by Lynn VanDorn
Alongside that, Rachel’s warnings chimed in his ear: don't fuck him over or I will gut you and he wants to be someone's hero, if you let him he'll try and slay your dragons. Like Tyler was some helpless princess in need of rescue.
Fuck that.
And like he needed some dermatologist in a shining white coat moping around, trying to fix things for him. Another Ryan, only one not bound to him by blood and love.
Fuck that even more.
Without even realizing he was doing it, Tyler pressed down on his stitches. It helped to bring things into focus. The pain was good and bad, but it worked, and that was what mattered. He wasn't sure what he would do if cutting was no longer an option. Just thinking about the loss of that comfort, even knowing it was wrong to crave it, made him feel trapped.
Maybe he still could. If he was careful. Maybe.
Tyler ordered his mind to focus. Wallowing here wasn't going to accomplish anything. He'd get up, take the medication Brad had left for him, and see what could be done with Josh. This would work. Things would be okay. They had to be.
He rolled out of bed, staggered to the bathroom, and realized he was starving. His headache might be from too much blood lost and not enough fuel to replace it, something Brad nagged him about so often it was a familiar refrain. Tyler left the bathroom and made his way through the house and into the dim and deserted kitchen.
He opened the fridge and found milk in there. Then he rummaged in the cupboards until he found one with boxes inside. There was Raisin Bran and next to it was his favorite: Strawberry Frosted Mini Wheats, which was so weirdly specific that Brad, bless him, had to have bought it for him while he was in town.
Tyler made himself a bowl and went out to the screened porch. There he found Josh, sitting and staring out at the sun as it set over the lake. He sat in shadow but was bathed in the orange and pink sunset glow, beautiful like he was being filmed in chiaroscuro lighting. Then Josh looked up at him and he was just himself again.
“Did you sleep well?” he asked. “I'm glad you're eating something.”
“I slept fine. Anything exciting happen while I was dead to the world?”
“Yeah, I talked to that publicist guy. Tom something or other. Ryan gave him my number. He's sending a photographer to take pictures of us tomorrow. Supposedly candid shots of us in town having a blast on our romantic getaway that’ll be leaked to the internet. You and I are also supposed to take a shit-ton of selfies and upload them to Twitter and Instagram.”
Tyler frowned. “I'm not on Instagram. At least, I don't think I am. I'll have to ask Purvi, since that's pretty much her thing. Well, I have to get a new phone, then I'll ask her.”
“Who’s Purvi?”
“My personal assistant.” Presumably Ryan had told her he wasn't dead in a ditch somewhere. Even so, it must be bugging the shit out of her to have him incommunicado for so long. “I'm kinda shocked Ryan didn't give her your number, too, but count yourself lucky. Purvi can be a bit overwhelming. That, and she would have thrown herself at you shamelessly.”
“Why?”
“It's what she does. She's harmless, though. Especially since her current boyfriend is nuts about her and is proving to be remarkably resistant to homosexuality.”
“What?”
Tyler smirked at Josh’s bafflement. “Okay, here's the thing. Purvi’s a great girl. My absolute best friend in the whole world. But she tends to date guys who are bi-curious, because she finds them attractive for whatever fucked-up reason, and they tend to leave her for men. But so far, her current victim hasn't thrown one pass my way, and I'm pretty sure this one is legit straight. I mean, he might still leave her, but if he does, it won't be for a guy. I've got my fingers crossed for her with this one. He seems really into her. That said, some habits die hard and when you two meet, which is pretty much inevitable if you're going to be my fake boyfriend, she’s bound to flirt with you.” Tyler shrugged. “I don't think she can help it.”
Josh’s lips quirked but he nodded gravely. “I'll be sure to let her down gently, if and when we meet and she throws herself at me. You want to know the rest of what Tom told me?”
“Sure, go ahead.”
“Okay, so someone from Entertainment Weekly wants to do a phone interview with you for an article. They want to have one of their photographers take pictures of you in Chicago on either Tuesday or Wednesday. We're supposed to get you a phone tomorrow and Tom will tell you more.”
“Christ, that guy moves fast. I can't imagine what I'm paying him.”
“Hopefully not more than you're paying me.” Josh flashed him a smile, but he seemed uneasy.
Tyler swallowed the cereal he was eating, then grinned back. “You’re worth every last penny. Or you will be. Did he say what they’ll be interviewing me about? I can't think they’d just do a piece on who I'm dating, as fascinating as you are.”
“He said that they're going to touch on the video for sure, and what it's like to be a recently outed gay actor in Hollywood, and also a bit about that movie you're going to be in. The arrow thingy.”
“The Silver Arrow,” Tyler said automatically. “So tomorrow we get to go to town and be all coupley? That means homework tonight, you know.”
“What kind of homework?” Josh asked, sounding dubious.
“The fun kind. But we should start by doing what all couples do, even fake ones. Get to know each other.”
“Tyler, I've known you your whole life.”
“Sure, but how much do you know about me now? You couldn't even remember the name of the movie that I just got done shooting.”
“Okay, fine, you're probably right. And we need to…” Josh stopped and cleared his throat. “Get more comfortable with each other. Physically, I mean.”
“Well, yeah. That's the homework.” It was impossible to tell in the fading light, but Tyler would bet anything that Josh was blushing. He ate his last Mini Wheat and put the bowl down on a side table. “Josh,” he said, deciding to ask him what he'd earlier asked his sister, “Are you worried about your virtue?”
“My virtue, no.” Josh shot him a puzzled look. “I am kinda worried that you'll cut yourself in the bathroom, though. I'll never get the blood out of the grout, and then I'll lose my deposit on this place.”
So. Subject change. That was telling, but Tyler let it slide for now. He knew this discussion was inevitable, and they might as well have it out now, even if he'd rather it was later, preferably when he didn't already have a headache. “You’re worried about the grout. I suppose that's a valid concern.”
“Have you seen the bathrooms? White marble tile with white grout in every damn one. In a lake house that they rent out. What were they thinking?”
“Living with you is going to be… different,” Tyler said. “I've never once had a roommate who worried about grout.”
“You bleeding out would probably stain the marble, too. It's very porous. Impossible to know if they sealed it properly.”
Tyler tried to catch Josh’s eye, but he was staring out at the lake. “I'd hate to ruin perfectly good marble,” he said. “That would be a shame. I’m pretty sure the kitchen has dark grout and granite.”
Josh stopped pretending to look at the lake and faced Tyler. “Did you go through the house looking for appropriate places to cut yourself?”
Tyler made an irritated noise in the back of his throat. “No, but it sounds like you did. Tell me, Josh, on a scale of one to ten, one being a Xanax-induced stupor and ten being shit your pants terror, how worried are you about me bleeding to death on you?”
Josh looked grim. “Eleven.”
“Eleven,” mused Tyler. “Not good.”
“Look, don't take it personally. Worrying is what I do. Rachel claims that it's my main hobby. I worry about everything, pretty much. Global warming, losing my hair, Republicans, spiders, antibiotic resistance, super volcanoes, insurance companies, and this spot on my right elbow. I'm pretty sure it's just a freckle, but I like to keep an eye on it.”
Tyler wasn't sure if he was supposed to laugh at that or not. “But you’re not worried about your virtue?” Rachel hadn't mentioned worrying as a hobby, but he supposed it had been implied.
Josh snorted. It was almost exactly the sound his sister had made. “You’re about two decades too late. It was gone by the time you were in first grade. God, that makes me sound old. Hell, I am old.”
“You are not old, Josh.”
“I'm too old for you.”
Tyler rolled his eyes, even if it was probably too dark for Josh to notice. “I have an ex who’s older than you are,” he said.
“Then maybe you're too young for me,” Josh said, sounding fretful and full of second thoughts, which was not good.
Tyler got up and sat next to Josh so their legs touched. He threw on a pouty expression. “Well, I guess that puts me in my place.”
“Yeah, I can see your ego and self-confidence crumble from here. Or I could, if it wasn't so dark.”
Tyler pounded his right fist against his heart. “A direct hit,” he said. “Aren't you worried that you're putting the marble in danger?” His shoulder brushed against Josh’s.
“For now, I'm pretty sure it's safe. Also, while you were asleep I went over the place with a fine-tooth comb and hid everything sharp.”
Tyler wasn't sure if Josh was joking or not, but either way, he began to drift from amused to annoyed. “How enterprising of you. Even the kitchen knives?”
“They’re not all that sharp. It would take you ages to break the skin with those things.”
“So, you pretty much babyproofed this place just for me. You really are disgustingly domestic, Dr. Rosen. Did you lock up the chemicals, too? Gotta make sure I don't chug the Drano.”
“Were you planning on drinking the Drano? I'd advise against it. It is not a nice way to die.”
“I was not, in fact, planning on drinking a Drano martini,” Tyler said, preparing for the inevitable “just because I like to cut myself on a regular basis doesn't mean I'm suicidal” speech. He had a lot of practice delivering it.
“That, I believe,” said Josh.
“You… do?” That wasn't in the script, and it took Tyler a second to follow what Josh was saying.
“Well, yeah,” Josh said. “I mean, besides admitting to me that you're no planner, you don't strike me as being suicidal.”
He was right, which rankled a little, although why it rankled Tyler couldn't have said. “Maybe you failed to notice these,” Tyler said, brandishing both inner wrists. He wasn't even sure why he was bringing it up. Usually he took pains to hide them from people. Explanations were tedious and best avoided, so why he was shoving them in Josh’s face was anyone's guess.
Josh’s thumb brushed lightly over Tyler’s wrist, right where there had once been a horizontal slice and now there was just a slightly raised scar. Tyler remembered vividly how the blood that day had come out much faster than he’d expected, but not fast enough, because he’d survived. He'd learned later that cutting your wrists, especially the way he went about it, wasn't a very good way to try and kill yourself. Gunshot, hanging, and jumping were much better bets, but a razor was all he'd had available to him at the time. He hadn't even thought to slit his throat, which might have worked better. In retrospect, he hadn't really wanted to die. He'd just wanted out, and that, at least, he'd achieved.
“These are several years old. You were a teenager?”
Tyler nodded.
“You want to talk about it?”
“No. Like you said, it was a long time ago. The circumstances were… unique. I don't want you thinking I'm going to go all Sylvia Plath on you now. I'm not.”
“She stuck her head in an oven.”
“I know that,” Tyler snapped, starting to lose his temper.
“You’re not the first cutter I've met, you know,” Josh said, and his voice altered, now sounding both pedantic and condescending, reminding Tyler of a particularly annoying history professor he’d despised. “I see a lot more of them as patients than you’d think. Usually teenagers, but not always. Some cut for attention, and some because they want control, and some are trying to commit suicide and just haven't managed it yet. I always advise a psych eval. I’m friendly with a psychiatrist who specializes in self-harm and I try to send people to her because I know she's good. But a depressing number never go and there's another scar or wound the next time I see them, and then it's just one more round of scar reduction therapy. Based on my other cutters, I'd lay odds you fall in category two: the ones who do it for control. How am I doing so far?”
His accuracy was kind of freaking Tyler out, and he hated it. It was awful that he was an open book to Josh Rosen, of all people. Irritated, he pulled his wrist away from Josh’s grasp. He felt every one of the years separating them and didn't like it one bit, so he plastered on his sharp smile and said, “Oh, this is riveting. Do go on.”
And the idiot did just that.
“Right. Definitely category number two. But whichever, you're clearly self-destructive, based on your history of self-harm and indiscriminate sex. You already know cutting is dangerous as hell and sex has its own inherent risks. I think we’ll have to work on that. If you're not already seeing a therapist, I can give you my friend's number. She really is very good.” He let out a little nervous laugh, so maybe Tyler’s smile was starting to get to him. “Not that I'm one to talk. My response to stress is to obsessively clean or kill demons. The two of us are pretty much crazy and crazier. It's a good thing we’re not really dating.” This little speech was said with such a complacent pomposity that it made Tyler see red. He felt his temper, already roiling like a pot filled too high and given too much flame, boil over, and he strove to keep a lid on it.
“Wait. What?” When Josh started to answer, Tyler put a finger to Josh’s lips to shut him up. “No. You need to stop talking. Give me a second.”
Tyler counted to ten, then he counted to twenty. It wasn't all Josh’s fault. He couldn't know that the phrase “we'll have to work on that” was something they’d said over and over at Bridges while hurting him. Josh would have no way of knowing that. It wasn't fair to want to rage at him for saying those words and dredging up those memories.
But the rest. Laying his weaknesses bare in that patronizing tone. Like Tyler was Josh’s patient, his project, his soul to save, his child to correct, his fucking princess in a fucking tower to fucking rescue. Yes, Rachel had warned him, but Tyler still felt like he'd been blindsided. That Josh, as fucked-up as he apparently was, had the gall to give him a lecture on his faults pushed Tyler past irritated and angry and into the land of righteous fury. He wanted to scream at Josh for that alone, and he couldn't, because he needed him. Even if he was being a horrible, pompous ass, right now he was Tyler’s horrible, pompous ass, and they needed to be able to deal with each other or it would all be for nothing.
Options, Tyler. You need to choose an option, and option one is the shittiest choice of the bunch, he reminded himself. Tyler grabbed his feelings tight and held on for dear life, focusing on the one thing Josh had said that didn't make any sense.
“Okay, let's start with the easy one. To relieve stress, you kill demons?” Tyler removed his finger from Josh’s mouth, dragging it downward slowly and pausing to give his lower lip a light stroke. “Please explain.”
Josh dragged in a breath. He seemed a little apprehensive now. Good. That was smart. “Just video games,” he said. “Nothing exciting.”
“How disappointing. And you obsessively clean? Again, so domestic. You'll make some man a fine husband one day.” Okay, his emotions were leaking a little, because there was broken glass embedded in those words.
Josh flinched back a little at Tyler's tone. “There are worse habits to have.”
“Like cutting and fucking, do I have that right? Josh, do you mind telling me how, despite only knowing me, well, the adult me, approximately one day you feel qualified to draw that conclusion?” Josh opened his mouth, but Tyler gav
e his head a vicious negative shake and Josh shut his mouth again. “Answer: you don't know me and you have no right to judge me, so fuck you, fuck your armchair psychology, and fuck your holier-than-thou condescending attitude.”
And crap, there it was. So much for reining in his temper. Tyler seethed, and he wanted to stop, but he couldn't seem to. Let it go, he thought. Just let it go. Like that damn Disney movie. He resumed counting.
Tyler felt Josh retreat both physically and emotionally behind a solid wall of frigid detachment. Josh had gone somewhere, far away, and what was left was a block of stone.
“I'm sorry,” the block of stone said. “I didn't mean to offend you.”
“No,” Tyler said. “You do not get to just nope out of this conversation.”
Josh’s warm eyes had become chips of obsidian glittering in the fading light. “This isn't a conversation. This is you having a temper tantrum.”
“Who the hell do you think you are, my father?”
The block of stone turned into ice. “I thought I was the one who was here to save your career.”
“Yeah, for a hundred thousand dollars.”
The ice cracked and satisfyingly angry heat poured out. “You know what? Fuck your money, Tyler. Take it all and shove it up your tiny, ungrateful ass. I didn't agree to help you for the money.”
“Yeah, you agreed to it because you want to fuck with my brother and I'm as close as you're going to get.” Josh recoiled, and Tyler felt a stirring of something in his gut. Possibly remorse. Probably shame. Also, a little worry. Tyler might have gone too far with that last remark. Oh, well, too late to take it back now. He pressed the wound on his arm to clear his head and braced for Josh’s inevitable response. When there wasn’t one, Tyler relaxed by degrees. He still wasn't feeling friendly, but he was able to drain most of the venom from his tone. “Not so fun when some virtual stranger lays bare your secrets, is it? Although in your case, it's not really a secret so much as a big flashing sign that we mostly ignore to be polite.”
“I don't think this is going to work,” Josh said. His hands were fisted on his lap and he now resembled a not-so-dormant volcano. Tyler was struck by a feeling of déjà vu, remembering Rachel sitting there in the same way that morning, fists also clenched, describing her brother landing in the ICU.