Breakfall (10 page)

Boy, what a wreck
, Sean thought, grimacing.
At least the blood’s washed out of his hair.

His fingers twitched at the memory of the soft wisps under the dryer the night before, and he felt his face flush despite his sleepy-eyed fatigue. He hadn’t helped Asbjorn shower, exactly—but Asbjorn had trouble reaching up and twisting with his broken rib, and Sean’s calm, impersonal assistance seemed welcome.

Not much different from giving first aid as a camp counselor.

Sean sat on the edge of the queen-size bed and reached for the older man’s shoulder. “Asbjorn. Time to wake up, Asbjorn.” Not wanting to shake the injured man, he kneaded the shoulder with his fingers.

“H
EY
, A
SBJORN
.
Wake up!”

Morning inspections were in progress and his unit stood by their bunks at the ready, dressed and looking sharp.

“I want the whole fucking place to look ship-shape. Boots fucking shined. Blankets fucking tight. Regulation fucking corners. None of yer sonsobitches are gonna have any junk stashed away where it don’t belong.”

The new recruits stared ahead. Whole minutes passed before the door opened.

“Officer on deck. Atteeen-SHUN!”

A tall, stern man in a gleaming chief’s uniform filled the doorway, and Asbjorn realized he’d forgotten to put his clothes on that morning.

He hoped his commanding officer wouldn’t notice. He stared straight ahead with that defocused, peripheral vision look, careful not to meet his superior’s eyes straight on. His men didn’t say anything, so maybe his exposed nakedness was not as noticeable as he feared. The man’s stern eyes shone out of his dark face as he turned toward Asbjorn.

“Asbjorn! Asbjorn!”

He felt a cold hand squeeze his shoulder.

“Hey, Bjorn! Wake up!”

It was the “Bjorn” that did it. Nobody called him that—he earned the right to his screwed up, old-fashioned name the hard way. Every single schoolyard fight he either fought or avoided made him Asbjorn—not
Bjorn
, and most certainly not
Ass
. Feeling irritated and incompetent in the haze of his dream, he cracked his eye, only to shut it against the mild glow of the lamp.

“Go away.”

“Asbjorn. You need to wake up for a few minutes, okay? Here, I got you some water.”

He realized how thirsty he was, and the promise of water motivated him to crack his good eye open again. The unwelcome specter of Chief Munoz was banished. Sean Gallaway was looking at him instead.

“Yeah.” His voice croaked. “Thanks.” He tried to sit up but winced in pain and fell back against the pillow.

“Roll to your side, Bjorn.”

“Don’t call me that.” Brushing his irritation away, he focused his energy on rolling toward Sean and the enticing glass of water.

He drank some.

His hand brushed Sean’s briefly as he returned the glass. The long fingers looked white in the pallid glow of the reading lamp. His eyes scanned over the younger man in his light, long-sleeve pajamas.

“You cold?” he asked, noting the way Sean’s shoulders were drawn in.

“It’s okay. I’ll put on some more clothes. You need anything? Advil?”

“Yeah. Thanks.” Sean got a capsule from the bathroom, and Asbjorn took the pill with more water. “Hey, Sean. Come under the covers. It’s warmer than the sofa.”

He saw Sean hesitate, as though he was sorely tempted to take Asbjorn up on the welcome invitation. Anyone would have been happy to leave the too short, cold, lumpy sofa far behind. A wistful expression passed over Sean’s face, but then he shook his head. Regret, and something else, were written all over his face.

His patient watched him intently with his one good eye, until he yawned.

“C’mon, sunshine. The landlord has the heat off overnight until after Thanksgiving. You’ll freeze out there.”

Sean wavered, running his hand through hair. “Don’t call me sunshine.”

“Your hair looks like a golden halo,” Asbjorn said with a grin. Then he winced in pain. “Besides, you called me Bjorn.” He turned onto his back, clenching his jaw as he inched his way over to the other side. His jaw hurt, too, and he huffed an exasperated exhale.

“Sean.” He felt the warmth of Sean’s brown eyes on him. “Please.” He schooled his expression into a mask of epic suffering. “So you don’t have to get up because of me.”

He moved to make even more space, allowing himself to wince as he felt the rib shift in his side.

He didn’t know if it was the “please” or the signs of acute discomfort he allowed to show in his face as he moved to make space for Sean that was Sean’s undoing.

With slow deliberation, Sean set the glass on the night table and turned off the lights. “Only if there is enough space,” Sean said, sounding very reserved.

“G’night, Sean,” Asbjorn said. Almost immediately, he fell asleep.

“A
SBJORN
,
WAKE
up.”

He groaned at the sound of Sean’s voice. At least the light was off. “What?”

“Time to wake up. The timer went off.”

Asbjorn turned to see Sean with his glowing phone in his hand. “Sunshine, I need to get some sleep. Just turn it off, will you? I’ll be fine.” He saw Sean frown in irritation, close the phone, and put it away.

“Sorry,
Bjorn.
I want to make sure you’re okay.”

“I’ve had concussions before. I’m still here. Chill, man.”

“You sure you have enough room with me here?”

Asbjorn felt warmth stir within his chest—a feeling that counteracted the painful ache of his broken rib. Sean didn’t see his faint smile in the darkness of the night. “Sure. Now go to sleep.”

Asbjorn relaxed to the sound of the easy, regular breathing of the man next to him, and had it not been for the pain in his jaw, he would have grinned. He remembered the peck he had deposited on that sinuous, tan neck when Sean fell asleep in the library, and his lips still tingled at the memory. Unbidden, he recalled the feeling of being drawn into Sean’s warm gaze and unable to move away, unwilling to avoid the tender brush of Sean’s lips against his own over a steaming cup of coffee.

He stirred uncomfortably. His few years in the Navy had taught him the value of both self-discipline and discretion. With all those guys around him, it would have been impossible not to realize he preferred men by a wide margin. After one near-disaster of almost having been found out onboard ship with another sailor, he kept as tight a lid on his libido as he did on his wild temper. If others engaged in illicit liaisons, he was careful not to notice.

He was no longer enlisted, however, and his current environment allowed him to do things he couldn’t have done before. He could get into fights—as evidenced by his present condition.

He could stay up late and sleep in, and the repercussions would be a lot less severe than only one year ago. He could skip making his bed, and nobody would put him on toilet-cleaning duty as a consequence.

He could date.

Date.

Asbjorn thought back to when his father died. Nell and James Thorpe were still unmarried at the time, teaching karate as undergrads. His chest tightened at the thought of James. They called him Tiger, and he no longer knew how that had come about. What he knew was that Tiger taught him to control his combustible temper and gave him both unconditional acceptance and a goal. In turn, Asbjorn had applied himself to passing school with decent grades and learning how to kick ass in karate.

There was no time for girls. Tiger was his idol, his goal. He wanted to be just like Tiger, wanted to move just like Tiger, wanted to dress just like Tiger. Most of all, he wished to please Tiger and earn his respect.

Tiger.

It occurred to him that his feelings of devotion to his late karate instructor might have been less platonic had Nell-sensei not been around. They were such an obvious couple; rocking their boat would have been inconsiderate, ungrateful, and mean.

His head hurt as he tried to follow that line of thought. Suppose there had been only Tiger and no Nell. Would he have acted on his attraction? It felt odd, thinking that. His face heated despite the cool air of his apartment, and he realized he was blushing in the dark.

Sean stirred, turning his lithe body toward Asbjorn. Had it not been for his stupid fucking broken rib, he would have been tempted to pull Sean in and spoon him from behind. Greatly daring, he would have draped his arm over slender hips. He’d have buried his nose in the sunshiny hair, breathing in the faint traces of herbal shampoo and Sean’s warm musk and—he inhaled experimentally, wincing at the pain in his side—a faint trace of sandalwood incense.

Pain kept him awake, on and off, all night long. Every time he roused, irritated and tired, Sean’s easy breathing helped him relax and sink into the mattress. He drew shallow, careful wheezes of air, willing the pain away and biting back quiet curses, unwilling to wake the younger man who rested so peacefully by his side.

Right before dawn, he crawled out of bed—taking his time while hissing and gasping—and used the toilet. On any other weekend, it would have been a good morning to get up extra early and get some work done before his run by the river, if only he’d gotten enough sleep the night before. The very thought of running made him ill.

He hobbled back to bed instead and closed his eyes against the dawning light, his mind on Nell’s words. He needed to grieve. A distinct sense of discomfort made him shudder, for grief meant feelings and feelings meant pain.

Dud was loading the Jeep while Nell was still saying her good-byes inside the warehouse.

“Dud.”

“Yeah?”

“Have you ever seen Tiger cry?”

Dud straightened to his full height and looked down at Asbjorn, the gaze in his eyes dark. “Yeah. Once.”

“Do you know why he… why he did?”

Dud paused, torn. A moment passed. “Almost two years ago. Nell had a miscarriage. They both took it pretty hard.”

Now Asbjorn centered himself, his pillow rolled up under his neck. Maybe… if Tiger could find it in him to grieve for a life unborn, a promise of joy for both himself and Nell, then perhaps he, Asbjorn, might permit himself to
feel
. Keeping his breathing shallow out of necessity, he willed himself to relax and sink into the mattress. He shut his eyes.

James Tiger Thorpe.

He visualized the tall man, his brown eyes smiling, brown hair spilling over his yoked shirt as he grilled hamburgers, as he shared his beer, as he leaned over Asbjorn’s homework.

Tiger-sensei.

His large, sinewy hands and hard, devastating fists. His calm, deceptively lazy voice that explained, enticed. His sharp intelligence, applied to body mechanics as well as X-ray crystallography.

Tiger.

The friend who showed him there is always another way, a better way. Fighting was to be avoided. Mourning his father without picking fights was not only possible, it was preferred. Preferred by Tiger.

He felt a curious pressure build up in his chest and his sinuses began to fill. His natural tendency would have been to control his breathing and divert his thoughts to baseball statistics, or wonder whether the energy level of an electron in the 5s2 valence shell of technetium, produced by the bombardment of a molybdenum target using deuterium differed from same 5s2 level in technetium produced by uranium decay….

Stop.

Stop thinking.

Feel.

He halted his train of thought again and focused on that unregulated feeling of loose, random heat bouncing around inside his body.

He strained not to count his breaths.

He persevered in his effort to just
feel
. Nell wanted it that way. Tiger would have wanted it that way too.

For Tiger.

A silent, hot droplet detached itself from the corner of his swollen eye and made its way around his cheekbone, forging a solitary path down to his ear. It was the first tear he had shed since his father died all those years ago.

S
EAN
DIDN
’
T
quite know what woke him up. It was early yet, and the thin morning light barely filtered through the drawn thermal shades and sheer, lacy curtains. Asbjorn was lying on his back, his breathing even, eyes closed. Carefully, Sean slid from under the covers and slipped into the bathroom.

Minutes later he was back, standing by the side of the bed, debating whether the sound of a shower would wake Asbjorn from his much-needed sleep, when a wet, glistening droplet on the man’s cheek caught his eye. He squinted, leaning forward. A veritable trail of tears made its way from under the shut eyelashes, winding its way down, following the topography of the battered, bruised landscape.

Silent as a cat, Sean slipped under the warm comforter. He could pretend he’d seen nothing. This would allow Asbjorn to maintain his dignity. On the other hand, if a man of Asbjorn’s caliber chose to shed tears, there must have been a good reason for it.

And if this was so, then it was surely acceptable to comfort the man—a
friend
—who was, apparently, distressed.

Taking care not to jostle the mattress, Sean propped himself up on an elbow and regarded Asbjorn. The tears continued to trail down Asbjorn’s cheek and—entirely on impulse—Sean leaned over and gently brushed his lips over the wet skin, wiping the moisture away.

Asbjorn remained strangely still. Sean didn’t get punched, nor did Asbjorn growl at him to leave him the fuck alone.

Sean took that as encouragement.

He took stock of the silent man beneath him. The man whom he had already kissed last week, if ever so briefly. The man who pressed an ice pack upon his bruised forehead with touching care just hours ago. Sean didn’t quite understand where Asbjorn’s tears came from, but his mission was clear: he was to kiss those tears away.