I don’t manage to get out the-thing-I-want-to-say last night.
By the time I came back from the bathroom, Otto and Naomi were curled up in an affectionate pile. I couldn’t bring myself to ruin the moment.
I curled up with them. The room was cold, but their body heat was so warm, and I slept better than I’ve slept in a very, very long time.
I wake up to Milo hacking.
The cat is sitting at the foot of the bed. When I open my eyes, he stares directly at me, hunches, and makes a terrible glugging sound.
I get it. I don’t like people in my space, either.
I quickly untangle from Naomi, who has snuggled up between Otto and me. Neither she nor Otto wakes as I scoop up the cat. He dangles from my hand as I carry him outside the room, where he can’t make a mess in the bed, and set him down on the hardwood floor.
He glugs a couple more times, hacks, and then spits out a hairball.
Then he looks at me. Blinks.
“You’re okay,” I tell him and scratch him between the ears. “Happens to all of us.”
He burps, then mewls.
I clean up the hairball and find a disinfectant under the sink to wipe up the spot. His food is under there, too, so I fill his empty bowl and change out his water.
He watches me dubiously.
“Are we friends now?” I ask him.
He walks over, sniffs the food, and keeps his eyes on me as he takes a small, dainty bite.
I’ll take it.
Remnants of last night are still scattered around Naomi’s apartment. I find my briefs and pants and put those on. I pile Naomi and Otto’s clothes up on the couch. I move our mugs from the table to the sink and rinse them out. Naomi has a coffee machine, so I fill it with water, replace the filter, and get a pot going. Now the room smells less like disgruntled cat and more like morning brew.
I open up Naomi’s cabinet and find myself stumped. She and her roommate have a full shelf of mugs. All of them novelty, no two mugs look the same.
This is a problem for me, because I don’t know if any of these are sacred and not to be used. I, for one, have a hand-painted mug at home. I made it when I was a kid—with Otto, actually. We spent a summer going to art class together, I think to give our parents a couple of hours of child-free time. I came home with a lopsided ceramic mug with flames painted up and down the sides, like it was a hot rod.
Mom cherished it. It was her favorite mug, so now it’s my favorite mug. And I don’t let anyone else drink from it; even Otto knows to steer clear. House rule.
I try to find the mug that looks least likely to have some sentimental value. It’s a plain mud-brown mug that might’ve been picked up from an art market. I’m craving the outside, so once I make sure Milo is a safe distance away, I take my mug of coffee and open the window so I can step out to the fire escape, closing the window behind me.
It’s bitterly cold here. But less cold, somehow, than Hannsett Island. It’s the humidity—everything is so wet on Hannsett. It’s that cold that soaks right through you. This is a dry, breath-stealing cold.
I like it, though. It wakes me up. The black metal of the fire escape is coated in snow, and it crunches under my bare feet. The coffee is watery but warms my throat. I lean over the railing, sip my coffee, and let my breath crystalize in front of me as I watch the morning commuters go back and forth on the street below.
I’m not alone for long. The window opens and closes with a hiss. Otto climbs over and stands beside me. He’s got a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, burrito-ing. Clutched in his hand, he’s got a cup of coffee—a holiday-themed mug with a Santa face on it.
“Good morning,” I tell him.
His blanket-puffy shoulder presses against mine. “It’s fucking freezing out here.”
“That’s winter for you.”
He shivers dramatically and takes a sip. I try to bite back a smile.
This is easy. Familiar. It feels like we’re teenagers again. We’ve woken up well after noon (after staying up all night watching movies and laughing). Now, we’re tired, hair askew, but enjoying that content, zombie-like post-sleepover bliss.
There’s nothing better.
“How’d you sleep?” I ask.
“Like the dead.” He looks at me, and those eyes look so bright in the morning light. Caribbean blue and serious. “Let’s clear the air.”
I nod. “Okay.”
“Last night,” he starts. “Was that okay for you?”
“Yeah. It was.”
“Everything you thought your first time would be?”
“Better.” I hesitate. I don’t want to break up the mood, but I have to say it. “There was…something.”
Otto’s gaze trains on me. “What kind of something?”
“Not bad, exactly. Just…well.” I can’t look at him, so I look down at the street. Petals of soft snow fall below. “After I…after we. You told me to kiss Naomi.”
Otto nods but doesn’t interrupt. He just listens, patiently.
“And…while that was nice…I think, in that moment, I needed you.”
Otto stares at me. He says nothing, as though he’s…thinking.
Why does he feel so far away?
It’s killing me. I’ve never felt this far from him. Not in the nearly twenty years of knowing each other. Last night, we were closer than we’ve ever been, and now…
Otto catches the back of my head, pulls me in, and his lips meet mine.
Fully. Softly. He doesn’t pull away this time. He lingers, and I sigh into his mouth, savoring him.
I was cold. Now, I’m warm again.
“I’m sorry,” Otto says. Our lips disconnect, but he’s still holding me close. “Better?”
“Yeah,” I say. “I think so.”
We untangle from each other, but some of the thorns have left my chest.
He’s closer, now.
“To clarify, last night was perfect,” I reiterate, because I don’t want to end this conversation with a bad taste on his tongue. “I’m really glad my first time was with you.” A question mark dances over Otto’s expression, the morning light touching his long eyelashes. I quickly add, “And Naomi. Both of you.”
A small, knowing smile tugs at Otto’s lips. He leans against the fire escape and looks down to the street below thoughtfully.
“You’re my bacon, Diego.”
He says it so softly, I have to make sure I heard him correctly.
“I’m your…what?”
But then Otto’s eyelids drop. He forces them open, but they close again.
He sways lightly on his feet.
The medical professional in me recognizes the signs: blown-out pupils, inability to concentrate, color washed out of the face.
Alarm hits me in waves.
“Hey…are you okay?”
But Otto doesn’t answer. He can’t.
He loses his grip on his mug. I don’t try to save it.
My arms are too busy grabbing him. I catch him just as he collapses, and he sinks into me as he faints, a boneless heap in my arms.
Below us, Santa’s face explodes into a million pieces on the sidewalk.
The blood pressure monitor blinks in a steady line.
Otto is slumped in the hospital bed. We made it to Hannsett Island—but just barely. He could hardly stay conscious on the ferry. I wouldn’t have taken him here, except I know…
There are no better doctors.
He’s asleep now. He’s been pumped with fluids. Stabilized. Naomi sits in the chair next to his bed. She’s hasn’t left his side.
I watch this all from the window separating us. I’m in the hallway. Beside me, Dr. Donovan paces back and forth.
He’s been like this since we got here.
“I don’t understand,” he says. His voice is curt, tight. “Was he drinking?”
“No,” I murmur.
“His potassium and sodium levels shouldn’t be this high. His GFR is 10%. This level of degradation doesn’t happen overnight.”
I wet my lips with my tongue. The truth will set you free. “It didn’t,” I say. “He’s been bad. For a long time.”
Dr. Donovan stops pacing. His arms fold over his chest, and he stares at me. “Start talking.”
I take in a breath. I reach into my pocket and pull out Otto’s blood sample results.
