His face, a harder, more angular version of my mother's, softened in a way hers never could. "And you thought of Neil."
"I didn't think of anything," I said. "Not consciously. But before that it was all talk. I started the fight, even though I—I knew Sam couldn't control it."
He stood and patted me on the shoulder. "I wish Neil was here to help your friend."
"I just remember his laugh," I said, feeling like a jackass. How do you talk to your uncle about his murdered brother and not feel like a jackass?
He smiled, though. "Me too. I'll let you know when Sam's awake. His parents should be here in a few hours."
"Thanks."
He patted my cheek like Grandpa Hansen used to do, and I thought he'd leave. But he paused and said, "I don't want to make this harder on you…but you can decide whether Sam needs to know or not: Trenton Langley has a long term struggle with mental illness. Or so it seems."
"So it seems?"
"Some of it is likely real. Hard to say since his doctor was a sleeper. His family lost their home when he was in high school. The official report was arson, but Trent claimed that he saw the man who did it. Said the fire jumped out of his hands, no matches, no nothing, and grew when he told it to. No one believed him. The official diagnosis is paranoid schizophrenia. He does show other, definite signs, but obviously, that's not one."
I tried to swallow that damn lump, but it wouldn't budge.
"They brought the arsonist in after he lit up a few more houses. He was awakened. Off his rocker, but awakened."
I closed my eyes. Explained why Trent had fixated on the arsonist queer, I guessed. The queer part had seemed pretty tacked on even at the time, but now that was confirmed.
"And I never told you that," Kristoff said. "Because I'd lose my practice if I did."
I listened to the sound of him walking back down the hall, to deal with the Langleys in the waiting room.
*~*~*
When I was allowed into his room an hour later, Sam was pulling the IV out of his arm. He dropped it, then raised his eyes to mine.
He at least had the sense to look ashamed. "Thing fucking hurts."
I closed the door behind me. "It's gonna hurt a lot more if you don't let them do their job. Uncle Kristoff's your doctor, and he'll kick your ass."
"He's a cardiologist. Nurse said my heart was fine."
"That's not why he's your doctor."
He was already pale, but he went paler, to the lips. "Trent's okay, though?"
I nodded and came to the bedside. My hands were shaking, and I didn't want to think about why. I fumbled over the blankets until I found his hand, and his fingers tangled up with mine. My other hand had fucked-up knuckles from Trent's teeth, and I stuffed it into my pocket.
"You okay?" he asked.
I laughed. "Me?"
Quiet then, watching each other. Still slow and cold, the air too thick.
"I could've killed him," Sam said finally.
"It was my fault."
"Shut the fuck up."
I took a deep breath. "I knew you were freaking out, and I—"
"You tried to calm me down, and I wouldn't listen—"
"I didn't even know I was getting that pissed, I didn't mean to hit him—"
"But he was coming at you and—"
"Just, I had this other uncle, Neil, and—"
We both stopped. He nodded and held my hand tighter.
"He was murdered," I said. "Not in his bed, but close enough."
"Because he got found out," Sam guessed.
I nodded. "I couldn't stop myself." I didn't tell him it was because I'd been scared shitless for weeks now that he'd end up the same way. Definitely couldn't—maybe not ever, now.
"I couldn't either. But I have to."
I dragged the back of my free hand over my eyes to stop them burning. The cuts pulled, made me wince.
He moved over. "Come here."
"Your parents are driving down from Wheeling," I reminded him. "They'll be here soon."
"I'm fine."
"Yeah, but—"
"My parents are not going to be worried about whether or not I'm sucking cock, trust me. Please, come here."
I did. He slipped down against the raised back of the hospital bed so he could rest his head on my shoulder, and I put my arm around him. His hair still smelled like that blue shampoo he used, and it was shiny even in the fluorescent light, throwing copper and gold everywhere. I buried my face in it and took a deep breath, then kissed it. "Kristoff will kick your ass for that IV."
"Can't they just bring me some Gatorade?"
I almost argued that Gatorade really wasn't going to do the trick, seeing as it was pretty short on the sugar and ions his poor body needed. But he looked pretty good, and he was warm and comfortable and, you know. Fuck it. "You're such a jock, Sammy."
"Yeah, you like it."
Yeah. I did.
*~*~*
I guess I fell asleep, because I just remember a few minutes of sleepy conversation and then opening my eyes to a knock on the door. Before I could do more than realize my arm was asleep, it opened, and Linda MacLeod came through.
We looked at each other. She opened her mouth but apparently forgot what she'd wanted to say. Then she looked at Sam, whose long, pale eyelashes were starting to flutter.
Then came Harry MacLeod after his wife. He stopped in the doorway, eyebrows shooting upward.
"Uh, hi, Mr. and Mrs. MacLeod," I said. I was sure my face was on fire, but I couldn't move my arm to shake Sam off, and he didn't seem inclined to help.
"Hey," he mumbled. He must've been really out; his eyes were all cloudy like they were really early in the morning. "You guys didn't have to come. I'm good."
I got out of the bed as fast as I could without hurting someone. "I'll just, uh, go—"
"No, stay," Sam said, rubbing his eyes.
Oh, you adorable bastard. "I'll get you something to drink. What do you want?"
"Gatorade."
"Right, the blue kind." I turned—and there were the parents. "Uh, can I get you anything?"
Mrs. MacLeod's mouth was pressed into a little line. At first I thought she was pissed, but then I realized she was trying not to laugh.
Now my face was definitely on fire.
Mr. MacLeod said, "No thanks, Hansen." He wasn't laughing, but he at least gathered himself up pretty well. He came in and shook my hand, and I slipped out as fast as was polite.
I took my time, you'd better believe, and slowed down in the waiting room to see if I could hear anything about Trent, but Kristoff and the Langleys were gone. Eventually I couldn't avoid delivering Sam's beloved blue Gatorade any longer. The door to his room was still open, and I could hear their voices, so I slipped in, trying to be inconspicuous.
The atmosphere was noticeably less awkward. Mr. MacLeod sat on the windowsill with his arms crossed over his chest, smiling at his son. Freakishly enough, when he smiled, it made him look a lot like Sam.
I handed off the drink.
Sam tore the cap off and started gulping.
"He took out his IV," I explained.
"Samuel." His mother pursed her lips like—well, like a mom.
I snorted.
"I'm fine," he said, making a face at me before turning back to them. "I'm out of here in, like, an hour. I just passed out. I'll take a few days off work and relax, no big deal."
"We were going to stay the night," Harry said. "Holiday Inn."
"Yeah, guess it's too late to drive back. I mean, I'm glad you're here, anyhow." A pause. Then, "It's my turn to buy dinner. How about that steakhouse?"
His mother beamed at him.
Yeah. Totally a mama's boy.
Harry stood, looking first at me, then at his son, and said, "Sure. But we'll go to the store for you boys, first. What do you need?"
"Beer," Sam said immediately. "We're out of Honeyed Fox."
Linda rolled her eyes.
"Gatorade," I said.
&n
bsp; Sam rolled his eyes.
The MacLeods filed toward the door, smiling, but Linda stopped just before they reached it. She put a hand on my arm, leaned close, and said, "Thanks for taking care of him, Hansen."
I swallowed hard and nodded. I couldn't speak.
Yeah. Nice work on that one, Hansen. Fucking bang-up job.
*~*~*
He gave them the official story: an argument, a freak lightning storm, the usual shit anyone could figure out was totally inaccurate by clicking on weather.com. They went to dinner with us—steakhouses always have the best baked potatoes—and then he hit the bed at eight p.m. and slept like the dead.
They came again to say goodbye in the morning and seemed to at least believe Sam wasn't going to drop into a coma. His mom spent a lot of time smiling at me and telling me how nice it was that she didn't have to leave him alone. Not sure if his dad was just glossing over the whole thing or what, but after that initial speed bump, he just went along for the ride. Also talked to me a lot about the Economist.
I could definitely see why he didn't care who his bio parents were. We should all be so lucky.
He slept almost the whole day again, and I made my calls. Mom and Dad were just leaving Charleston and said to get Sam up to the lake immediately. Kristoff said Trent had been released, and he hadn't heard anything about him pressing charges—at least against me, since officially I was the only one who'd touched him. I let Dr. Ferrara know about an unavoidable "family emergency," apologized for taking a week off, and promised I'd grade all the papers I had before I left.
By the time I got all our shit together, it was early evening, and Sam was rattling around in the bathroom. The shower started, so I poked my head inside to ask, "You okay?"
"Yeah. Come on in."
I tried to think of something brilliant and funny to say. We hadn't had a chance to talk about anything after those first moments in the hospital, and now it all seemed like a screwed-up, impossible blur. I just stood there watching myself in the mirror and hoping to god Sam's natural buoyancy would keep him afloat, because wow, I was worthless.
"Will you hand me a new soap when you're done?" he asked.
Seeing as I wasn't doing anything in the first place, I did, then poked my head into the shower. I meant just to make sure he wasn't in there crying or slitting his wrists or something.
He wasn't. He was fucking magnificent, was what he was, hot water bouncing off his scrubbed pink skin, hugging the long lines of his hard body in rivers, dripping from his clingy wet hair.
Probably should've seen that coming, but I was a little distracted. The word "damn" escaped me.
He smiled, but it was a little sad. "I'd invite you in, but electricity and water, you know."
There was only one way to answer that. I made a face, closed the shower curtain, and immediately peeled off all my clothes.
I climbed in, and he stood there, looking miserable and gorgeous and guilty. And wet.
I wrapped my arms around his neck and kissed him openmouthed and hard. At first he went slow—he kissed me back, wrapped his arms around me, grabbed my ass, and tangled his hand in my hair. A sweet, familiar pressure against my hip, hotter than the water, told me he was hard. He didn't make another move, though, just held me and kissed me and let me get drenched with him, all slick water and sensation.
Eventually he closed it off and said, "I don't want to hurt you."
"When are you more aware than right now?"
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, his chest and stomach rising and falling against mine.
I kissed his lips quickly, tasting water from the showerhead and him. "Don't bother with the whole noble act. You can't chase me away."
He said, "You saved me again."
"We walked into that one together."
He went for another kiss, this time hungry and deep, pulling me tight against him so I almost couldn't breathe.
There were worse ways to go. Once we were both breathing hard, I pulled away enough to grab the soap and start lathering up my hands.
"You don't owe me anymore," he said. He looked a little less dismal, but his mouth still had that downturn I didn't much like.
"Yeah, I do, but you can collect later. This is for me."
"Wha—"
But I took his cock in one soapy hand and slicked it up, and he gasped instead of finishing whatever he'd been about to say.
Thinking of that morning we'd argued—felt like a year ago—and his daydreaming about bending me over his desk, I turned my back, faced the wall. A little more soap, and I put my ass against his hips and his erection between my legs, held up high. He wrapped both arms around me, one hand going straight for the soap, the other pulling me tight against him. Experimentally, he pushed forward. His cock slid between my thighs; I sighed at the way it rubbed at me, sank lower in an instinctive urge to feel him against my asshole too.
His hand was lathered by then, and he wrapped it around my dick. His pretty hands, the hot water, his body against mine, him hot between the soft parts of my thighs, slippery with soap and just near enough to all those sweet spots to drive me fucking nuts.
If this couldn't make him forget for five minutes, I was out of tricks.
He fell into a rhythm quickly, his hips shoving me forward, his free arm holding me back. I braced myself against the wall with my forearm, lost in it. After a few seconds, he readjusted the angle of his hips so he teased my ass like I wanted. The extra push was all I needed—I had to bite my lip to keep from telling him to fuck me for real.
"Goddamn," he said, his voice low and hot. His free hand moved down to my hip, half holding me in place, half caressing my ass while he slammed against it.
That was what I wanted him to say, to feel. That, nothing else, just for a little while. I arched and angled upward. Now I could only feel him against my asshole when he slammed in close, but it was worth it for the sound he made, for what the position suggested.
His thrusting went erratic, little double takes and hesitations and harder than before, so my feet slipped forward. The soap had washed away enough that it was a little bit rough—both him between my legs and him jerking me off—and that did me in. I arched my back hard when I felt it coming, let myself groan at that moment, the moment where you know it's inevitable and can't feel anything but that beautiful black ecstasy about to wash over you.
He said something like, "Come on, baby."
All that feeling converged between my legs. My whole body shuddered. My cock spasmed long and hard in his hand. I came all over the shower wall, my lips forming all kinds of words I couldn't say, hot water running into my mouth, stars behind my eyes.
He kept at me, more frantic than before. I squeezed my legs together, and he growled, then let go of my cock; my pulse still pounded in it as my vision returned to normal. He held me hard against him with both hands. I suddenly heard the sound of the shower again, the sound of him smacking against my ass and the backs of my thighs. I arched hard against him, let him see me ready to take it.
"That ass is so fucking hot." He pulled his cock out and planted the head of it in the top of my crack, then started beating it slow and long. His free hand smacked my right cheek, just enough to sting, and I gave a little "Mmm…" and looked over my shoulder.
He was staring down at his dick and my ass, mouth wide open. He closed his eyes for just a second, but mostly he watched himself shoot all over me, panting.
When he finished, he grabbed me again with both hands, pulled me upright, and flattened my back against his front, burying his face in my neck. His hands went everywhere except between my legs, just running up and down my body like he'd never felt it before.
I wriggled to get another sigh out of him.
"You are out of your fucking mind, Hansen," he muttered into my neck. "Gonna take me there too."
"Thought I was a prude."
"Mmm, yeah. Almost had me fooled." He peeled himself off me, smacked my ass again for good measure, and handed me the
shampoo.
*~*~*
A few hours later, we piled into his car with minimal luggage. When he got in on the driver's side, he had a little white box under his arm. He dropped it in my lap.
I looked up. "What's this?"
"Gingersnaps."
I swear to god, I almost teared up. Pathetic, maybe, but considering the week we were having, I let myself off the hook. "Jesus, Sam."
"Checked the bakery while you were taking Dr. Ferrara her papers. Meant to be, I guess."
"I think you might like me after all."
"Glad you finally caught up with the rest of the class, Hansen. Risk and reward, my blindingly white ass."
We devoured the whole dozen on the drive up to Lake March.
Dinner is overrated. It's all about dessert.
*~*~*
The lake stretched out in front of us like some watery childhood memory I could smell, taste, touch, feel. The place I'd spent all my summers, the place they'd taught me how to be what I was, how to use the heat, respect it. The place I'd learned who I was and how to live in the sleeper world without hating it. Loving it, even.
Sam skipped a rock—four times, a new record—and turned puppy-dog eyes on the blue foothills beyond the far shore. A long, hard week for him had only just begun. The setting sun behind us cast bright spots on his hair where it filtered through the treetops. I thought of the hospital and the fluorescent lights and how he'd thrown copper and gold even then. I thought life would be perfect if we could stay here forever, just like this, skipping flat rocks and ignoring the rest of the world.
Okay, it would've made both of us miserable after a few weeks. But I was tired and worried and in a fuck-the-world kind of mood.
Finally I said, "Trent still hasn't pressed charges."
He was quiet for a while, watching the far shore. "I knew there was something fucked up with him. Just…thought he had family issues or something. Felt bad for him, you know?"
"Marietta Falls is way too small for us to avoid him forever," I said. "Hell, West Virginia is too small."
"Maybe we could—" He stopped talking but came to sit next to me on the grass. "Nah. Wasn't thinking."
I knew what he'd been about to say, and I knew why he'd stopped. "Running away would just look like we were guilty."
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