by Amy Fecteau
“Are you going to talk to Quin?” Alistair asked.
Matheus made a disgusted noise in the back of his throat. On second thought, maybe he didn’t deserve a new clipboard.
“You have to talk to him,” said Alistair.
“Since when are you pro-Quin? Yesterday, you told me to kill him.”
“Yes, but since you have an obvious brain deficiency, you’re not going to take my thoughtful advice. So you might as well talk to him.”
“I don’t think advocating murder qualifies as ‘thoughtful advice’.” Matheus fiddled with the knobs of the projector, but they’d rusted solid years ago. He opened the small hatch, peering inside at the collection of gears. “Are you sleeping with Freddie?” He stared at the gears with intense interest.
“Would it bother you if I were?” asked Alistair.
Matheus thought he’d be able to draw the gears from memory. He didn’t want to give Alistair a quick answer. Alistair deserved the truth, if not a clipboard. Unfortunately, since Matheus operated with a superhuman level of denial, delving deep enough to grasp the truth took some time. Finally, he straightened, closing the hatch of the projector. He turned to Alistair, shoving his hands into his pockets. “No.”
“Really?” said Alistair.
“Well.” Matheus scratched the back of his neck. “I’d wonder if he was better than I was.”
“Oh, he is,” said Alistair, with what Matheus considered an unjustifiable amount of smug satisfaction. People had been stoned in the street for less.
“Thank you,” said Matheus. “You couldn’t keep that to yourself. You had to say it.”
“I still love you, you know.”
“I just suck in bed, so you’ve traded up.”
“You rejected me, remember?” Alistair grinned. “Not my fault I got an upgrade.”
Matheus itched to smack the smile off Alistair’s face.
“We’re just not a good fit, you and I,” continued Alistair. “I think we’re better as friends. Friends who occasionally still sleep together. You know, when Freddie happens to be out of town.”
Matheus let out a rough laugh. He shook his hand, rubbing the heel of his palm over his eyes. “Are you moving on? Being mature about this? You?”
“I’m growing as a person,” said Alistair.
Matheus thought for about that for a moment. “Bullshit.”
“Yes, I know,” said Alistair. “But I’m trying, so don’t make things any harder than they already are.”
“So, you spend fifty years pining after Quin, but you decide to get over me in a month. That puts things in perspective.”
Alistair sighed. He stepped into the room, a cloud of dust blossoming around his feet. With a mumbled, “Oh, lord,” Alistair retreated to the doorway, his hand over his mouth and nose.
“Look,” he said. “I didn’t love Quin. I was obsessed with him. He turned me. Even without the bond, it’s intense. And I had been so twisted up inside. He came and took me away, made me feel good. That’s not easy to get over.”
“And now you’ve changed?” Matheus asked.
“People don’t change. I still don’t want to be alone. I still want my Prince Charming.” Alistair gave a self-deprecating smile. “But I can recognize a lost cause when I see one. Freddie wants me. He wants me in the way I want to be wanted. It’s not perfect, but it’s what I have.” He shrugged. “So there it is.” He stared at Matheus’s feet, like a dog expecting a smack from a rolled-up newspaper.
“Okay.”
“Okay?” Alistair looked up.
“Okay.” Matheus nodded.
“Okay.” Alistair smiled. “Can we stop saying ‘okay’ now?”
“Okay.” Matheus grinned.
“I knew you couldn’t resist that,” said Alistair. “I’m leaving now, before the dust gains sentience. If you don’t talk to Quin before I get back, I’m locking you both in the janitor’s closet.”
“You know that only works on sitcoms.”
“Do it, Matheus.”
“Fine.” Matheus flicked his fingers at Alistair in an uncanny impersonation of Henry the Eighth. “Go away now. I find your presence an irritation.”
Alistair rolled his eyes. “Oh, lord. Quin can have you.”
Matheus opened the door to Quin’s lair. The room mirrored the other projection rooms, tiny, with a small window for the projector to shine through, but the air felt colder. Probably because of the malevolent spirit currently sulking in the corner.
“Quin,” said Matheus.
“Have you come to kill me?”
“Er, no, not quite yet.”
“Then why are you here?”
Matheus stepped in farther, closing the door behind him. He leaned back, resting his shoulders against the door and crossing his arms. He didn’t dare move any closer. “I talked to Heaven.”
“Fantastic.”
Matheus flinched. If given the option, he’d go with being locked in a cage with a wounded tiger over being here with Quin. He swallowed, trying to work some saliva into his mouth. “She knows what’s wrong with you.”
“I know what’s wrong with me too.” A second later, Quin shouted, “There’s another person inside my fucking head!”
His voice exploded in the tiny room. Matheus tightened his arms, clenching his fists until his wrists ached. “Heaven thinks she knows how to fix that.” Matheus spoke in a calm, mechanical tone. Father’s voice. He thrust the thought aside.
“And what brilliant insights has she come with?” asked Quin.
“If we redo the bond, your memories might return.”
“Might.”
“Well, it’s not like this happens all the time,” said Matheus. “Most people don’t bounce back and forth between being human and being dead like a fucking yo-yo.”
“What happens if it doesn’t work?” Quin rose, stalking across the room toward Matheus.
“Then… then… I’ll kill you.”
Quin stopped. He twitched. He burst into laughter as loud as his scream had been earlier. He staggered backward, wrapping his arms around his stomach. Empty film canisters skittered around his feet. His heel hit one, and he went down. His laughter spiked to a hysterical pitch. The sound scoured over Matheus, leaving him raw.
“Quin,” he said. “Jesus, stop.”
Quin’s laughter derailed, interrupted by gasps for air, until he lay panting on the ground, his arms spread wide.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Matheus asked. “If you tell me this is one fucked-up practical joke―”
“You don’t understand,” said Quin. “No matter what happens, I’m dead.”
“No,” said Matheus slowly. “One way you’re alive. The better way. You’ll be you again.”
“I’ll be him,” said Quin.
“He is you!”
“No, he’s not!”
“It’s not a fucking completion!” Matheus yelled.
Quin sat up, drawing his legs close to his chest. “You don’t―”
“Shut up! Shut the hell up! Just stop being crazy for five seconds and make a goddamned decision!” Matheus yanked at his hair. “Holy Mary, Mother of God, you’re driving me crazy! We’re going to end up in matching straitjackets. Is that what you want, Quin?”
Quin blinked at him and closed his eyes. He leaned forward, resting his forehead on his knees. After ten minutes or so, Matheus wondered if Quin’s last sane neuron had finally burnt out. He rocked on his heels, watching Quin. Raising his thumb to his mouth, Matheus gnawed on the nail for a bit, then moved onto his index finger. Five more minutes passed.
“Quin―”
“All right,” said Quin. “I’ll do the bonding.” He didn’t look up.
“Right,” said Matheus. “Okay. I’ll, uhh, just get Heaven.”
“You do that.”
f this doesn’t work, you’ll kill me?” Quin asked.
“Yes,” said Matheus.
They’d chosen one of the projection rooms, the farthest from t
he main room. Aside from Heaven, no one knew what he and Quin planned to do. She’d merely nodded when Matheus asked for her help, then vanished for an hour. Returning, she carried a broom and a bundle of white cloth under her arm. Matheus didn’t ask. Maybe she subscribed to more a ritualistic form of claiming. One that required a swept floor. Matheus watched, bemused, as Heaven briskly cleared away the dust and debris. The white bundle rested on a stack of film canisters.
“I want your word.” Quin stood on the opposite side of the room, arms crossed, and fingers digging into his biceps.
“Fine, fine,” said Matheus.
“I will see that he honors it.” Heaven leaned the broom against the wall. From the white bundle, she retrieved a pocketknife. The blade flicked open with a sharp snap. She walked to the center of the room, holding her hands out to Matheus and Quin. “Come here.”
With his eyes on the floor, Quin marched to Heaven. He ignored Heaven’s outstretched hand. She didn’t seem bothered by the rejection. She lowered her arm, gesturing to Matheus with her other hand.
“Come here, Matheus,” she said.
“Actually, I like it over here,” said Matheus, eyeing the knife. “I’m comfy.”
He wiggled his shoulders against the wall, scrunching down a little. His organs felt as though they’d been pureed in a blender and poured back in. He clenched his fists, the tiny aches distracting him from the light flickering off the blade.
Quin made a disgusted noise in the back of his throat. He grabbed the knife out of Heaven’s hand and stalked across the room. He grasped Matheus’s wrist, prying his fingers open, and slapped the knife into his palm.
Matheus closed his hand around the knife. He swallowed, hard.
“Do I have to do it for you?” Quin asked.
“If I say yes, will you think less of me as a man?”
“I don’t think that’s even possible.”
Matheus scowled at him. “I set that one up for you.”
“Stop stalling.”
“I’m not stalling, I’m bantering. It’s what we do. We banter. You know, snappy dia―hey, wait, I’m not read―shit!” Blood welled up from the X crisscrossing Matheus’s palm.
Quin slashed the blade across his own palm without even a wince. He tossed the knife aside. Behind him, Heaven began unwrapping the white bundle.
“What is she―?” Matheus stopped with a grimace as Quin gripped his hand. Blood dripped out, splashing on the floorboards.
“This is unsanitary,” said Matheus as his fingers tingled.
“Shut up.” Quin shifted closer, pressing his free hand against the wall over Matheus’s shoulder.
“I’m just saying―”
“Shut. Up.” Quin lowered his head; his arms shook.
Matheus bit his lip. The tingling in his fingers spread, mixing in with the pain of the cut. A stinging sensation ran up Matheus’s arm, riding the electrical currents of his nerves, expanding into every inch, penetrating into every cell. Quin gasped, or perhaps it had been him, or maybe they’d gasped as one. Matheus shuddered. The stinging contracted, taking Matheus along, like a wave dragging sand away from a beach. Tiny pieces, broken apart, ground smaller and smaller by the bashing of the waves. A whimper escaped Matheus’s throat. He forced himself to raise his head, his gaze meeting Quin’s. Tension lined the skin around Quin’s eyes. He looked like a man who just learned the laws of physics were only an elaborate practical joke. Matheus understood the feeling. He moved closer, resting his forehead on Quin’s chest. His head bobbed as Quin inhaled sharply, and sank as the tension bled away.
The pain faded, pulled out to sea. A deep heat rose, pulsing through Matheus, each beat driving the temperature into a crescendo. The edges of his vision shimmered as the room turned hazy. The wall slid away, the floor dropped into nothingness. The blinding heat squeezed him, compressing him into infinite mass. He felt as though they’d been shot into the center of the sun, gravity and fusion condensing and melding, folding himself into Quin, and Quin into himself. No divide between them; terror and bliss at once.
The heat broke. He snapped into himself, grateful for the wall behind him. He didn’t think he’d be able to stand. He shivered, his teeth chattering in the sudden, aching cold. Quin shook his hand free, and Matheus straightened. He rubbed his thumb over his palm, the skin smooth and unmarked.
“Matheus,” said Quin, with an odd catch in his voice. His arm still rested over Matheus’s shoulder.
He felt a tug, inside, deep inside, the part of him that made him him. He cleared his throat, forcing himself to look up. He didn’t want to know, he didn’t want to know, he didn’t want― “Quin.”
“Sunshine,” said Quin, and grinned. A fraction of a second passed, then he pressed forward, pinning Matheus’s wrists against the wall.
A new kind of heat built in his gut. He licked his lips, feeling a rush of glee as Quin’s gaze followed the path of his tongue. Matheus wondered if the antelope ever volunteered to be eaten by the lion.
“Heaven, you should leave,” said Quin, without looking away. His pupils expanded, swallowing his irises.
Matheus raked his teeth over his lower lip, and burst into a wide smile as Quin made a soft, keening sound.
“Yes,” said Matheus. “Leaving. Good.” He arched his back, shifting his hips forward. A whole inch of space divided him from Quin. Far too much.
“Are you sure?” asked Heaven.
“Yes!”
Quin leaned closer, his breath brushing over Matheus’s skin, his gaze devouring every inch of his face: his eyes, his mouth, and along the curve of his jaw.
Matheus squirmed. “Did you forget what I look like?”
“Just making sure everything’s still where I left it.” Quin smiled as he kissed Matheus, languid caresses of lips and tongue.
Matheus’s bones melted, leaving him in a pool of warmth. He didn’t care if Heaven had left or not. Stubble rasped over his cheek; Quin’s scent filled his lungs. Meeting Quin’s tongue with his own, he stroked, tasted, explored the sensitive corners of Quin’s mouth. As Quin pulled away, Matheus gave chase before being brought up short by an iron grip on his wrists.
“Sunshine,” scolded Quin, shaking his head. He kicked the inside of Matheus’s feet, spreading out his legs. Pulling his arms together, he transferred to a one-handed grip.
“I really hate it when you call me that―aah!” Matheus gasped as Quin slipped a hand underneath his sweater. Calluses rubbed over skin, long fingers skating over his ribs.
“No, you don’t.” Quin circled Matheus’s nipple with his fingertip, then gave the nub a hard flick.
Matheus yelped. “Your hands are cold!”
“I’m dead. What did you expect?” Quin released him, and tugged at his sweater.
His gaze slid over Matheus’s chest, making him shiver from something beside the chill air. He reached for Quin, brushing his shirt before he captured his wrists once more.
“Shirt,” said Matheus.
Quin bent his head to suck at the soft skin behind Matheus’s ear.
“Oh, God.” He writhed, his eyelids fluttering. “Oh… yes, there.”
Shimmering tingles overrode his nervous system, turning his skin into a conduction circuit, every touch echoing back and forth at light speed.
Quin dipped lower, tracing the line of muscle in his neck with the tip of his tongue. His free hand roamed over Matheus’s chest, up his sides, around to the small of his back.
A thought hovered before the dizziness. He struggled to focus and blinked at the smooth dark head sliding down his body.
“Shirt,” Matheus said. “Quin, your shirt.”
“I’ll get there,” mumbled Quin into his abdomen.
“You don’t have a weird belly button fetish, do you?” Matheus asked.
Quin’s laugh tickled his skin. “No.” Quin climbed Matheus’s chest with wet, sucking kisses, stopping to nibble on his nipples before continuing upward. Lips brushed the shell of his ear as he whispered, “
Unless you want me to have one.”
“Nope, all set with that,” said Matheus.
Quin laughed again, and pressed his lips to Matheus’s throat.
“You can―ooh!―be rougher.” Matheus tilted his head back, as Quin dragged his tongue along the underside of his jaw. “I’m not a wom―aaah!”
He groaned as Quin bit down hard on the sensitive curve where Matheus’s shoulder met his neck. Pain spiked into his body, sharp and intoxicating.
“Like that?” Quin asked.
Matheus heard the smirk in his voice. Part of him wanted to scowl, but most of him wanted to beg Quin to do that again, in a variety of places. Matheus started to list them, but Quin seemed bent on marking every inch of his skin, so Matheus decided Quin didn’t need instructions. He tugged his wrists, testing Quin’s hold. Steel bars didn’t compare. Every bite drove Matheus a bit closer to madness. He ached to touch Quin, to trace the hard angles of his body with his mouth, to feel Quin’s weight pressing down on him. His breath tore out of his mouth; his chest heaved as though he’d just run a marathon. Bursts of heat and pain exploded throughout his body, feeding into a wild, throbbing need.
“Quin,” he whined, thrusting a sadly neglected portion of his anatomy forward.
Quin paused in his quest to make a tsking noise with his tongue. He wrapped his free hand around Matheus’s throat, and squeezed. Not enough to choke, but a hard pressure that made his nerves do a samba of delicious vibrations. Releasing his wrists, Quin shifted his other hand to Matheus’s hair, winding his fingers among the thick strands.
“Gorgeous,” he said, the word escaping on a whisper of air. He tightened his grip, and yanked.
Matheus moaned, twisting, struggling not to free himself, but to rub against Quin. He’d never considered how much he enjoyed having his hair pulled, although he’d always known he’d had a kink or two. Or seven. Matheus wondered if Quin was interested in purchasing a whip. And if not, how to make him interested.
Quin teased Matheus with a blitz of soft brushes, too light to be called kisses, a counterpoint to the stinging pain in his scalp. Matheus squirmed, panting, the frustration torment and ecstasy at the same time. Giving up control, being dominated, felt beyond brilliant, beyond anything he had ever experienced. Every touch heightened, each caress sparking and burning deep down to the bone. Clinically, he knew adrenaline played its part, shooting through his system with every bright surge of pain, but that didn’t explain everything. The feeling, the moment, the connection between them, everything travelled far beyond mere chemical reactions.
