He brought it up once more before the flick was over, near the end, when Steff paused the tape to go take a piss. Like the last gasp of something dying; like the final stage of grief.
While he was gone, Blane's mind was left to wander once more, to stare at the wavering still image of Melanie Griffith in leather pants, shot through with static, her short, bleached, punky hair and off-beat outfit reminding him of Andie. And his own failure.
"I should have been able to make it work," he said, as McKee came out of the ensuite. Vaguely, Blane registered that his hair looked even more lustrous and luxuriant than usual, like he'd run a brush through it.
"That golden-boy complex will eat you alive if you don't deal with it."
There was an irony in hearing those words from Steff, thought Blane in a half-formed way; that it was McKee, not him, who was actually and tangibly golden. "I didn't even try." He confessed it to the wall. "Not really. Not once I realized it would be hard. I could have at least made an effort."
"It's fucking high school, Blane. What, did you think you were gonna marry this chick? The record-store clerk? That she was gonna be the mother of your children or something? You're going to college in a couple of weeks. Tell me, where do you think she's going? I'll tell you: nowhere."
Blane was silent, and McKee resumed the movie. He'd paused it right after the climax of the action, on the downside of a cliffhanger, where the hero was hyperventilating, stuck in a literal grave while a hapless Melanie Griffith was menaced by the murderer.
"It would suck to be claustrophobic," said Blane.
"The only good thing about hangups is getting over them," said Steff, and maybe his habitually arid tone was even a little more pointed than usual, more specific and less universal, but Blane couldn't be sure.
That would be just like Steff, he thought, if it was.
The climactic scene ended on a fade-out, and the movie cut away to a new scene. A flapping bat; a campy horror set. "Back to this, huh. I still don't get this whole Billy Idol-Adam Ant vampire thing," said Blane, "but whatever."
"It's very New Wave," drawled Steff. "Somehow I thought you liked that."
Blane rolled his eyes along with the credits, as they started to play over the final scene. It was light-hearted and humorous, more so than the rest of the movie, though it retained the gratuitous nudity, and the voyeuristic theme. Bare, tanned breasts filled the screen, dead middle, inescapable; the actor's hands squeezing and caressing them everywhere. Blane was suddenly very aware of McKee's presence in the dark alongside him, viewing these images, watching and responding.
"Those are nice," said Blane, when the silence had gone on too long. As if the close-ups and kneading hadn't been enough, now blood streamed down them, as the credits resumed rolling and the camera lingered lovingly.
"Fake as the blood," said Steff, unmoved, laconic. "But it's decent work." The film cut to black, and the rest of the credits. "Gotta love a happy ending."
"That's how you know it's fiction," muttered Blane. His gin buck was long done for, and he frowned when he realized it for the third time.
"You sound bitter, friend." Steff's voice carried a small, rare edge. "You really ought to let this go, for your own good."
"Guess I'm just an angry young man, like you said. All my Catcher in the Rye bullshit, right Steff?"
"Impotent-but-angry, I said. That's an important distinction. You're an angsty young man, McDonough. Real anger takes commitment. It takes conviction, and you just don't have it. Listen, if you're so into nonfiction, maybe you should channel all that listless ennui into a slim, thinly-veiled memoir that future Blane clones can easily carry, cover-side out, and thumb through in coffee shops to impress endless future Andies."
"Yeah, maybe you're onto something there, McKee. Maybe I should start keeping a fucking journal," said Blane. "Seeing as I have shitty friends."
"Oh, right. Well, when you do write your memoirs, make sure it's in present tense. It makes the least profound of prose seem edgy and immediate."
"Oh, thanks for the tip."
"Use a lot of run-on sentences, too. That way people speed through and don't read too close."
"Yeah? Since when do you read, anyway?"
Steff shot him a baleful glance. "Since always, Blane."
He hit the button to stop the tape, and then hit rewind. The machine obeyed. It sent up a quiet white hiss as it worked.
With the movie over, the original invitation was technically complete. Blane looked down at his hands for a moment, wondering if he was supposed to leave now. Something in him hoped he wasn't. The wide, empty, manicured streets of their upscale neighborhood would be devoid of life at ten PM. They would lead him back to his parents' bland and beautiful house, where he'd be left with nothing but his own thoughts. There was something comforting about the louche, cozy darkness of Steff's vast, excessive bedroom by night.
McKee seemed to be in no rush to get rid of him, at least. Eventually Blane turned to him, about to speak.
"What now?" said Steff. "Another flick?"
Relieved, Blane glanced at the hot blue digital numbers of Steff's sleek bedside phone clock. "It's ten. Night Flight should be on."
Steff shrugged his assent and aimed the remote. They watched Night Flight, causally and mindlessly, the way one did. As usual, they played some good shit, and some weird shit, and some shit that was both. They switched back and forth between that and MTV for a while. At some point the Pheromones' video for "Yuppie Drone" came on and Blaine wasn't impervious to the irony.
"You know what sucks?" he muttered. "I'll never be able to go to that fucking record store again."
"Sure you will," drawled Steff, staring at the screen. "Who gives a fuck?"
"You think I'm gonna show my face there, after she left me for a guy called Duckie? He'll probably be there all the time now. Not like he wasn't before—"
"Enough about your shitty breakup, all right? I'm over it, even if you're not."
"Oh, right. Forgive me for thinking my best friend might give a tenth of a shit about my mangled feelings."
Steff stared. "I've been licking my wounds too, you know."
Blane found himself wordless. McKee's gaze had gone from indolent to piercing in an instant, a sharp, stark confession betraying some inner wound.
"Outrage is an opiate, friend," remarked Steff, turning away, lapsing back into languor. "Don't pick up a habit."
They fell into silence for a long time. Blane was consumed by his thoughts, and a creeping, gnawing guilt over the growing realization that maybe McKee hadn't been exaggerating his declaration of prior affection. And here he'd been making Steff the sounding board to his agony over Andie, his symphony of misery and self-pity. It was at the least tone-deaf and oblivious, if not outright sadistic.
"Are your parents out of town?" asked Blane after a while.
Steff murmured a languid assent. "Roger and Martine are in New York for a long weekend. Very long."
"Cool." He wasn't sure why he bothered to ask; the answer was usually yes.
Steff's mother was young, European; some sort of exotic import. Blane had never ascertained what kind, but she was beautiful and sultry like Catherine Deneuve, and Steff favored her best attributes, with a some genetic party favors from his father mixed in for masculine good measure.
She was effusive and negligent. She lavished borderline-inappropriate adoration on him when he was in her sight and mind, and gave no thought to him when he wasn't. His father was older, approving, indulgent, and distant—preoccupied with wealth and work and humoring his trophy wife in his spare time.
Steff had to make appearances, give a command performance now and then, but was mostly left to his own devices, which were considerable, given his resources—as were his vices.
Steffen, they'd named him—not Steven, or even Stephen, with a soft ph—like they hadn't wanted anyone to miss the point. It was the traditional Anglo-Saxon upper class pronunciation, and the European as well. But it suited him, Blane thought. He was every bit a Steffen, and even more a Steff.
They'd ended up on some late-night cable horror flick, come in halfway through; some low-budget turkey groaner about kids with black nails who fried people with radioactive hugs. Then it was over, it was midnight, and a recorded voice announced the conclusion of the broadcast day. They played the national anthem over creepy stock footage of jet planes and waving grain. When it went to dead air, Blane turned to McKee, bored with the idea of more Night Flight and music videos, to suggest another movie.
Steff had dozed off, to his surprise; eyes closed, smooth face lit by the flickering screen, hair spilled back against the pillows, his chest slowly rising and falling beneath the night-muted white of his low-buttoned shirt. Struck by the picture he made, Blane gazed at him, taking it all in. The full, satin lips he so often saw moued in contempt lay slack; softly held, scarcely parted. Steff looked almost saint-like in slumber, though Blane knew nothing could be further from the truth.
But seen like this, Steff was disarmed, was very nearly art. Blane felt himself leaning in before he could really think better of it. He closed his eyes and touched his lips to McKee's, finding them warm and supple. What began as a hesitant brush evolved into a lingering press.
When he pulled back, Steff was staring at him in the soft darkness, grey eyes enigmatic as the static on the screen. "You should save that Prince Charming shit for Cinderella."
Feeling strangely bold, Blane touched the hair that swept over Steff's fair brow, easing it aside with his fingers. "She left me for the pumpkin."
"Well, that sounds like a real drag, friend." Steff shifted slightly, like meant to sit up.
Blane chased his grey gaze; caught it and pinned it with his own. "Not really."
"Oh, there it is. The patented winsome McDonough smile: works on trash and treasure alike."
"Which are you?"
"I'm neither, so you can reel in your teen idol act."
"This is what I look like when I smile, McKee. I can't help it."
"I know what you fucking look like. Believe me." He moved again, like he was trying to extricate himself, and Blane was mystified by the way McKee kept avoiding his eyes.
"What's with you, anyway?" Blane smiled wider, lips parting.
"I could ask you the same. What's with the aggressive act? It's very off-brand."
"Likewise, pal." Blane found himself quietly fascinated by Steff's reticence. McKee had always touched him with insolent, affectionate impunity, like Blane's whole body was a natural extension of all his other possessions. He didn't shy from nearness. Not like this.
Blane remembered Steff's casual, close-range adjustment of his bow tie at the Prom—right before he'd batted Steff's hand away, told him off and gone to Andie—the intimacy of the act, and his proximity. Something resonated in his chest and loins at the memory.
On impulse, he reached out and adjusted Steff's collar, slowly, lingering over the deed.
He saw Steff's lips part, as he slowly raised his gaze to Blane's, cool and collected once more. "What's this, then?"
"Just returning a favor from Prom Night, buddy."
"Ah. Prom Night." McKee eyed him for a long moment, and Blane found himself getting warm. "You know, going off with her, Blane, well, I have to tell you, that was a big mistake. I had something planned for you and me."
"Did you." He spoke the words, rapt, quietly disbelieving.
"I had a hotel room lined up and everything. Maybe even some fucking champagne, but don't quote me on that. I ended up using it on Benny, which was always Plan B, but that's not the point. She was the consolation prize." He paused. "You should've stayed stag, friend. I was going to make it up to you, the whole mess, the whole Andie thing. Make it all better. And I was going to start like this."
Steff took hold of his face in both hands, gazing down at Blane's mouth for a few breathless seconds before closing his eyes and closing the distance.
It was like touching a live wire. Blane responded without thought, lips moving against McKee's in a tense and decadent smash. His hands slid down from Steff's collar, clutching, seeking a place to anchor. He felt Steff's tongue penetrate his mouth obscenely, spreading it, full lips easing over his own in a lush, languorous caress. His world spun up and hit the ceiling; metaphorical plaster rained down.
The rush was immediate, and intense. Like a bump of coke—the good stuff, the stuff Steff had on hand: real Peruvian flake. He'd only tried it once or twice, but the memory of that rush stuck with you. This was better.
Blane reeled; he grasped, he clenched. He pressed in, ravenous. When McKee pulled back, he pushed for more, fingers seizing the sides of Steff's open shirt.
"No," Steff said, calmly, abruptly. His hand stayed Blane at the chest, held him at bay with the tips of his fingers. "Unlike Benny, I am not a consolation prize."
"Are you crazy?" Blane stared, bemused, still dazed from the collision, and the chemistry. He leaned in, with a sudden urgency. "That's not what this is."
"Good God, like you even know." Steff sighed, rolling over to reach for his glass, finding it empty.
Blane grabbed him by the shoulder. Steff glanced back, almost languidly. "That's not what this is," Blane said, again, more carefully.
"You made your choice. You made it very clear."
"I didn't know I was making a choice, McKee." Blane shook his head. "I didn't know I had a choice. I didn't know there was a choice."
"I told you, you know," said Steff, pushing his hair out of his eyes with a sharp flick of his wrist. His face wore what Blane thought of as his signature look, haughty and detached, features drawn like Roman shades. "Told you right there in the study."
"No, you didn't. You said 'you won't have a friend'. That's not the same goddamn thing." Blane was flushed and euphoric and agitated, his breath eluding him. Maddeningly just out of reach. Like McKee.
"You never were good at reading between the lines."
"You never were good at being human."
Steff barked out a laugh, abrupt and incredulous. "This, from you. The guy who doesn't know whether he's coming or going. What he likes, what he wants. Nothing. Nada."
Blane felt something else start to rise, alongside his ire; a hard bloom in his chest, heat in his cheeks. "Maybe I'm starting to get an idea."
"Well good for you, really. This is the most spirited I've ever seen you, I'll give you that much."
"Maybe I want more." Blane felt his mouth go dry again, as he forced the words past the sudden lump in his throat. "Maybe I want you."
Steff stared at him. Then he laughed. "Get sober, Blane."
"I'm not drunk. I'm hardly even buzzed."
"You were a fucking mess earlier."
"I was emotional." Blane felt his lips twist. "I'd explain what that's like, but…"
"Ha ha."
"I get it, McKee. You're a rock. You're an island. You don't give a shit about anything, or anyone. So fine. Fuck me like Benny, then. Use me. Show me how little you care."
"I do care," said Steff, after a moment, with a too-placid expression. "And that's the problem."
He rose all at once and went to his low modernist bureau, where he picked up a soft pack of Marlboros, tapped it, and extracted a fresh cigarette with his teeth. At some point the one he'd been humoring between his lips had disappeared. It hadn't been smoked, at least not that Blane recalled.
Blane was stuck by the impulse to follow him, but it made no sense given his ultimate intent, which, he was slowly realizing, was to get McKee back to the bed.
As he shifted, Blane felt something in his pocket, and remembered what it was. He was struck by another notion, and got up, walking across the room to Steff's stereo. It was hi-fi, cutting-edge, sleek, and enormous. It even had a compact disc player, but he bypassed that in favor of the tape deck. He opened the hatch and slid in a cassette, b-side, then pressed play. It was a Maxell blank, with the song titles painstakingly handwritten inside, crammed into the small place provided by the generic interior card. The case insert was carefully decorated with colored marker, in artsy, hand-drawn block letters.
He'd either remembered to rewind, or he'd listened to he a-side last, because it started right at the beginning. After a few seconds came the dreamy opening synth chords of Book of Love's "Modigliani (Lost in Your Eyes)".
"And what the fuck is this?" asked Steff idly, crossing back to the bed, sitting at the end of it.
"Songs to make out to," Blane said, irreverently. "Andie made it."
"Oh." Steff paused. Then he laughed. "That's a little dark for you, isn't it, McDonough?"
"Maybe neither of us really know me yet."
"Oh, I know you, Blane. Nobody knows you like me."
"We'll see." Blane stood before Steff and the bed, meeting his eyes deliberately. He shouldered out of his Oxford jacket, letting it fall on the floor. His fingers found his shirt, and started to undo the button just below his collarbone, one-handed. Slowly, he told himself. His throat felt taut, even though the words were unspoken. As slow as you can. Much slower than your heartbeat. Slower than the music. Like you mean it, because you do. "I know I'm always late."
Late to class, late to the prom, late to every average epiphany, late to the realization that Andie wasn't the one, late to the realization that maybe someone always was.
"But I get there, okay? I'm there now." He undid another button, keeping his eyes on McKee's. "I'm here now."
Steff's lips parted; the unlit cigarette clung to the bottom one.
Blane reached out and took it, throwing it aside. It disappeared somewhere in the shadowy periphery. He didn't watch it go. His eyes were fixed on Steff's.
McKee seized him by the front of his shirt, looked him over and dragged him down.