Breakfall (12 page)

He left the coffee shop and strode over to the Pile, unlocked the door to his basement room, and occupied himself with basic household tasks. He straightened up while the laundry was in the washer, and he read his assigned text while it was in the dryer. The room felt so warm, so comfortable. His private, almost secret hideout. He smiled as he carried a basket of clean clothes into his room and dumped it on the bed. He was halfway done with the folding when, out of nowhere, a vivid image assaulted his mind.

He was knocked down and pinned to the mattress and unable to move, and a large, dusky fist struck his face. There was nothing, absolutely nothing, he could do about it.

He stood still, frozen in shock. Then he shook his head to free himself from the intruding thought and picked up the shirt that slipped through his fingers just moments ago. Nonsense. Utter nonsense. Just because he encountered a stranger who could counter his technique didn’t make him weak or vulnerable or incompetent. Wild stories of adventurous men and their underground fight club had nothing to do with who he was.

Sean put the rest of his laundry away, stashing a few extra articles of clothing in his voluminous backpack. He had to finish a lab write-up and study for a chapter test, and he had to get a leg up on Stoke’s Theorem and the gradient of a scalar field for math. He paused. He could do all of that at Asbjorn’s place, and he could even bring some supplies.

Sean stopped by the kitchen. The leftovers in the large house refrigerator smelled sour, but the cold cuts were bought only yesterday, cheese lasted forever, and some of the fruit looked okay. He raided a decent supply. That and his green tea—and wait, he should pick up some bread and milk for Asbjorn at the corner store on the way.

Once he slammed the old door behind him, he relished the way his long strides ate up the gray pavement. He was preoccupied with thoughts on his coursework and on Asbjorn and how the man could get through classes with his injuries.

He froze in place.

It was like a target was painted between his shoulder blades.

He spun to look around, examining with feigned indifference the students passing the convenience store.

I must be going crazy. It’s just stress. Tests are coming up. It’s just in my mind.

Placing his trust in his rational mind, he shook off the uncomfortable feeling and headed back to Asbjorn’s apartment.

I
F
THERE
was one thing Asbjorn couldn’t stand, it was being coddled. Mothered. Taken care of. Pampered. Babied. Cosseted. Thanksgiving was next week. Didn’t Sean have to pack? Wasn’t he going home for Thanksgiving break? A growl of discontent broke through his controlled demeanor, and the tension of the past nine days threatened to break through like hot steam.

“What is it, Asbjorn?” Sean’s voice was neutral. By then, he had learned to tone down his expressions of concern. Asbjorn saw him bite back his sympathetic winces and rein in his solicitous care.

“Nothing.” Asbjorn growled again, transfixing his particle physics text with an icy glare. He had to focus. Had to find a way to ignore that overbearing pest. Soft, caring hands taping up his ribs. Easy humor lightening his ponderous mood. Smells of food—real, home-cooked food—emanating from his tiny kitchen. And the graceful, languid movements of Sean, dressed in jeans and a hoodie over a long-sleeve shirt, were enough to distract him from the most riveting text, the most fascinating lecture, or the most important problems to solve.

A cup of jasmine-scented green tea landed by Asbjorn’s right hand and strong, slender fingers started their endless work on his perennially tight shoulders. “You feel so tense.”

Yeah. No shit, Sherlock—and you ain’t helpin’.

“Don’t forget your appointment with Dr. Verbosa this afternoon.”

Yeeees, Mother. Fuck. Can’t believe he dragged me in for X-rays. Can’t believe Dr. Verbosa is actually Ken Swift’s wife. Can’t believe she already treated Don. She’s like the Warehouse personal physician.

“Do you need me to tape up your ribs for the day before I go get your laundry?”

Asbjorn rose from his chair. He glared down at Sean, irritated by the warm solicitude in his molten, chocolate eyes. Sean’s hair was spiky and disheveled and backlit by the sun streaming into Asbjorn’s dining room window.

My sunshine.

Asbjorn suppressed the smile that threatened to manifest and grasped Sean by his shoulders.

“Sean.” His voice had a dangerous edge to it. “I appreciate all the fucking care you took with me. I appreciate you staying over and doing the cooking and shopping and straightenin’ up, and dragging me to the emergency room and doing my laundry and e-mailing my professors for assignments and… there’s more. I’m sure. You’ve been great, but you’re driving me fucking crazy!”

The last words were shouted out loud. Sean stiffened with hurt and surprise just as Asbjorn suppressed a gasp of pain—but he’d tape his own ribs up, and he would do it later. He was never patient with his injuries and didn’t see why he should start now.

“You ain’t my mother. I don’t want another mother. I left my mother half the world away for a good reason. So don’t. Even. Go. There. I’m a grown man and have been for some time. Now, if you don’t mind, you have stuff other than me to worry about. Please pack your stuff and go.”

C
ONFUSION
REIGNED
.
Words and equations swam on the blackboard. Sean knew the problem was elementary, and he knew he’d seen the material before, but for the life of him, he just couldn’t focus. Asbjorn’s infuriated voice resounded in his mind, and Asbjorn’s startling blue eyes stared at him, devoid of humor or pain. Sean felt as though the sand, teased by a faraway riptide, was shifting under his feet.

When Sean got hurt, his older sister took care of him. His father checked his injuries and decided whether they would need further care—they all fussed. Even his younger sister and two kid brothers fussed a little in their endearing, obstinate way.

Popsicles. Cups of tea. Crayon drawings.

That’s how it was done, and ever since their mother died all those years ago, they all worked hard to fill the void she had left behind. When somebody you loved got hurt, you took care of them until you were sure they were okay on their own. What was so wrong with that? What did Asbjorn not understand? There was no doubt in Sean’s mind that if he, Sean, got hurt, Asbjorn would be there like the good friend he was, and he would do a lot to help him out.

Maybe not his laundry…. Sean thought it might have been the laundry that drove Asbjorn over the edge.

Or maybe it was the closeness they’d shared once the lights were out. The long talks about nothing and everything. The way they would wake up with Asbjorn’s arm pillowed under Sean’s neck. It shocked them the first time, but they didn’t fight it. Once Asbjorn’s ribs were taped up and he had resigned himself to taking his painkillers, he could sleep again. He had a curious tendency to wander in his sleep, traversing the width of the generously proportioned queen-size bed to wake up pressed against Sean’s backside, his muscular leg pinning Sean’s, his arm pulling Sean into a close embrace.

He might have gotten himself kicked out for doing Asbjorn’s laundry, but his eyes still glazed over at the memory of Asbjorn’s breath against his ear, the other man’s lips brushing his neck absently in the wee hours of the morning. Then Sean had been the first to rise and shower and take care of his needs, always wondering whether Asbjorn remembered anything at all.

“Mr. Gallaway.” The professor’s deep voice roused Sean, transporting him back to the optics problem on the Smart Board. “Mr. Gallaway. How will these results, obtained with a helium-neon laser, differ if we use an excimer argon-fluoride laser?” Dr. Behrend’s glasses shimmered under the fluorescent lights of the classroom. He dressed like a bum and graded like a real hardass. His five decades hardened him to the lazy way of sleepy students. “C’mon, Mr. Gallaway. You’ve seen this before. What wavelength would you expect from an argon-fluoride laser?”

“Somewhere in the UV spectrum?”

“Yes!” The older man vibrated with excitement. “One hundred and ninety-three nanometers, to be exact. Now, considering the grating size….”

Sean focused, the words and the schematic familiar to his distracted, tired mind. This was elementary. He had solved similar problems years ago.

“Mr. Gallaway, see me during office hours, please.” The professor sighed with exasperation. “Mr. Hartney. Would you shed some light onto the situation?”

Sean’s other classes didn’t go much better, the net result being a long cram session that stretched over several days and nights. The preholiday tests were looming, and he could hardly wait for the rest and relaxation associated with Thanksgiving. He even skipped one aikido practice, letting Val O’Connell take the class. As a brown belt, it was a good time for her to assume responsibilities other than paperwork.

Bent over a circuit diagram, Sean tried with all his might to focus on calculating the resistance of the transistor, powering through thoughts of blue eyes and soft lips with nothing but brute force.

A
SBJORN
’
S
THIRD
exam was coming up, and he gritted his teeth and began to review his notes once again. When he was done, he planned to grab a bite to eat and then go visit his karate class. Dud and Nell were teaching during his absence, but both his jaw and rib were starting to feel better and Asbjorn was becoming proportionately restless. He would do only the kata, pushing just until it started to hurt.

As he packed his gym bag, he noted he was on his last pair of underwear. A guilty feeling rose in his chest. It had been almost a week since he told Sean off, and he had not seen his friend since. Asbjorn’s body felt better, but his mind felt tired. Exhausted. Every meal, every cup of coffee or the jasmine tea Sean left behind, every night in his empty bed reminded him of the sunny cheer the aikido instructor spread around.

He wanted to feel that slender body against his again, falling asleep, waking up. He wanted to pretend he was still asleep as he nuzzled Sean’s slim neck in the morning. His feelings confused him. He couldn’t stand the closeness, yet he missed it.

He wanted to spar with Sean, throw him, follow up, and immobilize him with one of those wicked jujitsu pins Sean didn’t know yet. Then he wanted to teach it back to him, one step at a time, their limbs touching and tangling and their bodies supporting one another’s weight without complaint. He wanted to kiss those soft, full lips.

Wait. What?

Asbjorn frowned, halting his train of thought. There it was again. He was thinking of Sean
that way
again. It was bad enough to have to release his tension in the shower every morning, making his sharply indrawn breaths expand his ribcage as Asbjorn ignored the pain, focusing his mind on the residual feeling of that muscled, lithe body against him. He wanted to press against him, inside him.

Inside him?

But that was while Sean had been there physically. Asbjorn had no reason to think this way now that he was gone. He gathered his resources and did his best to focus on the task at hand.

S
EAN
’
S
WORK
pace was frantic. Tests were over, but he couldn’t relax yet—tomorrow was Wednesday before Thanksgiving, and he still had a physics lab to finish and hand in, and already he was losing one grade point for it being late. Late because he got distracted by taking care of Asbjorn. He took care of Asbjorn and became personally involved just a bit too much. Became personally involved and Asbjorn kicked him out.

He had lost a friend. No doubt about it. Him and his nosy ways, always trying to help a little too much, never knowing just how to act—either too friendly or too aloof. Well, never mind, then. He’d cut his losses and move on. He had work to do. The lab report was almost done. One hour past midnight, yet he was so wound up he couldn’t quite go to sleep. Most of his housemates had left for Thanksgiving already. Sean couldn’t justify the expense of transcontinental airfare for the sake of a long weekend. He was one of only three who planned to stay for the holiday.

He left the warm cave of his room and walked up the stairs to the kitchen. A cup of chamomile tea would help him wind down while he was packing to visit Gino in Providence. Already he was looking forward to training with Gino’s dojo, hanging out with his family, and helping Gino’s aunt in the kitchen while Gino was being chased out for burning water.

Sean lifted the cup of tea to his nose and inhaled the soothing steam. The fragrance was evocative of summer sunshine and cloudless skies.

Out of nowhere, that feeling was back again.

The stressed-out, “alone” feeling where he felt like a target was painted on his back.

He turned around. Josh and Ann were upstairs—he heard their laughter. The house was locked up.