Murmuration

by TJ Klune

  But it wasn’t one of those days. It wasn’t, because Sean was fired up and Mike was a bastard.

  So no, Sean wasn’t stupid. Mike knew that. He knew that probably better than anyone. But it didn’t change the fact that Mike had a decade and some change on Sean, and Mike didn’t want to take anything away from him. He’s just a kid, he told himself on the nights he couldn’t sleep. Just a kid and I don’t want to do anything with him.

  It was a lie, of course.

  “You’re not stupid,” Mike agreed, wishing this was already over.

  “We were doing just fine until you started thinking with that fool head of yours.”

  “It’s the only head I got,” Mike said, trying for some levity but failing miserably.

  “You think you’re funny, but you’re not.”

  “Okay,” Mike said.

  “I know what you’re trying to do.”

  Mike didn’t believe that. He hadn’t said a damn thing to Sean, instead going with the time-honored tradition of taking the coward’s way out. It was better, he thought, to appear aloof than not. Granted, Mike didn’t always have the best plans, or even think things through. He knew this about himself.

  “I’m not trying to do anything,” he said.

  But Sean wasn’t having it and proved, not for the first time, just how well he knew Mike Frazier. “You’re not too old for me, Mike. I’m not some kid, and you’re not some old man.”

  Mike should have known. He really should have. He sighed and stood, turning to look at Sean for the first time since he’d burst through the doorway. “Sean,” he started. “I just—”

  “If the next words out of your mouth aren’t ‘Yes, Sean, you’re absolutely right,’ then I don’t want to hear it.”

  Stubborn git. Mike could play stubborn too. “You know that’s how it is.”

  “No,” Sean said, “I don’t know how it is.”

  “Well, you should. I’m too old for you to do whatever it is we’re doing.”

  “We’re friends,” Sean said, voice breaking.

  That caused Mike to pause, because—had he misread everything? Did Sean want nothing more from him than friendship? That hurt more than he thought it would, a bone-weary ache that made him want to curl in on himself, even though he was trying to argue against such a thing.

  “Friends,” he echoed dully.

  And that caused Sean’s face to soften. “Yes,” he said. “And we were getting somewhere with it, somewhere more, when you decided to act like an ass.”

  That shouldn’t have made him feel as good as it did. He was barely able to keep it from his face as it was. It was relief, really, to hear it finally voiced out loud, even if it was veiled as something more.

  And somehow, it strengthened his resolve to keep it from ever happening.

  They argued for a while longer, Mike stumbling over his words, Sean growling out his retorts, saying things like It doesn’t matter to anyone in Amorea except for you and Don’t you think I’m smart enough to make my own decisions?

  But it was the last thing he said that snapped Mike clean in half. Sean was standing near the door, hands fisted at his sides, mouth set in a thin line. He was angry, angrier than Mike had ever seen him before. His face was splotchy and he was practically vibrating out of his skin.

  And then he said, “I took you for many things, Mike Frazier. But I never took you to be a coward.”

  And then he was out the door, the little bell ringing overhead in the empty shop.

  Mike stood there staring after him for a very long time.

  It’d been a week later, at one of the many town picnics put on by the Amorea Women’s Club (also known as the book club, the garden club, and the Keep Amorea Clean Committee—Mrs. Richardson was nothing if not tenacious, and had her finger in many, many pies) that he saw Sean again. Only this time, he was on the arm of a young man by the name of James Cooper, who worked at the cinema as the ticket taker and projectionist. He was blandly handsome and didn’t have a mean bone in his body.

  Of course, Mike disliked him immediately on that day, but kept such thoughts to himself. He hadn’t even planned on going to the picnic, but Mrs. Richardson had sniffed at him in that way that she did that relayed how disappointed she would be in him, and how she would be sure to make his life a living hell for at least three days following if he didn’t at least put in an appearance. “After all,” she’d said, “you wouldn’t want to be the only one in Amorea not in attendance, would you? Why, the thought alone is enough to make me think you’re of a miserly sort. Don’t make me think that about you.”

  So he’d gone, and Walter was there with Donald and Calvin, and he clapped Mike on the back, giving him a sympathetic smile even as Mike wondered if James Cooper had ever made Sean laugh like Mike could. Mike thought not.

  Walter wandered off with his camera, a large clunky thing that made too much noise but that Walter adored for reasons beyond Mike. Donald and Calvin were with their lady friends and Mike had been contemplating finding some way to sneak off back home when he found himself sitting at the edge of the dock, toes trailing in warm water.

  He was there for only a few minutes, listening to the hustle and bustle of the townsfolk behind him, when he heard the dock creak with footsteps.

  Mike was not a stupid man, no matter what anyone could have said.

  He knew who it was.

  “Mrs. Richardson says you’re of a miserly sort, sitting here by yourself,” Sean said lightly.

  “That woman,” Mike said with a scowl. “There’s no pleasing her.”

  Sean hummed a little, seeming to hesitate before he sat down next to Mike on the dock. He rolled up his pants, the hair on his legs brushing against Mike. He put his toes in the water too, and for a moment, Mike got to pretend things weren’t awkward between them, that everything was right as rain. That they were here, together, and nothing hurt.

  Mike was never one for pretending too long. “Where’s your date?”

  “Somewhere,” Sean said airily. “I don’t keep track.”

  “Oh.”

  Ripples echoed out across the pond from their feet.

  Mike said, “He seems like a nice fella.” He didn’t sound like he meant it at all.

  “Oh really.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Yeah,” Sean said, in that way that drove Mike absolutely wild. It wasn’t mocking, per se, but it was amused, because he knew Mike was a man of a few carefully chosen words. It wasn’t thrown back in his face. It was held between them with soft hands.

  “Little dumb, though,” Mike said, feeling remarkably brave.

  Sean squinted at him but said nothing.

  “Told me he didn’t have time for reading,” Mike clarified. “That books were boring.”

  “The horror,” Sean gasped, clutching at pearls that didn’t exist. “Why, the very thought is enough to send shivers down my—”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Mike grumbled.

  They were quiet, for a time.

  Then, “It’s not anything.”

  Mike shrugged. “It’s always something.”

  “Not with him,” Sean said. “With you, yes. With you, it’s always something. With you it will always be something. Whether you admit it or not. So you can either man up or you can sit here and pout like you’ve been doing for the last twenty minutes.”

  “I’m not pouting—”

  “Men,” Sean said with a huff. “You’d think this day and age we’d have learned to be smarter. Some of us have. The rest of you are still Neanderthals with your furrowed brow and your scowling.”

  “I’m not scowling.”

  “James asked me if you were going to come and defend my honor with the way you were glaring at him. He might have squeaked when he said it, pointing out that you outweighed him by at least a hundred pounds and had a beard, something which he says he’s never been able to grow.”

  Mike gaped at him.

  Sean rolled his eyes. “Exactly. And here you are, not saying
a damn word, and you’re still intimidating whoever I’m with, you jealous prig.”

  Mike sputtered, struggling to find the right thing to say. The only thing he could come up with was “But he had his hands on you.”

  It happened then.

  Sean tilted his head back and laughed.

  And Mike couldn’t keep the look of awe off his face, no matter how hard he tried. It was a slow bloom, the curve of his lips, the widening of his eyes. The heat to his face, the tripping of his heart. He didn’t think he’d ever seen someone look more handsome in his life than he thought Sean did right at that moment. Any argument he had dried up to dust, and even though from time to time he’d still think he was too old for Sean, he never brought it up again.

  He looks away from that picture now, to the young man who sits across from him. He’s got that smile on his face, the one for Mike. Mike can’t help but thank his lucky stars that he’s found someone like him, that he gets to have this—this—this wonderful thing that no one else can have. It’s been a long and winding road, but the slow burn between them has grown into something that Mike will never regret.

  But he has to save face somehow. He is a man, after all. “You’re lucky I was a pushover.”

  “Like you ever stood a chance,” Sean says, pushing himself up from the table. “Mrs. Richardson knew exactly what she was doing when she told James to accompany me to the park that day.”

  “She meddles,” Mike mutters, “in everything.”

  “Because she cares. Well, mostly because she cares. Also because she’s a nosy bird who doesn’t keep her beak out of anything.” Sean’s hand is on the back of his head again, fingers scratching against his scalp, and Mike can’t even find the wherewithal to be embarrassed by the low groan that falls from his mouth. “Now, big guy, you’re gonna drink your coffee while I see a man about some pancakes for you. Sound good?”

  “Yeah,” Mike says.

  “Yeah,” Sean says, and before Mike can process it, he leans down and kisses Mike’s forehead, the barest press of lips against skin. It’s almost like a couple of nights ago when they stood on Sean’s porch and Sean kissed his wrist. Except this is almost unbearable, given the proximity. Mike closes his eyes and breathes through his nose, and Sean’s gone into the kitchen by the time he comes back to himself. He opens his eyes again and sees everyone trying to pretend they didn’t just see what they saw, but the smiles on their faces and the twinkles in all of their eyes give them away.

  VIII

  HE WAKES to a man in his room.

  He’s dreaming, he’s sure of it, which is strange, because for as long as Mike can remember, he hasn’t been able to remember any dreams.

  One moment it’s dark, and the next he’s opening his eyes and it’s still dark, but there’s enough light coming in through the window to see the man standing at the foot of his bed.

  Martin’s on his chest, purring in fits and starts, like a motor trying to catch. He doesn’t seem bothered by the man in their house, which has to mean Mike’s dreaming.

  He isn’t sure if this is supposed to be a bad dream or not.

  He tries to move, to recoil.

  Nothing happens.

  He’s frozen, it seems, but even stranger is the fact that he can’t feel his body, not really. He knows it’s there; he can see it from where his head is propped up on two pillows. But it’s like it’s not there too, because he can’t move his arms. His legs. He tries to wiggle his toes, but nothing happens. His feet remain still.

  He tries to speak. Nothing happens.

  His eyes, though. His eyes are open and he can move them. He looks back up at the man.

  He can see certain features, the beady eyes behind the thinnest pair of frames he’s ever seen. The man’s hair is short and styled strangely, spiked up and wild. He’s wearing a white coat and white pants, and there’s a square tag hanging from one of the coat pockets, but it’s obscured in shadow.

  The man is looking down at him.

  His eyes roll over Mike, darting up and down his body. He barely meets Mike’s eyes before he’s looking elsewhere.

  Mike tries to open his mouth to say something, anything, but his tongue is thick and dry, and he can’t find the strength to get a sound out.

  The man reaches down at the foot of the bed and then brings his hand to near the front of his face. There’s nothing in his hand, but he seems to think there is, and he’s looking at it.

  Mike doesn’t understand this dream. He doesn’t understand what it means.

  The man sighs. “Eyes open,” he says, and his voice is garbled, almost like it’s coming from underwater. “Always with the eyes open.” He sighs again. “You can’t see, can you? None of you can. You’re glazed over. Hollow on the inside. I see you in my garden, you know? You’re brittle and thin and won’t take much to break. You’d break easily, I think. Maybe not as easily as the others, but you would. Because when is a door not a door? When it’s ajar, but also when it’s been blown to pieces and there’s nothing between us.”

  He lowers his hand to the foot of the bed again. A moment later, it falls to his side.

  Mike’s sure this is a dream. It has to be. It’s the only thing that makes sense. But that doesn’t mean he’s not terrified, because even though he knows this is a dream, he knows this isn’t real, there’s that little voice in him, that little, evil voice that says, Yes, but what if it’s not a dream?

  Mike Frazier doesn’t usually dream.

  But Mike Frazier also doesn’t believe in ghosts, and this has to be one or the other.

  He’s dreaming and it’s the most vivid of dreams.

  Or he’s being haunted by a man speaking in riddles at the foot of his bed.

  The man stares at Mike for a moment longer, a look of faint distaste on his face, before he turns and—

  He’s not there. He turned and now he’s not there.

  Mike closes his eyes.

  Mike opens his eyes and there’s things above him, shapes that he can’t quite make out, but their spindly fingers are on him, they’re holding him down and shoving tubes down his throat and he can’t breathe, oh god, he can’t breathe and—

  He jerks up in his bed.

  Martin glares up at him, tail twitching.

  The sun is rising outside his house. He can hear the birds chirping. His alarm will be going off in another ten minutes or so.

  His heart pounds in his chest. His skin is slick with sweat.

  But there’s no one in his room.

  There’s no riddle man standing at the foot of his bed.

  There are no things holding him down, shoving tubes inside of him.

  He’s not haunted.

  It was just a dream.

  He’s fine.

  He’s fine.

  He’s fine.

  “YOU LOOK terrible,” Mrs. Richardson says as she and her four followers enter Bookworm. “Those bags under your eyes. Your unkempt beard. My word, Mike. Are you trying to sabotage yourself before you even go on the first date? I didn’t work this hard to let you fall by the wayside now.”

  “I didn’t know you worked at anything having to do with this,” Mike says. He knows she is right, however. He is tired, more tired than he’s been in a long time. He feels off, slightly. He contemplated not opening the shop today, but decided against it. It is only a half day, after all, and the more the morning goes on, the less he thinks about or even remembers why he had such a hard night to begin with. He supposes that most dreams fade, if what he’s read in books is anything to go by. They are bright and real when they happen, but fade in such a short amount of time.

  Truth is that Mike hasn’t even really thought about his dream. He’s been more focused on his plans for this afternoon. Sean told him the night before to not worry about a thing, that he’d pack the food and everything else they’d need. All Mike needed to do, Sean said, was be ready at twelve thirty on the dot, not a minute later.

  It is now a little before ten, and Mike… well.
>
  Mike is nervous.

  This is a date.

  With his fella.

  And didn’t that thought make him feel warm.

  Which is why he’s distracted when the Amorea Women’s Club arrives through the door, Mrs. Richardson announcing her apparent disdain for his uncouth appearance. She’s frowning at him like he’s committed some cardinal sin, already removing her white gloves with a flick of her hands.

  The ladies gather behind her, but remain quiet.

  “You’re lucky,” she says, “that I have a vested interest in this.”

  “And what interest would that be?” Mike asks.

  “Why, your happiness of course.” Like it’s the most obvious thing.

  “Of course,” he says, and he realizes he might be coming across a bit ungrateful. Because regardless of how little Mrs. Richardson (or really anyone in Amorea) had to do with him and Sean, she does just want to see them both happy, even if it’s come at a snail’s pace, something that she’s chided him about on several different occasions. “Look, I know you’re—”

  “May I use your phone?” she asks, prim and proper. “I’d be happy to pay for the expense.”

  He’s amused by her and the idea of the expense of a single phone call. She would pay for it, too, because she doesn’t like owing anyone a thing. Debts aren’t something she collects, she’s told him many times before. But if someone happens to owe me a favor or two? Who am I to say no to that?

  He doesn’t think she’d say no to that at all.

  Being in debt to someone else is beneath her. Having others in her debt?

  She’s magnanimous about it, certainly.

  “Make your phone call,” Mike says. “I’m sure I owe you some way.”

  “I’m sure you do,” she says. “How wonderful for you. Ladies, if you please.”

  It’s only then that Mike sees their arms are filled with bundles of different shapes and sizes, and he wonders what he’s gotten himself into. The rest of the Amorea Women’s Club giggle amongst themselves as they move into the bookstore, not allowing Mike to see what’s in the bundles and bags they carry.