Forever Promised by Amy Lane

unbreakable plate as he opened his hand to catch his weight.
    Benny swore too. “Forget it,” she sighed, moving around the couch to take the plate and shoo him back. “I’ll go get him.”
    Crick sank down reluctantly, wishing, not for the first time, that his body was as strong as his heart.
    When Deacon came in later, Benny had retired quietly already, and if Crick hadn’t been so worried about Deacon, he might have asked why. As it was, Deacon had his man face on, the one that said it was all good, and that nothing was wrong, and that if there was so much as a loud noise, Deacon’s brittle shell would shatter, and Deacon’s sadness would be naked to see.
    Crick made a sound, leaning on the end of the couch, and held out his arm. Deacon looked around the living room, and Crick said, “Everyone’s asleep. Come here.”
    Deacon moved cautiously, and Crick had to swallow hard past a dry throat. He hadn’t seen that sort of ginger “I’m not sure where to put that” movement from Deacon since Crick had come home from Iraq. Deacon settled in his arms, though, and that was gratifying.
    Crick buried his nose in Deacon’s hair and smelled sun and sweat and horse.
    “Tell me,” he said quietly, and Deacon said, “Nothing to tell,” at almost the exact same time.
    Crick grunted. “I’m feeling really fucking peaceful right now,” he said, “so don’t make me go nuclear on your ass.”
    “How’s the—”
    “Everything hurts, everything’s tired, everything fucking aches. It’s making me cranky. And you’re being the wrong kind of pain in the ass.” Crick sighed and laid his head back against the couch. “Please, Deacon. I thought we were past this. I thought you could tell me any—”
    “Jon and Amy are leaving before Christmas,” Deacon said, and Crick choked on his own glottal of whine.
    “Why?” he asked, and Deacon shrugged and settled back a little deeper into Crick’s arms. He heard a clicking across the kitchen floor and realized someone must have let Mumford in after his late-afternoon wrestling match with the entire freaking world. The dog, sixty pounds of shaggy red hair with a square head, cropped triangular ears, and a snubbed little snout, made his slow, beleaguered way across the kitchen and into the living room, and then collapsed in his customary place directly under the television. Then he rolled over on his back, closed his eyes, and went to sleep, what was left of his little doggy peter just flapping in the breeze, and he didn’t seem to give a shit.
    Deacon shook his head, looking at the dog, and a laugh escaped. “God, that animal. I have never seen a complete train wreck so happy in his own skin!”
    “He’s not a train wreck!” Crick defended, feeling lame. Mumford was some damned good company in the day, when everyone else was out and Crick was keeping house and answering phones. Crick loved his life, loved his role in Deacon’s life, but he didn’t mind company either, and Parry’s hours in school last year had reminded him acutely of how quiet the house got without her and her mother.
    “No, no he’s not,” Deacon soothed.
    “So tell me!”
    And Deacon did. And he went on and on and on about what an opportunity it was, and how Jon couldn’t afford to pass it up, and how their children would grow up with the best schools and in some of the snazziest places, and how Amy could finally use her law degree. Crick let him talk himself out on the subject, actually, because when he was done, and his body was limp in Crick’s arms and against his chest, Crick leaned over and whispered in Deacon’s ear.
    “You got yourself all convinced now?” he asked.
    “Convinced about what?”
    “That this isn’t going to break your heart?”
    Deacon took a slow, measured breath that Crick felt down to his own toes. “What kind of friend would I be if I wailed about him moving away?” Deacon asked with dignity.
    Crick kissed his ear, and the back of his neck, and his other