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Out of the first two days, Rust remembers an hour and a half, maybe two.
Marty takes him home. He remembers thinking there are too many houses, too close together; remembers being unsure how many of them are real, if any of them are. He thinks maybe it's the cigarettes fucking with his head, but he has most of another one in the car anyway. He remembers Marty's arm around his waist. The sheets on the bed are too rough, and Marty pulls them up too high around Rust's neck, and Rust feels like he's gonna choke but he's too exhausted to care. That's the first night.
It's dark again when he wakes up; again, not still, because when he turns his head he can see the wrinkled imprint of Marty's body on the comforter next to him. He's wearing dark blue sweatpants and a white t-shirt and everything's too big. He needs to piss. The bathroom is at the end of the hall (he remembers the door open last night, the red shower curtain, Marty's hand on his hip) and Rust gets himself out of bed, starts toward it.
He stops to rest halfway down the hall and suddenly Marty is there. I got it, Rust says. Leave me alone.
Marty says, okay, but his arm stays steady around Rust's waist until Rust moves it. He lets Rust close the door between them.
In return, Rust lets Marty help him back to bed. Marty says, I got your pills, and Rust says I don't want 'em. He wants a drink. He doesn't say that.
Okay, Marty says again. He sets a glass of water and a handful of pills on the bedside table. Says, I'm gonna go finish cleanin' up. Be right back.
Rust doesn't answer. When Marty's gone, he takes the pills. He goes back to sleep. That's the first day.
Marty's there again the next time he wakes up. It's - morning, maybe. It's light out. Marty's asleep, turned on his side, one arm shoved up under the pillow. Rust's eyes trace the soft curve of his belly under his t-shirt. He doesn't remember asking Marty to stay, but that doesn't mean he didn't.
Hey, Marty says, sleepy.
Rust says, the fuck are you doing.
I was sleepin', Marty says. He rolls onto his back, sits up. Says, I'm gonna go make breakfast. Says, I got eggs, or toast.
The bed shifts as he stands, and Rust wonders if one of those pills had been a fucking painkiller. Doesn't seem like it. Rust, Marty says. You gotta eat. For your pills.
Toast, Rust says.
Marty brings it to him a while later, along with the pills and a mug of what Rust hopes (sudden, the second he sees it, with an intensity that almost scares him) is coffee. Green tea, Marty says, before he even sets it down, and Rust manages - barely - to keep himself from telling Marty to fuck off. He eats the goddamn toast, has just enough of the tea to get his pills down. There's sugar in it; not enough, but it's not bad. It does taste green. Marty sits in the armchair in the corner and messes with his phone in between watching Rust. Rust still doesn't tell him to fuck off.
He wants a fucking drink.
Game's on, Marty says, after a while. I got a fifty-two inch screen downstairs, if you wanna come down.
Rust wants his goddamn notebook, and he does say that.
I ain't got it yet, Marty says. I got you another one.
Rust says, okay.
Marty's got a brown couch and a shitty-looking armchair and the biggest TV Rust has ever seen. He says as much, and when Marty laughs Rust can feel it in the side of his chest, where they're pressed together. Marty sets him down on the couch, helps him get settled, his hand broad and solid on Rust's back as he gets a couple pillows under him. There's a blue fuzzy blanket folded up on the far arm, and Marty drags it into reach, leaves it up to Rust whether or not he wants to use it.
Marty says, this still the kinda pen you like?
It ain't a notebook that Marty's holding out toward him; it's a big steady sketchbook, like his old one. Right pen, too, but Marty knows that - he used to use the same ones until he got sick of never having any, on account of Rust stealing them all. Yeah, Rust says. Thanks.
He doesn't get around to writing anything. Marty orders a pizza for dinner and when he goes to the kitchen, Rust can hear the clink of beer bottles in the refrigerator door. He comes back with a two-liter of ginger ale. Rust manages most of a piece of pizza, makes Marty bring him the pill bottles so he can check for himself. One of them's a painkiller, in a dose that Rust thinks is - frankly - fucking insulting.
The goddamn bottle says one, Marty says, like he knows what Rust's thinking. You're gettin' one.
Yeah, Rust says.
After the news Marty mostly carries him back up the stairs. I'm right across the hall, he says, while Rust's trying to gather up the willpower to pick his goddamn feet up and lie down. If you need anything. I'm gonna leave the door open.
Rust says, you're not stayin'?
Marty says, you want me to?
Rust does. He isn't sure whether or not he says it until Marty's switching off the light, stretching out next to him.
That's the second day.
Rust remembers more of the third day; they probably would've let him out of the hospital today anyway, so he figures maybe he's out of the woods. The enormous curtain on the wall is hiding a sliding glass door and a balcony that looks out into a plain, fenced-in back yard. There's a few trees beyond the fence, but it'll be better when they've grown in a little. Rust leans heavy on the railing and smokes a cigarette, pinches the butt off when he's done and tucks it back into the pack.
He's been sitting in the chair for a while by the time Marty comes upstairs. He's got the notebook open across his knees, but he still hasn't put anything in it. The arching lines of Carcosa belong in the other one. Hey, Marty says, from the doorway. I'm makin' pancakes, if you wanna come down. He's barefoot, khaki shorts, still tugging the hem of his t-shirt down around his waist. It's purple tie-dye, the big green and yellow screen-printed logo across the front cracked and faded. The print across the bottom reads Van Halen Live, Right Here Right Now. Rust smirks. Marty doesn't say anything.
Yeah, Rust says, eventually. Give me a minute.
Marty's waiting at the bottom of the stairs when he gets there, making a point to flip through the mail so it doesn't look like he's waiting. Rust shoulders past him into the kitchen, helps himself to a cup of coffee from the pot next to the stove before Marty can try to stop him - it's decaf, though, and Marty's laughing the second he looks up from the envelope he's ripping open. I thought, he says, you might like havin' the taste.
It don't taste the same, Rust says.
Well, Marty says. Pardon the fuck outta me, but he's still smiling, so Rust doesn't think he means it.
I gotta go out, he says later, after Rust has mostly stopped eating. He's sitting across the table, sprawled in his chair, legs stretched out underneath. Check in at the office, get some shit from the store.
He's quiet for a little while, like he's waiting for Rust to say something.
Rust, he says eventually, and Rust says, what. Marty's looking at him funny when he looks up, but all he says is, you want anything?
Rust shakes his head. Marty gets up, gets the cordless phone off the wall, puts it on the table next to Rust's left hand. He writes a number down on the back of one of the envelopes, shoves it toward Rust. That's my cell phone, he says. You call me if you need anything. Half hour, hour tops.
Yeah, Rust says, okay, but Marty keeps standing there until he adds, you goin' now or what?
Yeah, Marty says, closes the door careful behind him as he leaves.
The house is quiet, once he's gone. For a few seconds, it's nice.
A few more seconds has Rust scrabbling for the phone, punching Marty's number in with shaking fingers. Marty answers on the second ring - Rust? Rust - he can't say anything. He can't fucking breathe.
Shit, Marty says, hang on, and maybe ten seconds later he's slamming back through the door, phone still against his ear. You okay? he says, crosses the room in two big steps, tosses the phone on the table - Rust, shit what's -
Nothing, Rust tries to say, get the fuck out, don't - but Marty's close enough he can't help reaching for him instead, fingers twisting in his shirt, just to the right of the Now. Fuck, Marty says, one hand on Rust's shoulder, the other curved around the back of his head. Fuck, I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Rust, Jesus, it's okay.
Who's saying it ain't, Rust tries to say, but he's got his face sort of pressed into Marty's stomach and he's not sure it comes out right.
Marty's quiet for a while, his fingers in Rust's hair, hand running slow and even over the bit of Rust's shoulder he can reach. Come on, he says eventually, you wanna go lie down?
Yeah, Rust says, and he's almost surprised when Marty helps him into the living room, doesn't try to guide him up the stairs - though maybe he's not, not really. He stays sitting up on the couch today, and once he's settled Marty sits down on the other end, kicks his feet up on the coffee table. There's a goddamn Terminator marathon on TV, which keeps Marty occupied most of the day; Rust goes through the pile of newspapers stacked on the table, tosses them at Marty's feet when he's done, doesn't give a shit about how Marty keeps sitting forward to stack them back up neat.
I'm gonna take a shower, he says, while Marty's finishing off the rest of the pizza from yesterday. There's still another piece in the box open on the table; Rust doesn't want it, and it's up to Marty whether or not he wants to believe it. Where's your towels?
You'll see 'em, Marty says. I got a bathtub, Rust. Use that.
It doesn't sound like a suggestion, but it doesn't sound like an order, either, so Rust is planning on ignoring it. Bathroom's sort of far away, though; by the time he makes it there, figures out how the water works, sitting down doesn't sound like such a bad idea.
Overall, he thinks, maybe this wasn't a great one - Marty's bathroom is clean but it's echoing and bright and as he's getting his shirt - Marty's shirt - his shirt off Rust catches sight of himself in the mirror, the neat sharp line across his stomach, the puckered stitches holding him together. He sits on the edge of the bathtub until he's sure he isn't going to throw up, washes his face in the sink, turns off the water in the tub. He thinks maybe Marty's got his pills down here, spends a minute going through the medicine cabinet; he doesn't, but Rust finds four expired Benadryl tucked behind Marty's shaving cream, figures those'll have to do.
Marty's on the phone when he comes back out, his back to Rust, looking out the window into the front yard. Yeah, he's saying, yeah, I know, I - Lena, Jesus Christ, take the goddamn week off, all right? Lock the goddamn door, go home, I ain't comin' - yeah, I - yes, I mean a goddamn paid - Jesus Christ. Yeah. No, I - I'll tell you next week, all right? Yeah. Yeah, okay.
Rust's back on the couch by the time Marty hangs up, turns around. Sorry, he says. Work shit.
Yeah, Rust says. Marty's eyes flick up to his dry hair, but he doesn't ask. That's fine with Rust.
He doesn't sleep, not exactly, but the next time he tunes in it's dark, infomercial on the television, Marty snoring on the other end of the couch, his head thrown back. Rust looks at the line of his collarbone under his shirt, the way the light pools cool and blue in the hollow of his throat. Marty, he says. Marty.
He wants to say something about how Marty's too old to be sleeping on the goddamn couch, but he's still trying to figure out what it is when Marty opens his eyes, looks at him. Hey, he says, quiet, mouth curving up sleepy and pleased. Hey, Rust.
I'm going to bed, Rust says, and he's not sure he means that to be an invitation, but Marty comes with him anyway. Rust doesn't try to stop him. That's day three.
There's less of a line between this one and the next one; the pills aren't working so great any more, or maybe Rust's just feeling better, but either way he doesn't really sleep, just closes his eyes for a while every now and then. Marty's breathing slow and even behind him, and if he pays close enough attention Rust can hear him shifting closer, incremental points plotted on a chart of the space left between them until there isn't any space left at all and Marty's hand is on his hip, Marty's curved up against his back, breathing warm and a little damp against Rust's shoulder.
Jesus Christ, he thinks, and he's not sure it's a coincidence that it's Marty's voice he thinks it in.
He's quiet - he doesn't even want to breathe too loud - until he feels Marty's hips press forward against him, until Marty lets out a breathy little moan. He's asleep, still, Rust thinks. Hopes, sort of. He wishes he was drunk, wishes they both were. Fuck, he hopes Marty's asleep.
Marty's hand slides down over Rust's stomach, into the hollow of his hip as he shifts closer. He's hard against Rust's ass, the length of him pressed up close and tight and Rust isn't sure if he should say Marty, what the fuck, or just - not. Maybe Marty thinks he's - maybe Marty's having a goddamn dream, he doesn't know, he isn't sure until Marty moans again, longer, and he makes out what Marty's - "Rust," Marty says, and then it isn't a question of wanting to breathe, just one of being able to. "Rust, Jesus."
"Marty," he says - it comes out sharper than he means it and Marty freezes against his back, body going still, fingers stiffening against Rust's stomach.
"Fuck," he says, quiet, after a second; "Fuck, I'm sorry, I - "
He starts to pull away, but Rust catches him by the wrist, pulls him back. Doesn't know he's going to drag Marty's hand down between his legs, press it against his own dick until he's doing it, but. Maybe he did know, in a way, maybe Marty did too, because Marty stops trying to pull away, lets out another long, shaking breath, his fingers curling around Rust through his sweatpants.
"Jesus Christ, Rust," he says, after a while. Rust isn't sure how long it's been. He can't think. "Yeah?"
"Yeah," Rust whispers back, and Marty's mouth opens against his shoulder.
It's - good, Marty's hand on him, Marty's mouth on him. His dick is long and thick and solid against Rust's ass and Rust tries to stop himself, tries not to push back against him as Marty arches forward but he doesn't make it, not quite. "Rust," Marty says, keeps saying - Rust likes how it sounds, he thinks, his name on Marty's lips like that, he thinks he likes it. He's not sure he can make Marty's name sound like that, but by the way Marty moans, maybe he does. It doesn't take long, he doesn't think - he's not sure - he's been in a goddamn coma and it's not like he was gettin' off with anyone before that so he figures he has an excuse for not caring if he doesn't last, if he comes in Marty's sweatpants like he's fucking fifteen (like he's thirty-six and it's the first time they're doing this, pressed up against the wall at Rust's place, Marty's knee between his thighs and Marty's teeth in his shoulder).
Anyway, it's not like Marty does much better - "Fuck," he says eventually, and Rust can still tell by his voice that he's coming. "Rust, Jesus, fuck. I love you, oh, fuck. Rust."
Rust doesn't answer that. He's not sure if he should've been expecting it or not. He waits while Marty's breathing slows, while the movements of Marty's hand on his dick start to get sluggish, erratic; waits until Marty's whispering I missed you slurred and mindless against the back of his neck, I missed you so fucking much, Jesus, Rust, before he says, "Go to sleep, Marty." He's not sure he trusts himself to say even that much, but it feels like he should say something.
"Hm," Marty says, but his hand drifts up to rest on Rust's hip again. "You okay?"
"Yeah," Rust says, after a minute. "Go the fuck to sleep."
"'kay," Marty says, and after that he's quiet. Rust thinks about pulling away, but doesn't. He figures he'll let Marty decide whether or not they want to remember in the morning.