Autumn: A Crow City Side Story

by Cole McCade

  Joseph didn’t answer. He only stared at his clenched hand, drawn so tight with fury his fingers shook. Oh—oh, no, bloody hell. Not fury, and Wally caught a breath when he realized Joseph was just trying to move his hand.

  And it wouldn’t.

  Wally couldn’t help himself. He reached out to cover Joseph’s hand with his own. Joseph’s fingers were so cold despite the blistering day, and Wally wanted to cradle that hand to his chest until it warmed. Until Joseph warmed, until something in those angry, sparking eyes softened for him. That was all he needed. One little bit of softness.

  The trembling in Joseph’s hand stilled as his fingers relaxed. He lifted his gaze to Wally’s, silent question writ large in dark eyes, gaze flashing with so many things that wrenched at Wally so terribly. Deepest among them was yearning—and even though he knew better, even though he knew he was asking for heartbreak and pain and loss, he still couldn’t help himself when he was already brother to every last lonely misery the world could ever want. He shifted his hold to gently ease his fingers between Joseph’s, lacing them together. And for one moment, his heart swelled with a slow and trembling thrill as those hard-ridged knuckles pressed against his palm, the thickness and coarseness of Joseph’s fingers intertwined with his, calluses worn in deep as bedrock in endless and ancient earth. He shivered, his breaths coming shallow.

  “I…” Words fled him, as he met Joseph’s confused eyes. “I hope I’m seeing you now, Joseph.”

  For a breath, a second in time, he thought Joseph wouldn’t pull away. The twisted lines of anger smoothed from his face, leaving only puzzlement as his gaze dropped to their entangled hands. His forehead furrowed in a frown, and Wally didn’t dare hope the tinge of red underneath the tan of his face was anything but the bloom of Joseph’s temper…but in that second, as Joseph’s hand tightened, Wally’s heart surged with the hope that he could wish, he could wish…

  “Don’t,” Joseph bit off, and jerked his hand back, leaving Wally cold. His eyes glassed over, looking right through him. “You, me? Never going to happen.”

  Wally let his hand fall, closing his eyes, breathing in deep and telling himself he knew it, he knew, but something hard and hurt and angry burned inside him, a dark kernel of bitterness that had sunk its roots deep, and before he could stop his mouth from moving that kernel exploded into a black flower of frustration, spitting words he couldn’t take back.

  “Why? Because I’m a child-stealing faggot?”

  Joseph’s head jerked up, and he stared at Wally with wide eyes, before he flushed; guilt stiffened every visible line of his body as if his flesh were a book written in a language of shame.

  “…fuck,” he rasped.

  “That’s right. Fuck,” Wally threw back. His blood ran too hot, this fuming and simmering thing inside, as if he had boiled away into steam inside his skin. “Two wrongs don’t make a right, and you were not bloody fucking blameless, that day.”

  But Joseph only continued to stare at him, one eye squinting up. He tilted his head, the oddest expression on his face, as if he’d just seen some kind of rare insect and wasn’t sure if he was fascinated, revolted, or confused. Only Wally was that rare insect, and he blinked, recoiling, the balloon of his anger popping and the pressure building up inside him dissipating.

  “…what?”

  “I…” Joseph made a glottal sound in the back of his throat. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say ‘fuck’ before.”

  Of all the things Wally had expected Joseph to say, it wasn’t that. He cocked his head. “I…I’m not sure I ever have.”

  “It was weird.”

  “Yes. Yes, it was.”

  They stared at each other. The corners of Joseph’s mouth twitched. A faint snort escaped; Joseph visibly tried to restrain it, screwing his face up, but a chortle wheezed past, making his chest puff out. And Wally felt his mouth lifting, a completely absurd giddiness washing through him, a tide to smooth the ripples of his temper away. His own laugh startled him, too loud—but once it started Joseph was laughing too, and together they slumped against the fence, laughing until they couldn’t breathe. Every chuckle and snicker that escaped eased away some of that ache inside Wally, until it was no longer something he needed to run from. It still hurt; it would always hurt, this tangled mess between him and Joseph, but it was no longer unbearable.

  Instead that pain was something he could fold up small, and keep in his pocket. He would carry it with him forever, but its weight was at least a thing he could manage.

  As his breath ran out, he slumped heavily, panting as his laughter eased. Joseph was winding down, too, but a smile lingered on his lips, relaxed and easy and tugging at that little folded-up bit of pain in Wally’s pocket.

  “I think we needed that,” Joseph said. “That’s been festering between us for a long time.”

  “Among other things,” Wally murmured, and wondered if he’d imagined that moment when Joseph’s hand had tightened on his.

  Joseph’s smile faded, but that hard, recriminating look Wally had feared didn’t return. Instead there remained only quiet contemplation, those brown eyes completely unreadable, before Joseph tilted his head back, looking up at the canopy of broad-leafed maple branches hanging over the fence.

  “Look,” he said.

  Wally followed his gaze upward. At first he didn’t know what he was looking at; overhead was nothing but broad, flaring leaves with their tri-point shape, gaps of blue peeking between, their green turned nearly gold by the sunlight shining through. But then he saw it: the one spot of orange in the field of green-gold, a leaf that had begun to turn the brilliant fiery colors of autumn. He smiled.

  “And so it begins.”

  “It’s only one leaf,” Joseph said.

  “But it’s a start.”

  “Mm.” Joseph’s gaze fell from the canopy to Wally again, and no matter how he tried Wally couldn’t resist meeting his eyes, drinking him in. “I don’t think I’ll ever learn to love summer, Walford.”

  “I’m partial to spring, myself.”

  Joseph shook his head. “No. Spring’s too late for me. The seeds have already been planted, and you can’t change what they’ll be.” He hesitated, then continued, “I like autumn, because everything is so full with life in this short burst, coming to the end of its cycle…and before it all dies, as everything’s turning colors, I can see where the old things can be torn down to make new beginnings.”

  “Can we have a new beginning, Joseph?” Wally knew he had no right to ask for forgiveness, his crimes without number—but apparently he had no willpower where Joseph was concerned, either. “We were both wrong. We both weren’t seeing each other.”

  Joseph’s face drew into exaggerated seriousness, and he put on a fake accent, something odd and lilting with stark consonants and sweeping vowels. “I see you, Walford.”

  Wally didn’t get it. And then he did. And then he groaned, rolling his eyes. “…oh, that was a terrible bloody fucking film.” He laughed. “Don’t you ever say that to me again.”

  “I make no promises.” Joseph tilted his head, then glanced toward the cut in fence. “You want to go home?”

  Wally drew up short—as if nothing inside him moved except his heart, swelling larger and larger but not quite beating, this thing preparing to drop into a massive thump and burst. “You…want me to stay?”

  Joseph huffed gruffly. “I get really fucking irritated thinking about you in that shop by yourself.”

  “I’m usually not in the shop. I’m in my home,” Wally pointed out. “You’ve never been, have you?”

  “No. I mean…” Joseph shrugged awkwardly. “I never had a reason, did I?”

  “Would you like to?” Wally had to tell himself to slow down, but God, hope was something that refused to die. “Stop by for tea. You’d brighten the place immeasurably.”

  “You sure you want me in there? I’m kind of an asshole.”

  “Joseph?”

  “Yeah?”

&nbs
p; “Just say you’re sorry for calling me a child-stealing faggot.”

  Joseph’s ears went pink. He stammered, then scowled. “I’m sorry for calling you a—that word. I never should have said that. Thought it. But I’m not sorry for calling you on your shit. You were still wrong.”

  “Fair enough.” And Wally was such a daft, simple creature, because that was all he needed. All he needed to let the pain go; all he needed for that tiny seed of longing to refuse to die, even if he knew it would be best if it did. He stood, offering Joseph his hand and a smile he couldn’t hold back no matter how he tried. “Come. I have a white tea blend I think you’ll absolutely adore.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  SOMEHOW, WALLY’S HOME ABOVE THE shop was exactly what Joseph had expected.

  It wasn’t the posters from the circus, even if they told him everything he needed to know about how much Wally missed it: the bright colors, the sense of excitement as the lights went bright and the crowd went dark and every eye was on Walford in the center ring. Joseph still remembered the first time he’d seen him; he’d forgotten that he’d actually seen Walford before he’d ever known Miriam existed, and only found out later that the tall, striking ringmaster and the flying fire witch were brother and sister.

  But it wasn’t those pasteboard memories at all.

  It was the fact that his kitchen looked like it had been decorated by Martha Stewart on a cracked-out post-prison bender.

  From the antique tea service to the knitted toaster cozy to the clearly hand-made ruffled chair pads tied onto the wooden ladder-backed chairs with delicate little bows, Wally’s desperate need to care for things had exploded over the entire kitchen. Compared to the minimalism Willow had preferred in their home, the pastel colors and homey clutter verged on overwhelming, mingling into a mottled blend of brightness stitched together with beams of sunlight through windows lined in frilled French lace curtains—but it was oddly comforting, and not just because the cushioned chair was a relief after a walk that had left his legs and spine aching. Joseph had built up this picture in his mind of Wally alone in a cold and loveless apartment, but instead he had made a home and then steeped every inch of it in himself until it radiated warmth and security.

  Joseph envied that.

  He sat at the kitchen table, watching while Wally bustled around, putting on water for tea and fussing to himself in a low murmur as he dug in the pantry until he came up with a wrapped package of pecan cookies. Joseph didn’t know what to say when this was the last place he’d expected to spend his day, but Wally didn’t seem to need anything from Joseph when he was holding a very lively conversation with himself.

  “Well this won’t do,” Wally said. “It simply won’t do.”

  He unwrapped the cookies, stared at them in dismay, then heaved a great sigh and began piecing them out onto a platter. “I’m afraid I’ve nothing fresh, since—well, I’ve rather been a permanent fixture at your house, and shopping hasn’t been a high priority. Neither has dusting, I do apologize if it’s a bit musty. I only—”

  “Wally.”

  “—can’t believe I’ve nothing in the entire ho—”

  “Walford.” Joseph chuckled. “Stop fussing. It’s fine. You don’t have to put on airs with me.”

  Wally sniffed. “Proper hospitality is not ‘putting on airs,’ it’s simply a matter of civilization.”

  “Sit,” Joseph said firmly. “Eat cookies. Calm down. I’m not company. I’m family.”

  Wally gave him an uncertain look, his hands wringing. “I…” Then the tea kettle went off with a shrill, piercing whistle, and he was off again. “Oh! The tea!”

  Joseph sighed. “You are ridiculous.”

  “A tad bit, yes.” Wally flashed a shy smile over his shoulder, before turning back to pour tea out into delicate cups rimmed in floral patterns of gold leaf. “Now, I should warn you this might make you a touch drowsy. It’s white tea with a delicate mix of blueberry and hibiscus. Hibiscus is a relaxant, but can also be a sleep aid.”

  “Was I that obvious?”

  Wally’s shoulders tensed. “…obvious about what?”

  “The fact that walking here wasn’t the best idea, and I was being a stubborn asshole.” Joseph rested his chin in his hand, watching him thoughtfully. There was something different about Wally right now, maybe even something different about Joseph when he still felt the after-impression of Wally’s hand curled against his, and he wasn’t quite sure how he felt when Wally gave him those strange, uncertain looks and then ducked his head in just that way. “You’re trying to take care of me without being obvious about it so I don’t bite your head off again. Relaxing tea. All the fussing.”

  With a wince, Wally set the tea kettle down. “…apparently I am quite obvious. I’m sorry, Joseph. I seem to be infringing on your autonomy again.”

  “No,” Joseph said. “It’s all right. I wouldn’t mind a little something to take the edge off. Thank you, Walford.”

  Walford flushed with a dazzling smile. “You are an entirely unpredictable berk, you know.”

  “I’d protest, but I don’t know what a berk is.”

  “Figure it out from context. I don’t want to get shouted down for explaining.” With a merry laugh, Wally swirled back to the table with the teacups on dainty little saucers, tiny tea spoons perched on the edges alongside several cubes of sugar. “I’ve no idea how you take your tea, so sugar is at your discretion, dear boy.”

  Dear boy. Joseph bit back a smile. Wally and those little endearments. He hadn’t realized he’d missed them until the contrast made him aware of how absent they’d been since he’d first blown up on Walford this morning. He shook his head and drew his teacup closer, leaning down to breathe in the subtle, fragrant hints of blueberry and something with a sharp, crisp edge, before dropping in a single sugar cube.

  “If I fall asleep, you’re carrying me home.”

  “Like bloody hell I am,” Wally said. “I may have a bit over the top on you, but you’re twice my effin’ body weight.”

  “I am not.”

  “Bollocks,” Wally declared firmly, and settled into the chair catty-corner to Joseph’s.

  Joseph chuckled and looked down into his teacup, watching the curls of steam rise from the clear, crystalline tea, tinged with only a faint hint of blue. He wasn’t quite sure what to say, when this was new. Yet memory pulled at him with the insistence of a child catching his coattails, whispering quiet things. Late nights at the circus, sitting around a bonfire with all the performers, his hand clasped in Miriam’s, leaning together with hushed conversations and laughter that obscured everyone else until they dwelled in their own world, made up of the crackle of flame and the dance of orange and gold over her face. And yet Wally had been there, in the background—pressing mugs of steaming apple cider into everyone’s hands, unobtrusive as he moved from one cluster of people to the next, stopping to exchange a kind, familiar word, ask a concerned question, look after his people.

  Another memory: Miriam pregnant, her belly large and straining, her small, delicate body struggling to carry the weight of the child growing inside. Miriam sobbing, throwing things at Joseph, refusing to speak to him, chasing him from their bedroom while she sweated and trembled and wept. At first she’d feared the pregnancy would ruin her body, but then as it wore on and she grew more and more frail, she feared it would kill her. She’d refused a hospital, but she hadn’t refused Wally. Joseph hadn’t remembered calling him, but suddenly he’d been there with a cup of tea and soothing words. The door had closed, and Joseph had paced and fretted and listened to the murmurs, the whimpers, from the other side of an impenetrable barrier.

  And when Wally had emerged, Miriam had offered Joseph a shaky smile and held out her arms, and snuggled against him while he held her and breathed and told her they would get through this, it would be okay, everything was fine.

  So many memories, filtering through the years in a film reel of captured moments. Wally fetching Willow from school when Joseph
’s shifts ran into overtime. Wally and those bits of colored glass that always appeared to comfort Willow right when Joseph was at a loss for what to do with an upset little girl. Wally sending food home with Willow when the disability checks fell short and the cupboard was bare, as if Joseph wouldn’t know where it had come from.

  One way or another, Wally had always been there.

  “You’re thinking old thoughts,” Wally murmured.

  Joseph pulled from his reverie and realized he’d been staring blankly down into his cup as if divining both past and future in its glimmering depths. “Those are called memories, you weirdo.”

  “There’s a difference.” With an enigmatic smile, Wally took a sip of his tea, still cradling his mug in that way he had, in both hands with both pinkies extended. “Memories are simply an experience, sensory detail played back over and over again. Old thoughts belong to the you whom you were in those memories, yet suddenly the you whom you are now sees them differently. Sees things you hadn’t before.”

  “Yeah. Something like that.”

  “What did you see, then?”

  “You,” Joseph said simply. “Always in the backdrop, but somehow I never realized it.”

  Wally stilled, looking at him inscrutably, his face coloring in high, soft streaks. He looked down, setting his teacup on the saucer with delicate precision. “You cannot see the moon for the sun during the day, either.”

  “Always waxing and waning, but faithfully returning to light the dark.” Joseph smiled slightly. “Yeah. Sounds like you.”

  “I…oh.” Wide-eyed, Wally stared at his cup; Joseph wondered what was going through his head when he looked at the teacup as though he’d found some startling revelation inside it. “Is that how you see me?”

  “Starting to. Like you said…we weren’t seeing each other. I’m just…rethinking things without the filter of an old grudge in the way.”

  “I do believe I’m fond of that idea.”

  That smile bloomed, and when Wally lifted his head enough to peek at Joseph through his lashes, Joseph found himself caught once more by the pinkness of his lips; he pictured a doll maker with a brush so tiny its tip was barely a thread, outlining those lips in little curls of rosy paint against a porcelain doll’s smooth white skin, painting them in one stroke at a time. In his mind’s eye the doll maker touched his fingers to those painted lips, caressing their carved shapes and texture—but suddenly the doll maker was Joseph himself, and he almost felt the texture of Wally’s lips against his fingers, felt how they would part if he traced their curling bow from corner to corner.