Author's Note: Greetings from Virginia. There was a slight scare when I thought my mother's laptop wouldn't read my USB stick but I cleared that up. I miss my own laptop... Oh well, here's Friday's chapter as promised.
Chapter Ten: Among the Ghosts
Greg gave Nick an impressed look as he snapped on his helmet. "I have to admit, this is not what I expected," he said, his fingers closing around the cool leather of the wheel. "I was thinking the gym or somewhere I could hit something."
"Oh come on, you couldn't throw a punch if your life depended on it," said Nick with a smirk. "This is much more your style."
Greg looked at the open track in front of him. "That it most certainly is," he said with a sigh.
The light turned green, and they both hit the gas, accelerating past the checkered finish line and out into the race. Greg relished the wind whipping against his face and couldn't contain a smile as he thought of how much Neil would have loved this. But thinking of Neil only made him stomp harder on the gas, propelling his go-kart past Nick's as he rounded the upcoming bend. He tried to lose himself in the moment, gritting his teeth as he imagined all the video games, trying to clear his head. But it only made things worse. He revved the engine, tried to go as fast as he could, thinking of all the days he had laid in bed with Neil by his side playing video games. He thought of all the grief he had put Neil through, and how his lover had never left his side for a moment when Greg had needed him. He thought of the jokes and the laughter and the fights and the dreams and the whispers and the endless nights of mind-blowing sex and he twisted his grip on the wheel of the car.
He couldn't believe Nick had thought of this.
He couldn't believe he'd never thought to take Neil here.
He couldn't believe that now he'd never have the chance.
He slowed as he approached the finish line and stopped, noticing the red light. He heard Nick pull up beside him. "How you feeling?"
Greg stared at the track ahead of him, closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He shook his head, ripped off his helmet and exited the go-kart as fast as possible, throwing the helmet in the seat and marching away from the track.
He heard Nick's feet pound against the pavement as the Texan chased him out into the parking lot. "Greg, wait!"
The younger man halted and spun on his heel to face his pursuer and shook his head. "I don't get it," he said. "It just doesn't make sense, none of it makes sense. I did everything they told me to do! I gave him whatever pills they prescribed, I took care of him the best I knew how, I paid for the experimental treatments, I did everything they asked, but he's still dead, Nick. Nothing I did mattered, and I hate that. I think that's why I left. I couldn't take it. Is that my fault? Is it?"
"No," Nick said quietly, grasping Greg's upper arms. "Greg, none of this was your fault."
"I didn't deserve him, not a fucking bit," Greg spat, taking a step backwards and wriggling out of Nick's grip. "He deserved someone who could have taken care of him better. Someone who wouldn't have gotten so scared. Someone who could handle this. Not an asshole like me."
"But he wanted you," Nick said. "He didn't want anyone else, he wanted you. And didn't he deserve to have what he wanted?"
"But I wasn't there," Greg growled.
"You were there when it counted," Nick replied.
Greg sighed. "You were there," he said. "You said you were there. Were you… there a lot?"
Slowly, Nick nodded. "He loved you so much, Greg. And he knew you so well." He looked down at the concrete for a moment before opening his jacket.
"Oh God, please tell me you're going to shoot me," Greg begged.
Nick smiled, but instead of a gun, he pulled out a piece of paper. "I'm not sure," he said, "but I think this is for you."
Greg was confused. He took a step towards Nick as the Texan held out the paper. Greg unfolded it and saw the sketch of a dog, and Neil's familiar scrawl all over the page. A chill ran down his spine, as if he were receiving messages from beyond the grave. He stared at the paper and his heart lurched. And then, he heard a strange sound, like thunder, and he realized that it was the paper he held as it shook with his hands.
"Never told him…"
And then strong, warm fingers wrapped themselves around his wrists, ceasing their shaking. "You didn't have to tell him."
Greg looked up, into those deep brown eyes, and the betrayal still burned strong in his stomach when he looked at them, because he wanted so badly to be held, to be taken care of, to be pacified, and yet he didn't feel like he had that right. "Nick…" He wanted to tell him everything, voice every single thought he had ever had in his life, crack open his chest and expose his bleeding heart, let Nick rip it out and dissect it until he knew everything there was to know about Greg Sanders, from Greg's quiet idolization of Nick since the first day they'd met through to this very moment, where he stood raw and abused and empty, longing to be filled.
But as his mouth hung open and his lips trembled, and all the words that he'd never said to Neil echoed in his head, no sounds came out. He realized that he was still clinging to the drawing, and that Nick was still gripping his wrists. He closed his eyes and drew his arms into his chest before falling forward, burying his face in Nick's neck and trying to hide there from everything.
Nick's arms rose to embrace him, though neither one of them made a sound. Greg tried to breathe, but he felt as if there were rocks on his chest. He felt protected in the embrace, warm and sheltered, and yet it didn't feel right. He could still feel his stomach twist and churn with betrayal, as if he were being unfaithful to Neil.
But he didn't pull away. And the tragic paradox was that in allowing himself to draw comfort from Nick's embrace, he only ended up feeling worse.
Nick drove Greg back to his house, and as was becoming routine, Greg said very little, using the radio to fill the silent void between them. When they came home, Greg immediately hid in the guestroom, this time without so much as a "good night." Sighing, Nick decided that it was time to retire to his own bed, especially if he was going into work the next day.
His alarm went off, the grating buzzing more abrasive than normal, but Nick turned it off. He stretched and went to the kitchen, putting on a pot of coffee before he went to take his shower and get dressed. When the majority of his evening routine was completed, he found it odd that Greg had not woken up yet.
He knocked on the younger man's door, calling his name. When he heard nothing, he opened the door and looked inside.
The bed looked as if it had never been slept in. Greg had disappeared, leaving no evidence behind that he had ever been there at all. Nick sighed and shook his head, hoping he would see the younger man at work in a few hours.
Luckily, he did. He smiled at Greg when he saw the younger man talking with Riley in the break room. Greg managed a half-hearted smile in return, but his eyes were hazy and far away.
And they didn't speak. Not for the rest of the day.
When he returned from work that day, Greg sat alone in his empty apartment, trying not to breathe because he could smell Neil everywhere. Instead, he hugged his knees to his chest and leaned against the front door, letting his eyes drift over the empty apartment.
It was so quiet here now, but his ghost still haunted these ruins. Neil's things were everywhere, scattered about the place. Old video games and DVDs on the coffee table, and books by authors Greg had always heard of but had never read littered his dining room table.
With a pang in his chest, Greg remembered once when Neil had tried to dramatically brush the table free of books and pin Greg against it. The journalist had missed a few and the corners of a hardcover had pressed into Greg's spine, leaving a mark. Greg smiled and leaned his forehead against his knees.
"I miss you…" he said to the air, to the smell, to the ghost. "I'm sorry I let you down, babe. I loved you so much that I didn't know how to say it. And I was afraid that if I did, then that would be the end of it. Then I would lose you, for real. Because if I didn't say it, then our story couldn't end. It wouldn't be resolved, and you couldn't go away. But life's not a fairy tale, and we never lived one. The only thing unfinished business guarantees is ghosts…"
He waited for an answer, a sign from his vacant apartment that someone had heard him, that someone forgave him, but nothing came. Everything was still and undisturbed. Greg wished he could have said the same for his stomach.
His eyes again found the dining table, and the hint of an image flickered before his vision, as if something familiar was lurking in the corner of his eye. He couldn't focus on it, but if he let his eyes relax, he could almost see it, clear as day, like looking at a 3D movie without glasses.
The table was no longer cluttered with books and novels Greg had promised Neil he'd read later, when he had the time. Instead, it was wiped clean and a stark white table cloth was draped over it, topped with a candelabra and two wine glasses. The door opened from the bedroom and the holographic form of Neil strode down the hall, looking around a moment before he smiled, finding what he was looking for in a bucket of ice. He pulled out the champagne and admired it, approvingly. Neil was clad in a sharp suit, his blue silk tie sparkling in the light of the candles.
Even though Greg was leaning against the door, it opened, and someone entered, exhausted and clearly uninterested in anything Neil had planned.
"You're back," said the ghost.
Neil grinned. "Mm hm, fresh from New York and with money in my wallet to burn!"
"And you're in my apartment…" the ghost of Greg observed.
Neil grinned and waved his hands. "Surprise!"
"We're celebrating something…" Greg deduced, clearly struggling to remember what that was.
"Two things," Neil chimed. "Your success in beating the system and my success in world politics."
"I didn't beat the system, Neil," Greg grumbled, dumping his things unceremoniously on the sofa as he made for the kitchen. "Actually, I feel like the system beat me. And hard." He opened the fridge. "I swore I had some beer in here…"
Neil looked again at the bottle of champagne in his hand, then up at Greg. "Champagne?" he offered, clearly feeling neglected, though the ghost of Greg heard nothing.
"Beer," Greg said, annunciating as if Neil were dense. "I don't want bubbly crap, I want beer."
"Beer is carbonated too," Neil mumbled, placing the champagne back in the bucket.
"Well, it's not crap," Greg snapped.
"You're out," Neil said. "Greg, don't do this tonight."
"Do what?" Greg asked, closing the door to the fridge and entering the living room again. He walked right by Neil and grabbed his coat.
"Where are you going?" Neil asked, his brow furrowing in hurt confusion.
"Grocery store," Greg said.
"But I have champagne…" Neil said, futilely.
Greg turned. "Look, Neil, I've had a really rough day today, OK, so frankly, I don't really feel like celebrating, if that's all right with you."
Neil wrapped his arms around himself, insecurely. "I do…"
"Why?" Greg asked, turning on him. "Because they settled? My bosses paid off the people who were suing me. What does that say about me?"
Neil seemed confused. "That you don't have to go back to court?"
"No," said Greg. "It means that nobody thinks I'm not guilty. Not even the people who are supposed to have been on my side."
"I don't think you're guilty," Neil muttered. "Greg, I think this is good news. I remember what that hearing did to you, you were so stressed out and you wouldn't sleep, I don't think court is a good thing, and I for one am glad you don't have to go through that again."
Greg snorted contemptuously, as if Neil could never understand. "It's not about that, Neil. It's about what I did. How it's affected people, and whether or not I could have done something else."
Neil pursed his lips, silently offended, but again, the ghost of Greg failed to see it. "OK. Fine. I'm sorry they settled your suit out of court, then. I'm sorry you had a bad day. But maybe, just maybe, there might be something else for us to celebrate."
"Neil," Greg groaned. "So your article got bought up by Associated Press, so what? It's not like that's never happened before."
Neil straightened. "Yeah. OK. Maybe my accomplishments aren't as interesting as yours, all right, but I got to interview the Dalai Fucking Lama about this Seeds of Compassion thing, and I got to hang out with him, and maybe he told me a few good jokes, huh, but what do you care? I guess you'll never know the punch line to the joke about the two Buddhist monks who walk into a bar."
This sufficiently stunned Greg. "Oh. Right. The Dalai Lama thing."
"And the Seeds of Fucking Compassion," Neil spat, bitterly.
"Yeah, you were on the Morning Show in New York…" Greg said, rubbing his tired eyes.
"Did you even watch it?" Neil asked.
Greg stopped rubbing his eyes and looked up at Neil. "I think I have it Tivoed."
Neil stood firm for a good five seconds before he couldn't control himself anymore and swiped the champagne bottle from the bucket of ice, sitting in the chair. "Just go get your beer," he said, quietly.
Greg hesitated as Neil struggled to uncork the champagne. "Do you need help with—"
"No," Neil interrupted harshly, before sighing and giving up. "Yes."
Greg approached the table. "I'm sorry, Neil."
Neil stared at the table. "You work so many doubles, it's just… like you're never here anymore. And when you are here, you're distracted, by work, by this Demetrius James bullshit, by your friends, by something… I guess it's easy to forget about what's going on in my life when you have so much going on in yours."
Greg took a seat across from Neil and reached out. "Let me take that," he said.
Neil shook his head, clinging to the bottle like a security blanket. "It's something else today, too, dunno if you remember…"
Greg shook his head. "I'm sorry I wasn't more supportive about you and the Dalai Lama. You're right, that is a really big deal. And the AP bought your article? Whose publishing? And what kind of royalties are we talking about here?" He smiled.
Neil said nothing, he just fiddled with the cork in the bottle. "I'm not your enemy, Greg. Don't treat me like I am."
Greg sighed. "I take a lot out on you, I know," he conceded. "I'll… try and be better about that, I really will. I care about you, Neil, and I appreciate everything you do and all you are. I'm sorry if I've ever made you feel like this isn't true."
Neil nodded, then looked up. He opened his mouth, as if about to say something highly significant, when he said, "I think I burned dinner."
Greg laughed. "We'll order take out," he said. "No problem. Chinese is always the best way to celebrate anything. So… forgive me, it's not your birthday today, is it? What else are we celebrating?"
Neil shrugged and smiled. "Nothing important," he said, handing Greg the champagne. "Now here. Pop the bubbly, my good man!"
Greg smiled and obliged.
And just like that, the image faded away, and the table cloth and candelabra were gone, as were the two figures acting out the scene in Greg's memory. There was nothing left but cobwebs and dust, and the tiniest of irrelevant epiphanies.
"The day we first met," the present Greg murmured to himself. "That was what you wanted to celebrate. The day I first came into your office and laid eyes on you. Or you laid eyes on me. You would have said you saw me first, that you had always known we'd end up together, known better than I could read palms…" He sighed. "I should have asked you to move in with me right then and there. We had always talked about it, but it was always too soon. Until you got sick. Then nothing was soon enough."
Greg sighed and choked back a sob, raking his hand back into his hair. He felt the furiously familiar sting in the corners of his eyes and tilted his head back. Even now, he didn't understand why he still had his guard up. He wasn't sure why he was uncomfortable with breaking down, even in the privacy of his own home, with no one around to see him. He assumed it was because he felt as if Neil were still there, watching him. As if Neil would always be there. And Greg refused to let him down now, after he had let him down so frequently in the past.
Regardless, one can only pretend for so long, and even the most cleverly constructed of dams have their breaking points.
He gasped as he felt a sharp agonizing stab, a physical pain in his chest that felt like an icicle had pierced him. And then, there came another. And another. In wavelike spasms they washed over him, and he exorcised his demons through his mouth, gasping, retching, cursing, begging, screaming until everything overwhelmed him and he was beating the floor, the sobs tearing out of him like angry spirits, glad to break free and apathetic to the gory mess they would leave in their wake.
For several minutes, he was a man possessed, attacking his hardwood floor until his knuckles bled, dragging himself over to the carpet by the sofa where he had spent so many nights falling asleep to old horror movies with his head in Neil's lap, and he seized fistfuls of the carpet, trying to tear it up as if he could dig a hole there, crawl inside, and bury himself alive. He howled like a werewolf in a snare, ready to gnaw off his own leg if it would stop the pain, if he could escape this hell that was the four walls of his own apartment.
And then, when it was all over, and his hands were raw from the floor's assault on them, he collapsed, half-dead. His face inhaled the stale scent of the carpet and he closed his eyes, his head throbbing, his eyes swollen, and his cheeks drenched in sweat and tears. He had thought that after he'd gotten it all out, things might be better. That perhaps he would feel relieved or vindicated, but he felt nothing now, and in several ways, that was worse.
The emotions were gone, but the pain, a grief so pure it was physical, remained, slicing at his chest and head and throat like an axe murderer with no motive beyond sadism. And as Greg laid there on the floor, staring underneath the sofa, he didn't want to move. What could he do now? Now that all the anger was gone, what did he have left to cling to?
What could he do now?
He took a deep breath and sat up. He looked around the apartment, at Neil's things, and slowly got to his feet. He began by collecting the books on the dining table that he never read, and probably never would. He found an old box in his closet and pulled it out, dumping all the books unceremoniously inside there.
It was an ongoing process, but it had to be done. Just like funeral arrangements and property management. So Greg did it because it was the only thing he could do.
And even though Neil didn't have very many things at Greg's apartment, it took Greg three days to finally finish gathering it all up. This was partly because he still had to go to work, but also because often he would just sit on the couch and stare at the box. And often, he would decide to get drunk instead.
But eventually it was done. The video games and the Nintendo 64 he had received from Nick were the last to go. He folded the flaps of the box and duct taped it closed. He stared at it for a few minutes longer before shoving it in his closet and slamming the door.
And then, he badly needed a drink.