So why was he here and what exactly was going on? He had stopped questioning the how, as no sensible answers seemed to be forthcoming from this Arthur fellow. He was just trying to make some sort of sense of this, figure out why they seemed to be re-visiting scenes from his past. And why was this guy who looked just like Leonardo di Caprio quoting Rimbaud? Nothing made any sense to Fisher.
They'd arrived at a table set apart from the others. It was big enough for four, but only two figures sat there. It was on the tip of Fisher's tongue to apologize to them, but the first thing he realized was that it would do him no good, as he was invisible to them. Secondly, he recognized them for who they were—himself and Hunter. Young men, teenagers obviously. Back in their high school days, hanging out together at the library.
Fisher sat on one side of the table. He wore black jeans and a Grateful Dead t-shirt—one Hunter had gotten for him. He would put it on at school and take it off before he went home, in order to evade his mother's notice. He was poring over a notebook, ballpoint pen racing across the page. Hunter, he noticed, was sprawled across the two chairs on the other side, reading. He wore a Led Zeppelin t-shirt. It was a tight fit which only served to accentuate his build, and a pair of tight jeans which almost seemed painted on. Fisher was so enraptured at the sight of his friend that he completely forgot the presence of his guide.
Arthur, probably bored with Fisher's obsession, was peeking over the shoulder of the studious younger Fisher as he wrote, reading silently along with his writing. "Hunh." A noncommittal grunt. "Guess I've read worse."
Fisher found himself shaken from his self-imposed reverie at the left-handed compliment. Only then did he realize what it was they were doing there. What he was doing, actually. Hunter was just being Hunter, keeping him company, while he was working on his novel. That piece of tripe. How embarrassing. Even if his friend did insist on reading every bit of it as he wrote it. He tried to shield the newborn words as they spilled from his pen, to prevent the Leo di Caprio lookalike from reading it. That did no good as Arthur seemed to be able to look right through him. Just then the Hunter from the past spoke.
"Fisher, almost done with the next chapter?"
"I said, why didn't you—" the ghost began again, but Fisher wasn't listening.
"Hush, I can't hear Hunter," he shushed him, straining to hear the conversation between the two. Even though he'd lived through it once, already.
Hunter leaned across the table. He reached for the notebook, and tried to turn it in his direction. The startled Fisher managed to keep his grip on it, mostly by dint of sheer luck. "What? It's not ready."
"Fisher, you're amazing." Hunter never moved his hand, which now lay atop Fisher's own. The younger Fisher could feel, as well as see himself blush, but whether it was at Hunter's words or his touch—well, he wasn't ready to admit to himself, much less anyone else. "You're going to be a famous writer someday, and I'll be able to say I knew you when."
"Yeah, sure," Fisher managed to mumble, torn between glancing down at the words on the page, or into the handsome face of his friend.
Fisher watched the tableau with some fascination. Had Hunter always looked at him that way, and he'd never noticed before? Or did his own recent burst of intuition cause him to look at the past in a different way? Knowing that he could neither be seen nor felt, he dared to reach across to the dream Hunter, his intention being to caress his cheek, but his entire hand went through him, no more substantial than a mist. Naturally. He sighed, even as Arthur chuckled.
"You are so smitten with him, you're worse than Verlaine, and he had it pretty bad for me. C'mon, we don't have time to waste here, I think you've seen enough."
Before Fisher could protest, Arthur grabbed his sleeve, and the library, and the two boys at the table, were gone.
This method of transportation did not improve with repetition, the nauseous Fisher decided. Once the world had stopped spinning around him, and he found himself able to resist the urge to retch, he rose from the position he found himself in—upon his knees in the grass—to take stock of the situation. To see if he could figure out where he was. And when. He was catching on real quick that time was an obvious variable in this changing scenario, and it wasn't just a matter of his physical location, but temporal too.
His eyes were met with a familiar sight. Which made the where quite obvious. This was home. Their home, his and Hunter's. Now to discover when.
Without waiting for Arthur, Fisher strode up to the front door and through it—he was getting the hang of this ghost thing—into a virtually bare house. For a heartbreaking moment he wondered if he was seeing into the future. A future in which Hunter had moved out.
He wandered through the hall and into the living room. A rather shabby couch with delusions of grandeur held court in the middle of the room. Before it sat a small television set on a cheap stand that looked like something you might pick up at a garage sale or a flea market. And there were he and Hunter, sitting on the couch together, drinking cheap wine from a bottle.
Oh yes, he knew now what was what, and the thought produced a smile. They had just moved into their house, this was them eight years ago. They didn't own very much yet, just starting out and all, both of them having just moved out of their parents' houses. Most of their money had gone into the down payment, and a few repairs that had to be made before they could move in. But they didn't care. They celebrated their first night in the house with a $2 bottle of cheap white wine, laughing and making plans for the future, and how they wanted to fix the place up. That sofa was long gone now, replaced by something a bit sturdier. But while they had had it, they had spent a lot of hours in its floral embrace, watching television, listening to music on a stereo which wasn't there yet, and talking.
Always talking. It was amazing how they never ran out of things to talk about. Never.
Except now. Now, when Fisher couldn't even tell Hunter what was on his mind and in his heart, for fear of losing him.
Fisher became aware of Arthur's presence when the other leaned against him, rather heavily, placing his chin on Fisher's shoulder as he took in the rather domestic scene before them.
"You two make a lovely couple." He sighed in an overly dramatic fashion.
Fisher tried to push him backwards, but the annoying spirit seemed to have the ability to make himself substantial when he chose, and he never budged. "We aren't a couple," Fisher replied sharply.
"Oh yeah, you are, you just don't know it. I could see it at the library. The way you look at him. The way he looks at you. Why don't you admit it? And be grateful you were born into a time that doesn't demand that two men hide their affections for one another, as I was."
"As you were?" Fisher tried to deflect him from his first words, no use thinking that way. This Arthur had no idea what he was talking about. He didn't know Fisher, and he certainly didn't know Hunter. His comments were pure speculation, and nonsensical speculation at that. "Who were you?" Although he had a feeling that he should know.
"Arthur Rimbaud, of course. Thought you would have guessed by now. You're as slow at that as you are in discerning your own heart." The spirit snorted. "No wonder you're having to do this. Have you learned nothing from what I've shown you? Is there no awareness in that pea brain of yours at all?"
Rimbaud. Right. Sure. The only reason he even knew about Rimbaud was from Hunter. He remembered that Hunter had found Season in Hell in a bookstore and read part of it aloud to him. He hadn't gotten it, and he couldn't exactly say that the poetry appealed to him. But Hunter obviously liked it, so to please his friend, he had listened. Hunter had a beautiful reading voice. He could make anything sound sexy.
Fisher pushed the thought aside as irrelevant. He just needed to wake up, right? He'd find out that he'd been in bed the whole time, that this was just a dream. Although how he'd gotten home from the party, he didn't quite remember, but he must have, that's the only thing that made sense. He tried to pinch his hand, but his fingers only misted right through it. D
amn.
"Well, happily for me, my time with you is done." Arthur yawned, pushing one hand through his hair, adjusting his shirt, which hung slightly awry on his slender frame. "Before I depart, though, I'll be nice and tell you something you should already know, so listen well, little man." He put an arm about Fisher's shoulders, leaning in to him confidentially. "To thine own self be true."
Before Fisher could find the breath to tell him that those weren't his words, they were Shakespeare's, Arthur was gone. Wow. This was some dream. Why couldn't he wake from it? And just what did that annoying asshole mean?
Fisher's head ached. He rubbed at one temple in a circular motion in an attempt to assuage the pain. Closing his eyes, he wondered what next. Was there any rhyme or reason to all of this? If so, what did it mean?
He didn't have long to wonder.
The flip-flopping of his stomach suggested to him that he'd moved again. Been moved. However this worked. Tentatively, he opened his eyes. He lay alone on the bedroom floor. Not his bedroom, it must be one of Lana's. So he was back where he'd begun. Figured. He must have blacked out when he hit his head on that doorjamb. Passed out and had one hell of a hallucination. That had to be the most vivid dream he'd ever experienced. Maybe he should go to the emergency room and get his head looked at, to be on the safe side.
His attention was drawn to a figure leaning against the doorframe in a slinky slut kind of pose. Fisher squinted up at her for a moment before he recognized who it was. Great, just what he needed. The bitch herself. He peered up at her, wondering if Hunter was with her. There was no sign of him, though.
"Enjoying the party, Fisher, dear?"
Her saccharine concern made him ill. Why was she pretending to be interested in his welfare?
Lana advanced into the room, hand outstretched toward him. He ignored her offer of assistance, managing to stumble onto his knees and then regain his feet.
"Daddy has big plans for you." She held a martini glass in one hand, sipping from it, regarding him with a pleased smirk. "Mmmm, appletini. Delicious. Want a taste?" She held it toward him, and it took all of his self-control not to send it rushing back at her, but he refrained.
"What do you mean?" He was giving her all of two minutes to say something worthwhile, and then he would leave. He just wanted to go home, to get away from here. He certainly wasn't in the mood to listen to her gloat. She had what she wanted. She had Hunter. Why keep torturing him?
"I know he's going to talk to you about it tomorrow, and I probably shouldn't say anything…" She paused for effect, waiting for him to beg her to go on. Fisher stayed silent. She shrugged. His compliance was obviously not necessary. "I'll tell you this much. The managing editor position in San Diego is up for grabs."
"And I care why?"
"You're Daddy's choice, that's why."
San Diego? Managing editor? Why him? Yeah, he'd heard rumors that it was going to happen, but he'd paid no attention. He didn't consider himself good enough to even rate consideration. There had to be people higher up the ladder more qualified, surely? Granted, that is what he went to school for, what his degree was in. But this wasn't anything he had expected to happen, certainly not so soon. And San Diego, of all places. Why, that would mean…
The light bulb went on at last. "You're trying to get rid of me."
"Why, Fisher, whatever do you mean? Why would I want to do that?"
Her voice reeked of insincerity. Other people might buy this act, but Fisher wasn't one of them. Now he understood. She must have put the suggestion into daddy dearest's head. Why San Diego? Because it was far away from here, and from Hunter. But he had to wonder why she would even care about that now, now that she had obviously ensnared him and was going to marry him. What difference did it make where Fisher lived? His head ached too much to give proper consideration to the matter.
Besides, her two minutes were done.
"I don't know, Lana, you tell me." He started to push past her, but she continued to block the doorway.
She tossed the empty glass onto the carpet with a careless gesture. It didn't break, rolling clumsily to a stop. She curled her hand about Fisher's chin, her eyes fixed on his. "To save you pain, darling," she cooed, "to keep you from seeing what I have and what you can't have and never will Surely you don't want to see us together? Wouldn't that be rather painful for you? Now be a good boy, and act surprised tomorrow when Daddy tells you. Take the job, and go to San Diego. It's really easy, if you try." Her smile was venomous, her words slashing across Fisher's heart like a scalpel.
Something inside Fisher snapped at that moment. He was tired of her, and tired of her spoiled rich girl attitude, her waste of a life, and her lack of a personality. He was tired of her trying to goad him into doing something he really didn't want to do, just to suit her own purposes. And he was tired of playing nice with her just because he worked for her father. He was tired of people trying to mold him into what they wanted him to be. All he had ever wanted to do was write. And be with Hunter. He'd given up his dreams of writing his book because his mother had made them sound worthless and hopeless. He'd thrown it away, hidden all of his desires and stopped dreaming, allowed himself to be turned into a journalist, allowed his life to be shaped for him. His mother had tried to separate him from Hunter, too, but he'd always managed to hang on to him. The rest of his life had been forced onto him. Maybe forced was too strong a word. Strongly suggested wasn't quite right either. He had no one to blame for that, though, but himself. He'd never stood up for himself in his whole life. He was no better than his father, letting himself be railroaded out of his only son's life. Why hadn't his father fought for him harder? Why? Did he just not care? Was that it? Or was the father as weak as the son? That whole acorn and tree thing, being played out in the pages of his life.
Hunter had always cared, though. Hunter was always there for him, with his cheesy jokes, his pleasure in playing pranks, his enthusiasm for life, his beautiful smile, and his unwavering friendship. Hunter was what mattered and always had. Certainly not this clownish excuse of a human being who was given everything and did nothing with it; a waste of space and a useless addition to the human race.
He stuck his forefinger directly in her face. "Lana, listen to me and listen to me closely, see if you can follow what I'm about to say. Keep your nose out of my business; it has nothing to do with you. I'm not going to San Diego. Not now, not ever. You can't get rid of me that easily. I'm staying here, and I'm staying in Hunter's life. And I'm going to fight you for him. With every last breath in my body I'm going to fight, because he deserves someone better than you, you overpriced painted sad little Daddy's girl. And I'm going to try to be that someone, 'cause yeah, I love him. Now get the hell out of my way." He pushed past her, although he did take a moment to pause and observe her expression, her painted lips frozen in an "o" of amazement, shocked into speechlessness. Just the way he liked her.
The party was still going on, apparently. Music poured through the house, as well as the sound of people laughing. The bonfire must either be done, or had lost its value as a pastime. No telling how long he'd been… been what? Asleep? Unconscious? Hallucinating? What was that all about, anyway? Somehow dream didn't quite cut it, 'cause he'd seen things that he'd never seen before. Things that made him wonder if they were true. Like that scene with his dad, although the rest of it was true enough, he'd lived it once already; those were obviously memories. Of course, he could have just imagined that part. No reason to think it was real, or that it had ever happened. But why did he dream about Arthur Rimbaud, of all people? And why did Rimbaud look like Leonardo Di Caprio?
As for his father, though, there was one way he knew of to find out.
He walked down the hallway, skirting a couple of partygoers whose unconscious forms littered the passageway, apparently having passed out at some point. He was careful not to tread on them. Reaching the same door he'd gone out before, he opened it, and stepped outside. The evening air was refreshing. A cool breeze caressed
his cheek. The threat of rain seemed to be a thing of the past. The moon alone greeted his return. The horde of partying pyromaniacs was gone, no doubt dispersed about the house, engaged in other wacky hijinks. The bonfire was forgotten for other games. Ignored, it was burning itself out.
He was here for a purpose, though, which did not include playing Smokey the Bear. He pulled out his phone, punched in the familiar number. He hoped she was home, and alone. That would make things much easier. She answered quickly.
"Hello, sweetheart, I didn't expect to hear from you tonight. Did you come to your senses and decide not to go to that dreadful party?"
"No, Mom, I didn't. I'm here." For a moment he quailed at her tone. How would he do this? Ask her about things he'd never questioned before? Wouldn't it be easier to just say he'd wanted to say hello, nothing more?
A vision of Hunter appeared before him. God, he was so beautiful. Fisher wanted to cry in frustration. He clenched his free hand into a fist, the nails digging into his skin. A technique he'd used before to focus himself. No, he wasn't going to cry. He was stronger than this, if he'd only try. He knew he was. He knew he could do this. He was entitled to the truth, wasn't he? To know if what he saw was real, or just a strange dream?
"With him?" Why did she have to do that?
"Hunter's here somewhere, yeah. Mom, that's not why I called. I don't want to talk about Hunter right now. I want to talk about Dad."
His words were met with an abrupt silence. Well, what did he expect? He'd never talked about his father before, never even asked about him, not that he remembered. He'd been an obedient child, and accepted what she had told him without question. She must be shocked at this unexpected turn of events, and rightly so. He gave her a moment to respond, and when she didn't, he continued.
Leonardo di Caprio is a Vampire Page 6