by Audra Red
“Really abusing the house tonight, aren’t ya Fox?” the pretty bartender asked, leaning over and clinking down a frothing mug of amber beer. She gave Owen a flirtatious wink, propping herself up on her elbows which displayed a rather generous amount of cleavage for all to see. To her dismay, Owen was too preoccupied with guzzling his beverage to notice.
“I wouldn’t call it abuse, Madeline,” Daniel interrupted, smiling wryly. “I believe it’s called gluttony, in the Bible at least.”
Owen snorted, throwing back his drink. “After today, I need a few… dozen of these,” he said, rubbing at his forehead.
“Oh, planning the revamp already?” Madeline asked. She slid a dish of pretzels Owen’s way. “Pace yourself, sweetie.”
“Yep,” Daniel said. “This is our year, I can feel it.”
Owen chuckled, laying his head down on the bar and groaning. “You say that every year, Daniel.”
Daniel smiled, shaking his head. “This year I mean it.”
Every year the New Yorker conducted a city wide search for New York City’s top fifteen restaurants and dining halls, and every year “City Lights Over Park Place” just barely missed out on the list.
It wasn’t that Daniel cared about the status it would bring, or the publicity (his restaurant was doing extremely well, list or not), he merely needed something to work toward, some way to improve himself and his establishment. That’s how Daniel lived his life, never satisfied, always searching for something better.
He frowned, picking at a pretzel, mulling his life over in his head, and deciding he really just needed another drink.
“A scotch, Madeline, please,” Daniel said. He surveyed his restaurant from the bar; it was packed tonight with wealthy clients, all smiling, chatting and enjoying their meals.
Why did he need more?
“Scotch?” Owen asked, rising from the bar. “Yeah, something is definitely off with you tonight, and it isn’t this redesign scheme you’ve got going on. We’ve been planning it for ages and you’ve laid most of the work on me, you ass.”
Daniel chuckled, stirring at his drink when Madeline set it before him.
“Now I… I am going to take a piss,” Owen announced. A well dressed woman at the bar huffed, and made a scene of excusing herself from the unsavory company.
“Driving away clients? I think you’ve had enough,” Madeline said. Owen steadied himself, and gave Madeline a withering look, stumbling to the restrooms.
“By the end of this month he’s not going to have a functioning liver,” Daniel mused, sipping at his drink. Madeline raised an eyebrow as she flicked open a Corona, sliding it down to a gentlemen at the end of the bar, and then making her way back toward Daniel.
“So, boss-man, what’s going on with you, really?” Madeline asked, leaning seductively over the bar, toothpicked olive in hand.
“Come now, Madeline, we both know that doesn’t do it for me,” Daniel said. He plucked the olive from the toothpick and popped it into his mouth.
“But you found someone who does, huh?”
Daniel gaped for half a second and then swallowed the olive. “How-”
“As you all seem to forget, I’m a woman. We know these things,” Madeline replied, flipping her hair.
“I don’t think Owen forgets,” Daniel countered, trying to dodge the subject. “He’s just a little worked up tonight. We’re redoing the menu.”
“Don’t try to get on my good side, you wouldn’t like it,” Madeline said. Daniel sat back in the chair and let out a short breath. “So, who’s got you grinning?”
“Can’t I be happy without a cause?”
“You haven’t been in awhile. Last time I think was, well, when you were dating that German shoemaker.”
“He was Italian and a chef at Melba’s,” Daniel said.
“So my memory’s shit, but at least I remembered the important part. You were happy.”
Daniel grinned. “Yeah, I was. Until the bastard ran off with that German shoemaker.”
Madeline scowled, and flicked her toothpick at Daniel before picking up a few tips from the bar. “You’re not going to say, huh?” she asked.
“I’d rather not jinx it,” Daniel said. “Fuck, it’s nearly nine thirty. I better go find Owen, cart his ass home, and then my own.”
“Sure you don’t wanna call a cab?”
“A Coke or two and a tumbler of scotch better not be enough to sink me these days. Then I’d really have something to worry about,” Daniel said, grinning. “You guys alright to close up without me?”
Madeline rolled her eyes. “Yes, seeing how it’s our job, I think we can handle it. Now go help Fox snap his trousers up!”
Daniel chuckled, standing tiredly. “Goodnight to you, too.”
***
Alexander smiled in the dim light of the room, feet up on the couch, arms wrapped carefully around his knees. He let out a wistful sigh, and the music from the television swelled.
Reaching for the remote control, which was half hidden under Elijah’s dozing form, he turned off the DVD player. Breakfast at Tiffanys blinked off the screen and he settled himself back against the cushions, being careful not to wake Elijah on the other side of the sofa.
It was nearly nine, and he was completely worn out. He suspected Elijah would crash at his apartment, so he let his friend stay curled up on the couch where he wheezed slightly in his sleep. Alexander, on the other hand, had one more thing he wanted to do before bed.
He padded into the kitchen, flicking on the lights and finding his jacket half slung across a chair in the far corner. “Alright,” he muttered, dipping his hand into the deep pockets and coming up with a folded napkin.
Spreading it open on the table, he took the phone from the wall and eyed it seriously.
“I just can’t think about it,” Alexander told himself, pressing the talk button. “I need to dial and then whatever comes out of my mouth comes out of my mouth.”
His hand shook a bit and he swallowed hard. The uncertainty of what lay ahead was nerve-wracking, but it also sent little thrills up and down his body. This was something new, and in his life where most things were constant and expected, it was a good thing.
His fingers hovered over the keypad, ready to dial, when a loud noise from the corner of the room made him nearly drop the phone. He winced as his hands tightened and slid on the phone, pain lacing up his fingers.
Steadying his breathing, he sat the phone down to find his cat walking across the counter.
“Oh, silly Cat,” he whispered, shaking out his hands. The cat knocked over an open jar of spaghetti sauce that Elijah had left on the counter. Alexander sighed, and stood. “Get down from there,” he berated the large cat. “You know you’re not supposed to be up there.”
He frowned and walked toward the cat, holding his arms out to scoop him off the counter. The animal had different ideas and bolted out of Alexander’s reach, hopping up onto the refrigerator top.
It happened so quickly that Alexander was still reaching forward as the cat leaped away, his bandaged foot awkwardly landing in some spilled sauce. Before he could steady himself, his entire body lurched forward violently.
“Fuck,” he gasped, reaching blindly for anything as he lost balance. His hand caught hold of the counter edge, grabbing firmly and sliding across the smooth wood. He couldn’t help but cry out; the friction was so powerful that his bandages slid aside, his bare skin coming in contact with the counter.
The pain was only bearable for a few seconds, and then he let go, toppling to the floor with a quiet, hollow cry.
He lay sprawled out, wetness from the sauce seeping into his pants, his hand cradled against his chest. His breath shot out erratically, his heart beating madly. He willed himself to calm, hearing Elijah’s soft snores from the other room.
The fall had hurt, but the pain was nothing in comparison to that of his hand. The tears that spilled out over his flushed cheeks were unstoppable, and the little sobs were only muffled by
the wooden floor.
He’d had far worse spills than this, but something hurt much deeper.
“Oh god,” he whispered, the tears burning across his skin. “Pathetic.”
How could he have even thought about having a different life-- a life to possibly share with someone? How useless he was, how utterly dependent and weak! The pain in his hand would fade. In the morning only a few blisters on his back and hands would mark his fall. But he wouldn’t forget.
He brushed away the tears with his shirt sleeve, forcing himself to sit up. The phone sat on the table, right in his eye line. He felt so incredibly foolish to even think of calling Daniel. Now he knew that he had to call, but for different reasons.
Alexander stood shakily, the pain still so near. 'Remember this, remember this pain,' he thought, picking up the phone. 'Don’t ever forget it. You’re not normal.'
Without even thinking he dialed the number, standing perfectly still as the phone rang once, twice, three times. He hadn’t even thought of what he’d say. He had before, but now he wouldn’t be pleasant.
And then the voicemail machine picked up.
“I’m not in right now, and assuming you know who I am and what you’re getting yourself into, leave a message at the beep,” came the deep voice of the man Alexander had found himself so surprisingly enamored with.
The phone beeped and Alexander let out a little squeak, willing his mouth to move. “Um. Hello,” he murmured. Yes, a good strong start. Now to let him down gently and... “Yes, this is, well, um. Anyway, err… goodbye.”
He hung up the phone as fast as he could, his breath quickening. “I think that went well,” he said to himself. “Really smooth.” A shooting pain ran up his hand and he frowned harder. The mess in the kitchen could wait, he was exhausted, and wanted terribly to hide away in his room.
When he walked back into the living room Elijah sat up, rubbing at his eyes. “You talking to yourself again?” Elijah asked sleepily.
“As a matter of fact, yes,” Alexander said. His tone was a little sour and he walked to his bedroom door. “You going to stay over tonight?”
Elijah yawned, a bit too tired to notice Alexander’s dampened mood. “If it isn’t a problem?”
“Of course not, you know where the blankets are,” Alexander said, forcing a smile to his face. “Jeez, Eli, you look exhausted.”
“Hanging around you is having a negative effect on me, Alex. I swear, I might be developing a normal sleeping schedule.”
Alexander sighed, turning as he felt the tears well up again. He felt so entirely overemotional, like perhaps he’d break.
Elijah noticed this change, now more awake, and he inwardly chided himself for his usually well received taunts. 'I never know with him,' Elijah thought, watching Alexander pause at the door.
“Good night, Eli. I’ll wake you early so you can hop back to your place before work,” Alexander said, opening his bedroom door. Alexander smiled just slightly, and Elijah returned it, hoping Alexander’s mood was shifting.
“Night, sweet prince,” Elijah teased, earning a larger smile from Alexander.
“You have mental issues,” Alexander said.
“What does that say about you, being best friends with the guy who has mental issues?” Elijah asked, punching at his pillow.
“That I take pity on the less fortunate,” Alexander replied. “Night, you crazy.”
Elijah made a grunting noise and chucked a pillow at the door.
“Not nice!” Alexander squeaked, closing the door and giggling despite himself. He couldn’t help himself, not around Elijah. “Crazy,” he muttered under his breath.
“I heard that!” Elijah cried.
“Then stop standing there with your ear to my door, you five year old,” Alexander retorted. He nearly choked on his giggles as Elijah gave the door one more good pounding with a pillow and then mumbled a sleepy goodnight, yawning all the while.
Alexander picked up the pillow Elijah had tossed into his room, and set it at the end of his bed. Even the slight action made his hand sting, and his smile faded.
Taking a few deep breaths, he prepared himself for the most stressing part of his day; removing the bandages. Earlier in the year, he hadn’t worn bandages on his hands or feet. He’d been careful not to stress himself too much and had been able to live his life almost normally, even with the small blisters he had.
But then he’d begun spending more time at the library and doing more hands on work. The blisters worsened on his hands and feet, but he ignored it. He was told by doctors that the blisters would most likely lessen in severity as he grew older, so he refused to acknowledge the fact that they were actually getting worse.
Lately, he’d developed an infection from the blisters and now wrapped as much as he could to aid in their healing. It was a harsh slap in the face and he blamed only himself.
Every evening he took off the bandages to inspect his hands. He’d have to pop any blisters that formed over the day with a sterile needle, and gently rub ointment onto his fingers and toes. Removing the bandages was an extremely painful task, as they stuck to his skin no matter how much ointment he placed on his skin beforehand.
He especially disliked puncturing the blisters, as it left his skin raw and sore, but it was an imperative part of his nightly ritual. If he didn’t rupture the blisters, they’d grow in size and become dangerous and prone to infection.
He knew if he wanted to keep his hands intact and still be able to use them somewhat, he’d have to keep to his schedule. He could never miss a night until the blisters lessened.
Alexander sat on his bed, removing his socks carefully, and flexed his toes against the bandages. He’d been very careful that day, but his feet were usually the most injured, as he couldn’t stay off his feet and remain independent.
He brought a foot up to the bed and latched onto the end of the bandage with his left hand. Unraveling the gauze took forever and he wasn’t in the mood to prolong the pain. Even though the gauze was lubricated, it still hardened over the day and became a bit difficult to remove. He set his jaw, gritting his teeth together, and tugged the gauze off in one long strip. His hand stung and his feet ached, but at least the pain was quick.
A few tears rolled down his cheeks, but he refused to cry out. He didn’t want Elijah to hear, didn’t want anyone to know how weak he was.
He looked up, catching his eyes in the mirror. “You’re not weak, you’re strong,” he said, as he pulled the gauze from his other foot. The words rang hollow and sweat broke out across his brow. A small sob passed his lips and his hands shook as the gauze peeled off.
His feet were blistered on the soles and around the toes. Some of the blisters were popped and stung badly. He went through the motions of opening the blisters with the needle, biting his tongue to halt the cries that threatened to escape as he applied the ointment.
It stung to press against the wounds, but he had to.
Unraveling the gauze from his hands went easier, though his hand hurt far worse from his little accident in the kitchen. His lower back was sore as well from the fall and he anticipated some small blisters forming over night.
The stinging in his hands was so intense that his right hand felt numb, just a constant throbbing. He managed to remove all the gauze from both his feet and hands in only twenty minutes, and his relief to be snuggled in his bed, safe from the world, washed over him in blissful waves.