Breakfast at Midnight

by Kim Dias

  Fuck.

  Fuck fuck fuck, were those tears?

  Fred turned his head away, forcing the kiss to break, and sat up. He held Callum to keep him from falling onto the floor as he did, but pushed Callum off him and onto the bed as soon as he could. Callum’s eyes were red, a hint of wildness to them.

  “Sorry,” he said, reaching up with one hand to roughly rub at his eyes. “Shit. I’m fine. I’m sorry. Christ. Fuck.”

  “Don’t be,” Fred said. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

  “Nothing,” Callum said, too quickly. He stood up and bent over to grab his shirt and hoodie from the floor. “I’ll just, uh… yeah. See myself out.”

  Fred grabbed Callum’s arm without even thinking about it. “Are you kidding?” he said.

  Callum looked at him. His gaze landed just an inch off from Fred’s, a pretense at eye contact. “What?”

  “Not happening,” Fred said. “Something happened, something’s going on. Something’s obviously wrong.”

  “Nothing’s—”

  “Don’t try it,” Fred interrupted. “I’m not an idiot. You’re upset. You weren’t earlier, and it’s something about your band.” His hypothesis was confirmed when Callum paled. “And if I fucked up, if it’s something I did, I’m sorry, but you’re not leaving. You’re not driving like this.”

  Callum raised his eyebrows. Christ, he looked young, with his lifted chin, faking bravado and defiance like a teenager. “I’m not, am I?”

  “No,” Fred said. He was acutely aware of their age difference again, and he tried his best to put it out of his mind. He’d be doing this whether Callum was twenty-three or fifty-five. “You can have the bed; I’ll take the couch. But you’re not going out there like this.”

  He expected more of an argument, but Callum’s shoulders slumped, all the fight leaving him. “Right,” he said. “Right, okay, sure, fuck it, whatever.”

  “Okay,” Fred said. He cleared his throat and stood up, crossing his arms over his chest in a weak attempt to hide. He wanted to shuffle his feet; he forced himself not to. “Bathroom’s down the hall. I’ll, um, I’ll be in the living room if you need anything.”

  This is weird. He grabbed a pillow and left the room, not making eye contact with Callum again because it would make how strange and weird and possibly wrong this was slam home. He was certain that casual sex was not meant to go this way.

  But this was the way it was going.

  Fred settled on the couch without a problem. He fell asleep here often enough anyway. He arranged the pillow to his satisfaction and shut his eyes. The bedroom door clicked open, and Fred told himself that if Callum wanted to leave, he could. He was an adult. Fred would hate it… but he could leave if he wanted.

  He didn’t. The bathroom door opened, shut. The toilet flushed. The bedroom door again. Then—silence.

  Fred slept.

  He woke up at 9:00 a.m. when the front door slammed.

  FRED WENT to Denny’s that night. Of course he did. He arrived early, around ten thirty, and headed to his usual booth, ignoring Leslie’s curious gaze.

  “So?” she said when she got to his table with a pot of coffee. He flipped his cup the right way up, but she didn’t pour. “Going to tell me what happened?”

  “Um,” Fred said, eyeing the coffee she held hostage. “No.”

  She snorted. “He’s too young for you.”

  “Thank you,” Fred said. “I had no idea.”

  His sarcasm got him a glare and rolled eyes, but she started pouring the coffee, so he counted it as a victory. “Are you meeting him tonight?”

  “Hopefully.”

  She raised her eyebrows at him and he shrugged. She huffed, rolled her eyes again, and said, “The usual?”

  “Please.”

  She nodded and started walking away. She’d only taken two steps, though, when she turned back to him. “Jam?”

  “No. Thanks. I’m good.” Only once she’d turned her back did Fred allow himself to smile. A dark-haired woman, the same one from last night, reading at a corner table, caught his eye when he did, and he ducked his head quickly to stare into his coffee.

  He was ready for a long wait. He’d told himself he’d wait until three in the morning, but he knew he was lying to himself. He would wait for as long as there was any chance whatsoever Callum might show up. There was a story there and he wanted to know it, but there was more than that now. He was worried. He was worried and he didn’t like it, and he was ready to wait.

  He didn’t have to. His food hadn’t even arrived when Callum stepped into the Denny’s. He glanced around, saw Fred, and strode toward his table.

  “You,” he said, sitting without waiting for an invitation, “are a fucking bastard, do you know that?”

  “Um,” Fred said. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected. If he’d bothered to make a list, though, there was a good chance this would have been on it. “Okay.”

  Callum glared at him from across the table. He wore the same hoodie he’d had on last night. “You don’t just get to do that,” he said. “You don’t just act like you’re gonna have sex with me and then start treating me like a fucking kid.”

  Fred idly stirred his coffee, though the cream had been mixed in long ago, and took a sip before he replied. “I wasn’t treating you like a kid. If I’d been treating you like a kid, I wouldn’t have taken you home. I was treating you like you were upset.”

  Leslie brought over another coffee without being asked. As she poured, she shot Fred a look that said what have you gotten yourself into?

  Callum spoke up. “You guys have pancakes, right?”

  “We sure do, hon.”

  “Can I get some, please?”

  “Sure thing.” She glanced between the two of them. “Anything else?”

  Fred shook his head. “We’re good, Leslie. Thanks.” He suspected that the next time he was in here alone, the gossip would be dragged out of him. He was sure Leslie was not above withholding coffee and food for information. She’d never bothered him in the past, but then, Fred had never played out his own little personal soap opera in front of her before.

  Callum’s glare had been replaced with a frown. It was more thoughtful than resentful, though, and Fred could hear it in his voice when he said, “You’re being weird about this.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re being, like, mature.” Callum tapped his blunt nails against his coffee cup, making little ting-ting-ting noises. “You were kind of… jittery before. And now you’re all, ‘Yep, I’m in charge, I know what the fuck I’m doing,’ and it’s kind of weird.”

  Fred ducked his head to hide a smile. Forty-nine and it was still a surprise when he was mature. Jesus. He made himself look back at Callum. “My ex.” He had to stop and clear his throat when the words got stuck. “My ex once said I was at my best when people were upset.” When strangers are upset had been James’s exact words. Followed up by So try it with your fucking family. Amira had spent the evening in tears because Fred hadn’t been able to pull himself together enough to attend her school play. He didn’t think James had ever forgiven him.

  Callum nodded but didn’t speak. Fred also kept silent, watching as Callum took sip after tiny sip of his coffee. His hands were shaking again, and Fred couldn’t tell if it was from nerves, lack of sleep, caffeine, or all of the above.

  Eventually, Callum spoke. “I didn’t want you to know,” he said into his coffee cup. “That first night, I thought you knew, and that was fucking terrifying, and then you didn’t. And I was just… I could be this weird kid who lived in his car, you know? And then you found that fucking CD, and bam, I was suddenly a member of Leos again, and suddenly it was all there again. Everything. Responsibilities, obligations, contracts, what-the-fuck-ever.”

  Fred spoke slowly. “I’m sorry I freaked you out,” he said. Callum still didn’t make eye contact, but he nodded his acknowledgment once again, which Fred took as a sign of encouragement. “I had no idea it would
bring up all of that. I was surprised, shocked, even, but I didn’t… I didn’t mean to hurt you. I didn’t want to hurt you.”

  “I know.” Callum’s voice was soft. “You didn’t. I just….”

  “Excuse me.” The voice was unfamiliar, and both Fred and Callum looked up. It was the dark-haired woman from the corner table. She held a book to her chest. “I’m sorry to bother you, I really am, but I saw you and I thought, well, that this might be my only chance to do this.”

  Callum had gone pale. Something strong and protective clenched in Fred’s chest, and he opened his mouth to say no, to tell her not here, not tonight, not Callum, but Callum was already nodding and saying, “Um….”

  But her focus was on Fred. “This is yours, right?” she said, and Fred finally zeroed in on the book she was holding out to him. A Grim Sister. Oh, Christ. “I looked at the picture on the back and it looks like you, but, God, if it’s not, I’m so sorry, that’s so embarrassing, I must seem so weird.” But her eyes were still hopeful. “Is… is it you? Is this yours?”

  “Erm,” Fred said. His voice was scratchy; he cleared his throat. He could feel Callum’s gaze boring into him, so he kept his eyes on the woman. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, it is me. I… would you like me to…?”

  “Yes,” she said, thrusting the book out to him. “Please. If you could… if you could make it out to Tina….”

  “Sure,” he said. His hands were on autopilot as he flipped to the title page and scrawled her name and his own with the pen she handed him.

  “You’re brilliant,” she said as he did so. “You really, really are. This one… I think it’s my favorite so far, but all of them…. Paul is such a fabulous character. I love the way he grows, and his relationship with Charlie… it’s brilliant. You’re amazing, you really are.”

  “Thank you,” Fred said. He handed the book back to her. Empty, his hands now felt awkward, too large for his body. “Er… really. Thank you.”

  She took the book and pen and gave him a smile. “Thank you,” she said. “This is….” She glanced at Callum, then back to Fred. “Sorry for interrupting your night,” she said. “I just… I had to ask.”

  Fred swallowed. “No worries.” He and Callum watched in silence as she made her way back to her table. Then Callum turned to him.

  “Frederick James,” he said. He sounded wondering, but also unamused, as if Fred had played a practical joke that failed miserably. “You’re Frederick James.”

  “Pen name,” Fred said. He had to clear his throat yet again before he could continue. “It’s my name and my—my ex’s. We, um, I thought it was clever.”

  “God,” Callum said. His voice sounded thick, but his eyes weren’t red or shiny; in fact, they were somewhat dull. “She’s right, you know,” he said abruptly. “You are brilliant. A Grim Sister’s actually my favorite. Of everything he’s—you’ve written, that one’s top of the list.”

  “Thanks.” Fred didn’t know what else he could say.

  Callum stared into his coffee cup again, then looked up with an odd sort of determination in his eyes. “I want to get drunk,” he said. “Can we make that happen?”

  “Uh,” Fred said. He knew that wasn’t the solution, but it didn’t keep him from understanding the impetus, the need for overactive thoughts to be crowded out with alcohol. Even more than that, Callum was still talking to him, was still looking at him, was still saying we instead of I. “Sure.”

  Callum downed his coffee, getting to his feet. “Let’s go,” he said and started to lead the way. Fred slung his jacket over his arm and threw thirty dollars on the table to cover the food they weren’t sticking around to eat. He ignored Tina’s wave on their way out.

  FRED DIDN’T have much in his house, but Callum looked over his shoulder into the sadly lacking liquor cupboard and said, “The whiskey’ll do.” So the whiskey it was, and Fred only had one condition before he set the glasses down onto the coffee table.

  “Promise me you’ll stay here again tonight,” he said. “I don’t want you trying to drive after this.”

  “Yeah, yeah, promise,” said Callum and reached for the glass. He downed the shot easily, then placed the glass back on the table for a refill as he blinked at Fred. “So. Frederick James, huh?”

  “I guess so.”

  Callum snorted. “You guess? You made me look like a total idiot, just sitting there fangirling over you last night.”

  “You didn’t,” Fred said. “You weren’t. What was I meant to do, start preening?”

  Callum tapped his glass and didn’t reply until Fred started to refill it. “Yes,” he said once his glass had a couple of fingers in it again. “Exactly.”

  “And you would have done the same, hey?” Fred asked. “If I’d started going on about how much I like Leos’s music, you would have done the same?”

  Callum paused. He tipped his head to the side and his glass toward Fred in concession. “Touché.”

  “Thank you,” Fred said. Then, when Callum downed his second shot as quickly as he had the first, “If you finish this, you’re buying me another bottle.”

  Callum laughed properly for the first time all night. “Fair enough. God knows I can afford it.” But he took sips of the third instead of shooting it, and Fred, still on his first, took the moment just to look at him.

  He was gorgeous. Lost and overtired with an edge of desperation, yes—but gorgeous all the same. He lounged on the less ugly of Fred’s two couches, one knee pulled to his chest, the other stretched out in front of him. He may have been wearing the same jeans as the previous night, Fred couldn’t tell. He could see that Callum’s hair needed washing; it was shiny with grease. But he had an air, a charm, a quality, whatever you wanted to call it, he had it, and Fred once again experienced the strange sensation of this night being not quite real.

  A failure of a writer and a nationally famous boy-band member sit in a living room and drink whiskey… it could have been the beginning of a short story from his college days.

  “I can’t be a person,” Callum said suddenly. His tone was dull and heavy, and he stared into his whiskey as he swirled it in the glass. “When I talk about Leos. I can’t be a person, I just fucking lose it. I turn into this big fucking mess and I—” He looked up abruptly to meet Fred’s gaze; Fred took a sip of his whiskey in an attempt to pretend he hadn’t been staring. “Last night. I was fine. I was fine.” He was trying to convince someone, but whether it was himself or Fred, Fred had no idea. “And then the band came up and boom, I lost it. I can’t….” His hand began to shake and he put his glass down. “See? It’s happening now. I want to tell you what happened because you’ve got this fucking face, it’s like such a ‘trust me’ face, it’s stupid, and I want to tell you, but what am I even doing?”

  Fred had never been informed that he had a “trust me” face before. He filed that piece of information away—though he didn’t know what he’d do with it—and said, “Well. I’m going to sound like Julie Andrews, but… start at the beginning.”

  A ghost of a smile flitted over Callum’s lips. “A very good place to start.” He inhaled noisily. “Okay,” he said. “Okay. Well. I mean. The beginning is kind of the end too, you know?” He picked up his whiskey, took another sip. “I’m in Leos. I have been for, God, five years now. And it’s… I mean, we’re a boy band. We’re nothing world-changing. But it’s good, it’s fun. Or it was. And then… then we did this tour, right? We went all over the States, then all over Europe, then back here for another gig or two, and then we had this meeting. And it was the meeting where I was going to be like, ‘Right, contract renewal time. I’m allowed to come out as queer now.’”

  He fell silent. Fred waited for a minute, two minutes, before he gently prompted, “They said no?” He’d never had to worry about anything along these lines. If you wrote books about a gay detective, people tended to make assumptions, and in the few interviews he’d done, Fred never had any problem mentioning his husband. There’d never been talk of his sex
uality in contracts.

  Callum nodded. “One of the guys in the band,” he said. “Jasper. He was in rehab last year. And PR allowed him to be out about that. Out about being an addict? No. Out about being a recovering addict? Yes. Which is great, awesome, fantastic. And I figured, if they let him do that, they had to let me, right?”

  He was waiting again. Fred ventured a cautious “Wrong?”

  “Wrong,” Callum said. “Apparently, cocaine isn’t as bad as sucking dick, who knew?” He slammed down the remaining whiskey. His hand was even more unsteady now.

  Fred poured him another without needing to be asked. He knew throwing alcohol at a problem didn’t work; he also knew that Callum knew it too, and if that was his choice, well, he’d been the one to tell Fred to stop treating him like a kid.

  Funny words from someone he’d intended to fuck.

  “So what happened?” he asked. “After the meeting?”

  “After?” Callum let out a chuckle that held absolutely no humor. “No idea. During? I walked out. And I left. And I got in my car, and I started driving, and I ended up at Denny’s, where I met a handsome stranger who refused to fuck me.”

  “With damn good reason.”

  Callum snorted. “Yeah,” he said, looking down at his hands. “Maybe.”

  “Maybe.” Fred took a sip of whiskey, his second of the night. “You’re not happy, are you?” It was half a question, half a statement.

  “Neither are you,” Callum replied. His gaze was unwavering now, challenging, and Fred dropped his head, shaking it.

  “No,” he said. “I’m not.”

  “Why don’t you write books anymore?”

  When had this become about him? Fred was never eating at a Denny’s again. Not if these were the kinds of situations he ended up in. But Callum had been truthful with him, so Fred took a deep breath and tried to be as honest as he could.

  “I couldn’t,” he said. “After the divorce. Every time—” He broke off with a laugh so bitter it startled him. “Every time I started to write, I thought of my pen name—Frederick James. My name and his. And it’s so—” Idiotic, thinking we’d be together forever. “—frustrating. I’ve been writing. There are whole books’ worth of writing. It’s all gone into the trash.”