Page 12 of Festive Fugitive
But he’s here.
He’s saved me.
And even though he’s likely straight, the perspective of physical closeness is paralyzing. Because what if my body reacts and that sets him off?
Would he hand me over to the cops if he knew I’ve sucked him off in my dreams?
I stop breathing when Cesar grabs my hands and leads them to his shoulders, and then, he plucks me out of the car, into his arms.
I gasp when he picks me up with ease. I might be skinny, but I’m still a grown man. No one everpicks me up. I feel like a fucking princess as he carries me up the winding driveway bridal style. The wind howls around us, and he squeezes me harder when lightning strikes again, as if he wants to protect me from that too. I could feel like prey being taken to the serial killer’s lair for dismemberment, but Cesar is warm, smells nice, and carries me with the confidence of a knight saving the damsel from a burning castle.
He must have really hated Sullivan. Thinking about it makes my heart swell with pride. I did that. I killed the fucker. Maybe it wasn’tforCesar, but he benefited all the same. Maybe we’re both knights. It’s just that now I’m injured, so he needs to save me, keep me warm in the storm—
I have to stop fantasizing. I’m a homeless fugitive with only one good shoe. Reality is what it is. I probably smell. Or is the orange and cinnamon still clinging to my clothes? I can’t tell anymore.
And yet, I lean into him all the same, because I’ve not had a hug in years. I’m so starved for this connection it’s embarrassing even if Cesar doesn’t know what’s going on in my head. He stiffens when thunder crashes above us again, icy shards hitting my bare cheek like tiny needles, but then his shoes thud on the wooden porch, and the small cabin protects us from the elements even though we aren’t inside yet.
Cesar fumbles with the keys, but once the door bangs open, we step inside.
It’s not… ideal, since the place is blackout-dark and smells of frost, but I can’t complain when I had a jail cell as my alternative.
“Fuck… never been here in winter,” Cesar mumbles, setting me down on the couch covered with a plastic sheet.
“Thanks,” I say, a bit flustered and feeling as if my debt with him is growing. I need to do something for him or I’ll implode.
I get up as fast as he sets me down, and despite limping a bit, I pull off the plastic cover and look around. The shutters on the windows make the place dark, as if it’s the middle of the night, but I get their purpose if no onelives here.
“Do we have electricity here? Water? Fireplace? I don’t want to bother you if you’d rather just go to sleep after the drive, but I want to be useful.”
Cesar is out on the porch. The wind pushes the door in farther, but I can’t take my eyes away from that tall, sharp silhouette. He’s hunching, as if bracing for something to dash at him from the storm. When that doesn’t happen, his feet move, and soon, he’s out of my sight, gone in the blizzard. Immediately, I feel a sense of loss and distract myself by searching for a flashlight. There is one on the dusty coffee table, and it comes to life the moment I flip the switch. Its wide beam reveals bare log walls. To the right of the couch Cesar deposited me on is a compact kitchen, with a small fridge, basic utensils, and a single gas burner, but before I can work out if there’s anything to cook with, something growls, and the electric clock nearby comes to life.
So maybe Cesar went out to turn on the generator. This means the place might have heating other than the fireplace. I wonder why he became so quiet, but maybe he’s just tired after a long drive. I’ll ask him if he wants to eat when he comes back. In the meanwhile, I pick up some trash to keep myself useful. A can on the counter, an empty packet of chips. I pick up a chair that was on the floor as I explore the living room and peel the plastic sheets off furniture.
The house is utilitarian in nature. No pictures on the walls, no particular color scheme, not even a deer head trophy for some rustic character. I’m not being critical, just assessing the place that might become my haven for a while. If anything, I’m excited to sleep under a roof instead of in my car. I’ll miss the few books I had to leave behind, the bundle of photos I had to remember my family by before it all went to shit. As impractical as it is,I had a Christmas garland I made with my mom as a kid in there and a few very personal baubles. Nothing fancy, but it stings that I’ll never see any of those items again.
Maybe if we stay here all the way until Christmas, I could make some decorations. Unless of course Cesar was against it. It is his place, and he does seem to prefer decor that screams I’m-a-bachelor-I-don’t-need-trinkets’.
I’m about to explore farther down a corridor, when the door opens, and Cesar steps back in with the bags of our shopping in both hands. I rush over to him so fast I almost stumble because of my stupid ankle, but I’m desperate to take some of the load off him. He lifts the shopping as if I were a kid trying to wrestle a knife out of his hands.
“Your leg! Careful, we can’t go to the ER right now,” he scolds me before resting all the bags on the table close to the kitchenette.
Damn, we’ve been on the move for so long, but he still smells so good. How am I to deal with this? I look up, but the air I’ve inhaled gets stuck in my throat when I notice the black eyepatch covering his injured eye. It’s simple in design, sleek yet utilitarian, like the rest of his clothes, and something about it is turning me on, because that strip of leather makes him resemble a Bond villain.
“Sorry. I’m hungry again. Can I grab this? Or do we have to ration?” I pluck a pack of five croissants out of the bag. The pounding against the roof intensifies, making me glad Cesar’s not out there anymore. This sounds like hail, and the poor guy’s already dusted with a dense layer of snow. I raise my hand, about to brush it off his head but stop myself at the last moment.
I need to get a grip.
The pastry bag rips open in my hands, and I stuff my face. Cesar’s watching me, still as a statue. Didhe notice what I was about to do and is now assessing whether he doesn’t want to let me sleep outside after all?
An arm slides around my waist, and he leads me back to the couch, no longer frozen. “Sit down and make us sandwiches. I need to set everything up,” he tells me, back to his patient self.
I want to protest, but he’s soon back and places all of the food on the coffee table. “There’s a store not that far away, so no, we do not have to ration.” With that, he’s out of the room.
I take a deep breath and make myself useful. At least he gave me a job so I don’t feel like a waste of space. As I spread ketchup on a very pale slice of cheese, I’m hit by the memory of blood splattering all over Sullivan’s white shirt.
I’ve barely had time to process what I’ve done. I killed a man. Or did I slay a monster? I glance at the butter knife in my hand, also covered with red sauce. Am I just a man who was pushed to his limits, or have I always had this anger inside me? If push came to shove would I stab someone to protect myself? Would I kill someone who tried to call the police on me? Or a cop?
The turmoil inside me makes me a very slow sandwich artisan, but Cesar is gone for several minutes, so I think he doesn’t mind. Unless he’s rethinking his life choices and considering suffocating me in a pile of snow. I wouldn’t blame him. His footsteps echo behind the door close by, and I drop the piece of bread I’m preparing into my lap. Of course it has to land with the buttered side on my pants, but it’s not as if I can turn back time and make myself not-an-embarrassment.
