Bending the Iron - 8. Chapter 8

For once, Michael woke before his alarm. Set to 5:30 a.m. when he worked day shifts, the phone often blared in his ear for several minutes before he could rouse himself to find it on the nightstand. He wasn’t a morning person by nature, but the extra daylight hours of free time were usually worth rising before the sun. Not so much today. He’d lain awake most of the night, replaying the best moments of the weekend in his head. Eyes heavy and brain sluggish, he canceled the alarm and swung his legs over the side of the bed.

The old farmhouse settled around him, its creaking both comforting and familiar. Michael swept a hand over his pillow, frowning at the plump unused one beside it. Two nights sharing a bed with Eric and now sleeping alone gave him an odd sense of disquiet, as though an integral part of his day had been lost by not waking up with a warm body beside him. He wondered how Eric had passed the night, and if he’d missed Michael’s company just as much.

Showered, shaved and dressed, he assembled a thick ham and cheese sandwich and settled down in front of his computer. No matter how much Michael encouraged Pete to use it, he distrusted the thing, and never went near the desk, which had made Michael careless over the years about his internet usage. If his grandpap ever did get a hankering to investigate, the combination of media files and web history might give him a heart attack.

He logged on to twenty-three emails, all spam, save one. Michael’s heart stumbled, beating hard and irregularly when he saw Eric’s name in the “From” column. The subject line—Pictures!—was innocuous enough to rouse his curiosity. But even as he opened the email, he realized what it meant.

Caught off guard by their destination, and not expecting anything near to as amazing as a weekend at Polymath, Michael hadn’t thought to bring a camera. Eric hadn’t been so neglectful. Their first full morning at the resort, he’d unearthed the digital camera from his bag and handed it over. “Here,” he’d said. “You can’t take pictures inside Fallingwater, or on any of the terraces, but there should be plenty of other things to immortalize. This is the one I use at the museum. Takes awesome pictures, even if it is a bit bulky. I figured you wouldn’t bring one.”

He’d figured right. Other than clothes and toiletries, Michael had packed only lube and condoms. “Thank you.” He’d cradled the camera in his palms, touched more than he cared to admit. “I would have missed having one today.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” Clapping his hands together, he’d herded Michael out the door. “So let’s go give it a workout.”

Michael had done exactly that, not thinking to ask about the camera’s capacity until he’d snapped two hundred shots. Eric had answered with a shy smile. “It’s a small card, but I brought my netbook to clear it whenever we need to. Go crazy.” After that he hadn’t kept track, and that evening, Michael had been too wrapped up in thanking Eric properly to think about his photo diary.

Pictures! It was a powerful enough reminder of their time together that Michael’s stomach clenched. He opened the email.

Hey!
I put everything you shot on a thumb drive, and I’ll give it to you later after work, okay? But I also picked a couple of my favorites to keep. I hope that’s okay. These are them.

A link to a photo hosting site followed, and a password. Michael passed over it for the time being.

Do you have any plans for tonight? I was thinking I could cook dinner. Don’t get scared! I’m actually quite good in the kitchen if I have time to shop for the right stuff. And then maybe you can stay over? No pressure. Just thought it would be an easier drive in the morning. Also, saw Maggie last night at the Hickory. She said something about Pete and Jell-O. I had to tune her out after hearing those two words in the same sentence, but...he’s okay, right? Made it through the weekend on his own?
Okay. Later.
Eric

Pete had survived fine.

Arriving home well after nightfall, Michael had kept the house dark as he’d moved through it, loathe to disturb his grandfather and endure whatever line of questioning was bound to result. But this morning he’d turned on the lamps as he came down the stairs, and the differences stopped him in his tracks.

The changes would be subtle to anyone unfamiliar with the house, but Michael noticed them. For one, the clutter that usually filled every available surface was absent. Stacks of old magazines that Pete had fussed about throwing away were gone—whether they were in the trash was another matter, but at least they’d been stashed somewhere out of sight. The pervasive trail of cups and plates that the both of them had a habit of leaving between the living room and kitchen was also missing. The wood surfaces were free of dust, the glass gleamed. Lemon furniture polish scented the air, and in the kitchen—where Michael had made his pot of coffee and sandwich—the sink was empty and scrubbed clean. Not a single crumb dotted the Formica counters, and the linoleum sparkled. Even more surprising, the faucet lacked its ever-present slow drip.

Pete had been busy. Feeling like a traitor, Michael checked the garbage can for empty whiskey bottles. Nothing. The near-perfectness of it all left him uneasy. There had been too much good weighing the scales down recently. Something was going to give, and give good, if his track record with fate counted for anything.

The Jell-O comment he consciously suppressed. No need to dwell on the meaning of that. With a shudder, Michael clicked the link to the photos.

Eric had chosen more than a “few.” The link led to an album—password protected, which didn’t make any sense at first—that held nearly fifty pictures. Michael started a slideshow, leaning closer to the screen as the images flashed up one by one.

The man had a practiced eye for scale and lighting. Every image was one Michael would have picked as a keeper, either for its shading, or subject, or color contrast. Some were micro-shots, close and personal details of certain elements Michael had wanted to remember. With no perspective to ground them, they became something else altogether, stark and beautiful.

Five pictures from the end, something different popped up onto the screen. Michael caught his breath and clicked pause. Blinking, he touched a finger to the image, tracing the line of an arm as it snaked across the screen. A shaft of light cut through the lower edge of the frame, illuminating a hand, fingers curled slightly, against a wrinkled white sheet. Barely breathing, Michael advanced to the next frame. Eric had caught Michael’s sleeping face with this one. Michael grinned at his lax, sated features and half smile. He could guess when this one had been taken.

Tapping his fingers against his lips, he contemplated Eric’s choices. Including these pictures in the album had been calculated. Whatever he was trying to convey, Michael couldn’t assume the message was obvious.

Pensive, he moved forward another slide. The reason for the lock on the album made sense now. From the amount of light spilling over Michael’s skin, Eric must have risked turning on a lamp for this shot. The bedsheets, tangled around his thighs, did little to hide his nudity. One hand rested over his stomach, the other behind his head. His face was turned away from the camera, revealing only the line of his chin and a hint of his nose.

The last picture showed two joined hands on the same sheets. The angle must have been awkward for the picture-taker, but if anything, the unusual perspective added to the photo’s appeal. On the very left of the frame, Michael could make out a line of skin. It could have been anything, lying the way they’d been. An arm. A thigh. Something else entirely. Eric had given this picture a title, when every other slide had been left blank: Marriage of architecture and environment.

Michael stared at it until the soft chime of the mantle clock roused him. He gulped the dregs of his now-cold coffee, grabbed his jacket, and slipped out the front door for work.

* * *

Delaney caught him in the break room. “Boss wanted to see you when you got in.”

“Yeah?” Michael made sure his face was blank before turning around. “About what?”

“No idea,” Delaney said, frowning. It was the pout and slightly put-out tone that let Michael know the other man was truly clueless. No wonder he was annoyed.

“Well, in that case—” Michael swiped his mug out of the cupboard, “—he can wait until I’ve had a cup of coffee.” That wasn’t too much to ask, was it? His thoughts were still scattered, half of his brain fixated on memories of the past few days, and although coffee wouldn’t make the problem one hundred percent better, it might allow Michael to at least appear rested and together.

He poured a steaming cup, and it wasn’t until he was turning back to seek out an empty chair that he noticed Delaney still hovering. “Something else you needed?”

Delaney chewed the inside of his cheek. “You don’t look too worried.”

“Should I be?” Because one thing was for sure, he was already sick of whatever game Ed was playing with him.

“Maybe you’re being fired,” Delaney said, slapping him on the back and laughing like it was a joke.

“Maybe you’re being fired,” Michael shot back, “and I’m getting your job.”

That shut the punk up. For a minute, anyway, and that was all Michael needed to escape, coffee in hand. He savored it as he walked through the plant to the admin offices, gulping the last mouthful before he knocked on Ed’s door. He wasn’t feeling as rushed as he should’ve been. The emotions distancing him from Hickory were still in full control.

“Come on in,” Ed shouted, and Michael pushed the door open to step inside.

Ed beckoned him into a chair. “Morning, Mike.”

Michael dredged up a weak smile. Facing such a quintessential morning person before two cups of coffee should be illegal. “Morning. What’s up?”

Ed scooted onto the edge of his desk, balancing on one generous ass cheek while he rubbed his hands together and grinned—the image of a hungry animal drooling over its unsuspecting dinner.

Michael swallowed a curse and clung to his watery smile. “What?”

“Mike, remember that opportunity I told you about the week before last?”

The conversation, as Michael remembered it, hadn’t been as specific as that. What he recalled was a vague statement along the lines of “got my eye on something for you,” which could have meant anything, frankly. “Yeah,” he hedged.

“Well, it’s happening. We’re adding a project manager to the staff. Now, I have to be honest, it’s probably not going to be as fancy as it sounds. You’ll be doing some of what Kirsten was doing before she left, but we’re also looking for some proactive ideas on how to up productivity and cut costs.”

Michael stroked his chin. “Sounds like a management position.”

“Yeah, it is. See, there’s no more than two or three guys on this side who get the day-to-day stuff. We need someone who’s been on the front lines, who knows how to make changes for the better.”

“On this side” was boss-speak for “those of us in management.” Out on the floor, “on this side” meant something a bit more colorful. If Michael accepted the offer, his transition wouldn’t be comfortable. The “on this side” crowd would expect information about what went down behind their backs, and the hourly crew would lambaste Michael over every perceived broken confidence, even if he never opened his mouth. And it could all be his for an extra $2.50 an hour.

He threw Ed a bone. “It sounds like a great position.”

“You bet it is! Think of the opportunities, Mike.”

The opportunity to dig himself deeper into the pit he was already suffocating in. He blinked, startled by his own thought. Where the hell was that coming from?

Before Eric, he wouldn’t have thought twice about taking the position. No, he would’ve thought twice—his concerns would have been the same—but as much as he was going through the motions now of looking interested, two weeks ago he would have been doing his best to look cool and unaffected.

It was all a game. An endless loop with no real rewards, even though the journey would be a hard and bumpy one. Apathy had more power than people gave it credit for, though, because even now he was considering the offer, weighing the pros and cons. “I need to think about it,” he said stiffly.

Ed’s eyes bulged. “Really?” he barked, the shock very genuine and not at all positive. “Mike, this is—”

“Something I need to think about,” Michael repeated. “I’ll let you know in a few days, okay?” He stood, and Ed slid off his desk, looking dazed.

“Yeah. Sure. Take your time.”

More meaningless platitudes. Michael held out a hand, shook Ed’s limp one, and left the way he had come, head held high.

* * *

“It sounds like a step up,” Eric said neutrally later that evening. Back to Michael, he stood at the stove, stirring spices into a skillet of sizzling chicken breasts. “I guess he really is looking out for you.”

Michael grunted, mesmerized by Eric’s competent handling of the pan and spatula. “Looking out for himself, is what I think.”

“Or the company.” Eric shot him a look before shrugging. “Which is his job, right?”

That was fair. And feeling affronted wasn’t Ed’s problem either; it was Michael’s. Such an easy thing, to push the blame where it didn’t belong. “Yeah, it’s his job.”

“So what’s your job?”

Michael didn’t answer, and Eric let it go, filling two empty plates on the counter with beds of rice and golden-brown pieces of chicken. Over the top he drizzled a thick, aromatic sauce that was making Michael’s mouth water.

They ate side by side on stools at the breakfast bar. The ambiance couldn’t have been more different than their candlelit meal of Friday night, yet it held the same comfortable intimacy. Just as Michael’s mind was coming back around to Ed’s offer, Eric leaned over and kissed his temple.

Michael startled, realizing his plate had been empty for some time, and that he’d been lost in his own thoughts. “Sorry,” he said, shaking off the fog.

“No problem.” Eric slid off his stool. “I’ve got something I want to show you. Leave the dishes.” He tugged on Michael’s hand, gesturing him toward the couch as he disappeared into the bedroom. Michael sat, smiling as he shuffled piles of paper around on the coffee table to make room for his feet. Most of it looked like research on the local railroads. Leave it to Eric not to do anything halfway. Near the bottom of one pile, a name caught his eye. Eric’s.

Michael glanced over his shoulder, hesitant to read something that could possibly be private, but Eric was still puttering about in the other room, and the temptation was powerful.

Bending the Iron: Railroads and the Political Landscaping of Late Nineteenth Century Pennsylvania. Michael flipped to the first page. The subject was close to Eric’s heart, he sensed that immediately. His voice rang clearly through the facts, figures, and conclusions, and Michael, who had never taken a social studies class he enjoyed, found himself getting lost in the essay.

“Now, if you’re looking for something to put you to sleep, that would be perfect.” Eric’s sardonic voice broke the silence.

“Sorry.” Michael pulled himself straighter and pushed the papers away as if they were on fire. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Relax.” Eric plopped down beside him. “You’re welcome to it. I’m just not sure you’ll find it stimulating reading. I think, statistically, only about a half a dozen people in the world would find it interesting. That’s kind of the definition of a thesis, isn’t it?” He smiled, scooping up the packet and placing it back on Michael’s lap. “Take it. And for God’s sake, don’t feel like you have to suffer through the whole thing if you don’t want to. I’m not going to think any less of you.”

It wasn’t something he would have ever picked up for pleasure, but knowing the author made all the difference. It was another connection to Eric, one he hadn’t explored thoroughly yet. He knew he’d be reading every word. “Thanks.”

“You bet. But you do know we’re past the part where you need to do things to impress me.” Eric winked.

Michael’s body stirred to wakefulness, as it did whenever he was the core of Eric’s powerful focus. “Good to know. Now come here.” He hooked an arm around Eric’s waist and dragged him across the cushion until they were hip to hip.

“Wait.” Eric’s breathlessness belied the command, but it was one Michael had trained himself to obey whenever he was with someone.

He stroked his fingers over Eric’s waist, then released him. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. Just...I have some things I wanted to show you. To give you, actually.” He cleared his throat and clutched at the folder he’d brought back into the room.

He’s nervous. Michael’s own heart rate picked up at the realization. “What is it?”

“Well, okay. Here. Better if you just look for yourself.” Eric passed over the folder, and Michael laid it in his lap. He didn’t open it.

“Is it bad?”

“No. It’s not bad,” Eric said firmly, and his definitiveness went a long way to easing Michael’s tension.

Swallowing, he flicked the file open, finding several packets inside, each held together with a different color paperclip. The small detail made Michael smile before he focused on the words of the topmost page.

Carnegie Mellon, School of Architecture.

Jaw clenching, Michael took several shallow breaths before raising his eyes. For all of Eric’s hesitancy in laying the applications in Michael’s lap, his gaze was piercing. Determined. He didn’t speak or try to explain. The implication was plain.

Michael tried the safe haven of flippancy first. “You are trying to turn me into an intellectual geek.”

Eric cracked a smile, but didn’t let Michael off the hook by taking the bait.

After a few moments of strained silence, Michael leafed through the file, finding brochures for a half dozen other local and very prestigious universities, including the University of Pittsburgh, U Penn, and Duquesne. He lingered over the Carnegie Mellon pamphlet, well aware of the quality of its program, before closing the folder and holding it out toward Eric.

Eric refused to take it back.

Jabbing it at Eric’s stomach, Michael released some of the frustration he was feeling into his voice. “Not interested.”

“Bullshit.” Unrelenting, Eric shoved it back at him.

Angry now, Michael tossed the folder onto the coffee table. “Do you know how many people apply to Carnegie Mellon’s School of Architecture every year?”

“No idea.”

“Several thousand. And do you know how many they accept?” He spoke over Eric’s denial. “Two hundred.”

Eric arched an eyebrow. “Not interested?”

Caught.

Michael pushed to his feet and paced the length of the small living room. The internet could be a curse sometimes, with its easy, transparent information. He knew the details of every single one of the colleges Eric had picked for him, down to the schedule he’d need to juggle in order to graduate in four years. It was a game, nothing more. Something to pass the time when his reality got a little too real, or a little too painful. “I can’t. You know I can’t. And you know the reasons.”

“Maybe your reasons are outdated.” Eric didn’t flinch from Michael’s glare. “Or maybe they aren’t reasons at all. Just excuses.”

“It’s so easy for you, isn’t it?” Michael spat, hating the clichéd conversation but unable to change its course. “You don’t have the responsibilities that I do.”

“I’m not dismissing your responsibilities,” Eric said. “Let me help you find a way to make it work so that nothing, and nobody, is neglected. There are options.”

Michael ground to a halt in front of him, staring at the offending folder. “It’s more than that. I’m—I’m not good enough.” There, he’d said it. Because if he was going to give this relationship thing a go, some honesty from the outset was probably warranted. “Those kids right out of high school, all that information’s fresh in their heads. They have the mindset and the energy.”

Eric rolled his eyes. “You’re talking like you’re a hundred years old.”

“I feel it sometimes.”

“Okay.” Eric slapped his thighs and stood, squaring off with Michael across the cluttered coffee table. “Listen. I have a few facts for you. A fair portion of those kids you’re talking about? They never graduate. You know why? No discipline. Not enough maturity. And I swear most of them aren’t nearly hungry enough to take advantage of what they have at their fingertips. They party and have fun on mom and dad’s dime, and they throw away three-quarters of their potential by closing their eyes to a little bit of hard work.” He stopped to take a breath, and his voice gentled. “You’re not like that. Not in any way, shape or form. You’re disciplined, able to apply yourself, and you’re hungry as hell. That’s what counts.” He stooped to pick up the applications and held them out to Michael. “You did it before. You said so yourself. What’s changed? Except for the fact that you’re older, wiser and have more experience to offer.

“It’s not like any of these places are halfway around the world, Michael. We’re talking less than a two-hour trip, and that’s if you’re taking your time about it.” He took a breath, ready to say more, but Michael cut him off with a sharp gesture.

Blindly, he took the thick folder from Eric’s hand. “I’ll have to think about it.”

“I know.” Eric shoved his hands in his pockets. “Your list of things to think about is growing by the second, huh? And taking this on—college, I mean—that’d be a lot to handle on your own.”

Whether he could do it on his own wasn’t a consideration. Pete had taught him not to rely on other people to make his life better. You had to do the difficult parts by yourself, and if you did, you came out a better man on the other side. But that didn’t mean some support along the way wouldn’t be welcome. The tentative tone in Eric’s voice gave him hope.

“The timing’s right, I guess,” he mumbled. “Most people apply in October or November, right?”

Eric’s mouth parted in surprise. “Yeah,” he blurted. “It’s perfect. If you get online and apply this month, you can even go for early decision somewhere.” He tapped the folder. “Some of these schools require you submit a portfolio. I don’t know if you have one, but—”

“I have one.” Meticulously kept on the upper shelf of his bedroom closet. Assembled with the belief it would never see the light of day.

Eric’s eyes lit up. “That’s great. That’s awesome. And in reality, the big changes, those would still be nearly a year away. Plenty of time to...”

To settle the other intangible problems he had to deal with. Michael nodded, bone-weary. He shuffled around the table and sank onto the couch, gaze traveling instinctively to the folder of brochures. Cautiously, Eric sat down beside him. After a moment, he slid closer and tipped his head onto Michael’s shoulder.“Was that our first fight? It wasn’t so bad. Nobody even threw anything.”

Said with genuine relief, the words revealed much about Eric’s previous relationship. Michael put an arm over his shoulders and clutched the sofa cushion hard enough to make his fist shake. “You told me he never hit you. Were you lying?”

Eric answered with a nonanswer. “He mostly liked to yell and, uh...throw things. Truthfully, his best weapon was his mouth.” He swept his palms back and forth over his thighs. “He could spout some really screwed-up shit.”

“So he messed with your head.”

Eric shot him a pinched frown. “Yeah, I guess. He tried to. I didn’t put up with it for long, though. I’m nobody’s punching bag, literal or otherwise.”

Michael believed that, even if Eric’s defensive, derisive tone was out of place. Time to change the subject. “What are your plans after your contract is up with the museum?”

“Funny you should ask.” Eric twisted around until his head was in Michael’s lap. Michael didn’t hesitate to touch. It felt natural to brush the loose strands from Eric’s face and comb his fingers through the thick waves.

Eric practically purred. Closing his eyes, he said, “One of my old profs wants me to come to Pitt and teach. He says the pay’s crap, but the benefits are decent, and the students that brave his classes are usually the more motivated ones. I thought it sounded like fun.”

Michael froze and stared at him until Eric cracked his eyes open and smiled. “I’ve always wanted to live in one of those industrial-type lofts, you know? There’s a ton down in the Strip District.” He turned his eyes away, demure. “They’re awfully big for just one person, is the thing.”

Such innocent words, but their implication set Michael on the edge of a precipice, tilting dangerously toward a decision he had no right to make.