MURMURATION

TJ KLUNE is the #1 New York Times and #1 USA Today bestselling, Lambda Literary Award-winning author of The House in the Cerulean Sea, Somewhere Beyond the Sea, Under the Whispering Door, In the Lives of Puppets, the Green Creek Series for adults, the Extraordinaries Series for teens, and more. Being queer himself, Klune believes it’s important—now more than ever—to have accurate, positive queer representation in stories.

I

It happens the moment before he crosses into Amorea.

He can see the town, can hear the people. He can read the signs above the awnings, the striped awnings that are green and blue and white and red. The signs say things like HAPPY’S GENERAL STORE and VALLEY FOOD AND DRUG and BOOKWORM. There’s a movie theater with a marquee that’s lit up, even in the daytime, and an old-fashioned diner with a neon sign that reads simply that: DINER.

He thinks idyllic and charming, and wants nothing more than to be in this place. It’s like a hook has buried itself far into his brain and is pulling him toward Amorea, pulling him along and he can do nothing but follow it. He raises his hand to shield his eyes from the bright sun, to get a better look at—

He stops.

There’s something on his wrist.

It’s written on his—no. Not written.

Tattooed. There’s a tattoo on his wrist that he doesn’t remember ever getting.

He doesn’t understand what it means.

It reads 4221552082 in black ink.

He runs his thumb over the numbers. Too long for a date of birth, not that he’d know what his was to begin with. Too long for a Social Security number, not that he’d remember it anyway. He tries to break it down, to split it up, and it’s 422 and 15, but that means nothing to him. It’s 52 and 082, but there isn’t anything there. He could be reading the combination of numbers wrong. It could be 422 and 155 and 2082 for all he knows, because it’s useless. It means nothing to him, no matter how hard or how long he stares at it.

He doesn’t have any other tattoos, at least that he can see. He supposes there could be others underneath his clothes, but that’s not important right now. It’s not.

He thinks, I’ll go to the diner first, maybe. I’m hungry. I’m really hungry. I bet they have meatloaf in there. With mashed potatoes. There will be pie for dessert, fresh pie that they’ll serve with coffee, and it’ll be safe and warm and I’ll—

There is the screech of metal crumpling, of glass shattering around him. For the briefest of moments, there is a scorching pain that rips through him, his skull feeling like it’s imploding. There’s a voice in his head, and it’s saying, Oh my god, this is it, this is it, this is it, and he’s just nailed with a dizzying sense of vertigo, like the ground has been pulled out from under his feet and he’s spinning upside down, falling up and falling down, and he feels wet, like he’s being splashed with water, and he’s in pain, so much pain, and he can feel his blood pouring out from him and he can’t breathe and everything is spinning round and round and round and—

And it just … stops.

He’s staggered forward across the town line into Amorea.

There is no collapsing metal.

There is no breaking glass.

He is not upside down, feet pointed toward the sky.

The pain fades, as if it were never there at all.

He has not been sliced open.

He is not bleeding.

He looks up.

And it hits him.

His name is Mike Frazier.

He’s thirty-six years old.

He’s a large man, a strong man. He has dark auburn hair, full and wavy, tucked loosely behind his ears. He has a full beard that needs to be trimmed. He sunburns easily, and in fact can already feel the thin stretch of heat on his skin. He has five freckles on his right cheek that make the shape of the Big Dipper. He has big hands that know kindness.

He’s a good man. Or, at least, he tries to be.

He lives in Amorea.

He has a little house.

He has an old crusty cat named Martin.

He works at the bookstore.

He likes people. He knows everyone in town.

He has friends. Good friends. Even best friends.

There’s one he puts above all others. Just the thought of him makes him flush, his heart tripping all over itself. He needs to finally work up the courage to do something about it before everyone else tries to meddle.

He likes many things. Listening to radio serials. Pulling weeds in his sorry excuse for a garden. Shooting the shit at the diner while trying not to stare too hard at the man moving in between the tables, a devilish smile on his face. He also likes reading and sitting out on the back patio in the sun and watching the stars come out at night.

He’s lived in Amorea for a very long time.

In fact, he can’t think of a time he didn’t live in Amorea.

He’s safe here.

He’s happy here.

He loves everything about this place because it’s home. The people here are home.

Mike Frazier breathes in deep the air of the town he loves and promptly forgets every moment he spent outside of Amorea. Like a dream, it fades the moment he comes awake.

* * *

Mike shakes his head as he walks toward the bookstore, wondering how time got away from him this morning. The clock outside of the bank has its hands pointed just this side of noon, and he’s a little embarrassed. He doesn’t know why he wasn’t at the bookstore right at eight, when most of the businesses open in Amorea. Sean is probably wondering why he didn’t stop in for his morning cup of coffee. He hopes Sean didn’t worry too much. He hates when Sean worries about him. He’ll stop by later and—

There’s a note on the door of the bookstore, slid into the space between slats and the glass of the window. He sees a familiar scrawl and he can’t help but smile at the sight of it. He plucks the note from the door and reads:

Hey. Didn’t see you this morning. Everything okay? You probably slept in, lazy bones. If that’s the case, you earned it. Come see me later.

It’s not signed, but doesn’t need to be. He knows who it’s from.

He’s about to push open the door (for a moment thinking, What if it’s locked? which is an odd thought because doors in Amorea are never locked), when a friendly voice calls out, “Mike!”

He looks up with a grin.

It’s Happy, of Happy’s General Store fame, a barrel of a man in his sixties with a sloping gut and great tufts of white hair sticking out haphazardly from the top of his head. He’s dressed today as he usually is, in wrinkled tan slacks and a stiff white collared shirt, open at the throat with little wiry hairs curling out. A black apron sits on his front, cinched back around his middle. It says only HAPPY in embroidered red lettering.

“Happy,” Mike says in greeting.

“Just getting in, then?” Happy asks, holding his hand out for a shake. It’s a good grip, a firm grip, and it’s three pumps as per the usual before Happy pulls his hand away.

“Looks like,” Mike says.

“Everything okay?”

And Mike … well. Mike frowns. “Sure,” he says while thinking, It is, right?

Happy nods. “Just … it’s just that you’ve never been late before, and I guess I was worried.”

“Yeah, I was…” And he trails off because he was what? He can’t quite remember what he was doing to be late this morning, but he’s sure he was doing something. There’s the briefest remnants of a headache, and he remembers having a beer last night with dinner. Maybe he had a couple more after that? He doesn’t drink to excess, not usually. But it’s hazy.

Happy waits, brow furrowing slightly.

Mike says, “Took the morning off,” because Happy is waiting for some kind of answer and Mike has to give one. People have already noticed. He has evidence of it in the note in his hand.

“Ain’t nothin’ wrong with that,” Happy says, face relaxing. “Everyone should get a bit of a lie-in every now and then.”

And any unease Mike feels is gone at that, because he doesn’t really have a headache, now, does he? It’s like the ghost of one, and maybe he can’t quite remember what he did this morning aside from feeding Martin, but that’s okay. It’s not like he was blackout drunk. He’s not as young as he used to be. It’s possible that time just … slipped.

“We still on for the poker game tomorrow night?” Happy asks.

Mike nods. “Thursday as always. We’re at my house this week, right?”

“Oh sure,” Happy says. “You gonna make beans and weenies?”

Mike chuckles. “Always do for you, Happy.”

“Good man,” Happy says, clapping him on the shoulder. “I’ll let you get to it, then. Just wanted to make sure everythin’ was all right. You should probably stop in and see that fella of yours. I know he was worried when you didn’t come in this morning.”

“He’s not my fella,” Mike says, though he knows he’s flushing brightly. It’s the Irish curse, something he’s never been able to escape.

Happy rolls his eyes. “Don’t we all know it. You’re sure takin’ your sweet time. Reminds me of my own courtin’ days, when we pretended to be all innocent about things. You two are slower than molasses.”

“It’s just,” Mike says. Then, “It works. For us. We have time. Slow and steady, I guess.”

“That right?” Happy says. “Well, I’ll be a pig in shit. Any slower, you two’d be goin’ backward.”

Mike groans. “Happy.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Happy says, waving his hand at Mike as he turns back toward his shop. “Just don’t be surprised if the ladies around town try to push it along. You know how they feel about this kind of thing.”

He does. He knows that very well. So well, in fact, that every time the book club meets at his store on Monday afternoons, discussions about Wuthering Heights or Rebecca fall by the wayside as the ladies of Amorea prod and needle him about Sean Mellgard, cooing when he blushes and stutters over what to say.

It’s just … it’s nice. What they have now. And both of them know where they’re headed. Mike figures it’s not about the destination, but the journey there. He’s good with the way things are now. They’re good.

Which isn’t to say he doesn’t worry, because he does. Sometimes. He worries he might be moving too slow, even for Sean. He worries that maybe what he can offer right now isn’t enough. He doesn’t know quite how to say this, doesn’t know how to put it into words, but sometimes he doesn’t have to, because Sean is there with a hand on his arm and that little smile on his face he gets when he knows. Sean knows him. Probably better than anyone.

They’ll get there.

He sighs as he opens the door to Bookworm, the shop he’s owned for … a long time. He tries not to think about how long, because that usually gives him headaches, and if he’s just been getting over one, he doesn’t want to help it.

The bell at the top of the door jingles lightly overhead. He flips on the lights to the shop, even though they might not be necessary, given the sunlight that filters in through the front windows.

Bookworm smells like it usually does, paper and ink and dust, and it’s comforting to him. He knows this place, and any unease he’s felt about his hazy morning slips away as he turns the sign in the window to OPEN.

He thinks about waiting until later, but he’s still got the note in his hand, that sweet little note with the handwriting he knows so well. He doesn’t want to wait. He wants to hear Sean’s voice, just to say hey and hi and I didn’t mean to worry you. He’ll pop over later when he’s closed for the day, but that’s still hours away.

He picks up the green handset and slips through the rotary dial with a practiced ease, the number familiar. It’s PY6–0520 and he puts the handset to his ear, listening to the chirping through the line as it goes across the street and down a few doors. He knows what it sounds like, that phone in the diner; it’s a bright and blaring ring, given that it needs to be heard above all of the hubbub of the kitchen and the patrons themselves.

It’s Oscar who answers, the owner and head cook. He’s a gruff Black man with wild and bushy eyebrows already going gray even though he’s barely older than Mike. He’s also one of the regulars in the weekly poker game, and even though he’s intimidating as all hell, it’s all on the outside. He actually does give two shits about most things.

It’s funny, Mike thinks, because that could be said about almost everyone in Amorea. It really is a wonderful place.

“Yeah,” Oscar growls in greeting.

“Hey, Oscar.”

“Mikey,” Oscar says, voice softening considerably. “How you been?”

“All right.”

“Yeah? You got some of us thinking about you this morning when you didn’t come in.”

“Oh, Oscar, you miss me that much?” Mike teases.

“Fuck off with all that nonsense,” Oscar says. “I ain’t got no time for your shit.”

“Jive talk,” Mike says, because he can get away with it.

“Yeah, yeah,” Oscar says. “But seriously. You all right?”

“Fine,” Mike says, and he almost believes it. “Long night.”

“That insomnier thing?”

“Insomnia,” Mike corrects gently. “Maybe. Never did sleep much. Just needed a little more this morning.”

“You check yourself with Doc,” Oscar says, voice firm. “Make sure it’s not nothing else.”

Mike says, “Yeah, sure, Oscar,” because if he doesn’t, everyone will be hounding him within a week—the ladies in the book club, the rest of Amorea. Sean will frown at him, and Mike hates it when Sean frowns at him. Doc will eventually show up on his doorstep or at the store, and it’s just easier to get it done and over with.

“I mean it.”

“I know.”

“You wanna talk to your boy?”

“He’s not my—”

Oscar snorts. “Keep telling yourself that, Mikey. See how good it gets you. Damn fool kids.” Like they aren’t only a few years apart in age. Then it goes muffled and Mike hears Oscar shout for Sean, voice hoarse but strong. There’s some hollering back at him and Mike knows the people in the diner are laughing and hooting at Sean. It’s how it always goes when Mike calls. It’s even worse when he’s there. It’s almost like they want this … this thing between him and Sean almost as much as Mike does.

The phone changes hands and Mike hears Sean tell Oscar he’s got it, to get out and give him some privacy. Oscar retorts that it’s his kitchen, but anyone could hear the fondness in his voice. It’s well known, the soft spot Oscar Johnson has for Sean Mellgard.

“Hello?” Sean says into the phone, like he doesn’t know who it is, like it’s a question, and Mike doesn’t even try and stop the warm feeling burning in his chest.

“Hey,” he says, scuffing the toe of his Chucks against the carpet. He feels oddly shy in these little moments, like he’s unsure about what to say.

But Sean’s voice is sweet when he says, “Hey there. We missed you this morning.”

Mike clears his throat and says, “We?”

Sean laughs softly, and it’s a sound Mike never gets tired of hearing. “I,” he says. “Me. I missed you this morning.”

“Yeah,” Mike says. “Me too.” Because he did, and there’s this strange and sudden urge that fills him to flip the sign from OPEN to CLOSED and to make his way across the street and just sit at the lunch counter, watching Sean as he moves between all the tables. But he doesn’t, because he was late this morning, and that’s going to be his punishment.

Sean hums his agreement, because he knows Mike gets awkward when feelings are brought up. “You okay?”

And it should irk him, grate a little bit that he can’t even take the morning off without everyone assuming something’s wrong. But it’s Sean, and he could never be mad at him. Not for this. “Yeah,” he says.

“Yeah,” Sean teases him.

“Sorry,” Mike says, running a hand over his face. He really needs to trim his beard. “Just been a weird morning.”

“How’s that?”

“Don’t rightly know,” Mike says. “Just one of those days.”

“You can have those,” Sean says.

“Can I?”

“Cheeky,” Sean says, and Mike can hear the smile in his voice. It’s not the devilish smile he has for most others. It’s not the soft one he gets when he sees a dog. It’s not even the one he gets when he’s excited about something, hands flailing as he works himself up. No, this smile is the one solely reserved for Mike Frazier. It’s soft and quiet and filled with wonder, and whenever Mike sees it, whenever it’s directed toward him, his mouth dries up and his tongue feels thick. The hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

Like now.

He swallows. “I aim to please,” he manages to say.

Sean laughs again. “Walk me home tonight, big guy?”

“Yessir,” Mike says. “I’ll be there.”

“Looking forward to it,” Sean says, and Mike believes him. He believes everything Sean tells him, because he’s Sean. Maybe the others are right. Maybe it’s time to see about something … more.

“Gotta get back,” Sean says. “Oscar’s starting to get that scowl on his face.”

That scowl means he’s had to serve a few tables and is getting annoyed. Oscar likes the kitchen. Oscar doesn’t like to be in the dining room.

“See you tonight,” Mike says.

“Yeah,” Sean says again, and it’s mocking but not mean. Sean Mellgard doesn’t have a mean bone in his entire body, even if he has to deal with someone like Mike. Mike’s a man of few words. Sean knows this, and he still wants this … this thing. Mike doesn’t know what’s wrong with Sean that he could still want Mike, but it doesn’t really matter. He’ll take whatever he can get.

Mike is smiling when he hears the click and the dial tone. He puts the phone back on its cradle and thinks that Sean is ready too.

There’s an itch on his right wrist. He looks down and there’s something fleeting that shoots through his mind, something he doesn’t quite understand—a number—but it’s gone before he can latch on to it. He scratches at the itch. There’s no bug bite or anything to explain the irritation. His wrist is unblemished and unmarked as always.

II

The rest of the day is busy for Mike. He has the usual people who come in to casually browse (they are the ones who touch the titles on the shelves with vague interest and leave without buying a thing), the people who come in only to chat (“Everything okay?” they ask, and by the end of the day, Mike is really rather tired of the question), and the people who come in to buy (Pride and Prejudice, the Iliad, The End of the Affair, The Maltese Falcon, and the new Philip Marlowe mystery The Long Goodbye by Raymond Chandler—Mike hasn’t read that one yet).

It’s how it is most days. People come in and people go out. There are usually always at least one or two people in Bookworm, and he knows all of their names. All of their faces. Some come in on their lunch breaks. Others come in on their way to work. The elderly crowd comes in throughout the day. The ladies in the book club giggle at him when they appear, sometimes together and sometimes by themselves. They wear their brightly colored dresses, cinched at the waists. Their hair is done up in large buns or fat curls tight against their faces. They are the epitome of modern women, with their bright red nails and expertly applied lipstick.

When he isn’t being talked at, he is in the back, sorting through the shipment of new books, scanning over the manifest, trying to remember when he saw the delivery driver. He doesn’t think on it too hard, because there is his signature at the bottom of the invoice, clear as day. He tells himself he’s just getting older, and they say that memory is the first thing to go. There’s no date on the invoice next to his signature, but it must have been yesterday. He remembers yesterday being very busy, so it would be easy to have forgotten new books being delivered. No matter. The shipment was on time, and people are loving the new Chandler. It’s a good thing he thought to order more.

The afternoon passes quickly, and it’s half past five when he flips the sign on the door to CLOSED, the bell still tinkling slightly overhead as he sees his last customer out. He’s in his back office with the till from the register, depositing the money in the safe. It’s almost unnecessary, the safe, because nothing bad ever happens in Amorea. People don’t steal. People don’t break in anywhere. It’s why they all leave the doors to their homes and businesses unlocked. If someone needed something after hours, you could bet your fur there’d be a note and the payment left on the counter down to the cent.

Sure, they have a constable, but Willy Foreman is more apt to fall asleep in his old chair with his feet up on his desk than he is to solve any crimes. Not that there is any real crime to solve. People in Amorea don’t have to worry about that. It’s safe here. Everyone knows that.

It was a good day for sales, Mike thinks as he makes a note of the tally in the ledger he keeps in the safe. A little bit better than yesterday. That’s what he likes to see.

He puts the ledger back in the safe and spins the dial after closing the door. It’s locked now, and he stares at it for a moment, trying to remember a time when he’s ever heard of any type of crime in Amorea. He can’t remember a single instance.

It’s remarkable, really. Amorea really is one of the greatest places in the world.

* * *

It’s going on six by the time he’s out of the bookstore. The sky is starting to streak a little pink and orange, and it’s cooler than it was earlier that afternoon. Most of the shops along Main Street are closing down. The dress shop. The men’s suit and clothing shop. The malt shop that serves the best chocolate shakes in Amorea, even though Oscar would beg to differ. Some of them stay open later on the weekend, when people feel like an evening out. The neon marquee of the theater is already lit up and flashing, the block lettering advertising From Here to Eternity. Sean mentioned it a couple of weeks ago. Maybe Mike could ask him if he wants to go see it.

Since the stores are closing, the sidewalk is a little more crowded than usual. The townsfolk greet Mike, the men tipping their hats at him, the women tittering like little birds as he passes them by. He grins easily at each of them, but no one stops him for a chat because they know where he’s headed. If they wanted to talk to him, they’d come by the bookstore during the day. They smile at him knowingly. It’s not much of a secret in Amorea where Mike goes in the evenings.

It only takes him five minutes to make his way down and across the street to the diner. Inside looks bustling, the tables filled as people eat an early dinner or smoke their cigarettes over cups of coffee that always seems to taste a little burnt, no matter what Oscar does to it. He can see two of Oscar’s girls inside, Wanda and Mary, working quickly and efficiently between the tables. They usually come in and work the dinner rush so Sean can start winding down to leave for the day. Oscar’s usually still in the kitchen, though he’s hired on Walter to help out so he could start leaving earlier in the day or even take a day or two off during the week. Or so he’s claimed. It isn’t uncommon to see Oscar there from open to close every single day, eyeing Walter like a hawk, critiquing every little thing he does until he’s certain Walter’s got it right.

Mike can’t see Sean, though. Which means he’s either in the kitchen or in the back office.

He pushes open the door to the diner and is immediately hit with the smell of eggs and grease and coffee and cigarette smoke. It’s a smell he’s used to, more so since he and Sean have become … him and Sean. They’ve been friends for a long time, until it started to be something more, and Mike has made sure to be there every day to walk Sean home. The women of Amorea think it is the sweetest thing they’ve ever seen. The men grin at the both of them, but keep their opinions to themselves, at least until they’re out of earshot. Then they show that men can gossip just as much, if not more, than the ladyfolk. Mike knows how remarkably invested everyone seems to be in Sean and him, but rather than feeling overwhelmed, he is comforted by it. Most of the time. Sometimes he just has to roll his eyes at those little laughs and the winks he gets whenever he comes into the diner.

Like now, for instance.

The bell overhead rings out, much louder than the one at Bookworm. The deafening wall of conversation cracks right up the middle as people crane their heads from the booths and the lunch counter to see who’s come in through the door. They smile and wave at him, calling out his name in greeting before turning back to their dinners and coffee. Mary and Wanda swirl up to him in a cloud of pink perfume, snapping bubble gum, and cigarette smoke, kissing him sweetly on either cheek before Oscar hollers at them from the kitchen to get back to work and do their damn jobs.

The diner itself is narrow but long, with fifteen red vinyl booths and ten stools at the lunch counter. The floor is made up of linoleum that Mike is sure used to be a pristine white at some point, but now is stained a faint yellow due to age and smoke.

The walls are covered in Oscar’s crowning achievement (or so he calls it): photos of almost everyone in Amorea. People eating in the diner. People strolling the streets during Spring Fest. People having snowball fights on Longmark Hill, wrapped up in scarves and wool hats. People tilting their heads back and laughing as they sit on blankets at Honeychuck Park during the height of summer. Happy people, smiling people. Oscar may come across as a bit of a grouch, but he doesn’t fool Mike. He loves as much as anyone in Amorea does. It’s there plain as day in the photographs, of which he’s in a few, his usual scowl on his face.

There’s a handful of Mike up there too. Mike surrounded by townsfolk. Mike surrounded by friends.

It doesn’t matter, though, who else is in the picture, because in every picture of Mike, Sean’s right at his side. Just the way Mike likes him. Sean would probably tease the hell out of him for being so sentimental. Sappy man, he’d be sure to say, smiling that smile that’s only for Mike. Sappy, sappy man.

Mike grins to himself before turning and tossing a salute at Oscar across the diner. Oscar’s usual glare softens just slightly as he tilts his head toward the back of the diner, where the office is. He taps the side of his head three times.

Mike frowns. He knows that sign, what Oscar’s telling him. He doesn’t dally, walking quickly through the diner. No one tries to stop him, not that he would have let them anyway. He’s out of the main dining room and down a small hallway in a matter of seconds, stopping in front of a closed door with a frosted glass window with black lettering that reads OFFICE.

His knocks are firm but quiet.

“Come in,” a tired voice says.

He pushes open the door.

It’s darker in this room, the shade pulled down over the only window, the lights turned off. A small, rusty metal fan sits on the desk, blowing the slightly stagnant air around the room as it oscillates left, then right.

There’s a man sitting on the chair behind the desk, head tilted back slightly, eyes closed. He’s taking deep, measured breaths, in for three seconds and then out for five. It’s something that Mike knows well, something he’s seen him do a handful of times before. It helps, sometimes, with the headaches. They are few and far between, but when they hit, they hit hard.

Sean’s not as pale as he sometimes gets, so it doesn’t seem to be one of the bad ones. The long column of his throat moves as he swallows. He has a slight grimace on his face, the skin around his eyes crinkled up, making him look older than he actually is, older than he has any right to be. And at only twenty-three, Sean Mellgard doesn’t deserve to look like this, his face twisted in a moue of pain.

Mike still feels uneasy, sometimes, about his age. It was a point of contention between them. Sean didn’t let him get that far with it, though, eyes flashing, saying, “Now see here, Michael Frazier,” using his full name to show he meant business. “I don’t give a damn about that and neither should you. I know what I’m doing. I know what I want. I’m not a child, so don’t treat me like one.”

And that was that, though the guilt is still there sometimes, even if he is the only one who feels it. No one in Amorea bats an eye at them, and nothing malicious is whispered behind their backs, as far as he knows. It’s all on Mike. And he doesn’t care, not anymore, not really. Sure, there are those strange little moments where he has actual memories that are older than Sean is, but such thoughts often fade before he can even be bothered with them.

(He remembers the look of surprise and delight on Sean’s face when he told him about the memory thing, trying not to flush when Sean let his hands rest briefly against Mike’s arms, fingers trailing. “And what memories would these be?” Sean asked, smiling his little smile. “Memories older than me. You silly man, of course you have memories. Don’t we all?” And there went the flush he’d been trying to avoid, because no matter how hard he tried, he really couldn’t think of a time before Sean entered his life. He kept that to himself, because he didn’t want to seem like some romantic fool.)

So Mike is older and Sean is younger, and they mostly don’t care, not anymore. Because for every moment of doubt that Mike has, there’s always something more that fills him up, something so indisputably Sean.

Maybe Mike can’t remember a time when he didn’t know Sean.

And maybe he just doesn’t want to.

He lets Sean breathe. He waits, taking him in.

Sean’s short black hair is artfully messy, like he’s been running his hands through it all day, the ends curled. But given that he works with food, he doesn’t do that. It’s just how it always looks, sticking up at odd angles and still finding a way to curl around his ears. He’s as thin as Mike is strong, a mere wisp of a man, but Mike knows it’s a bit of a façade. There’s steel buried in those thin bones, in those spindly fingers. Sean doesn’t take shit from anyone, not that he has to. Not really, not in Amorea. But if he did, any person foolish enough to try would be cut to ribbons on that razor-sharp tongue. His bright green eyes would flash, the curve of his jaw set. He isn’t an angry person. Quite the opposite, really. But Sean Mellgard doesn’t allow anyone to walk over him and doesn’t have time for bullshit, least of all Mike’s. He tells him as much whenever Mike starts to get dour and broody, as he sometimes does.

He’s handsome, truly. Maybe the most handsome man Mike’s ever seen. He often finds himself staring at Sean for no reason at all, thinking to himself how that could be his, if only he would ask. It causes his heart to thump erratically in his chest, his breath to hitch just the slightest bit. And he could. He really, really could. Just ask. That’s it. But there’s something about it, something about this slow burn between the two of them that he thinks is necessary. He could push if he wanted to, push and take, but he thinks it’s better this way. Slow and steady before it consumes him.

Because there is no question about it. It will consume him completely and fully. It has only ever been Sean. It will only ever be Sean. There are times when he doesn’t understand, times when he can’t believe that he could have something so precious. But then Sean will get that look on his face, that look like he knows what Mike is thinking, knows that Mike’s being ridiculous in his own head, and will tell him to stop, to get over himself.

Mike loves him, more than he could ever say or show. But he’s not ready for that part of it. At least not yet.

And now’s not the time for it anyway. Because Sean is ill and breathing those measured breaths.

Mike waits.

He doesn’t have to wait long.

Sean says, “Hey there, big guy,” without opening his eyes, because he knows who it is. He always does.

“Hey,” Mike says softly.

Sean smiles, just a gentle curve. “One of those days,” he says.

“You okay earlier?” Mike asks. He hadn’t heard the strain in Sean’s voice when they spoke on the phone.

“Yeah. Just hit a little later on. You know how it is.”

He does. Maybe better than anyone. “You take your Ercaf?” Ergotamine tartrate, a new drug Doc had prescribed to him. Said it was the latest thing.

Sean shrugs. “Couple of hours ago. Takes a bit. It’s getting there. Not as bad as it sometimes is.”

“Good,” Mike says. He doesn’t like it when Sean hurts.

The smile widens just a tad as he opens his eyes. They’re not bloodshot, which is a good sign. It means Sean is being truthful about how bad it was. “Well aren’t you a sight for sore eyes,” he says. “We missed you this morning.”

“We?” Mike asks.

Sean says, “Yeah,” like it’s their joke, like it’s just between the two of them.

Mike shakes his head, because he knows Sean is trying to distract him. He steps around the desk until he’s standing beside Sean. Sean only tilts his head back again and arches an eyebrow up at him, but Mike can hear him in his head, saying, Whatcha gonna do? He tries not to think about just how much he hears Sean in his head, because that’s just ridiculous and sentimental, and everyone knows Mike doesn’t do sentimental. Well, most everyone thinks that. Sean knows different, much to Mike’s dismay.

Mike raises his hands until his fingers are curled into Sean’s short hair, pressing gently against his scalp. He begins to massage, increasing the pressure as his fingers move over Sean’s head.

Sean groans, low and short, slumping down in the chair, eyes fluttering shut. Mike doesn’t know how much this helps, but Sean says, “Magic hands, Mike. I swear you’ve just got magic hands,” and he thinks maybe just the touching is enough. It’s something he rarely allows himself to do, touching Sean, because he’s worried that if he ever starts with any regularity, he won’t be able to stop.

Because touching Sean is nice. The weight of him, the heat of his skin, his scalp slightly oily from the smoke and the scent of the diner. Mike doesn’t care about stuff like that. He wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world.

Sean lets this go on for a few minutes more, but then sits up, forcing Mike to drop his hands. “That’s real good,” he says, and maybe it’s just wishful thinking, but Sean does have a bit more color to his cheeks and doesn’t look as peaked as he did when Mike first walked in.

“You should go back to Doc,” Mike says, suddenly unsure what to do with his hands now that he’s not touching Sean. He drops them to his sides and feels slightly awkward because of it. “See if there’s anything else he can do.”

Sean rolls his eyes. “He’ll just want to put me in some contraption that looks like one of those cheesy science fiction pictures you love so much. Where the aliens enslave mankind and make them wear a motorcycle helmet covered in wire and glitter.”

“I don’t like those,” Mike says.

Sean waits.

“Okay,” Mike says. “Maybe a little bit. But we have to see what else he can do.”

“We have the Ercaf. We can see how that goes. It takes a while. You know that.”

He does know. He just hates waiting. Mike Frazier can be patient about most things, but not about this.

And then Sean says, “Besides, if I go, then you go as well.”

“Me? For what?”

“I think he called it your insomnier.”

“Busybody,” Mike mutters. “Always talking without saying anything at all.”

Sean shrugs and bumps his knee against Mike’s, and only then does Mike realize how close they are, Sean still seated in the chair, Mike towering above him. It’s intimate, quiet, the noise of the diner a dull murmur underneath the rotating fan. He thinks that for propriety’s sake, he should take another step back, but can’t find within him the will to do so. “He worries about you,” Sean says.

“Maybe he should mind his own business,” Mike counters.

“Uh-huh. And where were you this morning?”

Mike pauses. He pauses, because he’s always told himself that he never wants to lie to Sean if he can help it, that of all the people in the world, in Amorea, Sean always deserves to know the truth.

And so he says nothing at all, and hopes it’s not lying by omission. Because he doesn’t really know where he was this morning.

“Right,” Sean says. “Probably with the mistress, then?”

Mike sputters. “There’s no … I can’t—I would never do that to—”

Sean laughs, that raspy chuckle of his crawling along Mike’s skin. Mike loves the sound of his voice, could listen to it for ages. It reminds him of the jazz records he sometimes plays, the horns and the bass husky and just sliding out of the black spinning discs, scratchy and warm. He can see Sean like that, like some kind of hepcat, a long, filtered cigarette between his lips, the smoke curling up around his face, snapping his fingers along with Dizzy Gillespie as he wails on his trumpet.

And he loves it even more now, because it’s saved him from further embarrassment, the horror probably evident on his face that there could ever be anyone else. The thought alone is enough to make him anxious.

And Sean is joking, dragging him along just a little bit, but he can’t have him thinking there’s even the tiniest bit of truth to that. He can’t have that. He won’t have that.

So Mike says, as earnestly as he can, “There won’t ever be anyone else like that.”

And Sean stops laughing, his eyes widening just ever so much as he stares up at Mike, and Mike refuses to avert his eyes, refuses to look away, because he’s learned in those pulp detective books with the dime-store covers that that’s how liars work, that they have little tells. They look away. He can’t have Sean thinking he’s lying. He’s not. Never about this.

He thinks he sees Sean’s breath hitch just the tiniest bit before he smiles that smile only for Mike. “I know,” he says. “I know that, Mike. I’m just messing with you.”

“Okay,” Mike says, because he doesn’t know what else to say.

But Sean knows. He always does. He says, “You want to walk me home?” and of course Mike says yes and yes and yes.

* * *

They make it out of the diner okay, and even though there are fewer people, they still get those knowing looks, those looks that say We know how you two are, you can’t hide from us. Oscar waves from the kitchen, a short dismissive thing, barely tearing his scowl away from Walter, who can’t quite stop from rolling his eyes at whatever invaluable life lesson Oscar’s imparting upon him.

They’re out the door and into the summer twilight without much fuss. The sky above is pastel and fire, the air cooling the barest amount. There are people lining up at the theater, waiting to pay their forty-one cents for a ticket away from Amorea for a couple of hours. There are people lounging in the park on checkered blankets, wicker baskets open between them.

It’s a normal evening here in Amorea, and except for Sean’s migraine, everything feels just fine.

Mike’s feeling a bit brave after his display in the office and crooks his elbow out toward Sean. Sean looks down at it, then back up at Mike, amusement clear on his face. Mike blushes, but that’s par for the course these days. Sean hums a little under his breath and slides his hand around Mike’s arm. Mike holds his elbow close to his body, Sean’s hand trapped against him. They do this sometimes. But it’s always been Sean who latched on first. Mike feels something loosen in his chest.

They start walking together, Sean pressed up close beside him. The top of his head comes up to Mike’s chin, and Mike can’t help but find it overwhelmingly endearing. He’s a big guy, and not just in the way that Sean always calls him. He’s bigger than most others in Amorea, but he never uses his size to intimidate. It’s not in him. It’s not how he is.

The townsfolk out and about smile at them knowingly, but aside from a greeting here and there, leave them to each other. There’s the tip of a wide-brimmed hat or a gloved hand raised, fingers wiggling slightly in their direction. But Amorea knows the evenings, these little stretches of time between the diner and home, are meant for Sean and Mike.

Sometimes they talk to each other in hushed voices, little murmurs that can’t be overheard. Other times they’re quiet, just enjoying each other’s company. Mike can do both, and he tries to follow Sean’s lead. Sean’s better at this sort of thing, and Mike still worries he’ll say something that’ll screw it all up. He’s not good with words, though he’s trying to be better.

Sean says, “I think this is my favorite part of the day.”

Mike’s not quite sure what he means. “Nightfall?” he asks.

There’s that smile. “Sometimes I think you’re willfully dense.”

“What’s your tale, nightingale?” Mike says, and Sean laughs at him for that. God, how that makes Mike happy.

“What’s my tale?” Sean says. “Yeah. You know what I’m talking about, you wet rag.”

“Me?” Mike says, shocked.

“You.”

Mike … doesn’t know what to do with that. He knows what he’d like to do with that, but he doesn’t know how. Maybe it wouldn’t be right, here in the open where anyone could cast an eyeball on them, but he wants to press Sean up against the side of the nearest building, bodies together, and just bury his face in Sean’s neck, breathing him in and breathing him in and breathing him in.

Instead he says, “You’re my favorite part of the day too,” and hopes that it’s enough.

It is. From the slow-blooming smile on Sean’s face, it is, because for some reason, some goddamn reason Mike doesn’t understand, he’s always enough for Sean.

Sean tightens his grip on Mike’s elbow and tilts his head until it’s lying on Mike’s shoulder, and they take their time walking back to Sean’s house. Because they’ve got it. They’ve got all the time in the world.

* * *

The first stars are coming out by the time they stand at Sean’s door. Mike lives a couple of streets down and over, and he’s looking forward to the walk home, given that he’ll have some time to think about what to do to take the next step with Sean. It needs to be something special. Something just for him, so that there will be no misunderstanding about what Mike wants.

But that’s for later.

Now, now is about standing in front of Sean’s little bungalow, trying to find the words to say I miss you when we’re not together and I think I might be in love with you and Let’s do this forever and for always without actually saying the words.

Mike has opened his mouth to say something when Sean says, “Did you hurt yourself?”

Mike snaps his mouth shut. Then, “What?”

“Your wrist,” he says, trailing his fingers down Mike’s arm. “You keep scratching at it.”

“Oh,” Mike says. “No. I’m not hurt. Just itches, I guess.” Truth is, he wasn’t even aware he was scratching his wrist again.

He startles, just a little, when Sean grasps his hand and pulls it up toward his face. He wants to laugh at the look on Sean’s face, the studious expression, like he’s going to find the problem right here, right now.

He starts to say, What’s your diagnosis, Dr. Mellgard? because he’s in a good mood and nothing is wrong and everything is fine.

But the words dry up in his mouth when he feels warm breath against him, and Sean’s eyes are on his as he presses the tenderest of kisses to his wrist. Mike swallows thickly at the scrape of Sean’s lips, how they rest against him for one and two and three before he pulls away. He feels branded. He feels marked, like he’s been given a promise tattooed on his skin.

Sean looks amused again, as he often does with Mike. “You okay?”

Mike just nods, not trusting himself to speak. His face has to be a flaming red right now, and he hopes his beard is doing enough to cover most of it up. He knows it’s not.

“Good,” Sean says and finally lets go of Mike’s wrist. “You have poker night tomorrow with the boys?”

Mike nods again.

There it is. The smile just for him. “I’ll see you in the morning, then? No mistress, right?”

Mike finds his voice. “Yeah,” he says quickly. “Yes. You’ll see me in the morning. I won’t miss it. I wouldn’t miss it.”

Sean laughs and it’s all Mike can do to stop himself from taking him into his arms right then and there. He thinks, Well, there’s nothing stopping me, but the kiss on the wrist was enough for now. He wants to do this right. He always wants to do right by Sean.

“I know,” Sean says. “I’m just trying to rattle your cage.”

Mike mock scowls at him and says, “Righto,” but then smiles to show he’s in on the joke too.

“You know what’s funny?” Sean says, pushing open the door and taking a step inside.

“What’s that?”

Sean looks over his shoulder back at Mike. “Migraine’s gone.”

“Good,” Mike says. “The meds must be working fine.”

“The meds,” Sean says. “That must be it. Yeah.” He winks at Mike and closes the door.

And if Mike stands there on the porch for a few minutes looking a little awed?

Well.

That’s his business and no one else’s.

Copyright © 2016 by Travis Klune