"You're doing it again."
Terry sits back against the wall and ignores my glare, or at least pretends to. Our table is in the corner of the bar and his stool is wedged into the corner so he'll have a place to lean when he passes out, which he always does. He takes a sip of his drink and pretends not to look at me.
"I'm fine."
"Tell that to your palm."
I frown and look at my hand, and sure enough, I've been digging my nails into the flesh below my thumb. Not hard enough to draw blood, but it's a near thing. I don't feel any pain, though.
I should stop drinking. I've already done far too much drinking, and I'm not supposed to have alcohol at all on anxiety meds, but fuck it. I've earned this.
"I'm
fine.
"
I force myself to relax my hands, but the indentations will be there for a few hours at least. I place my palms flat against the tabletop, just in case.
My brother isn't even pretending not to worry about me know, concern written all over his face. I try to pull my other hand away, but I'm not fast enough - he's holding my wrist and stroking the inside gently, his mouth a thin and motherly line. I want to wrench my fucking arm back, but it's comforting and I feel better and he knows it.
"You can do this." I don't understand how I can hear him over the music. "You know you can. He's just a person, right?"
"Thanks, fuckface."
"James - "
"Go to hell." I'm being mean and it isn't fair, but I'm about to have a heart attack and I'm not in the mood for his shit. Tonight's important, and he can cut me a little fucking slack about being nervous.
"I love you, you know that, right?"
Oh, god.
"Don't start."
"I'm just trying to help you get a little perspective here. No matter what happens tonight, the sun will still rise in the morning. Just...take a breath, kid. The worst case scenario is that things stay exactly the way they are."
I know he thinks he's helping, but he's only making it worse. I know that things can stay the same - it's my worst fucking nightmare. An endless life of pining away for Eric and begging for whatever scraps he deigns to toss my way out of pity. Or obliviousness.
Not sure which is worse.
Maybe they're the same thing in the end.
I force an evenness into my voice that isn't genuine.
"Thanks, Terry."
As tentative at his smile is, I'm glad that other fucking expression is gone from his face. I've seen it more often than I would like the past few months, and it's nice to know he's capable of looking at me without it. I've had a rough go of it, but fuck, I just want to feel normal again. I just want to be me, whoever that is nowadays.
Before Terry can start another round of therapy talk, I see him.
Eric.
Walking toward us.
"Breathe," Terry says. His voice is even and reassuring, not that it makes any difference. "Breathing is good."
He looks impossibly perfect, like always. He's been gone for two weeks - two endless weeks - and now he's back with a new haircut (lots of bangs) and painted nails (black) and tighter jeans (orange). The bar has normal light - none of that strobe shit - and it's a blessing and a curse, because I can see him clear as day.
He picks up his pace and starts half-jogging toward us, and most of me wants to run screaming in the other direction. I'm rooted to the spot, though, so I stand and wait for D-Day, barely breathing. He's only a few feet away and everything seems to slow down and I feel like I'm sinking into a dream. The light casts an amber halo onto his dark head as his arm stretches gracefully in bullet time, reaching out for me.
Reality crashes into me as he pulls me into a hug like he has a habit of doing. He does this with all the new people he meets, and his hug is a full-body, back-rubbing thing that makes me crazy with want. But I wore tighty-whiteys and jeans, so that at least one thing I can breathe easy about.
He lets me go without noticing anything (
never fucking notices anything when it comes to me
) and hops onto one of the seats between me and Terry.
"So how was Florida?" Terry speaks first, and I am eternally grateful.
"Hot," Eric says. He gives Terry a cursory glance, but his gaze settles on me and doesn't waver. "And wet. So a lot like here, I guess." He laughs, and it's the most beautiful ringing little peal I've ever heard. I hate him a little for how much I love that laugh. "Nice, though. Maybe I'll go back someday."
It occurs to me that I don't even know what the fuck he was doing in Florida. I didn't get to find out before he left - I was too busy having panic attacks and trying not to be in love with him. Eric has what seems like a slew of adoring fans since he came out and I didn't want to be another groupie kissing his ass, another temporary guest star on the Eric Show.
A bit of the brightness seeps out of Eric. It's a whole-body thing, his disappointment in me, and I'm overcome with the urge to make it up to him, yes, but also I'm angry. I'm tired of feeling all the frustration, sexual and otherwise, all alone. I want him to fucking worry about impressing
me
.
Just for once.
We were together all the time, all through high school and college, and I told myself we were close, best friends. And we are, in a lot of ways. He mostly talked and I mostly listened, and that's still how it is, but he always has so much more to say. And I was satisfied with watching him dance and talk and live, even if I took a back seat a lot of the time. The back seat of Eric Larsen's Car of Existence is a mighty fine place to be. He's like a sun, and you don't demand things of suns. You bask in their radiance when they're gracious enough to shine on you, and Eric shines on me a lot. And it was enough, before, just being present wherever he was. Being close to him.
But fuck that.
He's talking to Terry now, not even looking at me anymore. He's always had that way about him, that take-it-or-leave-it aura that draws people to him. He's not arrogant - it's something more subtle, more finessed than that. He's got the confidence of a man twice his age. When his attention leaves me, it's like someone opens the door to a nearby walk-in freezer. I've been dismissed, I know it, and that more than anything makes me want to slam something on the table.
I grab Terry's drink and down it.
Their conversation tapers off and they're both looking at me. Terry's Mom-Lips of Significant Concern are back in place, naturally. Eric's expression is unreadable and he just sits there, skinny orange legs crossed.
"I have to get some fucking air."
I slide off the bar stool and stomp to the front of the bar. I feel like a toddler having a temper tantrum. Maybe that's what I am.
It's not crowded in here tonight, so I don't even get the satisfaction of shoving anyone out of my way. The path to the back of the bar is clear and it takes me less than a minute to reach the door to the alley. I shove it open and power through, running into the brick wall opposite the building.
I've had too much to drink.
The wall before me is warm and wet with the recent rain, and I turn my back against it, breathing deeply. The whole scene is spinning and I struggle to stay upright and try not to think about how I just stole my big brother's drink and then ran away like a six-year-old.
I see Eric's orange pants before I notice the rest of him.
He must have gone out the front door, because he's at the end of the alley to my right. His legs blur together as he heads in my direction, and even my drunken eyes pick up on the nearly feminine grace of his gait.
He leans against the closed door across from me, just staring, legs crossed at the ankle. He's always been a leg crosser, even back when all he wore were baggy Yu-Gi-Oh! t-shirts and off-brand jeans. I can't even see his eyes through his bangs, but I can feel the weight of his gaze looking me over, appraising me. His fucking expression is as neutral as it was inside, and it reignites the flame of rage in my chest that went out when I crashed into the wall. Eric the Great, too cool to be anything other than slightly curious about his best friend of fifteen years stomping off like a baby Stormtrooper.
There are things I like about that gaze, too, that cold assessment, but I don't want to think about those things just now. I can't, or I'll lose it completely and dive for his zipper. I wouldn't need any words then, would I?
"So," he says, tapping his black nails on his thigh, "that was entertaining."
There's a smile playing at his lips, a snide one that has just a few teeth showing at the corner. It occurs to me that he looks like Draco fucking Malfoy would look if Draco had ever caught Harry jacking off to a poster of Viktor Krum in the Prefects bathroom. It also occurs to me that I should get a hobby besides watching movies. Then I remember that Eric's making fun of me, and maybe it's the alcohol, but my skin is starting to prickle with what feels like fury.
Fuck this.
"Yeah, I'll bet you fucking liked it, you prick." I'm slurring, but not too badly.
I can tell that he's surprised by that, and well,
good
.
"Something you want to talk about, Champ?"
Champ?
Champ?
"No way,
pal
." I infuse as much poison into the words as I can. "Just one of the little people, nothing to see here. Move along, Prince Charming, just a beggar, your grace."
