by K. L. Noone
“That doesn’t mean I’m wrong!” Justin fired back, grinning now, and went looking for decades-old activist-banner music on his iPhone. “You so did. If I can find it…”
“You’ll never prove it, copper.” He got out more scotch, considered this, rooted around in the fridge and found unopened ginger ale as well. Getting terribly legless did not sound appealing; one more golden lazy drink and amiable squabbling with Justin over rock history did. “And he’s passed away in any case. So there.”
“You heartless demon,” Justin said cheerfully. “And I should know. At least admit it to me in private. Come on. You know you did.”
“Might’ve. Beat Poets Society versus Mossy Hill.”
“Um…all-time best song, the Beat Poets’ ‘Love Love Love,’ but overall career, Mossy Hill. Don’t say I’m wrong.”
“‘Strawberry Wine’‘s better than ‘Love,’ but I’ll give you that one. Acceptable answer.”
“As if there’s another one. So that was you admitting it? I’m right about ‘Black Heat’?”
“We made it famous. Do you want that artichoke?”
“Yes. Oh—unless you do.” Justin would, Kris discovered, forever offer up the rest of his favorite pizza if the other person wanted it. He found this almost unbearably endearing, and had to take a bite of pepperoni to prevent his mouth from saying something revealing and fond.
Words danced around pizza-crust and scotch and ginger ale. Brightness in glass tumblers, in cardboard boxes, in the flash of Justin’s hands when sketching a point in the air. City lights twinkling beyond windowpanes, green and white and gold. The shiver of shock, not unpleasant, when he got up without thinking and grabbed the old-fashioned acoustic guitar to demonstrate a note sequence and realized that he’d not felt any hesitation at all.
He surreptitiously checked his phone a time or two. The New York Demon was trending on social media. Blurry pictures of a baby clutched in arms, distorted crimson fuzziness. Demons popped in and out of the general populace, of course, and this wasn’t an apocalyptic sighting, but sufficiently unusual to gather some traction. Chatter was happening, though not panic. He opted not to mention it.
Justin listened patiently to his efforts at distraction and sang along a little and argued with him both fearlessly and comfortably about random trivia. Justin had a pretty voice, untrained but young and clear and good at finding the right note; they ended up singing Midwinter carol-rounds over Kris’s guitar for a minute or two, until this devolved into forgotten words and laughter, and then had a genial debate over whether the anonymous lyricist behind the infamous Mithras Kiss animated musical epic, in which the band rescued its namesake from Midwinter demons and hiked to the North Pole and wrestled giant robins under mistletoe, had or had not been the legendary singer-songwriter Ian Gwynn. Justin argued for, based on lyrical similarities and turns of phrase; Kris argued against, based on the time he’d personally met an impressively drunk Ian Gwynn at a party and asked, at which point the legendary Ian Gwynn had made an extremely rude gesture and thrown up on his shoes.
“That’s not an argument as such,” Justin said, “that’s some sort of symbolic representation of the history of rock music, Ian Gwynn throwing up on Kris Starr. He didn’t say no.”
“It’s symbolic of massive amounts of vodka, you—you—journalist. His younger brother wrote most of his lyrics, y’know.”
“Really? I’ve never heard that, how do you know?”
“He told me. In bed.”
Justin choked on a sip. This was mildly satisfying. “Ian Gwynn?!”
“No. His younger brother.”
Justin found a napkin, glared, dabbed at splashes. “There’s scotch on my pizza. Are you sure he didn’t only say that to get young impressionable you into bed?”
Kris opened his mouth, found himself without a good comeback, caught the glint in Justin’s eyes: mischievous spice and candied sugar, red and brown stripes along the iris like pleated demon-silk. “We’re watching the bloody animated special, now. Just for that.”
“Fine by me,” Justin informed him sunnily, “I love that movie, I grew up with it, year after year, family tradition, oh wait, you wouldn’t’ve grown up with it, you were there way back when it was being filmed…”
“How old do you think I am?” He was finding it on Netflix. Justin moved pizza-boxes, curled himself up under the blanket on the couch, and then apparently thought nothing of settling in right at Kris’s side: a contented long-legged kitten nestling into a heat-source. Kris felt his brain derail. Right there, present and solid and sweet, and it’d be so easy to reach over, to put an arm around him…to take his hand, to hold that hand under knitted fabric…to press a kiss to the top of his head…
He forced emotions and limbs back into some semblance of control. Pushed play on animated melodramatic rockers and their Midwinter misadventures. Tried to focus on the part involving fruitcake as a gateway to the underworld.
He wondered what Justin, being half demon, thought about fruitcake mythology. Legend said that the everlasting nature would feed and placate magical underworld dwellers. He wasn’t sure whether asking would be tactless; Justin had claimed to love the movie, though. Family tradition.
They watched the members of Mithras Kiss battle holiday nonbelief and villainous Oak King minions. They both sang along to the hysterically bad musical numbers. Word-perfect.
“I actually like fruitcake,” Justin observed eventually, halfway answering that unasked question. “I know it’s a demon stereotypical whatever. I do, though.”
“Guess what you’re getting for Midwinter.”
“Quiet, they’re fighting the spider-ghouls with the power of electric guitars, I love this part…”
“You started it!” When they somehow shifted position simultaneously, his arm ended up at the back. More or less over Justin’s shoulders. The night hummed. Crackled. Charged with electricity like those guitars. Could Justin not feel it?
Half-human eyes were intent on animated heroes. Not glancing away. Not looking up.
Kris swallowed, ignored the ache in his chest, and left the arm in place. Moving now’d draw attention.
Time flew away. Snowflakes in blue-hued evening light. Dissolving.
As the film tumbled toward its tumultuous end, a thread of punk rock clashed with midwinter bells. Justin hunted for his phone, moved a pizza-box, ducked under the blanket. “Aha. Found you.”
“An unsuccessful escape?”
“At least I can summon it back when it runs away…it’s how I always find your phone…oh.”
“Oh?”
“Um.” Justin peered at the screen, peeked up at Kris. Even his hair seemed flatter. Less vivid. “David. Apparently he sent me three messages already.”
Kris had managed to thoroughly forget the existence of Justin’s boyfriend. From his expression, so had Justin.
“He’s never happy when I don’t answer…how is it already so late…Kris, I’m sorry, I should go…”
“Did you have a date, then?” Daggers to his heart. Twisting. Carving out bits and leaving him airless, trying to learn how to speak around a stab-wound.
But, he thought, Justin had chosen to stay with him. Even if there’d been a date.
The stab-wound didn’t go away, but the hurt eased a fraction, in a kind of lonely boy-with-a-schoolyard-crush manner.
“We didn’t have specific plans.” Justin was texting back, fingers swift. “I’m supposed to come over when I’m done…but he knew I was having late lunch, early dinner, whatever, with you…no, I’m not doing this to be inconvenient, honestly, what does he think…no, I don’t want to just forget it and not see him tonight, of course I don’t…sorry, sorry, you don’t need to be hearing all this, but I do need to go.”
“Hey.” He got up as Justin did. The blanket pooled on a sofa-cushion, abandoned, forlorn. Leftover pizza gaped worriedly from boxes. “Anything you need. Are you all right, though? Feeling well enough to—to go someplace?”
“I’m fine.” Standing so close, they were nearly the same height: eye to eye, breath to breath. Kris could count individual long eyelashes as they swept down and up; could see every stripe of color in those familiar eyes, rich loam and smoked rubies. “I’m not even tired. You—you bought me pizza. And gave me a place to—thank you. For everything.”
Kris said, “A place to thank me?” while those carved-out holes got bigger. His heart lay at those feet as they wiggled back into slim boots, and Justin would never know. “I said you didn’t have to. You don’t. Ah…your, ah, your hair, though…”
“Yeah, that.” Justin twirled a wayward strand of fire around a finger, let go. “I’ll need to pop into my place first. I still have some blue. Although…”
“Hmm?”
“I should tell him.” They regarded each other for a moment, dark brown human eyes meeting half-demon spice in Kris’s apartment. The film finished quietly in the background, unnoticed. “I should…it’s not fair to him if I don’t. Even if this time isn’t a story, even if it’s not public. I should at least tell him.”
“That’s up to you, isn’t it? Sharing that?”
“He wants me to move in.” Justin sighed. Fiddled with his phone, with those messages on it. “He says he loves me. Shouldn’t I…trust him? With me?”
He says he loves you, Kris noticed. Not you loving him. “Depends on whether you’re ready, I think. Not,” he added hastily, “that I’m good at relationship advice. Ask anyone. Ask Reggie.”
“You’re better than you think you are,” Justin protested, immediate and sincere, as if the response were instinctive. “But no, I should, right? I told you I was scared. I should try to be less scared. Braver. Like Mom. Like you, leaving home and starting the band, fighting for what you wanted…I can’t do it tonight, he’s already upset with me, but tomorrow. It’s Saturday and we’ve got the whole day together. I should tell him tomorrow.”
I was only fighting my own teenage idiocy about life and a refusal to get a proper job, Kris didn’t say. You’re fighting everyone’s preconceived notions. Fairytales about evil monsters. Soul-stealing. “If you think that’s best. For you, for…both of you.”
Justin nodded. Shuffled a foot around. “I should. Right. Tomorrow.”
“Sure.”
“Um…okay.” They stood face to face for longer than necessary; the pause ran away with the moment. “I should, um. Go. Then.”
“Sure,” Kris said again, automatically. “Justin?”
Those eyes came up to meet his far too quickly, as if waiting for a question. “Yeah?”
“You…I could…will I hear from you tomorrow? I know it’s Saturday, I know—I just, ah, the songs, if you have a chance to listen—”
“The album, right, of course, I can absolutely—”
They collided in mutual embarrassment; slid to a halt.
Justin said, “Of course I can. It might not be early—David might have plans, I don’t know—and if I’m going to tell him about me we might be busy for a while—but I’ll find time to listen and take notes and call you. Tomorrow.”
“That’s—thanks. Wait,” he tacked on at the last possible second, “not only that. I want to know if you’re, y’know, doing better. Eating enough pizza. I want to know how things go. If you do tell him. I care, yeah?”
This earned a laugh, and a hand raking through hair, and a glance away and back. More embarrassment, Kris thought; of course, of course this was overstepping friendship’s bounds. But Justin was smiling, if somewhat pink-cheeked. “Yes. Um. I can—I’ll talk to you tomorrow. I promise.”
“Sounds good,” Kris said, to save them both from dying of awkwardness. “Right. So. Good night? I’ll talk to you then?”
“Night,” Justin said, still smiling, an odd wistful quirk to that expression, and vanished. A pop of air rushed in to fill the void: demon teleportation, here and then absent, wish become deed.
The apartment shook itself out, unhappy, emptied, restless as a puppy whose owner’d gone out. Kris resisted the impulse to say I know, me too, I know, we’ll hear from him soon. His apartment did not belong to Justin.
Except that it felt like home when Justin was there. So maybe it did, and he did, and his heart did too.
He picked up pizza-boxes. They opened lids and beamed at him. He’d helped. He’d been here, and he’d helped. Kris Starr had fallen in love and helped someone. Like an animated holiday special, the musician and the demon, improbable and compelling as a fairy-story.
Almost like being someone’s hero. He liked that feeling.
And he laughed at himself and his delusions of grandeur, and went to put leftovers away. He hoped Justin was safe and warm and happy. He hoped Justin wasn’t coming home to an argument, or at least that there was also enough love to keep it a small one. He hoped Justin liked the songs.
He went to bed thinking about what Justin might say, what insightful critique or praise or silly teasing joke might be offered to him, and about what he might say back, in the morning.
Chapter 3
Kris spent most of Saturday trying not to vibrate out of his skin from nerves. Justin spent all day not calling him.
He got up early. He made tea. He stared at the tea. He tapped a foot.
He did laundry. He’d acquired this skill in recent years. He’d always thrown out old and bought new celebrity-trendy items, or paid someone to handle it, before. He liked being able to do it himself: like a normal person, not Kris Starr but Christopher Thompson, forty-three, living alone in an admittedly expensive penthouse in New York. Christopher Thompson, he decided, was probably an architect or an accountant, and went to modern art galleries, and conscientiously contributed to save-the-planet and equal-rights-for-pixies campaigns.
He understood perfectly well that even his alternate-universe reality came with money and privilege. He snorted at himself, and thought about a council-estate childhood, about cracked pavement and flickering lights, about a father down in the nearest pub drinking away his savings every morning and a mother who’d been gone for many long years. Sarah’d seen just the first tip of the explosion that’d become Starrlight; she’d been thrilled for him, but neither of them had known how far the surreal spaceship would fly.
Christopher Thompson, accountant, might’ve moved to America, joined a prestigious but conventional firm in New York City, and run into Justin Moore in a coffee-shop: both reaching for the same Witch’s Brew hazelnut mocha, maybe, on the bar, and laughing. On a rainy blustery day, the sort of day when he might offer an umbrella to a person who’d forgotten his, and that person might’ve smiled at him with cinnamon-sugar eyes and taken his arm.
He checked his phone. No, no missed calls. Or texts. No Justin.
Justin was busy. Had a boyfriend. A lawyer. An irritatingly handsome lawyer.
And Kris Starr could’ve never been an accountant, or an architect, or much good at anything other than dreaming of rock-and-roll fame. Not great in school. Not good at various versions of sport. Just some chords and a guitar and a talent for projecting emotion, getting an audience to feel for him.
And even Starrlight’s awards—decades old, some of those: best new band, rock song of the year, and so on—sat in the hall closet in a charm-sealed storage bin, because he couldn’t bring himself to look at them or toss them finally out.
Kris stared at his reflection in the phone’s screen for a minute, silently despaired, and then went to the gym.
He did this on occasion, enough to stay fit; part of the image, though he was too lazy to make it a regular habit and instead fought scotch-related indulgences with intermittent frantic intensity. The gym was a nice one, located on the ground floor of the apartment building; no one else was around, and he pushed himself through cardio and minor weight-lifting and a lot of sweat, and tried to wipe thoughts out of his brain.
Justin had a boyfriend, yes, but a boyfriend who happened to be possessive, domineering, powerful, and controlling in the worst ways. The kind of masculinity tha
t took up space as its right and had the handsomeness and the money and the legal connections to loom over others. Kris Starr, a messy forty-something rock-and-roll sleep-with-anything disaster, was hardly a better option, though, at least not if Justin liked being pampered and taken care of.
But, he thought, at least I would bring him coffee that he likes.
But. But Justin had promised to check in. To let him know thoughts on the holiday album; to let him know that, in the wake of yesterday, the New York Demon was fine.
That particular topic had continued trending on social media. Slow news day. No breaking scandalous diversions. It’d stayed a lighthearted story, at least, despite playing into stereotypical assumptions; no further sightings, not mass frenzy but speculation: what did this demon want, from whom was it feeding, who would you want a demon to feed from? Vote in this poll. Leave a comment. Kris sighed for humanity, and wanted to hug Justin, and not only because he wanted that sweetness back in his arms.
He knew perfectly well what the New York Demon wanted. Coffee, sing-alongs to terrible holiday animated specials, punk rock, and artichokes on pizza. Plus the rescue of babies.
In the shower he found himself with a tune in his head. Something about the rhythm of the thought. Give me punk rock, artichokes, we’re gonna save the world. Terrible, but the melody worked: faster and defiant and rebellious and brash and tenacious. The world might need a demon. For the saving of it.
He hopped out of the shower, moved the laundry to the dryer, grabbed a guitar. After a while, scribbled notes. A while after that, got up to claim a slice of leftover pizza, and came back.
He surfaced several hours later to discover that the afternoon’d faded into an evening the hue and weight of boulders, heavy and stone-faced. He was hungry again; he had missed emails, and a text from Reggie that said Holly wants to know if you’re coming to visit so we can make plans, please. He suspected Reg first of all didn’t want him to be alone and second was growing mildly annoyed over the lack of organization and commitment. Like the old days; like himself fucking up, as per usual.