Fantastic places whistled past, the Grand Canyon, Mount Rushmore, the bright green grass-seed farms of the Willamette Valley, and the battlefield at Antietam. All the while, his boy talked and held on as they sped over the road together. At last, the motorcycle slowed to a stop to wait for a procession of pedestrians in a crosswalk. They all walked behind a casket crossing the road in a carriage, New Orleans-style, with a jazz band and men and women carrying umbrellas dancing along behind it. Walking slowly behind the casket was a solemn, copper-haired boy, who looked at him as he passed, tears and accusations glowing in his eyes.
Michael looked down to see the hands that clasped around his waist and found, not the soft, freckled hands of his boy, but the gnarled and filthy hands of someone entirely alien to him, and he turned in the seat of his motorcycle to see Mary behind him, her eyes cold and dead, still holding him around the waist in rigor mortis.
Emma’s voice came to Michael from far away, murmuring over the pings of something droning and mechanical that he could hear distantly as he fought to understand what had happened to him. After a while, the voice that had spoken softly beside him drifted away, the sound of a door closing firmly behind it.
It hurt him somehow to be without a human voice in this impersonal place where he was cold and fuzzy-headed, and pain exploded in the cave behind his eyes as he tried to make them open. Failing that, failing everything it seemed at that point, Michael wept tears of bitter frustration, which leaked down the sides of his face and fell into the hair by his temples. He heard the door open again and tentative footsteps approach him. He felt a warm hand flutter briefly along the side of his face, encountering the wetness there.
“Michael?” he heard Tristan’s voice and tried to make his gritty eyes open again. “Michael, can you hear me?” He felt a warm hand on his own and weakly squeezed it.
“Hey!” Excitement pulsed through Tristan. “Hey, I’ve got to get Emma. Wait.” He skittered to the door of the private hospital room. “Don’t go anywhere. I’m coming right back.”
Tristan careened out the door into the doctor, whom he told first thing that Michael had squeezed his hand, and then ran to the waiting room to get Emma, tugging her back to where he’d left Michael, heedless of hospital policy. When he returned, Michael’s blue eyes were open and rested on him, dazed, while the doctor spoke quietly with him.
“Tristan,” Michael said hoarsely. “Mama.” He lifted a hand, which Tristan caught and held in his. Emma clasped the other.
“Hey, Sparky.” Michael smiled weakly.
“Hey, Michael,” said Tristan, his tears spilling onto the hand he was holding as he reached down to kiss it.
“Mama, this shit sucks. Sorry,” Michael said to Emma. She wiped her eyes.
The doctor looked at Michael seriously. “You’ve used up all the luck you’re probably ever going to get. You know that, right?”
“Yeah,” said Michael grimly.
“Do you remember what happened?”
“Not really, no,” said Michael. “I dreamed we were riding,” he said to his mother and Tristan. “Out on old Route 66.”
Emma shook her head. “There are some cops who’ll be anxious to see you too. They’re crowding the waiting room. It’s déjà vu all over again. I kept thinking maybe I ought to just start singing ‘We Shall Not Be Moved.’”
“They’re here for me, not you.” Michael tried to smile. “This time.” Seconds later the same eyes drooped tiredly, and Michael’s hand fell back on the bed, out of Tristan’s. “So tired,” he sighed. “Can I see Tristan alone?”
Emma looked at the doctor. “Sure,” he said. “Five minutes, don’t tire him out.”
“Okay,” said Tristan, still looking only at Michael, noticing every movement, every nuance that crossed his exhausted face.
Emma and the doctor left them alone, silent, against the backdrop of mechanized beeps and the hiss of oxygen as it flowed into Michael’s nose through the cannula.
“I’m so sorry, Sparky,” said Michael, gripping his hand tightly.
“Oh, shut up,” said Tristan, caught so suddenly and wrenchingly by tears that he half snorted and half gagged. “Shut the hell up and kiss me,” he said, his lips descending on Michael’s, his tongue running along the chapped skin. “I’m so getting you ChapStick as soon as they kick my ass out of here.” He laughed and cried.
“Tristan,” said Michael. “Love.”
“Yes,” hissed Tristan fiercely. “Yes. Love.” He pressed his cheek against Michael’s.
“This is the worst. So tired. I’m all out of…stuff.” His eyes tried to close again.
Tristan laughed with his lips against Michael’s abrasive chin. “Yeah, you used up all your stuff, so rest. I’ll be right here. Not going anywhere without you.”
“Keeping you, Sparky.”
“Love you,” said Tristan before he practically tiptoed out of Michael’s room. Michael had already drifted off.
* * * * *
Tristan was sleeping on the vinyl waiting room chair the following day when his mother sat in the seat beside him.
“Hey,” he said, swiping at his eyes with the heels of his hands. “What time is it? I’ve lost track.”
She grinned at him. “One in the afternoon. Have you eaten anything besides doughnuts?” she asked, looking at the pink boxes scattered in what was now plainly considered the “fans of Michael Truax” area of the waiting room.
“I honestly can’t remember.” He sighed, sat up, and immediately remembered getting a large tattoo on his ass. “Shit.”
“What?”
“Nothing. Maybe I should go to Michael’s and take a shower, get some clothes.”
“I wanted to talk to you about that.”
He winced a little. “Stiff,” he murmured.
“Listen,” she began. “I don’t know when Michael’s going to be discharged, but he’s going to need a lot of help at the house at first. His mom is next door, of course, but he isn’t likely to want her around all the time fussing. And she’s just worried sick. I was going to suggest that you stay with him while he convalesces.” She put her hand on his.
“Well, sure,” he said. “I know it’s been crazy since Michael got hurt, but I can come get the boys and get them to school in plenty of time to get to class and take them to band and the orthodontist. I can stop by the house a couple of times a week to cook and do laundry, too. Anyway, it’s finals week, starting…shit, tomorrow. After that we’ll be on Christmas break, and they won’t need a chauffeur until after New Year’s, and by then…” He absently rubbed his chin, acknowledging that even he probably needed a shave as rare as that was.
“About that, baby,” she said. “I thought if I got Lily a car she would be able to drive the boys where they need to go. The boys are old enough to start taking on some of the responsibility you’ve been shouldering, and really, it would do them good.”
“What are you saying?” he asked, his heart pounding. On the one hand, he would love to be there for Michael, on the other, his mother needed him, didn’t she?
“I love you, Tris. You’re such an amazing kid.” She shook her head and started to cry. “You’ve helped me so much. You never needed asking.”
“Mom.” Her tears were like acid rain, dissolving all of his hard-won cool.
“Tris, it’s okay if you go with Michael when he gets out. He’ll need you… You’re so lucky to get a second chance…”
“I’ve just got to get through finals.” He was grimly determined not to have to do the classes over again. “Maybe you guys could help me keep it together until then.”
“Of course, we’ll talk about it more,” she said, getting up. “But first, you’ve got to eat something that doesn’t come out of a pink box. Come with me.” She grabbed his hand and dragged him toward the exit.
“Wait.” Tristan ran back and picked up his messenger bag and any trash lying around, leaving the doughnuts for anyone who stopped by to check on Michael in what was arguably his
waiting spot.
“Ready,” he said, going out into the sunlight with his mother. “We have to be back at three. That’s the next time we can visit.”
* * * * *
Michael woke to something smooth and fruity being massaged into his lips. “Hm?” he said, smiling as the sensation changed to a light brush of lips on his.
“Hey there.” Tristan finished coating Michael’s lips with lip balm and gave him another sweet kiss.
“Thank you,” said Michael, for both the kiss and the lip balm. He’d been feeling his chapped lips since he’d regained consciousness, and it was just one more thing that was bugging him.
“You are so welcome. Do you know what?” Tristan asked, pulling up a chair and sitting in it with one leg under him. “I’ve got finals this week. You could have thought of that.”
“Man, I knew it wasn’t a good week to get stabbed,” said Michael, trying not to laugh and finding out that everything, everything hurt.
“Well, milk spilt,” said Tristan, looking over the skin on Michael’s arms. “It’s amazing how badly they bruised you just getting an I.V. in. You look like someone beat you with a wrench. The EMT told me he was terrified he’d lose you. You scared the hell out of a lot of people, Officer Truax.”
“I know,” said Michael, taking Tristan’s offered hand in his. “I’m so sorry.”
“I cannot lose you, love,” said Tristan, quietly. “I. Can. Not.”
“I understand.” Michael was silent for a while and then spoke again. “I dreamed we were riding together, all across the country, just the two of us.”
“Really, the Harley?” Tristan’s spirits rose just thinking about that bike.
“Yeah, just you and me. All over.” He didn’t mention the cold, dead hands gripping his waist. That part he didn’t have to share.
“From what I understand,” Tristan began carefully, “You’ll be phased back into work from a desk first and expected to see someone about your attack.”
“I know,” said Michael. “They’ll evaluate me. See if I’m fit for duty.”
“Yeah, nothing worse than an uptight cop,” said Tristan, whose opinion of the police had been formed in his days as an intrepid skate park hooligan.
“Sparky,” warned Michael.
“Sorry,” said Tristan. “Probably.”
Michael smiled, and for the first time it didn’t hurt. “How’s Mama doing?”
“She’s holding up,” said Tristan. “I think so, anyway. She’s working now, and she’ll be here later. Starting tomorrow, I won’t be here as much because of finals, but I’ll be here at night and whenever I can. When they kick me out, I’m going to your house to take a shower and change and maybe review my chemistry notes.”
“Our house,” Michael corrected him.
“What?” asked Tristan, his surprised blue eyes meeting Michael’s.
Michael gripped his hand. “I want it to be our house, Tristan. I don’t want to go slow. I want to race into the future, and I want it to be our future together. Stay with me. Live with me. Be mine. Everything I have, everything I am is already yours.”
“Oh, jeez,” said Tristan, running a nervous tongue over his lips. “Jeez.”
“That’s it?” asked Michael arching a brow.
“Baby, it’s not like I spent my childhood practicing for the day when some guy would say that to me,” said Tristan, his cheeks flaming up.
“But, jeez?” said Michael. “Jeez is something you say when the waiter brings that big pepper mill for your salad and you forget to say ‘when.’”
“Don’t get worked up,” said Tristan. “You’re going to rupture something, and the doctor is going to blame me.”
“You little shit.” Michael smiled, his eyes on Tristan’s lips.
Tristan noticed the look immediately. “Don’t look at me like that!”
“How come?” said Michael, although he knew perfectly well and was already tired to the point of exhaustion from the conversation alone. Looking was all he could do for a while.
“You should probably wait till they remove the catheter before you start something, don’t you think?”
“Uh, yeah,” said Michael. “But you do realize that something starts the moment you walk in here, don’t you?”
“Even now?”
“Oh, yeah, my heart’s on fire, but my body? Not so much.” His eyes started to close again.
“Well, lie there and get well,” said Tristan. “My time’s up, and I’ll see you soon.”
“And you’ll consider it? Us?” Michael caught his hand.
“You just get better. The future is too far away,” said Tristan hoarsely, kissing him.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
On December twenty-third, Emma gave Tristan keys to Michael’s truck, and he used it to bring his belongings to the house to move in. He felt a little breathless when he thought of it. He had so very little of his own that the truck had hardly been needed, but his bicycle wouldn’t fit in the Beemer, and his mother insisted he take his father’s favorite art books. He hoped he and Michael could make space for them, because they were all photographic studies of architecture, and he loved them very much. He thought they would interest Michael as well, but the house wasn’t that big, and he didn’t want to presume.
Tristan made short work out of stacking most of the boxes either in the bedroom or the office and was placing his bicycle in the garage when a low, gravelly voice spoke behind him, and he turned to see Ron standing in Emma’s yard.
“Moving in?” asked Ron.
“Yes,” said Tristan neutrally.
“Look, I know you don’t have a lot to say to me,” began Ron. “But we both love Michael.”
“Yes, we do,” agreed Tristan. He closed the garage and turned back.
“I just wanted to talk to you,” said Ron.
“Okay,” said Tristan. He walked to the back door, holding it open. “I have coffee going.”
“Thanks.” Ron looked over the small kitchen. “He sure did a beautiful job on this one.”
“Yes,” agreed Tristan. “It was a labor of love. He really likes this place, and it shows in the attention to detail.”
“It does. Look, I don’t know what Michael told you about me…”
“He told me you used to be lovers,” said Tristan. “And that maybe the two of you had different expectations of what that meant.”
“That’s diplomatic,” grunted Ron. “I like to play games. I never made a secret of it. It still makes me sick that he didn’t feel like he could tell me he wanted something different.”
“I don’t think he knew how.”
“Well, he’s got you now, and it’s good,” said Ron. “Although you’re a mouthy little thing.”
“That what you wanted to talk to me about?” asked Tristan with his chin up. He wasn’t going to let Ron push him around. Ron had no idea how far he’d go to protect Michael.
“Look at you.” Ron whistled. “You aren’t afraid of anything are you?”
“Yes,” said Tristan honestly. “I’m afraid of losing Michael.”
“Me too, and that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.” He seemed suddenly at a loss for words.
“Cream and sugar?” Tristan asked, handing him a large mug of coffee.
“No, thank you,” said Ron. “Have you given any thought to what your presence in this home might mean to Michael?”
“Well, he asked me to move in. I can’t say I’ve thought beyond that,” said Tristan carefully.
“Well, he’s a little naive, isn’t he? He’s a cop, Sparky. Surely you know that’s not the most gay-friendly occupation.”
“Yes, but…”
“In the hospital, the other cops were probably thinking, Look at that boy. Michael’s got himself a fan club. They look at you, and they know that you love him, and you’re not exactly hiding it, are you?”
Tristan blushed to the roots of his hair. “I know. I didn’t say anything, but I know they could tell.”
“Safe?” asked Tristan numbly.
“Yeah, safe,” repeated Ron. “Michael has a dangerous job, and he needs to know that his brother officers are going to have his back. I’m not saying anything would be deliberate, although it’s certainly happened in the past. I’m saying what if someone hesitates? What if someone thinks, if it’s him or me, maybe it should be him?”
“You’re saying if I move in here, Michael could suffer.”
“I’m asking you to think about it very carefully, for Michael’s sake. It’s not jealousy talking. He’s like family. We tried something, and it didn’t work. Someday we’ll all get past it and be family again. I’m happy when he’s happy, and he’s happy with you. But he’s not a doctor or a lawyer or an Indian chief.” Tristan could tell this was probably the most Ron had said for a week. “He’s a cop, and maybe he needs to hide that he’s gay so he can stay a safe cop.”
Tristan put his head into his hands.
“I’m sorry, Sparky. I’m not sure I’m right; I’m just asking you to think.” Ron put his hand out and stroked Tristan’s hair, and Tristan had the impression that Ron had been more of a father to Michael than a lover. That it had been a bad thing for both of them to try something different.
“He is not going to understand,” Tristan said quietly.
“No, probably not,” said Ron. “It doesn’t mean you can’t still be together, though. Hiding homosexuality is a time-honored and little-respected art these days. I ought to know. I kind of liked the drawn-out tension of seeing a big guy in leathers and not knowing. When it was all about dropping hints. What a rush, wondering if you were getting pulled into an alley to be blown or beaten senseless. Now, it seems everyone has to wear signs.” He rolled his eyes.
Tristan laughed, although he was also crying, so it made a snot bubble come out of his nose. “Shit,” he said, grabbing a napkin.
Crossing Borders Page 22
