“I did! It’s called Distant Kingdom!”
“We made Distant Kingdom together! I have just as much right to it as you.”
“You never did half as much work for the band as I did—or as Bo did, for that matter. You skipped practices, you got drunk at gigs, we had to drag you through every last thing—” Rafi’s tight throat stopped him, because these were words he’d never said to anyone. He’d wanted them to be partners, wanted his brother to be part of his dream so badly, he’d never admitted to himself that the band might be better off without Carlos.
Julian’s cool drawl filled in the gap left by Rafi’s sudden silence. “Yes, I was just trying to remember what it was you contributed to the band, Carlos? Ah, yes—backup vocals.”
Carlos gritted his teeth. “And bassist.”
Julian burst out laughing. And Carlos tried to come at him over the table.
Bo and Minnie grabbed Carlos’s shoulders. Everyone was shouting. Rafi pushed in front of Julian, who looked amused and had not so much as tensed in his seat. Uncle Max shouted nonspecific encouragement to the room, stealing bread off Ted’s plate.
“I’m fine, I’m fine, let me go!” Carlos threw off his mother and Bo’s restraining arms and stalked out of the room.
Bo took a long sip of her drink, her knuckles white.
“I hope you’re ready to be a single mother of two,” Julian said, almost whispering. “One of whom will demand sex occasionally and is big enough to throw you through a wall.”
“You did your best to provoke him,” Bo said.
“I didn’t have to try very hard.”
Ted stepped back into the dining room, tucking his phone into his pocket and calling, “All right then, let’s eat!”—just in time for Bo, suddenly clutching her rounded belly, to lean over into the empty chair beside her and throw up.
Rafi caught the eye of the returning waiter and whispered, “I’d like a to-go box.”
* * * *
Oh, good, we’re leaving, Julian thought. He wouldn’t have to swallow any more of that wretched drink. Julian was proud of how well he was holding together so far, his speech still perfectly clear, but—
His legs buckled as he tried to rise from his seat.
“Whoa!” Rafi caught him by the arm, jostling the takeout box in Julian’s hand, but between the two of them they got him back onto his feet. “You okay?”
“I’m very well, thank you,” Julian said primly, and tried to make Rafi’s face come into focus.
“Uh-huh,” Rafi said. “I don’t know how you got here, but how about I take you home.” As quickly as possible, said the way he kept glancing across the table, where the rest of the family was mostly occupied cleaning up and taking care of Bo.
“If you like.” Julian waved a hand, airily granting Rafi the favor of his company; the gesture threatened to unbalance him again.
They made their way down the stairs from the balcony. Julian focused on keeping his movements smooth and graceful so that no one would know he was drunk, and thought he was doing well—until he realized he was also moving with excruciating slowness, clutching Rafi with white knuckles the whole way.
Three drinks, and I am as useful as a wet napkin. Julian sneered disgust at himself, painted it over the deeper terror threatening to surface. Loss of motor control, loss of mouth control, loss of thought control, control, control. This was why he didn’t drink.
Rafi, of course, was still steady as stone, but he hadn’t finished his first glass. Julian had already seen Rafi drunk—sleepy and cuddlesome as a kitten. Too bad it was Julian and not Rafi this time, neither of them were going to enjoy it half as much…
Between the two of them, they got Julian outside and buckled into Rafi’s SUV.
“I think you’re getting more drunk by the minute,” Rafi said, biting his lip over laughter as they pulled into traffic. “Still digesting.”
“Ah,” Julian said. “Perhaps the fun part of the experience is yet to come, then. That would be lovely.” Both takeout boxes were balanced in his lap. It was his job to keep them upright, then. Unfortunate that his arms weren’t working. He had to settle for glaring at them.
“Thank you for coming,” Rafi said tentatively. “I…wasn’t sure you would.”
Julian hadn’t been sure, either. But for all his bumbling around, Rafi hadn’t actually meant to hurt him. And when Julian thought about Rafi walking into that dinner with no allies and no backup, ready to be ripped apart by the people who were supposed to love him…he couldn’t help thinking how much he would have given to have someone, just one person, at his side during some dinners with his uncle.
“We had a deal,” Julian said. “I keep my word.” He closed his eyes and leaned back against the headrest. “Though you have little reason to thank me, after the scene I caused.” He’d told Rafi off over the phone, nearly stood him up in front of his family, sparked a brawl at his family dinner…Julian was a terrible boyfriend. Good thing he wasn’t trying to do it for real.
“You caused? I think you mean my brother caused,” Rafi said.
“Bo’s right, I provoked him,” Julian said. “I wanted to…poke him. Nettle, that’s the word. Nettle the douchebag.” Surely there was stronger word, Julian knew stronger words…How could people like Carlos Reyes and Bo Thomas live with themselves, after hurting someone as stupid and trusting as Rafi? Did they kick puppies in their spare time?
Rafi was laughing under his breath. “Yeah, he always was a bit of a douchebag.”
“I wanted…I came to be…impressive. Impress your ex, impress your father. Loved ones. I was supposed to be…” Julian waved his hands, endangering the takeout boxes. “Glittering, clever, put them in their place. Show them all. You don’t need them.” He narrowed his eyes at Rafi. “You don’t need them, Rafi.”
Rafi looked unsure how to respond. “No?”
“No. But you want them. Want them to love you.” He knew how that felt. Wanting love you were better off without.
“They’re my family.” Rafi’s voice was a little strained. “Even Bo—we’ve known each other so long and, well, she’s going to be my sister-in-law. They’re my family, of course I want them to love me. They do love me, even if we don’t always get along, that doesn’t mean they don’t love me.”
But he didn’t sound convinced.
Julian went over the list of them in his head. The father seemed okay, probably, but Carlos was carrying a massive store of resentment and jealousy of his little brother, and if Bo had ever been in love with Rafi, she wasn’t anymore. The stepmother, Minnie, had long had she been in the picture?
Julian frowned. “Your brother’s older than you,” he said. “Your stepmother’s son?”
“Yes,” Rafi said, with a look like he was bracing himself.
“I know I had a lot of zabor, but that doesn’t make sense.”
Rafi sighed. “My mother was Dad’s piece on the side, okay? And then she died, when I was just a baby, and Dad took custody of me. Dad’s always insisted on total equality between me and Carlos, we are equally his sons, but…we’re not equally Minnie’s. Maybe there’s some women that could raise their husband’s bastard without resenting it, but she’s not one of them.”
No memory of his mother, then, only Minnie. Julian thought of his own mother, her smile and her favorite dress and the way she would rock back and forth when she hugged him. It hurt to think about. It always did. “I wonder what’s worse, really,” Julian said. “Losing your mother or just not having one at all.”
Rafi didn’t look away from the road. “Yeah, I’ve wondered that too.”
* * * *
Julian’s apartment had changed a lot in the last few days. He wasn’t sure how long it would have taken him to think of redecorating if Rafi hadn’t called his attention to it—but once he’d started ripping things out, it had been hard to stop. He’d spent so long surrounded by things he hated. He would never, ever live that way again.
So Rafi’s surprised gawking, as
they entered, was gratifying. The spiky sculpture in the foyer had been replaced by a Grecian-style mother and child—sentimental, perhaps, but a better match for the marble-and-glass room—and the chipped catchall bowl had been replaced with a key hook. The floor was spotless.
“Isn’t she pretty?” Julian mumbled as they passed the statue. His speech was finally starting to go, despite his best efforts. “I don’t put my hats on her. My hats go here!” He waved at the ornate hat rack that had replaced the sculpture in the hallway.
“Been to a Renaissance Faire lately?” Rafi teased, poking at a couple of the more over-the-top hats.
Julian didn’t answer, distracted by the sight of a chair in the sitting room. Sitting down sounded marvelous, and the options were limited, as this area had been almost completely cleaned out. The walls were bare now except for a single colorful abstract, and the only furniture was a lamp and an elegant wicker rocking chair.
“No, Julian, you need to go to bed, not sleep in a chair,” Rafi said, hauling him up as he tried to sit.
“I just want to rest…”
“You can rest in bed. We’re almost there.”
He sighed and let Rafi tow him toward the bedroom.
Julian hadn’t made as much progress here, but it was tidied up, at least, all the books tucked away onto shelves, and he’d brought in a few homey touches.
“Trust you to decorate with something prickly,” Rafi chuckled, peering at the tray of tiny cacti huddled on the windowsill. “Oh, I like the new bed.”
Julian felt weirdly embarrassed about the bed. He couldn’t articulate why he’d confined himself for so long to a single Spartan blanket, or why he’d now traded it in for this sumptuous pile of fluffy pillows and blue silk. Having Rafi remark on it felt…he didn’t know. It carried some inexplicable echo of how he had felt reading that Hollywood Reporter quote. He wished Rafi hadn’t said it.
Rafi reached down to turn on the new bedside lamp, and faltered, recognizing it. Oh, this was worse. It wasn’t a lamp but a lantern, the same style as the one on Rafi’s balcony. When Rafi flicked it on, it cast the same rosy glow that had covered them while they watched the rain and drank hot cocoa, Julian leaning into Rafi’s side as he sang.
I liked the lantern, that’s all, Julian wanted to snap. Don’t flatter yourself.
But Rafi said nothing, giving Julian no opportunity to defend himself. “Come on, into the bed with you,” he said, pulling down the covers.
Bed, yes, that sounded wonderful. Time to get ready for bed. “Have to get this off…” Julian pulled at the buttons of his silk shirt, still stained with Bo’s Shirley Temple. He growled in frustration. “Why are these buttons so tiny? Help me.” He turned, and found himself closer to Rafi than he thought, his chest all but shoved into Rafi’s hands.
“Uh. Okay.” Rafi undid a button, and another, his fingers skimming the thin white undershirt Julian wore beneath the silk.
“I left my food in your car,” Julian realized.
“I’ll just put it in my fridge. That way you’ll have to come over and eat it.”
“Oh.” Rafi wanted him to come over? Why would he want Julian in his home?
Julian watched Rafi’s hands as they went down, button by button, gold bracelet flashing. He felt tension drawing up his shoulders, drawing up his fists. Julian did not permit others to undress him, not even costumers on set, certainly not muscular men in his dimly-lit bedroom. Too intimate, too vulnerable. This was a mistake, all of it, but all he could do now was endure it. He had lots of practice at that.
“Jules, are you all right?” Rafi had reached the end of the buttons, Julian realized; he’d missed it because his eyes were closed.
“Yes,” Julian answered, very precisely. He pulled the unbuttoned shirt off his shoulders, struggled briefly to get it over his bracelet, and tossed it over the nearest chair. He tried to look at Rafi, couldn’t meet his eyes. Don’t touch me, he wanted to say, but was afraid that only the last two words would come out.
He sat down on the bed, instead, and held out his foot to have the boot removed.
Amusement and annoyance chased each other across Rafi’s face, along with something else Julian didn’t examine too closely. Amusement won, and Rafi knelt to pull off both shiny boots, his hand lingering on Julian’s calf.
Julian didn’t mean to reach out, didn’t mean to skim a hand shyly over his hair. Rafi glanced up, startled, which brought him face-to-face with—well, not Julian’s face.
“Get up,” Julian said, wrinkling the bedspread in his fist. “You don’t—you don’t have to stay down there.” Kaleidoscope of images in his head, things he’d promised himself he never had to think about again—
“I never thought I had to,” Rafi said, and stood, a tower looming dark above him.
Unwilling to be loomed over, Julian stood too, accidentally inserting himself all the way into Rafi’s space, so much that he could feel the heat of Rafi’s skin, could feel the brush of his chest as he breathed. Except Rafi wasn’t breathing at all, waiting for what Julian would do.
Julian raised a hand to Rafi’s chest, resting it delicately over his heart. He spoke with slow, determined clarity, swaying a little on his feet.
“I like you. I like you a lot. And I shouldn’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re just like…him. The driver.” Word like a swear word on his tongue. Julian tried to keep his face still, to look like an adult. “He killed them. My mother, my father, my brother. All of them. And you’re just like him—careless, stupid. You know he didn’t have a scratch on him? Killed a whole family and didn’t have a scratch.”
Rafi looked gutted. Good. Now he would leave.
Instead of leaving, Rafi touched him, cupped his face in one hand.
“Not the whole family,” he said, hoarse and distressed. “You lived. I’m glad you lived.”
Julian closed his eyes. “I was supposed to go with them, that day. Uncle insisted on taking me to this audition that I wasn’t even suited for. He throws it in my face sometimes—how I’d be dead if it weren’t for him. I was supposed to go with them. I was supposed to go with my family.” His breath caught and he shook his head. “I don’t want to think, I don’t want to think. Come to bed with me.”
This was what people did, right? Got drunk and had regrettable hookups with unsuitable people, to make themselves feel better about their bleak and terrible lives? Rafi would make him feel better. He would be good at that. Julian could tell.
But Rafi turned his head, took Julian’s attempt at a kiss on his cheekbone. “I can’t, Julian.”
“Why not?” Fury and embarrassment were ice in his throat, so cold he shivered, trembled against Rafi’s skin.
“Because you’re drunk. You probably wouldn’t want this if you were sober.”
“Yes, I do,” Julian breathed. He’d wanted it so many times, not wanting to want it, flicker-fire disrupting his balance. “But you…of course you won’t. Take advantage. Not you.” He laughed, puffs of air against Rafi’s neck. “Why do you have to be so much better than I want you to be?”
Why can’t you just let me hate you?
Rafi said nothing, but wrapped his arms around Julian, supporting him when he swayed again.
“Why do people like being drunk?” Julian said, plaintive, knowing he sounded childish and hating it. “I don’t like being drunk.”
“You’ll feel better in the morning,” Rafi said. “If your hangover’s not too bad.”
“Fine.” Julian released him and sank down onto the bed, pushing his legs under the covers. The sooner he slept, the sooner he’d wake and be horrified by every word he’d said tonight. He didn’t want that to happen yet. Didn’t want to be alone with that yet. “Stay? Not…” He gestured wordlessly. “Just stay.”
“I’ll stay until you’re asleep.”
“Good.” Julian pulled Rafi down into the bed—but didn’t know what to do with him then, keeping nearly a foot of empty space betwe
en them. Except for his hand, reaching out to lace his fingers with Rafi’s. Their bracelets gleamed in the lantern-light, gold and ruby next to silver and opal, the last thing Julian saw before he slept.
Chapter 8
“It’s hard to have a relationship in the spotlight. There’s already so much self-consciousness, nervousness, and doubt when you’re trying to date somebody, the last thing you need is an audience picking apart your every move. A lot of times that audience—fans, journalists, whatever—they don’t do it to be mean. They’re just curious. But it’s like you’re taking this crowd of avid onlookers with you on every date, all of them calling out advice and criticism of everything you do—and everything the other person does! It’s hard for anyone to fall in love that way.”
—excerpt from 2015 interview with Rafael Reyes on Dallas radio station Star 102.1
* * * *
They used to call me Peg-Leg and it caused me lots of grief
They thought I was a pirate, they thought I was a thief
One day a lassie asked me, “Which one of them is wood?”
I told her “I don’t know, my lass, I think all three of ‘em’s good”
Now they call me Jolly Roger, that’s a name that suits me fine
I found her buried treasure, and she had a lovely time
—“Shiver Me Timbers,” from Sword & Shield by Distant Kingdom
* * * *
The sight of Julian’s ridiculous hats had given Rafi an idea. A flurry of texts confirmed that his old friend Ollie was, indeed, still with the Tin Tankard Troubadours, and that they were currently performing every weekend at the New York Renaissance Faire.
You and Amber should come!!! Ollie sent, along with a photo of himself in striped hose and a doublet, doing some kind of contortion with his butt in the air. You know you want some of this.
Rafi snorted and sent back, How can I resist.
When he texted Julian about it, he was surprised to get, not a return text, but a FaceTime call.
“I’m babysitting,” Julian said as soon as Rafi put him on the screen. “Poor child gets jealous if I’m on the phone too much. There, Chris, now you can participate in the conversation too.”
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