Aiden shook his head. “Doesn’t matter.”
“You have to tell me.”
“Whatever you want, I don’t care.”
“Aiden—”
Aiden lifted his hips, annoyed. He’d planned it all until this point: the kissing, the stripping, the hands between legs and lips down stomachs, and everything in-between. But he hadn’t planned a conversation. “Shannon, shut the fuck up and get on with it.”
Shannon mumbled into Aiden’s shoulder with his hands skidding up his sides. Aiden squeaked—embarrassing—and his heart kicked when his face was suddenly pressed against the comforter. Shannon’s mouth climbed his spine, and his arms caged Aiden’s shoulders.
It wasn’t that Aiden didn’t thoroughly enjoy being thrown around—he did—but he hadn’t imagined it happening the way it was. He hadn’t prepared for Shannon’s praises, the soft you’re incredible that Shannon whispered at the nape of his neck, or the quick breathe, don’t stop, let me hear you, or the possessive, shaken rasp when Shannon gasped his name.
Aiden hadn’t known he could feel the things Shannon made him feel. He’d assumed it would be like a movie, either rough and fast and needy or tender and affectionate and slow. Not once had he entertained the idea that sex with Shannon could be both, that sex with anyone could be anything but typical.
It scared him how typical it wasn’t.
Shannon bit Aiden’s shoulder and his fingers clenched tight around Aiden’s hips.
Aiden didn’t know why he’d ever bothered trying to imagine this. The details were too fine-tuned. Everything was too this or that, too much and too little: the heat from Shannon’s breath and hands making paths across Aiden’s stomach, fingertips against thighs and hips straining to stay put, the weight of Shannon’s chest pressed against his back, white sheets between Aiden’s knuckles, stark and permanent and grounding, replaced by Shannon’s fingers when he grasped Aiden’s hands.
There wasn’t anything explicitly beautiful about it.
It was tumbling and laughter. It was messy, overdue, and long-awaited, electrified by sounds Aiden wasn’t sure he’d conjured. It was disorienting, with intermissions of heated kisses and in-betweens of stillness. It was is this okay and yes, god, yes, and fingernails on backs, and teeth in flesh, and soft lips on cheeks.
It wasn’t explicitly beautiful, but Aiden wasn’t sure if anything was, and this was a more fitting experience than any he’d encountered.
Aiden didn’t know what to say afterward. He’d said quite a lot during, which would’ve been embarrassing if Shannon hadn’t been encouraging him. He laughed against Shannon’s mouth while they tried to catch their breath, and Shannon smiled through a slow, lazy kiss.
Music drifted from the living room—Christmas covers by gritty punk bands—and Mercy sat in the doorway of the bedroom with an ornament hanging from her mouth. Aiden glanced at her, and then back at Shannon.
“She totally fucked up our Christmas tree, I guarantee it,” Aiden said, swallowing a slow breath.
Shannon choked on a laugh before he said, “We would’ve heard it.”
Aiden furrowed his brows. “Sure we would’ve,” he teased and rolled his eyes. As he was sitting up, Shannon’s arm curled around his side and pulled him back down. Aiden hardly resisted.
“If she knocked it down, she knocked it down.” Shannon tugged Aiden to his chest.
“It’s a fire hazard.”
“There aren’t any lights on it.” Shannon laughed. “You’re one of those guys, huh? Come up with any excuse to run off before we even take a shower.”
“Fuck off, Shannon.” The curse sounded sweet despite its nature. “Start the shower; I’ll be right there.”
Aiden slithered from Shannon’s arms, slid on a pair of sweatpants, and walked into the living room, where he found the Christmas tree toppled over. He stared at Mercy as she trotted by, ornament swinging from her mouth.
“How dare you,” he hissed.
Mercy didn’t hiss back. She hopped on the couch and ignored him.
Instead of picking up the fallen tree, Aiden stepped over it and onto the porch. Frigid winter air attacked his exposed torso, making the pack of cigarettes resting on the balcony seem less and less enticing. Aiden cursed under his breath as shaking hands fumbled with the lighter. Once he had the cigarette lit, he looked toward the horizon. Smoke curled from his lips and from his nostrils. He touched the silver piercing in his nose.
It’d been a long time since an after was tolerable. Since anything that came after was worth celebrating. His afters were always painful: after sixteen, after his parents died, after he was arrested. Every after was a consequence of something cruel that Aiden inflicted on himself.
This after with Shannon wasn’t a mistake.
The pipes groaned. Aiden put the half-smoked cigarette out carefully, saving the rest for later.
No, this after was something else.
“Oh my god, Mercy! You did knock the tree over!” Shannon yelled from inside, voice strained around weak laughter.
Wild, and wonderful, and magical.
Aiden smiled.
24
Shannon woke to Aiden straddling his hips.
“Wake up,” Aiden said. He tugged on Shannon’s chin and kissed his sleep-lazy lips. Something cold and rough scraped Shannon’s chest. “It’s Christmas, Shannon. Wake up.”
His fingertips brushed Aiden’s thighs, his waist. He cracked open his eyes, burdened with the weight of foggy sleep. “Merry Christmas,” he slurred, yawning.
“I made this for you.”
That pulled Shannon’s attention to whatever dangled from a chain in Aiden’s hand. Shannon pawed at his eyes and blinked, looking at Aiden hovering over him with a quizzical look on his face, then at the necklace he swung above Shannon’s chest.
“What is it?” Shannon grasped the stone, which was violet merged with transparent lilac, fading in and out between plum and lavender. Around its top coiled a thin silver wire, braided into a nest that fastened the stone to a hoop. “You made this? It’s beautiful.”
“Amethyst. It’s supposed to help clear your thoughts, increase your intuition.” He paused, winked, and added, “and shield you from thieves.”
Shannon smirked.
“It’s for protection.” Aiden touched a similar fiery yellow and orange stone hanging around his neck. “I have one, too.”
“What’s yours for?”
“Mine’s citrine. It’s for livelihood, stability, and happiness.”
“I can’t believe you crafted me something.” Shannon grinned at the purple stone as he twirled it back and forth. Aiden nodded, legs parting farther around his waist. He craned down and folded his arms over Shannon’s shoulders. “Thank you,” Shannon whispered.
He set the necklace on the bed beside them and kissed Aiden once, quickly and gently, before he tried to sit up. Aiden shoved his shoulders down.
Shannon frowned. “Yours is in my car.”
“I can wait,” Aiden said. A smile twitched on his mouth and he sighed, swooping down to bump their noses together, coaxing Shannon to kiss him properly.
This morning, properly meant deep and slow and long to pull a low hum from Shannon’s throat. He sat up with one arm curled around Aiden’s waist. Aiden’s legs tightened around him. He pulled back and slipped the necklace over Shannon’s head before he slid his arms over Shannon’s shoulders and pulled him close again.
Amethyst against his sternum, citrine between his collarbones, raw stones and cold silver scraped Shannon’s chest. He opened his eyes and caught a glimpse of Aiden lost in the movement of their lips. His lashes swept over his cheeks, his brow was relaxed, his face was as serene as Shannon had ever seen it.
Aiden fingernails scraped the back of Shannon’s neck, wound through his hair, and tugged. “I’m glad you like it,” he said, eye
s half-drawn curtains, heavy and enticing.
Shannon nodded absently and closed his eyes. Aiden’s shoulders wore bruises from the night before. Shannon kissed them. His throat was peppered with marks from Shannon’s teeth. He kissed those, too. He gripped Aiden’s hips as they rolled in his lap and listened as Aiden’s breath quickened. Shannon glanced at Aiden’s waist, where he saw bruises shaped like fingertips and teeth and mouth and hipbone. He kissed those as well.
00:00
It was lighter than the last one Aiden had held.
He danced it between his hands, sleek silver, digital, with a wrist strap and a lanyard. His skin was still damp from the shower. Aiden swallowed, glanced at the photograph above his bed, back at the camera in his hands.
Shannon hadn’t listened to him. He’d done exactly what Aiden said he wouldn’t do himself: invested in his skill set.
And for that, Aiden was grateful.
“You bought me a camera?” He sat cross-legged in the middle of the bed.
Shannon nodded shyly. “I did, yeah. That’s what that is.”
“I know that’s what it is, asshole,” Aiden mumbled, lips splitting into a grin.
“Coffee?”
Aiden nodded, staring at the camera in his lap. He fiddled with some of the settings. Excitement crawled under his skin. Shannon pinched Aiden’s chin, lifted it, and pressed their lips together.
“Thanks,” Aiden said against his mouth.
Shannon nodded. “I’ll get you some coffee.”
Aiden pointed the camera at Shannon’s bare back, where sweats were low on his hips, and clicked the capture button just as he walked out of the bedroom. How Shannon didn’t wear stripes from Aiden’s fingernails was beyond him.
This camera was lighter than the last one, but it felt just as solid, filled with purpose and life and substance.
00:00
“That’s a good one,” Shannon said. He watched Aiden pan through a slideshow of photos he’d taken at Karman’s house on Christmas.
The screen on the back of the digital camera was small, but the images were crystal clear. He paused on a photo of Fae perched on Marcus’ knee as she ripped wrapping paper in a blur of greens and reds. Marcus, head cocked, glasses resting on the tip of his nose, smiled at her. Arms crossed over her chest and a gentle tilt to her lips, Karman stood in the background. Aiden hit the button and the screen changed to show Shannon shielding his face with one hand, the other outstretched, attempting to cover the camera. The next photo was the same shot, just more of Shannon’s hand and less of his face. The one after that was a picture of Aiden and Shannon smiling at each other, post kiss, out of focus and badly lit.
“That’s my favorite one you took of us,” Shannon said.
Aiden’s mouth scrunched. “There are ones like it that aren’t blurry.”
“I know, but I like that one.”
The plane jolted. Aiden fumbled with his camera and gripped Shannon’s knee. His chest heaved, and he rolled his lips together. He hadn’t told Shannon he was afraid of flying, and Shannon was sure that, if he asked him, Aiden would still say he wasn’t.
“We’ve got ten minutes left. This is just landing turbulence; we’ll be on the ground soon.”
“I’m fine,” Aiden snapped. His nostrils flared and he chewed on his lip; his knuckles were white around Shannon’s knee.
Shannon’s parents would be waiting for them in the old Cadillac outside Milford’s tiny airport. His mother would be wearing something floral, and his father would be sporting a new fancy cane to carry the weight of his bad right side. They’d ask Aiden a million and two questions, and Shannon would panic. He loved his parents, he did, but sometimes they pried.
They always pried.
“Sir, please fasten your seat belt for landing.” A stewardess gestured at Aiden’s lap.
Aiden looped the dark brown lanyard around his neck. The camera dangled against his chest. He clicked the seat belt into place and clasped his hands in his lap. Aiden, who was almost always still and observant, was restless. He adjusted his septum ring, tugged on the sleeves of his leather jacket—which he’d refused to take off when they boarded—and played with the frayed hole on his knee, making his jeans look less manufactured-tattered and more tattered-tattered.
Shannon swatted his hand. Aiden swatted back and grumbled. Shannon tugged at his wrist, and Aiden turned, lips parted, armed to reprimand him for being bothersome. But he stopped before he could say anything and glanced down as Shannon’s fingers slipped between his knuckles. Shannon squeezed and let his thumb swipe back and forth along Aiden’s hand.
The plane dipped. Aiden’s back straightened. He chewed harder on his lip. “Your parents are going to hate me,” he blurted.
“They’re going to love you.”
The airport was filled with people coming and going.
It was New Year’s Eve, and Shannon should’ve expected as much. After they landed, Aiden made as many detours as he could: first the bathroom, then the gift shop, and last a snack stand where he pondered over which soda to buy until Shannon snapped at him to keep moving. Aiden settled on iced tea, the sweet kind that Georgia was famous for.
Shannon checked his phone.
Mama 12/31 4:05 p.m.
Did you land?
Shannon Wurther 12/31 4:06 p.m.
heading out now
“C’mon, they’re outside.” Shannon tugged on Aiden’s wrist. Boots practically dragging against the carpet, Aiden stumbled as he walked forward. “My mom’s name is Loraine, my dad is Lloyd. Just be yourself, okay?”
“You sure you want that?” Aiden sneered.
“Be yourself, but be good.”
Aiden shrugged. “Impossible, but I’ll give it a go.”
The automatic doors slid open, and Shannon walked out with Aiden trailing behind. At the curb, a weather-beaten white 1966 Cadillac idled, and leaning against it was his mom. She wore a cream jacket and beneath it a pink and orange floral dress that hit the ground, where gardening boots were strapped to her feet. Long strands of chestnut hair whipped around her face, which was round to match her plump body.
“Hi, Mama,” Shannon said with a sigh, accepting Loraine’s arms as they wrapped around him.
She clutched him far too long, squeezed, and patted, and kissed. “Oh, sugar, why don’t you come home more? You know we all miss you ‘round here. And I didn’t even get Christmas this year! Now, that I understand, seeing as you’ve finally got yourself someone to spend it with. Where are they, show ‘em to me!”
Shannon glanced over his shoulder, where Aiden stood a few feet away.
Aiden lifted his chin, eyeing Loraine curiously. He looked as he always did, pensive and striking and unusual. His lips parted, and he waited.
“This is Aiden Maar,” Shannon said slowly. He swallowed, watching his mother watch Aiden. “My Rose Road.”
Loraine blinked. Her eyes widened and her brows lifted high. She had big almond-shaped eyes and a nose like Shannon’s, upturned and small. People had always told Shannon that they looked alike. They had the same olive skin, dark hair, and strong features.
“Well, holy shit,” Loraine said through a laugh. “Lloyd! Lloyd, get your ass out here. You won the damn bet.” She waved. “Come here, sweetie. Let me get a look at you.”
Aiden glanced at Shannon. Shannon nodded. Aiden stepped forward, allowing Loraine to put her hands on the tops of his arms and look him up and down.
“Aiden, then?” She winked, taking in the entirety of him. “Nice jaw,” she said gently. Aiden flinched when she put her hands on his face. “And look at those.” Her thumb touched just below his left eye. “You’ve got a pretty pair of lookers, honey.”
“Mama, stop being invasive.”
The car door slammed.
“Handsome,” Loraine continued, ignoring Shannon. “
Oh, a little rebellious.” She dragged her index finger down Aiden’s nose. “He treatin’ you good, sweetie?”
Aiden glanced at Shannon.
“No, I’m talkin’ to you, Aiden. Is my son treatin’ you as he should?”
“Of course he is,” Aiden said softly. Confusion played across his face, but Aiden let Loraine do as she pleased. “I wouldn’t be here otherwise.”
“Good!” Loraine patted his cheeks with both her hands. “Lloyd, look at this boy, looks like he crawled right out of a music video.”
“Mom, please!” Shannon’s mouth hung open in silent aggravation. “Can we go now? Aren’t we doing dinner at the house?”
His father’s raspy laugh announced him. He walked forward, using his redwood cane to carry some of the weight on his right side. Shannon tried to smile, but every time he saw his father, Lloyd had aged. His once-ash-blond hair was gray, and his face was raddled with thick wrinkles. He was groomed, dressed in a button-up shirt tucked into tan pants that were a little too tight for his growing belly. He grinned when he reached Shannon.
“Hey, Dad.” Shannon accepted a heavy pat on the back.
“This is him, huh? I knew it. You owe me ten bucks, Loraine.”
“Oh, hush, you old coot. Aiden, this is Lloyd.” Loraine stepped back and made room for Lloyd.
They didn’t shake hands; his father didn’t like being touched. He’d maybe hugged his father three times in his life—once at his graduation from SDSU, a second after his father retired, a third when Shannon made detective.
“What’d you bet on?” Shannon tried to swallow his accent, but it tickled his throat.
“I said girl; your father said guy,” Loraine said. “That damn bet’s been goin’ since you were four.”
“Aiden, is it?” Lloyd’s voice was as deep as it’d always been. Aiden nodded. “Good name. Different. I like it.” Lloyd swatted Aiden on the back and nodded. Aiden’s lips tightened into a pale line. “Your mother’s right, Shannon,” he said as he glanced over his shoulder, “this boy looks like trouble.”
“He is.” Shannon motioned at the car. “Can we go now? Are you two done?”
Fortitude Smashed Page 17
