39
For Tean, it was a blur. The ambulance. The hospital. The long hours of answering questions.
Jem was hurt, but alive.
They weren’t being arrested.
The children were fine.
Daniel was okay.
Ammon was going to pull through.
And then, somehow, it was over.
They drove home in the Subaru. Someone had brought it to the hospital for them.
Scipio went wild—excitement changing quickly to distress as he sniffed them, circled, came back, retreated again.
“It’s the smoke,” Tean said, holding out his hands for the Lab, who was alternating between sniffing and sneezing.
“Shower,” Jem said. He was moving stiffly—Tean had made sure to get a full recounting of his injuries and limitations from the doctor, since Jem had a tendency to downplay his injuries.
He opened the back door and shooed Scipio outside.
The sky was a lighter patch through the rectangle of the door, and the mountains made a jigsaw puzzle of the stars.
It was almost three in the morning, and Scipio immediately ran to his bucket of balls.
“I’ll be there in a second.” Before he pulled the door shut, he added, “Throw those clothes away.”
That was the best advice Tean had gotten all day. He tied the clothes in a garbage bag and threw them out into the garage. Then he got into the shower. He had to keep the water cooler than usual because his skin was still sensitive from the heat, and he worked slowly and carefully with the soap.
He was finishing between his toes when the curtain rattled back and Jem stepped into the tub.
“I’m sick of smelling like a hobo’s fire barrel” was all Jem said, though. He grimaced as he reached for the loofa and body wash, and whatever he saw on Tean’s face made him say, “Just a twinge.”
“Here,” Tean said, and he took the loofa and the body wash and worked up a lather.
He did Jem’s back first. Broad. Strong shoulders, especially for a man who had once told Tean that going to the gym was gay.
Tean ran the loofa down his spine. There was something delicate about the small of Jem’s back.
He followed the curve of his butt, and bubbles ran down over fine gold-blond hairs.
“Are you giving me the works?” Jem asked. “Wax and polish for the undercarriage?”
“Absolutely not,” Tean said.
And Jem laughed. He was still laughing about that as Tean turned him around and ran the loofa over his shoulders, down his chest, to the slight softening of his stomach.
A trail of that gold-blond hair here, too.
Thicker. Darker. So dark it was almost brown around the root of his cock.
Jem shivered as Tean cupped his balls and drew the loofa down his dick.
Then Jem said, “Are you crying?”
Tean wasn’t sure. His face was hot, but his face had felt hot since the fire.
His face was wet, but they were in the shower.
He shook his head. Jem took Tean’s chin between his fingers, and Tean’s eyes stung.
He let Jem pull him against him. His body was slick with water, the skin smooth, muscle firm.
Jem’s beard felt different when it was wet.
The hair on his legs felt different when it was wet.
He could still smell the smoke in his hair.
Tean shook once and squeezed his eyes shut, and he saw fire.
They stood there until the water ran cold, Jem holding him, his hand moving slowly: settling on Tean’s hip, then an arm curving around to hold him more tightly, then fingers tickling Tean’s back.
“Quick shampoo,” Jem finally said.
But it was up to Tean to do it, because Jem’s ribs were obviously still bothering him. The cold water made him hurry, and it was a relief to towel off.
Scipio, at least, seemed satisfied with the transformation.
He circled them anew, sniffing a full inspection, making Jem laugh when he got a little too fresh with his nose.
Tean was too tired to think about pajamas—he was too tired to think about anything—so he slipped under the covers.
A moment later, Jem was there next to him, grunting and groaning as he lowered himself onto the bed.
Scipio finally settled down, and within moments, the Lab was snoring.
And then Jem made a strained noise. He wiggled around against the pillow a few times.
And then he was touching Tean, his hand rubbing Tean’s stomach, his foot brushing Tean’s.
“Are you okay?” Tean asked.
Jem was quiet for a moment. Then he said, “I was going to lean over you romantically and kiss you.”
“But your ribs didn’t want to cooperate?”
“No, they did not.”
Somehow, it was still possible to laugh.
Jem’s foot continued to move against Tean’s. His hand made slow circles on Tean’s belly.
“I can still smell the smoke,” Tean said. “A little.”
“It’s a bitch to get out of your hair.”
It wasn’t anything in particular. It had been the water, and the feel of skin against skin, and now this, the slow touches that didn’t have to mean anything. Tean was exhausted. He was going to fall asleep any second. His eyes were literally dropping shut. And his dick was hard as steel.
Jem’s hand slipped down, and he whispered, “Uh oh.”
“We’re going to sleep.”
“Okay.”
And his hand continued to move. He stroked lightly, up and down. His thumb moved across the tip of Tean’s dick, brushed, came back, brushed again, playing with the slit before he slid his fingers down to the base again and squeezed.
“Jem,” Tean said.
“Hm?”
“We’re going to sleep.”
“So go to sleep.”
And another slow stroke. He cupped Tean’s balls, rolled them, gave them a pat that made Tean groan. His face was still hot from the fire.
“Your ribs are hurt,” Tean said.
“My ribs are broken, babe.”
“You can’t fuck me.”
“Broken ribs never stopped anybody. I mean, maybe they did. I bet there’s an episode of Medical Marvels about it, actually.”
Sometimes, Tean had learned, you couldn’t take the bait. “And I can’t ride you.”
“You don’t have to do anything. Except maybe get the lube, because I swear to God, babe, I actually don’t think I can sit up. I’ll jerk you off, and you’ll fall asleep, and that’ll be the end of Mr. Happy’s Bedtime Adventures.”
Instead, Tean rolled so that he sat stride Jem—below his hips, where he knew he wouldn’t jostle his ribs.
Jem was hard too. He had a nice dick: a good length, a good girth.
When Tean squeezed it, he thought he could smell the bead of pre in the dark, and a moment later, wetness rolled against the curve of his thumb.
Jem groaned, and then he whispered a little scratchily, “Uh oh.”
Tean found the lube in the nightstand, but when he opened the cap, Jem said, “Here.”
It took a moment for Tean to understand what he was saying.
But then he found Jem’s hand and squeezed lube into his palm.
A moment later, Jem had a hand wrapped around them.
He began to stroke them together. It was different now.
The slickness of his touch. The hot thickness of his dick against Tean’s. Tean shivered. His hips jerked once.
“Go on, baby,” Jem whispered. “Get it.”
Tean’s breath felt caught in his throat, but he rolled his hips again.
Jem tightened his hand, and Tean fucked into it again.
He wanted to make it last. He wanted to make Jem feel good.
He wanted not to feel anything but this, and so he thrust and bucked and drove his dick into the tight ring of Jem’s hand, slid against the hard length of his shaft.
The room was dark, but he closed his eyes anyway.
His cheeks felt tight. His mouth hung open, and his breaths sounded small and urgent.
His balls ached. He heard himself, and it was like listening to a stranger—this other person who sounded like he was about to cry.
“Give it to me,” Jem growled. “Give me that fucking load. Shoot it all the fuck over me.”
Another pair of thrusts carried Tean over the edge. His universe got smaller. And then, for an instant, it was like he was touching everything, part of everything, particles of him flying out in infinite expanse.
Just an orgasm, he told himself as his brain came back online. Just getting your nut. But his face was wet, and a tear dripped from his jaw to land on his chest.
Below him, Jem’s breathing was rough, and then his body tensed as he climaxed.
In the darkness, the faint sounds of his load hitting his chest and belly were audible.
Tight muscles relaxed. His breathing softened.
He coughed once and then groaned, and his free hand found Tean’s thigh and rode up until it settled at his hip.
The touch was a question, but the only answer Tean could give was a satisfied sound. His breaths were still coming quickly.
Jem chuckled, and he rubbed Tean’s hip.
After a while, Tean eased off him. His legs had stiffened, and his knee popped when he straightened it.
“We’re old,” Jem called after him as he padded into the bathroom.
“I’m old,” Tean said. He turned the tap. Maybe, by now, they’d have some warm water again. “You’re fine.”
“I’m definitely getting old,” Jem said. “I’ve never fucked up my ribs before.”
There was, as it turned out, warm water. Tean found a wash cloth and came back to the bed. He turned on a lamp and sat next to Jem.
Scipio was giving them a dirty look, and when Jem noticed, he started to laugh again.
Then he winced, but he didn’t stop laughing as Tean cleaned him up.
After the light was out again, Jem shifted around a few times, groaning as he tried to turn onto his side.
Tean decided the best thing he could do was to curl up against Jem, his head on Jem’s shoulder as Jem lay flat on his back.
This must have been enough of a compromise because Jem lay still again.
His bare skin was warm under Tean’s cheek, and he smelled faintly—pleasantly—of sweat.
Kai’s face. The mask—not of the wolf, not the drag queen’s makeup, but of light and shadow as the flames rose higher. The dead mirrors of his eyes.
Did he want to die?
Did he think, somehow, he would survive?
“Stop thinking about it,” Jem whispered. He found Tean’s hand and drew it to his side. “It makes my ribs hurt.”
Smooth skin, the hint of padding over ridges of bone.
“I love you.”
It was so quiet Tean wasn’t even sure Jem had said it. “I love you too.”
“Go to sleep.”
He nodded into Jem’s shoulder, but his hand continued to follow the familiar lines of his body.
He wondered if they would come again, the nights he lay awake, the need to get out, to be anywhere but alone with himself.
He tried not to think about Kai, or about what had happened to Jem, or about the wedding and his family and the mess that, inevitably, he’d have to deal with.
He tried not to think at all. But he thought, anyway, about Kai.
About Scott Taylor, and the rodeo poster.
And he thought about his dad, and the Pinewood Derby car.
He thought about Jem, lost in that haunted house from his childhood.
And he thought about what it meant to live, to be a person, to carry your wounds with you—sometimes, without even knowing it.
The words popped into his head as he followed the lines of Jem’s ribs.
And the Lord God said, It is not good that the man should be alone; I will make him an help meet for him. And the Lord God caused a deep sleep to fall upon him, and he slept: and he took one of his ribs, and closed up the flesh instead thereof.
It was only a story.
His touch was light because he didn’t want to cause Jem any more pain. No more pain for the rest of his life, not if Tean could help it.
It was a story. A creation story. A myth, if you wanted to be blunt.
Jem’s chest rose and fell. Under Tean’s cheek, skin was beginning to stick to skin. His eyes were hot again. Jem resettled himself, and he ran his hand through Tean’s hair.
It was a story. About who you were, and how you were made, and what that meant for the rest of your life.
It was a way of seeing another person, a way of knowing them, and by knowing them, knowing yourself too.
That you were broken from the very beginning.
That the breaking opened you to the rest of the universe.
That you weren’t alone; that you were part of something more.
It was only a story.
It was a story that taught you how to love.
“Bone of my bone,” Tean whispered, tracing Jem’s bandaged ribs, “blood of my blood, flesh of my flesh.”
Jem stirred, found Tean’s hand, and brought it to his lips. He kissed Tean’s fingers and folded them in his own. And then, finally, Tean slept.