“Hey buddy, are you okay?” I asked, dusting snow off the guy. An occasional homeless person wandered the allies, but normally they sought adequate shelter in this weather. I pushed his hood from his face and stilled. My brat glanced at me with dull, unfocused eyes, his skin pale, his lips dry and cracked. “Brat?”
He moved his lips, but nothing came out except a rush of ragged breath and then he started coughing up a lung.
“Why are you out here in this weather?” I chided. “Are you nuts?”
He made a miserable sound and keeled over onto his side.
Crouching down, I righted him. He looked like week-old shit and the raspy sounds coming from his chest worried me. The temperature was going to drop tonight, and the meteorologists were predicting it wouldn’t reach much over three-degrees tomorrow. I had no time to examine the circumstances that had brought him here.
“Alright,” I said and attempted to take his backpack. He wrestled it from me in a burst of strength, his fingers digging into the cloth. “You can’t stay here.”
When he clutched it to his chest and shook his head, I grabbed into his shoulders and pulled him up by his jacket. His knees crumpled and I held onto him to keep him from falling. He started coughing again, the wet, deep-lung sounds worrisome.
“New plan,” I said and shifted my gym bag, so it was in front of my body. I lifted him over my shoulder. He hung where he was as if he were no more than a rag. I started walking, mindful of where I was stepping. “I expect some ass-kissing for carrying my gym-bag and your heavy butt two blocks in this snow. Not many men are capable of that, amirite.”
When he didn’t say anything, I quickened my pace, needing to get him someplace warm as soon as possible.
CHAPTER THREE
MATTEO
I wasn’t sure what day it was, or where I was. All I knew was the fire in my throat and the wet, sticky feeling in my chest and sinuses.
Everything was sloshing around, and I was moving across the snow-covered alley, except, I wasn’t walking. I was vaguely aware someone was with me, but all I could focus on was breathing, and not swallowing, because every swallow was painful.
Leandre Salvatore, I tried to say, but nothing came out of my sand-dry throat other than a painful rasp. Whoever was with me was talking about something, but my ears were ringing, making their words indecipherable. I focused on the snowy ground moving below me.
I was floating. Maybe I’d died and left my body. Except, I really didn’t believe in that kind of stuff anymore. Wouldn’t it be a big fuck you of cosmic proportions if there really was an afterlife?
“We’re almost there,” the man said, his tone rough and deep. His voice was familiar, but I couldn't think about anything except how miserable I was.
The sound of keys jingled, and a hard beat throbbed in tune with the one in my head. The creak of stairs… More keys. I was floating again, the world spinning, and I fell onto something soft and pillowy. Warmth surrounded me, making my face sting.
“I need you to put this on,” the guy said. “Brat? This is important.”
I tried to focus my eyes, the image of the man over me blurry. He was holding something in his hand. I grabbed ontoit, realizing it was a mask. I slipped it onto my numb face and checked out.
Time wound on, just how long I couldn’t be sure. The air was warm around me, but I couldn’t stop shivering and it was becoming harder to breathe, something gurgling inside my lungs. I searched for the music that played on repeat inside, needing the comfort it always offered.
“Brat?”
I rolled my head, wanting to respond, but unable to do so. When he tried to take my backpack from me again, I jerked and clutched it to my chest. Somewhere along the way, I’d lost my duffle bag of clothing and toiletries, but I refused to lose my most precious belongings.
I had a brief moment of lucidity and gaped at the red hair trailing down into a neat beard, and playful green eyes that reminded me of “Reverie”.
“Pooh Bear?” I whispered and winced as the flame in my throat burned.
“Drink this tea. It has honey and chamomile in it,” he said, holding a clay cup in his big hand.
I shook my head and clutched my throat to let him know it would hurt too much.
“It will help,” he insisted and pushed the cup into my frozen fingers.
The heat was nice against my cold skin, and I brought the cup to my lips, the curl of steam warming my nose. I sipped, swallowed the tea, tasting very little, and ignited my throat. I shook my head, and tried to set the cup on a table, but misjudged the distance and dropped it. It clattered on the floor, sending liquid scattering across the wooden planks. He whispered a curse, and I mouthed an apology.
I checked out again, aware he was moving around me, likely cleaning the mess. I tried to focus on the chords of“Reverie”, the motions of playing at Nana’s grand piano with the early morning sun streaming through the window, and the pure joy that playing brought me. The notes and melodies were clear in my mind, originating not from memory, but from the music in my soul. Of all the stuff I’d had to go through in my young life, that internal symphony had always been my rock. I trusted it to get me through this.
I slept in short fits, my chest squeezing, the stickiness sloshing around in my lungs and making it hard to breathe. I pulled the mask from my mouth, needing fresh, cool air. I gulped at it desperately, unable to get enough.
