by Andy Finch
“Do you like it?” Ian stares up with puppy dog eyes, waiting to see the excitement on his lover’s face. He snatches the silver band from Draven’s hands and screws it onto his fingers. It fits Draven perfectly, he wouldn’t have guessed that it came from a cheap knock off place. And if he did guess, he doesn’t show it. Only the edges of a smile pull at his lips, “It’s a promise ring… because… because I promise myself to you.”
Draven closes his palm, squeezing the box still sat in it. The ring enlightens his skin, a contrast that would forever mark him as Ian’s. This makes his heart flutter in his chest, but a grip of anxiety continues to grow in the space of his heart. To be marked, to be known as gay in the South was risky enough. He doesn’t care, though. He sees the anxiety growing, sweltering within, but the morphine blocks its effects from reaching his brain and ruining the mood. He nods his approval, then leaps forward to kiss his beloved. Their mouths touch, leaving them breathless for the hint of a second. They both nearly stumble and fall, but Draven attempts to balance them out.
“I love you,” he says, another kiss finds Ian’s skin, “More than you’ll ever realize.”
Today was a good day. He’s forgotten the image of bones in the mirror, staring back as a warning of what would come if he could not gain any weight. He’s forgotten that Ian would have to leave next week for Biloxi, another contracting gig to build some stupid center. He knows bliss, in this moment of calm. Draven silently attributes it to the pills he’s taken this morning without Ian’s knowledge. It was his pick-me-up. Everything was better with morphine.
And now, he and Ian celebrate their promises with sweet tea and lukewarm beignets. The world was happy, even if just for this second.
✽✽✽
“It’s the drugs,” Ian had said to his mother over the phone, “I think the antibiotics are making him not want to eat.”
“It’s the stress,” Geneva had said to Jaylen when she thought Draven was out of earshot, “It’s the best fat burner.”
“It’s the morphine,” Draven admitted to himself when he knew he was alone. He stares at the near-empty pill bottle, wondering if Morris would ever appear again.
He doesn’t. The nights are empty. Clouds threatening with the chance of snow hang overhead. The air only perfumed with Ian’s breath. Draven wishes he’d see those tufts of blond hair peeking through the curtains that block the balcony. They never appear. He lays in bed, Ian’s arms entangled with his own. He can’t sleep. Not with the worries that poison his mind. When would he get his refill? Would Ian notice? Will Morris come back?
“Go to sleep,” Ian says, startling Draven, “It’s late.”
He flinches, expecting to turn a cheek and the world would be warped, and Morris would be standing in the absence of light. Nothing happens. Ian touches his chest, his breath rattles in the cage of ribs. If Ian noticed the wheeze in his almost-fiancé trunk, he didn’t acknowledge it. Or maybe he did, adding it to the list of symptoms in his head. Things he would write down for Draven to give to the next doctor that would fill his prescriptions. Things Draven would ignore like yesterday’s news.
He tries to obey, though. He shuts his eyes, loosens his limbs. But his brain continues to travel a million miles a minute. His eyes open, refusing the wheedling given. He looks down at the promise ring set on his finger, then back to Ian. A sigh comes forward as his brain continues to travel down roundabouts of thoughts. Every thought came back to one thing.
Morris. And the morphine. He’d cry if he could. Let the tears draw out the little bits of emotion he had left, to drain him of this urge, to give him the blankness that comes after the purge of tears. But he doesn’t. He can’t cry. He can’t allow himself that luxury, lest it spark some type of fear in the man sleeping next to him. No, Ian did not deserve the pain that would follow should Draven weep.
Draven has never felt so alone. Even with his lover’s hands caressing the fragile pieces of his body.
Outside his window, a crow cries into the night. An odd sight around these parts of the city. Louisiana allowed hunters to kill the birds to thin the population, so most of them keep off the paths that humans travel. Draven watches from the sliver of the window visible from the curtains. The crow rested its black body on the white wooden fence encasing the balcony. It drops a rock on the terrace, then flies away.
Draven was alone again.
6
It was New Year’s Eve, now. The days go by in a blur, hastened with opioids and work stress. Maybe it was only Draven who experience the time warp. He wasn’t so sure.
It had snowed once this winter, much unlike southern Louisiana. Clouds still hang in the sky, tempted to dump more of the white fluff onto the dried-up muddy earth. That would be a nightmare for the cities. People celebrate New Years with drunk spirits and parades, the snow would be the catalyst of destruction. Thankfully, snow wasn’t in the forecast, but the cold temperatures would bring slick roads.
They, Jaylen and Draven, were sat in Ian and Draven’s tiny living room. The walls were a lilac color, or maybe there were just grey and appeared purple in the afternoon sunlight. There was a couch, right in the middle of the linoleum-turned-wood flooring. Every piece of furniture came from a hand-me-down store. The money they saved went to the bank account that they’d pull a house loan from, in the future.
Jaylen wears baggy pants that smell of concrete and less-than-adequate pay. Draven has already forgotten where he worked at. Something like Ian’s job, he thinks, did they work together? Jaylen’s eyes, chestnut brown, flick irresponsibly to the framed portrait of Ian and Draven. A gift from Draven’s mother. Contemplation reads on his face, but Draven can’t think of whatever Jaylen was thinking. His eyes come back to narrow on Draven, the first creep of intoxication hidden in the brown hearth of his eyes.
“Do you have a resolution this year?” Jaylen swirls the plastic champagne cup that he had bought from Rouses, “Just curious, y’know?”
The tv hums with the songs rolling off the music channel. It was background noise to keep the tinnitus away while Ian and Geneva, the loud ones, were away. The couch rocks as Draven adds his weigh to it. Jaylen notices how much he’s lost, but he says nothing. They sit in silence, the tv singing, the fan overhead blowing. Jaylen thinks Draven had not heard him, a pregnant pause with no words causes him to open his mouth to repeat but he thinks otherwise of it. It didn’t look like Draven was listening, anyway. His eyes linger around the shadows of the room. Waiting, watching for something. His skin pales, but he makes no other notion.
Draven thinks about it for a moment. Resolutions, he says to himself, why would I care? Resolutions were those weak blimps of hope in the first few weeks of the new year. They were always given up, most before Mardi Gras came around. He replies with a simple yet stern, “No.” As if I’d want to, anyway.
“You’re never any fun, home-fry,” Jaylen snickers before gulping down the rest of his champagne. His breath already reeks of alcohol. Draven remembers Ian’s worried gaze when Geneva offered to take him to get daiquiris, leaving Draven alone with another drunkard with a history of alcohol abuse, “I got one for ya,” he points to Draven’s stomach, “put on some damn weight this year. You look worse than a hobo.”
“Thanks, Jay,” Draven rolls his eyes, then he busies himself with the computer in his lap. On the screen were several photography companies that dealt with social issues. Black lives matter, LGBT+, the oppression of women. He was going to submit both Geneva’s mural and the car incident shot to these big names in hopes of getting some credit under his belt. Or, at the very least, some exposure. Or, the best option, some fame would stir in Geneva and his favor, without the memory of the police incident hanging over them, “Resolutions are supposed to be kinda fun though, don’t you think? Like reading books or saving money,” his eyes stir back to the shadows, then to the artificial light of his computer screen, “You know?”
“None of those sounded that fun.” Jaylen makes a noise, a growl in his nasal cavit
y that sounds more like a snort than he’d think.
It would be fun, Draven insists to himself, if you had the time or money to care about those things.
Draven ponders his past resolutions over a microwaved baked potato with creole seasoning. There was fun in resolutions when he was younger. He and Ian would write one-word resolutions on bay leaves and burn them in a bonfire. That was back when life was happy. Without the morphine. Without the burdens of adulthood. Now, though, he hadn’t the time to care.
Unless—one side of his brain ushers in the image of pills.
No, the other, rational side, hisses back, you don’t need it. You know it’s bad.
Just then, Geneva and Ian come through the front door. Ian holds a drink holder with four daiquiris. New Orleans and the surrounding cities were special. They had drive-thru daiquiri shops. Ian only drank during New Year's Eve. His order is always the same from the daiquiri shop. Blue Raspberry. Blue coloring already paints the waterline of Ian’s lips. There’s a chorus of welcomes as Geneva hands out the other two drinks. Draven got a peach Bellini, while Jaylen had himself a pina colada flavor.
Ian shoots a firm look before handing the smallest Styrofoam drink to Draven. The same look that tells him to enjoy himself, but with moderation. He understood the underlining message.
“When do the fireworks start?” Jaylen asks while blowing into his straw.
“You’re an idiot,” Draven replies, half-joking. A rot of irritation licks at his words, coating them in a fit of sickly anger. Geneva shoots a glare, “The same time every year. Midnight.” His head was pounding, his stomach rolling with waves of sickness spurred from the lack of morphine in his veins. By God, you needed another fix.
“Sometimes they do it differently,” Geneva chimes in, a hand resting on her hips to scold Draven. It was only Jaylen who could tear Geneva and Draven’s relationship to the ground, “I think some places are shoot in’ off early this year for the kiddos,” her lips upturn, flashing her pearly teeth to her boyfriend, “Can’t have them out past midnight. Not good for ‘em.”
“When has anyone cared about the kiddos?” Draven barks.
A silence. Three pairs of eyes were on him. He no longer has a computer in his lap to cover his face. His cheeks burn with shame, and anger he’s been holding on to. He doesn’t understand why he was so moody.
You just need a pill, he tells himself, it would help. Everyone would be happy.
The risk of being in 3D was starting to get to him, here and now. Every little annoyance: the smack of Jaylen’s lips, the fall of ash from the fireworks, the gulps Ian takes as he hammers down his bit of daiquiri—it was too much. Too much in too little time. Draven feels as if he’d explode if anyone makes another little noise.
“A lot of people do, Dray,” Ian steps in now, too, “What’s gotten into you?” He whispers the last bit, his breath hot with his impatience.
A breath, drawn short with shame and guilt. Draven lets his head hang from his shoulders, “I dunno,” he whispers, “I’m just moody.”
“Yeah,” Geneva rolls her eyes, “Try not to ruin our mood either.”
Ian grabs Draven’s wrist, pulling him to the couch before he can inflict any further damage to himself. A knot of frustration sits on his face, looking back at Draven. The bow of his lips twists and molds into a scowl. The fangs come back out; this time aimed towards Draven. It was like having a lion’s maw at his throat. He doesn’t enjoy the newfound Ian anymore.
“What’s really going on with you?” Ian demands, an accusatory pitch to his words.
“I’m tired.”
“You never act like this.”
Another breath choked up on words left unsaid. Ian touches his chin, his bony fingers—now the same width as Draven’s, unhumorously—command a respect. A new authority. Now Draven is on the fence again, between enjoying this leader made up of Ian and hating the chasting being given. Ian can’t keep it up. Oh, no. The true worrying side of him comes back out, begging to see the softer side of Draven again. Their mouths touch. Gentle. Not-so-sensual. They both wear a smile now.
“Keep yourself on a short leash, babe.”
And that was that. Ian turns away, attention preoccupied with the last bits of daiquiri melting in the styrofoam cup in his hands. If Draven would look closely, he’d see the very first grey hair sticking out of Ian’s scalp. Or he’d see the laugh lines turned scowl-scars. Like the moon, Ian has been going through his own phases.
The day burns on, fueled with alcohol and good music. The sun sets, hiding early behind the sky. It’s dark all around except for the dank kitchen light casting a cheap hue. There are a few mutters of “how much longer,” and the hours slowly tick away. The music got turned off at some point during the night, Draven can’t remember. It’s eleven-thirty now, give or take a few minutes. Draven was bad at reading clocks. Dark bags hang under each pair of eyes. Draven looks as if he would pass out at any given moment now.
Entwined together, Draven and Ian enjoy each other’s company on the couch. Their breath hot against their skin. The world revolved around them. Geneva and Jaylen were somewhere else. Here in this house, yes, but they did not engage in any conversations. They followed in Ian and Draven’s examples, cuddling in an intoxicated way. Draven lays his lover on his chest, though Ian worries that he was as frail as he looked. The indentions of ribs startle Ian, even through the fabric of his tee-shirt. He was sick. Draven was sick.
“I want to ask you something,” Ian half-slurs, but the grip of gravity in his words frighten Draven, “It’s serious.”
Draven is, truthfully, half-asleep. New Year's Eve loses its hype once you hit a certain again. The years meld together. They go by faster and faster. In one blink, he could be left in the past. The future had already forgotten him. The past no longer exists.
“Go ahead,” Draven cocks a brow, “It better not be about a stupid resolution—“
“They’re not stupid,” Ian sobers up within a second. His fingers curl in the stubble of Draven’s hair, silently wishing he would grow it out into his curly mane again, “Maybe you should… stop with… the morphine this—sorry—next year.”
Furrowing his brow, Draven replies with a simple, “What?” What was Ian trying to accuse him of now? Being an addict? No, Draven won’t let them point the finger at him anymore.
“I’ve seen how much you’ve been taking,” Ian whispers now, careful not to draw attention, “And look at you, you’re skin and bones, babe,” his alcohol-flushed cheeks burn brighter with embarrassment, “Just leave it in this year. Leave it here. Please?”
“I’m not an addict, babe,” he rolls his eyes, but Ian’s glare strengthens with seriousness. Draven reconsiders his choice of words, “I’ll have you know I haven’t even taken a morphine in a week!” He looks down. Ian gets glossy-eyed. It was a lie. He huffs, resigning the little sense of pride that tried to live in the moment, “But I’ll put it behind us. For you.”
He would allow Ian this one victory.
“Thank you,” Ian sighs, “Look at the time.”
It was almost midnight. Already, fireworks rang in the distance. Some in anticipation for the ringing in of the new year, others fired from poor calculations and drunken spirits. Their foreheads touch, sweaty and damp. Geneva and Jaylen were somewhere beside them, counting down the minutes till midnight. Minutes turn to seconds. Five, four, three, two…
Draven puts his palms on Ian’s feverish cheeks. Their lips touch, teasing each other before melting away the hesitation. Ian tastes of chocolate and raspberry. The color wears on Draven’s lips now too. Both mouths covered in an artificially colored blue. Their kiss breaks. It was midnight. The first day of the year. All the tensions from the year past were unpacked, left behind, and would be forgotten by the time the sun rises. Things would be different, Draven assured, but even now, he thinks of his morphine.
“I wish I had another daiquiri right now,” Geneva calls from somewhere in the kitchen. The boom of fireworks alm
ost drowns out her voice. An explosion of blues, reds, whites, yellows erupts from the windows. Draven hates fireworks.
“Me too,” Ian and Draven say on the same beat. Draven presses his nose against Ian’s. Draven repeats, “me too,” before the emotional stress of the day besets him. Or maybe it was the alcohol. A mix of both. Homebrew that sweetens his sleep. His eyelids fall heavy, sleep comes creeping in.
He isn’t awake when Ian coos down to him in a singsong voice, “Happy New Year’s, babe.”
✽✽✽
“Wake up.” A voice calls.
The world has eloped in sweet darkness. No fireworks sound, no drunken cries from partiers. Wait, when did he get outside? The base of the magnolia tree offers his back a place to rest as the mosquitoes nip at his exposed skin. Ian’s scent still clings to his clothing. Was he the one talking? Had he gotten that drunk? Ian was going to kill him if he didn’t have a reason to already. Somewhere, a bark of a saint Bernard calls out into the early morning hours. He was awake now.