<\/p>\n
Lowell’s hands tremored. They seemed to do that quite often lately.\u00a0 It was a gradual thing; the pointer and middle finger would begin to twitch ever so slightly, and then the ring and the pinkie, and slowly, the rest of his hand would follow suit.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n He set his mug down gently, unwilling to spill the contents as his hands trembled slightly harder than before.<\/span><\/p>\n The medical terminology flew over his head (<\/span>dumb army vet, stupid stupid stupid),<\/span><\/i> but he gathered it was something called an essential tremor. \u2018<\/span>Likely brought on by chronic stress and fatigue. Common in veterans.\u2019 <\/span><\/i>His hands, already marred with pink scars and welts from the mines, now doomed to tremble intermittently like a stumbling drunk. Although, he supposed, he was a bit of a stumbling drunk. The amber ale glinting in the glass could attest to that.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n His middle finger had begun twitching. His mother always said he\u2019d had an artist\u2019s hands: his fingers were long and slender, and at one point long ago, had been tanned attractively.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n You have an artist\u2019s hands, Lowell. They\u2019re meant to create. <\/span><\/i>And oh, once upon a time, they did create. Lowell had filled pages and pages of art\u2013hazy sketches and bright watercolors and sharp acrylics. He liked to think he was quite good at it, and, if you\u2019d gotten a glass or two of spirits in him, he might\u2019ve admitted he wanted to make a profession out of it. But, as he soon learned, art was for the pretentious. The pompous. For the poncey little boys that had the privilege of staying soft, of <\/span>creating <\/span><\/i>rather than destroying. And Lowell hadn\u2019t been a boy in a very long time. No, he was a man now. He was a man, which meant he didn\u2019t get to have foolish pastimes and cottoned dreams. He didn\u2019t know how to create beauty anymore, how to produce those swirling patterns of colors. He only takes. Ruins. Destroys.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n He\u2019d seen eyes get clawed out of skulls, limbs ripped out of sockets, blood spilling and spilling endlessly, everywhere, always, and oh God, it was awful. It was\u2014<\/span><\/p>\n No. No.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n Henri always thought he had the most lovely hands. He\u2019d cup his hands between his own and say,\u00a0<\/span>\u2018Lo, you\u2019re proper gorgeous, y\u2019know?\u2019<\/span><\/i><\/p>\n \u2018Oh yes, I look gorgeous covered in muck and guts and scars.’ \u2018It makes you look dashing!”<\/span><\/i><\/p>\n Lowell shook his head, failing to see what exactly about his sorry state was \u2018dashing.\u2019<\/span><\/i><\/p>\n \u2018Dashing, am I?\u2019<\/span><\/i><\/p>\n And sometimes, if they were alone in the barracks, Henri would take his hands and press soft kisses on the scarred, ruined bits. All over the crumbling valley of his knuckles and his gnarled, cratered palms.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n One, two, three, four, up and down and left and right<\/span><\/i>.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n And perhaps, if they were both feeling particularly brave, he would take Lowell’s face in his hands next. Lowell would bow his head down like he was in prayer, and Henri would start all over again; pressing fragile, gentle kisses to the gruesome, misshapen scars streaking his face.\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n They were gentle, adoring things that had Lowell eternally grateful that no one else could see the outrageous blush streaking his face.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n Dashing<\/span><\/i>, he would say firmly. And for a moment, Lowell would believe him. Henri always had a way of doing that, of making the most hideous of things bearable. Because when Henri touched him, Lowell forgot the war. He forgot the blood staining his hands and drenching the soil, he became deaf to the sound of cannons exploding and men screaming. The weight of the rifle slung across his back was no longer quite as heavy as it once was. For a moment, Lowell would be absolved.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n But Henri was\u2013he was\u2013<\/span><\/p>\n Lowell’s ring finger began to shake, shuddering back and forth and back and forth like a broken metronome. It didn\u2019t hurt. It was mostly a nuisance, although it made finding employment difficult. Generally, people wanted someone who could handle objects for more than five minutes at a time without being inclined to drop them. Or someone who didn\u2019t hobble around with a cane like an invalid. By some miracle, however, he\u2019s managed to secure a job at the local library. He liked it quite a bit, too; it was incredibly soothing to peruse the sprawling aisles at his leisure, to carefully scan the barcodes of each book and place them on the appropriate cart for shelving.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n Henri would have been ecstatic.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n \u2018Lowell, you\u2019re meant to-to go huddle up in some old library for the rest of your life, not fight in a war!<\/span><\/i> \u2018<\/span><\/p>\n Henri had been particularly upset at Lowell’s decision to enlist. There had been something akin to devastation in his eyes and it had been both terrible yet breathtaking to witness.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n If only he knew, if only Lowell could tell him\u2014<\/span><\/p>\n Lowell clenched his jaw.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n But still, he liked to think Henri would probably get a kick out of that; he never did shut up about what a square Lowell was, even back in school.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n Before the war, before Lowell had the softness of a young, outcast schoolboy, he could be found curled up amongst the shelves of Eton\u2019s library. At eleven years old, he was a lonely, shy little boy. The concept of friendship was entirely alien to him, and frankly, Lowell just couldn\u2019t be bothered to parse out that particular puzzle.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n But of course, that was before Henri bulldozed his\u00a0 way into Lowell’s life. As he did with most things, he had stubbornly nosed his way into his life and refused to leave. He remembered the day Henri found him huddled up in one of the aisles of the library, hidden behind a tome larger than his face. He had tripped over his strewn materials, landing face-down over Lowell with a grunt.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n \u2018Watch it!\u2019<\/span><\/i><\/p>\n \u2018Me? You\u2019re the one who fell over me!\u2019<\/span><\/i><\/p>\n \u2018I wouldn\u2019t have if you hadn\u2019t sprawled out on the floor with that thing.\u2019<\/span><\/i><\/p>\n \u2018It\u2019s called reading. I don\u2019t expect you to be familiar with it.\u2019 Lowell’s eyes widened. He hadn\u2019t meant to say that. Where did that come from?<\/span><\/i><\/p>\n The snooty response had Henri shutting up in seconds. He stared at him for several long moments, during which Lowell became increasingly apprehensive. He <\/span><\/i>really<\/span><\/i> didn\u2019t know where that had come from. He never talked to posh, uptight pricks; he didn\u2019t know him. He knew of Henri, of course. Everyone knew of Henri, the ringleader of mayhem at Eton. The current rumor was that he\u2019d managed to break the Eton record for most detentions in a single term. Of course, he still managed to maintain a perfect sheet of grades. Impossible, yet Henri had done it.\u00a0<\/span><\/i><\/p>\n Secretly, Lowell was impressed. Although he\u2019d rather slap himself upside the head than admit it.\u00a0<\/span><\/i><\/p>\n He also knew of his social status. And he really, really didn\u2019t need the most popular students of their year on his ass for the rest of his time here.\u00a0<\/span><\/i><\/p>\n Lowell had just been working up the willpower to apologize when Henri began snickering.\u00a0<\/span><\/i><\/p>\n \u2018You got me there. Can\u2019t say I\u2019ve picked up a book since I was a kid.\u2019<\/span><\/i><\/p>\n Lowell snorted, reddening slightly when he grinned in response.\u00a0<\/span><\/i><\/p>\n \u2018What\u2019s your name, anyway?\u2019<\/span><\/i><\/p>\n \u2018Lowell.\u2019\u00a0<\/span><\/i><\/p>\n \u2018Well, Lowell. I was about to head to the dining hall. Do you want to come?\u2019\u00a0<\/span><\/i><\/p>\n Lowell hesitated, waiting for the punchline. When he found there was none, he agreed.\u00a0<\/span><\/i><\/p>\n \u2018Alright,\u2019 he said with a nervous smile as Henri helped him up. His hand was warm. Lowell met his eyes for the first time, and was immediately taken aback by their startling grey. His pale face, already showing the beginnings of finely-chiseled cheekbones, was awash in the\u00a0 golden light of the library\u2019s lamps.\u00a0<\/span><\/i><\/p>\n Lowell felt a strange pinch in his chest. He had chalked it up to nerves.\u00a0<\/span><\/i><\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u2014-<\/span><\/i><\/p>\n They were inseparable from there. There was hardly a moment where the two of them weren\u2019t together.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n \u2018Lowell, let\u2019s raid the kitchens! I\u2019m hungry!\u2019\u00a0<\/span><\/i><\/p>\n \u2018Do you want to prep for exams later?\u2019<\/span><\/i><\/p>\n \u2018Let\u2019s stay up! It\u2019s the weekend!\u2019\u00a0<\/span><\/i><\/p>\n \u2018We ought to stay in touch over the holidays. Where can I send you letters?\u2019<\/span><\/i><\/p>\n This was not ordinary. It was an unfamiliar thing: the warmth Henri extended to him so guilelessly. He cradled it with awkward, clumsy hands, unsure of what to do with it.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n Oh, he would go on and on if they were here and Lowell would fire right back at him.<\/span><\/p>\n \u2018I always knew you\u2019d end up in a library, Lowell.\u2019\u00a0<\/span><\/i><\/p>\n \u2018So?\u2019<\/span><\/i><\/p>\n \u2018Ha! You\u2019re such a dork.\u2019\u00a0<\/span><\/i><\/p>\n \u2018I\u2019d rather be a dork than an idiot.\u2019\u00a0<\/span><\/i><\/p>\n He could fill volumes and volumes of the conversations he wanted to have with him, of things he\u2019d like to share, of the jokes he\u2019d like to tell.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n Sometimes, he will catch himself talking to him even now. He will have long, meandering conversations about almost anything.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n \u2018There was this little girl at the library. She had a stack of books all the way up to her nose. It was adorable.\u2019\u00a0<\/span><\/i><\/p>\n \u2018This prick cursed me out on the sidewalk because I tripped over my cane. To be honest, I contemplated smacking him upside the head with it.\u2019\u00a0<\/span><\/i><\/p>\n \u2018The house is a mess. Henri, you would hate it. I just can\u2019t be bothered to fix it anymore, if I\u2019m being honest\u2013\u2019<\/span><\/i><\/p>\n \u2013but then he will remember that Henri is\u2013<\/span><\/p>\n Lowell shut his eyes. Blindly, he reached for the glass of rum with his other hand and took several long sips. Yes. That was good. That was very, very good. Albeit, he was never much of a drinker before the war. He enjoyed the occasional drink or two during parties or gatherings, but it never really appealed to him. The taste was quite appalling, if he was being honest. But now, the alcohol dimmed everything else. He could almost, almost think without feeling brutalized.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n Lowell was only twenty-six years old. He knew that was quite young, but God, did he feel every one of those years. His back ached constantly and his knees creaked and wobbled (hence the cane) and he was exhausted all the time. Other men his age had an almost despicable youth to them; an indecent sort of vigor for life that had him baffled and envious simultaneously.\u00a0 Did they not know just how hideous the real world was? The despicable things one man could inflict upon another, for countless reasons and for no reason at all? Did they know what one could do in the name of survival? The atrocities they could commit? He has killed people. He has blown bits of bone and muscle and brain matter out of people\u2019s ears, he has slain guts and entrails and skin carelessly and ruthlessly. He\u2019s seen grown men piss and shit themselves in utter terror at the face of death, reduced to screaming, squalling infants.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n At the time, it did not register to him. It was done robotically, mechanically and with utter indifference to anything but survival.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n But the war has come and gone and it has taken his family with it. Lowell has nothing to do now but think. To reexamine each and every memory with painstaking attention to detail, to examine every possible facet and wonder, <\/span>why did I do that? Why did I do that? I should have done it differently.\u00a0<\/span><\/i><\/p>\n What does he have left? Besides a handful of jagged memories and a drinking problem. He had <\/span>nothing<\/span><\/i>. Henri was\u2013<\/span><\/p>\n Lowell inhaled sharply. He stood abruptly and grabbed the glass with his left hand\u2013(his right hand was shaking too much). The chair skidded to the side as he made his way to his bedroom. It was dimly lit, illuminated only by the light from the street lamps outside.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n He set his drink on the bedside table and collapsed into bed. The ceiling seemed to spin above him, swirling in untraceable patterns and colors. Lowell shut his eyes and pressed his face into the pillow beside him. It reeked of sweat and dust, the sweet scent of Henri\u2019 hair long overpowered by Lowell’s own dismal state. It was a stupid, shallow thing to miss, but Lowell did so dearly anyway.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n In school, Henri had been incredibly vain. He knew he was a handsome prick and made sure everyone else knew it too.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n \u2018My hair is my best feature, you know.\u2019 Henri and Lowell were lying side by side on the dormitory floor. They were alone. The others had gone down to dinner.\u00a0<\/span><\/i><\/p>\n \u2018Oh, how modest.\u2019\u00a0<\/span><\/i><\/p>\n \u2018Don\u2019t pretend you don\u2019t love it.\u2019<\/span><\/i><\/p>\n \u2018It\u2019s alright.\u2019 That was a lie. Lowell always thought he had the nicest hair: soft and jet black and framing his face in gentle waves. \u201cI guess.\u201d\u00a0<\/span><\/i><\/p>\n \u2018Stop fiddling with it, then.\u2019<\/span><\/i><\/p>\n Guiltily, Lowell let his hand drop from where it had been curling and uncurling a strand of Henri\u2019 hair.\u00a0<\/span><\/i><\/p>\n There was a moment of silence. Henri shifted to face him. \u2018Do you think I\u2019m handsome?\u2019\u00a0<\/span><\/i><\/p>\n Lowell snorted. \u201cDoes your ego need stroking today or something?\u201d\u00a0<\/span><\/i><\/p>\n \u201cJust answer the question.\u201d\u00a0<\/span><\/i><\/p>\n \u201cYou know the answer!\u201d\u00a0<\/span><\/i><\/p>\n \u201cSay it anyway!\u201d\u00a0<\/span><\/i><\/p>\n Lowell turned to face him, sighing. \u201cChrist, Henri. You know everyone thinks you are.\u201d<\/span><\/i><\/p>\n Henri was quiet. \u201cBut do you?\u201d\u00a0<\/span><\/i><\/p>\n Lowell stiffened. He could feel his face turning red. \u201cI-I suppose so?\u201d\u00a0<\/span><\/i><\/p>\n \u201c\u2018Suppose so?\u201d Lowell could hear the pout in Henri\u2019 voice.\u00a0<\/span><\/i><\/p>\n He closed his eyes as his heart pounded obnoxiously fast. Some days, he swore Henri was going to shave years off his life.\u00a0<\/span><\/i><\/p>\n \u201cLovely,\u201d he said finally, long after the appropriate time for a response.\u00a0<\/span><\/i><\/p>\n \u201cHm?\u201d<\/span><\/i><\/p>\n
\n<\/span><\/i><\/p>\n