The AIDS group was boring and a bit depressing. After the third one, he started showing up to it while he was high and he stopped saying much. He still felt that he should be there, but he didn’t know what he was really getting out of it.
The loss group, though, was very cathartic for him. His new group helped him deal with Donny being gone, and helped put things into perspective for him. He still blamed himself because he knew that Donny wouldn’t have even been exposed if it wasn’t for him. But they’d finally helped him internalize that blaming himself couldn’t change anything. Donny wasn’t coming back, and whether Emmet had put them in that position, Donny did what he did on his own. He knew this was the same kind of stuff his friends tried to tell him. Somehow, it was easier to process when it came from strangers, from people who were dealing with losing somebody themselves.
He was the only gay man in the group. There were about a dozen of them, the core members who came every week. Several more come occasionally, and none of them really remembered the people who only came once and didn’t return. There were widows and widowers, grown children who had lost their parents, and one man, Seamus, an Irish immigrant, who’d lost his wife and his son in a car crash. He was driving and he walked away without a scratch.
The rest of the group joked and called Seamus and Emmet the Survivors Guilt Club. Seamus had to deal with something Emmet didn’t, though. His wife was dead, and that was going to affect his green card. There were a lot of forms to file and deadlines to meet and Seamus was struggling to keep it all together. Otherwise, he’d be off, back to Ireland.
Emmet and Seamus started hanging out after group, and then meeting up during the week. It was nice to have a friend who had a job and a normal life. Both of them were so lonely that they needed someone to help them keep their heads up. Seamus didn’t care for American sports so Emmet didn’t have to pretend to like football in order to have a straight, male friend, and Emmet was the only one of Seamus’ friends who didn’t start out as one of his wife’s friends.
Emmet didn’t tell Seamus that he was a drug user. He didn’t want to lose the one new friend he’d made. He never had Seamus over to his place. They always met for drinks or bar food somewhere. One night, though, it was storming hard - tremendous thunder, vicious winds, pouring rain. The storm had blown in suddenly. They were both very drunk and Seamus confessed that he was way too far-gone to drive home. Emmet was ripped and naturally and immediately said that Seamus could crash at his place, which was just up the block.
The two of them fought their way through the rain and the beating wind. The rain was falling so hard it stung Emmet’s face. Emmet saw that the power on his block was out. He and Seamus went upstairs, stumbling up the old, wood stairs, creaky and slippery under their soaked feet. They burst into the apartment and Emmet swore.
“Fuck it all,” he cursed, then ran over to the window to the fire escape that he’d left open. The blinds were bent and broken from the wind and from banging against the wall. He slammed the window shut, then went into the kitchen to find some candles.
He lit a couple and brought them out into the living room. Seamus had thrown himself on the sofa and was struggling to get his shoes off, but he wasn’t quite coordinated enough to get them off.
Emmet said, “Oh, let me help you.”
“Much obliged, sir,” Seamus slurred.
Emmet kneeled in front of Seamus and struggled to untie the shoes. They were wet, he was drunk, it was dark, and he was starting to get the shakes, but he finally managed it, and he popped Seamus’ shoe off of his left foot, then yanked the sopping wet sock off. He placed Seamus’ foot on the floor and raised the right foot, holding him by the calf. He repeated the exercise on the right shoe and sock, then rubbed Seamus’ feet to try to dry them and warm them a little. They were freezing cold.
Seamus made a low moan, “Oh, thank you, man,” he murmured in his singsong high-low Irish accent.
“My pleasure,” Emmet purred back. “Here,” he slid a bottle of whiskey off an end table, took a long pull from it, and handed it to Seamus. Seamus brought it to his lips and tipped it back, swallowing in large gulps.
“Ah,” Seamus said after a long drink. “Not bad, not bad. Sorry about getting your couch so wet.”
“It’s fine.”
Seamus struggled to his feet and stood up. His crotch was now level with Emmet’s face. Emmet could see the bulge through his sopping wet pants. Seamus tried to undo his belt. “Gotta get out of these wet clothes before we get sick. We’ll catch our death,” he said, then laughed to himself and swayed, almost falling over.
“Let me,” said Emmet. He undid Seamus’ belt and worked his pants down. They were hard to get off because they were so wet, but he rocked them downward and finally, Seamus put his hands on Emmet’s shoulders and stepped out of them. Seamus had managed to get his own sweater off, and was now standing, still damp, in his underwear and undershirt. Emmet’s head was swimming. He slid his hands up Seamus’ cold legs, then under the elastic edges of his briefs.
Seamus let out a low moan, then grunted. “No, no, Em, stop,” he protested. “I’m a married man.”
“Not anymore, you’re not.”
“No, that’s not what I meant,” Seamus corrected himself. Emmet wasn’t sure Seamus even registered that he’d spoken. “I mean, I’m straight. I’m not gay, I mean.”
“I know,” Emmet said. “Sorry, I got carried away. I’m drunk.”
Seamus looked down at him and put a hand on Emmet’s head. “You, lad? You’re not drunk. You’re just tipsy.”
Emmet’s eyes bulged at that. Emmet knew he was well beyond properly drunk. “How about you, then? You drunk?”
“Aye.”
Emmet laughed. Seamus did, too. Emmet saw that, even though Seamus was a straight, not gay man, he was quite excited. Emmet shook his head, then put a hand on the sofa and a half on the coffee table to try to hoist himself to his feet. He managed it, but he slid up the front of Seamus’ body as he did so. “Sorry,” he said, then stumbled backwards.
Emmet fumbled with his own shirt and pants, got them off, and was standing in just his wet briefs. He hadn’t worn an undershirt that day.
“Thanks for taking me in, Em,” Seamus said. His voice was still sloshy. “I’ll just take the couch, here.”
“I don’t know where the extra pillows and blankets are. Come on, we’ll go sleep in my bed. Don’t worry, it’s a king sized bed and there’s plenty of room for you to sleep with a homo.”
Seamus laughed heartily, and stumbled again. “Lead the way, fella. I’m not gonna be able to stand much longer.”
They lay down in Emmet’s bed, Emmet and Donny’s bed, and Emmet left plenty of space between them. He was freezing and shivering. He could feel through the mattress that Seamus was, too.
He reached out and started rubbing Seamus’ arm, not sensually, but to try to warm him up. They turned so they were laying on their sides facing each other and they each were trying to rub some warmth into the other. Emmet felt himself drifting off.
His head bobbed up slightly as he half awoke to find that Seamus was spooning him, snoring behind him, nose in Emmet’s hair, and erection pressed against Emmet’s hips. Emmet sighed contentedly and nestled back into Seamus, falling back to sleep.
-
Emmet woke up alone in his bed. He sat up, confused and disoriented, with a splitting headache, and heard retching in the bathroom. “Aw, Donny,” he murmured, half asleep. “I’ll be right there.”
He stumbled to the bathroom and his breath caught in his chest in surprise. Some pieces of the evening rushed back to him when he saw Seamus on his knees in front of the toilet, violently throwing up.
“Oh, man, I’m so sorry,” Emmet said. He went to the kitchen to get a glass of water and brought it to Seamus.
“‘S-ok, man. ‘S-ok.” Then Seamus threw up again.
When he had finished, Emmet handed him the glass of water and Seamus downed it. He rested his head on the t
oilet seat, looking miserable. “Gonna need to call in to work today. You?”
“No, I’m good.”
“Lucky man.” He sat up straight, then reeled a little, clearly feeling the room spinning. He reached up and flushed the toilet. “I think I’m done for now.”
Emmet offered his hand and helped Seamus to his feet. They stumbled to the sofa.
“Hey, um,” Emmet started, “We didn’t, you know… Do anything last night, did we?” Emmet was mortified that he could have taken advantage of Seamus, who was both straight and clean.
“No, no,” Seamus laughed. “Nothing at all.”
“Oh, thank god,” Emmet said. “I’m HIV-positive.”
Seamus stopped laughing and frowned. “Oh.” He looked at Emmet with a new expression on his face. Concern, maybe. Fear, perhaps. Then he said, “No, we were just trying to get warm. We didn’t, you know, do anything.” He plopped down on the sofa and pulled the afghan over himself. Then his eyes fixed on the small open case on the coffee table. It contained a syringe and a small plastic bag of heroin. “Oh,” he said again.
“Oh, god,” Emmet said, and rushed to put it all away. “I’m sorry, I’m really sorry.”
“It’s fine, mate,” Seamus said. He staggered to his feet and struggled to get his still wet pants over his legs. When he’d gotten them up and buckled his belt, he picked up his sweater, also still dripping wet, and put it on. He pulled his shoes on without tying them and said, a bit awkwardly, “Thanks for letting me sleep it off here, mate. And don’t worry about it. I won’t tell anyone about anything.” He stumbled to the door. “You take care, Emmet. Thanks again,” and he left.
The next Thursday, Seamus didn’t come to the support group, or the Thursday after that. Emmet kept going, though. He needed even more support now, realizing that he’d lost someone else, and he hated himself even more now.
chapter 12
Hope woke up in a good mood. She couldn’t remember the last time that happened.
It was dark out when she awoke. This was the last day of darkness before the sun would come up. She lay in bed, enjoying how soft and warm it was under the thick furs. She stretched herself out as far as she could, arms high above her head, toes pointing downward, wings stretched out to peek out of the covers.
Pale blue moonlight lit up the window, which was frosted over. It cast a pleasant, light glow around her cottage and it made the fire seem extra bright to her eyes.
She sat up, yawned, and got up. The molebear skin rug on the floor alongside her bed was soft and kept the cold of the floor from her bare feet. She tossed her covers aside and flew, naked, to the mirror and washbasin. She splashed some water on her face and looked at herself in the mirror. She was surprised to see her reflection had half a smile on her face.
“Hmm, you’re in a good mood today,” she told herself. She took a step back and looked at herself. Her hair, pure white on its own, shone slightly blue in the moonlight on her left side and slightly golden from the firelight on her right. She thought it gave her a very mysterious look.
“You really should think about coloring your hair,” she said, again speaking aloud.
She looked at the faint scar that ran down her right side. A snapping dragon beetle had given her that many years ago. The beetle had been helping itself to Frost River Falls’ herd of draft mice, so she and Pepper had gone hunting for it. They’d found it nesting in a pile of bones deep in a cave, gnawing through one of the mice it had stolen. It had been a difficult fight. She’d loosed a couple dozen arrows into it and Pepper had been assaulting it with fire bolts, but the beetle still had plenty of strength left in it.
Eventually, Hope ran out of arrows, so she advanced and engaged it with her long spear. She had punctured its carapace, piercing it through with her spear. While she was struggling to pull the spear back out to stab it again, it reared on her and gored her with its wicked, barbed horn, then tossed her across the cave. She was losing blood fast.
Pepper took advantage of its momentary distraction and ran up to its side, where he’d punctured its thick exoskeleton. He plunged both hands into the wound and channeled his magical energy to create a fireball that exploded inside the insect. It blew up and its juicy insides splashed over the two of them.
Pepper used his magic to heal her, knitting the broken ribs back together and mending the wound, but her pale flesh stitched itself back together leaving a thin, dark scar from just under her armpit down to her hip.
She looked up toward the ceiling of the cottage, where they had hung the horn as a trophy. Nearly a decade later, it still hung there. She even remembered to dust it. Sometimes.
Hope hummed a cheerful tune to herself while she fixed herself some breakfast. She’d had a good week of hunting and foraging. She started boiling two large snowturtle eggs. That would be enough for breakfast and lunch.
As she ate, enjoying her large, soft-boiled egg, she decided she’d go to town today. “It’ll do you some good to see some other fairies today.” She took another spoonful of the warm, creamy yolk and accidentally dribbled some down her chest. She chuckled, then wiped it off with her finger and licked it clean. “After all, if you don’t see anyone, you might start talking to yourself.”
-
Hope finished trading meat for some supplies she’d need for the next few weeks: candles, soap, lamp oil, a pair of new wooden spoons, and a new pair of thick, warm boots with soles designed for walking through the snow. Such heavy-duty footwear was rare and expensive here. Fairies were light enough that they usually could walk on top of the snow without breaking through, and they flew most of the time. But as a hunter, Hope needed to keep her feet warm and dry, and she needed traction for the times when she did need footing in the snow.
She was pleased with her purchases. She secured them in her rucksack, offered a warm farewell to Yarm, the shopkeeper of Frost River Falls’ trading post, and then flittered off to the main hall.
The main hall was where much of the town gathered socially. It was a combination of plaza, city square, dining hall, and performance space. Presently, there was a duo of musicians performing, one with a small wooden flute, the other with a stringed instrument he was strumming and picking at. Hope didn’t have an ear for music, but she decided it was pleasant enough.
She sat at one of the long tables and pulled the boots out of her bag. She started oiling them so they would be waterproof. Usually, she would perform this task at home, but today, she felt like being with other fairies. Soon, someone flitted over to join her.
It was Kissel - one of the ranch keepers whose mice the beetle had been feasting on so many years ago. He had been reluctant to cast his vote to banish Pepper after the incident, and he’d always had a soft spot for Hope.
“Hope!” roared Kissel. He was a rotund fairy with thick, muscular arms and a large potbelly that spilled over his belt. “So good to see you in town! So good!”
Hope smiled warmly at him. “Hi!”
“We haven’t seen you around here in so long. Then when you come in, you’re in and out and you don’t talk to anyone!”
Hope opened her mouth to protest, but Kissel said, “No, no, I’m very sorry. I’m not trying to make you feel guilty. I was just trying to say I’m so happy to see you, but I did a terrible job of it!” He put his meaty arm around her shoulder and hugged her tight. “My apologies. Can I buy you a drink?”
Hope cocked her head and thought for a second. “Yes, you may,” she said.
“Strong,” Kissel asked, “or stronger?”
Hope laughed. “Just regular strong.”
“Very good!” Kissel heaved himself from the bench and flew off to get them drinks.
Hope chuckled to herself and continued oiling her boots. She turned when she heard her name from behind.
“Hope?”
It was Jewel. Jewel was an artist: a painter, ice sculptor, and poet, although Hope didn’t have an ear for poetry, either, and thought most of it amounted to a long and clumsy way
of describing things that nobody bothered to notice in the first place.
She was tall and very thin, flat chested, sharp-boned, and straight, not at all curvy. Her hair was thick and shiny, coal black and it always looked like it had been perfect just a moment ago until the wind came and blew it out of place. Her voice was soft and high, and Hope found it soothing. She used to listen to Jewel’s poetry just to hear her voice. They used to be close friends.
“Jewel!” Hope zipped over the bench and embraced Jewel in a warm hug. “How are you?”
“How am I? How are you?” Jewel asked. “I haven’t seen you in ages and I’ve missed you ferociously. I keep meaning to pay you a visit, but I always stop myself because I never really know whether you want the warmth of company or the comfort of solitude.”
Hope smiled at Jewel. She had missed Jewel, and the way she spoke. “You know,” she said, “most of the time, I don’t even know. But you’re right, being alone is a comfort a lot of the time.”
Jewel nodded, a look of intense empathy on her smooth features. Then, her deep amber eyes twinkled, and she smiled. “I’m so happy to see you now! For my own sake, I hope you’ve decided to seek solace among your friends here.” She hugged Hope again.
Hope hugged her tightly back. Jewel always felt so warm and she was almost always dressed in an odd blend of soft furs and soft cloth of various colors that seemed to look so natural on her. Hope had always felt she’d look ridiculous in clothes like Jewel’s but Jewel always looked so right. She pulled away and took both of Jewel’s hands. “We’ll see,” Hope said. “I just felt like coming out of my shell a little. I haven’t talked so much in...” Hope’s eyes went to the ceiling as she thought. “I don’t even know how long. I’ve talked to more people today than I have in a long time.” She squeezed Jewel’s hands. “I’m so glad I got to see you.”
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