The 9 lives of Cats and Gods (Merry Men Book 1)

Life 4

1.
Bash
No time to waste. Thanksgiving week is nearly upon us. Due to the sad destruction of my foster home, I'm now in a group setting, crammed in with my cork boards on every wall and my already packed up possessions forming a table. It's loud here. But it is a temporary arrangement.
I've got another letter to write. This one should be drastically more interesting.
Nottingham Academy is sponsoring a ski retreat for spring break, as a scholarship student with near perfect grades I naturally got to go. Robin is going as well, but I assume for different reasons than mine.
The chef at the ski lodge is my prime suspect in a series of murders and cannibalisms. And therefore is the recipient of my next letter.

Good Day,

I know who you are. And I know what you have done. In one week's time I will send all of my evidence to the police. If you want to stop me, you're going to have to kill me.
Sebastian (Bash) Blake
Nottingham Academy
Oak Harbor, WA (soon to be at your place of work)

Robin

That absolute moron Bash announces his intention to go on the school trip. I'm just assuming that he's got some fucked up plan to get his dumb ass killed. Courdelion has wanted me to go on the trip anyway, more than likely on the grounds that I'll be less likely to commit homicide.
In the end I agree to go. I can't, in good conscience, let Bash go alone when he's probably baited a serial killer to come and kill him. I try to persuade Marianna and Rocket to go as well but they solidly refuse. Marianna hates flying, and dislikes airports. Rocket points out to me that she's slightly more wanted than he is, and that freeing her if she were caught is even more time consuming, ergo she shouldn't be alone. Beyond Bash, who is insane, we have no cause to believe anyone would discover me, and we already know I'm free to move about. Moreover we don't need to draw attention to them or the fact that we are always together. As Courdelion's ward it's natural for me to go, less so them. I grudgingly agree with this line of reasoning.
The ski trip runs from Sunday through Wednesday of Thanksgiving week, flying out Sunday night. The Thursday before, Courdelion sends me a set of plane tickets to him, with the simple text, 'please come'. It's neither the first, second, nor third time he's done something like that. It is the first time I accept. I download the tickets, reading the airport codes. Iceland? Really? Is that the best place to hide out? Whatever, I can bother him about it when I get there.
My plane leaves midday Friday, which means a two hour drive to SeaTac. Rocket and Marianna drive me, something about not trusting me not to get distracted on the way. They're right so it's my option to be cross over it. 
My plane leaves at noon so I'm shuffling through security at ten in the morning. I've got just my backpack and duffel, woefully short of weapons. Bash texts me asking pleasantly if there's a legal reason I'm not in school so I send him an emoji of me flipping him off 🖕, and then he sends me a sad face that has more emotion he's ever expressed in his life. It's the one with the little eyes all round and looking up and kinda sideways all sad, 🥺 all around like, way more pathetic than his ass has any right to be given how many times a day he accuses me of murder. After that I don't text him again nor him me. Let him scour the local news for crimes to accuse me of.
Now, I've been in my fair share of airports over the years, but surprisingly enough I'm not usually alone. Typically I'm flying with Courdelion and whatever security he currently has (that varies depending on where he's at in the Senate or what, and whatever threat is going on. Also, he usually has aides/interns around as well). Not that I haven't flown alone, I have, but it has honestly been awhile, and I forgot how simple it was to melt into the the crowd of unfamiliar faces. Just another traveler. With my bags neatly strapped on, hoodie pulled up, I look like any other teenager commuting to see family for the holiday week. I fill up my thermos with water at a station and buy two chocolate bars for the plane. Doesn't hurt to have a paper trail when I'm doing something technically legal, despite my traditional paranoia and subtlety.
I board and am irritated to find I'm disgustingly close to the front of the plane; as in, I'm in first class. I text Courdelion immediately.
Me: how much did you spend on these seats?? People are starving and without health care in your own country
Him: I'll buy you a fucking alpaca
I have no idea what that means but I just take it as an insult and quit texting him.
The cross country flight is long and bumpy. A businessman is my seat mate and he seems as disgusted with me as I am of him, and after a brief nod we say nothing. I am left to fiddle with my phone, trying to find reasonable music. I don't usually listen to music that much so half of it is what Rocket put on there for when he steals my phone. I find instrumental and open my current books. I brought five for the flight. Marianna gave me two Stephen King mysteries and then I packed some Greek and Latin texts in case I wanted something to really occupy me, and then a copy of Beowulf in the original Norse. I'm translating it on a dare from Courdelion last week so I could work on that with the aid of my laptop.
I finish both books and am bored by the time we land in O'Hare, hating how glad I am to be off an airplane when I'm about to get on another one. This is a shorter layover so I only have time to refill my water before the next flight. First class again damn him, so I get a meal service, which is a small salad, very small I'm sure for the price, and I'm still quite starving when I finish it and my chocolate bars. I have no seat mate this time so I can spread out my books and fuck with trying to translate something relatively few people translate.
LaGuardia is my next stop and by now it's the middle of the night anywhere. I'm jelly legged and more than ready to fall asleep but my brain refuses to even rest. It's an hour layover this time so I just dash to my gate, texting Marianna that I'm fine. Bash sent me a picture of the saddest plant in the whole goddamn world I don't even know why. Then he told me that it was a plant. I make the best decision of my life and block him.
Marianna asks how many books I've finished. I say all of them, and by then it's time to board. I'm completely out of books, I've once again underestimated my reading speed when relatively uninterrupted, tired, and hungry for real food. The airport is packed and Christmas music is  already blaring from all corners, shops decked out in holiday cheer and travelers doing reasonable cosplays of Santa and elves. Needless to say Christmas was never a happy time as a small child, it was just another day nothing special. I don't think I properly celebrated till I lived with Courdelion. Anyway, the good cheer does nothing but make my head spin. I dislike all the bright colors and feel the overwhelming urge to bolt and find the nearest national forest in which I will decompose.
I don't do that.
I board my flight and find myself again in the premium seats, this time with an elderly woman next to me.
"Hello," she clearly wants to talk.
"Hi, if I start snoring you can wake me," I say, in a more than decent Californian accent.
"Is this your first time across seas?"
"No I'm visiting relatives," I am sorely tempted to elaborate on my fictional story for entertainment purposes however my tiredness gets the better of me and I keep it simple. After that she leaves me mostly alone in favor of reading thin brightly colored magazine. I'm tempted to pull out my translation materials but that's a lot for my lap and it would spark questions I don't care to answer and for once don't care to lie about.
I downloaded several movies to my phone and wind up trying to fall asleep while watching all of the Avengers movies. It doesn't work but they're mindless enough for me to doze a bit, though as usual I find I can't truly sleep when surrounded by people. The back of my neck crawls to even think of actually passing out. The only flight I slept on was once to Australia, Courdelion was there and I fell asleep because he was there and that was the first time I realized I trusted him. It was a twelve hour flight. He was asleep as well I don't know how I thought he was going to protect me. He'd bought us a row because 'nobody should have to be next to you Robby don't look at me like that how many knives are you holding right now?' And yeah he had a point the answer was ten. Anyway. The only other time I've fallen asleep in public like was at a hospital, Marianna and I were waiting on someone we'd rescued and I passed out on her shoulder. I'd been up forty eight hours at that point.
Other than those instances, no, I can't quell my fears enough even to sleep in such a relatively protected setting. Most everyone else on the plane has no such inhibitions and pass out almost immediately, though they wake up when food service comes around.
Food and drink service isn't shabby and I accept hot coffee and a sandwich, which was already paid for. It's far more palatable than the jerky and snack nuts I'd packed myself so I can't bring myself to turn it down.
By the time we land in Rykyvick international I'm light headed from lack of sleep, sore, and all around sick of air travel. I'm ignoring that I'm going to get on a plane again in less than fifteen hours. And then another one. Oh, whatever, I'm not thinking about that now.
I collect my things from the overhead and bolt from the plane.
The terminal is busy, despite the distinct lack of a holiday in this country, and is teaming with travelers clad in brightly colored parkas. Customs is moving, but it's still forty five minutes of shuffling in line and presenting what are in fact not at all legal papers. I learned enough Icelandic last night to be able to get by in pleasant conversation, making the process a bit easier, though as it happens there's a decent number of English speakers. My bag and self are fairly simple, and they let me go on after basic screening.
Then we're all left to stagger out into the arrivals, scanning the crowd for a familiar face.
I spot Courdelion almost as soon as he sees me, on the edge of the crowd, in a black long coat. I did not plan what I was going to do or say when I saw him again after so long and our bitter argument. I know we've spoken since but not properly and I was focused more on forcing myself to go through with being here than what I was actually going to do.
All that's to say that I don't plan anything so I'm as surprised as he is when I just walk up and bury my face in his thick chest. Despite my growth over the summer he's still a solid head taller than I and easily enfolds me in his arms.
"I hate this," I growl.
"I missed you too," He says, squeezing me tightly, "Thank you so much for coming."
"First class? Fucker," I punch his chest.
"Shut up, your legs are longer than when I last saw you—here, let's get you in the car," he says, picking up a paper bag, "Put it on, and don't argue it's a cold night, and we're not going straight back."
"Used items exist for sale, recycling?" I say, wiping my face with my hand as I take the bag from him. His eyes aren't dry either. He looks nothing like me, taller, broad while I'm lean, with ink black hair just peppered with grey, high cheekbones and ice white blue eyes, he's unusually pale now from this country I expect but normally he's a tone darker than I as well. That said nobody looks twice at our reunion, I know, I bother to check to ensure we're not being observed. We are not. Everyone is wrapped up in their own affairs.
"Yeah, they aren't as warm," he says, as I withdraw a knee length sage green parka. "You're going skiing as well, yeah? You'll need something."
I put it on without complaint for some reason, as he's right the warmest thing I have is a trucker jacket, Sherpa lined, which is more than enough for the pacific north west, but nowhere near enough for Iceland. To be honest I didn't think I'd wind up skiing all that much as Bash is going I figured he'd monologue and I'd argue philosophy with him and avoid people and try to stop him from getting murdered.
"This is us," Courdelion takes out a set of car keys to a sleek black SUV, which is already dusted with snow. The cold here is biting, and despite the parka I'm instantly chilled, my feet and fingers aching by the time we make it to the parking lot. I cram my hands into my pockets but that does little to warm me when I can't feel my fingers to begin with.
"You always land on your feet don't you?" I ask.
"If I can manage, I left it running so you wouldn't freeze; throw your bag in the back," he says. I put the duffel bag in the back but leave my backpack at my feet, sliding onto the smooth leather of the seat. The vehicle is humming and warm, with the seats warmed as well.
"If you don't mind we're going to take a detour on the way back to the cabin. I'm trying to get some information to do with the case, I thought we might look at it together,  compare notes I know most of what you have that Marianna's sent me but—," he shrugs.
"No, definitely, yeah, I want to see," I say, rubbing my cold fingers together.
"I don't know how much good it'll do but-," he shrugs helplessly.
"It'll do some, we've got to try, we are trying. We're not—giving up. It's wrong, you've not done anything wrong—well you've not done that wrong, you've got me which is wrong but they don't know that," I say.
"Having you is not wrong, all right—,"
"Legally, it is," I say.
"Yeah, well, we wouldn't get along if we didn't both believe laws need to be broken now and again," he says, knowingly.
"Fair," I say.
"Anyway, how's school going? Other than attending the wrong foreign language all semester and speaking the wrong foreign language in it?" He asks, slyly.
"Okay now that wasn't my fault that was confusing they had class where—how long has my mask been off?" I rub my face, as a chill runs down my spine. I've been using my real voice how long now?
"Switched when we got in the car, like hitting skip, instant," he says.
"Okay, good," I sigh, leaning back. First Marianna, now this.
"You're tired. You were in some American accent when you got off the plane till the car," he says.
"Fuck, yeah, I am tired," I say, rubbing my face with my hands, I'm finally warming up.
"Oh, if you're hungry there's take out on the floor in the back there it's not that warm now but—,"
"Both these for me?" I ask, pulling up a take out bag of what looks like two orders of fish and chips.
"Yes I know I've got a growing teenager," he says, fondly.
"Food on plane was tiny it's not worth paying for it," I say.
"Yeah I'm going to keep feeding you, so shut up," Courdelion says.
"I'll not I'm annoying," I remind him.
"That you are. Now, how is the semester going? You've been seeing Marianna a while now I should give you some sort of safe sex talk shouldn't I?"
"Can we not, and not pretend you did, and never speak of it again? Thanks?" I say, as I stuff my face with the greasy but more than adequate fish and chips.
"Okay, okay, I'm not against it obviously just want to make sure you're using proper birth control and the like?" He says.
"Marianna is trans, no ovaries involved in the equation, ergo 0% chance of pregnancy thank you so much for being weird," I say, as he hands me a thermos of warm coffee.
"Wow, I swear nobody told me that ever—,"
"I did but you were crying and saying 'Robin stop bringing people home without warning me we're gonna get arrested' and I was ignoring you—,"
"Cool, cool—birth control can prevent STDs—,"
"I'll jump out of this fucking car—,"
"Okay, fine, fine, changing subject, really swear you never told me she was trans all right I don't know why but that feels significant to when we were helping her run away from home—,"
"It helped you lie it was fine."
"Cool, yeah, lot of conversations make more sense now —get your hand off that door Jesus boy, I'll stop talking about your girlfriend. Just trying to look after you even if you don't need it," he says, reaching to grab my coat as I prepare to open the door. I wouldn't actually jump out, but he does not need to know that.
"We're fine," I say, taking my hand off the door, and contemplating telling him I haven't actually slept with her. No it doesn't matter. That doesn't mean anything.
"Good, I'm glad," he says, gently, "How is um—,"
"The human version of a paper cut? I dunno I blocked him," I say.
"Why?" He asks.
"I didn't want to talk to him. I didn't want to talk t' anyone," I shrug. I just want to be here and isn't that enough?
"Are you going to the right—,"
"Yes, I'm going to the right class now stop laughing again it were confusing, especially while arguing with someone, just generally confusing, not like I need the credit."
"You need the credit not the education from it, we'll go there. I know school is boring for you. But boring is good now and then, right? Sometimes it's good just to mindlessly do, and not think," he says.
"Yeah," I say, quietly, "It is."
"This is just about us," he nods to a stretch of—icy road? There is nothing here? On either side just fields of snow and the dark sky above and just snow everywhere.
"Who is it we're meeting again?" I ask.
"Someone who can help with my case," he says, as he parks.
"And who might that be?" I ask, switching to French as I get out of the car. I do this and he'll like not notice for two minutes. I've gotten him to start speaking in French because then he'll switch and forget to switch back.
"An individual I know," he says, handing me a pair of boots rather than my tennis shoes. I accept them long enough to figure out what he's not saying.
"Is this an ex-boyfriend?" I realize, nearly tripping in the snow as I follow him.
"No!" He says, far too genuinely for it to be true.
"This is an ex-boyfriend, you called in a favor with an ex-boyfriend?" I laugh, as I follow him closer. While publicly his sexuality is unconfirmed I'm fully aware he's gay, I asked him flat out years ago and he told me, also he's dated on and off since I've lived with him. Nothing serious and it's not like anybody spent the night or anything but he made no secret to me that they were in fact dates, like that type of thing. Nothing at all untoward but I was aware of his sexuality. All that, and the night I met him he'd been very clearly trying to pick up this nice pub owner who'd been feeding me and he was following the guy around flirting and the dude went to feed me and that's how he found me. Anyway. He knows I know and he knows I'm bi so we're cool, but. Doesn't mean I'm not gonna give him shit after he tried to give me a safe sex speech.
"No, that's ridiculous, no," Courdelion says, pausing like halfway out in the snowy field, staring at the sky. I can hear the distant sound of a helicopter.
"This is an ex-boyfriend," I laugh and point at the helicopter.
"Okay so no—no, ex would imply we broke which is not true ghosting me is not the same thing as breaking up so we technically—,"
"You called in a favor from an ex-boyfriend with a helicopter who ghosted you?" I laugh.
I can't hear his response over the roar of the helicopter but I can read lips enough to see that he says 'no'. After that we are battered by the freezing wind from the helicopter blades as it lands unnecessarily close to us. We cover our faces, and I roll my hands up into my coat sleeves to block out the cold, but even so my neck and ears are freezing by the time the whirring stops.
Out of the helicopter climb three men. All three are in black long wool coats, and wearing dark glasses. The one in the middle steps forward. He has white blonde hair slicked severely out of his face, and a set cruel expression, beyond which he is not bad looking at all if he lost the scowl.
"Philip," Courdelion says, opening his arms, like they're meeting at a garden party after not seeing the other in a while. Not in the middle of an ice field with an adopted murder hell child and a helicopter.
The man with the pale hair takes something from his coat and throws it at Courdelion as hard as he possibly can, succeeding in hitting him in the face. Courdelion does catch the item, but barely. It's a flash drive.
"Richard. You are disaster of human being. Stop calling me," the man says, in a very thick French accent.  I also temporarily forgot Courdelion had a first name.
"Thank you so much! Call me!" Courdelion, not even upset, grinning.
"The homicidal child is tall. Hopefully one day he kill you. Never call me again," the man says, looking at me briefly.
"Thank you! Call me!" Courdelion waves completely unperturbed by the other man's demeanor.
"I will never call you! Stop calling me!" He says, then makes a rude gesture before getting back into the helicopter. The other men say nothing which I think they deserve academy awards for I'm a liar by default and I had trouble keeping a straight face through that.
I stare at Courdelion as the helicopter takes off.
"What?" He looks at me, shrugging a little.
"Who the fuck is he?" I ask, now knowingly switching back to my natural accent.
"Philip. Not a bad guy don't let that interaction sway you. He's how I got your passport," he says, tossing me the USB stick, "Let's get you in the car your cheeks are as red as your hair."
"So he's like mob or something?" I ask, getting in the passenger side.
"Lord, no. He's Interpol."
"And he knows about me—? He knows who I am?" I ask, decidedly uncomfortable with an interpol agent having any idea where I am.
"Oh, he finds the FBI's inability to track you incredibly amusing, and he has far bigger targets than a seventeen year old vigilante. No, he thinks the Americans deserve you and it's their own fault if they can't catch you. Moreover, if he were to out—either of us, he knows I have far more on him than he has on me, and that's including you," he says.
"You do?" I ask.
"His sexuality is far from common knowledge nor can it be. I would never, ever out him and I've told him that but—I'm sure he doesn't quite believe it, also anything he gives us, like your passport, or this, would get him in as much trouble as us," Courdelion says, dismissively, "He's probably one of the few people we can trust at this point, sadly enough."
"Well, let's see what kind of information he gave us," I say, holding up the flash drive.
"Yeah, back at the cabin, it's not far now, and you can read out to me anything that I haven't heard," he says, it's universally acknowledged that I'm a faster reader than he and might as well go through it.
The cabin turns out to be a study A-frame in the side of the mountains, up a steep icy road that defies the laws of friction. Trees that surround it are over piled with snow, and the drive is passably cleared for the big SUV. We park underneath a small shelter.
"It gets so cold you have to heat the cars," he explains, when I frown at him fiddling with a plug in the front of the car's grill.
I get my things out of the back, shouldering my backpack and gathering the trash from the take out.
We ascend the icy steps up to a main deck, which has an unused looking hot tub.
"You can see the lights—the aurora borealis, up here—people generally sit out to wait for it, so, hot tub is the way to do it. I haven't turned the thing on all year," he admits, fiddling with the door key.
Out spill the two large Akitas, full of wiggles, and nearly knocking me over.
"Near, Mello, I missed you boys," I say, kissing their soft muzzles as the dogs kiss me.
"They missed you too," Courdelion says, holding the door as I move the greeting inside.
"I missed you too," I say, pressing my face into the dogs fur. My dogs.
My dogs.
It was the third year I'd been home. And it was anniversary of the day he brought me back. I knew, but I figured he had forgotten this year. Usually we did something but he hadn't said anything about going anywhere so I couldn't plan to run away or anything. So I stayed figuring he'd forgotten.
He hadn't forgotten.
He barely succeed in getting me in the car. He said it was a surprise. I nearly ran. For some reason, blessedly, I got in. And we drove way out into the country. To this little tiny house.
"If you brought me here to kill me I'll kill you."
"Oh I believe you'll be the death of me Robin put the knife DOWN," he got me out of the car and inside. I don't know what mental fortitude it took to keep it a surprise. Maybe he correctly assumed I'd argue if he said what we were doing.
When we got up close to the house I could hear dogs barking. A lady let us, tugging back a big brown dog. I didn't know dogs I just knew it was big. I hid behind Courdelion so he'd die first. I was no friend of dogs. The only pet I'd ever had was that cat, but he didn't know any of that then.
Inside the room there was this little playpen, and the woman opened it up to reveal a dozen tumbling balls of fuzz, all cuteness and chubby bellies and floppy ears and little curly tails.
"The Japanese Akita, they're considered a national treasure in Japan, known worldwide for their unending devotion to their master, once they bond to you they will be loyal till death. Pick two, so that they won't be lonely while you're at school," Courdelion said, as I stood amidst a pile of toddling puppies. The momma dog kept licking my hands and wanting to be petted too, so the lady put her up.
I sat down on the hard wood floor and petted each one carefully, tears streaming down my face. The last time someone had given me a pet was that man with that little cat. And I watched it die. These dogs were study and tough, they wouldn't break their necks so easily. And Courdelion, asking no thanks and ready for me to cuss at him or run, was patiently leaning by the door, making small talk with the breeder and confirming care for the dogs.
And I sat there and cried and I didn't know why.
A little all white puppy, the smallest of the litter, toddled up and licked the tears from my face, wiggling till I held him in my arms. I moved him away. He very gently eased up, crawling into my arms to lick my tears dry.  Meanwhile his orange brother flopped down to chew a toy, leaning against my shoe. He stayed there the whole time while the white one systematically licked my face.
In my mind we sat there hours. In reality, probably an hour? I don't know. But after some time the breeder lady said, "Is it those two then?"
"I think so," Courdelion said, softly. He doubtless saw my tears but left me to them, blissfully unaware of what they meant.
I gathered up the puppies, wordlessly, one in each arm. They yawned and licked my face. I hadn't said a thing since we got there.
When we got back in the car he let me put them both in my lap, only offering a towel, at which I shook my head. I didn't say anything till we were halfway back to the house.
"Why?" I mumbled, I'm sure he started. He rarely got to hear my real voice.
"Well, the other day you said I wasn't your friend. I figured you could use some friends, and, what better friend for a little boy than the most loyal dog in the world?"
He wouldn't learn of the cat till years later. Till then it was a mystery why I let no one care for the dogs but me until they were big and strong, and I was confident they could defend themselves, only then did I let dog walkers, or pet sitters, or him, near them. I fed them, brushed them, spent hours on the internet learning how to train them.  They're my best friends.
And I left them when I ran away. Of course he brought them with him.
"I'm so sorry," I whisper, petting the dogs as Near worms his way into my arms to lick the tears from my face. Mello sits down on my shoes, sighing in contentment. They're getting to be old dogs now, with grey in Mello's orange muzzle, and their coats aren't as shiny as they once were.
"They sit and wait for you to come home from school everyday, and then they fetch me like I've left you someplace, do tell them you're all right and I'm not forgetting to pick you up," Courdelion says, putting up his coat and turning on lights in the cabin. "What—did you think I'd left them?"
I'm still sobbing, clutching my dogs, "Yeah, I didn't listen and come like you told me to. People leave dogs places. Specially when they flee countries."
"These are our dogs—Robin I was never going to leave them anywhere—I should have told you they were fine I'm sorry," he says, coming over, "I didn't think—I'm sorry, no I would never leave your dogs behind. Or you."
"I know," I mumble, pressing my face into Mello's chubby head, "I just don't believe it."
"I know," Courdelion says, tentatively putting a hand on my back.
Once the dogs have sufficiently licked my tears away I finally take off my coat and Courdelion shows me upstairs. There are four bedrooms on a walkway above the main room, and he shows me to one that he identifies as mine.  The dogs trot with me happily, going to leap on the bed.
"Do you want to sleep?" Courdelion asks, handing me my bag at the door.
"No, I'm still hungry um—I'm just gonna take a shower."
"I'll be downstairs, I'll warm up something to eat," he says, petting the dogs as they circle around him as if to thank him for bringing me home.
I walk into the little room. It's a cabin so the walls are all wood, and floor, and there's a window near clogged up with ice and snow. The dogs leap on the full bed which is made up neatly with a quilt and three matching pillows. On the dresser sits folded a sweat suit, a sweater, and a few thick socks. And next to it sits unceremoniously a boxed lego kit. A red race car.
Now Christmases and birthdays were near non-existent in my early childhood. And then I was on my own for a bit so besides easier to pick pockets the holidays meant little to nothing to me.
First year I was home, Courdelion, he somehow retained his sanity and hadn't shot us both like he probably wanted to. And of course he paid to have the house decorated for Christmas. And I didn't care. We didn't have the dogs back then. It was just feral me and whatever maid service or the like he'd managed to retain.
Anyway, he got me a new bow (I'm sure he like, wants to invent a time machine to stop himself from doing that), and then because I was little, just a boy in his eyes, he got me a lego set, and gave it to me on Christmas Eve, to put together. He didn't know I'd never had one before. He didn't know I used to watch commercials and stare at them in the store, wondering about all the shiny bricks and what it would be like to have boxes of them.
"Can you help me put it together?" I asked in the quietest voice. I didn't know if I could I figured it would be hard. It wasn't really, but  I don't think but neither of us had put one together before so it took hours more than it should have, us both laughing at the other's incorrect attempts to read the directions.
And every holiday after that, he got us a lego set. Of course it's Thanksgiving. I didn't even think about it. I stroke the shiny box and feel the same longing as I did when I was six and looking at such toys in the store, that of course we were too poor to have.
I smile at it, then go about getting cleaned up. A whole shower seems like a lot of effort but in the end I do it anyway, stripping off my sweaty airport clothes and standing under the boiling hot water. I'm properly exhausted but the coffee in the car revives me enough to sort out clothes and have the will to go downstairs. In the end I find boxers in my duffel bag, then put on the surprisingly warm sweat pants that Courdelion left out, and I find a Kraken t-shirt in my bag because now I'm decently warm. The dogs lay on my bed and watch me quite happily, and I give them both a cuddle before heading downstairs.
"You can just go to sleep for a few hours," Courdelion advises.
"I'm fine, I feel better, I want to look," I say, sitting down with my laptop.
He brings me tea and warm scones, and offers sandwiches. I accept all of it, sitting down on a faded sofa in front of the fire and opening the flash drive.
Three hours later I'm no further than when I started.
"I'm dropping you the relevant stuff—your boyfriend is thorough I'll give him that, but it's not much beyond what Marianna and you had," I sigh.
"That's what I was afraid of," Courdelion says, nodding.
"It's, just—it's all circumstantial. We know your brother did it. But the actual proof tying his name to it? That's probably long since destroyed, right now he's laid the trail very neatly to you, and the odd letter or fax isn't going to clear you, nor are offshore accounts we know belong to your brother, but can't trace to him," I sigh, rubbing my face.
Courdelion sighs.
"I mean read it yourself but that's all that it's saying, basically, he read it too he put notes on it, I'm gonna drop the relevant bits to Mariana if that's good?" I ask.
"Yeah, do, definitely, um—shit, I was really hoping that would be something," Courdelion says, staring at the fire, "I've not got a lot more favors to call in on this."
"We're not giving up. Look at me, we're not. There has to be a way, we can catch him out, it's just—not easy—,"
"Oh Robby don't kill him."
"I wasn't going to. That wouldn't clear you," I say like I haven't thought about it when I have, "Although. If it would make you feel better—,"
"No! Do not," he sighs, putting a hand through his hair, "I don't—like you said. This is just a set back. We'll figure it out."
"Yeah," I say, lying down on the rug using one of the dogs as a pillow. I stare up at the rafters. "How did you get this place anyway?"
"Philip."
We both start laughing.
When I recover myself I say, "How does 'don't call me' work when you're living in 'is bloody house?"
"Oh like I said, I've got plenty on him. More than that if he gave me up he'd be alone in there in the closet whereas he knows if he gets really lonely I'll enter his fucking closet to keep his dumb ass company and shut the door on my way out," he says.
I laugh so hard I have to sit up. So this is how the rich folk do. They and their fancy friends have fine safe houses all sorts of places so you're on the run you can go to a nice and clean and safe hours anywhere in the world and not be put out.
"Was this where you were gonna go? When you left?" I ask, quietly, not laughing now. I could have been here this whole time? With my dogs? Just quietly living out life because I'm the rich folk now?
"It's where I went, yeah, where I've been."
"Did he know I might come?" I ask, fiddling with my hands.
"Yes, Robin, I can't express how entertained Philip is on—I'm guessing a daily basis, by your actions. Really. He thinks the best thing that came out of associating with me is that he got the opportunity to inflict you on 'those fool American's' who 'deserve the small English arrow child'," he says, doing a reasonable impression of his angry boyfriend.
I almost smile. I could have been here. Right here. Safe. Because that does exist. But not for everyone. But it does for me so why do I feel so guilty for wanting it?
"I'm really glad you're here now. Close your eyes a bit, eh?" He asks.
I nod, lying down with the dogs. They snuggle on either side of me, perfectly content. And almost unwillingly I drop off to sleep. Because I'm in this unreal sort of peace here. I should have come. I shouldn't have stopped answering his calls. I have a lot of regrets but not knowing how to live is the biggest one of them. But at least I did come this time. At least I'm trying. Does that separate me from the ones who've failed? That at some point I tried? Why is it so hard?
I wake up a few hours later, comfortable on the floor, if stiff. Courdelion was looking at his laptop, but when I stir he fetches soup, grilled cheese sandwiches, and more coffee. It's surprisingly good tomato soup considering I once saw him confused to the point wiki how in the presence of a fucking can opener. I realize I should have helped but I was busy laughing.
While he sets up our dinner I wordless go upstairs and fetch the lego. We sit down on the carpet in front of the fire and spread out the pieces, eating our sandwiches and mumbling in French for more soup or someone to pass the instructions neither of us are very good at reading it seems. We don't want to get any better either, that would involve the other less and much less swearing and laughing at mistakes.
All too soon, the meal is done, the lego is complete, and it's time for me to depart. Courdelion helps me gather my few things I spread out, including the clothes he had laid out for me.
"You'll be at a ski lodge. You'll need them," he reasons, "It'll be cold just take it, Robby. You can donate it later if you don't need it fair?"
I pack it, cramming my bag closed. We let the dogs ride with us to the airport, and this time the hour drive seems too short for us.
"Look out the windows, sometimes you can see the lights."
"It's all dark," I say, pressing my face against the cold glass.
"Yeah, sometimes, they're there," he says, "Maybe they'll be out, when you come back at Christmas, yeah? Bring Marianna and Rocket, we can figure out how to use the hot tub and you three can watch for them?"
"You'll be home by Christmas," I say, flatly.
"Okay."
"We'll figure it out. You'll be home," I say, but I don't believe it either.
The airport is as busy as when I left. Courdelion leaves the car running for the dogs after I kiss them both goodbye, and then walks me in up to security.  Like hello, I didn't plan goodbye a bit, so we're equally surprised when I throw myself into his chest. He doesn't even falter, just hugging me back, while I cling to him like I don't know how to let go.
"I don't hate you," I say.
"I love you. Please, just come home, wherever that is, we can work anything out together don't you dare leave me," he says, and I hear tears in his voice.
"I'm so sorry," I whisper.
"It's enough. I've got you. It's enough," he says, holding me in his arms like this hug can make up for the first ten years I didn't know the safety in them. And like before I just press my face into his coat having no sense of why I'm here.
And this time neither one of us wants to be the first to let go.