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THE APARTMENT WAS SILENT and dark when the cell phone alarm woke Sean for the first time. Disoriented, he pawed around the coffee table and silenced the offending noise.
Asbjorn. Time to wake Asbjorn.
Sean turned on the table lamp by his head and rubbed his eyes before swinging his cold feet to the floor and stretching his arms up, trying to wake up at least a little bit. The temperature had fallen overnight and the light blanket did little to keep the chill away.
He padded across the cold hardwood floors to Asbjorn’s bedroom. Sean knocked, pushed the door open, and reached for the small reading light on the nightstand. Partially illuminated, Asbjorn’s angular jaw looked sharper than ever. His cheekbone would have jutted out, cut and statue-like, had not the swelling engulfed his whole eye socket.
Boy, what a wreck, Sean thought, grimacing. At least the blood’s washed out of his hair.
His fingers twitched at the memory of the soft wisps under the dryer the night before, and he felt his face flush despite his sleepy-eyed fatigue. He hadn’t helped Asbjorn shower, exactly, but Asbjorn had trouble reaching up and twisting with his broken rib, and Sean’s calm, impersonal assistance seemed welcome.
Not much different from giving first aid as a camp counselor.
Sean sat on the edge of the queen-size bed and reached for Asbjorn’s shoulder. “Asbjorn. Time to wake up, Asbjorn.” Not wanting to shake the injured man, he kneaded the shoulder with his fingers.
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“HEY, ASBJORN. WAKE up!”
Morning inspections were in progress and his unit stood by their bunks at the ready, dressed and looking sharp.
“I want the whole fucking place to look ship-shape. Boots fucking shined. Blankets fucking tight. Regulation fucking corners. None of yer sonsobitches are gonna have any junk stashed away where it don’t belong.”
The new recruits stared ahead. Whole minutes passed before the door opened.
“Officer on deck. Atteeen-SHUN!”
A tall, stern man in a gleaming chief’s uniform filled the doorway, and Asbjorn realized he’d forgotten to put his clothes on that morning. He hoped his commanding officer wouldn’t notice. He stared straight ahead with that defocused, peripheral vision look, careful not to eyeball him. His men didn’t say anything, so maybe his exposed nakedness was not as noticeable as he feared. The man’s stern eyes shone out of his dark face as he turned toward Asbjorn.
“Asbjorn! Asbjorn!”
He felt a cold hand squeeze his shoulder.
“Hey, Bjorn! Wake up!”
It was the “Bjorn” that did it. Nobody called him that. He had earned the right to his screwed up, old-fashioned name the hard way. Every single schoolyard fight he had either fought or avoided made him Asbjorn – not Bjorn, and most certainly not Ass. Feeling irritated and incompetent in the haze of his dream, he cracked his eye, only to shut it against the mild glow of the lamp. “Go away.”
“Asbjorn. You need to wake up for a few minutes, okay? Here, I got you some water.”
He realized how thirsty he was, and the promise of water motivated him to crack his good eye open again. The unwelcome specter of Chief Munoz was banished. Sean Gallaway was looking at him instead. “Yeah.” His voice croaked. “Thanks.”
He tried to sit up but winced in pain and fell back against the pillow.
“Roll to your side, Bjorn.”
“Don’t call me that.” Brushing his irritation away, he focused his energy on rolling toward Sean and the enticing glass of water. He drank some. His hand brushed Sean’s briefly as he returned the glass. The long fingers looked white in the pallid glow of the reading lamp. His eyes scanned over his volunteer caretaker in his light, long-sleeve pajamas. “You cold?” he asked, noting the way Sean’s shoulders were drawn in.
“It’s okay. I’ll put on some more clothes. You need anything? Advil?”
“Yeah. Thanks.” Sean got a capsule from the bathroom and Asbjorn took the caplet with more water. “Hey, Sean. Come under the covers. It’s warmer than the sofa.”
He saw Sean hesitate, as though he was sorely tempted to take Asbjorn up on the welcome invitation. Anyone would have been happy to leave the too-short, cold, lumpy sofa far behind. A wistful expression passed over Sean’s face, but then he shook his head. Regret, and something else, were written all over his face.
He watched him intently with his one good eye until he yawned. “C’m on, sunshine. The landlord has the heat off overnight until after Thanksgiving. You’ll freeze out there.”
Sean wavered, running his hand through hair. “Don’t call me sunshine.”
“Your hair looks like a golden halo,” Asbjorn said with a grin. Then he winced in pain. “Besides, you called me Bjorn.” He turned onto his back, clenching his jaw as he inched his way over to the other side. His jaw hurt too, and he huffed an exasperated exhale. “Sean.”
He felt the warmth of Sean’s brown eyes on him.
“Please.” He schooled his expression into a mask of epic suffering. “So you don’t have to get up because of me.” He moved to make even more space, allowing himself to wince as he felt the rib shift in his side.
He didn’t know if it was the “please” or the signs of acute discomfort he allowed to show in his face as he moved to make space for Sean that had been Sean’s undoing.
With slow deliberation, Sean set the glass on the night table and turned off the lights. “Only if there is enough space,” Sean said, sounding very reserved.
“G’night, Sean,” Asbjorn said. Almost immediately, he fell asleep.
––––––––
“ASBJORN, WAKE UP.”
He groaned at the sound of Sean’s voice. At least the light was off. “What?”
“Time to wake up. The timer went off.”
Asbjorn turned to see Sean with his glowing phone in his hand. “Sunshine, I need to get some sleep. Just turn it off, will you? I’ll be fine.” He saw Sean frown in irritation, close the phone, and put it away.
“Sorry, Bjorn. I want to make sure you’re okay.”
“I’ve had concussions before. I’m still here. Chill, man.”
“You sure you have enough room with me here?”
Asbjorn felt warmth stir within his chest, a feeling that counteracted the painful ache of his broken rib. Sean didn’t see his faint smile in the darkness of the night. “Sure. Now go to sleep.”
Asbjorn relaxed to the sound of the easy, regular breathing of the man next to him, and had it not been for the pain in his jaw, he would have grinned. He remembered the peck he had deposited on that sinuous, tan neck when Sean fell asleep in the library, and his lips still tingled at the memory. Unbidden, he recalled the feeling of being drawn in to Sean’s warm gaze and unable to move away, unwilling to avoid the tender brush of Sean’s lips against his own over a steaming cup of coffee.
He stirred uncomfortably. His few years in the Navy had taught him the value of both self-discipline and discretion. With all those guys around him, it would have been impossible not to realize he preferred men by a wide margin. After one near-disaster of almost having been found out onboard ship with another sailor, he kept as tight a lid on his libido as he did on his wild temper. Even with DADT over, messing around was a bad idea and when others engaged in illicit liaisons, he was careful not to notice.
He was no longer enlisted, however, and his current environment allowed him to do things he couldn’t have done before. He could get into fights as evidenced by his present condition. He could stay up late and sleep in, and the repercussions would be a lot less severe than only one year ago. He could skip making his bed, and nobody would put him on toilet-cleaning duty as a consequence. He could date.
Date.
Asbjorn thought back to when his father died. Nell and James Thorpe were still unmarried at the time, teaching karate as undergrads. His chest tightened at the thought of James. They called him Tiger, and he no longer knew how that had come about. What he knew was that Tiger taught him to control his combustible temper and gave him both unconditional acceptance and a goal. In turn Asbjorn had applied himself to passing school with decent grades and learning how to kick ass in karate.
There had been no time for girls. Tiger was his idol, his goal. He wanted to be just like Tiger, wanted to move just like Tiger, wanted to dress just like Tiger. Most of all, he wished to please Tiger and earn his respect.
Tiger.
It occurred to him that his feelings of devotion to his late karate instructor might have been less platonic had Nell-sensei not been around. They were such an obvious couple, and rocking their boat would have been inconsiderate, ungrateful, and mean.
His head hurt as he tried to follow that line of thought. Suppose there had been only Tiger and no Nell. Would he have acted on his attraction? It felt odd, thinking that. His face heated despite the cool air of his apartment, and he realized he was blushing in the dark.
Sean stirred, turning his lithe body toward him. Had it not been for his stupid fucking broken rib, he would have been tempted to pull Sean in and spoon him from behind. Greatly daring, he would have draped his arm over slender hips. He’d have buried his nose in the sunshiny hair, breathing in the faint traces of herbal shampoo and Sean’s warm musk and – he inhaled experimentally, wincing at the pain in his side – a faint trace of sandalwood incense.
Pain kept him awake, on and off, all night long. Every time he roused, irritated and tired, Sean’s easy breathing helped him relax and sink into the mattress. He drew shallow, careful wheezes of air, willing the pain away and biting back quiet curses, unwilling to wake the younger man who rested so peacefully by his side.
Right before dawn he crawled out of bed, taking his time while hissing and gasping, and used the toilet. On any other weekend, it would have been a good morning to get up extra early and get some work done before his run by the river, if only he’d gotten enough sleep the night before.
The very thought of running made him ill.
He hobbled back to bed instead and closed his eyes against the dawning light, his mind on Nell’s words. He needed to grieve. A distinct sense of discomfort made him shudder, for grief meant feelings and feelings meant pain.
Dud was loading the Jeep while Nell had still been saying her good-byes inside the warehouse.
“Dud.”
“Yeah?”
“Have you ever seen Tiger cry?”
Dud straightened to his full height and looked down at Asbjorn, the gaze in his eyes dark. “Yeah. Once.”
“Do you know why he... why he did?”
Dud paused, torn. A moment passed. “Almost two years ago. Nell had a miscarriage. They both took it pretty hard.”
Now Asbjorn centered himself, his pillow rolled up under his neck. Maybe... if Tiger could find it in him to grieve for a life unborn, a promise of joy for both himself and Nell, then perhaps he, Asbjorn, might permit himself to feel. Keeping his breathing shallow out of necessity, he willed himself to relax and sink into the mattress. He shut his eyes.
James Tiger Thorpe.
He visualized the tall figure of his deceased teacher, brown eyes smiling, brown hair spilling over his yoked shirt as he grilled hamburgers, as he shared his beer, as he leaned over Asbjorn’s homework.
Tiger-sensei.
His large, sinewy hands and hard, devastating fists. His calm, deceptively lazy voice that explained, enticed. His sharp intelligence, applied to body mechanics as well as X-ray crystallography.
Tiger.
The friend who showed him there was always another way, a better way. Fighting was to be avoided. Mourning his father without picking fights was not only possible, it was preferred. Preferred by Tiger.
He felt a curious pressure build up in his chest and his sinuses began to fill. His natural tendency would have been to control his breathing and divert his thoughts to baseball statistics, or wonder whether the energy level of an electron in the 5s2 valence shell of technetium, produced by the bombardment of a molybdenum target using deuterium...
Stop.
Stop thinking.
Feel.
He halted his train of thought again and focused on that unregulated feeling of loose, random heat bouncing around inside his body. He strained not to count his breaths. He persevered in his effort to just feel. Nell wanted it that way. Tiger would have wanted it that way too.
For Tiger.
A silent, hot droplet detached itself from the corner of his swollen eye and made its way around his cheekbone, forging a solitary path down to his ear. It was the first tear he shed since his father died all those years ago.
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SEAN DIDN’T KNOW WHAT woke him up. It was early yet, and the thin morning light barely filtered through the drawn thermal shades and sheer, lacy curtains. Asbjorn was lying on his back, his breathing even, eyes closed. Carefully, Sean slid from under the covers and slipped into the bathroom. Only minutes later he was back, standing by the side of the bed, debating whether the sound of a shower would wake Asbjorn from his much-needed sleep, when a wet glistening on the man’s cheek caught his eye. He squinted, leaning forward. A veritable trail of tears made its way from under the shut eyelashes, winding its way down, following the topography of the battered, bruised landscape of his face.
Silent as a cat, Sean slipped under the warm comforter. He could pretend he’d seen nothing. This would allow Asbjorn to maintain his dignity. On the other hand, if a man of Asbjorn’s caliber chose to shed tears, there must have been a good reason for it. And if this was so, then it was surely acceptable to comfort the man – a friend – who was, apparently, distressed.
Taking care not to jostle the mattress, Sean propped himself up on an elbow and regarded Asbjorn. The tears continued to trail down Asbjorn’s cheek. Acting entirely on impulse, Sean leaned over and gently brushed his lips over the wet skin, wiping the moisture away.
Asbjorn remained strangely still. Sean didn’t get punched, nor did Asbjorn growl at him to leave him the fuck alone. Sean took that as encouragement. He rose on his elbow, taking stock of the silent man beneath him. The man whom he had already kissed last week, if ever so briefly. The man who pressed an ice pack upon his bruised forehead with touching care just hours ago. Sean didn’t understand where Asbjorn’s tears came from, but his mission was clear. He was to kiss those tears away.
Sean snaked his leg across as he positioned himself over Asbjorn, careful to straddle him above the waist. He supported himself on his arms, sparing Asbjorn’s broken rib. He let his head droop low, barely reaching the tear-stained skin, and bestowed a series of touches on the chiseled cheekbones with his cool, soft lips.
“Sean.” Asbjorn’s voice was a hoarse whisper. “What the hell are you doing?”
Suddenly uncertain, Sean barely smiled, brushing his lips against Asbjorn’s. “I... I don’t know.”
Asbjorn let out a sigh. “I am supposed to be crying. Nell-sensei requested it.”
Sean saw Asbjorn’s right eye open, the split skin above the eyebrow looking a lot angrier than even hours ago. “Yeah? How come?”
“Beats fighting.” Asbjorn’s tone grew exasperated. “I can’t cry when you’re over me like this, sunshine. Do you realize how difficult it was to get started to begin with?”
Sean met his impatient blue gaze with incredulity. “Do you mean to tell me you forced yourself to cry just to get it over with?”
“Not forced... it was more like a weird meditation exercise.”
Sean smiled. “Well, since you’re obviously a bit outside your comfort zone, I suggest you try it again some other time. Too much of a good thing, you know.”
Asbjorn stirred under Sean’s hips. “Sean. Why do you think kissing me does not push me further outside my comfort zone?”
Sean planted his palms by Asbjorn’s ears and looked down at him, his gaze serious. “I’m not gay either. I just... I want to make you feel better.”
Asbjorn squinted up with his one good eye. He reached with a tentative hand to touch Sean’s hair. It was wild and unkempt, sticking up every which way. Sean couldn’t tear his eyes away from Asbjorn’s expression. It was curious, full of wonder. Sean saw Asbjorn’s cheekbones flush with warmth where he touched him, and his lips smiled with a promise of more to come.
“Sean.” The name rolled off Asbjorn’s tongue, sweet and sensuous as he ghosted his hands up the toned arms above him, his light fingers stroking the shoulders and neck, tangling in the overgrown shag. He pulled Sean’s head toward his. “Wanna try again?”
I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t. I don’t.
Sean stared at the man below him, his mind spinning, trying to find the least awkward way out of his rather awkward position. Just as he was about to mumble an excuse and slide off Asbjorn entirely, he felt those large, warm hands slide back down his arms. His knuckles were still red and swollen from the fight with Don, and Sean noted the way Asbjorn favored the area. Then came the thrill of feeling the long, sensitive fingers. A caress on his neck. Fingers plunging into his hair again, twining through.
With great deliberation, Sean allowed Asbjorn to pull him down. Their lips met once again, and Sean was more certain of their mission this time. Soft and warm and generous, they explored the sensitive surfaces until Asbjorn’s tongue flickered out to taste the corner of Sean’s mouth.
This was new. They both stopped and drew away, evaluating. Their eyes met.
“Still okay?”
“Mmmm,” Sean said as he lowered back to Asbjorn’s mouth.
Their tongues touched briefly this time, and Sean’s eyes shut under the assault of the amazing, pleasurable sensation. He dipped down and tilted his head, running his tongue along Asbjorn’s lip. A moan escaped Asbjorn. Suddenly Sean wanted to be on top of Asbjorn, melting inside him –
Inside him.
Asbjorn returned Sean’s kiss with enthusiasm. Sean felt his warm, slick tongue explore him –
the soft sensation, the new taste. He craved more contact, and as Asbjorn pulled him down, Sean melted in his arms and collapsed on his chest.
“Owww...,” Asbjorn groaned under him, gasping.
“Ahhh! Ow!” Sean sat upright suddenly, putting his hand to his mouth. “You bit me!”
“Sorry, I’m so sorry. Just my fucking rib.”
Sean widened his eyes in alarm. “I apologize. My fault. I forgot.” He unstraddled Asbjorn and settled next to him. He ran his hand through Asbjorn’s hair, trying to make him forget the pain for just a little bit. “I’ll take my shower and then I’ll make us some breakfast,” Sean said, his voice uncertain with embarrassment. “If I stay in bed, I’ll do you more harm than good.”
The process of making Asbjorn feel better came with unintended consequences. The erection that was exciting only moments ago was suddenly inconvenient, and showed no signs of abating under the streams of cold water. Resigned to his fate, he turned the water back to warm and resolved to just get it over with. The memory of Asbjorn’s sensuous lips warred with his inner confusion. He was pretty sure he knew what this meant. He just didn’t know why, or how he would deal with it all.
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ASBJORN EMERGED FROM the shower to the aroma of coffee, eggs, and toasted bread. He dried off with painful slowness and pulled on his blue terry robe and slid his feet into sheepskin slippers.
Sean was already dressed in jeans and a burgundy thermal Henley shirt, his sock-clad feet sliding as he set breakfast on the table.
“Not much, I’m afraid. I’ll make something nicer tomorrow.”
Asbjorn took a seat and surveyed the table set before him. “You didn’t have to, you know. There’s always cereal.”
Sean gave him a skeptical look. “I don’t know how you can eat that sugary stuff you buy. My mother used to bake Irish soda bread on Saturdays.” His voice sounded wistful.
“Oh yeah?” Asbjorn asked, curious. “Did you ever try to make soda bread?”
“No... too complicated.” Sean sat across the table from Asbjorn. “Did you grow up with any special foods? Like Danishes?”
Asbjorn’s laughter was kind, almost infectious. “Danishes don’t come from Denmark, you moron.” He stirred his coffee, thinking a bit. “Besides, I left Denmark when I was only nine. When we came here, I discovered the delight of sugary cereals.”
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SEAN RAN OFF TO TEACH the Saturday morning aikido class. Every technique he performed, taught, and corrected seemed tainted by his experiences of the previous night. He found he used fewer words with his students, unwilling to commit to definitive statements about potential success of what he taught, of what he practiced. The foundation of the truths he had built his life upon had been shaken by a simple foot grapple, deftly executed by Adrian Rios of the winning grin and amazing coffee-colored eyes.
He didn’t want to think about it.
And yet... Adrian was an interesting fellow. Good friends with Asbjorn’s apparent nemesis, Don. Or so it appeared at first, and Sean needed more background knowledge on this diverse and fragmented group. Once he was outside again, he pulled out his phone and called Nell and got Adrian’s phone number from her.
He paused before he pushed the dial button again, feeling a little nervous. He didn’t really know the guy. He seemed friendly enough, though, so Sean steeled himself and dialed.
“Adrian Rios.” Adrian’s voice was alert – at least he didn’t wake him up.
“This is Sean Gallaway. I don’t know if you remember me from last night...”
“Hi, Sean! You’d be hard to forget. What’s up?”
Sean walked over to a bare sycamore and leaned against its smooth bark. “I’m helping Asbjorn, and I figured I’d find out more about what’s going on before I step into something, you know? So... “ he paused, trying to find words.
“Where are you now?” Adrian asked.
“MIT campus. I just finished aikido class, and I want to stay out of Asbjorn’s hair for a while.”
“Good idea,” Adrian said with a laugh. “He can’t stand being hovered over. Want to meet for a cup of coffee? I can be over there in fifteen minutes. There’s that place on campus...”
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HALF AN HOUR LATER, Sean was sitting across the table from Adrian, who was drinking a double espresso with water on the side. Sean stuck with green tea.
“The fights are by invitation only,” Adrian continued the history of the Warehouse fight club. “Several dojos and some independents get together every so often. The warehouse belongs to Joe’s Trucking Company. They let us use it for free. It started out with a group of old friends in professional jobs who had to burn some extra calories and a lot of stress away. They’d invite their sensei and senior students from their dojos, and it just grew. I invited some of the street kids so they have an outlet for their competitive energy. It’s like a club, but informal. We all pitch in as best we can.”
That much made sense. Sean had found the atmosphere to be congenial, almost family-like, especially in the beginning.
“So how did Asbjorn get involved?” He asked, digging for information. Adrian measured him with an appraising look before he examined his half-finished coffee.
“Tiger and Nell were brought in by their former teacher, Clark-sensei, who was killed in the running of the bulls in Pamplona.”
“No shit?” Sean blurted.
“Yeah. That’s a few years ago. He was a bit wild underneath it all. So Asbjorn and Nell brought you in just the same way Clark brought them in, see?” Sean felt Adrian inquisitive look on him again. “This is all a lot of ancient history. Are you sure I’m not boring you?” he asked mildly.
“No! No. This is all very interesting.” And it was. The group was unregulated and wild, and it offered both support and a strange sort of freedom. The feeling was new and fresh. Sean decided he liked it. “So, about Asbjorn.”
“Ah! I almost forgot... you were so curious about Asbjorn.” There was a twinkle in Adrian’s eye, and Sean felt heat rise up his throat.
“Just because he brought me in,” Sean explained all too quickly. “That’s all.”
Adrian nodded, sipped more espresso, and chased with a gulp of water. “Of course. That’s all. Nell and Tiger brought in Asbjorn way back when – Asbjorn was a natural fighter even as a teen. He really looked up to Tiger after his father died. Hell, he even cut off his precious long hair, getting a buzz cut.”
Now that part was rather odd, and Sean had every intention of verifying this unlikely tidbit with Asbjorn at a later date. “Really? Was Tiger against long hair?”
“Not at all,” Adrian smiled, drawing the story out. “But young Asbjorn was a hellion, suspended from school all the time after his father died. So Tiger made him a bet. If Asbjorn could go without a fight for a whole week, Tiger would have to style his hair according to Asbjorn’s choice. But if Asbjorn fought, Tiger got to pick the hairstyle for Asbjorn’s hair.”
“He lost?”
“Within three days.”
And that’s how he was to this very day, all because a man Asbjorn idolized made him get a buzz cut for a bet all those years ago. Sean could just imagine the wild taunting Asbjorn must have endured in school. But he kept his hair short – it was good for the Navy, and he was still holding onto it. Furthermore, Asbjorn had been devastated to learn of Tiger’s death, but nobody had told him Tiger’s motorcycle accident was inadvertently facilitated by Don.
“So, he and Don don’t get along?” Sean tried another tack.
“They do,” Adrian said with a sigh. “But there is a history, too. Don and Tiger hit it off immediately. They were like yin and yang – Don is irritable and Tiger was laid-back. Nell wanted to settle down, so they were getting their finances together to start a family, and Tiger sold his hog – a beautiful, two thousand eight Screamin’ Eagle Dyna Super Glide – for over fifteen thousand. It helped, with both of them having some scholarships and all, but Tiger missed that Harley like a good fuck.” Sean sucked in a breath of air. Adrian just laughed, and continued. “So Don, being a big softie, decided he’d organize a fight for his Ducati – which was a bike Tiger admired but could’ve never afforded. Don had beaten everybody except for Tiger, and he made it look real good – even Tiger thought he’d gotten lucky on Don that night.
“Except a hog is a nice, stable bike with loud pipes, and the traffic can hear you when they can’t see you. A Ducati is an Italian crotch rocket – your profile’s lower, you go faster, and you are pretty darn quiet at it. Had Tiger been riding his hog that night, he’d be alive today. The driver would have seen him.” Adrian drifted off into silence. They sat in a still bubble redolent of coffee and caramel syrup, but the soft clamor of the coffee shop did not reach them until Sean stirred on his hard chair and broke the spell.
“Nell said that bad things happen to good people. Surely Don wasn’t at fault for killing Tiger.”
“No. But Asbjorn’s in a world of hurt over it. We’re all sort of curious how he’ll handle it.” Adrian’s voice was somber with concern. Then his cell phone chimed the tango, and Adrian’s frown changed into a smile.
“Hey babe,” he answered the phone without even looking at the caller ID. “Thai? Okay.... Your wish is my command.... “
Sean tried not to eavesdrop, but his name pulled his back into Adrian’s one-sided conversation. “Yeah, I’m having coffee with Sean. He’s rather curious about Asbjorn.” Sean noted the mischief in Adrian’s eyes, and the way he waggled his eyebrows.
“Okay. Love you too,” Adrian said, and ended the call. “Sorry about that,” he said in Sean’s direction. “That was Don, and he’s a terrible baby when he’s hurt. He wants me back. Preferably with Thai food.”
Sean stared. “Oh.” It wasn’t obvious. He looked at Adrian again, from his spiky black hair down to his sleek leather jacket. “I didn’t realize... “
Adrian leaned back and smiled, as though he was enjoying Sean’s discomfort. “But if you and Asbjorn – then why not me and Don?”
“But Asbjorn and I just friends,” Sean blurted out. “And I’m just helping him while he’s healing up.”
Adrian gave a serious nod. “That makes you a good friend, Sean, and Asbjorn needs a friend like that right now.” He got up. “This was fun. Let’s do it again, okay?”
Adrian’s smile was infectious, and Sean returned it without even thinking about it. “Thank you for meeting me,” he said. “I really appreciate all the intel. And tell your man to feel better soon.”
Adrian nodded. “Same to Asbjorn,” he said and sailed out the door, leaving Sean to wonder what was that little smile all about.
He left the coffee shop and strode over to the Pile, unlocked the door to his basement room, and occupied himself with basic household tasks. He straightened up while the laundry was in the washer, and he read his assigned text while it was in the dryer. The room felt so warm, so comfortable. His private, almost secret hideout. He smiled as he carried a basket of clean clothes into his room and dumped it on the bed. He was halfway done with the folding when, out of nowhere, a vivid image assaulted his mind.
He was knocked down and pinned to the mattress and unable to move, and a large, dusky fist struck his face. There was nothing, absolutely nothing, he could do about it.
He stood still, frozen in shock. Then he shook his head to free himself from the intruding thought, and picked up the shirt that slipped through his fingers just moments ago.
Nonsense.
Utter nonsense. Just because he encountered a stranger who could counter his technique didn’t make him weak or vulnerable or incompetent. Wild stories of adventurous men and their underground fight club had nothing to do with who he was.
Sean put the rest of his laundry away, stashing a few extra articles of clothing in his voluminous backpack. He had to finish a lab write-up and study for a chapter test, and he had to get a leg up on Stoke’s Theorem and the gradient of a scalar field for math. He paused. He could do all of that at Asbjorn’s place, and he could even bring some supplies. Sean stopped by the kitchen. The leftovers in the large house refrigerator smelled sour, but the cold cuts were bought only yesterday, cheese lasted forever, and some of the fruit looked okay. He raided a decent supply. That and his green tea – and wait, he should pick up some bread and milk for Asbjorn at the corner store on the way.
Once he slammed the old door behind him, he relished the way his long strides ate up the gray pavement. He was preoccupied with thoughts on his coursework and on Asbjorn and how the man could get through classes with his injuries.
He froze in place.
It was like a target was painted between his shoulder blades. He spun to look around, examining with feigned indifference the students passing the convenience store.
I must be going crazy. It’s just stress. Tests are coming up. It’s just in my mind.
Placing his trust in his rational mind, he shook off the uncomfortable feeling and headed back to Asbjorn’s apartment.