Chapter 2

Poison walked back along the boardwalk. In the fading twilight, the ocean looked gray, still, distant, and indistinct. It was not beautiful, but beauty was not what Poison wanted. He wanted peace.

Almost by accident, almost without meaning to at all, he had kept the promise he had made to Ghoul. They were free now, far beyond the reach of Korse, of the Manskinner, of the Company, of all the baggage of their former lives. It should have been enough – for Ghoul, it undoubtedly was – but Poison could not make himself be content.

He was still his father's son. No matter how far or how long he ran, he could not change that, but he longed to prove, even if to no one but himself, that he could be more than his duplicate and his heir, that his life could be justified by more than just his father's vanity and Better Living's greed.

From time to time he thought, he could still leave. Take the Trans Am and go, with no apologies or explanations to anyone. There were days when he wanted to, for no other reason than to prove that he was able. He would think of the new tires they had put on, of the gas gauge hovering at half-full, and he would be seized by a powerful, fearful restlessness.

And then the moment would pass.

Poison left the boardwalk behind. A row of vacation homes formed a sporadic line along the waterfront. They were small cottages, of no more than one or two rooms, left here to rot in the elements ever since the troubles had started. The wooden decks were warped and whitened with salt, and the tile floors were caked with the slime and sediment of countless floods, but they were sound enough for the refugees and squatters who drifted down from the Zones.

Now, as the last sun vanished from the sky, Poison walked along the path behind the houses. There were lights on in most of the windows, and voices came from within, alternating Spanish and English. He went silently, seeking out the shadows, unnoticed, to the last cottage on the row. It was the closest to the water, and, the neighbors had told them when they first arrived, the tides had changed since it had been built. Twice a week, without fail, the ocean ran over the front deck and flooded the house in ankle deep water. Once in a while, one of the mutants would wash in with it, an eyeless fish or a crab with an extra leg jutting out at a pitiful angle, but most of the sea life Poison had seen was whole and healthy. It always reminded him that he had arrived at last on a strange and unknown shore.

When he came up to the door, he could hear someone within, speaking low and rapid. Ray and Mikey were home, and by this time of night they were usually drunk. Poison thought often of making a clean break with them, to be alone at last. But Ray was so handy with the car, and Mikey spoke a useful, passable, demotic Spanish, and so Poison had not been able to get rid of them yet, though he longed to be alone. Alone, with Ghoul.

Inside, the radio was playing. Dr. Death, his voice limp with static and distance, was giving the evening broadcast. Saying, "…O swallow swallow, the prince of Aquitaine of the ruined tower. The Dagnys are tying up traffic at the border crossing tonight. You coydogs making the run tonight can expect delays of several hours, and scattered shootouts in the washes…"

Poison reached over and changed the station.

Ray was seated in their only chair, with the back of it propped against the wall to keep the broken leg from wobbling. Mikey was crouched at his feet, both his legs folded under himself and a bottle of tequila with two golden inches left below the label wrapped in his hands. When the radio went silent, they looked up without curiosity.

"Did you go to see him?" Mikey asked at last.

Annoyed, Poison turned away.

"I'm just being polite," Mikey said, and when Poison still did not respond, he climbed laboriously to his feet and thrust the bottle of tequila towards him. "Have a drink."

Without looking at him, Poison grabbed the bottle out of Mikey's hand and took a long drink. Mikey watched him for a moment, and then he glanced back at Ray, giving Poison a glimpse of his elegant profile, sending his pulse surging unexpectedly into his throat.

"Do you want to tell him?" Mikey said. "Or should I?"

Ray lifted a hand to him, a vague wave that might have suggested anything.

Mikey sighed. "It was weird, the way it happened. It just came to us, with no warning at all. Like it came out of nowhere. But we looked at each other, and we knew. And more than that, we both knew that we knew."

"What are you talking about?" Poison said.

"My name's Kobra Kid now. That's with two K's."

Poison watched him for a long time in silence. Kobra still had not looked directly at him, and his delicate profile was gradually becoming harder, more brittle, as if he were slowly being transformed into glass. Poison glanced past him, to where Ray still sat, watching them. "And you?"

"Jet Star," he said.

"How many K's are in that?" He saw Jet open his mouth to protest, and he shook his head once, sharply. "I'll call you whatever you want. I don't care of your explanations, or justifications."

"Who gives a shit anyway?" Mikey – now Kobra - said. "It's just a stupid name." He glanced at Poison, a hard movement of his hard eyes within his hard-angled face. "I'm going to have a smoke? Do you want one?"

Poison did, and very badly. But before he could answer, Jet said, "You two know the rules. No cigarettes in the house."

"I know, I know," Kobra said. He thrust the bottle of tequila into Jet's hands, and then he turned and went out.

Poison hesitated before following him.

"You know, you don't have to…" Jet started to say, but Poison didn't wait to hear the rest.

Kobra was waiting for him outside. He got his cigarettes out of his jacket and lit one for each of them. "I know what you want to ask me," he said.

Poison breathed out smoke. "Is that right?"

"You want to know about the names," Kobra said. He turned away, looking out towards the ocean. It was too dark to see the water, but the crashing of the surf was very loud. "You want to know where they came from."

"No," Poison said. "I wasn't going to ask you that."

"Probably the same place Party Poison did. I know you didn't make that up. I've been fucking you long enough to know how uncreative you actually are."

"You're drunk," Poison said quietly.

"That doesn't have anything to do with it. I've been drunk plenty of times before."

"Yes, I know."

The cigarette in Kobra's hand had burned down, unsmoked, to the filter. Cursing, he stabbed it out and flicked it away. He shook another one out of the pack, but when he tried to light it, his fingers stumbled over the task. Poison reached out and took the book of matches from him and struck one. Kobra cupped one hand around the flame, shielding it. Now, Poison had no choice but to look Kobra in the face as he lit his cigarette for him.

Kobra breathed in, and then he turned away to look out over the dark beach towards the invisible water. "I know I'm just charity to you," he said, softly now. "I know the only reason I'm here is because you had a whim. But I just wanted to tell you, I'm grateful. I feel better. I feel so much better now. It's like I can finally think, for the first time in… I don't know. It's been too long."

Poison watched the lines of his profile shift, becoming indistinct, as if a haze were settling over his expression.

"When I was up there in Salton, I always had people around." Kobra's voice had become quiet, a little slurred, as if consumed by the same hazyness that had shadowed his face. "I'd fix them drinks, play a little guitar. But they were no friends to me. The first time I saw you, I thought you were different. You might be my friend."

Poison looked away, irritated and dismayed. He did not know Kobra well, but he had seen from the first that he was neither self-pitying not sentimental, and so he could not understand why Kobra had chosen now of all times to descend into both.

He wanted no part of it. But it was too late now, Poison thought bitterly. Too late to go back to that place of solitude that his father's money had made for him, like a silver cell suspended high above the hard, un-proud struggles of the poor. And he understood then, for the first time, that in spite of all he had endured for the profit of the Company, he did not have a monopoly on the world's suffering. Moreover, not everyone was like Ghoul: content to endure indefinitely in beautiful silence.

Something inside of him was touched, and Poison felt a wave of furious distaste, for the fact that he had come to understand now, like this.

Just then, Kobra looked over at him, and saw the emotion that flashed across Poison's face. And he misunderstood, as he had been bound to. Before Poison's eyes, his expression hardened again, taking up all the slack he had let out, so that his face was once again an elegant, immobile mask. He threw his cigarette away, and it arched like a tracer through the night; then he came forward to wrap his arms around Poison's neck.

"Veneno," he whispered. "Veneno, mi cielo..."

Poison caught him by the wrists and held him off, but he had stopped him almost too late. Kobra's face was near his own and he could feel his hot breath on his cheek, smell the tequila. His attention was drawn gradually, helplessly, to the shift of Kobra's body beneath his clothes as he tried to squirm closer.

Half a minute passed, and Poison felt his resolve weakening, just as it always did when Kobra had made up his mind. Kobra knew that he was good at what he did, and Poison knew that he knew, and somehow that made it all the more devastating. But the truth remained, beyond all evasion and embellishment: Kobra was the best he'd ever had.

Better, by far, than Ghoul had ever been.

Kobra must have seen the truth in his eyes, because he began to draw away. He was too slow, however, and Poison thrust him back, hard enough that Kobra stumbled a step and his hip struck the railing. He straightened himself out with a toss of his head; his upper lip jerked back, bearing his teeth.

"I don't even know what it's like to be a virgin," he said in a fierce, hot whisper. "I was born fucked. But I don't blame you, veneno. For all those promises you made me and never kept. How could I?"

"I never promised you anything," Poison said, appalled that he seemed unable to make his voice anything more than a smothered rasp.

"You did, though. You did it without even knowing what you were doing. My mom used to tell me, don't let your mouth go around writing checks that your ass can't cash. That's good advice, but not for you. You're just the opposite of that. Your ass is writing bad checks all over town."

Poison looked away. "You're drunk."

"So what?" Kobra snapped. With a defiant flourish he reached into his jacket and brought out his cigarettes. But when he opened the pack and found it empty, all the strength went out of him in a sharp gust, as if he had been struck. Cursing, he threw the pack away and planted both hands on the railing and looked out into the night with unseeing eyes.

"It's dark tonight," he said, and then he jumped as if the sound of his own voice had startled him. "Let's go for a walk, Poison. Up to the car, or down between the empty cabins. It's dark. Look, there's no moon at all."

Poison opened his mouth to reply, and was surprised to find himself depleted of all resistance. He looked down the beach, and then back at their front door, as if he were thoroughly considering all options. Then he said, "Yes. All right."

They went without speaking. In the shadow of the wall of one of the uninhabited cabins, Kobra stopped abruptly. He turned, his eyes already closed as he leaned in for a kiss. Poison put his head back to meet it, but even when Kobra surged forward, pressing their bodies together, he felt none of the restless urgency for him that he had a moment ago.

Kobra sighed, and without opening his eyes he drew the back of his hand along Poison's cheek. He shrugged out of his jacket and let it fall to the sand, and then his legs seemed to unhinge beneath him and he sank to his knees.

He hooked his fingers in Poion's belt, but he didn't unbuckle it. At the last moment, he seemed to reconsider, and his hand dipped lower, curving around the bulge in the front of Poison's jeans.

Poison could feel the raw heat of his hand through the worn denim. The ridge of his palm, and the five small crescents of his fingertips; he could discern each clearly, as if they were separate, distinct brands pressed against his skin, though surely that must have been his imagination.

He caught his breath in a fitful gasp, and his hand fell on Kobra's hair. He twisted it, tangling his fingers in the strands. Kobra did not wince, and so Poison pulled back, guiding him to his feet.

Kobra stood slowly. His eyes open now, hooded behind his lashes. Poison was unsettled by the look on his face, and he forced it away with a flick of his wrist. Kobra bent easily, exposing the long column of his throat. Poison descended on it, kissing the juncture of his neck and shoulder, and he felt Kobra's pulse throb beneath his lips.

At the slightest pressure, Kobra sank back, until he was stretched out on the sand and Poison was kneeling over him, straddling his hips. He felt Kobra's hands moving down his chest, tugging at the zipper of his jacket, slipping under the collar to fan out against his shoulders.

Poison suddenly loathed him, and loathed the physical closeness. He grabbed Kobra's wrists and twisted his arms back, pinning them above his head. Kobra gave a start, as if he had been awakened. His eyes widened, and Poison thought that he was seeing him there, above him, for the first time.

"Let go," he said, tugging at his trapped wrists. "What are you doing?"

Poison said nothing. He brought Kobra's wrists together so hard they made an audible crack when they met, and then he wrapped one hand around both of them. If Kobra had struggled then, he could have broken free, but he didn't struggle. He just laid there, looking up at Poison with a curtain of black slowly falling over his eyes.

"I disgust you," he said. "Tell me I do. I want you to say it."

"It's not you," Poison replied. He was not prepared to explain or excuse himself any further; Kobra could either accept it as true, or he could lay there and suffer.

"You owe me that much…" Kobra said, but then his voice dissolved into a soft hiss as Poison unbuckled his belt and tugged down the zipped of his jeans, allowing his erection to spring free.

Too late, Poison realized, he had forgotten to remove his gloves. But the moment for that was passed now, and he doubted Kobra would even notice. He wrapped his hand around the shaft of Kobra's rigid cock, stroking him slowly, viciously, until Kobra twisted and gasped beneath him. Then he reached for his own jeans, letting them down over his hips, but no further than that.

Kobra's gaze rolled slowly down Poison's body and settled on his crotch, and Kobra ran his tongue over his dry lips. "Fuck me," he murmured.

"No."

"Goddamn you. If you hate me so much… If you hate everyone so fucking much…"

"Shh," Poison said. He knew it had not come off comforting so much as patronizing, but that was something he could not help or change.

He arched his hips forward, pressing their bodies together, and then he took both their cocks in one hand, stroking them in tandem. He felt the wild pulse of Kobra's heart moving up and through his own body. The leather-gloved hand was, for a moment, like the hand of stranger.

Kobra was gasping for air. Then he caught his breath with a kind of frantic sob, and he came. Poison felt it splash hotly against his stomach, trickling down into the flaps of his undone jeans.

Another stain, and this one hard to remove. It was with this practical, unromantic thought that Poison too, found his release.

For almost a full minute they did not move. Poison's head was down, his hair liked two red banners on either side of his face. His eyes were closed so he did not know what Kobra looked like, and he could not have guessed at all.

"Move," Kobra said at last, quietly. "It's too fucking hot for you to sit on me all night."

Poison rolled off him, hitching his jeans back over his ass, running fingers through his hair, straightening out his twisted clothing. Kobra raised himself on his hands and watched all these small rituals, and then he stumbled to his feet, dragging his jacket off the sand and slinging it over his shoulders.

"Thanks, I guess."

Poison glanced up at him, startled.

"Or is that not what I should be saying right now?"

"No, you don't have to."

Kobra looked at him for a moment longer, in a kind of baffled, defeated silence. He reached into his jacket pocket for his cigarettes but they were not there. At last he turned and started back up the beach. His pale hair stood out starkly for a moment, but it was quickly swallowed by the night.