by Amy Lane
The fight bled out of Tommy, and he rested his cheek next to Chase’s thigh again.
“Why would you think I’d hate you?” Tommy asked, his voice soft and broken.
Chase was tired. The whole scene had just done him in. His eyes were closed and he barely knew he was moving his own lips, but that didn’t mean he didn’t hear what he said.
“Because of how much I hate her.”
“Who’s her?” Donnie asked softly, and Chase was tired, too tired to answer him, but Tommy did it, sounding absent, like he was thinking about something else.
“His mother.”
“Why does he hate his mother?” Donnie sounded so much like Kevin it made Chase want to smile.
“Because she killed herself, what, are you stupid?” Tommy’s prickly nature showing. God, Chase wished he was awake so he could smooth the way between them. Donnie could get along with almost anyone, but Tommy, not so much.
“Oh fuck.” There was a thump, like a head hitting a wall. “Fuck. Jesus, Chase.”
Tommy’s voice went soft as he asked, “Why? How did you think she died?”
Donnie shook his head. “He never told us. When he started school in the second grade, he was just… just this quiet kid, you know? So Kevin, he could talk to anyone, and my mom always told me to make friends, and there we were. And… we just never asked. That was just Chase.”
Tommy’s sound was broken, and Chase felt those bony fingers stroking the back of his hand with surprising gentleness.
“God. No wonder it was so easy. He’s been bleeding since he was a baby. He just never told anyone. How do you even know it hurts after all that time?”
Because you loved me, and I knew what it meant to feel.
Sleep.
WHEN he came to again, Donnie was gone and Tommy was on a little couch, cuddled up with his knees almost to his chest. His head was pillowed on Donnie’s bright yellow Sac State hooded sweatshirt, and he had a hospital blanket draped around his shoulders. He’d changed from the last time Chase had been awake. Chase could see that he’d gone from a black hooded sweatshirt to something brighter, sportier. Vaguely, he recognized it as one of the mock-baseball T-shirts that Chase had bought the last time they’d gone shopping. Apparently Chase’s clothes had made it to Tommy’s house, and a little tense part of Chase relaxed.
“He hasn’t gone home in three days,” said a pleasant, mildly familiar voice, and Chase looked up and squinted.
“Aren’t you Tommy’s shrink?”
“And Tommy was only the tip of the crazy iceberg, young man, because now I’m yours.”
Chase groaned. Oh God. He knew this would happen. A shrink.
“I stopped,” Chase complained. “I stopped. I changed my mind. Doesn’t that get me a free pass out of a headshrinker?”
“On the contrary!” Doc said. He had wooden needles and a lovely, lush purple yarn in his hand, and apparently he was really big into appearing serene because he simply sat there and knit, keeping that tranquility around him like a handmade sweater.
“No?”
“No, my boy. It just makes you a hell of a lot more interesting and less surprised than my usual suicide watch. It doesn’t mean I’m going to assume that my job here with you is all done.”
“Why I gotta talk to you?” Chase wanted to know. “Why couldn’t I talk to Tommy? He’s the only one I ever talked to anyway.”
“Yeah, I know. Donnie and Kevin were most unhappy to hear how much you didn’t talk to them. Kevin said it felt like he wasn’t a real friend after all.”
Aw, fuck. “That’s not fair! Those guys are my brothers. I just, you know, didn’t want to tell them dumb shit.”
Doc Stevenson grunted and then peered at his knitting for a minute. “Dammit, kid, you made me drop a stitch. ‘Dumb shit’? Really? That’s what this falls under? Because that’s a new one. I could publish your case and be famous, if I did that sort of thing. You’re like… like a combination of textbooks with a monkey wrench thrown in. And you’re afraid of burdening your friends with ‘dumb shit’. I’m boggled.”
Chase’s head didn’t feel any better than it had the first time he’d woken up. “Oh, God. Don’t I get a pass? I mean… shit. I’m still hooked up to—what is this shit?”
“Blood and fluids,” the Doc said without looking at the two lines hooked up to the inside of his restrained arm. “About twenty strapping, beautiful young men trooped in here to try to donate blood in your name. Some of it even matched, but you may want to think about writing a thank you note to your, uhm, company.”
Chase groaned. “You know what Tommy does, you know what I do,” he said, trying really fucking hard not to be defensive. “Yes. My fellow porn models came out and donated. Does that make their blood not as good?”
“No,” the Doc said, his voice growing gentle. “But it means that maybe you’ve got more people who care about you than you think. Maybe you want to try giving some of them a straight answer before we have to restrain your other wrist.”
“But I told him the truth,” Chase said plaintively, and he knew he sounded like a busted third-grader. But I told the teacher I was mad. But I told the girl not to bug me.
“Well, how about tell me the truth, and I’ll count this really frustrating ten minutes toward your forty-five hours of counseling before I send you home.”
“Forty-five hours?” Now Chase was boggled.
“One hour a day, or until I sign your release papers. Whichever comes first. Given your prickly nature, you’re lucky your health insurance is the expensive, private-jet kind.”
“Why is that?”
“Because otherwise, you’d be in group therapy for the month and a half. As it is, you’re just here.”
“Is that standard operating procedure?” Really? He was stuck in the psych ward for a month and a half? God. Just knowing that alone might have kept the razorblade out of his hand.
Or put it in the other one.
“Only because I know you, Chase. Not personally, mind you, but through Tommy here. You’re his primary topic of conversation. If you weren’t so fucked up, my boy, I’d be bored with you by now, but I’m not. I’m worried. Is there any possible way we could come to an agreement about this?”
“About what?”
“About you voluntarily commit yourself, you get the nice room, the freedom to visit the store for the cigarettes—”
“Gross!”
“Or gum of your choice, and are allowed as many visitors as can stand you, as long as you don’t go too far when you talk.”
“And what do you get?” Chase asked warily.
“I get as many hours as I think you need. You knew how to cut, you knew when to cut, you were in a prime position to finish the job. You didn’t. That makes me think that you really want to live. If that’s the truth, let’s get to the real reason you’re here, and then you won’t have to be here anymore.”
Chase grunted. “What day is it?”
“October fifth.”
“Can I maybe be out by Thanksgiving? Tommy’s mother died last year. I don’t want him to spend the holiday alone.”
There was a masculine and very paternal sigh. “You know, these things don’t always happen on a timetable, Chase. And from everything I’ve seen, you’re one incredibly stubborn young man. You want to get out of here, you’re going to have to do the hard stuff. You think you can manage that?”
Tommy rolled over and looked at him. You’d think he’d look all frowzy with sleep, but not Tommy. His eyes were a little red, but still bright, and still sharp, and they seemed to bore into Chase’s soul. Without a word, Tommy stood up and made it to the other chair next to Doc, the one he’d been sitting in when Chase had first woken up. He reached up and squeezed Chase’s fingers and Chase closed his eyes. Tommy would know if Chase promised. He’d know if Chase went back on his word.
“Fuck,” Chase sighed. “Yeah. But maybe we can wait to do more of this until the needles get pulled out of my arms? I’d really
like the part of the hospital visit where everyone gets all dewy-eyed and tells me they’re glad I’m okay.”
Tommy’s shoulders shook for a minute, and when Chase looked at him, those Loki black eyes were focused on his face.
“I’m so glad you’re okay,” Tommy said softly. “I can’t be okay if you’re not. Can you listen to the Doc, maybe, and make sure you stay that way?”
“Yeah, Tommy. But God,” Chase closed his eyes. “I planned this so bad. I was going to go to the hospital and get all cured and shit, and then go home and be all good and strong for you. I wanted to be that guy, the one you need. And I’m not him yet. I wish you got to see me as that guy.”
Tommy’s laugh was soft and bitter. “Chase, do you really think I would have followed you this far if I didn’t think you were that guy?”
“Hell, Tommy, I don’t know why you stuck with me. I just wanted to be worth it, that’s all.”
Tommy yawned and stretched and smiled a little. “Chase, are you falling asleep?”
“God, yeah.”
“I’m gonna go home and cop a shower, okay? A real one. Don’t panic if I’m not here when you wake up. I’m coming, can you remember that?”
Chase had a random inappropriate thought, and it must have shown in his smirk.
“Jesus,” Tommy said, shaking his head. “You can take the asshole out of the porn vid, but—”
“You can’t take the porn vid out of the asshole?” Chase finished, giggling a little, and the last thing he saw when he closed his eyes was Tommy, giving an honest-to-God smile. Who knew? Maybe he’d be out early?
As he was fading out, he heard that paternal, masculine sigh again, and realized he’d never really answered Doc’s question. Maybe not.
Fragile Fucking Flower
THE young man on the couch looked tired. He was wearing loose jeans and a hooded purple sweatshirt, and he had his knees drawn up to his chest. He was resting his cheek on his knees and closing his eyes tightly, like he could block out the world—
“CHASE, you need to open your eyes and answer the question. Wait. Here’s a new question, maybe not so hard. Where are you when you do that?”
Chase grunted. Compared to some of the questions in the last five days, this was a new one. “I’m trying to see myself from the outside,” he said, and Doc Stevenson grunted.
“Really? Why?”
“To make sure I don’t look too off.”
There was a digestive silence. Chase opened his eyes and cast a glance at the Doc, who was knitting meditatively.
“Have you always done this?”
Chase thought a minute. “Well, not when I was filming.” He smiled. “That was actually pretty awesome, you know? I could see it on film, people told me it was good. I knew that I was doing okay.” Almost as good as the flying part, when people touched me.
“Finish that last thought,” Doc commanded, and Chase grunted again. He hated this. It was creepy—Doc, Tommy, and lately Donnie and Dex and even Kevin kept making him finish the thought.
What happened to having peace in my own he—
“Now, Chase!”
“What happened to having peace in my own head?” he snapped, and perversely, Doc smiled.
“Your peace isn’t peace, buddy. It’s a festering well of emotional pus. Now finish that first thought, the one about being on film.”
“Man, you’ve got a wife. Do you really want to talk about gay porn?”
Doc sent him a droll look. “Chase, you are more than a private person. Your entire psyche is locked behind a steel vault that’s buried in a well that’s covered in sixty thousand pounds of radioactive concrete. You’re a human Chernobyl. The fact that you, out of the blue, decided not just to have an affair, or start going down on guys in stairwells, but actually star in pornographic videos is probably the only reason you’re still alive. Until you met Tommy, it’s probably the only emotionally authentic thing you’ve done in your life—”
“That’s not true,” Chase defended.
“No?”
“No. Donnie’s house. I went to Donnie’s house. His mom was nice to me. I liked it there.”
“But you didn’t bare your soul at Donnie’s house, Chase. Hell, you didn’t even bare your ass—and from what Donnie told me, you had an invitation—”
“Donnie told you that?”
“So did Tommy. They thought it would help.”
Chase covered his face with his hands. “God. God. Porn was so less invasive than this is. There’s a picture on the net of Ethan spitting in my asshole to lube me up, and I’d so rather put up a fucking billboard of that than have complete strangers know all this shit about me that I didn’t tell them.”
“They’re not strangers, Chase! They’re your lover and your friend and—”
“And you!” Chase accused, and Doc winced.
“Is it just the me that bothers you?”
“No! It’s the anybody!”
Doc paused for a minute to let that sink in, and Chase looked away.
“So, Chase. Why is there a picture of some guy spitting in your asshole posted on the net? What could you possibly have to gain from that, besides the money—but things weren’t that desperate, so don’t feed me that crap.”
Chase glared at him. “Okay, I saw Good Will Hunting, but from what I understand, shrinks really aren’t allowed to talk to us like that. That was a movie. What makes you so special?”
Doc smiled, the expression rife with weariness. “I’m old, Chase. I’m old, I’m close to retirement, and I give a shit. No one’s going to fire me at this stage of the game. I’ve seen so many young men and women like you—maybe not quite so spectacular, but I’ve had my share. I had one young man who was scarred in a fire when he was younger. As soon as he got old enough, he tattooed over all those scars—must have hurt like a son of a bitch too, but he never complained. And I asked him why, and he said, ‘This way people look at what I want them to see.’ Is that why the porn, Chase? If you were going to expose yourself to the world, was it going to be on your terms?”
Chase thought about it carefully. “A little,” he said slowly, feeling the answer out as he said it. “I liked the idea of a pretty picture, so yeah. That was part of it. If I was going to be gay, I wanted it to be pretty, and hot. I wanted it to look perfect.”
“Part but not all?”
Chase was lost in the idea now. Talking was easier, because that part of his brain—the part that had done homework and pitched games after the breakup with Tommy—that was what was working. It seemed to be completely detachable from the part of him that hurt.
“It was free,” he said after a moment. “I felt free. No worries, no judgment. People—men—touched me, and it felt good, and I was rewarded for that, I guess. I was rewarded for feeling good. It was like flying.”
The little room, with the dark paneling and the battered couch and the stained beige carpet and the creaky leather chair for the Doc, was quiet for a moment, and then a sound broke it up, something alien and unexpected.
It wasn’t until the Doc passed him a box of tissues that Chase realized he was crying.
THE best part of the unzip your innards and count your intestines on the table exercise that the Doc called “counseling” was that afterward, Chase got visitors. Tommy was there every day, but he came in the evening for a couple of hours. In the meantime, he had Donnie or Dex or Kevin or Kane or any of the other guys from the set. There was a modest little exercise room with a set of weights and a couple of treadmills and elliptical machines. Chase had felt like crap warmed over for the first couple of days—going out for a walk was about all he could manage. But today his muscles were cramped and his body was protesting the lack of the workout, so Chase asked Dex if they could do that.
“I’m sorry the facility is crap,” Chase apologized. “You could probably get a better workout at the gym.”
Dex looked at him sorrowfully. “Does it occur to you that I like you, Chase? That I consider you a friend?”
Chase swallowed. “Yeah,” he said, blushing. “I’m just sort of a lot of trouble, you know?”
“Yeah, you are,” Dex said, no apology in his voice at all. For all of a second Chase was hurt, and then he looked at Dex’s smirk.
“Bite me!” he muttered, and now Dex looked positively evil.
“I did that already. Now I think that’s Tommy’s job!”
Chase was laughing when Kevin and Donnie came into the weight room, looking for them.
“See, here he is, laughing like a mental patient!” Kevin grinned and sat on an unoccupied weight bench, cracking his gum. Chase was in the middle of doing bicep curls with his undamaged arm and a substantially reduced weight load, and he looked up and grinned.
“If you wanted a porn star instead, I think I’m retired—but Dex is still shooting!”
“Oooh!” Dex hooted, pretending he’d taken one in the gut, and there was a burst of raucous laughter. Chase looked at Kevin to make sure he was joining in, because he still felt bad about not trusting Kevin in the first place, and that’s when he had a sudden flashback. It was him and Kevin in the fourth grade, and Kevin was teaching him all about gum.
“Yeah, here, like this. You gotta chew it loud, with your mouth open, to get the most air in it—that’s what makes it crack. Be careful though, or you’ll bite your tongue.” Kevin’s face, pleasant and roundish in adulthood, had been very very round in childhood, and when he was glum, the effect was heartbreaking, even to another child. “It hurts when you do that,” Kevin confided quietly, “and afterwards, you can’t eat potato chips because it hurts.”
“Chase?” Donnie asked, his voice all concern. Chase looked down and realized that Donnie had moved forward and taken the weight out of his hands, because he’d stopped doing bicep curls and was just standing there, looking at Kevin, and, oh shit, really?
“Oh God!” he groaned, tilting his head back in complete mortification. “Am I fucking crying again?”
“Where’d you go?” Donnie asked, and he pulled a box of Kleenex from the sill of the industrial yellow wall. The gymnasium had an orderly reading a newspaper in the corner of the room, a guy who looked like a really stressed-out stockbroker running the treadmill, and them, Chase and his friends, and it was almost as private as Chase got these days.