by Noah Harris
“You are making yourself up from scratch, too, Shaeffer Gipson. Telling yourself a new story. And he is a part of that, too.” He looked back at the kettle, seeing both of them in the glue and in the broken pieces, and then sighed in relieved happiness. She was still smiling at him, giving him her blessing.
“I just want to help him,” he said finally, trying to summon the courage to tell this woman, this approving, helpful, terrifying woman, his fears. “I could have loved him before all of this, too. He’s not dark, he’s just…full of fire. And it comes and goes, and sometimes it’s raging. I think it would have scared me away, probably.” He paused, looking at a ladybug that had landed on the rim of his teacup. It crawled along, wetting its feelers in the place where he’d taken a sip, and then buzzing away. “But I’d love him, secretly. The one that got away.”
“But he is still here,” Clara reminded him, and he nodded, still feeling like he needed to get this weight off his chest, but struggling to explain it.
“He’s the one who can’t get away, though. It’s different. I always wanted to be loved for something besides my face and my body, but now I feel like I can’t trust what we’ve become, either, what he have. How do you know it’s not just…two broken people needing each other? How do you know it’s real?” Clara’s eyes narrowed as he was saying this, and she puffed up, seeming to get taller, less frail-looking. Her eyes were gold, sparking with something that looked like anger, no longer that yellow that made her look like a hawk. He shrunk down in his seat again. What had he said wrong?
“Dragons don’t lie,” she said sharply. “And alpha dragons never depend on others. It’s not in our nature. If he allows you to help him, that’s more a sign of respect and love than anything else he could do. You would do well not to mention that concern to Konrad, if you do in fact love him. It is…” she trailed off, taking a deep breath and seeming to come back to herself, the woman who had welcomed him into her home. “Offensive.”
He nodded urgently, feeling reassured and also completely petrified, almost sick to his stomach with it.
“Any other questions?” She looked hard into his face, then down his body. Shaeffer felt the questions he hadn’t dared to ask Konrad. How Clara had found him, why she chose him, how many other dragons there were, the politics of this hidden shifter world with different species and leaders. But before he could form any of them in his mind, he felt that anxious nausea turn into something more serious, something worse.
“I’m sorry,” he grunted, and then bent forward, vomiting all over the floor, his stomach clenching so hard it made his fingers curl.
“Oh, my,” Clara said softly, and he wiped his face, gasping for air.
“I’m so sorry,” he said again, keeping his eyes down, looking for an exit. He stood up quickly, feeling dizzy and unsure what direction he was facing.
“Powder room is that way, dear,” Clara said helpfully, though she seemed unnerved. He nodded, covering his mouth with his hand and jogging back into the lobby. The bathroom door was open, across from him, like it was waiting for him to throw up in there. He rushed to it and fell to his knees, sticking his head almost entirely in the toilet so his stomach could finish emptying its contents. His head hurt from the force of it, and he fell backward onto his ass, leaning against the cold tiled wall.
He sat there for a moment, trying to center himself. He heard a bell ringing, Clara ordering servants to clean up the mess he’d left behind. Clattering, tinkling, signaled that someone was packing up the teapot and cups, clearing the greenhouse parlor so it could get disinfected. He groaned, covering his face with his hands. Their meeting was over.
He knew he’d be back, eventually, whether to ask Clara for help or to apologize for being absolutely disgusting in front of her…and he had a feeling Clara knew he’d be back, too. This was only their first talk.
Doctor’s Orders
Konrad Fontaine
The last time Shaeffer had come back from his doctor’s office, a month ago, he’d laughed it all off. He’d told Konrad the story of his arrival, his check-up, his dismissal.
Shaeffer had arrived, hungry after his trip to the gym but not having enough time to get something on his drive to the doctor’s office. He’d walked in, irritable, signed his name on the paper which, attached to the clipboard, had seemed soggy, almost as though someone had sneezed on it.
Konrad could remember the way he’d said the word, sneezed. Eyebrows raised, eyes wide, word floating from his mouth like it had a dozen more e’s, waiting for Konrad to elicit some kind of response that would signal his disgust and mirror Shaeffer’s.
He’d signed his name and looked in disdain at the color they’d repainted the waiting room, a dizzying bright yellow that reminded him of snot or the throw-up from a dog, you know when they haven’t eaten anything, and it’s all stomach acid, water and yellow goop. Then he’d sat near the exit so he could watch the other patients come in and out of the building without anyone noticing him looking at their outfits. One man, skinny, sickly, had come in wearing an orange string-tank and a leopard print leather jacket. His shoes had been coated entirely in mud.
Shaeffer had waited only about ten minutes before a nurse came out looking for him, pronouncing his name incorrectly. Chef-for. Cheffor! He’d followed her through the heavy metal door, through a series of maze-like hallways that he didn’t remember being so confusing, and she led him into a room with far too many watercolor portraits of birds on the walls. She’d taken his vitals and left.
Konrad, at this point, had raised his eyebrows expectantly, and Shaeffer had chuckled dismissively. All perfect, as usual. Don’t worry so much! Then he’d complained about the doctor, a new one who apparently paled in comparison to the one he’d had in New York City, whose hair was unkempt. Really unprofessional, he’d lamented. The doctor had made small-talk with him for a few minutes, asking where he came from, what he did, whether he smoked, whether he was sexually active. Shaeffer had answered all the questions in a monotone voice, or maybe the tone was merely the way he relayed it to Konrad. He imagined Shaeffer, sitting on the observation table, shirt raised as the doctor held a stethoscope to his back, asked him to breathe in and out and what his sexual orientation was and whether he’d been tested.
Then Shaeffer had pointed out the small mass on his stomach, so small it would’ve been unnoticeable to anyone but a model whose body was their job, and the doctor had felt it and shrugged. “Feels like fat, but it’s more solid. You say you go to the gym often, as a model. I’d say it’s probably just more muscle. Maybe it feels unfamiliar or unwanted because you prefer to be lean.” Feels like fat! Shaeffer had complained, shaking his head. There’s not an ounce of fat on my body. Konrad had agreed with a flirty chuckle.
And then they had dinner and drank some wine and made love and Shaeffer had kissed Konrad’s unseeing eyes before they went to bed, like he usually did.
Today was different.
Shaeffer walked in the door, silent, the only reason Konrad knew someone had walked in was because of the door slamming, and he only knew it was Shaeffer from the weight of his footsteps and his unmistakable scent. It had shifted, slightly, become tangier over the past few weeks. The difference was nearly imperceptible, but Konrad noticed. He’d gotten used to it by now, but it always made him wrinkle his nose in confusion at first.
“Shaeffer? You home?” Konrad asked loudly, and he heard Shaeffer grunt in response. He’d had another doctor’s appointment, with a different doctor farther from home, and he was home later than usual as a result. “How’d it go?”
“Fine,” Shaeffer said shortly, and Konrad listened to him putting groceries away, the fridge opening and shutting, opening and shutting; boxes being crammed into cabinets whose doors slammed shut moments after. “They have no idea. It doesn’t matter. I’m just going to start going to the gym every day instead of six days a week.”
“You could work out at home,” Konrad offered, and Shaeffer didn’t respond. Konrad could h
ear his footsteps back and forth in the kitchen. “Well, I’m sure you’ll figure it out. Why don’t you start dinner?” Konrad asked, although in this game they played it was more of a demand. Shaeffer would usually reply with a yes, sir, the words rolling off his tongue languidly, making Konrad’s skin warm and his chest rumble. The demand would usually get pushed to the back burner.
“I planned on it,” Shaeffer said, his voice sounding like it’d been removed from his body and was floating above them, distant and brooding. Sullen.
“Well, good,” Konrad replied awkwardly. “And get me a glass of wine.”
“You can have it with your dinner.” Konrad leaned back against the couch, sinking into the cushions. He usually found comfort in Shaeffer’s silence because he could hear other parts of him, his hands gripping a knife which sliced through vegetables for their meals, his feet padding across the floor, his lungs inhaling and exhaling the precious oxygen they got to share. Occasionally Shaeffer would hum as he cooked or cleaned or bathed, and Konrad would close his eyes, pretend nothing was wrong, and let it lull him to sleep.
Right now, he heard none of that. Shaeffer was silent. He couldn’t even hear his breathing, no movement whatsoever. It went on for so long, or maybe it didn’t, maybe it just felt like an eternity waiting for Shaeffer to say something, ask him if he was okay, as he sometimes did when Konrad got that look on his face. Konrad started to fear that he’d missed the sound of Shaeffer walking back to the door, pulling his shoes on, easing it open and then shutting behind him. Had he left? Or had he simply disappeared?
The darkness in front of him, around him, seemed to get larger. Usually, it felt like he’d been given eyepatches; the darkness in front of him was only about an inch, and if he looked right or left, he could see some kind of flashing light in his periphery. But there were moments, like this, where the darkness seemed to swallow him, where it seemed to span miles, where it seemed to surround him so completely that no one would be able to pull him out of it.
He almost called out Shaeffer’s name, desperate to know if he was still there, in the apartment. If he was still with him, near him. But something stopped him from calling for Shaeffer, that frustrating pride he’d used as a defense mechanism. Now it was starting to feel like the catalyst for his loneliness. When he let down his walls and put his pride aside, that was when he felt the best, the most secure. But there was something about Shaeffer’s apparent frustration, or anger, or surliness, or resentment—could it be resentment?—that made him stop and press his lips tightly together.
Instead, he decided his best option was to stand up and try to get to the kitchen. His senses hadn’t tricked him. He would’ve heard Shaeffer leave. It seemed more likely that Shaeffer was standing in the kitchen, maybe reading something on his phone or trying to find a recipe on that website he loved.
Konrad was pretty confident at navigating his apartment now, the maze of furniture almost second nature to him at this point, and he reached out his hands when his hip met the island. He could finally hear Shaeffer, breathing slowly, so slowly it was almost indiscernible. Konrad let his hands float through the air and meet Shaeffer’s shoulder, then pressed his fingers into the fabric of his shirt, massaging the muscles underneath. He came up behind Shaeffer, finally getting his bearings, and kissed Shaeffer’s neck. It was salty.
“Konrad,” Shaeffer said, the word sounding like a sigh. It wasn’t the sigh he was looking for, though, this was more regretful, the second syllable of his name drooping.
“What’s wrong?” Konrad asked kindly, wrapping his arms around Shaeffer’s middle.
“Please,” Shaeffer said, peeling Konrad’s hands away from his body. “Don’t touch me like that.”
“Like what? I was hugging you,” Konrad said defensively, and Shaeffer turned around. He could feel Shaeffer looking into his face and felt, for the first time since he’d first gotten injured, for the first time since Shaeffer had started taking care of him, that he had no idea what Shaeffer was thinking, what the expression on his face probably was. It scared him.
“I’m not up for that tonight,” Shaeffer said softly. “I don’t…I think I’ve got a stomach bug, or something. I’m bloated.”
“I don’t care if you’re bloated,” Konrad said, leaning in to try to kiss him again. Shaeffer turned his head, and Konrad’s lips made contact with his cheek. He pulled back, feeling rejected. Frustration boiled in his stomach.
“I just don’t feel very pretty tonight is all. It’s nothing. Please, Konrad.”
“Okay,” Konrad conceded, backing away from him and feeling, as he backed away, like their souls pulled farther apart, like he was losing Shaeffer. It’s nothing. He convinced himself to let it go; everything was fine. It’s nothing.
“This used to be my go-to dinner when I’d had a bit too much wine, you know,” Konrad said, tearing off a piece of bread and dipping it in the broth. Shaeffer had made chicken-noodle soup. It was delicious and far better than the cans he used to heat up on the stovetop, watching the congealed broth soften and melt around the chunky chicken and soggy barley. He couldn’t remember the brand. Shaeffer sat there silently as he mused, chewing thoughtfully on his bread.
Then something soft collided with his forehead. He felt around in confusion, a roll?
“So, you used to make homemade soup when you got wine-drunk? Wait, I’m sorry, I think plastered is the correct term. Well, I guess you can fend for yourself, then. What on earth would you need little old me for?” Shaeffer said angrily, and Konrad heard his chair skitter across the floor.
“Shaeffer, what are you talking about?”
“I’m nothing but a servant to you, a servant and a sex toy. That’s all I’m around for, isn’t it? I take care of you the best I can, make you homemade fucking soup,” he paused, and Konrad felt another buttery roll pop against his forehead. “And all you have to say is that it reminds you of the canned soup you used to cook yourself when you were a bachelor?” he spat the last word, and Konrad felt all his thoughts evacuate, the words on the tip of his tongue dissolve. He was speechless, helpless.
“I like the soup, Shaeffer,” he said weakly.
“Oh, I’m sure you like it because you didn’t have to make it yourself!” Another roll bounced off the side of his head this time, and he suddenly realized Shaeffer was pacing. Konrad sat there, holding his spoon tightly, all his worst fears coming true. He could almost hear Shaeffer’s feelings radiating off him, or maybe they were hidden between the words he hissed.
You’re nothing but an ungrateful burden.
You’re weak.
You’re useless.
You’re worthless.
You’re holding me back.
You’re holding me hostage.
You’re holding me down.
Konrad knew this day might come, knew this arrangement they had, no matter how much he’d wanted to fool himself into thinking Shaeffer had been able to handle the truth about his identity and so he would be able to handle anything, it wasn’t true. Shaeffer wasn’t his mate, never could be. He wouldn’t be able to love Konrad as he was, broken, weak and needy. Maybe he didn’t hate Konrad yet, but he could hear the resentment in his voice, cracking and straining, like a tea kettle screeching. And it was too much.
“Maybe…maybe we should spend some time apart,” he said, and he heard Shaeffer go still.
“What did you say?”
“I said maybe you should take some time for yourself,” he said calmly, even though he felt like there was a tornado made out of his hyperventilated breaths ripping through his body.
“Time for myself. What’s that code for?” Shaeffer said coldly, and Konrad shook his head in confusion.
“It’s not a fucking code, Shaeffer. I think we need some time apart. I think you need some time away,” he said, and then, feeling his pulse punching in his neck. “Away from me.”
“I never said that,” Shaeffer said bitterly, and this time Konrad could imagine him, arms crossed, hip cock
ed, eyes glaring at the floorboards.
“Why don’t you just maybe take the Tokyo trip alone, to get some air and some…some space. I think that would be best for both of us.” Konrad’s hands shook. He put the spoon down. He didn’t believe a word coming out of his mouth. But what was that saying? If you love something, set it free. If it comes back, it’s yours. If it doesn’t, it never was. This would be their test…but he still half-hoped Shaeffer wouldn’t agree to it, that he would sigh and shake his head and come sit on Konrad’s lap and hug him tightly and they would make up and go to bed and make it up to one another.
“Fine. I think I will,” Shaeffer said coldly. “You know what? I think that’s a great idea. A fantastic idea, in fact.” His heart shriveled inside his chest and he felt the bloodflow to his limbs slow down, make him dizzy in the darkness, the lonely, infinite darkness.
Flying Solo
Shaeffer Gipson
The woman had scanned his ticket for the flight without incident, giving Shaeffer a placid smile as he took it back from her and walked through the claustrophobic, well-lit hallway to the entrance of the plane. He’d handed it over to her easily, too, the hardest part would be the take-off, the separation of Shaeffer from the ground Konrad occupied, the moment the wheels folded under the plane and took him away from their town, their street, their apartment.
Now he sat on the plane, having sped into one of the window seats because he loved to watch the clouds. Cotton candy and cotton balls. This flight wouldn’t be for that feeling of wonder, though, the elation that came with the elevation, the idea that he was flying, floating, seeing the world from above. The quiet woman with the earbuds sitting next to him had long dreadlocks tied back and thrown over her shoulder, beaded just like her neck, wrists and fingers. He glanced at her only once to admire her simple fringed cotton dress before looking back out the airplane window, waiting for them to take off.
