Fall Apart (42 page)

He hopped around in the darkness, pulling on sweats, socks and a scarf before opening the door and peeking into the hallway. Straining his ears, he thought he heard a muffled clanging. Either Zane was “fixing” the furnace, or he and Santa were fighting with broadswords in the garage.

Sophia’s door opened at the other end of the hallway and Mark watched with an evil grin as Reid tiptoed into the hall, shutting it quietly behind him. He was creeping along in the dark like a cartoon villain and Mark couldn’t help snickering. Reid jumped a foot in the air before he realized who’d witnessed his yuletide departure from Sophia’s room, but once he recognized Mark, all bets were off.

Mark lunged for the stairs, missing Reid’s clawing hand by a hair. He made it to the bottom fast, but he was cold and a little bit sore, so Reid was gaining rapidly. As the two of them spilled out into the den, Reid jumped on him. In the world’s most violent piggyback ride, Mark careened into the sectional sofa and barely avoided flattening the coffee table. He considered himself an athlete with better than average balance—unless he was on a fucking snowboard—but he wasn’t able to recover after tottering past the coffee table.

The Christmas tree was going down.

“Reid!” he whisper-shouted, then immediately gagged because in his attempt to avoid being flung from Mark’s back, Reid had grabbed onto Mark’s scarf. “I’m…choking…!”

The tree didn’t take its demise quietly. There was a scuffle with a lamp and the stockings their mom had hung on the mantle, and the two of them stood by, frozen in mid-grapple, as the tree followed the course to its inevitable end. There were pine needles
everywhere
.

In horrified silence, they looked from the tree, to each other, back to the tree and then listened, hoping no one had heard. The clanging had stopped.

“This is your fault,” Reid whispered. “You’re in so much trouble.”

“My fault?!” Mark jabbed his brother in the chest with a cold finger. “Your fault! You’re the one in trouble.”

“Why were you snooping in the hallway?”

“I was looking for Zane,” Mark ground the words out in his own defense.

They stared at each other for a calculated moment before Reid shrugged, snatched a cookie from the tray on the coffee table, and turned toward the stairs. “Better clean this up before he sees.”

“Sure,” Mark called toward his brother’s back. “I’ll clean it, and first thing in the morning, I’ll tell everyone about the Midnight Ride of Reid Newland.”

Not even breaking stride, Reid switched direction towards the kitchen. “Dustpan and broom in here?”

“In the mudroom.”

The clanging started up again and Mark hurried to right the tree, getting sap all over his hands in the process. There were tree ornaments scattered around the den—miraculously unbroken—and they stuck to his fingers as he replaced them on the tree. When Reid sauntered back in and hastily began sweeping the pine needles into piles, then into the dustpan, Mark concentrated on making it look like the stockings hadn’t been mauled by an eight-foot blue spruce.

The sound of sweeping abruptly stopped and Mark looked up from peeling red felt from his fingertips to see Reid looking at the mussed, yet dignified tree, his eyes bright like when they were kids. He looked at Mark and smiled.

“It’s one in the morning.”

“Yeah?” Mark stared.

“Merry Christmas.”

Mark looked at the tree and found himself smiling, too. “Merry Christmas, Reid.”

The moment ended when they heard the clanging stop and the door to the garage open. Reid hid the dustpan and broom in a corner and the two of them nearly trampled one another running up the stairs. At the top, Reid shot left and Mark shot right and their doors clicked shut at the same instant.

Zane was coming up the stairs, so Mark flew beneath the sheets and closed his eyes. When the door opened, he looked up like he hadn’t realized he was alone.

“Hey, sorry,” Zane whispered. “I was working on the furnace; I think I got it fixed.” He reached to put his arms around Mark and when Mark would’ve followed suit, he found that his hands were stuck together.

Dammit, Reid!

***

Alarik woke with his head on Damon’s chest and a leg thrown over him. He smiled to himself, grateful to be in the other man’s arms, hearing his heart beat in his chest. Damon stirred not long after and he let out a rumbling chuckle when his stomach growled. Food always won out with him.

“You said your mum would have breakfast for us? What kind of food are we talking about?”

Damon stretched carefully, grunting a little. “French toast, pancakes, bacon, eggs, croissants… All sorts of stuff. Coffee—tea if you want it.”

“I do.”

Damon kissed him on the top of his head and slowly sat up. He gently rubbed a hand over his ribs and winced, saying they were more tender in the morning. The reminder quieted Alarik and made him wonder if he’d ever feel like he could seriously broach the subject of that day, or the loss of Todd.

Damon noticed his expression and gave him a reassuring smile. “It’s okay. I’m getting better. It will take time, that’s all.”

Hoping he wasn’t stepping out of bounds, he ran a hand down Damon’s back and kissed his shoulder. “I’m sorry Todd isn’t here; I know it’s not easy for you.”

“He’s with me,” Damon murmured after a moment. “I can feel him.”

Not long after, Damon was holding his hand and leading him to his parent’s front door. Alarik remembered the last time he’d left the house and a jolt of fear accompanied the thought. He had to remind himself that circumstances were very different this go-around. Their footing was much more certain. Alarik had even developed a close bond with Molly and Leo and knowing that his relationship with their son was so strongly supported was all the gift he needed this Christmas.

The front door opened to reveal Davey in Superman foot pajamas, complete with cape, holding his stocking over his head. Jess peeked out and yelled, “I told him he had to wait to open presents until you guys got here.” The words led to an impromptu dance by Davey that was either meant to encourage them to speed it up, or to say that he needed to use the toilet.

Molly and Leo came out onto the porch, smiling warmly, and both of them offered hugs. When Molly pulled away she held onto his hand and noticed her son’s class ring on his finger. She took a shuddery breath and patted his hand, squeezing it tighter.

“If it’s a problem…” Alarik murmured and she met his eyes, her own brimming.

“Oh, honey,” she pulled him into another hug. “That’s the farthest thought from my mind.”

Everyone else had gone ahead of them into the house and from their place before the open front door, they watched as Damon and Davey dove into his stocking on the living room floor. Leo stood in the background, his gaze warm as he looked on. Damon was laughing.

“See that right there, Alarik?” Molly asked softly. “That’s our boy coming back to us.”

Makoto ended the phone call with a disgusted curse, knowing Zane was going to take one look at his face and see the bad news coming. There was no point in rushing to spread the news, so he took the time to hide out on the snow-covered balcony, shivering in discontent.

He looked at the list of recent calls to his phone and knew that the absence of Alarik’s name was his final answer. Their future, it seemed, was limited to the boundaries of friendship and this was a tormenting blow to his pride. He’d divulged too much to the man and felt that all he received in return was a vulnerable, exposed heart.

Losing Casey Krane was another trial that he hadn’t expected, and in the midst of an already stressful production, he was now grappling with the formidable sharks of two other production companies, watching them circle. He had their demands and there wasn’t any way he could see around them; it made him seethe.

Max wished he could go inside, enjoy the holiday, and laugh over the antics of three brothers whose delight in life was to rile one another. But this year, he was so removed from everything and everyone. He’d taken many chances of late—with Alarik, with the film, with the production company, with his own family—stupidly hopeful of a positive outcome.

He knew what his father would say:
Even a fool has one talent
. Max’s talent seemed to be quiet of late, so what would his father say to that? He was unable to think of his father without remembering his mother. As ever, she was the balm to his wounded spirit. For each negative word delivered by his father, there were ten more encouraging words from his mother. If she were with him now, she would whisper in his ear,
“Fall down seven times, get up eight.”

Max nodded to himself and turned to go back inside. Like he’d predicted, Zane was watching for him and one look at his face had his actor friend out of his seat and crossing the room with a narrowed gaze.

“What’d they say?”

“Many things,” Max answered. “None of them pleasant.”

“Who do they want in Casey’s role?”

Max flicked his head toward the kitchen and Zane followed, his anxiety like a third person keeping them company. Mark’s mother was making snacks, saw their faces and made herself scarce.

“They gave me three names and two of them were empty suggestions. So, basically, we have one name. One option.”

Zane glared. “Who?”

“Brad Pershall.”

Watching his friend’s reaction was like watching a volcano erupt. Color washed up over Zane’s features and he shook with suppressed anger. “You’re fucking
kidding
me.”

“They sent him the script last week; he wants in.”

“Brad Pershall?” Zane snapped, his hands running over his shaved head. “He’s a bigot—they know that, right? He’s going to be working with a gay actor that he has publicly mocked.”

“And what better way is there to reel in an audience then to put you two together in the leading roles?”

Zane paced the kitchen from stove to fridge and didn’t even stop when Mark came in, looking concerned. Max only had to repeat Brad’s name for Mark to groan.

“Such bullshit,” he said, cringing a little as Zane cursed loudly.

“I don’t want to assume that you’re going to go along with this without a fight,” Max added, and Zane jerked to a halt.

“Are you kidding me? I’m a professional! If there’s anybody you need to worry about, it’s that homophobic, talentless asshole—not
me
.” And with that, Zane smacked the swinging kitchen door open and stalked from the room.

“This,” Mark gestured at the still-swinging door, “is bad.”

Max closed his eyes and let out the pent-up sigh building in his lungs. Yes, it was bad. And, now, it was his very real problem.

Fall down seven times; get up eight
.

 
alphy