Not the One
Not the One
I.
My hip strikes the table by the front door and I barely even notice; your mouth is already swallowing my cry. We stumble down the hallway at the lurching pace of those barely sober enough to stay upright, crashing frequently into walls and poorly placed furniture. It takes an eternity to reach my room. Once there you claw clothes off of me like a man possessed, your hands everywhere at once, mouth exploring every inch of skin as it is revealed. I can't even remember how we made it to the bed; I'm simply falling, and when I land you are there.
/Falling falling intothevoid god yourmouth god yourhands god youreyes morepleasemoremore.../
Already insensate with enough alcohol to kill a small horse, it is all I can do to remain conscious as your mouth descends upon me. I have left all rational thought behind; my brain is simply a conduit for the sensations flooding every pore. I am writhing, gasping, shuddering, and still I need more, I need more of you because it's never enough. No matter how many times we do this it's never enough, I need to feel you, feel you *in* me--
/brightwhiteflashing behind my eyes nosound nopain just sweetsweetsweet needyouinmeNOW/
And it's almost as if you read my mind, because suddenly you're just *there*, and for the next few heartbeats I am utterly complete. This is the part where I never want it to end, where I wish we could exist this way forever, because this is the only time I feel whole. Too soon I feel that rush come over me, I try to fight it but stars are exploding behind my eyes and my breath comes out in a scream.
/fallingsinkingdissolvingdidtheearthstopmovingohgodohgodicanstillfeelyouloveyouloveyouiloveyou--/
"Oh GOD--!" The look on your face when you come is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. You're biting your lip and your eyes are closed so tightly your head must ache. A shiver runs through your body as you collapse beside me, exhausted, still whispering feverishly, senseless of what you say. It's good to fall asleep beside you, to feel your warm body wrapped up in my arms. To hear the things you whisper, muffled against my neck: that you love me, that you belong to me, that you'll never let me go. And if the name you whisper isn't always mine, well, I can believe for both of us.
II.
Dawn breaks in a red glow behind my eyes. I stretch warily in the first warm rays of sunlight, careful not to touch the empty space beside me. If I keep my eyes closed I can still pretend that you're here, next to me.
Eventually, though, the fantasy must end; and when at last I find the courage to open my eyes, I am alone. I always am. I shouldn't let myself hope--for this is one part of the dream that will never come true. No matter how many times we do this (and the number now is beyond my counting), this is one thing I can never have. Better to accept it and treasure the brief memories I can steal.
But oh, to wake up beside you...
***
Someone in the living room switches on the stereo; the morning is shattered against the sudden wall of sound.
"TRAVIS! TURN THAT FUCKING SHIT OFF, YOU STUPID FUCKING MOTHERFUCKER!"
Tom's voice carves fracture lines into my skull, and the hangover descends upon me with the weight of a tidal wave. The sunshine that I basked in mere moments ago is now stiflingly hot. I kick the blankets frantically away, feeling sweat break out across my skin. I roll to my feet in one swift motion, too fast; the ground tilts giddily beneath my feet and I find myself on my back on the bed again, dragging in burning lungfuls of air.
The taste of my own tongue makes me gag, and is sufficient motivation to drive me to my feet once more. This time I manage to keep my balance. Not even waiting for the world to swing back into focus I stumble into the bathroom, barely lifting the toilet seat in time before yesterday's dinner of cereal and vodka makes its reappearance. It's a little amazing to me every time just how much I can throw up, even on a nearly empty stomach. The wonders of human anatomy.
I move to the sink to rinse out my mouth and Tom lurches in not five seconds later, adding his contribution to the now vomit-speckled toilet. Somehow I don't think he's pondering the marvels of the human body.
III.
Tom rests his forehead against the edge of the toilet, slender body shaking uncontrollably in the aftermath of vomiting. My own nausea is forgotten as I kneel beside him, gently lifting his upper body. He sits upright for a handful of heartbeats and then falls slowly backwards, collapsing against my chest. Sighing, I grad a hand-towel from the sink and wipe his mouth clean, delicately, as if he might shatter at the slightest pressure. He closes his eyes at the touch, but I can feel his body hard and tense against me. Guarded. It makes something soft inside me bleed.
"I'll tell Travis practice is cancelled," I offer, just to fill the silence. Tom just nods sleepily, not really hearing me. He's getting sort of heavy, but at the same time, I don't want to move. But what the hell am I going to do, sit on the floor in the bathroom all day and watch him sleep just to be near him?
The fact that I give that question 3 seconds serious consideration scares me enough to move. I try to scoot backwards, but Tom is a deadweight on me; as I slide away from him he simply reclines more fully against me, his head slipping from my shoulder to my chest. Bad direction. I didn't even know I could get this hard with a hangover.
"Tom," I murmur. No response except a sleepy mumble. He shifts slightly and one hand falls casually on my thigh. My pulse instantly triples.
"Tom," I repeat, more urgently this time. I poke him in the ribs until reluctantly his eyes open. "You have to get up," I whisper, not trusting my voice not to break. He tips his head back to look at me; recognition registers in his eyes. I sigh as he pulls himself to his feet and leaves, and I can't tell whether it's relief...or regret.
***
Inspired by some not-so-subtle bitching from both Tom and myself, Travis decides to ditch the house to hang out at the nearby skate park, and we spend the rest of the day recovering from last night's bacchanal. As usual, no mention is made of the –other- activities. Actually, we go through the entire afternoon without a single conversation. I retreat to my side of the house, Tom to his; except to use the bathroom and make lunch, I don't leave my room.
I try not to be hurt by the fact that Tom has never really acknowledged this…thing between us. Not when he was sober, at any rate. On the nights we get shit-faced and fall into bed you wouldn't /believe/ the things that come out of his mouth. It's fucking poetry. I wish I remembered enough to write it down.
But really, even if we did talk about it, what's there to say? There aren't even words to express all the shit that's happening. Better to write the whole thing off to one too many shots and leave it at that. Push it back into the dark where it belongs, where it can't hurt anyone.
Only, it does hurt. It hurts so much sometimes I'm surprised my heart doesn't just stop beating in my chest. Sometimes I wish it would.
If it didn't beat, at least it couldn't break.
IV.
The rest of the week is uneventful. The days plod on, maddeningly slow, until at long last Friday arrives. Tomorrow's a concert night. The show's only in Berkeley, so rather than waste money on airfare from LAX to SFO we bus it. Riding the tour bus reminds me of the good ol' days before we were famous, back when Scott was still around.
I realize with a little chagrin that I haven't thought about Scott in awhile. For a long time we were busy recording the album, and then there were PR appearances, promotions, tours… Yeah, I can think of a million good excuses.
I wonder how he's doing in school. He's probably got straight A's. Scott was always the smartest one of us.
I wonder who he is in his new life. Does he still play at all? Or has he left all of that behind him? He'll make a good lawyer, of that I have no doubt. He was always such an argumentative little bitch. I can still remember the spectacular fights that he and Tom used to have. They were legendary. They'd rant and scream and throw things at each other until they got too tired to argue, then they'd spend the next few days in silence. Their fights always ended in long afternoons filled with make-up sex. Well, all except the last one.
I wonder what Scott would say if he knew that Tom still whispers his name when he comes. Would it kill something inside of him, the way it's killed something in me?
V.
I was born to be on stage.
Travis's drumming thunders in my ears, pulsing through my veins until I can't distinguish it from my own heartbeat. My bass is low and rumbling, a smooth complement to Tom's sweeter guitar. We're on our last song and my hands are starting to cramp, my fingers scraped raw from playing, but there's nowhere I'd rather be. This is where I feel most alive: on stage, in front of this screaming, dancing, worshipping crowd. The Greek is trembling around me, as if it cannot contain so much energy and may collapse at any moment. I half wish it would. What a fucking finale *that* would be.
We leave the stage as the last chords die, Tom throwing a few parting obscenities at the crowd. They only cheer louder, and I can't help but laugh. I feel so fucking good I should be floating. Tom catches my grin from the corner of his eye and responds with a slow chuckle. Travis looks over at us, laughing like a couple of assholes, and can't help but join in. The three of us just stand there together and laugh until we're gasping for breath and there are tears in our eyes.
"That was a fucking awesome show," Travis offers when at last he can speak. I only nod, grinning, and clap him affectionately on the back.
"Yeah. Fuck, my hands are tired." Tom cracks his knuckles loudly, then rubs at his callused fingertips. "So, who's up for a party?"
"Can't do it, man. I told Melissa I'd go over after the show." Tom and I make whipping noises as he walks away, grinning and flipping us off. Then suddenly Tom turns a mischievous smile on me, and my heart leaps to my throat.
"How 'bout it? Party?"
I open my mouth to decline, and somehow these idiotic words come out instead. "Always, dude." What the fuck did I do that for? We're both going to get hammered, and I know how the night will end. This only means trouble.
But at the same time my pulse is racing, and my stomach is knotted in anticipation. Damn you, traitorous heart.
VI.
It's 12:36 a.m., and I'm drunk again. The world is shiny and fuzzy and warm. I'm in that state of intoxication where my mind is still perfectly clear, but everything I do and say goes through a filter and comes out slightly distorted. If anyone was still sober enough to notice, it might annoy me, but there isn't really any danger of that now.
Tom is sprawled out on the couch next to me, his upper body resting against my chest, his head on my shoulder. He smells nice, a curious mixture of sweat and pot and vanilla-flavored vodka. I read somewhere once that vanilla is an erotic scent to most women.
I think Tom is an erotic scent. He should have a cologne. Maybe Atticus could market it. I start picturing theoretical magazine adds, Tom shirtless and dripping water, one brow arched seductively, and dissolve into helpless giggles.
"Wha's so funny?"
I crane my neck awkwardly to look down at Tom, who has his head tilted back and who is gazing at me with a look of indignation. His brows are furrowed in annoyance and he's pouting a little, just like an overgrown child. That really shouldn't be sexy.
But then again, it's Tom. And it's late. And I'm really, really drunk.
"Hey…how are we gonna get to the hotel?" Tom asks, jolting me from my thoughts. I blink intelligently at him, trying to make his words form some sort of coherent idea.
"Uhh…Travis?" My head turns slowly to the side, gaze swinging around the room. The overhead lights blur a little, swirling lazily. Hey. That's pretty. Heehee.
What was I doing?
Oh, right. Travis. Yes. Losing 1/3 of our band is probably bad. But search as I might, he simply isn't there. The room is pretty crowded, but he's definitely gone. I mean, he's a pretty distinctive looking guy, what with the tattoos and piercings and all. Maybe I should look for him. I debate that for awhile in my mind, and I've just decided to get up--
When I feel Tom's mouth on my neck. Oh. Oh my.
Travis who?
VII.
"We really shouldn't do this."
"Mm."
"We're both very drunk. We'll regret it in the morning."
"Mmphmm."
"We're in the fucking living room. Everyone--uh!--can see us."
"Mark."
"There could be--ohh, unh, oh god--there could be paparazzi or something."
"Mark."
"What?"
"You're talking way too much." I open my mouth to reply and his lips crush against mine, hard enough to bruise. One of his hands finds its way down the front of my pants and the world dissolves into glittering light.
"Bedroom?" I choke out when I can finally breathe. He hooks his fingers through my belt loops and all but drags me up the stairs. I wonder distantly whose house we're even in.
***
We stumble into an empty guest bedroom and I have just enough sense of self- preservation left to lock the door behind us before he is on me, and everything that isn't Tom evaporates from my mind. If you could distill this feeling it would be more addictive than heroin, and just as deadly.
"Wearing...too many...clothes," Tom pants against my neck, his hands tugging impatiently at my shirt. I push him away and grab the hem of my shirt, pulling it over my head, watching as he does the same. His chest is heaving as he gasps for breath; I pull him against me and lick a wet line across his throat, feeling the frantic pounding of his pulse against my tongue. He writhes under my touch, unable to hold still; moaning, whimpering, sighing, head thrown back in ecstasy. I fumble open the zipper to his jeans and drag them down his hips, shoving him onto the bed and then covering his body a second later with my own.
He cries out in pleasure/agony as my jean-clad crotch comes into contact with his groin, arching into the contact despite the pain. I swallow his cries with another kiss as I grind against him, hard enough to know that he'll be aching tomorrow. I feel a brutal satisfaction at the thought; he won't be able to forget this in the morning. Even if he won't acknowledge it out loud, this pain will be a reminder he can't ignore.
I bend my head to suck at one pale nipple and his groans are electricity in my veins. He's clutching desperately at me now, fingers digging painfully into my hair; I bite at his chest warningly, but he only holds me tighter, hips bucking uncontrollably into mine. I lift my head to look at him. His eyes are tightly closed, his lips moving silently. I see them form Scott's name and an irrational flood of anger pours through me. No. Not this time. He will see me.
"Tom," I whisper, nuzzling his throat. He quivers but doesn't open his eyes. "Tom," I repeat, more firmly, nipping at his jawline with my teeth until with a moan he looks up at me. Capturing his gaze with my own I grab his hips and rock against him, hard and fast and over and over and over until I see/hear/feel him tumble over the edge. His eyes widen and he comes moaning my name.
Please, God, just let me die like this.
VIII.
I stumble through the gateway between sleep and wakefulness and blink at the indistinct greyness of the ceiling high above me. The ubiquitous neon alarm clock on the bedside table cheerily informs me that it is 4:26 a.m. Why the hell am I awake?
Movement to my side. I tip my head to follow it and see Tom carefully peeling back the covers, trying to slip away without waking me. No. No no no. It can't end like this. Not tonight, please, just give me one night...
"Tom?" He freezes at my whisper, slowly turning to look at me. I must look utterly pathetic because he squeezes his eyes closed, biting back a sigh. I should feel guilty for doing this to him, but I'm still half-way hammered and I don't care. He can't go. I'm not letting him go.
"Stay with me," I plead, rolling onto my side and reaching out with trembling hands to grasp his wrist. I drag his hand to my mouth and he lets me, sighing softly as I place small, fluttering kisses all over his fingers. I work my way inch by inch up his arm, manipulating him back into bed, until at last he's curled up in my arms. Even after this I cling to him, irrational tears springing to my eyes. One falls onto his shoulder and his eyes flicker open, searching my face.
"Sh...don't cry, baby, don't cry..."
I bury my face against his shoulder and breath in his scent, immersing myself in him so I don't have to be me anymore. "Don't leave me," I plead, fingers locked around his arm. He kisses my cheek and nods.
"Okay. I'm here."
IX.
I rise from the warm depths of sleep with a feeling of near-perfect contentment. The sun is shining through the thin hotel curtains, a good indication that it's at least past 10:00 o'clock. I arch sleepily into the wide bands of sunlight, imagining, as always, that he is still beside me. This morning in particular I am reluctant to give up the fantasy. Because we don't have a show or practice and tomorrow is another travel day, I let myself sink back into bed, luxuriating in the feel of the warm cotton sheets. Even my hangover does not seem as horrid as usual. Rolling onto my side, I slit my eyes open and smile narrowly into the late-morning sun.
"Good morning, Tom," I murmur, just a little wistfully.
"'Morning," a voice behind me replies.
I am too stunned to move as a pair of strong, sun-tanned arms wrap around me, drawing me close against him. His lips touch the back of my neck and I can't help but sigh, my eyes fluttering closed as I melt against him. I'm half afraid I'm hallucinating all of this. How many times have I dreamt of this morning, only to wake up alone?
"Tom..." I feel him nod, his hair tickling my neck, and smile. "Tom, Tom..."
He pulls me a little closer, forehead pressed against my shoulder blade. "What's wrong?" he whispers, misunderstanding when my body begins to shake.
"I thought you'd left me..."
X.
"I thought about it," he admits, relaxing his hold on me slightly so that I can turn to face him. His expression is serious, thoughtful, as if he is measuring each word carefully. "But I was too curious," he concludes.
"Curious?" I frown at the word, brows drawn in confusion. "Why?"
His eyes leave mine, tracing my face, studying the curve of my jaw, the swell of my mouth. The intensity of his gaze makes me shiver inside. "I wanted to know what this," he gestures vaguely between us, "would be like when we were both sober."
Damn it. I'm blushing now. "And?" I whisper, the word barely audible.
Rather than reply he leans in to kiss me, a slow, gentle brush of lips that fills me with a giddy warmth. I push a little more firmly against him, locking our mouths together in a near-chaste kiss. I want desperately to run my tongue along his lips, to feel his tongue slip past my teeth and explore the contours of my mouth. Instead I pull away, studying him closely, trying to decipher his expression.
His eyes have fallen closed; they blink open now, fixing on me. A slow smile curves his perfect mouth and my heart melts into warm goo inside my chest.
"That was nice," he murmurs. I reach for his hand beneath the sheets and he meets me halfway, lacing our fingers together.
Forget sex. This is the best fucking feeling in the world.
"What time is it?" he asks. I glance at the clock over his shoulder and grimace. "Quarter till eleven." How did it get so late?
His eyes widen comically at my pronouncement. "Shit! Either we stayed up reeeally late..."
"...or we were reeeally hammered," I finish for him, grinning. He laughs a little, cupping my face in his free hand, the one that isn't holding mine.
"Why don't I feel hungover?" he wonders, tilting his head slightly to one side as he looks at me. "Why don't I feel any pain at all?" The second question is barely a murmur. He isn't asking me, so I don't bother answering. I merely lean in for another kiss, sighing softly as our mouths collide. This time I give in to temptation, sucking on his lip ring until with an answering sigh he lets his mouth fall open, tongue snaking out to draw mine inside. He tastes like toothpaste--when did he get up? I must have been asleep--with an undercurrent of gin. That shouldn't be sexy.
But then again, it's Tom, and--
And that's really the only excuse I have. And you know what else? It's the only one I need.
XI.
"Fuck you, Los Angeles!" The already-screaming crowd howls its approval as I hand my bass to a roadie and duck offstage. Travis is already backstage gulping down Gatorade; he grins and throws me a bottle of water. Ah, the sweltering heat of an L.A. summer.
I splash water over my head from the Aquafina bottle, sighing in pleasure at the shocking coldness as it trickles down my spine. Footsteps behind me; I blink water from my eyes as a pair of warm arms slide around my waist.
"Now that," Tom whispers into my ear, breath warm against my neck, "looks positively sinful." His tongue snakes out to lick a drop of water from my throat and I sigh contentedly, melting against him despite the 90 degree temperature and the sweat soaking both our shirts. He doesn't pull away, just rests his chin on my shoulder as he continues. "I'm going to sign some autographs and then take a shower," he murmurs, fingers absently stroking my waist. "You want to maybe get some take-out from Ho Chow later on?"
"Yeah, okay." Dinner. We're going to have dinner. Okay, take-out, and it's not like we don't usually eat together on the bus anyway, but I don't let that modify my enthusiasm. Tom and I are going to have a real dinner, just like a normal couple. It's so cute I can't decide whether to puke or faint.
I'm so absorbed in my thoughts that I don't even notice Tom's left until Travis's voice jolts me from my reverie. "I think my boyfriend's ever so sexy," he proclaims in a syrupy-sweet tone, gazing seriously at me with big, innocent eyes. I try to glare, but his grin is infectious, and I have so many reasons to smile. He shakes his head as I throw myself onto the ground next to him, sipping my bottled water.
"It's like...it's like a fuckin' dream, man," I murmur, staring at the floor. "I keep waiting to wake up and realize it was all just a dream."
"But it isn't," he offers softly. Tilts his head to look at me. "Are you happy?"
My mouth forms the words before he's even finished the question, but I stop myself to really think about it. "I...I think so. I mean, when I'm with him, it's like…" I sigh in frustration, grasping for words. I'm supposed to be a fucking lyricist. "It's like that one perfect day in summer, when the sky is bright and clear and blue above you, and the sun's warm, and there's a breeze blowing…it's like that one day, stretching out to an eternity."
"Sounds pretty fucking good to me," Travis remarks, taking a sip of Gatorade.
"Yeah." I chew at the edge of the Aquafina bottle thoughtfully. "But when he's not with me, it's like all that warmth and beauty goes away. I'm dark, and cold, and alone."
I can feel Travis's gaze on me, but I carefully avoid looking at him. I know the significance of what I just said. I just can't deal with it yet.
XII.
I make a few scattered good-byes to Travis and wander onto our tour bus in pursuit of Tom. As I climb the steps into the bus I can hear the shower running, but a quick check into the steam-filled bathroom shows it to be empty. Hmm.
I'm about to shrug it off and hit my bunk for a few minutes' rest when I detect the low murmur of voices in the kitchen. Correction; voice. I creep up quietly to the door, pressing my ear to the thin wood with only a tiny hint of guilt. I mean, it's not like I'm really *spying* on him; it's a tiny bus. And Tom's got nothing to hide, right?
Right.
Reassured, I focus my attention on the conversation. It's obvious from the pauses that Tom's on the phone, and not having a psychotic break and talking to himself. Comforting. I catch a few words at the end of a sentence, not enough to make sense; then a lengthy silence, finally interrupted by Tom's voice again.
"You can't expect me not to be surprised," he replies to whoever is on the other end of the line. A pause. "*Two* years," he growls, sounding irritated. Another small break. "But it *does* matter. I've moved on. We *all* have. We're--we're doing really well."
There's another lengthy silence; for some reason this one prickles the hair on the back of my neck. Maybe it's the way Tom sighs, low and soft, before replying. "Don't say that." Pause. "Because." Pause. "I said, don't fucking say that." Pause. I shift position slightly and one of my hands slides against the door, faintly scratching. I can tell by the change in Tom's voice that he's heard it. "Look, I have to go. I--I'll talk to you later. Yes. Okay. Bye."
The phone slams into the cradle with unnecessary roughness, and I just have time to throw myself onto my bunk and assume a casual position before the door swings open. Tom smiles brightly at me, but it feels false, somehow, not quite touching his eyes.
"Sorry about that. The take-out woman just could *not* get the order right." I offer a weak smile, but I'm shocked inside. Why would he say that? I'm not sure who was on the other end of the phone, but I'm willing to bet a lot that it *wasn't* Ho Chow. What is he trying to hide?
"So, we've got half an hour before we have to pick up the food. Fancy a shower?" He leers at me a little, grabbing my hands and dragging me into the tiny bathroom, and I let him, because I'm too mixed up inside to think. Too confused to *want* to think.
His lips and hands are warm on my body. They feel right. I know he loves me, even though he's never said it. He doesn't have to say it; I know. I close my eyes and give myself over to the kiss, and I pretend that the words don't matter, that I'm not aching inside to hear him say it. I say it for both of us.
XIII.
I glance blearily at my watch, frowning miserably when the numbers come into focus. 7:30? Why the fuck am I awake?
KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK!
Oh. Right.
"Travis. Get the door."
He snorts quietly, maybe in laughter, and rolls onto his other side, back to me. I try sending him a searing death-glare, but I think he's fallen back asleep. Damn.
KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK POUND!
"Tom?"
I hear him shift faintly in his bunk above me, followed by a snore.
"Tom!" Bastard's ignoring me. I roll onto my back and kick up into his mattress, eliciting a startled yelp.
"Fuck off, Mark!" he growls, throwing a rolled-up sock half-heartedly at my head before snuggling back down in the covers. God damn it. I'm not getting up.
KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK POUND SLAM!
"Jesus fucking Christ! I'm coming!" Travis snickers as I half-roll, half-fall out of bed, smacking my head on the edge of his bunk. I consider briefly beating the shit out of him, but the door sounds like it's in danger of being torn from its hinges. I settle for a hard glare and stalk sullenly to the front of the bus, shivering because I'm only wearing my boxers. Maybe I should put some clothes on. Oh well, too late now.
"Someone had better be fucking bleeding or on fire--" I growl menacingly, but as I wrench open the door the words die in my throat. This is not something I expected to see at seven fucking thirty in the morning in the middle of--what city are we in, anyway?
"Hey," Scott offers at last, looking nervous and a little freaked out as I stare at him, my mouth wide open like a fucking moron. I snap my jaw shut and just blink at him, my eyes a little dazzled by the bright morning light, trying to figure out what the hell is going on.
"Um...hi," I reply lamely. An uncomfortable silence follows as we both try to think of something to say.
"Can I come in? It's kind of cold out here."
"Wha--? Oh! Of course." Blushing and stammering I move aside, allowing him into the bus. His gaze sweeps the make-shift living room, noting the DVD system, the Playstation2, the enormous leather couch. "Lot nicer than the piece of shit we used to tour in, eh?" he asks, nodding to indicate our surroundings. I shrug in absent agreement. Why is he here?
"Why are you here, Scott?" Okay, I didn't mean for it to sound quite that cold, but...what the fuck is he doing here?
"Scott?"
The quiet murmur makes us both turn. Tom is standing in the doorway in boxers and a wife-beater, looking sleepily tousled and beyond sexy. The way he's staring at Scott makes something in my chest tighten; glancing over my shoulder, I see Scott's wearing an identical expression. And then it clicks.
The phone call. Tom's stupid cover story. Scott's sudden appearance after two years of hearing nothing from the man. It all makes sense.
God, I wish it didn't make sense.
XIV.
"Hey, Tom," he whispers, and I do not like the tone in his fucking voice. I don't like the way he's looking at Tom--my Tom--and I sure as fuck don't like the way Tom's looking at him. Like I'm not even in the room.
No.
Scott had his chance. Now it's mine, and I will not let him fuck this up.
"Morning, sunshine. I didn't know you were awake." Tom tears his gaze away from Scott long enough to look at me, eyebrows high with surprise. I smile at him, and I must be doing something right, because his eyes soften a little and he smiles back, takes a hesitant step towards me. I close the distance between us and wrap my arms around his waist, pressing our mouths together in a slow, lingering kiss. Scott makes an odd noise behind me, like he's drowning, and I grin. Tom breaks the kiss with a slightly guilty expression, glancing over my shoulder at our former bandmate.
I'd love to see the look on Scott Raynor's face. But I've got Tom in my arms, all disheveled and warm, and that is infinitely better.
***
"So how long are you in town for?" Travis asks, trying to make polite conversation. I could kiss him for that. We're crammed into a booth at a local breakfast house, Tom and Travis on one side, Scott and I on the other. Travis and Tom are lounging comfortably against each other with the ease that comes from spending long months crowded into a too-small tour bus; you could fit the Berlin wall in the space between me and Scott. I wish there WAS a wall between us; maybe a physical barrier would relieve some of the choking tension. It probably doesn't help the atmosphere that I'm playing footsie with Tom under the table, but I can't help it. I love it when he starts to giggle like a teenage girl and Scott's face turns about 5 shades darker.
Yes, I'm evil, but I fucking deserve to be after everything he's done.
"Just a few days. School's closed for spring break, so I thought it might be a good opportunity to come down, relive old times." The look he's giving Tom tells me exactly what sort of old times he'd like to relive.
"Why now? Why all of a sudden, after two years, when we're in the middle of a tour?"
Scott's expression softens at Tom's words and he drops his gaze to the scarred tabletop. "It wasn't exactly an easy decision, Tom. You didn't call either, you know. It took me a long time to...to..."
He's saved the embarrassment of finishing that sentence by the arrival of our food. We all become extremely interested in our plates, eating in near-silence, which is unusual for us. Travis makes a few half-hearted attempts at conversation, but gives up when he realizes that no one wants to talk. We walk back to the bus and Scott says something about finding a hotel, but Tom manages to convince him to stay with us in the extra bunk above Travis's. "It'll be fun," he says. "Just like old times."
That's what I'm afraid of.
XV.
"Fuck, you guys, it's 2:30. We should probably go to bed." This from Travis, who's stretched out in an armchair trying to look lucid and collected. He's a fairly serious guy at any time, but when he's drunk he gets very pensive and a little bossy, trying to seem mature. It would probably work better if he could hold his head up without getting dizzy and falling over.
"Mm. Bu' I don' wanna get up. Car' me?" Tom slurs, batting his eyes sweetly at me. I laugh and help him climb onto my back, lurching to my feet. He starts to slide off my shoulders and grabs wildly at me, wrapping his arms around my head and obscuring my vision. I take a stumbling step towards the bunks, kicking over a nearly empty bottle of vodka and crashing into a wall. Tom giggles, Travis snickers; Scott just picks up the fallen bottle and throws back the lingering inch of alcohol, staring at us. The immense satisfaction I feel at his glare propels me the last steps to my bunk, Travis and Scott close behind. Tom falls onto the bunk and I crawl in beside him as Travis throws himself into bed, pulling the curtain closed with an incoherent 'good night'.
As I pull my shoes off and snap the curtain closed, I catch Scott's gaze with my own. He's sitting on the bunk above Travis's with his legs dangling off the edge, kicking his feet like a bored child, and the look he's giving me is sharp enough to skewer my heart. Pure. Fucking. Malice.
And I know, I know how much it's tearing him up inside, because he looks the way my heart felt every time he and Tom kissed. And I know the power I have over him, that I could make him hurt, make sob, if I wanted to. And I want to. I want to hurt him.
"Mark," Tom murmurs, pulling me from my reverie. He drags me further into the bunk, hands everywhere, stripping me with an efficiency that doesn't match his intoxication. The first touch of skin on skin is like the sun exploding. He's hot and vicious and shaking, hands in my hair, teeth at my throat, almost painful, almost brutal, but I want it all. I bite his lip until it bleeds and fuck him for all I'm worth. The alcohol has made him careless; he moans loudly as he comes, too drunk to be embarrassed. "Mark, Mark..."
I kiss him as I come, just like I always do, whispering adorations into his mouth. God, how I love this man. I go to sleep to the rhythm of his heart and the sound of someone crying.
XVI.
I wake up with a splitting headache and a deep feeling of guilt, flavored with satisfaction. We go through the motions of the morning like nothing happened last night, but there are lines of pain etched in the corners of Scott's eyes that weren't there yesterday. He goes through breakfast half-dead, staring blankly at his cereal, as if it held the answers. Somehow I manage to justify the havoc I've wreaked on his heart. After all, he wanted to take Tom away. What was I supposed to do, just step aside? Say, "Here, go ahead and steal the love of my life," and hand him over? I don't think so.
I have to admit, though, I'd never considered that maybe Tom wasn't just the love of my life.
***
10:00 p.m., Friday night. We go into town to drink and club because it's Scott's last night before he leaves and according to Tom we "have to do something really rad and fun before Scott goes back to boring-as-fuckville". Whatever, I'm down with it--I'm just relieved he's going home. Every minute he spends with us gives Tom more time to think things over and decide he wants Scott back after all. Maybe I'm pathetic for clinging to him like this, but I can handle that, as long as he's with me.
"'Nother round?" Travis asked me genially, already motioning the bartender over. I nod, glancing down at the empty shot glasses that are starting to gather in front of me--just three so far. Good. I've decided to allow myself six; maximum enjoyment of drunkenness with minimal after-effects. Travis picks up his shot and winks at me, grinning as he throws it back with barely a twitch. I take mine in a slow swallow, shaking my head slightly as the taste shivers down my throat. Fuck, I hate vodka.
I pick up another shot and turn to offer it to Tom, which is when I realize that he and Scott are no longer beside me. Frowning, I down it myself, eyes sweeping the club. They're nowhere in sight.
"Trav?" No response. I turn back to him and find him staring into an empty shot glass like it's the most fascinating thing in the world. I realize that there are a lot more empty glasses in front of him than me. "Hey, fuckboy. Travis?"
He blinks awake at the repetition of his name, turning wide chocolate eyes upon me. "Yes Mark, my friend?"
"You seen Tom and Scott around in the last ten minutes?"
His brow creases in concentration as he stares seriously at the bartop. "Outside," he announces at last, looking a little proud that he remembered. I grin tightly and ruffle his hair before threading my way out of the club.
I spot them immediately; huddled together on the only bench in sight, arms wrapped around one another like they're trying to mold themselves into one person. My mouth is suddenly sour with the taste of vodka, throat tightening around it until I can barely breath.
"What's going on here?"
Tom lifts his head from Scott's shoulder, and in the light thrown from the street lamp I can see tears glistening wetly on his cheeks. "Mark--" he begins, but suddenly I don't want to know.
"What the FUCK, Tom. Does he want you back? Are you going back to him? No, no, you're not leaving me Tom-"
"Mark!" Tom shouts, untangling himself from Scott's arms so he can stand. Once he sees that he has my attention his tone softens. "He's positi--"
"What, Tom? That he can change? That you two can work out? Fuck that. It's not going to--"
"No, Mark," Tom interrupts, grabbing my shoulders. The look in his eyes makes me falter, the words dying in my throat. "He's positive," he whispers.
...
Oh.
Motherfucking oh.
XVII.
"Oh," I say, and hate myself for it.
Tongue dry and gummy inside my mouth, sticking to my teeth, fucking up the words.
"W-when?"
Never noticed how Tom's hair has a little red in it. You can't tell except in this kind of light.
"I found out a month ago." Scott's voice is shaky and too high. "Got a call from the family of an old boyfriend. He'd--he'd just--" He leaves the sentence unfinished, drawing a shuddering breath that sounds almost painful.
He's trembling. I've never seen him scared before. Didn't know he ever was scared.
"I'm sorry."
Fuck, it's cold. Wonder how long I have to stand out here feeling bad before I can go back in.
"Mark..." Tom's gentle murmur draws my attention back to him, standing barely a breath away. His eyes are bright and a little wide, like he's trying to hold back tears and losing the battle. "Mark, that's not all."
He's so beautiful. Why does he look so scared?
"Jeff... the guy who...the guy whose family called..." Scott draws a deep breath, looking desperately to Tom for encouragement. "We were together in high school."
I should be feeling something. Why am I so empty?
"Before--" My breath hitches in my chest as it hits me and I have to pause a moment before I can go on. "Before Blink. Before you..." My gaze darts from Scott's face to Tom's closed eyes, reading the rest of the story in the silence between them.
I feel cold.
"You could be..." No. I can't say it. Can't even think it. Tom's mouth trembles as he nods, tears slipping from beneath lowered lashes.
I'll fucking kill him. I'll rip his fucking heart out and FEED it to him.
"Not just me, Mark." Tom's arms wrap around me, tear-streaked face pressed against my chest, but I can't even feel him. He presses his mouth to mine in a sloppy kiss, and he tastes like regret. "Not just me, baby."
Cold. I feel cold.
XVIII.
I fucking hate waiting-room chairs.
It's kind of funny. I'm sitting in the waiting room of a private clinic with a cotton ball taped over the bend of my arm, waiting for Tom to return. Somewhere in the bowels of the hospital is a vial of blood that contains my entire future. I could be dying. Tom could be dying. Scott is dying. And all I can think is...
I fucking hate waiting-room chairs.
I guess shock is like that. Your mind processes things in bits and pieces because it's not ready to face the complete picture. Not ready to come to terms with its own impending mortality. Shit, I'm getting philosophic again.
I could be dying. The words sound funny in my head. "I could be dying," I whisper aloud, trying to work my tongue around the awkward sound of that sentence. A bent-over old woman in the chair across from me grunts in agreement and spares me a sympathetic glance. I have the terrible urge to say something really vulgar to her, for the sheer sadistic pleasure of watching her sputter and have a stroke.
The door whispers open and Tom emerges into the waiting room. He looks pale and tired, and really, really young. It hits me suddenly that he's only twenty-six years old. Scott is even younger. I'm not yet thirty. Christ. We're fucking children. We're too young for this.
"Hey," I offer, tossing a magazine onto the table as I stand. My eyes skim over his face, taking in the haunted circles of his eyes. He licks his lips nervously, glancing up at me through the delicate fans of his lashes.
"Hey," he replies. Takes a hesitant step towards me, eyes downcast, like he's afraid I'm going to hit him. He seems to relax a little when I pull him into my arms instead. I cradle him to me with one arm behind his back and press my free hand to his chest. I can feel the strong, steady rhythm of his heart beneath his ribs, beating in sync with the pulse in my palm. I tell him this and he smiles, one of his quiet, closed-mouth Tom smiles that he reserves only for me.
"I'm tired," he murmurs, laying his head on my shoulder. I push his hair out of his eyes and drop a small kiss on his forehead.
"Want me to drive?"
He nods gratefully, eyes dropping closed. He falls asleep on the way back to the bus, so gently as I can I carry him to the bunks. It's not an easy task, but I manage not to knock his head against the doorjamb, so I'm pretty proud of myself. He stirs as I pull his clothes off and tuck him under the covers, guitar-callused hand wrapping around my wrist. His eyes are bright and wide and begging, and I know whatever he asks, I'll give it to him.
"Stay with me," he whimpers. Tries to pull me onto the bunk. And I let him.
Let him draw my shirt off as I remove my shoes and socks, let him undo the zipper of my pants. Let him run his fingers down my naked back, let him slide his hand down my boxers, let him suck my tongue into his mouth as he jerks me off. Let him guide my hands, let him arch into me, let him bite my shoulder till it bleeds when he comes. Let him hold me, whispering how much he loves me into my ear. Let him lie to me, saying everything will be alright. I let him lie.
But I know that nothing will be alright.
XIX.
The ringing of the phone wakes me.
"Ngh...mfffh...h-hello?"
"This is Sylvia from Dr. Jin's office. Is Mr. Hoppus or Mr. Delonge available?"
"Wha--?" I blink fuzzily and knuckle the sleep from my eyes. Focus on the clock: it's 12:30 in the afternoon. Holy shit. I'm so fucking hungover I can feel the headache in my teeth.
"Sir?"
"Huh? Oh. Yes. That's me. I mean. This is Mr. Hoppus. Speaking." I might be able to sound like more of an idiot if I tried, but it would take considerable effort.
"Dr. Jin would like you and Mr. Delonge to come in this afternoon, if possible. What time is convenient for you?"
"Anytime, I'm free," I murmur absently. "This...is it about..."
"Your test results have come in. Dr. Jin would like to go over them with you. He recommends you come together, or bring someone with you if you go separately."
"Oh god," I breathe, throat hot and dry. "Is it--fuck. Is it bad news?"
"Dr. Jin advises everyone to bring along a friend in this type of...situation. It's just a precaution. It isn't an indication of your test results whatsoever."
Fucking liar. I bet she knows. "Okay. When, uh, should we come in?"
Brief silence, then the crackle of her voice fading through the wires. "How is 3:30 for you?"
Another glance at the clock. 12:40. Tom's still asleep. "3:30 is fine."
"Right then. See you then, Mr. Hoppus, good-bye."
Click.
I think I'm going to vomit.
***
Dr. Jin studies us over the rim of his reading glasses, hard black eyes piercing, searching, reading the fear off our faces. Tom and I are sitting side-by-side in identical chairs, so close together there isn't a molecule of space between the armrests. Dr. Jin coughs quietly and glances down at our medical reports for a brief moment before looking back up at us. He takes off his reading glasses, folding them in his hands, mouth pursed and poised to speak. Tom's hand moves under the desk and slips into mine.
"Mr. Hoppus," he begins. My stomach churns and my hands begin to shake. Tom grips my hand tighter, stroking his thumb along my knuckles, trying to relax me. Fuck, I'm scared.
"Your lungs have taken some damage, as I'm sure you already know, but otherwise you are in perfect health. Your test came back negative."
Ohjesusohsweetmotherofgodholyfucki'mnegativei'mfuckingnegativeohthankyougod.
"Mr. Delonge." I squeeze Tom's hand reassuringly, trying to offer him the same support he showed me a moment ago. Dr. Jin hesitates, and my heart is in my throat. "I'm sorry," he says, gazing steadily at Tom. "Your test came back positive."
XX.
After that, life goes by in flashes.
Tom and I are sitting on my couch channel-surfing, trying to find something halfway decent to watch at 2:00 in the morning. Tom's flipping through HBO when he stops abruptly at one channel. A hospital scene...it takes me a few minutes to recognize it as 'And The Band Played On.' Tom hits the [power] button and stares at the black screen silently, devoid of emotion. I touch his shoulder and he sobs, a hard, wrenching sound, then throws the remote at the TV. It cracks the glass and a few sparks fly. We don't get it fixed.
***
Tom's perched on the edge of the examining table, feet dangling above the ground like a child's. I sit beside him in one of those stiff hospital chairs and hold his hand while the nurse draws what seems like the fiftieth blood sample in the past week. He doesn't even seem to notice anymore; I watch him gaze blandly at the wall, offering no reaction as the (fucking huge) needle jabs into his skin. Fuck, just watching it makes me sick, but it's like it's happening to someone else for him. He doesn't respond to the nurse's departure, and I have to shake him before he comes out of his trance enough to realize that it's over.
I drive him home and he goes straight up the stairs, down the hall to our bedroom and beneath the heavy covers. The down comforter is so thick and fluffy that his curled-up shape barely makes an impact. I push the blankets down a little so he won't suffocate and crawl in beside him, wrapping my arms tightly around his trembling body. We haven't made love since the night before the results came in, nearly three weeks ago. He says he's tired, says he doesn't feel like it, but I know he's scared. Scared that we might get careless, scared that the condom might break, scared that he might infect me with this thing that is killing him one cell at a time.
Fuck. I'm scared, too.
***
"I don't want them," he mutters, curtly, as if the matter is closed to discussion. I nod and pour the pills into his hand, set a glass of water down in front of him to wash them down. He stares at the twenty-odd capsules in his palm and then turns his glare on me, mouth twisted into an expression that is a mixture of frown and snarl.
"I said, I don't want them," he spits with careful precision, letting the pills cascade from his open hand onto his plate. I clench my jaw and scoop them back into a pile, shoving them into his resisting hand and then closing his fingers tightly around them.
"I know you don't. You never want them. But you have to take them. So stop being such a goddamn baby about it and just do it."
I know it's mean, but I'm at my wit's end. It's hard enough to make sure he eats properly and gets his 10 daily doses of various medications on time without his resistance. I have to watch him like a child, because if I don't he won't eat, won't drink, won't do anything but sleep and sulk.
"I said," Tom repeats dangerously, rising slowly to his feet, "I don't fucking WANT THEM!" With an angry roar he throws the handful of pills at me and storms out of the kitchen.
***
"Tom?" It's dark in here; it takes a moment for my eyes to adjust and realize that the vague lump in the center of our bed is Tom. I pick my way through the minefield that is our room and ease myself onto the bed next to him, brushing tentative hands over his shoulders. He whimpers, and I think he's going to pull away; then with a breathy sigh his arms come around me and his face presses against my thigh.
"I'm not a child," he whispers, so choked with tears I can barely understand him. I pet his hair and murmur soothingly into his ear, gently wiping his tears away.
"I know you're not," I assure him, pressing my lips tenderly to his cheek. He turns his head and captures my lips with his, and we kiss like it's the first time again; only this time we're both sober, and it isn't awkward or embarrassing at all. It's warm and familiar, and soft, and I realize now it's love. Love is the difference.
"I love you," I whisper against his ear, my arms tightening around him. "I love you. Don't you dare leave me."
XXI.
The next day, we get the call.
Tom eyes me curiously as I answer the phone, slurping his cereal with childlike enjoyment. It's kind of annoying, but he's actually eating on his own without my prompting, so I let it go. The voice on the other end of the line is vaguely familiar, but I cannot place it. Is this Mark, she asks? Yes, I reply, nodding dumbly even though she can't see it. Her voice is hard and tense, brittle, like the wrong words could break it.
And then she speaks, and the floor drops out from underneath me. I'm left reeling, asking questions and answering them in an uncomprehending daze.
"When?"
"Oh."
"What was it?"
"No, I didn't know."
"Yes, of course we'll be there."
"He's doing okay."
"...no. Not yet."
"Saturday? Of course."
"Me too. I'm sorry. I..."
"I know."
"Okay. Good-bye."
I slide the phone gently back into the cradle, strangely disconnected from the motion. My whole body is numb, fingers fuzzy and cold, distant, like they belong to someone else. I don't hear Tom move until he's beside me, one arm curling around my waist, drawing me close with a look of careful concern burning in his dark eyes.
"Mark? What's wrong, baby? You're...you're shaking." I flick my gaze down to our clasped hands and watch in fascination as my fingers tremble. "Mark, come on, you're scaring me. Who was it?"
"It--" My voice catches and I clear my throat, blinking rapidly against the threat of tears. "It was Mrs. Raynor," I answer, my voice oddly flat. Cold, clinical, while in my head I'm staggering under the enormity of grief. "Scott's dead."
"What?" he whispers in disbelief, a soft explosion of breath. He sounds as confused as I feel. "But--when? How?"
"Last night," I reply. Quiet, unaffected. If I let myself feel this I won't be able to speak for a long, long time. "He, uh, got into a fight, I'm not sure about the details. She wasn't very clear. Went to the hospital with some nasty cuts and developed a staph infection. Given his health, it didn't take long. She's going to try and sue the hospital."
"Scott," he whispers in something like wonderment. "Scott." Blinks a few times, rapidly, trying to wrap his mind around it. Scott's dead. Scott Raynor is dead. Scott Raynor --former bandmate, former lover, always friend-- Scott is dead.
I can tell the moment it hits him; the light dies in his eyes, his legs collapse, the fight goes out of him. I manage to snap awake fast enough to catch him half-way down, easing him onto the kitchen floor so he doesn't crack his head open on the hard tile. It's starting to sink in for me; my eyes prickle with the hot sting of held-back tears and soon I'm crying, hugging him fiercely to me as he sobs against my shoulder. We sit in the middle of the kitchen for what seems like hours, clinging desperately to each other because we're all we have left. Choking out an unwilling acceptance of a grief that is too big to fully understand, sobbing and wailing like the world's about to end. And maybe it is.
Maybe it already has.
XII.
I'm beginning to feel at home in black and grey.
On TV, funerals are always dark and rainy, as if the weather unconsciously mirrors the mood. Today the sky is full and blue overhead, so bright and clear it's almost painful to look at. The sun's hot against my back, magnified by the heavy black material of my suit. I think it's a perfect day for the beach, and then I think that Scott won't see the beach again, and I don't feel anything at all.
The service is short, respectful, religiously neutral--Scott was never much of a Christian. Scott's mother sobs through the entire eulogy, and as the speech comes to a close I feel Tom's hand tighten around my own. I think for a moment he's going to cry; but as I glance sideways at him I see his somber face is blank and dry. In a way that's almost worse, because I know how much pain he's holding down inside. We've both lost a friend, but for Tom the loss is much keener. He was bandmate, friend, lover, companion...someone he once thought he'd spend the rest of his life with. No matter how much I loved Scott --and even after everything that happened between the three of us I loved him-- I will never be able to really understand the depth of Tom's grief. I can only hold him and tell him it will be alright, when in my heart I know that it won't, that it hasn't been alright since the night Scott told us he was positive for HIV.
***
(12:00 that night)
"Mark?"
"Mm?" I murmur, floating contentedly between waking and sleep.
"Will you fall in love with someone else?"
"What?" I crane my neck to look up at him, trying to understand the meaning behind the bewildering question. He frowns at me thoughtfully, arms tightening unconsciously around my waist. "After I die, will you fall in love with someone else?"
"You're not going to die," I reply quickly, suppressing a shiver at having to say the words.
"Yes I am."
"No, you're not." My throat dry and scratchy with fear.
"Yes, I am, Mark," Tom insists. I tense at the unwavering certainty of his words and his fingertips draw apologetic circles on my stomach. "I'm sick, Mark, and I'm going to get sicker. Maybe not right now, but someday, and I want to know what you're going to do when I'm gone."
Despite his forced bravery I hear his voice waver, and tears burn behind my eyes. "You know it's always been you," I whisper, reaching down to tangle my hands in his. "I've never loved anyone else. I will never love anyone else."
"Yes, you will," Tom replies, a little sadly. His hands curl around mine and our fingers twine. "You're only 29. You'll miss me, and you'll mourn me, and then you'll move on. That's how it should be."
"I'll die without you." My voice comes out thin and strained, barely recognizable as my own. I turn my face to the side, burying it in his shoulder, as tears fight their way down my cheeks. "You're my best fucking friend, Tom, you're the love of my life. I'll be empty without you. Please don't leave me. Please, god, I'll do anything, just please don't leave me." My voice breaks and I sob the last words desperately into his shoulder, my whole body shaking with fear. Tom wraps his arms tightly around me until I can't breathe and it still isn't enough, it'll never be close enough because I can't keep him safe.
"Oh, god, Mark, I don't want to," he whispers, and I realize he's crying as desperately as I am. "I love you, I love you, I fucking love you," he whispers fiercely, punctuating his words with a shower of kisses upon my face. "All the time that I wasted before I realized that, all the wasted fucking time, wishing it was Scott when all I needed was you..."
"Don't think about that," I murmur gently, rolling over and lifting myself on my elbows to gaze down at him. My eyes trace the line of his jaw, the sweep of his brows, the full, soft curve of his mouth. "It's gone, it doesn't matter anymore. You have me, baby. You have me, mind, body and fucking soul." I lean forward and brush my lips gently across his, a ghost of a kiss. He sighs and relaxes into the bed, arms reaching around to drag me back on top of him. I lay my head on his chest and let the strong, steady rhythm of his heart lull me into a troubled sleep.
XIII.
KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK BANG!
The pounding at the door jerks me from sleep. I pry one of Tom's arms off of my chest and fumble for the clock. 7:16 am. Jesus fucking Christ.
KNOCK KNOCK BANG BANG BANG!
Wait a minute. Haven't we done this before?
"Come, I fucking -fuck!- coming!" I swear and shout as I stumble down the stairs, tripping over a basketball and smacking into the door. My temple flares with sudden pain and I grimace as I whip the door open.
"WHAT?" I growl boomingly. Travis blinks at my outburst and then erupts into laughter. I guess I probably do look funny standing there in my Green Day boxers, hair wild, one hand pressed to my forehead and the blossoming bruise. I narrow my eyes in my most menacing glare -which isn't very- and Travis makes an attempt to swallow his laughter.
"Damn, you guys are heavy sleepers," he quips as he shows himself inside. I groan and close my eyes, but shut the door behind him. I wander into the kitchen to find him preparing a fresh pot of coffee.
"It's 7:30 in the fucking morning, Trav. What the hell do you want?"
Travis raises a nonchalant brow at me and turns on the coffee machine. He studies me for a moment, that swift, calculating glint in his eyes, then jerks his chin towards the table. A big pink box of donuts from Vasy's lies there, temptingly open. "Brought breakfast," Travis says simply, as if that explains everything.
"You came here at 7:30 in the goddamn morning to bring breakfast?" I ask incredulously, danger rising with every word.
"No." Tom's voice; we both look up to see him trip down the stairs, showered and fully dressed. I ask a question with my eyes but he ignores it, kissing me instead. On impulse I wrap my arms around him and drag him closer, opening my mouth to deepen the kiss. He tastes like Crest toothpaste and for some reason that thought makes me smile.
"Why didn't I get a good-morning like that?" We break apart and I glance over my shoulder at Travis, who's mock-sulking. Tom pulls away and advances on the drummer, but Travis dances back, hands raised in self-defense. "Kidding," he reassures, laughing when Tom waggles his eyebrows suggestively.
"So why are you here?" I ask Travis as we lounge around the kitchen with our donuts and coffee. He opens his mouth but it's Tom who answers.
"He's taking me to the doctor's," Tom says, taking a bite out of his old fashioned maple, watching me silently as he chews to gauge my reaction.
"What?" I frown, surprised, turning on Tom. "You didn't tell me you had an appointment."
"I know," Tom replies evenly, washing the last bite of donut away with a sip of coffee. "It's from nine to eleven, and I knew you were meeting Anne for brunch at ten."
"So what?" I snap, annoyance surfacing. "Fuck that, I can cancel."
"She's your sister," Tom insists.
"You're my boyfriend," I reply. Tom sighs and closes his eyes, smooth brow wrinkling with an all-too-recent tension.
"Mark. Please. It's not a big deal. Just...go have lunch with your sister, okay?"
My eyes narrow at his tone, my gaze darting frantically to Travis. "There's something you're not telling me."
Tom's jaw tightens and for a moment I think he's about to throw his coffee cup. "Just let Travis take me. Please?"
He's wound so tight I'm afraid another argument will snap him in half. "Okay," I agree reluctantly, nodding. His jaw unclenches and he opens his eyes, smiling gratefully.
"Say hey for me, yeah?" He asks, dark brown eyes smiling.
"Yeah," I repeat. And sigh.
***
"How's Tom?"
She studies me past the straw of her milkshake. I shrug and focus on my uneaten turkey sandwich, shredding chunks of lettuce into tiny bits. "Not bad," I respond, not quite knowing what to say. "The medication makes him sick." How do you discuss your HIV+ boyfriend with you little sister?
Mercifully, Anne changes the subject. "Are you coming home for Christmas?" she wants to know, voice light with hope.
I shrug again and push away my plate, dusting my hands of crumbs. "They haven't asked," I reply, blandly meeting her gaze.
"Mark," she sighs. She pokes moodily at her milkshake with the straw, looking uncomfortable. "You know they want you to come around. They just don't know how to say it."
"They never had a problem before they knew I was fucking Tom," I snap back bitterly.
"Mark." Anne makes a face at both my tone and choice of words, bright blue eyes flashing with disapproval. "Please, don't. Look, I know it hurts, but they--"
"Oh you do, do you?" I can see the hurt flare in her gaze but I'm too angry to care. "You know how it feels? Every guy you've ever brought home mom and dad have embraced with open arms. But Tom, who's spent nearly as many nights at our house as his own, suddenly isn't welcome because he's a fag." I spit the word at her, eliciting the desired flinch. "Well you know what, Anne? So am I, and if they want me there they can fucking well invite my boyfriend, too."
She stares at me woundedly, shocked by the outburst, and it's only then that I realize there are tears rolling down my face. "I'm not the enemy, Mark," Anne whispers, and I close my eyes, biting back another wave of tears. I shove to my feet and reach mechanically for my wallet, throwing a handful of money onto the table.
"I have to go," I murmur, turning away, but her voice stops me.
"Mark?" She sounds like she did when we were kids, asking to crawl into my bed when mom and dad were fighting. "Come home for Christmas?" she begs.
I sigh, and nod. "Maybe," I answer. I start to leave, then stop again. "Oh yeah," I say, remembering. "Tom says 'hey'."
XIV.
It's like every Christmas in family history. It's a complete fucking disaster.
Anne tries to smile for everyone, but it isn't enough. From the moment we walk in the door everything is tense, everyone is moving carefully, afraid of upsetting the peace. My mother can't meet Tom's eyes, and my father won't speak to either of us. Tom chats with the scattering of cousins that have shown up for my mother's famous ham, or because my aunt Rose badgered them into it. I spend most of the afternoon in the pantry with Anne, where we finish a bottle and a half of wine between us and sit down to dinner half drunk. My mother fills our glasses and my father makes the first toast.
"To family," he intones solemnly, just like he does every year. We all nod our agreement.
"To friends," my mother adds, smiling nervously our way. The toast comes to me, and I look at Tom.
"To death," I say.
"Jesus, Mark," my father barks as the whole table falls silent in shock. "What the hell is wrong with you?"
Tom is already raising his glass. "To sickness, and health," he says, tipping his glass to me.
"That's enough," my father commands, but Anne speaks up a second later. "To love," she offers, and my mother begins to cry.
"Look what you've done," my father seethes, wrapping an arm around my weeping mother's shoulders. "Look at what you've done to your mother. Are you happy now? Is this what you wanted?"
"I can't help being in love." I'm seething too, but quietly, coldly, and Tom is perfectly still beside me. "I can't help him being sick. And I can't help that this isn't the you wanted it. Guess what? It's not what I fucking wanted either." I push my chair back from the table and stand, far too calmly, reaching for Tom's hand. I don't have to look at him to know he's ready to follow me. Instead I look at Anne. "Merry Christmas, sis," I tell her, and we pack ourselves back into the car and begin the long drive home.