Will sat stoically in first class, sipping scotch out of a plastic cup. The smoky acrid taste hit the back of his mouth. He held the sting of the alcohol in his mouth for as long as he could and then swallowed it. He took long, deep breaths in between drinks, and then turned to his right.
Chris was asleep, lying against the window, a white pillow folded against the right side of his face. The navy blue blanket once pulled tight against his neck had now fallen down. Will softly reached over, pulled it back up, and softly ran his finger across the stubble that had formed on Chris's face.
They had managed to catch the red-eye from Chicago to Portland, Oregon, the closest city that had an airport to Orchards, Washington. Penny had called, and had first gotten Chris, and then him, to inform him that not only was his father dead, but his mother had fainted, and being transported to Southwest Washington Medical Center. Penny was distraught, and he had to calm her many times in order to get specific information.
Will had asked Chris to get on his cell phone and set up the reservations, call their respective jobs, and handle those duties while he got on the hospital about his mother. By the time that the ambulance got there, they had determined that she had simply fainted from shock, and he even managed to talk to her for a few minutes.
He listened sympathetically as she cried deeply. She sounded weak, and drained, and on the verge of shock again, but it didn't matter to him. He was merely happy she was alive and able to communicate.
Chris got them a cab, paid an incredible sum of money to the ticket agent and they went through security. They made quite a fuss at Chris who had taken off his belt, shoes, removed all the money in his pants, cufflinks, rings, glasses, and innumerable other metallic objects and still made the damn thing go off. When they waved the wand in front of his groin, he declared that no matter how much they asked, there were some rings that were not very easy to take off.
Will bit his lips, smirking, watching the discomfort that the homeland security supervisor had as her began to question Chris about some of the specifics. Chris pressed the matter causing the man to squirm, proclaiming how much better sex was with the, 'Prince' and that really he had dated quite a few men that had them.
Security merely waved them through at that point, and then Will administered the coupe de grace by kissing Chris fully on the lips and groping his ass. This spectacle alone would have probably gotten them through security faster, but frankly, Will was of the mind that these yo-yo's couldn't wipe their own ass with both hands. If they couldn't deal with something as simple as a penis piercing, how in the hell could they deal with plastic explosives and guns?
The flight was only a few hours long, and Will had spent the time used on the tarmac and loading to lay out the tasks that needed to be done, down to getting a rental car and a hotel. While his mother would insist that they stay with her, on this matter, Chris had been firm. Privacy for both men was a prized item, one that they both cherished. Once in the air, he began swilling scotch.
He looked over at Chris, seeing his sleeping form, and wanted nothing more to be in a warm, dark room, covered with blankets and being held by Chris. He wanted to cry, to vent, to rage, he wanted to yell, to scream and to blame, but there was no one to blame. The drunk driver that had put his father in that nursing home was long since dead.
As far as Will was concerned, his father had died a long time ago. When you hack off three out of four limbs, and a hunk of your skull and brain, he reasoned, then you really don't have much of a chance of any kind of life.
He had last seen his father, in that sterile hospital bed, about three years ago around Christmas time. He had pushed himself to visit his mother, when in reality they merely danced around each other, playing scrabble in the afternoons and walking amongst the shopping crowds in the morning. She had even bought him presents that were, 'from dad'.
Will always wondered how she could do it. Was it merely that she came from a prior generation, whose ethics were unimpeachable? He had no idea. He found it amusing when she started to write, and found it fascinating when she started to focus on erotica. He wondered if she found it embarrassing to show him her work, and yet, he felt, by reading it, he got to know her a little better.
He drained the last sip of scotch in his cup and then held it up in the air, rather than tap the light on. He could see they were preparing some sort of breakfast like item, something that undoubtedly he would scarf down until he could get something a bit more solid into his system.
The flight attendant came forward and he looked at her with his bloodshot eyes, a man-mountain, looking even more ragged than normal.
"Scotch, make it a double."
"Sir," she said tactfully, "you've had four."
She looked at him with his deep, cool hazel eyes and said, "My father just died."
She merely nodded at him after a quiet, "oh, I'm sorry," she refilled it.
When the food came around, Will softly woke Chris, having ordered for him.
"Breakfast in bed, gee, when's the last time I got that?" Chris said to him with a grin.
"Yesterday, as I recall," Will said.
"Tube sausage doesn't count, dear." Chris said.
"Picky little bitch aren't you?" Will said.
Chris looked at him, slightly hurt. He looked at the scotch in Will's hand and decided to let it go, but then Will followed up.
"I'm sorry, Chris. I guess that this is hitting me a little harder than I thought."
"Lover, this is your father we're talking about." Chris said, putting his hand on Will's thigh.
"He was a fucking vegetable," Will growled, but softly put his hand on Chris's fingers, he knew what Chris was trying to do, and knew Chris was right. His dad was finally dead. A single, solitary tear rolled down Will's cheek and Chris leaned over to hold his husband's face.
Will let go as much as he would allow himself in the plane. His sobs were brief, prefunctionary things, and Chris watched those around him, glaring at any who would cast aspersions upon his grief. He waved the flight attendants around them when they served food, and only when he kissed the tears away from Will's face and sat upright did they then bring the meal.
Chris picked at a piece of microwaved French toast, and asked for some vodka to go into the orange juice. Will ate his meal quickly, inhaling the food at an incredible pace, and then Chris offered him the remnants of his. He knew better to get in the way of the big man when he was in one of these manic compulsive eating phases, and knew that it did not happen nearly as much as it did when they were in college and Will was still stuffing his feelings about being gay down.
Will settled into scotch number six, and pulled out his laptop, his fingers typing at a furious rate on some work project. He was trying to bury himself but the only image he could see was that of the side of his father's face, scarred beyond sanity, that section of bare skull open to the air. What kind of life was that, anyway? He stole a glance at Chris who was scrutinizing fashion designs in a copy of cosmopolitan.
In that flash of a moment, he saw Chris, in that bed, arms askew, face half-gone, staring into the sky. He shook his head and then remembered a piece of advice that his mom had given him at a certain point in his life, that he could say, 'stop'. He tried, and eventually the image faded from his view. Chris was alive, and there was no reason to do this. This was something Will fought every day, not just with his father, but also with many of the memories he had from childhood, things only Chris knew for he would be damned before he would tell his mother how he had been used as a child.
Chris watched him and this thought process, he always could feel Will when he looked at him. Chris loved Will for all his faults, and from Chris's point of view there were few. He knew that Will had his own daemons, that only in the darkest of nights under the covers did he speak about them. Chris loved how Will watched after him, took care of him, and yet he was aware of the thickheaded nature of the big man. Will would be blind to obvious solutions, not just because they were simple, but also because they were beneath him.
Chris opened up the window shade, looked at the clouds and wondered briefly about his father. His dad died in the Vietnam War and he had never had a father figure in his life. As far as he was concerned, it wasn't necessary. He knew he'd be a frightened mess when his mother died, but he didn't quite understand what it was like to have a father, or even a father figure. His mother had dated, but nothing ever clicked, and of the myriad of men who she saw, none of them ever took a great deal of time with him, especially being as foppish as he was. He stole a glance at Will looking at him, and they both smiled. Tightly their hands met, and fingers interlaced.
* * *
Penny sat in a cheap metal armless chair next to Marilyn in her hospital bed. She was on Marilyn's right, the same side as the door, in the emergency room. Marilyn was awake; she had a bit of color in her face, having just finished eating a little breakfast. Penny had taken the tray table away and Marilyn was looking into her eyes.
