by Jaime Samms
Preston tried not to let his eyes bug as he took in the sight of Cobalt’s long, lean frame, the hint of leg, the graceful taper of his wrists and fingers from the ends of the flowing sleeves of the robe.
“M-more than.” He had to clear his dry throat to get the words out, and it was another breath before he managed to drag his gaze up to Cobalt’s face. “Pretty with your eyes,” he said, voice a gruff hollow of sound.
Cobalt swallowed hard and swiped at his face. “Thanks.” He sank back into his spot on the couch and sniffed.
“Hey, now. What?” Preston set the phone down and eased an arm around him. “What?”
Cobalt shook his head. “No. It’s—” He scrubbed a hand over his face, and Preston had to catch it before he managed to smear tears over the cut once more. “It’s nothing. I just—I like this gown, is all. Thank you for getting it for me.”
“You’re welcome. Now, I’m going to get some supplies for that cut on your face.” He straightened but wasn’t allowed to go far. Cobalt curled fingers into his sweater and pulled him down next to him before crawling so close he was as good as in Preston’s lap.
“Don’t leave again. Please.”
“I won’t.” The move had dislodged the gown, revealing the kaleidoscope of bruises on Cobalt’s body. Wrists, neck, clavicle, hip, thigh—so many marks. It was better, for now, to cover them up and pretend he didn’t see them lest he lose his own tenuous control on his temper. The evidence of Cal’s mistreatment made Preston’s blood boil. But now wasn’t the time for that conversation.
Easing them both back into as comfortable a position as he could manage, Preston yanked an afghan over them both, patted the couch for the dog to join them, and between them, they sandwiched Cobalt in a tight wrap of care and comfort.
Before a minute had passed, Cobalt was asleep.
It took some maneuvering to get his phone out of his coat pocket, but Preston managed and promptly hit Azure’s number.
The phone rang once; then Azure’s voice came anxiously over the connection. “Well?”
“Sleeping, now.”
“And?”
Preston heaved out a sigh. “Broken. How badly I don’t really know. For now I’m going to let him sleep. Once I’m sure he’s truly out, I have to board up that window. Tomorrow I’ll clean him up and feed him and we’ll see about fixing the window properly.”
“So you’re staying with him?”
“Someone has to.”
“Do what you have to do. I’ll take care of Kya.”
Small thing for him to offer, to feed a perfectly self-sufficient cat while Preston tried to piece his brother back together. But Preston knew Cobalt would never accept Azure’s help. Preston, apparently, was safe enough to trust with this level of vulnerability.
“Thanks,” he whispered as Cobalt squirmed in his arms and mumbled something in his sleep. “I have to go.”
“If you need anything—”
“You’re top of my speed dial.”
“Thank you, Prest.”
“Az?”
“Yeah?”
“Maybe… you should go back to calling me Mal. It’s less weird than Prest.”
Azure laughed. “I guess it is.” There was a pause. Then: “Take care of my little brother, Mal.”
“You know I will.”
“Thanks.”
Preston quirked up a small, dark smile into the waning light. “Don’t thank me just yet. I have a feeling this is only the beginning.”
Azure made a soft, distressed sound, and there was a distinct pause before his voice, clogged with anger, returned. “Keep me posted.”
“You know I will.”
They hung up then, and Preston tossed the phone onto the side table. Careful not to jostle Cobalt more than necessary, he stretched out his crooked knee, tucked the woolly blanket tighter around Cobalt, and waited.
When he was very sure he could set Cobalt into a more comfortable position without waking him, he maneuvered himself out from under him and laid him down. Cobalt mumbled and writhed, reaching out a hand that Chance licked. Cobalt dug his fingers into Chance’s fur, and Chance stilled.
“Good boy,” Preston whispered. “You keep him safe for me.”
Chance’s tail thumped once, and he rested his head on Cobalt’s stomach, watching his master’s face intently. The dog was nothing if not devoted.
Preston took the opportunity to shrug out of his outdoor coat and find some cardboard and a towel to tack over the broken window. At least the chill spring air was no longer blowing through the opening. He filled the kettle and found tea bags, a can of soup, and some crackers, readying everything for use when Cobalt woke.
He had transferred all his tools from his father’s old, rusted box to the wooden crate, sifted through the odd bits and pieces that tended to accumulate in the dusty corners, and was chipping away the sharp, broken pieces of the ceramic tiles on the floor when he heard Cobalt’s gravelly voice in the other room.
He hadn’t watched the time so wasn’t sure how long Cobalt had slept. The darkness outside hadn’t been readily apparent from his place on the floor, with the kitchen window closed off and the curtains and blinds over the window in the door drawn. Now that he looked out into the streetlights shining through the fog, he realized it was after anyone’s usual supper hour. His stomach growled. He couldn’t believe the aborted trip to the hardware store had only been that morning. How had life managed to do such an abrupt about-face in less than twenty-four hours?
“Hey.” Cobalt’s voice drifted airily down on him. “What are you doing down there?”
“Don’t want you or Chance to hurt yourselves on the edges of the broken tiles. Just chipping them out.”
“Gonna leave holes in my floor.”
Preston grunted as he got to his feet. “Yup.” He shifted the thick leather belt around his waist, easing his weight onto and through the pops and creaks of his more problematic left knee. He set the chisel and hammer he’d been using on the kitchen table. “We can get new tiles. These are pretty standard. Tricky bit will be cleaning the glue out of those spots. I’ll figure it out.” He lifted his gaze to Cobalt’s face.
The cut on his cheek had scabbed over messily. His face was flushed and his eyes too bright. He stared at Preston with a hollow expression.
“You as hungry as I am?” Preston asked, pulling off his safety glasses and then setting them next to the hammer.
Cobalt smiled. The expression was so genuine, so open, Preston took a step back.
“What?” He rubbed at a thick lump of scar tissue bisecting one eyebrow. “What did I say?”
“You didn’t ask me if I’m okay. Even though I probably look like complete shit.” Cobalt wandered closer and pulled Preston’s hand away from his face by the wrist. He was studying the scar Preston had been worrying at. “That where the horse kicked your head in?”
Preston lifted the broken eyebrow. “You know, most people just give a curious look and then pretend they don’t wonder how I’m still alive every time they look at me.” Preston freed his hand and traced the scar from where it began just above his eye to where it disappeared into his hairline.
“Yes, well. I’m not most people. I know the story. I was there.” He reached up and pushed back the short strands of Preston’s hair, digging his fingers through the thick crop to find the hidden terminus of twisted scalp. “It was my horse,” he whispered.
Preston pulled Cobalt’s fingers free of his hair but kept a tight grip on them when Cobalt tried to free himself. “It was your horse but not your fault. You know that.”
“I never should have tried to ride him. I wasn’t good enough to control him.”
“And you were not the one who spooked him. It was a long time ago, Cobalt. I never blamed you.”
“I almost killed you.”
“No. You are the one who saved me.” He kissed Cobalt’s knuckles. “You calmed the horse down. You got back on and you got help.” Gently Preston cupped his c
heek, drawing Cobalt’s attention away from the scars on his face back to his eyes. “Please tell me you haven’t been carrying that day on your shoulders all this time.”
“You wanted to play polo. You could have too. You were so passionate. You could have been one of the best—”
Preston put a finger over Cobalt’s lips. “I am the very best at what I do now, Coby,” he promised. “And no one could love what I do more than I love it.”
Cobalt blinked at him. “You… drive a car.”
Preston smiled, leaned close, and kissed Cobalt’s forehead. “Incidentally, yes. I drive a car for a friend. It’s how I pay my bills. It isn’t my passion.”
Cobalt’s throat worked repeatedly, and he blinked, lids working furiously. His tongue darted over his lips once, twice, a third time, and he finally took a step back.
“I—can’t. You shouldn’t be here.” His whisper was hoarse and full of shadowy regret.
“Here is the only place for me,” Preston corrected. “You don’t have to do anything about it other than accept that as fact.”
“I have—”
Again, Preston stopped him with a finger on his lips. “You have an empty belly and bruises that need soaking.” He smiled, placed one more fast, firm kiss on Cobalt’s forehead, and stepped out of his space. “Right now all you have to do is go out the back door with the dog so he can do his business. I’ll start some soup. Then you will eat, have a long bath, and get some sleep.”
“What about you? Your cat?”
Preston moved to the can of soup and began opening it. “Az has got my vicious little tyrant covered for a few days.”
“A—few days?”
Preston managed not to look over his shoulder at Cobalt to check on why he sounded so lost and uncertain. He merely nodded as he dumped the soup into a pot. “A few days, yes.” He placed the pot on the stove. “I’ll have to repair the window and change the locks.” He paused, but Cobalt said nothing, so he went on. “See about the floor. That means shopping for parts, and we’ll have to order a whole new window now. And Chance needs a safe space, so there’s a fence to be built as well.” He twisted the knob on the stove to medium heat and turned at last to face Cobalt. “And I want to be here if he comes back.”
“Why?”
Preston lifted both eyebrows. “Really?”
A fast, scalding grin twisted Cobalt’s face, leaving a blasted expression in its wake. “No,” he sighed. “Not really. Only I don’t think he’d hurt me.”
“He has hurt you. You’re all over one big bruise.” Preston took the two steps across the tiny kitchen to gently turn Cobalt’s face to the light and get a better look at his cheek. “That needs cleaning properly, and a butterfly bandage, I think. Where’s your first-aid kit?”
Cobalt jerked out of his reach. “I can handle it.”
“Stop,” Preston barked. “Just stop. Get this straight in your head right now. I don’t care about your status, understand? I know how to protect myself, and I will. I know how to protect you. I’ll do that too. This is the last time you try and use that as a wedge between us. You’re HIV positive. I’m not. It makes no difference in how we interact.”
“You don’t understand—”
“What’s to understand?”
“Love—caring—about someone doesn’t protect you from the virus, Preston.”
A smile, wide and uncontrollable, flashed over Preston’s face. “It most certainly does.” He picked up a wooden spoon and began slowly stirring the soup but cast long glances at Cobalt, watching the vista of expressions cross his face.
Cobalt’s eyes held his, stormy and dark. “You’re an idiot. You think it protected me?”
“Of course not, but then, Cal doesn’t love you.” He watched a slow bubble poke through the thick soup, then another. “Not like I do.”
There. Preston pulled a long, thin breath of air into himself as he stared at the soup, watched it boil, listened to the faint sounds of children filter through the layers of cardboard and cotton on the window. Down the street, the children chanted a skip-rope song.
Ice-cream soda,
Cherry on the top,
Who’s your boyfriend?
I forgot.
A, B, C—
“Preston, stop it.”
Preston smiled at the soup. “C. Huh.” He glanced over at Cobalt, whose cheeks were crimson. “Imagine that.” Tapping the spoon gently on the side of the pot so he could set it down, Preston hummed the little rhyme under his breath. Once he was sure the soup wasn’t going to boil over, he sauntered to the doorway and cupped Cobalt’s chin. He wasn’t that much taller than Cobalt. An inch, maybe two. But when he drew himself up and tilted Cobalt’s chin that extra little bit, he felt the wave of surrender ripple through Cobalt’s entire body.
This time he didn’t bother being chaste when he kissed him but covered Cobalt’s mouth with his own. The dominant part of him that liked—needed—to be on top, always, urged him to push his tongue into Cobalt, taste all that he was, take it and keep it for himself. The tender, protective part of him swept a gentle lick over Cobalt’s parted lips, tasting the barest hint of sleep and wonder from the breath that escaped him, then retreated. It was brief, cool, and calm. A grounding kiss that left Cobalt blinking and flushed, staring up at him, mute.
“The kitchen is still chilly,” he whispered. “And much as I… love….” He ran a finger under the edge of the silky robe, catching at the thin nightie beneath and rubbing a knuckle against Cobalt’s skin. “This.” He closed his eyes and let out a breath, touching his forehead to Cobalt’s. “A whole lot, I want you in something warmer while you take the dog out. Then we’ll eat. Go change. I’ll have soup and toast on the table when you get back.”
Cobalt swallowed, squeaked, and whirled to rush from the room in a cloud of silk. The dog loped up the stairs after his retreating form.
“Wow.” Preston blinked and shivered.
Every reason he had thrown at Azure just that afternoon, every plan he’d had for avoiding this, tumbled in his head, hammering the message of bad idea into his brain. And still he couldn’t stop the smile. Or the humming. Or the lightness as the weight of dread lifted from his heart. He’d held that in for so long. Years and years of pretending it wasn’t there. It almost didn’t matter what Cobalt did with the tiny kiss, or the monumental admission behind it. At least Preston had purged the weight of it from his heart and he could move forward without pretense.
Imagine. The Pittaluga brothers had been right. Standing on the front steps of the community center listening to a couple of young men—kids, practically—tell him how to deal with his love life had seemed silly at the time. Who knew they would turn out to be right? Letting Cobalt see how he felt hadn’t caused the world to cave in on him. Yet.
A matter of minutes later, Cobalt reappeared, now dressed in a pair of purple zebra-printed fleecy pants and a fuzzy off-the-shoulder sweater Preston had a strong urge to pet. Cobalt had a small plastic box in one hand and was running the other rhythmically over a length of silky cord holding his pants around his nonexistent waist.
“Is that the first-aid kit?” Preston asked.
Cobalt held it out to him. “Yes.” He held out a pair of gloves in the other hand, face solemn.
Preston took both from him. “Good. Soup will be ready soon. The dog—”
“I know.” Cobalt picked up the leash, rather than the long lead, and cajoled and crooned until he had charmed Chance out the door. They weren’t gone long and didn’t go far. Preston could hear the muffle of Cobalt’s constant stream of soothing words to the dog just under the broken window. Before long they were back, and Chance spent the next ten minutes glued to Cobalt’s legs, shivering.
“I hate what they did to him,” Cobalt said, keeping his voice low, smoothing the fur of Chance’s scalp. “He’s never done anyone harm. He’s only ever been strong for me.”
Preston agreed. He wished he could find the kids who had traumatized the dog so bad
ly. All he could do that was practical, though, was help Cobalt rehabilitate him, make the yard a safer sanctuary for him. “We’ll get him better,” he promised. “It just takes time.”
Cobalt snorted softly but said nothing.
“Have a seat at the table, where it’s light.” Preston turned the soup down and left the bread sitting in the toaster, not popping it down quite yet. Instead, he slipped the gloves on and motioned to a kitchen chair. “I’ll look at your face now.”
The cut took only moments to clean and close up with a small butterfly bandage. He stroked one thumb very lightly over it and smiled. “There. Much better. Will you tell me how it happened now?”
Cobalt huffed. “It isn’t what you think. None of it is.”
“I’m trying very hard not to draw conclusions from how he behaved this afternoon, but I gotta say, he didn’t paint a pretty picture.”
“And I’m a grown man. You think if I said no, it wouldn’t stick?”
“I think,” Preston said, leaning in so he could capture Cobalt’s undivided attention, “that if you had the chance to say no and have it stick, you would have. Capitulating because that’s what’s easy isn’t exactly participating willingly. Not in my book.”
Cobalt blinked watering eyes at him. “Well.” He huffed again and clenched his jaw. “Guess you and Cal have very different reading tastes.”
“I guess we do.” Preston leaned back in his chair again and crossed his arms over his chest. His movement created a vacancy between them that the dog quickly filled. He pressed his bulk against Cobalt’s shins and let Cobalt sink fingers deep into his ruff.
“Now tell me about the cuts and bruises, Coby. Please.”
Cobalt stared at him so long Preston wasn’t at all sure he was going to get the story, but eventually Cobalt sighed and moved his gaze from Preston to the back of the dog’s head. The tale was very much as Preston had feared. Not exactly against Cobalt’s will, but rougher than he’d wanted, and falling far short of satisfying. The vagueness of his memory over some of the bruises worried Preston more than he wanted Cobalt to see.