Page 19 of Shrapnel

He closed his eyes as he trudged up the stairs. First a shower. Then he was going to eat four boxes of Kraft Mac n Cheese. Maybe he would guilt Elijah into making it for him. Food always tasted better when someone else made it.

Surprised to find the door unlocked, he pressed into the apartment. Even in the dim light of the burnt-out foyer bulb, he could see two sets of shoes kicked into the corner. He recognized those dainty little hightops. Only Noah had the audacity to have feet that tiny.

Which meant the little shit was in his apartment.

With his ears perked he could hear the TV turned down low. Some reality cooking show where chefs pretended that gourmet cooking wasn’t an industry being destroyed by automated servers and processed food. Noah’s pick, no doubt. Elijah wasn’t picky about TV, but Noah followed those reality shows like it was his personal religion.

Thanks to Noah, Jamie now knew that a Memphis dry rub was a meat seasoning and not an uncomfortable hand job in Tennessee.

Jamie picked up one of Noah’s shoes. He didn’t think it would be too hard to leap around the corner and sling the shoe right at their heads.

“I can’t do this, Elijah.”

Jamie froze, shoe held above his head and ready to deploy.

“You can,” Elijah murmured, his voice muffled. “This is a rough patch, but your people believe in you and so do I.”

He hardly recognized his roommate's saccharine tone. Elijah was a comforting person, sure. Empathetic and supportive. But that? That was beyond anything Jamie had ever heard. Crouching, he let the shoe fall from his hand and crept toward the living room.

Their apartment foyer was a short, narrow hallway that opened up to the living room to the left and the kitchen to the right. If he stayed low, he could slide under the coats hanging from the hooks and spy on the couple.

Noah had his back against the couch's armrest and his legs swung over Elijah’s lap. Head resting on his shoulder, his face hidden in the crook of Elijah’s neck. Legs splayed, Elijah was stroking Noah’s back and hair, carding fingers through the copper strands. His face was downturned, eyelashes lowered as he looked at Noah.

Noah was playing with the strings of Elijah’s hoodie, twisting the strands around each other without looking at them. “What…what if I can’t? Elijah, four. Four of my people have been murdered and I’m no closer to finding the culprit than I was months ago. Harvey says there are whispers of sedition. They don’t think I’m strong enough to protect them and I don’t blame them.”

Elijah slid two fingers under Noah’s chin, lifting his eyes to him. “No one is strong enough. Do you think the Weavers do it alone? We’re strong because we’re united. You have to find a way to unite the Mesas under you.”

Noah said something that Jamie couldn’t hear. Elijah chuckled, wiping a tear from Noah’s bottom lashes.

“You don’tneedme, my ruin, but I’ll always be here anyway.”

The flickering light of the television illuminated Noah’s flush of pleasure. He slipped into Elijah’s lap, arms circling his neck as he peppered kisses along his nose and jaw.

Jamie felt his jaw drop.

If he wasn’t seeing it with his own two eyes, he wouldn’t have believed it. Jamie had seen these two men kill. Watched them rip blades through sinew and run blood slicked hands through messy hair. They had faced down men twice their size without blinking.

And now they werecuddling.

Noah clung to Elijah like the very air between them was an insurmountable obstacle and he was waging war against it. This wasn’t sex. It wasn’t the messy slide of skin on skin leading to a release. This was lingering. Soft and sure touches that were meant to reassure rather than tantalize. Gentle closed mouth kisses that elicited a different sort of noise, an indulgent sigh of contentment.

Jamie cringed at the noises coming from the two, retreating the moment he saw Elijah’s hands sliding around Noah’s ass.

He sat back and looked at the opposite wall. Light from the TV created shadows, abstract art that flashed against the drywall. Jamie stared at them without seeing. Without understanding.

Jamie wrote romantic fanfiction. He could put the words on the page, move the characters around like puppets on his strings. The comments rolled in—they told him he was the master, that he created scenarios that ripped their hearts from their chests then bandaged them up, gave them back good as new and beating with the surety that loved existed and it was beautiful.

They were all lies.

Jamie lied. He lied when he wrote about kisses and fluttering hearts. He lied when he wrote of undying love, fate, and souls that were the missing pieces for each other. It was all a carefully crafted masquerade. Bits and pieces he had accumulated over the years, things he had read and seen reworked to fit the narrative he was trying to tell.

His fictions were borne of a morbid curiosity, an attempt to reconnect with the things he had left outside the walls. It was a cruel endeavor. He could reach out, and touch the words. Touch the feelings he couldn’t feel. Hold them in his hand and mold them into something heknewwas beautiful, but he couldn’tfeel.

Jamie stood. collecting his duffel bag and slipping out the front door. He was careful to lock it behind him.

He might not understand love, but he sure as shit knew what a cockblock was.

Owen crumpled the aluminum can and tossed it in the general direction of the recycling bin. He only knew it landed in the bin when it clattered against all its other fallen comrades. The acidic taste of energy drink coated his tongue, and he shivered as the chemicals began absorbing into his bloodstream.