Scene 14: The green parlor (cont.)

  There’s a breathless silence after Sandgren leaves. Rafael can’t tear his burning eyes away from the place the man vanished, fighting with unreasoning fear and anger. The only sound is all of them breathing, a soft, susurrating whisper in the still air, and the thundering war-drum of Rafael’s heartbeat.

  “Fuck,” says Rich, and lowers Connor back to his feet, hovering as the man rolls his neck and rubs his jaw. “You okay?”

  “Oh, me?” Connor says, and huffs something that’s mostly a laugh. “Finer’n a frog’s hair split four ways. That Kentucky-fried fuck is plenty of fun if you ain’t broke any rules he knows about lately. Unless you’re high as a fuckin’ kite.”

  “What?” says Rich, and then glances down to Rafael. The look burns into Rafael’s skin as he stares at the door, throat working, struggling to breathe around the helpless white-hot lump of emotion strangling in his chest.

  “Yeah, what the hell was that exactly?” says Sol, and the small, strong hand on Rafael’s wrist squeezes again, aching. “I know Connor’s declared another Appalachia microwar on the guy, but—”

  Rafael wrenches at Sol’s grip and Sol finally lets go, watching with dark calculation in his eyes.

  “I hate him,” Rafael says, the words grinding out painfully from his tight throat. “I—hate him.”

  “Well, yeah,” says Connor. “That ol’ snake could teach the Devil hisself some new tricks.”

  “No,” says Rafael, then “Yes,” because he is, he’s, “—A poisonous viper, a crawling, wretched—I would see his beating heart crushed below my heel, I would eat it in the marketplace—”

  “Holy shit—Raf,” Rich says, and his hands take Rafael’s shoulders, stroking up and down. “Hey, man, hey. Take a breather, okay?”

  Rafael is suddenly, humiliatingly aware that he’s trembling, eyes burning wet. Memories he pushed down so far the pain was nonexistent crowd back around him like wild animals, pulling and tearing at him from all sides; a smiling face, a bright laugh, a kind pair of hands. A body broken from the inside, until half of it hung slack and Sam couldn’t talk after that, he couldn’t walk or talk or even smile and that was the end of him.

  “He broke Sam,” Rafael says, every word searing, and sees by the glances they trade that they don’t know the name, of course they don’t know it. Because Sam’s gone, he’s gone, he’s gone. “Broke him beyond repair, by accident. We don’t even mean enough to him for it to be murder. I would tear his very head, heart, and soul from him. If I could—If I could ever—”

  “Amen, my man,” Connor says, and pulls him into a tight hug. Rafael tenses, the angry beast of his body still trembling to lash out—and then slumps, taking the comfort as it’s offered and burying his face in the sweaty hollow of Connor’s shoulder.

  “Alright,” says Sol, low and hard and unhappy. “Well, this has been great and all—I bet Stefan snitched on us, little rat bastard. Andy—” he pauses, breathes out roughly. “Oh, hell.”

  Rafael raises his head at that, glancing back as Connor releases him, and sees Andy gone motionless where he knelt by the table, staring down at its surface. His bright, sharp-edged face has slackened and emptied, and the clever ocean-colored eyes have turned dull with distance.

  “Hell,” Sol repeats, more softly, and goes over to him. Andy rises when Sol tugs on his arm, brow furrowing faintly as if in confusion, but he doesn’t seem to register anything else. In the wake of the memories still nipping at Rafael’s heels, the sight turns his stomach with unexpected force.

  “C’mon,” Sol says with surprising gentleness, and starts forward, leading Andy by the arm. The man follows, stumbling a little like a sleepwalker. “One foot in front of the other, Brooklyn. Let’s get you lying down.”

  They leave without another word. Connor watches them go, then takes a deep breath and draws a hand through the wild brown curls of his hair. His round, pretty face and angelic blue eyes seem much older when he looks up, tight with unhappiness and fatigue. But he just gives Rich and Rafael a drawn, pained smile, and then walks past them to the scattered cards, kneeling down to gather them up one by one.

  “Here, I can help,” Rich starts, stepping forward, and all the enormous avalanche mass of his momentum is arrested when Connor puts up a hand.

  “I got this, Red,” the man says. “You run along, now.”

  “Okay,” Rich says quietly, and rocks back on his heels. “Yeah, okay. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

  Connor nods without turning, still picking up each card with careful deliberation. Rich sighs, runs his hand through the red bristle of his hair, then turns to Rafael and looks at him, so soft and kind and lost. Looking for someone to help.

  “Do you wanna go back to our berth?” Rich says, and Rafael swallows and nods. “Do you want me to take you there?”

  It’s awful, how something that was so good and so triumphant feels like a shameful weakness now. But Rafael recognizes this side of the drug, the sick comedown of adrenaline and misery turning the warm, bubbly feeling into nausea. It was only a brief miracle of good fortune that he avoided it as long as he did.

  “Yes,” he says in a quaking, pitiful whisper. “I’m sorry. Yes, please.”

  “Okay, hon, c’mere,” Rich says, and scoops him up. He’s shaking: the huge granite slabs of muscle tremble under Rafael’s touch and the heavy edge of Rich’s jaw presses to Rafael’s shoulder as Rich holds him close. He’s scared.

  But all he says is, "You're okay. We're okay," and cups a hand over the narrow span of Rafael's nape.

  "You needn't lie for my sake," Rafael murmurs shakily, and it's meant as a joke but he can see Rich steel himself at once, trying to gather up a mask of reassurance, opening his mouth to attempt some painful bravado. Rafael cuts him off, squeezing one enormous shoulder. "Rich. You are no more alright than any man here. And younger than many who have found themselves in this terrible place—"

  "I'm old enough," Rich mutters, a young man's familiar rebellious refrain, and Rafael could laugh if his heart weren't breaking. "They made me pretty tough, I can—can keep it together."

  "And how old is old enough?" Rafael presses. "Twenty-two? Twenty-four?"

  Rich's expression is admission itself; self-conscious and startled, unused to being seen past his size and his fearsome bloodline. Rafael was correct then, and he's Gabe's age or barely older, years younger than Rafael. He’s young and he’s scared and he doesn’t know what to do other than tend to whoever will let him. Rafael’s aching heart can’t bear much more of this. He presses against Rich and puts his arm clumsily around the broad column of his neck.

  “It will be well,” he manages, and presses a kiss to Rich’s sweat-damp cheek. “Brave boy. It will all turn out alright, in the end.”

  Rich blows out a hot, shuddering breath against Rafael’s shoulder, more than a sigh but not quite a sob. But he starts off, carrying Rafael along with a measured, even stride.

  When they get back to Rich’s room, Rich sits down on the bed without even letting go of Rafael, holding him tightly with one arm, and reaches out to take up his bottle of whiskey with the other. He uncaps it in a deft move and drinks deeply, half his remaining store, then sighs roughly, looks critically at the remainder, and knocks the entire rest of it back as well.

  “Fuck,” he says, “I’m probably gonna regret that,” his deep voice even rougher than usual, and for a moment Rafael thinks he’s going to throw the bottle against the wall. But he sets it delicately back down, squares the label with the edges of the table, and sags back against the headboard.

  “D’you really think—” he starts, and chokes on the words, curling around Rafael as if all he wants is whatever comfort Rafael can give him. He feels so huge and strong, like this, enveloping Rafael’s whole body, but he sounds so young. So deeply hurt and scared. “It’s gonna be okay?”

  “Yes,” says Rafael, and swallows down the tears that threaten. Kneeling up, he turns in Rich’s arms until he can cradle that huge head against his own insufficient chest and hide Rich from the world. “There will be a day—we’ll see it together, a day under an open sky, when we can go wherever we want—”

  “I just wanna go home,” Rich murmurs, thick and choked. His grip tightens, pressing Rafael closer, and Rafael returns the gesture in kind. Holds him closer, until his arms ache as badly as his heart.

  “Then we will,” he says, and strokes Rich’s hair, steady as a heartbeat. He doesn’t allow his voice to waver, permits no sign of uncertainty—he can’t, couldn’t bear it, to allow these words to fall apart into empty lies. “We’ll go home to your lake, your Fleet. I’ll sit by the water and read you poetry, and he won’t have us anymore, he’ll be—gone, and done, and we’ll remain.”

  Rich takes a hitching breath, then another, then gives a low, wounded moan and dissolves into near-silent tears. Rafael eases to one side, and Rich lets himself be pulled until they can lie down together, still clinging tight, holding on.

  “Someday,” Rafael tells him with all his heart, and closes his eyes before they can overflow, his voice steady and certain. “We’ll be alright.”

  –

  LOG: BEAKER VILLA, HARTFORD, AUGUST

  Madam Beaker’s villa is gorgeous, in an alien, landside way. It reminds Basil a little bit of the Versailles, the airy, broad spaces of a garden boat. Lots of graceful open arches, walls made of brick or some kind of pale, clay-looking substance, and intricate mosaics of plants. Basil never listened all that closely when Liam would talk about his babies, experimental fruit trees, herb gardens in tiered racks, weird little vegetables, but he knows Liam’s doing vital work, important stuff for the Fleet’s foodways. Some rich landside lady doesn’t have any reason at all to work full shifts out in the sun and the dirt.

  When they’re led to Madam Beaker, though, they find her in an airy greenhouse full of trellises and flowerbeds, trimming critically away at a little flowering shrub.

  She’s as beautiful as the villa is, even smaller than Liam, Mediterranean descent, with large, gorgeous, liquid-dark eyes that are barely wrinkled at the corners, and very long dark brown hair that only shows a faint, dignified gleam of silver. She’s also, frankly, terrifying.

  “I don’t know what in the hell they think they’re doing out on that floating commie shitshow, just losing a talented boy like my grandson,” is the first thing she says when she hears where Basil’s from, and “Why did Bane hire you on, then?” is the second. She has the effortless superiority of some fierce little fairy queen from an RPG, but more so because she’s actually real, actually staring Basil down.

  When she says, “Well?” impatiently, even Lee stands up a little straighter.

  Commander Bane has talked Basil through this. Basil clears his throat and says, “I’m her missing son’s boyfriend, Madam Beaker. Uh. And I came here because we don’t think he just got lost. Liam, I mean.”

  Madam Beaker’s eyes narrow dangerously. “Well he didn’t evaporate, did he?” she says irritably. “And I haven’t seen any ransom demands yet, if you’re implying he got himself kidnapped.”

  “That’s what we think, yeah. Uh, Madam.”

  “Did you bring me a name? Or just half-baked accusations?”

  “No. Madam. We know what the last guy they were seen with looks like, and that he was rich. We gave Commander Bane everything we’ve got on him.”

  Madam Beaker makes an unimpressed noise and viciously clips a twig. “So what are you still doing here, then?”

  “I’m friends with Liam,” Basil says steadily. This part, he’s had a chance to practice. “And my commie shitshow set me up with neuralware implants and ten years’ experience managing the kind of data processing load that landside corporations need whole office suites to handle. And they still don’t do it as well as I can. So, since I have a personal interest in finding our missing guys and a pretty superior ability to go do it, you might want to let me.”

  “Huh!” Madam Beaker says, looking mildly amused. “I like that confidence. And your meat over there is…?”

  Basil looks at where she’s pointing. It’s at Lee.

  “Lee also has implants,” Basil says. “And is bigger and stronger than me. We figured their utility to the operation would be obvious.”

  “Aren’t you a charmer.” Madam Beaker goes over to a complicated piece of furniture, unfolds it, and removes several fancy bottles and glasses. With a few sprigs of whatever she was cutting, she mixes herself a complicated drink out of a whole lot of different parts. Basil contemplates the fact that she has a little private bar in her greenhouse, and that she’s probably doing this whole thing just to be rude, and isn't at all surprised when she finally turns around with the drink and doesn't offer him any. Just sips it and looks him over to see how annoyed she's gotten him.

  It honestly isn't much. He's more than used to abysmal landside manners by now.

  “Yeah, alright,” Beaker apparently decides, and sips her glass. “I’ve heard worse pitches. You saw the skull out front, right?”

  “I did see the skull,” Basil confirms. “The one with the diamonds on it? Liam told me the story already, about the business guy who tried to get you sent to uh, landside psych prison, when you were starting out. So you don’t have to tell it. We know we oughta be scared of you, I’m pretty scared, you don’t have to go through the whole…” he makes a little fast-forwarding gesture. “We get it. Believe me, if I wanted landside money for some reason, there are way less scary ways I could get it.”

  The author's content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  “Yeah, I think if we’re scamming you, we’re probably just going to be shot and dumped overboard,” Lee agrees. “Or like, in the woods. Whatever you do here. I saw a pond.”

  “Well, aren’t you a pair of smart cookies,” Beaker says, and finishes her drink. “I like it when kids do their homework. Or I would if I didn’t hate kids.”

  “For the record we’re not fucking with you, and I’m already so scared of everything about this situation that I’m kind of maxed out,” Basil says. “Please don’t shoot us and dump us in your pond, and we’ll find your grandson and Commander Bane’s, uh, regular son. I don’t think we need anything much but a bunkroom for a while and all the library access codes that being really wealthy and important gets you? And maybe some food. It’s really expensive to eat out here and money is turning out to be a huge fucking hassle.”

  Madam Beaker actually laughs at that. It isn’t a nice laugh. “God, I hate what the Fleet does to you kids. You’re like if little lambs could bleat Marx on the way to the slaughterhouse. God only knows what kind of knife my Liam laid down for. But okay, alright, fine. Bane’s not an idiot—if she thinks you got an actual viable plan here, I’ll let her play it her way. She’s got skin in this stupid game too. Welcome to my villa. Let’s see what all my money can do for you.”

  –

  Connecticut isn’t the worst place to end up settled for a while—Hartford is a landside city, it’s never exactly going to be comfortable, or easy to comprehend, but at least the climate here is much more familiar than New Orleans’ constant low, wet boil. Madam Beaker’s villa is situated in what Basil is assured is “the best part of town” and there’s a big, famous, historical college campus with several huge libraries and dozens of satellite archives all over the rest of the city, several of them relatively close by.

  Every time Basil thinks he’s gotten used to landside, though, there’s some new bizarre adaptation to make. Madam Beaker’s patronage has been more than good enough to give Basil access to the university and the local libraries, but he finds himself almost immediately missing the anonymity of New Orleans. Being repeatedly mistaken for a local was awkward sometimes, but it was better than the inverse, and Hartford is majority euro-descent. He stands out, here. It’s like he stepped onto the Washington, some administrative ship he doesn’t have clearance for, where people just automatically give him suspicious looks like “Are you supposed to be here?”

  Lee gets a different kind of look. They learn fast that they have to wear their mom’s livery if they want to step outside; stand up straight, keep their growl and their hands to themself, stick by Basil’s side and play ‘sober bodyguard’ instead of ‘swaggering Hastings bravo.’ Basil is given his own wardrobe of uncomfortable landside fashion, to look like somebody who warrants a Hastings escort and won’t get weirdly side-eyed and followed around at every library and research hub he goes to.

  Once they've managed to crack the whole stupid dress code, Basil goes to all of them. The routine goes: walk in, walk around, find the history and economics and politics and sociology, sit down in the most pretentious chair he’s seen since yesterday, and pretend to read something nicely academic while ripping everything he can reach to his own implants. Lee stands around looking professionally gigantic and helps buffer the load so Basil’s hair doesn't catch on fire from the heat stress, and sometimes fetches him dainty cups of ice water.

  The two of them have just managed to find some kind of rhythm when after a week and a half at the security quarters on Madam Beaker’s grounds, Lee gets sick.

  Apparently it’s a virus most Hastings trade around in their early- to mid-teens, and since Lee never got the chance, contracting it as an adult has knocked them right on their ass. It’s ruled not serious enough for either the troop infirmary or a civilian doctor, so Basil spends the first day uncertainly hanging around Madam Beaker’s house, organizing his last haul and trying to avoid the woman, and the second day holed up with Lee and uselessly over-annotating as Lee gets progressively crankier and more feverish.

  Lee does their best to tough it out, but by the third day, they’re not good for much of anything except lying in the barracks section of the villa and picking unenthusiastically at whatever Basil brings them from the troop mess.

  Madam Beaker won’t let Basil go out by himself—out of concern for his safety or presumption of his incompetence, it’s not clear. Basil holes up wherever he can around the villa grounds, sulkily folding himself out of everybody’s way, and throws himself into collating quarterly reports of the fifty biggest “Labor Extraction” organizations of the Southern Territories, not so much looking for anything in specific as learning the seasonal rhythms of slave traffickers. He needs grist for the mill, fuel for the engines, filament for the printer; he doesn’t know enough yet, he doesn’t even know how much he doesn’t know. And Commander Bane has been doing military stuff that Basil doesn’t hear much about, contacting Madam Beaker’s old black-ops and corporate assassin hookups, because landside rich people are actually like that, it turns out—but until somebody figures out a name and some amount of location, she can’t actually hire anyone, or make any moves.

  And that somebody is probably going to have to be Basil. So. He’s pouring everything he can get his hands on right into his brain, and waiting for the moment it makes enough sense he can work with it.

  Meanwhile, his feet hurt from walking around landside streets, and his head hurts from the constant data crunching heating his implants to brain-boiling pitch, and his prosthesis hurts from going a little too long without maintenance, a niggling, aching soreness around the connector ports that’s almost possible to ignore.

  Commander Bane finds him nursing a bowl of some kind of shellfish and rice stir fry out by one of Madam Beaker’s weird little decorative fish ponds, kicking irritably at the peacocks whenever they get too close. She looks tired, and not pleased, and there’s another Hastings trailing behind her.

  “Wright,” she says shortly, and comes to a precise stop in front of him. “Merrill has made it clear that she, they want to prioritize the mission, while they are out of commission. Lieutenant Crushwing has generously volunteered for your protection detail.”

  The man standing by her shoulder steps smartly up and salutes directly to Basil, which is a surprise. He’s also giving Basil an intense, direct look that’s hard to parse. It’s unusual for the Hastings soldiers to look at him with anything other than vaguely predatory disinterest, and it takes Basil a second to realize that’s not the only weird thing that’s pinging him. The Hastings’ hair is as blood-red as any of his crewmates and cut in the normal severe, military buzz, but it’s tightly kinked and coiled, a deeper arterial tone, and under the familiar ghostly white of his skin the shape of his face—the set of his mouth, his nose—Basil’s never seen an afro-descent Hastings before.

  The Hastings says, “Cygnus Crushwing,” with no trace of self-consciousness, because Hastings names are just like that. He doesn’t reach out or anything but his gaze is fascinated, almost hungry, as he says, “Heard you could use a hand getting back in the field.”

  Basil has to bite back the half-hysterical urge to hold up his gloved hand and make the usual joke. He nods soberly instead, and Commander Bane nods back and then turns and strides briskly away again.

  Cygnus salutes her retreating back, and then turns back to Basil and cocks his head a little, gives him another long look that’s… Basil doesn’t know. Challenging? Inviting? If Basil’s never seen an afro-descent Hastings, has this guy ever seen an afro-descent NPC? It’s not like Hartford is stocked with anywhere near a normal range of human diversity, as far as Basil can tell.

  …God, there’s a lot of muscle on display. Basil’s at exactly the right height to see it flex and shift under a sleeve of interlocking feathers and blades; there’s a monstrous swan on Cygnus' shoulder, neck arched and wings spread, showing bladed, gory wings and a whole lot of teeth in its open, hissing beak. There’s a chain around its neck, snapped and dangling, dripping more stylized gore.

  It’s a disturbing tattoo, although it’s not anywhere near the worst one Basil’s seen since he started spending more time around Hastings. If Basil wasn’t such an absolute idiot of an angler, he’d be focusing on that instead of on the way Cygnus’s biceps bulge like melons when he crosses his arms patiently, still waiting.

  This isn’t the time to drool over the guy, even if he has all the gorgeously inhuman Hastings muscle Basil’s been avoiding looking at for weeks, without any of the derision or offhand dismissal.

  Basil says, “Hey, appreciate the help,” like a cool guy who isn’t breathless even a little bit, and Cygnus salutes again, satisfied and smiling this time.

  “Sure thing,” he says. “Sitrep, brother. Catch me up.”

  –

  Scene 15: Rich's quarters.

  Rafael wakes to Rich’s hand on his shoulder.

  “Hey,” Rich says, “you wanna sleep some more or come down to breakfast?”

  “Mm,” Rafael says, and stretches. His muscles protest more quietly than yesterday, and he doesn’t feel sodden with exhaustion anymore. “I’ll have breakfast, yes,” he says, and smiles sleepily at Rich, who looks startled and then smiles back. He doesn’t look well this morning, Rafael notices in dismay as he climbs out of bed. Rich's hair is damp as if he just showered, but his eyes are red, his shoulders already slumped and tight under some weight of misery. His nails are still done up in gray and black rainclouds, chipped here and there at the fingertips.

  “Rich,” says Rafael, straightening as Rich turns back, tipping his head up to reach for a kiss.

  Rich huffs a soft almost-laugh and bends his neck to kiss him, but pulls back a second later, taking a deep breath. “Sorry, I can’t—sorry.”

  Oh. Rafael steps back, folding into himself apologetically. “No, my apologies,” he manages. He won’t be hurt, won’t sulk, that’s—stupid, he’s being stupid. They’re no pair of lovers, for Rafael to take such easy liberty, or to think himself capable of reassurance with a single touch.

  “Aw, shit,” Rich says, and stoops down again. Takes his jaw, kisses him longer, more firmly. “It’s not you, babe, I’m just on edge today, okay? You’re, ha, you’re not gonna have to do much to get me hot and bothered for Carraway, I’m—yeah. I’m there already.”

  Oh. Face hot, thoroughly embarrassed now, Rafael nods. “I understand,” he manages. “I—well. Is there anything I can do for you?”

  “I don’t think you can put being drop-dead gorgeous on pause, so no, we’re just gonna cope,” Rich says, and gives the back of Rafael’s neck a warm squeeze. He smiles crookedly past the tired hurt in his eyes, and Rafael’s heart performs yet another painful, unauthorized maneuver in his chest.

  “Well,” he says. “Well, then. Breakfast?”

  “Breakfast,” Rich agrees.

  Breakfast is a brief, quiet affair. Sol is there, but he seems disinclined to make the most of Rich’s solicitous attention as he has before. He's on edge, preoccupied, ears twitching at every sound, and doesn’t make conversation out of any of Rich’s halting, unhappy attempts.

  “Bad night?” Rich finally asks, and Sol gives a mirthless little laugh.

  “And plenty of it,” he says, and pats Rich’s raw knuckles. “Now if you don’t stop looking at me like I’m a busted appliance I’ll go and smash your favorite dishwasher. You’d like that though, huh? More work?”

  “Prosocial citizens don’t break what’s not theirs, Signore Landside,” Rich says, enunciating with a playful, sing-song precision, and Sol rolls his eyes and gives one huge shoulder an ineffectual shove.

  Rafael can’t quite look at Sol. The drug-hazed memory of the evening before haunts him like a malicious specter; his clownish attempts to be the funniest and most charming man in the room, clumsy in his intoxication and too high to even feel his own rightful embarrassment.

  Rich and Sol return to their own meals, Sol picking absently at his delicate little portion and Rich wolfing down a heaping breakfast skillet. Rafael looks at his own unappetizing bowl of fried potatoes and scrambled eggs, takes a bite, and chews with mechanical effort.

  Rich returns at once to work once they part ways from Sol, goes straight to a closet that Rafael has never once taken note of in all his years at the compound, opens it without hesitation, and pulls out a caddy of cleaning supplies. Then he applies himself to cleaning their room with the fervor of an enormous and very particular white whirlwind. Every tile of the bathroom is scrubbed, the mirrors and furniture polished, the bedclothes changed out, picture frames and bedposts wiped down.

  He pauses when he reaches the top of the dresser, reaches out and picks up The Compleate Works Of Shakespeare in one huge hand, turning it over, examining the finely-bound covers. Rafael doesn’t reach out and snatch it away—he doesn’t, he won’t. But he wants to.

  Rich looks over at him, and whatever he sees there makes him put it down quickly, worry furrowing his brow.

  “It’s very delicate,” Rafael says, before Rich can ask. “I know you would be careful, but it’s easily hurt—Damaged, I mean.”

  “Yeah?” Rich says, looking it over again where it lies. “Did somebody mess it up? It looks fine…”

  “Damaged things often do,” Rafael says tightly, and takes the book himself, opening it with care to King Lear and showing Rich the sheaf of torn pages, their edges crumpled and ripped by a carelessly cruel hand. He’s since lacked the mind or the means to reattach them, although they’re kept in neat order, smoothed flat and fixed in their rightful place with a few small, scavenged paper clips.

  “Oh, damn,” Rich says, frowning at the pages. “I bet we could fix that, though. You wanna try to fix it?”

  It draws a laugh out of Rafael, sharp and rough, unintended. “And how?” he says. “I’ve no tools to do it properly, and even if I did it would never be the same again. This isn’t some—some plaything, that can just be taped together and treated good as new!”

  “Okay,” Rich says slowly, putting a cautious hand on his shoulder. “I know it's important, man, it's not a toy, that's not what I meant. Just—maybe we can't make it good as new, sure, but we can make it functional again. You can't read this part right now, and we could fix that. Hell, I bet we could make the repairs look pretty good, too, I used to be good at fixing my big sister's books after my little sister got to them.”

  Rafael wants to snap at him, cut him down, for making it sound so simple. The thought alone has been so painful, so overwhelming for so long, and the concept of starting and making a mistake—destroying it further in some way that can’t be fixed—

  “I’m…” he begins, and swallows the words, chokes on them. Closes the book and holds it hard against his chest. “What if it…”

  Rich strokes his back, waiting for him to finish. When he doesn’t, Rich says, “It’s okay, we don’t have to if you don’t wanna. Just keep it in mind, okay?”

  “I don’t want it to be fixed,” Rafael mumbles, and holds on harder, awash in the memory of the cover being wrenched from his grip, the sound of a jeering voice and a handful of precious pages ripping free and landing crumpled on the floor. “I want—I want it not to have been broken.” He takes a deep breath, swallowing, and places the book gently back in its place, smoothing the cover with steady hands.

  “But that’s foolish, I suppose,” he says as evenly as he can, and gives Rich his best attempt at a smile. “I’m sorry. Please, it isn’t worth your concern. Whither to next?”

  Rich frowns at him, refusing to accept the change of subject. “It’s not—no, man, it’s not stupid, okay? It fuckin’ sucks when things get—broken, messed up, for no reason, but. I can’t make it not have happened. All I can do—all we can do—is try’n make it okay again.” He sighs, stroking Rafael’s back some more. “Doesn’t seem like enough, a lot of the time.”

  “I’m familiar with the feeling,” Rafael says, low.

  “Yeah,” Rich says, and pats his shoulder. “Well. You wanna come meet up with Connor, or stay here, relax for a while?”

  “I’ll come along,” Rafael says with one glance at the book on the dresser. He doesn't need to tuck it away in its drawer. It's safe enough here, it is. As dangerous as it feels to believe.

  The meeting to talk shop with Connor is brief, and the jaunt in the gardens is longer today than Rafael has yet seen. Rich and Connor are even wilder than before, both players desperate to distract themselves: they run faster, jump and feint more daringly, roll and kick and bite at each other. Whatever restraint held Rich earlier with Rafael is forgotten, for he kisses Connor back just as thoroughly as he’s kissed, against benches and under rose trellises and in every fountain and sprawled kicking and laughing against the grass.

  It should be a beautiful show, but there’s something ugly underneath, something frantic and sad that claws at Rafael from the inside. They’re both so used to freedom, and they so obviously don’t know what to do with themselves in the confines of this sweet-scented prison. But the thought of them going as still and cold and quiet as Rafael has learned to be brings its own agony, and so Rafael is left to stand there and watch, fists clenched, heart aching, as the two of them run and chase and tangle together and run again.

  Finally, one of them goes too far—they both stiffen, and pull reluctantly apart. Connor laughs and swipes wet curls away from his face, and Rich shakes his head and climbs to his feet, gingerly adjusting a significant portion of his anatomy beneath the folds of his sarong. When they see Rafael watching, Rafael freezes, guilty for no good reason—and then Connor strikes a pose and Rich smiles and gives a bow like an oak tree folding in half. Rafael finds himself laughing, startled and utterly charmed, and mimes enthusiastic applause.

  Rich trudges over to him as Connor gives a wave and saunters off. “And now I gotta go change clothes again,” Rich sighs. “Guess it’ll get too cold to play in the fountains come winter, so we should enjoy it now, right?”

  “Ah,” Rafael says, frowning. “It will get… less warm, yes. I wouldn't say cold.”

  “Huh. Right. Are we too far south for a real winter?”

  “In my experience, the Kentucky Territory is favored in the winter and cursed in the summer. I’ve heard stories from the years of the collapse, that there were ice storms and torrential floods. As long as I’ve traveled the area, though, winter has been tolerable even to a traveling player of delicate constitution in a drafty trailer, if his sweater is well-patched enough. Cool, of course. Misty and wet, but rarely cold enough for a true freeze.”

  Rich contemplates that before shaking his head. “Well, I guess I’d hate to scrape ice off as much deck as this compound has,” he says, and turns for the mansion. “Shift starts soon. You ready?”

  Smashwords as well as your (but not Amazon yet except for After the Storm), under the series title, Stories From The Michigan Fleet. If you missed book one, After the Storm, you can . And check out our new !