Autumn: A Crow City Side Story

by Cole McCade

  At some point, he remembered sticking himself with the interferon. He must have, from the giant blotchy mark he found the next morning at an injection site he’d never used before, high on his inner thigh. And at some point in the cloud of drugs he must have hauled his ill-used wheelchair from the closet, because it was waiting for him on day two—he thought it was day two, time meant nothing—when he fell out of bed, into the wheelchair seat, and tried to get to the kitchen for more water, for something to eat, for…for…

  He couldn’t remember. He couldn’t remember anything, couldn’t think. Couldn’t see, his vision going black. He slumped against the wheelchair, his face pressed into his seat, his body dragging on the floor. Was he dying? He felt like he was dying. He would die here, all because he was too fucking prideful to pick up the phone.

  Served him fucking right.

  Falling in love when you were young and pretty and lithe and strong was easy.

  Falling in love after life had broken all the youth and prettiness and strength out of him came with harsh consequences, for thinking he could pretend to be young again.

  * * *

  “SHH. SHH NOW. COME ON, let’s get you up.”

  Through the haze of unconsciousness, he felt hands on his body, lifting him with more strength than he remembered those hands should have. But then maybe there was nothing left of him, only a brittle shell, lighter than air. A cicada. That’s what he was, the shell left behind when a cicada crawled out and flew off with its new skin still slick and soft and wet, while the old one was left behind to cling—desperate and dead—to the flaking layers of pine bark, an empty and crumbling and meaningless thing.

  But there was a bed underneath him. His bed. And voices. Two voices, talking over him. He knew one. The other, he didn’t. And then a third. A man and a woman, two strangers in his home, and he hissed and jerked as something stung his inner arm. Then those hands took hold of him again, blessedly cool and blessedly beautiful, stroking his hair.

  “Shh,” that voice said, as he sank away again. “Shh. It’s all right. You’re going to be all right, darling dear.”

  * * *

  HE DIDN’T KNOW HOW LONG he was out, this time. Only that it was dark and cool and quiet, and bit by bit the pain lessened. Those wonderful hands remained, dabbing something slick that relieved parched lips—and then came the sense of a heated body against him, and he couldn’t move but still everything inside him strained toward that warmth, that firm embrace, those stroking fingers that never stopped slipping through his hair, until their endless rhythm was a tide lulling him into deep and painless and peaceful sleep.

  When he came to, it was dreamlike and muddled—though his eyes ached, gritty and sore, and his chin rested on something hard that rather hurt. It hurt less when he realized what that hard thing was: Wally’s sternum, the bare, pale skin of his chest smooth as a stretch of pure white linen past the unbuttoned shirt that had rumpled around them both and somehow ended up with the hem in Joseph’s mouth.

  He moved dry, cracked lips and spat the shirt out, then mumbled and buried his face against Wally’s chest. He listened to Wally’s breaths, like holding a conch shell to his ear and listening to the rush of the sea, in and out, in and out, a rhythm as steady as the quiet throb of that heartbeat against his ear.

  Here. Wally was here, and Joseph didn’t understand why or how but everything he needed was in this moment, when he felt so broken but hadn’t had to wake up with that feeling alone.

  Wally shifted against him with a low sound, before trailing into an amused murmur. “Good morning.”

  Joseph tilted his head back enough to look up at him. From this angle Wally was all pale skin dripped in sunlight’s honey all along his edges, coursing in a glistening glaze over full pink lips and the pert, straight tip of his nose and the finely crested arches of his brows. His hair was a tangled mess, spilling in silver and black loops across the pillow, curling against his throat, drifting into eyes so dark with sleep they were the eyes of Morpheus himself, beckoning into the sweetest and blackest dream.

  Joseph had no idea how one man could be so fucking beautiful, but not knowing didn’t stop his heart from skipping, thudding, a stone rolling downhill in an unstoppable plunge.

  “You came again,” he whispered, and Wally smiled sleepily, a drowsy glitter in half-lidded eyes.

  “You needed me.”

  “I chased you out.”

  “And you still needed me,” Wally answered, yet something in his voice, some husky and aching intent, promised something more.

  Joseph tried to push himself up, to look down at him, to really see him sprawled in Joseph’s bed this way, tousled and lovely—but when he tried to move, something pulled on his arm, stinging and sharp and tethering him in place. He hissed, looking down. An IV needle was buried in his inner elbow, taped against his skin and tethered to a bag of fluid hanging from an IV pole positioned next to the bed.

  “What is this…?”

  “When I found you, you were dehydrated and malnourished, and wouldn’t wake.” The shadow of what must have been days of worry flitted across Wally’s brow in little furrows. “I didn’t know how to help you. But you hate hospitals, so…” He brushed his fingertips to Joseph’s cheek. “I brought the doctor to you.”

  He frowned. “I don’t remember that.”

  “You were rather far gone, dearest one. The doctor was quite concerned over the number of oxycodone you must have taken.” That touch against his cheek firmed, palm cupping, thumb stroking, arcing a sweetly sensitive path against his skin. “But they took proper care of you. Fluids and nutrients, and a little extra medication to bring down the inflammation. Had a nurse on call for a day or two, as well.”

  “How did you afford a physician house call?”

  “Young Devon is remarkably dedicated to…” Wally exhaled, tilting his head back against the pillows. “I’m not even certain, to be honest. It’s as though he’s trying to atone for something in the wake of Willow’s disappearance, but he was quite happy to help. Sent the West family physician. Apparently Dr. Cavanaugh is a highly qualified, respected specialist in the autoimmune field.”

  Joseph scowled. More charity. More charity from the Wests, and even though he knew it wasn’t that Devon boy’s fault that his father had married the woman who had destroyed Joseph’s heart, it still rankled deep that now not only was he living off that charity, but living and dying by it.

  But Wally smiled that patiently understanding smile, and tapped a fingertip to Joseph’s lips.

  “Ah—ah. Don’t. Don’t let your pride get in the way of this, lovey. It mattered. You’re all right. That’s all that’s important.”

  Joseph grit his teeth, then sighed and sank down against Wally again. He was too tired to get up in arms over it, too tired for so many things. He’d rather lie here and soak Wally in, and let himself relax for a few blissful minutes. He’d woken in worse states before, and he’d bet the only reason he didn’t feel like death right now was because he’d slept through the worst of it—and he wanted to just be here and savor the fact that for a little bit he felt whole and capable again, instead of waking into the nightmare of a body that had stopped obeying his commands a long time ago.

  “All right,” he murmured, pillowing his head to Wally’s shoulder. “Um…how long was I out?”

  “It was three days before I found you…and six since then.”

  “Nine days?!”

  “To be fair, you spent the first few on a morphine drip,” Wally retorted dryly. “How do you feel now?”

  Joseph hesitated, quietly flexing his limbs in place. No pain, though a certain weird pillowy soft sensation made him wonder if he was still hopped up on morphine, pain receptors dulled. He didn’t feel high, but his body was oddly disconnected—not quite numb, but as if a filter walled him off from even knowing what his nerve endings were doing.

  “I’m…kind of floaty…?” he said. “Weak, but I think I could stand up. Everything seems to wor
k, more or less. Though I’d kill for some solid food. Even if it’s just dry bread.”

  “That’s about all you can have for a while, according to the doctor. But luckily that dry bread comes with fruits and vegetables.”

  “I need a shower, first, I think.” Joseph wrinkled his nose; his skin was too tight, and he really didn’t want to think about how he smelled after nine days without a shower. But at Wally’s stern look, he sighed. “Bath. Bath. I won’t push it.”

  “I do so love that I didn’t even have to say a word.” With a radiant smile, Wally gently disentangled their bodies, easing himself free to let Joseph sink to the mattress while Wally slid out of the bed. “I’ll run you a proper bath. You worry about getting on your feet.”

  At first, Joseph could say nothing. He was arrested by how the light fell over Wally—spilling over his bed-rumpled tangles and illuminating how his sleep-wrinkled slacks had fallen down narrow hips, hanging at a rakish angle that, paired with the flyaway shirt open over the lean contours of his chest and the careless sweep of his hair, gave his every movement a certain devil-may-care allure. He could have been a dashing, elegant nobleman steeped in wickedness and ennui, sneaking off from a chambermaid’s bed with the coming of the dawn—and Joseph wondered if this was love, that he could watch the man fussing with his cuffs and think he looked so perfect, so wonderful.

  If it wasn’t love…then it damned well sure was missing him, after he’d sent him off and refused to call him back.

  Joseph lowered his eyes, biting the inside of his cheek. “Wally…”

  Wally paused, fingers caught fitting the bottom button of his shirt into its hole. “Yes, darling dear?”

  Still Joseph searched for words, but his head was fuzzy, gradually clearing. But he’d find those words. He had to find those damned words, to clear the air, to make it right, but for now he at least managed to say, “We need to talk.” He tentatively tried a smile. “But thank you.”

  Wally drifted to the edge of the bed, caught Joseph’s face in his smooth palms, and leaned down to kiss his brow. “We’ll talk later,” he murmured against his skin. “Simply let me take care of you. Please. I need to, Joseph. It tears at me when I cannot.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I love you, you bloody fool.” Wally’s voice broke, and when he drew back the morning light made diamonds of the tears beading on his lower lashes, welling and trembling and threatening to break. “You frightened me so bloody much. Promise me you won’t hang up if you need help. Not again.” Then, when Joseph only stared at him, “Promise me.”

  Joseph couldn’t breathe. Not when those tears were for him, so much emotion, so much pain, and in those dark-glimmering eyes Joseph saw days of fear, of worry, of desperation that not even glib smiles and playful darling dears could sweep away. No one had ever looked at him the way Wally did now, as if their world anchored on Joseph. He couldn’t bear the weight of it, the intensity of it, the emotion that swelled inside his chest and threatened to crack him apart.

  “I promise,” he whispered, because he could say nothing else, and Wally rewarded him with the loveliest, most breathtaking smile he’d ever seen, stealing his thoughts and stealing his heart and telling him what he hadn’t wanted to admit to himself when this relationship felt barely hours old, a single sprout rising from years of buried resentment:

  He was in fucking deep, and he didn’t think he was getting out.

  “Thank you, darling dear,” Wally said, and kissed him again, before twirling away like some strange fae sprite, already heading toward the door. “Now let’s get some food in you, shall we?”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  JOSEPH FOUND HE COULD WALK with his crutches, and managed to peel the IV from his inner arm, lever to his feet, and get himself into a steaming bath; the bath chased away the last of that strange floating sensation, heat soaking deep into his muscles and leaving him relaxed against the back of the tub. He closed his eyes, sank down deep into the water, and listened to the noise of Wally bustling about in the kitchen—dishes clanking, pots and pans rattling, and he thought he heard the hiss of the coffee pot but without the scent of fresh brew. Over it all was Wally’s singing; Joseph didn’t know the song, but he was pretty damned sure it was something Disney.

  Goddammit.

  That man.

  He smiled faintly to himself and tilted his head back against the edge of the tub, idly tracing one hand over his chest just to feel the water droplets pattering over his skin. He didn’t know how he could feel both grateful and guilty at the same time, but it was very possible that even if Wally might not have saved his life, he’d saved him from a much longer, much more painful period of recovery.

  And Wally had come to him.

  Joseph had been too stubborn and stupid to reach out…and Wally had made the choice to ease the ache of separation and come to him.

  How had he gotten so fucking twisted up that it hurt to be away from that damnable, whimsical, utterly unreal piece of magic that pretended to be a man?

  He caught himself thinking of the shape of Wally’s lips. Of the way he tasted; of a certain way his upper lip always caught on Joseph’s when they kissed, dueling and lingering and melting into his until their mouths found that perfect lock and the tips of their tongues touched and he breathed Wally in like the vapors rising from alcohol, an absinthe liqueur that drugged him every time. And he couldn’t stop his fingers from drifting lower, as he remembered how Wally had arched when Joseph had stroked the supple lines of his back, how he’d gasped and that particular faint whimper of helplessness when Joseph caught him off guard and kissed him hard enough that his mouth gave, liquid as overripe fruit under Joseph’s, thin skin taut and ready to burst in a luscious wet flood.

  Something sparked deep in the pit of his stomach, throbbed lower between his thighs. He groaned, nearly floating in the steam rising off the bath, lifting his hips as his hand traced down.

  “Joseph?” Wally’s voice drifted down the hall. “Breakfast is ready, if you’d like to come out. Do you think you can manage?”

  Joseph’s eyes snapped open. He flushed; his cock glistened wet and slick, the head rising from the surface of the bath, roused and hardened and straining so hotly its pulse echoed in his temples. Christ.

  Of all the times for it to decide it wanted to work.

  “Yeah,” he called back, and gripped the edge of the bathtub, pushing himself up. “I think I’m okay. I’ll be there in a minute.”

  By the time he made it to the kitchen, the effort of hauling himself out of the bath, brushing his teeth a half-dozen times, and pulling on jeans and a t-shirt without falling over had killed his arousal—but not the lingering, slow-moving warmth of quiet pleasure in his blood, that simmering, latent desire that pulled him from the bathroom and into the kitchen as if he was on a damned tether. Wally was setting the table, right down to paper towels folded into shapes as precise and intricate as fancy hotel napkins, perfectly framing silverware laid out in precise order. Joseph fought back the urge to slip up behind him, catch him around the waist, kiss the back of his neck with a wanting so powerful he saw it, saw himself corralling Wally’s hips and tasting his skin with a comfortable familiarity as if this was their life and every day, every morning, he woke to find Wally in the kitchen waiting for his good morning kiss.

  Joseph didn’t deserve that, right now. Not when he’d been so harsh, and yet Wally had still come for him. Cared for him. Stayed with him.

  No one ever stayed with him.

  Wally whisked a skillet off the stove, and partitioned the contents between the two plates: a mix of seared chicken breast strips and snow peas in the pod and baby carrots and spears of red, green, and yellow peppers, still sizzling and filling the air with a subtle and mouthwatering scent. “Sautéed vegetables and chicken in a very, very light oil,” Wally said primly. “No saturated fats, a soupçon of oil for flavor, and a touch of basil and oregano. And I’ve tried this gluten-free flour the doctor recommended for fresh b
read. There’ll be baked apple slices coming out of the oven by the time you’re done with the main course.” He set the empty skillet aside and added slices of fresh, soft bread to the edges of both plates, then twirled over to the coffee pot to tip the carafe full of plain boiling water over two cups—releasing a burst of tart citrus scents that worked hell on Joseph’s already snarling, furiously hungry gullet, his mouth nearly flooding. “And tea,” Wally said, chattering on as he swirled back to the table with the cups and a stern look for Joseph. “A raspberry lemon blend; no caffeine for you, young man.”

  Joseph stared at him with incredulous amusement. “Since when did you become the expert on the multiple sclerosis diet?”

  “I had a good deal of time to read, while watching you sleep like a…I believe you would call me a ‘creeper,’ yes?” Wally pulled out a chair for him. “That is the vernacular?”

  “Yes, you weirdo.” With a snort of laughter, Joseph levered himself over to the chair, slipped out of his crutches, and sank down; when Wally pushed his chair in, the man’s chest pressed against Joseph’s back. Joseph leaned into him, and let himself take in the scents of Wally and fresh-cooked food before Wally dropped a kiss to the top of his head, then pulled away. Joseph made himself focus; he was goddamned starving. A nutrient IV wasn’t a solid meal. He picked up his fork and speared a snow pea pod. “If I get used to this, I’ll end up spoiled.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with being spoiled by someone who wants to spoil you.” Wally settled into the chair across from Joseph and shook his paper napkin out with the flair of a matador snapping a red flag, then smoothed it into his lap. “Honestly, Joseph, when two people share space it’s natural. You needn’t be so awkward about it.”

  “It is awkward, for me.” Joseph idly turned over his fork, studying the snow pea. He couldn’t remember anyone ever cooking anything this fancy for him, not even Willow when they’d had money for fresh food; Willow had been busy working, and he had done his best to manage in the kitchen for both of them even if his cooking skills were rusty as hell. “It wasn’t like this, with Miriam. Sometimes she was gone before I even woke up, and that was our everyday. We didn’t live together; we occasionally collided in the same space. I took care of Willow, and then when I couldn’t take care of her, she took care of me, but it just…didn’t feel like this. It always felt like necessity, making do.” And it was easier to look at the snow pea than at Wally, when he admitted, “Not like…home.”