A/N: It's been ages since I updated this one. Over the years I see at least some people perused it. Maybe some of these (or others) would like an update or the continuation of the story – as it's actually finished. So I'll just tack these on as I like….
Warning: Yes, it gets violent and some may feel queasy. And it might get too soppy for others. But if you've read any of it thus far, you shouldn't be surprised, eh?
And I don't own any of these characters or whatever they're affiliated with. Ricky's completely made up, though, so I guess I can say I claim him.
7 - Time Of Your Life
Ted:
When Monday arrives, I'm so hopeless and scattered about the situation with Matty that Ricky catches three of my mistakes before anything can result from them, so I'm apologizing and offering to do this or that for him purely out of gratitude. He assures me I don't need to do anything – we all have our off days, he says – but he's noticed I've been even more out of sorts than usual lately. (How he can tell is beyond me, but I don't feel in the playful mood to question him.) The previous week, save for Monday, had been an absolute nightmare – as if he needs to tell me that.
"So give it up, mate – what's eating at you?"
I try to tell him, but I can't put it so simply as, "I'm in love with someone, which I told myself wouldn't happen to me again, especially not on this trip, and now that I've practically – no, totally – humiliated myself by showing him just how much I want him, I think I've scared him off."
It sounds so easy to put into words – but it isn't. Because it doesn't explain all of it, or how exactly it's been toying with every piece of my functional brain since I've not been able to look at him since that night.
Ricky offers to take me out after work, but I decline – I can't bear to be around anyone right now. Not even nice little Ricky.
I barely make it through the rest of the day. Dash outta there as soon as I can. I need to get my head sorted out. Need to find a way to distract myself.
Unfortunately, being "home," alone, with only my opera and wine to keep me company – as they did all weekend – only makes me feel stir-crazy and frustrated.
Before I know it, I'm breaking the oath I made to myself when I left the bar on Friday night – I'm marching straight across the street and end up in front of Judy's curious face, as she was sure as well that I wouldn't be setting foot in here for a while after four consecutive days of drinking alone.
I try not to look, but my eyes betray me – and my heart sinks with a miserable little grumble of, "I told you so," when I see no one occupying "our" booth.
I consider doing myself a favor by not even sitting in that comfortable seat, therefore not having to spend another lonely night staring across at the empty space that should be holding one with a sweetly shy, secretly mischievous smile. Should just give up hope and resign myself to a solitary stool, as I had the first night I came here.
"Oi," Judy's familiar voice reaches me across regions of time and space. "Surprised to see you. Thought you'd given up."
I raise my attention from the empty booth to see her toweling out a glass and giving me a wondering stare.
"Yeah," I utter, barely audible over the music from the other room. "I tried to... but..."
She shrugs it off, overturning the glass on top of the bar. "Usual, then, love?"
I sigh heavily, then shake my head. "Make it heavier," I request, not even keeping track of my mouth.
She smiles, as if catching my drift before I know what my own brain is thinking.
"Straight JD, then?"
I wince at the thought.
"That'll be it, then," she confirms with a nod, and I make a move towards a stool--
But a moment later, I find myself in the booth, unaware as to how I've arrived there. Judy serves me without questioning about the placement of my ass, though I'm about to ask her how it's ended up here, as if she would know better than my own subconscious tendencies.
But I don't ask, and neither does she each time I gesture for another.
I've got no inkling as to just how strongly this habit's been ingrained into me – nor of the time. But it must not be as late as I think, or as late as the whiskey makes me feel, for when the door to the bar opens – this one amongst numerous instances in the past countless hours – I simply know.
My heart leaps and my insides flutter regardless of the amount of alcohol I've consumed. My eyes closed and my head bowed over the multiple empty glasses (and a half-empty one right under my nose), I don't see the shadow that eases itself hesitantly over the table. But I know.
I let out a long breath and lift my head slightly.
"Funny," I murmur, slurring only faintly. "Figured I'd never see you here of all places again."
There must be a vague smile to his lips, but I can tell it's not the timid, eagerly hopeful one from before. It's not even the sly, crooked one that signals he's about to pull a childish prank. From about two feet away, I can feel that this one is small, sad – regretful.
"Did you? I don't blame you. For not trusting me no more." A brief pause, then, "You can at least tell yourself that you never said it, anyway. It'll save you some much-needed pride."
"I tried to, though," I remind him in a hiss, wincing against the mental anguish of the memory. "Your accusing look kept me from finishing. As if I didn't have a right to."
"So instead, you kissed me." Not said with indignation or attitude – just stating fact. If anything, his tone suggests a hint of pleasant surprise. "So you wouldn't have to face up to it later. A kiss can be excused by hormones, the heat of the moment – but those words... They mean everything when people like you or I say them. And mean them."
I sigh again, and after a moment of internal arguing, I relent and open my bleary eyes, gazing up at his shadowed face.
"But it doesn't matter if I said it or not. I do. And you know damn well I do."
He averts his eyes from mine, the ghost of his smile vanishing, and asks, "Would it trouble you too much if I sit with you?"
Before I can blurt out my heartfelt insistence that I'd love nothing more, I catch myself and only turn my face away, unable to keep my emotions in check if I keep looking at him.
"Do what you like," I respond carelessly.
"What I like?" He gives a short, bitter laugh. "What I'd like wouldn't be legal to do in a place such as this... And besides, you'd probably push me away right now."
Bull, I think morosely – but I don't dare say it. And another small part of myself actually buys his claim, and faints dead away at the idea that he'd want to do that to me.
I hear him shuffle into the seat across from me, and after what seems like an eternity, I let out a shaky breath and give in, turning to look into his captivating eyes, readying myself for the inevitable downfall of my callous, stone walls...
But I stop dead cold when I do – not because of my own hurt feelings, though not because of some overwhelming urge to pounce on him either.
The wind is almost literally knocked out of me when I finally take him in: dangerously exhausted, gaunt face; deep shadows not only under, but serving as hollowed eyes; a ghastly black and blue bruise poorly covered over with some kind of make-up just a shade or two darker than his ghostly white pallor; and a frighteningly ugly, healing gash on the side of his forehead.
I gulp sharply, catching my breath. It doesn't even enter my mind that this could be some ploy of his to gain sympathy in order to lessen my anger over the previous week – the fact is that the person I love is sitting in front of me, obviously injured, and it sends waves of panic through me to see it.
"Wh – What happened?" I ask, completely forgetting myself and my own emotional injuries as I'm shown, quite plainly – as if he'd tried to make it look less serious with the make-up but then abandoned it when he realized it was pointless – his own physical ones.
He blinks slowly, a flush crawling up his neck to his cheeks, unable to return my quizzical gawk for a moment. "It's stupid," he mumbles. "I just--"
An absurd thought comes to me, and I feel myself tremble as I interrupt him, "Did he--"
But I'm cut off abruptly as he sneaks in sharply, "What? I said I'm a klutz, y'wanna take the piss now?"
Maybe it's the alcohol, or maybe it's the paranoia in my own head – for whatever reason, his slicing into my thoughts throws me enough that I almost lose track of what those thoughts are.
Just seeing him, though, resets my brain and I gesture to his face, a hole opening up inside me as I wonder madly at these new, obvious marks on him. "Did he... do that...?"
He shakes his head quickly, swallowing hard. "Forget it, Teddy, like I said, I'm just stupid – but that's not important. I knew you'd freak if you saw it, I tried to figure out a way to cover it, but it wouldn't work – but it doesn't matter. What is important--"
"How did you get hurt?" I ask directly, my mind working slowly from the whiskey, only processing the fact that his wounds look painful.
He hesitates for a moment, then shakes it off quickly. "I'm an idiot, okay, just clumsy. That's not what I want to talk about, though. I came here because--"
"You won't tell me?" I demand, suddenly feeling betrayed all over again. "If you want me to listen to anything you have to say, why don't you start off by telling me how you--"
"Because it's not your problem," he snaps, his voice taking on a tone I've never heard from him before: sharp, agitated, even close to angry. His glare shuts me up as he continues thinly, "It's not yours or anyone else's, it's mine and only mine. I got myself into it, no one else needs to be a part of it. I won't drag anyone else down with my past mistakes, so just let it... the fuck... go."
I pause in my demands, shaken by this side of him I've never seen – even, I hate to admit, intimidated by it. I almost feel like this "kid," surely at least a dozen or so years my junior, could very well make me sit in a corner with a dunce cap on if he said so.
I eye him up cautiously, and at my obviously wary look, he sighs, the stern edge dulling to a rueful air.
"Look..." He cringes and shakes his head. "I hate bein' like that, but if people would just listen to me..."
I blink at him, utterly confounded... I wish I knew what he was trying to say...
He holds his head on a fist, tilted sideways, and confesses in defeat, "You have no reason to believe anything I say, especially now... when I feel too stupid about my unfortunate violent meetings with hard furniture to tell you that I've just banged me head too carelessly in a drunken stupor or somethin'..." He chuckles morbidly at the admission, so ashamed, it seems, over his own "accident-prone" nature that he refuses to look at me, only staring pitifully at the empty glasses between us.
But then he coughs slightly, growing serious again, and goes on, "But I'm telling you, concerning what happened last week... This is the truth: I didn't run out, and I didn't blow you off the following nights on purpose. If I'd had my druthers, I would have come every time after that. I would have probably stayed longer that night as well. Maybe even..." He glances into my watchful eyes, smothering a bashful smirk, and quickly diverts his attention again. "Maybe even all night."
I can't help but feel my stomach twist – in quite a delightful way, as opposed to how the whiskey's been treating it. I sit up a few inches straighter and lean forward a bit, trying to play it off like he's not just made up for the previous awful week with just one hint.
"But I just... couldn't," he continues, and his demeanor suddenly changes again, as it shifted so swiftly from apologetic to defensive and stern, then to embarrassed and onto coy. Now, he seems and sounds downright vulnerable and dejected – he must really be in turmoil, whatever situation he's stuck in, being so unable to find a state of mind that's comfortable. Even with me, whom he's seemed level and stable with whenever we've been around each other for extended periods of time.
"I don't expect you to understand," he says quietly to the table. "Or to give me the benefit of the doubt. You don't even have to forgive me, though I am... so sorry to cause you so much confusion... I never meant to hurt you. But from your side, from your viewpoint, I know you have every right to feel hurt. And I did that. I'm the one who... in your eyes... completely avoided you for that long, after you'd basically poured your feelings out to me - after you'd already told me you didn't want to get into that situation again. Like I'd..."
"Cut out my heart," I finish softly for him.
The look he gives me when I say this, then dare to meet his gaze again, does it to me all over again – the ache in the chest, the regret over seeing those unshed tears in his eyes, like he wishes he could take back every negative aspect of all our times together. Like he would do anything he could to make the pain stop for me.
And seeing that in his face... nearly does me in automatically. But I check myself before I blurt out that he has nothing to apologize for – thereby excusing everything that's repeatedly made me want to give up on this feeling for good.
As much as I long to accept his apology and offer anymore of my own comfort in return for how badly he feels over treating me so thoughtlessly, my own past wounds from older, malformed "relationships" demand attention.
"So... can I ask," I hazard, teetering the line between letting him win completely and coming off like I'm mocking his sincere regret, "what happened there? Are you the one who's confused? Do you... Do you feel trapped in a loveless relationship, but don't have the guts to leave, so you're just keeping me hanging on for the thrill of someone actually being so... obsessed?"
He looks hurt, but his tone isn't angry: "No. Like I said – I don't love him. He knows I don't, but... he won't let go, so, yes... I do feel trapped. But... I'm in a bad situation, Teddy. I've nowhere to go, I can't even get to my own money, and he keeps regular tabs on me... He didn't even want me coming back here, but... I lied to him, plain and simple. I actually lied to him – not just covering up or glossing over the truth, not just failing to inform him... I told him, word for word, that I was going somewhere else instead of this particular pub. I'm sure he doesn't believe me anyway – but I guess he just figures it's bound to happen eventually, so he didn't question it. So as long as he lets me have that bit of freedom, he can still claim that he isn't..."
When he trails off, as if unsure of how to put it, I shake my own head, wondering why he's struggling so much with something this easily recognizable: "Forcing you to stay."
He bites his lip – which, I note absently, also looks a bit raw – and lets his eyes dart around aimlessly as he murmurs, "I suppose... Not quite, but..." He lets the search for his specific wording go and turns back to me. "But no, I'm not... attracted to you just for how you treat me, how you feel about me. It's just that I..."
I let out another sigh of despair, irritated by how he's weaving this web. "Can't leave him," I blurt out, repeating his own words from that night. "It's okay..." I decide, letting the helplessness enter my voice. "I understand. I wouldn't be able to keep you comfortable anyway – since I'm not gonna be here indefinitely."
I don't fail to notice the acute shock on his face – he's startled, as if he'd completely forgotten about this fact.
I can't help it – the genuine panic in his eyes sparks a feeling of triumph inside me, like that's all the proof I need to know he isn't the lying, conniving, manipulative user my hurt feelings had begun to conjure up.
I'm relieved, to be honest – but I can't be so totally open about that yet... I can't let him know that he could very well be fucking me around behind my back and I wouldn't care, so long as he graced me with his presence every night.
"..R-Right," he stammers, reality setting in at my reminder.
Christ... My heart's fucking breaking just seeing that mountain come crumbling down inside him...
"But no... No," he whispers, his fidgeting fingers working overtime now as he tugs mindlessly at the sleeves covering his wrists. "I'm not confused over how I feel about you at all... I just... can't explain it to him..."
I nod once, trying to contain myself. "He's convincing enough to keep you with him."
He shrugs half-heartedly, one hand delving into the shirt sleeve to rub shakily at his wrist. "...So to speak..."
"Yeah," I sigh, shifting in the booth to rest my cheek on a fist. "So he must've kept you busy every night last week. Keep you from coming out... Yeah?"
Furrowing his brow, he lowers his eyes to his covered hands, and when he speaks, his voice is so soft that I have to lean in to hear him.
"...I got... tied up... every night. Most of the day too... just... every day..."
I look at the ceiling, wondering when exactly it had learned to dance like that... "What'd he have you doing?"
A faint shake of the head and shrug from the corner of my eye answers, but he says anyway, "...Nothin'... He just... kept me... there..."
I squeeze my eyes shut, starting to feel a bit too dizzy to pay attention anymore. Only want to look at something that will distract me from the sickness in my stomach - I still can't tell if it's from being drunk or hearing about his lasting commitment to some bastard he doesn't have feelings for anymore...
But then, as I'm about to drunkenly declare that this is pointless, that I'm tired of being so in love with someone who says such pretty things back to me, but can't readily show it, that I may just feel better about his claims if he could just prove it to me, without having to run back and ask John if he's allowed...
I open my eyes to look at the sweet, pretty face – and my stomach lurches. The bruised, tortured countenance looking back at me is twisted in pain, a pain worse than whatever he must've felt when getting that cut. Tears on his cheeks just as they were last week, when he forced himself – forced himself, I recall clearly – to leave my arms, as if struggling against a physical entity binding us together.
And in the face of that undeniably true guilt and pathos, I can't possibly turn a cold shoulder to him. While I still don't understand this unrelenting attachment he has to John, a man who obviously has major control issues and problems with letting go, I know the only thing I can count on is how I feel about Matty: that strong, sensual, inescapable longing just to be near enough to touch him, even if I'm not actually doing so, is what causes the delightful twinges in my chest and fluttering energy in my mind. I feel... alive with him.
And if I only get to feel it a few hours a night, five nights a week, then I'll take it. No matter what else gets dished out with it – overprotective lover and all. I'll abide by his rules, I'll do whatever I have to. As long as I can have this time with him.
Besides... I'm only here a few more months... May as well enjoy it while I can, right?
Letting out the breath of a lifetime, I give into my desire to enjoy what time we do have together, and blurt out, "To be honest, I'm actually... thrilled to see you again. No matter what's already happened or why you can't... get away from him for good. Call it my weakness... I'm just happy you want to spend your free time with me – and it's stupid of me to tell you that, when you could take advantage so easily--"
"I wouldn't," he cuts in, his voice trembling and strained. "Truly, Ted – I would never... Not of you... When I know it's genuine..."
"But I'm telling you, flat-out: you could. And I'd still come here hoping to see you every night. I guess, in a way, it's like how he's got you latched onto him so tightly..."
He cringes, shaking his head. "No... It's quite different..."
I tilt my head to the side, narrowing my eyes at him. "How so?"
"Because it's..." He sniffs and wipes at his unbruised cheek, shrugging. "With you and I... It's mutual. You may feel trapped by how you feel about me – but my own entrapment... is a bit... different..."
I nod at this, agreeing, as he's already admitted that even John is aware that he's not in love with him anymore. But the trap – not being able to control yourself when you're faced with all you want...
"Still..." I attempt to protest.
And then he speaks to me, so pleadingly, openly – the exact words I've been thinking all along about him: "I just want to know you, Teddy. Even if you're too hurt to still let me near... From a distance, then... As long as it's... close enough to feel your presence... Just to know you again is enough for me."
I cover my eyes with a hand, as I immediately feel them well once he's laid it all out for me, as I have for him. Hesitantly, as if fearing an answer I can't bear to face, I ask him, "Do I still... make you feel... beautiful?"
An eternity passes, and I almost gasp when I hear him whisper, "Look at me."
I drop my hand, obeying him dutifully – but once our eyes lock, it's not obedience at all that keeps me gazing into those gorgeous "windows" to his soul; a soul I'm sure I've been meant to know, if the feeling I get when I see it is anything to go by.
He smiles finally – a real, familiar Matty smile, the kind that makes me giddy with excitement, as well as weighed down with an almost lustful need.
"Yes."
I blink back the tears – Brian's voice echoing in my head, "Pussy!!" - but I can't deny my more sensitive side all together, so I reach across the table and gently take one half-covered hand, still slender and pale and just as beautiful as ever, in both of mine. To my surprise, instead of recoiling in hesitancy or fear, he curls his fingers around mine and lets me hold onto him, even if this is all I'm allowed to do.
The thought makes me flinch vaguely. "This is really fucking hard, you know," I chuckle. "Not being able to do anything more than... this... when I just want to touch you--"
The sorrowful expression comes over his features again and he shrivels back from me, though he doesn't tug his hand away. "I-If it's too much--"
"No!" I exclaim, tightening my grip in case he does try to slink off – though I don't squeeze hard enough to be demanding or cause him discomfort. "It's okay," I assure him, offering a timid smile of my own. "You're worth it."
A half-smile pulls at his lips, and he stares down at our joined hands, sniffling. "You may think saying things like that is dangerous – that it leaves you open for me to hurt you again... But it's lovely to hear, nonetheless... And I think," he adds with that humorless chuckle, "I really need it right now. It may be nice to hear it from anyone, you know, fishing for compliments or whatever..." He glances up at me, shaking his head. "But it's more special... it means something... coming from you."
"Well," I snicker, "I could get into how it might mean more because you know how honest I'm being when I say those things, that it's not just a ploy for a--"
"Simple one-off shag."
"Er... yeah. But I can't lie and say you don't get to me. Even at the cost of my... my pride."
He smirks, peering at me closely. "But you... don't really seem to have much of that... if any..."
I raise my eyebrows. "Exactly."
He blinks and sits up a bit, scratching at his head in thought with his free hand. "Well... neither do I, apparently..."
"If you truly didn't," I try to point out, "then you'd have no problem telling John to go fuck off--"
"It's not what you think, Ted," he interrupts, not sounding fed up, but pleading for me to understand without an explanation. Completely disregarding my rather bad attempt at dark humor, too, taking my poor joke as seriously as I secretly meant it. "Being with him is pure cowardice on my part – you're absolutely right. There is a choice – but not much of one, and I don't think I'm willing to pay what it takes to get me out of there. So, in a sense... I don't have a choice..."
"So you say," I mumble, but when I see Matty lowering his head, hurt by my insinuation, I instantly regret it and squeeze his hand encouragingly. "Look – nevermind about all that. Forget it. Just let me... Let me buy you a drink. C'mon, it's a bar, after all – what'll you have? My treat."
Sheepishly, he clears his throat and answers, "Um... Just a cola, then..."
Startled, I turn wide eyes on him. "Oh?"
"Um..." He fidgets uneasily, tugging absently at an earlobe. "I think I've had a bit too much wine lately... Think I've had me fill for a bit..."
I'm surprised, to say the least. But oh well. "Um – okay, whatever.."
And so the next several weeks go by without incident: we continue meeting at the bar, getting back into our previously easy flow of regular (and absurd) conversations. Weekends feel longer than they ever did, and the workdays fly by as I'm too busy to think much about anticipating the chance of being stood up again – but the longing to see him when I do get a free moment is overwhelming. Ricky catches me a few times when I'm like this, and I finally end up confiding in him that I'm in love with a "married" man... which just confuses the hell out of him. But he tries, at least, to offer me some comforting words...
"There's more fish in the sea, mate."
"You're a nice bloke, I'm sure, er... loads a' guys... who're like that, anyway... would love to be with you... Er... I guess..."
"I'm sure he'll come round eventually, mate... Well, maybe..."
So much for support. Brian's sporadic phone calls to inquire after my sex life aren't exactly fountains of consolation either...
"It's been months, you twat! You're almost past the halfway point, so your time's running out. You don't fuck a sweet European ass or get fucked some hard European wood soon, I'm denying I know you when you return..."
This could very well be a good thing, I muse vaguely...
And then, one night, Matty doesn't show. I'm a bit concerned, especially since things have been going so well – we've held hands again, gushed to each other about our feelings, even kissed just outside the bar a few times before reluctantly going our separate ways. And he didn't let on about anything being wrong at home the night before either. So when he shows up the next night, looking exhausted, miserable, and moving like a dazed turtle, I'm even more worried. It's like his depression has become so tangible that it's weighing down his physical body.
"It's just John," he mutters, clearly put off by even having to mention the guy's name.
Immediately I tense, wondering what kinds of ridiculous rules the asshole's set up now.
"Oh, nothin'," Matty assures me when I ask. "He was just in another fuckin' mood last night... Had me tied up again..." And he looks away, as if ashamed to meet my gaze after admitting how easily his lover can take over his life.
"Damn," I chuckle, trying to lighten the situation. "He certainly likes keeping you busy. What was it this time? House chores? Laundry? Finishing his students' homework?"
He's too despondent to answer, just keeps his gaze low as he shakes his head and stares blankly at his half-covered hands.
After I follow that look and spend several long minutes studying those very same lovely appendages with my own eyes, I suddenly have a massive brainstorm – the perfect way to cheer him up, and a nice treat for my hungry eyes as well... and I won't have to risk scaring him off by groping to touch him either.
Though that's what I'd consider the ideal arrangement...
I rouse him into following me out of the bar, and lead him over to my car in the parking lot beside my building. He's confused, a bit reluctant, and his movements are sluggish and weary.
"Ted, where the fuck are we goin'? Oi, did you pay Judy for our drinks? What the fuck are you doin', mate? C'mooon--"
"God, do you ever stop talking? I think I liked you better mopey and mellow – maybe I should've just let you sit in there and sulk."
He sticks out his tongue at me as I wave at him to get into the car, pulling absently at the blue beanie which has reappeared to cover his enviable mop of jet-black hair (it had been missing for a couple of weeks in order to allow the gash on his forehead to heal, but now it's back with a vengeance).
"Anyway, I can't tell you where we're going, otherwise that'll spoil it."
"Spoil what?"
"It's a surprise!" I exclaim, climbing in beside him. "But don't worry, I'll have you home on time..."
Minutes later, we're at the jazz club Ricky first brought me to – the first place I ever laid eyes on my new under-wraps, would-be boyfriend. After my persistent urging (re: relentless pestering), he finally breaks down and goes to the stage. After a few words with the musicians (which, I note, include a few nasty gestures in my direction), they easily agree to let him up to play with them. He jams with the group on several songs as I sit at a table right by the stage, watching his hands fly fluidly up and down the keyboard with ease. Being so close, I can actually hear his contribution more clearly than any other instrument this time, and I'm struck fully with the realization of how vital that offering is to make the music sound more whole.
Little by little, the tension in his body and displeasure on his face begins to abate. When he's reached a point where he looks relatively content, having gotten out some of his stifled creativity (and smothered frustration over living with someone he can barely stand to be around) on the piano, he finishes off the song they're playing, and as they pause for a break, he starts to come down from the stage, waving a thanks to the group.
But I hold up a hand as soon as he reaches the last step, stopping him before he even reaches me. Like a groupie to a rock band, I call out a request to him – for Chopin.
Shocked, Matty gapes at me ridiculously.
"Are you insane!? You know what club this is, right?"
I wave at him demurely, as if fully expecting him to comply with my "request" (more like "order") with no further objection.
Stumped for anything to come back at me with, he glances back at the other musicians, appealing to them for help, apparently. They only shrug helplessly, having seen and heard my rather loud command, and the leader waves encouragingly at Matty as well.
The man stands on the steps, jaw hanging as he realizes that he's now been sentenced to my seemingly random whim.
Scoffing indignantly, he turns and shakes his head, shuffling back to his rightful place in front of the instrument. He glances over at me, his eyes smoldering, and I just grin back like an evil little imp; this draws the first laugh out of him I've heard all evening, and finally he gives me what I want.
The club's dull, dingy atmosphere is suddenly split with the stunning, awesome arpeggios of Chopin's Etude #1. Within moments, his bemused expression morphs into one of intense concentration – and euphoric determination. He could easily pass for one of those magnificent, genius composers of old, I think – and this time, instead of being brushed off or totally ignored, the power of his performance is so strong that every head in the club turns to gawk at the tiny man absorbed in the complicated, impressive piece – which, halfway through, takes a well-improvised turn towards a more appropriate bent, fitting his truly somber, hopeless mood from earlier. As he finishes his solo with Rachmaninov's Prelude in C-sharp minor (one of his favorites, I recall him mentioning to me during one of our many conversations about the classical composers he's infatuated with), not one person in the place is distracted from his playing. I glance around briefly out of curiosity, and it only takes that once-over for me to be sure of this.
At the last chord, there's a long, heavy moment of silence in which, holding my breath, I watch as he drops his hands into his lap, shoulders slouching as if he's finally released mountains of pent-up energy and hysteria into a positive (though half morbid, if you will), productive outlet.
He's so relieved, in fact, and I'm so glad to see him as such, that we both jump when the club suddenly erupts into heartfelt, appreciative applause at the boy's unmistakable talent. Looking out over the audience as if confronted with a vat of snakes, he tries to regain his composure and shyly holds up a hand to thank them – then hurriedly scurries off the stage to huddle by my side at the table, crouching low in his seat and covering his now pink face as I laugh at him.
"I can't believe I did that!" he groans, his voice touched with the familiar giggle I find so charming. He even pulls the beanie down over his nose, as if, if he can't see them, the clapping patrons can't see him.
"That was great," I assure him. "Now if only you'd get over your stage fright..."
He groans again, sinking even lower – but a short while later, after he's recovered enough to take the cap off his face, he doesn't refuse when a few anonymous people send over drinks for him.
"See?" I tease as we leave an hour later. "I told you – everyone loves you."
Taking me off-guard, he stops abruptly and turns to me, grinning provocatively as he clutches my shirt collar and yanks me close to him.
"That's nice," he tells me in a husky voice, "but I only need you to do that."
And he kisses me – right there, out in the open, with no coercion from me – with such buzzing, passionate abandon, that, for the first time in these last several weeks, I can erase any regret or negative ounce of dread over him still being with John – because, for a few long, hypnotizing minutes, I'm able to forget. He does too, apparently, smiling against my lips and ignoring random people passing us by on the sidewalk as we practically make out in front of their gawking eyes.
Once back in the car, however, the reminder of him comes back as I ask where Matty lives so I can drop him off.
At once, the heavy atmosphere from earlier comes crashing down upon us again, and he tells me, "Um... Best just to go back to the pub... Judy's, I mean. I'll get home from there on me own."
I can instantly think up at least five reasons to object to this – but I don't say one of them. Instead, I say nothing the entire way back.
But when I feel his long, cool fingers sliding over my thigh as he inches closer, and the pressure of his cheek rests on my shoulder, I give in yet again to that helpless urge and instantly forgive him any small detail he doesn't feel "safe" telling to me.
As long as he's here with me, whenever he can be, and I'm loving every second of his company – that's all I need. Besides, it's not as if I need to know where he lives – it's not as if a time will come when knowing that sort of thing would be useful. Or, you know... vital.
