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He saves Pheem, he drops him off at a hotel, and he goes back to aunt Nit’s place. That night he doesn’t sleep.
Pheem does. Than knows this because that’s how he finds him, in the hotel bed, after Than knocks on the door to the room the next morning and Pheem doesn’t answer. The initial spike of alarm is quickly swallowed by a relief he doesn’t want when it turns out Pheem is safe and sound, and did not in fact run off or get himself hurt.
Or worse. There’s always worse.
And worse may actually be this: Pheem, looking beat-up but warm and relaxed, alone in a bed much too big for him within inches from Than’s empty hands. There’s a tingle in Than’s palms, an itch in his bones, an ache in his chest. A twinge in his shoulder, where Pheem shot him.
He’s pretty when he’s asleep. You wouldn’t think he was a murderer.
There’s a cold spot on Than’s torso, too, roughly where he imagines the deliberate second bullet Pheem sent his way must have impacted the vest while he was already out, when he was drugged to unconsciousness on his back in a grave Pheem put him in to save his life. He should probably feel the chill where he was in contact with the damp earth instead, but in his hazy memory of the events he feels it from the front. Which is funny, because in reality bullets have never been the scary part of getting entangled with Pheem.
Case in point, the firefight to save Pheem from Chet was nowhere near as frightening as the short bike ride after. Having Pheem riding pillion again, meek and stunned, was like a physical manifestation of the way Than just can’t shake the ghost of him. Finding out Pheem’s true nature didn’t help; hearing aunt Nit and his friends talk badly of Pheem didn’t help; deleting the last of Pheem’s pictures from his phone didn’t do a damn thing. No matter what, his unruly heart still beats faster at just the suggestion of the thought of Pheem.
He keeps waiting for the day the heat inside his chest is just rage. That would be easier, because at least he knows how to be angry.
He’s not sure how to be hurt, scared to death, completely lack all trust, and still so painfully in love with Pheem that the feeling alone could make his heart spark violently enough to set the entire hotel room ablaze. Still he stands there, lungs probably breathing in toxic fumes, but feet rooted to the spot.
Where there’s smoke, there’s fire, but Pheem never smelled of smoke. Than buried his face in Pheem’s skin and breathed him in enough times to know.
When Pheem rolls over in the bed here and now, Than takes an instinctive step back, like seeing a sleeping tiger stir.
Then he takes a step forward.
He’s seconds from putting his hand through the bars of the enclosure – the kind of move that could cost him a finger, a hand, or maybe his life – when the tiger opens its eyes, and they’re Pheem’s, and he’s nothing but a pitifully scared stray cat when he says, “p’Than.” He’s sleepy soft, and there’s a hopeless wonder in his voice.
“Since you’re awake, go take a shower,” Than says, swallowing everything else, while pretending he knows where to look. He says other things too, but he’s not entirely sure what they were by the time he draws the door shut behind him to go wait downstairs for Pheem to finish getting clean and dressed.
In the hall, just around the corner, he halts, just like last time he came from here, to give himself a moment. He doesn’t need as much support from the wall, which may be a sign he’s getting better. He stretches his hand a few times and feels glad he didn’t do anything crazy, like brush Pheem’s hair back from his forehead or stroke his cheek or tuck in the blanket around his waist or crawl into the bed next to him and pull him close and hug him and hold him and feel his breath and hear his heartbeat and get all of their limbs tangled up like they used to do and whisper into the bend of his jaw that there’s some way they could still get back together, ever, at all.
He takes another deep breath, pushes off from the wall, and sets off down the stairs.
Halfway down his hand is in his pocket, fishing out his phone. He doesn’t make it onto solid ground – he’s still on the last few steps, caught in place – before he’s typing his pincode to unlock the phone, navigating to the trash can, and hitting select all and restore on seven pictures. They’re the only files in there.
He never has to look at them if he doesn’t have a good reason to, he tells himself. It’s just in case.
With his phone tucked back in his jeans and his mind a little calmer, he takes those final steps, going two at a time to dodge the obvious question.
In case of what?