Page 102 of By Any Means

“No. We just… have different ways of seeing things, I think, you and I. And I can’t endorse the replacement of men with machines. I can’t, and I won’t, not even for the best of intentions, not even if it’s predestined. Money corrupts everything. But listen. It’s not the only way. It isn’t hinging on this. It really isn’t, I swear. Look, just look at it. It is inevitable. That’s good. It’s amazing. It means you’re right. It means things won’t be like this forever. Give it ten or twenty years.”

“I— I wish it would be d-different today,” Chary said plaintively, into tweed. It was a child’s complaint, utterly useless; he didn’t think he could be any more shamed, any more wrong, and in front of someone he most admired. His eyes streamed harder.

Laurie wrapped one hand around the back of his head, fingers threading in hair Chary hadn’t pomaded this morning. He smelled so good, even through tears and linen slightly reminiscent of the train; it wasn’t fair.

“Yeah, love,” he murmured. “I know. I get it. But the kind of solutions we need can’t be done at the snap of fingers.”

Then Laurie simply stood and let him cry. Chary, with nothing—almost nothing—left to lose, took him up on it with a handful of short, bitter sobs.

When he had finished, he whispered, “Laurie, I think I murdered that man. Sawyer.”

Laurie squeezed him tight, clutching Chary hard into his vest. “No. No, you didn’t. That was self-defense.”

“You didn’t tell August. You lied for me.” Like Chary had lied for August for so, so long. He was weary of secrets.

“What’s to lie about? You didn’t murder anybody. Someone tried to kill you, out of nowhere, for something you didn’t do and have no blame for. You fought back. You survived, love. That’s it.”

Chary snuffled into his handkerchief. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have wept all over your shirt collar. You see these things committed every day, worse things—face hardship and barriers I cannot imagine—and yet you go on without despairing.”

“Chary.” Laurie shifted, pushed their foreheads together, placed his hands on either side of Chary’s puffy face, ’til he felt supported by those simple, dear touches alone. “For God’s sake. You faced a hundred policemen barreling you down in a bathhouse, you beautiful, brave man; how’s that for a barrier? And, before that, got almost everybody else out.”

Brave? Chary gave a shaky, disbelieving laugh. Beautiful?

“My heart breaks to have to tell you no. I’d petition Roosevelt myself if it would accomplish this thing for those boys. But you don’t need me,” Laurie said fiercely. “Even if my story never makes it to print, there are still yet avenues for them. And you haven’t seen me despair, but I have. Promise. I’ve raged and screamed and cried against that same futility you feel now. It doesn’t make you a fool. It makes you wonderful and me lesser for shutting the door against it.”

“No,” Chary protested.

Laurie kissed his brow, his cheekbone, the sharp cut of his jaw just above his collar. “I am lesser,” he murmured, hot against his skin, “to have to disappoint you.” He came back to Chary’s mouth, breath hard, lips trembling. “I told you to have faith, and you did that, and I’ve let you down. Yet again. God. There’s nothing worse than⁠—”

He halted, then kissed Chary hard.

Chary didn’t quite understand what he meant, but he kissed back anyway—until moments later, when the distraction became too much for even Laurie’s lips to overcome. Then he broke free, standing his ground, though Laurie yet sought out his mouth.

Chary demanded, “Nothing worse than what?”

Laurie sighed. “Chary, do you know how I’ve come to feel about you?”

“No,” Chary replied honestly. “And to answer a question with a question”—he bit his lip—“well, that isn’t finishing your original statement.”

Laurie made a laugh-groan into his shoulder.

“Please do finish it,” Chary said, finding it harder to breathe. “Because although I can infer what you might have gone on to say”—he swallowed—“usually, I am”—wrong—“well, in this instance,” he clarified, “I think I may have it right.” And I’m terrified to be wrong.

“Far be it that anyone is sure of me in any way,” Laurie muttered. He blew out a breath. “Which is an inward criticism of myself, spoken aloud. Not of you.” His brows arched concernedly as he ducked his chin in that perfect, coy angle of his. “What’ve you inferred thus far?”

“That there is no worse feeling than to let down”—Chary lost courage all at once—“a—a reader. A subscriber. An admirer. To fall from their estimation.”

Laurie should’ve glowered; instead, his eyes gleamed, as though Chary were funning him, and he found it quite the game.

“But you aren’t a subscriber,” he said warningly.

“But I am.” He was now.

“Sure. Maybe. And maybe a little bit of an admirer.” Laurie put his thumb up to Chary’s bottom lip and pushed. “Yeah?”

“Well—” His tongue made passing contact on the alveolar l, and Laurie’s eyes flared.

“Mm-hm. And certainly a reader.” He said it low and dark, like that simple fact alone aroused him.