Warm Heart

by Amy Lane

  Oh shit. Infection. Mallory felt time beating at them as relentlessly as the snow.

  “Not unless there’s mold in the corners I don’t know about,” Tevyn said dryly. “How you feeling?”

  “Do you want the ‘I’m tough, I can do it’ speech or the ‘Feel like shit, do what you can’ speech?”

  “How about ‘Feel like shit, but I can do it’?” Mal asked, hoping for a smile.

  Damien swallowed and shivered. “It’ll do for now.”

  But maybe not three days from now. Maybe not six days from now or ten. Mallory heard the subtext. Search and rescue might find them, but Damien might not last that long.

  “Is there any way we can signal a helicopter after the blizzard?” Mal asked, thinking about the fuel they had. “The live trees have pitch. It’s pretty flammable.”

  “That’s an idea,” Tevyn said, nodding. “Not that we want to try to burn the forest down either. Dead is dead whether it’s fire or ice, you know?”

  “Right.” Mal sighed, suddenly exhausted. “Too bad we couldn’t rig a sled of sorts for you. You could get down the hill in an hour and find search and rescue workers to lead them right to us.”

  To his surprise, Tevyn glared at him, blue eyes snapping with anger. “No! And don’t even try that shit. I’m not leaving you two up here, and that’s final.”

  “But you wouldn’t be,” Mal persisted. “You can get down there, find help—”

  “And come back to a couple of people-sicles who died waiting for me?” Tevyn asked brutally, fury pulsing in every line of his body. “’Cause I saw that movie, and it sucked!”

  “But, Tevyn,” Mal said softly, “at least you’d be alive—”

  “Without you? You said you’d stay. Was that bullshit?”

  On the one hand, it was ridiculous. A promise to stay and comfort a grieving friend. Who took that to mean life and death in the middle of a frozen wasteland?

  But Tevyn lived in a frozen wasteland—that was his natural habitat. That promise Mal had made, that all Tev had to do was ask, that was apparently bigger than they’d both realized that morning, warm and hurting in a safe hotel room.

  That promise was coming down right now to whether Mallory stayed here and waited with Damien or hoped for the best and went down the mountain with Tevyn.

  “No,” Mal said, making sure Tev met him glare for glare. “I’m just saying, you know where my priorities are.”

  “Well, my priorities are none of us getting separated and none of us getting dead. We stay warm, we wait out the storm, and we start down the mountain when it’s over.”

  “And we hope infection doesn’t set in and I don’t hit an artery and bleed out,” Damien said, not backing down. “Because if either one of those things happen, you two need to ditch my—”

  “Just shut up,” Mal snapped. “We lost the argument, Damie. We all survive or none of us do. Deal with it.”

  “Finally talking sense,” Tevyn muttered. His head and shoulders sagged then, infinitesimally, and Mal ached for him.

  “Sst!” Damien hissed. Mal looked at him to see if something was wrong, and Damien rolled his eyes and then jerked his chin toward Tevyn, sitting alone on their little bench while Mal took the slope of the cliff face.

  Mallory rolled his eyes, but his heart squeezed in his chest when he took in that sudden uncertainty, that struggle with grief and tension.

  He stood up and stretched—which was probably a good thing, because his back was starting to chill being up against the stone—and then moved to the fallen tree to sit next to Tevyn.

  Tevyn leaned his head against Mal’s shoulder, and Mal wrapped his arm around Tev’s waist. For a moment, that’s all there was, the two of them, separated by layers of insulation, seeking closeness from the storm.

  Tevyn shifted a little and shed his parka, then spread it out and laid it near the fire. He moved off the little bench to the ground and patted the parka next to him. Mallory sat, folding his legs, and was relieved when Tevyn leaned against him again.

  “Maybe they’ll find us as soon as the storm fades,” Tevyn said after a moody silence.

  “How much food do we have?” Mal asked.

  Tevyn pointed to the go-bag pile. “We’ve got enough broth packets to last us five days, if we split two packets between the three of us, twice a day, and enough protein bars to last us four days, if we eat half of one every morning. It’s not ideal—but it’s not starvation rations either.”

  “Is there any way to warm the broth if we leave the shelter?” Because the prospect of warm soup was enough to make Mal think they could make it.

  “We got hand warmers,” Tevyn said, surprising him. “They last about four hours. We put one of them in that first aid carrying bag with the two reusable bottles of snow, we should have warm broth for lunch and dinner before we have to make shelter again. There’s a box of ’em in there ’cause I’m a big whiny baby about warm hands before a run—”

  Mal let out a small laugh. It was Tevyn’s one diva moment as an athlete. His hands had to be warm. “Well, it just might save our lives.”

  Tevyn took off his gloves and grabbed Mal’s hands. “Do you want one now?” he asked. His hands were so warm through the cashmere, Mal actually shivered.

  “You’re doing fine warming them up,” he said, feeling foolish.

  Tevyn gave a slow smile. “Yeah, Mal, I planned this whole helicopter crash special so I could make a move on you.”

  From across the fire, Damien gave a cross between a cough and a snort, and Mal tried to jerk his hands away.

  Tevyn wouldn’t let him. “I need to make sure they’re warm.”

  “What about me?” Damien asked, sounding amused and cranky at once. “I have no gloves, remember?”

  Tevyn’s eyes widened comically. Damien’s hands had been tucked inside the cocoon during their trek to the shelter, but he was right—his fingers were vulnerable, even in the warmth and safety they’d hastily erected.

  “Oh yeah. Do you need one now?” Tevyn’s willingness to please was amazingly charming.

  Damien shook his head no. “My hands are pretty warm by the fire,” he confessed. “I was… teasing.”

  He eyed the two of them speculatively, but Mal made no effort to move.

  “He’s warm,” he said defensively.

  “Yeah, Mal. That’s it. He’s warm.”

  Tevyn scooted closer, and silence fell in the little shelter. Exhaustion swamped Mallory, and a tiny corner of his brain started to catalog the aches and pains that had accumulated over the… morning?

  “God. Tev. What time do you think it is?”

  Tevyn yawned. “No idea.” He grabbed one of the larger pieces of wood and put it on the fire, where it promised to burn for a while. “We can’t let it go out,” he told them. “Someone needs to add to that in an hour.”

  Mal thought about how much of the work Tevyn had done so far. “You sleep first,” he said. “I’ll wake you after I stoke the fire.”

  Tevyn yawned again. “Let me know if you’re nodding off,” he said, stretching out so his feet were near Damien’s and his head was on Mal’s lap.

  Mal froze, suddenly as awake now as he had been exhausted thirty seconds ago. Tevyn relaxed into the bonelessness of sleep so quickly, Mal wondered if he was injured. But then he remembered trips they’d taken in the past, when Tevyn had kicked back in his seat, pulled his sunglasses on over his eyes, and taken three deep breaths. Boom! Out like a light.

  Or the night before, when Mal had rubbed his back as sobs racked his body, and then, in three deep breaths, no sobs. Mal had gathered himself to stand, but Tevyn had mumbled, “Stay. Please stay.”

  And once—just once—Mallory had given in to the desire to hold him, thinking it could be mistaken for friendship, for kindness, for the regard he’d always held Tevyn as a client, as a friend.

  Three deep breaths, and boom! Tevyn had fallen asleep, but it wasn’t until right now that Mal was beginning to see the only mistake made
the night before had been by him—thinking he could hold that lithe miracle of a body tight against his own and nothing would change.

  “He does that, the magic sleep thing,” Damien mumbled, shivering some more. The fire was going pretty strong, the smoke siphoning up into a natural chimney made by a thin spot in the pine branches overhead. Cold, yes—but not freezing. Mal wasn’t sure if it was fever or shock, but he didn’t like it.

  “Should I get you some more clothes?” he asked, and Damien shrugged.

  “Anything there I could use as a scarf?”

  Mallory rooted around under the sweatshirt Tevyn had given him, which pulled tightly against his suit jacket. He pulled off the flimsy cashmere scarf, heated by his body, and threw it to Damien over the fire. Damie caught it and wrapped it around his neck blissfully.

  “Preheated. Thanks.” He tried to grin, but then his eyes fell on Tevyn, unmoving except for his steady breaths. “But I wouldn’t give me anything else of yours. He’s liable to get the wrong impression.”

  Mal couldn’t help it. He ran his hand along Tevyn’s arm, stroking slowly. “We’re not… I mean, we don’t—”

  Damien’s sardonic snort was actually reassuring. “Don’t love each other madly? Don’t have sex yet? Don’t think about each other that way? Pick your answer, Mal, but only one of them’s not a lie.”

  Mal kept up that stroking, wishing they were somewhere warmer, somewhere Tevyn could feel his skin, somewhere not on top of this mountain, trapped in a blizzard, worried about their friend’s life.

  “We… he lets me take care of him,” he said. Wasn’t this wrong? Shouldn’t Damien be helpless? But Mallory felt helpless about Tevyn, about touching him, about needing him. “He lets me take care of him now,” he said quietly. “Have you seen what happens to his lovers?” Mal shivered. “I… I’d hate to be a hello in the hallway.”

  Damien grunted. “They weren’t lovers,” he said. “I’ve seen them too. They were… playmates. Kids playing around with their bodies. Why do you think he picked athletes? I don’t think Tevyn’s had a real lover in his whole life.”

  Mal remembered the moments he’d let fantasies slip into his consciousness, right before he fell asleep, when he was at his most vulnerable, his most afraid of being alone.

  There hadn’t been any playing around in those shadowy dreams—there had just been him and Tevyn and the way Mal’s hands would shake as he cupped Tevyn’s cheeks and held him still for a kiss.

  “I’d be real,” Mallory muttered, partly for his own reassurance. “It would be real.” He made himself look up at Damien, to see if he was still awake. He was, feverish brown eyes looking at Mallory with more compassion than he could stand.

  “Be brave, Mal. It might not break your heart.”

  Mal snorted and was abruptly too tired for emotion. He stared into the campfire, wondering what he could do to stay awake.

  His mother used to hold pretend campouts in their backyard when he was a kid, gathering around a battery-powered lantern and pretending it was a campfire. He smiled and began singing.

  “I’m an acorn, small and round, you can find me on the ground….”

  Damien joined in on the chorus, and together they got through “I’m a Nut,” “Ain’t Gonna Rain No More,” “Chicken Lips and Lizard Hips,” and about thirty other campfire songs that they both remembered from what seemed to be happy childhoods. Damien eventually yawned and fell asleep, his shivering eased, and maybe his heart lifted.

  Mallory hoped so.

  He left Mallory holding Tevyn, who was still sound asleep. The fire had waned by then, and Mal put in the next log, gauging their firewood supply with a critical eye. It had felt like he’d gathered forever and ever and they’d have enough to last until spring. Looking now, he realized that somebody would have to venture out of the lean-to tomorrow and into the howling storm beyond. His overcoat gave a flap against its ties, and Mal stoked the fire carefully.

  Tev knew more about first aid—it should probably be Mal.

  Now that Damien was sleeping, Mal’s campfire songs became melancholy. “Puff, The Magic Dragon” was followed by “Scarborough Fair,” and then he had to lapse into musical theater. He’d finished off the soundtrack of Les Mis and A Chorus Line, half-mumbled under his breath before he caught himself nodding off.

  Come on, Mal. Just one more log. Let him sleep.

  Mal was frightened and alone. Night had fallen, and the wind howled around their flimsy shelter like a hungry, rabid animal, and the man he loved was asleep, vulnerable, allowing Mal to take care of him for the first time in his life.

  He launched into Something Rotten! to give Tevyn another twenty minutes of peace.

  Powder Keg

  LIKE Tevyn had suspected, the nonreusable water bottle turned out to have a use after all, one that all three men swore they wouldn’t repeat to another soul.

  It was just that Damien couldn’t stand up and relieve himself outside like Tevyn and Mallory had—that crumpled piece of plastic was absurdly necessary.

  But when that was done—thank God!—Mallory announced blithely that he was going to go into the storm and gather more firewood, and Tevyn wondered what would happen if he randomly punched the guy for being stupid.

  “Have you even looked out there?” he snapped. “Have you seen what it’s like outside of these three pieces of tinfoil and your overcoat? Because it’s brutal, Mallory. There’s three feet of snow built up behind the lean-to. Did you see that?”

  “I had to go out to pee just like you did,” Mal snapped, and both of them shuddered. Now that was one piece of equipment nobody wanted exposed to the elements, but other than peeing on the rock wall—which had its own insulating layer of snow that had slid down from the night before—there was no choice.

  “We’ll do fine on the firewood we’ve got,” Tevyn said stubbornly, but he knew that wasn’t true. Mallory’s even look told him he knew it too.

  Tevyn pushed back the memory of Mallory curled up on his side, holding Tevyn against him so Tevyn could use his body like a throne to support his back. Tevyn had pulled his fingers through Mallory’s straight black hair, admiring the decisive edge to his nose and the squareness of his jaw. He could recall vague snatches of singing from his own sleep, and once he was sure Mal was out, he’d sung all his grandmother’s albums—John Denver; Gordon Lightfoot; Peter, Paul and Mary; Janis Joplin—so he could stay awake.

  They’d kept him going until close to morning, when Damien had awakened and made use of the little bottle, and Tev had gotten a nap in while Damie warmed up the water for their morning broth.

  Morning had felt like a surprisingly normal bit of camping then—a bunch of buddies in a tent, making do. It had been easy to pretend certain death wasn’t battering at thin layers of fabric, trying to get in, and that they weren’t going to have to subsist on scant rations and hope they found help before they ran out completely.

  And Tevyn had been quite happy pretending that this was perfectly normal—that he could always spend the night with Mal’s warm body next to him, that possessive hand splayed on his stomach or thigh, and that they could work around each other’s grumpy, cranky morning bitchiness without coffee.

  He’d been happy right up until Mal had mentioned the firewood, because the thought of Mal going out into the howling void was enough to stop his heart.

  “Look,” Mallory said, keeping his voice patient—a thing that made Tevyn want to throttle him, actually. “I get it. But you know how to care for Damien, and you know more about how to survive. I am expendable.”

  “That doesn’t mean we should expend you!” Tevyn shouted, and to his surprise Mal got in his face—in that tiny little area—and shouted back.

  “I don’t plan on being expended! I just said we should think of something that will help me find my way back! Does that sound like I’m planning to walk into the snow never to return?”

  “Like what? What are you supposed to use to find your way back? Even if I’d remembered
my damned rope, should we tie it to your waist or something?”

  Mal—and Damien, the damned traitor—both stopped as though thinking about it.

  “Yeah,” Damien said, coughing slightly. “Why not?”

  Tevyn scowled. “Did you not hear me? What in the hell are we going to use for a rope?”

  “I don’t know.” Mal stared fitfully at the pile of things Tevyn had pulled out of his bag. His eyes fell on one item in particular. “How many T-shirts do you pack in your go bag?”

  Oh Lord. “Well, don’t I feel stupid,” he muttered. “I was saving them for bandages for Damien.”

  Damien blew out a breath. “There’s one more actual dressing for today’s change,” he said, clearly dreading the process. “Then we’ll need one for tomorrow, and one for the next day.”

  “So half a T-shirt for each day?” Mal hazarded. “What about after that?”

  “After that we’ll either be rescued or trying to get down the mountain.” Tevyn swallowed. “Look, let me cut the shirts into ribbons. I can do it in one continuous strip. It might only take two, three T-shirts to get us enough rope so you have some room to go hunting. Don’t worry about getting the dry stuff—there’ll be lots of limbs knocked down. Grab what you can and haul it back—all of it. We’ll stack it outside the door if it doesn’t fit. Also, don’t shy away from the long, skinny ones. We won’t burn everything. I’ve got an idea to help us walk a little easier, if there’s enough flexible branches.”

  An idea that sounded dumb and idealistic, but hell, they were going to be trapped in here for two more days anyway. It would give them something to do.

  “So,” Mal said, not like he’d won anything or with triumph, just matter-of-fact, like everything was going to be okay, “we change Damien’s bandages first, then cut the T-shirts, and then I’ll go get some wood.”

  Well, hell. “Yeah, fine. Here. Let’s heat up some more water so we can clean the wound.”

  Tevyn moved around him so he could stick his body into the howling storm and scrape some pristine snow from the gap between the overcoat and the fire blanket—and get some space from the heated emotions inside the lean-to.