"Why did Dad leave us?"
"Fisher, why are you asking me this now?"
"Mom, please humor me. I need to know now, that's all."
"Fisher, be reasonable, you can't expect me to rehash everything. And certainly not over the phone."
"I don't want a rehash of all your arguments," he persisted. "I just need to know why. And why he never came back for me. When he left, did he… did he say anything about me, about wanting to tell me good-bye or anything?" He almost held his breath, forcing himself to breathe. Don't back down, not now. He had a right to know, didn't he, about his own father? Of course, she could lie about it, even if it was true, but he didn't think she would. She was like him, honest to a fault. Her sin was a sin of omission, not one of deception.
There was another long moment of silence. He began to think he'd lost the connection. He shifted the phone to his other hand as he began to walk the perimeter of the patio. He found his jacket where he had dropped it earlier, or rather where Hunter had dropped it. Picking it up, he shook off the leaves that covered it and shrugged it on. "Mom, you still there?"
"Yes, I'm still here, Fisher."
"You didn't say anything, I wasn't sure."
"Fisher, everything I've ever done has been for your own good, and because I love you." She sounded flustered. He wasn't used to hearing that in her. Suddenly he knew it was true.
"He did, didn't he? And you told him no. And you told him never to come back, or you'd call the police on him. That's why he stayed away, isn't it? It had nothing to do with me…"
"With you? Why would it have do to… Fisher, what's gotten into you? Why are you making these accusations?" He could hear the pain in her voice, and he winced. That hadn't been his intention.
Why indeed? How could he explain his sudden need to verify the truth? He couldn't very well say because he'd seen it with his own eyes, and that Arthur Rimbaud had seen it too. She'd have him locked up for sure, and he honestly couldn't blame her. He had been there and yet he found it hard to believe, himself.
On the other hand, her refusal to answer could be seen as an admission. Of what? Guilt? Duplicity? Being a mother? He sighed, attempting to order his thoughts. Even now, he found he couldn't be really angry with her. She was his mom. He decided to try a different tack.
"Was my writing really that bad, Mom?"
"What do you mean? You know I think you're a wonderful writer!" she said indignantly.
"No, you don't. You think I'm a good journalist. Admit it, you hated my writing. You told me I needed to quit wasting my time writing about things that aren't true, and to stick to the facts."
"I did, and see how well you've done. Fiction is a waste of time."
"I liked writing my stories. And my book."
"You wrote a book? What is it about? Did you ever try to publish it?"
"Not that kind of book. A novel, Mom. A piece of fiction. A waste of time."
More silence. This didn't seem to be going well, not at all. And was there really a point to it now, anyway?
"Hunter loved it. He read every bit of it, and he told me to keep writing it. He said it was good. I threw it away because of you, but he believed in it."
He heard what he thought might be a snort of contempt. He hoped not.
"Mom, why do you get that way when I mention him? Why don't you like Hunter, what's he ever done to make you not like him?"
"Why? Because I hate to see you make a fool of yourself over someone who doesn't deserve your love!" she snapped.
That shocked him. A great deal. Even his mother knew how he felt about Hunter? "Mom," he began, slowly, surprised at how calm and rational he was being, especially after the venom he had just spewed at Lana, "Hunter is a better man than you've ever given him credit for. You don't know him the way you think you do. You've never really given him a chance, ever since we were kids, and we used to get in trouble together. Hunter believes in me. Without hesitation or reservation. And no matter what you say, I won't give up on him, or stop being his friend, and I certainly have no intention of cutting him out of my life. If I love him, then that's my business, and I'll deal with it. But if I do, it would be nice if you respected that." He took a deep breath, finding strength in his own words. "No, erase that. I do love him. And I love you too. Live with it. Please. I have to go." And he hung up abruptly.
Fisher felt drained. He was sure that at any minute now his legs were going to fold under him and he would collapse. Probably residual trauma from his earlier head injury. Or the unaccustomed outpouring of emotion. He slid his phone into his pocket. Maybe if he sat down for a minute and let the world stop spinning, he'd feel better. But as all the furniture had been moved in preparation for the bonfire, there was nowhere to go except down. He felt himself beginning to crumple, prepared for the feel of cold stone against his ass.
Instead, a pair of strong familiar arms wound about him, and he became aware of a warm chest that cushioned him as he leaned back into it. He didn't have to look to know who this was. Hunter to the rescue. His knight in shining armor. Or was that vampire now? And if Hunter was a vampire, did that make him, Fisher, a vampire hunter?
Until he turned his head and looked into those gorgeous blue eyes. "Hunter," he managed to get out before those soft lips made conversation optional.
Turning completely within the radius of Hunter's embrace so that they were face to face, Fisher wound his own arms about him and melted into that kiss, returning it with his entire heart and soul. He felt at peace, he felt so very right, and he didn't want that to end, nor reality to sink in. Not yet. He just wanted to hang on to this moment for as long as he could.
When they both decided to breathe, Fisher realized that as quickly as they had begun, they would never end. Although it only seemed quickly, for he had really loved Hunter as long as he had known him. It had just taken him this long to come to terms with it.
Except they didn't have a relationship, did they? Hunter was going to marry Lana, and despite all of the bravado that he had displayed on Hunter's behalf with his mother, reality was about to set in with all its ugliness. Reality in the form of marriage, duty and responsibility, two things of which he had always been a stout proponent. Now, he wasn't quite as sure. Not in the face of losing this new happiness.
"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have done that," he apologized, afraid to look into Hunter's eyes. He felt that familiar hand lifting his head, and he couldn't help but gaze into those beautiful pools, albeit hesitantly.
"Of course you should," Hunter reassured him. "It was my idea as much as yours."
"I don't think Lana would see it that way." Her very name was abhorrent to his tongue. "On second thought, screw her. I don't care what she thinks. Or that she is your fiancée. Or anything else." And he pressed his lips against Hunter's once more, slid his hands through those silken locks, and kissed him again.
This time when they came up for air, Hunter spoke. "What are you talking about, Fisher? Fiancée? What?"
"Lana. She said… I heard her say… you and her… getting married," Fisher babbled.
Hunter chuckled, peppering Fisher's face with tender kisses. "Not in this lifetime, or any other. I've been trying to tell you that I love you, you jerk, but you kept running away from me. You were starting to make me a little paranoid."
"Y-you… you… you love… me?" Fisher stammered.
"Yes, I love you," Hunter repeated, cupping one hand against Fisher's cheek. "I always have. And for the record, I heard what you told your mother." Fisher thought he had never seen his friend wear a bigger shit-eating grin.
"You're so full of yourself," he managed a small chuckle before his lips became otherwise occupied.
They kissed again, more softly, a sweeter kiss, one filled with hope. Why hadn't it occurred to him that Lana might be lying, trying to manipulate him, the same way that she must be doing with the job offer in San Diego? Which might also be a boldfaced lie. And if it wasn't, he would simply turn it down. That was easy enough.
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br /> "Then all this stuff about being a vampire, what was that about?"
"Oh, that was the truth, I am." He took Fisher's hand and brought it up to his mouth, took his finger and rubbed it against his canines, both of them. "I suspected that you might just love me too when you got so upset when I told you the truth about what happened to me. You weren't upset at the part about my being a vampire, only when you thought that I had sex with another man. At least that's what I hoped you were jealous of. And I'll say it again, so please believe me, that didn't happen, I swear it."
"You're right, I was jealous of that," Fisher admitted, grateful that the night hid his warm blush. "I didn't want to think of you with anyone but me. I believe you, Hunter, I do."
"So why didn't you tell me?"
A fair question. One that deserved an honest answer. "Because I was afraid."
"Afraid? But why? We've known each other forever, we've been best friends since we were little kids. Why would you be afraid of me now?"
Fisher closed his eyes, in an attempt to gain the courage to say the words, not have to look into Hunter's eyes, to see what he might see. "I didn't think I deserved you. I mean, you're so beautiful and smart and wonderful and I'm… just me."
"Just you?" Hunter repeated indignantly. "Open your eyes and look at me, Fisher Anthony Roberts!"
Fisher's eyes flew open as Hunter invoked the power of his full name. Something he did so seldom that Fisher could count the times on the fingers of one hand, and have at least one finger to spare.
"I happen to think that you are incredibly beautiful and sexy and far smarter than I am, not to mention a helluva talented writer, and the best friend a guy could ever ask for."
Hunter's words went straight through Fisher, and he warmed himself upon them. Love was not a matter of who possessed what body parts, or about how they fit or didn't fit, or about procreation, or being a particular gender. Love was about trust, and respect, and shared laughter, and comfortable silences. Joking together, and being able to laugh together at the stupid things in life. About wanting to be with someone for all of their life and yours, to be there for them in times of trouble, and to celebrate with them the times of joy. Love was, in a nutshell, Hunter Long.
"I think we should go home," Hunter said, his fingers tenderly caressing Fisher's temple. Fisher tried not to wince, but the wound was still sore.
"We should?"
"We should." Hunter nodded. "I think I should take care of your head. You got quite a bump there, in case you didn't know. You can tell me how you got it. And there are still some things I need to tell you, but not here. Besides, I don't know about you, but as far as I'm concerned this party is over."
Fisher heartily agreed with him. About all of it. He didn't mind if they left. After all, he'd been the one that hadn't even wanted to come. "Things?" When Hunter flashed him a toothy grin, he remembered. "Oh right. Those things. Okay. Um, let me think. We both have our cars, should we meet there or what?"
"Not on your life, I'll drive, we'll get your car later." Hunter swept him back into his embrace, and Fisher gave in to the kiss without argument.
They listened to an oldies station on the drive back to the house. Fisher couldn't say he remembered a single song, it all blended together into one glorious mishmash of sound. How could he think about music when Hunter was so very close to him? When Fisher had gotten in on the passenger side, Hunter had patted the bench seat beside him, giving him one of those looks of his which made goo of Fisher's insides, and Fisher had slid over as far as he could, until their legs met, sending a frisson of unexpected pleasure coursing through his system. Occasionally he wondered if he were dreaming, but decided that he didn't really want to know. It didn't matter if he was, he would just never wake up, he decided.
"Why the prom suits?" Fisher asked, once they'd returned home and were seated together on the couch in the living room, a Van Morrison CD playing in the background, surrounded by the Halloween pretties with which Hunter had decorated the house. That was more relaxing than the sounds of Halloween which was ready for the following night. Hunter insisted on fussing over his forehead, and he relaxed into his friend's tender ministrations.
"I wanted to remind you of that night," Hunter admitted, pausing as he dabbed hydrogen peroxide over the cut, having bathed it with warm water already. "We went to the prom together, remember?"
"Yeah, well, not exactly together," Fisher, the eternal nitpicker, corrected him, "we went stag, which isn't the same thing. Going together would be like we were dating, and we weren't, and…"
"Not yet," Hunter interrupted, with a knowing smirk that caused Fisher's cheeks to flame.
"Besides, if you'll recall, you talked me into it, even though I told you I didn't want to go."
Hunter pressed his lips against Fisher's forehead tenderly, before applying a Band-Aid. "So, what's the real reason you didn't want to go?"
"What do you think?"
"I dunno, tell me," Hunter teased. Finished playing Florence Nightingale, he sat on the sofa, so close to Fisher that if he were any closer, he'd be in his lap.
Fisher took a deep breath, decided why not, this was a night for complete honesty, and for revelations, and he blurted out, "Because I didn't want to see you with a girl. Any girl. It… it bothered me, more than I wanted to admit." He knew he was probably feeding Hunter's ego with that admission, but it was the truth, and one he could no longer deny. He'd had fifteen years of doing just that, if not more. "You were supposed to be taking a date," Fisher reminded him. "I didn't want to have to watch you dancing with all the girls who always swarm you, and watch while they hung all over you. That was always a catfight waiting to happen." He looked down at his hands, set sedately in his lap, the fingers twitching nervously. "But you managed to get into a fight with your date just before prom and we ended up going together, and having a great time."
"We did." Hunter agreed. "A great time."
Fisher's mind went back to that night. It wasn't the prom he remembered so much as the time spent together afterward. Sure, the prom itself was fine. The event was held in the elegant ballroom of some swanky hotel, and everything looked beautiful. They'd hung out with some other guys who'd gone stag, talked to their friends, ate cake, and drank punch. Fisher had caught someone trying to spike the large punchbowl, and he'd reported him, naturally. Which had gotten him into a bit of Dutch with their friends, who accused him of being a wet blanket. Hunter had stood up for him, though, when some of the other guys had gotten mad about it. They got over it. Everyone listened when Hunter spoke, he had a natural charisma.
After the prom, they had driven around, the pack gradually thinning out until it was just him and Hunter. They ended up hanging out at an all-night diner for hours, sharing orders of French fries. Hot, thick and greasy, and smeared with rich red catsup. They washed them down with cherry Cokes, as they debated everything under the sun. About 3 am, they were thrown out for getting into a food fight. Hunter had started it, naturally. There was not much open at that hour so, as they were unwilling to go home yet, they discovered other forms of entertainment. They ended up throwing toilet paper all over the trees in the prom queen's front yard. And then those of some of the members of the football team. And Hunter's cancelled prom date, which was Fisher's idea. They almost got caught there when she came back in the wee hours of the morning in the company of another guy. Fisher and Hunter had managed to hide long enough to watch them necking in the front seat of the boy's car, giggling at how fickle women could be before they beat feet and split the scene. Naturally, Hunter was the instigator in all of this, Fisher his unwilling accomplice. At least he claimed to be unwilling. He couldn't very well let his best friend get caught, now could he? He had to lend him his common sense approach to vandalism, or risk losing him. A roundabout way of saying that wherever Hunter Long led, Fisher Roberts would follow.
"Fisher, that fight was no accident," Hunter confessed, a boyish grin playing across his pretty lips. "I never did want to go wit
h… I don't even remember her name any more."
"Elaine." Fisher quickly supplied the missing information. Hunter arched a surprised brow.
"You remember?"
"I remember all of your girls, Hunter." He blushed at his own words, returning to the subject at hand hastily. "Anyway, that was a fun night. You looked incredible. Still do." He hoped that didn't sound as sappy as he thought it did, he was just being honest. He was relieved to see Hunter's smile.
"That was a very fun night," he agreed. "Don't laugh, but I wanted to kiss you that night, Fisher. Very badly. You have no idea how close I came to doing it, too."
"You did? Seriously?" Fisher was amazed.
"I did. Seriously."
"Then, why didn't you?" he asked, although the answer was pretty obvious.
"You weren't ready, and I knew it. I didn't know if you'd ever be ready, but I certainly didn't want to take a chance on freaking you out and driving you away from me."
"Probably a smooth move," Fisher had to admit, thinking about his younger uptight self. As opposed to his older uptight self. "So what now?"
"What now?"
"Where do we go from here?"
"Well, the way I see it," Hunter began. He took Fisher's hand into his, twined their fingers together as he spoke. Lifting their joined hands, he kissed the back of Fisher's softly. "I think we need to deal with my vampire issue, 'cause if you can't accept that, then I think there is nowhere for us to go. You know?"
Yesterday Fisher would have laughed it off as a practical joke. A pre-Halloween prank intended to knock him for a loop and for Hunter to have a little fun at his expense. After what he had gone through tonight, though, he found it hard not to give some credence to Hunter's story.
"Wait a minute." He tried to offer one last moment of resistance to the belief that Hunter was a vampire. "What about that sunlight thing? And sleeping in a coffin, all that stuff? Isn't it written into the vampire bylaws? Thou shalt not be under the sun, or something?" He had read vampire stories, once upon a time, and he still remembered the strict rules under which the afflicted members of that particular society operated.
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