Escape (15 page)

Luka didn't trust his voice enough to answer, and he didn't know what he'd say to that, anyway.

“I hope you know, Luka, when people are cruel to you, it doesn't mean you're bad, or that there's anything wrong with you. It only means something's wrong with them.”

It was dumb that something so obvious was making his throat tighten, that tears were filling his eyes, smearing the brightness of the fire across the dark night. “I know.”

Luka closed his eyes and listened to the growl and hiss of the fire. Behind him, at the creek, frogs were singing. Maybe an hour later, Tarik's low snores joined the tranquil chorus.

In the morning, they got up at dawn and set out without eating, taking a few bites of food here and there as they went. A fine frost softened the landscape, connecting everything under a sheer veil of white, as if with every meter of altitude they gained, they were going backward in time, toward winter. It seemed like they were making good time. Luka was feeling stronger, not just because he wasn't starving anymore; walking ten hours every day, his stamina had improved. His shoulders still ached from the unfamiliar weight of the rucksack, even though he and Tarik had divided the weight of their supplies between them, but he didn't let that slow him down.

After their usual midday rest and hasty meal, they pushed on, eventually forced to climb even higher as the little creek that had been filling their water jugs widened and deepened, chewing away at the lower ground until there was nowhere to go but into the water, or up. The earth was soft and wet and gave under their feet, but despite the exertion of the difficult climb, Luka was getting colder and colder in his damp clothes as they trudged under a thickening blanket of mist. When they finally crested the summit, Luka was so relieved, he was ready to take the downhill path at a run.

“Wait!” Tarik grabbed the back of Luka's coat and yanked him down to the dirt.

Senseless, panicking, Luka flailed free.

“Shhh. Look. Look,” Tarik whispered.

Luka looked at Tarik, then followed the nod of his head with his gaze. At first, he didn't see anything. But then, through the thick mist blanketing the valley, he glimpsed the flow of a vast gray river. And then he realized it wasn't a river. It was a battalion. An Eršban battalion flowing in silence under a veil of fog.

Luka's heart thumped hard, racing at the staccato rhythm of a snared rabbit. Even though the soldiers were marching past, not toward them. Even though Tarik had pulled him back and was keeping them ducked down out of sight. Even though he wanted to trust Tarik, believe he wanted to find his son, not merge back into the army taking control of the country.

“I can't tell how far back the line goes.” Tarik squinted into the half-erased distance. “I don't know. We're losing the light. Soon we won't be able to see them at all. We could settle in and wait until morning, but if they send scouts to higher ground, we might be fucked.”

“We could go back down. Just half way. If we don't make a fire, they wouldn't see us in the dark.”

“It'll be a long, cold night, though.”

“We could cross the river. Make a detour.”

Tarik sighed. “Yeah. That's what I'm thinking. The water's not moving too fast. It's going to be cold as hell, though. Can you swim?”

“It didn't look that deep.”

“No. But just in case, can you?”

“Not very well.”

“What do you want to do?”

Luka peered down at the endless, slow-flowing river of men in their gray uniforms. “Let's go back and cross.”

Descending was almost as hard as climbing had been. They both kept losing their footing in the loose, damp soil, and by the time they were at the edge of the river it was almost dark. As soon as he stepped into the water, the icy cold cut through Luka's shoes and sliced into his flesh and bones, but he forced himself to keep moving, treading cautiously over the stones shifting under his numb feet. His whole body was rigid with fear of falling, not because he was afraid he'd drown, but because he was desperate not to submerge any more of his body in the freezing water than absolutely necessary. Already he couldn't feel his legs below the water's surface. When they made it across, he almost cried with relief.

Hurrying, shaking with cold, they drove themselves a ways into the dark embrace of the woods so their fire wouldn't be visible from the top of the hill or the bank of the river. Scrambling, teeth chattering, they gathered up enough wood to keep a small fire going all night.

“I'll do this. Get out of your wet things and put on some dry clothes.” Tarik hacked at a branch with his hatchet.

Luka went behind a tree and struggled out of his wet clothes, his numb fingers making it almost impossible to work his fly and to peel off his wet pants. By the time he'd gotten changed, Tarik had the fire going, and was prying off his shoes. When he started stripping off his pants, Luka turned his back and started getting their dinner ready. Even in dry clothes and practically roasting himself over the fire, his hands wouldn't stop shaking, but he managed to get a couple of the cans of stew they'd pilfered from Skinny and Calvin open and propped up above the cinders. His hunger was nothing compared to the need for something hot in his stomach to thaw him out.

Tarik nestled two biggish logs between the already burning slabs; the flames attacked and began devouring the fresh wood. Waves of heat caressed Luka's face and bare hands, but even so, even though he could feel his clothes getting hotter as they absorbed the radiance of the fire, his teeth wouldn't stop clacking together, and the spasms of his muscles weren't relenting. Tarik shed his coat and draped it over Luka's shoulders.

“Don't.” Luka shrugged off the heavy wool duster, swallowing a groan of lament, and held it out to Tarik. “I'll thaw out in a minute. The fire's nice and hot, now.”

“You're under-dressed.”

Luka fetched his sleeping bag, unrolled it, and pulled it around himself, laughing silently, bitterly, because now on top of feeling frail and pathetic, he had the shawl to go with his old man's constitution. Maybe next Tarik would build him a rocking chair.

“Give me that.” Tarik pulled it off him, spread it out next to the fire, upwind of the smoke. “Get in.”

“I don't want to go to sleep yet.”

“So don't. But get in the bag.”

Surrendering out of sheer fatigue, Luka crawled into the bag, the chills convulsing his muscles making the maneuver more awkward than ever. As soon as he was nestled into that soft, thick cocoon, clutching it up over his ears and mouth, he was glad he'd yielded. Tarik retrieved his own bag, unzipped it, and spread it over Luka.

“It's okay. Just my bag is fine.”

Tarik sat down, pulled off his shoes, then reached under, unzipped Luka's bag, and slid in next to him.

Luka's stomach clenched and rolled. “What are you doing?”

“It's the best way to keep warm.”

“We don't fit.”

“We do. It's zipped.”

Luka tried to wiggle away from the warm, humid press of Tarik's body, but there was nowhere to go. Under the sleeping bag, over the layers of shirts and his coat, Luka felt the weight of Tarik's arm on top of his own. God, he was exhausted. Sore. That's why his throat was going tight, why his eyes were stinging, his vision smearing the image of the fire, why Tarik's closeness, Tarik's kindness was going to make him cry.

“You're still shaking.”

“It'll stop in a minute.” He hoped Tarik didn't hear the snag in his voice.

When Tarik's hand, wonderfully warm, surprisingly soft, slid up against the bare skin of the small of his back, Luka almost yelped. Pressing gently, Tarik rubbed Luka's back in long, slow strokes. Tarik's humid breath tickling the nape of Luka's neck, palm rubbing and heating his shoulders, the width and length of his back, Luka tried not to notice, not to think about the firm press of Tarik's legs against his own.

“Are you afraid of me, Luka?”

Tarik's question pinched Luka's heart. That gentle stroking was the most wonderful, comforting thing he'd ever felt. But below the skin, he was all dread. “You saved my life. Twice.”

“I'm not talking about guns and knives. I mean this, right now. Am I scaring you?”

Heat flared over Luka's face and down his chest. “No.”

“You're really trembling.”

“I'm cold.”

“Still?”

Tarik's hand slid down Luka's bare skin and slipped out from under his clothes. Then Tarik's body shifted against his, and the adrenaline swelling Luka's heart and veins ebbed. Tarik was leaving. Getting up. Getting out of the bag. Leaving him alone.

The hum of a zipper changed Luka's mind. Pretending not to look, he turned his head just enough to peer from the corner of his eye as Tarik struggled free of his coat. “Sit up. Take off your jacket.”

Luka's stomach clenched so hard he thought he was going to puke. He needed to escape. To run and hide. But he just said, “I'm too cold.”

“You'll be warmer without it.”

Too worn out, worn down, to argue, he made one feeble attempt to push Tarik's hands away, then let him strip him out of his jacket. Using their coats, Tarik made a pillow, lied down, and pulled Luka down next to him. When Tarik put his big arms around him, the tears Luka had been trying to hold in finally spilled over. Trying to keep quiet, he took deep, slow breaths. Unbearable, the press of Tarik's legs against his, he swell and fall of Tarik's belly against the small of his back, the inescapable awareness of Tarik's pelvis against his ass.

“I'm much warmer, now. Are you?” Tarik's voice vibrated through his chest, against Luka's back.

“Yes.”

Luka tried staring into the fire, hoping the chaotic flare and wane of the flames would hypnotize him, like when he was a kid. The wood was fresh and green and now and then there was a loud snap of sap bursting, sparks shooting up into the velvet night, dying on their way to heaven.

“Luka.” Tarik's warm breath on his skin, his name vibrating through their bodies. “Look at me.”

Something in Luka's chest grabbed and strangled his heart. He couldn't control his breathing anymore, fast and shallow and rough.

“If you're really not scared of me, look at me.” When Luka didn't move or speak, Tarik said quietly, “It's okay.”

Nothing's okay.

“I know you're crying. Don't be embarrassed. You don't need to hide from me.”

Why not? Whatever was going to happen, would happen. Let Tarik laugh. Let him spit on him. Let him hit. Let him take his things and stomp out the fire and leave him alone in the cold dark. Alone. He knew how to do solitude.

Luka turned his head and met Tarik's eyes, alight with the fire's golden glow. Tarik touched Luka's shoulder, then pulled him onto his side, facing him, and Luka squirmed as far back as he could in the bag.

“You're safe. I promise.” Tarik laid his warm hand on Luka's chilled cheek and the pinching, strangling fist wrapped around Luka's heart squeezed harder. “You're safe,” Tarik whispered again, gently brushing away the trails of tears running down Luka's face, then combing his hair back with his fingertips, which for some reason seemed to make the tears come faster. Luka buried his face in the makeshift pillow because he couldn't stand it, lying there, crying with Tarik looking into his eyes.

Tarik pulled him closer, and Luka stifled a groan. Nothing had ever felt so comforting as being squeezed tight against his warm, broad chest, while Tarik went on petting his hair, stroking his neck, rubbing his back. Over his clothes. Under his clothes. Tarik's warm skin against his, stroking slow and soft. Little by little pulling their bodies together, chests pressed close, bellies touching. Luka tensed against Tarik's strong hand at the small of his back, until Tarik whispered again, “It's okay. You're safe with me.”

Minutes after he'd stopped crying, Luka still couldn't keep back the broken sob that erupted from his chest as he gave up fighting and let Tarik pull his hips forward, and he felt his hardness press up against Tarik's hip. Luka was sure Tarik couldn't feel it through his clothes, though, because he kept holding him, kept stroking his back, kept cradling Luka's head against his chest. Luka took a long, deep breath and let it go slowly.

“Does that feel good?”

Luka didn't trust his voice. He cleared his throat. “Yes.”

Good things didn't happen very often. But the best things, things so good the joy almost hurt, were the strange things. Things so odd, it was hard to believe they were happening. Like the ice creep that had swallowed the cemetery on a Tuesday morning when he was eleven. And this. Tarik holding him and touching him and whispering that he was safe. Tarik, the Eršban soldier. The bearded menace.

Tarik's embrace slackened, and Luka's bright, impossible joy dimmed and deflated. He wanted to fall asleep like that, in Tarik's arms, Tarik's warm breath playing through his hair. Not turned away from each other. Not alone in their separate bags. But now that he was warm and not shaking any more, Tarik would leave.

Tarik shifted, and Luka caught his breath. Then told himself he was wrong, that he'd imagined it. Another small movement, Tarik brushing against him. Luka kept his face buried against Tarik's chest, afraid to breathe, then finally gasping.

“If you don't like it, I'll stop.” Tarik waited. Waited. Then flexed again.