Lyrics from "Ghost of a Good Thing" by Dashboard Confessional

BRIAN’S POV

You’re chasing the ghost of a good thing
Haunting yourself as the real thing
It’s getting away from you again
While you’re chasing ghosts

This is why I tried to kill myself on my thirtieth birthday.

I admit it wasn't entirely my intention to off myself, but really, I knew what the end result would be. You don't just tie a silk scarf around your neck, hang yourself from the rafters and snort obscene amounts of cocaine expecting that you'll walk away from it unscathed.

But of course Michael came, and Michael saved me, and Michael was there to boost up my ego and tell me I'm beautiful and that he loves me and give me enough confidence that it made me go and do the *stupidest* thing I've ever done in my life.

Show up at Justin's prom like a fucking idiot, trying to prove nothing and everything to everyone and no one.

Or maybe just myself.

And end up hurting the only person that's ever truly meant anything to me.

Sometimes I wish Mikey never saved me.

But he did and I lived and fucked up, but thank God Justin is okay now, and for a while I thought I was okay too. Thought I could just keep on going, keep on living the way that I was and that nothing ever had to change.

Yeah, getting cancer put a little glitch in my happy plans. But I got over it, and to use a cliché... I survived.

But thirty-three crept up pretty quick. Don't remember what happened to thirty-one and thirty-two, they disappeared in a flurry of excess. And now here I am. Thirty-three.

And it's all starting to fall apart, just like I knew it would.

I sort through my closet, pulling out Prada, Gucci, Armani… all the same. All making me feel more and more ridiculous with every label I pull off the hangers. All because of such a simple thing.

Such a little thing, and yet it set off such a tidal wave of consequences. How many times have I made the same gesture myself? A hundred? A thousand? Pushing groping hands and fingers away, laughing in people's faces, cutting insults back at those who dare invade my space. Dare assume that I'm interested or ready to give them anything.

I never thought of it before, but I suppose that's who I am.

And now I'm on the other side.

It was always about the game, the chase, the capture. The anticipation of the fuck, of the look on his face when I push his mouth to my dick, or twist him around and yank down his pants. When I slide my cock into his tight ass that first time, when I fuck him hard and fast and make him come just when I do. When the chase is over and it’s onto the next.

And the next.

And the next.

But now the game has opened up to a new player. What if I can't catch up? If I come in second place? Next will be third, then fourth, and I can't have that. So I can end up some tired old pathetic faggot, hanging around Babylon like the fucking Sap, bargaining with go-go boys to let me suck their cocks?

I’d rather be hanging dead from the rafters.

I tried to explain it to Justin - he asked what was wrong and I risked it and told him. But he doesn't get it. Can't get it. And I get the impression that he simply doesn't care. His head is filling with ideas of marriage and houses and babies and honestly, it's all too much like flowers and picnics and violin music for my taste, though I doubt a bouquet would satisfy him now.

He looks at me with these expectations in his eyes, and it's all I can do to face the world with a grin right now, let alone be who he expects and wants me to be.

I want to tell him to quit pushing me, to drop it, to go back to being the starry-eyed kid he used to be. I'm not asking for much... I just want him here, want to fuck him first thing in the morning and last thing at night. Want to spend my time with him, share everything with him. I just want to be with him. I like having him around. Actually, I love having him here. He makes this loft a home.

He makes everything so much better.

But maybe I'm getting too old for him too. Maybe he's seeing everything now, seeing through the facade, the masks, the games. Maybe he's seen the future with me and he doesn't like it. Maybe he's finally realized how big of a gap twelve years really is. Maybe he's woken up and doesn't want to listen to me anymore. Maybe... oh Christ...

Maybe...

My head is spinning and I need to stop this train of thought before it crashes into my reality.

All I want right now is to keep going along like this. Like we are. To keep living this life I've built. I don't want to get older, to change. I don't want to grow up. That's what it is. I just don't want to grow up.

I've got the car and the loft and the business and the club. Those things will stay.

It's the things like beauty and youth and friendship and love. Intangible things that are fragile and delicate and that can leave in the blink of an eye... those are the things I don't wanna lose. Can't lose.

Oh God, I don't want to lose them.

I don't want to lose him.

But maybe... like getting older, becoming less desirable, less perfect, less in control of everything...

Maybe it's inevitable.

And I definitely don't have control of everything anymore. Least of all him.

I begin to wonder if I ever really did.

JUSTIN'S POV

I believe in you so much
I could die from the words that you say

I didn’t really intend to start looking at this stuff, but somehow I went from chatting with Daph to checking my email to surfing for art books on Amazon.com to checking real estate prices.

Houses. In the neighbourhood where Ben and Michael live. In the suburbs. Even in the chi-chi parts of the Pitts. Big beautiful houses, on quiet streets with trees and driveways. With front lawns and gardens and huge rooms with lots of windows and sunshine streaming in. With places to paint and fireplaces and proper dining rooms and private bedrooms.

I want to live in a house again. I want to be part of a family again. I want to feel part of what I felt when I was at Ben and Michael’s. The way I felt at Deb’s and Mel and Lindsay’s. The way I used to feel as a kid, with my parents. That feeling of being in a home, full of love.

This loft has too many memories… it’s too full of the past to make way for the future. I don’t wanna live here - with the past - for the rest of my life.

So here's my daydream: Brian and I would live in a house beside Ben and Michael or in the burbs or in the chi-chi neighbourhood and we’d grow a family and we’d have Sunday dinners and I would make paintings for every room. We’d have Italian furniture, of course, beautiful and stark, but warm and comfortable at the same time. We’d fuck in every room, and we’d fuck raw every time, his come sitting inside me, filling me every night, because there wouldn’t be anyone else and there’d be no need for condoms anymore.

We’d share our lives together, grow old together, live together in every sense of the word.

We’d be together and we’d be happy and that’s what life is about.

Hah.

Magical thinking. That’s all that is. Just like Lindsay said. Ridiculous, stupid, *naïve* magical thinking.

Brian comes out of the bedroom in a fury, pulling shirts off hangers and continuing to bitch about being turned down by some asshole at Babylon.

I’m secretly glad. Maybe he’ll stop going now, maybe he’ll see the futility in it. Maybe he’ll realize that he doesn’t need to go out every single night just to prove he’s wanted. Beautiful. Young. Loved. Worthy.

“How’s this?” he asks for the fiftieth time and I can’t even be bothered to look.

I scroll through photos of beautiful, warm, welcoming houses.

He thinks he knows what I want, what I need. But he really doesn’t. And it's not like I expect it to happen tomorrow, or even next year. Just one day. All I want is to know that it *can* happen one day. That I'm not just chasing after some ghost of an idea.

So I tell him everything so there can be no misunderstanding. So he can’t say he didn’t know. And I finish my little speech and my words trail off and now it's out and said and done.

Front porches and big backyards with swing sets flutter behind my eyes.

It’s so fucking quiet.

I hear him come closer and I wait... I feel raw and open and almost like I’ve put everything on the line. I don't look at him, just stare blankly at the computer screen.

He takes a breath.

“How’s this,” he asks again, pointed and heavy. Ignores my words. My needs, my wants, my fucking dreams. My heart. Crushed.

I keep staring at the screen because I can’t look at him now, I just can’t. My eyes start to burn and itch and I feel a little stunned, to be honest.

He stomps through the bedroom, talking to himself, then leaves in a flurry of black dress shirts and expensive cologne. The loft is quiet when he’s gone and I blink and don’t bother holding back the tear that slides down my cheek. I let it slip down my face, balance off my chin and land with a splash on my jeans.

But I won’t shed another. There’s no point.

I switch off the computer and grab the fuzzy blanket I swiped from Daph and curl up on the couch in front of the TV, finding some shitty movie to watch.

And I try to pretend that it’s perfectly normal that my lover/boyfriend/partner/whatever just spent the last twenty minutes asking my opinion about which outfit makes him look the most fuckable. That he’s just left me here alone while he goes out to try and score some ass.

I try to pretend that I like this, that I’m okay with this, that I knew it would be like this, and that I never, ever expected anything different. That when I told him that I knew what he wanted of me, that I knew what to expect of him, that I also knew he’d never grow, never change. Never want anything different than what we had two years ago, three years ago, four years ago. That he’ll want this forever.

I’m only twenty-one and I see my entire fucking life laid out before me. And I’m already tired of it. By Brian’s definition – it’s predictable, unsatisfying and boring.

I watch the movie blindly and sink deeper into the couch and bunch the pillow under my head. And when the movie is over and I look at the clock and it’s blinking 12:55, I wonder if he’ll be home by 3:00 but then realize that it doesn’t even really matter any more.

*** *** ***

I feel his hand on my cheek while my eyes are still closed and at first I forget what was said and what wasn’t and smile and put my hand on top of his and lean into his palm.

His hand is warm and he smells like soap, and when I open my eyes, I see him looking down at me, dark hair falling in sharp wet points around his face, towel wrapped around his waist, fresh from the shower.

“Hey,” he says and then I remember everything. My smile fades.

I drop my hand and pull away from him, stretching out on the couch, pushing out the kinks in my neck. “Hey,” I say back, not looking at him.

“I didn’t think you’d wanna spend the night out here… I know you get that neck thing,” he says it quietly, then walks away, back towards the bedroom.

I follow him up and strip off my clothes, climbing under the cool sheets. We lie in silence for a moment, and I know I should keep my fucking mouth shut, but arrogance gets the best of me.

“Better luck tonight?” I say it dryly, and roll onto my side to stare at his long profile. He shakes his head slowly and turns to face me, putting his hand behind my neck and pulling me to him for a kiss. The kiss surprises me – I hadn’t expected any affection from him tonight after what I said earlier. I'd figured he’d be pushing me even harder away, but instead it’s like he’s clinging to me.

I break the kiss and take a deep breath.

“So what am I? The consolation prize?” The words bite out of my mouth.

His eyes fall and he rubs his thumb against the back of my neck.

“You’re who I come home to,” he says. Soft words against my cheek, but they mean nothing, really.

“Just not enough to stay home for,” I say back.

“You don’t understand,” he says quickly.

I sigh loudly. “I understand enough.”

He shakes his head and starts to pull me in again for a kiss, but I resist. He looks at me, furrows his brow. Not used to me pulling away from him. Refusing him something he wants.

I put my hand on his shoulder and roll him on to his back, pushing him hard. He watches as I grab a condom and the lube from the side table, then straddle his hips, bumping our dicks up together.

I squirt some lube into my palm, then take both our dicks in my hand and stroke gently. He’s already hard, but I need some incentive. His eyes close and his hands fall and his mouth opens a little… he loves hand jobs. Christ, he loves anything to do with his dick. I pump our cocks together faster and see his back arch, his fingers move to try and grab me.

But I push him back down and tear open the condom, rolling it on his cock, then spread a film of lube down his shaft. He bites his lip into his mouth and I put his dick at my hole, then sliiiiiide down, taking him inside me.

I sit on his hips, his cock buried in my ass and I feel almost powerful. I feel like maybe I can convince him that I’m enough, that he doesn’t have to go anywhere else for this, that I can give him everything he needs and wants.

He grips my waist and I ride him hard, bucking up off his cock again and again, squeezing hard around him, holding him inside… he lifts up off the bed but I hold him down, press him back against the sheets. I want control, I wanna fuck him, I want this, to feel him hard and hot inside me, to know that I’m making him like that.

It feels so good, too good, insane… he reaches out to touch me and I smack his hand away, letting him fall back on the bed, head tipped back… I grab my cock and start jerking myself off, still riding him, taking him inside me over and over again, and he’s gasping, can feel how tight I am, and the look on his face, the way he looks so horny and lost and just so fucking hot sets me off. 

My come spurts out over his chest, and I watch as it lays down in threads across his skin. Me all over him, and it’s hot and I keep fucking his cock even though it’s too much inside me. It makes me feel dizzy and tingly, but I can’t stop, keep squeezing the head of my dick, urging the last drops of come to fall onto his belly.

I close my eyes and he catches me off guard – puts his hand on my bum and rolls me onto my back, his cock slipping from my ass. He lies between my legs and hooks my ankles over his shoulders, then slides inside me again, takes my face between his hands and kisses me hard. Tongue sliding over mine, flicking behind my teeth, across my lips, feeling like it’s down my throat, our teeth banging together with a clunk. He takes me roughly, pushing hard inside me where he knows I’m over-sensitized already, making my skin bloom with color and heat.

It’s brutal and beautiful and beyond intense. My arms are trapped at my sides, my mouth caught with his lips, I can’t move, just lie here and feel it, so much, so everything. He’s desperate to fuck me, getting faster and rougher with every push in, till I’m grunting with every fuck and arching up with my body into his. God, it hurts but I love it and when he takes my cock in his fingers and starts to stroke me again I think I might die and I realize I was foolish to ever think I could have any power here. This is his domain and he always reigns.

Slow strokes turn faster and soon I can feel it creeping up again on me, his cock warming and filling my ass, pressing on all those amazing places and I’m lost in him, with him, and before I know it I come again, complete and utter ecstasy, shaking and shivering and yelping into his mouth, then feel him come too, pushing hard into my ass, bending me in half, making it hard to breathe, making the post-fuck euphoria even more intense.

Sweat drips off his forehead onto mine and he holds inside me, his cock twitching till he slides out of my ass and flops down onto my chest, his hair brushing against my chin. I pant for breath, feel achy and bruised already and know it’s gonna hurt tomorrow. Still feel him inside me, hard and relentless.

“Brian,” I whisper out into the dark room. We’re both covered in my come, sticky and cooling on our skin.

He lifts his head and looks at me, hair all askew and crazy. Smiles a little.

“I love you,” I say it softly and though I’ve said it before, I don’t think I’ve ever meant it more.

Dark lashes close over his hazel eyes and he looks away. I put my hand on his chin and meet his eyes with mine.

“Did you hear me? I said I love you,” I say it louder this time, and he nods.

“I heard you,” he says and stares at me for a long moment. He has no expression, I can’t tell if he’s angry or reciprocal or disappointed or…

He kisses me, puts his lips on mine, and licks inside my mouth with his tongue. Soft kisses, his hands on my face, threading through my hair.

I feel…

Like something has to change.

I break our kiss, wriggling out of his embrace, and climbing out of bed.

“Bathroom,” I mumble and head into the tiled space, sliding the door shut halfway. I piss, then brush my teeth. I think about going back to bed, but it hits me like a wave. Sadness. So fucking familiar. I swallow hard and stand in the corner where he can’t see me and take hitching breaths, my hands starting to shake. I can feel that something is happening. Can feel that familiarity and I don’t want to. But I don’t know what I want.

All I know is that this isn’t it.

And loving him isn’t enough anymore.

BRIAN'S POV

Just bend the pieces till they fit
Like they were made for it
But they weren't meant for this

We fuck long and hard and it’s blissful. It’s wholly and absolutely satisfying, it’s ten times more than any backroom fuck, it’s different and *complete*.

I feel complete. He makes me feel that way – complete, satisfied, wanted, loved.

But it's those expectations again. Always with the expectations.

Big blue eyes that stare into mine. Accusatory eyes. Daring eyes. Wishful eyes.

I try to wrap myself up around him, to hold him, carry him, block out everything else. It feels so fucking good to have him in my arms. But he climbs out of bed and leaves me and it’s cold and quiet without him here.

I should go to him. I should tell him how I feel. I should...

I should let him decide where he wants to be.

Because I know that part is completely inevitable.