by Damon Suede
Ziggy pivoted on the crutch, headed for the hall door. “I was luh-eaving anyway.”
“Sit back down.” Kurt touched his ashen face, presumably checking to see if the skin was still there. “Ziggy. Don’t be a dick. Talk to him.”
The handsome programmer slanted his head and took a couple of halting steps toward the door. “Nice to meetcha, bes’ friend’a Kurt. Um? Hell-o?”
Silas realized the irritated bark was directed at him and stepped forward, embarrassed by the scuffed crutches and his intrusion. “Don’t feel like you gotta bag. I just came to take the boy wonder to dinner.” A nod at Kurt, who was rigid with mortification. Mortified. “You could come with us.”
Silas wanted to watch the two of them at close range. He’d come to talk about his own love life, but this felt way less scary.
Ziggy shook his head, and the reply came out as a single guttural phrase. “Nuh-no-thanks-no.” He favored Silas and Kurt with that huge childlike smile, totally at odds with his earlier rage. “Guh-otta, gotta go!”
He moved quickly on his crutches, swung his legs forward in three strides, and went out through the reception area. Instead of pausing, he skipped the elevator and went right to the emergency stairwell. The heavy door whomped shut behind him. A few seconds of silence swirled in his wake. Silas watched Kurt staring at the door hard enough to open it telekinetically.
The sun had nearly given up outside, so Silas clicked on the overhead light. Kurt sat down on the corner of his cluttered desk. His hands shook. The old hardwood floors creaked underfoot.
Awkward stillness filled the entire open Unbored space like inflatable felt dinosaurs. Eek. Silas watched Kurt watching the door until he had counted to twenty.
“What… the… fuck-enstein?” Silas turned, his eyes wide.
“’S’up, cocksucker?” Kurt snickered, as if they’d shared a six-minute hallucination. “Thirsty?”
Silas tried to remember ever seeing Kurt this wigged out and failed to get anywhere close. “Umm? Who the hell was that?”
Frowning, Kurt didn’t say anything for a couple of fidgety seconds. He stood, grabbed at his tie, and unbuttoned his shirt farther… not answering the question.
Silas pressed. “That… man works for you? For Unbored Games.”
Closing his eyes, Kurt dipped his head absently and sighed. “Programmer. Ziggy originally did freelance code on Miss Demeanor, and then I put him under contract. I poached him from a startup that did banking interfaces. Security. Jesus.” He rubbed his face with his hand and plopped down in his chair, scooted back, and examined the vaulted ceiling. “He dreams in hexadecimal. Genius. He got scouted by NASA in high school. He’s got crazy instincts.”
“Crazy something.”
Kurt tried to rock in his office chair, short bounces that seemed more jarring than relaxing.
“Maybe he had a plan. You could talk to him.”
“Silas, that was me talking to him. ’S’like juggling grenades in a kitten factory.”
“Which game was he bitching about?”
“No game. It doesn’t exist!” Kurt snatched at his hair again, then wiped his mouth. He looked insane. “So not just the controller, not just the R&D and fabrication, but a whole other title developed from scratch. A couple years and millions of dollars ’cause he has a fucking hunch? Like I’m fucking Bill Gates on a bonus round.”
Silas grinned and spoke softly, “Practice, practice, practice.”
“He’s the best. Hands down, no competition. I mean….” Kurt frowned and sat forward, his gaze furiously roaming the desk and walls and windows. “Ziggy is a bastard and a lunatic and talks to me like I should shine his boots with my trimmed pubes, but truth is: he put us on the map. Unbored Games grew out of him, and he knows it. That motherfucker is the reason Chopping Mall moved seventy thousand units in eight weeks, out of nowhere. Goddamnit.” He swatted at his desk, knocked over a twelve-inch model of a cartoon dinosaur in pastel armor from T-Wrecks.
Silas righted the dino and watched Kurt, the irritation and yearning written on his face, as he traced and retraced Ziggy’s jerky path out the emergency exit.
All those lectures about crappy ideas and awful dates had been Kurt talking to himself. Apparently Kurt’s advice only went one way. Everyone is a liar. Of course, that meant Silas oughtta take his own medicine too. “So why don’t you give it a once-over, at least? At this mysterious whoozits he brought you. The controller thing.”
Silas didn’t need to talk about his love life anymore. Or if he did, Kurt didn’t need to say anything. All we have to pay is attention.
Kurt sulked, his own worst enemy. Who isn’t? “Terrible fucking proposition.”
“But are you sure that makes it a bad one?” Silas nodded, although he didn’t particularly agree. You like him. Kurt had a little crush on this demented programmer on crutches… gorgeous, sure, but fucking certifiable. Silas wrapped his brain around that lamppost, but he decided to play it safe. “You trust him.”
“If that gimpy nutbag was smart, he’d walk it over to Nintendo or Microsoft or Sony and they’d make him a media mogul. Technology this big, they’d stab themselves in the back to get their shitty mitts on it.” His thoughts seemed to scurry around his head like mice in a blender. “Prick.” Again, he whispered the word like a reverential compliment.
“Wait, I thought he was a genius. He’s helping you.”
“He is. That doesn’t mean I can afford it! By the way… that isn’t a metaphor. I mean that I literally can’t access enough capital to tackle something that high profile.” Kurt tapped at his desk with a Miss Demeanor promo pen.
“But he’s bringing you a rainmaker. Giving it to you.”
“Maybe. Fuck! If I had half a brain, I’d cut him out and pitch this controller to Nintendo myself.”
“He knows you better than that. I know you better than that.”
“Ridiculous.”
“Obviously he didn’t think so.” Silas crossed his arms. “If Ziggy is so fucking smart, why isn’t he sitting in an office at Apple right now? Why bother coming here at all?”
Kurt’s gaze flicked over the expensive view outside. “No fucking idea.”
“Well, genius…. Maybe you should find out.”
14
TRIP forgot how to sleep alone.
Beginning of March, Trip managed to finish the first Scratch script with the Judge firmly in place, practically thumbnailing it as he went. The pencils and inking the last half would take longer, but now he had a map.
Somehow, Silas blended easily into his bizarre life. They pretty much lived at Trip’s because of his allergies. At first, Silas griped about Trip’s snacky crap and stocked his boyfriend’s fridge with things that actually expired. He ran home for clothes. Trip’s asthma faded. Even as spring sprung, the pollen count never spiked somehow. No hay fever, nothing. Little by little they fell into an easy rhythm. With Silas out to Silvercup for day and night shoots on Undercover Lovers, the sleep and meals got wonky, but between the Mighty Mites and Scratch, Trip drew so much that their impossible schedules wound up working.
On March 16, Trip started on the remaining interiors and decided to go for broke. Scratch #1 turned out crazier and kinkier than anticipated. Amazing how something he cared about flew out of him while his Hero High assignments trickled onto the paper.
Trip’s worst problem? The more time they spent together, the more the sex demon resembled Silas: face, body, personality, raunchiness. All traces of Cliff had faded. He kept the sketches hidden, too embarrassed to unveil them, while he tried to work up the nerve to come clean. He’d never lost control of a character, but Scratch stayed a dead ringer for Silas, full stop, end of debate. At the same time, he fucking loathed the idea of sharing Silas or putting his body on public porno display. The cover-up got tricky as their day-to-day lives overlapped more.
Whenever Silas got too close, Trip flipped pages and closed his sketchbook. Silas joked about his secrecy and paranoia but didn’t giv
e him much grief. Soon. Once Trip finished the book, he’d confess. Hell, Silas kept secrets from him: all those ex-boyfriends and the wham-bam partying he did with Kurt. Trip decided to bide his time until the opportunity presented itself. Which was worse: Silas hating or loving the idea ? And then one night Silas didn’t come home to sleep. And he didn’t answer his phone. The text said “night shoot.”
Friday afternoon, Trip fell asleep on the couch waiting for Silas. Middle of the night, he’d woken up and worked on Scratch pages, as he pretended it wasn’t weird that his texts hadn’t gotten a reply and Silas hadn’t called.
About ten the next morning, a key tripped the lock. Rain pelted the streets outside.
Silas trudged in dripping and dropped his bag. He looked wiped. “Ugh. Hey.”
Trip didn’t say anything, just waved hello. Obviously, Silas had worked all night. But then, maybe he’d gone out with Kurt and his bar friends, without boyfriend in tow.
“Tried to let you know. We shot on the street and my phone died. Sorry.”
The radiator hissed like an evil teapot dragon in the corner.
Trip put his pencil down. “Got nervous.”
“It’s too hot in here. You’re gonna get sick.” Silas wiped his sweaty neck. “Open a window at least, so you’ve got some air.”
A tendril of irrational jealousy climbed up Trip’s chest. He had hidden Scratch from his boyfriend, the same way he hid porn from his parents. “You have fun?”
“I’m glad for the time and a half, but it sucked. Paul was sick, so I had to assist Tiffany. God-awful weather. Director wanted a thousand takes… actors pissy in the rain.”
Sneaky anxiety congealed between them.
Silas must have noticed the chill. His shoulders sagged. “I need a shower.” He headed toward the little bathroom.
Trip stacked his sketchbook and tablets in a neat pile on the kitchen table beside his portfolio. “I figured you were out with Kurt and forgot to call.”
As if rewound, Silas backed into the room. “What are you talking about?”
“C’mon. He avoids me, talks shit behind my back when he lures you out to play.” Trip drummed his fingers. He’d seen enough of the texts that he despised Kurt on principle. “He’s got some unrequited thing, and then I come along.”
“What thing?” Silas wiped his stubbled face. “Um. Yeah. Kurt is not jonesing for me.” He scowled. “Let’s be clear on that. He’s not my fuckbuddy and he never was.”
Was he being paranoid? “He wants you to be.”
“Bullshit. He doesn’t want me. Any more than Cliff Stapleton wants you.”
Trip glanced up sharply. Where had that come from? Projection. Even though he didn’t feel the least bit asthmatic, he took out his inhaler and huffed a big dose of bitter humidity. “Everyone wants you, man.” The paranoia spilled uncontrolled from his mouth. “Kurt keeps you close because he’s hoping—”
“No! No, actually he wants to get blown by fitness models who do as they’re told and take money off the nightstand. He only pays for sex and only from people who don’t give a fuck who they fuck. I’m nowhere near his standards. We joke about that shit. And why do you care who he’s boning anyways?”
Trip latched onto the deflection. “You expect me to believe Kurt Bogusz never made a play for you?”
Silas should have answered immediately, but he didn’t.
“’Nuff said,” Trip growled.
“No. No! We didn’t fuck. Kurt jerked me off, once, at the Roxy. Back when there was a Roxy for the club kids! That’s how long ago we’re talking… and only ’cause we were lonely and ex-ing like hell. C’mon.”
Trip grew queasy. His nerves had gotten the best of him. He’d sleepwalked into an archvillain’s dastardly trap, with Kurt cackling from the shadows. My hipster nemesis. They’d never met and now he hoped they never would. “You shouldn’t have told me that.”
“Attraction is normal. You and Cliff musta screwed around at some point?” His eyes flashed.
Trip blushed and blinked. Had he given that impression? “No. No.” Not even a hand job. Irrational shame pierced Trip.
“Oh.” Silas looked confused.
“We just—that’s why he’s the Unboyfriend.” Trip licked his dry lips.
“What?” Silas shut his mouth for a moment and his shoulders sagged. “Trip, you keep acting like you’re casting a role. Like I’m a character in a book.”
“That’s not what I meant.” Rina and Jillian already gave him shit about scripting everything. Guilt or panic, probably. Any day now, anyone with three bucks could see Silas having acrobatic sex.
Silas waved a hand at him. “I think we’re allowed to have privacy. I don’t expect you to tell me everything you do.” He glanced at the closed portfolio.
Yikes. “Nerves bring out the worst in me.”
“Well, thank fuck this isn’t your best.” Silas chuckled, and that took the sting out of his words.
“No.” Trip flinched and jerked away as he stood up. “I keep making these stupid mistakes.” He walked away, headed nowhere, and stopped when he reached the window, hating that he couldn’t shut the door and freak out at will in his own apartment. “I’m terrible at this. I’m going to snuff you out. I’m going to suffocate you.” He didn’t turn around.
What the hell did Silas make of him? Walking the perimeter of his crush turned their relationship into an empty cage at a zoo. Don’t feed the lions, if any turn up. How had he learned to misread his life so carefully? Trip frowned at the sheets of rain outside.
“Go ahead and try. Don’t be afraid. Talk to me.”
“I’m not afraid, I’m allergic.”
“To life?” Silas laughed.
Trip glared so hard he expected his face to splinter. “Yeah. Sure.”
“I didn’t mean it like that. No.”
“I am, though.” Trip scowled. “Raised by aliens. No social skills. Weird job. Coping mechanisms out the wazoo. Bony pale thing with a huge doodad and too many insecurities.” He wiped his leaky eyes with the heels of his hands. “Gah.” His nose probably looked like a russet potato.
“Breathe.” Silas held up a hand for a couple of heartbeats. “We’re so lucky. I mean it. Every day I wake up, and I feel so fucking blessed that we crashed into each other in the park. Yeah?”
What would Scratch do?
“I’m trapped in an embarrassing comic, working for an Unboyfriend who’s bamboozled me for years. And somehow, against my better judgment, I’ve gotten sucked into drawing an X-rated graphic novel starring a porno demon. There are other projects—”
“Trip, you’re a little afraid. That’s okay.” Silas stared straight at him. “I know I can seem flaky. You’ve seen me flirt to get what I want. You’ve met a couple loony-toon exes.”
Trip spoke low to his hands on the drafting table. “Which makes me jealous. Sorry.”
“That’s sexy in a way, but it’s nuts. None of that shit is real. If I want to be somewhere else, I’ll go there. I’m here. We’re here.”
Trip didn’t nod, but he didn’t interrupt, either.
“That’s not who I am. See? You know me.”
“I think it’s ’cause all this is new. To me.”
“To me, too, because I’m not pretending to be anything. No masks. No secret identities. Huh?” Silas ran a rough hand over his face.
Trip knew what he meant. “I like that.” He walked back to Silas.
“I’ve never been with anyone this long. Not ever. Because I don’t think I’ve ever been with anyone. I want to be with you, and I’m kinda hoping you feel the same. I like being your big dumb sidekick.”
Trip snorted. “Hardly.”
“A dynamic duo, then.”
Trip opened his mouth to say something and then shut it, as if he’d taken a big bite of an oxygen cupcake. Why do I care? He sat down at the kitchen table. “I’m being insane.”
“No. You’re nervous. Frankly, ditto.” Silas pressed a hand to his own heart. “We
’re nervous because it matters. That’s good.”
“I know.”
Silas stared at him for a couple of breaths. “You do?”
Did he know?
Maybe Silas had changed him. For all his ranting, Trip hadn’t sneezed, wheezed, or broken out in hives from the feathers or mold or pollen. And his dick stayed hard enough to hang towels. He fought the urge to mark his territory. A preview of the unhinged jealousy to come when Scratch hit the stands flashing Silas’s goodies at the world. The book would be done in a couple weeks and the prospect elated and appalled him.
He needs to know.
Trip pulled his feet up and hugged his knees as he scraped his chin across their tops. “Just stir crazy. You didn’t call and I thought we had a plan. Big Dog announced Campus Champions today, which put me in a fucking mood, I can tell you.”
Silas gave a sympathetic blink and sat down at the table beside him.
“Forgot to eat, so I’m grouchy anyways. And so I wasted time on a dirty comic no one will publish when I should have drawn castrated bullshit for Cliff because I need the paycheck.” Trip swatted his portfolio so hard it fell to the floor and opened, only instead of Hero High, there was Scratch, in all his horny glory, sucking the fight out of the room.
They both froze: Trip in shame and Silas in apparent horror.
“Jesus.” Silas blinked and picked it up.
A balls-out three-quarter sketch of Scratch—with his face and torso, his dimple and dick—stared back at Silas.
Oops.
Trip tried to close the portfolio, but Silas slapped a hand onto the page.
“I can explain.”
“No.” Silas blinked and stood. The chair scraped as he kicked it aside. He flipped the page and another. He flinched and muttered; he stared at his own face staring back from the large page. “You can’t.”
Trip held out a placating hand. “This seems crazy, I know.”
“You don’t know. These are—” Silas looked forlorn. “I never—” He opened his mouth and shut it. “I’ve never thought of myself like that. Not ever in my whole stupid life.” His accent drawled Dixie-thick. “That anyone could see me like that.” His eyes were wet.