Chapter 14 #2
I wait, his fingers fluttering before him. Then he sits up a little, leaving me to prop myself up on the pillows behind me.
‘Coffins have a unique history. Different cultures use different structures.’
He meets my gaze, and I nod in encouragement. This is definitely taking my mind off being attacked. I don’t want him to stop. I want him to tell me everything he knows so I can get lost in the facts.
‘The designs are based on the culture’s beliefs in death and the afterlife.
For example, you know in Ghana, they have fantasy coffins.
’ He fingerspells this so it’s clear what he means.
‘They’re shaped like fish or airplanes or whatever someone likes.
For example, if someone like fishing, and you die, you get a fish coffin.
You eternal sleep in something you love. ’
His eyes flick away from me, and he adds, ‘And I’m really fascinated by graves from Victorian England. It was like an art form. The coffins were elaborate. They’d have black cloth, brass handles, viewing panels. But you know what I really think is interesting?’
I shake my head and smile, but he doesn’t smile back.
‘Too much?’ I think far too many people have told him that.
I reach out, snagging one of his hands, and kiss his fingers. ‘Never too much. More. Please.’
He bites his lower lip, then raises his hands again. ‘Coffins beds.’
‘Like yours?’ I gesture across the room.
He shakes his head hard. ‘No. Different. I learned about it when I was hyperfocused on something else…’ He squirms a little on the bed, and my heart thumps wildly in my chest. I’ve never seen him say so much.
And I fucking like it.
‘So back in Victorian London,’ he spells, ‘they had all these…’ He wiggles his fingers like he’s trying to figure out the sign. ‘Home-none?’
My eyebrows rise in confusion.
‘Homeless.’ He fingerspells that word, and I scrunch up the side of my nose to tell him I understand.
‘People could pay a few pennies and rent out a coffin to sleep in. They were popular because they were private and kept people warm.’
‘Is this why you have one?’
He shrugs, then shakes his head. ‘I had one before. They’re comfortable, and mine is much nicer than what they had. Back then, it was just a wooden box.’ We stare at each other for a moment, and then he asks, ‘Want see picture?’
I nod, and he pulls out his phone, typing into it quickly and then leaning down next to me. The screen flashes with several photos of the coffin beds and the men who slept in them.
As he flicks through the website, I feel connected to him in a weird way. I like to sit in the library basement and scroll through old microfiche films, and he likes to research coffins. I didn’t expect to find similarities there, but I’ll take what I can get.
When his phone finally falls to his chest, I peer up at him, but he glances away before our eyes can lock.
‘Me too much?’ he asks.
I shake my head quickly. ‘Never. I understand why you like it. I spend my free time looking at old fashion magazine microfiche in the library.’
His gaze meets mine, and his finger scrunches. ‘Really?’
‘Yes, it’s my hobby. It’s what I was doing tonight when…’ My fingers trail off, my body not willing to talk about what happened yet, and I curl them into my palm for a brief second. ‘We’re not so different.’
‘I think you’re prettier than me.’
I wiggle closer and bite my bottom lip. ‘I don’t know about that. I like your face a lot.’
We peer at each other, and I touch his cheek gently before he leans down and kisses me softly. I can tell he’s holding himself back. I can tell he knows I need him to. The kiss is still powerful, still so him, but it’s nothing more than a quick touch of his tongue against mine before he pulls back.
‘Thank you,’ I sign.
He nods, then wraps his arms tighter around me and holds me against his chest. It rumbles with a few spoken words or maybe a hum. I’m too tired to really care. The only thing that matters is him beside me like this, keeping me in his grasp so nothing else can hurt me.
The headache that wakes me is cruel. It’s a low pounding in my temples and along the back of my neck. The gashes on my forehead and behind my ear sting, but I can also tell from the itching that they’re healing up and that Percy was right about me not needing stitches.
The concussion is very present though, in the way that makes the world feel a little heavy.
When I try to look at my phone screen, my eyes cross, and everything goes double.
I don’t have much time to test what I can tolerate because the device is plucked from my hand, and when I look up, I’m met with Archie’s disapproving stare.
‘No.’ His sign is firm and stiff.
I try to roll my eyes, but it hurts too much. ‘I need to check my work email.’
‘No,’ he replies again. He reaches over and helps me sit up, which isn’t fun either, but after a short moment, the world rights itself.
I swallow and feel an ache in my throat, and I have no doubt my neck is a sunset of bruising.
Fuck, I should probably go to the police about all of this, but for some reason, my gut says no. The cops were horrible to me when I first reported the cyberstalking and were absolutely no fucking help at all in my case when it finally went to trial. I’m really not in the mood to be mocked again.
Thorne lives down the street from Archie, and he might be of some help, but I have a feeling Archie and his family won’t love the idea of me involving someone like him. Even if he’s not in the FBI anymore.
In reality, I should give Archie and his brothers all the details about what happened to me last time.
I’m terrified that it’s the same guy, but something about all of this feels different than before.
I don’t know who the hell else it could be because I’m not the most social guy, and unless one of my Deaf drag friends has gotten into some really dark shit, it won’t be any of them.
But that still leaves me with more questions than answers and no real way to figure out what’s going on.
I look up when Archie touches my chin. He’s being tender with me, which I both love and hate because I know it’s not his first instinct.
‘Are you hungry?’ he asks.
I bite my lip. My stomach still feels tender from throwing up the night before, and I’m still a little queasy from the pain.
‘Denver,’ he signs, then skims his fingers down the front of my throat.
The pain of it makes me hiss, and his brows furrow into an angry scowl. But I have a feeling his fury isn’t being directed at me.
‘Want to kill,’ he signs with one hand.
I curl my fingers around his wrist and gently pull his hand away. ‘I’m okay.’
I see his chest heave with a breath, and then he sits back. ‘Food?’
It’s easy to tell that Archie’s looking for a way to distract himself, and frankly, I am too. I attempt to swallow again and fight off a coughing fit, which will probably be agony. ‘Tea?’ I suggest. ‘With something soft. Still hurts.’
Archie looks angry all over again, but he holds out his hands to help me to my feet. I can walk steadily now, and I no longer feel like I’m on a rocking boat as I move forward, but my entire body is still aching.
This is the worst time in the fucking world to get injured like this. I know how concussion protocol works because I’ve fallen off the stage before in six-inch heels and cracked my temple on a bar-top table.
It means no screens for a while, which means bribing Robbie or Fayid to help me with the students’ final exam videos.
And I know they will, but that also means they’ll want to know what happened, in detail.
I’m not prepared to tell them anything yet, especially considering I only have vague theories.
But I don’t want them involved. Not until I know for sure that no one else will be hurt. I know that Archie and his brothers can take care of themselves. I have a feeling that’s kind of what they do with their lives. But everyone else here? We’re a small town.
The most scandalous thing that’s happened in years was finding old bones on Leaf’s property, courtesy of a dead serial killer. Something like this—an active person who has no problem strangling me on campus? There’s no telling what else they’re capable of.
All of this is a problem for future Denver though.
For now, I let Archie move me to his kitchen table and sit me near the window before he walks to the counter to prep something.
I have no idea what he’s making, but I don’t care.
Being taken care of like this is nice, and the peace and quiet is wholly unexpected.
The kitchen is empty and very still, apart from Archie, who moves in a way that kind of reminds me of a dance.
He sways from side to side, his fingers tapping in random patterns, which I know is stimming, but he has a grace to him I rarely see in other people.
Even the Deaf queens that I perform with rarely have as much grace as he does.
Archie turns and sees me staring and drops his hands down to his sides.
‘Please don’t,’ I beg.
He blinks at me, tilting his head to the side.
‘Don’t be self-conscious. I like watching you move.’
‘Why?’ His face doesn’t give away the tone of his sign. It’s something I’ve seen in other Autistic Deaf. Sometimes what they feel doesn’t show in the rest of their body.
‘Because you’re beautiful.’
He blinks at me for several seconds, then walks around the counter and tilts my head up. My neck aches, the inside of my throat burning like it’s on fire, but I don’t care when he leans in and kisses me, deep and tender, making my toes curl.
He steps back when he’s done, like he didn’t just make my entire world tilt on its axis with the slide of his tongue against mine, and gets back to work. This time, as I watch, he doesn’t hold his movements back.
He sways as he stirs something in a pot on the stove, the fingers on one hand dancing over the counter. His head rocks from side to side every so often, and he takes a minute with his eyes closed before grabbing a bowl and pouring in whatever he was making.