Missed Connections (51 page)

Perhaps there was more of the Russian soul in Cyril than he let himself believe.

It didn't matter right now though, not with Scottie. Scottie, who
refused
to fuck him. Scottie, who wouldn't let Cyril suffer for him, because he insisted that their first time would be slow. "We'll do it right," Scottie murmured in his ear. "I'll have you just like this, on your back, and I'll have my fingers in your arse and I'll watch you, luv, I'll watch your face so I know what you're really thinking, because when you're feeling things you can't lie for shit, Cy. I'll watch you and when you're ready to give in to me, then I'll slick up and I'll slide right inside of you, so slow, fuck, it'll be perfect, you'll be open and needy and the sounds you'll make… "  He ran his thumb along Cyril's lower lip, where he was biting it. "No marks, Cy. Let go."

Cyril let go with a ragged sigh. It was so hard to stay quiet. "Do it," he begged. "Just do it, we don't have to wait, you can fuck me right now, I want it."

"Right now?" Scottie asked. He let go of Cyril's cock, guiding one of Cyril's own hands down to it before he could get too upset about being abandoned, then shifted Cyril's legs over his shoulders. "Like this, Cy?"  He rubbed the wet head of his cock against Cyril's hole, making him gasp. "Raw, unprepared, just shove in and take what I want?"  He pressed a little deeper, and Cyril closed his eyes and focused on maintaining control, it was too soon for him to come. He had to ignore what felt like a bolt of lightning zinging from his ass to his dick for just a little longer.

The ring of muscle began to give way, and Cyril's breath caught with a mix of hope and fear. Yes, this, this was what he wanted, no matter how Scottie wanted to give it to him it was what he wanted. He could take it. He
would
take it, gladly.

And then Scottie pulled back and Cyril's eyes flew open as he let out a quick sob of breath. "What—no—"

"I told you, luv. Slow," Scottie sighed, sliding his cock up until it nudged Cyril's tight balls. "Right."  He slid back down, then up again, leaving a prickling pleasure in his wake. "Fuck, it'll feel so good to be inside of you."  He started to move faster, and it was rough and chafed and Cyril wanted to cry, it felt so good. "Perfect," Scottie said breathlessly. "It'll be fucking perfect. Pull harder, luv, I want to see you come."

Cyril stroked himself fast, the bright red head of his cock swelling against his palm, and after a few more moments he lost control and came, spraying come high up against his chest, then lower and lower with each subsequent spurt.

"Yes, yes, Cy, yes, fuck,
fuck—"
Scottie came seconds later, so much and so hard that it dripped down over Cyril's hole and onto the bed below. It felt strangely intimate, and Cyril realized that this was how he would feel after Scottie came inside of him: all fucked out, come dripping from his body as Scottie rolled to the side and tucked him in close, like he was doing now. If Cyril could have gotten hard again, he would have just at the thought of it.

"M'not sure if it's safe to go all the way with that, luv," Scottie mumbled against Cyril's shoulder. "Might only get one good fuck out of me before I die of an aneurysm or somethin'."

"That would be tragic," Cyril said. To his disgust, he sounded completely sincere. Scottie snickered.

"You're so honest after sex, I love it."

"Shut up," Cyril muttered. "We should shower before my legs get glued together."

"Mmm, right."  Scottie rolled over and into a shaky standing position. "What's on the roster today then, Cy?"

"Our last HALO jump," Cyril said, standing up and taking Scottie by the hand. He tended to have a hard time thinking for the first few minutes after an orgasm. "It should be pretty straightforward."

"So says the optimist," Scottie chuckled, and followed Cyril into the shower.

Before initiating your High Altitude Low Opening jump, check to make sure all HALO suit systems are greenlit and fully operational. Some problems don't manifest unless you've already begun your descent, so it's important to have a good working knowledge of your emergency options should a problem occur. Always jump with a buddy, so that in case of personal incapacitation he or she can assist you with your descent. Remember, you aren't allowed to jump without signing the most recent version of the liability waiver: see Section 7.e. –ISA Project Evergreen Handbook

It took an hour long flight to get a hundred thousand feet into the stratosphere, even though they didn't have to do it with balloons anymore. Cyril and Scottie sat across from each other in the belly of the plane, trying not to grin. Every jolt knocked their feet together, and every touch just made Cyril smile harder until Rodriguez finally grunted, "Y'all need to stop playing footsie, I think I'm gonna be sick."

"You're just jealous that no one wants anything to do with your hideous size fourteens, mate," Scottie said loftily. Rodriguez wasn't a particular friend of anyone in the squad's. He was a brilliant mathematician, a by-the-books soldier and a champion of regulations, but he wasn't about to rat them out. Everyone knew that the two of them were, for all intents and purposes, together, but like with Mona and Leon, they covered for them.

"If you two make me puke before my last jump, we'll be having words down below."

"
Words
." Xiao snorted. "Do you remember the old game Words With Friends? Rodriguez plays Words With Fists."

"If you think there's any chance I wouldn't run the moment you got within arm's length of me, Roddie, you just don't know me at all," Scottie said lightly. "I've seen you fight, Lieutenant Golden Gloves. Lucky for me you can't sprint for shit."

"Lucky for me, actually," Cyril said. "I'm the best runner here, I think I'd be safest."

"You wouldn't throw yourself in his path to save me from his vile deprecations?" Scottie asked in mock offense. "I'm hurt, luv."

"But
I
wouldn't be," Cyril pointed out, and Xiao laughed.

"Jesus Christ. You two aren't worth the aggravation," Rodriguez said. Their altimeters beeped simultaneously to let them know they were at height. "Finally. I'm jumping first, before I contract diabetes."

"Jealousy is an ugly emotion, mate," Scottie advised as he closed his facemask and activated his oxygen tank. They breathed pure oxygen in the plane on the way up, to purge the nitrogen from their blood and keep them from getting decompression sickness during the fall, but it was just as important to keep their air pure during the fall itself so they didn't go hypoxic. The rest of them followed suit, then unstrapped themselves from the wall and heaved themselves to their feet.

The pilot checked to make sure they were all ready, then opened the fallout door. Rodriguez jumped without a word, falling into the glowing blue tableau that was their horizon from a hundred thousand feet above the ground. Xiao followed with a quick, "See you at the bottom."

Scottie reached out and tapped a gloved hand against Cyril's facemask. "Shall we, Cy?"

"Less talking, more doing," Cyril said, and he let himself fall out of the plane.

This was Cyril's favorite part, being so high up that he could see the horizon between the blackness of space and the blue of the earth's atmosphere. It almost wasn't like falling, since there was no perspective to judge distance with, just an altimeter that beeped a quiet, steady pace in his ear as he dropped. It was calming, relaxing… almost too relaxing. Cyril felt a bit strange, almost groggy. By the time he realized that something was wrong, it was already too late to do anything about it other than relay the information.

"I'm seeing spots," Cyril said grimly. The dive should take around eleven minutes total, but Cyril could already tell he wasn't going to last that long.

"Deep breaths," Scottie said instantly. "Take deep breaths, you can recover from this."

"Not so sure about that," Cyril replied. Points of black and bright white swam in front of his vision. "The air… I think my mix must be… "

"The mix is checked before getting loaded into the suit's tanks."  Scottie paused for a moment. "Your tank must be compromised."

"I have to deploy."

"You can't deploy this high up, Cy."  Scottie's voice was serious. "The winds are too strong, your chute won't last. I'm coming to you, okay? I'll help you deploy when we're closer to the ground."

"No, I… "  Why was it so hard to breathe? "I have to do it now."  He needed his chute, he needed to pop it before he blacked out. Cyril's hand hovered over the cord.

"Don't you fucking pull that line, Konstantin!" Scottie shouted. "I'm coming your way, I'm close, and I
will
take care of this. Don't you dare pop your chute right now."

"I'm slowing myself down," Rodriguez—was that Rodriguez? Cyril couldn't really tell anymore—said over the comms. "I'll stabilize him, you can help him deploy when we're low enough."

"I have to do't now," Cyril slurred, but he couldn't seem to coordinate his hands. It looked like night down on the earth, his vision was so black. A curtain closed over his eyes, and the last thing Cyril knew was his body starting a fast, violent spin, and Scottie yelling, "Shit!"

While prognosis in coma patients can only be made case by case, some general rules apply:  patients whose comas are caused by ingestion of toxic substances or metabolic abnormalities often completely recover, whereas patients whose comas are caused by vascular complications and anoxia tend to do worse. Comas caused by head trauma can fall anywhere within this spectrum. The younger the coma patient, the better their chances of recovery. –NeuroICU.com: Patient Questions

The first person Cyril saw when he dragged himself out of the darkness of his mind was his father, which meant he had to be in hell. He was dead, and he'd skipped purgatory and gone straight to hell.

"Ah."  Vasily Konstantin folded up the newspaper—an actual paper, Cyril was convinced that Vasily had the relics printed solely for him—and looked at Cyril. "Are you awake to stay this time?"

"What… "  It came out more as a
whaaa
since his throat was so dry. Vasily held a tube to Cyril's mouth and let him sip. The water was cool and delicious on his throat. Cyril pulled back and coughed, then tried again. "What is this place?"

"This? This is a hospital, my son. A private hospital in Moscow."

"Why… am I in Moscow?"  He should be in Rocky Flats. Or no, wait, Los Alamos. "What happened?"

"You don't remember the accident?"

Cyril's stomach turned to ice. "What accident?"  How badly had he been hurt? Had anyone else been hurt. "Oh my god, Scottie, was he in the accident too?"

"Captain Andrews was not directly affected. You are the only one who was injured, Cyril."

"Then why am I here?" Cyril demanded. "Why aren't I being treated on base?"

"Why?"  His father smiled thinly. "Because you've been sleeping for almost six months, my son."

*~*~*

Later, on, Cyril thought it was entirely understandable that he freaked out at that point.

It took three doctors, two video conferences and screen after screen of medical documents, incident reports and a fresh set of X-rays to convince Cyril that he had, in fact, been in a HALO accident. He'd blacked out due to a fault in his mix—the tank, it turned out, had been fine, it was the seal to the compressor that had become compromised during his fill. Scottie and Rodriguez had held onto him until they got to five thousand feet, then pulled his parachute.

Unfortunately, without being awake to control his descent, Cyril went down way too fast even with the chute. He hit the ground hard enough to break his right collarbone, right femur and fracture his hip, as well as crack the helmet protecting his head. His brain had swelled, he'd gone into a coma and after a month in air force care, he had been remanded to his father's custody. Vasily had taken him to Moscow, where Cyril had laid in silence until a week ago, when his brain miraculously began to show signs of waking up.

His father left once Cyril had all the information. He didn't dare hope that it was for good, but Vasily, like Cyril, had no desire to bear witness to overt displays of emotion, and Cyril wasn't going to be able to stop himself at that point. He read the early reports on his status again, his eyes brimming with angry, reluctant tears.

Scottie had stayed with him for those mythical two weeks of leave, and fought to delay his start at Los Alamos until the command staff threatened him with expulsion from the program. That, Cyril knew, would be the breaking point for Scottie. He couldn't leave the program, it was everything he wanted, it would take him to Mars with his sister. It was his dream. They had the same dream; Cyril was supposed to be with him right now, preparing for their mission.

There was no way Cyril would get back into the program. The doctors had been perfectly clear. His physical fitness was irrevocably compromised thanks to the brain injury. He had been given a medical discharge from the military while he slept, so there was no legal way for him to even contact the rest of the participants any more. No way for him to contact Scottie.

Vasily stayed away for three weeks, which was just about enough time for Cyril to work through the worst expressions of his rage and grief. The screaming, the cursing, the unexpected crying fits… it was shameful, but he couldn't control himself at first. The doctors didn't seem to expect him to, either; they talked continuously about the side effects of injuries like his, and carefully adjusted his medications until Cyril had more control of his mood swings. He still felt the anger, burned deep down into his bones, but he had other things to worry about. Getting his body to work again was one of them. He might be useless to the air force now, but he wouldn't have to be beholden to his father for any longer than was absolutely necessary.

By the time Vasily returned, Cyril could stand on his own and walk across his small room without assistance, although he was still unstable. He could control his outbursts, and he could take care of his own personal hygiene, which was a tremendous relief. On the afternoon of Vasily's visit Cyril dressed himself in his only suit, one of the few pieces of civilian clothing he'd kept with his kit, slicked his too-long hair back and had another chair brought in for his father, as Cyril refused to sit on the bed.