Roger looks up from his book just in time to see his boyfriend, Gordon, angrily smash the keys of his electric keyboard. He looked frustrated beyond belief and Roger was sure he had been too absorbed in his book and oblivious to the many, many angry key smashes and curses that had come before this one. He stands from his place on the couch, folding over the corner of the page he was on and placing his book on the table. He makes his way over to Gordon, perching himself on the edge of the leather piano stool, their legs touching because there really wasn’t enough room for two on the tiny seat, but they made it work.
“/What’s wrong?/” he asks, his hands resting on Gordon’s thigh once they had finished signing to give him some comfort.
Gordon lifts his head up, his eyes were red and tired, his hands signing with his words, “I just can’t write this next verse. It’s in my brain somewhere.”
Roger pauses, looking at the sheet music filled with scribbles that sat on the keyboard. “/I won’t be any help with the rhyming, but why don’t you just play me what you have? You always work better with an audience./”
Gordon rubs at his stinging eyes and nods, connecting the tiny portable speaker to his keyboard and turning the bass up on it. He hands it to Roger, who holds it firmly in the palm of his hand. His free hand comes to rest back on Gordon’s thigh, running it along his jeans absently.
Gordon takes in a sharp, deliberate breath, filling up his diaphragm as perfectly timed fingers seem to brush along the keys, producing a sound that Roger was sure was as beautiful and diverse as Gordon himself. If only he could hear it. He can feel the tiny speaker in his hand vibrate along with the keys he presses and he watches Gordon’s lips for the lyrics, picking up maybe ninety percent of them. He bobs his head along to the simple common time of the song, a soft smile on his face.
Gordon reaches the last verse, his fingers hovering over the keys in thought, the notes almost fading away. He closes his eyes, lets out a sigh, and then, miraculously, continues to play, the lyrics flowing out of him as easily as they had eluded him. The second he finishes the song, he scribbles down the new lyrics and notes on to the sheet music which was looking a little sad and worse for wear and only legible to Gordon himself at this point.
He turns to Roger, a smile lighting up his gorgeous face, “/You always help me. You’re my inspiration./”
Roger blushes, shaking his head and looking down at his lap as his cheeks burn from the flattery. It was nearly bedtime, did he have to be so darn charming?.
“Hey,” he places a finger under Roger’s chin, slowly lifting his head up so he could see his lips, “You are my biggest motivation to do… just about everything.”
He smiles, leaning close to give him a sweet kiss. They both linger in their places for moments after their lips break apart. Gordon’s eyes were still closed and Roger smiles in awe at how his lover had managed to keep himself awake for so long.
“Gay,” Roger says, his voice higher than a hearing man’s, but still ultimately and unmistakably his. He chuckles at the surprise on his lover’s face from hearing him speak.
Gordon playfully shoves him off of the stool, a laugh bubbling out of his lips; Roger could see the joy on his face. “/I don’t know whether to be mesmerized or insulted./”
Roger folds his arms across his chest and cocks his hip out to the side. He brings his hand up to stroke his chin in pretend thought, “/Definitely mesmerized. Come on, it’s bedtime for both of us./”
Gordon begrudgingly follows his lover to bed, insisting he wasn’t tired, only to fall asleep in Roger’s arms not five minutes after laying down.
The last thing Roger remembers is closing his eyes and submitting himself to the turbulent ocean. Drenched by the waves and the rain, a huge gash down the middle of his main sail, and his rudder completely lost to the depths, he had no choice but to hang on to the ropes of his tiny vessel with all of his might in an attempt to keep her upright. She was gathering water and the deck was slippery and hazardous. The tiller swings wildly from the wind and the ocean current and smacks in to his shin, causing him to let out a wail of pain. The next thing he knew he was staring down a massive wave which threatened to capsize him and with his last breath he prays that his death would be a quick one and that Gordon would know just how much he loved him.
The memories after that were a mixture of pain, the burning of salt water in his lungs, panicked breathing, and loud voices telling him not to move as they put a splint on his leg. He can see the remains of the US 412, tied to the larger tug boat and catches sight of the paramedics uniform. Once his body realises that he's safe, he gives in to the exhaustion.
Roger awakes with a groan, attempting to stretch out in the uncomfortable bed and being met with a sharp pain that darts up his leg. He slowly opens his eyes and catches the outline of an oxygen mask below them. He groans louder in distress, reaching out and fumbling blindly. He feels the tiny tube that goes all the way in to his arm and his eyes snap wide open, his breaths painful and sharp; he could feel the thick liquid as it seeped from the needle in to his vein and it made him whine in panic.
Suddenly, and without warning, Gordon is there, his hands on his chest, pushing him back in to the bed. The touch catches him off guard and Roger makes another noise of confused alarm. Gordon is saying something angry and muffled at him and Roger squints, trying to make out the individual words. Finally, his ears adjust to the sounds of the hospital and his focus moves from the loud, insistent beeping to Gordon's voice and he catches the last "motherfucker" of his sentence.
"Nnn," is all Roger can manage, gripping like a child at Gordon's arms, willing him to stay close.
Gordon obeys and very slowly, so as not to spook him, lays beside him on the bed.
Roger blinks back tears, afraid to move his arm in case it pulled on the drip needle, but desperately needing to stroke Gordon's cheek.
"You had an accident," Gordon explains, reaching up to cup Roger's cheek which was a little bruised.
Roger leans in to the welcomed touch which seemed to make things just that little bit better.
"They have you on some fluids and a little bit of morphine for the leg."
Roger closes his eyes and groans; he'd been on morphine as a child when he had broken his arm severely and it had fucked with his sensory issues to the point where he couldn't stand the tiniest of noises. It had been hell.
"'M... sorry," Roger murmurs, the words causing air to sting his throat and a fit of coughs ensues.
Gordon holds his body as steady as he could, tears running down his cheeks at seeing his boyfriend in such a state.
He had called Roger's phone countless times, watching live radar footage of the storm as it swallowed Cuttyhunk island. Gordon had never been so absolutely terrified in his life, and he was still shaking slightly from the adrenaline. The immediate regret that had washed over him when he had heard of the storm was like nothing he had ever experienced.
'Go on then, go and fucking sail away,' he had told Roger in a fit of rage at just how annoying he was being. Couldn't he understand that what Gordon needed to write was silence? But he didn't and he would forget and although Gordon knew it wasn't intentional, Roger's commentary on the weather had been driving him insane. After that things had escalated, both of them stubborn and emotionally distant, their diagnosis' clashing like waves against the base of a cliff; violent, harsh, but natural.
"Don't be sorry, baby," Gordon murmurs back, gently smoothing out Roger's hair. It was imperfect: they had shaved some at the back in order to stitch up the open wound on his head, but Gordon loved it nonetheless.
Roger's lungs wheeze as he breathes, rattling like a nail in a tin can as he tries to form words.
"Y-you still... mm... love me?" he mumbles, looking up at Gordon.
Gordon smiles softly, pressing kisses to Roger's forehead, "Yes, yes of course I do, babe."
Roger nods, slowly leaning in to Gordon until he was completely in his arms, his eyes closed. He sleeps the night away and when he wakes Gordon has gone, leaving a note about having to record a demo and that he'd be back soon. Roger didn't mind the quiet.
High heels echo down the hospital corridor towards Roger's room. Lilith was tall, slim, and a harsh kind of pretty. She had Roger's eyes and cheekbones, but none of his warmth or generosity. While she had been loving once, and Roger had loved her, when her child had drifted from her image of what she wanted and expected him to be, she had turned to ice.
She wore a grey blazer and skirt, everything as colourless as her face; even her nails, although painted, were an odd shade of grey. She resembled a marble statue of some Greek goddess, you admired her from a distance, but dare not endure her wrath should you disturb her.
Roger was all alone in his hospital room, picking out the bits of bacon from his Caesar salad that a nurse had brought him for lunch.
Lilith rolls her eyes, watching him through the window from the hallway. The image bringing back memories of her son picking things out of his food at every meal.
"Roger," she calls, standing in the doorway.
Roger freezes, looking up from his fork to stare at her, his lips in a thin line.
"What are you here for?"
She travels a few steps closer to him, "Your father tracked the boat number when we got a call about it needing repair. They said you had been in an accident."
There was a long pause as Roger tries to process his emotions upon seeing her again.
"Well. I'm fine," he says, her perfume suffocating him like a poisonous gas. She always put too much on.
He returns to his salad, finally satisfied that all the bacon was gone.
"You should have been more careful," she says, real concern covered easily by her cold tone.
"Should have done a lot of things," he mumbles, his mouth full.
She grimaces, "How many times have I told you not to speak with food in your mouth?"
He swallows and makes sure to gather as much salad on his fork as he could before he puts it in to his mouth and starts to chew, staring her down.
"There's no need to be like that," she snaps.
Roger goes to reply, but is cut off by Richard's high sing-song voice, "Mimi said she's busy with a court case, but the second it's over she'll be here. And look! Flowers!"
He marches in to the room, giving Lilith a side eye as she steps away from him. He places the flowers down on the desk beside Roger's bed. Mimi had picked flowers that didn't have strong scents, it was sweet.
"You alright, honey?" Richard asks, checking Roger's chart and making a note to bring him Kosher food.
Roger nods, cracking a smile at the face Richard gives him with his back to Lilith before he leaves.
Lilith comes closer, an actual smile on her face. She pats his hand softly, "I am so pleased you're alright, Roger."
He looks up at her, slightly confused, "Um. Thanks."
She was content with the fact that her son had finally found himself a girlfriend, maybe even a wife, g-d willing. And a lawyer, too. She knew she had raised him right.
"I'm surprised they let nurses like that work. It's a wonder he doesn't have a cardiac arrest."
Roger would have been surprised at her comment had he not already known how deeply his mother hated fat people. She thought they were lazy.
"He's the only nice person in this place," Roger mumbles, stabbing a piece of lettuce with his fork to emphasise his point.
His mother sighs, she hadn't meant to upset her son.
"I just mean... you know, he's obviously... homosexual. And with those diseases they can carry," she shivers at the thought.
Roger rolls his eyes, stabbing another piece of lettuce and imagining it was her head. It was very therapeutic.
Moments of silence pass between them. She hesitantly rests her hand atop of his. Maybe she was finally, after all of these years, starting to change, Roger thought. Even if he now wanted nothing to do with her, the little bit of affection she was showing meant the world to him.
"And I'm very glad you got over your little phase," she adds.
He pauses, taking his hand back from her suddenly, "You don't know what you're saying, Mother. Please just go."
"But, I-"
He takes a deep breath which hurt his lungs, but he was about to be brave so the pain was worth it.
"Mother, my whole life you have only ever given me affection when I've done something you've approved of. And... I-I don't think you've ever told me you loved me."
She scoffs, standing up and placing a hand on her chest to show her offence, "How was I supposed to? Every time I tried to hug you, you would scream or cry. I just wanted to hug my son. There was no way I could have showed you love, Roger. You were an insufferable child."
Roger shakes his head, looking down at his salad so he didn't have to meet her disapproving gaze and she couldn't see his tears, "You could have just... just said 'I love you'."
She huffs, smoothing the creases from her skirt, "You have just lost any chance of hearing that after how you've treated me today."
Roger laughs, amused in a sick way at how cruel she could be. He looks up at her, tears dripping from his cheeks to wet his hospital gown, "I'm a gay man, Momma. And whether you want me to be or not, that's what I am. I have a lovely, lovely boyfriend who, just recently, was hired to write for an off-Broadway show. We are so in love. Those flowers are from his mother who raised me when you turned away, not my girlfriend."
She goes to speak, but he holds up a hand to silence her like she had done to him countless times, "The best thing you can do for me... is leave."
Richard slips in to Roger's room as Lilith leaves, having overheard the conversation and wanting to offer his support any way he could. There wasn't a gay man in New York City that didn't have parental issues, he was sure of it.
"Oh, honey..." he coos.
Roger collapses back on to the bed, letting out a quiet sob.
"I hurt all over," he whines, pushing the table away from over his bed. "Please call Gordon and tell him my Mother came and saw me."
Richard nods, pouring Roger a glass of water because he knew he'd be dehydrated after crying. He quietly slips away, letting Roger cry for as much time as he needed.
Mimi knocks softly on her son's door, smiling fondly at the keyboard and music notation stickers that littered it along with his new name in blue letters.
"Baby, it's time to go to school," she calls, pausing to wait for him to groan a response at her.
When she hears nothing but silence she frowns, worry growing in the pit of her stomach.
"Gordon?"
She turns the doorknob and pushes open his door, staring in shock at what she saw.
Gordon was standing in front of the mirror in his room; he was completely naked and frowning at his own reflection. His breasts tugged his shoulders down in to an ashamed slump, their weight pulling a cloud of depression over her son as of late. He'd let his body hair grow and now light brown hair covered some of his body, but not enough to make him feel good about it.
She looks at her son, sees the tear stained cheeks and the red marks on his breasts where fingernails had scratched in a panicked attempt to get them off, and her heart breaks for him.
She grabs a blanket off of his bed and wraps it around his shoulders, pulling him in to her arms as tightly as she could. His eyes didn't break from his reflection, angry tears streaking down his slightly freckled cheeks.
"I'm so wrong!" He cries, his voice far too high for his liking which only makes him let out a scream of annoyance.
"No, you're not baby," she murmurs, hastily trying to get him to settle down and stop squirming in her arms.
"I am, Ma! I have these- these things and I hate it, I hate it!"
"I know, baby."
"No you don't! You don't know what it's like!"
She pulls him in to her chest, nursing him like she had nursed him a thousand times before when he had cried. He was right, she couldn't possibly understand what it was like for him, not even the very expensive doctors could understand, but she would try. His tears wet her blouse and she runs her fingers through his hair to soothe him, fixing the blanket so it wrapped around his shoulders properly.
"You're right, I can't know, baby. I can't, but I will try to understand so I can help you."
He sniffles, his breathing frantic as he tries to choke back tears. She rubs his back, rocking him gently side to side until his breathing returns to normal.
"I feel odd all the time, Ma," he mumbles.
She kisses the top of his head, resting her lips there. She knew. She knew this outburst of emotion was not triggered by anything. This was a long time coming; a collection of the irritation and hatred Gordon felt building up in his system until he could no longer stand it.
"Boys are supposed to be strong, anyway. I'm not that," he murmurs in shame, "I don't know what I am sometimes."
She shakes her head, cupping both of his cheeks and lifting his chin up to look at her. His eyes are wide with wonder, puffy and sore, but still so very young and innocent despite his troubled childhood.
"You, my love, are the descendant of the people of Israel. Those who carried babies on their backs and built the pyramids, those who travelled through the desert for forty years in search of the Promised Land. You are the descendant of those who travelled the seas, found new lands and revitalised old ones, who fought Nazis, who killed Nazis, and who survived against all odds."
She gives him a pkayful smile, squishing his cheeks in between her hands, which makes him giggle and swat her hands away.
"You stand on their shoulders; the son of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. You create music they could only dream of."
She uses her thumbs to dry his cheeks, taking his hands and giving them a squeeze, "But most importantly, you are my son and I love you. Adonai loves you. Wherever you go, whatever they may call you, you will always be my son. My Gordon."
Mimi's phone rings at one a.m., it's cold and dark outside of her nice warm bed and she groans at the rude awakening. As soon as her brain clears from the fog of sleep, she immediately begins to fear for the worst. She picks up her phone, the light of the screen blinding her for a moment until her eyes adjust. She frowns in confusion at the number on her screen, answering and holding it to her ear. She hadn't expected him to call.
"Roger?"
She had been having him over sometimes for tea after finding him praying at her temple. Like a baby bird pushed too early out of the nest; hurt and lost, he had gravitated towards anything familiar. He explained he had just moved to the area from out of town. He hadn't got much more out before he'd started to cry. She hated to admit he had started out as a substitute for her own son, Gordon, who was away at college. She missed him dearly. Soon, though, she felt an overwhelming attachment to Roger; a friendship began to develope and her maternal instincts were not far behind.
Roger gasps when he hears her voice, letting out a slow breath of relief that she had answered.
"I think- I think I made a mistake," he chokes out.
Mimi sits up in bed, turning the lamp beside her on, "What's happened?"
"I went to the ramble," he says quickly, as if he felt that saying the words for longer would cause him more pain.
"The park? At this time of night? Why, baby?"
She knew why - the ramble was filled with young gay men having sex and Roger was a young, foolish, questioning man. It was inevitable he would end up in a place like that.
There was muffled chuckles on the other end, but the sad kind of hollow laughter that people do when they want to cry.
"I just wanted to watch, that was all. Just to see what... what it was like. But now it's cold and I think somebody stole my bike and I'm new to the area and-"
"I'll come get you," she says, without hesitation and without any sense of burden. This was not an inconvenience for her. She keeps the phone to her ear as she pulls a dressing gown around herself, slips on some shoes and grabs her car keys.
"Father would kill me," Roger murmurs absently, his voice distant and his teeth chattering from the cold.
"Don't you worry about that," she says, trying to soothe him as best she can, "I'm on my way."
It takes her a good ten minutes to locate Roger from his vague, panicked descriptions of where he'd ended up. Wandering Central Park as a born and raised resident of the city was hard enough, let alone wandering it and only having lived there for a few months.
When she finds him he's perched on a park bench, his coat pulled tightly around him. The second he sees her he's a mess of tears, guilt and apologies.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I thought being away from my parents I'd feel different about these things, but I still feel the same and I don't even know what I'm feeling. It's so uncomfortable and I get so aroused and I've prayed, I really have. For- for guidance and help and answers and there are none. I don't even know what I want anymore. I can't--"
"Shh," she hushes him, pulling the shivering young man in to her arms, "Roger, you can't pray away how you feel. It just doesn't work. And you know being gay isn't all about the sex, sweetheart? It's about loving, too."
Roger nods, although he didn't quite understand or believe her.
--
She takes him back to her home, finds him blankets and makes him tea.
He sips on the warm beverage thankfully, enjoying the heat as it travels down his throat and in to his stomach.
She won't accept his thanks, saying she would have done the same for her own son.
"When I told my mother the first thing she said to me was 'you'll get AIDS'," he says, staring down at the tea. He watches the liquid move slowly in his cup, like a lake with wind that only moved the surface of the water.
Mimi places a comforting hand on his arm after asking for his permission to be touched, listening with compassion.
"I told my old rabbi after youth group one day -- he was teaching me the Hebrew for my bar mitzvah. He said I should pray for Yahweh's help. And I did. I still do."
She rubs small, comforting circles in to his arm, nodding for him to continue.
"I love my parents and they loved me. They were so good to me in every single way until I wasn't the perfect child," he stops himself from thinking about them, clearing his throat, "Do you think I can ever be myself without feeling so much... guilt?"
She sighs, searching for words to help him, "I think so, Roger. You need time, my dear. Time is a precious thing. Time is a miracle worker."
He places the mug on the coffee table in front of them, reaching up to unclip his kippah and hold it in his hands.
"I don't know if I want to wear this anymore."
"It's your choice, dear," she says softly, "the people who twist religion in to a thing of hate have hurt you, but Judaism can also heal. I know this, sweetheart."
Roger sighs, running his fingers over the embroidery in the rough, harsh cap, "I hated the material on my head. It was so itchy. Mother made me wear it."
"We can get you a softer one," she offers, taking his hand before she continues, "Come to my synagogue with me for a service. I think you might like it."
Roger shakes his leg anxiously, trying to distract himself from the tears that threatened to spill on to his cheeks. He bites his bottom lip, clenching and unclenching his jaw as he tries to gather his racing thoughts. Like a turbulent, stormy sea, they would give him no rest, turning his ship this way and that until finally he capsizes and the tears fall.
Mimi isn't sure what to do to help him, so she repeats what she had said to Gordon many, many times: "Yahweh loves you, Roger, He does. There is absolutely nothing wrong with you, and even then He would love your faults."
Roger looks up at her, finally processing her words, "I'm not so sure."
--
Roger develops a cold from his night out, and Mimi absolutely insists he stay with her at least until he gets better. Roger is far too feverish to resist and he supposes this sickness is the start of his damnation for his sin. Mimi smiles at him and feeds him cold medicine until he's better.
Once he can breathe without his lungs wheezing, she offers to drive him back to his apartment and after putting in the address to google maps, she drives him there. Once they pull up outside the docks, she curses, assuming she'd made a mistake, "This damn thing is always wrong, we must have taken a wrong turn or-"
"No, this is right," Roger says.
She frowns at him, "You're staying here?"
He isn't sure if she's angry with him or confused by the look on her face and his inability to understand makes him withdraw in to himself.
"The boat was the only thing in my name. It's big enough. There's public showers just up the hill."
Roger offers her a shrug, he didn't see anything wrong with it. He had food, water, and clothes. It was fine.
"But, Roger, its-"
"I just needed to get away from them. That was all. This was the quickest and the cheapest. I have a job now, you don't have to worry," he insists, stepping out of the car and marching towards the docks.
She follows him, her heels clicking on the wooden boards of the pier.
"You can't live your life on a sail boat, Roger," she calls and thoughtlessly reaches out to take his hand to stop him from walking away.
The second she touches him he jerks his arm away, turning to face her, "Please don't do that you know I don't like that."
"It was an accident. I'm just worried about you, is all."
He stares at her in confusion - there was nothing to worry about.
Her heart wept for this poor boy, who had been so wronged by his parents and by a religion that she loved, but that she knew could do so much damage to young boys like him. She wondered if he had self-harmed, if he was still self-harming, if she would see him again. It broke her heart to see the pain in his eyes when he talked of his parents.
She had been through the system with Gordon, through therapy and false diagnosis after diagnosis until they had come to the conclusion: adhd. She could tell something wasn't right with Roger, but she wasn't sure just quite what. Sometimes she would say things and he just wouldn't understand - or couldn't understand. How she wished he would start to believe her when she told him he was important.
"Make sure you call me if you need me," she says, slowly and calmly, smiling softly at him.
"Okay."
He nods, a small, shy smile on his lips before he turns and walks to his boat, replaying their conversation in his head until he's rocked asleep by the gentle movement of his boat.
"There's been a problem," comes the voice of Nancy and Roger's heart starts to pound.
He stands, looking down at her with concern as he cracks his knuckles nervously, his palms starting to sweat.
"What's wrong, is he okay?" The words come out fast and frightened, the world coming to a stop as fear grips Roger.
"Oh, yeah, he's doing great. I actually just noticed that on Gordon's health insurance it says 'male', but when we undressed Gordon... they pulled the, uh, thing... and had--"
Roger almost laughs at her avoidance of pronouns, running his hands down his face and breathing a sigh of relief. He shakes his head, in disbelief that he had gotten so worked up over nothing.
"Gordon's transgender," Roger explains. He had hoped that they'd taken Gordon's binder off before putting him under anaesthesia; it probably wasn't good to leave it on for all that time. Roger had only ever told his closest friends about Gordon, and ONLY with Gordon's consent, it felt uncomfortable to be telling a nurse, someone who should have already known.
"Oh, I see Richard made a note on his papers. Guess I missed it," Nancy chimes. It was the polite way of saying she hadn't bothered to look and neither had the other doctors.
Roger takes a seat again when she leaves, resting his head against the white wall behind him.
Mimi and Rhoda sat in the dying patch of sun that came in through the glass windows, reading a gossip magazine that had been in the waiting room for over two years.
"Are you sure you don't want some coffee, honey? Tea?" Mimi offers when she notices Roger looking over.
"I'm fine, thank you, it'll upset my stomach at a time like this," Roger replies.
He hunches forward and rests his elbows on his thighs and his chin in his hands, reading over and over again the hand sanitising poster that hung on the wall opposite. Flyers and leaflets were strewn about on the table to the left of him - Breast Cancer, Diabetes, Arthritis, HIV, even Prostate Problems. Roger sighs and reaches for the HIV one, mostly staring at the pictures of laughing gay couples with envy. A sudden need to hold Gordon very very tight makes his body ache and he quickly puts the pamphlet back, keeping his eyes glued to the carpet which had strange, brown stains on it.
Mimi moves to the chair beside him, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder, "Have faith, darling, sometimes that's all that can get us through."
She gives him a soft smile and his shoulder a squeeze, "Should I get you a sandwich? It's almost lunch."
Roger sits up a little straighter and lifts his head, "If they have something kosher, yes please."
"I'm sure they'll have something," she says, and affecrionately smooths down the collar of his polo shirt before collecting her purse to go in search of sandwiches.
Roger's leg begins to bounce and he leans back against the wall again. It felt like he had more anxiety than blood at this point.
He nibbles the sandwiches once Mimi returns, letting them go stale in the cold, recycled and bleach-heavy air of the hospital.
It felt like days, watching nurses rush by and families reunite and lovers cry by bedsides. It was a sad sort of clockwork in this place.
Hours later the doctor arrives; the short spurt of happiness Roger feels fades in to silent tears and denial. He just kept shaking his head and pacing as Rhoda yells at one of the nurses to hurry up and let them see Gordon.
Mimi is first to run to his side, squeezing his hand and talking to him, but he lays as still and unresponsive as a corpse. Roger steps in front of her, far too desperate to touch Gordon than to be in any way polite. He runs a trembling hand over his soft cheek.
"Gordon," he says, his voice filled with emotion, "It's time to wake up now. Don't play games, baby. Not now."
His mind plays tricks with him, fooling him in to thinking that Gordon was just about to wake up; that every twitch of his eyelids was him about to open his eyes and look at Roger with that big, dumb smile of his.
He wants to tell Rhoda and Mimi to leave, to cry and yell somewhere else. After all, they'd had Gordon in their lives for years and years, had made so many memories with him. Roger had only been with Gordon for around three years and it wasn't enough time as far as he was concerned. They had barely begun to really make a life together.
Roger bites his tongue, banishing the selfish and bitter thoughts from his head and focusing instead on Gordon.
"Oh, baby. I'm sorry you have to wake up to this," he murmurs.
Gordon's binder was on his bedside table and his chest was showing in the hospital gown. The onslaught of misgendering from nurses who were far too busy to read charts or preferences was something Roger would just have to defend his boyfriend from as much as he could, even while he slept.
"He'll be okay," Rhoda says, determined now more than ever that her statement would prove true.
Roger gives her a sad smile, absently stroking the small patch of hair near Gordon's ear that poked out from under the bandages.
"We can't make anything better sitting around here and crying," Mimi finally says, her voice flat. She dries her eyes and sniffles, taking some deep breaths.
"We should go and pray."
Roger nods, gently rubbing a hand on her back, "I'll be there in a moment."
He watches them leave, giving Rhoda's hand a squeeze and a soft kiss which brings a sudden smile to her face.
He turns back to Gordon, the jerk was still unresponsive.
"Hey," he mumbles, nudging Gordon with his fist, "Don't you dare die on me, okay?"
He leans down and presses a soft kiss to the other's lips, his own trembling. It was unsettling not to have the familiar feeling of Gordon returning the kiss.
He pulls away and wipes his own tears from Gordon's cheeks. He isn't able to leave without giving his hand a final, lingering kiss before he joins the others in the hallway outside of Gordon's room.
"Where should we pray?" Rhoda asks, clutching the strap of her shoulder bag tightly.
"I'm sure this hospital has a multi-faith worship spot. It said so on the sign, but when I went in there was only a cross."
Roger pushes air out of his nose in amusement, dropping his usual political correctness as he didn't feel it was appropriate at a time like this, "Fuckin' Christians."
Both of the girls pause in shock at his language before they laugh, quiet and still tinged with worry and sadness, but laughter nonetheless.
"As long as we cover it, we should be okay. I'm sure He won't mind our little rule-breaking in times of need."
Roger could normally pray for hours, thanking G-d for all he had given him; this time he pleads for His help. Perhaps homosexuality was a sin and this was his punishment for it, maybe Gordon's trans-ness had brought down G-d's wrath upon them. But then again, maybe this was just life - just G-d bringing them closer together through hardship. He'd done the same to David and Jonathan in the Torah, after all.
"I'm sorry, I have to go back to him," Roger stammers, leaving the girls alone in their makeshift temple.
The closer he got to Gordon's door, the faster his heart beat in anticipation that he'd be awake and sitting up on the bed, ready to give him an onslaught of insults and bark at him about not being there when he woke up.
When Roger opens the door he's greeted by the same hollow beeping of machines and the slight whistle of Gordon's breath as the air goes past the oxygen tube in his nose as before. The jerk was still in a coma.
He sits down in a chair and takes Gordon's hand, determined to wait as long as it would take for his boyfriend to get better.
He braces himself for the onslaught of wind on his body as he pulls himself up on to the edge of the pool and quickly wraps a towel around himself. He shivers from the cold and dries off as quickly as he can before he puts his swimming cap and ear plugs away.
A few others had started to arrive for their aqua aerobics class so Roger gives them a warm smile and offers a cheerful ‘good morning’ and 'lovely weather’ as he departs.
When Roger gets home Gordon is out of bed, if only to watch the morning television; he’d carried the pile of blankets from their bed to the couch and rolled himself up in them like a burrito, it was very cute. Roger turns and kisses the tips of his fingers, lightly touching them to the mezuzah, which had to be placed inside the entrance because of their apartment rules.
“If you hate him so much, why do you watch his show?” Roger asks, throwing his keys down on the entrance table and hanging up anything that was wet so it didn’t smell.
“It’s my songs,” Gordon replies, his heart fluttering as the opening chords of the Mr Bungee Theme Song play.
“And they’re beautiful,” Roger says, kissing the top of Gordon’s head.
He makes his way in to the kitchen, his feet shuffling on the wooden floor. He yawns and runs a hand through his hair, gathering the things he needed for his breakfast smoothie. It was a mixture of fruit, vegetables, protein powder, ice, and pineapple juice. Gordon insisted that spinach didn’t belong in a smoothie, but Roger put it in anyway, citing its health benefits.
“Gonna make some noise,” Roger warns and, hearing no objection from Gordon, turns the blender on.
He cleans up after himself in the kitchen and comes to sit beside Gordon on the couch, fighting his way under blankets even if Gordon whined about him letting the cold air in. Eventually they were snug enough to pay attention to the cringe-worthy show again.
“The only-”
“Shh.”
Roger smiles, sipping his smoothie, “The only good-”
“Shh!”
“The only good part about this show is the songs,” he says, his words coming out so fast to avoid any more shushing that he almost stumbles over them.
Gordon turns red, resting his head on Roger’s shoulder. Once the song was over and his cheeks weren’t flushed he finally speaks, “You really think they’re good?”
“I tell you every single day you’re talented, of course they’re good!”
Gordon squints at him suspiciously, “You have to say that, though.”
Roger chuckles, leaning in for a kiss. He opens his eyes in shock when Gordon shoves him away, although the expression on his face clearly shows he was playing.
“You’re not kissing me with that disgusting smoothie in your teeth. It’s probably on your lips, too! I could taste it! Carrots aren’t meant to be juiced and spinach isn’t meant to be had in a drink, I’m sorry.”
Roger sighs and takes Gordon’s hand, playing with his fingers absently as he finishes his smoothie.
Gordon grumbles something about Mr Bungee not singing the notes right, to which tone-deaf Roger dare not object, and lets out a tired sigh.
“I guess I should start on a new song,” he mumbles, no attempt being made to get up.
“Darling, we both know you won’t be able to think of anything until the deadline is so close I can smell your stress,” Roger adds, knowing well and good he was absolutely right.
Gordon huffs, annoyed at how accurate Roger was and equally frustrated that he couldn’t deny it.
“Well, what else should I do?”
“Stay in my arms?”
A soft, happy smile melts on to Gordon’s face and he nods, lazily scooting closer to Roger.
Roger rolls out of bed just before five a.m. after reciting Modeh Ani, quickly switching off his alarm so he didn’t disturb his fiancé’s slumber. The sun was just starting to peak over the horizon and Roger used the little bit of light coming through the cracks in the curtains to guide himself.
He goes in to the bathroom, clips on his rainbow Kippah, and washes his hands, pouring water from a small jug that sat on the edge of the basin over them slowly. He dresses, relieves himself, and then washes his hands again, this time murmuring a blessing and a thank you to G-d. He collects his swimming bag and ear plugs, careful not to make too much noise. He decides not to wear his Kippah to the pool; he felt it wouldn’t be right to let it get wet and he’d rather have his hair be dry before clipping it back on.
“I’m going to the pool, I’ll be back in an hour,” he murmurs, kissing Gordon’s cheek.
The sleeping man whines, reaching out to grip Roger’s wrist and pull him back for a proper kiss, refusing to let him leave until he’d done so.
Roger smiles to himself as he leaves, catching Gordon cover himself back up with blankets out of the corner of his eye.
The swim centre was only a quick bus ride away and Roger stands so businessmen, mothers, and the elderly could sit.
He showers and changes in to speedos and uses a mirror to put his ear plugs and swimming cap on. Roger loved the water as long as it didn’t get in to his ears. He had enough effort trying to process words without a clogged up ear.
The second the cold water touches his skin he’s at ease, and he closes his eyes for a moment, letting his body bob with the flow of the water.
He swims laps, changing his stroke every twenty minutes or so to work different muscles. Sailing took a toll on his shoulders, but swimming seemed to give those muscles a chance to rest (and Gordon’s back rubs were also a lovely treat).
For the last ten minutes or so Roger lets himself float on the water, counting his breaths and clearing his mind. It was second best only to sailing.
Roger scrambles up the metal ladder and on to the platform of the school play gym, a huge smile on his face.
“Shark on the layward side! Turn, turn, turn!” he cries, gripping invisible ropes hooked to an invisible sail and pulling them with all of his might.
He grunts at the strain as the wind hits his face and the sail, almost flipping his boat. He manages to wrangle his boat to turn, tying the ropes in to a knot and attaching it to the fireman pole.
“We did it! We did it!” he squeals, having successfully avoided the shark, “Now on to a new island!”
He grabs a hold of the top of the slide, making a whooshing noise with his mouth as he navigates over pretend waves which crash in to his boat. He throws his body side to side, mimicking waves and enjoying the breeze as it whizzes past his ears and makes a kind of calming white noise.
“Going overboard!” he yells, and throws himself down the slide, giggles bubbling up through his words.
He skids to a stop at the end of the slide, almost jarring his knees, and peering over at the seats where a boy about his age sat alone. In his new therapy Roger had been told to make friends and that the way to make friends was to approach someone that was lonely. Everyone in his grade seemed to have friends so up until now he hadn’t come across a lonely person.
He bites his lip anxiously, picking away a dry bit of skin with his teeth.
Roger didn’t like to play tag or ball or anything like that. Roger liked to play sailing; a game he had made up and played every lunch time for almost a year completely by himself and completely content with it that way. This was the longest time Roger had been at a school and the longest a set of foster parents had dealt with his peculiar antics. He really, really hoped it would stay that way. That his new mom and dad would adopt him and buy a boat and take him sailing just like his real father had.
He takes the chance and runs over to the boy, plonking himself down beside him on the slightly sticky wooden seats so he keeps his hands in his lap to avoid touching them.
“Hey!” he chirps, leaning over so he could see what the boy was doing, “What’s that?”
The boy doesn’t look up, just moves another piece.
“I said ‘what’s that?’” Roger repeats, pointing to the thing the boy had sat on his lap.
The finger obscuring his view made the boy finally look up and he pointed to the box it sat on.
Roger follows his finger, squinting at the words on the box.
“Chess?”
The boy returns to his game with a simple nod and Roger, bored with sitting still, starts to swing his legs, “That’s cool.”
He sits there for the rest of play time, fiddling with his fingers and swinging his legs, waiting for the boy to talk to him.
When the bell rings Roger gets up to leave. He couldn’t stay because he had to make sure he had the same desk at the back of the classroom every time. If he sat at the front people flicked bits of paper at him and then he got in trouble for squirming about from the teacher.
—–
Jason was very good at talking to adults, to teachers, and to therapists when there were no children his age around. But add in some loud kids and Jason went quiet. He was very smart, receiving A’s in everything except for class participation, and at every parent-teacher interview the teachers would worry and so would his parents who never seemed to stop worrying.
“He needs to find a friend his age,” they’d say. It was good for his development or something.
Jason was born five weeks early - poked and prodded at since he came in to the world; he was more sensitive than most kids. He still refused to wear short sleeved shirts because it didn’t feel right and it took him a long time before he could walk bare foot on carpet. It did get lonely at play time, but he had chess, and chess was all he needed.
—-
The next day at play time Roger decides to do something a little different. Once he’d finished his lunch and put his lunchbox away, he dashed over to his new friend and took up a seat beside him again instead of going to play sailing.
“Today I saw two blue cars in a row on the way to school so I /know/ it’s going to be a good day,” he says, in his usual cheerful tone.
This time the boy looks up at him, a half smile on his face. He looks back down and begins to play chess again before he finally speaks: “Why?”
His soft voice catches Roger off guard and he squeaks in delight that his new friend had finally spoken to him, “Why? Because blue is a good colour and two is an even number so two blue cars is a good thing and a good thing equals a good day.”
The boy considers his logic for a moment, his fingers hovering over a chess piece as he thinks before he nods in agreement and starts to play again, “It is.”
Roger smiles down at his hands in his lap, his mind ticking over with all the things he could tell his new friend. He wanted to talk about sailing the most, though. Then he remembers what his therapist said about asking questions instead of just talking.
“What’s your name?” he asks, eyes wide with curiosity.
“I’m Jason,” comes a quiet reply which was almost drowned out by the screaming kids in the playground.
Roger holds out his hand (it was what adults did when they met new people and even though he hated people touching his hands, he thought it was a very proper thing to do), “I’m Roger.”
Jason eyes his hand with suspicion and fear, his heart pounding in his chest, “I don’t like touching.”
Roger nods, his lips pursed in thought, “We have to touch hands, though, that’s what people do. Um… here!”
He takes his index finger and gently presses the tip of it to Jason’s, offering him a nervous smile, “We did it.”
'We’. Jason had never heard another person his age say that to him. It felt nice.
Jason takes his hand back and looks back down at his chess board, his brows knitting in deep thought as he considers stopping his game of chess to talk to his new friend, but the words of what he wants to say won’t form in his mouth so he moves another chess piece in frustration. Where Roger had touched his finger felt funny. But a good kind of funny, like how it felt when his mother rubbed his arm, not like when a child would touch him just to make him scream.
“Jason’s a cool name,” Roger muses.
He watches some of his classmates climb on the monkey bars. It looked fun, but the monkey bars were an odd sticky texture from all of the people who touched them and Roger couldn’t bring himself to climb on them. It’s why he didn’t use glue on his projects and why he liked the squeeze bottles of honey instead of the jars.
“Do you wanna see my boat?” Roger asks, already pulling the small toy yacht out of his pocket no matter Jason’s response.
He places it down very carefully on the chess board, not wanting to destroy what was obviously very special to his friend.
Jason watches him curiously, letting his annoyance at the interruption of his game wash away as he studies the little miniature figure.
“Look, you can play with it like this.
He uses his fingers to slide it across the board towards Jason, dodging every chess piece with a very convincing 'whoosh’ sound. Once he’d successfully reached the end of the chess board he looks up at Jason, waiting patiently for him to have a go. Sharing and taking turns was important, he remembered.
Jason hesitates, terrified of messing up this new game and annoying his friend. He could never figure out games with other kids, they always changed the rules and it made him so angry he’d cry.
"Whoosh?” Jason murmurs, pushing the toy a few inches across the board and looking up at Roger for approval.
Roger squeaks, clapping his hands in delight, “You’re a captain now!”
A surge of joy shoots through Jason and causes giggles to spill out of his lips at his accomplishment. He wasn’t quite sure what being a captain meant, but he liked being one.
Belize blinks blearily and groans as he sees the time on his alarm clock. If work was calling for him to pick up another shift they better pay him overtime for it. He growls and reaches for his phone, “Mmph. Hello?”
His acute hearing picks up the quick, distressed breathing and he sits up in bed. He recognises that breathing.
“Prior? What’s going on?”
There was deathly silence, a long whine, and then crying on the other end.
Belize stands up, pacing the room, “Prior. Prior, Prior, baby. You have to tell me what’s wrong.”
“It’s Louis!” the man on the other end finally chokes out, his voice filled with anger.
Belize’s mind floods with fear; dear god, he thinks, what has Louis done?
“What about him, baby?” He keeps his voice calm, although his hands were already in tight fists.
“He left me!” Prior cries loudly.
The pain in his voice makes Belize growl and he snarls, “That bastard! That– He’s such a monster, isn’t he?!”
Prior was incomprehensible now except for his soft begging, “Please don’t kill him, please don’t kill him, please don’t kill him, ‘Lize.”
His jaw cracks in an inhuman manner and he drops to all fours, the phone dangling from its cord. His breathing is heavy and guttural as a low, continuous growl escapes his throat. The pain of bones breaking and reforming, of fat shifting and muscles rewiring, of hair sprouting and nails becoming claws is quickly replaced by a hot anger.
And then Belize is gone, smashed through the window of his apartment and out in to the backstreets of uptown New York. He travels along rooftops and in the shadows, sniffing and hunting for one thing: Louis Ironson.
A familiar scent pulls him in the direction of the Coney Island beach, a place Louis liked to go at night to swim and be alone. It takes him less than fifteen minutes at the speed he can travel to reach the start of the sand hills.
He ducks and weaves, dodging naked bodies of men exploring themselves and each other until the scent of Louis and the ugly scent of dead flesh - of vampire - fills his nostrils.
Louis notices him first, turning sharply on his heel and holding his hands up. He’d been expecting him.
“Belize. Please, please don’t hurt me. Hear me out.”
Belize growls, raising his hackles, his ears pressed back against his head in a display of mistrust and aggression.
“I know, I know, I-. Listen, I– you’re not immortal! You don’t know…! The things I’ve seen, Belize, I… I love him. I love Prior. I do.”
Belize steps closer, his paws leaving marks in the sand and the waves wetting his feet as he stares Louis down, his tail flicking in annoyance at him.
“I just think– well, I think maybe he– well, I mean maybe Prior didn’t go about this the right way. I fucked up, I know, but- but maybe Prior fucked up too.”
That ignorant statement was enough to push Belize over the edge and he charges at Louis. He knocks him in to the wet sand, which suddenly becomes hard with the force, and both of them fall with a hard thud. Louis struggles and in a fit of fear, sinks his sharp fangs in to Belize’s front leg, which elicits a sharp whimper from him before he drags his claws down Louis’ chest, opening up the shirt and skin underneath. He cries out in pain and then /actually/ cries and Belize steps back in shock and disgust. The thick, black and clotted blood that oozes out of Louis’ wounds instead of the bright red of a human’s was enough to remind Belize that Louis was nothing but a monster. He wasn’t human. Louis hugs his arms around himself, moaning in pain and flinging curses at Belize.
The stench of stale blood that filled the air was enough to turn his stomach and Belize fled, his mind turning to Prior instead. Prior, alone in the hospital and scared and wishing he was dead. Prior. Soft, sweet Prior who kissed him before each full moon and helped him chain himself up in a cave somewhere. He had to see him, he had to let him know that things would be alright.
By the time he made it to the hospital the blood from the wound on his arm had started to clot and so Belize finds himself an alley to become human again.
When Prior sees Belize his face lights up in a mixture of forced and genuine happiness and he opens his arms wide, “Puppy, you’re here!”
Belize grins back and closes the door behind him as he comes to Prior’s side, wrapping his arms around him tightly.
“I’m here, mon amour.”
Prior pushes his face in to his neck and lets out a sigh as he allows himself to relax.
“Men are beasts,” Belize says to fill the hollow silence.
In Prior’s case, the statement was mostly literal.
“Not you, though, you’re my puppy,” Prior murmurs, refusing to move from Belize’s arms.
“I’m so glad we never got in to that kink when we were together,” Belize says, happy to see a smile on Prior’s face at his remark.
Prior readjusts himself to be more comfortable, frowning at the wound on the other’s arm.
“He’ll be fine and so will I,” Belize states, cutting off Prior’s thoughts before he got scared or angry.
Prior looks up at him and presses a sweet kiss to his lips, “Thank you.”
Belize sighs and cups Prior’s cheek lovingly, “You need to sleep, baby.”
Prior pouts, “Will you tell me something?”
“Mm?”
“If werewolves are real and vampires are real… what other creatures are real?”
Belize raises his eyebrows, “Like from fiction?”
Prior nods and nestles down to sleep on Belize’s chest, looking up at him like a child eager for a bed time story.
“I think it’s just the two species, actually. I don’t really– there’s not like a book or something, honey. You know werewolves used to be considered the scavengers of the world? Some sort of unholy union between man and beast. It wasn’t until the first few human conflicts when vampires started to appear en masse that we moved up in the food chain. Then of course the witch trials fucked us over.”
Belize plays with Prior’s hair, watching him doze in and out of consciousness.
“Werewolves have strong family ties as the gene is passed down through generations. The only reason I know all this history stuff is because of my grandmother. The only time bad shit happens is when we get in to packs or we’re loose on a full moon. We are the perfect balance between man and beast every night of the month except for one. On that night we… I lose my mind. There’s no human left, it’s why…”
Belize trails off, smiling fondly at Prior who was beginning to snore from the oxygen tubes they had in his nose.
“Sleep well,” he murmurs, kissing the top of his head and tucking the blankets around them both.
He closes his eyes and sleeps the night away.
He only awakens once and smirks with satisfaction at the sounds of Louis looting the medical supplies to stitch himself up.
“Leech,” he whispers in to the still air of the hospital and he hopes to god Louis hears it.
Prior smiles down at Little Sheba, giving her head a soft pet, "Good girl." She wags her tail and nudges her head against his leg.
Little Sheba was, in fact, by no means little -- a bull Arab and golden retriever cross -- she was tall enough to provide counter balance for Prior, but agile enough to navigate in small spaces. She wore a doggy backpack in a fluorescent shade of green and in it she held Prior's emergency medication in case his blood sugar dropped suddenly, his asthma kit for his lungs, a mask to filter out germs and pollen, and anything else Prior might need for the day. Today she carried his wallet and the case for his glasses, too. She had a face harness which signalled work mode and the lead slipped around Prior's waist so he didn't have to hold it. On her vest were the words 'SERVICE DOG - DO NOT INTERACT', printed on the side was 'Do Not Seperate Me From My Owner' and on the leash a simple 'Do Not Distract'. Regardless of all this, Prior still had to navigate around people who insisted on distracting her.
Prior looks down at her from the crop top he held when she nudges her nose in to his hand, hard and insistent. He quickly finds a place for himself to sit and it only takes a few minutes for the dizziness to come on. Sheba lays on his lap, applying deep pressure therapy to keep him conscious. He runs his hands through her fur, a soft smile on his face despite his urge to pass out. Prior often had fainting spells where he lost feeling in his legs or he became too dizzy to stand, luckily Sheba could detect them a few minutes before they came on so he could find a quiet and safe place to sit. It had given Prior his independence back and made Lou stop hovering, which was a God ordained miracle. Once the dizziness had passed Prior gives the 'brace' command and Sheba tenses all her muscles so Prior could use her to help himself stand.
"Oh, what a good girl! So helpful to your daddy!" He praises and she wags her tail at him again, eager for praise.
"Come on, lets get Lou some socks and then go home. He'll have a nice yummy meal for us."
Prior keeps his pace a little slower just to give his body a rest after his fainting spell. He walks in to the men's section, his cane and Sheba's toenails clicking on the floor, which meant it was impossible for people NOT to notice them. He heads towards the underwear section, avoiding the man making kissy noises at Sheba.
"With me, Sheebs," he says and she sticks to his side like glue.
He picks out some rainbow socks and some ones with sharks on them because Louis was a Colourful Sock kind of guy; his little rebellion against the system at work.
Prior picks himself out some nice leggings from the women's section, too, and decides to treat himself with that crop top he was looking at earlier
It was a beautiful day, but like always, they could depend on some white Christian lady to ruin it.
Prior pauses as he comes out of the store to find some strange lady standing at his car, her hands on her hips.
"Are you ISIS?" She asks, squinting at him as he approaches.
Prior could sense the TRUMP 2016 tee shirt even if she wasn't wearing it at the moment,
"No ma'am, I'm not," he sighs.
"Then why do you have ISIS letters on your car?"
Prior frowns in confusion and walks around to wear she was pointing. He groans, turning back around to face her, "That's not- that's Hebrew on that bumper sticker, ma'am. My boyfriend is Jewish. He recently started practicing his faith again and so he's getting all these cute little Jewish things, it's very cute."
Prior's few seconds of pride fade and he closes his eyes and internally slaps himself for saying such words in front of the lady, which only triggers her to start ranting about god and Jesus and sin and AIDS and how he was too young to be parked in a disabled spot anyway. She was loud and in his face and he hated the confrontation because people started to stare. Sometimes he wished he could just go shopping without everyone noticing him.
He ignores her and helps Sheba get in to the backseat of his car.
"Ma'am, please, I'm a HIV positive, disabled gay man whose boyfriend is autistic, Jewish, and descended from illegal immigrants. Now, my schedule is pretty tight, but perhaps when I'm not hanging out with my black, genderfluid nurse friend or at temple with my boyfriend, we could pick this debate up again, but right now my leg hurts and this heat is killing me so praise satan and have a lovely day."
Prior climbs in to the front seat of the car as best he could with a sore leg and slams the car door in her face. He lets out a sigh, brushing off the curses she throws at him as he backs out of the parking lot.
"I'm gonna need cuddles when I get home, Sheebs."
Prior shivers as his hot, feverish body comes in to contact with Lou’s forever cold one. He trembles from weakness and the contrast in temperature; Louis does his best to hold him close.
“Lou…?” Prior asks, his lips caked with yucky white stuff and his tongue completely covered in white too. He had sores on his lips, and lesions crept their way up his neck, threatening to infect his beautiful cheeks.
“Mm?” Lou groans, opening his eyes to look down at Prior, “Bathroom again?”
Prior shakes his head weakly and swallows, taking a minute to softly clear his throat before he can speak again, “What if I want to become like you?”
“Jewish?” Louis teases, just to see Prior smile even though he was fully aware of what he meant.
It brings a faltering smile to Prior’s lips and a light to his eyes which fades as quickly as it had appeared.
“No, I– that’s not how it works,” Louis says, sitting up so Prior could rest his head in his lap and he could play with his hair.
“It’s more than that,” Lou continues, “Making someone undead isn’t as glamorous as it is in the movies, Pi. It’s very bloody, very painful. It’s rewriting how your entire body functions.”
“But, I could–”
“Undead people don’t heal, baby. It’s not a life without sickness, it’s a body frozen in time. If I turned you now you wouldn’t heal, it would just be this sickness for eternity, never getting worse, never getting better.”
Louis lifts up his sleeve so Prior could see the few, almost invisible stitches that ran in a neat line on his skin, “I’ve had this cut for over two centuries.”
Prior looked more frightened than ever, looking up at Louis, “I don’t want to die, Lou.”
Louis kisses his forehead, “Nobody does, baby.”
Prior was in the hospital now, his lesions were developing at an alarming rate and he'd started crying at night when he thought Louis couldn't see.
That's why Louis made this trip to Master Cohn's apartment at 1am in the morning while Prior slept in a hazy, drug-induced slumber. He pays the taxi driver, his hands shaking as he counts out the money. Louis creeps up the stairs to the entrance to the apartment block, his breath catching in his throat as Roy answers the door, a reptilian smile on his face.
"Louis. I said you'd be back."
Louis physically writhes under his gaze, slipping inside of the apartment, "I want thirty bottles."
"Fifteen."
"Twenty," Louis insists, his eyes unwavering now as he meets Roy's stare, "Twenty."
Roy raises an eyebrow and accepts the offer. It didn't matter to him of course, he only pretended it did. He would take more satisfaction in breaking Louis tonight than he would in short changing him bottles of pills.
Louis' whole body stills as Roy's seemingly gentle hands run down his chest to slip under his shirt. His skin physically recoils from the touch.
"Take these off. I want to see you," Roy says, his voice dark and hushed.
Louis closes his eyes, stripping himself of his clothes, "This happens with a condom or not at all."
Roy grunts in agreement, inspecting Lou's body with his eyes.
"Bend over," he says, a hand on Louis' back to encourage him to do so.
Louis bends over, his hands gripping the head of the expensive leather sofa. He turns his head to make sure the condom went on and in case Roy tried anything else.
Once Louis was satisfied he squeezes his eyes shut, hoping that Prior might forgive him for this.
He tenses when he feels Roy place his hands on him, swallowing hard.
Louis keeps his cry of anguish contained in his throat as he feels Roy inside of him, his breathing getting quick and panicked.
He whimpers softly out of pity for himself, the noise encouraging Roy to start to fuck him.
Louis tries his best to ignore everything including Roy's awful dirty talk. He makes the occasional sound, mainly out of panic.
Roy takes his time with Louis, satisfied with the fact that he eventually got to everyone, even the pious Louis folded in to him in the end.
Once Roy was finished, which felt like a lifetime, Louis quickly dresses himself angd Roy gives him the key to the fridge he had stocked full of AZT. Louis takes what they had agreed upon, scurrying out of Roy's apartment and catching another taxi back to the hospital, his precious stash of pills tucked in a bag at his feet.
Louis makes his way back to Prior's room, his lip trembling as he locked eyes with Prior. He falls to his knees, his body shaking violently with sobs.
Prior sits up, his eyes wide and fear etched on to his face, "Louis? Baby?"
"I need you to hold me," Louis says and Prior opens his arms in response.
Lou crawls in to Prior's bed and in to his arms. Prior holds him as tight as he can, pressing soft kisses in to his neck, "You can tell me anything, you know?"
Lou whimpers, "You have to understand, okay? With where I think- I think this is going and- I mean... I could be sick too, I could be-- and I can't lose you, I can't. I can't. I can't, I--"
Prior's voice grows firmer, "Louis. What did you do?"
Lou points a trembling finger towards the backpack on the floor, "AZT."
Prior's eyes widen, looking between the bag and Louis and then back to the bag and Louis again until it finally clicks and he holds Louis just that little bit tighter.
"I--"
"Shhh," Prior hushed him, giving him a soft kiss even though his lips were quivering too, "Don't think about it now."
Louis buries his face in Prior's chest, holding the younger man close, his tears wetting his shirt.
Prior sheds silent, sorrowful tears. He didn't know if he should be angry or grateful that Louis had done such a thing to effectively save his life. There was one thing Prior knew and that was if Louis had been the sick one he would have done the same thing for him.
Prior holds him close like that the whole night, letting Louis work through any guilt and disgust he might have felt.
"You must think I'm an awful person," Louis blurts out, looking up at Prior with red, puffy eyes.
Prior kisses his cheek, resting his lips there for a moment, "I really wish you hadn't done that, but we can't go back now."
The Prior Walters were an old, old family, one of power and influence. Louis Ironson was thirty-two and a starving peasant who begged for crumbs in alleyways. He should have known not to trust the very attractive man who offered him a chance out of that life, but he took it anyway. The man called himself Prior Walter, but he died in a fire a few nights later after he'd bit in to louis' neck and cursed him forever. Hungry and alone, Louis followed the only family he knew --the Walters-- through the centuries, from England to America. He saw them rise and then fall, saw them die of plague and saw their pool of wealth dwindle.
He fed himself on victims of war and plague, their bitter and stale blood making his insides burn, but he could never deal with the guilt of taking a life that wasn't already near death. His silver Star of David necklace had hung around his neck as a human and centuries of scar tissue meant it only tingled as it touched his skin, but he wore it still as a reminder to always be in control. He walked the sunlit streets in robes until the invention of the hoodie, and worked a normal office job to pay the rent. He never let himself drink lest he kill someone or an animal and he only smoked when he was stressed. He'd bumped in to Prior Walter (the thirty-somethingth of the name) one day in Central Park and for a human Prior had handled the whole vampire thing relatively well. Belize smuggled out bags of blood for him, although he demanded that if he were caught Louis ruin his own reputation so Belize could still work. Prior wasn't keen on anyone he loved doing things illegally, but it was the only way.
Prior groans as Louis' alarm goes off, smacking the alarm clock to shut it up and rolling over to wrap his arms around Louis, "Aren't creatures of the night supposed to not need to sleep and therefore not need alarm clocks?"
Louis smiles, playing with Prior's soft hair and giving him a kiss, "Only in the folktales, dear."
Prior grunts, leaning in for a second kiss, "Make me some coffee and be a good boyfriend."
Louis smiles, hopping out of bed, his feet smacking on the cold wooden floors as he walks to the kitchen, which was basically the same room as the bedroom in their small apartment.
He boils water in the kettle and makes them both some coffee, putting sugar and milk in Prior's and leaving his black. He stirs in a few spoonfuls of blood out of one of the bags and licks the spoon he used. He returns back to Prior's side, who sits up in bed and holds the blankets up so Louis can snuggle back in beside him and give him his coffee.
"You know one thing I've always wondered?"
Louis raises his eyebrows, resting his head on Prior's shoulder and sipping his coffee, "What's that, babe?"
Prior smirks in to his coffee mug, "If you don't have any circulation, how can you get hard?"
Louis laughs, almost choking on his drink and he looks down at Prior, giving the top of his head a kiss, "Willpower, mostly, to be honest."
Prior chuckles, placing a gentle hand on Lou's bare thigh to trail his fingers up and down affectionately, "Babe, are there other people like you? Vampires, I mean. God, I sound like some white girl in those shitty horror flicks."
Louis frowns in thought, then nods, "There is, but I'm not particularly close with any of them. I suppose we're like a big family, those of us that lived close by to each other during the centuries."
Prior looks up at him, "So it was just you all those years until me?"
Louis smiles sadly, taking Prior's hand, "There was a pilot and a tailor's son, but they both died in wars years apart. The rest of the time it was just me."
Prior sips his coffee in silence, deep in thought, "Must have been lonely."
Louis grunts in response, not wishing to go in to the years he spent alone and cold and hungry, the years living in the middle of conflict, in no man's land, in the concentration camps. All of it to feed, all of it to stay unnoticed, to survive, and all of it so violent and scarring.
"I'm sorry we don't have to talk about it," Prior quickly back peddles, withdrawing from Lou a little.
"Maybe one day I'll tell you," Lou promises, leaning in to Prior to make up for the room in between them.
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