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In a New York diner, at a table near the door, sun outside unforgiving but blocked partway by unclean glass, Matt watched Casey smoke.
Casey's slender, almost boney fingers fumbled with the lid of the cigarette pack. Matt felt a distant urge to run his tongue over those knuckles, to paint a wet line across the tanned skin of Casey's hand, to take one of those fingertips into his mouth and suck it gently, just to see the reaction.
Casey dropped the cigarette pack on the table so quickly that the split second breeze of the fall made the corner of the napkin flutter. "Quit looking at me like that."
"Like what?"
"Oh, I wonder." Casey brought the pack to his mouth and extracted a cigarette, holding the end of it between his teeth. It stayed there while he tucked the rest of the cigarettes in his jacket pocket, his eyes fixed on the window.
"What?" Matt asked again.
"I just thought you might need something." Casey's thumb moved in a short, easy motion and there was fire, flickering long enough to be touched to the end of the cigarette before it died again. He dropped the lighter on the table. "Do you need anything?"
Matt stared at the lighter. It was red and kind of rectangular, the edges sharper than a regular Bic lighter. "Everything." He suddenly couldn't look up. Casey didn't look much like Ben, but occasionally the look of his jawline or the way the light hit him made the resemblance breathtaking. Matt wasn't sure he could handle that right now.
Casey seemed like he might laugh, but it fell flat on the first try. "I can't give you everything, man. Ask for something smaller."
Matt wished he wasn't trying to quit smoking. He needed something to do with his hands. He wished he had the distraction of an acceptable addiction, the kind that centred around a drug and not a person. Anything to fiddle with to take away from the conversation and the way Casey was watching him with empathy. Or was it amusement? It couldn't be. Someone who had been his friend for so many years couldn't be happy about this, could he? He couldn't look at Matt with a hint of humor as Matt felt tears picking at his eyelids, ready to spill if he simultaneously blinked and thought of a particularly painful memory.
But Casey, before he was a friend, was a brother. He had a matching tattoo to prove it, painted across his shoulder the same way Ben's was. Matt has run his lips lightly across Ben's tattoo, had felt the warm skin against the tip of his tongue and rested his hand on Ben's chest to feel the steady rise and fall of breathing under his palm. Feeling the closeness.
There was no more closeness. There probably never would be. Hormones were hard to keep in check, and even as Matt was putting his lips on someone else - fucking someone with tanned skin and a well-placed tattoo, a different version of the person he loved so much - he knew it was the ultimate sadistic act. He'd loved Ben but he'd slept with Casey, and slowly, Ben and Casey were repairing their bond in a brotherly deal that excluded outsiders. And it had been Matt's idea to be monogamous with Ben in the first place.
It didn't matter now, because Matt had been cut off, and probably rightfully so. He hadn't called Ben yet. Maybe he wouldn't have said some of the insults Ben had thrown at him. Maybe he wouldn't have grabbed the closest object that wasn't nailed down, which in that case was a desk lamp, and thrown it so Matt had to duck and the lamp left a fist-sized dent in the wall. Maybe he wouldn't have told Ben that he'd rather die than speak to him again. But Ben deserved separation.
Casey was looking at him now. Matt figured he must be more interesting than what was happening on the other side of the window. Casey had stopped watching the cars creep down the street, the moms pushing buggies, and was focusing on what must have looked like a trembling freak show across the table from him.
Casey took out his cigarettes in one easy movement and reached across the table halfheartedly, pushing the pack open with his thumb. "Have one."
Matt shook his head slightly.
"Have one."
Matt took one of the cigarettes and looked at it skeptically, a long and white and slender stem ready to be lit, inhaled, devoured. He must have looked like he needed it. No wonder he sucked at poker.
Casey reached across the table again and flicked the lighter. Matt lit the cigarette and inhaled. Beautiful. "Where is he?"
Casey smirked. "Like I can tell you that."
"Okay." Matt slumped, too tired to argue. "Want to come back for awhile?"
Casey shook his head at the ashtray. He was quieter than usual.
"I have beer," Matt said hopefully.
"Nah, I got beer at home." The cigarettes were tucked away, and Casey had put his ball cap on again. Matt felt his heart skip. He couldn't let him leave.
But Casey stood, shifting his weight like he was trying to decide what to do. Then he hit Matt lightly on the arm. "See you around."
"Bye," Matt told the ashtray. It took every ounce of willpower not to watch Casey walk out the door, stroll casually to down the sidewalk, fumble with the keys in those narrow hands, and get into the car that, if followed, would lead Matt straight back to the source.