Rising Sap

~ Chapter 1 ~

"Keep 'em comin'," I say, holding up my empty scotch glass. The bartender gives me a wary look but doesn't say anything. She merely finishes wiping down a few glasses before she pours me another drink. What number is this? I'm not sure, but my goal is to get rid of all the cash in my wallet. I want every last Hamilton tossed away as carelessly as possible. Might as well, right? I slap down another ten-dollar bill and smile. "Thanks."

"You sure you're okay?" she asks me skeptically.

She's sweet -- and I think she's taken a liking to me because I'm not the belligerent type that she has to wrangle regularly. Maybe she's just pitying me. Either way, I don't need someone showering me with niceties, so I merely say "Yeah, doing great" when she sets the glass in front of me.

But I'm not. Arguably, this has been the worst two weeks of my life. First, my mom died. It wasn't exactly a shock because of her long, arduous struggle with cancer, but evidently I was not as prepared for her death as I thought I was.

Then, out of loneliness and grief, I got drunk and brought a young man home. A stranger. Whether or not the sex was even good, I can't remember. All I remember is waking up with various parts of my life missing, including (but not at all limited to) my phone, my wallet, my father's watch, my damn television, and sensitive documents like my birth certificate, passport, and social security card. Dealing with that was and still remains a hassle, in terms of asking both "How do I deal with potential identify fraud?" and "*Why* do I have to deal with potential identity fraud?"

To top it off, having already been struggling with paying the mortgage on my mother's home, I got the official foreclosure notice. What's done is done. That was just poor timing, though. I could see that one coming from a mile away and did everything I could to ignore its imminent approach. But couldn't the bank wait just a little longer?

And finally, today's latest blow: I'm officially unemployed. "Let go," they call it. Somehow, this feels worse than being fired. It's not personal. I didn't do anything wrong except not climb the corporate ladder high enough. Fuck me for not wanting to devote myself to a career that I'm not interested in. And for that, I, as well as thirty or so of my peers, were deemed expendable. "Let go."

So here I am, drinking, because I don't know what the fuck else to do. I've reached my breaking point. I'm afraid that if I step in any particular direction, something else will knock me down several notches. Maybe I'll just stay down at this point. Lay low.

"Uncle Ant?"

I turn my head towards that familiar voice, and I feel my whole body perk up at the sight of him. "Scotty!" I say, surprised. I can't help but smile when I see him. He brings that out of me. I take a moment to eye him up and down and think, "Damn, he looks good." Tight black jeans and a thick, faux-fur winter coat opened to expose the polo underneath. He always dresses like that: sort of preppy. Plus, he has his backpack on for some reason, so it looks like he's coming home from school, but somehow, he makes the whole outfit look (for lack of a better word) "cool." He has an eye for fashion and art, after all, because he knows what looks good -- and that includes what's beyond the clothing as well. He just has the look of someone who takes care of himself: light dirty blond hair that's cropped on the sides to highlight his goofy ears, one of which is pierced with a simple, silver, square-hoop; eyes that are a crystal clear hazel color; and skin that is positively luminescent. Scotty has a total baby face, smooth and boyish, but he's as adorable as a button, especially when he smiles with those two rows of exceptionally white teeth that beam right at me.

However, right now, he's not smiling. He looks concerned. "I haven't heard from you in a couple days," he says. His eyes glance towards the fresh glass of scotch in my grip.

I slide it towards my body a little more to hide it from his field of vision. "What are you doing here?" I ask.

"Just out with some friends," he says, gesturing vaguely to a table of other (presumably) eighteen-year-olds that are being seated as we speak. I always forget that this place is a restaurant and not just a bar. Unfortunately, it's the only decent bar within a twenty mile radius. Maybe I should have gone out of town. "I heard about the job," Scotty adds, coming over to the bar and sitting right next to me, completely facing my profile.

"At least my misery is a good topic for discussion," I say with a smile, slurring my words.

He doesn't find my joke funny, though. "You know that's not what I meant."

"I know," I say with a sigh.

"I tried calling you..."

"I haven't been answering anybody," I tell him, turning towards the dark liquid in my glass. I raise it up to my lips, but Scotty stops me.

"How many have you had?"

I shrug. In all honesty, I don't know. "Not enough," I say, scratching my beard a little.

"Please stop," he says with a certain sadness in his voice. My hand automatically brings the glass back down to the bar before I even consciously think about it. That's the kind of power his tone has over me. "I was gonna ask how you were holding up, but..."

I can't help but laugh. "It's just one thing after another," I say bitterly. When I notice his expression, though, I just sigh. "Never mind. Why are you over here? Go hang out with your friends."

"I think my uncle needs me," he says with a sad little smile.

I'm not really his uncle. Not by blood, nor by marriage. It's more so a term of endearment considering how long I've been in his life. His father and I have been best friends since we were kids. We grew up in this very town together. We had all the same classes, all the same friends, got into all the same sorts of trouble. We had extensive dreams growing up, but I think we both fell short of those. Eric has it pretty good, though. He has a family -- beautiful wife, beautiful daughter, beautiful son. Me? At forty, I'm a perpetual bachelor. That's what I get for being gay and not leaving such a conservative town when I had the chance.

But because I stayed, I got to watch Scotty grow up. Eric and his wife Yasmine had their second child when they were twenty-two and twenty-four, respectively. I was surprised to see how quickly they jumped at the idea of having another kid. Their daughter Eliza had practically just been born. But Scotty has always been a blessing, and after seeing my face for so long, it's no wonder he still calls me Uncle Antoni.

We've always had a good relationship, he and I, built up from years of him passing by on his way home from school. Since I live directly between both the school system and his house, whenever he walked home (which was any time the weather allowed him to), he would stop by to see me and my mom. I worked nights, so often I was practically just waking up when Scotty would swing by, talk about school, play Yahtzee with my mother, and drink iced tea. It was a part of my day that I always looked forward to, particularly because we learned more and more about each other over the years, just naturally growing closer. Soon, we even started hanging out outside of those regular visits. I'd drive him places if his parents were busy, loan him money if his dad said no, accompany him to art shows and exhibits. Plus, he always brought me his homemade cupcakes for holidays, including my birthday.

But it's hard considering how desperately attracted to him I am. I'm ashamed to admit it even to myself, but I can't deny all those stirrings, those thoughts, those late nights where I imagined doing the unthinkable with him in graphic detail. I mean, what business does a forty-year-old deadbeat like me have thinking of a teenager like that? It doesn't help that I feel like there's some flirtatious energy between the two of us. Now he's eighteen, nearly grown, fully desirable, and my lust for him has only morphed into love, and that love has only deepened over the years, slowly and surely. But it's something I keep private. Never once have I even uttered it out loud. I don't want to tempt anything. I've known his father for too long to step in on his son.

"I just wanna make sure you're okay," Scotty says.

"You're sweet," I say, smiling.

"And you're sloppy," he points out.

"Am not."

"You can't even look at me for longer than two seconds. And you're swaying."

Am I? I hadn't even noticed. Courtesy of alcohol, I suppose. "Go bother your friends," I tell him.

"I'm worried about you," he says insistently, and I believe him. "Why didn't you take the offer to stay with us?"

I sigh. I don't really know why I didn't. Eric offered me Eliza's old room while she's off at college, but for some reason I refused. "I don't know," I tell him honestly.

"Don't tell me you're too proud," Scotty says with a grin.

"I'm not," I say, smiling slightly. "I just want to wallow. Alone." Suffer in peace and all that. I think it was the pity Eric had in his voice when he offered me a place to stay that made me say no. That ugly pity.

He looks at me for a moment. "I'd feel better if you had loved ones to stay with."

He's so adorable when he gets that worried, concerned expression on his face. "You're so cute," I find myself saying -- and I blush immediately. Did I just say that out loud? I must be at that stage where I'm inebriated enough to both be fully aware of what I'm doing while still not being able to control my impulses.

He smiles slightly. "You're drunk."

"Sorry."

He rolls his eyes before standing up and taking my arm. "C'mon."

"What?" I ask, staying planted in my seat.

"I'm taking you home."

"Home?"

"Yeah. My house."

"But my drink--"

"C'mon! No arguing."

I huff a bit but let him pull me away from the bar, allowing myself to be dragged out of the establishment by this boy. Scotty says goodnight to his friends briefly before tugging me outside. Damn, I really am drunk. I feel exceptionally warm even though it's freezing outside, and I can't even walk straight. My vision isn't totally compromised yet, but if Scotty wasn't leading the way, I'd end up in the bushes. It was stupid to come here.

"Where's your car?" he asks me, pausing in the center of the parking lot. I glance around before pointing towards my old sedan. I wonder if *that's* going to break down on me, too. I've sure as hell had it for long enough, and at the rate things are going, I wouldn't be surprised. Might as well unload all the turmoil on me now.

Scotty escorts me towards the car before asking for my keys. "Um. Pocket, I think," I say, feeling around my left pocket. Scotty takes it upon himself to check my right pocket, though, digging his hand in and grabbing the keys. I tense up. It feels strangely erotic, feeling his fingers there, sliding around my thigh through the thin fabric of the pocket, but it's over before I know it. Out come the keys, and he jingles them a bit before helping me into the passenger side. He then makes his way over to the opposite side of the car, tossing his backpack into the back seat and then hopping into the driver's seat.

"Put your seatbelt on," he says, starting the car and immediately turning on the heat. He tries to warm his fingers quickly with his breath as the engine attempts to get to temperature before he puts his seatbelt on, waits for me to get mine on, and then heads carefully out onto the road.

I find myself staring at him, watching as he turns on the radio and hums along to a tune that I don't recognize. I'm glad we're as close as we are. Even though it's been a steady incline, our relationship was graced by an intense uptick after he came out to me, just after his eighteenth. God, how special I felt knowing that he confided in *me* way before his own father. Scotty and I started hanging out even more regularly after that, spending time with each other, expanding our dialogue, and he opened up to me about things he didn't feel he could talk about with Eric -- which, as turns out, is most things. Eric and Scotty are not necessarily at odds in any way. They just have nothing in common.

I guess that's where I unknowingly stepped in, because Scotty and I have a lot in common. Hell, I could have come out to him, too. Sometimes I think I *should* have. But once Scotty admitted his newfound sexuality, I looked at him differently. He wasn't just an honorary nephew. He was someone worthy of sexual attraction. My fantasies concerning him flared up, my body aching, but I didn't want to complicate the situation, though -- specifically, *my* situation. Not telling Scotty that I'm also gay was a tactic I employed to keep some distance between us, so that I had no choice but to keep my hands off of my best friend's son. I didn't want to tempt possibility. I had hoped that over time, my feelings would just dissipate, but now, unfortunately for me, I just want him more than ever.

After several songs, an idea seems to pop into his head. "So, question," he says, not taking his eyes off the road.

I smile. "Answer."

"How would you feel about making a small detour?"

"A detour where?"

"It's a surprise," he says, glancing at me. "But you gotta promise not to tell my dad."

The secrecy alone makes me want to jump head-first into whatever he's talking about. "Sure."

He smiles at me, and after a minute, he veers off the main route to his house. I spend a little time speculating where we could end up, intrigued by the fact that he doesn't want his father knowing. Is it dangerous? It's probably dangerous. Maybe I should have gotten more info out of him before I agreed.

But Scotty just takes us to a bridge. A substantial bridge at that. It's one that was half-built across one of the town rivers ages ago, but the project was abandoned. He drives down a small gravel path that leads under the bridge and then parks by a riverbank. He must come here for privacy. Why the hell else would he come here? For drugs? Shit, maybe he's on something and that's what he wants to tell me.

"C'mon," he says, cutting the ignition and unbuckling his seatbelt before hopping out of the car.

"Uh... Why are we here?" I ask skeptically.

"I wanna show you something." He snags his backpack out of the back seat before shutting both doors and beckoning me out. I sigh a little bit before undoing my seatbelt and joining him outside. I already miss the warmth of the car. Winter in February is not my ideal time of the year, but I suck it up for a bit, stuffing my hands in my pockets as I follow Scotty closer to the base of the bridge.

Scotty pulls out a flashlight and beams it on the base of one of the bridge's wide piers, which I realize is almost completely covered in graffiti. Then, he sets his backpack down and looks at me. "Here we are."

I look at him, confused. "Where?"

"Here." He points to the graffiti.

"I don't get it," I say after a moment.

He laughs a little. "This is me, Uncle Ant," he says. "I've done this whole wall. Well, almost."

I blink, staring up at the illuminated wall. "This whole thing?" I ask, intimidated by the height. It's got to be at least ten feet tall.

"Yeah," he says, and I stare. At first, it didn't register as anything but basic graffiti. But now that I'm looking at it, it definitely has Scotty's flair. It reads more like a mural, even though some of the elements are disjointed: a few surprisingly-detailed faces at the bottom, a starry-sort of sky with graffiti-font words, themes of both space and nature. It's a bit daunting to look at, considering how large the canvas is, but it's incredibly detailed and precise. And he did this all... with what, spray paint?

"I... have no words," I tell him. "I'm speechless."

"Hope that's a good thing," he mutters.

"It is."

He smiles. "It's symbolic," he says.

Symbolic? "Of what?"

"The bridge that was never built between me and my dad." When I stare blankly at him, he bursts out laughing. "Oh, c'mon. It's supposed to be funny."

But I find myself frowning. "It's kind of sad, isn't it?"

"I don't know," he says. "Maybe a little. But I'm okay."

I suppose it's just me, but it always surprises me to wonder why he always seems so unfazed by their lack of a fulfilling relationship. Again, they're never really at odds, but there never really seems like there's much tying them together. "Doesn't it suck that you're not that close with him?"

"Do *you* feel close to him?" Scotty fires back.

I'm surprised by the accusatory tone in his voice. "We've been friends for a long time."

"That doesn't answer my question," he points out. Then he bends down, busying himself with his backpack. "You guys are totally different people."

"You think so?" I ask, but it's a stupid question. Everyone thinks so. It's painfully obvious.

He scoffs. "Uh, yeah. He's serious, meticulous, disciplined, afflicted with tunnel-vision... You're fun, more artistic, more holistic, you see things in broader strokes, you're a bit of a slob--"

"Hey," I say, laughing.

"I mean it in the nicest way possible," he says, looking up from his bag. "Like, you're not afraid to, you know, just *be*, even if it's messy." He stares at me for a moment before continuing to speak. "Well, maybe you are a little afraid of that. But Dad? Dad might not look it, but I feel like he's terrified of being anything other than what he portrays."

Damn, this kid is astute as fuck. He's way more observant and analytical than I give him credit for. "Well, what are *you* afraid of, then?" I ask, watching him pull a few cans of spray paint from his backpack.

He smiles and thinks on it for a moment. "Not being loved. Is that cheesy?" he asks with a little grimace.

"No," I tell him. I'll love you, Scotty. You don't have to be afraid of that.

He scans a few different cans with the flashlight, probably checking the colors. "Sometimes I really wanna have one of those fiery, super passionate romances you see in the movies," he says. "But I know those are movies. Don't feel like you have to remind me."

I chuckle. "You matured faster than I did."

"Yeah, right," he says sarcastically. "I still have a lot to learn."

"But that's it right there," I say. "Me and your dad, at your age, we thought we knew everything. I'm only now getting to the part where I realize I don't know shit, and I'm fucking forty years old." These past few weeks have probably aged me, too.

He seems to settle on a particular can before he stands up and looks at me curiously for a while. "You're okay, right?"

His voice is so soft that I almost start crying. "Yeah, I'm fine."

"I worry about you."

I smirk a bit. "You worry about me?"

"Of course," he says. "I care about you. And I look up to you."

I laugh, but I feel the warmth his words generate in me. I feel it throughout my whole body. "You don't have to bullshit me, Scotty."

"I'm not bullshitting you," he says. "I *do* look up to you. You *and* my dad. You're both admirable guys, in different ways." Then, the killer: "You're like a second dad to me, honestly."

I start to tear up. I can't control it. Then, when I notice a few tears streaming, I sniffle and turn away, laughing when he says "Awww!" in a playful tone. "This alcohol is making me emotional," I tell him, rubbing my nose.

"Don't cry," he says, and I hear him come closer before I feel his arms wrap around me. God, this boy is gonna kill me one day.

I put one arm around him, keeping it appropriate and resting it on his upper back. "Your fault, monkey," I say, finding myself using my go-to nickname for him. I started calling him that when he was younger, on account of the way his ears stick out a little in the cutest fucking way. I thought he'd hate it by now, but he never asks me to not use it -- though sometimes I swear he blushes a little.