Page 66 of Gunpowder

Wren walked out and Blair followed with a warmth in his chest, even as he threw Spencer an apologetic look on Wren’s behalf. “Come on, I’ll walk you to your car,” Blair said, joining Wren on the sidewalk.

Blair stopped in front of the Audi with his good mood intact, as he knew it wouldn’t be long before he saw Wren again. It never was, whether they planned for it or not. Wren leaned on the hood, the car looking more than a little out of place under the flickering glow of the streetlamp, standing out as stark and beautiful against the grittiness of Flushing as its owner.

“I still hate the idea of bringing you so close to all this, but… thank you,” Blair said, running his thumb across Wren’s knuckles.

Wren clicked his tongue but still pulled Blair forward to stand between his knees. “Quit thanking me. I’m only doing it so I don’t end up having to operate on you in that dingy bar like I did your friend.”

Wren kissed him into silence before Blair could make any quips about Wren worrying about him.

“Be careful driving, I know you’re tired,” he said when Wren took out his keys.

Wren gave a small hum of acknowledgment and the headlights flashed as he unlocked the car. “Goodnight, Blair.”

“Goodnight, Sunshine.”

“Mitral, pulmonary, aortic…” Wren muttered, staring up at the ceiling. He heard the apartment door but didn’t bother getting up. “Tricuspid.”

Reymond made his way through the moonlit apartment with ease. He stopped next to Wren, who was sprawled on his back on the floor in front of the window, bathed in the crackling violet of a storming Manhattan. Wren had taken a shower when he got back from Harlowe’s to get the stench of cigarette smoke off himself. Now he laid on the hard floor in thin pajama pants, his still-damp hair fanned out behind his head. At least Blair’s insistence on feeding him whenever they were together had put some weight on him—Wren was tired of hearing the lectures every time Reymond saw him shirtless. Are you eating enough? You can’t live off caffeine, it’s not good for your heart, and on and on.

Ha. His heart.

Reymond folded himself down on the floor, his back against the window. “What are you trying to figure out this time?” There was no condescension in his tone. This was what they did, after all.

Once something was on Wren’s mind that he couldn’t figure out, it would burrow in deep like a parasite, eat away at him until he solved it or found something to ease his curiosity. Which led him to texting Reymond or showing up at his door at all hours of day or night, because Reymond was an encyclopedia of medical knowledge that inexplicably allowed Wren to use him as such without complaint.

Last time, Wren had been up for two days trying to figure out how sensory and motor cortical areas interact to mediate sensorimotor integration. Reymond told him he didn’t need to know the intricacies of neuroanatomy to be a trauma surgeon, and Wren had argued there were people who did know them and still couldn’t figure it out. Reymond had pointed him to a study Boston University made on the subject and it quieted Wren’s mind long enough for him to get three hours of fitful sleep before his next shift at the hospital.

But what plagued Wren tonight was different. It was the most uncertain he’d ever been about something to do with the human body, and it was happening to him.

“I know the name of every valve and their functions. The purpose of all four chambers. I can identify all the rare congenital disorders that affect the ventricles. There’s nothing I don’t know about the human heart, and yet I can’t figure out what’s wrong with mine,” Wren said, rolling his head to the side to look out the window. He watched rain pelt against the glass and it reminded him of a different night, reminded him of Blair standing drenched in his foyer, of be my fuckup and thunder crashing as they crashed into each other. Wren put a hand on his chest. There it was again—that sensation. Like his entire cardiovascular system was being turned inside out.

He continued, “I considered premature ventricular contractions but my symptoms don’t match that of an arrhythmia. I’ve considered… fucking everything.”

“What are your symptoms, exactly?”

Wren explained to the best of his abilities, which for once he found lacking. He could barely make sense of it to himself, let alone put it into words. Reymond listened in patient silence to his disjointed explanation.

Then Reymond started laughing.

“Oh, Wren.” Reymond tipped his head back against the glass, another chuckle escaping him. “I know exactly what’s wrong.”

Wren scowled. He didn’t see how this was amusing. “Well? What is it?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

18

GET OUT

Blair stood with his elbows propped on the bar, staring down at the innocuous but daunting Complete Order button on his screen. He scrolled back up to look at what he was buying and his stomach flip-flopped with nerves.

“Looks nice,” Spencer commented, looking over his shoulder.

Blair jumped, remembering that he was supposed to be helping, and made himself busy emptying one of the ashtrays off the bar. “It’s, uh, not for me.”

“I didn’t think it was.”

“Oh.”

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