Page 5

Sam woke to the smell of frying onions and the sound of someone’s warm laugh. He blinked, eyelids heavy, and he rolled from his side onto his back to stare up at an unfamiliar ceiling. His tongue was dry in his mouth, his throat parched like how it got when he took too many painkillers before bed. He sat up, fighting his grogginess as vague memories of being propped up between Ivan and Eric came back to him. He remembered Ivan taking off his shoes. Remembered Eric being scolded for fussing too much. The dusty rose duvet draped over him had an indent at his side, and Sam pressed his hand to the spot, finding it still warm. Eric must have only just left.

Sam dabbed his sore cheek and felt a greasy cream spread there. The room gave no hints, so he peered out the window to figure out where he was. One of the flats above a business on the main road running through the village. The sky had an indigo hue, and Sam guessed it was nearing seven or eight in the evening.

Sam walked barefoot to the door, following voices and the smell of food. A short hall led to a joint kitchen and living room, the rooms divided by a kitchen island.

Ivan and Eric stood side by side in the small kitchen. Eric stirred something in a pan, and Ivan leaned against the counter next to him, sipping from a blue mug with a smiling octopus printed on the side. Ivan spotted Sam and offered him a smile.

“Morning, sleeping beauty,” Ivan greeted.

“Sam?” Eric jerked toward him, flinched, jerked back. “Jesus, ow, shit.”

Ivan choked on his drink, bending double as a belly-deep laugh rumbled out of him. “Hold it together, man, come on,” he got out through deep gasps.

Eric put a hand into Ivan’s face and shoved him away.

“Did you burn yourself?” Ivan asked through a faceful of hand.

“No.”

“Let me see.”

“I didn’t burn myself.” Eric shoved harder, and Ivan fell away from him.

“Alright, alright. Such an uncool big brother,” Ivan teased. “Your head feeling alright, Sam? Headache still there? Gone?” He walked to the sink, set aside his cup and filled a pint glass with water.

Sam walked toward them, still slightly groggy. “My head feels fine,” he answered.

Ivan handed him the glass and Sam downed almost the entire thing at once.

“Why don’t you take a seat? Dinner’s almost done.” Ivan nodded Sam toward the small connected living room. Sam collapsed onto the couch, sinking into the cushions with heavy limbs. Ivan joined him with a topped-up glass of water.

“Have you been to the doctor about your headaches?” Ivan asked.

“I’ve been checked out,” Sam said. He’d gone in for another check-up during the summer, explaining how they’d been increasing in frequency, but apparently aside from low blood sugar, there was nothing wrong with him physically.“There’s nothing they can give me for it except painkillers.”

“Are they usually that bad?” Ivan asked next.

Sam hadn’t ever had a headache that bad. “Not usually, no.”

“Maybe you need another check-up?” Eric suggested as he entered the room with a plate. “I got headaches until I was…” His gaze darted to Ivan. “When did they stop?”

“When you turned eighteen. You were getting them for a solid two years after you moved in with me,” Ivan answered.

Sam accepted the plate Eric handed him. Pasta bolognese. It smelled homely.

“I haven’t had one in years. But you’re older than I was when mine stopped.” Eric frowned as he sat opposite Sam. He stared at Sam, obvious worry in his eyes. Eric seemed to be constantly worried or upset or angry or bitter. Sam wondered if he was ever content or happy, or was this anxiety always present? It seemed as exhausting as it did constant.

“I’m telling you, it’s something genetic,” Ivan said. He pointed at Eric. “I used to practically strap you down. I was scared you would damage yourself, grabbing your eyes like that. And Sam, looked to me like it was your eyes that were the problem too.”

“I guess.” Sam forked up a mouthful of pasta bolognese, thrilled to find the hot meal tasted as good as it smelled.

“Have you ever gotten your eyes tested? I made Eric get an exam years ago, but they told him his vision was fine.”

“I’ve gotten them checked before. They’re fine,” Sam said. To get the dyslexia diagnosis, he’d gone through several doctors and assessments. His vision was 20/20 at every turn; his ability to read letters was temperamental. Although he needed to go in for a check-up because he was sure that his dyslexia was getting worse. Even the past few days had been more difficult than usual. The thing was, Sam didn’t know if it was because he’d gotten worse or because he’d started working on midterms and was noticing it more.

“Sorry for knocking you out, by the way,” Ivan said. “Eric gave out to me tons already, but I’m happy to listen to another lecture if you want to be angry with me too.” He grinned, and Sam got the impression Eric’s lecture hadn’t bothered him in the slightest.

“It’s alright.” Sam put his fork down into the empty bowl. “I think it helped more than anything.” If the pills hadn’t knocked him out in a wave of drowsiness, he’d almost be tempted to ask if Ivan would part with a handful.

“Are you still hungry? There’s more.” Eric eyed Sam’s empty dish.

“No, I’m good. And I should get going.” Sam stood up. “I was supposed to swing by Dad’s and bring him lunch and dinner.”

Eric’s fingers tightened around his own ceramic bowl of dinner. “We did that already.” He glanced at Ivan, who raised an eyebrow, then looked back to Sam. “I hope you don’t mind. I didn’t go in or anything; Ivan did it for me. He brought him some groceries. Enough for a few days of meals. For both of you.” Eric spoke in quick, clipped sentences.

Sam stared at him, his heart rate picking up to beat in double time. A wave of heat, something that felt like panic, swept through him. It overwhelmed him. Confused him.

“I told him I was your friend,” Ivan said. “Not sure that death stare is fair on Eric, is it?”

Sam had no idea what sort of expression he had on, but obviously it wasn’t anything pleasant, given that Eric had been struck mute. He forced his gaze away from Eric. Made himself look at Ivan. “It was okay?”

“Everything went perfectly fine,” Ivan confirmed. There was something odd about the way he was looking at Sam. Something pointed. Seeking. His caramel-brown eyes didn’t convey a hint of warmth. “Why wouldn’t it?”

Sam rubbed the back of his neck. “He gets confused a lot.”

“What does that look like?” Ivan asked. His gaze was merciless.

“What does confusion look like?” Sam’s voice flattened.

“Different forms for different things. I mean, a form that has two kids scared of their dad makes me think—”

“Tortured Eric, did he?” Sam interrupted softly. “Made him go out on the fishing boat, and what? Inflicted his occupation on him?”

Ivan raised both hands, palms facing out. “Look, I’m just—”

“How about next time you stay out of my house?” Sam suggested. His dad wasn’t a bad person. He used to tell Sam all sorts of stories and smile at him and encourage him no matter how bad a day either of them had. And the entire world seemed to hate the man for being a fisherman. “I’m not scared of my dad.” He turned on Eric. “Me not wanting some random guy going into the house to screw with his head when he’s already sick doesn’t mean I’m scared of him.”

“I didn’t mean—” Ivan tried to speak again.

“I’m not stupid,” Sam said, venom working its way into his voice. “Your meaning was perfectly clear. Where are my keys?”

“Hanging up by the door,” Eric told him, voice low. Muted.

Sam brushed past Eric to the front door, grabbing his keys from a hook and stuffing them into his pocket. He found his runners neatly set next to the entrance and paused long enough to tug them on.

Ivan followed him out of the apartment, practically tripping over Sam’s heels. “Can we talk for a few minutes? I’m sorry, I’ve clearly just majorly overstepped.” Concrete steps overgrown with ivy and green moss led the way down to a tiny parking lot squeezed in behind the businesses. Only a single set of footsteps followed Sam, rustling ivy and squelching moss. Eric must have remained upstairs. Probably up there frozen in anxiety. Sam scowled. Why pull the timid act at all if he was going to throw around this bullshit about Oisín?

“I’m good on talking,” Sam replied.

“Sam, please.”

Sam’s car was parked out the back, and as he slid his key into the door, Ivan leaned on it, physically blocking his path. “Please don’t write Eric off. He’s got a glass heart, and he’s been super nervous about seeing you again and getting along, and—”

“And he enjoys talking shit about my dad?” Sam finished. “Move.” Ivan had gotten ideas about Oisín from someone; Eric was the obvious source.

Ivan’s expression hardened. “Eric doesn’t ‘ talk shit’ about anyone, alright? He’s not that kind of guy. He’s gentle and soft and cares a whole lot about pretty much everyone he meets. I put a few things together based on some behaviours. Eric has never said a word about anything.”

He had. He must have for Ivan to throw out that kind of assumption.

“Eric’s gentle?”

“He’s extremely gentle, and—”

“I bet when you went inside that Oisíntold you about the birds that live in the apple trees outside the kitchen window. How bold the robins are and how fat the wrens have gotten this spring.” Sam stared Ivan down. “If Eric’s gentle, it’s because he got it from my dad. Now, you mind getting out of my way?”

“Can you come back up? I’ll leave. You and Eric can talk.”

“I’ll pass. Now, do you mind?” Sam indicated his blocked driver’s door.

Ivan’s expression was one of frustration. Gone was that cloying smile, the mirth and the ease. Finally , Sam thought, his eyes match what the rest of his face is saying.

“Please don’t treat Eric badly over this,” Ivan said. And even though he clearly didn’t want to, he moved out of Sam’s way.