An Urban Fantasy in Three Acts

The following is a work of fiction. It would be pretty stupid to say any resemblance to real people is coincidental, but any resemblance to real events, personalities and, yes, even sexuality of those involved most certainly is not based on fact.
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The sword was there, behind the man so intent on taking Michael's life, sitting calmly right next to the pool's filter. The blue hues of Michael's sword were almost like camouflage in the night and the room's few nighttime lights, colored blue themselves.

Michael never focused his eyes on it. Instead, he went right in again, hoping against hope that he could overpower the man long enough to get around him.

It was a false hope. The first punch he threw landed squarely in the abdomen, barely budged him, and the second was the same. Still, Michael had enough force and enough water going into the blows to make him feel pain, if the look on his face was any indication.

It just wasn't enough, and when Michael threw a fist at his face, he found his arm caught and his own face getting punched. And then again, and then again with a left hook, sending him right back down to where he started.

Right back, face-first, into his own little pool of blood.

"Have anything left?"


---


Three days before...


To say Michael was stunned would have been an understatement of biblical proportions.

And all he could do was stare at Ian, his jaw completely slack, his arms limp and his knees protesting that they had to keep supporting his weight.

In fact, there was a lot of staring going on right then. Michael felt an intrinsic need to say something, anything because he felt like Ian's eyes were drilling holes through him and it almost hurt for real.

Naturally, scared and confused, Michael didn't say much more than, " I...I...you...when did you...how...I..."

Ironically enough, this inspired Ian to stare even harder, but he also had a better grip on his vocal cords. "Michael, take a breath before you pass out!"

And just like that, Michael shut his mouth, watching Ian stand up with a certain amount of trepidation. Maybe he'd found it worthwhile to come all the way up here because he wanted to confess his own secret love, and they would live happily ever after.

Michael thought that maybe he was the queen of England, too. So he just shut up and kept staring, but he stared passed Ian now, at the tree line, at the road, at the passing cars...anything that distracted him from Ian's eyes.

"Michael...yo, Mike." Ian actually waved a hand in front of his face to get his attention back.

"Yeah?" It did little to comfort Michael, the fact that Ian obviously thought he had to walk on eggshells with him. Sure, he could feel his own hands shaking, so he'd shoved them into his coat pockets. And he was anything but comfortable standing out on his doorstep with the man he'd recently confessed undying love to. So he pulled his hands right back out and yanked the coat tighter around himself, slouching as if he could hide in it, a security blanket from the world at large.

It occurred to him that this, plus the stress he'd been under, plus the way he tended to look around at everything made him look just a little like he was on something after all.

The thought made him feel ill. Honestly, physically ill.

And Ian was honestly weirded out by the way he was acting. "Dude, let's go inside or something...I know we're up North and all, but I don't know how you can wear that thing out here."

"Yeah, well, it hasn't gotten really warm yet," Michael said. It was a lame comeback, and it didn't help his shaking hands fumbling to get his key in the lock.

Then again, dropping his keys didn't help either. "Shit."

He stared at his key ring on the ground for a good five seconds; it was harder to bend over and keep the sword under his coat inconspicuous than it was to sit down, so he crouched down to one knee and snatched them back up. Finally, he had the door unlocked.

"Thank God," Ian sighed happily as Michael led him in, and he immediately sought out the kitchen. "If you've got coffee, I hope you won't mind if I make some. Planes always...tire...me...out...what the?"

While Michael had been busy taking his coat off behind Ian's back to lay it down over his Wakizashi again, he'd completely, totally forgotten one small detail.

He followed Ian right into the kitchen, and found him with his hands in his pockets, staring at the floor. Staring at the broken glass (a glass that had been on the counter next to the sink, Michael now realized) and the rather large knife down with it all.

"Michael?"

"Yeah?" Michael said. He had a vague, strange idea that this might just go away if he ignored it.

No such luck, as Ian proved. "Damn man, I knew you weren't doing so hot for a few months, but I thought you were getting better...shit."

'Shit' was the word Michael used to describe what he saw in the mirror at the moment, an unfortunate side effect of restless sleep and constant fear. It didn't take much, indeed, it seemed entirely logical to him that others would think he was on something. "Ian, you think I did this? Dude, someone broke in here last night."

"Yeah?" Ian turned to him, eyebrows raised.

"Yeah," Michael nodded. "Woke me up breaking stuff in here and digging up a knife. I chased him off before he found one he liked."

"Michael," Ian stood with his arms crossed, almost daring Michael to stare him down, "Someone broke into your house, went for the knife drawer...and you didn't call the police?"

So much for telling half-truths; that jig was certainly up. "I..." And so, Michael decided to try something a little different. "Wait, why do you care, anyway? Why are you here?"

"Why am I here?" Ian blinked. "Do you really need to ask? You do...remember calling me in the middle of the night."

Michael didn't like that at all; Ian sounded like he was expecting the answer to be 'no.' "Of course I do. Were you awake enough to hear it?"

"Oh it woke me up in itself, trust me," Ian said.

"Well." That was that. It was amazing how they were suddenly on the topic, Michael thought, without once using the G word. "Well, then. That still doesn't answer my question."

"I tried hitting redial, you'd turned your phone off," Ian ran a hand through his hair, stopping it to rub at the back of his neck like it had been sore for awhile. He hadn't been kidding when he said airlines got to him. "So I tried calling Lenny."

"I told you to wait for that," Michael shook his head.

"It was all I could think of doing!" Ian protested. "But yeah, I left a message on his voicemail and just went back to sleep, I was too tired to think about what to do. I called Bob Bowman in the morning, and it sounded a lot like he was giving me the runaround, like he was covering for you, or something...so..."

For the first time, Michael felt amused. "Covering for me? You think Bob would cover for me?" Of course, Bob really was covering for him, just not in the way Ian thought...the idea of Bob covering up for Michael hitting the bottle again was so batshit insane he couldn't help but laugh.

"Well," Ian gave a good 'harumph,' "I'm glad one of us finds this amusing."

Snorting, Michael plodded back into the loving room and sat down on the couch next to his duster, so his arm was on top of it and he could feel the sword underneath. It was oddly comforting, and he remembered Lenny telling him how he'd grow attached to his weapon, the same way he was attached to the pool. It was just a part of him, and even if he wasn't as proficient with it as Lenny was with his staff, it made him feel safer. "So," he waited for Ian to follow him in, "You just...flew up here because you were worried about me?"

"Yes, Michael, I flew up here because I was worried about you," Ian spoke in an angry tone, but his body language, the look in his eyes, showed nothing if not worry. "Friends do that kind of thing for each other. I mean, I am your friend...I am, really."

"Really," Michael repeated. He couldn't help but think Ian sounded less than convincing.

"Oh stop angsting, Michael," Ian put a hand up as if he thought it would make a point, but he ended up rubbing at his temple like he'd gotten a sudden headache instead. "Is that what you think of me, that I'm just going to go find a Bible to throw at you and then storm out?"

"No, actually," Michael tried to look defiant, but he succeeded about as much as Ian trying to look angry with him. The truth of the matter was, he'd expected worse than a sermon. "I was more expecting you to nail me to the cross, if you want to know."

Ian 'harumphed' again. He stopped looking at Michael, calmly distracted by the view out the window instead. "Not everyone who likes to think God's up there hates you for who you are, Mike...I mean, for the love of...'hate the sin, love the sinner,' you know?" He might've seen the hurt in Michael's eyes if he'd still been looking. It was perfectly innocent to him, of course.

But to Michael, it was like a knife through the heart. Or water in his lungs. Ian might've had the best of intentions, but all Michael had heard was that he was substandard in his eyes, someone to be pitied and prayed for. Ignorance could come in small doses as well as large ones, he supposed. "Yeah, well. You try being part of a persecuted minority for a few years. You know what happens after you lie to everyone you care about, everyone you love," Michael paused. He stood, and walked over to Ian until he could look him in the eyes again. "Everyone you love for years? You think you deserve a few drinks just this once after doing such a good job at fooling everyone for so long."

His words visibly shook Ian, so Michael couldn't look at him anymore. He suddenly regretted everything he'd just said, not because he was wrong. In fact, he thought he'd made a pretty good case for himself. But now he'd made Ian uncomfortable, and he hadn't realized how much he would hate himself for it.

After all that, Michael looked at the clock. He didn't have to fake it, didn't have to use it as an excuse, he'd killed enough time riding the bus around town that he could leave now and make it to the club after it opened.

And maybe if he found something, anything, he could figure out whoever it was that had something in for him. And after dealing with that, well, maybe he'd have the courage to stand in front of Ian and actually say something instead of dodging around the big words (he was half-convinced that he'd just hinted even more that he simply had some kind of drug problem to the guy) and trying to pretend nothing was different.

That seemed like the ticket, he would tell Ian to his face, 'I'm gay, and I've had the hots for you since I was sixteen.' Hell, Michael thought he could just go to town, drop to one knee and propose. He was under no delusion that Ian would magically stop being straight if he did, but Michael was starting to think that flat-out trying and being flat-out rejected would be more therapeutic than this.

Surely, it was better to try and fail than to do nothing.

Thinking about this, Michael walked back over to his couch, and threw his duster on. He made no attempt to be discreet about it.

He probably should've, considering what Ian saw. "What the he-is that a sword under there?"

"I gotta get going," Michael said. "You shouldn't wait for me here."

"Wait for you?" Ian chased right out the door after him. "You think I came up here to wait while you do God knows what? What have you been doing in the first place?"

Michael didn't answer, he just locked the door and started walking.

Ian didn't give up. "Where are you going?"

"There's a nightclub about twenty minutes away from here," Michael said. He knew he shouldn't have, that the more information Ian had the more in danger he probably was. But as much as some of Ian's words had hurt Michael, lying to him at this point, or just giving him the cold shoulder, being an asshole to him...it was something Michael wasn't mentally capable of doing. "I need to be there tonight."

"You 'need' to be there?" Ian blinked, still following him. He put a hand on Michael's shoulder and pulled to spin him around when it became obvious that Michael was trying to ignore him.

With anyone else, Michael would've thrown their hand off as he turned to face them, and possibly would've tried to punch them in the face on the follow-through. With Ian, of course, he just liked that he was being touched. And after a moment of staring at him, he could offer no explanation other than, "It's important."

"Okay," Ian said. And for a moment, Michael thought Ian had relented, that he would trust him to go do his thing. Such was not the case. "If you're not going to calm down and tell me what's going on, I'm not letting you out of my sight. I'll drive you."

"Ian," Michael began. But Ian cut him off.

"Not negotiable. I don't know what's going on with you, man, but you're acting seriously fucked up. So you either let me keep you out of trouble or I'm going to call your mother and tell her you're going out to get plastered at a party tonight. Because, really, I can't think of any other reason that seems at all logical for you, of all people, to say 'I'm going clubbing.'"

"That's low," Michael deadpanned. But really, who was he kidding? Michael wasn't one to lose his temper, so he had the sense to realize that Ian wasn't trying to inconvenience him, he was trying to help him. And he wasn't oblivious to how his own actions lately made him look. As much as he felt like he had to a right to be exceedingly angry right this very moment, he couldn't be. And it was probably the way he felt about Ian more than anything else, love could make people do funny things...but even realizing it, "Fine. And just for the record, I didn't say I'm going clubbing, I said I needed to go to a club. There's a difference."

Of all the things Michael had said so far, that one simple statement seemed to comfort Ian more than anything that he was acting weird for a good reason.

Of course, it didn't stop Ian from wanting to tag along. The unfamiliar car in front of Michael's house had, of course, been Ian's rental, and Michael enjoyed the comfort of it after he gave Ian directions.

Given how Michael's coat looked unnaturally stiff on one side when he was sitting down, he wasn't really surprised at the first thing Ian said once they were underway. "Just tell me one thing, Michael, why are you carrying a sword around?"

"Same reason some people carry a pocket knife," Michael shrugged. Eyes glued to the road, he pretended he was in the other chair, that his hands were on the wheel and his feet were on the pedals. Driving was easily something he just took for granted, a part of life he paid no mind until he couldn't do it anymore. But if nothing else, he wished he was in the driver's seat so he would have an excuse to not look at Ian anymore. It wasn't bad enough that he looked like he had just a few months ago when his back had sidelined him and he was resigned to wallow in self-pity, but Ian was taking that and making assumptions, asking questions Michael couldn't answer without giving himself away. It hurt to lie to him, so he put no effort into making it convincing.

Even the lies of omission made him feel guilty; guilty and even a little ashamed.

Much like right now, it just made Ian more suspicious. "No offense, Michael, but people who carry pocketknives are concerned about self-defense. You're hiding a sword under a jacket I couldn't see you dead in. It's a little odd."

"Yeah, I suppose you're right," Michael said. But he was bringing Ian right into the lion's den, so to speak. From the moment Michael knew it was him on the doorstep, even through the shock and the fear and the anxiety, the rational part of his mind knew that it wasn't a question of "if" Ian found out about the whole magic thing. It was a question of when he would find out.

He didn't see an alternative. Because even if he ditched Ian somewhere, anyone who would hop on a plane to check on someone after one cryptic phone call wouldn't just give up and leave. No, Michael thought, if anything, he had to protect Ian as much as protect himself now.

He found that he didn't mind that. It was almost...flattering, to think that he could protect Ian from harm.

That was assuming he was capable of protecting himself in the first place.

"I wish you'd just tell me what's going on," Ian sighed, "I mean, for fuck's sake. Wait a minute...is this about me?"

On the list of ridiculous things Michael didn't expect to hear, this was pretty high up. "About you? You think I'm a step away from tweaking out because thinking about you keeps me up at night? I did plenty of that when I couldn't get in the pool, Ian...when I was...no, don't even go there...if I couldn't cope with thinking about you, you'd have seen it a long time ago."

Awkward silence answered him. For about five minutes, until Ian said, "Where am I going," at an intersection.

"Straight. Take the second right," Michael knew how to get to the street where the club resided. He remembered Cal going down it on occasion when he had to run quick errands between carting Michael around, it was one of the busier places of Ann Arbor. "Then go straight on until Morning Street."

It actually took them a half-hour, altogether, to get there. Ian found parking down the street and around the corner. Michael walked ahead of Ian, feeling oddly self-conscious about it...he felt like he should be walking behind, in case someone sneaked up on them. But he was also the one who knew what was going on...then again, maybe whoever was after him wouldn't want to take out Ian just by association.

The front door was guarded by a typically gargantuan bouncer. There wasn't anyone waiting to get in, and Michael wondered if the club was magi exclusive. Ultimately, he decided it wasn't: it had a real sign above the doors, neon lights spelling out "The Conclave" in bright colors, and it was in the middle of town, so it would've attracted attention with such a specific standard of admission.

"Looks peachy," Ian said.

That didn't stop Michael, of course. "Just...try to keep your head down."

Once Michael and Ian turned towards the door, the bouncer held his arm out to stop them. That was something Michael had forgotten to check, how exclusive the place was. But they got lucky. "IDs?"

A quick ID flash later, and they were let in.

The music almost knocked them over right away, and the first thing that struck Michael was the number of people wearing varying kinds of trench coats on the dance floor. They very likely were all magi keeping their weapons close like he did, but it was, indeed, a mixed club. Magi business would be conducted in dark corners and back rooms or at the bar out of earshot of the ignorant. It was a fairly small place, and Michael doubted the owners didn't do most of the work themselves.

The DJ, a clown wearing a Hannibal Lector mask, was pretty freaky...on the wall behind him was a giant banner, painted on paper, that read, "Tonight only: DJ OMFG CLOWN!" but that was about the extent of any real weirdness in the place.

"What are we looking for?" Ian raised his voice and near-yelled in Michael's ear while he followed him around the dance floor to the other side of the room, keeping track of him in the dark by the way the shifting lighting and fog played off of Michael's brown duster.

"I don't really know," Michael turned to him, taking the chance to look around for anything out of the ordinary. "Nothing really told me this was the place, it was just the only thing I could think of."

"Great," Ian said back.

But Michael didn't hear him this time. He led Ian over to the bar and sat down, assuming Ian would sit next to him, but he stood behind him with his arms crossed, looking horribly like a fish out of water.

Waiting for the moment, Michael lost himself in the atmosphere, letting the music thump into his thoughts, savoring the chance to forget he was marked for death for reasons unknown. He didn't recognize the band, but he made an effort to commit some of the lyrics to memory so he could figure it out.


...have no choice but be isolated
struggling left alone apart
pushed aside made segregated
struggling left alone apart
see i have no choice but be isolated
threatened forced to extract the hear
pushed aside made segregated
have no choice but be isolated
the monsters make me hide
perhaps i'll eat myself alive...


He knew he was only seeing subtext because he was having issues and wanted to see it, but Michael couldn't help but be amused at how much he could relate a simple, random gothy song to his life. A song would have to try if it wanted to better mirror the existence of a celebrity athlete in the closet about his sexuality and his other...skills, to boot.

A few seconds after Michael started drumming his fingers on the bar, the bartender, a skinny but shockingly dressed woman, walked over to him. Her T-shirt and jeans were only shocking because it was absolutely normal, and compared to the magi in trench coats, some of which were dancing with the most tasteless goths Michael had ever seen...

"What can I get ya, hon?"

"Just water," Michael answered. "Actually," he added as she came back with the glass, "I heard there's been some...trouble in here lately."

A quizzical eye was his answer from her...at first. She seemed to decide that he looked harmless enough. "A little...why? Looking to start some?"

"No," Michael answered, raising the glass of water to his lips. And then he remembered what happened when he'd had water at the diner; slowly, surely, he put it back down. "Actually, I think whoever's responsible for that might be responsible for the trouble I'm in myself."

"Oh, I doubt it," she shrugged. "They weren't exactly your kind." She pantomimed opening a trench coat to flash someone, "Lord Howell probably reported on it just because a good number of my patrons are total newbies learning their first spells."

Deflating, Michael didn't know what he would do next. As unlikely as it had been, his only clue had been this place.

He jumped when Ian tapped him on the shoulder, finally sitting down. "What the heck was she talking about?"

"Well," Michael began, but something distracted him. Someone sat at the stool to his other side... and he realized that he recognized the voice when he asked for a drink.

"I'll have a Bloody Mary." Michael turned just in time to see this guy, wearing a gray cotton overcoat more than large enough to hide a weapon, lit a cigarette. "In fact, make it a double."

In fact, Michael's slightly wide-eyed staring was pretty blatant, especially when he realized he was looking at Cal's team captain.

And the other swimmer quickly turned to look at him, growing wide eyed himself. "You..."

"Hi," Michael said.

"We've, uh, we've never actually met, have we? Name's Mack." Michael shook Mack's hand after he put his newly cigarette out right then, turning back to Michael with a curious look on his face. "Are you, uh...you're..."

In response, Michael pulled one side of his duster open, briefly showing the sword within. "Guilty as charged."

"Wow," Mack stared off to the side, as if he was deep in thought for the briefest of moments. "That explains a lot...that...so that's the secret to your race times, huh? Well, I've just never seen you in a place like this. Never woulda guessed."

"Not much time for it," Michael shrugged, deliberately ignoring the implication that he used his magical talents to cheat in the pool. If he didn't ignore it, he was quite sure he would've punched the guy in the face. "Y'know...swim first, have a social life second."

After a glance over his shoulder to make sure Ian was still there, Michael turned back as Mack asked him something. "So...why tonight, then?"

Eyeing the surrounding patrons, Michael figured none of the other magi were in earshot. "Someone with, shall we say, aquatic skills," he remembered Ian was right behind him, "Well, let's just say lung water doesn't get into your drinks by accident, you know?"

Leaning his head over to glance at Ian, Mack said, "I see...and you don't have a clue who might've..."

"None," Michael said. Right now, he was hoping that Mack, being a swimmer and a mage, might know of any water users who had tendencies to misbehave. "I don't suppose you know anyone who's not above crap like that."

"I, uh," Mack turned in his seat to look a the dance floor, and he shifted around to see as many people as he could, as if he were worried about someone seeing him. Or trying to see someone himself. "Let's talk outside."

He stood and led Michael, who, in turn, led Ian out the club's back door. The back alley was the usual assembly of old wooden crates and other random garbage, with one end completely blocked off by an old wooden fence.

Ian's patience was starting to wear thin at this point; as soon as the door closed behind them and the music became muted, he said, "Would someone please tell me what either of you are babbling about."

"Long story," Michael sighed. Now that he was on the verge of possibly finding something out, he couldn't help but feel relieved. Feeling relieved made him slump a little and wish he could just lay down right on the ground and get a good massage. Preferably from Ian.

"Yeah, I bet," Mack added. "Take a look over there."

He pointed to the fence. Instinctively, both Michael and Ian turned to gaze at the exact spot he'd pointed to, not realizing how utterly silly it was.

Silly, and void of anything interesting. Just a few old crates, some old buckets of long-used paint and various items thrown out by the club, including some broken lamps and a half-shattered mirror.

Seeing the mirror last, Michael watched Mack in the reflection, just behind him.

And he was more than a little surprised to see Mack, in that reflection, reach into his own jacket for a meter-long spiked combat mace.

That morning, even after everything that had happened, if someone had told Michael the captain of the University of Michigan's men's swim team was going to swing at the back of his head with a silver mace, he would've laughed his ass off.

Michael wasn't laughing now.