Date: Sun, 23 Jan 2000 10:49:21 +0800
From: Emellie Giggles <egiggles@moose-mail.com>
Subject: The Gentlemen's Club: Michael
THE GENTLEMEN'S CLUB
Michael
By Lady Poetess. Copyright © 1999.
Feel free to reproduce and distribute as long as you leave the credits and the
author's note below intact. If you somehow make money out of this, well, good for
you but please send some to me at egiggles@moose-mail.com!
Author's note:
This is actually a part of an ongoing fantasy fan-fiction about a fictional group of
friends in New York whose weekly poker games form the basis of their story of
finding love and laughter. These friends are – under inexplicable circumstances! –
dead ringers from some music and movie celebrities, obscure or well known, that I
find worth a write or two. The men and their lives depicted here have nothing in
common with the real people they are based on apart from their appearances and
names. I am not speculating on their sexual orientation or personal past. Again,
everything is strictly fictional, apart from the character's good looks. Suing me is a
waste of time, as frankly, to be blunt, I'm penniless.
PROLOGUE
It was an eternity of a night. He walked the night like a
true night creature, the coldness of his solitude cutting
through heavy woolen-checkered shirt and T-shirt underneath
to bite into every bone in his body. He shivered slightly,
hands deep in his pockets.
It would be so easy to walk in front of a car. A part of
him wanted to live however, no matter how cold the pain
would be. Logic told him he'd survive, and eventually he
could even smile. At the moment, however, he wanted to
wallow in self-pity.
West 78th Street was quieter than it was during the
earlier part of the day. At 2 am, it was a perfect silence,
the tranquility gently accompanied by almost distant sounds
of the occasional vehicle and the few people still awake. It
was the silence he needed; yet it only made him even more
aware than ever, that he was alone. As always.
Then he heard it. The faint sounds of laughter. The last
thing he needed was to be among happy people, yet his feet,
without any prompting, moved in that direction. He didn't
know where he was going, his senses tuned out except for his
hearing. There, he could hear them laughing, cheering,
talking. He could even hear the faint strains of the piano.
Like a moth attracted to the blazing furnace, he needed to
at least find out the source of good cheer and will.
He didn't know how long or far he'd walked, but he found
himself standing before the huge glass windowpane of the Art
Brigadiers Workshop. He stood there, watching at the people
inside laughing and toasting. He hated their good cheer. He
wanted their good cheer. Lost in watching them, he was
startled when he heard a cough beside him.
A man with sad-looking eyes smiled at him. "Hi there. You
look like you need company. Wanna come in?"
It had to be the dust in the night, for his eyes blurred,
watered. "What?"
"Wanna come in? I'm Ethan. Come on, you look like you'll
need some perking up. Fortunately for you we're having a
birthday party for a friend who just reached the big
three-oh." Ethan looked him up and down. "I have an extra
phantom of the opera mask here. You can use that to blend
it."
"Sure." He looked up at the night sky briefly, silently
thanking whoever that looked after lost souls tonight.
"Thank you."
Michael Vartan was everybody's favorite man. He knew that.
He was well aware of his golden looks, the way his smile
deepened his dimples appealingly, his laugh lines crinkling
in a totally irresistible way to induce his listeners to
smile and laugh. The few lines that appeared on his forehead
after his twenty-eighth birthday only added an air of
seriousness that he was hard-pressed to produce before. Even
his name was easy to remember, just call me Mike. He could
crumble defenses, placate the outraged, and make almost
everyone love him.
If he wanted to. Right now he was sorely taxed to
maintain a smile on his aching mouth. "Keep them busy, I've
had enough," he'd whispered into Ethan's ear, before
extricating himself from Count Draculas, Frankenstein
Monsters, and even a few Teletubbies.
The Brigadiers place had a second floor. Once an art
gallery, the once display rooms were now converted into
exhibition rooms for theatre achievements and history. Some
became rooms where visitors could relax in. Others, those
farthest from the main hallways, were prop rooms. Mike
nodded to those roaming the walkways, taking care not to let
conversations go too long. When he finally found a dark
unoccupied room he slipped into it and shut the door with a
sigh of relief.
Alone at last.
The glint from a Phantom of the Opera mask from a dark
corner caught his eye, killing his hope of solitude. Mike's
frown faded into a reluctant smile however when he heard
soft snoring from the person in the shadows. He couldn't
help himself, like a moth attracted to a blazing inferno he
had to see this person. If anything, it'd be a welcome
diversion after hours of inane laughing and socializing.
The man sure had picked a dramatically atmospheric spot to sleep. He slept on a
couch facing the glass pane that allowed the streetlamps outside to stream in,
dancing over the sleeping man's form. He was beautiful, Mike thought almost
stupidly as he gazed down at the man. Tall, well built if slender, the man was the
perfect dark dissolute lord of night. The phantom mask hid the top half of his face,
leaving strong chiseled jaw and strong aristocratic nose to Mike's perusal. Those
lips opened slightly with each snore, lusciously tempting. Mike went to one knee
beside the man, his hand reaching out but not daring to touch the stubble on the
man's jaw. "You're a beautiful creature," he breathed softly, suddenly terrified of
waking up the man. He slowly, lightly touched his finger at the carotid vein of the
man's neck, feeling the smooth skin lightly moistened by a thin film of sweat. He
brought the finger to his lips and wet his lips, feeling his blood burned at the sight of
this man. What he wouldn't give to possess this man.
And why shouldn't he possess this man? Today was his
thirtieth birthday, and he deserved a gift. Running his
finger along his lower lip, he turned and walked out the
door.
Ten minutes later Ethan received felt a hand around his
shoulder.
"Listen Ethan, I want you to get everyone here out,
including you. And leave me the keys," Mike said.
Ethan grinned. "Found a birthday gift huh? Here." He
slipped a package into Mike's shirt pocket. "No problem,
consider it done, buddy. Say, have you seen my friend, the
guy I brought in an hour ago? Name's Jason or something."
When Jason opened his eyes he thought he was in heaven. The
apparition before him was dazzling. The streetlamp bestowed
upon the man an ethereal fey beauty. The man's hair shone
golden in the light, though Jason's common sense told him it
was probably light brown. The man wasn't masked, bedecked
instead in a Robin Hood inspired brilliant green brocade
shirt and brown-green tights that revealed rather shapely
thighs. His friendly face was warm, open, those wonderful
laugh lines around his mouth and eyes, the few lines on his
forehead and the deep dimples when he smiled made Jason's
heart ache. Here was enchantment, an angel surely. No mere
mortal could be this beautiful, could they?
He reached out a shaky right hand and touched the
apparition's cheek with his palm. Warmth. This man was real.
"You're real," he said rather stupidly, feeling a flood of
heat in his heart. Warmth kindled from sheer relief that
he'd been found by a man as glorious as this, and fear for
his heart.
The man caught hold of Jason's hand and pressed it
against his cheek. Jason could feel the slight stubble of
the man under his palm, and shivered as a chill climbed up
his spine.
"You're awake," the man said, smiling like the brightest
of suns. "Good evening."
"Oh God!" Jason jumped off the couch and looked at his
wristwatch. "What time is it?" As he became more aware to
his surroundings, he began to panic. "I gotta go." He knew,
deep deep into his bones, that this man would destroy him.
OK, that sounded horribly overwrought, but Jason doubted he
wanted any more emotional turbulence at this point in his
life.
Mike let the other man's hand fell from his cheek, but he
didn't release him. "Come on, don't go yet. Come talk to
me."
Whatever Jason tried to say what cut off when, with a
grace still evident from his days being a figure skater,
Mike reeled the man in, tugging persuasively at the other
man's hand. "Sssh," he whispered, his left hand going around
the man's waist, securing Jason to him. "You can tell me no
later Jason." He lowered his head, his tongue slowly tracing
Jason's lips, moistening them as his left hand reached and
hiked Jason's thigh to straddle his. "Let me make you happy," he murmured, racking
his memory for some sweet nothings – not easy, considering his now-rusty pick-up
skills. "You have slain me."
Jason couldn't think. His ability to think seemed to have
melted in the heat of the other man's onslaught; he craved
the man's touch, arching his neck back and pressing his
chest to the other man's, his fingers digging into his back
so painfully the other man groaned, pulling Jason off his
feet and causing them both to fall onto the couch. Jason
found himself looking into those brilliant blue-green eyes,
drowning in the desire, laughter, and promise of oblivion in
them. Again, he was in awe at the beauty of the other man,
who was so much like sunshine and fire. And when he almost
reverently ran his finger along the bridge of that regal
nose, he saw in those eyes lust, yearning, and he felt like
he was the most precious thing in the world.
"Mike," he heard the man murmured, he asked back, "What?"
"My name's Mike. Say it." Mike kissed slowly each of
Jason's fingertips, the cool heat of the man's mouth searing
him worse than the hottest fires. "Say my name and I'll let
you have it."
The voice, in low sultry murmur, broke whatever vestiges
of Jason's remaining defenses. "Mike," he said. "Mike Mike
Mike Mike Mike." Mike smiled, a grin full of promise and
brightness, that when he pulled Jason down to him.
It wasn't easy, but Jason was bulkier and more robust than Mike, and Mike
emitted a choked laugh when the man fell on him heavily. "Here, let me see you," he
murmured, gently pulling at the strings of Jason's mask.
"Please, no," Jason protested weakly, suddenly panicking at the thought of the
most handsome man on earth seeing his face and finding him wanting.
Too late. Mike let the mask fall to the floor, and Jason saw the man's already
glittering eyes darkened in the candlelight, saw the man's silent expulsion of breath.
"You're beautiful," he heard the man say almost reverently – trite words, of course,
but Jason felt as if he had just received a benediction. "Let me look at you,: Mike
said, capping his face in his surprisingly calloused hands, and Jason let him look.
They didn't kiss, not yet. The lust that ignited flared into sudden conflagration,
without warning. Jason lost control, tearing at the buttons of Mike's costumes, and
gasping when he felt Mike's bare chest on him. Just one tug at his zipper, then his
thick cock sprang free, and then Mike was on him, one hand gripping his cock and
gently coating him with rubber, then guiding him deep into the warm, tight groove
between Mike's legs – how did Mike remove his pants so fast? – then Jason surged
forward. Just one thrust to the hilt, his balls pressed against Mike's buttocks, his
head against Mike's chest, and he was coming hard, pouring himself into Mike in
one cataclysmic insensate climax.
He would never tire of listening to Mike laugh, Jase thought, dazed, as he looked at
the man under him. Still buried in Mike, he flexed his buttocks, letting his half-erect
cock deeper one inch before reluctantly withdrawing.
Mike raised himself, balancing his weight on his elbows. "You better do that just to
change the rubber." He sighed. "God, this is the best birthday of my life."
Jason felt heat rising on his face. "Sorry," he murmured, bending to retrieve his
pants. He'd blew it – he couldn't even fuck a man without losing control. Mike had
laughed too. His face burned. "I just lost it, I mean, you are so beautiful and I can't
believe a man like you would even look at me and I just lost it," he concluded
miserably.
"Hey, buddy, I'm not laughing at you coming like that," Mike said, his tone
consoling, as he grasped Jase's hand and pulled the man back to the couch. "One
thrust is fast, I give you that, but that's okay. Now come here."
"Why?"
Mike grinned. "Come here and give me a blow job. If you're good I may just let you
have my ass again."
"I'd rather have you have my ass," Jase murmured, looking at the fierce erection
pressing insistently at his stomach. He looked at Mike and went down.
"Oh, and that too," Mike murmured, closing his eyes in bliss when he felt Jase's
mouth closing over his tumescence.
Gentle hands shook Mike awake. He opened his eyes slightly and winced when
bright sunlight assaulted his sight. "Pull back the curtains Jase, and come back
here."
Ronan coughed. Ethan chuckled. Muttering a cuss, Mike sat up and looked around
him. "Where is Jason?"
"You're right Ethan," Ronan said, tenderly kicking away some used condoms with
the tip of his shoe. "Our birthday boy got himself a wonderful gift last night. One, two,
three, four, and I think there're two more under that
chair."
"Talk about stamina. You're going to be sore," Ethan
said, throwing Mike's jeans at him. "Get dressed. The
cleaners are here and I don't think you want them to find
you in this condition." Ethan picked up a few empty boxes
from the floor. "Mike, I gave you three packs of rubber, but
you don't have to use them all."
"Oh fuck off, both of you. Where's Jason?" Pulling on his
tights, he looked around him.
"Jason? Isn't he the guy I brought in with me last
night?" Ethan wondered.
"You fucked one of Ethan's strays?" Ronan asked. Ethan
was too self-absorbed most of the time, but he had the knack
of detecting emotionally down people for his random acts of
kindness. "God, I hope the poor man isn't jumping off the
bridge now or something."
Mike didn't hear him. All his attention was focused on
the writing on the back of his business card he found tucked
under an ashtray on the table. He read the words slowly, the
roaring in his head drowning out his awareness of anything
but the words.
"Mike, thanks for last night. You may not
know it, but you've saved me. I will
always be grateful, and I won't forget
you. J"
"Mike? You OK?" Ronan shook him gently.
Mike shook off the emotional turmoil that threatened to
rage. "I'm OK. I'm hungry. Anyone for breakfast?" he asked,
forcing himself to look like he always did, gallant, happy,
cheerful. Careful to keep the lid on his anger, a smile on
his face, he took a steadying breath.
He'd find that bastard. When he did, and he would, well,
Jason would pay. Oh yes, he'd pay.
ONE
Today
At nine o' clock in the night Michael Vartan cleared up his
desk. As was his habit, he'd straighten the plaque that read
"Michael Vartan: Credit Manager" and pile up whatever
paperwork needed to be finished in order of priority. And as
was his usual routine, he'd take up the shopping list of the
things he'd buy for his neighbors. It was his luck - or
misfortune - to be the only resident on Clinton St Heart to
be under 60 and still possess the ability to walk without
wincing from arthritis and osteoporosis. He'd bought his
stepfather the place, moved in there after his rehab to take
care of the old man, and when the old man passed away in his
sleep, Mike didn't bother to move out. He rather liked
living among these old people. They didn't make him feel
angry.
He greeted those of his colleagues that he met on his way
to the elevator. He had a smile for everyone; a greeting
that pushed buttons and probably makes him or her feel
better. An enquiry about Marsha's upcoming operation, an
early birthday greeting to John and a promise to attend his
birthday party, a nice comment to the new secretary about
her hair… sometimes he amazed himself at his seemingly
endless capability to remember things about everyone around
him. And if he was honest to himself, it wasn't something he
was proud of. The whole being-nice-to-everyone attitude
became very tiring at times. It made him look like a
complete pushover too.
He pulled the shopping list out of his pocket. He bit his
lower lip, suddenly feeling weary and fed-up with life.
Light bulbs for Mrs Smithee, six cans of tuna fish for Mr
Frost's cats, et cetera, the list was long and no one who
contributed to the list actually paid for the things he or
she wanted. Mike had to ask them for COD. He wanted to throw
things, break something - if he had an AK-47 many people
would just die, starting with…
"Oh God," he whispered, clamping down on his thoughts.
The elevator doors opened quietly. Mike looked at the
empty square space, frozen, his breathing becoming
increasingly laboured with each passing moment. He hated
violent thoughts, he had never wanted to feel any negative
thoughts if he could help it. No more, not after that day he
screwed up bad and lost his mind. He clenched his fingers,
gripping hard on his briefcase. When his breathing steadied
and his blood cooled, he found himself looking at the closed
doors of the elevator. With a steadying breath, he forced a
weak smile on his face. "Maybe you ought to walk, Michael,"
he told himself, walking towards the stairs.
The stairs were pretty deserted, as most sensible people
preferred the conveniences of modern technology. Humming to
the tune of Carly Simon's 'Let The Rivers Run', he felt
better when he reached the ninth floor. As the stairs led
straight to the basement car park, there were no other
persons using the stairs. Which was good, as Mike was sure
he couldn't be nice to anyone at the moment. He felt a
little more of his old self at the fifth floor, for despite
sweat trickling down his neck and soaking his undershirt, he
could sway a little to the tune he was humming. "'We're
comin' to the edge, runnin' on the water, we're comin'
through the fog, your sons and daughters. Let the rivers
ru-uuu-uu-uuuu-un!" he sang, then paused, as he couldn't
remember the next line. Oh well. He broke into a French nursery rhyme.
Those dear songs, he thought, as he sang the songs
he knew by rote, songs drilled into him by his grandmother in the
time when he was still a little boy in Fleur. He never
regretted coming to America when he was eighteen, but he
sometimes missed her. The dear old lady kept him in
line. Without her, in America, he ran wild, an innocent
country boy for the first time in his life given a free rein
to indulge in anything, to do anything, without any
recriminations from his strict Catholic papa and grandmother.
His Maman was a rather careless parent. There was nothing to
stop Mike from experimenting with sex and drugs, and it was
during these hellish times he discovered the demonic side of
him. After detox and rehab, he had kept away his ice-skates,
thrown away his ice-skating trophies, and started life with
a clean slate. He hadn't touched a joint or alcohol in five
years, even when the withdrawal effects in that first year
after he came clean were pure hell. He was determined to be
a new man.
In a way he had succeeded, Mike mused. He had new
friends, friends who stood by him in thin times. He played
pool with them, he learnt poker from them, and a few of them
supported the Mets like he did. His life was stable. And he
had made sure, so hard, that he never felt angry. He never
wanted to feel angry again. It scared even himself the
things he could do when he lost his temper.
Ethan had slipped him a card the other day. "Go see Doc,"
the man said, referring to his lover who was a shrink. "You
need help."
No, he need not any help. So what if he was a little
moody, his barbs became slightly more sarcastic and bitter?
He hadn't lost his temper when the guys teased him about his
crankiness. His life was okay, perfect even. He had even
forgotten that man who walked out on him a couple of months
back. The sex wasn't even good. Mike sighed. Okay, the man's
name was Jason. It was five months back and thirteen days.
If truth be told, he couldn't remember if the sex was good,
for all he could remember was holding Jason's face in his
hands, the both of them laughing, and the pleasure Mike felt
when he saw the sadness in Jason's eyes faded somewhat (that
made Mike feel like a king, a god who could do anything). So
what if he'd blown up three months' worth of paycheck in
private investigator fees to find the elusive Jason? He
wasn't Prince Charming chasing after Cinderella, hell; he
hadn't even a glass slipper of a clue how to look for Jason.
Which was why he thought he was hallucinating when Jason
came into his view, mopping the stairs, wearing a cleaner's
overalls.
Mike almost dropped his briefcase. He caught himself,
hanging on to the railing, when the strength in his legs
evaporated. He just stood there, struck dumb, bereft of his
faculties. The first thing he felt when rational thought
returned what seemed centuries later was keen
disappointment. Jason wasn't that beautiful. In fact, he
could walk pass Mike in the street, and Mike wouldn't give
him a second look. It was too late, however, for him, for
even now he could feel the imprints of Jason's hands and
mouth as if burning on every inch of his body. He couldn't
understand it - Jason was supposed to be nothing more than a
diversion. He hated his intense reaction to this man even
after months had passed, hated him for daring to come back
into his life when Mike had almost gotten over him.
"Hello Jason," he said, surprised by his calm voice.
Inside, he was struggling hard to control his emotions. It
terrified him, this wild turmoil of immense joy mingled with
a need to make Jason hurt and angry like Jason did Mike.
Jason froze, and looked up. Mike couldn't help feeling a
surge of satisfaction as Jason's face paled. The man, in
fact, took on a hunted expression. Those hands went limp,
letting the mop fall to the floor with a clatter.
"Mike?" the man said in a stunned voice.
"Oh come on, don't look like that. It's a bit extreme of
a reaction to seeing the man you walked out on months
before." Mike walked towards the man. "I didn't know you
work here."
"Oh, oh no, I just started working here." Jason bent to
pick up the fallen mop, and Mike hated himself for glancing
at the stretching of the other man's trousers over those
buttocks. They looked as good as he remembered, and those
memories were slowly coming back. "Actually I'm now employed
by a professional cleaning team," Jason explained. "I come
here around seven every Tuesday and Friday and do some
general cleaning."
"Lucky for me I worked late tonight then." Mike grinned,
and watched Jason retreated slightly. Perhaps he looked a
little predatory, vengeful, out for blood. He didn't care.
"Not every day a man walks away from my bed."
"I was sure you'll forget me," Jason said, looking at the
floor. "I'm surprised you remember me."
Mike seized the man's hands, ignoring Jason's exclamation
of surprise, and pressed them to his chest. "How can I
forget you? Feel this? I can feel your hands on me, on this
exact spot, even after five months. Five fucking months!
You've marked me, branded me with your touch. How the fuck
can I forget?" he said, aware that his voice was rising
beyond his control, but not caring. It felt good to shout.
Jason struggled to break free. "You're crazy."
"If I'm crazy you wouldn't be standing here. I'd have
pinned you to the ground, taking you right here regardless
of who will catch us. I would have had you, and I'd fuck you
until you can't even get up. I'd fuck you until I get every
bloody drop of you out of my system, and then I'd fuck you
some more. So God help me, just be glad that I'm not crazy.
You don't want me crazy."
Jason felt panic as he stared at the wild-eyed man holding
him in an iron grip, his terrified mind couldn't reconcile
this feral, almost crazed man with the gentle, laughing man
who saved his soul. That man actually bared his teeth, just
like an enraged rottweiler out for blood. Survival instinct
took over. Jason purposely fell back, as if his legs had
given way. When Mike loosened his grip to steady them both,
Jason slammed his knee into the man's groin. Mike grunted,
doubled over in agony. Freed, Jason stepped back, reaching
into his pocket for his pocketknife.
He held the pocketknife before him. "Stay back."
Mike was still on the floor, doubled over, hands
clutching his balls. Jason began edging towards the door,
hoping Carlos, his work buddy was nearby to be summoned for
help. Yet… yet… he might have gone crazy himself, for he was
filled with concern that he'd injured that man.
"That's a good trick." Mike looked up after a thousand
heartbeats; Jason took a step back. The transformation was
almost eerie in its abruptness - Mike's eyes were now clear
of the crazed rage that burned earlier. The man smiled,
those dimples deepening into appealing grooves. Jason didn't
know what to think. Perhaps this was how victims of Ted
Bundy felt like seconds before their death.
"Carlos," he started to cry out. "Carlos, help!"
Mike shook his head. "Oh stop the hysterics. I won't hurt
you." He placed a finger at Jason's lips. "Hush. I won't
hurt you. I've never hurt anybody." In five years, but Mike
would never tell Jason that. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry love.
Ssssh."
Jason wanted to believe him. A part of him, that foolish
beating heart, did. "I've gotta go," he croaked.
Mike just stood there. He didn't stop Jason from picking
up the mop and pail. Jason turned to look back when he was
safely out the door, and his heart broke when he saw Mike,
the man's head against the wall, not moving. His heart
broke.
Foolish, dumb heart.
2
"You should've told me Mike works there," Jason Teresi told
the man sitting on his desk. "I would've asked someone to
fill in for me."
Ethan looked around the man's small, rather shabby room.
Jason rented a room in an apartment belonging to an old
couple. The room might be small, but the many, many things
it contained made it look even more cramped. Ethan noted two
bookshelves on one wall, filled to the brim with science
fiction and fantasy novels, and there were more books in
boxes in a corner of the room as well. A computer hooked up
to a modem rested on a small table, surrounded by some
novels, entertainment magazines, and a family photo. With
the bed and cupboard fighting for space as well, it was a
wonder how Jason could find space for the desk Ethan was
sitting on, a desk-with-cabinet affair that housed a small
CD player, TV, phone, and a small selection of new age CDs.
The room was very neat, however. Ethan never could
understand neat people.
He turned his attention to his new friend. "Believe me,
it didn't cross my mind Mike will remember you, no offense,"
he said, may Doc forgive him for lying. It was well known to
those close to Mike that that poor man wasn't the same since
the big three-oh. Brian suggested that perhaps the
continuous (and unnatural, in his opinion) happy-la-la
behavior had driven poor Mike bonkers, a case of premature
senility. Ethan, however, remembered Jason and wondered. The
fact that Mike lost control today when he met Jason made one
pause and think.
"None taken." Jason said it so matter-of-factly that
Ethan frowned. True, Jason was rather plain, but there was a
really distant don't-touch-me air around him that someone
like Mike might found challenging. "It's just that he seems
crazy."
"He is crazy." Ethan watched the play of emotions on
Jason's face. That man's eyes couldn't hide anything, Ethan
thought, watching confusion reign in Jason's eyes. "Always
going around saying nice things and doing nice things for
everybody. I'd say it's creepy. I'm always trying to get him
mad just to see if he can feel anything but Barney
feelings."
"Trust me, when he's mad it's not a pleasant thing to be
in his vicinity."
A cleaner who used the word 'vicinity'. Ethan made a
mental note to ask around for Jason's background. "He didn't
hurt you, did he?" he asked, couldn't really imagining Mike
killing a bug.
Jason rubbed his wrists. "Not even a bruise." Mike was
all bark, no bite. So far. He didn't want to find out how
far that theory went. "Still, I don't know." He shut his
eyes, remembering the man's rage, the barely restrained
violence superimposed with the soft touch of him, the feel
of his fingers running down his spine, that soft tender
voice whispering love words in French that growl
threatening violence. "Oh Ethan, I'm so confused. He really
was angry that I walked out on him. Could it be I've hurt
him that much? It was only one night."
Ethan thought of Mike's brooding look when the man
thought no one was looking, of Mike's increasing absence
from social events. "Well, like you said, it was only one
night. But I fell in love in one night too, so I'm biased.
Maybe he fell for you that night. How do you feel about
him?"
Jason shook his head as if trying to shake off a mist of
confusion from his mind. "I don't know. I really don't
know."
Ethan looked at the man, feeling some reluctant pity. He
knew what Jason was feeling. "Maybe you should stay away
from him until you've made up your mind." He decided to
change the topic. "So, you thought about signing up with the
volunteer playhouse program yet? It'll be good to practice
those acting skills I'm teaching you in night class."
Jason received the flowers the next day after he and Carlos
came back to the HQ after a long day of cleaning up a
morgue. "You lucky bastard," his boss said, clapping him in
the back, "Got some flowers for you. Clara is holding them
for you."
They were daffodils, six of them, wrapped in crinkly
shiny paper. Probably fancy florist stuff, he decided,
opening the envelope and reading the card. Sorry, forgive
me? Mike. Just his luck, when someone actually felt some
interest in him, that someone had to be borderline psycho.
Jason made to throw the daffodils into the trash bin, and
then hesitated. Why was he so afraid? He lifted the
daffodils to his nose. No one had actually given him
anything before, and he felt reluctance to throw these
flowers away.
"Hey, who gave you these flowers?" Carlos asked when they
came out of the shower, the scent of corpses washed off by
soap and talc.
"A nutcase," Jason said, pulling on a clean shirt.
He felt the resurgence of fear, however, when he stepped
out of the HQ to see the psycho in question leaning against
his Mercedes. Mike straightened when he saw him, and flashed
that brilliant smile while - perhaps instinctively -
straightening his bowtie. Jason felt the painful tug of
yearning in his heart, as he took in the sight of Mike in
black tux and white shirt, the monotony relieved by dark
violet bowtie and a bright red wrap around the waist. He
looked exactly like one of those models from GQ.
He'd read somewhere that moonlight hid all flaws and
memory erased them. Now, seeing Mike again, he could agree
to that statement. Mike was handsome, yes, in a golden
all-rounder way, but Jason could see subtle signs of Mike's
recovering from emaciation. The body was a little too thin
to be considered hale or hearty, but the eyes were the
worst. Too brilliant in their glitter, their intensity was
almost painful to see.
"It's unnatural to force yourself to be this cheerful
when you don't feel it," Jason said, and then gasped when he
realized he'd said his thoughts aloud.
Mike's smile didn't waver. "If that's so maybe you can be
the one to teach me the way to break that habit." He opened
the front door. "Get in."
"I'll take the bus," Jason said, retreating.
"Oh come on, I'm not going to go crazy and murder you.
I'm just taking you to dinner." Mike gestured into the car.
"Come on, just dinner. You owe me that much."
"I owe you? What nonsense!"
"What must I do to get you into the car?" Mike screwed up
his face in an exaggerated expression of puzzlement and deep
thought. Jason couldn't help it; he felt his lips tug into
a smile. "There, you see, you're smiling. That's good, isn't
it? Now be a good boy and step into my parlor, err, car."
He'd probably regret this, but he asked anyway, "Where
are we going?"
"I'm planning on keeping it a surprise, but I don't think
that's wise under the circumstances. We're going to the
Grove at Bleecker Street, where they have these wonderful
Maine salmon. Come on dear. I have a table reserved for us
both."
Mike's good cheer was infectious. Jason just couldn't go
back to his cramped room and eat pizza alone. Maybe Ethan
was right; maybe he should relax a little and enjoy life.
How more fun could life be by eating salmon with a psycho?
He took a deep breath - he would probably regret this - and
stepped into the car.
Mike closed the door and walked around to his side of the
car. The first thing he did after switching on the ignition
was to remove an automatic from the compartment and handed
it to Jason. Jason eyed the weapon, stunned.
"Take it. If my eyes turn red and smoke emerges from my
nostrils, use it on me. C'mon, I know you'll feel more
comfortable with me with this darling in your pockets or
something. I don't blame you, but I rather want you feeling
comfortable with me tonight."
Jason opened the compartment, and shoved the weapon back
inside. "You're fucking crazy, you know that? Brandishing
that gun in my face will not make me comfortable." He inched
as far away from the man, feeling the interior of the car
closing in around him. "I hope it's registered."
"I think it is. I sort of borrowed it from a friend who's
in security business. They probably have their guns
registered all the time." Mike turned to Jason. "Look, I
know you think I'm some sort of madman. I'm not. I'll be
grateful if you'll let me explain things to you over dinner.
Maybe you'll like me better to let me take you out on a
second date. If you don't trust me to behave in a public
place, there's always the automatic."
Somehow Jason couldn't find it in his heart to disappoint
this man. Not when Mike looked at him, expression boyishly
earnest. It was terrifying to realize it would be hard to
say no to him.
"So that is where you live," Mike said as they walked down
the stairs. "You know, there is much more room in Clinton
Street Heart, which is where I live by the way."
Jason felt the back of his neck itch where it was in
contact with the starched collar of his shirt. He hadn't
worn his single suit in years, ever since he left the
Roseate think-tank and there was no more chaos conference
to attend. Funny, he'd never thought of those years he'd
spent secluded with other chaos specialists, when his days
were then filled with complicated problem-solving and
never-ending computer simulation works. He had always
believed he hated those days, but now he could feel a twinge
of nostalgia too. It wasn't as bad as he'd imagined, he now
realized. He did enjoy his work somewhat.
"Why are you smiling?" Mike opened the car door for him,
a veritable gentleman.
"About my old job. I was a chaos specialist." Jason
pulled on the safety belt around him.
"Really?" Mike cast him a disbelieving glance as he
started the Merc. "You're a scientist?"
"I was a child genius." Strange, it felt good to talk
about his past. "I got my Ph. D. in Physics when I was
eighteen, and I moved straight from MIT to Roseate soon
after. I studied chaos and order in randomness for seven
years, got a nervous breakdown last year, and now I'm a
cleaning fellow. My life story."
"Wow. I never imagined. You, a scientist," said Mike.
"You know, I barely passed college. I was more interested in
baseball, skating, and playing pool."
"I always thought you were the golden
valedictorian-type."
"Must be my looks huh?" Mike looked at Jason and ran a
finger along the man's cheek. He felt the man shiver
slightly; good, Mike wanted Jason to feel like him at the
moment, almost rabid with barely restrained lust. Just
touching him now, the feel of the smooth warm skin almost
drove him out of his mind. Somehow Jason could make him go
out of control when no one could. Jason tested his
restraint. And damn it, it felt good to lose control with
Jason. Yet Mike knew stopping the car and forcing himself on
Jason wasn't exactly civilized gentleman behavior.
Especially after he had vowed to be Mr Polite and Sensitive.
Oh yes, he had no doubt he could make Jason want it too, but
hell, it would probably scare that man away afterwards.
What was Jason so afraid of?
Undoubtedly of his loss of control the other day, and
Mike, for the millionth time, cursed his lapse. He had
always been so careful, so restrained to keep whatever
impulses he had in check. He could blame his insane loss of
control on his surprise at seeing Jason, yet even now, when
he'd spent an hour telling himself to control himself, be
nice and friendly and polite and goddamned pleasant, before
his meeting with Mike, he was still having a hard time
keeping his need in check. When he saw Jason in tuxedo, the
beautiful contrast of black on white, he was reminded
forcibly of Jason's beauty, the passion the man responded
with to Mike's touch, and it was all Mike could do not to
drool.
"Not really. It's just that you're so brilliant,
charming. Everyone must like you in school." Jason said it
almost bitterly, remembering his own schooldays. He never
had any more than one or two friends, and even those were
intellectual partners, fellow nerds who were just as
socially inept and self-absorbed as he.
"Not really. I was a good Catholic kid, raised by my
strict father and grandmother to be good and pious. They did
it too well, I'm afraid, to an extent that even I couldn't
stand myself." Mike chuckled. "I was a boring kid too afraid
to do anything. I just sat there in the back of the class."
"So did I." He wanted so much to blend into the
wallpaper; so afraid the teacher would call him to answer a
question, in fear that his classmates would further avoid
him. "I was too smart, an eight year old in a class of
fifteen year olds. Not exactly an ideal study environment."
"I can imagine. They probably bullied you silly," said
Mike. "Me, I couldn't wait to graduate. I was eighteen, and
never been out of Fleur, my hometown in France - did I tell
you that? No? Anyway there I was, an eighteen year-old
virgin who never had a date. When my mother - who lived in
Manhattan, still do today, after divorcing my Papa - invited
me to move over to America, I jumped plane the earliest
opportunity."
"I bet you got laid immediately after," Jason said,
biting his tongue from sounding bitter. He thought of all
those men who probably graced Mike's bed with regular
frequency, and hated himself for wanting to kill every one
of them with his bare hands. He couldn't bare the thought of
Mike looking at some faceless stranger the way he looked at
Jason that night, the way that made Jason feel as if, for
once in his life, he was loved, that he belonged. "And had
the time of your life enjoying America."
"Oh yes I did. The first thing I did upon landing from
the plane was to buy a pack of Marlboros and almost choked
to death trying to smoke. I went to college, took up figure
skating, became professional when I graduated, and generally
enjoyed life. Drugs, sex, you name it, I've done it." Mike
made a turn. "Believe me, Jase, when I say the wild life is
overrated. I woke up one day and realized I had to go
straight, and here I am, gainfully employed, an exemplary
citizen (I have a green card, I can show it to you if you
want), and have no longer any major vices apart from poker,
pool, and watching baseball. I'll make a perfect husband,
don't you think?"
Jason's heart stopped, he could swear it did. "Is that a
proposal?" It couldn't be, of course. Don't be silly.
"If you want to think of it as a proposal, feel free to
say yes. I'm willing if you're willing."
Mike didn't touch Jason, but Jason could feel every part
of him so aware of the man beside him: Mike's latent desire,
the man's sheer masculinity, the danger. "Why?" he couldn't
help asking. "Why me?"
"I don't know," Mike answered honestly. "I really don't
know. Look, I'm not sure what I want from you. I know I
shouldn't tell you this, but I actually want to take you to
the Grove and see you embarrass yourself when you don't know
how to use the correct fork and spoon. I intend to take you
to a party afterwards and make you miserable by ignoring you
and letting the other guests laugh at your gaucheness. I
want to see you humiliated. Now, don't look at me that way
dear. I don't intend to carry them out. Not if you tell me
why you walk out on me that day."
How humiliating to think Mike actually wanted his
presence at dinner for just that, his presence. Jason
couldn't even muster up the anger at this man. "It's okay if
you bring me out here just to play some stupid revenge act
on me. I'm used to it. Oh well, I guess you have the right
to know why I left. It's because I'm afraid. I actually am
terrified that you'll see me in the morning and say that you
took me because you were drunk, or turn away and treat the
whole thing as a one-night-stand. I'd rather walk away."
"That's ridiculous!" Mike exclaimed. "You mean you walk
away because you think I'll dump you the morning after?"
Seeing Jason's who-are-you-kidding expression, he sighed.
"Okay, I don't blame you. You're probably one of those
people who never could let anyone close to them. Horrible
childhood and all that. Oprah said that, if I'm not
mistaken. We'll have to work at that."
"'We'? You mean…?"
"Yeah, I mean we. You and me, going out on dates and get
to know each other better, that's what I mean. If you like,
we'll go traditional and kiss only after the third date,
though I don't see why since we've already done more than
kiss. I'm good at dates. I'm good at making people happy."
Mike grinned. "You'll be the luckiest man on earth."
"What an ego," Jason muttered.
"But you're smiling. See? I made you smile."
"I'm not smiling! I'm sneering. That's a different
thing!" Jason fought to keep his mouth in a grim line.
"Besides, I think I should tell you that I do know my table
etiquette. Let's see if I remember. Ah yes. Fork positioned
at eleven o' clock to let the waiter know you've finished
the meal. Hold fork in left hand, tines downward, while
cutting the meat. After the meat is cut, put the knife down
on the plate, transfer fork to right hand. However, since
you're half-French and I'm half-Italian, we can use the
European style in that the fork can be held in the left hand
throughout except while cutting, in which the
abovementioned…"
"Hold it! Give me a break. Are you quoting from Miss
Manners?" Mike shook his head ruefully. "Serves me right,
you probably have better table manners than me. Me, I use
the European style because I'm left-handed, simple as that."
"Actually when I was a scientist I had to learn table
etiquette. Scientists do a lot of dinners to impress out
grant donors. That's why I bought the suit too, though it
cost me a bomb."
Mike looked around him and made another turn. "Jase, do
you really wanna go to the Grove?"
"What do you have in my mind?"
"Well, we could get a couple of Big Macs and play pool."
"I can't play pool."
"I'll teach you. It's just shafts and balls and holes.
You'll be great in it." Mike picked up the mobile phone and
dialed the Grove's number. "Now watch the road for me while
I cancel our reservation."
Jason decided not to point out that he hadn't actually
agreed to play pool. A pity, for he was looking forward to
some smoked salmons. However, Mike would undoubtedly make up
for it. When Mike was being the way he was now, it was so
easy to forget the violence Mike was possible of.
3
Jeremy Northam watched in satisfaction as he sent another
ball into a hole with deadly accuracy. Stephen Gately
rolled up his eyes in boredom, for he had been standing
there watching his friend play pool for the better half of
the hour while he himself managed to hit a ball only once or
twice. Pool was so over-rated, he decided, and resigned
himself to watching Jeremy clear the table and make him $50
poorer by the end of the night. Next time, he'd sit down and
watch 'The Sound of Music' for the sixth time and die before
he'd try his hand at pool again.
"Pool sucks. If I want fun I'd go to a real pool and ogle
the lifeguard," he declared, making his way to the drink
machine.
"Well, well, look who's here? Mr Popularity has brought a
date," Jeremy said, straightening up. "Hey Mike!" he called
to the man who just walked into Lazly Den's Pool House.
"Glad you're here. Steo here can't play to save his life.
Care to go a few rounds?"
"Mr Popularity huh?" Mike carelessly threw his suit to a
chair. He unbuttoned his cuffs and picked up a cue stick.
"Sure, I'd love to trash your ass, Mr British Gentleman, but
I have to teach my dear friend here today the joys of pool."
Jason watched Mike greet his friends. It was becoming a
rather familiar feeling to have people's backs turning to
him once they'd found someone more interesting to talk to.
Only this time the humiliation and feeling of abandonment
were ten times worse because Mike said he wouldn't turn his
back to him. He racked his brain trying to think of
something witty to say, to make these guys notice him, but
as usual, his cursed brain froze on him. To his horror,
tears threatened to well in his eyes. It hurt. He'd think
after years of being ignored in crowds he'd be used to it,
but damn it, this time it hurt. He took a step back, blindly
towards the exit.
An arm sneaked around his waist. "Hey, hey, love, where
do you think you're going?" Mike's grin was like the sun
warming his heart. "Come here and meet my friends."
Jason had to swallow a sob of relief. Absurd really, he
was being melodramatic. He tried to shake off his
ridiculously overwrought emotions, but Mike was there,
blocking him from the view of his friends. "You're supposed
to be the smart one here, Jase," Mike whispered. "You think
I'm going to be like those other people?" Oh, he knew Jason
well. Jason nodded, feeling like a small child. When Mike's
finger wiped a sole tear from his cheeks, he knew he was
doomed.
"I'm OK. Let's meet your friends," he said, trying to
regain his equilibrium.
Stephen felt like a sleazy voyeur. "You feel like a sleazy
voyeur?" he asked Jeremy.
"I feel like a sleazy voyeur," Jeremy concurred. "Look at
them. Tsk tsk. Damn, I need a man of my own."
"Here, you need to balance yourself properly," Mike told
Jason, "come on, buddy, you're a physicist. You should
understand when I say geometry is everything, coupled with
the right momentum. Bend a little, hitch up here a little."
Jason couldn't breath. Mike's hands seemed to be
everywhere on his body, on his back, along his hips, on his
arms. It was all he could do to see from the red haze of
arousal surrounding his senses. And the bastard knew it too;
Jason could hear the glee in the other man's voice. And
those cunning hands, damn them, they knew what they were
doing. When Mike stood behind him, supposedly to help him
aim the cue, Jason would feel the man's erection pressing
into his back. When those hands danced on his body, the
fingers tracing his knuckles lightly, running along his
thighs here, teasingly dancing along his buttocks there, it
was all Jason could not to throw Mike off in fear of his own
sanity. When Mike breathed down his neck, slowly, almost
lingeringly loving, Jason could smell the talc the man had
on. It was all he could do not to throw Mike onto the pool
table and sexually assault that man. He bit his lower lip
from moaning. He couldn't help it; he thrust his hips onto
the side of the wooden table, the pressing of his erection
into the smooth surface hardly a relief of his urgent
arousal.
Without his arms on the table, he might have crumpled
right onto the floor when Mike abruptly removed his
presence, for his legs seemed to have lost all their
strength.
Mike didn't look too pleased; in fact he looked
positively frustrated when one of his friends - Jeremy -
came to stand beside Jason while Stephen stood between Mike
and Jason. Probably on purpose.
"So, Mike told us you were a scientist once. Chaos, am I
right?" Jeremy said, sharpening his cue.
"Yeah." Without Mike hovering over him, Jason could think
clearer a little, although his awareness of Mike was always
in the periphery of his thoughts. He sent the white ball
flying across the table and winced when it hit the far edge
and ricocheted off into a hole. Ouch. "Actually I quitted
sometime last year."
"He got a job as a cleaner," Mike interrupted. "You still
want that game?"
"Sure!" Jeremy smiled. "You're on,"
"What the hell are you doing trying to cozen up to Jase?"
Mike demanded.
"Excuse me? I'm just trying to be nice to your friend.
Quite a shy guy, isn't he? Doesn't say much." Jeremy looked
at Mike's face. He had known Mike for a few years now, and
coupled with his professional ability to read people well,
he could see that Mike was boiling. Mike wore a pleasant
facade, as usual, but there was tightening around the mouth,
a darkening of those brilliant eyes, and whitening of
knuckles around the cue stick. "Mike, don't tell me you
seriously think I'm poaching on your territory."
"I've seen you sweet talk guys. And just now you're
positively oozing honey. I will not have it. He is mine."
Mike's smile was almost feral, and juxtaposed with his
pleasant tone, the effect was eerie. "And I will fucking
hurt you if you even think otherwise."
"Relax, buddy. He's not my type anyway. A little too shy
and quiet. I like a little more life in my men." Jeremy
tapped the pool table. "Besides, I think he is rather
plain-looking."
"Oh yes, he is," Mike agreed. Let everyone think Jason
was plain. Then no one would try to take that man from him.
Good Lord, he was sounding positively barbaric. Next he
would be stealing chastity belts from museum to lock Jason
in them. He looked at where Jason and Steo were talking. He
scowled; Steo was leaning a little too close for Mike's
liking, and if Steo touched Jason… Good Lord. Since when was
he turning all territorial and irrational? He was losing his
hard-earned control and becoming the drunkard, fucked-up
druggie he was half a decade back, and damned if he wasn't
terrified of going back into that hell.
No, get a grip on yourself, he told himself. He would not
give in to his inner demons. He would bloody well be Mr Nice
Guy even if it killed him.
He caught Jeremy looking at Jason and wondered whether
the gleam in Jeremy's eyes were anything sexual in nature.
Mike couldn't allow that. No one messed with Jason except
him, at least until he was done with Jason. Then, maybe
Jeremy could have him. Maybe.
"Tell you what," he said, "let's start the game. I win,
you'll stay the hell away from Jason."
"And if I win?" Jeremy asked, totally enjoying himself.
Mike was showing some strained feelings tonight, and truth
be told, it was rather a relief to discover the man capable
of darker emotions apart from Barney-esque lovey-dovey
pleasantness.
"You won't."
Now that was a challenge. Mike was the best pool player
among Jeremy's acquaintances, and Jeremy always enjoyed a
challenge. "If I win" - which he wouldn't, he was sure, so
what the hell - "I'll get to ask Jason to watch that new
Hugh Grant and Julia Roberts movie with me. He's free to
decline, of course."
Mike's jaw ticked. No way, no fucking way now would he
even allow Jeremy to touch his cue. He'd fucking clear the
table. "You're on."
"Did you enjoy yourself tonight?" Mike asked as he inserted
his key into the Merc door key slot. He didn't turn the key,
however, he waited for the other man's answer.
Jason shoved both his hands into his suit pockets, as if
the night chill was getting to him badly. The act made him
oddly vulnerable to Mike. Damn, he was confused. His
feelings for this man oscillated from perverse amusement at
making Jason uncomfortable to uncontrollable, almost violent
arousal upon each contact. And this confusion made him feel
weak and unsure of himself. How could this shy, socially
awkward man made him, an old pro at controlling his
emotions, feel so off base? And worse, Mike should hate this
feeling of insecurity. Instead he enjoyed the feeling. On
one hand he was afraid of being the weak, abusive man he
once was, yet oh, how glorious it was to actually feel
something - anything - other than enforced cheerfulness.
When Jason said, "Yes I did, Mike. Thank you" Mike
suddenly wanted to talk, to tell Jason the story of his
whole sad life.
He removed the key and placed the key ring into his
pocket. "Come on, let's walk around for a while. I'm not in
the mood to go home."
"It's 3 a.m.!" Jason said, a token protest really. Mike
gave an impatient humph and took his hand in his, and Jason
followed.
"Beautiful night isn't it?" Mike said, not caring that
the night sky wasn't really starry or bright. "I wanna talk
to you."
"I figured as much."
"How come you're so eloquent and tartly when you're with
me? I don't see you getting on your insolent act when you're
smooching up with Steo and Jeremy," Mike said in exasperated
disgust. "You know what? I think your geek thing is all an
act."
"Maybe because you bring out the worst in me," Jason shot
back.
"I think it's because you're comfortable with me. I think
you like me. A lot."
That was becoming too close to the truth for comfort.
Jason stumbled, trying to change the topic. "What do wanna
talk about, apart from me liking you a lot?"
"Well, I hope you don't mind listening to me talk about
me. It's not really my favorite topic, but I feel like
talking about me."
Mike didn't stop walking, instead his paces increased.
"Slow down Mike," he said softly. "You've come to the right
place. I've been alone so long narcissism is my specialty."
"OK, this is going to sound downright corny, but if you
just say the word, you won't have to be alone." Mike halted.
"I read that from a book."
"You're nuts." Jason made to turn, then froze when he
felt a knifepoint at his back.
"Shit," Mike hissed.
"Give me your money, come on," came a gruff voice. Jason
inched his neck around a little to see a man pointing a
knife at his back. The mugger's arm came around his throat,
choking him. "Give me your money now!" the man yelled.
There was no one else around the deserted lane they were
in. "OK, buddy, I'm doing exactly as you say," Mike said,
his voice calm, as he removed his wallet.
"Throw it to the ground," the mugger ordered, "and take
off that watch too. And that mobile phone in your pocket as
well."
"Whatever you say. Just let my friend go, OK?"
The mugger bent to pick up the objects Mike had thrown
onto the ground, dragging Jason along. Jason choked,
coughing as that arm tightened around his throat. "Now
that's a Rolex," the mugger said in satisfaction as he
pocketed them. "Fuckin' yuppie fags."
Jason gave a choked cry as the mugger shoved him towards
Mike. The blade cut through his shoulder lightly, drawing a
thin line of blood to soak through his shirt.
Mike saw the blood pooling on Jason's shirt, and saw red.
The mugger had just signed his death warrant. With a roar of
anger he pounced, leaping onto the startled man and ramming
him to the ground. "You sonovabitch!" he snarled, grabbing
the man by his hair and slamming his face onto the hard
road. Nobody hurt what was his. No-fucking-body. He smashed
the man's face onto the ground again, and again, and would
have done it again if Jason's fearful shouts finally
penetrated his mind. He then realized the man underneath him
wasn't really moving. He saw the blood of blood and winced.
Thankfully the mugger still had a pulse.
"Call 911," he said, not looking at Jason. He felt so
damned weary, and looking at Jason's panicked and terrified
expression would only drive him insane.
Jason burrowed into his sheets, couldn't sleep. Thankfully
the next day was Sunday and he needn't spend a sleepless day
trying to clean up toilets. If the physical nature of the
job wasn't enjoyable, and the pressures wasn't negligible,
he'd probably still be dipping into his bank account and
living a life of idleness. So what if it was a rather boring
job? His social life was just as boring. He was a sorry
state when it came to the fun department. A nice charming
man breezed into his life and he turned out to be borderline
psycho. Jason kept seeing in his mind Mike's face as he
smashed the mugger into the ground - feral, almost devoid of
humanity. Jason would've accepted it if Mike exhibited any
remorse or panic, but no, Mike was as calm as the sea when
NY's finest came and brought them both to the police HQ.
That man answered questions rationally, calmly, the way he
transformed from enraged beast to civilized model citizen
with such ruthless efficiency was terrifying. Jason had
almost forgotten about Mike's darker nature, lulled by the
pleasant night out, until he saw it again. Now he was
afraid. He wanted Mike, the good pleasant Mike, without the
darkness attached. Now that he'd found a person who made him
laugh, he was reluctant to let him go, even knowing the
dangerous man Mike could be. His mind screamed at him to
forget Mike, his heart wanted him to take Mike regardless of
consequences. Good God, he was turning masochistic.
If it was one thing he'd learnt in his twenty-eight years
was that solitude was comforting. He had learnt to be so
comfortable being alone. Watching movies alone, going on the
mIRC at night accompanied only by his favorite radio
station. Perhaps in a few months he'd get used to being
alone again after this episode. Right now he felt sick.
The phone rang. "Can you come talk to me?" Mike said over
the phone. "I'm outside, on the main porch."
"Mike? What happened? The police…?" Jase, despite his best judgement, felt his
spirit soar. He hadn't seen Mike for a day and damn if he didn't actually miss the
man's presence.
"They let me out. Ruled it as self-defense. I managed to
get my lawyer pal to get me out as soon as possible. I want to talk to you, please.
Can you
come down? Please?"
Mike's voice was different. Gone was the persuasive
charm, for this time Mike sounded broken, pleading even.
"Mike, I need time to think. I'm confused."
"Oh don't start playing the role of the offended,
cowardly I-need-space-I-must-think Miss with me. Listen, I
got the automatic with me now. You don't come down in five
minutes, I'll splatter my brain all over the floor."
"Don't joke with me now!" Jason yelled.
"Am I joking? Come on, you think I can kill. Why won't I
shoot myself?"
Mike was fucking nuts, Jason thought as he raced down the
stairs three minutes later. Fuckfuckfuck! He'd kill Mike
himself.
He found Mike sitting on the floor, back against the
doorway. "Oh Mike," he whispered, feeling his own heart
shattering. It was a shock to see Mike's face. Gone was the
vibrancy, the joie de vivre, leaving behind a weary and
bitter man. Mike tried to give a weak smile, and failed.
"You see Jase, I can't fake it when I'm with you. I can't
pretend to be happy. Not when I'm with you. I'm so fucking
miserable," he said, thumping the back of his head against
the wall. "You make me want to be honest with you. And my
brand of honesty scares you away. So tell me, what shall we
do now?"
"Where's your gun?" Jason sat on the second staircase.
"You're not really going to shoot yourself, are you?"
"Nah, no offense, but you're not really worth dying for.
I'd rather live for you. There, I've said it." Mike gave a
laugh of self-derision. "I'm in love with you. I think I
always have been since I first saw you. Shut up and listen,
Jase. I love you because you're so… you. You make me laugh
when no one else can. I make everyone laugh, no big deal, but you, only you make
me laugh and that's reason enough for me not to let you go. I can't forget you, I don't
want to
live without you, and I want to be with you until the day I
breathe my last." Mike closed his eyes wearily. "I hate
this, you know. I don't like the way you challenge my sense
of control. If I'm not careful I'll become the man I once
was."
Jason kept silent. He sensed Mike wanted to talk, and for
once, Jason was willing to listen.
"Yes, Jase, you're right to be afraid. I once beat a man
who was my lover. Bad. I broke six of his ribs and shattered
both his wrists, because he happened to say something I
found offensive. He was unconscious when the NYPD blue-coats
broke down the door." Mike gave a broken sob, but waved away
Jason when he made to move towards him. "Just listen, OK?
You have the right to know me. I am a monster. Sometimes I
feel so mad and I'll do things, things I'll regret and
things that can destroy others. When I beat up that
motherfucker who knifed you, I actually liked it. I wanted
to kill him for hurting you. There. I've said it. I'm a
potential spouse beater if you accept me."
"Oh Mike." Jason buried his face in his hands. "Please
don't do this to yourself."
"Do what? Tell you the truth? That's the truth, Jase my
love. I know you won't believe me when I say I'd shoot
myself before I hurt you. You don't trust me. I read in
self-help book trust is very important in a relationship,
and I guess that's what we lack. That's okay. We barely
know each other." Mike rose unsteadily to his feet, shaking
off Jason's attempt to help him steady himself. "So I'll
give you a chance to say no to me. Next Saturday I'll attend
Ethan's party - oh, he's celebrating his first anniversary
with his shrink doctor - and I'll be there until midnight.
If you want me, you'll be there. You don't show up, that's
okay too. Now I'm off to get some sleep. It's your game now
Jase."
"Mike wait, damn it!" Jason called, but Mike didn't look
back.
And Jason couldn't make himself run after the man.
4
"What do you mean you're not coming to my anniversary
party?" Ethan Hawke said. "You have a death wish, pal?"
"I just can't make it, okay? I'm working late tonight."
Jason was never good at lying, and he was certain Ethan
could catch the nervous catch in his voice.
"Rubbish. You know you should come. Some big shot stage
people are around, and it is to your advantage to know them
well if you want some decent stage work in the future. So
I'll get someone to pick you up around eight. Remember, I'm
holding a masked ball. Get a decent costume okay?"
Great, another masked ball. Jason couldn't take it,
especially when all he wanted to do was to go run up to Mike
and take what the man was offering. He wanted to move far
away, get a restraining order, and change his locks. Damn,
he was all confused and unsure of what to do. He couldn't
reconcile the Mike he thought he knew with the Mike who was
capable of violence. He looked at his wrist, remembering the
tight hold of Mike around his wrist, hard but never
bruising. The way Jason teased him glibly, yet Mike never
responded rudely, much less aggressively. Mike who treated
everyone with patience and magnanimity. Mike who spoke
French words softly, tenderly as he touched Jason in ways of
heaven. And Mike, who was arrested years ago for battering
his lover almost to death. Jason had browsed through the
library newspaper archive, and saw the newspaper article,
complete with a photo of Mike in handcuffs, face
inscrutable. The man was sentenced eight years behind bars,
and was sent to detox and rehab from drugs and alcohols. And
was released in two years on parole for good behavior and
remarkable progress in rehab. Could Mike had done just that,
changed his personality and behavior? Can anyone be capable
of such overhaul of his life?
Jason saw in his mind how Mike never touched anything
stronger than caffeine. When a man offered Mike a cigarette,
Mike turned it down easily. Oh, Jason wanted to believe that
Mike was a changed man. He wanted to believe everything Mike
told him, badly.
"Hey, is it because of my guest list?" Ethan asked. "You
quarreled with Mike or something?"
"Well, I don't want to talk about it," Jason answered.
"Aha, so it is Mike. What happened? Lovers quarrel? No,
don't tell me now. I'll come over and play busybody and
you'll tell me face to face."
"You know where I am?"
"Of course, you're always at home at Sunday night,
probably reading a book."
"Maybe I'm using a public phone."
Ethan snorted. "You're kidding. You're the most
predictable fellow I've ever seen."
Jason hanged up, mulling over what Ethan just said. It
was true, he realized, he was predictable. How had that
happened? When had he become so comfortable with being alone
yet whining all the time that he was lonely? What had Mike
said the other day again? Oh yes, "Damn it, but you say the
most 'No' and 'I can't' than anyone else I've ever seen.
Lucky for you I'm a patient man." Jason hadn't taken any note
of it, but now, oh, that stung. How true, for despite
wallowing in self-pity over how he couldn't make friends
yadda yadda yadda, he couldn't even make the necessary step
to step out of the pit of self-pity he dug himself into. He
had taken acting lessons out of boredom, but he'd loved it
because on stage, he could be a different man and bask in
the attention. He wanted attention, he wanted friendship,
yes, but he also turned down invitations from his fellow
students, convinced he had nothing to offer them. He
couldn't even admit to himself he loved stage work, that his
fellow students were fun to be with.
His life, Jason realized, had been nothing but a big pity
party. It was a depressing thought.
But he could change, he realized. He could finally be
nice to the people around him, and hoped it wasn't too late
and they hadn't considered him a total anti-social yet. Yes,
that was what he should do. He'd buy himself a couple of
self-help books while he was at it.
Feeling rather excited by the prospect of actually
working towards changing his life, he'd almost forgotten
about Ethan when the man knocked on the door.
Jason looked at his reflection in the mirror that following
Saturday morning and took a deep breath. "You're on a brink
of new life, Jason," he told himself. "It's now or never."
Indeed, it was now or never. And now here he was, Jason
Teresi, shy, socially awkward, geek and nerd to the core,
about to take the biggest risk in his life.
"You're right," he told his reflection, feeling a little
stupid about doing so. "You've been hiding far too long.
Stop feeling afraid everybody is out to make you hurt. Here
is a funny, nice man who says he is in love with you. OK, so
trust is a little lacking in that area. You're afraid he'll
turn abusive. A genuine fear, I believe." Hey, that felt
rather good. The book he bought that advised this wasn't
that great a waste of money after all. Encouraged by the
lightness he felt, he jabbed a finger at the chest of the
reflection. "But you should look at the evidences too.
You're a scientist, or rather, an ex-scientist. One,
everyone who knew Mike since his reform had nothing but good
things to say about him. OK, so that's hearsay. Not very
solid evidence. Two, Mike hadn't actually beaten anyone when
he was sober. And he is sober nowadays." Jason sighed, this
wasn't working - not as well as he hoped. He was still
afraid.
Ethan had asked him if he was willing to risk his heart
and life on Mike. Jason sat on the floor and looked at the
mirror. Did he trust Mike? The realization hit him like a
sledgehammer - he did trust Mike. When Mike said he'd die
before he hurt Jason, Jason believed him. How could he not?
Mike hadn't treated him anything but tenderness. Mike cared
for his feelings and thoughts. And Mike was sober. If Mike
could control his temper for five years, who was to say he
couldn't do it for another five? Mike offered him a chance
at happiness, and like the self-pitying idiot he was, he
almost let it pass.
Jason smiled to himself. He'd take the chance. Besides,
if Mike turned into Darth Vader before his eyes, there was
always the automatic.
At two Jason opened the door and blinked in surprise.
Stephen, Ethan, and a man Ethan introduced as Brendan
stood at the doorway, grinning like idiots. "We're your
fairy godmothers, Jase. Come on, Stephen will see to your
hair, Brendan your clothes, and me, I'll supervise."
5
11.55 pm. Mike looked at the clock and felt his heart
shatter into a million pieces. Jason wasn't coming. Fighting
despair, he turned to his host. "You're a shrink, Matt. Tell
me, can a man truly change his behavior?"
Matthew Broderick was a man used to people telling him
their problems. As such, he easily switched from being a
host to a shrink. "Well, as a matter of fact I do. It takes
character, discipline, and a true desire to change his life
on the man's part. Why do you ask?"
"A man I want to spend my life with won't believe me when
I tell him I'm not the violent man I was once." Mike
swallowed the punch, the usually tangy taste bitter in his
mouth. "He got me doubting myself as well. He can make me so
irritated, so happy, so ˙ everything. He makes me feel
alive. And it scares me. Because I remember how easy it was
to just lose control and lash out."
"Well, if you're aware of that, I say you're on the right
track," Matt said, suddenly pitying the man before him.
"Look, Mike, here's an advice. Be honest to yourself. Stop
pretending so hard to be agreeable with everyone. It's okay
to be angry or irritated. That's human. Just don't go
overboard."
Mike nodded. That sounded rational. "Say, what makes you
think I'm faking my happy nature?" he couldn't help asking.
Matt patted Mike's back consolingly. "I'm a shrink. I
know these things."
Yes, Mike decided. He could do honest. He looked at the
clock, 11.58 pm. Very well, so Jason wasn't coming. That
didn't mean he should give up. If Jason wanted reassurance,
he'd get it. Mike would be the Prince Charming of the
millennium and court Jason. He'd make sure that man know
Mike for the harmless bunny he was, and they'd damned well
live happily ever after. 11.59 pm. Mike admitted to himself
ruefully it would be nice though if Jason showed up.
"Make way! Make way! Sorry, Paunch, but you'll have to
move," he heard someone say, and thought absently that it
was about time Brendan showed up for a party that was almost
over. He heard someone call his name, and he turned. And
couldn't dare to believe it. Jason was walking towards him,
resplendent in violet brocade suit that matched his eyes,
and that man was actually looking determined, loving, and
uncertain all at once. And for once in his life Mike was
tongue-tied.
But not for long.
"I recognize that cut as Brendan's favorite," he said,
holding his arms open. And smiled when Jason walked into
them.