Fall through Spring

by Amy Lane

  It was the same look Dane usually had—or at least, what he thought his eyes were doing—when his brother’s social awkwardness was out in full force. Sort of like now, as he blushed and stammered and tried to explain to Dane that he and this guy—Schipperke—apparently worked together. Then Dane remembered Mason telling him about the IT guy he’d hit on at work. This must be him.

  Dane listened in fascination as his brother welcomed the two newcomers to play with them instead of the group they’d left in the dust, and didn’t make a single accidental double-entendre. Skipper Keith seemed unassuming enough, but instead of listening to Mason Hayes as he made an ass out of himself, he thanked Mason for sending him Theraflu and a sweater when he was sick at work.

  As Skipper and Mason were making conversation, Dane turned to the scruffy guy who gave great voice and said, “How long have you two been together?”

  Clay Carpenter snorted. “I’m not the one he’s dating, but thank you. Skip would be a catch.”

  Dane’s heart gave a double-flutter. “So you’re single?” God. Did he sound too predatory? He probably sounded too predatory. He’d gotten a lot of sex by being unapologetically slutty, but he really didn’t want to come on too strong. And these guys didn’t seem like the fast-and-loose crowd he’d run with as an undergrad or at the restaurant.

  “Single, but not gay,” Carpenter said with a shrug, and until Dane heard the world crashing around his ears, he hadn’t realized how invested he was in the answer. He was so occupied with the sound of his heart’s destruction that he almost missed what Carpenter said next.

  “But then, Skipper didn’t know he was gay until a couple of weeks ago, so, you know, anything could happen.”

  It was said mostly in jest, Dane knew that. How could he not know? He wasn’t stupid. But it was said with the confidence of a man who wouldn’t mind if it was true.

  Which meant… oh God, it just might… it must might….

  “How could he not know he was gay?” Dane asked, fastening on something, anything to talk about so he could hear more of that rusty, self-deprecating voice.

  Carpenter paused for a moment, and they both watched Skip swing the club in a perfect arc, and the ball bounce almost to the hole.

  Carpenter sent Dane a droll look. “You see that?”

  “God, I suck,” Dane said in dazed response.

  “So do I.”

  “But not in the same way,” Dane said dispiritedly.

  “Sure, brag about that now. But my point is, Skipper’s never played golf before.”

  Dane watched his brother take his turn, and stared. Mason had the grace of a giant redwood tree doing the cha-cha. The ball went up too high, fell too soon, and curved to the left in what was probably going to be a six-over-par shot. As far as Dane knew, his brother came out once a month, at the very least.

  “First time?” Dane asked, feeling a little adrift. “How does that happen?”

  Carpenter shrugged. “I don’t know. Skip and Richie have been best friends for six years. Then suddenly, they’re banging like beavers. Sometimes you watch and plan and think about what you really want to do; then you score a hole in one.”

  Carpenter took his turn at the tee, and in spite of a few extra pounds, he moved with a no-bullshit, muscular athleticism that Dane had to admire.

  Skipper almost scored a hole in one, but Carpenter was probably going to make a birdie at the very least.

  Dane waited until Skip and Mason finished congratulating Carpenter before he stepped up and swung.

  Yup. Almost as bad as Mason.

  He waited for the fake congratulations from the newcomers, for the pained expressions of pity and condescension.

  Carpenter looked at Skipper and shrugged. “Well, he did say he sucked.”

  All of them burst out laughing, and they trotted joyfully down to the green to finish the hole.

  And Carpenter grew no less delightful. His banter with Skip spoke of long familiarity and affection… and loyalty.

  “So, Skipper, you gonna add golf to your unholy regime of exercise?” Carpenter asked.

  “Nope,” Skip said. He was looking for a putting club like a beekeeper looking through spiders. “But that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t drag me out here the next time you get the urge.” Skip pointed at a club wholly unsuitable for the terrain, and Carpenter shook his head and pointed to the one next to it. Skipper nodded and went with the suggestion.

  “I get the urge to do lots of stuff, Skipper. I just don’t always drag other people along with me.”

  Skipper snorted and faced the ball. “Well, you can go to the bathroom on your own, but I wouldn’t mind holding your hand up here on the green.” He adjusted his stance one more time. Dane wanted to tell him he was doing it wrong, because according to every lesson he and Mason had had as kids, he was. But so far, Skip had the best score.

  And sure enough, he hit the ball into the cup, when the rest of them still had at least five shots to clear the hole. Mason high-fived Skip and stepped up, and Dane turned to his new friend and said, “What’s his regimen like?”

  “He’s got this sort of church of holy soccer,” Carpenter said in an undertone. “I managed to resist for two years, but he’s been making me eat chicken sandwiches and walk during lunch at work. Not like parents, mind you, but like, ‘Hey, there’s this great place to eat about four blocks away. Let’s be late getting back!’ I mean, he’s a fuckin’ Boy Scout, right, and he’s using being late back as a carrot. Anyway, I lost a little weight, got a little overconfident, and now I’m a part of the church… I mean, team. Go figure.”

  “Where’d you meet?” Dane asked, impressed in spite of himself. He might as well stare at the blond god too, because apparently everybody worshipped at the altar of Schipperke.

  “Same place Skipper and Mason met. Work. But me and Skipper are in the IT department, so we met sort of accidentally.”

  Dane had to swallow against an unwelcome shaft of snobbery. Mason was VP of mergers and acquisitions. Dane knew the score. IT did not talk to VP—it was like some sort of rules of the royal court thing.

  But then, Mason wasn’t great at rules, and Skipper appeared to be great at people, so maybe Dane could forget his whole…. Oh, who was he kidding.

  “What the hell are you doing in the IT department?” he asked, appalled.

  Carpenter rolled his eyes. “Not firing people, not being a douchebag, and not hating my coworkers. Fucking sue me. What is it you do again?”

  They’d already covered the fact that Dane was a student, so Dane conveniently disregarded that.

  “My brother is not a douchebag,” he said staunchly.

  Carpenter just looked at Dane steadily, and Dane remembered that Carpenter had been there when Skipper should have called HR on Mason.

  “I mean, he says dumb shit when he’s nervous, but that doesn’t make him a douche!”

  Carpenter arched one eyebrow. “He asked Skipper if he’d like to come watch porn in his office.”

  Yikes. “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “But apparently there was the thing with the Theraflu and the making sure he got home when he was sick,” Dane pointed out hopefully.

  “Porn.”

  “Often,” Dane amended with a sigh. “He’s not a douchebag often.”

  Carpenter grinned at him. “Well, Skipper’s giving him a do-over, so I can give him a do-over. Reboot, new lives, let’s go kill some bad guys.”

  Reboot? Dane blinked. “What do you play?” he asked. Oh God, something besides golf.

  “PS4,” Carpenter said. “RPG, FPS mostly, what’s your poison?”

  “Anything,” Dane said dreamily. He’d lost most of his gaming buddies when he quit the restaurant—they’d been casual acquaintances, really, not friends. “You want to play tonight?”

  Carpenter shrugged. “Yeah, why not. Skip’s got yard work after this, and I’ve got to clean my apartment. Log on about eight?”

  That easy.


  Finding a new friend was that easy.

  A new friend with a sexy voice and an adorable scruff and a sense of humor.

  Dane could totally deal with losing heinously at golf to a tall blond god if he got Carpenter to boot.

  At the end of the game, Skipper and Carpenter joined them for a beer and then departed, leaving Mason—who had spent much of the game talking to Skipper—to swap impressions with Dane.

  “So,” Dane said, “what do you think?”

  Mason let out a depressed breath and rested his chin on his hands. “It doesn’t matter what I think. Everything I think is wrong.”

  “How wrong?”

  “Well, I thought Carpenter was Skipper’s boyfriend, and I got really excited because—”

  “Because they wouldn’t work at all!” Dane burst out, appalled.

  “Right? So if that was the case, I sort of had a chance, but no. He’s dating some guy named—”

  “Richie,” Dane said, remembering Carpenter telling them this. “He’s an auto mechanic with red hair.”

  Mason opened his eyes and closed them again, like he was trying to clear his head. “You got that much out of his friend?”

  “Yeah. Carpenter’s all right. We’re gaming tonight. Should be fun.”

  Suddenly Mason’s sort of doofy, depressed look was replaced by an expression Dane knew well. The “What is the state of Dane?” look, and Dane both dreaded it and welcomed it.

  He dreaded it because it implied he wasn’t always capable of regulating his own goddamned head.

  He welcomed it because he wasn’t always capable of regulating his own goddamned head.

  “You’ve made a friend?” Mason asked carefully.

  “Yes, Mason. Dane made a friend.”

  “A gay friend or a straight friend?”

  “I thought us gays didn’t discriminate,” Dane said with a flounce. “Because that’s mean.”

  “Dane—”

  “Mason! Look, you’re the one who’s pining for that thou shalt not have. I’m just playing a video game with a guy who knows an RPG from an FPS from Dungeons and Dragons in Mom’s basement.”

  “Would you play Dungeons and Dragons if we had a basement?” Mason asked, as though this was seriously a possibility.

  “I did that in high school, and I lost my dice and my big hooded Dungeon Master cape. Or I sold them for food, or for videogames or something.”

  “Thank God,” Mason said with feeling. “Are we ready to go yet? I want to take a nap and pretend I’m being productive.”

  “That is an amazing idea. I’ll help.”

  In fact, Dane had homework. So. Much. Homework. But Mason knew that, and he wouldn’t let it interfere with his nap.

  HE WENT home and worked for a couple of hours—and napped for an hour—then logged on to the game unit in his rather plain white room.

  Even when he had friends to play with, he tried to choose activities that kept him in the here and now as opposed to cyberspace. Playing golf had been a Mason idea, and it had been a good one. With Dane’s medication and his workload, physical activity was sort of a must. It was the whole reason Dane had asked his brother to move out to the Sacramento area with him. Mason’s job was to help him stay level, help him remember the things he needed to do to function.

  Because forgetting to do those things had led him to some really dark places, and Dane didn’t want to go back.

  Logging in with a friend to play a game felt like a vacation.

  He found Carpenter under the exact handle he’d given—Pizza Physique—and frowned, adjusting his headset so they could talk while they picked out their characters and their challenge.

  “Pizza Physique? What the hell does that mean?”

  Carpenter’s voice on the other end sounded distracted—he was probably trying to find a level they could both play. “Means you don’t get this body by eating carrots and beet juice, precious. What did you think it meant?”

  “What’s wrong with your body?”

  “Nothing that a few levels of armor and some new skins won’t cure.” He chuckled, and Dane rolled his eyes, knowing he was talking about his character in the game and not himself.

  “That’s hilarious. I’m gonna laugh myself back into the loony bin, that’s so damned funny.”

  “Back? You’ve already visited?” Carpenter sounded nothing but curious, and Dane had to remind himself that this man didn’t know him that well.

  “Yeah, about six years ago. We figured out my meds and shit. Don’t worry. I’m not going bat-crazy-cuckoo on you.”

  “That’s a shame. I might have followed you there, for kicks.”

  Dane laughed, recognizing Carpenter’s willingness to only go as deep as Dane wanted. “Well, if I go again, be sure to stop and say hi. And bring the euthanasia kit with you, ’cause that place was the suck. Yes. That one—I like that skin.”

  Carpenter had chosen this sort of all-around-god character—a little like Skipper, Dane could see it—but he’d outfitted him with black armor with a sort of sheen to it. Very… classy. Very superheroish, but not blond-American god.

  “Ouch,” Carpenter muttered.

  “I said I liked it!”

  “You also said euthanasia kit! I’m sorry, man, that must have sucked.”

  Oh shit. Oh shit. Dane had said too much. He needed to keep it light. People backed away from talk about mental illness. He should have known! Too much information! Jesus, Dane, keep your brains in your ears!

  “Naw, really, it was a trip to the Bahamas.”

  “You know, people say that like it’s a fun thing. Putting this body in a swimsuit and showing it off to the world is a nightmare for me, so you really didn’t reassure me at all.”

  “I’m sorry. You know, I should just log off—”

  “Jesus, Dane, chill! I’m not scared by your trip to the looney bin if you’re not scared about my extra five thousand pounds.”

  Dane gaped for a moment. “It doesn’t scare you?”

  “No.” Carpenter took a deep breath. “Mental illness is the suck—it couldn’t have been easy for you. I’m, you know, glad you were in a place where we could meet and play golf.”

  Dane took a few deep breaths and backed up on the death spiral a little. “Are you really? Are you really glad you got to play golf?” He laced his words with a healthy infusion of sarcasm and a giant tablespoon of deadpan.

  “No,” Carpenter answered, chuckling. “I’m not really that fond of golf. But watching Skipper beat the shit out of the guys we came with? That was worth watching.”

  Dane chuckled back and made the final choice on his character. Ah yes, a thief—lithe, long, a good fighter, with sort of a sassy walk. He’d given her a tight black braid down her back with a strip shaved out of the side for a punk edge.

  “Very nice,” Carpenter said. “She’s got some of the best fighting skills in the roster. I like her. Want to do a test level?”

  “Yeah, sure.” He waited for Carpenter to set it up. “What’s wrong with the guys you played golf with?”

  “They’re assholes. Entitled fuckers. All they talked about was their GPAs for their MBAs.”

  “How did you know them anyway?”

  “One of them is my brother-in-law’s brother—although he’s not quite so douchey. I went to school with those pricks. Jesus, they’re twenty-six. They should have better shit to discuss, you know?”

  “I’m thirty,” Dane said, depressed again. “And I’m still in school. How’s that for better shit.” He hadn’t really been able to decide on his major until he’d gotten his whole brain chemistry thing regulated, but he didn’t tell people that a lot.

  “Man, are you excited about vet school?”

  Dane closed his eyes and thought of animals, the way they trusted him, the way he could help them feel better. The way they accepted him without words and without the judgment and emotional complexities of human beings. He yearned for a cat, but he couldn’t care for one with his schedule and his commute
, and foisting one off on his brother didn’t seem fair, no matter how often Mason told him that the house was theirs, not his.

  “Yes,” he said, chest throbbing. “I really love the science, and when I get to volunteer with animals, it makes me really happy. The schoolwork is hard, and God. I’m not even in the program proper and it’s still…well, it’s intense.” Mason had taken to putting his medication in little pill calendars every week, and giving him one to take to school every morning, as well as little plastic jugs of chocolate milk, which helped him regulate sugars and protein when he was too busy to eat.

  “Well, good. Because I went to school for… some time, and I didn’t like anything I studied. I really hated what people with my degree did, and now I’m the big fat disappointment in my parents’ lives because I can barely pay off my student loans. It’s a nightmare. So if you had to go back to school six thousand times to take something you loved? That’s fuckin’ rockin’. You keep doing that, right?”

  Dane swallowed and nodded, eyes burning. “Yeah,” he said gruffly.

  “Awesome. How’s that mission?”

  Dane looked at the screen, which outlined him and Carpenter shooting their way through bad guys to get to a weapon in the center of the course. “We’re gonna get creamed,” he said, but this was a good thing. They’d have to take lots of chances in order to get it right.

  “’Course we are. You ready to play?”

  “Bring it on.”

  Giving Thanks

  CARPENTER CHECKED his phone Thanksgiving morning by habit. Sure enough, Dane’s name popped up.

  Did you get your casserole cooked?

  He grimaced. Yeah. He’d cleaned the kitchen of his tiny apartment, if not the bedroom, after he’d gotten back from golf that day. He’d been able to manage something gluten-, dairy-, and meat-free that his mother might approve of.

  I almost wish it was a goose, he texted back, betting Dane would get it. Goose, cooked, right?

  Haha. Are you still taking your blond god?

  Yeah, because his boyfriend still has weird family drama. Richie was helping his father rebuild his business after it had been vandalized. Unfortunately, Richie’s father loathed Skipper, so Skip was on his own.