Work Text:
Is this how Heaven is furnished? Kicked upstairs,
the stuff of many mansions under one roof.
Tables with knobby ankles, spindly chairs
nested like Chinese boxes, Chinese boxes;
an oval mirror coated with trackless dust
waiting to be profaned by a child's finger.
Five groaningly heavy cartons full
of fifty years of the National Geographic .
Nothing, it seems, is lost, only relocated.
The blanket chest is loaded with hoary trinkets:
a shaving mug from the St. Louis Exposition,
a Prayer Book great-uncle Cartwright carried to battle
in his breast pocket where it stopped a bullet.
A sliver of marble picked up once in Athens,
now labelled: "Adelaide. From the Parthenon."
All of these things wrapped up in soft clean rags,
I know without lifting the lid. The one end window,
tiny, triangular, intricate to open,
lets in a grainy light too weak to brave
the clutter of far corners. A bristling arm
Of pine pre-empts whatever view there might be.
Outdoors, I know, the air is edged with autumn
but summer heat still harbors under these beams,
a hibernating warmth. Maybe that was why
as a child once, up here on a hunt after toys.
I fell asleep on a sheet-covered davenport.
The family searched for an hour before they found me.
Dinner was late that night. I peer about now,
so absently I almost bump with my nose
the most benign of spiders, dry-brown as a crumb
of tobacco, afloat on a single-strand ladder.
He waddles briskly up and out of sight
to his nest in a rafter's angle. Enough of this.
I came up after a winter coat. Uncoffined,
it hangs on my arm like something somebody shot,
a fair enough trophy. For the rest, let the spider
officiate, slight proprietor of the past.
For all we know the future is his also.
•
In the Attic by Robert B. Shaw, 1973.
–––
Friday, February 16th
–––
He was suddenly interrupted from pondering by a winter glove landing on his paperwork. He looked at it like one would consider a beetle, or a dead bird. He looked up at Louisa, the source of the mitten, with a silent ‘may I help you?’
“A gauntlet.” She said, gesturing to the glove. “I thought of a duel. Well, not a duel, because I have nothing to apologize for. But I thought of a way to make us even.”
–––
“I want to hit you.”
He flinched slightly, as if already reacting to a blow not yet thrown. But to her surprise– and slight trepidation– he recovered himself and nodded.
“Ok.”
She narrowed her eyes at him, still trained to be wary of his schemes. He stared back with that semi-blank stare he now had. Fuck it .
Louisa threw a sideways glance to her empty office– River was somewhere presumably, best not to do it near him… and going outside would take far too long. Suddenly the logistics seemed more tedious than the reward would feel good.
Then, blessedly, she remembered the unused room.
“Follow me.” She snatched up her mitten and turned on her heels towards the corridor. Obediently, like a child with no cause to resist, he followed.
She hadn’t been in this room in years. No one had, at least that she knew of. She’d never actually considered why a perfectly usable room was just sitting empty, why they all congregated to the second floor in huddles.
“Can you just avoid my skull? If I’m allowed to make a request, that is.” He said, half leaning half sitting on the cluttered boardroom table.
“Got it.” She chewed the inside of her lip. The last time she’d been in here was with Min, now that she thought about it. Watching the news when Hassan was kidnapped. It felt so long ago, memory fading like a watercolor in the sun. He was dead, and Spider was here.
She flexed her hand by her side, eyes staring to the place by the window where Min’s shape wasn’t.
I miss him. I just miss him.
Yeah, I know.
Wait, who have you lost?
He’d hesitated, lips moving before the words escaped them.
Not lost…losing.
His grandfather, no doubt, she’d put together later. But in hindsight that pause held within it a whole other slew of names, ones she had since encountered herself.
That family, what a car crash.
You actually upset about Spider? She’d asked, though the answer was clear from the haunted look on her face. Why are you upset? Was more of the question. It was amusing, until it wasn’t. Realizing that your enemies have more to them is unsatisfying, layers that you don’t care enough to dig through. Simpler, to make them one-dimensional, cartoonish in their ways and ever unjustified in their actions. Besides, you’ll never see what's under that outer shell…until…
She looked at where Spider, Webb, sat perched, hands folded neatly in his lap.
She sighed.
“I can’t do it.”
She grit her teeth, feeling herself deflate. She was angry at herself for going easy on a man who had never once shown someone the same kindness. But it wasn’t for him that she held back, not really. Maybe–
“I’ll do it!” Shirley's voice chimed in behind her. Louisa jumped and turned, brow raised, James offered the same look from over Louisa’s shoulder.
“ Jesus ! Where did you come from?” Louisa asked, rhetorically. Shirley took it as such and didn't offer an explanation.
“What. Just trying to be helpful.” She shrugged.
Louisa turned back to Spider… to Webb.
“Say something twatty.”
Webb frowned, “Seems odd to assist you in hurting m– Ow!!!” He flinched back from Louisa’s outstretched hand. Not from a slap, no, but from the decently forceful pinch she delivered to his left bicep. He grimaced and rubbed the spot.
Shirley seemed more disappointed with this outcome than either of the active participants. She slunk out of the room.
Louisa huffed again and folded her arms over her chest.
“This shit ends now. But so help me god, if you so much as think about fucking with us, with him– ” she pointed to the ceiling above which River was not currently seated, “I will take you out myself and make sure you stay dead.”
He was annoyingly amiable about this threat to his life.
“Agreed.” He held out his hand, she surprised herself by shaking it.
She looked down at their hands and then back up at Webb, “That’s your handshake? Really?” She raised an eyebrow and released his hand. “No wonder all your schemey deals fell through.”
Webb gawped at her, “Hey, thats-”
She cut him off. “You can also make us tea for a week.” It was all very juvenile honestly, but somehow that made it feel more demeaning to someone of Sp–Webb’s sensibilities. He just looked at her, just on the right side between blank and wary.
“And one other thing,” She continued. “Just for today.” She smiled to herself at her own idea, and turned to the cluttered file cabinet beside her. She grabbed a pad of yellow sticky notes and a loose black pen. Webb watched over her shoulder as she uncapped the pen with her mouth and began to write in large letters on the faded paper. If he objected, he did so in his head, because Louisa didn’t hear a thing.
–––
March
–––
Blip.
River faltered but didn’t stop.
Blip.
River glanced up at him as well as the angle allowed. Hesitation returned.
Blip.
He pulled off.
“Do you need to get that?”
James shushed him and pushed his head back down. Eyes closed, leaning into the feeling. He was clo–
Blip.
James grabbed his phone from where it lay abandoned on the couch cushion beside him and tapped snooze on the insistent alarm. River lifted off of him and sucked a string of drool back into his mouth. His face was flushed up to his ears, his lips and eyes wet, and yet he still managed to sound indignant at the interruption.
“I’m sorry, am I disturbing you?”
“I was turning the alarm off you twat.” James rolled his eyes and tossed the phone back.
River slid his hands over the bare skin of James’s thighs, exposed as his trousers were around his ankles. “What was that one for.”
James crossed his arms over his chest and looked down at the man between his legs. “Oh so now you care. One second ago you were desperate to get my cock back in your mouth.”
River looked up at him, his face reflecting the continued desire to indeed have James’s cock back in his mouth. He wrapped his hand back around the base, lightly, threateningly.
James sucked in a breath. “It was just my– ah – lunch reminder. Now get back to work.”
“And I thought I was the desperate one.” River quipped before ducking his head and taking James back into his mouth. James knocked his knee into River’s shoulder as a final retort before leaning back and letting the sensation take him.
—
James was freshening himself up when the next alarm blipped through his phone. As it was on the counter with River, he tapped it away and yelled through the flat, his mouth clearly half-full of sandwich.
“Hands!”
The word is one of many that make up James’s packed alarm schedule, the titles of which range from the self-explanatory to the confusingly vague.
–Take Meds
–Eat dinner
–Hands
–Eat Lunch
–Teeth
Etc. The sound of his alarm blipping annoyed him at first, but has become just another thing he’d come to be familiar with.
He returned to the kitchen.
–––
–––
Volatile, emotionally unstable, insensitivity, behavioral problems, difficulty interacting with others… Yeah, what else was fucking new? It was hard to know what effect the injury to his head had when most of the after effects of brain damage were present before the injury. Not that it would make these less real, River supposed. No, the bursts of emotion and unsanctioned inner thoughts were all real, probably more real than anything the man had said in the past. But it was hard to know when, if , he needed help.
River is distracted by a sound in the kitchen like a yelp and is instantly on his feet. By the time he gets there Catherine is practically manhandling James’s hand under cool water in the sink, ignoring his complaints that he’s fine.
“I’m fucking fine!”
“You need to run it under water or it will continue to burn!” She scolds him, proving herself surprisingly strong and unmoved by James’s thrashing.
River surveys the rest of the scene. The kettle off its base, steaming water dripping down the cabinets, a mug of tea whose contents are spilling over the sides.
Inability or difficulty multi-tasking .
If James could hear these silent diagnosing thoughts in River’s head he’d kill him. In fact, River feels guilty pathologizing.
People in glass houses…
–––
Saturday, March 24th
–––
River paid no attention to the sound of faint violin music as he exited the lift into the hallway of James’s building. He didn’t even note it until he got to the door of his flat, from which it became clear the sound emanated from. Curious, but not entirely confused (if anyone were to listen to classical music...). He unlocked the door and let himself in. What he was not expecting when he rounded the corner into the living room, was the music coming from James . His eyes closed, face scrunched with mental focus, he held a violin to his shoulder and played it with a practiced knowledge River was wholly unaware of.
With a strong downward bow, James finished the piece. He slowly relaxed his face and opened his eyes, the violin unstuck from his chin came to hang from its neck in his hand.
“Morning.” James said simply.
“What? How?” River stammered, the ends of both questions were as unclear in his mind as they were in the air between them.
“My physical therapist suggested I try playing again. Apparently musical muscle memory is stored in a different part of the brain. She thought this could help me retrain my fingers or whatever.”
River felt like a bellend standing there. “That’s–” fascinating? Crazy?
“I had no idea you could play.”
James shrugged. “I stopped for a while, work was more important.” He turned and began to put the instrument back in its velvet lined case.
“Oh I can come back later–” River began to say.
“No ‘s fine. I’m tired anyway, and my neck and shoulder are killing me.” He slipped the bow into its place and shut the case with a click. James looked back up at him, “Are you just going to stand there?”
River rolled his eyes and returned to the hallway to rid himself of his coat and shoes.
When he reentered the living room he took a seat beside James on the couch. He watched him roll his shoulder and grimace.
“Do you want me to…?” River offered, sliding a hand up to James’s shoulder and squeezing it lightly.
The reaction from the other man (namely melting into his touch like a purring cat) was answer enough. River chuckled.
“I forgot how tiring that fucking thing is.” James said, gesturing to the closed violin case. “My whole left side is achy and my brain is all tired.” He pouted, groaning a bit when River pressed into a tendon in his neck.
“It sounded really good though.” River replied, taking James’s left hand in his and massaging the fingers.
James grunted, the lack of verbiage and closed eyes speaking to this tiredness and/or River’s massage skills. Hopefully both. River let go of his hand briefly to reposition himself, propping some pillows against the end of the couch and lying back in them, pulling James back with him.
“Lie like this so your shoulder is up.” He directed, James allowed himself to be maneuvered, tucking himself into the space between River’s side and the couch. He kept his hands busy, fingers pressing into James’s skin from his shoulder down to his left hand, and his mind wandered. James lay there silently, looking up at him, their eyes meeting occasionally when River would check to see if he was still awake.
I wonder what he sees.
Is it what I do?
–––
Monday, March 26th
–––
James caught his breath halfway up.
Goddamn stairs . He could feel the headache that had been brewing since he woke up get worse with the exertion. He glanced up to where River stood, at the top, looking down at him.
“You know, if you didn’t race up the stairs you wouldn’t have to wait for me.” He said.
River shifted on his feet. “Do you want me to come and help you?” He asked sheepishly. The fact that River was waiting for him at all went unquestioned.
“Fuck off.” James flipped him off and resumed climbing. When he got to the top he took another breather.
“All I’m asking is a little consideration before you flaunt your physical prowess in front of my poor mangled body.” He puffed.
River shot him a smug grin, “Physical prowess, huh?”
James rolled his eyes. “Of course that was your take away.”
River forced open the door and they both walked inside.
As they turned and neared the end of the bottom hallway, River stopped abruptly. He turned around and gestured to his left with a cheesy grin on his face.
“Ta da.”
James looked at the cage of the unused lift–something his brain had been trained to ignore– and found it open; a faint light illuminating the inside via an ancient bulb.
“The lift is fixed.” James said, awed.
River shifted on his feet in the corner of James’s vision. “It was easy once we convinced Lamb it was his idea and that no one else was allowed to use it.” James looked over at him quizzically. “You have ‘conditional approval’.” River added on.
“I only got to ride it once!” Shirley’s voice came from the stairs behind them as she came into view. “And that was only because Lamb was ‘50% sure I would plunge to my death’.”
“Which won’t happen!” River interjected at the concerned look that must have passed over James’s face. “But it is old, so only one person can ride at a time.”
James looked between River and Shirley’s expectant faces. He took a tentative step inside the cage, trying not to be unsettled at the slight dip it made under his weight. River slid the gate shut and James looked for the button. Outside the cage, Shirley turned to River. “Wanna race it?”
“What are you? 12?” He scoffed.
James rolled his eyes and pressed the ascending button, the cage lurched and began to move steadily upwards. He caught River and Shirley sharing one last look before they sprinted towards the stairs. The machine rattled around him but rose steadily upwards. He tried not to think about (as Shirley put it) plunging to his death, because after this he really really wanted to give River a kiss.
–––
•
dry-brown as a crumb
of tobacco, afloat on a single-strand ladder.
He waddles briskly up and out of sight
to his nest in a rafter's angle.
•
Tuesday, March 27th
–––
“Look at this getup, goin’ to a funeral are you?” Lamb’s chair begged for mercy as he leaned back in it, his slovenly recline a direct offense to James’s composed stance.
He was in Lamb’s office, wearing a three piece suit reminiscent of his old fashions at The Park. The attire was less for Lamb’s benefit (as it was entirely lost on him) and more about how it made James feel about himself. Though, it wasn’t how it used to be. Nevertheless…
“Yes, I suppose funerals are the only time when you would ever have the decency to dress well.”
Lamb narrowed his eyes, intrigued as to what game was being played.
“I want a task worthy of my skills.” James said, he lifted his chin slightly, his hands behind his back. He was aware that negotiating with Lamb in this manner was likely futile, but so was floundering in paperwork.
“Skills? Plural?” Lamb guffawed, barking out a laugh that doubled as a cough, spittle escaping his mouth. “Last I checked your only skill was cheating the grim reaper and costing the NHS half the GDP of Slovenia.”
“That’s two things; only one of which is correct.”
Lamb produced a cigarette out of thin air and stuck it in his mouth.
“Alright then, pretty boy, what did you have in mind?”
James watched as he groped his desk drawer until it gave up a lighter, which he then used to light the cigarette and blow smoke into the cluttered room. James looked him over.
“At least let me sort out your clothes. Burning them for a start.”
“Oh cheeky.” Lamb taunted, blowing smoke out the side of his mouth. “I’m not ‘aving you darning my socks in the night like Eleanor Rigby.”
“Father Mackenzie.”
“What.”
“Father MacKenzie darned the– fuck it, doesn’t matter.”
Lamb leaned forward and laid both his arms down on his desk. He interlaced his fingers.
“What you seem to be forgetting, Polly Pocket, is that this job is supposed to be a punishment. And I know your lot are into that sort of thing, but what kind of boss would that make me?”
James slow-blinked. “Microaggressions aside–” He sighed. “I remember you saying that technically I am the punishment, not here on account of one.”
Lamb took a pointed drag of his cigarette and tapped the ash onto the floor.
“Hell of a lot of good that did; I can deduce how you won Simple Sam over, but I almost want to congratulate you for getting the rest of ‘em.” He shook his head as he took another drag. “I won’t of course.” He grimaced, letting the smoke run out through his teeth, he pointed at James. “Now fuck off back downstairs and if I need donkey–or a my little pony as it were– I’ll keep you in mind.”
He wanted to ask how Lamb has such an extensive knowledge of little girl toys, but figured it would backfire back at him somehow. He settled for looking at him once more and leaving him with “You missed a button.”
—
“Did it work?” Shirley swiveled her chair around as he returned to their office.
James plopped down into his own chair. “If by ‘work’ you mean ‘come up with a litany of new names for me that were just on the right side of lawsuit,’ then yes.”
“Clearly he ran out of slurs.” Shirley added, sardonic as ever.
James sighed. “I think he’s just inventing new ones.”
He looked across the room at Coe’s desk, where the man was, as usual, tapping away. James paused though, as he actually recognized the phantom melody. He nodded at him, “Shostakovich, nice.”
Coe looked up at him and blinked: once, twice, then looked back into the void. James took that as a response and returned to his task.
Shirley watched this all, and understood none of it.
–––
•
as a child once, up here on a hunt after toys.
I fell asleep on a sheet-covered davenport.
The family searched for an hour before they found me.
•
He curled himself into a ball under the covers. The adjusted position offered no relief from the all consuming emptiness he felt, the dampened noise only amplifying the monotonous drone of his own heartbeat, mocking in his ears. The barrier did nothing to silence his phone, which rattled on the floor where it lay–where it had come to rest after he threw it against the wall. It vibrated an incoming call, the state of damage to its screen unknown to James in his cocoon. The emptiness swirled through his stomach, roiling like a sickness that had no form. He’d been fine, and then all of a sudden, he wasn’t.
How the mug’s hot ceramic brushed his fingers as it fell, how all reflexes were paralyzed as he watched it fall and shatter on the floor.
White shards like skull fragments.
Just like when he smashed your head into the car window.
Should have stayed dead.
His eyes were crusted and sore from crying, the tears that no longer fell, and instead were replaced by a dull throbbing behind his eyes. His nose, too, had opened up in the deluge, the evidence of which was soaked into the sleeve of a now ruined jumper and smeared uncomfortably on his skin. He was annoyed (as much as he was able to be in his apathetic exhaustion) that it stopped. Maybe he could have just bled out, have it all be someone else’s problem.
It would be River’s problem, you know.
Yes I know that. Shut up.
How can you even think about doing that to him, after everything. You’re selfish and cruel and–
Shut up shut up
James dug the heels of his hands into his eyes and let out a weak sob. The grey writhing presence had migrated to his chest, where it weaved through his ribs like a scarf through fingers. His stomach was welled with the acidic sickness of guilt. He rolled into child’s pose, his knees pressing against his chest and his forehead pressed into the mattress. The combination of the duvet over his body, the pressure on his lungs and the sliver of air his nose was able to breathe in created a limited air supply. It was hot and stuffy and recycled, but it somehow soothed him enough to fall back asleep. And he did: stockinged feet, bloodied jumper, no sign of the trousers he had thrashed out of in his misery. To an outsider all that would have been seen was a lump under the covers of a bed, in a room uncharacteristically unkempt in a flat with shattered dinnerware littering the kitchen floor.
—
He woke up to a dull banging that wasn’t caused by the pounding of his skull. His head had peeked out of the duvet during his sleep, the light stabbing through the blinds implied it was still daytime. He hadn’t been out that long, probably. He planned on ignoring the pounding, figuring it was a neighbor being a nuisance, until the sound turned to that of his door being kicked open.
Footsteps entered the apartment, pounding with increasing haste (like his heartbeat) as he tried to untangle himself from his cave to make and escape from–
Shirley appeared in his doorway out of breath, concern immediately dropping from her face and replaced by anger.
“Answer your fucking phone! Or door!”
James squinted at her blearily, the few seconds of adrenaline promptly exiting his system and leaving him even more exhausted than before.
“You broke in.” He croaked.
She eyed him and frowned. “You look like shit.”
He could only imagine the state of his visage. “This is highly inappropriate. You’ve kicked my bloody door in and now you’re in my bedroom insulting me.” He tried to swallow, his throat raw and protesting his return to speech.
Shirley glared at him and stomped over to where his phone lay abandoned. She picked it up, her training leading her eye to the mark on the wall and the trajectory it flew from James’s hand. She gestured at him, accusatorily, with his own phone.
“Inappropriate would be banging your coworker, which I am not. You however are. We had to talk him off a cliff all morning.”
James felt the wave of guilt wash back over him.
“I texted him.” He said, though his heart wasn’t in the defense.
“Yeah you said ‘Bad day.’ Period . And then didn’t answer your phone for 5 hours. I finally decided to come over and make sure you weren’t dead– which, by the way, wouldn’t be a completely ludicrous leap considering the state of you.”
James frowned, the shroud of apathy that had been disturbed by Shirley’s entrance settling back over him.
“Whatever. I’m alive. You can go now.” He lay back down and closed his eyes. Unshockingly, to anyone with a normal social life (which James had never had), Shirley did not make any move to leave.
“You’re a cunt. A depressed bashed up cunt but a cunt nonetheless.” She tossed his phone onto the bed and left the room just long enough to close whatever remained of his door. He heard the crunch of ceramic as she entered the kitchen, the white shards crackling under her Docs. He kept his eyes stubbornly, tiredly, closed until he heard a rustle and a creak of furniture from the corner of the room. He reluctantly opened his eyes and lifted his head just enough to see her sitting in the corner chair with her hand in a bag of his granola and the other one holding her phone.
“Um, Sorry? ” He asked in the most accusingly baffled tone he could manage.
Shirley grunted without looking up from her phone, mouth half-full of dry granola.
“Apology not accepted.”
“I wasn’t apologizi– are you just going to sit there and watch me sleep?”
“Well it's not like work is any more interesting.”
“That’s– weird !”
“You’re the one with the cuck chair in your bedroom.”
“The C- what? ”
She looked up. “Listen, I’m not leaving. I’ll go in the other room if you want but I’m staying with you.”
“Why?” He asked, his voice suddenly lacking all of the gall it had at her initial intrusion. James felt his glare faltering, exhaustion–and nothing else– causing a wobble in his lower lip that he tried to hide by biting down on it.
She scowled, though less at him and more generally. “Because I spent the last 45 minutes preparing myself to find you dead.”
Awfully dramatic, a voice in his mind said. Though it was quickly hushed by the sudden understanding of where, when , she was coming from.
It washed over him like motion sickness, the guilt.
It's something he wasn’t expecting, this part of getting close to people: the caustic nausea that follows when you let them down.
He didn’t remember lying back down, but the ceiling, blank above him, refilled his eyeline. He watched the shadows grow, apathetic, dumb, exhausted. The only sounds in the room the occasional rustle of the granola bag and the tap tap tap of Shirley’s fingers on her phone screen.
He wasn’t alone, but was it a cost he could handle? Dependence, connection, was he able to be what was needed? Alone was worse, but it was simple.
Can I offer enough?
He fell asleep again.
—
He hadn’t even dropped the mug, if he had he’d have probably been fine. People drop things and break them, that's normal. But he hadn’t dropped it, he let go of it. He watched as his brain thought of releasing the cup of tea and the synapses fired, the hypothetical coming to fruition, the toy gun fires live ammo. He watched his hand open and the mug shatter on the floor, the hot tea splattering across the vinyl and over his socks. He turned to get another mug, watching his body as if from afar. The cabinet is open and he’s reaching for another cup and then he’s blindingly angry at everything. He wants to break something so he does, his thought is his body’s command. No control over his total control. Everything’s broken, including him.
—
He woke up to the awareness of the bed dipping and the feeling of a hand resting lightly on his shoulder. He didn’t have to open his eyes to know it wasn’t Shirley, who was snoring away in the armchair.
He opened his eyes enough to see River’s face staring at him, his expression its usual mix of worried dog and tired beyond belief.
“I just wanted to stop by and see you. I’ll leave if you want me to.”
Seeing him made James sad. He shrugged, as much as he was able while lying on his side, and tried to avoid River’s face by closing his eyes. His hand escaped the covers though, and offered itself instead. He didn’t feel better, but the warm squeeze of River’s hand around his own felt good all the same. I’m sorry, he wanted to say. But I’m not because I didn’t ask for any of this. But I’m sorry, and I don’t like feeling sorry. And I want you to go; please stay.
–––
April
–––
There was a loneliness to it, their dynamic. Because who was there to discuss it with, other than each other? But how do you tell the warm body beside you that in the back of your mind, in your gut, the one trained only to sense deception but never heed its warning, you are waiting for the other shoe to drop. Can you confess such a notion of distrust? Would he understand? And if not him, who?
–––
Thursday, April 5th
–––
It was bound to happen at some point, he thought, capitulating to the events unfolding around him. It’s not like it’s classified information, as much as he wished it was. And of course it was Roddy who found out and spread the news all over the edifice he now called work.
—
He’d gotten his first tip-off that something was up that morning, when a text from Shirley came through as he ascended from the depths of the tube station.
[08:51]
Shirley Dander: Happy Birthday?
He looked suspiciously at it, stopping at the top of the steps as people filed past him. Did he tell her? Would he even remember himself? He had, of course. He’d felt it coming like a weird biological whisper as the spring progressed. And of course Charlotte had called, her newfound interest in him unsettling and slightly annoying. Though what was their relationship if not those 2 things. Before it had been a mutual distance– the understanding being that having someone around who knows you as you were is too dangerous.
This is the thought he was at when he turned through the gate and saw River at the bottom of the infernal steps.
He sighed, walking up to him.
River’s only in a light blue-knit jumper, clearly he’d already gone in and came back out to meet him. He’d find it sweet if he didn’t suspect something else was up.
“What, have you come to rub it in too?”
River shifted on his feet, his hands behind his back– like an old man James always thought. He smiled.
“No, I remember that much about you.”
James took the first stair up and then turned, looking down at River. “So why then?”
River looked up at him. He likes when River looks up at him .
“Roddy told everyone. I wanted to warn you.”
James sighed, figures . The text from Shirley made more sense.
“I’m work-shopping how to get back at him, if that makes you feel better.”
He smiled at River and cupped his face in his hands. River let it happen. He brought their faces closer together.
“Oh yeah? How?”
River grinned, nose now poking James’s own. “I thought maybe I’d shake all his red bull, or fuck with the adjustments on his chair.”
James laughed, closing the gap between them. “Devious.”
River’s hands wrapped around his waist as he kissed him.
—
The lift rattled to a stop and he extricated himself from it onto the landing. Against his better judgement, he entered the kitchen first. Again, a mistake.
“Well if it isn’t the Birthday Boy.” Louisa smiled devilishly from where she stood, leaning against the countertop waiting for the kettle to boil.
James groaned, “Well that name stops here and now, thank you very much.”
As he made his way to his desk he passed River, who hid a smile behind a sip of tea.
“Well, how old are you then?” Louisa called after him, clearly enjoying this.
“Not telling.” He replied, placing his things on their hook and then returning to the kitchen. Evidently he picked up a tail as Shirley appeared behind him and spoke.
“Yeah, a lady never reveals her age.”
He turned and rolled his eyes, “Piss off.”
He took a seat at the small table across from River.
Louisa popped a bag into a mug and poured the boiling water over it. The spoon made a clink as it was dropped in. “Either you can tell us or I’ll start guessing.”
Then she brought the tea over and set it in front of him, along with the jar of sugar.
“You’re all terrible.” He complained, eyeing the mug of tea placed before him like it might bite him.
“Fine. I’m 29 if you must know.” Saying it out loud made him want to throw up.
He’d been 25 once, and 20 before that, and then 16, and 8, and he assumed he’d once been a small child, all of these lives long since overwritten, the scars of them shining through only in fragments, like an old chalkboard that can never quite be fully erased.
Louisa had the nerve to look shocked. “ Twenty nine ?” She looked at River as if he didn’t already know. She made a face like a grimace, “That’s actually so upsetting… you’re not even in your 30s. I have to go sit down.” She left and James watched her go. He supposed it was young, to someone older. But he wasn’t, so what does it matter?
—
When he returned to his desk, he was of course immediately re-set upon by Shirley.
“So, we going out tonight? Bar? Club?” She threw something at him that turned out to be a loose mini egg. She popped another in her mouth.
“Shut up.” He whined, lowering his head down to where his arms folded on the desk.
“Oh come on, hating your birthday is so cliché.” She said, he heard a small tap as another mini egg came sailing over their monitors and hit the desk instead of him.
He sat up. “Oh, well in that case you can expect a surprise party on yours.”
Shirley’s smile dropped, “They’ll never find your body.”
He found the chocolate resting by his keyboard and popped it in his mouth.
Too sweet.
–––
–––
He’s riding River when he says it properly. When he knows he says it.
Riding might be a little misleading for what they’re doing. River is sitting up and James is straddling his lap, using his knees to rock up and down. River’s hands grip his ass and help lift him on the upstrokes. Their chests slide past one another, both slick with sweat. James has one hand wrapped around River, pressed between his shoulder blades; the other is threaded through River’s hair.
“Oh god. Oh fuck.” James gasps.
River thrusts up and brushes past his sweet spot perfectly. He throws his head back and forces River’s head to his chest, his cock bobs between their stomachs.
River moves a hand up to James’s back, so that they’re wound together like snakes, and moans against James’s chest. It's a sound between a whine and a sob, one that James wants to hear over and over again.
Ah. Ah.
James finds the words spilling from his mouth as easy as exhaling.
“I love you.”
And he does, he fucking loves him.
River falters in his movements and pushes his head up to look at him.
“I love you.” James says again, and in many ways it feels like an orgasm– a great release that had built up over so much time. River brings his other hand up and fists it in James’s sweaty hair, forcing their lips together. James rocks on River’s lap, sex not fully forgotten, and continues this mantra into the kiss. I love you I love you I love you.
At some point he doesn’t know which of them is speaking it, all breath and sobs and tongues.
And at first James thinks the wetness on his face is just tears and spit, but when he opens his eyes he sees blood. River seems just as confused before they come to the twin realization that James’s nose is bleeding.
So they sit there, breathing inches apart for a few moments, before they both decide they don’t give a damn.
They reconnect harsher, teeth clashing, frantic wet gasping. River veritably mauls James as he reingages his leg muscles to move with renewed vigour. But it's not enough, no it's not enough. He removes his desperate grasp on River’s back and pushes him onto the mattress, his hands planted firmly on River’s pecs.
Now he’s riding him.
He spreads his hands over River’s tits and jerks his body back and forth, River’s knees have come up to aid him in the angle but neither of them are thinking clearly. There’s blood dripping off James’s chin onto River’s prone torso and River’s mouth is lolled open as his orgasm approaches, his face equally smeared red.
James comes with a cry and shoots as far up as River’s chest.
Given the permission of his lover’s completion, River takes no time in following suit, crying out like a wounded animal. James collapses down onto River, the motion separating them with a groan.
James is completely unconcerned about the vile mixture he’s now got on his front. His body is humming.
He kisses River, open-mouthed and gasping, because neither man has the energy to close them. It’s River who speaks it back into the kiss this time, and the air it takes tastes sweet in James’s mouth.
I love you .
The blood in his mouth seems fitting.
They lie like that until the sweat begins to cool.
“We should probably take a shower.” James mumbles from where his face is buried in River’s neck. The vibration must tickle because River shivers.
“I think we might be stuck together.” He laughs.
James makes a disgusted whine at that and tries to slide off River without making more of a mess. It’s partially successful.
—
James stands there under the spray as River does most of the work washing the various effluvia off of them. Though he does join in, selflessly, to suds up River’s chest.
“I’m just being helpful.” He explains.
River looks down at him wetly. “Yeah, because my tits are what I need help with.”
“You’re the one walking around with them.” James smirks.
“Pervert.” River teases back. “This is harassment, I should call HR.”
“Dickhead.” James smiles. “Don’t act like I’m the pervert after what you just did to me.”
“Did to you ? You rode me like a horse!”
James bites his tongue, smiling. “I did do that.”
After a beat River speaks again, his voice softer than before, and more pensive.
“What does HR say about being in love?”
James balks, “You can’t just pivot to the conversation after calling me a pervert!”
“Ok, but you did say it.”
They were very close, they had to be to both fit under the spray. The steam only powdered the atmosphere.
“I love you.” He says, and it floats up around them like the steam.
River’s face looks pinched even as he smiles, James recognizes the way his eyes move. Scanning.
“Hey,” He brings a hand up and cups River’s cheek. “It’s real.”
River kisses his forehead. “I know. It scares me.”
They get out of the shower and dry off. River changes the sheets, throwing the old ones in a biohazard pile in the corner, while James slips into his pyjamas.
—
Once back in bed, on their backs, side by side, hand in hand, a silence settled over them. River was the one who broke it, as he was wont to do.
“Can I say something?”
James turned his head to the side, River stayed facing the ceiling.
“Yea.”
River did the nervous thing with his lips, James could see it in the light from the street lamps that diffused through the window. River’s grasp on his hand remained tight, though his fingers fidgeted against his skin, tapping an imaginary pattern, perhaps.
“I’m very scared.”
James felt himself frown, something like worry bubbling to life in his chest.
River continued, eyes fixed upwards, as if something up there would help him.
“Like all the time. Even when I'm not. It never goes away, just gets worse sometimes.”
James pulled their hands to his chest and turned fully onto his side, scooching closer but still far enough away that he could clearly see River’s face.
“Even now?” He asked, futile, obvious.
River’s silhouette bit its lip, nodding, his fingers went almost limp in James’s grasp.
James asked the next logical question, and despite its implications he felt nothing but curiosity. Though, again, he felt he knew the answer.
“Is it worse right now? Because I told you I love you?”
River’s silhouette tucked its bottom lip into its teeth in a way that made its chin diminish. The faint glint of a tear tracking down his cheek a reminder that he was real and not a paper shadow.
“Yeah.”
James moved closer so that his whole body pressed against River’s side. He dropped River’s hand in the shuffle, moving it now to rest open-palmed over his heart. He doesn’t know if he can feel his heartbeat.
“Okay.”
He didn’t know what else to say. Because what else is there?
–––
•
All of these things wrapped up in soft clean rags,
I know without lifting the lid.
•
Where to even begin?
That’s half the stress of it all. The subtle irrational feeling of doom being the other as he sat in the cream-colored waiting room of the therapist's office.
He crossed and uncrossed his legs, looked around the room for a distraction, found it void of any visual stimulation, then dropped his gaze back to his hands.
He remembered very little from his appointments as a child, the ones his Nan brought him to, much to the chagrin of his Grandad’s ‘bury it and die’ sensibilities. He assumed back then that his Nan had brought the therapist up to speed, as he couldn’t imagine being the one to have done it. He also doesn’t remember it being very helpful. Talking won’t make her want me back . A flash of memory, though probably a phantom.
But now? Now there was no one to clue in the doctor. That was on him now. Like everything else.
Where the fuck do you start in the cumulative 27 years of seemingly endless follies that had befallen him. How far back do you go when you ask a stranger for help?
He shifted uncomfortably in his seat and considered leaving. It was a service-run office, though, and if he was a no-show they’d probably track him down and drag him back. Or they wouldn’t care, he didn’t know.
He jimmied his leg.
The doctor probably had his file, which was something. What would his file even say? River Cartwright: grandson of David Cartwright, abandoned as a child, crashed Stansted on a training exercise, caused a coworker to be shot in the head, called in a false Code September, tricked into breaking into The Park by his part time lover who then died, father is an ex-CIA mercenary who ran an assassin baby-farm whose spawn had recently caused multiple civilian and service deaths, including the death of another one of his coworkers, shot the face off of his half-brother look alike after he tried to drown his grandfather…
Nope. Fuck this.
He stood up and, without stopping at the desk, fled into the hallway.
In keeping with his run of luck, the lift was old and lacked the ‘close doors’ button, one which, had it existed, he would’ve begun clicking incessantly upon hearing the sound of heels in the hallway. Close close close . Blessedly, they did, and he relaxed, if only for a while.
—
Catherine closed the office door behind her, relieved that her yearly psychiatric evaluation was finished and could be neatly crossed off her planner. Sheila, the receptionist whom she knew quite well after all these years, waved her over from behind the desk.
The woman peered over her half-moon glasses and lowered her voice, not that there was anyone else in the office to overhear.
“River Cartwright, he’s one of yours isn’t he?”
The medical impropriety clearly the impetus of her hushed tone.
Catherine leaned in, concerned at where this could be headed.
“River? Yes, why?”
Sheila looked around, once again a pointless gesture.
“Well he’s next on my list and he’s just run off.”
“Oh dear.” Catherine instinctively glanced at the door to the hallway, eyes following the invisible trail River would have left.
“He won’t have gotten far. Poor lad looks like he needs a chat.” She shook her head, tutting.
Catherine sighed and thanked her, pushing down the mounting worry in her chest as she opened the door and hurried down the hallway. ‘He won’t have gotten far,’ she could still catch him.
—
River breathed in the warm, if not overly fresh, spring air. The sun was out today, even if it was currently hidden behind a roaming cloud. He took another breath and stood off to the side of the pavement, avoiding the busy Londoners, all shirking their various occupations to relish the rare sunshine. Overhead a plane droned low on its descent into Heathrow, a man walked past with a speaker blaring music. He flinched, the ringing in his ears acting like reverb to the sound.
He should go back in. He knows he won’t, but he should.
He looked at his watch, 1:30. He could go into the office, return to the shadows after a failed attempt to better himself. But he knew there’d be questions, and he really didn’t want to tell them that he’d scarpered.
“River!”
At first he thought the voice was the receptionist coming to drag him back into the office. He was faced away from the building, and the sound of his name didn’t carry well in the haze-thick air.
But when it came again he recognized the voice as Catherine’s, and turned to see her hurrying down the walkway towards him.
“Catherine?” He said, aloud unfortunately.
The woman huffed a bit, a few strands of hair unpinned and floating on the afternoon breeze. She was wearing a floral dress that seemed brighter and more colorful than usual; though River suspected many of her outfits looked happier outside the drabness of Slough House.
“Sorry, I’m a bit out of breath; I didn’t want to miss you.” She adjusted the strap of her handbag and swiped the loose hair from her face.
River’s stomach sank a bit. So that’s it , he thought.
“Oh, did they send you to fetch me back?” It was a question but he wasn’t asking.
Catherine looked up at him and pinched her brow in a show of confusion that didn’t quite reach into her eyes. “What? No no, I saw you get on the lift. I thought I’d come say hello.”
River chose to accept that, because it was Catherine.
“Oh, alright.”
They stood there, partially blocking the sidewalk, neither knowing really how to continue this unscheduled meeting. River watched her adjust her purse again and smooth her skirt with the palms of her hands.
“Have you had lunch yet?” She asked, smiling, casual.
“Oh, ah, no.” River said, awkwardly. Thinking about how his ‘lunch’ today was most likely going to be an unsatisfying meal deal and a stale beer from his fridge.
“Well I was planning on grabbing a cuppa around the corner, if you would care to join?” She stepped out of the way to let a group of people pass between them, it gave River another 10 seconds to pretend that there was a world in which he would ever say no.
“Yeah, that would be lovely, actually.”
She smiled at him, and he felt like he’d done good.
—
They sat at a small table in a sunny part of the cafe. It was busy, but not too busy that he felt boxed in. Though the table was a tad short, and he found it annoying that he couldn’t cross his legs.
Catherine sat across from him, a small pot of oolong steeping on the table beside a slice of raspberry bakewell. He’d only planned on getting a coffee, but after a blink-and-youll-miss-it look from Catherine he’d looked into the case and added on a sausage roll to his order. Both items sat before him now, untouched, the sausage roll looking sad and the foam art on the latte far too fancy looking to disturb.
Catherine poured herself a cup of tea, speaking as the liquid filled the small white cup.
“How are you?” She was being casual about it. Casual in a way that River’s training told him was calculated. Though his training also told him that she, too, was aware that he’d be aware. Spy versus spy; if he’d ever gotten the hang of chess (which Grandfather had tried so hard to teach him), he’d compare it to that.
He watched her spoon some sugar into her cup.
“I know you didn’t just happen upon me, Catherine.”
She smiled and tapped the teaspoon off on the cups’s rim.
“Alright, Sheila told me you’d run off. I got worried.”
River felt something about that, that she’d feel worried. Cathering sipped her tea and then set the cup back on the table. He picked up his coffee in turn, taking a sip and finding it pretentiously strong.
Catherine smiled at him, softly. “You don’t have to tell me why you left. But I know it’s sometimes easier to talk to a friend than a stranger.”
River put his mug down and chuckled a little, “I don’t think I find either of the options easy.”
His show of humor, manufactured as it was, did not land with his company. Instead, Catherine sat quietly, alternating between looking at him sympathetically and eating her bakewell and tea.
He mirrored her, finding the sausage roll surprisingly ok, the bitterness of the coffee bothering him less with each sip. Bitter…can you get used to bitter?
“I think I need help, but I don’t know where to start.” He said, clearing his throat and looking anywhere but at Catherine.
“Well therapy is a–”
“I know. Sorry–” He apologized at his interjection. “I know, it's just… where on earth do I start?”
He tapped his fingers on the table and looked up.
Catherine nodded. “I understand, really, I do.”
“I just…” He exhaled a long breath through his mouth, air easing out of his lungs like a flat tyre. “I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop.”
Catherine sighed. “I wish I could tell you that it's a silly thing to worry about, but we both know it's not.” She looked down at the table for a moment, gathering her thoughts. “But maybe– think of it like this. Bad things don’t have to happen. They do, but it’s not inevitable. If you live your life waiting for something to happen, you’re not enjoying what you have.”
River nodded. Easier said than done, he thought.
“I know it’s easier said than done.” Catherine said, as if reading his mind. Not that she had to, he realized, she’s speaking from experience.
–––
–––
River returns to James’s flat that evening, letting himself in with the spare key (which was, at this point, his key). He is greeted with a sweet smell that hangs in the steamy air, and the sound of a bath filling from the bathroom around the corner. He removes his shoes and coat and pads down the hallway, following the sliver of light that escapes through the ajar bathroom door along with the steam. He pushes open the door and turns towards the bath to his left. A slender leg is slung over the edge of the tub, James’s leg. The bathwater is red.
Blood and brain matter splatter the walls, the body in the tub has no face, just a gaping wound that spills into the bath. The faucet still gushes, but the water is coming out red. River opens his mouth to scream but nothing comes out, he can’t even collapse to his knees or look away, he’s frozen and–
River gasped awake. His body drenched in a cold sweat with his heart thrashing against his rib cage. A strangled sob escaped his throat, a holdover from the scream he tried to issue in the dream. God, it was a dream. The images in his mind made him feel ill and he clamped a preemptive hand over his mouth–trying to breathe through it.
It’s then that he smelled that same scent– bergamot– and noticed the soft drift of water vapor in the air. The sound of running water matched the rushing of blood in his ears.
James wasn’t lying next to him in bed.
He scrambled to his feet and rushed to the bathroom, not trying to contain the sense of panic he felt at the deja vu of it all. He pushed open the bathroom door and this time did fall to his knees, but in relief. James looked over at him in utter confusion. The water was choppy from James sitting up as River barged into the room, confusion turning to concern as he looked at the state of the man kneeling on the tile floor before him.
“River what–?”
River had a hand clutched to his chest, the other wiped over his face.
“Sorry I– sorry.” He shook his head and cupped his face in his hands, letting out a shaky breath.
James moved to the edge of the tub and reached a dripping hand out to River. He took it with a shaky hand: his grip tight, the contact grounding, almost.
River’s voice warbled in the tile room. “I had, fuck , I had a nightmare that…and then I woke up and it was the same and– fuck. ”
He felt James tug him closer, and he shuffled forward enough to rest his forehead against the cool edge of the tub.
“I dreamed that you were shot in the bath…like how I– at my grandad’s. And then I woke up and heard the water running and I just…” A sob finished off his sentence, escaping his lips unbidden as he shook on the floor. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to keep himself both from crying and from seeing the imprint of the bloody corpse on his retinas; its gored face blotted out with the blackness and elusive shapes behind his eyelids. His breath came in short gasps, the repetitive sound becoming the only one he could hear over the rushing blood in his ears. Then not even that.
James ran the fingers of his free hand through the hair at the nape of River’s neck, now bared to him, finding it damp with sweat. River’s breathing grew increasingly erratic, as did the intermittent tremor in his shoulders.
“River.” He said, the hand moving to the man's shoulder and squeezing a bit. No response. His other hand, the one clutched by River, trembled in his grasp.
“ River .” He tried again, insisting upon his voice in a manner he no longer had control over. He shook River’s hand, the attention seeking method succeeding only in freeing the hand. River’s moved his hands to cover his face, which still faced downward and was therefore still hidden from James. Though he didn’t need to see his face to recognize what this was. He stood up and sloshed out of the tub, reaching for his dressing gown without even drying himself off.
For a second he looked down at where River curled in on himself, kneeling on the bathmat in a subverted form of prayer.
He was no good at this. In situations like this people traditionally went with ‘what would you want in this situation.’ But what he would want was to be left alone, and that was certainly not the way to go. So he went with what would River want ?
“River. Get up.” He spoke firmly as he leaned down and tugged on his elbow. “You need to breathe and you need to listen to me.” This was good, firm was good, he could do firm.
He reached around to grip River’s hands in his own, pulling them from his face.
“Up. Come with me.”
River’s eyes were still squeezed shut but he let himself be dragged to his feet. If anything, the compliance was more worrying than the tears. He led him from the bathroom
He lay River down in the bed and did the only thing he could think of: he climbed on top of him.
“Breathe with me, ok? Copy my breaths.” He took a deep breath as an example, letting his chest press against River’s, words spoken close to his ear.
River lay beneath him with his eyes squeezed shut, shuddering them both. But his breaths slowly came to match James’s, which in turn matched the pace of the hand petting over his hair. Eventually, River calmed, and his once shaking hands came up and wrapped around James.
James found himself nodding off, lulled by his own attempt at comfort. He hoped River felt as warm as he did now, hoped that his weight would be a reminder, even in sleep, that he was here.
–––
•
Tables with knobby ankles, spindly chairs
nested like Chinese boxes, Chinese boxes;
an oval mirror coated with trackless dust
waiting to be profaned by a child's finger.
Five groaningly heavy cartons full
of fifty years of the National Geographic.
...
The blanket chest is loaded with hoary trinkets:
a shaving mug from the St. Louis Exposition,
a Prayer Book great-uncle Cartwright carried to battle
in his breast pocket where it stopped a bullet.
A sliver of marble picked up once in Athens,
now labelled: "Adelaide. From the Parthenon."
•
Saturday, April 21st
River greeted him with a smile as he walked into the kitchen. “As it’s a nice day I thought I’d go to my Grandad’s and check on the garden.” He placed James’s mug of tea on the counter and passed him his pill container. “I was wondering if you wanted to come with me?”
James felt the pills jam in his throat a bit, he washed them down with a sip of tea.
“Really?”
—
Whatever trepidation he felt upon their arrival to the house dissipated as he stepped over the threshold. The air inside had the faint sad smell of abandonment, a bouquet a little too heavy on dust and devoid of the scents of human habitation. Yet familiar, as these things are. The fresh air blowing in from the doorway (which River said to leave open) helped a little to flush out the stale air. He followed River into the house as he crossed through it to the other side. River reached a set of french doors and opened them out to a stone patio and the garden beyond. He exhaled, though he didn’t stop to actually breathe. James watched his movements, noting their haste and unending quality. Making himself busy, he thought. Keeping himself busy, he amended.
“Tea?” River asked and James nodded as the man returned to the kitchen.
James followed, trailing behind slow enough to scan the walls and shelves of their contents. The age of everything in the house is clear, preserved now like a time-capsule. He entered the kitchen and watched as River filled a stovetop kettle with water, then turned and lit the stove with a match in a practiced motion that spoke to how many hundreds of times he’d done it before. It was odd, to see someone at home– not in a flat or the home of their adult life, but the place they came from. Drops of water leftover from the filling dripped down the side of the kettle and sizzled on the flame below.
I have no home to return to.
The flame from the stove must’ve drawn his focus because River was suddenly beside him, placing a hand on his shoulder.
“It’s going to take a while…show you around?”
James looked up at him, nodding pleasantly.
River led him through the house, providing trivial anecdotes for each space;
– that’s where I tripped and lost one of my teeth,
– that’s where my Nan would make me wait if I came in with muddy shoes on,
– I used to pretend that these ropes on the staircase were climbing ropes, and that I was climbing Everest.
His bedroom was of course the highlight.
James smiled at the poster on the wall, a prominently placed pinup of bond girl Honey Ryder in her white bikini. He pointed to it and gave River a look.
Predictably, River flushed and defensively rolled his eyes.
James looked around at the rest of the decor. Everything was typical of a boy’s room he supposed – not that his had resembled one in the slightest– aside from the color of the walls.
The green was deep and mature, the color you’d paint an office or a study, rather than a child’s room. Though James supposed that’s what this room was, before . They hadn’t had any notice, hadn’t planned on being ‘parents’ again in their early retirement. He looked over at River who was standing by the front window, he appeared equally lost in thought.
James walked over and stood beside him, close enough that their arms touched.
“Would it be inappropriate to kiss you in your childhood bedroom?”
River looked over at him. “I think the assumption that it could be inappropriate is the weird part.”
James turned to face him fully and brought a hand to River’s cheek.
The kettle shrieked downstairs and caused them both to jump.
“I’ll get it– come out to the garden when you come down.” River said. He started to turn away but then turned back and kissed James, lightly, quickly, then jogged out of the room.
James looked around again at the room– the stack of faded National Geographics on the windowsill, the postcards from far off places. In the hallway he passed the antique furniture, followed the landing runner’s footworn path. He peeked into the bathroom River had carefully avoided looking at as they passed this way before: the tile behind the tub looked new, and he wondered if its newness hurt River more than what it covered up. Downstairs the mantlepiece held photos of River at various stages in his life: in his primary school uniform, his uni graduation, him and his grandmother cooking, and one James recognized as River on the first day of training. It’s exactly the River James met: stupid grin, shining eyes.
You took that away from him.
The rest of the ancient trinkets on the wall blurred under the tears that swam wretchedly in his eyes. Being in someone else’s attic can be just as painful, it seems.
—
He drank his tea next to River. They sat on the stone stoop that led down to the grass of the garden. It was sunny, but the day was still a bit cold. The tea helped.
“Does this mean you have to meet my sister?” He joked, though they both knew it was more nervous than that.
River answered, but kept his eyes forward.
“Relationships don’t have to be this-or-that.”
“Quid pro quo.” James said– instinctively more than an actual care for diction.
Now River looked over at him, amending his sentence. “This isn’t a quid pro quo type thing.” Thing . A substitute for his earlier word.
Relationship . River looked as uncomfortable saying the word as James felt hearing it.
He set his tea down on the stoop beside him, then held out his hand to River. He took it.
They watched a bird hop around on the grass. I wonder if River knows what kind it is , he thought, though the answer was probably yes.
“Thank you for showing me.” He said, changing the subject. “I like it here.”
River wrapped an arm around him and pulled him closer, James leaned his head on his shoulder.
“It’s strange. I-I don’t think I’ve ever brought anyone here before.”
The bird in the grass flies away.
–––
•
Nothing, it seems, is lost, only relocated.
•
“We picked these from the garden, fresh tulips.”
River talked to David as if he cared, giving more care to the arrangement of the flowers than he would normally, an effort to ignore that this wasn’t a lucid day.
“He came with me to the house. It was strange, but nice.”
His grandfather nodded politely. There was no point explaining anything.
River scanned his face, wondering how someone he knew so well could be buried in his own mind. I know you’re in there . He wouldn’t say it out loud, of course. The restraint hurts.
—
James looked up from his phone as River reentered the car.
“How was he?”
River shrugged and let out a sigh. “You know, not there.”
James knew.
Before he turned on the car, River rummaged around and pulled a slip of paper out of his back pocket.
“Here.” He says, passing it –a postcard– across the console. James looks at it and feels his heart skip.
Wales ~ Cymru
“I thought for sure it was gone. But earlier when I was grabbing a book for him I found it stuck in the pages. He must’ve been reading when the post came that day.”
James turns the card over in his hands, the script is definitely River’s. The postage date is stamped, but James knows when it's from.
Dear Grandad. You know where I am already. I just wanted to write before I go ‘over the top.’ I’m not worried. I wonder if it's different from when you were first starting out. Me and Spider got paired together again which is good because I think we make a good team. You always said it’s important to find someone to have your back. Anyway- see you on the other side.
River
–––
–––
River doesn’t remember who suggested it, but the four of them end up in the beer garden of a pub after work. The air is warm and fragrant, an ancient Wisteria vine trails up the side of the building, its purple flowers droop like grape clusters. Louisa shakes her hair with her hands in an effort to cool down. River watches as she does, then looks across the garden and through the pub door. He can see the bar from here; more specifically he can see James and Shirley at the bar, ordering the drinks for the table. He’ll never know what they’re saying, but the chat looks easy, amicable. James turns around and spots River, he smiles and gives a small wave. Shirley mimes gagging herself and James swats at her shoulder. Louisa laughs across from him, a sound he hasn’t heard in a long while. She’s seen the tableau too.
He turns back to her and she to him.
–––
–––
The floorboards are wide up here, wood hewn from trees that lived and died in a world so different from his own. He sits in the middle, the rafter beams framed low, lower than he remembers them being. The boxes and things he's kept surround him, but the hatch is open. He opens his eyes and he's in bed. River sleeps soundly next to him. He wants to wake him up, tell him he loves him, so he can hear it again. He's worried they'll lose their meaning, the words, now that he's said it. His temple aches a bit, the right one, the sheets are soft on his skin. He's not afraid of the dark, he suddenly realizes. Where the thought came from is a mystery. He tucks himself into River's side and falls asleep.
–––
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•
I peer about now,
so absently I almost bump with my nose
the most benign of spiders, dry-brown as a crumb
of tobacco, afloat on a single-strand ladder.
He waddles briskly up and out of sight
to his nest in a rafter's angle.
Enough of this.
I came up after a winter coat. Uncoffined,
it hangs on my arm like something somebody shot,
a fair enough trophy. For the rest, let the spider
officiate, slight proprietor of the past.
•
FIN