19 – Short Bursts

Roan knew he had to go home, but he put it off, mainly because his thoughts had turned very dark. No matter that his thoughts had been dark before; now they were deep black, abysmal.

Was it over? Was this it? The tainted drugs would spread, infecteds would die, normals would blame the infecteds for their freak outs, and even more infecteds would die. It was an endless cycle – this was only the beginning. And he could do nothing, he could only stand on the sidelines and watch.

He considered what Scott had told him about being first, about being a trailblazer, and wondered what a trailblazer would do at this moment. He was blazing a trail for the dead, for people who couldn’t possibly follow him. Not all infecteds would do the drugs, not all would be affected by the violence and laws passed in its wake, but even then, the landscape would be too changed for the trail to even matter. He was blazing a trail for a dead race, one that was dying every step he took. By the time he reached the end, there’d be nothing and no one left. He was the vanguard for an extinct species. Did it matter? Did anything matter anymore?

There had to be another way around this, another way he could tackle this. He couldn’t let his despair cloud his vision. There had to be a way, there must have been a way. He couldn’t see it right now, but it had to exist. If only he was smart enough to think of it.

He went back to Kevin’s, assuming Dylan was up by now, wondering if talking to someone reasonable could help. (How could it hurt?) He was awake and on the phone, talking to a friend it sounded like. He gestured for Roan to sit, that he would be just a minute, so Roan sat on the end of the bed and listened idly to Dyl’s conversation. Sounded like he was talking to Sasha, one of his connected artsy fartsy friends. When Dyl hung up, he said, “Well, that’s exciting.”

“What’s up?”

“I’m getting a showing at the Fifth Street Gallery next month.” He turned to face him with a radiant grin, one that was infectious, but before Roan could return it Dyl pounced on him, pinning him to the bed. It made him laugh as Dylan straddled his hips, looking down at him with glee. “I want you in the show.”

He raised an eyebrow at that. “As what, security?”

“As art. You’re my muse, aren’t you?”

“Am I?”

“Stop it. I was thinking of painting you, but there’s no way you’d stand still that long.”

He considered that a moment. He didn’t mean paint him as a portrait, did he? He meant him paint him as in paint his body like a canvas. “What the fuck? Why would you do that?”

The look in Dylan’s eye was breathtaking. Beautiful, lambent, gold sparking beneath deep brown velvet. Joy had a way of lighting up his face like a candle flame, and Roan wondered, not for the first time, how you got to that state of extreme joy, if it was a way of life or a state of mind. “Because you’re beautiful, and because you’re the perfect canvas. You are two states at once, you are advanced and primal, you’re the authority and anti-authority, you are the man I love and you scare the shit out of me sometimes.”

“In other words, I’m chocolate and peanut butter. “

“Oh, did I leave out you’re a sarcastic bastard?”

“I believe that got overlooked.” Dylan was sitting with his knees straddling his thighs, and the strange intimacy of this position didn’t escape the notice of either of them, they just hadn’t acted on it. Yet. Roan was content to be passive, to wait for him to make the first move. It only seemed fair.

Dyl gave him a sexy half smile. “So my thought is to paint you, and take a photo. I’d use the composition of body, paint, and photo as its own piece of art. What do you think?”

“I think you’re crazy. Exactly how much of me would you paint, and with what?”

“All that you would allow me to paint. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. And I’d use body paint. They do make it, you know.”

“I should have guessed.” He shifted slightly, so he was more comfortable under Dylan’s weight. That made Dylan’s smile wider and sexier.

He lowered himself, until his face was mere inches from his. Roan could smell his peppermint soap. “What do you say?”

“I say you’re crazy, and if you asked, I’d have washed the car in Speedos. Next time, aim higher.”

“Would the car be in Speedos, or you?” he teased.

“Shut up and kiss me, smart ass.”

He didn’t need to ask twice. In fact, he never needed to ask at all. But to be fair he knew that going in; Dyl was always frisky when he was really happy.

Roan waited until after they had sex to discuss his depressing news. In fact they were in the shower, cleaning up, when Roan told Dylan about the developments in the burn case. Dylan scowled. “The guy’s dead? Why is it that these cases of yours often end in death?”

“My sparkling personality?”

Dylan frowned at him, far from amused. Water ran down his face like tears, beads getting caught in the stubble along his jaw. Roan had to suppress the sudden urge to lick them away. “I know you’re inclined to never listen, but hon, walk away. If some drug cartel in Mexico has done this, you won’t find the responsible party. There’s nothing you can do.”

“And how do I live with that? Many infecteds will die, and paranoid politicians will punish us, but I’ll be fine. I’m always fine, aren’t I? Shit happens to others and, lucky me, I get to stand there and watch.” For no reason besides his mind’s bizarre sense of humor, a line of a Porcupine Tree song suddenly floated through his head: “Don’t feel you’ve let ‘em down, ’cause they have already drowned.” He was crazy, right? He was fucking mental.

Empathy softened Dylan’s hard look. “ Sweetheart, there are some battles even you can’t win.”

“You think I don’t know that? I do. Just tell me how I live with it.”

He looked at him helplessly, sympathy coloring his expression. He had no answer, but Roan hadn’t expected him to. There was no answer.

They got dressed and left, stopping for dinner at the Hunan Garden before Roan dropped Dylan off at work. Before he got out of the car, Dylan leaned over and gave him a sweet kiss, cupping the back of his neck and holding it before saying, “You do not have to protect all infecteds. No one asked you to, it is not expected of you. No one can protect everyone. Walk away, hon. Save yourself for once in your goddamn life.” With that, he got out of the car, and left Roan thinking he had saved himself many times. More than most people might suspect.

He continued on to the Grind skating rink. When he got there, he found that the rink was abuzz, and he noticed that Tank was missing. He was allowed in behind one of the benches, putting him at ice level, and noticing him, Grey skated up. “Hear the news?” Grey asked.

Oh god, was it more bad news? He didn’t know if he could take anymore. “No, what?”

“Tank got called up.”

That almost made sense. “What?”

Scott skated up now, holding his hockey stick like he was either going to hang it up or smack him with it. Neither were in their game outfits – no one on the ice was – but they all seemed to be wearing similar dark colored uniforms. Casual work out gear, he assumed. “The Bruin’s main goalie has swine flu, and the back up wrenched his back. The Bruins have a game against the Leafs tomorrow and they have no goalies.”

“The way the Leafs are playin’ right now, they don’t need ‘em,” Jeff said, joining the scrum. He stopped with a glide that kicked up a brief shower of shaved ice.

Scott ignored that and continued to explain. “We just showed up when Tank found out they wanted him there as soon as possible. He raced outta here as the Coach’s friend got him booked on the next flight to Boston. He’s probably in a line at Sea Tac right now.”

“Tank’s playing for the Bruins now?”

Scott shook his head. “It’s temporary, an emergency call up. For the moment.”

“He’ll be back,” Grey said.

“God, if I was him, I’d be shittin’ myself,” Jeff commented. “One minute playing here, next playing on a major team. Fuck.”

“We’re a major team,” Scott said. “Major in talent, at any rate.”

Jeff snorted. “Yeah, that and five bucks’ll get ya a cuppa coffee.” He pronounced it “cawfee”, and Roan had to suppress the urge to laugh. Where the hell in New York was he from? He should really know by now …

“He’s as good as gone,” Scott said. “Once the NHL overlords see him play? Holy fuck, there’ll be a bidding war.”

“Assuming he’s good,” Jeff said. “If I was him, I’d be so nervous I’d probably barf my guts out between periods.”

Scott shook his head. “Tank doesn’t get scared. He’ll eat up the attention and show off.”

“It’s national TV, dude,” Jeff continued. “I get nervous when I find out a local station’s carrying a game.”

“National TV in Canada,” Grey said, with a tiny smirk. “I don’t know if that counts.”

Scott gave him him a half hearted slap on the arm. “Somebody’s gotta get Roger’s Sportsnet down here. We gotta have a viewing party. You in?”

It took Roan a moment to realize that was directed at him. “Uh, why not? Sure. Just let me know when and where.”

“Bring that beer you got in your fridge,” Jeff said. “That’s good beer.”

Scott gave Jeff a look that suggested he shouldn’t. “Jeff, aren’t you on a carb watch?”

“Fuck it. I can have more carbs on a non-game night if I wanna. Just don’t tell anybody.”

Ever since lunch, Roan had this sneaking feeling that the guys were on some sort of nutritional regime, now it was confirmed. Mainly it was because he’d never seen straight guys willingly eat so much salad.

There was a whistle, and the coach called them over, so Grey and Jeff skated off towards him, but Scott lingered. “You okay?” he asked.

He nodded and shrugged. “Okay enough.”

Scott scowled, and it was eerily similar to Dylan’s scowl. They didn’t believe him, but neither had time to argue with him. What it meant beyond that he wasn’t sure, except he had a talent for pissing off hot guys.

He sat at the bench and joined in some name calling, and it was fun to compete with a bunch of hockey players to find out who could come up with the most profane insult. There were lots of standards, and many made up ones, but who was to say fuckbutter was any filthier than taintface or shitfuck? Perhaps there never could be a winner; participating was enough.

Near the end of the practice skate, his phone went off, and he was slightly alarmed to see it was Holden. But it turned out to be nothing to worry about, as he was just checking in. He’d come back from the appointment with Doug safe and sound, and hadn’t had any problems. He wondered if it was safe to be at his apartment, and Roan admitted that he didn’t think it would be a problem, but to keep everything locked up tight. Holden said he wasn’t worried, he had window alarms and a gun, and that made Roan pause. “You have a gun?”

“I have a lot of things. I just don’t talk about them much.”

That’s exactly what he was afraid of. He wanted to ask what those other things could possibly be, but he had a sneaking suspicion he really didn’t want to know, and it was for the best that he didn’t.

Driving home, he played music way too loud, trying to drown out his own thoughts, but it didn’t quite work. Why did he have to be the leader of the infecteds, if there could be such a thing? Wasn’t it arrogant to even think of himself that way? Besides, he wasn’t really one of them, was he? Most infecteds started out as Human and became a cat along the way. He’d never been completely Human, didn’t know what it was like to be a normal person who one day woke up to discover a foreign hunger in him, a virus that completely rewrote everything he was. He was as he had always been, with the small exception of his adaptation to his uneasy condition, the give and take between body and virus that had led him to here and now, where he could call it at will and find it damn near impossible to rein it back in sometimes. He was technically an infected, but he wasn’t a typical one by any means, and would never be.

He enjoyed this rationale, aware that he’d never completely buy it. Humans would always toss him over into the infected camp, and the infecteds would accept him, because he was close enough. When you were a group of people who could generally count your lifespan in months, you didn’t kick up too much of a fuss. So shouldn’t the fucking cat who wouldn’t die kick up a fuss on their behalf?

Still, wasn’t this what the church was made for? Divine Transformation was all about cat advocacy, even if, like a typical church, they skewed things to fit their purposes. He should just let Bolt do the job he scratched and clawed for (no pun intended … well, a little intended), go out there and pimp for the cats. He could go back and sit in the freak corner, and everybody would forget about him.

Once he pulled into Kevin’s driveway, he wondered why he’d come back. To take a nap? To shovel more pills down his gullet? The latter sounded more plausible. He had a couple hours before he had to pick up Dylan from work. He could go to Silver and bring property values down by loitering around the bar, but he didn’t want Dylan to fret about him any more than he already was.

He needed to get help. He knew it, he didn’t need the men in his life pointing it out, he was sure he was a total fucking mess. Was there ever any doubt? But where did he get help? He could ask Scott if he could recommend a therapist, but he wasn’t sure he had a therapist anymore. (The implication was he had one in BC, but, despite its proximity, that was another country.) Besides, he needed one that dealt specifically with infecteds, so they wouldn’t freak out when he talked about his partial shifts. If he did. Maybe he didn’t need to bring that up.

Roan had no idea how long he sat there, engine off, head resting against the steering wheel, the car growing progressively cold, cluing him in that it was an unseasonably chilly night. When did he become so pathetic? He needed his ass kicked.

He was still trying to convince himself to get moving when his phone hummed in his pocket. He dug it out and slumped back lethargically in the seat, seeing it was Seb. He felt a cold dread settle into his stomach as he answered. “Yeah?”

“Heard the news?” he wondered.

He couldn’t even begin to guess. “I’m no where near any electronic device, and I haven’t been for hours.”

“How? You in a cave in Twisp or something?”

“I was talking art shit with Dylan and then talking trash with hockey players. I’ve had a full night.” Out of courtesy for his straight squeamishness and general privacy reasons, he didn’t tell him he and Dylan actually did much more than talk.

“Obviously. Well, someone bombed the Church.”

Roan waited a beat, not sure if Seb was joking or not. But the longer the silence stretched, the more he realized this wasn’t a sick joke. “What?”

“Pipe bombs, internet specials. There was an incendiary bomb, but it didn’t go off. Those are more complicated.”

Seb didn’t sound overly concerned about it, but since he was a stoic, he didn’t react to much. You could chop his hand off, and you might get a vocal inflection, but you couldn’t bet on it. “How bad was it?”

“Lots of damage, some people hurt, no one dead … yet. One of their rent-a-cops ain’t doing so well.” He sighed heavily, and asked, “Can we start talking about protective custody now?”

He couldn’t think of anything he’d like to do less. But how long had he given the reins of leading the infecteds over to the church, twenty minutes? That must have been a world record for screwing the pooch.

Oh, who knows? Maybe he could do better.