DISCLAIMER
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This is a work of fiction; any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental. The author asserts all legal and moral rights (copyright (c) 2002 - psun@hotmail.com) to this work and you may not copy it or transmit it in any way except in its entirety and with this disclaimer. This story features descriptions of sex between males: - if such material is prohibited in your jurisdiction, please DO NOT READ ON, - if you're under the legal age to read such material, please DO NOT READ ON, - if you don't like, or are offended by such material, please DO NOT READ ON. And any comments - brickbats or bouquets, send them over to psun@hotmail.com And if you find that you like what you're reading, visit my page at http://www.geocities.com/savante_2002
"Get out, you faggot!"
It was the last thing I ever heard from my best friend.
Like a bad penny, funny how he always turned up when I least expected it. And when I least wanted him to. At this moment in time, I should have been ecstatic and at the top of the world. Four and a half hours earlier, I had just landed a new account for my firm and been offered a partnership. It was everything I'd worked for the past three years, the reward for all my sweat and tears, all those nights of slogging, worrying and biting my nails raw to reach my deadline. Folowing the tradition in the firm, there had been a quick, impromptu celebration in the new bar downstairs. In between drinks and hors' douevres, dozens of people came over to offer their congratulations, my friends and colleagues came with a smile and a pat on the back, my erstwhile boss and now partner gave me a warm, sincere hug. Although I was surrounded by wellwishers, friends and co-workers, I could have sworn that I'd never felt so lonely in my life.
And it was all because of him. Damn the bastard.
Gulping down my third martini, I decided that it would be my last. Like I'd been saying for the earlier two. My photo album lay open on my coffee table, a picture of my graduation set up proudly on the front page. He'd been there as well, his husky arms around me, both of us grinning away like fools. We'd been friends since... practically forever. And we'd gone on to school and college together. Sure, there'd always been that indefinable tug of attraction beneath the boyish camaraderie. How could I possibly deny that? He was a handsome, attractive guy and in my raging teens, my hormones were practically uncontrollable at that time. Hell, they were still in an uproar right now. But I kept my feelings under wraps and never mentioned anything. After all, he was like the brother I never had.
I'd taught him the finer points of physics and he'd drummed into me the manifold virtues of a carefully made stinkbomb. Secretly, I'd shown him my secret technique of putting a nasty spin to a fastball and he'd confided in me when he'd fallen deeply in lust with Jennifer Briggati's overly generous cleavage. Together, we'd mastered the art of handling a gearshift one dusty evening in the last days of July and ended up mowing the lawn for the better part of a month after denting the fender of his father's truck. My best friend.
My first offer had been an opening in London that I'd coveted for years. It was the night before I left that I decided to tell him my biggest secret, the one thing I'd kept from him for so long. That night, I meant to come out to him - not make a come-on - but that was what had happened. Was it my fault that there was a sudden spark of explosive chemistry between us? That the alcohol we'd both eagerly imbibed that night had loosened our inhibitions, released the one dark desire I'd hidden so deep inside that I didn't even know it existed. A tiny spark that had turned into an inferno as I'd finally realized all the vague, unshaped dreams and fantasies that had troubled my many nights. Visions of dark, handsome strangers with blue eyes and roguish smiles that had coalesced into one beautiful man on that night.
While I certainly hadn't expected sweet, thoughtful words from a man who still found Beavis and Butthead hilarious, his reaction the next morning changed everything between us. The first thing he did was plant his fist in my face. As soon as I'd gotten over the shock - and the foul epithets he'd slapped at me, I'd lashed back in return. In retrospect, it wasn't a particularly wise thing to do since he was almost a head taller even then and at least 30 pounds heavier and more muscular than my own lithe, streamlined frame. But that hadn't stopped me. Then again, I was never one to think first anyway since I usually left the thinking it over to him. Before he could even take another breath, I'd given him a hard sucker punch that staggered him - and a quick blow to his tight midsection. The last I'd seen of him was the stunned look in his blue eyes. And the words he'd said to me then.
Giving him another punch that had knocked him off his feet, I'd stalked out of that apartment. Roughly six hours later, I'd faced his locked door with my luggage all ready and packed. Even now, I could still remember all the things I wanted to say, all the explanations that I'd prepared in advance but I remained silent. I never saw him again after that. Two days later, I was already unpacking my bags in a shiny new apartment in Chelsea, London. Who knows if he'd tried to contact me through all these years. I never wanted to know. But that hadn't kept me from scanning the news about him, getting a pang whenever I read the sports page from the States and saw his name.
No, it was a lie that I never saw him again. After all, I did see him a year ago when I came home for my sister, Cheryl's wedding. Somewhat nostalgic, I'd walked down Main Street for a drink at the local bar, Henry's. Henry made a drink that was strong, bitter, black and tasted like a drop of heaven. But all I saw was him, standing at the corner looking even better if possible, dressed in a white button-down shirt and a pair of sinfully tight blue jeans. The gorgeous quarterback. His blue eyes wide and stunned at the sight of me. He might have said something. I was reasonably sure he'd called out my name. An apology? Another tirade? Who knows. All I did was turn and leave on the next plane. Turns out I never did get that drink.
And then this. A box of letters from him. Something my mom had finally sent to me with a truckload of advice about forgiveness. The first letter was dated almost 6 months after I'd relocated to London. Since I'd gone, I'd expressly forbade any of my friends and family from ever giving my address to him but that hadn't stopped him from writing. Since then, he'd sent a letter regularly every month for the past four years till the last one which was dated two weeks from last Tuesday. The hasty scrawl across the front of the white envelope was as familiar to me as my own writing. Even after all these years, I could still recognise it instinctively. I'd always teased him that he should have been a doctor with that indecipherable writing. Even as I tried vainly to forget him, I occasionally wondered what he'd done with his life though I never tried to find out. Whether he'd achieved all the dreams he'd spoken of those summer days when we'd laze around his father's garage and watched the world go by.
When I'd first moved back to town and my new apartment, there'd been a gift from him on my doorstep. A potted azalea. Amazingly, the man still knew which button to push. Knowing that I might toss his housewarming gift down the drain, he knew that I couldn't possibly do such a thing to an innocent plant. Which was why the cheery plant adorned the window sill in the kitchen right now.
It was obvious that my mother had told him of my return. No one else was as insistent as she that we should start talking again. Don't let the sun set upon your anger and all that. It was the reason she'd kept the letters for me. Seeing that familiar scrawl made me sad. Made me feel so alone. And I hated him for that. That one night had given me such hope. It had brought to life feelings that I'd never though existed. Until then, I'd never realized that I could love someone so much, that I secretly yearned to have someone beside me. Absentmindedly, I traced his name which was imprinted on the back of the envelope. Brad McKinley.
The bane of my life. And damn him, I missed him.
A quick rap on the door had my pulse jumping. At this hour of the night, I simply couldn't imagine who would come around knocking at my door. Although I had started dating since I came back, I hadn't had anyone over as yet. The only people who knew my new address was my sister and my mom. It would be just like Cheryl to come knocking without calling first.
Heaving an impatient sigh, I took a quick stretch and stood up. Throwing my shirt on without bothering to button it, I stalked to the door, grumbling all the while. The knocking continued incessantly and I was almost positive that was it Cheryl. No one could possibly be as persistent as her. Oh God, could it be Tom again? Ever since marrying her impossibly perfect husband, she had been trying to find faults with him and found herself getting exasperated when she couldn't find any. Even I found it hard to find anything wrong with the man she married.
"I'm coming. Stop knocking!" Swinging the door open, I closed my eyes and heaved out another sigh. "If you're here to complain about Tom again, I swear-" I never got to finish my thoughts.
"Well, I would love to hear about Tom. But I think we should talk about us first."
My fingers stilled at the doorknob and I felt my knees turn to water. The voice. Deeper, huskier but even without opening my eyes I could recognise it. How could I not? The last time I heard it was exactly four years back. My mind was a blank. All the wicked thoughts of retribution that I once had disappeared faced with the reality. Part of me could only think of running, running as far as I could. Back to London. Where it was dull, boring but utterly safe. The other part ... well I followed the other part and slammed the door in his face.