Starts with a Match

Better to Smell You With, My Dear

Thank God we hid the machete. Alex might've had a polo on when the party started, but by the time the last kid left, he'd changed into a muscle tank, his gelled hair was a disaster, and there was cake all over the back porch.

We stayed one more night, and I made damn sure I slept on the floor, in a t-shirt, that time.

Next day before we left, Claire and I talked over coffee. I told her of some struggles I was having whenever I happened upon free time. I liked hanging out with Toby. But they were sometimes busy. And I knew as their job picked up, on evenings they'd be working, I'd be alone.

And Claire got it. When I said the house was too big for me. We shared a single room at a friends' house growing up, after all. Too much space meant too much emptiness, and too much time to let my mind wander.

It was her idea then to volunteer her van. "Remember after Dad died—you were like two, you might not remember—Mom started fixing up Grandma Milly's old yellow truck. Made it run after not working for like a decade and a half. Kept her busy, focused. Gave her a goal."

"An obsession," I muttered into my coffee. Claire told me about it when I was older and could understand it; it was the start of Mom's downfall. Caused her to get too distracted, not paying attention in the shop. Died of asphyxiation from an engine turned on and not enough air flow.

She patted my arm. "Yeah, she took it too far. But she had the right idea at first. You need a hobby. And I don't see you as a golf guy."

Hence why, I now have Claire's old van in the driveway of our house in Washington.

We got it shipped up form Pendleton after the birthday festivities last weekend, and I've had it for three days. The damn thing is just as angry at me as I am at it. The times the hood has fallen on my head alone is embarrassing, not to mention the actual work on the fucking interior.

It's a surprise to no one that I'm stubborn. It's also no surprise that I hate busy work projects, even if I know they're supposed to be good for my brain. Better than sitting around moping, in my thoughts too deep, chasing dark rabbits and spiraling while my poor spouse goes about their life, oblivious.

The laundry room door creaks, and I glance over at Toby coming outside to grab the basket of rags I've got on the work bench, further out on the driveway by our truck.

They tried to tell me repeatedly that I could move their stuff out of the garage and use it to work.

Told them I liked being outside. Easier to blurt that out than try to explain how it would break my heart to move their dancing equipment. Besides, they said they might actually dance for me one day, show off something they'd been practicing. Can't do that without a garage studio.

"How's it going?" Toby asks, setting some clean rags down on the bench. They lean on it and cross their arms, tilting their head with a smirk that tells me they know the answer already.

"Oh, it's good. All chill here. Dorris and I are getting along great."

"How many times has she dropped on your head?" There's a ripple of a chuckle in their voice.

"Um. Today? Two." Toby laughs, and I send them a small smile, leaning my hand on the open rim. "But it's only 17:00, got plenty of time to add to that."

Toby nods, twirling the ends of their hair around their fingers. I've tried to smother the confusing need to play with their hair since the freak out attack in IKEA, but I'm greedy, and that moment was fleeting, and I hardly remember it as I was in such a mental state of panic. It just looks so soft. It was soft, when I touched their head before I went to work last Thursday.

I bet it'd be super nice through my fingers. Wrapped in my hand, around my wrist—

Dorris gets bored of not having any attention and decides to drop the hood on me, smashing my knuckles.

I hiss an inhale through my teeth and yank back, shaking out my hand. Turning my back to Toby, I let my face go through all sorts of expressions, from rage to absolute embarrassment. I think if she could, Dorris would be laughing at me.

A trickle of blood slips down my knuckle to my thumb. My nose hairs are on fire and my eyes sting. Done so good not scratching myself up for so long, too. Just crispy and torn up all over at this point.

"Goddamnit...knew better than to do that..." knew better than to stare too long at Toby and get lost in thought about them, like always. "Fritz, can you hand me a rag?"

Silence behind me. "Toby?" I look over my shoulder at them. "Rag?"

Toby's eyes are massive, watching the blood pool out of the little scrape on my hand. They take in a breath. Then one deep inhale, and their jaw drops. "You're a VB."

There's no way in hell they should be able to smell this. No one else does, only the PCs do. I have the unfortunate ability to always be around that hint of fruity flavor because of my X-Men sense of smell.

But to everyone else, it's just copper.

"No. No, I'm not a cherry," I reply. The air gets thick between us.

"What's a cherry?" they ask, licking their lips. Their hand is moving in circles on their chest.

"Valuable blood, like you said. I'm just O neg, it smells similar to...to some."

They still haven't moved. I stalk over toward the table and rags and grab one, dabbing at my knuckles. Looks like it'll scab on its own, so there's that small blessing. I send them another look. They haven't taken their eyes off my hand. "Are you sure...you're not a Birkins-Nill?" they whisper.

"No, I'm not."

"Not sure?"

"Not a Birkins-Nill—how can you even smell that?"

"Smell what?"

"The tang, people can't smell it. PCs can, but that's it." I pat them on the arm and they finally jolt, looking at my eyes now. Maybe touching them was the wrong idea, but they were staring at me like they were going to shoot me. Or bite me. Shit. "Sorry, no special deal for you."

"What do you mean?" they mutter, wetting their lower lip again before chewing on it.

Maybe bite me. What the fuck?

"I mean you can't pass go, collect your $200 by turning me in as my spouse. So." I shrug, check my hand, and chuck the dirty rag into the basket.

"It's not $200." They shake their head. I can see just how sharp their jaw is flexing from here. "Since the election, it got upped and now it's like. Way more than that."

"Oh yeah? Maybe you shouldn't have dropped so low as to get hitched to me. You could travel all sorts of places with whatever chunk of change—"

"$70,000. Annually. Until the spouse dies of...whatever. Natural causes or something."

Now it's my turn to be shocked out of my gourd. "Fucking seriously?"

"Why do you think there was a wave of people getting married 2022 'til now? It like just started calming down—most courthouses were booked a year in advance. They were offering free officiant licenses online."

Why do they know so much about this is a better question. "Just thought that was cause people were freaking out over it being the 'end of the world'. Get hitched while you can," I reply.

They suck on a tooth and turn their back to me. "Maybe." Toby pauses at the bin, glaring at it, then shoves other rags over the bloodied one. "Dinner in ten."

The door closes behind them. I could wait ten minutes. Or twenty, or not go in at all.

Instead follow after them, full of a weird need to be around them. Toby doesn't seem to mind, and they even let me help out with the sandwiches. Whatever emotions were flooding through their face a few minutes ago is gone by the time lunch is done. But when we sit to eat, they sit on the opposite end of the table from me.