Date: Mon, 21 Feb 2000 22:34:05 GMT
From: Scotty T <thepoetboy@hotmail.com>
Subject: Lance-In-Shining-Armour-38-42.txt
This is it. This is where David comes to an end.
I'd like to thank everyone for their support over the past 5 months. The
feedback has been great. Hell, this story could even be responsible for my
boyfriend and I being together -- there's a long story to that little
romance too. The emails have kept me going -- and the outpouring over the
past two instalments, the pleas to keep the story going, have not fallen on
deaf ears.
But all stories must end -- and I'd rather it be with a bang than a
whimper.
I knew how I wanted this story to end before I started writing the first
instalment. To have backed out, to have lead all of the foreshadowing to
nothing, would have been to miss out on telling the story I wanted to tell.
Now, as for Chris Taylor, author of my favourite story, he and I weren't
working together. We weren't aware of each other's plans, and, to my
knowledge, he doesn't even read LISA. The closeness of the postings of our
finales is pure coincidence, and I've held off on this post to make the
connection less noticeable. If you don't know what I'm talking about, I
highly recommend Chris' series, Separate Lives.
Next, I'd like to thank two Nifty writers who've been amazing to me. DLS
and DCKev, you guys've been fabulous. I emailed ya cause I loved your
stories, and it was one of the best things I ever did. As someone recently
said, you two are kings.
And, to continue this gargantuan header (whatever happened to the
Vocabulary Award?!), thanks to everyone who voted for me in the recent
awards. The awards look nice up on my shelf next to the Sexiest Author
superlative from a few months back.
And one last thing, before I get to the regular header stuff. One last
thank- you to the readers who've taken the time to read this story and
who've kept up with it, even through the instalments that were pointed out
as . . . . less than interesting. :) I originally started this story as a
way to practice my writing skills outside of my creative writing classes,
and your feedback has been invaluable in that.
I feel I'm ready to take a stab at getting some offline work published so,
to those of you who asked, there may not be a Scotty T in Nifty for a
while. I'll still be accessible through email, but don't expect a new
story over the next few weeks and months. Sorry.
Now, this is a portrayal of NSYNC as they exist in my head. They could be
all straight, they may have never lost a significant other to . . . . less
than nice circumstances. They're just cute boys who make some nice music.
And congrats go out to Brian and Kevin, seems the BSB cousins have found
their Ms. Rights.
Still no sex. So warnings about this instalment have nothing to do with
that - - but be ready for some violence and some less than happy
situations. (In other words -- grab the tissue -- you may need it. :)
thepoetboy@hotmail.com
Here we go -- one last time.
***
Part 38
I sent off the last batch of poems to Shawn Luke with the simple signature,
"Make it so." Some of them weren't as polished as I would have liked, but
Luke and . . . but SHAWN and I had interchangeable minds when it came to
editing and I knew he could finish them up for me.
James and Josh were beside me on the bed, both of them asleep. The
other guys were curled up on the floor with pillows and blankets they'd
raided from their own rooms. In the hall I could hear the quite voices of
the security guys, the occasional hushed laugh.
That was the last of my emails for the night. I shut down the laptop
and snapped it shut. It scraped quietly against the bedside table. I
slithered out from under James' arm and limped into the bathroom.
I unbuttoned my shirt and left it on the counter. I slowly peeled
back the bandage and tossed it into the garbage can. I could feel the
infection. Doctor Carter was wrong, the infection was still there, as
alive as I was. I spread some antiseptic cream on a new bandage and began
cutting the tape.
"Does it hurt anymore?" Justin asked from the bathroom door.
I'd half expected it to be James, and to tell the truth, I was
disappointed.
"A bit," I whispered. "But it's familiar. Reassuring, somehow."
He nodded and yawned.
"Can't sleep?" I asked.
He shook his head. He was fighting to keep his eyes open.
"Everything'll be fine, Just. These things work themselves out."
He closed the door and sat on the toilet. "How can you say that?
Life doesn't sort itself out. I mean, are you saying you deserved to be
shot? Getting shot worked something out?"
Not yet, I thought. "Nothing'll happy, Justin. You'll be fine.
You'll come out of this and it'll be like a whole new life. Like spring
after a long winter." I pulled my shirt back on and leaned against the
counter. "You're religious, right?"
"Yeah."
"Do you think God dishes everything out to make a balance?"
He shook his head.
"Is God out to punish you?"
"God doesn't work that way." He ran a hand through his brown curls.
It'd been a while since his last visit with peroxide.
"So God didn't get Derrick to shoot me because I'd done something
wrong?"
He shook his head. "Naw. Besides, man, you saved someone. That's a
blessing, dude."
I blinked. So far I'd managed to avoid bitching God out to find out
why I'd been picked on. The blessing side of the coin was completely
unexplored.
"Davey?"
I looked back to Justin. "Yeah?"
"You still not a believer in God?"
I grinned. "If God is an elderly, dead lesbian, then yes, I believe
in God."
Justin looked confused. "Joy?"
"She gives a mean massage."
He shook his head. "Seriously, do you believe in God?"
I did. Somehow, I finally did. I shook my head anyway and patted
Justin on the shoulder. "I believe in sleep. Let's go worship."
"Just a minute."
I turned back to him, leaning against the door to the room.
"I believe in God, Davey, whether you do or not. I just can't figure
out why God would give us people like the sonofabitch that's following us
and Derrick O'Hara. I believe we're all here for a purpose, Davey, and -"
I cut him off. "So do I, Just." I stifled a yawn. "And right now,
our purpose is to sleep."
He smiled and helped me limp back to bed.
***
DATE: June 13, 1999 FROM: <address removed for James' privacy> TO: David
Sheer <thepoetboy@hotmail.com> SUBJECT: Your poem.
Just wanted to send you a message offlist, David. Your last poem was
amazing, even if I'm technically supposed to say it's sacrilegious for
suggesting that God collects any form of porno. :) I'm Jason -- you've sent
in crits of a few of my poems. Yeah, they are pretty song-like. But
that's not a bad thing, is it? I mean, I respect the kind of poetry you
write, but I like songs.
You said something really neat in the last crit, and I wanted to thank you
for it. "After all, song writing is the main source of new poetry. Poetry
journals keep putting out a form of poetry that the general public finds
archaic and inaccessible." I memorized it. :)
Anyway, I'd love to get to know some more about you. Write back when you
get a chance!
Jason
***
I lay in the dark thinking about what Justin had said. Well, more
precisely, I thought about what I'd thought.
I did believe in God. Somewhere along the line I'd made the leap of
faith, jumped the chasm that I always thought was just too wide. After
all, I was accepting of the idea that I was on borrowed time, so I had to
borrow it from someone, right? That's where God entered the equation.
The new belief scared me more than Mmmm_Lance@hotmail.com ever could.
James rolled over and I felt warm. I smiled and stroked his blond
spikes, wondering if there were any angels more real than the one in my
arms. Then I registered the cheese overload and tried to shut my brain up
long enough to get some sleep.
***
"Wake up, David."
I peered through slits at James' face above me.
"Yeah?"
"I brushed."
"That's worth waking me up for?"
"I'd like to think so."
I closed my eyes again. "Try again in an hour."
***
DATE: June 23, 1999
FROM: David Sheer <thepoetboy@hotmail.com>
TO: <address removed for James' privacy>
SUBJECT: Wasteland
Read it yet? It won't be interesting until you're fifth time through.
I'll attach my class notes that'll help you get through it.
You southerners are wacky, but it adds a lot to your poem. Universality
isn't the Holy Grail writers sometimes make it out to be. Use everything
you've got to be distinct.
But I guess you know that already, being in a band. Do you have music for
any of these poems?
Oh, and alliteration is great -- but it's been overused. I think you need
to lighten up the number of s's in the last verse.
And yeah, I'm in university. I'm on my break, spending 4 months working
and living off campus. I'm gonna go back on campus in September.
Hopefully a different residence than I've had the past two years. It's a
nice building, but I don't get along with many of the people. It's a poli
sci building, I wanna get into the fine arts rez.
Hope school's going well for ya, Jason!
David
***
"Wake up, David."
I peered up again, a bit annoyed this time. Chris was looking down at
me.
"Yeah?"
"I wants a kiss," he said, trying not to laugh.
He jerked back in shock when my lips connected with his.
"The rest of you had better give me an hour," I said, closing my eyes.
***
DATE: July 13, 1999
FROM: <address removed for James' privacy>
TO: David Sheer <thepoetboy@hotmail.com>
SUBJECT: HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME
David,
Welcome back! You were missed, Canuck! How was Quebec City? You
were staying in the old city, right? Cobblestone streets, the whole nine
yards?
And now, you left without telling me what that HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME
part means. I found a web page of footnotes, so I'm stumbling through.
The page says it's like a British way of announcing last call in a pub or
something. I thought it was like the voice of Death, like from one of
those Pratchett novels you got me to read. (Truth: I've only read a bit of
one of them. I've been busy. School and all that. And. . . . . don't get
mad! . . . . I'm finding it hard to get into! So decide -- keep me
working on the Wasteland or switch me over to Pratchett. :)
>Sorry, Jace, but business is too . . . practical! I didn't wanna do
>anything
>practical with my university tuition!
It's not all that practical! I'm trying to focus on the musical business
world. I want to represent new bands, country performers. I know -- if
I'm into country why aren't I in a country band? It's just a little band.
Bit of time on weekends, yada yada. It's not like we're NSYNC or
something. :)
I've got a friend who I'm sure you'd love -- can I pass on your email
address?
And where's that pic you promised? Hmm? :)
Jason
***
"Come on, David. Get up already. We wanna go downstairs for breakfast."
I peered up at James. He was smiling down at me.
"We're jumping ship?"
"Just long enough to get some breakfast." The smile faded. "We'll be
trapped again in no time."
"Just let me pull on some jeans," I said, squeezing his hand.
Joey waved at me from behind his video camera. I waved back.
***
Part 39
DATE: July 23, 1999
FROM: David Sheer <thepoetboy@hotmail.com>
TO: <address removed for James' privacy>
SUBJECT: [no subject]
I've got a date, Jace. :) Remember when I told you about that guy Luke's
always hanging out with? Luke said he's been wanting to set us up all
summer.
Keep your fingers crossed!
The only problem is that I've heard some stuff about this guy. He . . .
moves fast if you know what I mean. I'm more of a romantic snail, moving
slowly and leaving a slimy trail behind me . . .. and don't get me started
on salt!
But, to get back to my point, I'm hoping Luke kept that in mind when he
decided to set us up.
But this guy is soooooo cute. :) Yeah yeah, you probably wouldn't be able
to spot a cute guy if he were labelled and surrounded my neon arrows.
Or you just wouldn't tell anyone if you did. :)
How goes the girl hunt?
David
***
We crowded in the elevator with three guards. The fourth stayed upstairs to
keep an eye on the room. I was leaning heavily on Joey, for the look of
things. He was probably the last of the guys to ever be suspected of
queerness.
Part of the dining room had been roped off for us. One of the security
guys walked ahead and did a quick look. The guys looked around, relishing
the comparably wide open area of the dining room, but we stuck close
together, not wandering far from each other.
The dining room was quiet. Occasionally there would be the sound
of cutlery banging together or plates being scraped. We sat quietly around
the table.
I spread the napkin on my lap. I wasn't expecting conversation. We'd
run out of things to say to each other. The silence wasn't bad, we were
comfortable enough together to be fine with it. I rubbed my stomach.
The waitress walked over and we all stared at her. She slowed as she
got closer, chafing under our wall of sudden tension.
We were effectively excluding all outsiders. Anyone was approached
with reservation, seen as a threat. We weren't even fully comfortable with
the assigned security personnel. Or, at least, I wasn't.
She started making the rounds for the orders. James, surprisingly
enough, ordered french toast. She turned to me. "And you, sir?"
Six voices answered. "Pancakes."
"With blueberries," I added with a grin. "And chocolate milk."
***
DATE: July 24, 1999
FROM: <address removed for James' privacy>
TO: David Sheer <thepoetboy@hotmail.com>
SUBJECT: BABBALOO!
Sorry the date didn't work out, Davey. :/ I'm gonna start spouting the
obvious cliches now, so you can hit delete if you don't want to hear them.
But the clincher is that they're true.
You're a great guy. Sweet, talented, funny. You'll find a guy who will be
perfect for you. Someone who'll never let you go, he'll protect you, be
there
for you.
I know. You're dying to hit reply and make some "cheese" joke, but it's
true.
You're an amazing person.
Anyway, short of a cyberhug, I guess there's not much I can do. I'll be
praying for you.
Jason
***
-Ready, David?
-Yeah. Keep going.
***
I didn't manage to get through half of the pancakes. My stomach just
couldn't
take it.
James grabbed my hand under the table. "Are you alright, Davey?
You're all white." His eyes were wide and he was squeezing to hard.
"I need to go upstairs, James. I need to lie down." I forced as much
volume as I could get, which wasn't much.
His chair fell over when he jumped to his feet. James was lifting my
arm over his shoulder and we were already moving towards the elevator. JC
came to my other side and ducked his head under my other arm.
"Stay with us, Davey," James said, looking over at me as we moved
through the lobby. I blinked over and over, trying to focus my eyes. Chris
had somehow gotten ahead of us. He was holding the elevator. We passed
an old couple who stared at us in horror.
"That boy needs a doctor," the old woman called.
"I know," James snarled, stabbing at the button for our floor.
JC lowered me to the floor of the elevator, leaving me against the
back wall. He used the sleeve of his shirt to wipe the sweat off of my
forehead and then looked me straight in the eye.
"Davey? You okay?"
I shook my head, trying to remember to breath.
James was searching his pockets. "I don't have my cell phone." His
hands moved faster, rechecking his pockets. "I don't have my fucking cell
phone."
Josh looked up. "Calm down, Lance. We're almost to our floor
anyway. I'll call from your room."
There was a lurching of the elevator. My stomach became a searing
mass. There was a ding and the doors opened. I was hauled to my feet and
we were moving up the hall. The guard was on his headset, holding open the
door to James' room.
***
-But I don't remember what comes next!
-I'll just make something up.
-No! Leave it blank. That's the way it was -- a bubble in time. An empty
bit.
-
-Don't make it up!
-Alright, fine -- what do you remember next?
-Vomiting in the bathroom. Then dry heaves. And Josh yelling on the
phone.
-About what?
-Emergency rooms. They were redirecting patients. Overcrowding.
-And then?
-Exhaustion.
***
"Josh!" James yelled. I didn't want him to yell. I wanted to sleep. To
slip
away and sleep until my stomach was calm.
That's what I always did when I was a kid. When a sore stomach or a
headache came along, I'd try to go to sleep. By the time I woke up, I'd
almost
always feel better.
James was patting my cheeks. "Davey? Stay awake for me. Just
until we're sure you're alright, alright?" He looked over his shoulder and
yelled for Josh again. "Just a few more minutes, okay?" he whispered,
turning back to me.
Josh appeared over his shoulder.
"Let's get him to the bed, JC."
They moved to pull me to my feet but I waved them back. They
stood, ready to reach out and grab me as I inched my way from the floor to
my feet, leaning against the counter.
"I'm fine," I whispered. "Just suddenly tired."
I started towards the door, leaning heavily on the counter. James put
his hand on my waist, guiding me but letting me move on my own.
I eased myself onto the bed. James lay down beside me, giving me
room, but making sure I knew he was with me. I was asleep in seconds.
***
DATE: July 24, 1999
FROM: David Sheer <thepoetboy@hotmail.com>
TO: <address removed for James' privacy>
SUBJECT: re: BABBALOO!
>You're a great guy. Sweet, talented, funny. You'll find a guy who will be
>perfect for you. Someone who'll never let you go, he'll protect you, be
>there for you.
Aww, if only you were gay, Jace. :)
And Canadian. :)
It wasn't *that* bad. He eventually figured out the meaning of no. He's
got a
few bruises to show for it, but he's learned a lesson.
I guess I just need a Southern Baptist. You seem to understand the whole
moving slow thing. But you're str8, so that changes things. Heteros seem
more willing to take their time. (I wonder how long the average lesbian
waits. . . . :)
Gotta run. My crap assed job calls, and I still have to iron my McUniform.
:/
David
***
"We've got to be out of here by four."
A deep voice, with a southern accent replied. "I'm not leaving.
Anything could happen to him while we're gone."
Chris laughed. "Anything could happen to us. I don't want to be on
stage."
I opened my eyes. Justin was pacing in front of the television.
"We're under contract. If we don't perform tonight, we'll be in breech."
He shook his head. "And we've cancelled too many shows lately. Have you
seen the fan sites? They're getting cranky."
"I'm with Justin. We're a group -- we perform. Take away the
performing and what are we? A bunch of guys who eat waaaay too much
room service. And I can't afford the penalties that come from a breech. It
costs money to keep me this beautiful."
Joey's attempt to lighten the mood of the room failed. Miserably.
"If it's me you're worried about," I said, pulling myself into a
sitting
position on the bed and testing out my stomach, "just get my mother to
babysit. Or one of the guards."
"You," James said, poking my chest, "are not leaving my side." He
stared the others down and the argument was pushed aside, at least for now.
"How're you feeling, Davey?"
"I'm fine, Jimmy. The pancakes just weren't sitting right."
"Buttshit," he whispered, getting surprised looks from everyone in the
room. "We've made a doctor's appointment for you in the morning. And
you're going."
I nodded. "Yessir." I still felt a bit light headed, but I tried to
swallow it back.
James turned back to the room. "Alright then, a vote. Do we go on
tonight or refuse to perform? Show of hands for performing."
Chris and Justin put up there hands. And then, slowly, Josh did too.
"Fine," Chris said, hoping off the dresser. "We leave at four." He
left
the room.
***
-He went against James?
-Surprised me too.
-Wow. Respectable though.
-That it is.
***
I was still propped up on the bed. James was sitting at the foot just
staring at
Josh. Everyone else had left.
"You were against it yesterday."
Both of their voices were carefully controlled, but James' eyes were
lethal.
"I changed my mind, Lance." Josh stood his ground. I'd have run by
now.
"You're putting our lives at stake."
"They'll have metal detectors, and security is going to be doubled.
We'll be safer than we've ever been in a concert."
James stood up, stepping towards Josh. Neither so much as blinked.
And then James' chin started to quiver.
And it was over. James was in Josh's arms, crying quietly onto his
shoulder, scared to death.
***
Part 40
DATE: July 30, 1999
FROM: David Sheer <thepoetboy@hotmail.com>
TO: <address removed for James' privacy>
SUBJECT: :TCEJBUS
Jason? You've gone quiet. You okay?
:/
***
I wanted to be the one holding him. And when Josh left to get himself
ready, I wanted to help James to pick his shirt, choose his socks and tie
his shoes. I just wanted him to know I was there with him, so I kept
talking.
"Luke thinks he can convinced the guy to make the book half his
poetry and half mine. I mean, it beats him writing a bunch of crap to make
an arbitrary deadline."
"You called him Luke again," James said softly, tying the laces on a
pair of white runners.
I shook my head. "I've given up. He'll always be Luke to me."
"If he wants to be Shawn, let him be Shawn."
"It's just a name. Names are arbitrary."
"Really?" he asked, turning to look at me with a little grin. "Then
why don't you ever call me Lance? Or why don't you still call me Jason?"
"Jason doesn't count. It's not your real name." James nodded. "And
Lance is your middle name, not your first name. And, to tell you the truth,
it
sounds cheesy." I laughed.
"I think so too. One of the sacrifices I had to make for the group. I
mean, just think about it. If I stayed James, it would be Josh, Justin,
Joey,
James and Chris. Sounds too weird."
"You'll always be Jimmy to me."
"And you'll always be dumb-ass to me." He crawled up the bed to be
beside me. "You sure you'll be alright?"
"I'll nap. By the time you get back, this stomach thing'll be all
gone."
He grinned. "Better be." He kissed my cheek and then he was gone.
***
-I slept for a while.
-And you were sick again.
-The guard didn't hear me.
-Did you try to get his attention or were you trying to be quiet?
-I wanted him in there. I needed him there. I was terrified.
-More dry heaves?
-So bad I couldn't breath. I stayed rolled up in a ball so the stomach
contractions wouldn't affect the stitches. I was convinced I was going to
die
there.
-Who found you?
-David.
-The bodyguard?
-The lawyer.
***
There was a hand on my side. "Dear God. What's wrong, David?"
I looked up, tears flowing down my cheeks. I couldn't answer. There
wasn't enough breath to create words.
The next thing I knew there was a cold, damp cloth on my forehead
and I was being held by my lawyer. He slowly rocked me back and forth, a
soothing movement that felt violently out of place.
But the pain subsided. I could breath again.
"You should have told me you were this sick," he said, rocking me
and stroking my forehead. "I'd have been out here immediately."
"I wasn't this bad."
"When did it start?"
"Today."
"Have you seen a doctor?"
"I have an appointment tomorrow -- they couldn't get me one today.
The hospitals are clogged with flu cases."
David II shook his head. "Same thing in Toronto. This isn't gonna be
an easy winter."
I forced a little smile. "I'm not worried about the winter."
"Yeah, you wouldn't." He smiled down at me. "You can afford to
spend it travelling the tropics."
That wasn't what I was thinking. I was just thinking that the pain,
the
constant throbbing, would soon be over. That made me calm.
***
-So you gave up?
-Accepting your fate isn't giving up.
-When your death is part of that fate it is.
-Me dying wasn't what I was worried about.
***
David II's stomach growled. I laughed and rolled off of him and back
onto the bed.
"The room service number is beside the phone."
He didn't move. "You sure you're alright?"
"It's passed. I'll be fine for a while."
I concentrated on slowing my breathing back to normal. My heart
was still pounding in my chest.
He didn't look convinced, but another growl from his stomach sent
him over to the phone. He placed his order and came back to the bed where
he sat beside me. He looked odd in a nice grey suit, sitting cross legged
on a
disorderly bed.
"Why are you here anyway?" I asked.
"I heard you were sick and since I had some things for you to sign I
decided to get my ass out here to check on you. When I said I'd take you to
the cemetary I meant for you to see Joy, not be put in the wall beside her."
He grinned a little but his eyes were full of concern.
"I'm fine, David." I scratched my forehead, feeling how sticky the
skin had become. "Maybe I just caught a bit of that flu."
***
DATE: August 15, 1999
FROM: <address removed for James' privacy>
TO: David Sheer <thepoetboy@hotmail.com>
SUBJECT: re: :TCEJBUS
David,
Sorry. I've been . . . busy. How've you been? Any more "amazing" dates
you wanna tell me about?
I really am sorry. I'll try to get you a faster reply to your next email.
:/
Bye.
Jason
***
David II was trying to eat his steak on the bed. The mattress wasn't taking
well to the sawing action and he wasn't getting far.
I stared in disgust. "You really know what to order when dining with
a vegetarian. Why didn't you just get the buffalo wings and lobster and
really make me gag?"
He smiled at me. "You were doing well enough gagging on your
own."
I laughed. "I'll leave you to your massacre. I'm gonna go clean up a
bit."
I limped my way to the bathroom. It wasn't me in the mirror. My
skin was glazed from sweating and my hair was alternately matted down and
spiked. I put my whole head in the sink and turned the faucet on.
The towels were out of reach so I just shook the excess water out,
steadying myself on the counter for the dizzy spell that ensued. I pretty
much gave myself a sponge bath and then smacked on a few layers of
deodorant. I even managed to shave and brush my teeth.
And, to make James feel better, I got out my bottle of cover-up and
hid the dark circles around my eyes. I was looking pretty well human.
A little thin though. I pulled my shirt off to check the bandage, and
I could count my ribs. There was a time in my life when that would cause a
celebration, when every day was a battle to get a lower number on the
scale. 116 was still set in my mind as my best weight, that was the last
time I saw my ribs, and when my doctor finally put his foot down and put me
in counselling.
I stared in horror. James hadn't mentioned how much weight I'd lost
and I'd avoided looking. I tried counting back to the meals I'd had since
I'd met him. The number wasn't nearly high enough.
"Shit," I whispered.
Apparently pancakes weren't the food of the Gods.
I turned away from the mirror and peeled back the bandage. It was
seeping again. A clear liquid. I changed the bandage quickly, pulled my
shirt back on and left the room without looking back into the mirror.
David II was just finishing up his steak. "You okay?" he asked. "I
was just about to go check on you."
"I'm fine." I lay back on the bed and flipped on the television.
***
Part 41
DATE: August 28, 1999
FROM: <address removed for James' privacy>
TO: David Sheer <thepoetboy@hotmail.com>
SUBJECT: Mr(s). Right
>I'm beginning to think I'm not compatible with anyone, Jason. :) Not that
>there's anything wrong with that, I guess. I can be happy alone -- for
>now.
>But I don't wanna still be alone when I'm 50. And really really old.
I know. I'm beginning to think the right person isn't out there. I guess
I'm to blame. My life isn't that compatible with dating.
>But sometimes I think I don't wanna even think of dating until I'm 30.
>There's too much I want to do. See Europe. Publish a few books. Meet
>Carol Burnett.
I hear she's really nice. My friend Rosie met her.
>But I also wanna make a difference somehow. I'd like to raise a kid.
>Leave some kind of mark.
Wouldn't publishing a few books do that? I've always wanted to go into
space, but I guess that won't happen any time soon. I've got a bit of a
weird heart. NASA would laugh in my face.
But trust me, I'm putting in a reservation for that space hotel people keep
wanting to build. Wanna go with me? :)
J
***
The guys got back halfway through Xena. I could hear the laughter and loud
voices before the elevator doors even opened. There was a little knock and
then the door opened and James stepped in.
"Hey hey, Davids. How're you two doing?" He looked flushed, happy.
He was still on a performance high.
I avoided the question. "Concert went well?"
"Almost flawless."
"Almost?"
"Chris missed one of his landings. Bit of a sprain."
He crawled onto the bed and kissed my neck. "You're looking good,
sicko."
David II slipped off the bed. "I'm gonna say hi to the others."
I threw a pillow at him before he got to the door. "If you hurry you
might catch Josh in the shower."
He was blushing severely as he left.
I turned to James and he was smiling widely.
"What?"
"You."
"Me what?"
"You're in high spirits. Feeling better?"
I shrugged. His hand was sneaking up to my face. I swatted away.
"I just wanted to check something!"
"Check what?"
"It's make-up, isn't it?"
I just grinned slyly and he started laughing.
In the hallway the noise level kept increasing. "Go long!" someone
yelled.
"Gonna go play football, James?"
"I'm quiet happy here."
"Mind if I go play?"
"Move and you die."
I kissed his cheek.
He wrapped his arms around me. "Anything exciting happen while I
was gone?"
"My lawyer showed up and we had wild monkey sex."
"Anything else?"
"Your security guys are deaf."
"Side effect of the headsets. Why didn't you just go out and get him?"
I shrugged. His voice went lower and became more serious.
"What happened, David?"
I sighed and turned up the television volume a bit. Xena and
Gabrielle were having one of their lesbian moments.
"Just a few more stomach things. Nothing big. It passed."
"It happened again?" His voice was like steel.
"And it passed."
"Was the other David here?"
"Not at first. Why would I have needed security if David were here?"
But James was already off the bed. He pulled on his coat and grabbed
mine.
"Come on, we're going to the hospital."
"I've got the appointment in the morning, James. I'll be fine."
"Don't argue." He pulled me forward and took each of my arms,
pushing them into the sleeves of the coat. I didn't give much of a fight.
He put one of my arms over his shoulder and helped me to the door
where I stopped him.
"Just a second, Jimmy. I forgot something."
I went back to the bed, making sure James couldn't see what I was
doing, and slipped the steak knife into my pocket.
I turned back to James and stared at him, memorizing him. "Let's
roll," I whispered.
***
DATE: September 12th, 1999
FROM: David Sheer <thepoetboy@hotmail.com>
TO: <address removed for James' privacy>
SUBJECT: New Yawk
>I'll be in New York for the last week of September, David. It's not
>THAT far from Toronto. :) Why don't you bus down? Pweese? I'm
>dying to meet you.
If only all the boys thought that way. :)
But really, I can't. I've got an in class exam coming up, and some essays
and some yada yada. If you've got all of that time to spare, why don't you
take a jaunt up to Toronto? (It's much cleaner up here, I swear!)
What's bringing you to New York anyway? The nudie bars? The illegal
drugs? The sheep?
Or is it a band thing? Your band finally get something? . . . Probably
not. You'd have sent a big long email if you had. :)
So, sorry, but no. But call me when you're in New York, okay? Just for a
minute so I can hear your voice. Maybe you can sing a bit. :) You've got
the number. :)
David
***
The football game was in full swing. It was Justin, Chris and two guards
against Josh, Joey, David II and two other guards. Chris was limping and
trying not to move too much. Josh immediately saw us come out of the
room.
It must have been planned. James must have arranged this as a
possibility.
Josh let out some sort of piercing yell and charged the closest
security guard. In response to the yell, the other guys each picked a
guard and went in for some sort of tackle. It all looked pretty football
oriented, until you noticed that Chris and Joey were attacking guards from
their own teams. David II stood in the middle of it all, with the ball in
his hand, thoroughly confused.
We were through a door onto the stairs without being seen. We went
down one flight and walked onto the floor. James hit the down button and
we waited for the elevator.
The door to the stairs burst open and Josh sprinted down the hall with
his coat. He arrived at the same time as the elevator.
"I said I was turning in for the night," he said with a smile. "Then I
just happened to pick the wrong door."
James grinned, pulled out his cell phone, and called for a taxi.
***
-Well, they were well trained to work together.
-They were a little too good at it. I was suspecting some previous
trickery.
-And there was Josh again. I don't think it was just Lance he wanted to be
near.
-What do you mean?
-I think he liked you too.
-
-You don't think so?
-I didn't say that.
***
DATE: September 17th, 1999
FROM: <address removed for James' privacy>
TO: David Sheer <thepoetboy@hotmail.com>
SUBJECT: MMMmmm . . . . fish water. . . .
Just a note, Davey, I don't really need verbose descriptions of really
disgusting fish water. You're allowed to keep some stuff to yourself. Not
much, but some. :)
I should be getting into New York on the 24th. I'll still have email (don't
you
love laptops? Oh yeah, you don't HAVE ONE! *smirk*) and I'll try to call
on Wednesday. Is 9 o'clock good for you? Right after your beloved Star
Trek: Voyager. :)
And you're right. Janeway is much more attractive than 7of9. ;)
So, since I'll still have email, I still expect my three messages a day.
Any less
and you'll be punished, any more and you'll be thanked. Understand,
Canuck? :)
And I do still think you should come down to New York -- even if it's just
for
a day. I'll pay for the ticket! :/
J
***
Part 42
Josh zipped up his coat and the door opened on the lobby. There was a night
worker at the counter, flipping through a magazine. She never looked up.
Outside it was dark. Lights were reflecting off the wet sidewalk, and
it was raining lightly. We stepped out of the elevator and our shoes echoed
on the marble floors.
***
-David?
-Yeah?
-Nevermind.
***
We took turns going through the revolving door. Josh went first, jogging
down the hotel steps and to the street, looking for the cab. James
followed,
waiting at the other side for me.
I saw the man walk up to Josh, saw them start to talk.
***
-Ask. I know you want to.
-Who did kill Derrick O'Hara?
- . . . why do you wanna know?
-Curiosity. I mean, it had nothing to do with your death, did it?
-Nothing at all. His killer did nothing to me, except maybe give me a few
bruises from the bear hug.
-
-Surprised?
-How did you know it was him?
-A lot of reasons. But mainly, who else would've been so happy to see the
guy who shot Derrick at Derrick's own funeral?
***
I saw Josh back away from the man. Saw the man advance.
The street was empty. No cars, just the distant sounds of them. The
streetlights picked up each droplet of rain and flashed it like a liquid
star.
And I felt James' hand leave mine as he started to run down the stairs.
***
DATE: September 23th, 1999
FROM: <address removed for James' privacy>
TO: David Sheer <thepoetboy@hotmail.com>
SUBJECT: SHAZAMM!
Can't send as many emails as usual today, Davey. Sorry. :/ Just too busy.
But I'm thinking of ya!
J.
P.S. Send more pics! You is cute, boy. :)
***
And then I was running after him, as fast as I could. But he got
ahead, he got to Josh before I did. I heard Josh yelling, but I forget what
he
said. I heard James yelling. I heard the man's quiet fury.
I saw the man sitting in the emergency room, with his head in his
hands.
I fell on the stairs, landing heavily on my knee and rolling down
several stairs before I caught myself and started running again.
And I was shouting too. "Just run, dammit. Run, James!"
It wasn't Josh the man was focusing on, not anymore. He'd seen
Lance, his email namesake, the man I wanted to marry.
***
DATE: September 24th, 1999
FROM: <address removed for James' privacy>
TO: David Sheer <thepoetboy@hotmail.com>
SUBJECT: If you can make it here . . . .
In New York! Did the shopping thing this afternoon. Spent WAAAAY too
much. Saw that Wally Lamb book you were talking about and I bought it, but
I don't think I'll get the chance to read it for a while. I'm still trying
to figure out some of the Wasteland stuff, so I don't wanna throw myself
into something new. :)
No emails from you this morning. :/ I hope everything's okay. You're
probably just busy -- I know that feeling. I'll check again in a few hours.
*hugs*
J.
***
Portrait: Late thirties. Broad nose and chin. Brown eyes, bloodshot.
Dark circles, as if he hadn't slept much in days. Eyebrows meet in the
middle, and at either side seem to trail off into the sideburns. The hood
of the coat is pulled back. Medium brown hair, large widows peak,
noticeably thinning on the top. Deep creases in the forehead, slashes from
left to right. Clean shaven, three scabs around the Adam's apple, shaving
injuries. Stands 6'2. Broad frame. Black and green coat zipped up. Blue
jeans. The outer layer of the coat is soaked through -- he's been outside
for a long time. His lips are parted to show his teeth, white and even.
The snarl extends to all of his features.
***
I grab the man's coat, still moving as fast as possible. I have long since
given up trying to move comfortably. As he twists, I feel stitches pop in
my side. But he spins. He his now facing me, not them.
I shake as I yell, a result of the force behind it. They hear me and,
thankfully, I see them turn. They run towards the stairs, the hotel, going
for help.
His brown eyes focus on mine. The lines on his face deepen.
I hear cars on the road. It is late, the roads are nearly empty, and
they are speeding.
We grapple. He is bigger and I am weak, but I am desperate. I need
to hold out until they are up the stairs and in the building. But I am
weak.
He manages to start the spin again and he pushes me back. I stumble
down off the curb.
I hear the car. The road is wet and my coat is black.
***
DATE: September 25th, 1999
FROM: <address removed for James' privacy>
TO: David Sheer <thepoetboy@hotmail.com>
SUBJECT: . . . .
David?
Come on, just reply. You don't have to take the time to write anything,
just
hit reply and send.
***
The world spins and I feel like I'm flying. I land heavily on the
sidewalk and slide. I am aware of nothing.
And then there is a car alarm. I open my eyes to a blinding flash of
light, but it fades. I am on my side on the pavement. I see the stairs,
and see him at the bottom. My body doesn't want to move, but it has to. I
don't need it for much longer, but I need it now. I push myself off the
ground, shaking my head.
I taste blood. I see everything from my right eye through a red fog.
The pavement scrapes at my hands.
I hear James. He is calling my name.
James is running down the stairs. He intends to save me. He intends
to fight for me.
That isn't the way things are meant to go. He isn't my knight, I'm
his.
The car alarm continues. A woman climbs out of the car, standing
close to the phone pole it has hit. "Are you alright?" she calls. I ignore
her.
I take the knife from my pocket and stand. I can barely move my left
leg, to stand on it sends fire up my side. James stops.
The man seems confused. His goal was running at him a moment
before. Something has changed.
I motion James up the stairs. He pauses, but turns to go.
I thank God that James listens. Somehow, on some level, I think he
knows what is happening, and what must happen. He realizes what I am
doing for him.
The man's confusion passes. He raises a hand and I see the gun. I see
James with his back turned.
***
The little girl is behind me. She's on the ground with her back to the
wall. I
face her attacker, with his gun.
"Get the hell out of here," I hiss.
He snarls at me.
"What has she done to you?" I'm stalling. I know that there are
people watching, and that one of them has to be smart enough to call the
police. I just have to stall.
"I'll kill you if I have to," he says. "Going to prison for two ain't
much different than one."
But he doesn't move. I consider stepping forward, but I just want to
stall. I want to disarm him, but he's bigger than I am. And I wouldn't
only risk myself, but the girl too.
"You don't have to serve for either."
He steps forward. I don't move.
I decide to destroy the anonymity, thinking it's harder to kill someone
who has a name. "I'm David," I say, "David Sheer."
He pushes me, trying to get me out of the way. I push back.
The girl screams for her mother. The man falls back. I brace myself
for another push, but it doesn't come.
"She's not here," he snarls. "She's not coming back."
At first I don't understand. I think she's already been killed, but
then I see the tightening of his eyes. She left him. She'd walked away.
And the girl was his daughter.
"This isn't the revenge you're looking for."
His eyes dart to me, and he knows he has been revealed.
He pushes me, and my back hits the wall. I see him raise the gun.
He's bringing it up to aim at her, but he hesitates. I'm already moving.
He sees me coming and his arms swings towards me.
He fires.
But I'm already moving. The gun fires and I think that I'm hit again.
We both go down.
The gun fires again.
***
James is racing up the stairs and I'm moving as fast as I can. It's
not fast enough.
But the man has heard me coming. I am three steps away when he spins.
He had dismissed me as being out of commission. He looks surprised. I
have the knife in my hand.
He fires.
I am past feeling it. It becomes part of the wall of pain that I
already feel. My vision is becoming blurred.
I stab.
I feel his breath of shock on my neck. Above the pain I feel warm
liquid on my hand. This time the blood isn't mine.
I pull back my hand and stab again. This time it catches in his ribs.
The gun fires again. I feel it. The man falls.
***
Email in James' mailbox -- the time stamp marks it as being sent 21 hours
before David's death. It is from David Sheer.
SUBJECT: Jimmy
I'm sorry, James. I never wanted us to be separated, but this had to
happen. Derrick should have killed me -- I believe that with all of my
heart -- but there was something else I had to do.
And I think that something is gonna happen today.
Whatever happens, James, I chose it. I perform it with free will. I accept
it.
And I apologize for it.
I love you. More than I have ever loved anything. I love you more than I
love myself. I happily give myself up for you.
David Sheer
***
I try to breath, but I can't. I taste the blood, and feel it running down
my chin. Dripping from my fingers.
The knife falls down beside me.
I look up, blinking to clear my vision of blood. There is too much of
it.
James is standing three stairs from the top, facing me. Behind him,
standing in the doorway, is Josh.
James starts running down the stairs towards me.
I fall before he gets to me.
***
-Thank you, David.
-No problem. You okay?
-Fine, I guess. You?
-I'll be fine. . . . . This is goodbye then?
-Apparently.
-If I could hug you, I would.
-It's the thought that counts.
-You sure James is happy?
-You mean, would he have been happier if he'd never met me?
-I guess so.
-Don't know. But I believe he met me for a reason. I believe I was meant
to
save him.
-And Josh?
-I believe they were meant to be together. My relationship with James was
deep, but nothing compared to what they'll find. Hell, we only really knew
each other a couple of weeks.
-But you loved him?
-More than life itself. He was my one true love.
-Then how can he and Josh be together? He used up his one true love on
you.
-Doesn't work that way. James has a long life to look forward to. He could
spend that time with one true love, or with several. There is no one Mr.
Right. I was just right for when our paths crossed.
-I don't understand.
-Then just say goodbye, Scotty.
-Goodbye, Scotty.
-Bye. :)
***
Email in David's mailbox -- with the date marked as three days after David's
death at 4:23 PM, from James Lance Bass. Never recieved.
SUBJECT: re: Jimmy
David . . . . .. . . .
I miss you.
j.
***
End.
thepoetboy@hotmail.com