4. Fischer

4

FISCHER

M atthew's alarm goes off as I'm on the verge of orgasm. Sensing his warmth and all the pressure against my erection, I open my eyes to find myself grinding against his ass.

Jesus fucking Christ. I let go of him and flip over, pressing my hand to my cock and praying it doesn't explode. Matthew hits snooze on the alarm and slips immediately back into sleep as usual. I roll off the bed, find my balance, and make my way into the bathroom. Behind the closed door, I stand over the toilet with one hand on the wall, and the other wrapped around my cock.

Two tugs, and I'm coming so hard my back bows. I end up spraying the wall with thick ropes of white. One after another after another until I finally let myself go. My head falls against my bicep, and I breathe into it heavily. Fuck. If he noticed that, I'll die of humiliation.

Once I've cleaned myself and everything else, I splash some cold water on my face and run my hands through my hair, trying to put it in order before I go make coffee.

As I'm leaving the bathroom, he's coming in. "Morning," he says, voice hoarse and sleepy.

"Good morning."

So far, so good.

My leg feels great today. No more limp. No more sharp pain. It fatigues easier than my other does, and I doubt I'm ready to start running again, but nine months out from my surgeries, the surgeon calls it a full recovery.

Now I have a decision to make, and every day I think I've made it, the next day comes, and I change my mind again.

Instead of coming out for coffee, I watch Matthew exit the bathroom shirtless and crawl back into bed.

"Coffee's ready," I tell him.

"I don't feel good. I'm not going in today."

That's not like him. I walk back into the bedroom and sit near his feet. "What's wrong?"

"I have a headache, and my throat hurts."

"I can make you some tea."

"Tea sounds good."

I pat his leg and get up. A few minutes later I'm back with some lemon ginger tea, water, and a few ibuprofen.

"Thank you," he mumbles, slowly sipping and swallowing a little of everything. I have an urge to reach out and stroke his cheek, but just as I'm about to, I realize what a weird gesture that would be. Intimate. And I also wonder why it came over me.

Uncomfortable being so close to him suddenly, I stand back up. "Want me to close the blinds?" The sun is bright this morning.

"Okay."

The urge comes back. Stronger this time. I turn away from him and adjust the lighting in the room. "Can I get you anything else?"

"I'm okay. Thank you again," he says softly.

I don't stroke his cheek, but I do press my hand to his forehead. He's warm, but he's always warm. I don't think he has a fever, and I let him know my thoughts on it.

"Greta has a cold. I probably caught it from her."

Greta. One of his co-workers. I've never met her, but I feel like I know her. And now I don't like her for getting my brother sick. "She doesn't know how to cover her sneeze or what?" I ask.

"She was coughing. And no."

I pull my hand back before it does what it wants to do and glide itself through his thick hair.

Fuck .

He and I have been sharing this bed for months, and for the majority of those months we've gone to sleep curled up together one way or another. We spend every evening watching TV or chatting at the table while I write, and he sketches.

We have a routine, and it's so easy. But maybe I'm getting too comfortable. Comfortable in that way that causes lines to blur and feelings to get confused.

I rarely leave the apartment. I haven't had sex in nearly a year, and the last time was one in a series of one-night stands with various other American newspeople in Afghanistan. I haven't thought about sex—in terms of missing it. I jerk off in the shower daily, but I've been doing that since I was a teenager.

This morning, however—nearly getting off on Matthew—was dangerous. It crossed a line, whether he's aware of it or not. The choice in front of me is to get my ass back to work, fly off to Qatar, and keep chasing my goals, or stay. Here. Find another way to bring awareness to the world that exists outside this country.

The truth is, what happened to me is relatively rare. Bad luck. The odds of being injured again are slim, so that's not what's holding me back. I'm starting to think what's making it hard to decide is that I like it here with Matthew.

But he's so young. And unless he's got something going on at work he's hiding really, really well, then he's put his life on hold for nine months. For me. I'm not sure how that makes me feel.

Uneasy might be the word I'd choose. I chew on my lip as I leave him alone to rest. I open up my laptop on the dining table and try to get some writing done, but my mind keeps wandering back to Matthew, and to what I was doing when I was twenty.

I was in college. I had a roommate in a shitty East Village apartment in a building that's since been condemned. I was going out nearly every night, enjoying all Manhattan has to offer. I had girlfriends on a rotation because I was that asshole. I enjoyed dating, just not the same person all the time. My roommate Gibson told me it was all gonna blow up in my face one day, but it never did. I got away with everything. And I got off on getting away with it, too.

I understand that Matty's not like me. I'm not shy, I don't get stuck for something to say— ever —and I find change exciting. I love a new adventure, travel, trying new things. He's a creature of habit, whether he realizes it or not. I suspect it's a subconscious way he has of managing his ADHD, but how is he not dying to get laid?

I'd ask him, but again. Lines. Blurs. Boundaries. Brothers, but kind of also not brothers.

I think the right thing to do for me—for both of us—is to get on with my life and let him get on with his. Maybe I misunderstood Donna back when she expressed concern about Matty and me sharing a bed. Maybe she was more worried about him— hiding himself ? Wasn't that the way she put it at dinner the night Maggie introduced us to Stuart? That he's hiding himself away?

He has a tendency to binge things—TV shows, his artwork—more than once I've had to remind him what time it is so he could get some sleep before work. When he doesn't have to work, sometimes he'll stay up until four in the morning and his hand is cramping because he can't stop until he's finished. Am I an object of his hyper focus, too?

I do something I rarely do and text Maggie.

Serious question: Do you think Matty would be going out more if it weren't for me?

It takes about half an hour, but she finally reads the message and replies.

Maggie

short answer: yes. but I wouldn't sweat it.

why not sweat it?

between you and me, i think this has been good for him. he was going and "doing" too much if you catch my meaning.

oh.

yeah, so if he's finding other ways to manage his stress by hanging at your place, it's all good.

thanks. you doing anything fun today?

Yeah. class!!! Super fun. OMG sooooo excited.

lol i'll let you go then

bye Fishy. Tell Matty I said hi.

Short answer: yes.

I didn't like the long answer. And because I didn't like it, my decision seems clear.

Sighing, I open up an email to the network I worked for before I was injured. They gave me an open invitation to reach back out if I felt like I was prepared to go back to work.

I think Matthew will understand. Hell, I'll let him stay in this apartment if he wants. That way he can keep saving money and keep with his basic routine.

I send the email and work on my New Yorker piece while I wait for a response from the network or for Matthew to wake up. Whichever comes first.

The response happens to come first, and it's a full throated offer to return ASAP with an assignment in Jerusalem waiting for me to accept.

Before I can reply, Matty shuffles into the kitchen and refills his water.

"How's the headache?" I ask.

"Better."

"Throat?"

"Not better."

"I'll order some soup. What do you want?"

"I'm not sure I'm hungry."

"Sounds like you said chicken noodle," I say, pulling up the delivery app on my phone.

He's covered head to toe in a hoodie with the hood up, sweatpants, and socks. If he doesn't have a fever yet, he will soon. I get up to make him more tea. "Can I talk to you about something?" I ask as I fill the kettle at the sink.

"Sure." He leans his hip on the counter and shoves his hands into his front pocket.

"I think it's time for me to get back to work."

He doesn't say anything, so I look over at him. He's staring at the floor. "Matty? Did you hear me? Is this a bad time?"

"No, yeah. I heard you. Sure. I'm glad you're doing better."

"I was thinking you could stay here. I get that it's not as convenient as living at the hotel, but it'd be good to know the place is in good hands while I'm gone."

"Thanks. That's a nice offer." His voice is flat. Monotone. I remind myself he's not feeling well, and this probably wasn't a great time to bring it up.

"So. Anyway," I say, wanting to wrap this up and move on. "I'll be leaving next week, looks like."

"Next week?"

"Jerusalem. I've never been."

He nods, then turns and leaves the kitchen, goes back into the bedroom, and lies down.

Fuck.

I put the kettle on the stove but don't turn on the burner. Following him, I sit on my side of the bed and reach out to give his shoulder a rub.

"Try not to get hurt again," he says before I have a chance to try and figure out if he's upset with me, or he just feels like shit.

"I won't. I promise."

"You can't promise that."

"You're worried about me?" I ask.

"Yeah."

That makes sense. "I'm gonna be okay. And I'll be back every few months so you can see for yourself."

"Cool. You don't have to explain it to me, Fischer. You gotta work. I'll let you know about the apartment."

"Am I dismissed?"

"I don't want to get you sick."

That's a yes. I leave the bedroom and go back to my laptop, feeling a lot like shit myself.

I wake up to Matthew calling my name. My shirt is soaked, my heart feels like it's trying to squeeze itself from my chest, and I've got his hand clutched tightly in mine, his arm strapped like a seatbelt to my chest.

"I'm awake—I'm awake."

"That was rough," he says.

"Yeah?" I'm shaking—freezing—but his warmth is seeping into my back, and that's how I know I'll be okay in a minute. I am not looking forward to being alone in a hotel room on the other side of the world the next time this happens.

I let out a deep breath and bring myself back into the present moment. I count his breaths instead of mine. I focus on his steady hand instead of my trembling one. I focus on feeling his heartbeat against my back instead of the thready rushing of my own. Fully grounded in him, I let my body relax.

I feel his head land on the pillow behind me. His hips shift away from me, and I want to chase the contact, but I figure he has his reasons, and I may or may not want to know them. But since I'm leaving tomorrow, I leave this alone, too.

"Sorry," I say.

"You all right?" he asks.

"Probably stressed to travel. Customs is the worst."

"Right."

I give his hand a squeeze. "Tell me what you're gonna do tomorrow."

"I'll make you coffee, help carry your bag downstairs, make sure you don't hit your head when you get in the cab, and then I'm gonna go to work."

"Who are you working with?"

"Greta and William."

"Do we like William?" I ask.

"We think William tries way too hard."

"That's right. The one who wears the carnations."

"Everyday. Fresh."

"What color was it yesterday."

"Pink and white. I think it was dyed."

I smile. "What'll you do after work?"

"Not sure yet. I'll email you and let you know what I decide."

"Will you?"

"Yeah. Sure."

"I'd like that," I tell him.

He goes quiet, but I can tell by the way he's breathing that he's not asleep.

Letting go of his hand, I make a move to turn and face him. He backs up slightly to accommodate me, and I find him frowning when I look at him. "You'll be careful with yourself, too while I'm gone?" I ask.

He nods, staring at me in a way that makes my heart break.

Suddenly I feel heavy. "I just mean have fun, but be safe."

"You don't have to give me any brotherly wisdom. I'm gonna be fine. I promise."

"So you're allowed to promise that, but I'm not?"

"Basically, yeah. I don't trust you with yourself."

Would it be too weird to hold his hand now that I'm facing him? I want to. Last chance , my thoughts whisper at me. I reach down and take it back. "I'll miss you. I can't thank you enough for taking care of me. I've never felt like I needed someone that much."

He squeezes my hand and closes his eyes. "You're welcome. I'm glad it was me."

One second, I think I'm making a huge mistake by leaving him here in this city, all by himself, and then the next thought that flashes through my mind involves pressing my mouth to his and showing him how much I appreciate him instead of all these cheap words he'll forget the second I drive away.

In the end, that's how I know leaving is the only choice that won't ruin us both.