by Gregory Ashe
“I’m sorry I made a scene,” Tean said.
“I don’t care about that.”
“I’m not going to go crazy again. I just—I was feeling a lot of things, and they were overwhelming.”
Ammon hummed something, a song Tean didn’t know, and his fingers continued their rhythmic pull and glide. “What were you feeling?”
“I don’t know.”
“It’s been a long time since you lied to me about what you were feeling.”
Tean swallowed. His throat was thick; his nose was stuffy with snot.
“I want to show you something.” Ammon lay on his belly, drew out his phone, and unlocked it. He tapped through a series of screens and then held the phone to Tean.
The display showed a scanned document. Pages and pages with text and signatures. Tean pinched and zoomed, blinking because his eyes were still hot and itchy. Then he pulled in a deep breath.
“Ammon, why didn’t you tell me?”
“I am telling you, dingbat. I’m telling you right now.” He chucked Tean under the chin, forcing his eyes up. He wore a nervous smile. “I am officially a single man.”
“I didn’t—I don’t know what you want—”
“I want to kiss you,” Ammon said. He shifted, supporting himself on his elbows, his leg moving between Tean’s. He smelled like the beer from dinner, like sweat, like Ammon. He kissed Tean, and he tasted like beer and Ammon. He shifted again, and his hand slid under Tean’s shirt, pawing at his chest. When he broke the kiss, he whispered, “I want this to be our first time. This is our real first time.”
Over the tattoo of blood in his ears, Tean could hear the ice machine rattling. He nodded, and he sat up to help Ammon strip off his shirt. Then he arched his back so Ammon could tug his chinos down to his ankles. And then Ammon pulled them off completely, kissing the inside of Tean’s calves, kissing up to the knobby knees, kissing over the thick dark hair on the inside of Tean’s thighs. He pulled down the black briefs and took Tean in his mouth, and Tean gasped. Ammon looked up at him, eyes hooded, irises so dark they were almost purple.
When he pulled off Tean’s dick, Ammon licked his lips and said, “Tell me what you want.”
Tean’s breath whistled in his throat.
“I only want to do what you want. Please tell me what you want.” From the hall came a thunk as something hit the floor, then drunken laughter. Ammon kissed Tean’s stomach, turning his face so that Tean’s dick left a wet mark along his cheek. His eyes slid toward the minibar with its airplane-sized bottles. “If you need help.”
“I don’t want to do that anymore.”
“Ok. That’s ok. I only want what you want; I just thought it made it easier for you.”
And it did. It always made it easier. Everclear or schnapps or vodka or gin. Whatever could go through his brain like a battering ram, knocking down everything that tried to stand up to this. And for the first time in his life, Tean wondered why it had become so difficult with Ammon, at what point in all their years of doing this, things had changed between them. He wondered why something that should have been easy had only gotten harder and harder.
“Ammon.”
His mouth took Tean again.
“Ammon, stop.”
His big hands gripped Tean, spreading his legs, exposing him.
“Ammon, I don’t want to do this.”
Ammon pulled off with another wet pop. “Let’s get you something to drink.”
“No, I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to do this anymore.”
“What does that mean?”
Over Ammon’s shoulder, Tean could see them both in the window, glass specters. “You know what I mean.”
“No, I don’t. I don’t know what the fuck you think you mean.” His lips were full. A hint of saliva glistened at the corner of his mouth. “Let’s calm down and talk about this.”
Ghosts in the glass. Maybe in the flux of quantum possibilities, that was the real Ammon, the real Tean, the real world.
Shouts erupted in the hall. No words, just a bellowing rage.
“Jem,” Tean said, sliding out from under Ammon.
“We’re not done talking.” Ammon caught his arm.
But Tean twisted free. He pulled his briefs into place, grabbed his shirt, and looked around for where Ammon had tossed his chinos. Ammon was getting off the bed, trying to grab Tean’s arm again, so Tean decided to forego the pants. He hurried to the door and threw it open.
A dark-haired man was backing down the hall, naked except for one sock, holding balled-up clothing to his chest. His lip was split, and blood ran down his chin. “You’re out of your fucking mind,” he shouted.
Jem stood in the doorway of the next room, naked and clutching the jamb. He roared something back at the man, and the sound was frightening because it resembled words without making any sense.
“I’m calling the cops. You’re a fucking lunatic.”
“He’s sick,” Tean said, moving toward Jem. “He didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“The fuck he didn’t. I’m calling the cops.”
“He’s not well. Can’t you see that?”
Jem made more of those horrible, slurred noises.
“What the fuck is going on out here?” Ammon said from behind Tean.
“That maniac attacked me!”
Jem lunged, or tried to. As soon as he released the door jamb, he began to fall. Tean caught him, grunted at the other man’s weight, and then swore when Jem clubbed the side of his head.
“Stop it.” The second blow knocked the glasses from Tean’s face. “Stop, Jem. Stop. It’s me. Stop it! Ammon, can you help.”
By then, though, Jem had gone still, slumped against Tean. His face was hot against Tean’s shoulder. His breathing was unnaturally slow, and drool soaked through the cotton of Tean’s polo.
Ammon scooped up the fallen glasses.
“He’s really heavy.”
“So dump him in his room and close the door.”
“No, I want to get him to the bed and make sure he’s ok. I don’t like how he’s breathing.”
“Then call an ambulance.”
“He doesn’t like that. He doesn’t like hospitals.”
Ammon didn’t say anything.
“A little help?”
“I’ll help you get him in bed. Then I want to talk to you.”
“I don’t think tonight is the right time for this.”
Ammon crossed his arms. It was hard, without the glasses, to make out his expression, but Tean had known him long enough that he recognized the stiff posture.
“Fine,” Tean said. “Just give me my glasses. I’ll take care of him myself.”
“No.”
“What do you mean, no? Give me my glasses.”
“No. I’m tired of this. You need to stop acting like a crazy person. We’ll put him to bed, and then we’re going to talk like adults.”
“They’re my glasses, Ammon. Give them to me. Right now.”
“Sure. As soon as we’re back in your room. Talking.”
“This is extortion.”
“Don’t be so dramatic.”
“I’m not going to ask you again, Ammon. Give me my glasses. We’re not having this conversation tonight. Frankly, the way I’m feeling right now, maybe we never need to have it.”
The whole world was a blur to Tean’s impaired vision, but he heard the crack of plastic breaking, and then the soft thumps of something hitting the carpet.
“There you go,” Ammon said. “There are your glasses.”
Tean stared at the out-of-focus shape. Then he said, “Goodnight, Ammon.”
“Fuck your goodnight. You don’t have any fucking idea what I’ve put up with from you. I’m sick of it. When you’re thinking clearly again, I’ll be waiting for your apology. And trust me, Tean, you’re going to spend a long time convincing me you deserve to have me back.”
Tean waited to see i
f there was more. Then he shouldered open the door to Jem’s room, got Jem into a fireman’s carry, and staggered to the bed. The room was pitch black and smelled like sex. After easing Jem onto the mattress, Tean made his way back to the hall. Ammon was gone. He crawled around on the floor, picking up as many pieces of the frames as he could find. Then he let himself back into Jem’s room and set the swing bar.
He left the broken glasses on the black plateau of the entertainment center. He found a lamp and switched it on. Jem lay on his side, his breathing still artificially slow, his eyes cracked open, glassy and vacant. Faint, blush-colored marks on his thighs would be bruises in the morning; the pink print of a hand marked one butt cheek. Tean rolled him onto his stomach, finished his inspection, and found nothing else external. Then he made a wall of pillows and rolled Jem onto his side again, with the pillows as a backstop. Jem was still watching him from the other side of those empty eyes.
In polo and briefs, Tean climbed up onto the bed and lay next to Jem.
“So you don’t slide onto your back, vomit, and asphyxiate,” Tean told him.
Jem didn’t even blink.
“Can you tell me what you took?”
The A/C came to life; it was like the whole room sucked in a breath. On the entertainment center, an empty glass vial stood next to a three-pack of condoms. If they had to go to the hospital, Tean would take the vial with him; maybe they could test it.
With another of those protoverbal moans, Jem pushed on Tean.
“Cut it out.”
Jem mumbled something again; whatever he’d taken had left him sedated almost to the point of unconsciousness, but he was still trying to force Tean off the bed.
“I said cut it out; I’m not going anywhere.” And then, the words coming out of nowhere, Tean snapped, “Zebras can’t sleep alone. They won’t sleep unless a member of the herd is with them, standing guard. Tonight, you’re a zebra.”
This time, the words sounded dangerously close to not a zebra.
“You goddamn are. And you’ve got the stripes on your ass to prove it. Now go to sleep.”
Tean wasn’t sure, but Jem might have mumbled swear jar. But he settled down, his head coming to rest on Tean’s belly. Goosebumps covered his pale skin, so Tean drew up the covers. Then, under the comforter, he found Jem’s hand.
Jem stirred again.
“Oh, be quiet,” Tean said. “All you ever want is to touch. So be quiet. Don’t make me tell you about otters holding hands.”
“Not an otter.”
“I said be quiet.”
“Not a zebra.”
“Jeez, you are a serious pain in my butt. That’s what you are.”
Jem’s breathing continued to be slow, tidally deep. Tean closed his eyes and rested against the headboard. He kept playing it out, over and over again: the day with his brothers; Ammon kissing him; the tears that wouldn’t stop. Sleep took his brain out of focus, and other thoughts drifted in.
He’d been twelve, spending Christmas break at his grandparents’ house in northern Utah. They’d had a dog named Straw, a Golden Retriever mix, who’d been twelve too. That had seemed very important at the time. Straw had cancer; now, in the bizarre clarity that came sometimes at the threshold of sleep, Tean knew even the most rigorous treatments couldn’t have saved her. The same end came to everything, no matter how hard you fought, and it could be a mercy. But he had been twelve, growing into himself, uncertain of everything and wanting to be certain about something. When Straw had become incontinent, his grandfather had gotten out his .22.
Tean had begged. He had argued. Finally, he had defied. He had made a bed for Straw in the barn: a Chiquita banana box—the big kind, the size of shipping pallet—and he’d put down horse blankets. He’d carried Straw out, ignoring his grandfather’s shouts and the way he strutted around, his turkey neck jiggling as he called orders. He’d spent two days in the barn, giving Straw water, combing snarls and burrs out of her fur, the smell of the kerosene heater mixing with the smell of the banana box, and under it all, Straw’s sickness and incontinence. He’d cried for two days, or that’s how it seemed now. Two days drinking from the same spigot as Straw. Two days with a horse blanket around his shoulders, huddled next to the kerosene heater, not sleeping for fear Straw would die if he did. He’d woken to the sound of the .22 and the banana box empty. After that, he hadn’t cried for a long time.
He touched the back of his hand to his face, surprised to find his eyes dry. Then he combed Jem’s hair with his fingers. The blinds were up. The city eventually snuffed out. Dawn came on like an infection. He slept.
33
When Jem woke, the room was peach-colored, and he thought he was still doped. Then he realized it was sunrise, and he was curled up around Tean, the doc half-propped against the headboard. The light softened his face, took out so many of the lines of worry, protectiveness (another kind of worry, Jem guessed), fear and hope and care (more worry, it seemed to Jem right then). The G had wiped out pretty much everything from the last twenty-four hours, but Jem had a strange half-memory of zebras.
He peeled himself away from Tean, stumbled to the bathroom, and threw up for a long time. Then he cleaned himself up and brushed his teeth, his head pounding so badly that it made his eyes water. In the mirror, one side of his face was red and stippled with the texture from Tean’s polo. The lacerations and their stitches itched. He tried to drink water and gave up. When he got back to the bed, he hooked one arm around Tean’s shoulders and the other under his knees. The doc’s eyes came open.
Jem shushed him as he slid Tean down to lie on the mattress and placed a pillow under his head. “Your neck is going to thank me later.”
Tean just stared at him, his eyes dark and bottomless, and then went back to sleep.
Jem lowered the blinds, crawled into bed, and curled up around Tean.
When he woke the next time, the room was no longer peach-colored, and Tean was lying on his side, watching him.
“Heidegger says death is what gives life meaning.”
“No,” Jem said, burying his face in Tean’s chest, smelling the city on the polo, missing the scents of pine and sage and the wide-open range. “It’s too early.” Tean laughed softly. His fingers tickled the back of Jem’s neck. After a while, Jem mumbled, “Ok. Ready, set, go.”
“No, it’s nothing. I don’t even know why I said it.”
“Dear God, I am a fucking wreck from taking G, and I just spent the last day and a half thinking you’d never talk to me again, so please have pity on me and don’t make me beg you to talk to me about weird old German men.”
“What’s G?”
“Liquid X. GHB. Gamma hydroxy-something-with-a-B acid.”
“Hydroxybutyric.”
“Of course you know the actual name.” Jem snuggled into Tean’s chest.
“Is that what that guy tried to put into my drink?”
“How do I answer that without getting yelled at?”
“I should have listened to you, Jem. I’m sorry. I’d had this weird feeling that someone had been following me, and nobody would ever talk to me after a first date, and I took all that insecurity out on you. I’m really sorry. And I’m even sorrier that I didn’t trust you.”
“I’m going to say this, and then you can do whatever you want except make loud noises because my head might actually fall apart, but did you think about the fact that maybe you weren’t completely wrong?”
Jem felt the hitch in Tean’s breath when he understood. Then Tean said quietly, “Ammon.”
“He always wanted to know where you were going. I followed Ammon when you went out with Ragnarok—”
“Just Ragnar.”
“—and he was keeping an eye on you.”
Tean punched the mattress. “I am such an idiot.”
“Ok, ok, but less noise, please. My head.”
After a few labored breaths, Tean managed to ask, “Do you need to go to the hospital?�
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“No, I just need you to talk quietly and maybe play with my hair.”
“How about some ibuprofen?”
“God, yes.”
Tean left and came back. This time, it was easier to drink some water and get the pills down. They found a more comfortable position, with Jem wrapped around Tean, Tean’s hand lazily working its way through Jem’s hair.
“Tell me about death,” Jem said.
“Oh my gosh. No.”
“Teannabelle Mahjong Leon, when I am feeling better, I will tie your ball sack into a knot if you don’t talk to me about whatever you need to talk about. You’re the one who’s always going on and on about feeling your feelings.”
Out in the hall, kids were laughing, then one of them shrieked so loudly and shrilly that Jem winced. Whatever the cause, the noise cut off after another moment, and peals of laughter followed.
“Goddamn kids,” Jem whispered.
“So much of my life, I believed—I was supposed to believe—that what happened in this life didn’t matter. What mattered was the life to come. This was . . . a stepping-stone, I guess. Your chance to prove that you were worthy of eternal bliss. And looking at life like that, it was easy not to be too bothered by much. I mean, part of that was because I was relatively comfortable in a functioning, middle-class family.”
“I’ve met your family. Functioning is a stretch.”
“But when you’re told over and over again that this life doesn’t matter, then you can convince yourself that suffering doesn’t matter either. Sure, it’s a little bit sad. And you’ve got your Christian duty to help other people. But it’s easy not to let it have any claim on you. Other people’s suffering, but also your own. And the same goes for joy and pleasure. Why stop and seize a moment now when you’ve got an eternity of perfect moments waiting for you? It strips everything out of life until it might as well be a standardized test.”
“I liked to make patterns. B, B, B, A, A, A, C, C, C.”
Tean laughed again, his fingers scratching Jem’s scalp pleasantly. “Heidegger, Nietzsche, Kierkegaard, Sartre, Camus—for them, confronting the inescapability of death is at the heart of being authentic, of finding meaning in existence. When you see death, when you understand its finality, when you know that it’s coming for you and that nothing you can do or say will change that, you have two options: you can recognize your total potential for living and being, or you can retreat into comfortable illusions where you feel safe. It’s our anxiety and dread of death, maybe even our despair, that makes real, authentic existence possible.”