Equilibrium

by Katey Hawthorne

  Electricity popped, audible even over the buzz and music, and the thing burst into flames. I didn't even think; my body just reacted—I shoved my hand into the fire, sensing the vibrations and focusing hard. It was hot, yeah, but I could do hot so long as I was ready for it. It's hard to burn a thermal manipulator alive without a chemical additive. Lucky for me I hadn't had enough beer to dull my abilities.

  A lifetime of training rushed at me, the old tactic Mom had drilled into me back in my Little League days. I visualized the vibrating atoms in the air and plastic like tiny baseballs, but instead of trying to knock them out of the park—adding more energy, as was my natural instinct, no metaphor required—it was like bunting, removing the energy, slowing them down. I can't get things actually cool to the touch, but I can work within a certain heat range, enough to stifle some of it before the flame got too far.

  My head swam with the exertion. Reversal is hard as hell unless you're a real badass, but I stayed on my feet. I looked to Sam finally. He was frozen, dark eyes wide and horrified, mouth open.

  "Sam." Unthinking, I put a hand—the one that had just been in the fire—on his arm. It was still hot enough that he jumped and looked down in surprise, but not enough that he pulled away.

  It woke him out of his stupor, though. He gave a little yelp. "Shit. What the shit was that?"

  "It's okay." I hoped it sounded more confident than it felt. I'd had no idea he could arc like that. Uncle Kristoff could do it, but that was what his looked like after forty years of practice. Uncle Neil—well, Mom said he used to do it naturally.

  It wasn't a powers fuck-up like this that had gotten Neil killed, not directly. But close enough that it made my skin crawl when the comparison came to mind. I hoped to Christ no one had seen, but first things first. "Don't worry about it. Just an accident."

  Sam shook his head so his hair flopped into his eyes. His arm tensed, his entire body pulling in on itself.

  I moved closer, both hands on his shoulders and using my best serene voice. "Sammy, calm down, okay? Just relax. They'll just think it was an electrical fire."

  "It was a fucking—"

  Movement caught my attention out of the corner of my eye. I looked to our right, away from the box.

  Vanessa and Trent were there, watching. Nessa's eyes were wide, her face pale. Trent looked like he'd seen a ghost, pale and gray-lipped.

  Sam had seen them too. Must've been why he cut himself off.

  Nessa kind of shook herself and came to us. "You okay, Sam?"

  He shook his head but said, "Yeah. Yeah, fine."

  I let him go and tried to step back, but he grabbed my arm and held me there.

  "That looked…kind of scary," Nessa said.

  Trent ambled up behind her, eyeing the jukebox with extreme suspicion. When he turned his gaze on me, a tingle ran up my spine. He'd seen it all. Had he somehow known what it meant? Unlikely, but not impossible. Shit, there had to be a way to ask without outing us completely, right?

  But Sam was looking at me too, and the panic in his eyes took precedence. If he was flipping arcs when he was calm, what the hell would happen when he panicked?

  "Yeah, crazy fucking jukebox exploded. Almost killed him," I said. "Dude, you wanna get out of this death trap? Go home, relax?"

  "Yeah. Good idea. Look, Ness, I'll call you tomorrow, okay?"

  She nodded dumbly, and I felt her eyes on us the whole time we were making our way out.

  Please, please don't let her have seen too. Please, please don't let Trent know.

  *~*~*

  "What the fuck!" he said the minute we were outside.

  "Okay, seriously, you have to calm down," I said.

  "Easy for you to fucking say. You didn't almost blow up a bar full of people."

  "It wasn't that bad," I lied.

  "What if you hadn't been there? Someone could've gotten hurt."

  "Well, I was there, so let's just—"

  "What, I'm supposed to cart you around as my own personal fire-safety guy?"

  On the one hand, this was some melodrama. On the other, I would've been melodramatic in the circumstances too. All I could think to say was, "Well, I come cheap."

  He stopped walking, stared at me for a long minute. And then burst out laughing. "You're a fucker, Hansen. You know that?"

  I shrugged. "That costs you more."

  He threw his arm over my shoulders, pulled me hard against his side, and started toward our apartment. His face went serious again, but it had worked—he wasn't panicking anymore. The night was cool, mid-spring, and even in the middle of town, the crickets were loud.

  Good time and place for a nice, soothing pep talk. "The thing is to stay calm. When awakened people panic, bad things happen. That's the first thing my parents taught me. Were you pissed off when you were telling me about Nessa?"

  He thought for a second. "I'd have to care to be pissed off. Or at least think she cared."

  "That what happened with the microwave too?" I asked.

  He bit his lip.

  Dammit. He could've told me he was arcing. I'd thought he was just sparking and shorting things out, like he used to. "I'll call Mom again. She'll probably come tomorrow."

  He squeezed me hard, and I was momentarily buried in the smell of his laundry detergent and sweat.

  Again, not complaining.

  "Shit, man. Even when I almost cause a natural fucking disaster, you calm me down. The fuck do you do that?" he asked.

  By knowing every in and out of your ridiculous little brain, Sammy.

  But all I said was, "Told you, I come cheap."

  *~*~*

  We watched A Clockwork Orange in silence, drinking beer and eating junk food. Jiffy Pop—popped it with my hand since the microwave wasn't exactly in service, which always cracked him up. We also demolished the last of my gingersnaps. They hardly ever made the vegan kind at the bakery down the street, so I usually had to settle for peanut butter or no-bakes, but gingersnaps, man. Nothing like them in the world.

  About halfway through the movie and junk food, Sam was slumped down into the couch like he'd never get out of it again, melded to the cushions. His long legs sprawled out in front of him, taking up three times as much space a guy his size should've, one bare foot on the cluttered coffee table, the other hanging out somewhere below, one hand permanently in the popcorn, the other propping up his shaggy head against the arm.

  I hadn't realized how tense I was until Sam started to chill out beside me. I watched him out of the corner of my eye, thinking how easy it'd be to help him relax better, faster. Run my hand up his thigh and just keep going. It was a perpetual joke, how easy it was for him to get hard. Hell, he might've been right then. I could tease him a little, rub his cock through his shorts and make him squirm. Just for a few minutes, to make the release even better when it came. Then I could slide down onto my knees in front of the couch, free that big, straining cock, and keep eye contact while I deep throated the hell out of it. Bet you didn't know I could do that, did you, Sammy? When I finished with him, he'd just be a pile of jelly on the couch, no worries, no fears, no frustration—

  Suddenly he said, "Maybe I do need to get laid."

  I flushed so hard and fast I could've lit up the damn couch. "What?"

  "Maybe I'm frustrated and it's giving me control issues. I mean, since Nessa and I aren't really—"

  "Right." Nope, still couldn't look at him. Corner of the eye only. "Got more information on the subject than I want already, thanks."

  He flipped me off. "Can't all be monks and philosophers, Hansen. Us lowly mortals need love."

  I made a face and forced myself to meet his gaze. "Is this another of your weird vegan myths?"

  "When was your last date?"

  Only then did I realize I'd just stepped in it. Goddammit, no fair, interrupting my daydream about his big dick in my mouth with a conversation about my actual sex life. Or lack thereof. "Not a lot of options in this town."

  "Gimme a break. There'
s a whole university. It's cool if you're aro or something, you know, you can just say—"

  "It's not that," I said. "But Nash Equilibrium's a cast-iron bitch."

  He stared.

  "Sorry. Nerd moment."

  "Yeah." He grinned and turned to face me, shoving more popcorn into his mouth. "So explain, smart guy."

  I rolled my eyes, but there was no point—he knew I couldn't resist. Welcome subject change, anyhow. "You see A Beautiful Mind?"

  "No."

  "Well, they kinda fucked it up anyhow. The idea is that everyone has a strategy to achieve a certain goal. In the movie, he's in a bar with a bunch of guys, and there are a bunch of women nearby. One of them is super-hot; the others are average. If all the guys go after the super-hot woman, then most of them will end up with nothing—no woman would want to be their second choice. But if they all know the strategies of the others, it becomes obvious that it'd be smarter for the guys, who don't have any immediate advantage over each other, to hit on the average women instead. That way they score, even if it's not the hottest woman. They all end up with something."

  He said, "Okay. But what if the women aren't interested?"

  "Yeah, Nash was kind of a dick, so the movie doesn't really go there. Anyhow, that'd get into the whole series thing; it's beyond the scope of the example. The point is that when everyone's strategies are in a place where it doesn't benefit anyone to change them, you have equilibrium. And if you think about it, most relationships happen that way. You bet on the horse most likely to win for you, not necessarily the one you really want to bet on at first."

  He furrowed his brow, but not out of confusion. "So how is doing nothing even a strategy?"

  "Well, that's what I mean. If I wanted to, I'd have to go for someone likely to go for me. All relationships are in Nash Equilibrium, really—good or bad, people stay in them because it's the best option available to both of them. Risk vs. reward sucks on any move they could make. They keep what they have because otherwise they lose everything. But I can't be bothered to live like that. It's not even game theory; it's just…no game."

  He laughed. "You got game. Rhonda was all over you last…what, Saturday?"

  I'm not sure why I'd never told him I was gay. It wasn't as if he'd ever made so much as a "no homo" crack, and he was as accepting and liberal as they came.

  Maybe it was because I hadn't really dated anyone since we'd gotten really close, and I always played stuff like that close to the chest.

  Maybe it was because I'd been hot for him since we met and it always made me feel like shit. Every time I thought of just saying it, my chest started to seize up, and I told myself it didn't matter anyhow.

  So I just stuck with my story: "Like I say, I'm not about letting the equilibrium dictate taste."

  "She's cute."

  "Super cute. And hey, after this conversation, let's do each other's hair and paint our fingernails."

  "You into someone else?"

  My heart convulsed unpleasantly. He had to know. He knew me so well, I'd been fooling myself to think he hadn't known. It didn't matter though, right? Why should it? He wouldn't automatically assume I was into him just because I liked guys. He wasn't one of those straight dudes. "Uh, no."

  "Who is it? Come on, even if you're a snob, you could still get laid. You're either dead, a monk, or your hand is worn to shit; I've known you forever, and you never, ever date."

  I tried not to smile but failed.

  "Okay, fine." He blew upward so his bangs flew out of his face. For the moment, at least, he'd obviously given up on getting more out of me. "Pretend for a second that you have sinful thoughts like the rest of us. You don't think there's something to this frustration theory of mine?"

  "No." I paused, thinking of those all-too-recent teenage years of misery—not to mention chasing away the current crop of really, really sinful thoughts. Hell, I still felt like I was going to burn myself down right then. "Well, maybe. But even if you're getting another power surge, it's not going to be like puberty all over again. Your body's, er, grown up already, so it can't be that bad.

  "Plus, correlation doesn't imply causality. Hate to break your heart, but just because you think the world revolves around your dick doesn't mean it actually does."

  "Try telling him that." He helpfully indicated his crotch with both hands.

  I tried not to look, but what can you do? It was a great cock too, seriously, had to be at least eight inches when it was up, and that was just what I could tell from—"Did you just say 'him'?"

  He practically cackled.

  I feigned disgust—not hard, since I was already grimacing. "Change the subject, or I'll have to kill you. Mrs. Pendergast is old, but I think she'd notice a fresh grave out back next time she's watering her daisies."

  More cackling, but hell, I didn't even mind. I couldn't help remembering that look of shock and fear and guilt he'd worn just a few hours ago, and be grateful for anything else. Even if it was just him screwing with me.

  I'm a nice guy that way.

  *~*~*

  Mom agreed to come Sunday night instead when she heard what happened. Her voice got all tight, like it did when she thought I was starving or working too hard, or when my brain first awakened and we figured out I could use fire like Dad. Her family had the electricity buffs in it, though mom was a more badass thermal manipulator, herself. She could amp the molecular vibrations and then instantly reduce them again, both hot and cold.

  We tend to think of it like being ambidextrous, but it's more like bunting and hitting a homer at the same time. Before awakened scientists finally got a basic grip on how it worked about a decade ago, it looked like people like Mom just went around breaking the laws of thermodynamics at will. As it is, it makes materials super brittle, like superheating something and then dunking it into liquid nitrogen; I've seen her shatter solid steel like crystal just by touching it.

  Yeah, my mom's a little scary. In an awesome way.

  I was coming out to clean up the living room in honor of her impending visit when I realized Nessa was there. And she sounded pissed.

  "I don't know what it was, but I saw something."

  My heart sank into my feet. We'd avoided the subject last night—or I'd avoided it and he'd let me, but I'd known he didn't want to think about it. Couldn't handle it just then.

  And neither could I, in truth. The last person I knew who'd been found out… Yeah. Uncle Neil. I was four years old at the time, but I still remembered the way he used to fill up a room with his laugh.

  Not that Vanessa was capable of vigilante witch-hunt killings. Just that it was my actual worst nightmare.

  Sam said, "I have no idea what you're talking about. You must've—"

  "It was all over your skin, Sam. I saw it, so don't fuck with me."

  "You were drunk."

  "I had one beer."

  I knew I should turn around and go back into my room, but my legs were frozen. I leaned against the wall and closed my eyes, listening to the heavy silence and trying not to breathe too loud. I knew what he'd look like now, his huge brown eyes all scared and sad. It made my heart hurt, so I was glad I couldn't actually see.

  "This isn't working," he said.

  She didn't answer.

  "When's the last time you actually wanted to fuck me, Ness?"

  She drew a sharp breath. "That's not what this—"

  "Seriously. Do you even think about it anymore?"

  A pause. "Do you?"

  "Yeah. But mostly that it'd be easier not to bother. That pretty much makes us just friends, if anything, yeah?"

  Pissed again, and who could blame her? "You're being a dick because you don't want to answer me. What the hell happened to—"

  "Let's just forget the whole thing," he interrupted.

  "How can I forget that? It jumped out of you, and Hansen put his hand right into that fire like a crazy goddamn—"

  He lowered his voice, but I could still hear it, near as I was. "Not another fuckin
g word about Hansen. Say whatever you want about me, but leave him out of it."

  "Sam, I'm just—"

  "You're scared. And I get it, Nessa; I really do, but I can't handle it. So…let's just use it as an excuse to forget the whole thing." She started to speak, but he cut her off. "I don't mean the other night. I mean the whole thing. You and me."

  If she was angry before, she was seething now. Something crept into her voice, like vitriol in audio form. "How dare you? How fucking dare you, when I'm trying to—"

  "Forget it." There was something dead and final about it that time.

  "Fuck you, Sam. You fucking freak."

  "Yeah, fuck you too."

  Footsteps, the door opening and then banging shut.

  And this is why we shouldn't date sleepers.

  I pushed off the wall, finally trying to drag myself back to my room. Praying to God that she wouldn't tell anyone what she'd seen. Odds were she wouldn't, and unless she told the right person, they'd never believe—

  But there was a loud bang, a crash, and a heart-wrenching electrical pop from the living room.

  I backtracked. When I stumbled in, there was Sam, head hanging, standing in front of our ancient CRT TV. Or what was left of it. The screen had shattered at his feet, and a tiny flame flickered inside it, the smell of burning plastic and hot metal heavy all the way across the room.

  If it had been me, I would've cracked some awkward joke about how we should've put a Faraday cage around the TV too. But it was him. And all I could think to say was, "Jesus, Sam."

  He looked up, but his eyes were a little misty, so I shut my mouth. I put out the fire as fast as I could, and he never moved except to turn his head to watch me, looking pretty wretched in general. It made me even sicker than I thought it would to see him like that. "Shit. I'm—I'm so sorry, man," was all I could say when I got back to my feet.

  He sniffled and looked away, trying to hide behind his hair. "Sorry about the TV."

  "Wanted to melt the thing for years." I shook out my hand while it cooled down.

  He looked up. His shoulders were all curved inward, caving in his broad chest. His eyes had dark rings under them. He looked like someone had kicked his ass and left him for dead.