Where They May

Part 2/2

Ethan remained on the curb and watched him go. When Sam’s merged with the other still shadows on the bus, he struck off in the direction of the shitty used bookstore. He killed an hour picking through the stacks and even attacked the monster pile in back between two “-ology” sections he’d never heard of.

Pierce had not raped him. He’d done other things: gotten his rocks off at Ethan’s expense, but that was different--wasn’t it?

He found a couple of promising paperback novels among the dated self-help and finance books, and brought them to the counter. His shift started in an hour, and he headed in the general direction of the bar. He grabbed a coffee and broke in one of the books, waiting for 2:30 to roll around.

When it did, he went in. Work was uneventful. Barbacking didn’t have him doing much beyond menial chores and filling pint glasses, but there was the always the future possibility of promotion to bartender, and for the time being it paid the rent. All the same, he was glad to be out by eleven, when the real crowds arrived.

Ethan was not ready to go home, and stopped in at a couple other bars for drinks. He accidentally on purpose forgot to call Beau, and by one o’clock was passing into the state of the truly intoxicated. He fished his phone out of his pocket and stared at the lighted display, clear of any missed calls.

“Bastard,” he said.

“Ooh,” a voice chimed. “Who’s a bastard?”

Ethan looked up, and over, and found a pair of bright blue eyes watching with intent.

“Um,” he said. “My friend.”

“Your friend.”

“Uh, yeah.”

Her hair was down, brown and darker than his own, her cheeks and nose red as if she’d recently seen a lot of sun. She drank what he guessed to be a vodka sour, a single ravished cherry stem soaking a patch of napkin.

“I have friends,” she told him, and wrinkled her nose. She waved her hand in dismissal. “Bastards. All of them.”

“Oh yeah?” Ethan sat up. “Funny how it works that way.”

She poked his arm. “Right? Everyone a bastard but us.”

“So weird.”

She agreed, “Definitely weird,” and they shared a toast. “So what did this bastard do?”

Ethan drew a long, deep breath. “Well,” he began, and paused. The breath rushed out of him. “Nothing, really.”

“A-ha! Awful sneaky of them.”

“Yeah.” Ethan frowned, and stared into his pint glass. “What about you? What’d they do?”

She gave a short sigh and said, “Oh--” and waved her hand. “Nothing, really.”

“Yeah,” Ethan said again. “Sucks.”

She peered at him, lips curled at the corners in a funny smile. “Hey. You want to go somewhere?”

“Oh--where?”

She stared at him in a way he guessed was meaningful, and shrugged.

Ethan squinted, and belatedly realized he’d been propositioned. “Oh,” he said, again. “I’m--you know, I’m--uh, gay.”

“Ooh.” Again, she wrinkled her nose. “That’s too bad.”

“I wouldn’t say bad--”

She gave his shoulder pat, and slid from the barstool. “You have a nice night.”

Ethan watched her go, and decided he’d had enough to drink. He finished his beer and paid the tab, and left. He rode on automatic, somehow finding Beau’s neighborhood. Stashing his bike in the bushes he thought, distantly, that he may be pushing his luck at this late hour, but did not think Beau would turn him away. He knocked.

He was moments in coming, but eventually the porch light lit and Beau answered the door. It was clear Ethan had roused him from bed.

“I’m sorry,” he began, and Beau opened the door wide. Ethan stepped inside, Beau locked up, and then moved silently to the kitchen. Ethan followed. “I’m sorry,” he said again, “I meant to call. And I’m sorry I, like--barged in here in the middle of the night--”

“Sit down,” Beau said, and filled a glass with water. He wore a thin cotton shirt and a pair of gray boxer briefs. Ethan stared at the tight mound of his ass, and sat.

Late night shadows rung Beau’s eyes. He set the glass down on the table before Ethan. “You’ve been drinking?” he asked, and his voice was rough from sleep, wooden, but Ethan sensed no reproach.

“Yes.” Ethan drank the water. It felt good on his tongue, he’d not realized how thirsty he was. Beau sat across the table from him, elbows upon its surface, and combed his fingers through his dark hair.

Ethan emptied the glass and without looking Beau asked, “More?”

Ethan shook his head.

Sitting back in the chair, Beau crossed his arms. He stared at Ethan without expression, and waited.

Ethan turned the glass over in his hands. He squinted in the bright kitchen lights and asked, “Are you mad?”

Beau continued to stare, and then dragged a hand down his face. He rubbed his jaw and finally said, “I’m irritated.”

“Yeah. You probably have work in the morning--”

“I do.”

Ethan fell quiet. He tried to think what he really wanted, tried to clear the mud from his thoughts. He said, “I talked to Sam today.”

“Is that so.” It was clear to Ethan that Beau’s mild interest in this information was, at best, polite.

“Yeah.” Ethan rolled a tiny bead of liquid around the bottom of his glass. He felt he would regret this whole encounter in the morning. He said, “He’s smart.”

One of Beau’s hands landed flat on the table with a loud clap. Ethan jumped in his seat. “Yes,” Beau said, pushing his chair back. “Sam is very smart. He’s wonderful. Someone to be cherished, adored, etcetera, etcetera.” He snatched the glass from Ethan’s hands and rinsed it in the sink.

“Why don’t you take the couch tonight,” he suggested, in clipped tones. “I’m exhausted, and I have an appointment first thing.”

“Beau--”

“What?” Beau snarled. “Ethan, what?”

Ethan shrank back. He’d never heard that tone from Beau, ever. Things were not always sunshine and roses, but never had Beau spoken to him with such venom. He did not know how to respond. “I--Beau, I’m sorry.”

Beau stared at him. He wore an open, disbelieving expression. He shook his head once, and said, “Fine. Goodnight.” He left the kitchen.

Ethan slept heavily, passing through a number of odd, disconnected dreams. In one he stood on a curb somewhere in the city, unable to open his eyes for the blinding brightness of the sun. It beat mercilessly from overhead, and glared up in reflection from white cement. He covered his face with his hands and tried peeking through the cracks in his fingers.

In another, his father sat watching TV at his house. “You’re here,” Ethan said, and his dad just looked at him with a funny smile. There were others, fogged and vague.

He woke early the next morning to sounds of Beau in the shower. Already, he could smell coffee brewing. He lay on the couch and listened to Beau move about the house, listened to him brush his teeth and shave and pull drawers in the bedroom. He stared at the ceiling and soon Beau joined him in the den, coming to stand over the back of the couch. Ethan waved.

Knotting his tie, Beau asked, “How do you feel?”

Ethan shrugged. “I’m okay.”

Beau said, “Hm,” and gave his tie an easy tug. The knot was crisp, a perfect triangle at his throat. Ethan could not stand the things, but they looked good on Beau. He remembered Pierce’s hands wrapped tight around his neck.

“I’m sorry about last night,” he said.

At that, Beau pressed his mouth into a thin line. He braced his hands over the back of the sofa and leaned over them. “Are you going to stick around?” he asked. “I should have things at the office wrapped up around ten. Maybe later. I want to talk to you.”

Ethan panicked. He thought, oh no, but managed a strangled, “Sure.”

“Good. I’ll see you.”

Ethan waited for him to leave before sitting up. He made sure the door was locked and went to the kitchen for breakfast. He fried an egg and ate it with toast, water to wash it all down. He watched TV, flipping aimlessly through news, early morning talk shows, and cartoons. He smoked, and tried not to be nervous.

There were lots of things for them to talk about: the weather, baseball, current events. Ethan could handle the basics: foggy, boring, and the government had lied about--something. He smoked some more.

He reasoned that he was good to Beau, that they were good together. Beau showed him a degree of care and respect he’d not ever experienced, and Ethan could not put a precise name to the knot of feeling he had for Beau, but it was a tangle that required further attention. He was not ready for them to be over. There was an age difference, sure, and where Beau was thoughtful and exact, Ethan leaned toward impulse and fidgeting, but didn’t someone say something once about opposites and attraction?

He considered Sam and Hank. They were the only other couple he knew. They were nothing alike, and they’d been together for--Ethan thought. For a while, he decided.

Ultimately, however, Beau was not Sam or Hank, and neither was Ethan. At half past ten he sat outside to wait, smoking in pensive quiet until the Pontiac pulled up. Beau came to join him on the front step, and Ethan fixed his attention to a patch of cement between his feet. He could feel Beau’s gaze on him.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Beau said.

Ethan glanced up. He drawled, “Oh really.”

A smile found its way to Beau’s mouth. “Really,” he said, and settled his hand between Ethan’s shoulder blades. His palm was warm, and Ethan quickly averted his gaze.

“So you’re not breaking up with me.” He’d meant to be flip, but sounded anxious even to his own ears.

Beau’s hand stilled over his back. “Is that what you thought? Oh, yes.” The hand slid away. “And you would. Poor choice of words this morning. No, Ethan.”

A line of ants traveled in the corner of Ethan’s vision. He said nothing for a long moment, following them with his gaze. One by one they wound their way round obstacles and into the grass. He frowned. “Then what?”

“I just want to talk.” Beau leaned in, not close enough to kiss, but almost. “What’s going on with you?” he asked, quiet. Genuine.

Ethan sucked hard at his cigarette and stabbed it clumsily against cement, burning his fingers in the process. “Just thinking about stuff,” he said.

“Yeah?” Beau’s gaze was so warm, and Ethan was struck, for not the first time, by his kindness.

His breath caught in his throat, so he nodded mutely. Dragging one ragged breath, he said, “Yeah.”

“What kind of stuff?”

Ethan’s breathing felt off, and his eyes itched. He wiped them with the back of his hand, quickly, feeling stupid about the reaction.

Beau frowned. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s go inside.”

They went in. Beau said, “Sit,” and Ethan did. He perched at the edge of the couch cushion, gaze roaming restless about the den. He caught his reflection in the dark television and looked away.

Beau appeared with a glass of water, which Ethan accepted. He drank greedily, reminded of the night before. Beau always took care of him, he thought. When he was mad, when he was not. Ethan had never considered that.

The cushion dipped as Beau sat close beside him. Ethan fiddled with the glass and then forced himself to set it on the low table.

“Thanks,” he said.

“Sure. So…?”

“So,” Ethan agreed. He looked to Beau, who just watched him. There was patience in his eyes, and worry, and something else. Something anxious. Again, Ethan looked away. He said, “I wouldn’t try to hurt you--you know that, right? I--care about you. A lot. Like, your feelings, and what happens to you. I guess I, you know, love you.”

He glanced over, and Beau’s eyebrows had climbed. There was a brightness to his gaze, an openness of expression, that lent Ethan’s next words urgency.

He said, roughly, “Don’t start falling all over me yet. It’s just, sometimes when we’re together--uh, you know, having sex--I start to think--um.” Ethan braced his elbows on his knees and leaned over them, holding his face in his hands. He pressed the heels of each palm into his eyes until he saw sparks, and then he sat up. He blinked, purples and blues dancing in his field of vision.

“I think about what it was like,” he continued, staring blindly ahead, “with him. Pierce.” He paused. His vision slowly cleared. He saw again his reflection in the darkened television set, and Beau’s. He forced himself to continue.

“I think, and this is so messed up, but, I think about the stuff he said. And what he did. He--you know, he didn’t like, rape me.” Finally, he looked at Beau. “He didn’t. But.”

Beau’s face was white, his mouth a pale, thin line. He said, hoarsely, “Go on.”

Ethan hesitated, but continued. “He did, uh, sex stuff.” No, he thought. Stop. “And I was confused. I woke up and I thought he was you. I couldn’t see him, I didn’t know where I was, it was dark--it felt… good.”

“You were high,” Beau said, tightly. “He drugged you.”

Ethan’s voice shook. “Yeah, I guess--”

“No, Ethan. There’s no guessing about it. He kidnapped you, and he drugged you--with a very dangerous substance, I’ll add. He--he sexually--” Beau’s voice broke. He said, “Oh, Christ.”

Ethan felt sick inside, and watched Beau rise from the couch. He watched Beau put the table between them, and added quickly, “I didn’t like it, okay? When I realized--when I figured it out that I was with him--I went crazy.” Much like the others, that memory was vague. Only when they snuck up on him were the recollections clear. He could not, he thought with disgust, even control that.

“Yesterday morning, when we--when you--” Beau bit back a tight, miserable sound, and buried his hands in his hair. “Him?” he exclaimed.

Ethan shot up from the couch, anger chasing at the heels of his embarrassment. “Fuck you! You’re not even listening! It’s not like I--like I liked it, okay? It’s not like, ‘Oh, yeah, some freak just came all over me, you know, awesome.’ It sucked. It was gross. It--it fucking--fuck!”

Ethan glared at a spot on the wall, fists clenched, nails biting, and Beau peered at him, his own hands dropping slowly to his sides.

A moment of quiet passed, and Beau said, softly, “Ethan--”

“Shut up.”

Heat burned Ethan’s ears. Maybe there was something wrong with him, beyond whatever Sam thought. Maybe, deep inside, he really was twisted. Pierce hadn’t raped him, not really. Not like Sam, not like the others. And yet.

“Oh, Tiger, I’m sorry. That was--”

Ethan ground out the words. “Not classy, Baker.”

Slowly, Beau came around the table, and, tentatively, reached out. “No,” he agreed. “Not at all--”

Ethan pulled sharply away. “Don’t.”

Beau touched his arm. “Hey.” He tugged, not hard, but insistent. “Look at me.”

The itch had returned to Ethan’s eyes. He scrubbed his sleeve over them. “You suck,” he muttered, and then Beau’s hands touched his face and his fingers brushed dampness.

Beau murmured, “I do, don’t I? Ethan, please.”

Finally, Ethan looked at him. He felt that it needed to be said, that he needed to hear it one more time. He felt that if only it were true, he would be all right, and so he said it again: “It’s not like I got raped.”

Beau did not say anything. He stared at Ethan with his clear blue eyes, only now they looked sad; sad more than worried or anxious or kind. Ethan realized then that in some ways those words were not true at all, and he felt the realization like a fist in his gut. He gasped suddenly for air, and Beau pulled him in.

Pressing his face into warm skin, Ethan thought wildly that Beau’s neck was a good place; safe and smelling of him, his pulse steady at Ethan’s temple.

It was then that Beau spoke, “Tiger, I know. It’s okay.”

********

Ethan left in the early afternoon to work off the energy he’d built up. Talking made him twitchy, so he promised to return and took his bike out for a ride. He zipped down Nineteenth until he hit the park, and then wound his way through the trails.

He tried to think what he’d tell himself if he were someone else. As if someone else were in his position, having experienced what he had. He thought he would be a pretty big jerk if he told them to just get over it.

He hit up Haight Street and the big record store there, and bought a couple CDs just because he had the money now and he could. Not willing to tackle Nineteenth’s three miles of slow incline, he found the Powell Street BART station and got off at Balboa, where he rode his bike the rest of the way to Beau’s house. Ethan felt that he was at that point sufficiently exhausted, and stumbled in.

“Shower,” he gasped, before Beau could properly greet him.

He stripped and ducked under the cool spray and stood there for several minutes. Beau poked his head into the bathroom.

“You okay?” he called.

“Yeah.”

“Hungry?”

“Yeah.”

“Chinese okay?”

“Uh, yeah.”

And then he was alone.

They ordered in, ate quietly, watched television, and went to bed.

Beau pressed up behind him, and slipped his arm around. He nosed at the spot behind Ethan’s ear and said, “Thank you for sharing that with me. Earlier.”

Instantly, Ethan felt on edge. “Oh,” he said, shifting where he lay. “Yeah, well.” He felt Beau smile.

“Relax.” Beau cut the lights, and all was quiet.

Ethan fought with himself, and finally he whispered, “I didn’t mean to freak you out.”

Beau said, “Shh.”

Ethan thought for a bit. He added, self-deprecatingly, “I guess I’m pretty weird sometimes.”

Beau reached over him, and turned on the bedside lamp. He leaned on his elbow, and gazed down at him. “I don’t think you’re weird.”

“Oh, good.” Ethan stared at him. “The sentencing is tomorrow.”

“What? Oh.”

“Will you go? I want to go.”

Beau almost looked as though he meant to protest, but his expression smoothed and he said, “Of course.”

Ethan eyed him. “You don’t have to. It’s not, like, a condition.”

“I know. A condition of what?”

Ethan shrugged against the pillow, and admitted, “I don’t know. Us.”

Beau smiled very warmly, and said, “Maybe you are a little weird.” He kissed Ethan’s jaw, and then his mouth, and then he slipped his tongue inside. It was a long and breathless taste, and soon Ethan broke for air.

“I meant what I said,” he insisted, “before.”

Lust and confusion clouded Beau’s gaze. He said, “Hm?” and gripped Ethan’s hip. Ethan could feel him hard and pressing at his thigh, and he too felt stiff heat fill him.

“I mean--I know it hasn’t been so long. I left and then I came back and it’s been a few months--”

“Ah.” Beau rolled, pulling Ethan to lie atop him. “That.” Their cocks touched and Ethan hissed quietly through his teeth.

“Yes,” he breathed, planting both hands to the mattress at either side of Beau’s head. “Maybe too soon but I just--oh.”

Beau gripped their cocks together, stroking slow and dragging rough with his palm. Ethan bit his lip and stared hazily between their bodies. At Beau’s hand, their dicks squeezed together. “Oh, god,” he groaned.

“Who are you thinking of?”

Ethan dragged his gaze away, found Beau’s. “Wha--?”

Without warning, Beau surged up for a hard kiss, pulling Ethan to meet him with a hand at his nape. Teeth nipped and Ethan uttered a short, startled cry.

“Who are you with?” Beau asked again, and notes of steel weighted the arousal in his voice. “Right now. Here.”

Ethan’s eyes widened. “You,” he said. “Beau. God, I--yeah, you.” Beau’s touch was steady, still stroking but quicker now. “I don’t--Jesus fuck--I don’t want anyone else.”

He saw the change in Beau’s face, something like fury but not. They kissed again, rough and sliding, and Ethan rutted against the hand at his groin. He wanted more than this, wanted Beau to touch him everywhere; wanted Beau bare and thick and deep inside, but he was so, so close and that hand was relentless. With a broken moan, Ethan hid his face in Beau’s neck, and he felt the hitch in the chest beneath him, and then come spurted hot between their bodies.

Things were foggy, but Beau rolled them again and Ethan felt cool sheets at his back and hot, sticky skin at his front. Beau’s mouth closed over his own, tongue pushing inside. There it was: Beau all over him. Just what he wanted. A lazy grin tugged at the corners of his mouth.

Beau eased up, and nibbled at the line of Ethan’s jaw. “Not too soon,” he murmured at last. Flattening his hand over Ethan’s chest, covering one brown nipple with his palm, he stared down. Warmth stood plain in his clear blue eyes, but something more shone in their depths.

“Oh,” said Ethan, and recalled the tangle inside him. Somehow, the knots tightened further. He said, “Oh, well--that’s good.”