Another Man's Treasure Page 15

  Nick had watched for a moment too, then had ordered Patrick to shut the TV off and come into the bedroom.

  One morning, Nick was out, and Ilia and Patrick had watched TV together. A home decorating show where a team fixed up buildings that didn’t look like much, transformed them into luxury homes.

  Patrick turned the volume down during a commercial break. Stared at the screen, where a blond woman was enjoying a spoonful of some kind of life-changing yogurt.

  Ilia waited, not sure what he was supposed to say. If he was supposed to say anything.

  Patrick glanced at him then looked back at the TV. Now a mother was fixing sandwiches for her kids and placing them in bags that, if Ilia had to hazard a guess, probably sealed in freshness.

  Patrick smiled, and Ilia wondered what he was thinking about. It had been so long since Ilia had been able to smile that he sort of resented Patrick for doing it now.

  “I used to work at this takeout place in Le Droit,” Patrick said quietly. “This, um—this woman called to place an order one night. She finished, and I said, ‘Will that be all for you today, ma’am?’ And she said, ‘My daughter would like to ask you a question.’ So I’m thinking, what the fuck? And this kid gets on—maybe five or six?—and starts singing—” Patrick took a deep breath and rapped a song that consisted of the line “It’s peanut butter jelly time” repeated over and over, followed by “Where ya at, where ya at,” a few “There ya go’s,” and then, “Peanut butter jelly with a baseball bat!” He got into it too, moving his arms, making his voice high, cartoonish, and frenetic.

  Ilia was too startled at first to react.

  “Then the mom gets back on,” Patrick continued in his normal voice, “and says, ‘I’m so sorry. She has to do that anytime I’m on the phone with someone.’”

  The laugh burst out of Ilia, unbidden and odd sounding. He wasn’t sure how to control it, so he just let it go, amazed at how good it felt. He was nervous too, as though laughing might somehow conjure Nick—call him home to make sure Ilia never had cause to laugh again. But he couldn’t have stopped if he’d wanted to. It wasn’t the hysteria he’d felt at Basayev’s. It was warm and real.

  Patrick turned to him and grinned. “That was seriously one of my best days at that job.”

  “What is that?” Ilia asked. “That song?”

  “It’s the ‘Peanut butter Jelly Time’ song!” Patrick said. “You’ve never heard it?”

  “Um, no.”

  “It was big a few years ago. This flash animation of a banana dancing around rapping about peanut butter and jelly.”

  “I must have missed that one.”

  “Oh my God, I wish we had a computer. I’d show you.”

  Ilia stopped laughing, though his smile hung on for a few more seconds. He didn’t want to think about the possibility that he’d never have a computer again. Would never watch a dumb video or check his email or play games. He just wanted to hold onto this moment where Patrick had shared a story—a silly, random story—and had made Ilia laugh for the first time since Mikhail’s death.

  “I’m such an Internet nerd,” Patrick said. “I have to watch anything that goes viral. Plus a lot of stuff that doesn’t.” He glanced back at the TV and shook his head. “Once I watched a forty-five minute video of some guy beating Super Ghouls ‘N’ Ghosts on Difficult without dying once. It was amazing.”

  “Um, what?”

  “Super Ghouls ‘N’ Ghosts?” Patrick raised his eyebrows. “It was my favorite game for Super Nintendo. But it was, like, impossible to beat. Except not for this guy.”

  “You seriously watched a video of someone playing a video game for forty-five minutes?”

  Patrick grinned again, and ducked his head. “Told you I’m a nerd.”

  “I used to play a bunch of video games.” Ilia tried not to think of the warehouse. Of Kysna striking him. “But not on SNES. First system I had was a PlayStation.”

  Patrick shook his head. “Not as good.”

  It struck Ilia that maybe he didn’t want to learn more about Patrick. That he couldn’t afford to get to know the Patrick who watched videos online or preferred Nintendo to PlayStation, because whatever Nick ended up doing to Patrick, Ilia didn’t want to feel the loss deeply. He didn’t say anything else, and Patrick seemed to tense as the seconds of silence passed. Finally he picked up the remote and unmuted the TV, and they continued to watch the home renovation show.

  But Ilia’s heart wouldn’t slow. He couldn’t sort out what he was feeling—a mixture of panic, guilt, and bizarre, wild joy. He felt like he’d done something horribly wrong and had enjoyed it. Had gotten away with it. He was supposed to feel cold, monstrous. Instead he felt less alone.

  Patrick was here with him.

  Patrick. A stranger who should have hated Ilia.

  But instead had made him laugh.

  XI

  Patrick’s eyes were beautiful, even when they were fixed on Ilia in horror.

  Ilia ran his hands through the hair on Nick’s chest, arched his back and moaned. Squeezed the muscles in his ass tight enough that Nick grunted, and rocked his hips back and forth.

  “Mmm.” Ilia straightened. Ran his hands up his own body and pinched his nipples. Tugged the tiny barbells there. Tilted his head back, open-mouthed.

  Didn’t help to imagine he was with Mikhail. That only made it hurt worse. So he stayed in the present. Let his anger fuel him, and reminded himself that he and Patrick were in this together. That soon they’d either be rid of Nick, or dead. Thought about that as he clenched around Nick. Fucker. Enjoy this while you can.

  An intense rush of pleasure that had nothing to do with Nick, speeding through his whole body, making him sweat, making him laugh—one quick, broken chuckle that he tried to cover with a groan.

  “You see, Patrick,” Nick said between gasps. “You see how good he is?”

  “Yes.” Patrick’s voice was cold. Or was Ilia imagining that? “I see.”

  XII

  “You’re good at that,” Patrick said the next morning, tone flat. Nick was at work, and Ilia and Patrick were on the couch, eating what little breakfast they’d scrounged.

  “Good at what?” Ilia asked.

  “Making it seem like you want him.”

  “I have to.” Ilia set his package of crackers down. “Or he gets pissed.”

  Patrick shrugged. “He gets pissed anyway. You can do what he says without acting like you like it.”

  Ilia glared at him. “You could try acting like you like it. Maybe he wouldn’t hurt you so bad.”

  “I’m not going to give him the satisfaction,” Patrick said. “I’m not gonna let him think he’s won.”

  “Then you’re an idiot,” Ilia snapped. What fucking right did Patrick have to judge him? It used to feel like strength, the way Ilia took whatever Nick did to him without crying. The way he made himself want it. Patrick made that feel like weakness. “He needs to think he’s won, so he stops watching us so closely. So we can work on our plan.”

  Patrick hesitated. “What is our plan?”

  “You’re the one who saved the fucking flowers.”

  Patrick stared at him, then smiled slowly. “Yeah. I did.”

  “Then you cry when he kills your flowers… You are just a little bitch.”

  Nick turned all good things into sources of shame. Ilia had been so proud of his corset piercing. Proud of the way Mikhail had loved it. Nick had made it something painful, ugly. Mocked him for it. Ilia had been proud too of the Brugmansia—of this beautiful, toxic thing Mikhail had given him to care for. And Nick had made him feel stupid for loving it. For needing it.

  “So we’re going to poison him?” Ilia asked.

  Patrick nodded. “I don’t know how much of the plant we need.”

  “I don’t either,” Ilia said. “The leaves are the most toxic part. I know that.”

  “I can put it in his dinner. All of it. Everything I saved. Could do it tomorrow, even. But…”

  �
��What?”

  “Well, even if he dies, we’re still trapped here. And if he doesn’t die, if he’s just sick and pissed off, and we’re stuck in here with him…”

  Patrick didn’t have to finish. Same reason they never tried rushing Nick when he came into the apartment, hitting him with a chair, the kettle, anything. If they failed, there was no second chance.

  “What other choice do we have?” Ilia asked. “If we had a way out of here, then we wouldn’t need to poison him. And even if it just makes him sick, at least he’ll be weaker.”

  Patrick paused. “I think we should do it the night he takes you to kill your father. So that he’ll die while you’re out of the apartment. And then you can run.”

  Ilia went cold. “I don’t…. No.” He shook his head. “No.” No, I don’t want to let it get that far. “There’s still Mayrsolt.”

  Patrick shifted. “But what if it works? What if he dies while you’re out there, and—and Mayrsolt’s busy dealing with that, and you can get away?”

  Ilia tried to imagine it. Nick, dying on the way to Ilia’s parents’ house. Mayrsolt wouldn’t be able to keep an eye on Ilia during a crisis like that.

  It could work.

  It could.

  He looked at Patrick and tried for a smile. “Shit.” He laughed nervously. “Shit, you really think we can do this?”

  Patrick smiled back. “We have to try.” He reached out, hesitated—then clasped Ilia’s hand.

  Ilia stared down at their laced fingers. If there was such a thing as poison disguised as beauty, then the opposite must exist too. Goodness bloomed even in a hell like this. And Ilia would hold onto it for as long as he could.

  He squeezed Patrick’s hand and looked up, his smile spreading.

  Patrick’s expression grew serious. “Just promise you’ll come back for me. When it’s over.”

  “I will. Of course I will.”

  “Good.” Patrick swung one leg, hitting the couch. “I don’t know how long the poison’ll take to work. But once we know what time you’re gonna go, we can plan to eat about an hour before that?”

  “What if he wants to do the hit at, like, two a.m.? How can we have dinner an hour before that?”

  Patrick released Ilia’s hand. “We’d, uh, have to keep him busy until then. I guess.”

  Ilia swallowed. “You mean…”

  Patrick had to look away from Ilia to say it. “Fuck him. Fuck each other. Put on a big show that lasts until late. Make him hungry.”

  “And if that doesn’t work?”

  “Then we can do it earlier! Fuck. I don’t know! Even if he drops dead before we leave, it’ll still be better than having him alive in here. We’ll try our best to time it so he dies when you two are out of the apartment. That’s all we can do.”

  Ilia didn’t say anything for a while. “What if…I mean, is the plant even still poisonous, now that it’s dead?”

  “I don’t know,” Patrick muttered. Ilia figured they were thinking the same thing. The plan was a long shot. Such a long shot. But it was better than nothing. Better than the idea of trying to physically overpower Nick at his strongest.

  “I’m glad you’re here,” Ilia murmured finally.

  Patrick didn’t respond. Could Ilia really expect him to? Wasn’t like Patrick was glad to be here with Ilia. Ilia was the reason Patrick was in this situation in the first place. Ilia had done horrible things to him.

  Somebody loved me once, Patrick. I wish I could show you why. The person I was for him? I wish I could be that for you.

  “Um, hey,” Patrick said after a few minutes. “You wanna…. I’m kind of tired. You wanna lie down a while? Just…” Those two pink spots appeared on his cheeks. “Just lie down, is all I meant.”

  “What about the door code?” Ilia asked, trying to keep his tone detached. Didn’t matter whether he wanted to lie down with Patrick or not. If he did that, it would make everything Nick did later hurt so much worse. “We should keep trying.”

  Patrick nodded. “Sorry.”

  Ilia stared at the door, at the keypad. Seemed so futile. So many combinations to try, and no way of knowing how many numbers the pin was. Hard to remember what they’d tried so far and what they hadn’t. “I’m tired too,” he said, in a voice low enough that maybe Patrick wouldn’t hear. Or that Patrick could pretend not to hear, if he wanted.

  “Then come here.”

  Ilia glanced sideways. Patrick looked as tense and anxious as a teenager at the movies, about to take his date’s hand and unsure what reaction he’d get.

  Ilia’s wash of grief was warm and almost comforting. Grief didn’t come now in the merciless stabs it had during the first days after Mikhail died—making Ilia twist in the shadow of an unseen enemy, not sure what to snap at. Now it came in these waves, a soft sadness that covered him and retreated, covered him and retreated. Drained a little more from him each time. He drew his legs up to his chest.

  “Hey?” Patrick said. “We don’t have to.”

  But Ilia moved closer, and they both stretched out so that Patrick was wedged between the back cushions and Ilia. He held Ilia loosely from behind, and Ilia stared at the spot where the plant used to be.

  “You okay?” Patrick asked.

  “I…think.”

  Patrick’s breath on his shoulder was soothing.

  “You always know what to do.” Ilia was surprised to hear himself speak. “You make me feel okay.”

  “My mom always said I was good with people.” Patrick shifted, and the couch creaked. Ilia tensed, then relaxed as Patrick did too. “She said I got it from my dad.”

  “What did they do?”

  “My dad worked in a bank. My mom hadn’t worked in a while. She had health issues. When they met, she was a florist.” Ilia heard the smile in his voice. “My dad went in to buy flowers for his girlfriend, and fell in love with my mom instead.”

  “That’s cute.”

  “Yeah.”

  Ilia stared at the wall. “But everything ends badly.”

  “I thought that too,” Patrick said. “For a long time, I thought that. But they died together, you know? Maybe forty years too soon, but at least they were together.”

  Ilia felt a rush of fierce, burning jealousy for Patrick’s parents. “I wish I’d died with Mikhail.”

  “Don’t say that. The way he looked at you…I didn’t get it at first. I didn’t get what was going on with you two. I thought he was making you do it, but he wasn’t, was he?”

  Ilia shook his head.

  “He was showing you off because he was proud of you,” Patrick said softly. “Not because he was trying to prove he was stronger than you.”

  Ilia smiled slightly. His eyes stung.

  “I was scared of him,” Patrick said.

  “Everyone was.”

  “Not you.”

  “No, not me.” Ilia drew a deep breath. “Why’d you come here when Nick called? Was it really for the money?” He felt stupid asking, but he needed to know the truth.

  Patrick reached over Ilia and linked their fingers again. “When my parents died, I was so alone. I hated that feeling. I saw on the news that Mikhail was dead, and I was worried about you. When Nick called he said you wouldn’t even get out of bed, and I thought, yeah, yeah I know what that feels like.”

  Ilia fell still, stunned by a quiet relief, a kind of wonder that Patrick had remembered him. Patrick might as well have gone to check on any of the tens and thousands of strangers in the city who’d lost a loved one. But he’d remembered Ilia. Hadn’t wanted him to be alone.

  “Why’d you come back after that?”

  “Because…” Patrick sighed. “I don’t know, Ilia. I thought you and Nick were both fucked up because of Mikhail’s death, and both taking it out on each other. I thought he couldn’t possibly be that crazy. I wanted to figure it out first. I thought…”

  “What?” Ilia leaned into him.

  “I thought about how stupid I’d look, walking into a police station and
telling them I was worried about Mikhail Kadyrov’s boyfriend.”

  “Yeah.” Ilia closed his eyes. “Stupid.”

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “Just shut up,” Ilia murmured.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I don’t care if you’re sorry. It doesn’t matter. I didn’t expect you to do anything. Didn’t expect you to help me. I’m sorry too, for the shit I did to you, but it doesn’t matter. I wish you hadn’t come back.”

  Patrick tightened his hold on Ilia.

  Ilia dug his fingers into the couch. “We’re both fucked. And I’m supposed to—supposed to kill my—kill—and I can’t—uh, can’t—do that.” He swallowed back sickness.

  “You won’t have to,” Patrick said firmly. “He’ll be dead before he can make you do that.”

  A desperate flash of hope that spent itself quickly. Ilia wondered what time it was. Hoped Nick wouldn’t be home for a long while still. “I can’t do that. He’s a piece of shit, but I can’t kill him.”

  “Your dad? Or Nick?”

  “My dad!” Ilia snapped.

  “You don’t get along with him?”

  “He hates every fucking thing about me. So, no.”

  Patrick kissed Ilia’s shoulder. Nothing sexual about it—soft, reassuring. Ilia sighed and stretched, extending his legs as far as they would go, pointing his toes and trying to release some of the tension he held all the time now, in every muscle. Patrick stroked his thumb lightly over Ilia’s wrist. “He probably loves you more than you think.”

  “Will you stop? Seriously? I don’t need whatever you’re trying to do.”

  Ilia had thought Patrick was shy. Had thought he’d blush and stammer at the idea of lying on a couch with another man. But Patrick was stronger than he looked. Ilia remembered that first massage Patrick had given him. How he’d been almost too rough, and Ilia had wondered if he was compensating for looking so gentle.

  Patrick kissed his shoulder again.

  Ilia shrugged him off. “Don’t.” He blinked. “Every fucking day...every fucking day he steals a piece of this place away from me. I was happy here. And now it’s all his. It’s all Nick.”