It's still pretty early in the evening. Early to be getting drunk, anyway. Which is why he isn't—he's sitting perched on the edge of a bar stool with his head buried in the crook of his elbow. A stein of some kind of beer is on the counter in front of him, untouched. The foam on top reaches the brim of the glass. It's spilled over in a few places. His wallet is almost empty, his t-shirt's stained, his eye's a little bruised, his hair is a little greasy, and he needs to shave.
"Isn't it a little early, Tony?" The barista leans on the counter in front of him, her shirt dipping down so that he can see her ample breasts spilling from a large, powder blue bra.
He shrugs. "Maybe, but better here than at home where nobody can keep an eye on me."
The barista laughs. "It can't be that bad."
He shrugs again.
"C'mon, Tony, tell me about it." She pats his hand.
He shakes his head and takes one gulp from his beer. "I'm gonna go home, Cassandra. Thanks for the beer. How much?"
"Boy, if you can't remember how much a stein of Edel Pils costs, something's wrong. It's on me."
He smiles and puts his wallet back in his butt pocket. "Thanks."
"Don't think on it. Tony?"
"Yeah?"
"Don't do anything stupid."
He doesn't answer, just smiles at her as he walks the door open and turns to brave the elements.
It's not warm out by any means—the wind has picked up a lot since he went into the bar, and his t-shirt is whipped around his thin frame. He faces the direction of his apartment building and starts to walk toward Manhattan.
A tendril of potent cigarette smoke reaches out from behind to tickle his nose. Tony thinks nothing of it until it is accompanied by a familiar voice.
"What're you doing on my side of town? It's a bit early to be heading home from the bar already."
Tony replies, "Spot. How do you know about the bar?"
"I know things, Racetrack. You know that."
"Yeah? Your little 'boidies' again?"
Spot glares. "I haven't touched that shit in four years, Race," he snaps.
With a shrug, Tony says, "I go by Tony now." He shoves his hands deep in his pockets. He can feel himself cringing away from Spot, and they're still ten or twenty feet apart.
"And I go by Sean. What's your point?"
Tony shrugs again. "You could try calling me Tony," he suggests, trying not to shiver. He feels Spot smirking, even though his eyes are trained on the tips of his battered Converse high tops. Spot's gaze follows Tony's and he remarks:
"Haven't you outgrown your precious Converse yet? You're 27 years old, Racetrack. Those shoes are a bit juvenile."
I forgot how tiring he is, Tony thinks. Wiggling his toes, he asks, "What are you suggesting?"
"Maybe you should let go of the past. We're not together anymore—any of us—and it's about time for you to mature. Maybe you could hold down a job then."
Spot has a point, and Tony has no comeback. He doesn't even try to come up with one. "You didn't have to start up a conversation with me, Sp—Sean. Did you just do it so you could insult my choice of footwear?"
"Au contraire, my boy." Spot holds out his cigarette and lets Tony take a drag. "I had no specific insults in mind when I greeted you."
Tony is one again left with nothing to say. "Charming," he decides on saying, and adds, "I thought you quit smoking six years ago. When we broke up."
"No," Spot replies. "I quit seven years ago. Before we broke up." He taps ashes into the river and offers no further explanation. Tony knows better tan to expect one. He considers asking when Spot started up again, but thinks it doesn't really matter anyway—he's six years too late to make nice with Spot, so there's not much point in trying. Just as Tony is considering making small talk, Spot says, "I thought you quit, too."
"I did," Tony answers. He doesn't need to say more if Spot doesn't. It's his personal game with himself—always sink to Spot's level. For the first time since they broke up, Tony really looks at Spot. He doesn't look bad—he has a leather jacket on, and jeans. He seems very clean and in shape, like he'd finally grown into his body. His hair has gotten a few shades darker and a little longer, and Tony thinks he can see a piercing in one of Spot's ears. "You don't look too bad," Tony says.
Blunt as always, Spot deadpans, "You look like hell."
"Gee, thanks."
"Yeah, any time; are you... with anyone?" Spot drops the smouldering remains of his cigarette off the bridge and immediately rations himself another. Curling his hand around the end while he lights it, Spot looks up at Tony, who feels a pang between his heart and stomach for his ex-boyfriend.
Wiping the sweat from his hands, Tony says, "Not exactly. Can you spare a cig for an old... friend?"
"Sure, but do I have any old friends around to take it?"
Tony winces. "Harsh. Can I have it, then?"
Spot lights one up and hands it to him.
"Thanks. So... uh, are you with anyone?"
A shrug. "I dunno. I was with some guy, Bradley, but we fought and I don't think we're together anymore. And I don't think I care."
They're walking—they have been for some time, but Tony hadn't noticed. He isn't sure where they're going, but it sure as hell isn't in Manhattan. He notices that Spot has a slight limp.
"Something wrong with your leg?"
"Well, six years ago, some asshole slashed my thigh open in the course of dumping me," Spot said carelessly.
Tony nods to himself. "Yeah, about that..."
"Don't apologise," Spot orders. "The scar gives me character."
"It was uncalled for."
"Breaking up with me at all was uncalled for. I didn't fucking cheat."
Tony shrugs uncomfortably. "Well, it's over now."
"Six years over," Spot agrees.
"Six years, and your still bitter?"
"Six years and you're still an asshole," Spot counters. He sounds much more amiable than Tony would have expected. "And I'm not bitter, just still in pain when I walk. That son of a bitch got infected. They nearly had to amputate."
Tony held his hands up, cigarette dangling from his fingers. "Hey," he said, "Not my fault you didn't take care of it." Then he remembers, "And I still have a scar from you putting your cigarette out on the back of my neck."
"Poor baby!" Spot puts a hand on Tony's elbow and guides him into a building. "I love here. Don't have a spaz attack."
Indignantly, Tony says, "I wasn't going to!"
"I just pulled you into a strange building. Of course you were going to."
"You don't know that! You haven't talked to me in six years!"
Spot rolls his eyes and opens a door marked 16. "Race, I know your address, your job, all of your ex-boyfriends, your social security number—"
"That can't be healthy. For either of us."
Spot's apartment is small and cramped, yet impeccably clean. There's a kitchenette and dining room on one side, connected to a room with a futon, a TV, a laptop, and a washer and dryer, which Tony assumes is the living room. To the back, there's a door leading into Spot's bedroom and a small bathroom.
Spot gestures to the futon and says, "Sit down. You still like scrambled egg sandwiches and OJ?"
"Like I could ever not."
"Good, because that's all I have right now." Spot bustles around the kitchen for ten minutes. For some reason, Tony is entranced by him. He suddenly remembers why he'd loved Spot. He accepts his sandwich and juice and makes himself comfortable. It's as if he's forgotten he and Spot ever broke up.
"Hey, Race?" Spot sets his cigarette on a small bowl acting as an ashtray.
"Yeah?" Tony isn't sure where his cigarette went.
"Get your feet off the furniture."
Tony can tell he's been shunned and eats in silence, feet carefully planted on the floor. Spot has always been very particular about who could be in his living quarters shoeless and who could have their feet on his furniture. He had to like you for the first, and love you for the second. Tony asks, "Can I take my shoes off?"
Spot thinks about it, and then replies, "I guess so."
By now, Tony has finished his scrambled egg sandwich. He sips his orange juice and watches Spot eat. Suddenly he wants very badly to be with Spot again, in bed or in a relationship. He would take either; he just wants so badly to be with Spot. Tony sets down his glass of orange juice, half finished, on the floor next to the futon. It seems very warm in the apartment—he wishes he could take off his shirt. "Is it just me or is it really warm in here?" Tony asks, partly as small talk, partly hoping for permission to remove clothing. Permission he knows he won't get.
"I'm fine," Spot says with a shrug. He chugs his orange juice. Now it's quiet. The two sit in silence, trying to watch each other without letting the other notice. Spot's jaw twitches, which turns Tony on. He shifts position to hide his tightening jeans from Spot.
The tension in the air makes Tony nervous, and it keeps growing. Tony wants to say something, anything, but he's afraid that his voice will crack if he tries to speak. Luckily, Spot reaches up to rub his neck and says, "The bathroom's through that door into my room, then through the other door. Y'know... if you wanna take care of that." He nods at Tony's crotch, slightly embarrassed, but more so distracted.
"Oh..." Tony's voice cracks. Dammit! "Uh... no thanks." He blushes, fully aware that he sounds like a retard.
Spot shrugs and turns on the TV. "I heard your mom died last year—I'm sorry."
Tony can't help but laugh. He says, "No, you're not! You hated my mom!"
"Hey, I just don't think she should've forced Catholicism on you, okay? I have nothing against the woman herself."
"That's who the woman herself WAS."
Spot thinks Tony's probably right. Still, he says, "Well, I'm still sorry for your loss." The words sound awkward on his tongue, like he's never said them before. They remind Tony of the first time Spot said 'I love you' to him.
"You're so cute when you're awkward," Tony says before he realises what he's doing. Shit. Spot looks like a deer in headlights. "I mean... No, I don't mean—oh, fuck it." Tony's words are flustered. "I don't mean it like that. Well, I do, but—no, I don't..." Finally, Tony lets his words peter out and shrugs.
It's clear that Spot has no idea how to react. He runs a hand through his hair and sits back.
Tony feels like he should apologise, but he didn't do anything wrong. So instead he gets up on his knees, leans over, and kisses Spot on the lips. It's a light kiss, but as he slips his hands behind Spot's head, he can feel all the tension between them dissipate. He sits back on his heels and says, "Is that okay?"
"It felt okay to me."
Laughing, Tony kisses Spot again. It feels a lot better than any of the other kisses he's had in the past six years. He straddles Spot—it feels good—amazing, even—to be kissing Spot again. He can't get enough. A quiet moan builds in his throat. He lets it go and curves his body into Spot's... who reacts by pushing him off.
"What's wrong?" asks Tony.
Spot avoids Tony's eyes as he says, "Your feet are on the furniture again."
"I see—you said you were okay with me... kissing you."
"This isn't about the kiss; it's about your feet!"
"Okay, okay," Tony says, carefully setting his feet back on the floor. "If I keep my feet off the furniture, can I kiss you?"
Spot gets up. "I think that would be a bad idea. Go jerk off while I wash these dishes."
Annoyed, Tony follows suit. "Why do you want me to stay around at all, then? You won't kiss me and we have nothing to talk about!"
"I never wanted you to leave in the first place!" Spot snaps.
"Then why can't I kiss you?!" Tony is getting angry. Most of the time Spot's like a stone—or, he was six years ago—and now he's admitting all sorts of things that contradict themselves.
"I... it just wouldn't be a good idea." Spot's walking away now. Just as Tony opens his mouth to ask why, Spot turns around and yells, "Because you'd just kiss me and leave me, and I can't take that!"
Tony asks earnestly, "Well do you want to be my boyfriend again? Cos I don't have a better alternative."
With a bitter laugh, Spot replies, "After six years, you just immediately expect me to take you back? It's not like I've been sitting here waiting for you. I've moved on, I've changed... but if you're willing to start all over again, at the first date, I'll give you a try."
In response, Tony stands up and asks formally, "Well then, would you accompany me to dinner tomorrow night?"
"Sure."
Tony gives Spot a charming grin. "Pick you up at seven?"
"If you get me home by eleven."