The Wind City (40 page)

Saint lifted up the six-pack of beer he’d brought and grinned. “I thought you might be busy, pet,” he said.

“I
am
busy,” Steffan said, eyeing him. “… Wait, you thought I might be busy so you decided it was a good idea to come over? How does that make sense?”

“You work too hard,” Saint said, beatific, “someone needs to keep an eye on you,” and he pushed his way through. Steffan let him.

“Beer is
disgusting
,” he called after him, shutting the door. Saint just laughed.

“So!” he said, seating himself on the ground with his back to the sofa. “Busy doing clever clever genius things, I suppose?”

Steff glanced over at the table, with all the work he had to do. Too much to do tonight even if he stayed up till dawn, probably, and his head throbbed just thinking about it.

So he sat on the couch, instead, and flicked on the TV. “Very clever clever,” he said, then added, seriously, “Quantum physics stuff. You’ve probably never heard of it.”

Saint tugged out a beer bottle and had a draught, then sighed and let his head fall backward, eyes closed in bliss. He looked entirely too comfortable for someone sitting on the floor. “Normal physics is too
mainstream
,” he said, and Steffan grinned.

“Yeah,” he said. “Changing your major isn’t exactly fun, either.” Saint had sort of lazily expanded – he always did that, like he felt the need to fill all available space with a sprawl of limbs – but he’d kept his maimed hand tucked close to his chest. It was still wrapped loosely in bandages, even though the need for them had passed. “I’m beginning to think I ought to pursue my atua research secondary to my other studies, without the backing of any institute, but no journals would take my articles, then, not if I didn’t have relevant qualifications.” He let out an irritated breath. “I’ll figure it out eventually.” Though not without entirely too many late nights, so a break was welcome, really. “So, uh… any preferences?”

“I’m pan, you know that,” Saint said, not opening his eyes.

Steffan thumped the remote against his head, not terribly hard. “Viewing preferences, idiot.”

“Whatcha got?” Saint said, and stretched out his arms. “Surprise me!”

They watched
Iron Man
in companionable silence, drinking horrible beer. It was nice.

Steff was forced to adjust his original assessment, though: Saint wasn’t
physically
hurt, sure. (Which was a relief. The atua – they liked hurting him, casually and thoughtlessly, and, more worryingly, Saint just
let
them, like he thought he deserved it, and that made Steffan’s heart clench. High school was over, and Saint’s godawful mess of a home situation was long behind him, and Steff had thought he was done with Saint showing up on his doorstep tugging down his sleeves to hide his bruises.) But he was tired, drained. He drank too much and too quickly. He didn’t talk enough.

Well he still talked far more than most people, obviously, but – for Saint? He didn’t talk enough, not anywhere near.

“What’s wrong?” Steffan asked finally, quietly, as the movie’s jubilant credits rolled.

“Absolutely nothing is… ” Saint said, then stopped. “Right, yeah, we were trying to go for a sort of… actually communicating thing, weren’t we.”

“That’s the idea, yes.”

“Right.” Saint scrubbed at his face. “I don’t know. Just. Some days are hard, Steff. I wanted to see you. Thass all.”

He looked tired. Sounded it, too. Steffan slid forward and down, so he was sitting next to Saint. “You need to get some sleep, idiot,” he said. “Go to bed.”

“You offering, pet?” said Saint, damn him. “… Ow jeez stop doing that,” he said a moment later, sheltering his head with his arm and eyeing the remote like it had fangs. “I’m pretty sure you’re not meant to hit people with those. It’s like, forbidden in the warranty. Do you want to be a warranty violator, Steff? Do you? Do you need that on your conscience right now? Give it thought.”

He’d used his right arm, even though that involved twisting his body improbably. His left one was still tucked against his side, and he must’ve noticed Steffan staring, because he frowned a little, then shrugged and tugged off the wrappings, holding it up and wiggling his ring and pinky fingers, though he could barely move them at all. “Vroop vroop,” he said, fierce and manic. “Ladies and gentlemen, come one, come all to view the astounding evidence of exactly how royally I’ve fucked things up, because I just
love
showing off the wreck of a perfectly good appendage. Honestly, every time I look at these stumps it’s like Christmas in my heart! I thank every god I know of every day that I wasn’t a pianist! I… ugh.” He drew up his knees and slumped his head on them, hunched and wretched.

Saint never used to be this open or vulnerable and raw. Ever since… everything that had happened, it was like – it was like he’d been stripped of his skin, like he was a bundle of raw nerve endings.

Steffan waved at Saint’s mauled hand. “Why do you still cover it up?” he said. “You’re not exactly the only injured person out there, and you’re not even impaired by this, really, you don’t have anything to complain about.”… Yeah, nice. Tactful. “I mean – I didn’t mean that like it sounded.”

Saint looked surprised. “Cover it? I don’t at
work
,” he said, like this was obvious. “Just. You.”

“What about me?”

“Well I. Just. You. You’re.” Saint screwed up his face in a grimace. “You’re like… I mean, you’re my best friend, and that’s good – though incidentally, as a wingman you’re rather lacking, I mean would it kill you to condition? But it goes beyond that. It’s like… I can’t live without you, or something. You make me better.”

“Well, someone has to,” Steffan said. “And it’s – argh, no, I don’t mean to say it’s like a
duty
, I… ” He hunched up. “You make me better. As well. I’m not myself without you.”

Saint raised an eyebrow at him. “You too, eh?” he said. “Hm. That’s good, I guess.” He raised the other eyebrow, inquiring. “Want to only talk about how much we need each other when we absolutely have to, and otherwise be stoic and cavalier about it all the time because in this society men aren’t allowed to have such close friendships without being perceived as weaker for it?”

“God yes,” Steffan said, profoundly grateful.

“Good man. Now come on,” he said, stifling a yawn, “hurry up, let’s watch the second one. I never got a chance to see that.”

“It’s not as good,” Steffan warned, but he got up to change the discs anyway.

“Lies,” Saint said lazily, “lies and slander. The only way a movie containing the combined beauty of Robert Downey Jr and Gwyneth Paltrow could be anything other than great is if it burned out our eyes with its sheer glory.”

“You say that
now
…” Steffan said, settling back down, awkwardly, beside him. It was unpleasantly dusty on this level. “I should vacuum.”

“No,” Saint said. “We’re about to continue our adventures in the chronicles of a bastard hero who has to learn to do good, and you want to talk about
household maintenance
?”

“I won’t talk about cleaning if you don’t talk constantly about Tony Stark’s jawline.”

“It’s an amazing jawline,” Saint said amicably. “I will make no such promise.”

He talked a little less, at least, and yawned more. Half an hour in he got out a cigarette, but fumbled it. Swore softly. Wedged it irritably between the two unmoving fingers on his left hand, and lit it with a flash of flame from his right.

Steffan raised his eyebrows at that. “You can still –”

“Can’t just ignore bad things and hope they go away,” Saint said.

Steffan reached out impulsively to give his hand a reassuring squeeze, which just turned out awkwardly, because Saint needed to rearrange the cigarette and had time to give him a Sceptical Look. Steffan persisted, stubbornly, then fixed his eyes on the screen like he hadn’t just held his hand.

Saint crooned gently, “Gaaaay.”

“I was trying to be a good
friend
, shut
up
!”

Saint didn’t shut up, of course. He never did. Steffan, though …Steffan was just glad that the house wasn’t silent any more.

Though he would never actually voice that aloud, because screw trying to have good communication – the amount of taunting
that
little gem of over-poetic sentiment would earn him wasn’t worth it at all. He was content just to sit here in not-silence, because this wasn’t healthy, what they had, it was far too co-dependent for that; but that didn’t change the fact that Saint being here, even just on occasional visits, made this place home.

Also raised the power bills considerably for some reason. How many showers did one person even
need
, honestly.

Tony clapped. “Yay! Well done!”

The patupaiarehe man who’d been doing the work, Whetu, looked awfully pleased with himself. “It is a fair foundation,” he said, wiping his hands, “we can build from this. I can’t say this new café will ever match the glory of the old, but it will serve. We can take this chance to change it, perhaps.” He raised his eyebrows meaningfully. “Move with the times.”

“You mean sell alcohol?”

“Yes.”

Probably a bad idea, but – she thought of Whai grinning when she said she’d buy him liquor next time they met. “Okeydoke.”

Whetu looked pleased. “Excellent, that should… ” he said, trailing off. She followed his line of sight; his eyes were fixed on a human girl walking past, college age or so, probably going to a bar to relax and certainly not in any hurry to be attacked by a scary fae man. Tony rolled her eyes.

“Nope,” she said, pushing him back between the palms, “nope nope no killing people not even a bit – you
know
the rules.” The atua had mainly taken to those rules well, which was a relief. No more drownings or comas to haunt her dreams, or at least she hoped not. No more screwing with people’s minds. “Get back to work.”

“I was only going to kill her a
little
,” he protested, “but – as you say, taniwha,” and he went back to work, making grandiose weaving motions in midair, tying threads of magic together.

Tony, seated on a raised step, swung her legs a bit, contented. She chewed on some dried dolphin as a treat – they only ever used meat from dolphins that had been killed in accidents, so it was okay to eat it. Dolphins were jerks, anyway.

Work had been going well. The atua community, in general, had settled down, though the newly-come patupaiarehe were a little difficult to control at times; with Hinewai’s help she managed it, though. Mainly. It
was
pretty possible that a
few
patupaiarehe had succeeded in luring people to their beds, or occasionally death, when Tony was too busy to pay attention, but…

Secretly, in her heart of hearts, she occasionally thought this was kinda fair, really. Saint had killed so many atua that it seemed only reasonable for a few humans to be killed in turn – nooo no not good, that wasn’t fair at all! It was the dark ancient taniwha-heart of her that thought it, mainly, the part that thought revenge was a totally good idea and murder was justifiable. She was handling it fine.

The trick was balance, really. At least Ariki had banished himself back to the hills, meaning that she didn’t have to punish him for his role in things. Not that he’d done it to ease her peace of mind; he’d left in disgrace, yes, but his people were here now and here to stay, and Tony suspected that him leaving had had more to do with personal choice than perceived justice. It was his rivalry with Whai that had kept him there. With no foe to taunt and challenge and beat, he had no reason to stay. She’d accept that as reason enough, so long as he stayed gone.

Saint, though…

It was hard to keep atua from killing him, though at least he’d stopped trying to kill
them
. Stopped trying to do much of anything, really; he still talked and wisecracked, but it was a lot more self-deprecating now, and he had a kind of perpetual slouch, and he smoked
all the time
. Still. All things considered, he was holding up pretty okay. Maybe. All right, he wasn’t holding up okay at all. He hated dealing with atua, of course, after all that he’d done, so they, vengefully, made sure he had to deal with them quite a lot.

Tony was sort of worried they were going to try and make him work in the café when it was finished, which would likely be unpleasant for everyone involved, but she’d let them try. She let them do anything so long as none of them hurt him particularly. That was fair, and she had to be fair now.

Though Saint punished himself enough all on his own, really. He seemed pretty broken still, except when he was hanging out with Steffan. Not that he stopped seeming broken then, but he stopped trying to hide it. Occasionally he even cracked a smile, probably. She hoped so. He was a murderous bastard and all, but seeing him without a smile on his face and a joke on his lips felt wrong somehow.

One of the people walking by her stopped to stare at the milling atua. Oops. She’d thought the darkness would be cover enough. “Hello, everything’s fine over here!” she said, waving, but that just made the guy blanch and stare at them even more intently. Oops again. She’d left her hand clawed.