Copper and Salt, page 4
Alex nodded and Oren set to work, pulling the sodden wool up and over Alex’s head and pushing the pants down until he stood bare in front of Oren.
Oren had seen him naked before, of course, five minutes after he first met him, but somehow it was even worse this time. He could count every one of Alex’s ribs, span the distance between his jutting hipbones with his spread fingers and thumbs, and even though the worst of the bruising had begun to heal, Oren was suddenly overcome with a fierce need to soothe away the rest of the injuries, until Alex’s skin was ivory pale and smooth again, unmarked and whole.
Alex crossed his arms over his chest. “Oren?”
“I’m sorry,” Oren said, shaking himself. “Hold onto my shoulder and step into the pants.”
There was a small tattoo of a butterfly on Alex’s hip, he saw as he gently pulled the sweats into place, blue and green and golden watercolors bleeding into each other in swirling patterns.
Alex was beginning to breathe hard, his complexion whitening even more.
“Almost done,” Oren said. He shook out the sweater—one of his favorites, not that he was going to tell Alex that—and eased it over Alex’s head.
Then he bent and scooped him up into his arms again. “One deluxe taxi service, coming right up,” he said.
“You talk—so strange,” Alex said as Oren climbed the stairs back to the bedroom.
Oren laughed and set him down on the bed. “It’s been said. Now, you stay there, I’m gonna go get you something to eat, okay?”
He made more oatmeal, listening for any noises from the bedroom, and hurried back as quickly as he could.
Alex was on his side, watching for him, and he pushed himself upright as Oren came through the door.
“It’s actually close to dinnertime,” Oren said cheerfully, helping Alex situate the pillows behind his back, “but I figured oatmeal would be good. Stick to your ribs and all that.”
Alex looked puzzled and a little apprehensive, glancing down at his ribs and then eyeing the oatmeal dubiously. He picked up the spoon without speaking, though, and began to eat as Oren busied himself straightening up the room.
“Have you taken a pill?” he asked when he was done.
Alex shook his head, his shoulders drooping, and Oren sat down on the edge of the bed and touched his knee under the covers.
“Can you rest awhile now?”
Alex nodded and then reached for Oren’s wrist as he made to stand. “Will you… stay?”
Oren sank back to the bed and Alex visibly relaxed. Oren looked a little closer. “It’s okay, you know,” he said.
Alex hunched his shoulders. “They will… come back,” he finally said, his voice almost inaudible.
“Maybe,” Oren said. “I got rid of them once, I can do it again. I’m a pretty fast talker. You’re safe here.”
Alex stared at his lap. “Nowhere is safe,” he whispered.
Oren stood up, taking the tray off Alex’s legs and setting it on the floor beside the bed. “Will you scoot down?” he said, making a motion with his hand, and Alex slid down the mattress onto his side. Oren waited until he was still before he climbed onto the bed behind him. He didn’t touch him, just lay quietly, a foot of room between them, and waited.
Alex caught his breath, every muscle going tense as Oren got comfortable. When he didn’t move again, though, he began to relax, the tautness of his body draining away, and wriggled backward a few inches again, until they were almost touching.
“Tell me about Mihai,” Oren murmured.
He could hear the smile in Alex’s voice when he answered. “Mihai… is so smart. Much smarter than me. He is going to be doctor. Or—ortho—”
“Orthopedist?” Oren said.
“Da. Yes,” Alex said. He wriggled back, a little closer to Oren’s body heat. “He taught himself English. He was… taught me—no. He was teach?”
“Teaching?” Oren suggested.
“Yes,” Alex said. “He was teaching me. My English not good. His much better, you will see.”
“What does he look like?”
“His hair is—” Alex lapsed into his own language and Oren blinked at the unfamiliar phrase as Alex twisted to see his face. “Your hair is what color?”
“Dark brown,” Oren said.
“Dark brown,” Alex repeated. “Mine?” He tugged at a lock of his hair and Oren couldn’t help his smile.
“Yours is blond.”
Alex smiled back at him. “Mihai’s hair is… middle?”
“Between dark brown and blond?” Oren said.
Alex nodded. “His eyes….” He glanced around as if for inspiration and his gaze caught on the sleeve of the sweater he was wearing, dark green, soft and densely knit. He lifted his arm. “What color is this?”
“Green,” Oren said quietly, unable to take his eyes off Alex’s face. His color was coming back, a little animation returning, and his hair tumbled over his high forehead, obscuring the cut on his temple.
Alex smiled brilliantly at him and turned back over, curling up against Oren’s body again. “Green,” he repeated. “Mihai’s eyes are green.”
Oren touched his hip, Alex relaxed and trusting now, his long limbs loose and easy in their sprawl across the bedspread.
“I can’t wait to meet him,” Oren murmured. “We’ll figure out how to get him back once the ice melts.”
“Can I have pill, Oren?” Alex asked, his voice hesitating.
“Of course,” Oren said instantly. He managed to find the bottle without sitting up and shook a pill out onto Alex’s palm.
“You are… good man,” Alex said quietly after he’d swallowed it.
He fell asleep eventually as Oren lay beside him and the sun went down, shadows lengthening across the floor and merging into velvety black around them.
4
They woke up early the next morning, the sun sending questing rays of light through the window to break through the gloom. Oren sat up and yawned, then stood and turned to pick Alex up, who lifted his arms to be carried.
When they were done in the bathroom, Alex made an inarticulate noise of protest when Oren made to take him back to the bedroom.
Oren hesitated on the stairs. “What is it?”
Alex fidgeted, hands in his lap. “I want… will you be with me?”
“I was thinking of working in my shop today, actually,” Oren said. “I’ve got orders I need to fill.”
“Oh… alright.” Alex looked down at his hands, twisted together so tightly the whites of his knuckles showed.
“Hey,” Oren said gently. “Can you talk to me? What is it?”
Alex looked up at him, eyes dark with shame. “I do not… want to be alone, Oren.”
Oren’s breath caught. “Of course you don’t. Okay. How about I put you on the couch for now, while I make breakfast, and then I’ll make you a comfortable throne downstairs where you can watch me while I work?”
Alex ducked his head, relief filling his expressive face. “Thank you,” he whispered.
Oren made pancakes on his favorite griddle as Alex watched from a chair at the tiny dining room table.
“The secret,” he explained as he flipped the first one, “is to beat the eggs until they’re frothy and then add some vanilla. You’ll have people begging you for your recipe, I promise.”
Alex’s lips curved. He looked fascinated. “You were cook, maybe? Before….” He waved a hand. “This? Or were you always this?”
Oren tensed. “I—no. I wasn’t a chef.” He slid the pancake onto a plate and poured the batter for the next as stillness fell between them.
Alex’s face was clouded. “I am sorry, Oren,” he said unhappily. “I did not mean to—” He made a frustrated motion. “I do not know word.”
Oren set the spatula down and crossed the small kitchen to stand in front of Alex’s chair as Alex gazed up at him, his mouth drooping.
“Pry,” Oren said. “You didn’t mean to pry.”
Alex nodded, lowering his eyes.
“I wasn’t always… this,” Oren said.
Alex looked up at him through his lashes and Oren wanted suddenly, desperately, to kiss him, to sink his fingers into Alex’s soft curls and taste his mouth.
He cleared his throat and turned back to the stove before the pancake could burn. “In a previous life, I was a line-cook in a circus,” he said over his shoulder.
“Really?” Alex said.
“Shit you not,” Oren said, holding up three fingers. He glanced back to see Alex looking confused yet again, and Oren groaned. “I mean… yeah, really. It was only for one summer, and it was some of the hottest, most miserable work I’ve ever done, but boy, can I break down a big top faster than anyone else you know.” He stopped to consider. “Probably.”
Alex was smiling as Oren set the pancakes in front of him. “What is big top?”
“It’s the tent for the circus, where the main acts are held,” Oren said. “Try those, tell me what you think.”
They ate together at the small table, Oren watching the way Alex applied himself to his food. He ate neatly, as if he’d been taught manners, but he hunched forward, elbows out, and chewed and swallowed rapidly, as if braced to have the plate yanked away from him at any moment.
He wanted to kill Andrei slowly, Oren decided as Alex finished his pancakes and mopped up the last of the syrup.
“Good?” he said.
Alex nodded, his mouth full, and Oren smiled at him as he cleared the table.
The breakfast mess put away, Oren carried Alex downstairs to his workshop and settled him in the overstuffed recliner that usually gathered dust and piles of unread mail, making a nest of blankets and pillows and fussing until he was sure Alex was comfortably situated.
“Good?” he said, standing back with hands on his hips. “I need to work on one of my tree houses. Are you okay where you are? Would you like me to find you somewhere more comfortable? Maybe I should bring a better chair downstairs for you.”
Alex was laughing. “You fuss like an old mătuşă,” he said. “I am okay. I like watch—to watch?”
“You’ll tell me when you get tired?”
“Da,” Alex said.
Oren settled in at his bench and picked up a piece of driftwood as Alex shifted so he could see a little better.
“What do you make?” Alex asked. He hunched his shoulders as Oren looked up. “I am sorry—”
“No, it’s fine,” Oren said hastily. “You can talk all you want, it won’t bother me a bit. I like the sound of your voice.”
I like your smile, too, he thought as it bloomed across Alex’s face.
He cleared his throat. “I make and sell miniature tree houses that look like they’ve grown organically in the wood branches that I’ve chosen for them. They’re pretty popular, so I make a nice amount of money for them, and I have an agreement with a place in town to sell them for me, so I don’t have to worry about a storefront or overhead or employees or anything like that. All I have to do is make them, which is what I’m good at.” He was busy with the branch in front of him as he spoke, stripping it of leaves and twigs, paring it down to what he’d need to add the foundation for the tiny house with the curving pathway up the trunk of the branch.
“On weekends,” he continued, “I sometimes go antiquing.” He glanced up in time to catch Alex’s baffled expression, and laughed. “Americans in general must be so confusing to you. I’m sorry.”
“Yes,” Alex agreed, lips curving.
“I go to estate sales, flea markets, that sort of thing,” Oren said, “and I buy interesting old pieces of furniture, things that I can fix up and sell for a profit. Sometimes I do it for commissions—I usually have a list of things that clients are looking for at any given time, and sometimes I just buy something because I like the look of it and I think I might be able to do something with it. Like the piano over there, for instance.” He jerked his head toward the corner.
Alex sat upright so quickly he nearly overbalanced. “You have piano?”
“Do you play?” Oren asked, startled.
Alex nodded, his eyes bright, his fingers flexing in his lap as if touching invisible keys. “Can I—”
“It’s due for a tune up,” Oren said, but he picked Alex up and carried him to the piano bench. Alex’s body was tense in his arms, straining toward the instrument, and he folded back the lid with reverent hands, smoothing his fingers across the ivories as Oren sat down next to him on the bench.
Oren had the distinct feeling that he’d ceased to exist as Alex settled his hands in place and began to play.
The melody rolled out, a haunting Brahms lullaby, and Alex’s eyes closed as his fingers danced across the keys, coaxing the music out.
Oren found himself holding his breath, watching him bringing song to sweet, vibrant life, working his way through the descant in rippling waves, his fingers unerringly finding their place.
When the song ended, Alex dropped his hands into his lap. There were tears on his cheeks, Oren saw with a jolt.
Alex turned his head and met Oren’s eyes, his lips parting, soft and wet. He swayed a little closer, his lashes sweeping down.
Oren took a deep breath. “That was lovely,” he murmured. “Did you play for Mihai a lot?”
Alex straightened, his face clearing. “I—yes. That was… his favorite song. It helps him sleep.”
“Where did you learn?” Oren asked, standing up and returning to his workstation as Alex began to play another tune, a quick and lilting refrain.
“The priest in our village,” Alex said over the music. “He was also… schoolteacher. He teach—” He made a frustrated noise and changed keys. “Taught. He taught us. I did—more things for him. Cleaned blackboards, swept floors, washed windows, and he taught—” He flashed Oren a triumphant smile, the music never stopping. “He taught me to play.”
“You’re very good,” Oren said as he picked up the branch. “What other pieces did he teach you?”
Alex shrugged and began a complicated glissando, fingers a blur across the keys. “I do not always know the music? I just… play.”
Oren watched him, awed. “God, you’re a fucking savant. You should be performing at Carnegie Hall, not my dusty workshop.”
“What is Carnegie Hall?” Alex asked, segueing into a slower piece. His brown eyes looked more peaceful than Oren had seen them yet, the lines of fear and worry in his face easing and an almost-smile on his full lips.
“It’s a place where really talented people go to perform,” Oren said. “One day you should go there, you and Mihai.”
Alex did smile at that, his eyes dreamy. “I would like that.”
He played for a while longer as Oren went back to work, but after about an hour, he fumbled a note and Oren looked up sharply from the tiny staircase in his hands. Alex’s head was drooping over the keys, his long body a curve of exhaustion.
“Shit, I’m sorry,” Oren said, putting down his tools. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather just go to bed?”
Alex shook his head and allowed Oren to help him upright and over to the comfortable seat he’d made for him, sinking into it with a stifled groan. “Please, I want to stay with you,” he said, his long fingers soft and supplicating on Oren’s sleeve.
Oren ruthlessly squashed the butterfly that stirred in his chest. “Alright,” he warned. “But it’s going to be pretty boring.”
“I will… sleep, maybe,” Alex said through a yawn, and curled into a ball that belied his height, pillowing his head on his arms.
Oren smiled down at him and pulled the blankets up over his shoulders. “Let me know if you need anything.”
“The snow to melt,” Alex said.
Oren huffed a laugh and felt Alex’s forehead. It was still warmer than he liked, but at least he wasn’t running the blazing fever from earlier. “When I gain control of the weather, you’ll be the first to know.”
But instead, the snow started falling harder. Oren watched, progressively more troubled, as the sky darkened outside his window and fat white flakes bumped and swirled soundlessly against the panes of glass, gathering along the sill as Alex slept.
Oren tiptoed up the steps and pulled out his little wireless radio, tuning it to an AM station that broadcast nothing but weather reports. Sure enough, Cheyenne was getting hammered and it wasn’t letting up any time soon. Temperatures were expected to be well below zero for the next week, the pleasant robotic voice informed him, and residents were advised to stay inside except in cases of severe emergency.
Alex was going to lose his mind, Oren thought, chewing on his lip. Another week before they could even begin to look for Mihai?
Oren stepped into his boots and headed outside to grab some wood off the pile. When he came back in, shivering convulsively, he heard Alex’s voice raised in alarm from downstairs.
“Oren? Oren!”
“I’m here!” Oren said. He nearly twisted his own ankle galloping down the stairs to where Alex was struggling out of his nest of blankets, terror on his face. He reached for him and Oren gathered him up without thinking, pulling him close. Alex was trembling, Oren realized with a rush of guilt. “Hey, easy,” he murmured. “I just went to get more wood for the fire, I didn’t mean to scare you.”
Alex pushed his face into Oren’s collarbone, clinging to his neck. “I dreamed—” he said, his voice muffled. “Dreamed you were dead, that—that Mihai was….” He choked on a sob and tightened his grip.
“I’m right here,” Oren repeated, stroking his hair. “I’m fine, see? And we’re going to get Mihai back, you just have to trust me.”
“When?” Alex burst out, pushing away. He pointed at the window, anguish on his face. “Is snowing more, Oren, how will I do this?”
Oren sat down beside him on the edge of the chair, still holding Alex’s hands. “I want you to listen to me. Andrei thinks you’re dead right now, yes?”
Alex lifted a shoulder, tears on his face. “I do not know.”
“Odds are good,” Oren said, rubbing Alex’s knuckles, arches of bone prominent beneath his thumb. “Once the snowstorm’s blown over, he’ll probably send men out to look for your body. But until then, we have a little breathing room.”
