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•••
Ira takes Freddie to bed with every intention of keeping
him there until at least the next afternoon. Freddie turns off
the main lamp, which surprises Ira, as they never had before,
and turns the radio on, Alice Faye’s voice a shadow filling the
space around them. Ira’s not sure what to expect when Freddie
removes his shirt; in the dim light, he can see that the stump is
healed, but an ugly scar runs along the domed bottom before
twisting angrily up Freddie’s bicep, keloid, puffed and streaky,
and it almost looks —
“It’s not infected,” Freddie says. “It —I fell, at the —on
the front, and a Hellcat didn’t see me and tore it up pretty bad.
The docs —you know.” Freddie touches Ira’s cheek, turning his
head up. “They did what they could. It wasn’t —a clean thing.”
Ira doesn’t know what to say, so he kisses Freddie instead,
long and deep, and they fall together, shedding clothes and
finding a rhythm, until Freddie’s naked underneath him, fingers
clutching at Ira’s back, who has one hand between them as they
move against each another.
“You —” Freddie gasps, breath hot against Ira’s ear, “I —
feel —”
Freddie’s voice breaks on the last word as his head cants
back into the pillow. Ira steals the remaining words from Fred-
die’s open mouth with a kiss, and when he unthinkingly reaches
with his free hand to pin Freddie’s wrist, his fist grasps nothing
but the bed sheets. He falters, but he’s too far gone to stop now,
and as Freddie lifts his hips to meet him, his stump rubs against
Ira’s side, and Ira can’t, not now, he can’t —

•••
Ira’s washing the last of the soap from his hair when the
bathroom door opens. He pulls back the shower curtain just
enough to see a half-dressed Freddie reaching into the medicine
cabinet to retrieve his razor, the shaving cream already on the
side of the sink.

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