Flashback.

You don’t bother knocking anymore, just climb over the fence and walk in the back door by the kitchen. She’s already waiting, a pan on the stove heating milk for hot chocolate and a plate of cookies on the table. She always seems to know those nights… those nights when you’ve fucked up or got yourself fucked up by Jack. She puts ice on your bruises, bandages your cuts, kisses your forehead and lets you rest your head on her shoulder till you don’t want to cry any more. She listens to you talk, listens to you complain, listens to you try to reason everything out.

There’s no reasoning these things out, however, and in the end, you mostly just sit silently and listen to her instead, talking about the diner and retelling Vic’s stories from the city.

You close your eyes and let her brush your long bangs across your forehead, hear how Vic is working nights in this fancy restaurant, how he has a new boyfriend, how he’s hopelessly in love for the fifth time in as many months. You smile at the thought of it, this old guy, at least thirty, dancing in clubs and drinking and partying. You wonder what your life will be like at thirty, but somehow you always stop yourself from thinking that far, because even just imagining eighteen and freedom seems impossible.

*

I suck back the last of the smoke, stubbing out the joint when the knock on the door comes. I wonder who the fuck it could be – Justin, Michael, Lindsay… don’t know. Though I would hope somehow that Justin would just open the-

Right, he gave me back that set of keys. Well, gave them to Lindsay who gave them to me. And Michael fucking hates me. Lindsay… maybe? With Gus?

I keep the last of the smoke in my lungs, savouring it, holding it as long as I can, then exhaling and blowing it out into the empty room.

I drag open the door and of course, I should’ve known better. My life is in the shitter, Michael’s not talking to me, and Mom is here to the rescue.

Deb.

She marches in, carrying her famous cure-all tuna macaroni casserole and grinning like I’ve invited her. Like I’ve just been waiting for her to get here.

I suppose I have.

*

Flashback.

The door opens slowly and she comes in carrying some carb-loaded fat fest and wearing a smile. You see her and feel… busted and relieved and fourteen years old again. She seems so pleased that she remembered you loved tuna macaroni casserole as a kid, but you don’t have the heart to tell her it wasn’t the tuna macaroni casserole that kept you coming back… instead it was the warm, safe kitchen and a dinnertime filled with laughter and stories. You never felt like you had to pretend to be anyone else over there, not like in your own house — cold and silent and miserable.

Tuna macaroni casserole meant a dinner sitting at the kitchen table with her and Mikey and eating big mouthfuls of tuna and pasta and cheese off brightly colored dishes. Meant slabs of homemade bread and glasses of Kool-Aid. Meant ice cream for dessert and sitting on the couch watching Magnum P.I. and Cheers on TV and feeling so completely part of this funny little family that you never, ever wanted to go home. But then Deb and Mikey’s became home anyway.

She tells you she’s proud of you, of what you did. For taking down fucking Stockwell and risking everything. And somehow hearing that from her makes things a little easier.

She sits down beside you and plucks the joint out of your fingers and takes a long drag and you can’t help but smile. She’s trying, and that means everything. When she passes it back to you, the paper is tinted with lipstick and you taste it when you take a hit yourself, and it reminds you of kisses as a kid.

You talk and listen and you laugh inside, thinking that somewhere along the line, hot chocolate and cookies have turned into weed and tuna macaroni casserole. You realize that maybe she’s not bandaging your cuts or icing your bruises, but that she’s working on your insides now. Working on fixing all the other stuff that got broken so long ago.

She leans over and you feel like putting your head on her shoulder again, letting her stroke your bangs, the clink of her bracelets in your ear, her cheap perfume filling your nose.

You realize, that in her eyes, you’ll always be that fourteen-year-old kid.

*

She comes in and puts the casserole dish down on the countertop and I try to resist her at first. Christ, I’m in no mood to talk, and I know all I’m going to hear about is how I fucked up with Justin and I fucked up with Mikey and I’m just a plain old fuck up. But she won’t be nearly as eloquent about it, I’m sure.

I already know these things. I already know everything’s going to shit. I can’t stop it. I can’t stop myself anymore. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, why I feel like I have to destroy everything that’s remotely positive in my life.

She’s trying to be good to me, and I don’t deserve her being here either.

But she’s relentless. And she even has her own weed this time.

I’ll admit, that after a few more hits, I feel a little like talking. Rather… like listening. And after hearing twenty minutes of why she’s not going to talk to me about Justin, she starts in about Mikey. And tells me he hasn’t given up on me forever, that he’s not done with me yet.

I tell her that he won’t talk to me, that I’ve tried… but she tells me that I should talk to him instead.

Well. That I can do.

Apologizing to Mikey is something I’ve been doing since I was fourteen too.

Flashback.

You see him come in and your heart jumps into your throat. You’d been wishing he’d come, been wanting to see him sofuckingbad and though you wouldn’t admit it to anyone, you wanted him to see your work and be proud of you. To make you proud of yourself.

And now he’s here, dressed for Babylon, but it feels like he came for you – you pretend that he did, that he came just to see your work, to see your first show, to see you and nothing else. You swallow hard and figure you need a drink or something, even though they won’t serve you here, but you try anyway and get stuck with a Coke for your efforts. Your throat is dry and the pop makes you feel better, so you get some food too, grabbing some grapes, and stand there and stare at the program blindly, not reading it, just looking at your name there in print and waiting, hoping, desperately wishing…

You smell him first, red wine and that sex smell. He starts talking over your shoulder and you whip around to see him, a flush coming to your face. Swallow and try to be cool, not like you’ve been standing here waiting for him to notice you for the past ten minutes. You talk idly and you stare at him, your eyes flicking across his face, down his chest, drinking him in. You can’t get enough of him and you think about how you’re going to put pencil to paper and sketch him when you get home. Think of a million pictures you could draw and then remember those lips on your neck and on your cock and you ache for him to be inside you again.

*

Funny how everything can change, and then nothing does. I know when he gets here, feel his stare on the back of my neck, that tingle in my stomach. I force myself not to turn around, just stand still and stare at my work and try to push everything I’m feeling down, down, down.

This piece… my art… staring at it makes me feel better and worse at the same time. I can’t look at it without thinking of Brian. And I can’t look at it without feeling immensely proud. I worked on it for weeks before I left for California, and then finished it when I got back. I can see how my life changed through it… can see how different I saw the world before, how I saw the world when I got back, how I see the world now that I’m on my own. The colors and shades flow through me and I see my last year painted up there. No one else could see it, but I know it’s there.

Lindsay introduces me to an art critic and frankly, I’m not interested. I stopped caring what other people thought of my work sometime ago. Well. Stopped caring what most people think of my work. I admit to a few weaknesses in that area.

And then he comes over, and he looks like he’s just fucked and I wonder how quickly he got someone into the stall of the bathroom.

Nothing does change.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” I say to him, knowing damn well he would. He stares at my piece and leans in a little closer to me and I get a whiff of him… expensive cologne mixed up with soap and leather and just sex. Christ, he always smells like sex and it makes my dick a little hard.

*

Flashback.

His arm snakes around your waist, and you’re filled with that flush of excitement at being touched, at being touched by him. He whispers into your ear, lips touching your skin and you feel your cheeks get warm and your body tense against his. He holds you against his chest like that, so you can feel his cock rubbing against your ass, and it’s almost possessive and you like it so much, so fucking much. You joke back and forth, silly comments about the drawing you did of him, in bed, asleep, and you think he likes it – really likes it.

You turn around in his grasp and he kisses you… it’s amazing, the arousal and awareness that he’s kissing you here, in this place, that isn’t Babylon, and isn’t Woody’s and isn’t Liberty Avenue. He’s kissing you in front of all these people and it feels fucking fantastic and you feel taken and wanted and he doesn’t stop you when you put your hand on his waist. You whisper for him to take you home tonight, to fuck you, and he grins at you, laughs a little and tells you maybe, but you know it means yes because he drops his hand down your ass, cupping your cheek and giving a tight squeeze, and you know it’s a promise of what’s to come. Of everything that’s to come.

*

We banter back and forth and I ask him what he thinks. Of course he answers back with another question, asking me why I care what he thinks. I’m so fucking tempted to answer him, because I love you, you fucking asshole, but I figure my silence speaks for itself.

He doesn’t miss a beat and looks over to me, “I think it’s exquisite,” he says. I look for sarcasm in his voice, but don’t find any. “You should be very proud.”

I try to hide the smile that’s desperate to creep out, but I’m not too sure I’m successful. I don’t want to feel this way, don’t want to feel elated and giddy that he’s just said that. Don’t want to feel a little hurt when he walks away to score some ass.

I don’t want to feel any of those things, but I do.

Flashback.

First time here, lights and guys, fuck, the guys and Mikey grabs your arm and says I can’t fucking believe this. But you can, you knew it would be like this, exactly like this, the music, the smoke, the sex… Christ, the sex. The look of it, the smell of it, the feeling of it everywhere.

You and Mikey get a drink and you knock yours back quickly, then get another and swallow it back too. Liquor burns in your stomach and you grab Mikey’s hand and head out to the dance floor, music pulsing, beating through you… energizing you, making you feel more alive than you’ve ever felt in your life. It’s amazing here, you want to live here forever, never want to let go of it… Mikey’s grinning and you dance and you pull him closer to you and kiss him on the lips, just because, because you love this, love everything, and you want to share it. He laughs and wraps his arms around your neck and you dance and dance till you get picked up and led into the backroom and everything explodes because there are guys fucking everywhere. You almost can’t think, it’s too much, but you let the guy lead you back there, find a place on the wall and he sucks your dick and you reciprocate and it’s the most amazing thing ever. You’re in a fucking porn movie, that’s all you can think of and when you get fucked up against the wall, you don’t hold back the grunts and cries when you come, they just get mixed up in the beautiful symphony that plays all around you.

At eighteen you knew it already. This place is your future, and it’s yours to conquer. You have it by the time you’re twenty and you never look back.

*

I see his smile, hear his voice, cover his hand with mine on the railing. I know that feeling of redemption and everything’s okay now and I’m fucking relieved. He’s my best friend in the whole world, always has been.

Always will.

And then I realize… that…

He’s not. It’s not. That my mind is wandering, the music thudding me into oblivion, the drink in my hand long gone. That I’m standing here alone – rather I was, until Ted came along. That Mikey isn’t here and there’s no redemption and there’s nothing left.

Ted says he thinks I look like I could use a friend and with sudden clarity I realize – it’s just me and Ted. Me and Theodore Schmidt at the end. Sure as fuck didn’t expect that. But now I’ll take what I can get, and tell him to get us a drink on me. He smiles his newly confident smile and I know he’d give anything to have traded places with me weeks ago. When Justin was in my bed, my house, my heart. When I still lived in his.

I stare out at the crowd and follow Ted as he weaves through the dancing bodies towards the bar… my eyes catch on a blond head and my heart jumps then settles.

He’s not coming back here.

That would only be another fantasy.

*

Flashback.

Glitter rains down, you know he’s here, at Babylon, on the dance floor. You saw him take off his shirt and stake you out… saw him come dance beside you and now he’s eyeballing your tricks till he succeeds and they leave you for prettier candy.

It’s something like jealousy that springs through you, but you know that can’t be it… couldn’t possibly be, because what the fuck is there to be jealous of? But before you know it, you’re pushing away the other guys and pressing your body to his… never been here at Babylon with him before, never danced with him, never saw him move like this, never…

You lick at his skin, dragging your tongue across his breast bone, up his throat, hear him moan, feel it under your mouth. His heart hammers in his chest, his hips grind against you and all you taste is him, his sweet, seventeen-year-old skin. 

You kiss his mouth and he’s breathless, wraps his arms around your neck and pulls you to him eagerly, pushing his tongue into your mouth and you feel his dick so hard in his pants. You wonder if you can get him off right here, just pressing your bodies together, kissing him like this and push back against his groin, feel the puff of breath on your face as his eyes slip closed and know you probably could. He reminds you of being here your first time, reminds you how young he is, and you love that, love all of it… love sharing this with him, and want him to remember this night as fondly as you remember your first night here.

This paradise, this heaven, this mecca… this Babylon.

You dance all night and take him home with you, fuck him tenderly and sweetly and eat his ass when he asks you to “do that thing again”. You do it and you love it, and suddenly everything begins.

*

My eyes scan the crowd aimlessly, and I’m amazed at how many unfamiliar faces there are. I’ve been so busy running the show I’d almost forgotten to be a part of it. Spending most of my time in the new lounge, getting my dick sucked and thinking about how I made it for him, how I wanted somewhere better to fuck him, somewhere more fitting to his taste. Somewhere private and ours. Not the backroom. Ours. I think he came back to the lounge once, but then after that, everything was over.

*

Flashback.

He shows up at the VIP lounge looking suitably impressed at what you’ve done with the place. You kiss him long and softly, lapping your tongue inside his mouth over and over, letting him tongue-fuck yours… your hand on his chin, his on the back of your neck. You kiss him the entire time he’s getting blown, feel his breath catch in his throat as he gets close to coming, then the tenseness in his mouth, everything stilling, breath stopping as he comes into the trick’s mouth.

There’s something so erotic and intimate about it, and you swear you feel him come… so in tune with his body that you almost feel his orgasm as clear as one of your own. He falls limp against your chest after, leaning back onto you, his lips still clinging to yours, his shaky breaths filling your mouth. You turn him around to face you and you press your bodies together, feel the flush of his chest against yours… lips never parting, just holding still together. You need each other to breathe, you feel like. You just need each other, you know.

When he catches his breath, he breaks the kiss, and presses his forehead to yours. He starts to sway his hips with the music, pulling you along with him, making you move too. Slow waltz here in the middle of the VIP lounge at Babylon.

“I feel like dancing,” he says against your face. It’s been a while since you’ve danced, too much had happened, you’d been so focused… but you realize you feel like dancing too. You take his hand in yours and lead him downstairs to the dance floor and wrap your arms around him and dance. Hips together, moving in time, in slow rhythm to the music… his hands caressing over your shoulders and chest, yours dragging over his ass, around his neck, pulling him closer, running down his arms till your fingers are wound up together. You dance and you dance and you think of a million times before this, in his arms, bodies pushing together, swaying to the music, sweat slicking between you, glitter raining down.

Your foreheads press together and he grins at you and you kiss him… start making out on the dance floor and you feel like no time has passed and it’s that first time again… that first time when everything was new and exciting and there were no expectations except maybe he expected you’d fuck him that night, which you did.

You almost feel like everything is beginning again, now that your drawer is full of his socks and underwear.

*

Ted comes back with a drink and we toast each other and lean over the railing together, watching the moving bodies. He starts to talk and I listen with half an ear and I’m tempted to tell him that I feel fucked up, like I fucked up, like everything is fucked up.

But I don’t think that’ll help anything.

I’ve made my own bed, and now I’ve got to lie in it.

*

Flashforward.

You’re alone, standing here, leaning against this railing. You stare out at the crowd and realize most are at least half your age, but it doesn’t really bother you anymore. You trick when someone shows interest, you drink too much, you smoke too much, you wish for the cancer to come back and finish you off. Your best friend gave up on you years ago, and since Justin left, you’ve never learned to love anyone else. You never had enough room to love anyone else. He somehow snuck in under the wire, but the door has shut and all you’re left with is a lingering feeling of what it was like to be loved once.

You stare out at the crowd, your domain, the crick in your neck aching, the music piercing your ears, your new contacts scratching at your eyes.

You stare out at the crowd and dream in flashbacks eternally.

*

I used to think that I liked seeing my future laid out before me. That’s when it was filled with success and money and fucking. I thought those were the most important things in the world. Now that I’ve had a taste of parenthood, of what it feels like to share things with someone, to have a partner, a companion, a lover… I realize that life can surprise you sometimes. That it can bring shitty things like intolerance and cancer, but it can also bring amazing things like baby boys and twinks under street lamps. It can change in an instant, a heartbeat, a breath. Anything can happen.

I wonder if my future isn’t what I thought it would be. Seems somehow emptier now that I know what it could’ve been.

I wonder if there’s any turning back now.