Chapter 5: Stalemate
"Do you hear that?" Sam asks, a concentrated look on his face. The practice room goes quiet as the rest of us try to figure out what Sam means.
Roderick, who is sitting on the stool next to mine with my old bass in his lap, frowns. He pushes glasses up his nose. "I don't hear anything."
"Exactly," Sam says with a grin, content sitting on the floor with his legs crossed, bare feet sticking out at the sides. "Isn't it marvelous how peaceful it is when Jeffrey Sterling fails to show up for practice?"
Rachel laughs from the couch, flipping onto the next page of the women's magazine she's got with her.
"My guess is that he's passed out somewhere," Sam goes on. "Like that time he vanished for a week, came back and said that he just somehow woke up in Atlantic City and stayed to gamble."
"They just legalized gambling over there. Good some of us are enjoying it," I argue, not wanting to say that Sam's probably right and that Jeff's most likely snoring loudly with a girl or a guy glued to his naked skin.
Roderick turns to me nervously. "Should we be talking about this when...?" he asks and nods to Dave, who is behind the video camera that he's set up on a tripod. It's his own camera, said that it cost a fortune as it's the latest technology. It has to be: a portable camera. It even fits on Dave's shoulder without him having to hunch like he's walked out of Notre Dame.
"I'm not recording," Dave informs us, standing up and no longer examining us through the lens. "I just want to see how the lighting works in here and then do that take of you guys playing a song." He's been anxious to get at least some rough material before Christmas. We're all going our different ways for a good three weeks. It was going to be a short break. Christmas is next week already and Sam and I will be back for New Year's, but while Jeff was intent on staying in town for the holidays, he's now booked flights to go to Montevideo, claims he's got a sick great grandmother that has expressed a dire wish to see him before her death. Jeff just feels like going on holiday, that's all. I'm mostly surprised he's got the money for it. In any case, The Pips and I won't be doing anything of real value for some time, which made the director uneasy and so Dave insisted that he shoot at least something.
"Sure, we'll do one of the acoustic ones. We won't need Jeff for those," I say with a shrug. Sam's not really upset over Jeff's absence. Normally he'd be, and he'd give Jeff a piece of his mind when he'd eventually stumble in, hungover and hungry and asking for cigarettes, but even Sam knows that this was never going to be a serious session and that if Jeff stumbles in, he won't have it in him to send Lauren breathing down Jeff's neck. Sam's leaving for Chicago with Mercedes in two days, so he can't be bothered working on the music seriously right now either. And Rachel's here because I asked her to come and because we've got plans tonight, so it's not like this was ever going to extend into the early hours of the morning again.
A lot of girls would be pestering me to put the guitar away and finish up already – we've got the housewarming party of some Rockette to attend – but Rachel seems content reading Vogue with a narrow-nosed blonde on the cover. She's great like that. The past few days I've spent more time with her than I have in a week or two. I forgot how great she is to have around, how wide she smiles at me when I walk into the room.
She notices me looking at her and winks. I smile and look away.
"Sam, you want to stay on the floor?" Dave asks tentatively, voice indicating that he'd rather Sam didn't.
Sam stands up instantly, grip firm on the guitar's neck. "Where d'you want me?"
Dave begins fussing about, and Sam must see something on my face that I don't mean to show because he says a mumbled, "He's the professional," to me, which Dave doesn't hear. Yeah, Dave's the professional. Three documentaries on his belt, two artistic short films. I hired him, and I could fire him, too, but what would Kurt say to that? He'd probably express relief after having decapitated me for messing with him and Dave too much. I don't mean to. I just didn't have that many options.
And now I have to watch Kurt's lover prance around my practice space, cracking jokes with Sam and Roderick, who both seem to like him. Even Rachel seems to approve.
Dave's a charmer. Oh, he's a fucking charmer, and I've run out of ideas.
"What time is it?" Roderick asks Sam, who checks his wristwatch and says that it's quarter past five. Roderick seems to make a mental note of it, and then smiles apologetically. "I've got to leave for work in half an hour. The store's full of parents trying to get that vampire book under the Christmas tree." He scoffs. "Vampires. The kids these days."
"I liked that book," Sam says from the couch. "The Lestat guy sounded pretty sexy."
Roderick scoffs again, though Sam's grin is an obvious sign of him trying to push Roderick's buttons a little. "Thank god I'm quitting after the holidays," he says and rubs his face with a tired hand. He's not used to staying up until sunrise and then having an actual job on the side too. Jeff, Sam and I have nothing else to do.
"I keep forgetting you work at a book store!" Dave says happily, having now seated Sam on a stool next to Roderick and me. "Kurt never mentioned it, and now you're in The Pips."
"It's a step up," Roderick admits and fixes his collar self-consciously, eyeing the camera gazing at us with its dead circle eye of nothing.
It only hits me then that there will actually be a documentary. I was mostly convinced that it wouldn't work out, that Lauren would talk me out of it, that Dave would get struck by lightning. Sam asks me what song we should play.
I recall The Warblers' first and last TV appearance. Nick was wearing this stupid bandanna, and we smoked outside beforehand, and he said that the hat that Quinn had made for me was ridiculous, which it was, but I wore it because it made her happy and because it was a good joke. And I didn't like it, having to pose for the cameras. I hated the self-exposure, and Nick got that. Squeezed my shoulder. Said it'd be okay.
Sam and Roderick don't get it. Rachel doesn't.
I fleetingly wish that Nick was here.
But fuck me if he'd get it either anymore. Doesn't matter. An old friend, a more recent enemy. It's just a part of something bigger. Not sure what yet. I'm working it out. Or, even worse, an old lover that is dangling in front of me like a damn carrot stick for a donkey. So I'm the donkey. That's great. That's fantastic. And then Dave's the other donkey that trots over and munches the stick in front of me. Bad donkey. Shoot the donkey.
"Blaine?" Dave's voice comes from some other world, and I blink and find my bandmates, director and girlfriend looking at me.
"Yeah. Um. Let's take a break before we start."
Dave looks crestfallen. I dig out cigarettes, hand the guitar to Roderick, and walk across the room, steering clear of the camera. I plop down on the couch next to Rachel, who has put her copy of Vogue down onto her lap. She looks at me with brown eyes full of love and concern. She never attempts to hide her feelings. It's almost embarrassing weren't it so comforting. "You okay?" she asks, her fingers carding my hair, sliding locks behind my ear with certain movements, the finesse gained from having done it a lot.
"Sure." I don't offer her the cigarette. She doesn't smoke. It's bad for you, she claims. I suck on the stick energetically.
I keep my eyes on the video camera, the machine gun, the ugly teller of truths. Why did it seem like a good idea to offer myself to the world after all this time? What will people think of it? Will I be sympathetic? Some otherworldly genius? An asshole? I don't know what story the camera plans on telling. Dave's a fan. That should help, but I look less shiny to him every day. That always happens: I'm the ugly duckling reversed. I look like a swan, but when you wait a while...
Roderick and Sam are talking to Dave about the lights or which side of their face is more photogenic or where they should look.
Rachel cuddles closer, and I wrap my arm around her shoulders and pull her in. She's warm and solid and smells like that perfume I got her once. "I can't wait for my parents to meet you," she says.
"Can't wait to meet them either," I say automatically, but the words come out heavy and strained. Everything's heavy and strained now. Bonsoir, I said, like a well-travelled man, and he smiled at that, but I must remember this, a kiss is just a kiss, and by extension a smile is just a smile. Dooley knew what he was on about, and it drapes over me. I don't hate Dave. I never did. I just thought he was an idiot. But now it seems that he can't be overthrown, him, and I'm me, and yet nothing has changed, and now I have to decide whether or not to hate him. He doesn't deserve my wrath. He's not special enough for that. At least Seb is. Puck too. Nick. Him especially.
"I want to show you the school I went to, the park near our house," Rachel lists in this sing-song voice that is soothing. Going to Canada for Christmas. Fly to Calgary, then to Edmonton, drive from there. Sit down with Mom and Dad while Rachel beams and clutches my hand tightly. Picket fence Canada. It somehow rings even worse than our own more patriotic version, probably because they're Canadians and thus by default have more sincerity in their happiness.
But as much as it disgusts me, I'm simultaneously enthralled and curious. How does Nicholas James Duval do it? He was supposed to be like me. I spent my adolescence molding Nick to be just like me, just not quite as bad, and I thought I did such a fabulous job and then – Well. Maybe it's the women. They change men. And if Vicky did it, who says Rachel won't do it for me?
And then the carrot stick is just a carrot stick that I have no interest in eating. Sure.
Maybe I should vouch for hating Dave.
"Hey," Rachel says, soft and melodic. I didn't realize that I let out a dramatic sigh. Her eyes are questioning and worried.
"I'm fine," I assure her. "I'm fine. Just." I glance at the guys, the camera, the spy, the eater of souls. "Just promise me that if Dave wants to do more than one song, you'll say we're late and get me out of here, okay?"
She gently brushes my cheek with the back of her hand. "Okay." She doesn't ask why, but clearly can tell that this session doesn't have me within my comfort zone.
"You're my rock," I say and kiss her on the forehead. She beams at me when I get up, and my insides flutter a little. She's not in vain, that girl.
Thankfully, she doesn't know that I call Lauren my rock whenever I see her. Rachel doesn't like Lauren. Or Brittany. Or any females I work with, it seems. Brittany doesn't realize it. Lauren does. She might be a little in love with me, Lauren, but a lot of them are. I should ask Jeff what he thinks. He knows these things.
"Alright," I say when I sit back on my stool and take the guitar that Roderick hands me. "We'll do..." One that doesn't have a single reference to runaway kids, lost boys, cocky young men, free spirits, etc. And nothing about summers. I hate summers. "Fuck, we'll do a song about..." I scratch the side of my head. Dave's behind the camera now, hand on the lever on the side that allows him to move the black block around. A red light is on, and I forgot what I meant to say. I duck my head quickly. This is just to get something filmed, Dave said. This won't end up in the actual documentary. "Back in the summer of '75, I was in Portland. I hired a car to drive down to LA, but I ended up in Nevada, and in a bar I met this guy who worked in a circus. He was in bad shape. I was in bad shape. But he said to me that kids still laugh, and the sun still rises, which just made me think of that Hemingway novel and made me think of ghosts and some people I didn't want to think about. I got back to the car, ran out of gas in the desert and wrote a song. It's called Five Close Calls, all for the times I think I probably should've died by now. It'll be on the album, I think."
And then I start playing, and Sam joins in automatically. Roderick's got a tambourine ready, and it's almost good that Jeff isn't here because the song sounds better stripped down and raw, oozing blood. It's a lengthy song, somewhere between six and seven minutes, but I had a lot to say when I wrote it, and there's a bit where Sam and Roderick do backup vocals, and Roderick doesn't mess up once despite being new. But I feel embarrassed singing it, not sure why I said too much. I should've just played it. Let them wonder at the strange imagery.
When we finally finish the song, I look up to find Dave and Rachel standing behind the camera, both looking transfixed. A silence lands on us, and I fidget slightly. "Was that alright?"
Rachel marches over and gives me a hug out of nowhere. She squeezes me tightly, and her eyelashes brush the side of my face, leaving wet marks behind. Dave clears his throat. "Yeah." His voice sounds rough. "Yeah, that was alright."
Sam and Roderick look guilty like they've just read my diary, even if they don't know anything of the specifics.
"That was great," she says, but there's sadness in her eyes. I want to tell her that it's not her fault. It's just a song. I wrote it before I met her, and I'm still not sure if I wanted to die when I wrote it. I can't have because I'm still here.
A knock sounds from the door, breaking the spell of something all too serious lingering around. The red light of the camera dies, fades out like it's retreating.
"I'll get that," Dave says, and Rachel pulls back from the hug.
The warmth and sparks of her touch seem to vanish, and the hairs at the back of my neck prick up when I hear a voice I'd recognize anywhere. Dave's holding the door open, and Kurt's stepped into the practice space, wrapped up in a thick, grey winter coat. The entire world shifts focus, or at least my world does, and it feels like all of my vital organs curl up painfully. Our eyes meet before I can stop it, and the rush of blood to my head sounds loud in my ears. I drop my gaze simultaneously with him. Fuck.
"Hey, guys," he says. He sounds out of breath, like he was in a hurry on his way here. I sneak a glance and admire the pinkness of his cheeks. It's cold outside.
We mumble replies. I wrap an arm around Rachel's waist and keep her standing by me, focusing on the way her hip feels beneath my hand.
"So this is the lair, huh?" Kurt asks.
"This is it," Sam says.
Roderick is smiling at Kurt, though it's become clear that Roderick is better acquainted with Ian, and knows Kurt mostly by extension. He asks, "What brings you here?"
"Yeah, what are you doing here?" Dave queries, looking perplexed and still holding the door open like he didn't expect his boyfriend to march through it.
Kurt turns to Dave. "We're going Christmas shopping." Pause. "We are, aren't we?"
There's an edge of ominous gloom in Kurt's voice, and I busy myself examining the floor. I'm okay with watching Dave, and I can bear looking at Kurt, too, if I have to. But throw them both into the mix, and I'd rather not.
"Oh! That- That was today? I thought. I mean." Dave sounds thrown off. "Shit, you want me to go now?"
"Well, yeah," Kurt says, and a tense silence lands between them, radiating all the way across the room to us. Kurt clears his throat. "Can we talk outside for a minute?"
The door opens and closes without me hearing anything else, and I finally lift my hanging head.
Sam chuckles, "Someone's in trouble." Rachel frowns, and yeah, she doesn't know they're gay and dating. I don't see why I need to blow their roommate cover either. Sam knows, of course, heard Kurt yelling that Sam's old bassist could suck his cock or something along the lines, and I assume that Roderick knows. Or at least suspects it, but is considerate enough not to ask. "Dave said he'd come out with me tonight," Sam then adds.
Raised voices carry through the door, the dense wooden particles blurring what sounds like a 'have only been home to sleep in the past two days, how could I remember', but I don't want to hear a word of that exchange or soak myself in the angered words and offended glares. I don't want to keep on clutching at straws.
Sam figures that we shouldn't be eavesdropping and starts playing the intro to a Canadian Experience song that I vaguely recognize.
"You think we're done here?" I ask and motion at the camera.
"Probably," Sam agrees, and I slide off the stool, glad to be off the hook.
"We should get going," I tell Rachel. Sticking around in hopes of a massive row between the lovers would just make me a sadder fuck than Kurt's already proven me to be. He's not impenetrable though he likes to think so. There's got to be a way in, but I just don't know what it is, and right now, not knowing is exhausting me. Throwing myself at him seems like the last drastic measure, but he'd turn me down and punch me in the face, and I like my face the way it is.
"We need to clean up a little," Sam says, fingers ceasing on the strings. "We won't be back for a few weeks, so we could at least put everything in place."
I look around the messy practice room and nod, but Roderick instantly says that, oh, he should be leaving for work or he'll be late for his shift. Sneaky fucker.
"You'll help us, right?" I ask Rachel, but she looks hesitant.
"Well, I just – I wondered if I had time to stop in the shoe store across the street?" she asks, eyes suddenly lighting up in girlish enthusiasm, and I don't have it in me to say no to that.
"Sure," I concede, and she pecks my lips before grabbing her jacket and heading out with Roderick. They get to the door just as it opens, and Dave and Kurt come in. The arriving and departing guests do a back and forth motion of who goes first before Rachel's laugh disarms the situation, and Dave and Kurt step aside to let her and Roderick through.
Kurt's face is expressionless, but Dave looks like Kurt's got him by the balls and is annoyed by it. "Listen, Sam." He motions back and forth aimlessly and says, "I think I'll have to cancel, man. This is probably the only chance we get to go buy our friends' presents together. It totally escaped my mind. Another time, yeah?"
"Yeah, man. Don't worry about it."
Kurt's wearing a red scarf, not the same one he wore a few nights ago. I wonder if he intends to promote the Christmas spirit with it.
"I'll need to drive the van around for my stuff," Dave then says, and yeah, half of the mess in the practice room is Dave's, not ours: cameras, video cameras, lights, cables. "Kurt, could you get the car? I parked it two blocks down and –"
"You want me to do it when you should've been ready when I got here?" Kurt asks disbelievingly, and Dave opens his mouth like he's going to say his piece, but Kurt says, "You know I can't work that thing; the gears are fucked."
"You just need to give the gear stick a little shake like I showed you, and –"
"But I'm telling you that it won't cooperate with me!"
"I'll do it," Sam says out of nowhere, and Kurt and Dave both quiet down. "I'm kind of magical with cars. My dad used to work at a tire shop, you know." He keeps smiling, and I realize that he's probably trying to get Kurt to like him again. Sam's not a softie, but he seems to be one of those guys who doesn't rest knowing that someone dislikes him. Despite having been a musician for as long as I have, Sam still has so much to learn. You can't pick your enemies, so you need to accept them and move on. "If you show me how to drive the thing, I think we'll be fine," he then tells Kurt.
"Yeah. Yeah, sure," Kurt concedes and takes the keys that Dave is now giving him. "But be quick down here," he says, eyeing all of Dave's stuff. "Stores will close in an hour, and I want to get Mason something nice, alright?"
"I'll be as quick as I can," Dave says, sending Kurt what looks like an appeasing puppy smile, but Kurt just turns on his heels and marches out.
When Sam passes Dave, the director says a simple, "Thanks." I focus on picking up one of the guitar cables and rolling it together. "Christmas shopping," Dave says, widening his eyes almost comically to indicate how insane he thinks it is as he walks over to the tripod.
"Yeah." I don't see the point in saying anything more.
He easily detaches the video camera from the tripod and carefully carries it to the couch, where he sits down and gets out the padded camera bag. "Um," he says just as I unplug a bass. His hair is falling in front of his eyes, and he flicks it back by jerking his head to the side. "Sorry about that. I know this is a workplace."
He's talking about Kurt. To me.
"Don't worry about it."
"No, really. I'm committed to this project, I really am. Kurt just –"
"Really." Shut up. God, shut up, shut up, shut up.
"Okay." Yet, after a short pause, he says, "I want to get Mason a good present too, you know. Keep myself in his good graces, although he kind of adores me." He laughs a little, and I hate the way his hair looks so shiny and silky and smooth, when mine is never like that but unruly and impossible. Mason also hated my guts. Thought I was no good for Kurt. Yeah, he was right and probably delighted to know it. "Mason can be damn scary when he's mad, so Kurt's probably right about the present."
"Yeah. I guess."
"Yeah..." His voice is lingering somehow, catching my attention, and when I'm done putting the bass into a hard case, I look over to Dave, who's still sitting down but now rolling a cable. He looks thoughtful and unsure. "You, um. Can I ask you something?" His voice sounds nervous. I nod because if someone asks you if they can ask you something, you can't really say no. "I know that you were, you know, on tour and doing interviews and really busy, but you must've spent some time with the roadies too back then, right? At least sometimes."
Dave is definitely the last person in this world I want to discuss that summer with.
"Sure."
"Yeah, so... Did Mason and Kurt ever...?" His voice trails off, and he does a vague hand motion. "I mean. Did it seem to you that the two of them might have?"
I don't know what I was expecting him to say, but definitely not that, and I laugh without meaning to. Dave looks affronted. "Um, I think Kurt slept with Bowie but Mason? No, no. God, no." Dave looks at me funny. He probably thinks I'm making the Bowie bit up, but I'm not. "Mason and Kurt are just friends. Were the last time I checked, anyway," I then say, suddenly getting a slice of Dave's paranoia. Who knows what happened after it was over. Maybe Mason decided to comfort Kurt a little.
"Yeah. Yeah, you're right," Dave then says, frowning like he's not sure what's wrong with him. "Kurt's just been off lately, and he keeps stressing out about Mason coming to visit us over Christmas. Something or someone's got to be on his mind." He now laughs embarrassedly. "I thought that maybe, you know. He and Mason. Because Mason's always been overly protective of Kurt. I figured that maybe it was jealousy or something. That maybe Mason was or that at one point they had... I don't know." He drops the cable roll onto the floor and picks up another mess of licorice-like cable. "Never mind. Sorry, it was stupid."
"Probably just Christmas stress," I offer, telling my suddenly rapid pulse to calm the fuck down. I quickly look away in fear of Dave reading something on my face that he really shouldn't.
The door opens again, and Kurt walks in. I almost flinch. Dave puts on a smile that can't be genuine but certainly looks like it is. Then again, I don't know him very well.
Kurt takes in a deep breath and says, "I know I've parallel parked tour buses when I've been on acid, but I swear to god that I cannot park that thing outside and we're holding up traffic and a turban-wearing taxi driver is threatening to beat Sam up."
Dave gets up instantly. "I'll take care of it."
Kurt breathes out, stress almost visibly draining out of him. "I'll pack some of this for you in the meantime."
"Okay," Dave says, and they smile at each other, making up after the previous bickering, and bile pools at the pit of my stomach as my uneven fingernails dig into the flesh of my palm.
Dave hurries out, and Kurt unwraps the scarf around his neck, giving me a small, meaningless smile.
"Hey," he repeats, and I nod. He unbuttons the jacket and throws it on the couch, revealing a big collared, yellow plaid shirt and a pair of blue jeans that come up high on the waist, the shirt neatly tucked into the tight jeans. I never care what Sam's wearing or Jeff or anyone else, but Brendon just dresses nicely. Maybe it's the gay thing that he always manages to look so fucking good.
"We're clearing up our shit too," I say for the sake of saying something. Kurt looks at me and nods. I keep waiting for something to happen: crash, bang, smoke. The air feels like it's been stretched out to its limits, is getting pulled at the corners, and even the smallest movement might cause it to break, but at the same time I feel chained down and unable to do anything about it.
Kurt takes the tripod, clearly knowing what he's doing, and two minutes pass in silence while I try to think of something smooth to say, or maybe silence is golden, but I feel so aware of him and everything he does, and my guts are still twisting into messy cable knots from Dave's words.
"So," he says suddenly, halting me as I'm now taking the cymbals off the drum kit. The simple word is already making it easier to breathe. I just need to stay calm. That's all. "You got any Christmas plans?"
"Yeah. Going to Rachel's parents' house in Alberta."
Kurt nods. "Oh. Right." He pushes the tripod legs together and looks at me briefly, a sprinkle of green-gray eyes. "Have a good trip."
"Thanks." After a considerable pause and after I've put the cymbals in hardcases, I ask, "You?"
"Just working. It's busy around this time of the year, and people can be generous, so it's a good time to make some money."
"Dave said that Mason's visiting you guys."
"Oh, yeah. That too."
"That's nice." Small talk. Mason keeps haunting me now, and who knows, maybe Dave's right. Maybe Mason's the distraction. Maybe Kurt's got a man for every finger. Maybe when Mason got back to San Francisco, the two spent hours bashing me, and then Mason fucked Kurt on that shitty, thin mattress in the guest room above Terry's drycleaners, and it was the best damn orgasm of Kurt's life. Maybe. What do I know?
"Thanks for the other night, by the way," he says.
"Oh. Did Ian get back alright, then? He seemed somewhat aware when I threw him out."
Kurt, to my surprise, smiles. "Yeah. He said that you even let him have some breakfast."
"Rachel's the one who fixed breakfast," I say truthfully. She asked who and what was on my couch and why exactly. I mumbled something in response, and Rachel shrugged it off.
"Ah. That's nice." Everything's nice, it seems, as we keep throwing the adjective around. "He didn't mention Rachel."
"She makes pretty amazing pancakes." A lie – she bought croissants from the bakery down the street, but I just want to know if the strain in Kurt's smile is real or a figment of my imagination.
"Yeah," he replies. "That's nice." I remain indecisive on the smile front. He rolls up cables quickly and efficiently, marks of his former profession. "Ian's sworn never to do drugs again," he then says with a grin.
"Yeah? How long will that last?"
"A week, I think."
I laugh, and he smiles wider. I press my fore and middle finger against the pulse point on my right wrist, making it look casual by wrapping all of my fingers around the tube of skin and bones.
"I just," Kurt says, voice soft. He lets out a breath. "You didn't have to. But I appreciate it that you did."
"It really was nothing." Somewhere at the back of my brain where I'm analyzing all of this, weighing the words and body language and the laughter in his eyes, I've gained momentum and now it's there, the question, pouring out of my mouth: "Did you ever fuck him?"
He freezes and looks at me with wide eyes. "What?"
"Mason. Did you two ever fuck?"
He frowns, and it seems that it's mostly out of confusion and surprise that he says, "No," like he can't imagine why I'd think that or let alone ask. Dave appears to be too polite or too in love to do the digging himself. Wouldn't want to offend Kurt. Is afraid of the truth. Me, I've got nothing to lose.
"What about Ian?"
Kurt takes a step back, brows furrowing. "No. He – Fuck. He's my friend, B. Christ." And it's only then as an afterthought that he adds, "God, that's so none of your business."
"Yeah, it's not. Sorry." It's probably the most meaningless apology I've ever given. The surprise of me having asked is going to fade in, oh, twenty seconds' time, and then I'll be faced with his wrath.
But as if on cue, the door opens and Rachel walks in, carrying a pastel colored shopping bag. She smiles at us and motions towards the ceiling as a vague 'up and out there' gesture. "Sam and Dave managed to park the van." She stops, takes us in. Kurt's cheeks look rosy, and yeah, there it is, the bubbling anger he'd want to launch on me right now.
"We'll be late soon," Rachel tells me, but I'm buzzing and finding it hard to concentrate. A dinner party full of Rachel's giggling friends ogling me. I'm up for it. I'm up for anything. Right now, a quick exit's key. "I don't know if I'll see you before we leave," Rachel says to Kurt as I get my jacket on, "so happy holidays!" She gives him a radiating smile.
"Yeah. You too." Kurt's voice lacks all the warmth and genuine well-wishing that Keltie's voice had.
Rachel links arms with me, and I look at Kurt. "Happy holidays," I tell him, seeing his pupils expand just a fraction when I let myself stare at him for too long. He just nods.
We pass Sam and Dave smoking by Dave's beaten down, white 50s van that's now neatly parked outside the building. We don't stay to chit chat. I don't know why I'm in such a hurry to leave, but I can't let Sam or Dave see it. It's going to be visible any second now, and I can't have them catching on.
Rachel and I have been in the taxi for two blocks when it gets the better of me, and I press my face into my palm and let myself grin. My lips stretch wide against my hand, my fingers smelling of nicotine, the hard, calloused tips pressing into my forehead. I take in a calming breath or two before leaning against the backseat. I hear thousands of imaginary fans cheering, stage lights landing on me, and the world's my stage once more.
"What's got you so happy?" Rachel asks, laughing.
"Nothing."
"Nothing?"
"Nada," I reply, letting Jeff's influence on me show.
I can't seem to stop smiling.
I'm the distraction.
"You've got the most mysterious smile on your lips, Mr. Anderson," Rachel tells me with a wicked grin of her own. "Something to do with my Christmas present, perhaps?" She wiggles her eyebrows suggestively.
"Miss Berry, I'm afraid you'll have to keep on guessing." And then, as the high spirits and excitement gets to me, I lean over and give her a breathtaking kiss.
"This is not my idea of a good time," Will tells me flatly as we stay a respectful twenty feet away from the doorway where a couple is engaged in a fiery goodbye kiss. Or kisses. Making out. I shrug and look up and down Pineapple Street. It's a funny name. Pineapple Street. Sounds like it should be in Honolulu, not Brooklyn. "Christ," Will then adds to make sure I don't miss his disdain.
"You ever been to Hawaii?"
"No," he says, crossing his arms and glaring at the couple. "Is this gonna take all day? Because I could be doing something productive, you know. I could be making surprise calls on one of my record shops."
I look over and watch the girl's delicate hands grab onto the back of Jeff's black leather jacket. She shamelessly moves down and cops a feel. Jeff pushes closer, clearly enjoying the attention given to his well-toned behind. I've not noticed, but he's persistently advertised it. Will is mumbling that he'll tip the cops about indecent exposure.
The girl is still grabbing Jeff's ass, and Will says, "Those are my jeans. Rubbing Jeff's you-know-what."
"Lucky jeans," I note, and Will shoots a death glare at me. "Hey, Romeo!" I call out. "Let's hit the road, man."
Jeff looks over his shoulder at us, mouth red like someone's smeared strawberry all over his face. It takes him a moment to focus his gaze on us, but he then proceeds to say his goodbyes to the girl. Will readjusts his jacket and tugs at the front like he's trying to make himself look bigger. Jeff doesn't seem intimidated by it at all. "Ah, what a day to be alive!" Jeff says exasperatedly. He opens his arms to no one in particular like he'd want to embrace the world, and then just stands still, expecting to be admired.
"How high are you right now?" I ask, foreboding just a little. When he called Will's apartment, after having called my place and getting told by Rachel where I was, he simply said that he didn't remember much of the past three days and needed some new pants because the ones he was wearing had spunk marks at the crotch. Jeff had expressed a looming suspicion that the mess hadn't been made by him, and I told him to shut up and give me the address. Will reluctantly came along with a pair of his second class jeans that he is now looking at longingly, probably thinking that he made the wrong call letting Jeff wear those.
"From one to ten?" Jeff asks and then grins wildly. "Eleven."
"Brilliant," Will notes sourly, voice dripping sarcasm.
"Aw, just kidding! Will, god, you gotta relax," Jeff says, wraps his arms over our shoulders and starts pushing us down the street. It's a bright, cloudless day and the air's got just a bit of a bite to it. Jeff gets sunglasses out of his breast pocket and pushes them up the bridge of his nose. "God, I'm starving. God. That's what you get for trying to live out on loving alone." He chuckles joyfully, and he smells like it – sex. Also old booze and cigarettes and perfume and cologne, but definitely sex. "What you been up to, then?"
"Well," Will says, "I've actually been talking to this Englishman who wants to open an Will's in London. Go international."
"Good one," Jeff says, and there's no mockery in his tone at all. "B?"
"Same old, same old."
"Bullshit," he says instantly, and he lets go of me, holding onto Will and stepping back a little. He gives me the onceover, then nudges Will. "What's he not telling me?"
"A lot of things, one should hope."
I'm quirking an eyebrow at him, wondering where he's going with this. "You look less... brooding. Doesn't he look like a bit less like a miserable cunt right now? Or is it the light just landing on his face in a funny way?" Jeff looks up into the sky wonderingly.
"Fuck you, Sterling," I bite, and he laughs brightly. I get out a cigarette and start heading down Pineapple Street, such a happy place, sure, there should be palm trees here or something.
"Hermano," Jeff says when he's reached me, again wrapping an arm around my shoulders. "I'm just teasing you."
I know, I know, and I nod to indicate it too. He snatches my cigarette, and Will catches up with us, asking what the grand plan now is. Jeff says he'd like to keep partying, and the three of us move in the midst of New Yorkers carrying Christmas shopping bags, looking stressed out and pale. It's like we aren't a part of their world at all. I can't remember the last time I didn't spend Christmas alone in a bar, and it's not because of lack of invites – god, there's always dozens, come to this party, come play at this Christmas charity show, poor Lauren's covered in the avalanche of them. I just don't like Christmas and anything that it represents. I've met Rachel's parents only briefly last summer, and they seemed nice enough, and while I could have stayed behind and spent Christmas boozing with Jeff, I chose not to. This year, it's different, and I thought I actually might stuff my face with turkey for once. Sit at that table and not feel like a freak.
Kurt better not disappear while I'm gone. He better not take the opportunity to vanish, grab Dave by the sleeve, get into that shitty van and run for it. God, he- He wouldn't, would he?
No. No, he wouldn't. He's settled here. Mason's visiting. I'm paranoid for no reason when I don't need to be, and after all... he'll probably be waiting to hear of my return. He'll lie there at night next to Dave, sleepless and anxious, staring at the ceiling, thinking of me. He can't help it. He's starting to get that.
Good.
It's still mildly disconcerting that Jeff can take one look at me and see that something's up. It must be the drugs. Nothing's up. Nothing, except for how the world is an amazing place, how it is great to be alive today, and fuck, I'm glad I haven't died yet.
"Well, there's one," Will says, voice full of disinterest.
"It'll do!" Jeff says, grabbing my sleeve and walking me through a door, and I expect to find myself in a bar, my throat feeling dry and excited at the thought of a drink, but it's just a restaurant. My stomach grumbles, however, at the smell of garlic and basil whiffing in the air, and a waitress is already showing us to a booth. The vinyl squeaks when we sit down, Will opposite Jeff and I. "Blaine?" Jeff asks from next to me. He's giving me a devilish grin. "You paying?"
I shrug. "Sure."
"Score," he says, wiggles his eyebrows, opens the menu and asks if anyone else wants some cheesy garlic bread.
"The state of the music industry today," Will says, elbows on the table as he leans over conspiratorially, and he seeks eye contact with me, which I grant. His mouth is moving, I'm nodding, but I hear nothing. "And if we look at the quarterly sales –"
"I want a glass of sangria! B? Will?"
"– after the tax reductions, and cassette sales are on the up, you know. Cassettes aren't going anywhere, let me tell you –"
"They don't have sangria. Is it Italian?"
"There is some talk of portable cassette players, Blaine. Imagine that!"
"Is it Spanish, then?"
"Being able to – I don't know! Sit on a bus and listen to music!"
"Pizza or pasta? Pasta or pizza? Toss a coin? Anybody got a coin?"
"Hey and welcome to Luigi's," a voice cuts through the noise scratching at my ears, and I feel my insides dropping like I'm on a rollercoaster ride that's taken an abrupt dip downwards. I've been slouching in the booth, stuck between the wall and Jeff, but I instantly make a valiant effort to sit up straighter though that's all it ends up being, really – an effort. I stare and I don't need a mirror to know that I'm looking at him wide-eyed and stunned, mouth hanging open.
No one's noticed. Not even him. He adds, "My name's Kurt, and I'll be your waiter today." He's speaking into his notepad in a bored and rehearsed manner, though he flashes a quick smile to our general direction. He's wearing a smart looking black button shirt with a red Luigi's logo over his heart, accompanied by a small, smiling man holding a pizza with a victorious grin. He's got a nominal burgundy apron around his waist, matching the interior of the restaurant. I didn't care to even take the place in when we first arrived – it's just a standard Italian restaurant somewhere in Brooklyn, nothing fancy, not exactly a dump either. The beginnings of a moustache on his upper lip are now gone, and he looks well groomed and, well – like a waiter. Except that I cannot wrap my mind around him as one. "Can I get you anything to drink?" he enquires.
"Yeah, could I get a double vodka and Coke, easy on the Coke?" Jeff is so into his efforts of not totally coming down from his high that he hasn't noticed Kurt yet.
"Sure thing," Kurt says, scribbles something onto the notepad and looks up.
I want the ground to swallow me whole the second he spots me, eyes widening and instantly flying over Will and Jeff, and then back to me. He doesn't say anything, doesn't jump back or as much as flinch, but this look suddenly clouds his face, and his pupils narrow down into tiny black dots boring into me. His left eyebrow twitches, and my mouth is still open but nothing smart is coming out.
"Um. Hi," I manage, and my companions stop to look up from their menus.
"Oh," Jeff now says. He looks pleasantly surprised. "Hey, Kurt! Wow, you –"
"Hi," Kurt says, speaking to me directly, and his tone is icy.
"We just stumbled in for lunch," I explain, like that's not obvious anyway, seeing as we're sitting in the booth with menus open. Will is looking at Kurt like he's desperately trying to place him but can't quite figure out where. Jeff's got a shit-eating grin on his face, and I end up trying to stomp his foot under the table in order for him to stop.
"Sure," Kurt says, and it's so even that it cannot be a good sign. His face suddenly is overtaken by cold professionalism. "So. Anything to drink?"
"I'll have a glass of the house red and some still water, please," Will says, and Kurt again makes a note.
"And you, Blaine?" He looks at me calmly, but the skin around his mouth looks like it's been stretched thin. For some fucked up reason, I want to get up and leave.
"I'm good."
"You don't want anything to drink?"
"No, I'm fine."
"You sure?"
"Yes," I say through gritted teeth, hanging my head and feeling my pockets for a cigarette. Kurt walks off without another word, and Jeff is elbowing me in the ribs in some sort of 'Look who it is, eh? Eh?' gesture, and I ignore him and inhale smoke deep into my lungs. I then feel my pockets for my loyal B.D.A. III, but the flask is not there. I must have forgotten it at home. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
"Where do I know him from?" Will says, voice searching.
"Dave's roommate," I supply emptily.
"Oh yeah!"
"Blaine's former busmate," Jeff adds, and Will frowns but then just turns to the menu. Right now, Jeff needs to shut the hell up.
Will mumbles to himself as he peers at the menu, and Jeff tries to engage me in a hushed conversation that he attempts to start with a wink and, "How about a quickie in the toilets with the hot waiter, huh?" I ignore them both and wish I had booze. I can't believe this. It was luck that we met at Will's party, and I appreciate it, but I think I've had enough of it now. Out of all the fucking stupid restaurants...
The sadistic cherubs must be rolling around laughing on their pillowy clouds, baby fat cushioning the impact. I was kind of getting there. I was too, the other day at the practice space... And I've tried so hard to make him at least semi-happy, but now the advancement has clearly gotten nuked.
"You guys ready to order?" Kurt asks when he comes back, setting down the guys' drinks. His voice is heavy with sarcasm. It's practically dribbling down his chin whenever he speaks, and he's keeping his head held high like he's got nothing to be ashamed of. I never said there was, did I? Just that this was a waste of his talent. That's all. Will goes for a pizza of some kind. Jeff makes innuendo jokes about salami before ordering a pizza too. Jeff isn't trying to flirt with Kurt, not really because Jeff wouldn't openly flirt with guys if someone like Will might witness it, but Jeff is trying to be suave and get something across, and I can see the moment when it hits home because sparks of anger flicker in Kurt's eyes and he looks momentarily embarrassed. That Jeff knows. That it's obvious I've told Jeff that I used to sleep with him.
Kurt can be angry and pissed off and mad and any other synonym, but I don't – I don't want him to be embarrassed by it. We had a good thing. Didn't we? Kind of. It was working for me, anyway. It wasn't perfect, but it's not like it's worth feeling humiliated about. I never humiliated him.
"I don't want anything, thanks," I say because he's now waiting for me.
He quirks an eyebrow. "You came in for lunch but don't want anything to eat?"
"No. I'm fine."
"Suit yourself," he practically snaps, and his eyes quickly dart to the side where a middle-aged man in a similar uniform is looking at Kurt suspiciously, twirling the left tip of his black moustache. Kurt wavers and ducks his head in what looks like submission. "I'll be back with the order shortly."
I nervously flick my cigarette above the ashtray, heart racing. I know what he's thinking. Actually, I don't have the faintest idea as to what he's thinking, but it's not anything good, that's for sure. Jeff's finally silenced, maybe sensing that now is not a good time to be smart. Will looks bored because he doesn't want to converse with Jeff and I'm being anti-social. I watch Kurt make his way around the restaurant, and he's persistently not looking our way, but there's something hurt in the way he walks. I did that.
"Fuck," I sigh, grab Jeff's drink and gulp it down. I run fingers through my hair. "Fuck."
Will asks, "What's your problem?"
"None of your business," I snap moodily. Something's expanding in my chest painfully, pushing against my ribs and giving me a headache. "Jeff, move."
Jeff does, and I exit the booth, shoes hitting the cheap linoleum floor. Kurt's on his way to the kitchen, carrying heavy looking plates, and I reach the doors when he does. "Kurt, look," I say, blocking his way, and he stops, balancing dirty places with surprising skill.
"I'm working," he says, and the way he says it, spitting it out, is as good as him telling me to fuck off. He passes me and enters the kitchen, the double doors swinging. I follow without a second's hesitation, feeling the temperature rise in the kitchen that's full of clanging from pots and pans.
"You're pissed off," I say, following him in the busy mess of chefs.
"No, really?" he asks, and I don't need to see his face to imagine the deathly glare he'd want to give me.
"I didn't mean to upset you, alright?" I say, which is as much of an apology as he's going to get out of me. I don't need to apologize when I've done nothing, but I'll humor him this once. He just needs to relax and go back to smiling at me already. It's nice seeing him. I didn't think we would see each other again before the holidays, so this is nice, and he should smile and talk and laugh. Goddammit, I haven't been suffering just to lose him now for something this stupid.
Kurt puts the plates down on a table with towering heaps of dirty dishes, and he glances at me over his shoulder. "You can't be here."
"Look, we just walked in, alright? I didn't know, and had I known, I really wouldn't have come."
"Yeah. This is just a coincidence. Like the party and the exhibition and the ice rink and the mic night –"
"I've told you that I came to see you play," I say through gritted teeth, finding his attack wholly unfair. "And the last time I checked, it was a damn good thing that I came too and dragged Ian out of there with you! And as for the others, well fuck! What do you want me to say? That I've gone out of my way to see you?" I hold my breath, mind buzzing. He looks surprisingly wide-eyed. "If I said that I've been trying to see you, then what?" My eyes are drawn to his lips automatically, and he parts them like he wants to say something but has forgotten what. A part of my brain is telling me that I'm making a scene for a damn waiter somewhere in Brooklyn, but then it's him, it's Kurt, and that changes all the rules. I can hear the thumping of my heart from the rush of blood and adrenaline, and maybe if I pulled him aside right now, kissed him until he got it.
"You still didn't have to come to my workplace to mock me," he hisses, and the way he chooses not to acknowledge what I just said feels like an arrow piercing my side.
"I'm not mocking you," I say tiredly, realizing that this is not it. Whatever I'm waiting for. A bit of hope. It feels like a stalemate, and he looks indignant and closed off, angry at me for what appears to be paranoia on his part, that I take enjoyment in his misery, and I don't know what I'm even trying to achieve here anymore. "Goddammit, Kurt," I breathe out, rubbing my face with one hand. "I don't know what you want."
"What makes you think I want anything?"
Easy. Your smile. The way you fucking smile and the way your shoulders tense up when I'm close and the way I'm circling you and you know it, you fucking know it but aren't running away. The way you shift restlessly if I stare for too long, when I can almost taste your skin, distant memories fresh on my mind, and the way your eyes sparkle when I say something remotely funny. But you keep knocking me down and pulling me back up, and you want something. I might not know exactly what it is, but I've got a few ideas.
I don't say any of this, though, because he'd be too quick to deny it, realize that he's been letting himself slip, and that'd be it. My window of opportunity gone.
Someone rings a small bell. "Kurt, table five's ready!"
He looks startled and worried and stressed out. "I've got work to do."
"I've done nothing wrong here," I tell him persistently. "Kurt, for fuck's sake."
"Just leave," he requests just as someone calls out his name boomingly and clearly unhappily. He glances a look over my shoulder, almost like he's afraid of everything right now, including me. And the world's a shitty place, we both know that, but I'm one thing he should not feel threatened by. We're on the same side, but he just doesn't seem to get that.
"Well, tell me what it is that you think I've done wrong! Don't leave me in the dark here!" I snap angrily. I'll drive myself insane with this otherwise, if it's just his pride again, or if he thinks I really want to humiliate him, or if I said too much, or all of the above. I can't fix it if I don't know.
He seems to think about it for a second before he shakes his head a little, face void of laughter, eyes full of something solemn and almost sad. "I just thought you'd changed. That's all."
"What's that supposed to mean?" I enquire, but he doesn't reply, just pushes past me and gets back to work. A chef is looking at me suspiciously, and I fret nervously, confused and irritated. "What the hell does that mean?!" I call out louder, but with no effect.
Instead of making my way back to my party, I shove a tomato chopping kid out of the way, leaving Kurt to balance full plates onto his arms, to wait on fucking ugly bastards with heart diseases and swollen up bowels full of fat, and fuck him, fuck him, fuck him, fuck him, and I march across the restaurant, my spine drawn up so tight that it might break in two, and I storm out of the place, because I will not sit there and let him play with me, I will not stand for it, and did he just –
I stop in a street corner and take in a deep breath. The East River is glistening in bright afternoon sunshine, a glimpse of it visible in the distance from between two buildings.
Just wait a few hours, just wait, and this afternoon will be gone with all of its shit, slipping off the horizon along with the sun.
If only it was that easy.