77A/N: This is quite obviously NOT early November. I got slapped with about six essays and four projects and a hard drive crash and now it's finals, and even though this section was about 99 percent done, I couldn't even carve out enough time to do the dusting off editing/adding needed. Finally got around to it. It's also SUPER unbeta-ed and is probably choking to death on mistakes. I apologize in advance.
Further notes: I'm saying this story is taking place in somewhere almost, but not quite, entirely unlike Colorado, where the age of consent is 17. Not being from not-Colorado, I apologize for all my probable inaccuracies about the not-state. I do, however, know that most of not-Colorado says 'pop', not 'soda'. Also, the title of the chapter is not spelled wrong or made up. Wikipedia it, if you're curious.
And, I changed the main genre of this story. Because I made a DUUR before and didn't think about what it really should have been under.
Part II: Libration
Simon's truck lived in a rotting shed next to the house, with a half-caved roof and moss thick and dark on the splintered beams. The truck itself was dull red, with dried mud sprays above the wheels and grimy windows. It sounded fine when Holm fired the ignition, and drove over the pitted ground with no problems. Holm managed to pretend he wasn't surprised, and drove the truck along the valley floor, searching for a road that had to exist.
He found one, eventually, and it was little better than a dirt path. There were tire tracks ingrained into it, but it looked as though they were the result of a truck having once driven through mud there, and not the mark of frequent passage. Guessing from Simon's complete lack of social skills, Holm wouldn't have been surprised if Simon never went to town, and had groceries parachuted in, or something else ridiculous and extreme.
The truck handled the non-road with only a modicum of success, and Holm could hear every piece of metal creaking as he bumbled along. He had to slouch down over the wheel so that his head wouldn't hit the roof with each jolt, and the whole thing was very uncomfortable. If this was really the only road out of this valley, Holm could see why Simon rarely left. Although the man probably liked the complete inaccessibility of the place.
After about fifteen miles of misery, the dirt path merged with a paved, guard-railed mountain road, and Simon's truck took to that which much more kindness. The next road sign Holm passed told him the next town was in twenty-six miles. He sort of remembered passing through a town of the same name on his way up two days earlier, and was glad that at least he'd found the right road.
Bored, he poked at the radio but got nothing but explosive static, on all channels. Then he realized that the antennae of Simon's truck was twisted and mangled, bent at a bizarre angle. He could see it thrashing around through the windshield. He flicked the radio off, and drove in nothing but silence and ambient noises from the road. Wind whistled through cracks in the insulation and the engine made occasional odd purring noise. Holm tried to ignore it all until he finally saw another sign that alerted him to the town coming up on the road.
The only visible part of the town from the road was a small street scattered with a few dust-colored buildings, a diner and a gas station. Simon's truck ambled down the little road serving as an off-ramp and bumped along the somewhat paved main street. He'd hit the diner first, Holm decided, find a pay phone to use. His parents—mother, especially—had always been particularly concerned about his whereabouts, starting when he'd learned to drive. One particularly memorable time, his mother had called the police to start a city-wide search when he'd only been down the block at a friend's house.
Holm pulled up along the curb alongside the diner, and let Simon's truck rumble itself down into silence. He climbed out of the cab and down to the dusty sidewalk. He didn't both locking the truck, and headed towards the diner.
A bench outside the door held a large, lumpish man, his bristly chin nestled against a wide chest and a baseball cap pulled down over his face. Every other second he wheezed out a rattling, grunting noise, and his chest hitched mightily, threatening to displace his lolling head. Holm kept staring him until he ran face first into the diner doors, then flushing, pushed his way inside.
It was a rustic, woodsy-type place, every wall upholstered in faux-wood and the booths covered in faded floral prints. Every head in the diner turned sharply to watch Holm's entrance, which made him falter in his steps. But after a moment, they all turned back to their own business. Perplexed and wary, Holm walked up to the counter, populated by a couple of grizzled men nursing large mugs of black coffee and exchanging grumbling conversation with the waitresses.
The closest waitress to Holm had a mass of glistening brown ringlets for hair, and bright red lips. Her blue polo shirt had a tab sewn on the left breast reading "Bertha". She turned with a penciled eyebrow quirked as Holm approached the counter.
"Er…hi," he said. "D'you have a payphone?"
Bertha's eyes flickered quickly up and down his face. "In the back, hun," she said. "But only for paying customers."
"I'll be paying to use the phone—isn't that enough?"
"Don't be giving Bertie here any lip, son," threw in one of the baseball-hatted, flannel-wearing men at the counter.
"Fine, fine," Holm muttered. "Can I get a…pop or something? Whatever doesn't cost much."
'Bertie' produced a spotty cup from somewhere and filled it with clear sparkling liquid. She slid it across the counter to him as Holm pulled a few bills out of his wallet to pay.
"Phone's around the corner," Bertha said. Her eyes flittered over his face again, and Holm wavered on the spot, not sure if that mean he was free to go, or not. Everyone felt so nervous in this place, he wasn't sure how to act.
He took a gulp of the drink, left it on the counter, and went off around the corner. It led around to a narrow little alley into which were crammed the payphone and the doors to the restrooms. Tucking the phone club between his cheek and shoulder, Holm riffled through his wallet for spare change, finally picking enough out to make the call.
Someone picked up on the third ring.
"Hello?"
"Hi, mom, it's m—"
"Holm!" his mother screeched. Holm jerked the club away from his ear. "Holm, where have you been!? You were supposed to be back by this morning and I was going to call the police only I remembered what happened last time—" Holm bit back a laugh, "—and your father convinced me to wait and—where have you been? I even went down the street to Cody's house to see if you were there!"
"Mom, Cody's family moved away a year ago. They don't even live there anymore."
"Well, that would explain why those people didn't want to let me in. But Holm—where are you?"
"I'm still in the mountains, mom. Dad's truck broke an axle and I had to find a place to stay for the night, and then the guy who let me crash got—" shot, "—sick, and couldn't drive me to town. This was the quickest I could get to a phone."
"Didn't he have a phone?"
"No." Holm couldn't help grinning. "He hates humanity."
"What? Oh, Holm, honey, I'm just so glad you're all right! Where are you now?"
"In a payphone in a diner. I, uh, might be a while before I can get home. I have to get a tow truck up for dad's truck, and I have to drive this guy's truck back to him. There's a lot of trucks involved."
"But you're all right?"
"I'm fine, mom, really. I promise. I'll call you again as soon as I can, but it might be another day before I can get home. Is that all right?"
"Honey, where are you?"
"Some mountain town. I'm really fine, all right? Don't worry about me. I gotta go. But I'll call you."
"This is it—I am forcing your father to buy you a cellphone, this is just ridiculous—"
"Mom," Holm shouted into the receiver. "I'm going to go now, okay?"
"—don't care about the bills, it can't cost as much as he says—"
"Mo-ther!" Holm tried one last time, then hung up, shaking his head. His mother might rant into the phone for another five minutes before she realized he wasn't still on the line. But as least she knew he was alive.
Emerging from the phone alley, Holm noticed a few of the grizzled townies giving him dry looks, something akin to cows chewing cud. He ignored them, stalking out the doors and back into the dulled mountain light. Simon's red truck leered at him from the curb. Holm reconsidered, and went back inside, again locating Bertha by the register.
"Hey," he said, and she jumped, then turned cherry lips and glossed curls on him. "Is there a hospital—er…within any sort of reasonable distance from here?"
Bertha smacked her lips at him. "You'll be wanting the next town down the mountain, hun," she said.
"And…how far is that?"
"'bout another twenty miles."
"Great." Holm glanced at the clock hung up on the wood paneling over the counter—already it was past four. He'd really be pushing it against nightfall if he went another twenty miles, another twenty miles back again, and then however many miles up to Simon's. "What about a mechanic?"
Smack, smack. "Same thing, hun."
"Okay. Great, fine, thanks." Holm swiveled and strode out the doors again, aggravated. What kind of town didn't even have a mechanic? He stopped outside the diner and blew air out of his mouth, staring at Simon's truck and trying to gauge just how long this extended trip might take. He heard a mumbled voice from behind him but ignored it, starting to head towards the truck.
"Hey, boy," the voice said again, louder. Holm turned around, found the lumpish bearded man by the diner door was awake, and staring at him.
"Er…yeah?"
"You camping up in the woods?" the man graveled, drawing an arm across his bald forehead.
"No, not camping exactly…"
"Good'n," the man burbled. "Dangerous a bit'n. Trouble with wil' animals, y'see…"
"Ookay," Holm said. "Right. Of course."
"Hadta sho'one outa winnow las' night…" the man's voice became slurred and rumbly as his head settled back to the wide chest. Holm stared until he realized the man had fallen asleep again.
"Wow," he muttered. He headed back towards Simon's truck again, shaking his head. He cast one last look over his shoulder at the man, and noticing something he hadn't before.
The diner door was made of wood, and across the front of it, around and above waist height, there were deep gouges cut into it, long scratches that stuck out with splinters and dangling slivers of wood. The marks didn't look old.
Something thick rising in his throat, Holm moved back towards the doors, stooping down to peer at the marks. There was a tinge of red along one of the ruts. Holm lifted his hand, placing it along five of the marks, which were just as wide as the spread of his hand.
Swallowing, Holm backed away. The lumpish man was still snoozing by the door, and hadn't moved. Above his head Holm noticed something else—one of the diner windows had a corner pane broken out of it, and a splintery board had been propped up against it, sealed there with duct tape. There were glittering pieces of glass on the ground under the window.
Holm turned, went back to the truck, and climbed into it. Uneasiness prickled at the back of his neck, and he had the odd, unreasonable feeling of hundreds of eyes staring into him, accusing him. He shook his head. His hair fell into his eyes and he swept it back with one hand, clearing his throat and yanking the key in the ignition. He had to make good time if he was going to pull an extra forty miles out of this trip.
He made good time getting down to the next town. It may also have been because he was driving a little faster than was really safer on these roads. But the tingling at the back of his neck hadn't disappeared until he was at least another ten miles down the mountain, and it was only then he had eased his foot off the gas.
This town was bigger—not quite a city, and yet larger than the word "town" would normally describe. He also vaguely remembered passing this one on his way up. It nestled in a fairly large and flat area amongst all the craggy peaks and hills, buildings clustered and busy near the center, and spreading continuingly thinning tendrils of civilization winding out through the trees. The sun wasn't blocked by mountains here, and even though it was on its way to setting, the town was brighter and cheerier. Holm could almost completely shake off his previous anxiety.
Once driving around in the streets, he found a mechanic shop first. It wasn't difficult—nothing that the finding and using of a phone book couldn't do—and the men working there were an oil-streaked and rough bunch who were helpful and friendly enough—at least enough to tell Holm that they didn't drive up on the mountain past dark, and could the emergency wait until tomorrow? Holm told them it wasn't an emergency, at which point they readily scheduled a pick-up for eleven o'clock the next morning.
Holm had been prepared to give a long, detailed explanation of how to get to Simon's house, but one he mentioned a guy living up alone on the side of the mountain, the mechanic laughed and said he knew exactly who he was talking about, and how to get there. More than confused, Holm just accepted the good luck. Then he asked if there was a hospital or doctor's office nearby. The men pointed him in the right direction.
It was just a doctor's office, and was very small and personal. The secretary was wearing a casual sweater and nice skirt but nothing dressier. The office was apparently very unbusy. She accepted Holm as a walk-in and sent him down a little hallway to an examination room, telling him that the doctor would be with him in a few minutes.
The doctor's name was Berger. There was a framed drawing of a hamburger on the examining room wall.
Holm scoffed at it before starting to pace around the room, avoiding the examination table with its hideous crinkly paper. He wasn't the sick one, he wasn't getting up on that.
Eventually, the door clicked open.
"Well, you look healthy," said a male voice as Holm stopped in his pacing. The doctor was a tall, handsome-faced man, black hair streaked with grey.
"I am healthy," Holm replied. "I'm not here for me."
"Really," the doctor said, grinning toothily. "Who for, then?"
Oh good, Holm thought. He either thinks I'm too young to be serious, or just too young in general. Fuck my age.
"Someone whom I couldn't get to come here," Holm said. "But I think needs medical attention anyway."
"And who would that be?" That goofy smile again. Holm just pretended that he wasn't being condescended to.
"A guy who lives up on the mountain," he said. "He's kind of reclusive and I couldn't get him to come down himself, but—"
"Oh, I think I know who you're talking about," Berger said with a chuckle. "Simon Westen, right?"
"Yeah…how'd you know?" Why does everyone know who Simon is? was what he really wanted to ask.
"He's come down here twice in the five years he's lived up there. Emergencies only, of course."
"Yeah, of course," Holm said, smirking. "What was wrong with him?"
"The first time he had a stomach flu. He had someone living with him then, and they drove him here, probably against his will."
"Drive a hatchback, by any chance?" Holm asked.
"You know, I think he did," Berger said. "Either way, that was the first time I met him. The second time was a little stranger—he came by himself, it was about two years after that. He had these five long gashes, right here," the doctor patted his abdomen, "and it looked like something had gnawed on his shoulder. It was an older injury at the time, but getting infected. He told me he'd had an accident in his toolshed, but it was obviously an animal attack. He was pretty convinced it wasn't, so I just patched him up and let him go. Haven't seen him for about three years since."
"He didn't want me to get a doctor for him," Holm said, wondering exactly how much this doctor honored patient confidentiality. "But he's got another weird injury that doesn't make sense. There's no way he'll come down, I thought maybe you could go up instead…?"
"A real house call," the doctor laughed. "Maybe. I'd have to check my schedule. I suppose it if was that serious he'd have come down."
"Well…I think he was shot."
"What?"
"Not…bad," Holm said. "Just in the arm. Like he was shot at. He's walking around and bitching at me and everything, so he's not that bad right now, but I think he lost a lot of blood. And it'd probably be better if someone with, you know, medical experience took care of him."
"He sustained an injury from a bullet and wouldn't come down to a hospital?" Dr. Berger seemed either disbelieving, or enraged. Or both—Holm wasn't sure. "He really hasn't changed."
"Probably not. Either way, he won't come down, and I know that it's really weird to ask you to go up there or anything, but—"
"If I didn't know the boy…" Berger mused, trailing off. Holm squinted at him, and waited. The man moved to the door, his hand going to the handle. "I'll be right back," he said, and Holm, far from being able to object, nodded.
The door closed again. Holm started pacing around the room again. He spent a few moments contemplating the frame burger picture. It just reminded him that he hadn't eaten since the late morning. He started examining the jar of Q-tips instead.
After a couple of long minutes, Berger returned, holding a leather dayplanner. He was scribbling in it as he pushed back-first through the door.
"Mr. Westen is lucky," the man said before Holm could speak. "I have very few appointments tomorrow. And if I can't get up there, I can send one of the nurses. Either way, he should be taken care of."
"You know where he lives, then?"
"Well, we do have his medical record," Berger said. "Comes with an address."
Berger arranged a tentative hour of one o'clock the next day to go up to Simon's. Holm was slightly disappointed that he himself would be gone by that point, but was at least glad that someone would be there to help Simon at all. It was really the most he could ask for.
After thanking Berger profusely, Holm started on the long drive back up the mountain. Once the sun fell completely behind the mountains, he had no way of telling the time. The clock in Simon's truck, rather predictably, didn't work. It changed times randomly, first telling him it was 4:17 and a few minutes later, 10:39. Holm thumped on it with a finger a few times before resigning it to the other dozens of things of Simon's that didn't work, and turning his concentration back to the road.
Once he was a few miles past the first town he had stopped in, he had to creep slowly along the winding road, trying to find the dirt path that would take him back to Simon's. He very nearly passed it when it came up, and only barely saw it because of a battered tin mailbox that jutted out at the side of the road, almost as an afterthought. Holm hadn't even known Simon had a mailbox. The truck's weak headlights barely illuminated the excuse for a road and Holm crept up it at a consistent ten mile an hour pace. He couldn't even guess at the time when he finally rolled into the depressed grass tracks made by his prior trip.
The lights were all on in Simon's house again, making it easy to see the smaller shed beside it. Holm parked Simon's truck in the opposite direction it had been before, and hopped out. The valley was as cold as it had been the previous night, sharp wind biting through his clothing and across his skin. He sprinted across the grass to the house, clomping up onto the porch and pawing with frozen fingers through the front door.
He stumbled through and shut the door behind him, rubbing his hands together and blowing on them. He glanced around, and saw Simon, sitting on the blue and green couch. Just sitting, doing nothing else. He had turned, and was staring at Holm with an uncomprehending expression.
"You're back," he said blankly. Holm frowned.
"Yeah." He threw the keys—Simon caught them with his uninjured arm. "I told you."
Simon didn't answer. He stared at the keys in his hand, then back at Holm, then away, towards the fireplace.
"I'm sorry," he muttered suddenly.
"What? I couldn't hear—"
"Don't play that fucking game with me, I said I was sorry!" Simon snarled, then hunched back against the couch cushions. "I'm sorry."
Holm wasn't quite sure what to say. He hadn't expected the man to actually apologize.
"Thanks," he said awkwardly, and Simon just nodded, staring at the edge of the coffee table.
"Look," the man said. "I'm a horrible person. I've treated you like shit. I really expected you to just leave my truck in town and take off with yours. Why did you even come back?"
Holm shrugged. "I don't know."
"Godammit, that's not an answer."
"Sure it is. Have you eaten?"
"Fuck, I can barely cook when I have two working arms," Simon said. "So, not exactly."
"I'll make something."
"You—why?"
"Because we're both hungry," Holm said, aware that hadn't been what Simon was asking. The man slumped back in the chair, and seemed to accept the answer anyway.
Holm dug in the kitchen cabinets to see if he could locate something other than soup, but his efforts produced nothing, except older and dustier cans of more soup.
"You really like soup, don't you?" he called out, head still stuck in the cabinet.
"I hate soup," Simon replied morosely. "But the shelf life is fucking epic."
Holm laughed and popped the lid off of one of the cans. He wasn't sure how possible it was for soup to smell cold, but this did. He grabbed the pan, sloshed the soup in, added water, and threw the whole thing onto the stove. He poked at the mush with a spoon, and nearly jumped when Simon came up and stood next to him, staring down at the soup slowly swirling in the pan.
"Are you getting a tow truck, then?" the man asked.
"Yeah, tomorrow," Holm said. "Guy's coming up around eleven, he said. They wouldn't go up on the mountain after dark, for some reason."
"Not surprised," Simon muttered.
"What?"
"Nothing. Anyway, I've been wondering this. What were you even doing up on the mountain in the first place?"
"Visiting a friend. His dad's a forest ranger, they moved up near the station a year ago."
"All right, but what the fuck were you doing on the mountain? There's no road there."
Holm fidgeted. "Yeah, well…I thought it would be quicker to go over it. Yes, it was stupid, I know," he said at Simon's look. "Chalk it up to being a stupid, immature teenager."
"Except you aren't," Simon muttered, but wouldn't repeat it even when Holm punched his uninjured arm. They didn't speak for another minute, and Simon's body leant slightly into Holm's, brushing against his shoulder. Holm glanced at him, tilted back, and Simon jerked away.
Holm spoke to distract them both. "So what are you doing up on the mountain?"
Simon glared at him. "I fucking live here."
"Yeah, okay, but why? This is like someone's winter hunting lodge, or something. Not a house."
"I like the winter hunting lodge, okay? Leave me the fuck alone."
Holm sighed and poked at the soup. He turned up the heat, and tried conversation again.
"So, what exactly is it that you do, anyway? You don't work, obviously."
"Obviously," Simon said. "No, I'm…self-employed."
Holm nudged him. "Doing what?"
"I'm a writer, all right?" Simon snapped. "God, you're so fucking pesky!"
"I know," Holm grinned. "My mom can't decide whether it's my best or worst quality. What do you write?"
"Words," Simon said. "Pay attention to your soup, there."
"It's chicken noodle. It cooks itself. What do you write?"
"You should know. You got soup all over some of them earlier."
Holm stared at him for a long moment before he figured it out. "Wait, you write books? Those books?"
"Yeah." Simon pinned him with a glare. "What about it?"
"Those were some messed up things," Holm said. Simon shrugged.
"So it's reflective of my innate psyche. So what? I write books. They sell. I get money. The fucking end."
"You wrote all of those?" Holm waved in the general direction of the bookshelf in the living room. Simon scoffed.
"No. I wrote four of them. Coincidentally the ones that you were sprinkling with soup last time."
"Jeez…that must be why your name sounded familiar."
"What?"
"I thought your name sounded familiar. Guess I've heard it before, or something. I just didn't put it together."
"You know, my name is on the front of those," Simon said, copying Holm's vague wave. "Your powers of observation are extremely stunted."
"Oh…whatever," Holm muttered.
"No snarky comeback? No witty retort? I feel cheated." Simon smirked at him and Holm flushed but grinned back.
"Yeah, yeah. Put in another quarter and maybe you'll get a better song."
Simon shot one eyebrow towards his hairline. "So where's your slot?"
Holm nearly choked. "Is that innuendo? Are you innuendoing me?"
"That's not a fucking word," Simon replied, and Holm recognized the throwback and laughed. The soup starting plopping and bubbling and Holm seized the spoon, stirring it around. Simon's breath tickled his neck.
"Do you have to stand so close?" he asked.
"Yes," Simon said. "I'm cold. The stove is warm."
"I meant to me."
Simon made a petulant noise in his throat. "You're warm too."
"Then at least stop breathing on me," Holm said. His ears were hot, and it wasn't because of the stove. Simon sneered and stepped away.
"Cook faster," he said. "I'll be on the couch."
"Bet you will," Holm muttered, but Simon was already gone.
In another few moments, Holm dubbed the soup done, and slopped it into the only two bowls in the house and carried them over to the living room. Simon was sitting on the blue couch. His fingers rested against the gauze of his bandage, and Holm could see the faint hint of blood seeping through again. He tried to ignore it—Simon would just have to soldier through until the next day.
He put the bowls on the coffee table and slid one over to Simon.
"Thanks," the man said, and Holm stared at him in mock-disbelief until Simon flipped him the bird, and he grinned and sat down beside him.
"So," he said. "You're an author. Is that why everyone around here knows that you're up here? I mean, even the mechanic guys like thirty miles away knew where you were."
Simon was unsuccessfully trying to capture noodles with his spoon. "I don't know, I guess I'm a source of mystery, or something. That reclusive writer who hemmed himself up in the deep woods. Fuck, I don't know."
"Do you ever go to town?"
"Of course. I have to get food. Or send manuscripts in. One or the other."
"Ah, right." Holm lifted his eyebrows and watched Simon, who continued to chase the noodles around in his soup bowl. Holm wasn't even sure if he'd actually eaten anything yet.
"I didn't plan to stay here," Simon said unexpectedly.
"What? I thought you adored Middle-of-Fuck-All, USA."
Simon rolled his eyes. "Ha, ha. Sure, I do. But you must have noticed this place is a shit-hole."
"Well, sure. But I thought you liked that."
"Nobody likes that. I… moved up here with my boyfriend five years ago." Simon paused, and eyed him. Holm shrugged.
"I don't have a problem."
"Good. But that's why we came up here. Others—like our families—did. We didn't plan to stay. I just wanted a place to write and he, stupid sentimental bastard, wanted to be with me. It was supposed to be temporary. And now I've been here five years. Three of them without him."
"Why?"
"Place grew on me," Simon said.
"Yeah, right."
"Then you give me another reason that sounds plausible."
"Why not the truth?"
Simon shrugged. "The truth is unbelievable."
"Try me."
"No."
Simon turned and started to invest all his concentration into his soup. Holm rolled his eyes around and followed suit. They ate in silence for a few minutes. Finally, Holm put his bowl down.
"So," he said. "There's a guy coming up here tomorrow."
"The tow truck guy."
"No, ah—a doctor."
"What?" Simon jolted. "Jesus Christ, Holm—I fucking told you not to—"
"I'm just worried about you, all right!?" Holm exploded. "I just want to help! I'm not doing it to piss you off!"
"I—" Simon paused with his mouth open, then shut it, looking away. "Sorry, I—"
Holm sighed. "God dammit, never mind."
"Look, it's been a long time since anyone gave a fuck about me, all right?" Simon snapped, then wrenched his head away again. "It's…weird."
"Weird that someone cares?"
"Weird that you do."
"Who wouldn't make it weird?"
"I—" Simon's face twisted up, and he made a noise that sounded something like a laugh. "Point. You win. Still…you're a teenager. And you're taking care of me. It's backwards, it just doesn't…I don't understand it. Oh, plus I've been a complete bastard to you."
Holm shrugged. "You're not so bad."
"Yeah, right."
"No, really. If you were actually that bad, I'd be insulted by now, or…in tears, or offended, or…you know. Affected in some way."
"So you're saying I don't affect you."
"I—" Holm cleared his throat. "Yeah. That way."
Simon pushed his spoon around in his bowl. "I…" He cleared his throat as well. "Then, I guess…thanks. You know, for…caring. Enough. It is kind of nice."
Holm grinned. "Isn't it?"
"Guess you'd know. Mom's a nurse, huh?"
"Yeah. Always took care of me when I was little. Still does, now. It is nice."
Simon touched his bandaged arm. "I bet. You get through to them? Your parents, I mean."
"Yeah, wasn't a problem. I told them I'd be back tomorrow." He glanced sideways at Simon."So, you can hold a civil conversation."
Simon's mouth quirked up. "Of course I can. I just never feel inclined to."
"Except for now?"
"Are you trying to rile me up right now? Can't you just see that I'm trying to be more polite to you and take it?"
Holm grinned. "Is that what it takes, then? An act of good samaritanism to get you to be nice?"
"I'm not nice," Simon said, but a smile flicked the corners of his mouth.
He looked up and Holm grinned at him, and found himself a little closer than he meant to be. Simon's little smile flickered on his face, and Holm moved closer. Simon's eyes were blue, deep blue with little grey streaks. His hand was reaching, suddenly, and he felt thin material and then skin beneath it, and his fingers brushed along Simon's hip. Simon's eyes widened and blinked, and another hand slid along Holm's wrist, the one still resting on the couch between them. Holm let his hand turn over, and fingers traced along his palm.
He hadn't looked away from Simon's eyes. He inclined his head, felt breath on his mouth, Simon's fingers sliding into a hold around his wrist. Holm's other hand played over the waistband of Simon's jeans, his thumb pushing into the skin above.
Their noses bumped, and nothing else, and then suddenly Simon was whirling away, all contact breaking with Holm.
"No. No, no, no, no," he said, rolling into the side of the couch. "No, not happening. No."
"Simon." Holm said, pulling his hands back to his lap, and staring at his knees. His face was searing.
"Goddammit, no," Simon barked. He leapt to his feet and stalked away. "I am not—I am not doing that. Ever. With you. No."
Each sharply punctuated word made him flinch, and Holm pressed his lips together. "Okay," he said. "Okay. I'm sorry."
"Yeah, you—you'd better….damn well be," Simon muttered. He was pacing rabidly back and forth now, his hands raking through his hair.
"You can sit back down," Holm said dully. "I won't do that again."
Simon eyed first Holm, then his bowl of noodles, half-eaten. He moved back to the couch and sat, but didn't eat. He stared down at the bowl, his forehead pressed against the heels of his hands.
Holm picked up his bowl and started easting again, but could barely taste anything. He didn't look at Simon. He could see the man only out of his peripheral vision, rubbing his hands back and forth through his hair. His face was still burning. He almost wanted to feel rejection but what he felt instead was…stupid.
He put his bowl down. He wasn't even hungry anymore. He didn't even want to look at food. Even watching Simon chase the noodles around in his bowl was no longer amusing. He leaned back against the couch and shut his eyes, exhaling. He squeezed his eyelids tightly shut until yellow and red bursts danced in the blackness.
"Jesus, you're a mess," Simon said suddenly. Holm opening his eyes, glanced down. Simon was right—his jeans were covered in dust and mud, and his t-shirt was wrinkled and had splashes of soup left on it. He'd left his jacket up in the guest bedroom last night.
"So what?" he said. "It's not like I brought spare clothes to go tromping around in the woods with."
"Not just your clothes. You smell."
Holm sniffed his sleeve. "I do not."
"You do, believe me. Go upstairs and use my shower. Towels in the cabinet. Go."
"Are you sure you want—"
"Just go."
"Fine." Holm stood, and tromped up the stairs, making as much noise as he could until he got to Simon's bedroom. He went to the back, into the bathroom.
He'd been in here once before, on his mad dash to find the medicine kit. It still smelled like chemicals and was still tinted faintly blue—from the blue floor tiles, the walls were white. The shower was in the corner, walled off by glass panels. The bathroom door had no lock on it, and the most Holm could do was shut it firmly. He doubted Simon was going to barge in on him showering, but it still felt odd to be naked in a near-stranger's bathroom with the door unlocked.
Holm turned the shower knob, and water poured out of the shower head obligingly. It warmed up surprisingly quickly, and Holm stepped in and shut the glass door behind him. He couldn't remember a shower ever feeling this good. Suddenly all his muscles felt rigid and sore, and the hot water pounding against his skin eased the tension. He leant his forehead against the tiles under the showerhead and closed his eyes, letting the water scald across his back for long minutes, until his skin was scalded red.
Simon had a few hygienic type things on a small shelf in the shower, but Holm didn't touch them. He didn't want to touch anything that was Simon's. Even the towel, when Holm stepped out of the shower, he was reluctant to use. He rubbed himself dry, shoving the towel back and forth through his hair. In the mirror above the sink, his wet hair looked as dark as Simon's. It curled a little, and twisting tendrils fell into his face. But it would dry straight, and light brown, as it always was.
When he looked around on the bathroom floor for his clothes, he couldn't find them. He hadn't just kicked them under the sink or something—they were actually gone. The only explanation was that Simon had taken them. Holm felt the skin of his face heating up—that meant Simon had come into the room when he was showering. Why, exactly, he couldn't even fathom.
Holm wrapped the towel around his waist and grabbed a second and flung it over his shoulders for good measure, and then left the bathroom. The first thing he saw was Simon, standing at the foot of the bed, looking down at something.
"Hey, what happened to my cl—" He stopped. He could see exactly what had happened. They were sitting on the floor at Simon's feet, and Simon had gone through his jeans pockets. Because he was holding Holm's frayed wallet, flopped open, his ID card taken out.
"Making sure I am who I said I was?" Holm joked, but couldn't smile when he saw Simon's face.
"Yeah, you're Sandholm Redding, all right," the man said. "But you aren't seventeen."
"Shit." Holm had forgotten. "Yeah, I—"
"Yeah, you nothing. You're only sixteen. You're sixteen and you were trying to seduce me? Did you want to get me fucking arrested or something?"
"I…no. When I told you—I didn't know you! I didn't know I would—"
"Don't fucking finish that sentence. Ever. Just…get dressed." Simon dropped Holm's wallet on top of his wrinkled heap of clothes, and stalked out of the bedroom. The door slammed behind him.
"Shit. Shit, shit, shit," Holm muttered, kicking his clothes across the room, where they struck the wall and fell behind the bed. Then Holm realized he actually needed them, and chased them down, cursing under his breath the whole time. By the time he had dressed, he was more angry than upset, and he was already yelling at Simon when he came clumping down the stairs.
"S'that why you wanted me to take a shower?" he bellowed, not exactly sure where Simon was in the house. "So you could rifle through my shit?"
He located the man quickly, on the blue and green couch with his face pressed into his palms. "I don't know what I was doing," he said into his hands. "I wanted to—no, fuck, I don't know!"
"Then fucking figure it out!" Holm went into the kitchen and leaned over the sink, his arms braced on the counter. His damp hair felt icy against the back of his neck and he shivered. He saw the two soup bowls sitting in the sink, washed out. At least Simon had done that much.
He wasn't sure how long he stood there, but soon a shadow fell over him from the doorway. When he turned, Simon was standing there.
"Look, just—you stay away from me. I'm staying away from you. You're leaving tomorrow," the man said.
"Yeah," Holm said. "Yeah, I am." He walked out of the kitchen, past Simon, towards the living room. Simon's mouth tightened, and he followed.
"Don't guilt me. I have nothing to be guilty about."
"I'm not trying to—"
"Then stop looking at me like I just murdered your goddamn puppy! There's nothing here, okay? I don't know what you thought but it's wrong. Just fucking wrong. Got it?"
"Got it," Holm said. "I…I'm sorry, you know."
"It doesn't fucking matter! Just—Jesus, stay away from me, all right?"
"Yeah," Holm said. "Okay."
The best way to do that was just to go lock himself in the guest bedroom. Holm started up the stairs, trailing his hand along the banister. His limbs felt heavy, and loathe to move. Simon glared at him from the living room, all the way until Holm reached the landing and opened the door to the guest room. He went in, stood, paused, then went back out and shut the door, loudly. He waited a moment, then went to the landing railing, and looked over.
Simon had collapsed onto the blue couch, his head in his hands.
"Fuck," he whispered, the room catching his voice and throwing it softly around the high ceiling. "Fuck."
He raked a hand through his hair a few times, pushing it futilely away from his face, then cradled his head back into his hands. His shoulders shook.
Holm edged back along the landing, opening the guest room door as quietly as he could. He slipped inside, and tipped the door shut again. He wasn't exactly sure what that whole thing had meant, only that Simon was even more upset than Holm was, at least about something.
Holm shrugged off his jacket and tossed it to the floor. He didn't really care anymore. He wasn't that tired, but there was nothing to do. He was banished to this room. He couldn't go talk to Simon, because Simon didn't even want to look at him anymore. He wouldn't have even minded being bitched at, at this point. Anything was better than this.
He climbed onto the bed, shucking off his shoes. He lay down, but didn't close his eyes. He almost wished the crazy night noises would come back. At least that would be something to do—something to listen to. Instead of being stuck here with his own head, his own thoughts, his own violently truncated desire. He couldn't think of Simon. Wouldn't think of Simon. He rolled over on his side, squeezing his eyes shut.
He willed sleep to come, but it felt like hours passed before it did so.
Holm woke up abruptly, for the second day in a row having no idea what time it was. He pried open the shutters again. No fog this morning—only a watery sun that had climbed into the sky above the treeline. It was at least mid-morning. Maybe near eleven.
Holm stretched, wincing. Sleeping normally in the guest bed hadn't been any more comfortable than falling asleep against the headboard the previous night. He climbed out of the bed, and put his shoes back on. He dithered around in the room for a while, not sure if he should go downstairs and risk seeing Simon, or not going downstairs and miss seeing the tow truck. Simon probably wouldn't want to deal with anyone, even if it was someone who was going to assist in Holm's leaving.
Finally, Holm left the guest room and padded down the stairs. Slowly, looking out for Simon the whole time. He didn't see him until he got down to the ground floor, where Simon was in the kitchen.
Holm heard the sound of water running but wasn't sure if Simon was actually doing anything culinary. It looked more like he was just standing there in front of the sink. Holm took a step towards the kitchen, paused, fell back, and exhaled. It shouldn't have to be this difficult, he thought, toeing at the edge of a floorboard with his sneaker. Simon shouldn't have to be this difficult.
He heard a rumbling outside. He crossed to the front window and to see a dingy yellow tow truck ambling through the tall grass outside the house, pulling up to a stop. It must have been closer to eleven than Holm had thought.
Holm threw a look at Simon, who hadn't moved. Then he went out the front door to meet the man as he was climbing out of the cab of the truck. The man slid down into the grass and turned, leaning against his truck.
"Man! This place was hard to find," he said, moping his brow as though the drive had been physically difficult. He gestured to Simon's red truck, lurking between the house and shed. "That the truck?"
"Ah, no, actually," Holm said. "It's a bit further. Off-road."
" Off-road?" the man said. "You know that'll cost more, son."
"I figured," Holm muttered. "I'll have to come with you, show you where it is. I just have to go grab my stuff—I'll be right back."
His stuff only consisted of his jacket. He could have just left the thing. But he wanted to see Simon once, at least one last time. Even if the other man clearly would rather never see him, ever again.
Holm went back into the house. He saw his jacket immediately, hanging on the banister of the stairs. He thought he had left it up in the guest room. He took it and threw it over his shoulder.
Simon was now sitting on the blue couch, his head in his hands. Holm came up behind him, touched his shoulder, and Simon jerked away. Holm bit his lower lip.
"The tow truck's here," he said. Simon grunted.
Holm tried again. "So that means, I'm…uh, leaving."
"Right."
"The doctor is coming up here later, remember," Holm said. He took a few steps back. "Around one."
"Yeah," Simon said stiffly.
"I guess I'll…see you," Holm said, edging halfway through the door.
"No," Simon said. "You won't."
Damn, this part was long too (18 pages). This is just a just a big, chunky story. Oh well. ONE more part, and that'll definitely be up sooner because in four days—WHOO. Christmas break.
Thanks to obsidiandreams, Damian-Kayne, lilylupin7, I Am The Bunny Slayer, D.H. L'Orange, Mage Dudette, CloverRock, Lady Psychic, Acis, and APTX 4869 for reviewing on the first part, and Acis and APTX 4869 for reminding me to get my butt into gear on getting this up!