Fragile Ground
Louisa Keller
Copyright © 2017 by Louisa Keller
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
www.louisakeller.com
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My heartfelt thanks go out to the IT specialist who helped me retrieve the first sex scene I ever wrote after it disappeared into the ether. You were a real trooper.
Contents
Prologue
1. Auriel
2. Olivier
3. Auriel
4. Olivier
5. Auriel
6. Olivier
7. Auriel
8. Olivier
9. Auriel
10. Olivier
11. Auriel
12. Olivier
13. Auriel
14. Olivier
Epilogue
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About the Author
Prologue
Olivier
Olivier stares down at his phone, not quite believing what he’s seeing. Of all the, quite frankly, shocking revelations that have bombarded him over the past few days, this one might just take the cake. Because Olivier isn’t the type of person who posts gratuitous couple photos on social media. Hell, as far as Olivier is concerned he didn’t even have an Instagram account a week ago. Then again, what feels like a week ago to him, actually happened more than two years previously.
Fucking retrograde amnesia, he thinks. How the hell am I supposed to put these pieces together? The ghost of a headache blooms in his right temple and he closes his eyes, reaching up to rub small circles into his skin. It’s marginally helpful.
The iPhone is still unfamiliar in his grip—an upgrade from the refurbished Android he had been using at school. He squeezes his phone slightly, and glances down at the screen again. The photo probably isn’t too risqué by most people’s standards. In fact, it’s really only sickening in that Olivier and Auriel look so damn lovestruck in it. They’re wrapped around each other, kissing sweetly in a park. The caption underneath reads TFW you can’t keep your hands off of @aurielfloros1. The thing that baffles Olivier is that he had put this up on a public account. Anyone could stumble across it…friends from home, potential employers, hell even his goddamn parents. It’s surreal, because as far as he can remember, it had really only been his college friends and the guys he messed around with that had known he was gay.
A part of him feels relieved. Past Olivier—as he’s starting to think of his former, forgotten self—had done all the heavy lifting, now he just has to fill in the blanks. For a moment Olivier wishes Hattie was here to clear things up, but then he thinks about their last conversation and how she had been working so hard to keep this from him. He’s honestly not sure how he feels about that. Besides, he knows that she is probably knee-deep in her thesis at the library, a dog-eared copy of Descartes’ Meditations propped open on the table in front of her and the Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy pulled up on her laptop. He shouldn’t bother her.
Taking a deep breath, Olivier steels himself and pushes himself up off the ground where he’s been sitting on to head inside through the back door. Auriel is in the kitchen, his back to the doorway when Olivier approaches. Olivier watches him for a moment. Auriel is singing along to Otis Redding, slightly off key, as he stirs something on the stove. There is a haphazard pile of dirty dishes in the sink, and the kitchen timer is ticking down toward zero. It’s a strangely intimate sight, and Olivier frowns slightly. He is baffled by the fact that he woke up to a life that includes this level of domesticity, but there has to be a reason. He is not sure how Auriel will react to being grilled on their relationship, but there’s not really another way to figure this whole situation out. Olivier clears his throat.
Auriel jumps, startled out of his reverie. He turns around, reaching automatically to turn down the music. “Shit, I didn’t…how long have you been there?” he asks.
Olivier ignores him, sidling over to the stove and peering at the contents of the oversized wok. And of course it’s a medley of his favorite vegetables, doused in a frankly alarming amount of teriyaki sauce. His mouth waters, and he’s annoyed by the fact that Auriel has once again demonstrated that he knows exactly how Olivier likes his food. “You’re going to put me into a diabetic coma with that much sauce,” he says coolly.
Auriel blinks at him. “Oh wow, I’m sorry, that’s the way you’ve always said you liked it. I can make something else if you—”
“Don’t worry about it,” Olivier snaps. And goddammit, now he’ll have to pretend he’s not fucking thriving when he eats dinner.
Auriel looks like he is trying to work out how to proceed. Olivier’s not particularly in the mood to help him out. Instead, he reaches to open the oven, curious about its contents.
“Oh, can you please leave it closed?” Auriel is looking at the floor. “It’s just…you shouldn’t let the heat out. It needs a few more minutes.”
What kind of person waits until the timer goes off before they check on whatever they’re baking? Olivier doesn’t do much more in the kitchen than microwave stuff from the freezer aisle, and it occurs to him that Auriel’s insistence on doing things by the book might just be why everything he puts on the table tastes incredible. This is profoundly irritating, and Olivier doesn’t bother to keep the disdain off his face. “God, you’re such a stickler for rules.”
Auriel doesn’t respond. He’s leaning back against the counter, looking unhappy. His salmon-colored t-shirt is stretched across his chest, doing nothing to hide his defined pecs and tight abs. His jeans hug his hips, and he’s wearing a pair of worn striped socks with a couple holes forming over his toes. He reaches up and runs a hand through his hair absently; this causes his bicep to tighten, and Olivier stares at the botanical tattoo snaking around Auriel’s upper arm. He wants to lick Auriel’s neck and give him shit about the state of his socks at the same time. He settles for holding his phone out toward Auriel, who takes it tentatively.
“Can you please tell me,” Olivier says sweetly, “what the fuck is going on here?”
There is a long, pregnant pause while Auriel takes in the photo pulled up on the screen. Something private and painful flashes across his face, and then his expression clears. He licks his lips and looks Olivier straight in the eyes. “I’d say it’s pretty self-explanatory.”
Olivier rolls his eyes. “Excuse you, but one minute I’m going to ragers and getting ready to graduate and the next I’m waking up across the country with a bunch of tattoos and a roommate who thinks he’s Julia Child. Nothing about this is self-explanatory.” He pauses to give Auriel a chance to respond, but there’s only silence. Olivier pushes on. “Can you tell me when the hell I got an Instagram account? Because I can’t remember having the urge to keep the internet informed every time I step out of the house. And honestly, stop me if I’m getting off track here, but I used to have decorum. I didn’t feel the need to tell the world when I was fucking a guy, I just fucked him and kept my damn mouth shut about it.”
Auriel starts to reach toward Olivier, an aborted gesture that falters as he seems to realize his touch won’t be well-received. Olivier raises his eyebrows. “You’re upset,” Auriel says finally.
“I’m not upset,” Olivier snaps. “I’m confused. I have no idea how I became a completely different person in a couple of years.”
“You’re not a completely different person,” says Auriel. “You weren’t
, I mean. You evolved naturally, over time.”
Olivier glares at Auriel. “Why didn’t you tell me that we were together?” It comes out more aggressively than he intended. Because now they have arrived at the heart of the issue. The fierce momentum of the conversation screeches to a halt, and they eyeball each other, assessing.
Finally, Auriel says, “I didn’t think it would be fair.”
“Um, yeah, no, I would say fair is out the window with this whole situation. There’s got to be more to it than that.”
It takes a moment for Auriel to gather his thoughts. A range of emotions play across his face, and he starts cracking his knuckles.
“Gross,” mutters Olivier, although he’s not actually bothered.
That draws a small smile out of Auriel. “You’ve always given me shit for doing that,” he says. The words are almost unbearably fond. They make something in Olivier’s chest ache.
“Well, I’m assuming you didn’t get together with me because of my sparkling personality.”
Auriel makes a noncommittal noise before pushing on with his explanation. “You’ve gone through a lot in the last couple of years. I mean, like you said, you moved three thousand miles away and got two full sleeves. But you also came out to your family. You’re in the process of applying for a PhD program in Continental Philosophy. You write for an independent queer website and you love Pride weekend. I’m pretty sure you actually adore the rainbow boxers Hattie got you as a gag gift for your birthday last year.” He looks right at Olivier; intensity sizzles through the air between them. Olivier doesn’t necessarily recognize himself in Auriel’s words, but nothing he is saying seems out of the realm of possibility. That is, until Auriel adds, “and you fell in love with me, so there’s that.”
“Wait, back up, I did what now?” asks Olivier.
“We aren’t…we weren’t casual, Olivier.” The sound of his name coming out of Auriel’s mouth overwhelms Olivier. He can’t look away from Auriel.
“How, um, how serious were we?” Olivier isn’t sure he wants to hear the answer.
Auriel considers him for a moment. “I guess I can’t speak for you. You wrote a lot about our relationship for work, I can pull up those articles if you want. But as far as I’m concerned, you’re it for me.”
Olivier’s breath catches in his throat. He’s torn between panic and some emotion he can’t identify. He wants to scoff and dismiss Auriel’s words. He wants to walk right out the door and never come back. He wants to kiss this man who so clearly cares for him, kiss him until they can’t breath, until they are lost in each other. And because Olivier has always been logical, always held himself so accountable, he decides to trust his forgotten self’s judgment. There has to be a reason that he chose commitment, chose to commit to Auriel specifically. And their chemistry is undeniable. Olivier has been attracted to Auriel since the moment he crashed through the door of Olivier’s hospital room.
“Fuck it,” say Olivier. “Get over here and kiss me.”
“Excuse me?” This is clearly not the way Auriel thought this conversation was going to go.
“Jesus, cool it on the incredulity. Your hot amnesiac boyfriend wants to make out.”
Auriel hesitates. “I can’t take advantage of the situation,” he says.
Olivier scoffs. “You’re not taking advantage. I may be missing a good chunk of my memory, but I’m fully capable of making decisions for myself. I am one hundred and ten percent able to consent, ok?”
“I…are you sure?” asks Auriel.
“Dude, the doctor literally told us that my brain function isn’t impaired. I’m sure.”
It takes a moment for Auriel to come to a decision, but once he decides, he moves confidently. He reaches out for Olivier, sliding one arm around his waist and the other hand into his hair. Their eyes lock and Olivier swallows thickly. The intensity of Auriel’s gaze is overwhelming. But then Auriel is leaning forward, kissing Olivier passionately. Olivier wraps his arms around Auriel and licks teasingly against Auriel’s lips. Auriel sighs into the kiss, sucking on Olivier’s bottom lip and then scraping his teeth gently across it. Olivier pulls back, smirking, and then runs his hands through Auriel’s hair, tilting his head to the side. Olivier leans forward and starts trailing kisses from behind Auriel’s ear to his collarbone.
“Fuck,” Auriel murmurs when Olivier begins sucking a mark just over his pulse point. Olivier grins wickedly against his skin.
“You like that?”
“Uh huh.”
Olivier is just reaching down to peel Auriel’s shirt off when the timer on the stove beeps shrilly.
They pull apart reluctantly. “To be continued?” suggests Auriel as he takes a dish out of the over and turns off the timer.
Olivier shakes his head. “You know, I’m not particularly hungry. Think we can put dinner off for a bit?”
Auriel’s smile is blinding as he pulls Olivier back in.
1
Auriel
Auriel is beyond exhausted. He has reached the point where everything is shaded in sharp, jarring Technicolor; his vision pulses slightly as he focuses on the stylish chalkboard menu mounted high on the wall of the coffee shop. Ordinarily he finds the familiar cursive loops of chalk comforting, a gentle reminder of what is available despite the fact that he knows his order by heart. A triple shot extra foam hazelnut latte for Olivier, and a twenty ounce lavender chamomile tea for himself. When Stella’s working, he doesn’t even need to say it out loud. But today the décor feels over-stimulating.
“Jesus, A, how long have you been awake?” asks Stella when she catches his eye. She is midway through concocting a complicated beverage involving various syrups, multiple shots of espresso, and a disconcerting amount of whipped cream. Auriel’s brain snags on the low key disgust that is building in his gut as he watches. He’s not sure if it’s the drink’s sugar content that is turning his stomach, or just the fact that he’s been living on pastries and energy bars for what seems like an eternity. It takes him a moment to realize that he has been asked a question.
His head jerks upward, and he blinks twice, trying to clear his head. “Sorry, what was that?”
Stella sets the drink on the counter and calls out the customer’s name before turning back to Auriel and leaning toward him, her elbows perched on the wide marble counter. “Have you gotten any sleep since I last saw you?” she asks seriously.
Auriel considers. The past seventy-two hours have mainly consisted of pacing the hospital corridors and nodding off in uncomfortable chairs with his neck quirked at odd angles. “I’m…not sure, to be honest.” Time has felt distorted since Wednesday; it snails along, each minute seeming like an hour, and then suddenly it tumbles forward, thrusting him into an entirely different moment than the one he’d just been suffering through.
This is clearly not the answer Stella is hoping for, but it is probably the one she expects. “You can’t keep this up, man. At some point you’re going to have to indulge in some self care.” She holds up a finger to stop him from protesting. “I don’t mean you should take off for a meditation retreat or anything. Obviously. But you should spend a few hours in a real bed, maybe take a shower while you’re home.”
He’s not altogether opposed to the idea. Honestly, a shower sounds heavenly. But the thought of leaving the hospital for longer than it takes to grab caffeine and sustenance fills his gut with a rollicking sensation that encompasses guilt, fear, and nausea. “I can’t,” he tells Stella, running his hands over his face. There’s some solid stubble growing along his jaw, and he wants to cry when he thinks about how Olivier would tease him about it. “He could wake up any minute. I need to be here for him.”
Stella shakes her head. “Exactly, you need to be here for him when he wakes up. That means being at least a little bit rested, relatively coherent. And preferably not wearing the same underwear you put on a few days ago.”
That startles a rough bark of laughter out of Auriel. He cuts it off immediately, horrifie
d by the momentary joviality. He shakes his head and squares his slumped shoulders. “I need coffee, Stella. Make me something that will keep me up for a few more hours.”
“Sorry, kid, I’m cutting you off.” She speaks over him as he begins to protest. “I’m not even kidding, Auriel, I’m not giving you any more caffeine. Who’s with him now?”
“Hattie’s there.”
“Great,” says Stella. “Hattie’s been his best friend for the better part of a decade. She is more than capable of holding down the fort. And she will call you if there’s anything you need to know, ok?”
Auriel wants to protest. He needs to know so much more than Hattie could possibly tell him over the phone. He needs to see Olivier’s pulse fluttering in his throat, rhythmic and steady. He needs to feel Olivier’s warm hand in his own, a tactile reminder that he’s still here even if he’s not conscious. He needs to see the bland expression on Olivier’s face, evidence that he’s not trapped in his own head with one of his recurring nightmares.
But Stella isn’t taking no for an answer. “I’m practically done with my shift. Hang tight for a second and I’m going to drive you home.”
And as much as it feels wrong to venture away from Olivier rather than toward him, Auriel feels another wave of exhaustion break over him. He nods and follows Stella into the parking lot. She presses a to-go cup of hot tea into his hand after he lowers himself into the passenger seat. The familiar smell of lavender fills the car, and Auriel takes a grateful sip.
Auriel owns a small single-story house about five minutes from the hospital. He stumbles out of the car and up the rickety porch steps, feeling an inexplicable sense of relief at being home. Stella watches him unlock the door before she pulls away from the curb and speeds down the street.
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