by Damon Suede
Without thinking, Silas picked up the Scratch script and twisted it tighter in his hands. “That’s oversimplifying a lot.”
Kurt closed his teeth. “Goolsby, after like nine hundred years, I know you pretty well. No way are you gonna be able to stay faithful to some uptight head case who can’t go to the Saint with you and check your prostate on stage with a zucchini.”
“I’m not that guy anymore.” Silas doubted he ever had been. “None of that matters.”
“People don’t change. Perspectives, maybe. Knowledge. But we don’t alter our DNA because someone punches some imaginary reset button nine inches inside of us.” Kurt tapped at the wall. “I am pointing at the actual reality of your life, Bubba.”
“Right.” Silas hated being called Bubba. Kurt knew it and did it to make him feel fat and inbred. “He’s not closeted. Well, reclusive. He’s proud… just not loud.”
“Okay, fine. Sure. You’re free to be a hermit if you want. Even fuck a hermit. I’m just saying….” Shrug. “Do you have anything in common other than his jumbo doodler?”
Silas frowned but didn’t take the bait. “Yes? No? He’s… I don’t know how to explain it.”
Kurt took a swig. “I just did.”
Silas tossed the script back on the bar amid the graveyard of glasses. “Trip is….” He fell silent. Is what? How could he explain something he didn’t understand? Trip is stubborn… cautious… kind… neurotic… kinky… sad… funny… seductive. For a nanosecond, he saw Trip’s dark eyes while he tortured them both with his beautiful boner and the high cheekbones that made him look happy even when nervous. “Super. He’s just more guarded than I am. Y’know? Clark Kent! Once you get the glasses off—”
“Perfect. A prude and a slut. Sounds like a fabulous idea.”
“Fuck you.” Silas barked a nonlaugh, half-offended because Kurt didn’t seem to be joking at all. “There’s no mistake that I’m trying to undo. This isn’t a problem I’m trying to solve. It’s a happy possibility.”
“Goolsby, you been with porn stars!”
Silas snorted. “Brent sucked! Even you said so.”
“But you see what I’m getting at?”
“Let’s see. Dating a burnout who tricks at WWF matches is a rotten idea.”
“Silas—”
“Oh wait! Maybe I learned that spray-tanned nitwits who live on canned meat can stun animals with their farts. Literally. Empirically. My super’s cat still can’t open its left eye.”
“That doesn’t mean that every twinky-dink is the Holy Grail.”
“Kurt.” Silas crossed his arms, feeling angrier than he should but knowing somehow this argument mattered. “If living on the elliptical and wearing the right swimsuit and using the best gel for your Grindr picture makes every homo so incandescently happy, then why does Chelsea look like a bag of angry Doritos?”
“Amen.” Kurt raised his glass.
“V-shaped. Bright orange. Fake spice. Musky. Stale.” Silas glared at the interchangeable men around the room. They were supposed to seem hot, but he couldn’t muster curiosity, even. “Doritos!”
He glanced at his watch. He needed to finish up this beer and catch a cab or he was going to be late getting to Trip’s place. He still hadn’t figured out what to do about the script. “Funniest thing, I turn into a gentleman around him. I mean, I’m me… but I do all these things that my folks woulda loved. At first ’cause I tried to charm him, but the more I did it, the more real it felt.”
“In a month? Took you this long to get this fucked up.” Kurt drummed his fingers on the bar top.
The little barback swiveled to see if they needed refills. Silas grunted in the negative and winked in reflex, then smacked himself mentally. Stop it. Why did he do that shit? Old habits die hard.
Kurt sat and stared, waiting for him to say something. Then, “Uhh, Goolsby. That was a joke. You’re broke and from Alabama-stan, but otherwise you’re the least fucked-up person I know.” He spread his hands as if sculpting Godzilla out of the air. “I just say no way is comparing secret decoder rings with some closet-case pity fuck gonna work for you.”
Silas grinned. “Two words.” He let the animal satisfaction steal over his smile. “Nerd sex.” He thought about Trip inside him, taking charge out of nowhere with a smile on his face.
“That’s a good thing?” Kurt looked uncomfortable at the very idea.
“Things get any better, I’d have to hire someone to help me enjoy ’em. There’s just—he—I feel like I have all these options I never noticed. Like my life isn’t a concrete box.”
“No, dear.” Kurt patted his arm and simpered, “It’s a pine box.”
Silas mock-wagged a finger. “Don’t be a douche. I like him. As in, really-a-lot like him. You’d like him. Hell, the two of you are a lot alike, though it’d kill y’all to admit it. He’s your not-evil twin.” He sipped his beer. True. He’d never thought about it until now.
Kurt spread his fingers. “Silas, a fish and a bird can fall in love, but where will they live?”
“I’m not a fish.”
“C’mon, Goolsby.” Kurt rubbed his eye.
“Then he’s not a bird!” Silas felt angrier than he should.
“How about a dish”—he poked Silas’s chest—“and a nerd?” Kurt jerked his thumb back at the snowy street outside, where, presumably, Trip committed some egregious taste-crime no card-carrying homo could tolerate.
“Ha ha. Asshole.”
“I’m asking a real question.”
“That has no answer. Because I’m not a fish or a bird. I’m a man. He’s a man. I may lo—”
“Don’t say it.” Kurt held up a perfectly manicured warning hand. “Don’t you say that fucking word unless you want me to dissect that shit into atoms. Look, date whoever, fuck whoever, but at least go for someone who can spend time in your life.”
Silas said nothing.
The barback toddled by to pick up some of the bar rubble from in front of them. The bottles clinked together, but they ignored him.
“I respect every man’s need to have a kinky fetish that drives him to addiction, sweatpants, and irrational ruin.”
“That’s my weakness.” Silas picked at his cuff. Peter Parker. Clark Kent. “Nice guys.”
“Drips,” Kurt scoffed and spread his arms. “What?”
“No.” Silas squinted at the rows of uplit bottles in frustration. “Isn’t the wrong move sometimes the best way forward? I mean, are all mistakes bad?”
No response. The bar crowd muttered and squawked around them. At first Silas thought his friend hadn’t heard anything he’d said.
Kurt stroked his salt and pepper hair with a careful hand, not touching so much as grooming himself. “Fine. He’s going with you to your big hairy opening.” He had dropped his gaze, and he didn’t mouth off. “I shouldn’t have said anything. It’s your funeral.”
“Have you ever been with someone because they just kicked your ass? I don’t mean nagging, but like talking-walking-sleeping-being with them makes you want to upgrade your whole life?”
To his surprise, Kurt didn’t have a snappy comeback or a bitchy comment as he twirled his empty glass on the bar as if he knew more than he wanted to share. He closed his eyes for a moment. “No.”
He’s lying. Silas remembered seeing his best friend like this, but not when. He sat back, surprised. Kurt looked as though he’d been ready to step off a skyscraper ledge and then yanked his foot back.
What is he hiding?
Splash hummed around them. The sconces warmed the walls, and the scatter of glasses witnessed the argument. For a second, Silas wondered what the furniture would say if they could share an opinion of everything they’d seen, which was plenty. Maybe the room would know how to read the Scratch script. Maybe the room would understand why Trip calmed and confused him.
“Do I get to meet Prince Charmless at some point?” Kurt didn’t meet his eyes.
“It’s only been a month.” Crazy to think. “Y
ou will.” The thought sat perfectly with him. Trip had been asking about his friends, and Kurt’s bark and bite were miles apart. “You’ll meet him at C2E2. You’re going.”
“Obviously. Pavilion.”
“Trip’s gonna be there.” The Chicago Comic and Entertainment Expo was a major pop culture convention each April; not as horrible as the San Diego or New York ComicCons.
“Are you?”
Good question. Silas hadn’t discussed it, but rather than give Kurt more fuel, he made the decision at that instant. “Yeah. I never been. Thought I might tag along.”
Kurt sulked and kept his yap shut.
“Trip will be in Artist Alley selling sketches and original pages.” Silas shrugged. “We don’t have to wait until then, Kurt. He’s dying to meet you.”
“Five more minutes.” Kurt inspected his phone and frowned. “Ziggy said he’d drop by.”
Ziggy? Silas glanced again at his watch and slugged back the last of his warm beer. “I really gotta bolt.”
Kurt nodded and dropped the subject so hard it practically dented the floor. “Get a load of Nick Fury. Ten o’clock. Eye patch and skinny jeans. Whaddayasay? I’m betting post-rehab crystal queen with a sock fetish?”
He must have spoken too loud. The eye-patch guy gave Kurt the finger.
“C’mon, man.” At that exact moment, Silas noticed the rolled script had vanished off the bar in front of them. His mouth went dry and the blood drained from the top half of his body. “Where’d it go?”
“Get outta here.” Kurt summoned his roving bartender, making a finger lasso over his head to signal he wanted another. “Help is on the way.”
“Oh shit.” Silas stood and leaned over the bar to see if it had fallen behind. “Kurt, where’s the fucking script?”
Kurt shot him a side-eye. “Goolsby, I didn’t see a script. Just call your agent and have the production office send a new PDF.”
“Not for the show! Not for the show.” Silas crouched and checked the floor around their stools, seeing nothing but expensive shoes and trousers. “Jesus fucking—”
“What’s the big deal?”
“I had twisted it into a tube, and I guess it fell.” His shaky hand floated to his mouth. His stomach had gone wobbly and hollow.
“Silas. Calm down.” Kurt’s perfectly plucked eyebrows drifted together in irritation.
“Trip gave me a script to read, and I’ve—oh my fucking God.” Silas sat down, right where he was on the floor, peered at the forest of legs around him, and didn’t care how crazy he looked. “I’m supposed to go over there right now to talk about it. I’m ten minutes late already.”
“Not the end of the world. Just tell him what you thought and get another copy.”
But Silas hadn’t actually figured out what he thought. He hadn’t read the fucking thing for fear he’d think the wrong thing or prove himself an idiot. And to ask Trip for another copy would make him more of a heartless prick than he already was for avoiding the poor guy for a week. I’m an asshole.
His pocket rang: the Spider-Man theme by the Ramones.
Trip.
Kurt cast an eye around the crowded bar. “I’m gonna go take a piss so you and Drip can have some privacy.”
Silas peered through shins, and his phone sang against the floor.
“Uh, I think that’s for you.” Kurt got up and drained his glass before he walked away. “And I’ll bet you a new tuxedo that it’s still a wrong number.”
Silas answered the phone.
TRIP hung up and dropped his cell like a maggoty trout on his messy bed. End call.
“Whatsamatter?” Rina stopped chewing on her hair.
“You tell me.” Trip flipped his hand at her, expecting her to understand.
She had just finished boxing the wedding dress from the OutRun Organ Trail. After her website hit twenty thousand views of her New Year’s zombie video, she’d auctioned off the mud-’n’-blood-stained gown to a lucky fan in Florida. She’d give the money to a global literacy campaign. “Silas on his way?”
Trip stalked to the window that overlooked Greenwich buried in dirty snow. Wide flakes fell straight through the windless air to the pavement. “Not anymore. I knew it.”
Rina regarded the phone. “I don’t understand.”
“Ditto.”
“Maybe he got stuck at work.” Rina often pulled all-nighters on deadline, so she could sympathize.
“No idea. It sounded more like he got stuck in a happy hour with his fuckbuddies.” Trip shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. At least he claimed it was work.”
Rina shrugged. “He works on movies. He went on location, and he can’t text or call a bunch and now they’ve run over schedule. He rescheduled so he wouldn’t stand you up.”
“Okay.”
“He’s called you this week.”
“No. Well, he texted from Arizona. I just assumed he’d get back and want to see me.” What had they said to each other? Inchoate anger fuzzied his thoughts.
She bugged her eyes. “He does want to see you. He just tried to reschedule a date with you, and you acted like he’d handed you a bag of snake turds.”
“He’s been back from the shoot since yesterday.”
“He’s prob’ly catching up.” Rina swatted his chest. “He likes you. He cooks actual food from the earth for you. Bellaco, don’t get crazy. Why are you acting like he’s a bad guy?”
“I gave him a script.” He dropped his eyes.
“No shit. You keep expecting him to act out this whole scenario—”
“No! Fuck off. I mean he offered to read the rough draft of the demon comic thing. Scratch.” He hadn’t told her the new name, and she didn’t react to that.
“Oh no.” She inhaled sharply. “Trip Spector.”
“What?”
“You don’t give your new boyfriend a script to critique! That’s awful.”
Trip coughed and felt stupid. “Why?”
“What if he gave you something to critique? Would you be able to give him notes? Too harsh and you’re a dick, too soft and you’re a moron. He’s prob’ly immobilized. Talk about death ray.”
Shit.
“Worse… what if you thought it sucked—not saying it does—but if you dug him and wanted to make sure you didn’t fuck anything up.”
Trip nodded and grimaced. “I’m an asshole.”
“You’re an artist. And you were raised by wombats with a personality bypass. Two strikes.”
Trip’s parents had messed with his head, but he crossed his arms and scowled. She didn’t understand. Rina’s parents crowed about “their little best seller.” Her entire extended family pimped her novels with religious fervor. “That’s not fair.”
“Boo hoo. What is this ‘fair’ you speak of? Unless you’re going for three strikes, I say you stop deciding what he has to do that makes him worthy of your attention. Do you like him or not?”
“What’s it matter if I like him? He’s avoided my calls.”
“Papa, you lobbed a fucking artistic grenade over the wall at this nice guy, and you’re bitching ’cause he didn’t pull the pin?”
Trip turned on her. “I just talked to him a minute ago and he’s at a fucking bar with that friend. The Unbored asshole…. Kurt video-game whatshisname Zillionaire. That doesn’t sound like working. He sounded like I’d caught him doing something. Guilty!” An accusatory finger.
“So… you’re pissed because he didn’t come back from Arizona and immediately sit down and line edit the stump of your sex demon script for you.”
“No.” He exhaled. “Fuck you.”
“Or maybe you’re mad because he didn’t invite you out to go drinking while he’s gushing about you to his friends and getting the same fucking advice you’re wanting from me? Like you’re doing right now?”
Trip found himself looking at her coat that hung on the back of a chair. The snow on the buffed leather had melted into dirty water. Oh. Abashed, Trip looked down at himself.
�
�For four years you been cutting the Unboyfriend slack for way worse headfuckery, and a couple weeks with your hot zombie, one rain check and—pow—he’s Doctor Doom.”
“Maybe.” Trip blinked. Fuckety-fuck. Maybe he’d projected his history onto this poor guy. Cliff had strung him along for so many years he was hypersensitive to the signs. Silas had that same easy, loping sexiness that made Cliff so appealing. That didn’t mean they were the same man. “When you put it like that.”
She had a point. Of course, Cliff flirted, too. Why didn’t that bother him? Because we aren’t together or apart. The limbo kept it tolerable. How much of the fun he had with Silas involved a fantasy about the boss he’d never snag? He’d used Silas to act out his fantasies, but now Silas meant more to him than that. Ugh. He tried and failed to not feel like a dirtbag. Maybe for the best.
Trip glanced at the portfolio of his Scratch sketches. The staple mocked his pain. He still didn’t have a villain. But plenty of bad guys.
Working from the partial script, he had the first twelve pages drawn, but the incubus had stayed fuzzy in his mind and on the page. Scratch morphed and mutated as little slivers of porn and models and fantasy congealed under his pencil. When the character embodied all his sticky, angry fantasies about Cliff, he changed tack and Silas snuck onto the panels.
He sniffed hard.
Always with new projects, Trip scavenged his life for details and then repurposed them. With this character, his emotions drove his hand. The two versions of his incubus wrestled on the paper. Out of spite, part of him wanted to debauch Cliff’s rangy swimmer’s body and apple-pie good looks. But then, the first splash page manifestly showed the barbarian’s build and sloe-eyed gaze he associated with Silas, and the warm sexiness softened the creepier elements in the plot.
“I’m asking some basic questions here.” Rina counted on her short oxblood nails. “Hot guy: sweet, smart, funny. He eats organic. Cool job and a comic dork. And the sex is great.” A suggestive smile.
“Fuck off, Sabrina. I’m not talking about that.”
“I wasn’t asking, cabron. I can see that the sex is good. Whole month you been walking like a cowboy with a hundred bucks in his pocket. God save me from a man like that….” Rina flashed a slice of teeth. “A guy you could go to hell with.”