Aftermath
Peter let out a bark of laughter as he watched Micky scramble to the roof. “And my nickname is the Monkey?” he chuckled as he wrapped his left hand securely.
Mike paused from his careful adjustments. “Yeah, well, you got the most cunning.” He squinted up at the bright sun. “Mind if we go inside? It’s a little bright out here for me.” His voice, however, was tinged with that slight hesitation that told Peter there was more to it than just simple sensitivity to the sun.
“Well . . . ” Peter wrapped his other hand. “I’m not quite ready to.” He fumbled the tape and dropped it to the sand. Mike quickly snatched it up and tossed it back to the blond. Peter caught it one-handed. “So much for getting you to talk,” he said with a gentle smile.
“Talk about what?” Mike said in the deceptively mild tone he’d adopted the last couple weeks. It was a tone that masked a hidden pain, a discomfort that ran through the Horse’s being, of whose origin Peter knew only too well.
“About you.” Peter’s voice was mild as well, but it held an unmistakable message. This time he would not back down.
“What about me?” Mike said, going back to his meticulous adjustment of the protective wrappings on his hands.
“Davy’s almost back like he was before,” Peter slid the dark tank top on, shivering slightly in the cool just-dawn.
“Is that a rebuke?” Mike said.
“More like an observation.”
“He’s a fighter. Quick to everything.”
“So are you. A fighter, I mean.”
Mike gave a quick, almost dismissive nod, glaring out into the world. For the first time Peter could see how deep the pain ran, and how unlikely it would be for Mike to shake it off as easily as Davy had.
He’d long known that Mike felt things much more deeply than Davy and Micky, perhaps deeper than Peter himself. He tended towards the contemplative side of life, taking things—good and bad—deep inside and ruminating over them. It was plain whenever you looked into his intense brown eyes and felt you could lose yourself in them as well.
But that ruminating had a darker side as well—and Peter was being confronted with it full-force. “Michael,” he said gently. “You survived.”
“Yes, I did. We both got out alive, blah blah blah. Well enough to heal before the next time.”
“No, Michael.” Peter turned to look into his dark eyes. “Well enough to heal. Period.”
“Peter, there is no ‘period.’ Unless you know somethin’ I don’t.”
“I know you were put through something I can’t even imagine.”
“And I don’t want you to imagine.” Mike remained silent for some time, examining his swaddled knuckles. “Peter, it scares me to death thinkin’ that someday you’ll know exactly what I went through.”
Peter tilted his head. “Why do you put it like that?”
“Because the threats are still out there.”
“Doesn’t mean it’s inevitable I’ll be tortured.”
“Yeah, but I still don’t want you hurt.’
“Now, my getting hurt is inevitable.” He managed a small smile. “I’m betting that’s why we were given the healing sleep.”
Mike shrugged. “There’s some things sleep can’t heal.”
“What it can’t . . . friendship can. If you’ll give us a chance.”
Mike nodded thoughtfully. “C’mon, before it gets too hot.”
Peter nodded and tossed him a shirt. Mike pulled on the tank top, flexing his arms. The scars were already fading, beyond what the doctor had predicted. Peter wouldn’t have been surprised if one day they disappeared from sight. He’d watched over Mike as he slept now. At least once a week, the Horse would slip into brief healing sleep—still. “Ready?”
Mike easily vaulted over the railing and dropped to the sand. “Yep.”
Peter followed more sedately but just as gracefully. “Then let’s do this!”
Mike stopped. “You never did say what ‘this’ is, Peter.”
“Katas. I lead, you follow.”
“All right.” They spent a few minutes stretching, Mike taking up position to the side and slightly behind Peter.
Peter slid easily into the first position. “Ready?”
Mike echoed it, the familiar strength sliding up and down his arms and legs, starting at his spine and radiating outwards. It was a feeling that chased away—for a time—the feelings of doubt that he’d harbored ever since Dragonman’s men had kidnapped them.
Move flowed into move—tai chi done at slightly faster speeds. Kata merging into kata without a word.
Mike was dimly aware that a few beach-goers had stopped and were watching them, but he forced his attention elsewhere, bringing it back to the lines of Peter’s body and the movements he echoed.
Suddenly Peter whirled and shot a kick toward Mike’s face.
Without thought, Mike raised both hands, crossing them in front of his face. Peter’s shin struck Mike’s wrapped forearms and bounced off.
With no change in expression, Peter slid a second kick toward Mike’s stomach. Mike turned to the side, extending his arm downward. When Peter’s leg hit, he twisted his wrist and grabbed Peter’s ankle, pulling upwards.
Peter hit the sand with an “oof!” The second Mike let go, he flipped to his feet and flung sand toward Mike.
Mike ducked, covering his eyes with his hands. Peter pressed the attack, using his hands as well as his feet now. At every turn Mike was there to block the attacks, his face empty of passion and anger as he slid into a familar zone, one devoid of thought.
They sparred for a good twenty minutes, Peter pressing the attacks and Mike blocking them, until Peter stepped back and lowered his hands to his sides.
Mike stood, breathing a little hard, his bare shoulders shining with perspiration. His eyes were clear and focused and filled with the calm Peter wondered if he’d ever see again.
The corners of Peter’s mouth turned upward slightly and he bowed slightly from the waist. Mike returned it. “How do you feel?”
“Better.”
“Good.” Peter’s smile blossomed into the full, dimpled one.
After a moment Mike smiled at well—the broad, slightly snaggletoothed grin that Peter saw all too rarely.
“Welcome home, Ngo,” Peter said softly.
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