Twenty-Five Arya
twenty-five
Arya
Arya groaned and massaged his neck. He’d spent too long in an uncomfortable chair in Mitchell’s hospital room, hunched over his laptop, trying to run a fucking company off the hospital Wi-Fi.
Mitchell was going to be all right. That was the main thing.
The ambulance had come quickly when he found Mitchell Wednesday night—or was it Thursday morning? Thankfully the office was only five minutes away from the hospital.
That five minutes had felt like five hours.
And the hours he’d spent in the emergency room Thursday morning had felt like years.
He’d dozed off a few times, in between texting Carley and Jim and Val and everyone else who needed to know that both he and Mitchell were out of commission.
He’d managed to text a good morning to Ben, but anything more had felt too heavy to share with a fake boyfriend.
Mitchell had finally come around yesterday afternoon, groggy and out of it—but not too out of it to make up some story about having a bad reaction to his medication.
Arya was certain it was alcohol poisoning, but what could he do?
He wasn’t Mitchell’s family, wasn’t his power of attorney.
He was just his business partner. His friend. His mentee.
Arya had spent the rest of Thursday with him as he slept, occasionally waking up enough to mention a few things on his to-do list before falling back asleep.
Arya had finally gone home to get some rest when the doctors promised Mitchell was out of the woods, but he’d come right back Friday morning after asking Carley to cover his meetings for the day.
He thought about Ben again, naturally. But this was well above the pay grade for a fake boyfriend.
He’d already unloaded all his shit about his parents; he didn’t want to share his work drama.
And he didn’t want anyone at the PhilBall to find out about this; MME was hanging on by a thread.
If people knew their CEO was passing out at the office…
Arya shook himself as he steeped a sachet of chamomile he’d snagged in the hospital’s coffee shop before heading up to Mitchell’s room. This couldn’t go on.
It was time for an uncomfortable conversation.
Mitchell’s room was on the tenth floor, down the end of a long, antiseptic-smelling corridor. Light streamed in from the windows at the end of the hallway, looking south toward a great view of downtown and the Missouri River winding past. Everything looked green and bright. Summer had come on fast.
Mitchell’s door was open, but Arya knocked on the frame anyway, just in case Mitchell was, like, going to the bathroom or something. There were some things that could never be unseen.
“Yes?” came Mitchell’s answer. His voice sounded stronger today, at least.
“You decent?”
“Am I ever?”
Arya swung in.
“I was hoping you were that twunky nurse,” Mitchell groused. His eyes were bright and clear, something Arya realized he hadn’t seen in… god, he couldn’t even remember how long.
He sat on the weird seat next to Mitchell’s bed again. “Please tell me you’re not sexually harassing your caregivers.”
“Looking respectfully isn’t sexual harassment.
Everybody knows that.” Mitchell put his hand—there was a little monitor attached to his index finger, with a thin cord trailing off it—over his heart.
“I just like watching his arms when he checks his charts. He’s got one of those forearm tattoos, you know the solid rings? ”
Arya chuckled. He knew the ones, and he did appreciate a nice forearm. Like Ben’s. They were strong, with nice cords, and Arya could only imagine how tantalizing they’d look as he played his cello in long, strong strokes…
Arya shook himself. Now was not the time for horny daydreaming about his fake boyfriend. Though he did owe Ben a text, a call, something. Maybe he should’ve warned Ben he’d miss the meeting? But Carley could take care of that, and Arya needed to take care of Mitchell. He had to focus.
This was his problem to sort out.
“We’ll see. So what did the doctors say?”
“They’ll release me tomorrow. My reaction’s all cleared up, but they want to monitor me one more day.”
“Your reaction.” Arya kept his voice neutral. They’d done this song and dance often enough, but Arya wasn’t going to play his part this time. Not when Mitchell had gone far enough to end up in the hospital.
“To my medication,” Mitchell said firmly.
“Mitchell…” Arya pressed his lips together. “That wasn’t allergies.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I found you, remember?”
“So?”
“So I found the bottles, too.”
When Arya first met Mitchell, he kept a few bottles of nice liquor—high-end bourbon, scotch, gin—on a shelf in his office. The level in them only changed after Mitchell had clients in for a meeting or something.
These days, it was the big Costco jugs of mediocre vodka and whiskey, tucked away in a cabinet. And they were all empty.
Mitchell shook his head.
Arya pressed on. “You’re scaring me, Mitchell. I thought you’d died.” Arya let the shake in his voice come out. It had scared him. He didn’t know what he’d do if something actually happened to Mitchell.
“It was a mistake. I overindulged.” Mitchell crossed his arms, but one of the monitors started beeping, so he uncrossed them with a huff. “I’d had a rough day. It was a mistake. And I was on a new medication.”
“Okay.” Arya would let Mitchell keep to that lie, as long as he was acknowledging he’d been drinking too much. Baby steps, right? “But… don’t you think it might be good to see someone about this? There are therapists, or groups, or—”
Mitchell’s demeanor shifted. “What do you think this is?” He narrowed his eyes. “I had a few too many drinks. I fell asleep. I learned my lesson. I’ll be more careful.”
It wasn’t just that. “Things are slipping through the cracks at work, though. Obscura—”
“I don’t want to talk about this right now. I need to rest,” Mitchell said, lying back and closing his eyes. “You should go home. Or to the office. Go see your boyfriend.”
“But…”
Mitchell faked a yawn then, so big and obvious Arya could see the fillings in his molars.
Arya sighed as he gathered up his laptop and backpack. He made a show of putting everything away, hoping Mitchell would change his mind. He was at the door when Mitchell said, “They’re discharging me tomorrow. I’ll be fine. You’ll see.”
“Right. Okay.” He closed the door and headed back to the elevator.
As he waited, a couple walked up, judging by their body language. Holding hands, looking at each other with little smiles. Happy together.
Arya wanted to throw up.
He made it down the elevator, out into the parking garage, and into his Subaru before he lost it. He let out a long, guttural scream, unleashing all his worry, his frustration, his impotence.
What the fuck was he supposed to do?
Mitchell was his friend. His partner. His former boss. His mentor. His erstwhile father figure. His queer elder. And he was falling apart in real time, as Arya watched, and refusing to accept help of any kind. To even admit something was wrong.
Arya banged on his steering wheel, accidentally setting off the horn. He waved in apology at the person walking behind him, pushing someone in a wheelchair.
What was he supposed to do?
Arya sighed and rested his head against the steering wheel.
What could he do? Buy Mitchell out? He was doing fine, money-wise, but it wasn’t like he had cash lying around.
He’d invested in Shiraz Bistro, gone in with Ramin as silent partners, but that was for love.
For community. For Farzan. Not for profit.
(Farzan did insist on splitting the profits, but it wasn’t like Arya was raking in huge amounts.)
So what. Should he just quit? Walk away?
What would happen to Carley and the rest of the team, left to Mitchell’s whims?
What would happen to his clients, folks he’d spent years cultivating friendships with?
It was a weird sort of friendship, maybe, since money was involved, too, but if not friendship, there was at least mutual respect and trust.
Fuck a duck.
Arya slid his phone out. He thought about calling Ramin, who dealt with horrible clients all the time at his own job at a marketing firm. He thought about calling Farzan, who was level-headed and always gave good advice. But he didn’t call either of them.
He was Arya Fucking Nazeri. When he called to talk about work, it was to share a zany client story. Someone wanted to bring a live bull onstage. Someone wanted a hologram of a dead celebrity to present an award. Someone wanted to get up onstage and play with the band performing a special concert.
He shared hilarious stories. Not… this. He didn’t want Farzan or Ramin.
He wanted Ben.
Which was ridiculous. Ben wasn’t really his boyfriend. This was so far above Ben’s pay grade it was another tax bracket. He didn’t want to burden Ben with all this shit.
But who else was there? His mom? His dad?
A bottle of wine?
That’s what had gotten Mitchell into this mess.
And then Arya’s phone lit up.
Ben
Missed you at the meeting today. Heard your mentor isn’t doing well
Or is it boss? Carley was vague
Either way I hope you’re doing okay
Arya clutched his phone to his chest. His aching, bounding chest. Ben was thinking of him. Ben cared about him. He knew he shouldn’t, knew it was crossing lines they weren’t supposed to be crossing. But he didn’t care. He was so tired of holding everything together.
With Ben he could let go. At least a little bit.
He relaxed his grip on the phone and typed out an answer.
Arya
I’m okay
Thanks for thinking of me
Sorry to miss the meeting. Everything go okay?
Was Justin there?
Instead of another text, Arya’s phone began to buzz with a video call. He answered, and Ben’s face came into frame, slutty little glasses and all.
Despite his fear and frustration, Arya smiled, his shoulders relaxing instantly.
“Hey. I thought this would be easier.”
“Hey.”
Ben studied him for a second. “That bad, huh?”
Arya snorted. “Probably worse, honestly.”