“Make sure you do that, big guy.” And then Sean takes a minute step back, and that little frisson of want between them dissipates, but doesn’t disappear entirely. No, Mike’s sure it’s always going to be there, because he’s always going to want Sean. He knows this, sure as he knows the sun will rise tomorrow. There will never be a time when Mike Frazier doesn’t want Sean Mellgard.
Sean knows what’s going through Mike’s head, he has to, because he always does. His lips quirk in that smile that’s just for Mike, warm and soft, still tinged with a bit of fire. Then he winces slightly.
“Nose?” Mike asks.
“It’s fine,” Sean says. “Nothing a little ice won’t fix. It’ll be bruised, but that’s to be expected.”
“It doesn’t matter much to me,” Mike says. “I’d like you even if your nose fell off.”
“Of course you would,” Sean says. “I’m amazing. Be a sport, would you, and clean up that glass? Walter will want to save those photos if he can. You know how he is. All those memories.”
Mike nods as Sean walks back into the kitchen, already yelling at Walter about being a victim of workplace violence, that he’s going to need some time off and such. Walter’s yelling back that if Sean thinks he’s going to get a vacation out of this, he’d better have another thought coming. Mike smiles quietly to himself as he turns and crouches down to where the photographs have fallen off the wall.
Three photos were broken in the scuffle, two small ones and a bigger one.
The first of the smaller ones shows snow falling around Amorea, people laughing and smiling as they sled down the aptly named Thrill Hill, which is on the north end of town. Scarves are frozen in time trailing behind the necks they were wrapped around, and there is happiness on just about everyone’s face. Snow days are the best days in Amorea, and Mike can’t wait until they come again. He and Sean could bundle up together in front of a fire, a blanket stretched over the two of them, drinking hot cocoa spiced with a bit of rum, listening to Bing Crosby sing about a silent night.
The second photo is the Amorea Women’s Club and their annual bake sale, which goes toward Willy’s salary and the upkeep of Amorea’s streets. Mrs. Richardson is standing in front of a table covered in perfectly baked treats, her little minions gathered behind her.
He’s about to reach for the third photo when Willy comes in, huffing like he’s run the few blocks from his office to the diner. He’s looking around wildly like he expects there to be a shootout going on right in front of him.
“Ah, calm down, you old fart,” Happy says from the lunch counter. “It’s done and over with. Mike took care of things.”
“That true, Mike?” Willy says, wiping his brow.
“Sure enough,” Mike says. “Just an argument. It’s all been sorted. How about you head on over and see if Walter’s got some of those hash browns you like so much?”
Willy nods. “Don’t mind if I do. Since you took care of things and all.” He hitches up his pants and steps around Mike before heading toward the counter. Happy pats the stool next to him and starts shooting the shit even before Willy takes a seat. One of the girls stops in front of him, pouring him a cup of coffee before hollering back to Walter that they need some browns fired up and salted.
It’s the usual.
And aside from the little skirmish before, everything has been usual.
And so maybe that’s why Mike’s not thinking much about anything when he picks up that last photo. Maybe his mind is still lost in that snowy day, the fireplace warm, and Sean even warmer against him. And maybe Sean’s whispering in his ear I like it when you take charge, you catch my drift?
Yeah, Mike catches that drift. He catches it pretty damn well.
So his head isn’t all the way in the game. He’s not thinking about mountains (though they are at the back of his mind, because of the snow—association and all), and he’s not thinking about the weird dreams he’s been having, or about the man at the end of his bed. He’s not thinking about starlings and how they murmur. He’s thinking about how Sean will taste, how he will look spread out under Mike, skin aglow from the firelight, saying Mike’s name in a low and breathy voice.
He pricks his finger on a shard of glass as he reaches for the last photo.
He hisses and brings the finger up his mouth, trying to suck the pain away.
He’s annoyed with himself that he’d do something so careless.
That’s when he sees it.
He thinks, Huh. Well. Would you look at that.
Because he might not have noticed, being lost in the snow like he’s been, had he not pricked his finger.
The last photograph. It’s broken, hanging partway out of the
frame, the bottom part of the photo torn just a little. The photo itself is unremarkable. There’s Happy and Calvin and Donald and Sean, and they’re sitting side by side, mugging for the camera. Mike’s not in it, because it’s before Mike’s time. Sean said it was taken a few months before Mike came to Amorea, and when Mike asked if Walter had taken it, Sean got a funny little look on his face. He said, “I think so. Funny, I can’t quite remember. Who else would have taken it?”
Who else would have taken it?
They were at the park, sitting in front of the fountain. Even though it’s in black and white, Mike can see the sky is clear and blue, the water reflecting the sunlight in little bursts of color, the grass behind them the brightest green. It’s the perfect summer day.