Two days later, Kyle is in line for security at O'Hare, breathing into an inhaler. Spencer is watching him like he's waiting for him to call the whole thing off, get the tickets to Hawaii changed to London and curl up at his mother's feet with an IV of anti-anxiety drugs plugged into his arm. Right now, facing the noise of the crowd and the prospect of takeoff – and, worse, of landing – that actually sounds wonderful. Kyle wants morphine. He wants someone to take a hammer to his head, wants to wake up when this is all over.
"It's not too late for you to change your mind," Spencer says as they approach the security station, people ahead of them taking off their shoes.
"No," Kyle says, pulling the inhaler from his lips. "I'm fine. I just need to get on the plane. And then the plane needs to take off. And then it needs to land without crashing. Then I'll be fine."
"I don't understand why you wouldn't let me give you a Valium," Spencer says.
"Because I'm tired of missing my life, being doped up all the time!" He's actually really wishing he had taken that Valium and maybe washed it down with a fifth of bourbon. "This is a trip for a normal person. I'm going to behave like a normal person the whole time."
"Kyle, for God's sake," Spencer says, muttering. He slides off his loafers and places them in a security tray. "Lots of normal people are afraid of flying."
"Yeah, and they deal with it instead of drugging themselves into unconsciousness."
It's not the flight itself that's making him panic. He's been a nonfunctional mess for the past two days, and he's been able to blame his stress on the upcoming trip, but it's not the trip that's rattled him. He can't stop thinking about Stan, alone in that little apartment, drinking his Coors Light in front of the TV. He can't stop wanting to be there with him. Stan is probably crazy, too, but Kyle wouldn't mind joining him in his insanity if it meant he got to hide in that apartment all day, tidying and cooking, waiting for Stan to get home from work. He wouldn't even need sex, if Stan really is straight. The cuddling alone would sustain him, and Stan seemed more than willing to offer it generously.
"Take your shoes off, Kyle," Spencer says. This shouldn't make Kyle want to hit him in the face, but it does, kind of like everything Spencer has said for the past two days.
"Don't talk to me like I'm a child," Kyle says.
"I'm not. Hurry, we're holding up the line."
Kyle pulls his sneakers off, wincing at the thought of his socks touching this filthy floor. He stands on his tip-toes, self conscious about the smell of his feet.
"You know, this trip was your idea," Spencer says as they walk toward the scanners, Kyle sweating and feeling like he'll be caught for something, though he's got no evil plans.
"Yeah, and?"
"And you're acting like I'm personally escorting you to a death camp."
"Don't joke about that!"
"It's not a joke, that's just how you're acting."
"It's just – flying, whatever. Go!" Kyle pushes Spencer toward the scanner. "Now you're the one holding up the line."
Spencer sighs and walks through the scanning device. Kyle braces himself before he does the same. They can see through your clothes now, and he hates nothing more than the thought of being naked in public. He walks through as quickly as he can without looking guilty. There are no alarms sounding as he heads toward the other end of the conveyor belt that will spit out his shoes, but his heart is racing anyway, every muscle in his body braced for attack. He keeps feeling like he forgot to pack something that he'll die without on the island, and he keeps deciding that it's Stan. That nurse, as Spencer calls him. Kyle stopped Spencer from calling the nursing board – if there even is such a thing – to try to get Stan in trouble. Spencer was adamant, but Kyle begged. There was a blow job involved. He kind of can't believe Stan hasn't called him.
"Well, that's one hurdle down," Spencer says when they're on the other side of the security station. "Are you going to put your shoes back on, or just carry them around?"
"Give me a second!"
They're both annoyed with each other. Spencer claims to believe that Kyle didn't actually let Stan fuck him, but Kyle can see that he's doubtful. It's not like Kyle hasn't lied to him before, but he's never cheated, and he's insulted by Spencer's lack of faith in him, despite the fact that, if Stan had reached into Kyle's pants while they were cuddling, Kyle would have sucked at his neck and begged to be fucked. He has a thing for straight guys. It's self-destructive, and he should have treated his attraction to Stan as the warning sign that it was, but he slept with his face buried in Stan's shirt instead, because that's what Kyle does: destructs.
The terminal is crowded, and the airport lounge makes Kyle want to find a corner, pull his sweater over his head and hide there until paramedics rescue him. He has a book called An Agoraphobic's Guide to Air Travel, a gift from Spencer. It's not especially helpful; the recommended coping techniques include spelling words backward and counting to one thousand.
"Looks like it's going to be a full flight," Spencer says. "Are you sure you don't want to upgrade to first class? Your mother offered to pay for it."
"I don't want her paying for it," Kyle says, though of course she actually pays for everything. Kyle has never held a real job – the mere concept that he could is laughable to everyone who's ever treated him – and he tries to live off his disability payments without needing any additional allowance from his parents, but the payments only reach him through the efforts of his mother, who still claims him as a dependent in the UK. It's the most Kyle can hope for from any relationship: to be claimed as a dependent. Someday, maybe Spencer will have that torch passed to him. The thought makes Kyle's lungs constrict.
"I –" He tries to say, I can't breathe, but can't even do that much. Spencer gets him seated and gives him his inhaler. It doesn't feel like it's working, and Kyle's legs are very suddenly itchy, which is a symptom of what?
"Try to calm down," Spencer says. "Or, here. Take something." He reaches into the pocket of his baggy sweater coat, pill bottles rattling between his fingers. Kyle liked Spencer's hands when they first met; they're like a pianist's. Now he wants other hands on him, the ones that gently rolled up his sleeve for his blood pressure test and wiped the tears from his cheeks after his dream.
"Have you noticed that I haven't had the dream in two days?" Kyle says when he can talk again. Spencer is still sorting through the pill bottles, and he looks up with a frown.
"Two days?" Spencer says. He frowns. "You've gone longer than that. I have extensive notes on this, Kyle – I've documented a two week period. You're just – God, never mind."
"Just what? I'm just what?"
"Fixating on your little adventure!" Spencer says, hissing his words. "Like I knew you would. You haven't had the dream in two days – are you trying to credit the nurse?"
"No," Kyle says. "Fuck you. Why can't you just be happy for me?"
"Because you're dragging me on a trip to Hawaii that you don't want to take?" Spencer says. He actually seems sad for a moment, which Kyle had forgotten was possible. "Because you're fixated on a number of unhealthy symbols? This fucking trip being one of them. The nurse being the other."
"His name was Stan."
"God, why bother talking about him in the past tense? He's omnipresent, after all."
"He is not!" In fact, there's a guy shuffling around near the check-in desk who looks a lot like Stan. It's uncanny, to the point that Kyle wonders if he's hallucinating. He decides that he must be when the man walks over toward them, so Stan-like that he actually is Stan, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket.
"What the hell are you doing here?" Spencer asks, bellowing. Kyle has never seen Spencer so completely unwound, and the Stan who is looking down at them sadly must be the real one, because Spencer is seeing him, too.
"I don't really know," Stan says.
"How did you get past security?" Spencer stands like he's ready for a fight. Kyle still kind of wants to see that happen, but Stan hasn't looked at Spencer yet. His eyes are locked on Kyle's.
"I bought a ticket to Des Moines," Stan says. He digs it out of his coat pocket, and doesn't even flinch when Spencer snatches it out of his hand to examine it. "I've been here since nine in the morning. I wasn't sure what time your flight was leaving."
"It leaves at two thirty," Kyle says, dazed. Spencer makes a sound like he's literally choking on his disbelief.
"Why do you not sound surprised to see him?" Spencer asks. He throws Stan's plane ticket into Kyle's lap, but Kyle doesn't look at it, can't seem to break eye contact with Stan. "Did you two plan this?"
"No," Stan says. "Kyle had nothing to do with this. I'm just being a freak, I'm sorry. I felt like – maybe – you'd be nervous about flying, like, you needed me?" He groans and puts his hands over his face, palms pressing into his eyes. "I'm sorry. I'm out of my mind, I don't even know what I'm doing."
"Stan," Kyle says, softly, and Stan must hear the encouragement in it, because he looks hopeful when he takes his hands away from his face.
"I'm calling the police," Spencer says, digging out his cell phone. "This is stalking. Oh, God, and you have my apartment address on those goddamn forms!"
"Please don't call the police," Stan says. "I'll – I'll leave you alone." He looks at Kyle to make sure this is what he wants, and he must know that it's not what Kyle wants at all, because he's holding his arms out for him even before Kyle's ass leaves his seat.
"Don't leave me alone," Kyle says, grabbing hold of Stan. He squeezes himself to Stan's chest as Stan's arms close around him. "Please, I do need you, I do."
"This is insanity!" Spencer says, shouting now. Everyone in the lounge is staring at the three of them as if they're putting on a play to entertain everyone while they wait for their flight to board.
"Kyle," Stan says, whispering. "I know – I know this is nuts –"
"Doesn't matter, it doesn't matter," Kyle says, his arms tightening around Stan. He smells so good, like the place that Kyle found that night after his dream, where everything was okay in a way it had never been before. In Stan's arms, he feels rescued. It doesn't make sense, but Kyle doesn't need it to.
"Let go of him," Spencer says. "He doesn't know what he's doing. You're – you're taking advantage of a very disturbed person –"
"If that's true, you did the same thing," Kyle says, lifting his face from Stan's shoulder to glower at Spencer. "You think I'm an invalid who can't make decisions for himself? Then I guess every time we fucked you were raping me?"
Stan's arms tighten around him when he says this, and several people in the lounge gasp audibly. Normally this would be Kyle's worst nightmare, the attention of all these strangers focused on him, judgment cast on him like a laser beam, but he doesn't give a fuck as long as he can keep holding on to Stan.
"That's absurd," Spencer says. The color has drained from his face, and his eyes are widening as he begins to accept that he's actually going to lose Kyle to the nurse. Kyle feels sorry for him, even if he is a condescending asshole. Spencer really did want to help him. He just wanted course credit for it, too.
"I know it's absurd," Kyle says. He eases out of Stan's grip and wants to retreat back into it immediately, but just having Stan close by gives him the strength to walk to Spencer and pat his chest. "But you know this is over, too. Me and you. This stupid Hawaii thing – I'm sorry. This is my fault, my failure. You don't have to feel bad about it." Kyle actually feels victorious, finally able to grasp the concept of a breakthrough, but he wants to cushion the blow a little. Spencer doesn't deserve to see Stan carry Kyle away in his much more substantial arms, neither of them looking back.
"Kyle," Spencer says, deflating now. The lounge has gone silent, everyone waiting to see what will happen. "He's – what is this? He's not even gay."
"So? This is not about sex, Spence." Kyle actually wants it to be, at least in part, but maybe that's just his illness. Spencer rolls his eyes and picks up their bags.
"Come on," he says, grabbing Kyle's arm. "We're not having this conversation here. We've got an audience."
"I don't care," Kyle says. He takes Spencer's hand and uncurls his fingers, one at a time, as politely as possible. "And I don't need to have another big conversation about it. I've got no explanation for this, and that doesn't bother me. You and Mom are the ones who always wanted to explain me, make charts and give presentations about every shitty thing I feel. I've stopped caring why, I just want something to make me feel better. Not numb, better. He makes me feel better."
"You're in love with him!" Spencer says, throwing up his hands. "Or infatuated, I should say." Spencer sniffs and points his finger at Stan. "I hope you're okay with that. A fragile gay boy is attaching himself to you. Every straight man's fantasy, right?"
"Quit picking on him," Stan says, walking closer. "And keep your fucking voice down."
"He's not straight," Spencer says to Kyle. He's sweating now, twitching, as if he's going to have some sort of episode himself, for a change of pace. "Or, if he is, he just wants to murder you."
"I've already spent the night with him once," Kyle says, rapidly losing interest in protecting Spencer's feelings. "And he didn't murder me. I didn't want to tell you this, I didn't want you to be jealous, but I had my nightmare and he calmed me down."
"With his dick?"
"No, and not with pills and fucking analysis, either! He held me, okay?" Kyle checks over his shoulder to see that people are still staring, and he drops the volume of his voice. "He held me all night long."
"Kyle." Spencer runs his hands over his face. "You don't like to be touched. Who are you? Who am I talking to right now? Are you having a dissociative break?"
"I'm not having any kind of break! I feel like someone finally put me back together!"
"Really? As someone who's greatest fear is remembering who he is, I'm surprised you're finding that such a comfort."
"Maybe I'm not afraid anymore," Kyle says. His hands twitch at his sides. He is afraid, doesn't want to know what happened to him, but he's no longer afraid to live a lucid life, as long as Stan is always close at hand.
"I don't have to stand here and watch you destroy yourself," Spencer says. He throws Kyle's carry on bag down at his feet. "This is no different than your exploits in college, the ones you regret so much. Maybe getting fucked by a psychotic stranger will make you feel more alive for a little while, but you're going to come crawling home with mascara under your eyes, begging for help."
"I've never worn mascara," Kyle says, scowling. He doesn't want Stan to get the impression that was literal. Stan picks up Kyle's bag and puts it over his shoulder.
"Your mother is going to be devastated!" Spencer shouts. He starts to storm away, hesitates for a moment, then turns back. "I suppose you'll take him to Hawaii now? Ha! I'd love to see that!" He leaves before Kyle can answer, pushing out into the crowd of travelers, stomping in a rather effeminate way. Kyle turns to Stan, almost afraid to know what he thought about all of that. Stan smiles. There's nervousness in it, but nothing unkind.
"Do you want to go to Hawaii?" Kyle asks, hoping he'll say no. Stan shakes his head.
"I've got work tomorrow," he says. "They're already pissed at me for taking today off. But, I, just. Couldn't let you go there, not with him."
"So, um," Kyle says. Stan is still holding his bag. "He's gone."
"Good fucking riddance," Stan says. "That guy's voice was like a knife to the ear. Was that a fake British accent?"
"Sort of. Um, he's American, but he went to school in the UK."
They're quiet for a moment, Stan looking down at Kyle's shoes and Kyle waiting to hear what the plan is, unwilling to make one himself.
"So," Stan says. "You want to get out of here?"
"Yes, but where would we go?"
"Back to Akron," Stan says. He seems wounded by the question. "To my apartment. I mean, unless you want to go someplace else?"
"No." Kyle grins. "That's where I want to go."
They're quiet as they walk back through the airport, past a line for security that has grown tremendous. As they're approaching the luggage carousels, Kyle's hand brushes Stan's, and Stan takes hold of it. Kyle is breathing shallowly, scared. It doesn't feel like his usual terror, the kind of thing that makes him want to hide under a bed. He thinks it might be something akin to the fear that normal people experience when they want something to go well, when they would do anything to stay where they are and are afraid that they might ruin things.
"Are you okay?" Stan asks.
"Yeah," Kyle says. "Just. This is mad, right?"
"Mad, yeah," Stan says, grinning at the expression. "I just couldn't stop thinking about you."
"What's going to happen now?" Kyle asks as they walk through the airport's sliding glass doors, past people waiting for taxis. "When we get back to the apartment?"
"You want to talk about the future?" Stan says. He sounds encouraged. Kyle wilts, squeezing Stan's hand more tightly.
"On second thought, no," he says. "Let's just play it by ear."
"Sounds good to me."
"One thing, though, Stan."
"Yeah?"
"You're holding my hand."
Stan looks down at their entwined fingers, frowning. "I thought you liked it?"
"I do, God, but do you? I mean, it's pretty gay."
"Oh." Stan flushes, but he's still holding Kyle's hand as they wind through the cars in the parking lot, slushy snow soaking Kyle's sneakers. "Well, um. About that."
"Yes?" Kyle is pulled up onto his tiptoes by hope as Stan unlocks the passenger side door. Stan clears his throat uncomfortably and opens the door for him.
"This is kind of a long and convoluted story," Stan says.
"Well, we've got a long car trip ahead of us," Kyle says. He never thought he'd be thrilled by the prospect; travel by car sometimes makes him more anxious than flying, just for the lack of available bathrooms. He's cozy as soon as he settles down into the passenger seat in Stan's car, smiling up at him, waiting to hear this convoluted explanation for his willingness to hold Kyle's hand.
"Buckle up," Stan says. Kyle does, then looks up at Stan again. Stan smiles, and leans down like he's thinking about kissing Kyle on the forehead. "I'll tell you," Stan says. "But it's embarrassing."
"As someone who's sobbed while you held him, I think I can relate," Kyle says.
"Fair enough," Stan says. He closes the door and walks around to the passenger side. Being inside the car while Stan is outside of it gives Kyle a stab of panic, like they've returned to two separate worlds, but Stan is quickly beside him, buckling himself in. When he turns on the car, more show tunes blare from the speakers. Stan curses and hurries to turn it off.
"You can play your music if you want," Kyle says. "I'm not a snob." He is, actually, but for Stan he'd listen to Toby Keith at full blast and be charmed.
"That music's not really conducive to conversation," Stan says, laughing self-consciously.
"So," Kyle says as they pull out of the lot. Stan is obviously a confident driver, speeding through the parking lot and taking turns fast. If it were Spencer, Kyle would be hysterical, asking him if he was crazy, but Stan is so calm, the wheel sliding easily under his palms. "You were going to tell me something?" Kyle says.
"Yeah," Stan says, slowly. "It's more of a question, really."
"Okay."
"Um." Stan shifts in his seat, flushing. "Okay, well. You're gay."
"I am."
"So, and maybe you don't know, but. Do some straight guys, like. Watch gay porn?"
Kyle laughs, then feels badly. Stan seems stressed, both hands tight on the wheel now.
"Well, I guess they might be curious about it," Kyle says. "Though personally I was never curious about lesbian porn. But it might take some guys longer, um. To figure out what they want."
"What if they pretty much only watch gay porn and always have?" Stan asks. He looks over at Kyle, obviously distressed by this confession. Kyle touches Stan's leg, then realizes that might not be the wisest thing to do while talking someone through their anxiety about their sexuality. He takes his hand away, but Stan pulls it back.
"I like that, too," Stan says, his voice tight. "When you, like. Touch me. Shit."
"Stan, you know –" Kyle has never been in this situation before, though he has been fucked by guys who still called themselves straight afterward. "This might sound redundant or something, coming from me, but – it's okay if you're gay, dude." He's been working dude into his vocabulary without even meaning to. Spencer gave him a look of hellfire for it just this morning.
"I know it's okay to be gay," Stan says, groaning when he hears himself. "Or, sort of. The group home I grew up in, um. It was run by this Catholic organization, and, like. I knew a lot of nuns and priests."
"Oh?" If there's anything that gets Kyle's self-destructive libido going more than nominally straight guys, it's the ones who have this particular reasoning behind their denial.
"When I was a kid, I said at confession that I wanted to sleep in the same bed with another boy," Stan says, mumbling, his face growing red. "And the priest said I would never have a family if I gave in to those urges. And I really wanted a fucking family. I mean, I still do."
"Gay people can have families."
"I know," Stan says, but he doesn't really sound convinced.
"The boy you wanted to sleep in the bed with - it was someone from the orphanage?"
"No, um. He wasn't real. He was just this idea I had. Like, I would wake up and think that there should be another boy in bed with me. Not for sex or anything, just, like - I don't know. I just wanted him there. Close."
"I remember that feeling," Kyle says. Stan looks over at him, frowning.
"You do?"
"Yeah, I thought every kid had that. My therapist told me it was an abstract desire for intimacy combined with burgeoning sexual desire. And that I was probably gay."
"Oh. And you were just – okay with that? The gay part?"
"Well, I already knew. You know that reoccurring dream I have? It's basically about drowning in a frozen lake. Every time I have the dream, I think I have to walk across the lake to get to something on the other side, to this person who will save me and take me home – to my real home. In the dream, and afterward, too, I'm always sure it's a guy waiting for me. Of course, it's not actual certainty, I just want it to be a guy. That's how I knew – when I was a kid, I wanted it to be another boy. And I wanted him to be there when I woke up, in bed with me, real."
Stan is blushing, and Kyle wonders if he should shut up. He's accustomed to everyone around him wanting to hear anecdotes about his analysis, and he wants to tell Stan everything, but he's going to have to stagger it or risk scaring the shit out of him.
"Anyway," Kyle says. He adjusts the heat, starting to shiver, his sneakers still soggy. "You're still Catholic?"
"Yeah," Stan says. "But I hardly ever go to church unless I'm really depressed, and I don't agree with the church about everything. I just, I grew up believing that even if I never found out who I was, and even if no one else could ever tell me, God knows who I am. He was there with me before and He's there now." Stan clears his throat, dropping one hand from the steering wheel and drumming his fingers against his thigh. "So, uh. Did your parents raise you with religion?"
"Oh." Kyle scoffs wetly. "Them? No. They're atheists. I wanted to convert to Judaism when I was thirteen, because I'm circumcised, and I thought that meant something, you know, about my past, but they said like ninety percent of the boys in America are circumcised and accused me of just wanting them to throw me a big party."
"A big party?"
"A bar mitzvah. I don't know, I still think about it sometimes. Is that true about guys in America being, um? I mean, I researched it and it seems to be true –"
"I'm not," Stan says. "Um, not circumcised." He blushes harder.
"Ah – okay." Kyle swallows, his hands shaking. Sex has always seemed like either a chore or a cliff dive before now. He's never wanted it like this, and he's pretty sure he's not going to get it. It's the reason the straight-Catholic thing is hot: guys like Stan are unattainable, any efforts on Kyle's behalf doomed to failure. "Thanks for, um. Telling me."
"Is Spencer gonna be okay?" Stan asks, apparently ready to change the subject.
"Spencer is just humiliated," Kyle says. "I feel kinda bad. But I always had to tell myself he was good for me. I think it made me resent him. That, and the fact that he openly referred to me as an invalid boy."
"How'd you meet him, anyway?" Stan says, and his distasteful expression makes Kyle laugh.
"What, you can't guess?"
"Um. At an art gallery?"
Kyle laughs harder. "No, my mother sent him to check up on me after I moved to America. He was her student when he was in the UK for college. Oh, God, my mother." Kyle squirms in his seat, adjusting his safety belt. "She'll send people after me, the way they do with people who need rescuing from cults."
"More guys like Spencer?" Stan scoffs. "I could take 'em."
"She might actually go for a different tack this time around. Armed thugs or something."
"You have amnesty," Stan says. "Or something. Right? As someone who was originally an American citizen? Probably, anyway? The British can't recapture you."
"Oh, God, what am I doing?" Kyle asks, pushing his hands into his hair. "This is so mad. But I don't feel afraid. That in itself is a fucking miracle. Or a sign of deeper psychosis than ever before."
"You don't seem psychotic to me," Stan says with a shrug.
"Thanks."
"A little neurotic, maybe."
"The only exception I can take to that is the fact that you quantified it with 'a little.' I'm extremely neurotic. I've accepted that about myself. Are you – ready to accept that? I mean, what are we doing, Stan? Am I going to live with you?"
"Well, yeah," Stan says, frowning. "I mean, for awhile. For as long as you want."
"Yes, but – Stan!"
"What? I know, dude, but it feels right. It felt right, when you were there with me that night."
"It did," Kyle says. He reaches over to touch Stan's thigh, and Stan puts his hand over Kyle's. "So, do you still go to confession?" He feels guilty for fetishizing this, but he is genuinely curious, too. He wants to know everything about Stan, to exchange the diaries they kept in childhood, though he would bet Stan wasn't forced to keep a diary.
"If I go to church, I usually confess," Stan says. "But I hardly ever go."
"Could I go with you? Just as a guest? I was never allowed to go to any sort of religious ceremony. My mother said that sort of fear mongering was the last thing I needed."
"Yeah, you could come," Stan says, brightening. He laughs. "The last time I went to church I talked about watching gay porn in confession. Now I'll be, uh." He shifts in his seat, blushing. "With you. They'll probably think, you know. That we're. That you're with me."
"Will that be okay? I don't want to make you uncomfortable."
"Nah, it'll be good. The last priest I confessed to actually seemed pretty sympathetic. I think he might be gay, this one guy."
"Is he hot?" Kyle asks, jealously. Stan laughs.
"No way, dude. He's like fifty."
Kyle withholds a remark about having been fucked by men older than fifty. That's a conversation he can save for later.
"He probably wanted to bone you," Kyle says. "That priest." He shakes his head after he's said this, winces. "No – sorry. I've been around iconoclasts my whole life – well, for the part I can remember. I don't mean to be disrespectful, but I think I am, by default."
"It's okay," Stan says. "I've got a sense of humor about it and everything. I know priests still have, like, temptation."
"Did you have any bad experiences?" Kyle asks. "Um, with that? As a kid?"
"No," Stan says, laughing. "Unless that's the thing I can't remember. But I didn't have any, like. Signs, of that. When they found me."
"Me either," Kyle says. "But when I was a teenager, that was my worst fear, that someday I'd remember that I was somebody's sex slave."
"I used to be afraid about that, too," Stan says. "I think that's why I, um. Was pretty repressed. Sex-wise."
"That's funny, because I think that's the reason I lost my virginity at thirteen."
"Jesus, Kyle!"
"Yeah, it was bad. I mean, I was high, I don't remember it, and he was thirteen, too, if that helps? But I wanted to, like, ruin myself on my own terms, since I assumed that I'd been ruined by someone else in the years I can't remember. Then, hey, punchline: I would chicken out at the last second and get blasted enough to not remember the ruining I decided to do, either."
"Where were your parents?" Stan asks, squeezing Kyle's hand. He looks so broken up that Kyle wishes he'd saved that story for later, too.
"When I was losing my virginity? Upstairs, at a party. This boy was the son of a therapist, too, and fucked up almost on the level of me, without the glamorous backstory. He was pretty sweet, actually, and this wouldn't even be some big regret if our parents hadn't found out and essentially ended our friendship for us."
Stan's face is bright red, and Kyle needs to change the subject. He looks out the window at the other passing cars, wondering about the problems of the passengers, the drivers, things that no one who took one look at them could know. He's tired of seeing people this way, as collection of secret troubles, all in need of saving.
"So, when that priest told you what he told you, about not being able to have a family," Kyle says when Stan has been quiet for awhile. "Was that after a confession?"
"Um, yeah." Stan swallows heavily, and Kyle is surprised to hear what sounds like the beginning of tears in his voice. Panic jump-starts his heart. Maybe Stan is regretting everything now that he knows what Kyle is: slut, slag, crazy ginger fag. They used to chant it at him in school.
"Are you okay?" Kyle asks, afraid to look at him.
"Yeah," Stan says. He sniffles again, and Kyle thinks of the partially used tissues in the pockets of his sweater, wondering if he should offer one. "And I want you to tell me everything, I just. I hate hearing about how lonely you were."
Kyle has never heard his soulless experiments with sex described as a symptom of his loneliness before. He was most often accused of wanting attention, practicing self-harm or just spoiled recklessness, and he'd come to accept those as the reasons for his behavior himself.
"You were lonely, too," Kyle says. His voice is tight, but he finds that he doesn't care. He could cry in front of Stan. He has before, that night when he had the dream, and he feels like he's done so before that, too, though he can't remember when or why.
"I tried to have a good attitude about it," Stan says. "I thought, 'someday, someone will come along.' I wanted them to recognize me. I didn't want to have to win them over or convince them I was good, I wanted them to know. The way you know."
"You don't actually think we might have known each other?" Kyle has been afraid to consider the possibility, if it could even be called that. He doesn't want to associate any part of the mystery of his past trauma with Stan, who is the first person who's ever made Kyle feel like he can leave whatever happened to him behind forever. Stan shakes his head.
"I don't think so," he says. "I wanted it to be literal, maybe, but this is different."
"Yeah? So why do I feel like I know you?"
"Because –" Stan stops himself, groans. "Never mind. I've been listening to too many musicals."
"No, tell me!"
"Because we belong together," Stan says. He gives Kyle a nervous glance. "Sorry. I know that's dumb."
"Yeah, it's so dumb that I'm driving back to Akron to live with you after knowing of your existence for three days," Kyle says. He wants to kiss Stan's cheek, which looks so hot, bright red. "I don't think I've ever met a real romantic. Do you get it from the musicals?"
"I don't know, maybe. The nuns liked them. They gave me cassette tapes, and, uh. I sort of didn't know that other music existed until I was, like. Fifteen."
"What's your favorite?" Kyle asks.
"Oh, God." Stan winces. "You'll laugh."
"I will not!"
"Well, this is really predictable, I guess," Stan says. "It's Annie. As in little orphan." He sneaks a look at Kyle to see if he's laughing. Maybe he should be; Spencer would say this was so trite. It's the kind of thing they would hear stories about at a party – my ex who loved little orphan Annie. They would laugh, wine sloshing over the sides of their glasses.
"That's really sweet," Kyle says, because he can't say, I'm so in love with you, even if it's obvious.
"What's yours?" Stan asks.
"Equally predictable," Kyle says. He raises his eyebrows. "Les Miserables."
They both laugh, and Stan lets Kyle turn the stereo on, a love song from Phantom of the Opera bursting from the speakers. Stan turns the volume down, and they talk over the entire musical, which turns out to be perfectly conducive to conversation. Kyle tells Stan about his friend Christophe, who was the only kid Kyle ever met who knew all the lyrics to every song in Les Mis.
"He's the weirdest guy I know, but he's so great," Kyle says. "He came to my dad for treatment before I was officially adopted, and we would be there at the institute together, staring into space and talking about the meaninglessness of life while the other kids played with Legos. Well, he talked about the meaninglessness of life. I mostly just cried."
"Did you ever, like – date him?" Stan asks.
"No," Kyle says, laughing hard at the idea. "I don't think he's gay. He says that everybody is a little gay, but he never dates anybody. He's pretty intense."
"And he's the one who told you to come see me?"
"Yeah," Kyle says. "I got this cryptic message from him a couple of months back. He's still in the UK, so we don't talk that often anymore. He texted me with Dr. Harper's name and address and told me that I had to drop everything and go see this guy. He said it was apocalyptically important, but he says that about everything, so I ignored it at first. He kept insisting, and I was getting so bad as that trip to Hawaii got closer, I figured I might as well give a new doctor a shot."
"Have you told him how successful his recommendation was?" Stan asks, grinning.
"No – I want to, but he's not answering his phone. Which isn't that unusual for him, but I really wish he'd return my calls so I could ask him how he heard about you."
"I guess I'm just famous in England."
"Among angry French nationals, anyway."
After three hours of driving, the West Side Story soundtrack playing low on the stereo, Kyle falls asleep. He's never been able to sleep during a car ride, but Stan's car is especially cozy, even the quality of the heat that's blasting from the dash better than any Kyle has ever encountered. When he wakes up the sky has darkened behind the cloud cover, and he pretends to go on sleeping, because Stan is singing "Somewhere" under his breath and it's fucking adorable. Kyle has never met anyone who listens to the soundtracks of musicals unironically. He falls asleep again, and dreams that he's singing on a rooftop, hearing Stan's voice from far away. They're singing to each other, sad about the distance between them but hopeful that they'll cross it someday.
He wakes up again when they've arrived at Stan's apartment, the sky completely dark now. Stan turns off the engine as Kyle slowly blinks awake, a streetlight's orange glow spilling down onto the hood of the car, illuminating some glittery snowflakes.
"We're here," Stan says, softly. He's still holding on to the steering wheel, smiling at Kyle, anxious and sweet. "Did you sleep well?"
"Yeah, wonderfully," Kyle says. "Is that your stomach growling?"
"I'm pretty hungry," Stan says. "We could order a pizza?"
"Sounds perfect. Shall we go up?"
"We shall," Stan says, smirking. Kyle whacks his shoulder, though he appreciates being called on it when he sounds too British. He's American, it's important; he's looking forward to his Coors Light. As they walk up to Stan's apartment it occurs to him that he doesn't have any of his medications in his bag, just his inhaler and his insulin meter. Spencer kept all the hard stuff, doling it out to Kyle the addict in controlled doses. Kyle feels alright so far, but he's glad that Stan is a nurse with access to samples.
Kyle takes a shower while Stan orders the pizza, and he examines each of Stan's products carefully, charmed by his off-brand conditioner: so he's vain enough about his silky hair to use conditioner, but not to pay for anything fancy. Kyle uses it on his curls, and imagines they feel a little softer than usual as he blows them dry. He's almost sad that his carry on bag includes clean clothing, wishing he had an excuse to dress in Stan's clothes again.
The pizza is arriving just as Kyle leaves the bathroom, and Stan's banter with the delivery boy probably means he has this for dinner often. Kyle is jealous, lingering in the kitchen and drinking from an open can of Coors Light. He wonders if any of the gay porn Stan is so fond of includes random fucks with delivery people.
"Here you go," Stan says, closing the door on the pizza servant and bringing the pizza into the tiny kitchen. "Half cheese, half meat lover's."
Kyle could make a joke about what being a meat lover might mean about one's sexuality, but Stan is probably not the audience for that. He smiles and accepts a plate with two slices of cheese.
"Thanks," Kyle says. "Sorry I'm so boring."
"Only when it comes to pizza toppings," Stan says. "You make up for it in other areas."
"That's true."
They eat their pizza in front of the television, ignoring it favor of talking about their favorite foods. Stan's is this: meat lover's from Pizza Hut washed down with Coors Light. Kyle's is a sandwich with a proper baguette for a bun, melted brie cheese, smoked turkey and walnuts.
"Walnuts on a sandwich?" Stan says, wincing.
"It's the best place for walnuts!"
Kyle surprises himself by eating four pieces of greasy pizza, its flavor enhanced by the cheap beer. He's stuffed and sleepy again, his eyelids starting to droop as Stan scrolls through web pages on his phone, searching for a French bakery that might have proper baguettes, Kyle's head close to dropping onto Stan's shoulder. They've both got their socked feet up on the coffee table. It's snowing more heavily outside, and Kyle has never been so happy to be someplace warm.
"Here's one," Stan says. "The West Side Bakery. We could try that tomorrow. They're open until seven. I get off of work at four." He looks over at Kyle, smiling and lowering his shoulder as if to offer it as a pillow. Kyle takes him up on it, snuggling close. Nothing has ever felt this easy, and he's never been this calm. Stan touches Kyle's hair, trying to smooth his curls into order. Kyle closes his tired eyes.
"What will you do here all day?" Stan asks. "You'll be so bored."
"No way, dude. I'll look at porn on your computer if I get bored."
He feels bad for the joke, but Stan is smiling when Kyle looks up at him. He looks amused.
"What?" Kyle says.
"You said dude."
"Oh, yeah. Spencer hated it, so, you know. I started saying it a lot."
As if Spencer has been summoned, Kyle's phone buzzes with a new text message, but it's not from Spencer. It's from his mother. He considers not reading it, but he won't be able to sleep for wondering what she said. Stan is still pressed against him, and they read it together.
Have just spoken with Spence. If this expedition is an attention seeking device of some sort, you've succeeded in getting mine. Darling, you are ill. When you're at your worst, you attach yourself to attractive men who treat you badly. This has precedent, Kyle. You are moving in circles. Please call me when you're again ready to participate in your own treatment. In the meantime, USE CONDOMS, darling. Love, Mum
Kyle is shaking when he finishes reading, haunted by everything he's trying to leave behind. He tosses
his phone onto the coffee table like it's a grenade. Stan slides an arm around his shoulders and tugs him closer.
"I don't think you're ill," Stan says. "And I'm not going to treat you badly."
"I am ill," Kyle says. "You just happen to be the cure."
For a moment he's certain they're going to kiss, because they're quiet, studying each other's faces, sitting so close. Stan's eyelashes are amazingly pretty, the only delicate feature on his boyishly handsome face. Kyle wants to touch them. Before he can, Stan flinches like some part of him just woke up. He stands from the couch to collect the dirty plates.
"Do you have a toothbrush?" Stan asks. "Or do you need to use mine again?"
"I have one in my bag," Kyle says. He wishes he'd lied, wants to use Stan's.
"That's good," Stan says. He's in the kitchen, rinsing plates. Kyle makes himself useful, collecting the half-empty pizza box and bringing it to the fridge. He has to withhold laughter when he sees the fridge's contents: three cans of Coors Light, a nearly empty jug of milk, a jar of pickled jalapeños, a single potato, and a fancy jar of strawberry preserves that looks unopened.
"Carol gave that to me for Christmas," Stan says when Kyle examines the preserves.
"Who's Carol?" Kyle asks, nearly dropping the jar, panicked.
"This middle-aged lady who works with me," he says. "Another nurse."
"Why haven't you eaten her jam?" Kyle asks. He puts it back and shuts the fridge.
"I don't know what I'd put it on," Stan says. "I don't have a toaster."
"Your kitchen is a bit ill-equipped," Kyle says, looking around. "I could see to that. I've got some money, you know. I could help with the rent. My parents are quite wealthy."
"That doesn't bother you? Taking money from them?"
"Of course it bothers me," Kyle says. "But what am I supposed to do? Work?" He smiles, and Stan looks relieved when he realizes he's joking. Mostly joking.
"I bet I could help you get a job," Stan says. "Hey, maybe we could ask at that bakery tomorrow. They might be hiring for the holidays."
"Oh, the holidays," Kyle says, not yet wanting to have a meltdown over the prospect of part-time employment in food service. "I'd forgotten about those."
"I love Christmas," Stan says. "I get a tree and everything." He smiles and looks down at the dish rag in his hands. "It'll be nice to have someone else here. This year."
Kyle walks to him, and steps closer when Stan looks up at him with cautious curiosity. Stan doesn't flinch when Kyle touches his hands, the dish rag still crumpled between them. They both look down at it for a moment, listening to each other's breathing. Kyle looks up first, and Stan is slow to meet his eyes, blushing when he does.
"You never have to be alone again," Kyle says. "I'll stay as long as you want me to."
Kyle leans up to kiss him, startled by how good it feels, their chapped lips pressing together chastely. Stan makes a soft noise that isn't quite surprise, and Kyle pulls back, still on his tip-toes.
"Sorry," he says, though he's not, just terrified.
"No," Stan says. He's worrying the dish towel between his hands, staring down at it. "I – that was – don't be sorry." His face is on fire. "Kyle?"
"Yes?" Kyle surges up higher onto his toes, stopping short of another kiss. He wants to really taste Stan's lips, to lick them apart and push his tongue through them, which is weird, because he's usually bored by kissing, tongues, the whole ordeal.
"Do – do you want to sleep in my bed with me?" Stan looks like he'll cry if Kyle says no, or maybe he's going to burst into tears anyway. Kyle sinks back down onto his heels, his hands still cupped around Stan's.
"I'd fucking love that," Kyle says, sorry for the curse, because there's something so painfully innocent about this. Stan nods and leans down to kiss him again, but it's quick, a peck on his cheek.
"Kay," Stan says. "I'm gonna brush my teeth."
Stan's bed is unmade, the only light in his bedroom coming from the bathroom, where Stan is brushing at the sink. Kyle is already dressed for bed, in sweatpants and a t-shirt. He climbs under the mussed blankets, the smell of Stan's sheets ripping through him like an injection of ecstasy, making him shiver, goosebumps rising. He normally can't stand to get into bed without brushing his teeth, but he'll do it in the morning. He wants to be here waiting when Stan comes to bed.
The water turns off, then the light. Stan walks into the dark room, and Kyle can't see much, his eyes still adjusting, but he hears Stan unzipping his jeans, stepping out of them, dropping them to the floor. Under the blankets, Kyle is half-hard, not sure what to expect. Stan could push his legs over his head without a word and have him, but Kyle isn't not sure that's what he wants, at least not right away. He stays still, on his back, watching Stan climb under the blankets. When his boxer shorts are hidden under the comforter, Stan pulls his t-shirt off and throws it on the floor. He looks over at Kyle, still sitting up, and though Kyle can't see it in the dark, he knows Stan is blushing, that his cheeks are sticky with heat.
"Are you warm enough?" Stan asks.
"Not yet," Kyle says, not sure if Stan will take this cue, or if he'll even want to. Whatever he wants, part of it includes having Kyle in his bed. Kyle beams when Stan moves toward him, pulling him close under the blankets.
"Better?" Stan says when Kyle is pressed against his chest, wrapped up in his arms.
"Yes, thank you."
"Good." Stan rubs his fingers through Kyle's hair, unrolling a few curls. Kyle's cock is pretty obvious, hard against Stan's thigh, but he's content to lie like this for awhile, or a few years, Stan's heart beating fast under his cheek.
He sleeps, and when he finds himself at the shore of the frozen lake, he starts toward the surface and is pulled back by Stan. He's smiling at Kyle, wearing a blue hat with a red puff ball on top. He's just a little boy, but it's definitely Stan. Kyle jumps into his arms.
"Let's go home," Stan says, and Kyle nods. He's finally fallen asleep on the right side of the lake.