapping away. There’s blood running down his chin, and the red eyes sunken inside the skull-like face regard Donnie with feverish intensity.

  “Donnie.” Floyd’s voice sounds barely human. “Help,” he rasps.

  Donnie leans down again. Somehow, he gets Floyd to his feet. The sick man’s bloody hands scrabble on his arms, and goose bumps erupt all up and down Donnie’s spine.

  “Awright, brother…awright.” Tears are stuck in his throat, with the truth he can’t let come surging up.

  Floyd in his arms weighs hardly half what Donnie remembers. His skin is burning hot against him, his fingers desperately bunched in the front of Donnie’s shirt. Donnie starts to shiver, and soon he’s shaking.

  He can’t do this alone. He doesn’t have the strength anymore. He needs help, now.

  Chapte
r Twenty-One

  IT WAS JUST after lunch when Ben’s cell rang. On the little screen Donnie’s number flashed. Ben’s heart gave a little leap. A smile crept onto his face, and he snatched up the phone. Their amazing lovemaking last night had been on his mind all morning. After looking around quickly to make sure nobody was close enough to overhear a quiet conversation, Ben took the call right there at his desk.

  “Hey, buddy, what’s—”

  “Ben?”

  And just with that breathless uttering of his name, the smile slid off Ben’s face. He sat up straight. “Donnie, what is it?”

  “He…he’s come back.”

  Ben was already out of his seat before Donnie’s voice stuttered to a halt. He grabbed his keys and jacket with one sweep. “Floyd?”

  “Ya. I…Ben…” Donnie sounded terrified, hardly able to speak.

  “I’m on my way. Fifteen minutes, tops.” He would be faster without the distraction of the phone, so Ben hung up, even though he longed to keep Donnie talking.

  Just when he strode from the incidence room, Jason came down the corridor, carrying a steaming cup of coffee. “Ben, what…?”

  “Family emergency,” Ben called distractedly, already halfway to the door. “Fill you in later.” And with that, he pushed open the front door and hurried into the parking lot.

  Later, Ben couldn’t remembered the drive to the Saunders’s house. There was only one thought in his head, one phrase on his lips, repeated under his breath over and over like a prayer. Please, let him be all right!

  Ben had his own keys to the house now, and he nearly dropped them in his haste to get the door open. Finally the latch clicked, and he stormed inside.

  “Donnie?”

  The living room was empty and looked entirely normal. The house was eerily quiet. Ben hurried down the hallway.

  “Donnie!”

  The door to Floyd’s room stood open. Silhouetted in it was Donnie, who slowly turned around.

  His face was utterly white, the indigo eyes wide with terror. His bottom lip was split, and blood was running down his chin.

  Ben strode over to him and, without thinking, reached for his man’s face. Donnie flinched violently. “Don’t…”

  Then Ben heard it. It was a terrible sound, wet and raspy. He’d never heard anything like it in his life. The sound repeated a few times, then stopped, only to pick up again almost immediately.

  As if compelled, Donnie turned around into the room that Ben had never seen before, and Ben looked past him. Floyd’s bedroom was a complete mess, and Ben shuddered to think that this chaos had been in there the whole time.

  There were ragged, dirty pieces of clothing strewn everywhere. Rubbish, bedding, and worst of all, drug paraphernalia of all kinds was littered everywhere. Ben mused absently that, when the brothers had lived together, Donnie must have come in here regularly to at least throw out any leftover bits of food, or else the house would’ve been swarming with vermin by now.

  Floyd lay on the unmade bed, dirty sheets bunched around him. The man was shivering violently, and for a moment, Ben was sure he was having a seizure. He pushed into the room past Donnie who still stood rooted to the spot. Something crunched under Ben’s shoe, and he looked down. A crack pipe lay there, now broken into tiny pieces.

  “Don’t touch him,” Donnie whispered. Ben looked at him. He had never before seen such inhuman fear on another person’s face, and it utterly broke his heart. He nodded, trying to catch Donnie’s eyes, but Donnie was staring past Ben, transfixed by his unconscious brother on the bed.

  “I won’t, Donnie. It’s okay.” Ben didn’t think Donnie could even hear him, but before he could say anything else, a raspy, wet cough from Floyd diverted Ben’s attention. He guardedly went over to the bed, picking his way through the debris.

  If he hadn’t been lying here in his own house, Ben would never have recognized the man. In the picture Donnie had brought to the station, Floyd had looked older than his late forties, but now he looked about eighty.

  He was emaciated, the pants and dirty undershirt he was wearing several sizes too large. His arms were like sticks, and there were fresh puncture marks from recent needle use on them. The worst thing, however, was the face. Ben bent over him, revolted but unable not to look. Behind him, Donnie gave a low moan.

  Floyd’s face was covered in open sores, yellowed skin like parchment stretching over his skull. His eyes had rolled back so that only the whites were visible. Blood covered his chin and neck, and stained the front of his chest. There were bloody tissues strewn over the mattress, and bloody handprints on the sheets.

  Then, suddenly, there came a gurgling, choking sound from deep inside Floyd’s chest, followed by another weak, bloody cough. It made Ben jump. Donnie moaned again.

  Ben pulled out his phone and dialed 911.

  “State your emergency.”

  “Operator, this is Sergeant Ben Griers. I need an ambulance for a critically ill man.” Ben heard a faint noise behind him and turned around in time to see Donnie’s heel disappear from sight.

  “What is the address, Officer?” Ben gave it to the woman.

  “The ambulance will be there in ten minutes. Do you know the nature of the illness, sir?”

  “Yes,” Ben said, a lump in his throat. He had seen a case like this once before, in a training video back at the academy. “It’s end-stage tuberculosis.”

  He hung up, not waiting for a reply and the words of caution that would be coming next. He had to help Floyd, whose breathing was even more erratic now. Ben was acutely aware how infectious the sick man was. He didn’t worry about himself, but the thought of contracting anything that could jeopardize Donnie’s health in turn gave him pause.

  But he couldn’t let anyone drown in their own blood, not even the man who, to the last, had been nothing but cruel to Donnie. Ben quickly went into the bathroom and retrieved a pair of latex gloves from a box they kept there. Then he hurried back to Floyd’s side. There wasn’t much he could think of doing, other than try to help the man breathe. Ben picked up a ratty old pillow from the floor and lifted Floyd’s upper body, careful not to get any blood on his uniform. He propped the man up and waited. Finally Floyd’s breathing eased a little, and Ben let out a sigh of relief.

  He was close enough to Floyd that he could feel the furious heat radiating from the sick man’s skin, and the cloying stink of necrotic lung tissue was nearly overpowering. Ben suppressed a shudder and straightened up, pulling off the gloves and dropping them on the floor. Then he turned and left the room, his mind on Donnie.

  Donnie was pacing in the yard, visible through the open front door as Ben crossed the living room. He stopped on the stoop, feeling the agitation from Donnie across the distance that separated them. His movements as he strode back and forth on the dusty, dead lawn were jerky, and he kept his whole body averted. Ben waited. After a minute, Donnie slowed and came to a halt a few feet away, biting hard on his thumbnail. There was blood on Donnie’s arms and the front of his shirt, a handprint clearly visible where Floyd must have yanked on it.

  “Is he dead?”

  “No. I called an ambulance. Donnie…”

  But Donnie shook his head several times, like a dog tortured by flies. “He was hardly sick when he left,” he whispered. “We fought… he hit me cuz I didn’t want him to give up. He said he’d had enough. Never thought he meant it, tho.”

  “He’s got AIDS, doesn’t he?”

  Donnie nodded, then, to Ben’s surprise, looked up and straight at him. “Is he gonna die?” There were tears in his eyes, and one spilled over and ran down Donnie’s face. Ben wanted to rush to Donnie, scoop him up, and hold him tight. He wanted to tuck Donnie into bed and keep him safe. Let the paramedics take Floyd and deal with him. This was just too much for them both. Ben looked at Donnie, the despair on his face, his cut lip still bleeding, his bloodied arms hanging limply by his side. Somehow, he looked impossibly young.

  Ben shook his head. “I called the ambulance
,” he repeated. He couldn’t bring himself to say what was obvious.

  Floyd was dying.

  For a moment, it looked like Donnie would come to him, seek comfort in his arms. But before he had taken half a step, an ambulance came barreling down the dirt road and stopped by the fence, tires screeching.

  THEY WATCHED THE paramedics take Floyd from the house. The men looked eerie in their masks and gowns, and Floyd looked even more shrunken inside a special containment tent they had draped over the gurney. Ben stood next to Donnie, not daring to touch him. He was afraid Donnie might bolt if given even the slightest provocation.

  Before they followed the ambulance to the hospital, Ben coaxed Donnie back into the house, got him to wash off the blood from his arms, change out of the bloody shirt, and dab some iodine on the cut on his lip. Then Ben got a jacket on him and they set off.

  Donnie didn’t speak the whole way. He sat in the passenger seat, taut as a bowstring, nervously jiggling his leg and chewing his nail again. When he took the hand away from his mouth, it was shaking, the nail bitten bloody.

  They had to wait a long time in the ICU corridors before anyone would tell them what was happening. Donnie paced the hallway, driving Ben to distraction. He still wasn’t sure Donnie wouldn’t just run off if he tried to calm him, so Ben merely watched, hurting for his man. After an hour’s relentless pacing, Donnie finally slowed down, utter exhaustion settling over his face.

  “C’mere,” Ben said quietly, patting the seat next to him on the bench that ran along the corridor wall. To Ben’s surprise, Donnie staggered over and sat down heavily. He kept his face averted and still wouldn’t speak.

  Finally the doctor found them and led them into a quiet room off a side corridor. It was Dr. Greene, the same doctor who had taken care of Donnie when he had been admitted with the pancreatitis. Ben made Donnie sit on the sofa.

  “Donnie,” Dr. Greene began, “I’ll be very honest with you. It really doesn’t look good for Floyd. He has advanced tuberculosis, which has gone completely untreated. His AIDS status means that the progression of the disease will have been rapid. Were you aware that he was off the antiretrovirals?”