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“You’re a fucking asshole!”
Deron clenches his fists out of sight. “And you’re pathetic.”
“Dude: you’re an asshole.”
“And you’re a fucking MTV whore in eyeliner, will you quit this already?”
Bam can barely stand but he’s still talking, leaning heavily against his kitchen counter while the noises of a wild after party rage in the next room. His top hat is askew and his scarves trail along the floor, his face is red and Deron absolutely cannot take him seriously right now. Which makes the distilled rage trickling into his veins a complete mystery to him.
“At least I’m rich, you’re just an asshole.”
“Fuck you.” Deron’s teeth are clenched now, almost biting his cigarette clean in two. He tosses it away with irritation, pacing in spite of himself.
“Deron, you’re an asshole.”
“I know!” he screams.
The shocked silence is almost audible, a stark and muted contrast with the echoing mayhem from the next room. Deron blinks hard and rakes his fingers through his hair to regain his self-control. Bam just frowns, words rising to his lips but not spilling over. Chad, who had been watching the argument with amusement, stares at them both, waiting to see who will make the next move. No one does. Finally he stands.
“I’m going to buy some more beer, you comin’?” He jerks his head at Deron and the younger man assents with a tight nod, scowling at Bam on his way out.
In the crisp December night Deron finds his voice again and wastes no time in filling the cold air with curses.
“Where the fuck does Bam get off criticising me? Has he even looked at himself lately? The guy’s wearing designer bullshit, hanging out with people he doesn’t even like, he can’t walk outside without some twelve-year-old trying to suck his dick, he’s miserable and drinking himself into an early grave...”
Chad coughs loudly and Deron rolls his eyes.
“Oh fuck you. It’s different.” He’s met with a smile and he groans. “Quit it.”
“Different, huh? Enlighten me,” Chad drawls, baiting him. Deron clenches his fists again inside the sleeves of his hoodie, but at least he is no longer shaking. He hates the anger, hates himself for succumbing to it, but it never quite seems to disappear and he doesn’t know how to make it.
“You know it is. Bam is Bam, and I’m...”
“Deron?”
Deron rolls his eyes as they reach the store, the automatic doors sliding silently open. “Thanks, Chad.”
Chad is still smiling as he grabs a couple of six packs out of the fridge and takes them to the counter, paying with his Amex. Deron grabs one of the six packs and they leave the store, the coldness hitting them hard when they do.
Part way back, Chad stops. “Hold on, just gonna light a cig.” Deron snorts with amusement.
“Hah. Cig.”
Chad half smiles at him, eyes sliding sideways. He puts down his six pack and pats his pockets until he finds his cigarettes, then repeats the process until a lighter is produced. It takes him a while to light the thing in the winter winds that sporadically whip around him, but eventually, after shielding the flame with his leather jacket (and almost burning a hole in it), he succeeds. He is about to pick up the beer and continue walking back, but Deron’s hand lightly tugging on his arm stops him.
“We could stay out here for a while. We have beer.”
His tone is casual but his eyes are pleading, just a little, and Chad shrugs. “Whatever floats your boat, Deron.” To be honest, he’d wondered at Deron’s uncharacteristic lack of impatience while he’d been lighting up.
They sit on the sidewalk, knees up and backs against a shop window that closed for the night long ago. Chad cracks open two beers and passes one to Deron before checking himself.
“Hey, is this...”
“It’s fine,” Deron replies, “don’t worry about it.” He takes a measured sip of the beer before placing the can beside him on the sidewalk and fishing for his own cigarettes. Chad nods to himself and smokes silently for a while.
It’s peaceful where they are, or as peaceful as it can be at one in the morning a week before Christmas. The sound of a distant police siren drifts by on the wind; discarded coke cans and paper bags trail along in the gutter; the streetlights give everything an orange halo. It’s freezing but neither man cares; on Deron’s part he finds that the discomfort keeps him focused, whereas Chad simply doesn’t let it bother him. The silence between them is familiar, while Deron thinks and processes and Chad waits for the result.
Deron speaks first, toying with the ring pull on his beer. “I do know. That I’m an asshole, I mean. I know it. I’ve always known it.”
“Miserable fucker too,” Chad shoots back, almost seeming like he wasn’t really listening but just waiting to jump in. Deron socks him on the arm and he laughs. “Fucker.” His brown eyes glint in the artificial light and Deron’s almost glimmer back at them.
“Do you really think I’m like him?”
Chad lights a fresh cigarette and opens a second beer before he answers, and the hurt is sharp on Deron’s face (if you know where to look for it) while he waits for his friend’s judgement. “No. All I’m saying is that you both have your issues, right? So you might wanna lay off once in a while. Karma can bite you on the ass, you know?”
“Karma?” Deron snorts again. “Since when are you a Buddhist, Chad?”
The darker man grins. “I’m just saying. He’s an asshole, you’re an asshole, he’s a borderline alcoholic, you’re...”
“In rehab,” Deron cuts in fiercely, and Chad backs off and changes his argument. Talking to Deron is knowing when to let him win.
“You’re completely different. Bam’s just a kid. He’s caught up in the glitz and glamour. You’re...you know what’s going on. Just because you’re both miserable doesn’t mean it’s for the same reason, right?”
“Who says I’m miserable?” Deron tries to counter, but the tone of his voice turns the question into a bitter kind of sarcasm that he hadn’t intended. Chad inhales some more smoke and just breathes instead of talking. It seems like the best thing to do. In ten years he’s gotten pretty good at judging things like that.
A few more minutes pass before Deron speaks again. “I’ve got Felissa. Bianca. New kid on the way, hopefully a boy...”
“Still gonna name him Carver?” Chad asks with a sly smile and Deron socks him again.
“Shut up. Anyway, I’ve got them...and I’ve got you. And Jess. The band, I mean. Things can’t be that bad.”
“I’m touched.”
“You should be.” Deron smiles and Chad smiles back, and to an unknowing observer it would have seemed so easy to get to this place, but that ignorance would be to severely underestimate Chad’s skilful handling of the situation. And Deron always knows that he’s doing it but fuck, it’s nice to have someone who he can talk to. Someone who only walks on eggshells when he needs to and knows when his joking will diffuse the tension instead of adding to it.
Their eyes fall to the nine unopened cans of beer they have left. “Seems a shame to let Bam and his army of paid friends get hold of this,” Deron says. Chad looks up at him, understanding.
“Sure this is alright for you?”
Deron tries to shrug it off but his smile is shaky, like so much else seems to be lately. “I can handle it. It’s not like it’s liquor or anything.”
Chad looks away, down at his feet. “Right. That’s okay then.” They both know that it’s anything but. Though maybe one day soon, it will be.