I didn't think I'd ever get this chapter out of me. As I mentioned in my comments about the last chapter, the relationship between Aaron and James has developed in a way that I had not originally anticipated or intended, but in a way that has managed also to fascinate and confuse and surprise me. (I consider that a good thing, actually.) As a result, I really struggled in this chapter trying to decide exactly how to depict all of this, without resorting to cliche or stereotype or soap-opera melodrama. I also wanted to dredge up a few things from past chapters - some obvious, and some not so obvious. Anyway, I think that this may be one of my favorite chapters yet, and I hope you like it. If you do, or even if you hate it, or if you ended up just scratching your head, please write and let me know. The email address is at denis141@hotmail.com.
DEDICATION: This is for Stephen, wherever you are now.
DISCLAIMER: I don't know any member of NSYNC, and this story is purely a work of fiction. This story also contains male-male sex (albeit mostly implied), so, if that's not your thing, or if you aren't old enough to read such things, you should stop reading now.
CHAPTER 28: AXIS MUNDI: Part Three: Tudo isto e fado.1
"I shall sing a lullaby To the song I have made Of your hair and eyes . . . And you will never know That deep in my heart I shelter a song of you."
--Gwendolyn Bennett
"Confront the dark parts of yourself, and work to banish them with illumination and forgiveness. Your willingness to wrestle with your demons will cause your angels to sing. Use the pain as fuel, as a reminder of your strength."
--August Wilson
"I don't sing fado. It sings in me."
-- Amalia Rodrigues
Part One:
JC was sitting on one of the several large brown velvet couches in the lobby of the Hotel del Coronado. Aaron was asleep, stretched out along the length of the couch, with his head resting in JC's lap. Lance had gone to bring the car around, and JC was watching for it to pull up out front. It was nearly midnight. Justin and Mel had left the reception an hour ago - right after Mel had thrown her bouquet, and JC had caught it, mostly because it had sailed directly at him. Blushing for several minutes as he stood there holding it, not knowing quite what to do, JC finally handed it to Justin's mom, Lynn, as a memento, and she thanked him for it.
Looking at Aaron, lying there, still asleep, his arms wrapped protectively around JC's waist, JC smiled and slowly laced his fingers through the long soft curls of Aaron's hair. JC could hardly believe that Aaron was nine years old now, and that he had just last week finished the third grade. JC smiled more broadly remembering the look on Lance's face as Aaron showed him his report card and the good grades that earned him three new video games and a skateboard. Half-closing his eyes in the near-physical sensation of his remembering, JC didn't notice Lance walk up to them.
"Hey you two," Lance said, shaking his car keys. "You ready or what?"
"Oh - sorry," JC said. "I didn't see you pull up."
"That's okay," Lance said. "I was there less than a minute."
"Come on big guy," JC said, bending down and speaking softly into Aaron's ear. "Time for us to go home."
"Okay," Aaron said, speaking groggily, and slowly sitting up.
"Here you go," Lance said, helping Aaron up off the couch and taking his hand.
Aaron had kicked off one of his shoes while asleep, and JC bent over and picked it up and then followed Lance across the lobby. JC smiled again as he hurried to catch up, while Aaron walked awkwardly along, unaware he was wearing only one shoe. Aaron's eyes were hardly open as Lance led him to the car, and then helped him to climb inside and fasten his seat belt. When Aaron was secured, Lance opened the front passenger door for JC, smiling at him, and leaning forward to kiss him quickly on the cheek. JC reached up and grabbed Lance's arm before he was able to pull it away, and he pulled Lance back toward him, and kissed him again, this time on the lips.
Neither JC nor Lance said anything during the twenty-five minutes it took to drive home. Aaron remained asleep in the back seat, and from time to time JC glanced back, checking on him, and smiling at how handsome he looked in his tuxedo, even if it was a bit rumpled now. He had been the ring-bearer at the wedding, standing next to Justin's brother, Jonathan, who had been the Best Man. The ceremony had been simple, and surprisingly private. Mel had insisted that there be no press present, and Justin had somehow managed to pull it off. JC had no idea how.
As he listened to the car's steady hum, and the sound of its movement along the freeway, JC imagined that Justin and Mel were probably asleep by now, and happy, even in sleep. JC was happy for them too, happy that two such different people had managed to find each other, to fall in love, and trusting love enough to let it do its work. Looking now at Lance, JC knew that he had himself been fortunate, maybe even blessed, to find this man to love, and still love, after all these years. JC could not explain how or why it had worked. He was happy to leave that effort to those with more passion for explaining than he had ever possessed - because, for JC, it was enough to know that he had it, this love, and it made him happy, happy in a hundred silly giddy unexpected ways each day, like when Lance would scoop him up for no reason at all except to noisily kiss his neck, or to listen to Lance laugh as he ducked his head beneath the bed sheet and covered him with a scavenger hunt of kisses, from head to toe, as if searching for some place he might have missed, and had not kissed before, even though he doubted that there was any place left, and spot of skin that had not been a hundred times kissed and tasted and treasured.
Lance was asleep when JC slipped into bed beside him and kissed his shoulder. It was something he always did, and it rarely woke Lance up, but this time it did. Turning over, Lance smiled up at JC as he snuggled in next to him.
"Did you get him out of his tux all right?" Lance asked.
"Man - it was like wrestling an alligator," JC said. "He's getting so big.
And he was half-asleep, so it was practically dead weight."
"The days of carrying him are over," Lance said, laughing quietly as he pulled JC closer to him and kissed the side of his neck and licked behind his ear.
"Oh - you know what?" JC said.
"What?"
"He's....uh - gawd, this is so weird to say."
"What?" Lance said, propping himself up on his elbow. "Tell me."
"Aaron's getting to be a little bigger in a certain area...you know, down there."
"Shut up!" Lance said, sitting up now.
"He is," JC said, laughing.
"Oh, lord, puberty" Lance said, pretending to cringe. "And you know what that means, don't you."
"Time for 'the talk'," JC said, smiling at how embarrassed Lance seemed.
"Yup - the talk," Lance said. "Which you're going to do, right?"
"No way," JC said, shoving Lance's shoulder. "That's your job."
"Says who?"
"Says me."
"How about if we just buy him a book," Lance said, only half-joking.
"That's what my dad did," JC said.
"Well we know how well that worked," Lance said, laughing.
"You're a jerk," JC said, laughing now too.
"So we'll do it together then."
"Yeah, okay," JC said. "But we better practice, because I don't want to laugh."
"Excellent idea," Lance said, vigorously nodding his head.
Lance and JC settled silently back into bed and soon were making love. Both of them were tired, and each one touched the other in a way that was defined and inspired by nothing more (or less) than the desire to hold and touch each other, and to share a long slow gentle kiss. It was far from having sex, because it was not about a need for release, nor was it a headlong rush for some kind of finish to it, a climax. There was no end to it, only a continuing dance that was suspended from time to time, by being apart, or by sleep, or some other interruption, but it was never done, only paused. They had long ago learned everything they did together was a kind of making love, making in the sense of producing more, and tonight was not different.
James stood hunched over his suitcase, trying to get it closed. He was wearing red Addidas warm-ups, a black t-shirt, and white K-Swiss tennis shoes without socks. He had heard the honks outside and knew that Aaron was here. Managing finally to get the zipper closed on his suitcase, he pulled it off his bed and grabbed his messenger bag from where it hung on the back of his desk chair. He had packed that bag the night before and he knew it already contained his CD-player and the CD's he wanted, the new PlayStation magazine to read on the plane, and four books his mom had bought the day before, A Wrinkle in Time, Dave at Night, Charlotte's Web, and The Short History of a Prince. She had bought him a blank journal too - one with a slot that held a pen.
"You ready?" his Mom asked, sticking her head in the door.
"Yeah - just," James said, pulling his jacket on and slinging his messenger back over his shoulder. "I hope we aren't late."
"No, there's plenty of time," his mom said, stepping into the door now, her arms crossed, smiling. "The plane doesn't leave for two hours."
"Okay," James said.
"So, are you going to miss me?" his mom asked, winking at him.
"No," James said, smirking and then laughing. "Of course I am. Geez - mom."
"Let me help," his mom said, reaching for the suitcase James had just picked up.
"No, I got it," James said, carrying it out of his bedroom as his mom stepped to one side to let him by.
Luanne followed James down the stairs, her expression a combination of pride and wistfulness. A year ago she could not have imagined having less than two jobs, doing what it took to get by, taking each day on whatever terms that life seemed to dictate, worried only that her son would not have a life like hers had been. Now he was flying to Lisbon with the son of two people so famous she could not imagine what a life like theirs must have been like. And their son, Aaron, who seemed sincerely devoted to James, and who had asked her himself whether he could please go along on their trip, asked her with such a worried expression that she smiled wondering why he thought she might say no.
Reaching the bottom of the stairs, James put down his suitcase and embraced his mom. Holding her tight to his chest, James felt the long sigh she released as she hugged back. Part of him did not want to let go or to leave. He had never been away from her for more than a night, and had never wanted to be - not that he wanted to now, except that going to Lisbon seemed like the most amazing and mysterious thing to him, a place he'd never been before, and that he could explore with Aaron.
Hearing a quick knock at the door, Luanne looked up as Aaron pushed it open.
"Hi - Ms. Brack," Aaron said, waving at her.
"Hi Aaron," Luanne said, stepping back from James, and taking hold of his hand.
"Hey Luanne," JC said, following Aaron into the house, and then looking around. "This place looks great."
"I'm still unpacking," Luanne said, shrugging and laughing. "But I'm sure I'll have it all put together by the time James gets back. I've never been so worried before about where to put stuff, since I always knew we'd be moving again anyway, so it didn't really matter.
"I know what you mean," JC said. "Well - kind of, since I spent five years mostly living on a tour bus."
"Yeah," Luanne said. "But owning a place...I just never imagined."
"Well you earned it," JC said, putting his arm over Aaron's shoulder and smiling at James. "You're doing a really great job at the Red Fox, and you just can't know what a relief it is to not be worrying all the time about whose running it. It was always in such chaos I was starting to worry that Shirley was going to come back and haunt me."
"You don't even need to say it," Luanne said, shaking her head. "It's the best job I ever had, so just....anyway, I just can't thank you enough."
"Um ...mom," James said. "We're going to be late."
"Yeah," Aaron said, slipping from under JC's arm and picking James' suitcase up off the floor. "Lisbon awaits."
Lance, Aaron, and James arrived early at the Teatro National D. Maria II. The concierge had told Lance that people had been talking about the show all week long, even though there had been no publicity, and it was a nearly impromptu event. The theatre was a twenty-minute walk from the hotel through Parque Eduardo VII, which was across the street from the hotel. It was a Saturday evening and the end of their third week in Lisbon. They had spent most of their time leisurely exploring Lisbon, and taking occasional day-trips to the nearby cities of Cascais, Estoril, Belem, and Mafra.
JC had not planned on performing while in Lisbon, and the fact that he was doing so resulted from a strange confluence of several minor events. Before leaving for Lisbon, Lance and JC had watched a documentary called, "The Art of Amalia Rodrigues", which was about one of the world's greatest and most legendary fado divas. After seeing it, JC had become fascinated - almost obsessed - by Amalia Rodrigues, and about fado, and he had bought dozens of CD's and spent days listening to them, and studying the history of this mournful music born on the narrow streets of Lisbon's working-class quarters in the mid-19th century and nurtured ever since in neighborhood tabernas.
Reading from one of the several books he'd bought on the subject, JC had told Lance, "Like American blues, fado laments lost love and dashed expectations. The songs usually involve a letter explaining why two people can never be together. Even the name fado (literally "fate" or "destiny") speaks to its melancholy nature."
When they had finally arrived in Lisbon, JC arranged for them to meet Cristina Branco, a fado singer often compared to Amalia Rodrigues. She was in Lisbon working on a new album, one that she had been working on for six years and seemed unable to complete. She had been eager to meet JC too, telling him that she knew his "Ghost Road" song very well, and that it was the only fado she had ever heard not written by someone from Portugal. After JC and Christina met several more times, Lance learned that JC had agreed to record a song with her for her album, and to perform it with her at Teatro National D. Maria II. He had also agreed to sing "Ghost Road" - something that Lance had never heard him sing live. It was for this reason that Lance felt nervous as he entered the theater with James and Aaron and climbed the ornate staircase to the balcony that'd been reserved for them.
"Boa noite," Lance said, nodding to the usher who checked their tickets and then pulled a heavy velvet curtain back to reveal four elaborately gold-leafed chairs.
"Agradeca-o," Aaron said, following James and his dad into the balcony.
"Wow!" James said, sitting down and then immediately glancing back at Aaron to see the expression on his face. "Isn't this place crazy gorgeous?"
"It's amazing," Aaron said, sitting between James and his dad and stretching his legs out as far as they could go before his feet hit the front of the balcony.
As they waited for the performance to begin, Aaron watched as Lance folded and then unfolded his ticket stub, doing it over and over again until it finally ripped. James leaned forward out of his chair and hooked his arms on the edge of the balcony, and looked at the people below as they slowly filed down the theatre's three wide aisles and then settled into their seats. People moved slowly, and made little noise, so the theatre was nearly silent. Everyone seemed hushed and expectant. It reminded James of the time that his grandmother had taken him to church on Christmas Eve. Sliding back into his chair, James folded his hands in his lap and silently waited.
The performance was one hour and twenty minutes long, without an intermission. When it was over people sat in stunned silence for at least another minute more, and then sprang to their feet clapping, shouting, whistling, and snapping their fingers. JC had not come onstage until near the end. He sang the "Ghost Road" theme, this time backed by a Spanish guitar, and the tangled tinkling runs of a Portuguese guitarra, a twelve-stringed mandolin-shaped instrument that supplied the characteristic dulcimer-like lilt of all fado accompaniments.
As he sang, Christina stood silently near the back of the stage, swaying back and forth as if buffeted by the force of JC's singing. She joined JC at the center of the stage as his song came to an end, and she took his hand.
"This song, I think you will know," she said, speaking in halting English, smiling faintly. "It is by Amalia Rodrigues, and I have asked my American friend here Joshua Chasez to please sing it with me."
"It is called, 'Tudo isto e fado,'" JC said, looking up at the first balcony to right of the stage. "All of this is fado."
The silence in the theatre seemed then to thicken, becoming nearly palpable. The hair on the back of James' arms tingled and stood up, almost as if someone had blown icy cold air on them. James could hear Aaron's dad breathing hard, like he had been crying, but he did not look - could not look; he was transfixed by the sight of JC and Christina on the stage, and the sound of the music beginning, and the accumulated feelings of the songs that had preceded it, as if building toward this final one. Christina sang the song through once in Portuguese, visibly trembling with emotion, the intensity of it nearly overwhelming James, even though he could not understand a single word of it. When she was done, JC began to sing.
If you want to be my lover
And to have me always by your side
Don't speak to me only of love
Speak to me also of the fado
For the fado is my punishment
It was only born to lose me
The fado is everything that I say
But cannot say.
Vengeanced souls, lost nights, strange shadows
In the morraria, sings the refia, and the guitars cry
Love, jealousy, ashes, and where there's sin and sorrow
All of this exists, all of this is sad, all of this is fado.
James had slid silently out of bed, not wanting to disturb Aaron, who was asleep in the bed next to him. Aaron had kicked the bed sheet halfway off, and his bare leg now lay exposed, bent slightly at the knee, and illuminated by moonlight. Picking the edge of the sheet up from where it dangled off the bed, James carefully pulled the sheet from under Aaron's leg, and covered him with it. The door to the hotel room's balcony was open and James and turned to walk outside, but then stopped suddenly and turned back around. Slowly extending his hand, he touched Aaron's bare shoulder, which was not covered by the sheet. His fingers barely rested there, surprised by the warmth of the skin. Aaron did not stir or notice it, and James was tempted to lay his hold there, but be didn't. He turned and left after only a few seconds, and went out on the balcony.
From where he stood, James could easily see the park across the street despite the haze blown in from the sea that now hovered over it. The lampposts that lit the main path through the park glowed like tall candles, making hazy halos of light where the night air had settled most thickly. It was beautiful and eerie and it filled James with disquiet.
The sounds of the fado still echoed in him, and had kept him awake, like the still-sharp pain of a recent blow, alive, throbbing, reminding him of the fragile nature of flesh, and of all feelings in general. James believed he understood the fado somehow, understood the fado that JC had sung, understood, even without knowing what the words had meant at first, like the words the Priest had spoken on Christmas Eve, speaking of the birth and death and resurrection, words that even in Latin still managed to mean something, or so he'd thought, and thought now, mean something about the nature of life, both sacred and profane, and of love, ferocious love, and fate.
Part Two:
He had hurried home with him, knowing no one was home, knowing he would be alone with him, as he had asked, sincerely asked, like so many times before, when he said come on, hurry, as he had hurried, hurried home with him, instead of going for coffee, or walking with him to practice, or holding hands in Balboa park, or any of the dozens of other things he had imagined them doing together, instead of just hurrying home like this, 'to be alone', even though he knew what it meant, knew immediately, and assented to it, like agreeing to pay a price higher than what a good was worth, assented to being cheated on a transaction he'd already committed to, assented rather than just saying 'no', because saying no meant that there might never be a time of not hurrying home, or of going for coffee, or walking with him to practice, or holding hands in Balboa park, or any of the dozens of other things he imagined them doing together, out where people might see the two of them, together, and not just alone.
But he always said 'okay, let's go,' and hurried home with him, and heard his feet hit heavily behind him up the stairs, on the way to his room, feeling his hands already upon him, grasping grappling grabbing hands, hands in a hurry, needy hands that pushed him down on the bed, hands that pulled his shoes off without untying them, hands that undid the buttons on his jeans and roughly tugged them off (but never all the way off, leaving always one leg still halfway clothed), hands that roughly slid his own pants down, only to the knees, hands that shoved his t-shirt up and hooked it over the back of his neck, hands that slipped behind his neck to cradle his head as he quickly kissed him, kissed him once, as his hands moved to press against his shoulders, as if to hold him down, even while knowing he could not move because the full force of his greater weight was already upon him, pressing down, pressing as he felt him hard against him, pressing it against his own erection, rubbing it across the ridge of it, and between his legs, as his right hand moved to lift his knee up, and bend it, and press it to his shoulder, as he felt the sudden urgent probing there, the finger first, right there where he knew he'd put it, and he did, he did, he did, causing him to press his lips against his knee, because it hurt when it went in, even just the finger, this rough and unslick finger, it hurt when it went in, and if he didn't bite his knee, he knew he'd gasp, and risk admitting to the pain.
It didn't take long for the finger to disappear, it never did, so he closed his eyes as it went in, and listened to him say 'please, please, I want to,' and he would smile and nod and smell the smell of the hand lotion, how it smelled like bitter almonds, and he would nod again, knowing how the lotion was yellow and cold, and he would hear the noise it made as it was pumped from the tube, and he would feel the finger again, the thick rough cold finger pressing into him, swift and sudden, like a poke in the eye, and the pain would come back then disappear just as quickly, as it withdrew, replaced - or nearly replaced, because it took a minute for him to get ready - replaced by his barely slick erection, which was firmer thicker and not quite so cold as the finger, like some sort of elemental root grown from flesh, a root intended to connect two separate worlds, one with the other, sacred and profane, connect, despite fear, despite suffering, only connect.
It was not long before he felt his flesh tense as the muscles in his back prepared for what he knew was imminent, knew because he heard his voice become a groan, trying to say what cannot be said, then saying: Are you ready? Are you ready - trying to make the words sound like a question, but not daring to let it to be so, because he knew what he was saying was, 'get ready, get ready', so that it was more an order, or a command, and a warning as he plunged inside him, and his back arched and he could not restrain the struggle to free himself from the searing sudden pain of it all, and he would bite his knee, the first few times tasting blood, and make the kind of whimpering noise that he thought might be mistaken for pleasure, or at least courage.
At last he hurried it all the way in, he swore he could feel its pulse in him, like it had a life of its own, with a heart of its own, in him, forcing him to pay close attention, to know the truth of it, and to open his eyes and look up at him, he who was upon him now, and in him, look and see his eyes still closed, and his lips pressed together, as if he was holding his breath, or refusing to speak, and the sweat clinging to his forehead and nose, and his face illuminated by the red glow from the alarm clock next to the bed, and the expression on his face changing as he pulled out and then plunged back in one final time, watched as the pain of what he was doing seemed like something hot held to his skin, burning him, pain that seemed to travel from where it entered him, and ran up his spine, to his head, where it struck like hammer-blows and had made him gasp each time he plunged inside him, plunges that he counted, knowing there were always fourteen before his eyes would finally open and he would see that he was seen, and he would offer him a scared timid smile, saying in a voice that was like a little boy's voice, 'I'm coming, I'm coming,' and it was then he'd empty himself inside him with three short nearly-vicious stabs, as his long muscled arms pressed like pillars into the bed, defining the edges of the canopy that was his body hovering above him, arms that tensed and quivered as his head reared back and his mouth opened so far it was like his face might disappear, and then he lowered himself, like a canopy deflating, and lay there on top of him, shuddering and shaking, as if being shocked with electricity.
When the shudders stopped, he always seemed embarrassed, as he hurried to pull out, and then stood there at the end of the bed for several moments, with his pants slipped down around his ankles and his hands held out, as if unsure of what to do next, except pull his pants up, which is what he always finally did, and wipe his hands on the sides of his blue jersey, or on the bedspread sometimes, and to smile at him, a smile of kindness and confusion, like the smile a lost traveler makes when trying to remember how to say 'can you help me' in a foreign tongue, or for directions to the nearest bus-stop, smiling as his hands fumbled to buckle his belt, so that he would have time to sit on the edge of the bed and take his hand, and hold it, looking at his watch to see how much time he had left, which was never more than five minutes.
But he would always sit there, sit there until he had to leave, sit there holding his hand, holding it until he'd finally say, 'I better go, I'm going to be late for practice', and then say, 'I'll call you later', and give him at first a hurried kiss, but then a longer second one too, a kiss that made him forget the first, and which he gladly accepted, even while at the same time careful not to press its length himself, letting it come to an end on its own, come to an end when he would look one last time at his watch, stand, walk to the door, pause and pick up his equipment bag and his lacrosse stick, and look back at him and say, 'Are you okay? I mean, was it all right?' smiling nervously, as he asked this, and waited for him to nod and say, 'It was fine, Go, You'll be late'.
The first few times, after he'd gone, he'd listen for the door to close downstairs and then rush to the window to watch him as he walked across the lawn and down the sidewalk to where the bus-stop was, and watch him wait for the bus to arrive, and watch the bus pull around the corner and out of site.
Now he listened for the door to close downstairs, and hurried to get undressed all the way, and hurried to the shower to wash the lotion off, and to stand under the water as he stared at the blood that he always found on his finger after touching where he'd been in him, finding how painful it still was, and how the soap still made it sting badly, and finding no matter how many times he washed himself, he couldn't seem to get the smell of bitter almonds to go away.
Aaron pushed the mop from side to side as he worked his way backwards across the kitchen floor. The mop made a wet slapping sound and left the floor tiles shiny and slick. Klaus had removed the black rubber mats that usually covered the floor, and now he was outside, back behind the restaurant, cleaning the mats off with hot water sprayed from a pressurized hose. It was Thursday night, and the restaurant had closed a half hour ago, at ten. On Fridays and Saturdays, it stayed open until last-call, which was one-thirty in the morning. Aaron worked at the Red Fox Inn two nights a week, and during the day on Saturday. He and James usually worked the same nights - helping out in the kitchen, and the dining room, and making sure the bar had clean glasses - but this night James had called in sick, something he had never done before.
When Aaron was through mopping the floor, he emptied the bucket and put it and the mop away and then headed outside to help Klaus lug the rubber mats back into the kitchen. The mats were heavy, and you had to drag more than carry them, but it wasn't too hard once you got the hang of it. Klaus was leaning against garbage dumpster smoking a cigarette instead of spraying the last mat.
"You're dad will kill you if he finds out you smoke," Aaron said, watching Klaus throw the mostly-smoked cigarette on the ground and step on it.
"Like he doesn't know," Klaus said, shrugging. "Who do you think I cadge 'em from, huh?"
Aaron eyed Klaus warily, knowing that the two of them always seemed to get into long bickering fights - some that lasted days - and always over something stupid. Klaus was a senior, two years ahead of him in high school, and about to graduate. Even though he was older, he was shorter than Aaron, and acted younger too. He was always goofing off, joking around, and taking things less than seriously. It was amusing in small doses, but mostly Aaron just tolerated him - nodding and smiling because he knew that Klaus was the son of his dad's best friend.
"So that's weird that James called in sick," Aaron said, changing the subject. "He never does that."
"Yeah - well, he probably got last-minute chance for a play-date with Fortney," Klaus said, turning the hose back on and spraying the last mat with hot water.
"A play-date?" Aaron said, staring at Klaus. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"You know - UH, UH, UH," Klaus said, putting his hands on his hips and sharply thrusting them forward three times.
"Oh - shut up," Aaron said, glaring at Klaus and picking up a mat. "You don't know anything. He's not even seeing that dude anymore."
"Oh yeah?" Klaus said, turning off the hose and smirking at Aaron. "Then how come I know your boy's been giving it up to Fortney after school, like regular, for the last two months or so."
"Where'd you get that?" Aaron said, throwing the mat down and stepping toward where Klaus was standing. "Is Fortney spreading that crap around about James, because if he is I'm going to kill him?"
"Before you go killing Fortney," Klaus said. "Maybe you better tell your buddy James to keep his own mouth shut, because I heard that he was bragging about it himself to Brian Sprackley - you know, president of the poof squad."
"No way," Aaron said. "He'd tell me if he was seeing Fortney still."
"Why?" Klaus said, sarcastically. "So you can have him all to yourself? Keep him your little virgin buddy best friend, devoted only to the great god Aaron in all his glory, like he's supposed to be some sort of freaking nun or something? Because if that's what you think, you're mad."
"Fuck you!" Aaron said, glaring at Klaus as he pulled off his gloves and turned to go back inside the kitchen.
"Go ask him then," Klaus shouted after Aaron.
Aaron had left the last of the kitchen clean-up for Klaus to do, telling Luanne that he felt sick and needed to go home early. Now he was sitting alone in his car, parked just down the block from where James lived. He could see the light on his bedroom, but the house was otherwise dark, except for the faint glow of the front porch-light. He had seen no shadows in the window yet, and could not tell whether James was there, alone or not. Every ten minutes or so Aaron glanced nervously at his watch. He knew that both JC and Lance would be up, waiting for him to come home, and angry that he was so late on a school night. He had turned his cell-phone off knowing that they would try to call. It was nearly midnight, and he felt a desperate gnawing in his stomach, like he had eaten spoiled food, or something else that had made him feel sick.
When it was finally midnight, and he had been there for over an hour, Aaron started counting to one-hundred. He promised himself he'd drive away, and go home, as soon as he was through counting. He counted to one hundred six times before he started the car, pressing his head against the steering wheel as he did so. Looking up one last time at the window, he saw a shadow standing there, as if looking out. Aaron was seized with panic, and quickly turned off the engine and slumped down in the front seat. Several minutes passed as Aaron stared straight ahead, afraid to look back up. Reaching his arm up, he readjusted the rear-view mirror and saw that the bedroom window was dark now.
Aaron let out a long slow breath, exhaling the air he had held inside as he feared being seen sitting there. Returning the rear-view mirror to its original position, and sitting up in the seat again, Aaron glanced back behind him and realized that there was someone walking down the sidewalk toward the bus-stop. He couldn't see who it was, but Aaron could see that it was someone the same size as him, carrying an equipment bag and a lacrosse stick. He knew who it was.
He was half-way to his bedroom when the door down the hall opened and Lance stepped quickly out of it and into the light that fell from inside. He was wearing pants that he'd obviously just pulled on, but no shirt. JC stepped out next, wearing a plaid robe. It was plain that both of them were angry.
"Well?" Lance said.
"Nothing," Aaron said. "No excuse. I'm just late."
"I called the Red Fox," JC said, sounding slightly less angry than Lance. "Luanne said you'd left early, that you were sick."
"Are you all right?" Lance asked.
"I'm not sick," Aaron said. "I lied. It was just a lie, okay?"
"Just a lie," JC snapped. "Well doesn't that sound nice. Just a lie."
"Whatever," Aaron muttered, turning to walk into his room.
"What?" Lance said, his face flushing red. "What did you say?"
"I said - WHAT-EVER!" Aaron shouted, turning to face Lance, then walking into his bedroom and slamming the door so hard it made the walls shake.
JC grabbed hold of Lance's arm and held him back as he started down the hall to Aaron's room. Lance shook it off and took two long strides forward then stopped. For several seconds he stood there, unmoving, his head bowed, and his hands clenched into two tight fists. Turning back around, Lance smiled grimly at JC and shook his head from side to side.
"Come on," Lance said, taking JC's hand and leading him back inside their room. "Let's just go to bed. We can deal with this tomorrow when he's calmed down."
"Yeah - I think you're right," JC said, closing the door and climbing into bed next to Lance. "I just hope he's all right."
"Me too," Lance said, shutting off the light.
The practice scrimmage had been going on for 35 minutes and the score was tied. As usual, Aaron was playing center on the red team, which meant he had run of the entire field. He was running now as fast as he could at the lose ball. It was less than ten feet in front of him, and rolling away from him across the pockmarked grass field. Aaron had an uncanny ability to scout out people at the very periphery of his vision, and to intercept or avoid them as needed. He knew the rules allowed body-checks within five feet of the ball, but only upright ones, not ones intended to tackle someone, or to knock them down.
Holding his stick across his chest, bent low as he approached the ball, he intended to scoop up it and throw the ball to Jake Mare, who was playing one of the attack wing positions. At the same time he was watching Fortney, who was playing on the blue team, race at the ball. Fortney reached the ball a half-second after Aaron scooped it up, and moved to cut him off. Aaron slammed his shoulders flat against Fortney's hip, delivering a teeth-jarring body-check that sent Fortney flying to the ground, knocking the wind out of him. It was a flagrant foul and Aaron laughed as he heard the coach's whistle blow.
James waited outside the front door for five minutes before he finally knocked. It was late, but not so late that he feared Aaron would be in bed.
He listened for the sound of footsteps on the other side of the door, and when he heard them, he took a deep breath. Lance opened the door, and looked surprised. James had not been by the house in over a week, and in that time Aaron had not mentioned him once, even when asked.
"James," Lance said, forcing a smile. "Where you been?"
"Around," James mumbled, staring over Lance's shoulder, avoiding eye contact. "Just around. I...uh, I've been kind of busy."
"Oh," Lance said, unconvinced. "You coming in?"
"Yeah - sure," James said, continuing to mumble.
"Aaron's out back," Lance said, pulling the front door all the way opening and pointing back over his shoulder. "He's been spending a lot of time out there lately. A lot of time."
"Okay," James said, nodding and heading across the foyer to the door that led outside. "Thanks."
"James," Lance said, calling after him as he reached the door.
"Yeah?" James answered, turning around.
"Are you and Aaron all right?" Lance asked. "I mean, did you have a fight or something, because...well, did you?"
"I really don't know what to say to that," James said, his head bowed. "I ...we, we haven't talked for a while. And I think he's been kind of angry, because ...well, it's sort of private, and...I dunno...kind of embarrassing too."
"I'm not trying to pry, James. It's just that Aaron's been walking around like a zombie all week, you know -like he's lost his best friend ...you know what I mean?"
"Yeah, I do. And I'm sorry," James said, his voice trembling as if he was about to cry. "I didn't mean to hurt him. I really didn't."
"James?" Lance asked, walking to where James stood and gently grabbing hold of one elbow. "Are you okay? I mean, seriously - is there something wrong I should know about, because..."
"No," James said, looking at Lance for the first time since he'd arrived, his eyes now full of tears. "No I'm not okay. But I can't tell you why?"
"Okay," Lance said. "What're you going to do then?"
"I need to talk to Aaron," James said. "I'm sure he hates me now, but I need to at least tell him I'm sorry for what I did, for letting him down."
"Why do you think that James? Why would you think he hates you?"
"Oh - it's that whole stupid thing with Stephen Fortney. Aaron really hates him. He thinks Steve is just using me. And, I don't know, maybe he is...or was. But he was nice to me sometimes, and he loved me maybe, or tried to, in his own way."
"You mean with sex."
"Yeah."
"Well, James - you'll get no speech from me on that," Lance said, letting go of James' elbow and squeezing his shoulder now instead. "Not tonight. But I think you're wrong about the way Aaron feels right now, and I think you need to get out there and find out what he really feels. You owe him that much."
James nodded, turned silently around, and opened the door. Lance was startled by the rush of cold air that blew inside. He hoped that Aaron was wearing a coat. As James pulled the door shut, Lance almost said something, a word of encouragement, or a wish of good luck. But he remained quiet instead, because he knew that anything he might say would be either meaningless or banal. Besides, Lance knew that the only thing that really needed to be said right now, needed be said by the two of them outside.
Lance had stood there for some time now, shivering in the increasingly cold night air. He was watching Aaron and James, as the two of them faced each other. They stood at the far western edge of the yard, there where the grass was eclipsed by a jagged gash of reddish dirt, there where it started to steeply slope away, almost cliff-like. Looking over the edge of it, you could see the ocean slapping against dark and broken teeth-like rocks. When Aaron was little, Lance had put a chain-link fence along there, to keep Aaron from falling down there. It was not until he'd turned ten that Lance had torn the fence down.
Without knowing what was being said, Lance knew what this scene between them was all about, this scene between Aaron and James, there at the edge. It was about love, and maybe even sex; it was about being young, confused, hurt, concerned, and angry; it was about not knowing what you want, or need, and not knowing what to do, or where or how to go; and it was about fear and frustration. Lance could see it in the way they stood there, stubbornly refusing to move, locked in the kind of impassive duel he remembered only too well, looking equally as if they were about to embrace or come to vicious blows, buffeted by disparate passions, and unsure of anything except the depth of their feelings for each other. It made Lance sad to see it, so sad he finally had to look away, unable to watch it another minute more.
"So - are we okay?"
"I think so. I hope."
"Me too."
"Yeah."
"I'm glad you told me you how you felt."
"About you?"
"Yeah - about me."
"Really?"
"Yes."
"It doesn't make you feel weird?"
"Kind of. But not bad."
"You knew.
"In a way."
"I understand though."
"Understand what?"
"You know...how it is. How it has to be."
"It doesn't seem fair."
"No."
"But we'll be okay."
"I know."
"And you too."
"I'm not sure."
"Why?"
"It's just hard."
"I know."
"And it hurts."
"I know that too."
"But it's not your fault though."
"Or yours."
"It's no one's fault."
"It's how it is."
"And isn't."
"And isn't."
"Maybe we should go in now.
"Yeah, I can feel you shivering."
"You too."
"Sleep would be good."
"Yeah."
Lance knew exactly where to look to find what he was looking for. The box had the word " BARCELONA" written in large letters across the end of it. Pulling down off the shelf, Lance was surprised that the box was not heavier. It felt less than half full. He set the box on top of the washing machine and opened it. There was no tape sealing it, so the box opened easily. The journal that JC had kept while in Barcelona was under some book called Love in the Time of Cholera, and Lance reached in and took the journal out.
Lance was not interested in reading the journal, and would not have done so even if he had been curious to find out what JC had written there. Instead, he opened the cover to the journal and removed the white envelope he knew that JC had put there. It was the letter that Lance had sent to him in Barcelona, sent when he was convinced he'd never see JC again, and believed that he had lost him forever. He knew JC had never read the letter, and that he had come home according to the dictates of his own heart, because it was what he'd decided on his own, and wanted, to do, and did.
Even though JC had never read the letter, Lance knew that he had kept it, kept it because it was what JC did; he kept everything. Lance had not thought of the letter in years, and hardly remembered what it said. But standing upstairs, on the balcony, staring across the lawn at James and Aaron, Lance had thought of the letter, and it had made his blood turn cold, thinking: What if he had opened it, read it, would he have come home?
Lance opened the envelope, pulled the letter out, and read its few short lines:
Josh,
It's been a long time now since I've seen you, and the pain of it is something I can hardly endure.
I deserve no better, I know.
But, Josh, I hope you will forgive me this last selfish act, writing to you like this, because I just wanted to tell you how sorry I am - for hurting you. I truly am.
You were - no, are - the one love of my life, the man I know I was meant to love, to always love, but somehow failed to love enough.
I hope that you will find the one who is meant for you, someone who will make you happy every minute, just as you deserve to be.
And maybe then, I hope, you can forgive me, and think kindly of me - one more time.
Yours still, even apart,
Lance.
When Lance finished reading the letter, he tore it in half, then half again, and then half again. He tore the envelope up next, and crumpled the now smaller bits of paper into tight ball that he threw in the wastebasket next to the washing machine. Lance then shut the box up, and put it back where it belonged.
Wiping his eyes on the back of his shirt-sleeve, Lance headed back upstairs to his bedroom. Before he got there, he paused in front of Aaron's room. The door was half-open and Lance looked inside. James was there, asleep on a cot that they had set up next to Aaron's bed. There was a five inch gap between the cot and the bed, and Aaron's arm lay across it. His hand rested palm up on James' chest, where there it was held beneath James' two hands, which rested there too, as he slept.
Lance smiled at the sight of this, looking at his watch to see it almost time for JC to get home from the Red Fox Inn. He was eager to see him, seem him and tell him that it looked like James and Aaron were speaking again, and going to be okay. And he was eager to hear how JC's night had gone, whether it had been busy at the Inn, and what songs he had decided to play. And he was eager to rub JC's back, and to hold him in his arms, and kiss him in all the places that had not been kissed lately, ticklish places that always made JC giggle and squirm, places Lance knew, and loved to find, and touch and taste and treasure. And he wanted to tell JC how much he loved him, still loved him, and to say thank you for being the one true love of his life. 1 "All of this is Fado" (translated from Portuguese).