by Amy Fecteau
“Great,” said Matheus. “No clue who I am, but you remember the goddamned shop.”
“It’s a very good shop.” Quin flipped open the phone.
“I know. You brought me there once. Two hundred dollars for socks.”
“They are very nice socks.”
“I don’t care how nice they are,” Matheus said. “They’re socks.” He lunged for the phone, but Quin pushed him away. Holding the phone to his ear, he pinned Matheus to the door by a forearm pressed against his throat. Matheus squeaked, tugging at Quin’s arm, but gave up. He glared at Quin while he completed his call.
“There,” said Quin. “Since you’ve been there already, I assume you know the way.”
“We are not going.” Matheus croaked, Quin’s arm an iron bar on his trachea.
“We are,” said Quin. “Because if you force me to enter that pit of despair and apathy, I will commit atrocities that make Jeffrey Dahmer’s crimes look like mere jaywalking in comparison.”
“Oh, like that’s new,” said Matheus. “We are not—”
Matheus’s skull hit the window with a crack. Matheus bit his tongue, black spots exploding in front of his eyes. He tried to twist away as Quin leaned in, snaggletooth peeking out, his eyes enormously dark.
“I’d say I would start with you,” Quin said. “But we both know that’d be a lie. So I think I’ll just rip your eyelids off and make you watch.” His gaze flicked over Matheus’s shoulder. “Oh, look”―he transferred his grip to Matheus’s hair, forcing his head to turn, pressing his face into the window―“mommy’s out running errands with the kids.”
Matheus pushed against the door, the plastic bending beneath his palms. His neck strained to the point of snapping; the window bent his nose at a ninety-degree angle. The woman pushed a stroller past the SUV, too focused on wrangling the boy and girl darting around her to notice Matheus and Quin.
“That won’t work,” Matheus said out the half of his mouth not currently being mashed into goo. “I know you don’t hurt kids.”
Quin’s grasp loosened a fraction. A brush of breath tickled over Matheus’s ear. “That doesn’t stop me from giving an impromptu anatomy lesson with mommy’s innards. Hands-on is the best way to learn, after all.”
“You’re a sick bastard.”
“Children are the future, Matheus. If we don’t teach them, who will?”
“Goddammit,” said Matheus. “Fine! We’ll go to your stupid shop.”
“Excellent.” Quin released him and returned to his side of the SUV. He crossed his legs, reaching up to grab the handle above the door while giving Matheus an expectant look. “Well, shall we go?”
“Shall we go?” Matheus mimicked, shifting the SUV into drive. He felt as though as the bones in his face had been pushed to one side. He cracked his jaw, trying to work the ache out of the joint. “Give me my fucking phone back.”
Quin offered the phone with a meekness that bordered on mockery. Matheus snatched it out of his hands, shoving the phone into his coat pocket.
“You know there are other ways to get what you want besides violence,” said Matheus, as they left the parking lot.
“Yes, but they aren’t as fun,” said Quin, with a self-satisfied smile.
Matheus scowled at the taillights in front of him. He slapped on the blinker, getting ready to merge onto the ramp for the freeway. “Do me a favor. Don’t say anything for the rest of the night. Because all I want to do is smack the shit out of you.”
Quin snorted. He looked out the window, the lights of the traffic gliding over his face. “You wouldn’t do that.”
“Oh, yeah?” answered Matheus. “Why is that?”
“You like having all your teeth.”
Matheus growled, laying on the horn as a Honda Civic, back window still covered in snow, cut in front of him. The ramp merged with the freeway, and Matheus veered into the left lane, slamming the gas to the floor. The engine whined before shifting gears. The SUV shot forward, the bumper of semi-tractor trailer coming up fast.
“Truck!” Quin shouted, slapping his palms against the dashboard. “Truck, truck, truck!”
With a flick of his wrist, Matheus swerved into the next lane, neatly fitting the SUV between a blue Chevy and an old Toyota Tacoma. He eased off the gas a hair, glancing over at Quin. “You know, if we had crashed, all you would have done is broken your wrists.”
With a glare, Quin wrapped one hand around the handle above the window, and the other around his seatbelt. The corner of his jaw pulsed against his check.
Matheus allowed himself a small smile. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, the hum of the engine vibrating up into his hands. His phone rang, and Matheus groaned as he recognized the number.
“What the hell do you think you are doing?”
“Hi, Alistair.” Matheus flipped on his blinker, glancing over his shoulder as he pulled into the next lane.
“Shopping?” Alistair asked. “You’re taking Quin shopping?”
“If you knew what I was doing, then why did yo—”
“What is wrong with you? Didn’t he hand you over to the cops last time?”
“Well, yes,” said Matheus.
“Are you a masochist?” demanded Alistair.
“Well—”
“Oh, shut up.” Alistair exhaled. Static crackled out of speaker. “You have responsibilities here, Matheus. You can’t just run off whenever you feel like it.”
“But you can?” Matheus cradled the phone against his shoulder, flashing an obscene gesture at the Ford trying to cut into his lane.
“That is different,” said Alistair. “Gwen and the boys are still missing, Lenya keeps asking for Salvatore, Thomas wants to talk to us—”
“Stuff Thomas,” said Matheus. “What the hell was I going to do at home? Milo is looking for my father. Faust promised to keep an ear open. We can’t go blindly charging around.” He veered into the right lane, ignoring the beeps behind him.
Quin made a choked noise in the back of his throat.
“Freddie can keep an eye on Lenya. She likes him. He’s warm.”
“Until she eats him,” said Alistair. “Lenya is your responsibility, not Freddie’s.”
“Everything is my responsibility,” said Matheus, his voice rising. “Would you rather have Quin beat me up and steal my credit cards? Because I’m fairly certain that was option B.”
“What I want is for you—”
Quin wrenched the phone out of Matheus’s hand. “He is trying to drive,” he snarled into the receiver before tossing the phone out the window.
In the rearview mirror, Matheus saw the car behind them swerve. The phone bounced off the hood into the next lane, meeting its final end beneath the wheels of a U-Haul.
Quin rolled up his window, then resumed his clinging-to-life position. The quiet hum of the road filled the cabin, broken by the occasional pothole.
“Well,” said Matheus, after a long moment. “That’s one way to end an argument.”
“If you crash, I will crush your bones into baby powder,” said Quin through clenched teeth.
“You should really consider therapy.” Matheus said. Helpfulness, his middle name.
storm cloud of bleak desolation settled onto Matheus. Drops of despair soaked into his clothes, filling his shoes. He drowned slowly in an ocean of endless, mind-numbing anguish.
“In the name of all that is good and holy, will you just pick a goddamn tie?” Matheus asked, his head buried in his hands.
“There’s a lot to consider,” said Quin. “Width, color, pattern, construction—”
Matheus raised his head. He slumped on one of the padded benches scattered discreetly around the shop. He didn’t even know how a bench behaved discreetly, but everything in the shop gave off the impression of polite murmurs, even the furniture. He looked at Quin with the gaze of one who has seen through the other side of hell.
“Construction?” he asked, cursing the curiosity that prompted the question.
“Checking for loose threads, straight edges, visible or poor stitching.” Quin selected a tie from the display and rubbed the fabric between his thumb and forefinger. Shaking his head, he returned the tie to the table.
“Oh, God, why did I ask?” Matheus flopped backward, letting his arms hang down at his sides. The saleswoman hovered around somewhere, out of their sight, although Matheus bet he and Quin weren’t out of hers. Quin had waved her away as soon as they entered. She’d disappeared with a slight nod. Matheus wondered exactly how much money Quin had spent there in the past. Most shops didn’t open in the middle of the night, even for their best customers.
“The pattern mustn’t be too large or spaced out too far,” said Quin. “Then you have to consider what image the tie is going to present. Narrow ties are more informal, but too wide can be—”
“Do you have a pen?” Matheus asked.
Quin looked up, a tie each hand.
“A pen, why?”
“So I can poke out my eardrums,” said Matheus. “Because if I listen you babble on about ties any longer, my brain is going to dissolve. That’s not a hyperbole. Literally, a skull full of goo.”
“There’s nothing wrong with taking care with your appearance.” Quin set aside the ties. He selected a deep blue tie off the table, and approached Matheus.
“This is not dressing nicely. This is fetishizing a piece of cloth.” Matheus leaned away as Quin held the tie up to his face. “What are you doing?”
“Sit up,” said Quin.
Matheus didn’t know why Quin bothered to speak, since in the next moment he found himself yanked vertical, his legs straddling the bench. He inched back as Quin sat down, then froze as Quin slipped the tie around his throat. The silk whispered over Matheus’s skin; Quin leaned forward, his gaze intent on his work, folding and twisting the tie with the single-minded determination of a master craftsman.
“This is a Windsor knot,” he said, his voice soft and distracted. “Named after the Duke of Windsor.” He flicked his gaze up to Matheus’s, the corner of his mouth pulling up into that expression of boyish conspiracy that made his heart ache. “Shocking, I know.”
Matheus swallowed, curling his hands into fists. He dug his knuckles into his thighs, trying not to jump as Quin’s fingers brushed his skin. The silk tightened around his throat; the knot settled against his Adam’s apple. Quin shifted closer, adjusting the tie, tiny jolts shivering across Matheus’s flesh with each touch. Matheus closed his eyes, biting down on his lower lip. He knew Quin acted unintentionally, but that only made things worse. If Quin had just been playing with him, Matheus would have shoved him off the bench already. Or something else. His mind offered up several intriguing scenarios.
“—worn with wide collars. It must fit perfectly.”
Matheus opened his eyes, hoping Quin hadn’t noticed his temporary break with reality. “Uh-huh.” He couldn’t come up with a response that didn’t involve suggestions for further tie experimentation. He repressed a sigh as Quin straightened, pulling his hands away.
“Here.” Quin picked up the small mirror resting amongst the ties.
Matheus examined his reflection. The tie did look nice with his complexion, highlighting the blue tones in his irises. On the other hand, the tie/hoodie combo didn’t exist for a very good reason.
“It looks like any other knot,” he said.
“That’s because you’re a philistine.” With a few quick jerks, the tie slithered off his throat. Quin rose, laying the tie with the others. He wandered over to the next table, and selected a cashmere sweater in a soft spring green. “Go try this on.” He flung the sweater at Matheus.
Matheus caught the sweater one-handed. He bit back a moan at the touch; he wanted to build a cocoon of cashmere, living out the rest of his days in a bundle of warmth and softness. Still, he forced himself to frown, shaking the sweater at Quin. “I don’t need more clothes.”
“So looking like you’re still being dressed by your mother is a conscious choice?” Quin asked.
Matheus started. He lowered the sweater, blinking at Quin.
“I’ve said that before,” said Quin, a slight question in his voice.
“Yeah,” said Matheus.
“Well, obviously, it didn’t take the first time.” Quin gave Matheus a deliberate up and down look. “Go on, we haven’t got all night.” He flicked a hand at the dressing rooms.
“I like the shirts I have,” said Matheus, but he rose anyway.
“It’s a sweater,” Quin called after him.
“Bite me!”
Inside the dressing room, Matheus tossed the sweater on the bench, then leaned up against the door. He needed to get a grip on himself. His nerves still jangled, centipedes crawling under his skin. Damn Quin, and his tie. Matheus rubbed his hands over his face.
“Get a grip,” he mumbled, stripping off his hoodie. He wiggled into the sweater, not bothering to hold back the moan this time. He twisted and turned, ignoring his reflection, soaking in the sensation of the fabric gliding over his skin. Matheus didn’t care if he looked like dog’s vomit. The sweater was a lazy Sunday morning, lounging in bed with a lover, rereading a favorite book. Matheus ran his palms over the sleeves; he’d never felt so much desire to snuggle with himself. He wondered how much the sweater cost, and if he had the funds for a lifetime supply.
“Are you done?” Quin called through the door.
“I’m not getting the sweater,” said Matheus, a bold-faced lie. He pulled up the collar, burying his face in the deliciously soft cashmere. Perhaps sweater manufacturers had taken to threading a bit of black magic into their wares. Goats raised on love potions. Fibers soaked in LSD before shipment. Matheus didn’t care. He’d found true love.
“How does it look?”
Matheus raised his head. “Like a donkey’s ass.”
“I’m coming in.”
“No, don’t—personal boundaries, Quin!” Matheus leaned against the door, but Quin shouldered it open. Matheus’s shoes slid over the carpet.
Quin looked at Matheus, crammed between the now open door, and the wall. “You’re dressed.” He set another sweater down on the bench.
“Why don’t these doors have locks?” Matheus asked, as Quin shut the door. “Don’t they usually have locks?”
“The great questions of our time.” Quin dragged Matheus away from the wall, planting him underneath the light. He circled Matheus, then fussed with the sweater. “Raise your arms. No, not like that. Like this.”
“Other people don’t really exist for you, do they?” Matheus asked as Quin manipulated his arms. “Stop that. I’m not your Barbie.” He batted Quin’s arms away.
“For time being, I am stuck with you, so do me the favor of dressing like a grown man. When this is over, you can wear a beer-stained wife-beater and neon cargo shorts for all I care. Although, I might kill you to prevent the widespread blinding of humanity.”
“Yeah, because you’re a giver like that,” said Matheus.
“Well, hunting the blind seems a trifle unfair.”
Matheus let out a burst of laughter and grinned at Quin.
Quin stared at him, a slight wrinkle between his eyebrows. He stepped forward, placing his fingertips beneath Matheus’s chin. He tilted up Matheus’s face. Quin’s lips pressed together, lines bracketing his mouth. With abrupt movements, he released him, turning away.
Matheus smile faded.
“Quin?”
“That color is wrong. Take it off.” He picked up the other sweater, identical but for the color.
“You are wrong.” Matheus wrapped his arms around his chest. The other sweater hit him in the face. “I will strangle you.” He snatched the sweater off the floor and flapped it at Quin.
“I’d like to see you try, Sunshine,” said Quin. An amused smile masked the strange expression of a moment earlier.
Matheus flinched. He hoped Quin hadn’t noticed, but a quick glance at Quin’s face told him otherwise. The smile had vanished, rep
laced with a narrowed gaze.
“Is something wrong?” Quin asked.
“Don’t call me that,” said Matheus.
“Why not?” Quin sounded benign, calm, but his question spiked directly into the tension filling the small room.
Matheus squeezed the sweater, compressing the soft fabric into a tight ball. “I knew someone who used to call me that.” He stared down at his feet, his hair swinging into his eyes. Quin’s shoes came into view, his shadow falling over him, hiding the light. He jerked as Quin’s fingers brushed over his forehead. He didn’t want this Quin touching him. He’d forgotten, for a moment, but hearing “sunshine” in that distant voice brought everything back. Not my Quin.
“It suits you.” Quin tugged on a lock of Matheus’s hair. “Try on the sweater.” He stepped away.
Matheus exhaled, his grip on the sweater relaxing. “What’s wrong with this one?” He gestured toward his chest.
Quin leaned against the door, crossing his legs at the ankle and shoving his hands into his pockets. He looked like an extra from an old-timey gangster movie. Matheus wanted to buy him a fedora and a pack of Lucky Strikes, just to complete the picture.
“It makes you look bilious,” said Quin.
“Oh, for God’s sake.” Matheus turned around, although the full-length mirror made modesty a futile gesture. He pulled green sweater number one over his head, then straightened, shaking out sweater number two. Behind him, Quin made a muted sound in the back of his throat.
“What?” asked Matheus.
“That’s an interesting piece of body art,” said Quin. “Did you think you’d forget?”
Quin shifted. Matheus hunched his shoulders, waiting, watching the reflection, but Quin stayed by the door. Apparently, he’d moved on from his drive-Matheus-insane-by-touching-him-every-five-seconds campaign.
“I didn’t have much choice in the matter,” Matheus said. “I was tied up, and there was a madman with a knife.” He shuddered, remembering that night. “A very dull knife.”
“Did you kill him?” Quin asked, his curiosity academic.
“No, I sent him a whetstone.”
“You should have killed him before he got the knife,” said Quin.
