2.13 - A Kind of Truth

The fire didn’t help.

He didn’t know why he thought it would. His home felt so cold. Cold and empty. A fire in the fireplace did nothing except add a layer of gentle crackling white noise over the thoughts that were tormenting him. The rest of the living room, always on the edge of cozy, had tipped into chaotic—an avalanche of books, some well-loved and others merely tolerated, had migrated from the shelves where he had always kept them neatly organized and spilled onto the worn hardwood floor. Dirty dishes had started to mark out positions from which to claim territory. Shadows stretched out, clinging to the corners, much like the memories.

A feather-soft strand of blond hair was tickling Gene’s nose as he talked Ethan through some files for Algol Renewables. He was so very serious, it brought out Ethan’s mischievous side. Ordinarily, Ethan was the professional one at work while Gene attempted to flirt away occasional periods of boredom, but since Thanksgiving, they had switched. Gene had become a complete stick in the mud, annoyingly trying to get work done in the proper way, on time, and with billings neatly filed.

Meanwhile, all Ethan wanted to do was watch that small strand of Gene’s hair be brushed out of his face and then slide right back against the bridge of Gene’s nose. The way Gene would twitch… Ethan leaned back in his chair and bit the top of his pen to keep from laughing.

And the more Ethan stared at him the more determined Gene became to see only what was on the screen in front of him. 

Ethan was slumped on the couch, a portrait of exhaustion. His elbows dug into his knees, holding himself together like stitches. Worry etched deep into his face, his eyes slightly bloodshot. He dragged a hand through his disheveled hair, twirling his fingers around one lock and tugging on it as if the pain might break the loop of thoughts that circled endlessly around.

To this the fire in the fireplace only snapped, but quietly. Too quietly.

He needed to focus, but his heart was sick. A sickness where the only cure was Gene coming back.

Clint had unhelpfully said to him, “Have you informed HR?”

“Oh shut up. It’s not like that.”

The other lobbyist snorted. “Excuse me, it’s exactly like that. Should I tell them that you took an employee on a road trip to see your family and slept in the same room? Should we see how they classify this under our fraternization policy?”

“We were in different beds the whole time and nothing inappropriate happened.”

Even as he said it his thoughts drifted to the feeling of Gene’s body on top of his own, the salt water soaking in between them…

But that had been Gene’s doing, and it was a joke, a bit of harmless teasing.

“I can’t believe I have to say this,” Ethan started. “But there is nothing going on between me and Gene.”

Clint was unruffled which just made the denial seem much more vulnerable to Ethan. And yet, there was a lightness in Ethan’s limbs and he found he just could not be bothered by the notion that they might be doing something wrong.

The floor creaked as Jefferson shifted his weight. His shoes—scuffed on the right side and leaving small traces of dried mud on the hardwood—a detail that would have bothered Ethan on any other day. But today, it went unnoticed. The scent of rain clung to him, mixing with the room’s warmth. The vampire hunter was close. Close physically and also close mentally.

Too close. He probably knew. Jefferson wasn’t stupid. He could figure it out.

Time was ticking … funny that. He was running out of time and yet each passing moment was a torture. He could spend the rest of his life living these fifteen minutes over and over again if he wanted. His gifts gave him a wealth of time, but he was certain that in each replay he would only waste them. He didn’t have a good path forward. He needed to trust someone else to help find Gene. That much was clear.

Ethan blinked slowly. His eyes felt sunken, but he couldn’t see whether they were or not. Sweat glistened on his brow. Panic, raw and deep, tightened his chest. What if there was nothing Jefferson could do? What if he refused? What if...

His voice scraped out like it hurt. “He’s been gone for days… No calls, nothing.”

“How long exactly?”

“Since Christmas.”

Jefferson nodded. He leaned in closer, the firelight casting shadows across half his face. The rest was like a mask: hard-set jaw and sharp eyes peering out from behind. He’d seen this too many times, Ethan thought. He made a quick trade in cheating spouses and confirming identities, but he must have the market cornered for disappearances around vampires. How many times had he been in this exact situation—Ethan didn’t want to know.

“Any idea where he might’ve gone?”

Ethan shrugged. His hands wouldn’t stop trembling. He clasped his fingers until his knuckles were white to get control of himself. Can’t unravel now. He knew nothing for certain. He had to keep going until it was certain, but his body knew what his mind refused to accept. He spoke, voice strained, words dragged from a place of deep dread. “He didn’t say. He just… vanished.”

The word hung in the air …. Gene might never return.