Breakfast at Midnight

by Kim Dias

  After that little speech, he downed his shot. Why not? Callum reached for the bottle at the same time as he did; their hands bumped and Callum raised his eyebrows until Fred let go of it. Then he poured Fred another. Voice like steel, he said, “I hated every single song on Leos’s last album. Every single last fucking one.” He tilted his chin at Fred. “Your turn.”

  Fred didn’t stop to think. “I dedicated three of my books to James, my ex-husband, and now I can’t look at any of them anymore.”

  “I once fell madly in love with a guy and broke up with him because I couldn’t be out and in the band.”

  “Um,” Fred said. It was his turn, and he didn’t want to say a single one of the confessions that came into his head: I sometimes hate myself so much I want to burn everything I write, and for about a week after my divorce, I didn’t do anything but stay in bed and listen to Leonard Cohen, and worst of all, for its sheer vulnerability, you make me want to write again. “I don’t know what to tell you.”

  “Tell me…,” Callum said. “Tell me something you don’t want to tell me.”

  Fred blinked at him. That was brutally to the point, more than he had expected Callum could be. But he’d asked for it, so he took a deep breath and blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “I’m a shitty father. It’s my daughter’s birthday on Saturday and I’m not going to see her because my ex will be there and I… can’t.”

  Callum nodded, somehow hiding the judgment Fred knew he must feel. “That sucks,” he said.

  “Yeah. I could—I could never be who my family needed me to be.”

  “Huh.” Callum took a sip. “You’re running away.” It was so blunt, so matter-of-fact, it made Fred’s stomach twist with pain.

  “So are you,” he said. Apparently years of fighting with James hadn’t cured him of his habit of lashing out when hurt.

  But Callum didn’t flinch. There wasn’t even a single flash of pain in his eyes. He just finished his current glass of whiskey and went to pour himself another. “Yeah,” he said, “I am. Because that band is ruining my fucking life, and I need to do something about it. What’s your excuse?”

  “He’s my ex,” Fred said, hurt and angry and cornered. “Do I need one?”

  “Yes,” Callum said. “If it’s getting in the way of your relationship with your daughter, who has shitty music taste but loves you and needs you, then yes.”

  “How do you know?”

  “She invited you to this party, didn’t she?” Callum’s tone was as challenging as his gaze. “Why don’t you want to see him? What are you so scared of?”

  Fred stared down at his hands. He clutched his whiskey tumbler as if it were his only remaining grip on sanity. “I loved him so much,” he said and tried to ignore the way his voice cracked. “I was… I was wrecked when we broke up. We’d been fighting for five years straight. That’s what it felt like, anyway. And I was still devastated. I had to almost double my dose of medication—antidepressants—just to get out of bed in the morning.” He took a breath, followed it with another sip. “What if I see him… what if I see him and I’m still in love with him? And he isn’t with me? Right now, I can be over him—but if I see him…. It hasn’t even been two years. Christ, if I see him….”

  He trailed off. He raised his eyes to look at Callum, dreading what he’d find there.

  Callum met his gaze steadily. He nodded. Said, “I don’t think that’s as weird as you think it is. And I think if he’s not still at least a little bit in love with you, he’s an idiot. Because my band’s all about stupid love songs, and I hate them now, but you’re making me want to write one.”

  Fred wasn’t blushing. He definitely was not blushing. It was the alcohol, that was all.

  Callum either didn’t notice or he decided not to comment. “You said I’m running away, but I can’t actually run worth a damn. Jasper once said I look like a chicken when I run. Your turn.”

  This rapid change of gears made Fred’s head spin. Maybe Callum was right. Maybe he was expecting himself to move on faster than most people would. “Um,” he said. “Maybe it’s not the divorce. Everything I’ve written for the last two and a half years has been shit. My agent wants to kill me.”

  Callum grabbed his glass and raised it, then nodded at Fred to do the same. “To shitty art,” he said once Fred had done so, “and the way it ruins our fucking lives.”

  Fred laughed; he couldn’t help it—and maybe it was the alcohol talking, but he had just fallen a little bit in love with the fact that Callum’s eyes were sparkling again. “To ruining our lives,” he said, and they both drank.

  CALLUM KEPT his promise and didn’t try to drive anywhere. “You were right,” he said, words just the tiniest bit slurred. “I’m not seeing double yet, but I’m fuckin’ close.”

  He swore more when he was drunk, Fred noticed. He also made leaps in subjects that Fred, being a fair bit more sober, wasn’t quite able to keep up with. He settled for keeping quiet and listening to Callum go from why dogs were better than cats to you’re fucking Frederick James, you bastard to how much it hurt when you accidentally stuck an eyeliner pencil in your eye.

  He led Callum, stumbling and the slightest bit giggly, to the bedroom. He still had his pillow from last night on the couch, but he didn’t trust Callum in his current state not to just lie down in the hall. “Bed,” he said, pushing Callum onto it. “And then sleep.”

  As if on cue, Callum yawned loudly; his mouth opened so wide his jaw cracked. “Okay,” he said, but he reached out and grabbed Fred’s arm the second Fred took one step away. “Um,” he said, suddenly shy for the first time all night. “Can you… um, can you stay with me?”

  Fred must have reacted somehow, gone pale or tried to pull away, he didn’t know, because Callum rapidly shook his head. “No, no, not like—not like in a sexy, bow chicka bow wow way.” He grinned when Fred, despite himself, laughed. “I mean… just… stay.” He still looked tentative, like a lost child.

  Fred’s better judgment said no and why?

  So, of course, his mouth said, “Yes.”

  Callum’s smile turned relieved, but when Fred started to move away, Callum’s fingers tightened on his arm. “I’m just going to the bathroom,” Fred said. “That’s all. I’ll be back.”

  Callum let him go, somewhat reluctantly, and Fred left the room. He washed his face with cold water. He took his time to let himself think. Apparently Callum was a sweary, clingy drunk. That wasn’t entirely unusual. Fred had known people in college who got four drinks in and suddenly needed someone to cuddle them. He’d never been one; nor had James.

  It felt oddly nice to be needed. Nice to be wanted.

  Callum was under the covers by the time Fred returned to the bedroom. He lay curled up on his side. Fred clicked the light off and felt his way to the bed. He slid under the blanket and tried to ignore that this was maybe a little bit weird. It felt weirder when Callum pushed right against him.

  Maybe he was stiff, awkward, uncomfortable to snuggle with. Fred wasn’t sure, but he must have been something, because a half-asleep Callum mumbled, “Will you relax? You were going to fuck me last night.”

  “That’s why it’s weird,” Fred replied. If they’d had sex, maybe this would have felt more natural, Fred’s arm awkwardly placed around Callum’s waist, after a vulnerable conversation in a low-lit room. But they were fully clothed, after a conversation that felt like it should have happened after sex. Cuddling the way they would have cuddled after sex.

  It was strange.

  But he liked it. He liked how much he liked it.

  “Is it?” Callum said. He paused. “Yeah, I guess it is. But you have that cuddly look to you.”

  “Uh,” Fred said. “Thank you?”

  “Welcome,” Callum said, his voice thick and sleep-heavy. He took hold of Fred’s arm and pulled it more tightly around himself. “There,” he said. “Like that. You good?”

  “I’m good,” Fred said. His lips were an inch from the warm
skin on the back of Callum’s neck.

  “Good,” Callum said. “Good ni—” He didn’t even finish the word.

  “Night,” Fred whispered. He curled up closer to Callum, tightened his arm around his waist, pulled him closer.

  It was weird. It was nice.

  He liked it.

  He liked him.

  “ARE YOU hungover?” Callum whispered. “’Cause I’m a little hungover.”

  “Mmm,” Fred said. He rolled over to face Callum, though he kept his eyes closed. The room was still dark, he could tell. What time was it, anyway?

  “I’m a little hungover,” Callum repeated. “And I kind of really want to kiss you.”

  Don’t think, Fred thought, and said, “Okay.”

  “Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  Gentle fingers brushed over Fred’s beard, down over his cheek. “You’re gorgeous.” He was still whispering, and his fingers touched Fred’s lips ever-so-lightly and Fred couldn’t bring himself to come up with a sarcastic response.

  Callum’s lips were dry when they finally pushed against Fred’s. It was an oddly chaste kiss, so gentle it bordered on timid, but it left Fred feeling shaky, open, and vulnerable. Callum kissed him a second time, a third, each one as gentle as the last, as if he was afraid of breaking Fred, of breaking the moment.

  “I’ve missed this,” Fred said, voice so soft it was barely there. Why were they awake already? “Having… this. With someone.”

  “I’ve never had this.” If Callum’s voice had been louder, Fred was sure it would have cracked.

  Fred didn’t have the right words to respond to that. Would anyone have? So he didn’t speak. Instead he opened his eyes and rolled Callum onto his back, lowered himself over Callum, and kissed him as deeply as he possibly could. Callum’s hands came up to Fred’s back to clutch at him, and Fred was meant to be a writer, meant to be good with words, but this was so much better than speaking. Show, don’t tell, wasn’t that the rule?

  Afterward, Callum fell asleep first, bare skin warm and sweat-sticky against Fred’s. Fred stayed awake, breathing him in, trying not to sneeze when Callum’s long hair tickled his nose. His chest felt full.

  He hadn’t realized how difficult it had been to breathe until it was easy again.

  FRED WOKE up slowly. His face stretched in a long yawn before he cracked his eyes open. Memories of the previous night flooded back and he turned his head to press a smile into his pillow. Last night had happened. It had happened, and Callum was still here.

  Fred hadn’t realized until now that part of him had been convinced he’d wake up to find Callum gone.

  Callum made little snuffling noises in his sleep, his face mashed against Fred’s back. His arm was around Fred’s waist, one of his legs was hooked over both of Fred’s, and Fred’s body felt creaky, but he couldn’t stretch, not unless he wanted to risk waking Callum.

  How long had it been since he had slept with someone’s arms around him? He and James had slept in separate rooms for a month before Fred moved out. James stayed in their bedroom; Fred had taken the couch in the living room.

  Callum shifted and murmured something in his sleep before he stirred properly awake. “Hey,” he mumbled. Then, sounding no more awake but sleepily delighted, “Hey, you.”

  “Hey, you,” Fred echoed, feeling soft and open. “Morning. Hey.”

  “Hey,” Callum said. Fred could hear his smile. “Nice to see you. Did you—” He cut himself off by yawning hugely. “Jesus,” he said. “Did you—” Another yawn, and Fred laughed.

  “Coffee?” he offered, and Callum exhaled in a rush, breath hot on Fred’s skin.

  “Oh my God, really? Yes, yes please, I will do anything for coffee.”

  Fred couldn’t seem to stop smiling. He rolled over, dislodged Callum’s leg, and took a good look at him. He was sleep-mussed, with pillow lines on his face and his eyes not entirely open yet. It only made Fred’s smile grow wider as he pressed a kiss first to Callum’s cheek, then his lips; he ignored Callum’s halfhearted protest of “Morning breath!”

  He trailed his fingertips over Callum’s bare shoulder and, voice low, asked, “Anything?”

  Callum shivered as tiny goose bumps popped up on his skin, and looked at Fred through his eyelashes, shy and flirty all at once. “Yeah.” He swallowed. “Anything.”

  “I’m going to hold you to that,” Fred told him. One more kiss and then, much as he didn’t want to, he moved away from Callum’s warm body and out of bed. He pulled on a pair of tracksuit pants and turned to see Callum stretching with a throaty groan, arms above his head and the duvet down around his hips, all bare skin and sleepy green eyes.

  Fred left the room in a hurry. If he didn’t now, he never would.

  He stood in the kitchen with his arms crossed over his chest, slightly chilly out of bed and away from Callum. The coffee machine gurgled, its usual congested self. While he waited, Fred’s eyes fell on his cell phone. Its screen blinked with a new text message.

  A knife made of guilt stabbed into Fred’s stomach and twisted when he saw Amira’s name. Maybe we could go out for dinner for my bday? just you n me, no party, no crowds :)

  Fred screwed his eyes shut. He rubbed his free hand over the lower half of his face and whispered into his palm, “Stop running away.”

  Swipe to unlock. Contacts. A.

  Amira picked up on the third ring. “Hi, Daddy.” She sounded breathless and bubbly. “What’s up?”

  Fred felt breathless too, like he’d just run up ten flights of stairs, but he’d never been further from bubbly. “Hi,” he said, and it was stalling, he was stalling. He swallowed, told himself to get to the point. “I… how are you?”

  That… that was not the point.

  “Good,” Amira said. She sounded distracted. “Good, good, good. Well.” She let out a short burst of laughter. “Things are kinda crazy over here, really. My, um, the party’s this weekend and Dad’s gotten into it and—” She stopped and cleared her throat. When she spoke again, her voice was softer, gentler. “You know how Dad gets when he’s planning a party.”

  Fred’s throat suddenly felt thick. “Yeah,” he said. He spoke softly because if his voice grew any louder, it would break. “Yeah, I do.” James loved a party, loved any excuse to get everyone he knew together. You’re like a demented rabbit, Fred once said to James, who had luckily been too distracted by his multitude of lists—food, guests, decorations—to react with anything more than flipping Fred the bird.

  The thought of James did nothing to make Fred feel any less nervous. But he swallowed, cleared his throat again, and said, “Amira? Hon?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I… I understand if this is too late… maybe I shouldn’t even be asking, I don’t know… but if you still want me to come this weekend….”

  He didn’t have to finish the sentence. Amira was already talking over him. “Do you mean it? Will you really? Daddy, are you serious? Do you really want to come?”

  Fred slumped forward, tension he hadn’t even realized he was holding escaping his body in a rush. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, I would love to, and I’m sorry I didn’t—”

  “Don’t be,” Amira said instantly. “I know it’s hard, with what happened with you and Dad—I get it, Daddy. I do.”

  “It’s at your house, right?” Fred asked. “When should I get there, what time… do I need to bring anything?”

  “Just you,” Amira said, but Fred was already racking his brain to try to think of a birthday present; he was a lousy father for not having already bought something, wasn’t he? “People will be arriving around noon, and, um….” She trailed off, paused for a second. “It’s sort of turned into Dad’s thing. He’s all into planning it and inviting people. You know—”

  “How he gets with parties,” Fred finished. “Yeah, I do.”

  “If you don’t want to come—”

  “I’ll be there,” Fred interrupted. He hated the way she so obviously felt the need to prot
ect him.

  “If you don’t want to—”

  “Amy,” he said, cutting her off again. “I’m meant to be the one who looks after you, remember?”

  She snorted a laugh—it was a habit she had picked up from James, and the sound of it made Fred smile and want to cry all at the same time. “Yeah,” she said, “but you’re horrible at looking after yourself.”

  “Still not your responsibility.”

  “Yeah.” He could hear her giving in—not in a way that meant she agreed with him, but in a way that meant she thought it was easier to agree and go on thinking what she wanted. “Thank you, Daddy. It… it’ll be really nice to have you there.”

  “It’ll be nice to be there,” he said, but once they hung up, his heart started to pound as he thought of being in James’s house, being back in what used to be their house. He hadn’t wanted to stay there, hadn’t been able to bear the thought of waking up every day alone in a house that had been meant for two. He hadn’t resented James for keeping the house—but he hadn’t been able to understand it either.

  Well. He’d deal with that when it was time, and if he had to lock himself in a bathroom to have a panic attack midway through Amira’s birthday party, then so be it.

  The coffee machine let loose with a horrible sucking sound as it finished up the last dregs of water, and Fred pulled himself from his thoughts. He knew how Callum had his coffee, thanks to their nights at Denny’s, and, God, he was pathetic—he was smiling again.

  Somehow he couldn’t bring himself to care all that much.

  WHEN FRED walked back into the bedroom, he was greeted by the sight of Callum still stretched out and lazing. His eyes lit up when they fell on the mugs Fred carried. “Oh my God, I love you.” He didn’t even seem to realize what he had said, too busy scrambling to sit up. Propped up against the headboard, he reached out with grabby hands gestures. “Please?”