Missed Connections (57 page)

"Oh god," he said faintly as he looked into Scottie's sleepy, pale eyes, which were growing more and more awake by the second. "Oh shit, Scottie, hang on, let me get a doctor…" Cyril held down the call button as he stared at Scottie, searching for any sign of recognition in his face. Some amount of memory loss was expected as a result of the cryosuspension, but they had no idea to what degree it would manifest. Scottie blinked at him, and Cyril swallowed hard. "Do you remember me?" he whispered. "Do you know me?"

"Mr. Konstantin, you need to move," someone said, and then the room was filled with white coats and new machines, and Cyril was pushed out of the way, then out of the room entirely.

Sabine appeared by his side and touched his arm, gently redirecting his attention. "Are you all right?" she asked seriously.

"He didn't answer my question," Cyril said, turning back to watch the bustling action inside Scottie's room. "Not even close."

"He can't talk with a respirator in."

"His eyes didn't tell me anything either."

Sabine shook her head. "Scottie needs some time to reorient himself after such a deep trauma. Just because it wasn't instantaneous doesn't mean he won't recognize you in the future."

Cyril ran a hand through his hair. "Will you think less of me if I say that I'm kind of pissed off, even though I know you're right?"

"Not at all, Cyril. Not at all."  They turned and watched together.

Anger was a safe place. Anger kept Cyril frosty, kept him cool and in control. He needed it, just for as long as it took for Scottie to recognize him. He could hold out until then. It was bound to happen fairly soon.

Or not. Perhaps this was the dark side of karma coming back to kick his ass.

No one other than the medical staff was allowed access to Scottie for the next three days. Cyril went from being "devoted boyfriend who stayed by his bed" to "that crazy bastard sleeping in the hallway." No one would tell him anything about Scottie's state of mind other than to be generally positive and, in the case of one nurse, to say, "It's evolving." Whether that meant Scottie was mentally cycling through his childhood on his way to being an adult again or couldn't remember how to use a spoon, Cyril didn't get to know.

Finally they let Sabine in to talk to Scottie, and a few hours later she invited Cyril in. "Ten minutes," she said with a smile.

"Sounds familiar."

"I mean it this time." She shut the door behind her and left Cyril and Scottie alone. Scottie was propped up at an angle, the scars from his surgery still bright pink along his throat and chest. His hands and feet were encased in gel bags, and some of his skin was still bandaged from the freezing damage it had taken, but his eyes were clear and he could speak.

"So," he croaked. His voice sounded like a rusty hinge. "Not exactly a prime specimen anymore, am I, Cy?"

Cyril leaned back against the door and pressed his palms hard to his eyes. "Oh, you
jackass
," he said tremulously. "You remember me?"

"Most, if not all of you, luv," Scottie said. "Missin' a bit of my childhood, I think, but it wasn't so lovely to start with."

"But you remember Sophie."

"Couldn't forget Sophie."

"And me."

Scottie smiled faintly. "Couldn't forget you. Sure you want anything to do with me now?"

Cyril came over and sat down carefully on the edge of the bed. "Tell me what the doctors said. Don't hold back."

"They say I'm looking at moderate to severe peripheral neuropathy."

"Manageable," Cyril said instantly. "What else?"

"My voice won't ever be the same, not after the grafts." Scottie crawled his fingers forward and laced them together with Cyril's, who squeezed gently.

"I never loved you for your singing voice. What else?"

"I might never be able to walk without an assistive device. Walkers, canes, artificial limb stabilizers, that sort of thing."

"You would look so sexy with a cane," Cyril said, and Scottie's smile was a little bigger this time.

"Really think so, Cy?"

Cyril shook his head. "After everything that's happened to get you here, and you still know me?"  He shrugged. "I'm so selfish, you have no idea. I feel awful that you got hurt and that this is going to be so hard for you, but part of me is so happy that it makes me sick."

"That good?"

"That good," Cyril affirmed. "The recovery will be difficult, I know that, but right now you're the most interesting man on two different planets. You'll get all the help you need, and as long as I get a little part of you, I'm satisfied."

"Really, luv?"  Scottie's smile got wider and wider, until it was finally what Cyril remembered it could be. He looked so content, so deliriously content despite his circumstances, and Cyril was glad he could reciprocate the feeling with all his soul. "What little part have you set your sights on, then?"

"Hmm."  Cyril reached his free hand forward and rested it on Scottie's chest. He felt him inhale, steady and deep, and exhale smoothly. He smelled Scottie's sour-sweet medication breath, and the gentle
lub-dub
of his heart, and Cyril leaned in and laid head down on the only pillow he wanted for the rest of his life.

"I'll take your heart," he murmured, resting his cheek against Scottie's ribs. He was so thin now… Cyril would have to feed him up. He could
do
that here. It was a breathtakingly delicious thought. "Your heart's good enough for me."

"I'm sorry, what?" Will stared at the older lady. She couldn't be serious.

The woman—Martha... Bertha... Sasha? Something along those lines—just flashed him a small smile that was not at all hiding her annoyance. Despite what people thought, Will was actually pretty observant and this woman was definitely trying her hardest to not lose it with him. Good. He didn't want to be here anyway.

"You need to wear a hairnet, Will. Sorry, kitchen rules."

Will glowered at her. There was no way she felt the least bit sorry. But she could be. All he had to do was push her a little further and cause her to lose her temper. Then he could have Father down here in an instant, reprimanding her for her treatment of him and voilà! No more of this ridiculous punishment.

It wasn't like Will had strived to fail his calculus class. He really hadn't strived for anything at all. Which was probably the root of his problem but who cares about calculus anyway? He was never going to use it again. Everyone knew that.

But his father hadn't listened to his excuses, his logic, or his facts. All he saw was the giant red D glaring up at him from the quarterly report card he'd requested Will hand in. It didn't matter that the rest of his grades were top level A's. None of those mattered in light of the shameful D.

"How do you think this makes me look?" his father had said the night Will, resigned to the tongue lashing he knew was coming but couldn't be bothered to care about, had handed him his report card. "I have been in contact with board members at both Harvard and Yale and an administrator at Princeton who, upon my recommendation, have been watching your very impressive progress through this final year. This—" his father jabbed at the report card like he was trying to impale the abomination with nothing but his finger, "—erases all that. All my hard work!"

It was better to just stand there and let his father get all his rage out. He would never get physical, never do anything to hurt Will and despite the rebellion he sported, Will loved his father and did strive to make him proud... most of the time. But he was still a teenager, youth running through his veins like a drug, turning him against his father in order to see just how much he could get away with.

"I raised you better than this, Will. Royces do
not
fail. Ever. How do you expect to succeed at an Ivy League school with grades like this?" But Will knew how these things usually went. Soon he would be subjected to a massive guilt trip followed by a scolding and then he would be off to his room with nothing more than a warning and a deduction from his monthly allowance. Ha! It really wasn't a punishment at all seeing how much he got a month.

But this time was different. This time, his father had finally realized that he had been too lenient with Will in the past. And it was a shame really, things had been going so well. But in order to teach his degenerate son a lesson and give him a taste of what life without a degree would be like, Will was required to volunteer at the local soup kitchen downtown over spring break. No, not required,
sentenced
.

Sentenced to one week of community service. Ugh.

Right now, he should have been lying on a beach in the Bahamas, partying and drinking with the rest of his friends. Not. Fair.

Will stared down at the floppy mass of netting the woman—seriously what the hell was her name?—was referring to. There was no way in hell he was wearing
that
. No amount of threats or reprimands could make him.

*~*~*

Not ten minutes later, Will found himself standing behind numerous metal tins full of steaming mediocre food, the hideous hair net trapping his blond locks in place as he ground his teeth in frustration. Apparently, his father was not on his side as much as he thought. He remained firmly adamant that Will get no special treatment in order for him to learn his lesson.

This was going to be the longest week ever.

The soup kitchen—why the hell was it called that, they didn't even serve soup!—opened with a screech of metal and a groan of old weathered wheels as the door rolled up, the sound grating on Will's last nerves. He cringed. Everything about this place spoke of shabby and broken down much like he imagined the people who frequented it.

Speaking of…

The homeless people of the vastly growing city, in a neat orderly line, came filing toward the food set in front of Will and the other volunteer servers. Their shabby, weathered clothing blended in nicely with the small worn hut that served as the soup kitchen. It was really nothing more than a small barely working kitchen with a bit of counter space, cabinets, a microwave, a range, and a large metal sink in the back corner. The serving window, where Will stood now, reminded him of a standard taco truck sill, except with worse food being offered up.

An older, dark-skinned man, layers of dirty, ragged clothes hanging off his equally grimy and no doubt putrid body was first to approach and address the older woman from before.

"What's for dinner tonight, Judy?" Ah, so Will had been close.
Ok, no, not really but who the hell cared?

"Hello Harold dear. It's good to see you." Judy greeted, giving the old man a warm, genuine smile. She then pointed down at the tin in front of her with a large two-pronged fork and said, "We have grilled chicken"—microwaved, Will had watched the cook take them out—"fresh steamed green beans"—out of a can—"and fluffy garlic mashed potatoes"—from a box (just add water!). Judy pointed to each tin down the line as she listed off what each held with that smile on her face like she hadn't just lied to a starving man's face. But Will understood. Telling these poor hungry people who lived on the streets and in shelters how crappy even their next meal was, let alone their lives, wouldn't be helping to keep their morale up and their hopes alive.

A stab of pity shot through Will but he quickly stamped it out. It was their own damn faults they were in this position in the first place. Why should he feel bad for them?

"My favorite," the old man remarked to Judy just as equally cheerily. Will huffed. How this foul smelling garbage these people called food could be anyone's favorite was beyond him. But then again, this may have been the quality of food the man was used to. Because if this was the man's favorite he had clearly never tried foie gras.

The ragged man made his way down the line, finally reaching Will's mashed potatoes-filled tin. "Hello son. Haven't seen you around before. You new?" He gazed at Will for a second before his eyes widened quite comically in recognition.

"That's Mr. Royce's son," Judy answered from a two tins down as she served the people that continued to shuffle in. "He's chosen to spend his spring break helping us out here." She glanced at Will and flashed him a smile. "Isn't that right, Will?"

"Yeah, whatever," Will said flippantly as he plopped a small portion of "mashed potatoes" onto the man's plate. He did not care one bit if these low lives knew he was forced into this degrading job. Volunteer work, not a job, he reminded himself. He wasn't getting paid for this crap.

The rest of the people in line for their free meals flowed by in a blur as Will tuned out, hoping it would help his time here could go by faster. He distantly heard some of the people greet him with soft "hellos" and smiles while others voiced their appreciation to the plate of food he handed them. But he paid them no mind. This was a punishment, cruel and demeaning. He was William J. Royce, son of the oil tycoon Robert C. Royce. His clothes cost more money than these people had probably ever seen in their lifetimes. He did
not
associate with the homeless lowlife members of the city. It just wasn't done.

"Sorry folks, that's it for today," the sound of Judy's high-pitched voice broke Will out of his thoughts. There was an audible sigh of disappointment from the remaining members in line—about twenty or so—as they realized they wouldn't be getting today's meal here.

"Sorry, so sorry," Judy continued, pity lining her face as she took in the defeated looks marring their faces. "I wish we had enough for everyone…" she finished lamely, voice trailing off at the end. There were some nods of understanding and some grunts as the rest of the people in line reluctantly dispersed to go either beg for food from one of the lucky souls who showed up earlier or try their luck elsewhere on the streets.

Will watched as a boy—a teenager actually—beckoned over a little girl and her mother from the quickly dissolving line and offered them the remainder of his food. But Will could see from where he stood that the boy had hardly touched any of it. He frowned, thinking either this boy was incredibly stupid or... no, he was incredibly stupid. But somewhere in the back of his mind, Will couldn't help but be in awe at the behavior of these people who had nothing but gave everything.