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The firelight catches on a thousand different things, glimmering bright and orange-red on the buttons of Paul’s overcoat, the chains around Dwayne’s neck, the innumerable pieces of junk strewn about the old cavern. The sewing needle in Star’s hand, so fine Michael shouldn’t even be able to see it from where he’s sitting, looks molten in the flickering light, and he swallows down the nerves that flare in his gut at the thought of the pain to come.
Star’s hands are reassuringly steady, unbothered by the heat of the half-gone candle as she runs the needle’s tip through the tiny flame. Wisps of dark hair hang dangerously close to the fire and Michael wants to warn her, but the boys are all watching the proceedings with an unnerving intensity and he doesn’t feel like being mocked for his concern. They always latch onto any sign of weakness with fervor, and the sharp glint in David’s eyes tells Michael he’s already caught on to his budding anxiety. He’s sitting in his ancient wheelchair like it’s a goddamn throne, the cruel lord of a ruined court, Marko crouched on a mess of broken rebars and concrete behind him like some guardian beast.
Michael’s been unsettled around David since the first night on the boardwalk, unsettled by that eerie stillness about him that invokes unease and lures the mind into its own darkest corners.
But there’s a magnetism there too, something that made Michael follow him back to the old hotel beyond the lure of Star’s dark eyes and gentle smile, something that made Michael drink the wine despite the warning voice of reason in his head that sounded remarkably like his mother. He’d spent that first night doubting himself, wondering what he’d gotten into, hating David for taking Star, for almost running him off the cliff, for the way he kept looking at Michael with an intensity that made his skin crawl…
And then he’d drunk the wine and though he couldn’t quite remember anything after that, his brain offering little memories other than hazy whirls of light and sound, there had been a definite shift. Since the moment his mouth had touched the lip of the bottle he’d felt a strange kinship with David and the boys, something that pulled them together beyond the promise of half-gone memories and too-bright days that inched slowly, inexorably, towards the next night. Daytime had suddenly become intolerable, but the watery moonlight and cool air of Santa Carla’s nighttimes are a balm for his burning skin, for the stifling heat of the California sun, for the near-constant echo of David’s voice in his head.
When Star approaches him, needle in hand, David stands too. She perches on the ratty armrest of the couch Michael’s occupying, close enough that her knee brushes his arm. With a hand on his chin she tilts his head, leaning in so the brush of her breath ghosts over his cheek, and Michael holds his breath in anticipation of the needle’s prick.
“Wait.”
Star draws back slowly, turning to where David stands behind the couch. Michael’s forced to strain his neck to look at him, watching as he fishes something out of a pocket only to hold it hidden in his fist. “I’ll do it.”
An undecipherable look passes between Star and David — one of dozens Michael’s witnessed — but as always, Star defers to David’s unspoken authority without complaint. She passes the needle to David and slips off the sofa’s arm with a consolatory hand on Michael’s shoulder and a half-smile that barely reaches her eyes.
David slips into Star’s place like he’s been there all along, opening his hand for Michael to see the old coin that sits there, silver long since given way to darker discoloration, a copper ring connecting the coin to an equally-tarnished hook. “For your approval, Michael.”
The way his name rolls off David’s tongue sends icy chills marching up his spine. He doesn’t think David’s really looking for his input on the choice of jewelry so he just clears his throat and risks a glance at David. “Uh, yeah. Sure.”
“Yeah, sure,” David mimics, and Paul, deep in shadow across the cavern, cackles. Unnaturally cold fingers grip Michael’s chin, tilting his head the same way Star had, but with David so close that the lapels of his overcoat cast a shadow across Michael’s lap, it feels like his neck is being bared. “The more you move the more this’ll hurt,” he says, sounding almost amused at the prospect of pain.
Through some miracle Michael manages to tamp down the reflexive jolt of pain as the needle pierces his earlobe without preamble. “Christ, David. Would it kill you to warn a guy?”
“You’re not done yet.” There’s an uncomfortable tugging sensation as the needle’s pulled back out, then another, sharper sting that’s presumably the earring itself. Before Michael can put any distance between himself and David, he’s slipped a hand around to the nape of his neck, one cold thumb pressed hard into the curve of Michael’s jaw. Michael is stuck in place for a long moment under David’s appraising gaze, sure the rabbit-fast beat of his pulse can be felt under David’s too-tight grip. “Looking good,” he finally croons, letting go of Michael with a little shove.
Unsure if David’s even talking about the earring, Michael just narrows his eyes and tries to roll the crick out of his neck. He feels blood begin to drip and wipes at it absently, struck by how strong the scent is for such a small amount and utterly fascinated, for some unfathomable reason, by the way the light plays off the scarlet drops.
“Never seen blood before, Michael?”
“David.” Star’s tone sounds almost like a warning as she steps closer.
“Star,” Marko echoes, mocking, and Michael’s once again left with the reeling sensation of only being in on half the story. Under Star’s watchful eye David finally moves, dragging fingertips across the side of Michael’s neck as he does so; Michael jumps at the fleeting contact, heart racing, but it’s just the barest touch before David pulls his hand back and stands.
It’s only when the older boy shoots him a sideways glance, lips curling with genuine amusement, that Michael notices his blood shining on the pad of David’s thumb. True excitement is a rare sight on David’s face but the glimmer in his eyes as he raises his hand to his mouth reminds Michael of the only other time he’s seen that expression — the night at the cliff’s edge, when he’d swung at David and he’d taken the blow without a hint of pain. More than anything else, it was that wild look in his eyes that had told Michael this guy wasn’t like the chain smoking, leather-clad rebels he’d known in Phoenix, in high school.
He wasn’t like Alejo Muñoz, the nineteen year-old senior who Michael had befriended in the eleventh grade simply because he was one of the only people who didn’t care what his dad had done. Michael fled the rumors everyone whispered about Glenn Emerson by hiding out at the bleachers with Alejo, passing a cigarette back and forth and talking about nothing of importance. Their classmates sneered at Alejo’s long hair, the silver chains and leather jacket, called him metalhead and freak and other, worse words that also started with F, but Michael was just happy to spend time with someone besides his brother and his mom. Alejo had graduated on his second try of senior year and skipped town just weeks before Michael left for California.
No, they were nothing alike. Alejo had none of David’s wildness, or his casual cruelty. He never looked at Michael like he was prey to be devoured. He would never, not in a thousand years, wrap his lips around a thumb stained with Michael’s blood and suck it off in the most foul display of hedonism he’s ever seen.
Unable to place the strange sensation that coils deep in his gut, Michael can't tear his eyes away from the crimson that lingers on David’s lower lip. Somewhere in the background Dwayne and the other boys are hooting with laughter but David… David just gives him that infuriating smirk like the cat that caught the canary.
He swears he can hear David under the sound of Dwayne, Paul, and Marko’s laughter echoing through the cavern. In his head, always in his head, chuckling soft and low as he finally turns away from Michael.
He can’t fucking get David out of his head. More often than not it’s his voice, murmuring Michael’s name with every syllable eerily, perfectly formed, but other times it’s just David . He can’t stop seeing the moment David tasted his blood — his sick satisfaction and Michael’s revulsion all rolled up into one bizarre memory that loops over and over and over like a few minutes on a bad tape.
It’s an easy matter to find David the next night on the boardwalk, Star and Laddie nowhere to be seen, the other boys all lounging against various objects like they own the whole goddamn boardwalk. When he grabs the lapels of David’s coat and bodies him towards the nearest alley, Marko’s stomping out his cigarette and reaching for Michael before the others even realize what’s happening. Some unseen gesture or unspoken command from David has Marko standing down and Michael manages to shove David against the bricks with enough force that he suspects David just isn’t resisting.
“What the hell did you give me?”
Pointedly looking down at the hand Michael still has twisted in his coat, David arches his brows. “What are you talking about, Michael?”
Condescending as ever, forever amused by some joke nobody else knows. Michael resists the urge to punch the gloating smile right off his face, knowing that’s far more likely to end poorly for him and not David. He leans closer, putting all his weight into keeping David’s back to the bricks, reveling in the bare inch of height he has on him. “Ever since the first night, with whatever wine was in that bottle, something’s been wrong with me. The sun’s too hot, I’m starving, I can’t sleep at night, and any time I try I just hear you in my head.”
David’s top lip curls, more a flash of the teeth than a real smile. “There was nothing in that bottle you won’t have drunk a thousand times over.”
Something about the phrasing snags Michael’s attention, but he’s too incensed to parse it out. “Then there was something in that food, the pot, something-”
“A drug strong enough to last a week?” David interrupts.
One leather-gloved hand wraps around Michael’s wrist so hard he can feel bones grind and he releases his grip on the overcoat reflexively: Michael’s strong, no doubt, but David’s holding his arm down with evident ease. A shot of adrenaline has Michael’s heart kicking into his throat, keenly aware of the fact that one wrong move could mean broken bones or worse.
“You think I drugged you with something strong enough to linger in your blood for a week?”
He’s not sure if it’s fear or anger that’s keeping his chest heaving, jaw set tight against David’s frigid stare. In the orange glow of the boardwalk lights David’s eyes are more violet than the icy blue Michael’s used to, simmering with something that’s not quite ire.
It hits him abruptly, then, what that look is.
Lust — underlined with a feral, animal hunger that makes Michael’s skin crawl. Something must change, some realization flickering in his face because David’s smiling once again, triumphant and self-satisfied. Michael tries to pull his arm back but David holds fast, tugging his hand back up to chest height so Michael’s palm is splayed over his chest.
He can’t find a heartbeat through all the layers of clothes, can’t feel even the gentle rise and fall of David’s breathing around the physical pain and rage and creeping unease clouding his senses. “What are you doing?” he asks stiffly, standing tall as he dares with that iron grip still holding him in place.
“Tell me, Michael, if you had Star up against the wall of an alley, hidden from prying eyes…” David gestures around them at the alley, at the shadows that seem to almost flock to him. “...What would you do? What would you be thinking of doing?”
“You’re a pig,” Michael snarls in response. Unbidden, a memory flashes through Michael’s mind, a warning his dad once planted deep. There are men out there who want unnatural things. Best to stay away .
His father’s old words wash in on a tide of shame: shame that he’d once believed such hateful words, shame that maybe he might—
David’s tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip like he can still taste Michael’s blood. “It’s only a question,” he says, voice falling short of the placating tone he’s going for.
Michael’s eyes fall shut for the briefest moment. “Let go, David.”
To his surprise, he does, both hands going up in mock surrender. Rubbing at his sore wrist, Michael doesn’t move, doesn’t look at David, doesn’t want to see whatever smug expression he’s wearing.
“What would you want if I were Star?”
An impatient edge creeps into Michael’s voice. He’s tired of David dancing around whatever the fuck he wants to say. “Does it matter?”
“You tell me.”
“What?”
Finally stepping away from the wall, David’s crowding Michael’s space once again. “You tell me how much it matters that I’m not Star .” The last three words, those scant syllables drawn out well beyond their normal lifespan, land like punches.
David tugs a glove off and uses one now-exposed nail to cut a shallow score in his bottom lip — the moment blood wells, black in the low lighting, Michael’s whole world narrows. The sounds and sights and smells of Santa Carla’s boardwalk fade away into the near distance, no more worth noting than the buzzing of neon signs or the faint glow of stars in dawn’s graying light.
Michael’s no longer restrained but he hasn’t moved away, still near enough that David can reach out and curl pale, frigid fingers around the curve of his jaw. “What are you afraid of, Michael?”
“I’m not afraid, I’m just not—”
“Not what?”
Under the intensity of David’s gaze, Michael’s words feel stupid, a childish argument against a matter he simply doesn’t understand. “Not gay.”
When David smiles the blood spreads, one lone rivulet dripping down his chin as the sharp iron scent finally reaches Michael. “It’s not about straight or ga y, Michael. It’s about being unfettered, unrestrained, taking what you want, when you want it, and living without shame or guilt.” Bitterness laces his words, woven in with pride and rough-edged desire to form a tapestry that tells Michael exactly what kind of disgust and cold-shoulder treatment David’s been subject to. “It’s about doing everything people say you shouldn’t because life…” Here, David’s expression turns caustic. “Life’s too short to listen to the brain-dead masses.”
If Michael were in a better state of mind, perhaps he might take a moment to parse out whether it’s David’s words, the blood shining on his lips, or just the delicate, taunting cupid’s bow of that infernal fucking mouth that finally makes him surge forward into a searing, sanguine kiss.
David’s hands are on him immediately, drawing them inexorably closer, and in the coppery tang of blood and insistent press of David’s lips Michael can find no part of him that wishes to go back to the daylight.