Autumn: A Crow City Side Story

by Cole McCade

  That haze of color drew closer, then—and plush, curving lips pressed against his burning skin, cool in contrast to his fever and soothing as rain on a summer afternoon. Wally kissed his brow, kissed the arc of his temple, kissed the crest of his cheek, kissed the line of his jaw, and Joseph wondered why this ached, why this hurt in a heavy crushing way that pushed the breath from him, and yet that pain was bittersweet and he didn’t want to let it go.

  “I’ll be quick,” Wally murmured. “Pretend it’s someone else if you need to. You need only show me where.”

  Joseph swallowed thickly, then curled his fingers in the hem of his boxer-briefs and drew them up to bunch over his leg. Dark, round reddish-purple spots marked both his upper thighs, as if a lamprey had latched on and sucked hard enough to leave a terrible bruise. The skin reactions from the interferon only got worse when he used the same injection site, and so he tried to rotate them, minimize the effects as much as possible.

  He’d expected a clucking sound of pity masked as sympathy, or a sucked-in gasp of shock, but there was only that smooth hand resting against his thigh, that steady voice. “Intramuscular, intravenous, or subcutaneous?”

  “Subcutaneous,” Joseph managed; why was it so hard to speak?

  “Show me where.”

  Joseph nodded, forcing his hand to uncurl from its death-grip on his boxer-briefs, and brushed one of the spots that hurt a little less than the others. “There.”

  Walford’s palm covered his, pressing it against his leg, trapping it under the reassuring weight of those long fingers, before gently nudging his hand aside. “Tell me if this hurts too much,” Wally whispered.

  Joseph tried not to tense, but it was hard when the first touch came: the cold, oddly drawing wetness of an alcohol swab against his flesh, followed by the parting of Wally’s fingers, the way they gripped and pinched gently to raise a section of skin and fatty tissue, then the cool touch of the needle’s tip, stinging in an anticipatory kiss of pain. He hissed, sucking in his breath—but then the needle pierced, a sharp isolated burst and that horrible invasive sensation of cool metal slipping under his skin and taking up space inside his body, the slide of it against his flesh horrible going in but even worse coming out, when the pain was less that of initial penetration and more that of slathering a tongue against an open wound, the needle a sadist licking at him and savoring the channel it had carved in him to spill something into his body so forcibly.

  Then it was over and he could breathe again, and he exhaled sharply, deflating against the bed, his heart beating with that same fluttering race that came every time. He wasn’t quite afraid of needles anymore, not after so long, but they still jacked his pulse up with a rush of sick dread. Wally smoothed his boxer-briefs back into place, then drew the blanket back up.

  “All right?” Wally asked.

  It took several breaths before Joseph could answer. He hated doing it himself, nerving himself to shove that cold tongue of steel into his flesh, but sometimes it was worse when someone else did it to him in some kind of sick violation. His lizard brain was still freaking out, and he needed a second. But he finally managed to swallow back the thick saliva drying on his tongue, and nodded.

  “All right,” he rasped, and made himself look at Wally, watching while the man capped off the syringe and slipped it into a disposable hazardous waste bag before tidying up the detritus of prep with swift, efficient movements. “It disturbs me that you’re so comfortable doing that.”

  Wally flashed a winsome, preoccupied smile. “It should disturb you more if I wasn’t.”

  He finished disposing of the needle in the trash, snapped his gloves off and tossed them after, then reclaimed his chair next to Joseph’s bed; Joseph couldn’t stand those dark, soulful eyes looking at him so deeply, wide and glimmering and taking him in so entirely. But when Wally reached to take his hand, he didn’t pull away, and even though his fingers shook he curled them enough to entangle with Wally’s in a knot against the blankets.

  “Did it hurt too terribly much?” Wally asked.

  “No more than when I do it myself.”

  Wally pressed his lips together, looking down. “I’m sorry. This is my fault. I didn’t think—”

  “I didn’t ask you to think.” It came out harsher than Joseph intended, and he winced, squeezing Wally’s hand in silent apology. “I’m an adult. I can manage myself. And if I don’t manage myself, that’s on me too. I had every option to say no.”

  “Then…why didn’t you?”

  “I was having more fun than I really should,” he admitted—and was rewarded by a widening of Wally’s eyes, a delicate blush, a shy smile as Wally ducked his head.

  “It has been a bit of an about-face, hasn’t it.”

  “I was thinking more a roller coaster out of control.”

  Wally laughed, short and startled and delighted. “A date and four or five kisses doesn’t count as ‘out of control,’ dear boy.”

  “You counted those, too?”

  “And cherished every one.” Wally lifted their clasped hands and pressed that silken mouth to Joseph’s palm, his eyes bright past the tips of their twined fingers. “Six.”

  God, Joseph couldn’t handle this right now. The trembling in the center of his chest, the shivers it sent all the way down to the pit of his stomach, the…everything. Even when it felt good, sometimes stress of any kind was stress of every kind—and he was afraid all it would take was Wally kissing him to send him into paroxysms of pain as his body tried to respond and ended up flooding his system, this junked-out car filling with burning diesel but going nowhere with a ruptured fuel line.

  He looked away, steeling himself to let go. “I’m going to be pretty sick for the rest of the day,” he said, and tugged at his hand. “You don’t want to see this.”

  “I’m fairly certain I do,” Wally said firmly. And even though he released Joseph’s hand, he nonetheless stood and settled to sit on the edge of the bed, resting hip to hip and looking down at him with that calm, unshakeable smile. “You’re still the same Joseph to me, darling dear, ill or well. And if you don’t want my help, I won’t force it on you unless the situation is so dire that I cannot ask and you cannot answer. But even if you shan’t let me help…let me stay?”

  Every ounce of prideful conviction crumbled at that soft entreaty. Joseph could have laughed at himself, if it wouldn’t have hurt like hell. Apparently his willpower, where Walford was concerned?

  Had a lifespan of about fifteen seconds.

  “Yeah,” he said, and offered a tired smile. “Yeah, okay.”

  “Lovely.” Wally curled his palm against Joseph’s cheek. “Do you think you could eat?”

  “Not right now. Right now I don’t want to…anything.” He sighed. “I don’t think this was what you had in mind for a second date.”

  “Expectations are for people who enjoy being disappointed.” And Wally nodded in a that’s-that fashion and dusted his hands together, as if he’d put some critical matter to rest. “Do you think there’s room enough in that bed for me, and perhaps a book or two?”

  At first it didn’t sink in—what Wally wanted, what he was asking, but when it did the jolt of eagerness, of longing, was embarrassing. “Sure,” Joseph croaked, and then immediately cursed himself. Fuck, what, was he going through puberty again?

  But Wally only smiled that smile of his, and slid fluidly off the bed. “A moment, then.”

  A quick movement and he’d toed out of his polished shoes, then shrugged out of his crisply pressed waistcoat, its sheen a deep, satiny gray-violet that complemented quite well the pale gray pinstripes of Wally’s neat, slim-fit button-down. With fastidious yet practiced fingers, he plucked out engraved silver cufflinks, folded his cuffs back neatly in a double tuck to the elbow, then loosened the collar of his shirt until it parted to frame his slender throat and the articulated lines of stark, precise collarbones; a sharp, hungry tug in Joseph’s gut said those collarbones needed to be bitten, nibbled, bruised and l
icked and kissed and—

  Slow it down there, cowboy.

  He closed his eyes with a smile. God damn, it really had been a long time, and he must be seriously fucking repressed if Wally could get him going worse than a hormonal teenager even when he felt like shit. But even with his eyes closed, he pictured the lean, dashing image Wally made with his starched shirt open at the throat and slacks smooth against trim hips and his dark hair falling across his brow, and Joseph had to admit the man, in his own words, looked quite fetching indeed.

  “Now what,” Wally asked tartly, “is that smile for?”

  “Nothing. Just wondering if you even own a t-shirt.”

  “Yes.” Wally sniffed. “I use them to wash my windows.”

  Joseph barked an incredulous laugh. “…jeans?”

  “Don’t use such foul language, please.” Wally’s weight settled on the edge of the bed once more. “Here.”

  His hands eased under Joseph, but Joseph gently pushed him away. “I got it.” He could do this much, at least, and he pushed his body up—all ten tons of it, every fiber of muscle made not from meat and blood but from the densest of neutron stars, weighing him down with the mass of galaxies. But he shifted over from the center of the bed to sprawl along one side; although the bed was a queen, easily large enough for two, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had to think about moving from the center to make room for someone else.

  Once Joseph settled, Wally laid down—gingerly at first, moving like a trespasser in a museum, all whispers of tiptoeing and carefully restrained sound. He laid down just close enough for his heat to take up space and have weight, yet a precise inch of space kept them from touching. Joseph rolled his eyes, and would have damned well grabbed Wally around the waist and dragged him closer if he could have—but at Joseph’s exasperated look, Walford chuckled and relaxed, letting their mutual gravity pull them together until he nestled close and one long, slim arm slid around Joseph’s shoulders, coaxing him up into that key lime scent and the scent of crisp, fresh-washed, pressed and smoothed cotton. He shifted himself carefully, wincing, then sank down with his head resting to Wally’s shoulder, cradled in the curve of his arm and fit like two puzzle pieces against the length of his body.

  “Is this acceptable?” Wally murmured, and as he rested his chin to the top of Joseph’s head, sweet-smelling breaths stirred his hair and infiltrated warmth down to his scalp. He closed his eyes, sighing and letting himself melt into the comfort of…of being held.

  Of being sheltered, and cradled in a love that couldn’t ease his pain, but could make him care about it a little less.

  “I think so,” he whispered.

  “Shall I read to you, then?”

  “I’d like that.”

  “Let’s see what you have here.” Wally shifted against him enough that under his clothing the light pull of sinew pressed against Joseph, only for Wally to relax against him again. The faint feather-touch of pages brushed his shoulder, then pulled away as Wally made an amused sound. “Robinson Crusoe. You do like your classics.”

  “Call me old, and I’ll push you on the floor.”

  “No…no.” Wally clucked his tongue. “I was merely thinking I might have something you’d enjoy.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m not certain. God knows the things I’ve hoarded and lost and hoarded again in my travels.” Wally laughed, and for the first time Joseph could feel it: a light thrumming as if his hand rested against a purring cat’s belly, and the more that thrum sank into him the less he wanted to open his eyes; he craved to remain this way always, listening to Wally’s voice in the dark and infinite space the world opened up to whenever he closed his eyes. “I’ll tell you if I can find it. But for now…shall we journey away to the shores off Trinidad?”

  Joseph chuckled, and draped his arm across Wally’s chest. “Just read, you weirdo.”

  “As you wish, my love,” Wally said, amidst the crooning whisper-shush of pages turning. “As you wish.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  WALLY HAD NEVER IMAGINED IN a lifetime that he would wake up in Joseph Armitage’s arms.

  Then again, he’d never imagined in a lifetime that he would spend the night cleaning Joseph’s vomit from the floor, but life was funny that way.

  To say last night had been rough would have redefined the idea of what rough truly was. He’d seen some of the side effects of Joseph’s interferon injections before, but that had been when he’d been on a regular schedule and his body was accustomed to the cycles. The effects when he’d delayed his shot only to suddenly inflict that substance on his body…

  Wally had had no idea.

  He’d almost called 911, when Joseph had started convulsing during chapter three of Robinson Crusoe—but Joseph had stayed him with a shaking, white-knuckled hand on his wrist, gripping fiercely, fingers digging in. He’d tried to speak, to say something, his eyes rolling and strained, bits of white foam gathering at the corners of his mouth…but he’d barely forced out no hospital before the words lost out to his retching, and the moment Wally realized what he’d needed he’d quickly helped Joseph roll over so he wouldn’t choke, so he could lean over the side of the bed and sick up onto the floor.

  Wally had held him until it was over, then gently wiped his face, brought him water and a cup to spit and a cap full of mouthwash before having a go at the floor with the Lysol and paper towels. He’d said nothing to Joseph’s whispered apologies; he wouldn’t dismiss them when Joseph’s feelings mattered, but he couldn’t accept them, either, when there was nothing to be sorry for. He’d only cleaned the mess, then settled in the bed once more with Joseph’s head cradled in his lap, holding a cool compress against his brow and talking to him about…nothing. About everything. About missing the noise of the circus; about the creak and groan of cargo boats and the seasick rock of journeys overseas to Belize and Venice and Beijing and the park where Kowloon Walled City once stood; about the first time he’d slipped his fingers into a lion’s velvety fur and sensed that great feline heart beating under his palm beneath hundreds of pounds of taut, killing sinew. Anything to distract Joseph; anything to give him something to focus on, until the next time the retching began and Wally did everything in his power to lift Joseph up and get him into the bathroom until it became pointless and they only positioned a bucket next to the bed.

  And waited.

  “You must really love me,” Joseph had choked out in a bitter rasp, some time deep in the predawn night. He’d been pale, with high red blotches of fever on his cheeks, clammy sweat soaking his skin, his body at once cool and boiling to the touch. “Takes love to willingly clean someone else’s puke.”

  “I do,” Wally had answered. “And I love you as you are now, as you were this morning, as you were yesterday, as you will be tomorrow. Nothing about this has changed how I love you.”

  Joseph had closed his eyes and let his head fall to one side, cheek resting against Wally’s thigh. “I want to believe that.”

  “You should,” Wally had said. “Because every word of it is true.”

  Joseph had finally fallen asleep, his spasms and sickness quieting during the particular quiet hush that came right before the sun. Wally had remained awake for some time longer, watching him, worrying, waiting, hoping that Joseph had finally found rest. And only when Joseph’s breaths evened out, only when his body uncoiled from its tense knot and went lax…

  Only then was Wally, too, able to let himself fall into exhausted, fretfully worried sleep.

  He wasn’t sure what time it was, now. Possibly midmorning, by the light that fell through the window and glinted in chestnut shimmer off Joseph’s disarrayed hair. Joseph slept on his side, tucked into the crook of Wally’s arm with his head burrowed into Wally’s shoulder, his weight warm and heavy and wonderfully crushing—and at some point during the night he’d tangled his fingers in Wally’s shirt and never let go.

  Wally’s heart tumbled over several beats, and he leaned in with a sigh and press
ed his lips to Joseph’s brow.

  “You darling boy,” he whispered. “My darling boy.”

  Joseph remained motionless, silent save for deep, steady breaths. He looked to be resting blessedly easier, and under Wally’s kiss his forehead had been cooler, temperature steadier, the clammy fever-sweat banished save for a faint hint of dried crackle on his skin, under Wally’s fingertips. The hard knot of worry inside Wally loosened its grip. The worst of it seemed to have passed. Thank God. Joseph needed all the rest he could get.

  Wally shifted to ease out of bed, carefully slipping his shoulder from beneath Joseph’s head and laying him to the pillow—only to stop when Joseph’s hand tightened in his shirt. Joseph let out a sleepy, protesting rumble without ever opening his eyes. Wally chuckled and gently pried Joseph’s hand free, and kissed his knuckles before laying his hand to rest on the pillow.

  “Rest, darling dear,” he whispered. “I’m only going to start brunch, and run you a proper bath.”

  Joseph’s only answer was a drowsy grumble, before he subsided. Wally lingered a few moments, then chuckled and slid out of the bed, rising briskly to his feet.

  “I’ll wake you when it’s ready,” he murmured, before propping the crutches within easy reach of the bedside and slipping from the room to canvass Joseph’s kitchen for anything edible.

  After ten minutes, he was quite firmly convinced Joseph couldn’t be trusted on his own. Not because of the MS, but because sometimes he was such a bloody man and clearly thought living on sandwiches was perfectly acceptable, from the contents of his refrigerator. Wally had been bringing things from home to cook during the weeks after Willow’s disappearance, but he was starting to think the state of the icebox had nothing to do with grief and everything to do with Joseph being utterly impossible.