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Kelsey's Tavern, on any given weeknight, is spotted with regulars and the occasional commuter who missed their transfer. On the weekends, it's packed with twenty-somethings throwing back shots and dancing against strangers, thirty-somethings meeting up for martinis and cosmos to discuss what that little bitch in HR did again, and a swoop of forty-and-aboves just trying to have a good time while they still can. It's the juxtaposition that brings Steve there every Friday after he spends the week dealing with suits and manipulating ass-kissers in the city. It's why, once a week, he drives fifteen minutes out of his way in the morning to park at Hicksville when the Bethpage station is right around the block from his house.
Situated right across the tracks and, if Steve gets there early enough, near his parking spot, Kelsey's has been a Long Island staple since the mid-sixties. It's brilliant marketing – and if Steve knows anything, it's marketing – to plop a bar right by one of the biggest transportation hubs on Long Island. The Ronkonkoma Line is littered with them, but Kelsey's has something that the others don't.
It has Tony.
Every Friday night for the last seven years, the patrons of Kelsey's have stopped by for happy hour and listened to Tony and his piano. His smooth and raspy voice and his intelligent fingers, dancing across the keys like a ballet. He sings about heartbreak, mental health, a shitty childhood… Sometimes, his songs touch on what's good in life -- an ice cold beer, a friendship, or the muffled quiet of a winter night. Around the holidays, he sings standard carols and pop contributions, and during Saint Patrick's week, he jokes about being Italian and singing Irish drinking songs. But it's not just his voice, it's him. He's beautiful. Young, maybe 26, and compact in the best ways. Barely 5'8, lithe, and lean. Giant brown eyes and a head of curls that sway this way and that when the emotion of the song overtakes him.
Phil, the owner of the bar, likes to play Piano Man on the jukebox at the end of Tony's sets, yelling out "Man, what are you doing here?" along with the song. Tony usually joins in, and because this is Long Island and Billy Joel is a god to Long Islanders, he'll play a few favorites. Steve especially likes his rendition of Scenes From an Italian Restaurant, but it's his version of The Downeaster ‘Alexa’ that really hits home for him.
Maybe it's the way he ends the song, his voice hauntingly sad as his vibrato dots the lyrics -- "But there ain't no island left for islanders like me."
Steve likes to sit at the bar. It's close to Tony and even closer to the beer. Around him, the forgotten blue collars of the island down their Blue Point pints and nod along solemnly. The inner island where the rich don't play, where the streets are filled with potholes, just like their dreams. Steve is one of the lucky few. Bethpage sports nice homes and higher taxes, but the middle class and lower class of the island can only dream of getting out from under the crushing weight of debt. They have nice homes, some of them, but their credit cards carry a burden heavier than the cement used for the foundations.
At least most of them are happy. They do what they love -- teachers, hair stylists, city cops paying double taxes, mechanics. The cost of doing what you love is owing everything else to the government.
They didn't sell out. No, not like Steve.
He may have bought his home with more than 100 grand down, and he may drive a brand new Mercedes, but Steve hates every single aspect of his life as an executive for SHIELD Marketing. He envies the younger patrons for their idealism as they talk about student teaching and interning and the older crowd as they pull up photos of their kids on their phones…
It's not their fault he's 42, single, childless, and in a job that is slowly sucking the creativity from him.
He used to paint. He used to sketch the elderly as they walked through the dying malls arm in arm. He used to create beautiful portraits and landscapes -- used to be able to capture a single moment and encase it in pastels and charcoal.
"'Nother Sam Adams, Steve?"
Steve turns away from where Tony is singing about falling out of love and faces the bartender, Sam. "Lay it on me," he bitterly responds, rubbing at his brow. Sam gives him a loaded look. He's probably the only person outside of his best friend Bucky who knows him at all. That happens when you become a regular. Bartenders make great therapists; it only costs you a couple of twenties in tips. But Sam is a friend, as much as one can be when they've never spent time together beyond Friday nights at the bar. Steve is often there well after last call, sitting on the bench outside talking about everything and anything while Sam chain smokes and divulges more to Steve than, he admits, to his counselor at the VA.
Reaching into the cooler, Sam pulls out a familiar bottle and uncaps it. "This one's on me," he says, placing the bottle on the coaster in front of Steve and clearing away the empty one. "What's got you so down tonight, man?"
Steve looks up at him, faking surprise. "Me? I'm not down -- I'm good, Sam. Just tired. Long week."
Sam shrugs, used to Steve's evasive tactics in dealing with his personal life. Both he and Steve know that a few more beers in, and Steve will be spilling his guts. Grabbing a rag, Sam swipes at the bartop, glancing over at Steve. "Your boy sounds good tonight."
"He sounds good every night -- Wait. What do you mean, your boy?"
"You know damn well what I mean, jackass. You know he's sweet on you too. Maybe if you got your head out of your ass and introduced yourself – you know – after seven god damn years, you could get some and get that sour ass looking face off your head."
Steve huffs, incredulous. "Right, let's talk about my love life." He points at himself then at Sam, "How's Veronica? Or was it Cameron? Michelle? Becca?" Slapping the bar and snapping his fingers he continues, "Madeline! That's right! How's Madeline?"
"Bitch ass," grumbles Sam, swiping the beer from in front of Steve, "I'm taking this back."
"No! Wait! I'm sorry, I love you, Sam, you're the best bartender in the world and so handsome and good in bed --"
"You're laying it on a little thick, Steven --"
"-- And – my god, man – you are just one sexy beast!"
Sam’s eyes roll so hard he's seeing stars. He slams the bottle back down and leans over the bartop, pointing into Steve's face. "Seven years, you fucking dolt, and I don't think you've said one word to him. I'm only giving you your beer back because you're so pathetic."
Steve could live with that.
The last notes are echoing through the bar as Tony finishes a request,
"Everybody's talkin' 'bout the new sound
Funny, but it's still rock and roll to me."
Billy Joel never sounded so good. Steve can admit to bias in most cases, but not for this. There's a reason the bar is packed every Friday. Sure, the drinks are good, and Sam is friendly. Sure, Phil is a riot when he has too many whiskeys, but it's not them that bring the crowds -- it's Tony.
Sam rings the bell hanging over the register, bellowing out above the applause, "Last call! Last call! You don't have to go home, but you can't fucking stay here!"
A regular seated at a booth yells back, "Fuck you, Sam!"
"Fuck you, Nick! And your eye patch too!"
Steve chuckles, holding up a finger to signal to Sam that he wants one more before closing his tab. The bottle slides down the bar, expertly aimed to stop in front of Steve. "Thanks, Sammy!" Sam flips him off and turns to cash out another patron.
"We have time for one more request," Tony is saying into the microphone, barely able to finish amid the raised voices calling out songs. It's a chorus of " Bon Jovi!" "Tom Petty!" and "More Billy!" which isn't shocking as he's Tony's speciality. He cranes his neck, searching the room before his eyes land on Steve. "What about you?"
Steve, red in the face from the alcohol and the embarrassment, pales and stutters, shocked at being singled out by the gorgeous musician. "I – I – I don't -- I mean --" He's two sheets deep and still unable to form words when it comes to Tony.
"Come on, man!" Sam hisses at him as he slides Steve's bill in front of him, "Don't blow it!"
"And So It Goes," he manages to stammer out, a sucker for not only the original version but for Tony's. There's a few groans of people upset with Steve for choosing something slow, but just as many are sighing and nodding, happy with the choice. It's one of those songs that can evoke a multitude of memories and emotions from almost anyone.
Sam takes it upon himself, as the music starts, to pour two shots of Jack into whiskey glass and hands it to Steve. "For the nerves," he says, pouring himself one, "because you're gonna talk to him tonight, no excuses."
Steve lifts the glass and clinks it against Sam's. "Salut," he says before tipping his head back and downing the whole thing. Sam, bless him, refills the glass.
"If you're giving out the good shit, Samuel," Steve looks up to see Nick dangling himself over the bar and wiggling his empty glass.
"It's last call, ass for brains," Sam groans, "but fine. Just because you're so cute."
Tony's voice raises above as Nick retorts, "Shaddap, Samuel."
Steve is distracted the moment he starts to sing, entranced by the vocals, by the way Tony leans into the microphone, the way his fingers effortlessly dance across the keys… Sam and Nick fade into the background, blurred out by his tunnel vision. There is only Tony, his voice, and his piano.
And a song he's singing just for Steve.
"In every heart there is a room
A sanctuary safe and strong
To heal the wounds from lovers past
Until a new one comes along…"
Steve is still sitting at the bar as the lights come on four minutes later. He hears the click of the piano closing and the rustling of sheet music being gathered and placed back into folders. He hears people saying goodnight, hears Sam washing glasses and sorting recycling. Hears Phil refilling the ice machine.
Minutes go by. The bar almost empties save for a few stragglers -- the usuals who stay until the last minute. Steve hears them, but the noise doesn't register. He's still alight with the gift of his own song. Closing his eyes, Steve sways on the bar stool, drunker than he thought. He tries to picture Tony perfectly as he sang and tries to hold onto the melody – but it's fleeting.
A breeze crosses over his face, and Steve opens his eyes. There, seated next to him on the adjacent barstool, is Tony. He blinks slowly, trying to discern if his swimming brain is hallucinating or not.
"Hi," Tony says, leaning against the curved wood of the bartop, "I'm Tony."
"I know," Steve says dumbly, saved by Sam refilling Steve's glass and plopping a bottle of water in front of Tony. Nick grumbles about special treatment as he leaves, shrugging his coat on and glaring at Sam. Steve lets out a breath, trying to act cool and signing his bill with a flourish he doesn't feel. "I'm Steve."
"I know," Tony smiles, opening the water and taking a long gulp. "I know who you are."
"Do you?"
"Mmhm."
Steve looks down into the glass in his hand, swirling the amber liquid around. "You sing beautifully."
Tilting his head like he's trying to figure Steve out, Tony takes another sip of his water. "Thank you. You know that song is one of my favorites."
"Which?" Steve knows the answer as soon as his big mouth opens. His stupid drunk brain is delayed, but his mouth sure isn't; Tony is talking about the one Steve requested. Obviously. "Oh," he corrects before Tony can answer, "right. Yes. And So It Goes. Mine too." Flustered and at a loss of what to do, Steve throws his head back and downs the whiskey.
"Come outside?" Tony asks, gesturing to the door. "I need a smoke… and some company."
"Sure." As Steve stands, his body flails. He's able to remain upright, but it's not by much. Tony catches him by his arm, chuckling.
"Gotta watch out for Sam's drinks; he's a heavy pourer."
"Am not!" comes from down the bar. Tony waves him off, and Steve manages to get his bearings enough to make it to the bench outside. The same spot he's traded life stories and secrets with Sam. Across the road, a train is pulling into the station, high above the street on a raised platform, surrounded by cement and advertisements. The whir of the train is as familiar to Steve as the bar is.
He sits, and Tony drops down next to him, pulling a half-crushed pack of Marlboros from his pocket.
"You shouldn't smoke," Steve slurs and points to Tony's mouth, "ruin that angelic voice of yours."
"It adds to my vocal charm, but I am trying to quit. Haven't had one since before I went on." He lights up the cigarette, inhaling and blowing out a puff of smoke. "Sometimes it's the little things, you know? I work a job I'll never get anywhere with, but then I get to come here once a week and sing, and it's just like --" A soft smile comes onto his face, his hands open in front of him, lit cigarette between his index and middle finger of his right hand. "It’s like nothing else matters. I'm here. Tonight. And that's good shit." He brings the cigarette back up to his mouth, inhaling, and Steve watches the cherry on the end glow red.
"Where do you work?" Steve tries to lean into his corner of the bench, bringing one knee up so he can face Tony.
"De Nero Auto in Massapequa; I'm a mechanic. A grease monkey," he laughs, and it sounds like the bells on an opening door.
"You like cars?"
"Love them. What do you do?" Tony shifts, leaning into his own corner and mirroring Steve, one knee up. It presses against Steve's, and the warmth makes him deliriously happy.
"I used to be an artist," he tries to circumvent the question, not wanting to out himself as a sellout when this guy is fixing cars just so he can sing on Fridays.
"Used to be?" Tony asks, ashing onto the ground. "How can someone used to be an artist? That doesn't usually pack up and leave."
Signing, Steve rubs his face, unsure how to respond. "I used to be an artist because --"
The door opens, and Sam emerges, overhearing the last bit of their conversation and answering for Steve, "Because he took a job that created a lovely little nest egg, but it doesn't involve making art. At least not like that." He lights up, leaning against the beige walls of the building. The train finally pulls away, its whistle sounding like a ghost in the night. Steve feels his insides ache.
"Sam," Steve tries to stop him but Tony is looking at him curiously so Steve relents. "I'm a marketing exec."
"Sounds boring."
Steve barks out a laugh. "It is, but I knew I could climb the ladder, you know? Make money?" He shrugs and looks away. "I grew up poor; I swore I'd never have to be hungry again. Didn't realize it involved selling my soul."
Unfathomably, Tony looks like he understands. "How much do you make?" he asks, "if you don't mind telling me."
"About 275 a year. I'm not top level, but I'm getting there. I work for SHIELD Marketing. We cover some of the big boys. The guy above me actually has the Stark Industries account – which I should be gunning for, but I hate this job enough as is."
Tony's face morphs from understanding to withdrawn. He shifts, putting his leg down and dangling his hands off of his knees, the cigarette forgotten. "I kinda have the opposite story."
It's strange to be trading such intimate details with someone he just met, but that's bar culture. It's why so many relationships start there to begin with. Alcohol loosens the tongue, but there is something about the darkness of the night, the fading music in their ears, and the whistling trains in the distance that just opens people up.
"What do you mean?"
"Grew up rich," Tony says, glancing up through his curls, "and hated it."
"Tony's dad is an asshole." Steve had forgotten that Sam was even there. He whips his head around to look at him, confused. "Didn't want a musician for a son."
Steve turns back to Tony, "But you're brilliant! Your voice is just -- and the way you play the piano! You could be the next Billy Joel! You could -- instead of just covering his songs --!" He's incredulous. Indignant. All on Tony's behalf.
Smile strained, Tony flicks his cigarette away. "I have an IQ of 270; I'm a genius. I should have done more. Gone to MIT at 14 instead of a conservatory, become an engineer like the old man. To him, I'm an embarrassment, and he cut me off. But honestly?" Looking at Steve, he quirks one side of his mouth up in a half grin. "Him cutting me off was probably for the best. Otherwise I'd be well acquainted with that guy above you."
"Steve," Sam says quietly, "his last name is Stark."
"Oh. Oh!"
Tony blushes, rubbing his hand over his hair. "Yeah, I was the prodigy child of Howard Stark who abandoned the family."
Steve feels like an ass for asking, but the alcohol is giving him a gumption he's never had. "Do you regret it?"
"Do I regret being cut from the will and left penniless to work a menial labor job and perform at a dive bar once a week? Do I regret my shitty apartment and my hooptie car that's in the shop again? No. No, I do not. I regret not trying harder to be discovered, but I'm not discontent with my life. My father is a bastard. He hit me and berated me. Tried to break my fingers so I couldn't play. Beat the shit out of me when I came out of the closet. Fuck him. I do miss my mom, but she's got my number; ball's in her court."
"Wow." There really isn't much more to say. Steve feels his crush dip a little deeper. He's impressed and in awe at Tony's determination and strength.
"It is what it is. What's your story?"
"I don't know," Steve says, unsure of where to start. "My dad died in the Gulf War when I was ten. We had a pretty okay life up until that point. Modest house in West Hempstead, food on the table every night. When he died, something in the paperwork got messed up, and we didn't get the benefits we should have. They said he deserted and had him dishonorably discharged. He didn't -- at least that's just what my mom says. Sometimes I hear things…"
Trailing off, Steve tries to regain his footing. "Anyway, Mom was a home care aid for this old man part time – just when I was in school – and when he passed away, she couldn’t find any other work. We would have been fine with my dad's army money, but then he died and --" Swallowing, Steve glances up to the train platform again, watching as someone crosses the bridge from the westbound side to the eastbound.
"We lost the house. Had to rent in this slumlord's garage in Wyandanch. No water half the time. No heat. My mom worked when I was in school at a bowling alley making minimum wage and trying to put food on the table… She went without most nights so I didn't. Anyway…" He's divulged too much; he knows it, but he can't seem to stop. "I went to school for art first but switched when I realized that being an artist didn't guarantee that I would be able to afford to eat. Eighteen years later, and here I am. I drive a nice car. I own my own house. I always have food."
Tony is listening intently. "And?" he gently prompts.
"And I'm miserable."
He feels a hand on his shoulder and looks up to see Sam. "You did what you had to." Steve nods, holding back tears. "I gotta go," Sam says regretfully, "Tony, make sure he gets home safely?"
"I will, Sam," Tony's voice is subdued as he gets up to give Sam a hug. "See you next week."
"See you next week," Sam repeats. He pats Steve's shoulder as he leaves.
Steve and Tony are quiet, both lost in the revealing words that float between them. Tony lights another cigarette, sitting back down. "The grass is always greener, huh?"
It's enough to make Steve snort, effectively breaking the solemn atmosphere. "That's a fact."
"Why don't you quit?"
Steve balks. "I can't do that!"
"Why the fuck not? You own your house outright?" Tony asks, and Steve nods. "Got a nice sum in the bank?"
"I mean, yeah? I invested some too, but --"
"But nothing. Life is too short, Steve, take a chance."
Shaking his head, Steve crosses his arms defensively. "And do what? The money won't last forever, Tony. I can't -- I --"
"You're an artist; create the life you want," Tony shrugs, holding his palms up. "I don't know, dude. You're miserable – you said it. Only way that's gonna change is if you do something."
Another train pulls into the station, and Steve is left with the idea that he's got a choice -- he can get in and go where the ride takes him, or he can stay where he is, unsure of when the next train is coming.
"I don't know but… But maybe. Maybe."
In the yellow of the street lamps, Tony looks beautiful. He's young and wise, so much more so than Steve ever could be. This is a man who was abused and emotionally neglected, and yet there he is -- content with the choices that led him to a bench outside of Kelsey's Tavern. It makes him appear all the more perfect in Steve's eyes.
He takes a chance, the first in a long time. "I'm gay." Tony's eyebrows lift at the admission. "No one knows. Well, Sam does, but not because I told him. He knows because he's seen the way I've looked at you for seven years."
"You liked little nineteen year old me with my floppy hair and bad concert etiquette?"
Steve's brows furrow. "Concert etiquette?"
"Notice I only drink water when I'm here? Four years sober, even got a chip for it."
Steve shakes his head, smiling. "I never noticed. Congratulations, sorry you have to talk to a drunk guy."
That makes Tony laugh. "If I wanted to play and remain sober, I had to get used to that real quick. Don't worry, others drinking doesn't bother me, and it doesn't tempt me. I mean, not anymore, but that's okay." He lifts his hands in a what can you do gesture. "But anyway, we're getting off topic. I believe you were about to declare your undying love for me?"
"Can I kiss you?"
"Yes."
Tony's lips are soft. Softer than he's ever imagined, and they taste like lozenges and melodies and promise. He cups Tony's face with his hands, feeling the smoothness of his skin and the stubble along his jaw. When they part, they stay close, breathing each other's air and relishing the spark between them.
"Come home with me?" Steve asks, his voice barely above a murmur.
Tony rubs his thumb under Steve's eye. "I'll take you home, but you're too tipsy for anything else. I promised Sam I'd get you home in one piece, you know."
"Another day?" Steve doesn't want the night to end, he doesn't want to wake up alone and feel like he missed something enormous.
"Another day," Tony says, smiling. "You can take me out, help me paint the town red, and maybe we can see where this goes."
"Maybe?"
"Life is full of maybes, but I think this is more than that, if I'm honest. Do you feel it too?"
Pressing his lips against Tony's again, Steve says, "I have for seven years."
"Where's your car?" They're whispering as if the streets are bustling like it's midday and not after 4 in the morning.
Steve nods his head to the parking lot under the station. "Over there.” He hands Tony his keys.
The ride to Steve's house is without conversation. Tony sings along to the radio, following Steve's in-dash GPS while Steve leans his head against the window, watching the passing lights and soaking in Tony's voice. They travel down Old Country Road, passing only a few late nighters like themselves. It's not until they turn onto Stewart Avenue that Tony speaks again.
"Mercedes suck."
It's not eloquent, and Steve is glad for it. He laughs, swiping at Tony's arm. "It's a status symbol."
"It's stupid."
"Well, what do you drive, Mr. Mechanic?"
Tony snorts, neatly turning onto Steve's block. "A 2007 Monte Carlo with 167 thousand miles on it."
"-- That's in the shop."
"Fuck off."
Steve cracks up. It feels so good to laugh so freely. "Absolutely not, you're stuck with me now."
"Yeah, yeah," Tony sighs, grinning as he pulls into Steve's driveway and puts the car into park. "We need to get you into a muscle car, have it go with that body I know is under all that Armani."
"A 1972 Nova, please."
Tony looks at him, impressed. "Nova, huh?"
"That's what my dad drove." Unbuckling his seatbelt, Steve opens the passenger side door and slides to his feet.
Tony turns the car off and steps out, gazing at Steve over the top of the car. "He had good taste."
"He did." Steve takes one footstep toward his front door and stumbles to his knees. He's laughing as Tony helps him up. "Might need an escort, been a while since I drank that much."
Tony slides his arm under Steve's. "Good to know you're not always such a lush."
Stopping, Steve turns and kisses Tony, drunkenly bumping into him. "I would quit drinking for you. 'S'not important to me at all. Just as long as Sam don't get mad I'm only drinking soda."
Tony's eyes go wide. Steve doesn't like the implication that no one else in Tony's life ever offered to support his sobriety like this before. "You don't have to stop drinking for me, Steve."
"Yeah, I do. You're supposed to support those you care about."
He's blinking back tears as he guides Steve up the front steps. "Thank you," he whispers, "thank you so much."
Inside, Steve kicks off his shoes at the door, and even though he's feeling steadier, he lets Tony aid him to his bedroom up the stairs. In the dim light of the hallway, Steve clumsily strips to his boxers and falls into the bed, kicking at the blankets.
Tony helps pull them up. "I'll get you a glass of water for the morning; you're gonna need it. Then I'll call an Uber --"
Steve's hand snaps out, grasping Tony's wrist. "Don't go. Stay."
"Steve, you're too drunk to consent, I can't --"
"Just sleeping," Steve begs, "promise. Tony, please… Stay."
Tony's face softens in the glow, eyes crinkling slightly at the corners, showing his growing laugh lines. "Okay," he says, "Okay."
Steve wakes the next morning with Tony in his arms. They fit like puzzle pieces against each other. It's comfortable and warm, and for the first time in years, Steve ignores the steady beeping from his work phone.
He's taking a chance -- not just on Tony, but in life. He thinks of the art store in the town over, of the paints he'll need to capture the beauty of the sleeping musician whose head lies on Steve's shoulder. Whether or not oil paints might be better, or if he should start with colored pencils and go from there.
Steve is ready to take a chance, to leap into something unknown and uncertain. To quit his job, to be the artist he never ceased to be inside, to dive headfirst into loving a man 16 years his junior without knowing how it'll end.
He's ready, for the first time in his adult life, to be unsure. It's exciting and invigorating, and he feels alive and hopeful.
The morning light plays along Tony's face, highlighting and shadowing -- highs and lows, just like the music he brings to life every Friday night in a little bar next to the train station. Just like the life he's helping Steve to start living.
So I would choose to be with you --
That's if the choice were mine to make.
But you can make decisions too,
And you can have this heart to break.