Fighting Gravity

by Leah Petersen

  I stared at him, dumbfounded. He was going to make an issue about that? Was it just that he just wanted something, anything, to pick a fight with me about? After all my hope, my daydreams about the subtle ways he could have acknowledged me, this was how he’d chosen to break his silence? The faltering burn in my chest flared in a rush of anger. “If you mean I decided not to abandon the project entirely then, yes,” I snapped.

  Pete hesitated only a moment. “Strange that I never realized your word meant so little,” he said.

  I sucked in a loud, angry breath. “And I never realized you were so petty!”

  He took two quick steps toward me, his eyes flashing. He was so close that I felt the harsh rush of his breath against my cheek. “Take care, Mr. Dawes,” he said, his voice low. “I have my limits.” He stepped back, his face hard. I watched him deliberately relax hands that had clenched into fists. He took a deep breath and turned his back on me, wandering back over to the display.

  “This is the second of your displays I’ve seen, Mr. Dawes, in as many hours. Is this to be like it was the last time I came? The entire physics section a tribute to the genius of Jacob Dawes?”

  “You needn’t worry about that, Your Excellence. You may remember, I spent most of the last five years away from the IIC.” He turned away and I didn’t see his reaction to that.

  “Of course,” he replied, still angled away. Then, waving his hand in my direction he said, “You may go.”

  I stiffened. Pete didn’t dismiss the lowest servant so rudely. My hands balled into fists. The entire group was still, watching, breathless when I didn’t do as he’d commanded.

  “You know,” I snapped, my voice loud and hard, “most cowards have to run away from their problems. Aren’t you fortunate that you can make your problems run away from you?”

  Pete turned on his heel and was in my face before I could blink. “You never learn, do you?” he hissed. “Have you forgotten all the trouble your mouth gets you into? What I am? What I can do to you?”

  “I haven’t forgotten anything,” I said, half choking on the many meanings of that. “But I’m not afraid of you.”

  “Oh, I know you’re not.” He coughed a rude laugh. “You’re not as bright as people give you credit for. So let me help you.” He lowered his voice and spoke with exaggerated slowness. “Go away, as you were told, and save yourself the embarrassment of being dragged out of here.” He turned his back on me, returning to the display and those waiting for him there.

  I quivered with rage, and grief, and the overwhelming need to punch something. “You can kiss my ass, Peter Killearn!”

  He rounded on me, but checked himself a couple of feet away. “Sam,” he said, finishing his sentence with a gesture in my direction. Two guards flanked me. Their hands clamped down on my arms. He held my gaze. “It never occurred to me that I’d need a brig on my personal transport.”

  To the guard captain he said, “Confine him in one of the unused servants’ quarters.”

  “Yes, Your Excellence.”

  Pete turned away. As if an afterthought he added, “Sam, I won’t overlook you doing him any harm…yet.”

  Sam’s smile was his only answer. He led the way out through the lobby and to the transport. The guards followed behind, hauling me with jerks and thrusts so that I stumbled along between them. They steered me aboard and down a small corridor to a nondescript door. Sam pushed me inside the small bedroom with so much force that I landed on the floor in front of the bed. I got to my feet. Sam was still in the doorway, examining me.

  He was struggling with something—apparently, his self-control. He drew in a breath and, closing on me, threw his fist into my stomach. My knees buckled.

  I gasped, struggling for air. Breathing like a fish on land, I stood in a rush of fury. “You’ve only got that one trick, don’t you?” I croaked.

  His face screwed up in confusion.

  “The punch in the stomach. It seems like every time I see you, that’s how you greet me.”

  I saw his fist spasm, but he held himself back. “You going to tattle on me again?” he growled.

  “I didn’t tattle on you last time.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Yeah, sorry, I forgot you have the IQ of my little toe. I was covered in bruises and you brought me to the emperor yourself. He’s not as dumb as you. When he saw them, he actually figured out what happened all by himself.”

  He stepped closer and loomed over me. “If you’re lucky,” he said, “when the emperor gives me my head with you, I’ll beat you with only the few men I have here, rather than waiting until we’re back at the palace with my entire squad.”

  “Generous of you,” I quipped. He smiled.

  “But you’re not really a lucky one, are you?”

  I just held his gaze, not answering. He made a disgusted noise and stormed out.

  I slumped down to sit on the bed, cradling my aching gut and drooping over my knees, cursing Sam, myself, Pete; myself, mostly.

  I couldn’t stay still. I paced around the small room, taking the opportunity every now and then to bang my stupid head against the wall, only to sink back down to the bed for a time, cradling my stupid head in my hands, before I’d be back up again, pacing. Anger didn’t wane but I layered guilt and fear and self-loathing on top of it.

  More than an hour passed before the door opened. Pete entered and the door closed behind him. I froze like a startled rabbit. We stood, him just inside the doorway, me motionless where I’d been pacing, staring at each other. His face was unreadable, passing too quickly through the barely perceptible emotions behind his emperor’s mask. The silence became unbearable.

  “Look—” I said.

  But he was there, pressing against me. He grabbed my head and kissed me. I melted into him, pulling him closer, moaning. He only kissed harder. I tangled a hand in his hair.

  He pushed me backward and we fell onto the bed together. There was a tearing of clothes in a desperate rush. Somewhere in the feel of his skin on my fingertips, his long body beneath me, and the smell that was overwhelmingly him, I forgot who I was, where, or why this was such a bad idea. We were together, and for the first time in two years I felt whole.

  We lay together afterward, panting, saying nothing. I was on my stomach with my face away from him. I felt him move against me and kiss my shoulder, my neck.

  “I love you,” he whispered.

  I jumped up and got off the bed, searching for my pants. “We shouldn’t have done this,” I muttered at the floor, choking on a wave of contempt for my ridiculous lack of self-control.

  “What?” he said, with a look on his face that made me ache. I cast a quick, bitter look at him as I snatched up my shirt. He stood, grabbing my arm. “What do you mean?”

  I jerked my arm away. “Why are you here?”

  He flinched. “You know I said I would come, last time I was here.”

  “You’ve gotten out of more important things for less.”

  “You wish I hadn’t come?”

  “Yes. You shouldn’t have come. If you were dead set on it, you could at least have let me leave. You shouldn’t have done this to either of us.”

  I was nearly dressed again. My shirt was missing too many buttons and it hung open. I grabbed for my shoes. He jerked me by the arm. “How can you say that? You listen to me, Jacob Dawes—”

  “NO!” I yelled, jerking away again, “You listen to me!” Righteous anger rushed through me, anger at myself for allowing this. The pain in his eyes was a vicious condemnation. “Stop doing this, Pete. You’re not stupid. Think! You knew better than to see me. You’re being sentimental and emotional. You’re being ridiculous.” I turned my back on him, sick with necessity, hating the one person who had put us in this position: me. “Get the hell out of here.”

  He grabbed for my arm again but, batting it aside, I punched him. He fell to the floor, hands cupping his nose.

  For a brief eternity I couldn’t move. I stood there gaping at the si
ght of him several steps away holding his nose, a line of crimson blood trickling between his fingers, my head swam and my heart thundered as I tried to convince myself I was at the IIC, that this wasn’t the throne room, it wasn’t two years ago, and I wasn’t going to Dead End again.

  I hadn’t even noticed he’d moved before his fist slammed into my mouth.

  We fought.

  I’d been in far, far more fights than Pete, who’d been in exactly none, but I took as many punishing blows as I delivered. My head was ringing and throbbing when I finally thought to drive my fist into his stomach. He doubled over, all his breath going out in a whoosh. I shoved him away and he staggered back into the wall.

  I started to walk out, but stopped. After a long moment I turned back, bent down and took his face in my hands, put my forehead to his. “I’m sorry I hurt you,” I whispered, kissing him lightly again and again. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry.” He didn’t meet my eye; there were tears in his as he shook his head. I wiped a stray tear away with my thumb.

  Ripping myself away from him, I slipped on my shoes and grabbed my jacket off the floor. “Do me a favor, Pete,” I said.

  With an arm around his stomach, he pushed himself up with the other and looked at me.

  “Tell them when you leave tonight that you’re not coming back in five years. That you’re not coming back ever.”

  He dropped his head, but I still saw the twist of pain in his features. “Jake…” He stopped. He looked up at me, and for a moment I thought he was going to say no, that he wasn’t going to give in. My heart twisted in a tempest of fear and elation. Then, as I watched, the slow spread of resignation crossed his face and he dropped his head again. “If that’s what you want,” he said.

  “Yes,” I choked.

  He nodded. I opened the door and started to exit but two burly guards blocked my way. “Where do you think you’re going?” the bigger one demanded.

  I looked back over my shoulder without turning.

  “Let him go,” Pete said from behind me. They moved aside, looking ready to spit nails. I stepped past them quickly, trying not to run from what I’d just done.

  fg36

  As I exited the transport and barreled through the lobby I realized that I’d have to pass through the main hall on the way to my room. I tried to figure out how long I’d been on the transport, what time it was at the moment. I only hoped that it was still the lunch hour and everyone was in the dining hall.

  I wasn’t so lucky. I entered the main hall to find the whole of the faculty and student body standing about, waiting for the emperor’s return to be announced. There was a significant stir when I walked into the room instead. I had the attention of all as I made my way the entire length of the head of the room in order to get back to my own. I was painfully aware that my shirt hung open, that there was probably still blood on my chin from where Pete had split my lip.

  As fast as I walked, I couldn’t go fast enough. And I could hear their comments, loud enough that I knew they meant for me to hear.

  “That’s what happens to people like him.”

  “If there was any justice he’d have gotten worse.”

  “Too bad they didn’t execute him two years ago.”

  “I can’t believe they let him go. They should get rid of him this time. Did you hear what he said to the emperor?”

  When I made it back to my room, I sank to the floor, wishing I were anyone but who I was, where I was. The first thing I did, when I realized I’d have to get up eventually, was get into a cold shower.

  Not for the obvious reasons. I needed the shower because I could smell him on my skin and clothes. I washed away, as best I could, what lingered of his scent. I could still smell him afterward, even over the soap and starch but most, if not all, of that was probably traitorous memory.

  As much as I wanted to crawl into my bed and never get out again, I had an obligation. To Pete. If I hid away, if I ran from all the pain of seeing him again, of rejecting him, of watching him leave, it would only be that much harder for him. He needed me to be there, to see me accept the situation we had to accept. He needed to see that I chose to watch him go, that I wouldn’t ask for or even allow another lapse. I had to be firm, and strong. For him.

  As soon as I could, I left my room to rejoin the group. Of course, I had no way of knowing what had happened after I’d fled the room, but I guessed that Pete was doing the same as I was, putting himself back together to return to the ceremonies. If I hurried, there was a chance I’d rejoin the group ahead of his entrance; and I could already be there when he entered, as if nothing at all had happened.

  Entering the room I registered, with relief, the director and department heads all standing at the head of the room, waiting. Pete hadn’t returned yet. I hurried toward my place in the crowd. Not many people were watching my progress. It didn’t take me long to figure out why.

  Only a few steps into the room I heard the rustle of voices preceding and the actual announcement of Pete’s entrance. I froze. I briefly considered hurrying back to my place but I knew I wouldn’t make it before Pete arrived. There was still a wide space of empty room between me and the first row of spectators, let alone my place in the middle. So I stopped where I was and waited.

  As he walked into the room he looked over and saw me and froze as well. Knowing I had to act, I bowed and then, without a pause, returned to my place in the crowd. The weight of Pete’s gaze accompanied me, somehow heavier than all the other eyes in the room.

  When I stopped in my place and looked forward, I could see out of the corner of my eye that Pete was still watching me. I didn’t acknowledge his gaze. Eventually he moved on.

  The rest of the afternoon was an escalation of agonies. Pete had a black eye and a fat lip. That much could be seen even where I stood. And I wasn’t seeing it only because I knew to look for it. I could hear the scandalized whispers around me.

  The conversation behind me was intended for me and hard to miss. Sasha stage-whispered to Joshua, beside him.

  “Do you see what that son of a bitch did? I always said he was an arrogant piece of shit. Don’t think anyone will doubt me now.” Joshua muttered agreement. “You know,” Sasha continued, “I don’t know why the emperor’s guards didn’t have to balls to give him the beating he deserved. But that can be fixed.”

  Sasha, who so easily insulted the emperor as a way to provoke me, was now adamant about defending him. I hadn’t thought it was possible to hate him more than I already did. Chuck turned his head and glared at Sasha.

  “You think you’re going to stop me this time?” Sasha said to him. “Every guy in this building will be lined up ready to beat the shit out of this piece of garbage before the emperor’s transport is even off the grounds. You get in the way, you’re going to get yourself hurt.”

  Chuck sucked in a breath to reply, but I stopped him with a hand on his shoulder and turned to face Sasha. “Be patient. You’ll get your chance.”

  Beside me, Chuck muttered, “Like hell you will.”

  I sighed. I’d do what I could to keep him out of it. There was doubtless someone who would hold him down, if necessary. If not for me, then for Chuck.

  Neither my worries about Chuck nor the dread of a beating could hold my attention. I couldn’t think of anything but Pete. It didn’t take someone who knew him well, or even someone aware of the scene that morning, to see that Pete was agitated and distracted.

  He walked, mostly unseeing, through the displays. He spoke not at all unless addressed, and not always then. Before long, no one made any further attempt at conversation. I tried not to watch. I kept my eyes on Jonathan instead.

  That was almost as bad. The tightening around his eyes, the shadowed glances, the ill-suppressed winces at new signs of distress in his emperor tormented me. But I watched. I had to.

  So I saw when, more than an hour into the afternoon, Pete startled at the sight of the next display. I looked at what he’d seen and groaned. It was a
sculpture by an artist that Pete had favored even before he and I were together.

  Senzio did incredible human subjects, and was a decent guy besides. I’d had some contact with him in my time at the IIC before going away. So when I’d heard of a troupe of famous contortionists coming to the palace, I had suggested we invite Senzio. He’d sat in the Imperial box with us and Pete had been delighted by his absolute concentration throughout. Several very good pieces had joined works at the palace since then. This was one of his latest, and one of the best of that collection in my opinion.

  I had avoided Senzio since returning to the IIC; he reminded me of being with Pete.

  Obviously it was the same for Pete.

  So it wasn’t a surprise when he looked at me. I met his eye. I couldn’t help it. There was a pleading look on his face. I dropped my head to make myself break the eye contact. When I raised it again I didn’t look at him. I could see in my peripheral vision that he was still looking at me. Eventually he turned away and resumed the tour.

  And so I stood in the crowd and watched him view the exhibit. I sat in the dining room and watched him at the head table, though I turned away every time he looked for me. I stood in the crowd as he thanked and praised us. He didn’t say explicitly that he’d never come again, but he implied it. In spite of the fact that I had asked him to, it still made my eyes fill with tears.

  And I held myself in place when he left.

  The moment he was out of sight I turned, without waiting for a dismissal, and tried to make my way out in the opposite direction. I wasn’t out of the room before I fell to my knees, retching. I was dimly aware of my friends at my side trying to help me, but the moment I was able, I scrambled to my feet and retreated.

  When I got to my room I locked the door and buried my head under my pillow. There was more than one knock on my door, but I ignored them all. Eventually, I was left alone with my misery.