Olivier raises one eyebrow. “I needed help getting a book off a high shelf?” he asks skeptically.
Stella smirks. “Something tells me you just wanted an excuse to talk to him.”
Hattie smacks Stella’s shoulder lightly. “Give him a break,” she says.
Olivier gets the distinct impression that Stella knows he’s into guys. Which is…not surprising given that they clearly know each other well. But as far as Olivier is concerned, that information isn’t exactly public knowledge, and he doesn’t actually remember getting to know Stella. It makes him slightly uncomfortable, so he decides to ignore her comment. “And we just moved in with him?”
Hattie nods. “I mean, we checked out the house and everything. It’s in a really great part of town, and it was pretty clear that he was sane and tidy and fun to hang out with.”
There is a light rap on the door and then Katie, Olivier’s favorite nurse, comes in. “How’s everybody doing in here?” she asks brightly.
Olivier gives her a thumbs up. “Just peachy, now that you’re here.”
Katie laughs. “What a charmer. How do you feel about losing the IV?”
“I don’t know, I think it adds to the whole hospital chic look I have going on. Mind if we leave it in?”
“Sorry Olivier, we’re booting you out. You’ll have to adopt a new style.”
Olivier sits up, excited. “For real, I’m getting out of here?”
Hattie nudges him and says, “I don’t think she’s allowed to joke about that.”
“Au contraire, I can joke about whatever I want,” Katie assures them. “But for real, you’re in good shape. There’s no need for you to stay in the hospital when you can rest at home.”
Olivier isn’t sure how to reconcile a house he can’t remember ever having been in with the concept of home, but he’ll take what he can get. “Any special instructions?”
Katie eyes the cup in his hand. “I’d lay off the caffeine, especially if you’re still having headaches.”
“Oh, right.” Olivier sets the cup down. “Anything else?”
“Hattie and Auriel have a schedule of follow-up appointments, and we’ve given them some literature about what to expect in the next few weeks. Dr. Hersch will be in shortly to go over some last minute stuff with you.”
Less than an hour later Olivier is wearing sweatpants and a warm flannel shirt that Hattie must have brought from their house, sitting in the front passenger seat of Stella’s car. He is simultaneously exhausted and amped up. The ringing in his ears has picked up again, and he steadfastly ignores it. The drive to the house is short, and as Stella parallel parks, Olivier wishes that it had been longer.
“Here we are,” says Hattie, pointing at a small house. It’s adorable, painted a warm sunset orange and surrounded by large, slightly overgrown plants. There is no front yard, just a dark brown porch with slightly slanted steps. The doormat proclaims Peace Love & Whiskey, which makes Olivier smile. He raises his hand to knock, but then he remembers that this is his house. He reaches for the doorknob and finds that it turns easily. Taking a deep breath, he pushes the door open and steps inside.
He is greeted by smell of something baking. Leaving Hattie and Stella behind, he takes off in the direction of the smell. The kitchen is orderly, although there are a few ingredients out on the island. A dozen cookies sit on a cooling rack, and the rhythmically ticking timer indicates that there must be another batch in the oven. Olivier reaches out and picks up a cookie. He takes a large bit and sighs contentedly. He has always been a sucker for homemade chocolate chip cookies, and this one puts Nestle Tollhouse to shame.
“Hattie, is that you?” comes a voice from the hallway, and then Auriel is standing in the kitchen, startling slightly when he sees Olivier. “Oh. Hi.”
Olivier smirks and holds up the cookie. “This your handiwork?”
Auriel nods. He strikes Olivier as somewhat shy, although there’s a definite air of confidence about him. It seems as though he’s a person who is generally relaxed, comfortable in his own skin, but Olivier causes him to clam up.
“Right, it’s good,” says Olivier. He takes another bite and waits for Auriel to hold up his end of the conversation.
“I thought you might want something homemade after the hospital food,” Auriel explains. A flush snakes its way up his neck, and he reaches up to run a hand through his hair, looking away from Olivier.
Olivier raises an eyebrow. “They’re for me?” he asks, incredulous.
“You’re eating one, aren’t you?”
Deflection, Olivier thinks. Interesting.
Stella wanders in and slings an arm around Auriel in a companionable half hug. He wraps both arms around her and gestures toward the cookies. “Help yourself.”
“I see Olivier already has,” says Stella, snickering. “Never met a carb you didn’t love, right kid?”
This seems to be directed at Olivier, so he throws her a smile and says, “sounds like not much has changed.” Auriel clears his throat and then wanders away. Olivier can hear Hattie and Auriel speaking quietly in the hall, but Stella gestures for him to follow her and he decides to do so.
They walk through the house slowly, and Olivier takes in his surroundings with academic intensity. He notes the mismatched styles that have conglomerated to create a truly beautiful medley of furniture, art, and media. A plush leather armchair sits across from an ugly pink velvet settee with intricately carved wooden legs; several small frames containing pressed flowers face a wall that is nearly completely obscured by a huge Jackson Pollock print. A battered Bernie Sanders for President sign sits atop a shelf which boasts an eclectic CD and DVD collection. The hall at the back of the house leads to four doors, and Olivier hesitates before them.
“Hattie’s bedroom is the last one on the right, across from the bathroom,” says Stella helpfully.
“So these are…?” Olivier gestures toward the closer doors.
Stella points to the door on the right. “Auriel’s in there,” she says. “This is you.” She taps the wood of the door across from Auriel’s, and Olivier takes a deep breath before opening it.
He’s not sure what he expects, but the room takes him by surprise. It is painted a lovely sage color with stained cherry accents; it smells faintly of rosemary, some sort of incense, and marijuana. He inhales deeply and instantly feels calm. The plush carpet proves to be soft when he kicks off his shoes, and the bed looks heavenly, piled high as it is with a thick duvet and fluffy pillows. He walks around the room touching things gently and smiling as he sees bits of familiarity in the midst of all the strangeness. There’s his dog eared copy of Being and Nothingness, the shells he brought back from his Spring break trip to Mykonos, his sleek laptop—admittedly looking a bit worse for wear, although Olivier supposes he does as well. For a moment he forgets that Stella’s there, and he feels a deep overwhelming rush of emotion overtake him, but then he gathers himself and turns to face her.
“I think I’m going to take a nap if that’s cool,” he says.
Stella’s smile is amiable and genuine. “You should. Rest up, buddy.”
“Will do.”
She’s nearly out the door when she turns back to him. “We’re all really glad you’re ok, you know?”
He doesn’t know that—at least, not with regards to Stella or Auriel—but Olivier nods in acknowledgement. Once Stella has shut the door, he launches himself onto the bed, pulls the covers over his head, and closes his eyes.
Had Olivier given it much thought, he would have expected his homecoming dinner to consist of pizza and jello shots, with Hattie ribbing him playfully about his lack of stamina as he tried to keep up with her. He would have thought there would be some superhero franchise movie on in the background as they lounged around on that godawful settee.
The reality takes him by surprise.
Olivier wakes to a soft knock on his door, and his mind struggles to ascend to consciousness. By the second knock, he’s sitting up and casting a
round for a clock to tell him where he is in time. There isn’t one to be found, so he grabs his phone off one of the bedside tables and blinks against the harsh light as it illuminates. He has been asleep for nearly six hours.
“Olivier?” comes a hesitant voice from the other side of the door.
He considers ignoring it, rolling over and losing himself once more in the blissful comfort of sleep. But his stomach grumbles loudly and Olivier decides to brave the real world for as long as it takes to acquire some sustenance.
He stumbles out of bed and realizes belatedly—only after pulling the door open—that he had stripped down to his boxers at some point in his sleep. It’s rather unfortunate, because Auriel is standing there looking all put-together and positively delectable. His white button down shirt is rolled up at the sleeves, and his skinny jeans are not leaving much to the imagination. He is slim but fit, possibly three inches taller and fifteen pounds heavier than Olivier, although it’s got to be entirely lean muscle making up that difference. There’s a gray beanie perched on his head, which is clearly more of a fashion statement than a nod to the weather; there’s no way it’s less than sixty degrees out, even though the last bit of daylight has faded away.
Olivier realizes that he’s staring. He clears his throat hastily and says, “did you need something?”
The play of emotions across Auriel’s face is indecipherable to Olivier, but beautiful nonetheless. Auriel seems to be deciding how to respond, and Olivier lets him take his time.
Finally Auriel asks, “are you hungry?”
And okay, it’s not like that’s some profound insight or anything. Olivier’s been sleeping for hours, obviously he could use some food. But the way Auriel says it smacks of routine. It’s like he knows that Olivier will stubbornly stay in bed until he’s practically wasting away, just because he can’t bring himself to leave the cocoon of warm blankets. Apparently, they’re the kind of roommates who know these things about each other. At least, Auriel knows. Olivier might have up until recently, but now he’s scrambling just to keep track of where he is.
“I could eat,” he says, going for nonchalant. It probably comes out closer to desperate.
“Cool,” says Auriel, gesturing for Olivier to walk ahead of him. “Food’s on the stove. You don’t have to eat it, obviously. You can help yourself to anything in the cupboards or fridge.”
Olivier is actually looking forward to snooping through the house, and the kitchen cupboards seem as good a place to start as any. But he would rather do that without Auriel looking over his shoulder, and besides, the kitchen smells glorious. There turns out to be a stock pot full of chili simmering merrily on the stovetop, and cornbread baked in a cast iron skillet cooling atop a potholder. “Jesus Christ,” Olivier mutters, leaning in to inspect the chili. “You have got to be fucking kidding me. You made this?”
Auriel nods, the hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “It’s my grandmother’s recipe.”
“Fuck me. Are you for real?”
“I just thought you’d want comfort food. I dunno. You’ve always loved chili with cornbread.” Which is true. Auriel’s spot on, but Olivier isn’t sure why Auriel has bothered to retain that knowledge. “There’s honey on the table,” he continues.
Olivier sighs contentedly as he ladles himself a generous helping and digs in unceremoniously. The cornbread soaks up the chili and it’s sinfully good; for a few minutes he completely ignores Auriel in favor of packing as much food as possible into his mouth. It is a welcome departure from the shit they were serving him at the hospital.
Eventually, as Olivier scrapes his bowl clean, he remembers that he’s not alone. Auriel is regarding him evenly from across the table, and his gaze reminds Olivier that he didn’t bother to pull on a shirt or sweats before leaving his bedroom. He feels a warm blush rise on his cheeks, but he stares defiantly back at Auriel. Olivier is, after all, in his own damn home. He can wear whatever he wants into the kitchen. If Auriel has a problem with it—
“It’s nice that you’re making yourself at home,” says Auriel, as though he has been listening to Olivier’s thoughts.
“What do you mean?” snaps Olivier. He feels as though Auriel is shining a blazing hot spotlight on him, and it’s eerie how Auriel keeps proving that he knows Olivier.
Auriel has the grace to look somewhat abashed at Olivier’s tone. “It’s just,” he starts, “I wasn’t sure how you would feel about coming back to a house you can’t remember with a roommate you know nothing about. But you’re sitting here in the kitchen in your boxers just like any other night.”
Olivier shrugs, which brings his attention to something he’s been trying hard to ignore. But now seems as good a time as any to ask about it. “When did I get these?” he asks, gesturing toward the tattoos that meander their way down both of his arms. The images are all stark black against his pale skin, depicting plants, animals, bits of the northwestern landscape…he’s examined them, of course, fascinated and slightly perturbed by the fact that it only took two years for him to become an entirely different person. His right hand goes instinctively to his left bicep, the only area that boasts words. He knows them by heart, having spent a good portion of his academic career obsessing over Sartre.
L’existence précède l’essence.
“That was the first one you got,” says Auriel, pointing at the tattoo that Olivier is absentmindedly stroking.
“Figures,” mutters Olivier.
Auriel cracks a smile. “It was fresh when I met you. Like, still healing. You were this wide-eyed new grad rolling into one of the most tatted-up cities in the country, and you forced Hattie to pull over before you even reached your hostel so that you could get your first tattoo. And the next day we ran into each other at Carter’s.”
“Carter’s?” asks Olivier.
“It’s this massive bookstore. I’ll take you tomorrow if you want.”
Olivier makes a noncommittal sound. Losing himself between row upon row of books sounds pretty great, if he’s being honest, but he’s not sure how he feels about going with Auriel. The guy is blisteringly hot, but he’s also really intense. Olivier isn’t sure how much more of the guy’s unflinching gaze he can take.
Auriel, naturally, seems to pick up on Olivier’s hesitance because he shrugs lightly and says, “or some other time. Whatever you want.”
“Do you know why I got the rest of them?” Olivier asks, drawing Auriel’s attention back to his tattoos.
“Um, I mean, to a certain degree. It’s not like you’ve explained each one to me, but I think you just got really into the process, you know? Like, deciding that you want an image on your skin forever, and then working with an artist to rework it so that it will suit your body.” He smirks slightly and adds, “plus I think you’re a little bit of a pain junkie. You get so fucking Zen when you’re in the chair.”
That doesn’t surprise Olivier. Pain has never bothered him much, and he’s definitely adept at drawing into a meditative place at the back of his mind when something unpleasant is happening.
“Do you want more?” asks Auriel, nodding toward Olivier’s empty bowl.
“Nah, I’m good, thanks.” Olivier stands to carry his bowl to the sink just as a flicker of numbness spasms through his fingers. He loses his grip on the bowl and it crashes to the floor, shattering spectacularly. There’s a split second of silence—fear pulsing through veins, heart working overtime—and then Auriel is up and moving to Olivier’s side.
“Are you okay? Don’t move, Jesus, you’ll cut yourself.” Auriel is reaching for Olivier’s hand, fingers probing gently. His tone is saturated with concern, and it’s more than Olivier can bear.
“Get off of me,” Olivier snaps, pulling his hand away.
Auriel looks stricken, as though Olivier has slapped him. It takes Auriel a moment to recoop, and then he looks down at the floor and seems to notice for the first time that he’s standing barefoot in a room full of ceramic shards. There is a tiny smear of bl
ood by his left foot and when he lifts it up to inspect, there is a miniscule piece of the bowl embedded in the arch. Auriel pulls it out and wipes his thumb across the small cut, smearing more blood across his foot and hand.
“Shit,” mutters Auriel, seemingly to himself. Then he turns to Olivier. “I’ll clean this up. Do you need anything?”
Olivier shakes his head. He backs slowly out of the room, heart still pounding. He sinks down onto the settee and stares at his hand, feeling utterly betrayed. Intermittent numbness is one thing, but dropping shit? He is engulfed by a wave of shame, tinted with fear. He doesn’t know how long he sits there, but eventually he hears Auriel clearing his throat from the kitchen doorway.
3
Auriel
The night before Olivier was released from the hospital, Dr. Hersch had sat Auriel and Hattie down.
“Olivier is doing remarkably well,” he had told them, a small smile on his face. “His cognition doesn’t seem impaired, and his memory loss is isolated to the last couple of years. He is forming new memories and seems to have escaped without significant physical deficits.”
Hattie had grinned, reaching out to squeeze Auriel’s hand. “You think he’s out of the woods?” she had asked.
Fragile Ground Page 3