Infected

by Andrea Speed

  Chai was doing okay with therapy, and he and his doctor had been trying out antidepressants. The first batch gave Chai headaches, so they tried another, which he didn’t like. They were all hoping pill number three was the charm.

  No, Chai wasn’t currently suicidal, but Holden had been friends with enough depressives to know that could change with little warning. Depression was a beast that could eat you alive, even if you were a lion guy like Roan.

  That reminded him, as he sat on the sofa eating his greasy burger and washing it down with gin straight from the bottle, that he needed to check his email. Roan usually got back to him within hours, sometimes minutes. He claimed he didn’t spend all his time online, but Holden could picture Roan trying to write his memoir while he surfed Twitter and watched something on Netflix. In other words, doing anything but what he was supposed to do. Roan was usually more diligent, but he was retired now. This was the time to fuck around.

  Holden opened his email account and discovered Roan hadn’t gotten back to him yet. Did that make it two days? Something pulsed nervously in his stomach, and he abandoned his booze bottle for his phone. It was late, but Roan hadn’t stopped being a night owl. Retirement hadn’t changed all his habits.

  On the fourth ring, someone picked up the phone, but it wasn’t Roan. “Hello, Holden,” Dylan said, and his voice sounded odd. A little congested.

  A hole seemed to open up in Holden’s gut, and the burger he’d eaten earlier turned to lead. “Holy fuck, is he okay?” The noise in the background sounded like a busy hospital on a Friday night.

  “Relatively,” Dylan said, pausing to sniff. “They’re still running tests. They don’t think it was an aneurysm, but they want to make sure.”

  Holden sighed. “Shit.” The reason for Roan’s retirement in all its glory: aneurysms. Or as Roan had put it in an email, “just killing time before I go all Scanners and my head pops like a balloon full of paint.” Lovely imagery there. His brain was a time bomb, and one day it would explode and take Roan with it. This was a case where there was no way to fight off being your own worst enemy.

  Roan might have had a different relationship with his virus from every other infected, but the virus would still kill him in the end. It always won. And he deserved so much more. He was a hero who had earned a whole hell of a lot better end than that, but life wasn’t fair, and he wouldn’t get one. He’d die like everyone else, and the world would keep turning, even though the best of humanity was gone and might as well have never existed. If you didn’t know life was a fucking joke before that, you learned hard.

  “He thought it was just a migraine attack,” Dylan said, clearly wanting someone to talk to. “But he took his meds, and they didn’t help. Which isn’t really new. It’s always kind of iffy. But he was in so much pain he could barely move, and I’d had it. I told him we were either driving to the ER or he was going in an ambulance, but he was being seen. He was so pale. I’ve never seen him so ashen before in my life. It was like all the color was being bled out of him. Except in his eyes, of course. He had that resolute ‘I can take the pain’ look in his eyes that makes them look like they’re burning.”

  “I know that one.” Dylan was being super arty in his description, but it was true. When Roan was in pain or angry—or both—his eyes took on this odd quality, hollow and bright, that made Holden sometimes wonder if that’s what being caught between the human and the lion looked like. That was always going to be Roan to him. The man with the burning eyes and the scream that turned into a roar that could have made a T. rex turn tail and run.

  “He was growling too, but he didn’t realize it. It freaked out the medical staff a bit, even more so when I told them he couldn’t help it. At least there were some professionals around here.”

  “What’s the diagnosis?”

  Dylan exhaled in a way that was partially a sigh and partially a gasp. Holden wondered how long he’d been at the hospital, advocating for a husband who terrified most of the staff. It wasn’t even the first time that had happened. Dylan should probably make up cards that read “My husband is not an animal” and pass them around as necessary.

  “They still don’t know. That’s why they’re running all these tests. Do you know they couldn’t drug him?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “They gave him meds for the pain, but they didn’t work. So they kept giving him stronger things, since he was obviously in so much pain, but they kept not working. Morphine didn’t work. Eventually they used an anesthetic on him, and at least it knocked him out.”

  Holden tried to figure that out. “His drug tolerance can’t be that great, can it?”

  “I don’t see how it could be.” Dylan sounded tired and frayed, and Holden was able to guess how long he’d been in the hospital, waiting for news: hours. Maybe half the night. Holden didn’t understand Dylan and was pretty sure he never would, but he respected his stubbornness and his loyalty to the trouble magnet that was Roan. Roan was hot as fuck and a real-life superhero, but Holden didn’t kid himself. He didn’t think he could ever have the strength to endure the pain of being Roan’s mate, as poor Dylan had to. That road could only end in sorrow. So much of love was martyrdom that Holden wasn’t sure why anyone ever wanted a relationship.

  “I’m afraid it’s related to whatever’s going on with him.” Dylan sighed. “Maybe the brain tumors are back.”

  For some reason, Holden had an impulse to comfort him. Maybe it was the booze, the night, or the fact that this was Roan they were talking about, but Holden wasn’t ready to cut bait on him yet. Maybe Dylan wasn’t the only martyr in these parts after all. “Couldn’t it just be some massively bad migraine attack? I mean, that’s still possible, right?”

  “I wish. But I don’t think so. They wouldn’t be running this many tests if it was just a migraine.”

  “You can’t give up now.”

  Dylan chuckled, but it was breathless and humorless. “Please, do you know me at all? Of course I’m not giving up. This isn’t the day Ro doesn’t come home from the hospital. It’s coming soon, but it’s not today.”

  Holden felt that like a punch. Death was a shadow that followed everyone, but on some it was closer; on some it was draped like a shroud. And Dylan knew it and probably saw it every time he looked at Roan. That must have been death by a million cuts. Again, Holden didn’t know how Dylan stood it.

  There were very few times in life when Holden honestly didn’t know what to say, but this was one of them. He couldn’t lie and say Roan would be fine. They both knew as much as they wished for it, it wasn’t true. Maybe he’d be okay today, but he wouldn’t be okay in a month, several months, a year. The time was coming when he would exit their lives for good. The size of the hole that would leave was hard to conceptualize. It was like trying to imagine what your life would be like if the sun went nova. The magnitude of such an event was impossible to grasp. But in truth it only seemed impossible because you desperately wanted it to be impossible.

  Finally, Holden settled on “Why didn’t you call?”

  “What could you have done?” Dylan replied. Seemed a bit harsh, but fair.

  “Talked to you. Yeah, none of us are up there with you, but you’re not alone.”

  He scoffed. “Really? You don’t even like me.”

  “That’s not true. You’re extremely likable. I just don’t understand you. At all.”

  Dylan made an amused noise. Not quite a laugh but at least far away from a sob. “Right back at you, buddy. Except I wouldn’t call you extremely likable.”

  “I fucking hope not. I’ve invested a lot of time and energy in my ’tude, and I’m not having some fucking Buddhist put it down.”

  This time Dylan chuckled faintly. “See? This is a huge part of what I don’t get about you.”

  “My sense of humor?”

  “Your self-awareness. How much of you is an act, and how much is really you?”

  “That is the greatest secret of my life. You don’t know, and y
ou will never know. Hell, I don’t know. All I know is I’m a danger to others.”

  “Isn’t the saying ‘a danger to myself and others’?”

  “Yes, but I’m no danger to me. I like me. My hair usually looks fabulous with minimal effort.” That was one thing Holden didn’t have to worry about. He’d never felt suicidal. Homicidal, yes, but that was totally different. If he wasn’t, he needed to find a new hobby. He was a vigilante; it was expected. “Did you like being weird before you met Roan, or did he rub off on you?”

  “Oh, the rubbing-off joke I could make… but I like to think what made Roan and I such good friends was our mutual contempt for so-called decent society. Being decent is easy. Being your true self is hard.”

  “That’s a T-shirt waiting to happen.”

  “Don’t be an asshole, Dylan.”

  That made him laugh, which was good. Holden wasn’t sure what he was going to do if he couldn’t get a reaction out of him. If they were on Skype he could at least juggle badly. Of course, he wasn’t sure why he felt the need to cheer Dylan up, except Roan probably would have wanted him to. And as loath as he was to admit it, Holden knew he was still Roan’s bitch—all Roan had to do was ask, and Holden would do it. Sometimes, such as now, he didn’t even need to ask. Holden could read the tea leaves for himself. After a long moment of silence, Dylan said, “Well, maybe you’re not all bad.”

  “Now I resent that.”

  “Thank you.”

  “For what?”

  Dylan must have picked up on the archness in his tone, because he let Holden have this, whatever this was. Even Holden wasn’t sure. “I’ll call you when the diagnosis comes in.”

  “Please do. And take care of yourself, okay? You can’t help Ro if you’re exhausted.”

  “Yeah, I know. Talk to you later.”

  “Bye.” When Holden hung up, he realized something terrible: he missed Scott. He really didn’t want to miss him, or anyone else, for that matter, besides Roan, which he felt was out of his control. It made him angry. Wasn’t that why he was glad Scott broke up with him?

  Truth be told, Holden wished most of the time he couldn’t feel at all. Wouldn’t that be great? Nothing would mean anything to him. Nothing would stick. He wouldn’t miss the hot bi jock or worry about the superhero he used to work for dying in a hospital almost two hundred miles away, which may as well have been a million miles. This would mean nothing to him. Oh how he longed for this to mean nothing.

  Holden swigged gin straight from the bottle. If he couldn’t stop feeling altogether, at least gin would numb him for a little while. He’d settle for that.

  3—Stand by Your Manatee

  SCOTT WONDERED where things had gone wrong. Maybe it was going to the Eagle.

  It was time to start getting back into game shape, what with the hockey season two months away—and yes, you had to start that early because professional hockey was ridiculously grueling—but when Scott heard from his ex, Jessie, who was coming to Seattle to price some properties and wanted to hang out, he was all in.

  Jessie Cho had been his friend before becoming his girlfriend, and even that was a loose thing. They met at school and connected over the mutual indignities of having parents—or in Scott’s case, a grandmother—in teaching professions, which always made kids look at you funny. Jessie’s mom was a true hippie artist type—Scott had never known anyone who had their own kiln before—and her father was a teacher at their school, although in a different grade, so neither of them had him. They eventually dated, both of them stumbling into it and out of it with no hard feelings. Jessie was not big on “attachments,” not even when she was a teen, and had decided several years ago she was “aromantic,” which was fair enough. It sounded like it fit. She was also the only girlfriend he’d ever had who actually knew he was bisexual, and she was super chill about it. She occasionally tried to set him up with a guy and once convinced a guy to have a threesome with them. It wasn’t great, so Scott refused to do another with her while they were together.

  Jessie was a tattoo artist and a pretty good one—she’d done the lion on his back—and she and another artist friend of hers, Cassie, were thinking of opening their own tattoo parlor. But prices were expensive in Vancouver, so she thought she’d scout Seattle and its environs and price it all. Scott was pretty sure Seattle was more expensive than Vancouver, but if she went out farther, like Poulsbo or something, she could probably get a hell of a deal. Did they believe in tattoos out in Poulsbo?

  Of course, as soon as Grey heard Jessie was in town, he had to be included. His training mania had started earlier, because he was asexual and had few hobbies, but he was willing to take a cheat day on his training regimen and diet so they could hit the town. Grey liked Jessie, and it was mutual. She was a big blast of fun and color and energy, one of those people who could liven up an entire room simply by showing up. Scott strived to be that way. Their lunatic goalie friend Tank was that way naturally, and Scott envied those people. Grey didn’t care and sometimes accidentally livened up a room by not caring. Bastard.

  Jessie looked pretty, much the same as she had last time he’d seen her, except she’d colored her chin-length hair lime green and gained a little weight—but in a way that looked good on her. She had some of her work displayed on her upper arms, twining vines with thorns and an occasional rose peeking out. If you looked closely, you could even see small green snakes mixed in with the vines. She smelled like fabric softener and pastry, which was not a combination that should have worked, but somehow on her it did.

  The three decided to head out to the Eagle, which was a gay bar but a very chill and relaxing gay bar and a good place to hang out. Except when they got there, they discovered a sign on the door saying it had been Closed for Maintenance. They decided to walk down the hill and go to another (not as nice) bar.

  On their way, Scott googled on his phone to see what had happened to the Eagle. “Oh shit,” he said, scanning a news article from a week ago. “They had a pipe burst. Their bathroom flooded. They’re having the floors redone. They’re probably not reopening until September.”

  “That sucks,” Grey said.

  “Do I even need to ask why two strapping guys like you like to hang out at a gay bar?” Jessie teased. She was walking between them, and since she was only five foot four, she liked to say they made a “sandwich with too little filling.”

  “It’s got great ambiance,” Grey replied. “And you don’t have to worry about girls hitting on you.”

  She grabbed Grey’s arm and cozied up to him, being deliberately annoying. Which was okay because he didn’t mind it from her. Friends could annoy Grey as much as they wanted, and he put up with it. He was everybody’s favorite shaven Wookiee. “What about guys?”

  “I just tell them I’m straight and point at pretty boy over there.”

  “You’re the best wingman ever,” Jessie said. Scott rolled his eyes, although that was actually true, both on the ice and off.

  Scott liked Seattle at this time of night. It wasn’t quite as quiet as it was ever going to get—that came around four in the morning—but a lot of the bustle and the crowds had died down to a reasonable level, and the city lights were cheerful and not weirdly oppressive. (Again, that happened at four in the morning.)

  They had walked down from Capitol Hill and were now in a slightly dicier area of downtown. There was an ostensibly straight bar a block over that was kind of dive-y, but in a genuine way, not like that weird hipster bar they’d found with the pretentious cocktail menu and bow-tied bartenders. If the drinks weren’t twenty-two bucks a pop, minimum, it might be worth the laugh of going there, but Scott didn’t think he was mentally up for it yet. Maybe after the regular season, when he was so exhausted it hurt to think.

  They heard the raised male voices, full of drunken belligerence, before they saw them. Two men, early twenties, potential dead ringers for each other with their dark hair and hipster beards, were pushing each other on the sidewalk. The girlfriend of
one of them was on the periphery, trying to get them to stop and encouraging them in equal, confusing measure, but she was as drunk as the men. It was a shitshow, a disaster waiting to happen.

  Scott and Grey exchanged a look, but they weren’t going to get involved. No real punches were being thrown, and it looked like the type of thing that would burn itself out. They’d done enough minor police work in their time and were lucky to have never been arrested for any of it.

  But then one of the guys hit the woman, and it all went to shit.

  It might have been an accident, but it was hard to believe he could be that drunk and still standing. He didn’t miss the other guy; he just punched the woman in the face while still arguing with the man.

  “Hey!” Grey barked, so loud it seemed to echo down the street. It was his hockey arena voice, the one that could be heard over auditorium rock music and noisy crowds. It was also super fucking intimidating if you were the least bit sober. These men weren’t.

  These men were also half a foot shorter than Grey and really should have known how outclassed they were, but they were stupid drunk, which was the most dangerous kind. The woman had stumbled against a parked car and had a hand over her face, but otherwise seemed okay. Good, but not good enough. Since Grey was stomping toward them, Scott followed. He had to back Grey’s play, even though he hardly needed it. That’s what friends were for.

  Grey grabbed the man who’d hit the woman—hereafter to be known as Shithead—by the arm, and he turned and snarled, “Wha’ the fuck’s yer problem?” He tried to yank his arm away from Grey but ended up tripping himself. Grey was the only thing holding him up.

  “I wanted to know what kinda dickface hits a woman. You’re uglier than I thought.”

  “Hey, she started it.”