by Lin Lustig
He shivered. That memory last night felt like going back in time and reliving one of the top five worst moments of his life. Funny how the brain loved to replay that kind of shit. But usually he could keep Aubrey buried. It helped that she'd been in prison for the last decade.
John's phone chirped and Emerson stirred. John squeezed him a little closer and kissed behind his ear, then rolled away to check the text. Glen again, wanting news on Licia.
He'd put off calling her and not by accident. It was too much of a risk to immediately call her when Emerson was threatening to leave. Maybe threatening wasn’t the right word, but John wasn’t willing to give him up yet. Besides, talking to Licia was like reading the comments trolling one of his social media posts. Thank goodness he had a social media manager to deal with all that, but this? He’d have to handle this one himself.
Quietly, he rolled out from under the covers and shivered. The October chill crept in through the windows overlooking lower Manhattan. Sliding on a robe left crumpled by the bedside, John grabbed his phone and tip-toed out of the room. He pinched it between his ear and shoulder and measured his roast cocoa grounds into the French press.
It rang twice and a young male voice answered the line. “Thank you for calling Antiquitea, this is Noah, how can I help you?”
John imagined the guy as a skinny teen with ripped jeans—Licia's usual customer. “Hi Noah, I'm hoping to reach Licia. Is she in?”
There was a long stretch before Noah said, “I'm sorry, there's no one here by that name. Perhaps you have the wrong number?”
“Uh-huh.” John couldn't help his eye roll and poured hot water over the cocoa grounds. “Just tell her John Beechum called please.”
“J-John Beechum?”
“Okay, thanks kid.” John hung up, sliding the phone back to the counter and grabbing a pair of mugs. He barely set them down before his phone was ringing with an unknown number. He answered.
On the other end Licia said, “What.” Not a question or a greeting. Ah, how he'd missed that—not.
“Nice to hear from you, too. So, Antiquitea? Cute.” He heard a door shut in the background.
“Why are you calling.” Again, not a question. For someone overrun with emotions she didn't like to express many. She used to be almost warm towards him, back when they'd been on the run together. They’d made a good team, still did, just... it was hard to work with someone he felt things for, especially when she could feel him feeling the feels. It just made everything awkward.
John sat on a barstool at the counter and toyed with the mug handles. “Glen called me. UHP has a new test subject.”
She sighed. “John, you know I can't—”
“I know, but the patient's ability is supposedly off the charts, and they're using them to make new Jammers.”
“What kind of ability? What are Jammers?”
He was taken aback by that. Somehow in his head, Licia was all knowing. “Glen said UHP rolled out Jammers last year, pills that nullify our abnormalities. It sounds like they’re also using them in-house to protect against Abnormal influences. We could use your... talents.”
Licia swore on the other end, which was comforting. “I told you I'm done getting involved with this.”
“It's different this time.”
“It's never different with you. Stop relying on me to clean up your messes.”
“Hey,” John sat up straighter. “Last time I called before it was a mess. I knew it could go sideways and I planned accordingly. You can't give me shit about that.”
Silence stretched. “I don't want anything to do with UHP.”
“And what about all the Abnormal kids? The media can only blame video games and ingesting plastic for so long before the mainstream has to admit that these kids are something else entirely. “
“Don't.”
Maybe he played the kid card too early. He tried to back pedal. “Licia, I just want the others like us to stay safe.”
“Then keep them away from me.” The sound cut off.
“Licia. Licia?” He tossed his phone down and swore.
CHAPTER 5
Emerson
He left the bedroom and hung back in the hall, catching the tail end of John's phone call. He looked a bit like a melted candle with his robe dripping down off the stool and the way his blond hair flopped gracelessly to the side.
John claimed he'd never dated Licia. He'd been with hundreds of women, but somehow not her? He could hide behind arguments and over-the-top animosity all he wanted, but he was as transparent as his pasty skin; she meant something to him.
They'd agreed in the first few weeks of dating that John wasn't suited for a monogamous lifestyle, not with the way his vibe worked. Emerson knew too well the consequences of leaving abilities unattended, so they’d agreed while they’re together John could sleep with other women—consensually and safely, of course—but not other men.
Then John fell in with Prisha and she seemed to balance him out where Emerson couldn't. She was such a good fit that John hadn’t slept with anyone beyond the two of them for months. It felt easy with Prisha—a kind of comfort that seemed to suit John and Emerson both. If Licia reentered John's life, he worried it would ruin the delicate equilibrium and end any chance they had of having anything close to a normal relationship.
Silently, Emerson walked through the living room and into the kitchen, sliding the French press over and pouring them both steaming mugs of chocolate scented faux coffee. They also had a chicory blend and roasted dandelion, but the cocoa bean blend was their favorite indulgence for the weekend. He remembered his parents struggling to transition away from coffee after The Shift when the General Assembly of Natural Faith started their religious naturalism campaign. Now it was practically impossible to find real coffee in the States—except at overpriced boutiques.
John sipped at the steaming mug and righted his hair. “Glen's going to be pissed I couldn’t get her on board.”
“Even if you did, UHP is practically untouchable. Who would even believe they're taking people that—according to the media—don't exist?” Emerson massaged John’s shoulder, then sat with his own cup.
“Which is why we need to get Licia involved. She's dealt with them before. I need her.”
The bittersweet chocolate turned sour in his mouth. John needed her for this. Not him. Emerson had proved that he was reliable, patient, and damn good at his job. Why wouldn’t John need him?
Back in L.A., John hadn’t bothered to check out Licia’s ass or hit on her, no. He’d stared into her like searching the sky for God. So much hope mixed with fear and something that had Emerson reduced to a set piece in their production. Even as John seemed to be memorizing Licia, the worst was that she did the same thing to him with the same horrible desperation in her eyes. So, yeah, Emerson didn’t believe for a minute that John wasn’t in love with her.
A calendar reminder popped up on his phone and he grimaced. “I need to get ready. Doctor’s appointment.”
“Hey,” John held Emerson's forearm. “ I know that things are... weird. But it doesn’t change how I feel or what I want between us. Are we okay? “
Emerson felt his grip and the cool draw of John’s energy. Part of him wanted to lean in and forget all of this, head back to bed, and fuck their problems away like they had last night. “Yes. No? Honestly I still haven't decided.”
John laced his fingers with Emerson's, squeezing. There was so much pressure and pain in Emerson's chest that he didn't trust himself to speak. John kissed the back of his hand.
“I'll call my people while you're gone, and we'll set something up. You know I love you, even if—”
“You can't show it?” Emerson slid his hand free and capped the swelling in his chest.
John dipped his head and looked away. “We'll see if there are any options.”
Emerson tried to hold his tongue, but it slipped free anyway. “There are always options. You just don't want to take them.” Fight for me, John. That's what he really wanted to
say. Fight, show me you love me as much as I love you.
“That's not fair. I was upfront about this from the beginning. You knew how this was and signed up anyway.” John made a frustrated sound. “Go to your appointment and we'll talk about this after.”
Emerson almost said he needed assurance that they were real, but he couldn’t bring himself to admit the insecurity and left.
He rode the subway uptown to his specialist's office. Dr. Wallace had taken charge of Emerson's case when he moved to New York. The guy was nice enough, but Emerson would rather pull all-night duty for John at a black-tie award show than get continually prodded by needles.
The waiting room was arranged with low-backed chairs and beat up end tables. The magazines were all six months past their prime and the receptionist talked too loudly on the phone. Emerson sat, his right leg bouncing as he convinced himself, as always, that this was the right thing to do. He couldn't get enough vital energy from John to sustain him, and he wasn't willing to take it from strangers and risk hurting them. He was perpetually out of alignment and needed the artificial hormones to keep his metabolism running. It had been that way ever since he was a kid, even before The Shift.
Officially, The Shift happened sixteen years ago on September thirtieth, and with it came a worldwide panic over the sudden change in the electromagnetic field. The Earth had passed into a new ribbon of space that vibrated at a different frequency, which did something to Earth's poles and magnetized a bunch of electronics, but not all. The panic subsided after the internet was restored. Two days without and the world had been ready to riot, but once they realized the world was in fact not ending, people went right back to their lives—until children began showing an increase in savants and unexplainable traits.
It took years until the first case had made it to the news: a little girl who’d controlled her hair growth of all things. The public had treated her as little more than a harmless freak show, but then others had showed up. People had become worried. Then the girl had disappeared. From the panic rose a religion with a naturalist agenda and a healthy dose of blaming modern medicine for the supernormal traits: The General Assembly of Natural Faith.
“Mr. Caldwell?” A nurse poked her head out of a heavy door and called his name. Happy to have something to do with the jitters, he nearly skipped to follow her as she led him to the lab. She took twelve vials of his blood—which seemed like a lot—then showed him to an exam room and asked him to wait for Dr. Wallace.
The only art in the room was a poster of farmers with their arms around a doctor in scrubs and the slogan: health for your healthy lifestyle. He remembered his parents being upset when Emerson needed a specialist for his weight. They had been deep in the naturalist doctrine and couldn't wrap their heads around a medical condition that couldn't be solved with turmeric and love—though love was a strong word for their high expectations and low tolerance towards him being gay.
The door swooshed open. “Emerson, good to see you again.” Dr. Wallace stuck out his hand, then gave Emerson two solid shakes. He was tall, fit, pale, blond, and still somehow not Emerson's type. Dr. Wallace grinned from ear to ear, but it didn't reach his eyes. “How are you feeling, any changes?”
“Other than the bit of weight gain, no.” His weight always went up when his ability went hungry too long. John had excess energy to share, but it still wasn’t enough.
“Three pounds isn't too alarming, but I ordered an extra draw today to run a full metabolic panel, check your T3 and T4, plus an extra for blood glucose levels.”
Twelve vials for that? He could have sworn Dr. Wallace checked all of that last time with only six.
“Okay, here's your prescription refill, but there's a new medication I think you'd be perfect for. I'm waiting for the report to release next Tuesday, so we'll talk about the option next time and double check how your Synthroid is doing.”
Emerson nodded, though his neck felt stiff and he clenched his teeth. When Dr. Wallace excused him, he gave himself an extra moment in the lobby. “This is the right thing to do,” he whispered to himself. Managing his body like this was the only way to keep from sucking other people dry. As much as John tried to help, it wasn’t enough. He couldn’t ask for more.
Emerson winced. If he gave up on John, he'd have to find another volunteer with excess energy to share, otherwise his body might shut down altogether. He was an asshole for needing that from John... for being afraid to leave him and lose that one abundant source. Growing up, he'd taken without knowing what he was doing and hurt people in the process, but once he learned the consequences of stealing other people's energy and how to stop it, it taxed his body. His thyroid careened out of control and he started packing on the pounds. It was still better than the alternative. Taking John's excess had helped. Maybe John would continue to help, even if they weren't together.
He returned home with the medical tape around the crook of his arm itching and his mood falling. The lobby was empty as he entered the building, so he picked up the mail, and then stepped into the east resident elevator. The building had eight floors, each with two condos per floor, and each with their own private elevator entrance.
When the elevator opened on their floor, John was waiting in the foyer of their condo with words poised on his tongue, but he seemed to think better of saying any of them after seeing Emerson's expression.
“What's up? Did a receptionist ask you where you’re from again?”
Emerson glared at the memory. His golden skin, black hair, and brown eyes often brought up his genetic background, but he’d never had it tested. “No. The appointment was fine, but I'm feeling a little off from the draw.” John held out his hands, but Emerson worried he'd zap the man dry since he was also hungry in the regular sense. “I need real food first.”
“I can order from your favorite Thai place.”
Emerson nodded, then removed the medical tape from the crook of his elbow and balled it up. John popped his phone free from his back pocket and stared typing with his finger, swiping around wildly.
“I'm going to go change.” Emerson tossed the medical tape and cotton ball in the trash by the shoe rack.
“Wait, drunken noodle or Thai curry?”
“Both.”
“Both it is. Should be here in twenty.”
“Thanks,” Emerson slid through the foyer's double doors, both open—there was no real reason to close them—and paused next to the kitchen. The quartz countertop was scattered with their mugs and cocoa bean remains. He pushed the barstools in, but John stepped in and cleared the counter.
“Sorry, I got distracted.”
“You called Glen then?”
John dipped his chin in a quick nod. He'd dressed in tight dark jeans and a paisley patterned button-up. The fresh bergamot scent of his cologne made Emerson feel even grimier from his time at the hospital. John wiped down the counter. “I also made an appointment with my team for us tomorrow. But I'm worried about Glen. He's on edge about all this. I checked out the Anons and there's no new reports of disappearances. But to max out UHP's scale? If UHP uses them like last time—” John stopped talking.
Emerson waited, then prompted, “What was last time?”
“Nothing. I just mean the first development of Jammers.” John raked back his hair, which Emerson loved. It made his tricep strain against the fabric and accented his wide shoulders narrowing down to his hips in a lean line. He started getting hard, then tried to ignore it.
“Until we have more information, we can't make a plan, and until food gets here, I'm going to take a shower,” Emerson said. John started to speak, then seemed to change his mind and let out his breath in a rush. Emerson let him stew with whatever thoughts were stirring within him and headed for the bedroom.
John's side of the room was a chaotic stack of paperback books, laundry (both clean and dirty), and a variety of sex toys and lube. Emerson's side was uncluttered. His bedside table had only a lamp and his e-reader. His black dresser drawers were all car
efully closed, the top adorned with only a carved wooden box that had belonged to his grandmother. John's dresser was mostly for decoration, since he'd never seen him use it. They both had clothing hanging in the closet, but John's vast collection shoved all but a couple of Emerson's suits to one side. He tried not to smirk at John practically living in the closet while Emerson was out.
He'd been raised that there was only one script: get a job, marry a woman, have children. Well, he managed one of the three, but the other two weren't his style. Maybe John wanted more than what Emerson could give him. Something that Prisha could, like children. Focusing on what he needed from John was one thing, but what if John wanted something else from him and Emerson had been too stubborn to see it?
His focus shifted to nothing as his mind whirred. Then pressure built behind his eyes. The room seemed to lose depth, flattening until he reached out to make sure space hadn't folded in on itself—except he couldn't move his arm. Then his vision whited out.
Next thing he knew, he was sitting at his parent's dining table with his twin brothers, waiting for the Sunday meal to be served. It was so familiar he didn't think to panic until he realized his brothers were thirteen. He would have only been seventeen then. Why the hell was he flashing back to a family dinner?
His father, a thin man with salt and pepper stubble marking his warm skin, bowed his head, his elbows resting on the pristine silk tablecloth.
“We are thankful for the food provided to us. May our family never stray from Your path.”
Emerson wanted to snort at the old prayer but found duality in his presence. He remembered thinking the words were damning, but he was also his present self, thinking the words were empty and not yet taken over by GANF. After The Shift, his parents had jumped aboard the natural doctrine, fitting it in with their mixed religious upbringings, but Emerson never fit. No one but him had known, but he was sick, gay, and a non-believer.
The meal was simple, meatloaf with potatoes and carrots served on the nice china. They all had water in crystal glasses at their seats, though he knew his father wanted a beer. His brothers, Ivo and Xen, eyed the meatloaf as it passed around the table. Ivo bounced as he waited. Everyone at the table was thin and worn, his mother especially so. Then there was Emerson, his bulk more potent next to his family's combined lack. It had only been last year that he'd realized how much energy he stole from his family. Had he shortened their lives? Now he did everything he could to staunch the hollow inside him all the while gaining weight.
