Spokes (12 page)

The bags contained savory tidbits from the Italian restaurant, or nothing that wouldn't taste like ashes right now. Christopher drank the broth
only because Luca insisted he have something--"You're shocked and need fluids and some food." Any noodle that slid
down without chewing got swallowed; the other lumps in the soup were too much to cope with. He pushed the cup away before Luca was ready to let him.

"No more, please." He folded over his lover's shoulder, dry of tears but too worn for anything else.
"I--" He had to call others who'd be as devastated as he, and he couldn't even state the need.

"How can I help you?" Luca murmured.

"Dial." He whispered the number and took the buzzing phone from Luca's hand. Holding tight to Luca, Christopher whispered the
useless words. "Liz? I'm so sorry..."

Luca brought more tissues while Christopher dug for the Fallons' number, and wiped his cheeks. "How am I going to tell
them...?" The words stoppered his throat. "When I can't believe... How can Stu be gone?" But Stu
hadn't jumped up spitting ketchup, delighted to have scared the crap out of everyone. Laughing... Stu wouldn't laugh again,
he'd never tell anyone's secrets.

"I will be your strength."

Christopher felt Luca's lips at his temple, Luca's arms around his shoulders. With shaking fingers, Christopher dropped a slip of paper
into Luca's lap.

Luca stopped before hitting the last digit. "This is hard, but you can do it, Christopher. Bearer of burdens." He touched the last
number. "I am here with you."

"Mr. Fallon," Christopher choked out. "I'm so sorry..." He answered questions as well as he could,
accepting regrets for his own injuries. He'd gotten off so lightly when Stu... No wonder Mrs. Fallon couldn't bear to talk to
him, even though he asked.

"I almost didn't answer," Stu's father told him. "I didn't recognize the caller ID."

That wouldn't have gotten Christopher off the hook, but only made more attempts necessary. "My phone got smashed. I'm using
Luca's; he's one of the team that caught the driver."

"Thank him for us." Mr. Fallon sounded a thousand years old. "We'll let you know about the funeral."

Funeral. He hadn't even considered Stu would need... The now-silent phone slipped from his grip, sliding between his legs.
"I've never buried a friend."

"I have. It's hard, but we do it." Luca gathered Christopher more closely. "Were you friends again,
before...?"

Before the unspeakable happened. "Yeah. We talked. He didn't understand before...." Christopher ran through their
conversation. "He said he was sorry. He wasn't trying to drive a wedge between us, or even give you a hard time. He was just
being... Stu." And he would never be Stu again. "But he was sorry."

"He must have been a good man or you wouldn't have been his friend." Luca leaned back into a stack of pillows, pulling
Christopher down against him. "I'm sorry we didn't become friends too."

"Sometimes he was a jerk, but he was a good guy." The best, most of the time. Until total jerkhood busted out, and it didn't
last. Yeah, Stu was a good guy, and now Christopher would have to watch him be lowered into the ground. Only Luca's strong arms around him kept
Christopher from shaking right off the bed. He clutched tightly, to warmth, to life, to Luca, who was his one defense against the universe right now.

Luca held him while his teeth chattered from the chill of death that had taken Stu and breathed down Christopher's neck today. That could have
been him in the silent ambulance, it could have been both of them, and no one but Luca to tell the world what had happened. The nearness of it swelled in
his throat, bursting out with a sob that burned his gullet.

And Stu was gone...

Christopher woke in a wet, snotty mess, worn from weeping and not rested for the sleep that had beaten him over the head. Luca lay under him, exactly as
they'd lain down earlier. "You're still here." Had the pain pills fogged Christopher into forgetting the days?

Luca jumped and curled around Christopher. "Yes, still here."

"I thought you had a team dinner tonight." But Luca was still here....

"Yes." But he didn't try to get up; he moved nothing but his thumb against Christopher's arm.

"Shouldn't you be there?"

"This is more important." He leaned his cheek against Christopher's head. "You are more important."

I am?
He dared not question it.

Luca did get up, but only to strip off his clothing and lie back on the bed, under the covers this time. He snuggled against Christopher's back,
careful not to jostle the stitched places, and wrapped his arm over Christopher's chest.

Christopher clenched his fingers into Luca's. "I'm glad you're here."
I
'
m glad you
'
re alive.

"I stay with you." His brush of lips over Christopher's nape suggested Luca wasn't going anywhere.

Luca's breath eventually went even with sleep. Christopher stared into the darkness.

Chapter 11

Luca's phone sang them awake in the morning; Luca spoke in Italian, punctuated with words Christopher understood, like
"Broadway" and "Euclid Boulevard". "My soigneur comes with your bicycle. Our mechanics repaired it, Paolo
declares it fine."

"Thanks."
I think.
The question of renewing his racing license was well and truly answered. No way was Christopher obligating
himself to racing when that meant training alone. If he could push himself back on the roads at all. "The team car collected it
after...?"

Luca settled Christopher on his shoulder, cupping the back of his head. "Yes. The police took Stu's. They wanted yours but we convinced
them pictures were enough."

"Thanks." Christopher leaned more heavily against Luca. "How do you ride again after something like this?" He
couldn't say the words:
after you lose a comrade
.

"Christopher--" Luca's hand made a slow trail through his hair. "We know the sport is dangerous. With
everything from road rash to broken bones, injury rate is one hundred percent. We get hurt riding. We know it happens, that something will happen to us.
And yet the need to ride stays. Goes away for a while, comes back. Maybe not at pro level. Maybe only for fun, but if fun is long descent at sixty
kilometers per hour..." He sighed. "Then might as well stay pro."

"I'm not talking about me." Christopher flattened his hand against Luca's side.

"I know. But no one can say what will happen. Maybe lightning strikes. Maybe get illness. Maybe walk in front of bus. Maybe grow old and never
wake up. Lots of maybes. But we name our races for our fallen, we honor them by riding. We honor them by not giving up. When it's right for you
to ride again, you will." Luca glanced at his watch. "You will know when. And I want clothes on before Paolo gets here."

Luca slid out of bed with a brushing kiss to Christopher's head. Of course he'd want to be dressed before the arrival of the one
representative of the outside world allowed to join them here. Christopher heaved himself to his feet and made up the futon, clicking it to couch position
before Luca returned from the bathroom. His crooked smile had to mean
Thank you.

The knock at the door interrupted their coffee: Luca opened it to reveal a middle-aged man, sun weathered and thin. Was this what old cyclists did? Held
bicycles and changes of clothing for the young champions? Accepting the bag and motioning him in, Luca stepped out of the way of the bike Paolo wheeled
through the door.

"We are sorry for your friend," Paolo told Christopher. "And for your injuries."

"Let Paolo examine your stitches, Christopher. He does excellent wound care." Luca disappeared into the bathroom with the bag of
clothing, while Christopher lay face down on the futon to be tended by the soigneur with his tube of ointment. His hands were gentle, but they
weren't Luca's.

"Don't stress the stitches," Paolo pronounced. "Stay off the bike, advice I always give and no one
follows." He aimed a sourly affectionate look at Luca, who reappeared in cycling gear and his street shoes.

"There is always stage or race to overshadow good advice." Luca knelt to examine the bicycle. "What did the mechs do?"

"New brakes: a line broke and the handle tore off, and new grip tape. Adjusted the derailleurs: it shifts very smoothly now." Paolo
spoke proudly.

"Thank you." Christopher spoke faintly--the team mechanics could do wonders.

"Which brakes?" Luca squeezed the handle experimentally.

Any of the big manufacturers might have sent boxes of components to the team. "From the bike Poldi crashed last week."

That didn't seem like much of an endorsement to Christopher. Luca clarified, "He hit a rock, cracked the fork. We're waiting
for a replacement, stealing components while we wait."

"Did Poldi get cracked too?" Cracking the fork took a serious hit, and the wheel would be a goner.

"Road rash and bruises, and he's waiting for us to ride," Paolo said. "With the rest of the team."

That was Luca's cue to stop being a human and turn back into a cycling machine. "Wait for me in the car; I will be a moment
only."

Paolo slipped out the door, leaving the two of them alone. Luca held out a hand to heave Christopher to his feet. "I'm sorry to leave,
but I'll be back tonight. Sleep as much as you can, eat something. I'll text you when we get back from the ride. We have weights and
race tapes today, and I expect to spend some time with the directeur sportif about last night, but I will be here later. If you want company."

Wrapped in his lover's arms, Christopher couldn't imagine not wanting Luca's company. "I'll be
waiting."

With a last kiss, Luca broke the embrace and opened the door. Christopher watched him march to the turquoise and black team car with three bicycles on the
roof rack. Paolo waited at the wheel.

There'd be some sick-making hours to wait until Luca texted. If he texted. Fear would be Christopher's new companion every time Luca
headed out.

***

For three days running, Christopher received cheery texts of "Good ride!" or "Crosswinds above Jamestown but fine,"
and had managed what little sleep he could get in Luca's arms. The "double glove" comment at the ER came clear when an
envelope with test results he hadn't requested came. He left it out where Luca could see, and next day found a similar sheet with it. Luca had
been tested for everything under the sun, including a few diseases found in the Amazon Basin more than American bedrooms. He'd shrugged it off.
"They offer me contract, they expect me to be healthy."

Guess that took care of the condom issue, if they ever actually got frisky again.

The red X on the calendar loomed, marking the day the team headed for Belgium. Christopher spent the days writing or at work, his boss's good
will not extending to sick days for anyone not actively bleeding. Christopher had to strong-arm Brendan about funeral policy.

"I'm going." That and a significant look at the newspaper offices directly across the street brought a grudging agreement.

In his one suit, last worn for graduation, and a tie to choke him, Christopher headed to his sad errand. Luca had inquired the details but made no
promises.
He has his own bosses to answer to.

The service would be simple and graveside: Stu's father had asked Christopher to be a pall bearer.
The last thing I can do for Stu.
So
different from letting him draft behind on a bike. Now Christopher could only gaze at the large portrait of Stu on the easel, surrounded by flowers, too
bright against the still-brown winter grasses. His parents had sent a spray of blooming somethings. The scents mixed with the odor of newly turned earth.

People gathered around the open grave in murmurs and tears. Christopher kissed Mrs. Fallon's cheek and let Mr. Fallon pull him into a rough
embrace. Liz's fingers were vices on his arm--he wouldn't be able to feel anything from the elbow down, but she needed the
support and the pain would keep him from breaking down.

One last group of mourners appeared from a turquoise and black vehicle at the end of the line of cars. Five men in dark suits approached. Luca, Rolf, three
more whose names weren't surfacing, all joined the group. Liz accepted their condolences quietly and with a sharp look at Luca, she retreated to
clutch Mrs. Fallon's hand.

"Thank you," Christopher whispered. Luca was here. The others got polite words, even Rolf, who said little and betrayed nothing with
his face.

"Christopher." Mr. Fallon's voice came from behind him, and a hand rested on his shoulder. "It's
time." Christopher turned to see the hearse pulling up. Stu's last ride. "We need a sixth. Joel couldn't get
here."

"I will do it, please," Luca spoke up.

"This is Luca from the team." That offer needed some explanation, but Mr. Fallon was already nodding his thanks.

The journey from the hearse to the gravesite was the longest Christopher had ever taken, his burden the heaviest he'd ever carried. Many hands
did not make light work; they only made the task possible. Knowing Luca marched behind him, helping to support Stu, kept Christopher from stumbling. He had
to do this, and he couldn't do it alone. But he wasn't alone. They laid the casket on the bier and stepped back into the group.

Christopher could only gaze brokenly on the well-polished casket that would be lowered into the earth. How long Rolf had had his hand slipped into the
crook of Christopher's arm he couldn't say, nor how long Luca had been holding his hand. The other three cyclists bunched behind them,
their presence warm and close. They made a peloton for him; they sheltered him from the winds of his grief. Christopher clenched his fingers into
Luca's and stayed upright.

Those who were close to Stu were invited to speak, once the minister had finished his service. Christopher managed to say his words of remembrance without
breaking down, though his throat closed on his final, "Goodbye, Stu. Ride on."

"Would anyone else like to speak?" the minister inquired, and it was barely a surprise that Luca stepped forward.