The Chase and the Catch by A.F. Henley

Author:A.F. Henley [Henley, A.F.]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Gay romance, contemporary
Publisher: Less Than Three Press, LLC
Published: 2014-11-19T05:00:00+00:00

The wind whipped away every sound except the snap of his jacket as the fabric was tossed. It was cold, his face and chest suffering the most from it, but John wasn't really surprised by that. The warmest summer winds would probably be cool from his particular vantage point. Below him, traffic crawled past, distance diminishing the various SUVs and transport trucks into die-cast toys. Above him, the sky rolled, unseen entities dragging puffy white shapes across a dull grey background.

"It always looks like you're in heaven when you're this close to the sun," a voice quoted from beside him. A line, from Daniel's Curse, and John turned towards the voice, already knowing who it was. Blue. Baby blue. Little boy blue.

"Logan..."

A squeal of tires signalled the sudden halt of the vehicles below, and John tore his eyes away from the boy and over the railing of the bridge.

"Here we are," Logan said. His hand slipped over the grimy railing, hollow aluminum turning the journey of Logan's fingers into a toneless song of metallic echo.

John wanted to yell at Logan not to touch him; remind Logan that he was in the wrong place, that there, in fact, he sat with Sam, right there in that passenger seat. Or, perhaps, the one behind it. Or to the left, and forward. One of them, he wanted to say, one of those vehicles was where he really was. He wasn't there, on the bridge. He'd never been on the bridge.

The vocalization never came. Logan slipped his palm over John's fist, the heat of Logan's body seeping in to warm John's whitening knuckles. They ached. They ached so very much. He was holding so tight, must have, in fact, been holding for a very long time. John's arms shook. His wrists trembled. And Logan's hands were so, so warm.

He looked up, sought eyes he'd only seen from snapshots and distance, and wasn't surprised that the colours never really solidified into any single one. Blue, grey, green, then brown; empty, sparkling, flashing, then passive. But Logan's gaze held his own with a lock so true it felt as though John had been glued in place.

Logan began to lift his arms—slowly, oh so very slowly—like a butterfly preening on a rose. In his right hand, he held John's fist, lifting it along with him and it seemed wrong, somehow. Bad. Scary.

Logan spoke, and his word was almost whipped away by the wind. John only managed to catch it because panic strained to do so.

"Ready?"

John didn't have time to holler.

The breath John took was through both nostrils and hard enough to make him choke. He didn't sit up, he didn't even move from where he lay on his right side, half-curled in on himself. He kept his eyes wide, staring through the darkness of the bedroom, watching the curtains snap with the wind from the open window, and let reality attempt to soothe away the view of the pavement that he'd been advancing towards at impossible speeds.

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