Thyme (Naughty or Nice) (4 page)

He stared out the window, not registering the scenery as the train headed for
Landstuhl
and a number of other places. He knew he’d still love Verne no matter what he looked like. He could only hope Verne would forgive him and let him.

For the first time since he was a child, Julien wished he still believed in fairytales. In them, the people in love always got a happily ever after. And he had a good witchdoctor on his side—a goddess—surely that advantage was powerful enough to counterbalance fate!

I’ll be here when you need me, boy. I won’t fail you
.

All he could cling to now was the knowledge that Nana never lied. It would have to be enough.

A
NTISEPTIC
burned his nostrils the moment he stepped into the hospital. He hated the smell; he’d become much too familiar with it at age thirteen as his father faded away. It might cover up the scent of sickness and death, but it couldn’t clean the heavy atmosphere of grief and suffering.

Hospitals never boded well. They meant cancer, shattered elbows, broken feet… missing legs. He swallowed roughly, refusing to allow the memories to control him.

His eyes landed on a bank of elevators, and he walked toward them before realizing he had no idea where Verne was. Maybe hanging up on Momma Verne hadn’t been the best idea. He turned toward the reception desk, loathing every single delay that kept him away from Verne. Time was a commodity when someone was dying—injured, not dying—and he wanted to hoard every minute that he possibly could.

He hadn’t taken more than five steps when a large hand curled around his right bicep. A glance over his shoulder revealed a man with graying hair and laugh lines, though the usual happiness in his eyes was understandably absent.

“Hey, Papa Verne.” Julien turned around and pulled his surrogate father into a hug. When his own father had died, Papa Verne had done his best to finish raising him properly.

“Hello, Jules.” Papa Verne squeezed him tightly and then thumped him on the back. “Your phone’s still off. We tried to call you after the plane landed.”

He glanced down at his belt in disbelief. He hadn’t even thought of turning it back on. Idiot boy. “Sorry. I should’ve—sorry.”

Papa Verne shook his head. “I told that idiot you should have been here the whole time, but he wouldn’t listen. Stubborn bastard.”

The insult usually brought a smile to Julien’s face, because Papa Verne always said it affectionately, as if he didn’t realize the slur reflected back on him. “It runs in the family,” Julien replied as he stared up into concerned blue eyes. And there it was, the tiniest of smiles; he was impressed the familiar retort had garnered that much in these circumstances.

“So it does.” Papa Verne dropped his arms and stepped back. “Come on then, boy. I’ll show you where the idiot is.”

Julien would normally defend Verne, but he couldn’t in this case. Verne was an idiot for trying to block him out and keep him away. He deserved to be here, damn it. His hands curled into fists as he stepped into the elevator. When that wrinkled finger pressed the number five, Julien decided he hated that number and always would.

It wasn’t a rational hatred, but most weren’t. Besides, he felt it was justified.

This whole thing was his fault. If he’d had the balls to confess his feelings six years ago, if he’d given Verne a reason to stay…. He was so weak. He didn’t have the right to be here, not when he’d set Verne on this path. But he was going to be a selfish bastard and stay with him as long as he possibly could.

The elevator doors opened, and he followed Papa Verne down the hallway that smelled of too much bleach, to room number 513. Even the room number was unlucky, damn it! Pushing aside the irrational thought, he opened the door.

Momma Verne stood up, blocking his sight of the room, and came over to kiss his cheek. Her perfectly coiffed hair was coming loose, and tears had smeared her make-up something awful. She looked devastated. He’d never seen her like this, and it just made him all the more certain that this wasn’t a horrific nightmare or illusion.

Not even his subconscious was gifted enough to create something this elaborate in all its macabre terror. This was real—
reality
—
and he’d have to accept that.

“We’ll let you two have time alone. We’ll be outside,” she whispered before leaving and shutting the door behind her. The click sounded unnaturally loud in the room.

He dropped his bag on the ground, and inhaled deeply. This was it. He was here.

Julien kept his eyes locked on the floor as he traversed the chasm between the door and Verne’s bed. The sound of gently hissing oxygen and the constant beeping of the heart monitor set him on edge. Those sounds belonged in movies and TV shows, not anywhere near Verne.

Slowly, he trailed his gaze over the safety rail, hands clenching around it for support when he noticed the blanket hung off short stumps. Landmine suddenly had a whole new, visceral meaning for him. He didn’t allow his gaze to linger there, afraid it would upset Verne, and followed the bandages on his arms upward, passing the IV. He’d bet his future that it was pumping morphine.

Verne’s neck was a mass of bruises, but that was nothing compared to his face. His nose was broken, hooked slightly to the left, though it had obviously been set—the clear tubes to aid in breathing belonged on eighty-year-old smokers, not Verne. His mouth was pulled wide, like someone had stuck a finger in each side and yanked them apart. And his beautiful honey-blond hair… was gone. All gone.

His father’s image overlapped Verne’s, and he bit into his tongue to keep from crying out. A trickle of blood slid down his throat, tasting of old pennies. And, in that moment, he knew something had happened while he was dreaming nightmares over the Atlantic Ocean. A simple, unchangeable truth punched him in the face.

Verne was going to die. Soon.

He lifted a trembling hand, reminiscent of someone with palsy, and stroked the slightly charred skin. The fact that Verne’s hair—soft, beautiful—was gone, likely shaved in some
failed
attempt to save his life, shredded Julien’s heart.

But the blue eyes, the indescribable blue eyes, they were exactly the same.

“Hey, Jules.”

Julien’s tongue stuck to the top of his mouth, no matter how hard he tried to get it to move. He reached forward and grasped the hand that didn’t have an IV in it, then squeezed harder than he probably should have.

“You came,” Verne rasped.

And God, did that piss Julien off and make him want to break something. “Of course I came! I should have been here three fucking days ago!” He regretted the words as soon as they left his lips, especially when Verne flinched as if they’d cut into his already substantial wounds. He didn’t want to fight, damn it. This isn’t what he wanted! “I’m sorry—”

“No, you’re right.” Verne blinked slowly. “I should have let Momma—” He swallowed and looked away. “I’m a selfish bastard, Jules. We both know that. I didn’t want you to see me like this.” He gestured down to his missing legs, eyes dark and haunted. “But this is… I had to accept it.” His hand clutched Julien’s so tightly that he felt his bones grind together.

Julien wanted to say that it didn’t matter, but that sounded harsh, heartless in his own head. It was Verne’s legs, for God’s sake. Of course they mattered.

Blue eyes met and held brown. “After Momma called you the doctors found… there’s shrapnel running through my bloodstream; the doctors can’t keep up with it. The damage to my heart is irreparable.”

Nana, he’s dying! Verne’s dying! he screamed in his head as the words battered his heart into a similar condition.

What could he possibly say to…? “I love you, Verne.” The words spilled past his lips, escaping the chains he’d bound them with for ten years. If this was his last chance to say it…. Verne couldn’t
die
thinking he wouldn’t take Julien’s everything with him.

Verne winced and glanced away from him. “Yeah, man, I know. I love you, too.”

And no, that wasn’t right. It was so intrinsically wrong that—Verne hadn’t understood him. And Julien was enough of a selfish, cruel bastard to want him to understand. That Verne was his world, that there would never be anyone else, never had been since that Christmas Eve party. Because even though they’d never done anything, no one else could compare.

He cupped a hand against Verne’s cheek and turned his head. Once their eyes locked, he dropped every barrier he’d ever erected between them and whispered, “I love you.”

Verne’s lips quivered and a tear fell to splash against his hand. “You’re a fucking bastard, Jules,” Verne croaked out.

“I know.”

Verne’s hand rose to clutch the arm that held his face. “I love you, too, asshole.”

This time the tear fell from Julien’s eye. “I know.” He knew all too well, and he didn’t deserve Verne’s love. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to hold onto it for the rest of his miserable life—and it would be miserable without Verne in it.

He’s dying
.

“You going to kiss me before I die?” Verne asked. He tried to make it sound funny, Julien could tell, but it fell flat and hung suspended between them. All the wasted time dragged behind them like a mile-long wedding train, stained and littered with broken moments and false assumptions.

Julien leaned forward and kissed Verne. His bitten lips stung and ached, and Verne groaned in pain as his own lips stretched. There was nothing pretty or polite about it, and that’s what made it perfect.

Neither of them needed a fantasy; they needed a kiss that was grounded in reality.

It lasted less time than they wished, but Julien refused to continue when Verne started gasping for breath, even with the help of the additional oxygen. This whole thing was his fault, and Julien wasn’t going to kiss the man he loved to death. His conscience was already clamoring at him for the ruination of all that could have been.

Perhaps it was right. Maybe he was the assassin of happily ever after—his own, at least.

He sat on the bed for hours and hours as they talked and watched the sun sink lower in the sky, careful to keep his weight away from what remained of Verne’s legs. Even though he couldn’t see the damage, he knew it was there.

Momma and Papa Verne must’ve done something amazing, because he knew visiting hours were over. Maybe the nurses and doctors let him stay because Verne’s heart would give out in the next twenty-four hours?

And then…. He flinched.

His thumb stroked across the back of Verne’s hand, mindful of the IV. The hand he would have preferred to hold was propped behind Verne’s head, occasionally rubbing across his bare scalp.

Verne yawned and mumbled, “Damn, I feel tired.”

No!
“Do you want me to leave?”
No, you don’t. You really, really,
really
don’t.

“Nah. You can stay.”

Julien breathed a sigh of relief and closed his eyes. He wasn’t sure if he would have been able to, even if Verne asked him to leave. This was where he belonged, at Verne’s side. It’s where he had always belonged….

The sound of metal clinking roused him from his rumination, and he glanced up to see Verne pulling a set of dog tags over his head.

“No.”

“Jules, I want you to have these.”

“Verne, I can’t—”

“Please, Jules,” Verne begged, blue eyes wet. “Just take the fucking tags, asshole.”

He didn’t want to… but he couldn’t refuse this simple request. Not when it was within his power to grant it. “All right.” As he reached toward the battered dog tags, eyes locked on the brownish stain marring them, Verne flat-lined, and they fell from his now-limp grasp.

Julien stared at the monitor in disbelief. Verne was dead? No, that couldn’t be right. Verne wasn’t dead! He wasn’t dead! He wasn’t—the dog tags landed in his palm, brown stain melting to red blood, and then he was….

“
O
OF
!” Julien fell forward into the snow. Something impacted against his back, and he didn’t have to look to know it was a snowball. This… oh God, did he remember this day in perfect detail. Shivering, he pushed himself to his feet and then shoved his hands in his pockets. The bulky gloves encasing his fingers felt real. What was this? This couldn’t be….

“You all right, Jules?”

He bit his lip so hard he was surprised it didn’t split. It was the same. The exact same. But that didn’t make any sense! Maybe the tea
was
hallucinogenic, and it was just kicking in—?

“Jules, man, I didn’t hurt you, did I?”
      

Either that or watching the man he loved
die
before his eyes had resulted in a psychotic break; it was possible. Improbable, but not impossible.

When a large, warm hand landed on his shoulder, he spun around and buried himself against Verne’s chest. He tucked his head under his friend’s chin, something he did very rarely. He yanked his hands from his pockets and desperately wrapped his gloved hands in Verne’s coat. Even if this was some cruel illusion, he’d clutch it as tightly as he could for as long as his strength lasted.

“Hey, it’s all right,” Verne breathed in his ear.

Hands stroked his back, and Julien melted against Verne. Familiar warmth engulfed him. Familiar? How did it go again?
Parsley, sage, rosemary… and thyme.
Nana had sent him back in time? Was that—not even Nana could do that.
Could she?

“Jules? What’s wrong, asshole? You’re starting to freak me out.” And he did sound worried, but “asshole” was just as affectionate as it had always been—back when they were twenty-two—before Julien fucked it all up and “asshole” sounded bitter.

“Nothing, bastard,” he choked out. He cleared his throat when he realized how broken up he sounded, like he hadn’t even hit puberty yet. Now that was embarrassing. Whether this was real or not—and he fucking hoped it was real—he just wanted to stay in Verne’s arms. The strong arms tightened around him, and Verne’s chin prodded the top of his head.

This is how it was always supposed to be—Verne taller than him. Not… legless. Not the bitter, damaged, dead soldier he’d thoughtlessly created.