Archive of Our Own

Hello, can you hear me?

I'm in California dreaming about who we used to be

When we were younger and free

I've forgotten how it felt before the world fell at our feet

He’s not sure how he ended up in California. A book signing, maybe. He’s too drunk to remember. His fingers curl around the shot glass, debating on asking for another. He’s had five or six already, the bourbon stinging the back of his throat. It’s not unpleasant but it’s not the comforting warmth he expected it to have. He slumps against the bar with a sigh, pushing the shot glass away from him. Seven numbers flutter through his mind. Those seven digits that belonged to a total stranger now, is still so deeply ingrained inside him. The music in the club pulses around him and he pushes his fingers through his hair, head bowed as his throat constricts.

His name is David Webster and his life is a mess.

They broke up nearly two years ago. Over the phone. Maybe that’s why he still remembers Joe’s phone number so well. Webster had been the one to do it after all. The fighting had taken a turn for the worst. It was constant. Nearly every night was spent spewing obscenities and hateful things at one another, hoping that either would say the words that would inevitably tear them apart.  

He remembers tapping the digits into his phone, waiting for the rings to end and for Joe to pick up.

God, he was such a coward.

“Hello?”

“Hey…We need to talk.”

Joe takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly, “About?”

“I think we should break up.”

There’s silence on the other side of the line. It crackles a few times and then Joe is yelling, shouting curse after curse in German and David shuts his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose because Goddammit, he couldn’t take it anymore, couldn’t do this, he needed out.

“Fuck you! Fuck you for making me care about you! Go the fuck to hell!”

“Not if it means seeing you there, I won’t!” He’d screamed back.

There’s a choking sound and Webster could swear Joe was crying he had always hated seeing him cry and then the line was cut off, the silence deafening. His phone buzzes a few minutes later, Joe’s name flashing across the screen. He opens up the text, blue eyes scanning the words.

‘You’re a goddamn coward and if I ever see your  face again, I’ll call the cops.’

---

He pauses in his writing, the pen clutched between his fingers stilling against the page. He needed a drink. Or two. Maybe three.

Webster drops his pen and grabs his jacket, shuffling out of the hotel. He calls a cab, half-heartedly hoping that Joe will be driving it, even though he knows that it’s northern San Francisco and Joe never drives at night if he can help it.

His vision swims. The bright light of his phone is nearly blinding. There isn't a car in sight. No one strolls the streets at 3 AM. He knows the club doors are locked now. He feels woozy. His stomach churns as he taps in those seven digits, well eleven because he has to type in the area code. His fingers shake slightly. He takes in a deep breath and presses the call button.

It rings.

And it rings.

And it rings.

The line clicks, a sleepy “hello?” echoing through the speaker.

“Joe…” He breathes out, feeling his heart in his throat. “It's me… It's Web…”

“Web? David Webster?”

He makes a sound, probably close to “yes” and then Joe is cursing loudly. There's a rustle of fabric.

“What the fuck do you want,” Joe spits, the venom in his voice making Webster’s head swim. Joe had always been so angry at him.

“Need your...need your help Joe. I’m at a club…” He takes a deep breath, coughing into his hand. “...’m drunk…”

“No shit Sherlock, I can hear the slur in your speech.”

“Can you...pick me up?..”

There's silence on Joe’s line. It's deafening. His eyes flutter closed and he shivers. Damn California. He opens his eyes and there's more rustling on the other side. Joe curses and he smiles, he fucking smiles he's missed Joe’s voice so much and the way he says ‘fuck’ still makes his heart beat fast.

“Text me the address of the club and your hotel.”

The line clicks and he's left with an annoying buzzing sound. Webster pulls the phone away from his face and texts Joe the address. He sighs and sits back against the wall of the club. His head hurts a little and he shuts his eyes against the lights coming from the street posts.

He thinks he falls asleep because suddenly Joe is standing above him, kicking at his leg with a boot clad foot. He lets a smile flicker across his lips and Joe crosses his arms over his chest.

“You came…”

“Get the fuck up. I'll take you to your damn hotel and then you take my number out of your phone,” Joe tells him.

He shakes his head, “I can't. It's...it's stuck in m’head Joe…” Webster looks up at him and reaches his hand out, fingers curling around the edge of Joe’s jacket. “You actually came to get me.”

“I'm not an asshole. I’m not just going to let you get mugged.”

“Still…” He struggles to stand. “It’s pretty impressive that you came.”

Joe rolls his eyes and holds his hand out, “Get up.”

He takes the proffered hand and Joe hauls him to his feet. He stumbles a little, catching himself on Joe’s arms, fingers digging into the other’s biceps. He sways a little, Joe’s hot breath hitting his chin. He nods slowly and lets go of him, flexing his fingers. Joe grabs his wrist and pulls him towards his car. When had Joe gotten a car?

Joe pushes him into the backseat and he thinks he whines, reaching for him. The door slams in his face and then Joe’s sitting in the driver’s seat, car starting smoothly. They pull away from the curb and he struggles to sit up but when Joe barks at him to lie down, he complies without a word.

Joe turns on the radio, listening to the hum of some sad pop star. He rolls down the window, feeling the cool air rush around him. Webster sighs in the back seat as he stops at a red light, glancing back at the man who had called him at 3 in the morning, asking him to pick him up from a goddamn club. He leans back in his seat, brows drawn as he drives.

He’s angry. Furious, in fact. He’d always been angry though, whenever Webster was involved with something. He’s not entirely convinced with the excuses that he’s told himself either. Webster might get mugged. He could get arrested for public intoxication. He might die from hypothermia (the worst excuse because it’s northern San Francisco and Webster lives in New York for Christ’s sake, he could handle a little cold air.) He hadn’t really left the warmth and comfort of his apartment just to keep Webster from getting mugged or arrested. Oh no, it was more than that. Two years worth of denial had worked against him in an instant. As soon as he’d heard the sound of his ex-boyfriend’s voice, he’d practically broken down, wanting to cry and tell the other that he was sorry, that he’d missed him and wanted him back. It made him sick to his stomach to even think of wanting that poisonous relationship again but he did. He’d left the safety of his apartment, driven to a club in northern San Francisco at 3 AM to pick up his drunken ex-boyfriend because he was still hopelessly, and undoubtedly, in love with him. But that didn’t make him any less angry over the fact that he had chosen to do it.

Damn him; damn him to hell and back.

The radio crackles and Joe remembers when they would drive down to San Diego for the summer, when they both had too much time on their hands. When Webster wasn’t writing and when he could take vacations from the cab company. The way they used to take Webster’s old pickup down the highway as fast as it could go, music blaring through its god awful speakers, the wind in their hair, stinging their eyes. He wonders if Webster remembers the Dodgers game they went to, with Grant and Floyd, just weeks before their arguing tore them apart.

Joe tries not to think about it anymore.

The thought makes his stomach churn.

It hurts to even look at Webster.

He takes a turn at the next red light he hits and Webster gasps softly from the back seat. Joe turns his head to tell him to shut up but Web is scrambling to sit up, to reach between the front seats for the dial that controls the volume to the radio, which he proceeds to turn, tongue poking between his lips in concentration.

The song trickles through the speakers, something Joe has never heard before, I was wondering if after all these years you'd like to meet, and Webster somehow manages to crawl into the passenger seat without knocking any limbs into Joe’s face. He attempts to buckle himself in, missing the hole a few times before it finally clicks into place. He lets out a triumphant sound and Joe has to bite the inside of his lip to keep from smiling. Webster had always been an adorable drunk.

The next line shocks Joe to his core, Hello, can you hear me? I'm in California dreaming about who we used to be and his breath catches in his throat as Webster sings softly next to him. His stomach churns and he listens to the song, lungs slowly deflating as the chorus comes through the speakers. Joe curls his fingers tight around the steering wheel instead, knuckles white, but when I call you never seem to be home, and Webster drums his fingers to the beat.

But this time Joe had been home.

He’d answered.

Why had he answered? To tell you I'm sorry for breaking your heart, but it don't matter, it clearly doesn't tear you apart anymore but it does, it always has. Joe can’t think of Webster without a lump forming in his throat, without the tears that burn hot behind his eyes when he thinks of the way they used to lie next to each other after having sex. The smell of lavender that would cling to Webster’s clothes from the laundry detergent always made him light-headed. God, he remembers the way Webster would look at him, like he put the stars in the sky each night just for him. He knows how Webster’s cornflower blue eyes would burn into his own when they argued, accusatory and bitter. They’d said so many nasty things to each other. Why had they done that? Why were they always so mean to one another?

Joe presses down on the gas, the wind whipping into the car from his open window. On to the freeway, breaking the speed limit, faster and faster as the song continues to play, pursing his lips, It's so typical of me to talk about myself, I'm sorry and it was, Webster would never stop talking about himself if he could help it, self-centered bastard. The bile rises in his throat and he pushes it down as he hits the brakes, the car slowing and coming to rest on the shoulder of the road. He lets out a shuddering breath and Webster looks over at him as he puts the car in park.

“Joe?” He asks, voice rough.

Joe shakes his head, the chorus of the song resonating around them again and there’s a sound coming from his throat, like he’s choking and suddenly, god, there’s arms around him, once familiar lips pressing a dry kiss to his head and he’s crying, he’s crying and he can’t stop. He can’t see, the tears blur his vision and then those lips are on his and he’s unbuckling his seatbelt, pushing Webster back into the passenger seat as he climbs into his lap.

The kisses are rough and there’s salt on their tongues as Webster rucks Joe’s shirt up, his fingers clutching at his waist. Fuck, he’s missed this, missed those hands, it’s been so long since he’s had someone kiss him like this. Webster was the only one who knew how to kiss him like this, to make him go crazy, drunk on love lust.

He pulls back, a string of spit hanging between their bottom lips and Webster licks his lips, breaking the string. It falls cold against Joe’s chin and then those hands are on his face, wiping away the salt from his cheeks and Joe feels Webster’s hot breath on his face. The realization of what they’d just been doing hits him, and he ducks his head down, resting his forehead on the other’s shoulder, chest rising and falling all too quickly for his liking. A sob passes from his lips, or maybe from Web’s, because they’re both crying, and his fingers curl tightly in the front of Webster’s jacket, fresh tears clinging to his eyelashes. This is wrong, this is so wrong, why is this happening, why is Webster even in California, why was that song even playing, what has Joe done to deserve any of this? He feels hands on his back, smoothing over his clothes and he slumps against Webster, tucking his sharp nose into the other’s jacket.

Webster’s clothes still smell like lavender.

Joe rubs his nose against the fabric before pulling away. He swipes at his face and under his nose. He maneuvers himself back into the driver’s seat and he ignores the whine that escapes Webster’s throat as he pulls back onto the freeway, driving them back to the city, to his apartment and not at all towards the hotel that Webster is staying at.

Webster wakes up in a room that is most definitely not the hotel he had been staying at for the past couple of days. His head is pounding and he sits up slowly, blinking owlishly at the glass of water and aspirin on the bedside table. He takes the medicine and after a few minutes, he stands and walks to the dresser where his shirt from the night before is folded neatly. Webster lifts it up and opens the bedroom door, pulling the shirt over his head as he pads out into a small hallway. There’s a bathroom right across from the bedroom and he steps inside of it, running his fingers through his hair. He sighs and exits the bathroom, padding down the hall in his stocking feet to the main living space.

In the living room, the TV is on, the midday news is being broadcast and Webster rubs at the back of his neck, sitting down on the leather couch. He rests his elbows on his knees, head in his hands. He doesn’t really remember the night before but he does remember the phone call he made. What a stupid idea that had been.  He sits back, drawing his socked feet onto the couch, folding his legs Indian-style on the brown leather. It’s familiar, the couch, he remembers buying a similar one for him and Joe, when they leased their first apartment together.  

Joe.

Fuck.

Webster shoots off the couch, knocking his foot against the coffee table as he skirts out of the living room and toward the door. His shoes are thankfully by the door, and he’s got one foot shoved in a shoe when someone clears their throat and Webster turns his head to see Joe standing in the entrance to the kitchen.

“A thank you would be nice, Webster,” Joe says, picking the remote up and turning the TV off. The hush that falls over the apartment makes Webster swallow hard and he looks down at his feet. He toes off the single shoe he had managed to get on, and walks back over to the couch, dropping down on to it. Joe sits across from him, knees drawn to his chest, tucking his socked feet between the cushions like he always did.

“Thank you for picking me up last night, Joe, that was very kind of you,” Webster licks his lips, avoiding Joe’s eyes.

“I told you I’m not an asshole. I wasn't just going to let you get mugged.”

He eyes snap up, gaze locking with Joe’s, “Yeah right. If I had gotten mugged then you wouldn't have to worry about seeing me ever again.”

Joe rolls his brown eyes, looking over at the television, “If I knew you were gonna be an asshole about it, I wouldn’t have brought you home.”

“Why did you bring me here, Joe? I thought you were taking me back to my hotel.”

He shrugs and Webster gets up, hands on his hips. His classic argument pose, Joe knows it all too well. He bristles and snaps, “Are you fucking serious? We’re gonna argue about the fact that I brought you someplace so that I could keep an eye on you and make sure you didn't hurt yourself?”

“I don't know!” Webster throws his hands up into the air. “I didn't fucking ask you to bring me here!”

“Maybe you should just be grateful that I even fucking showed up!”

An uneasy silence falls around them, the tension in the air almost visible. The other man’s shoulders are squared and Joe stretches his legs out on the leather couch, flexing his toes. He avoids those cornflower blue eyes and Webster shakes his head. He starts to pace around the living room and Joe watches him, lips set in a thin line. He stops at the window, staring out at the horizon. “Where’d you get the car?” Webster asks, changing the subject.

“It’s Skinny’s.”

“Skinny Sisk?” He whips around, eyes wide.

“Yeah,” Joe replies. “He took my bike to Louisiana to meet Shifty half way. They're dating, or so they’ve informed me. He’ll be back next weekend.”

“I thought he and Shifty were just friends.”

“We were just friends,” Joe points out. There isn't any venom or hatred in his voice, just a factual tone. The casualness of the comment made Webster’s skin crawl. He looks back out the window. The couch creaks, leather protesting as Joe stands and stretches, heading toward the kitchen. “Coffee, Web?”

“Sure,” he replies. He follows Joe into the kitchen, taking the steaming mug that's handed to him. He sips from it, the bitter taste of black coffee scalding his tongue.

Joe leans against the counter, studying him. He has his own cup in one hand, the other holding his elbow to his torso. Webster stares back, copying the same stance as Joe. That makes the other man snort and shake his head, taking a long drink from his cup. The tension still hangs in the air and Webster looks down at his coffee, feeling queasy as Joe swears in German.

Joe was swiping black coffee from his mouth, several drops staining his white tank. He set his mug down and tugged his shirt off. He balled it up and walked toward a set of doors in the dining area attached to the kitchen, opening them up. He tossed his shirt into the washing machine and grabbed a clean one out of a pile atop the dryer. Joe sighed, pulling on the clean shirt.

Webster chews on his bottom lip. “What happened last night after you picked me up from the club?” Webster questions.

Joe quirks a brow at him, wiping at the underside of his nose with the inside of the bottom of his shirt. “I brought you back here.”

“Yeah but did anything else happen? I was drunk… You know how I get when I drink,” He sets the mug down, cracking his knuckles slowly as he stares out the kitchen window.

“You made me listen to this shitty pop song.”

Webster makes a considering noise, “Anything else?”

Joe hesitates and then shakes his head. “Nothing.”

Cornflower blue eyes narrow and he glances at Joe. The other male isn’t meeting his gaze and his cheeks are flushing the lightest shade of pink. “You hesitated, you never hesitate,” Webster states, tilting his chin up. “Something else happened between us.”

“We kissed, there,” Joe spits out, “happy?”

“We did what?” He sputters.

“We. Kissed.”

“Why?”

Joe gawks at him, “What the fuck do you mean, ‘why?’”

“What led to us kissing?” He inquires.

“There was this stupid song playing and I drove over the speed limit on the highway and when I pulled over, you hugged me like the clingy drunk you are and kissed me.”

Webster’s breath catches in his throat and he whispers, “And you let me do that?”

“Yeah.”

“You hate me.”

Joe shrugs and grabs his coffee, taking a large gulp before setting it back down. He brushes the back of his hand over his mouth, still not meeting Webster’s eyes.

“Why did you let me kiss you?”

“I don’t know,” replies the other.

Webster braces his hands on the countertop, shutting his eyes as the memory floods back. The song that sparked Joe’s tears to fall last night, the kiss to his former lover’s head and then Joe crawling into his lap and kissing him like he was dying of thirst and Webster - his water. He inhales, deep and shuddering and the ‘clink’ of Joe’s mug on the counter makes his head spin.

“Why did you kiss me like that? Why did you crawl into my lap and kiss me,” Webster asks slowly, eyes still shut.

“I don’t know.”

“You never do anything without knowing the consequence, Joe,” He snarks.

“I don’t fucking know why!” Joe shouts, throwing his arms into the air. There’s a fire in his brown eyes, anger and rage filling them as he stands his ground.

“Why did you do it?” Webster shrieks. He knows that Joe has a reason. Joe has a reason for everything. His cornflower blue eyes narrow, fine wrinkles forming at the edges that weren't there two years ago. The scruff of his chin is thicker than it used to be and Joe tilts his chin up, refusing to answer Webster.

“Why, Joe?” He snarls.

Something bubbles up inside of Joe, hurt and loss mixing together with unbridled anger and he screams, “Because I still love you!”

The tension falls away as Joe crumples, steadying himself on the counter with his hand.

“What…?” Webster murmurs.

“Fuck you…” Joe says weakly.

“You still love me?”

He gets a short nod in response and Webster’s throat tightens and he swallows hard, looking down. “Why did you let me break up with you then?”

“Because you didn’t love me anymore,” Joe mutters. “You were so caught up in the children’s books you were writing, all of those tours you just kept scheduling. It felt like you didn’t even want me anymore. I started arguing with you, just to see you express something other than indifference. You kept me a secret from your family for five years, Web and yeah, I get that they’d disown you and shit but we were supposed to get married,” He tells him. “You probably didn't even tell them after we broke up. You just kept dating that stupid busty blonde of yours, whom I'm assuming, you’ve cheated on more than once.”

“Why didn’t you ever tell me?” Webster steps closer to him and Joe takes two steps back, wrapping his arms around himself.

“I did fucking tell you but you didn’t want to listen to me.”

“Did it ever occur to you that I was making all these things for us? Doing the book tours to get money to buy rings and put something down for a house, for an actual wedding,” He asks, running his hands through his hair.

“Y’know, that never seemed to cross my mind,” He drawls, sarcasm dripping from his voice. “But when you’re freaking out that your boyfriend doesn’t even want to sleep in the same bed with you and spends every second of the day holed up in his office with some editor, you start to think you’re unwanted.”

“Because it was all for you, Joe! It was always for you!” Webster yells, gripping fistfuls of hair, anger thrumming through his veins. “For six years, everything I ever did was for you!” He sinks down to the floor, propping his elbows on his knees. He lets go of his hair, letting his arms dangle in front of him. “Ever since Grant introduced us at Stanford - that time you came to visit him and Floyd - I couldn't stop thinking about you. I still think about you; I fucking put your phone number on all of my emergency contact lists. How fucked up is that?”

“Pretty fucked up,” Joe replies softly, sitting across from Webster on the floor. He knocks his head back on the oven door, looking at Webster through half-lidded eyes. “I bought your war novel, the day it came out,” He explains, “Fucking waited in line and everything. It was really good. I like the Jewish character - Hans - and then there was Daniel too.”

“Did you really?” Webster asks, shock lacing his voice. Joe nods and he lets out a choked sound, somewhere between a loath and a sob. “I based Hans off of you. Did you ever read the dedication?”

“Um mein liebling - whom this tragic tale was written for,” Joe recites, smoothing his hands over his denim-clad legs. “Oh how I wish that we will meet again, some sunny day, but until then, Auf Wiedersehen.”

Webster’s vision blurs, tears spilling down his cheeks before he feels the heat behind his eyes. He lets a small, sad smile flicker over his features, lips quivering and he looks down, wiping at his face. “Fuck,” he laughs, voice hoarse, “I can't believe you bought my book.”

“I can't believe you always put me down as your emergency contact,” Joe says. He spreads his legs out, knees popping. His toes brush Webster’s hip and he shakes his head, mumbling, “What are we going to do, Web?”

“Fuck if I know,” replies Webster. “And for the record, I did still love you, even after we broke up.”

Joe’s mouth twitches at the corners, studying Webster’s face, brown eyes calculating. He heaves out a loud sigh, shifting his attention to his feet. Joe flexed his toes, avoiding Webster’s blue gaze. “We can't do this again, Web,” Joe says softly.

“Why not, Joe?”

“You fucking know why,” accuses Joe.

Webster clenches his jaw, “enlighten me.”

He makes an exasperated sound, glaring up at the ceiling. “You refused to tell your parents that you were gay,” Joe says. “You kept me a secret from them for five years. Do you really think that being disowned is going to take away some - some stupid identity thing? They already don’t accept that you're a writer. Why is coming out to them any different?”

“You don't get it Joe,” Webster tries to explain.

He's cut off by a harsh laugh and Joe’s shaking his head. “Oh I don't get it? That's fucking rich,” He kicks Webster’s leg hard. “My mom didn't say a word to me until I brought you home because she - and I quote - ‘thought you were a respectable young man.’ Seven years. It took her seven fucking years, Webster.”

“I know, I remember,” He rubs the spot above his knee where Joe had kicked him.

“I can't do it again, Web,” Joe insists.

“Please, Joe.”

He shakes his head, “I think you should leave. We got everything out that we needed to get out but it's time you went back to your hotel and got the fuck out of California.”

Webster sputters and Joe stands, hip popping loudly in the quiet apartment. He wraps his arms around himself, rubbing his biceps to warm them a little. Webster reluctantly gets up and Joe walks him to the door. He lifts his jacket off the coat rack and sighs, feeling as though he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. He pulls his jacket on and looks down at Joe, the other male staring blankly at the closed front door. Webster steps into his line of vision and Joe’s gaze flicks up and then they're kissing and Joe’s fingers are threading themselves in Webster’s hair and it's perfect.

He pushes Joe against the wall, fingers digging into thin hips and the other moans into his mouth, one hand leaving Webster’s hair to trail down his chest. There's the clink of belt buckles and Joe protests in his throat, ‘not here...bedroom,’ to which Webster nods, releasing him. Joe drags him down the short hallway to the main bedroom, forcing the door open and then kicking it shut as Webster finds himself hauling Joe onto the bed, bodies sliding together like puzzle pieces.

Everything’s a blur after that. Webster knows he comes first, spilling hot in Joe’s hand, a choked moan falling from his lips as fingers push into his mouth. He sucks greedily in them as Joe comes in thick white ropes on his chest, squeezing his eyes shut as a moan tumbles past his lips.

He thinks that Joe calls him David, something that was once reserved for sex.

Afterwards, Webster strokes the back of knuckles against Joe’s rib cage, his head resting on the steady rise and fall of his ex-boyfriend’s chest. Knowing that Joe had meant what he said earlier, he presses a kiss to his neck and gets up, pulling on his clothes as quietly as possible and he pads to the kitchen. He finds a pad of paper and a pen and writes down his phone number and his current address in New York and then writes when the next time that he’ll be in town. He also scrawls out that he’ll leave the apartment key in the small mailbox outside the door.

Webster inhales slowly and writes, in neat print, I'll be waiting for you when you're ready to love me again, I'll put my hands up, I'll do everything different, I'll be better to you, I'll be waiting for you when you're ready to love me again, I'll put my hands up, I'll be somebody different, I'll be better to you.

He grabs his shoes and jacket, slipping off the house key from Joe’s key ring. Webster closes the door behind himself and locks it, dropping the key in the mailbox. He slips his shoes on outside and heads down the flight of stairs, foregoing the elevator because he needs to walk, needs to clear his clouded mind and think.

He goes back to New York, smiling when his on and off girlfriend, Denise, picks him up from the airport. He kisses her cheek and when she asks how the tour went, he lies and tells her that it was subpar because she wasn't there to keep him company when really, seeing Joe had made the trip for him. Denise giggles at that and smacks her lips against his, saying that he probably would've run off with some California Blondie if he didn't have her waiting back in New York.

Little did she know that said California Blondie was actually, a hot-headed Jewish brunet that he had broken up with nearly two years ago.

Joe texts him a few days later, ‘Noted. Skinny’s kidnapping me for the next week. See you in three weeks, Web.’

He’d be lying if he said his heart didn't beat a little faster at the sight of the message.

A week before he leaves for California for a writer’s association conference that his editor is forcing him to attend (thanks a lot Hoob), Webster tells Denise.

Webster paces around his small office, cracking his fingers and rubbing his hands together as he waits for Denise to come home. He believes in his heart that Denise will be okay with the fact that he’s gay because her uncle Benjamin, is gay and she loves him to death. In his head, well, he knows that she’ll probably think he’s crazy.

He sits on the edge of his desk, curling his hands into fists on the polished wood. He and Joe had bought it together. It was the only large piece of furniture he had kept. Joe got the couches and the bed. All Webster had wanted was the desk.

Whatever remained was either sold or divided between amongst one another.

The door opens and closes and Denise is calling his name, her keys hitting the bowl by the front door as her heels click against the floor.

“In here!” He calls, looking up as she steps into the office, tugging her heels off.

“Miss me?” She giggles and he cracks a gentle, condescending smile.

“Of course,” he replies in stride. Webster clears his throat. “We need to talk about something. Well, I need to tell you something actually.”

She steps between his legs, thin hands sliding up to settle around his neck. Her acrylic nails scrape at his nape and Webster takes her wrists in his hands, moving them down. He holds them away from his body and sighs, closing his eyes.

“Denise…” He trails off and looks into her soft almond eyes, the fight draining out of him but he remembers that he’s doing this for Joe. He’s doing this for himself and for Joe. There's a weight on his chest as he says, “Denise, I’m gay.”

Her face hardens, “You're what.”

“I’m gay,” he states again, more firmly this time and she pulls her hands away. They fly to her hips and she purses her lips.

“There's no way you're gay.”

Webster makes a noise in the back of his throat and she lets out a gasping laugh.

“There's no way you're gay, David, you don't act like it. You don't dress like a girl, you don't wear makeup. You're nothing like my uncle, Benny,” Denise tells him. “You can't be gay.”

He slips off his desk at that, hissing, “What the fuck do you mean, I can't be gay?”

“You just can't.”

“Oh fuck you,” he spits, crossing his arms over his chest. Denise opens her mouth the retaliate but the shrill ring of Webster’s cell goes off. It's Hoobler. He picks it up, clearing his throat before answering. “Hey, what do you need?”

“Need to know who your plus one is for the association thing,” Hoobler explains.

“Plus one?” Webster gets out before the phone is being ripped from his grasp.

“Hi Hoobler, it's Denise, go ahead and put me down as David’s plus one, okay? Thanks sweetie, ciao,” she makes kiss-y noise into the receiver and ends the call. She fixes Webster with a pointed glare. “You and I are going to that conference together and you're going to get that silly notion of being gay out of your pretty little head.” She turns on her heel and stomps out of Webster’s office

Webster scrubs his hands down his face and grabs his phone, contemplating whether or not on calling Hoobler back. He decides (stupidly) against it and strides over to his office door, slamming it shut. He locks it and perches on the edge of his desk, scrolling through his contacts until he finds Joe’s name, finger hovering over the ‘call’ button.

He lets out a ragged sigh and clicks his phone off, pressing the heels of his hands against his eye sockets.

A week later, Webster and Denise are in San Francisco. They walk the streets and whenever Denise tries to hold his hand, Webster shoves his hands further into his jacket pockets.

On their way to dinner one evening at a sushi restaurant that Webster and Joe had frequented when they were together, they run into Joe - who’s  exiting a barber shop, sticking a cigarette in between his lips. As he flicks his lighter open, finger catching on the switch, Joe turns his head, meeting Webster’s eye.

“Joe,” Webster says and Denise wrenches his hand into hers. He’s jerked back and Joe has a bemused smirk on his face as he pulls the lit cigarette from his mouth, smoke billowing past his parted lips.

“Webster,” he greets and saunters over, placing his hand on Webster’s bicep, squeezing it experimentally. “Been working out?” He teases and Denise tugs hard on Webster’s arm.

“Not really,” Webster replies and when Denise grips his hand tight enough that he has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from yelling, he realizes that this situation is going to end in disaster. “Joe, this is my girlfriend, Denise Thompson. Denise, this is an old college friend of mine, Joe Liebgott.”

Joe sucks on his cigarette, extracting a glove covered hand from his coat pocket. The fingers are cut away on the thumb and the ring fingers of both hands and Denise reluctantly takes his hand, shaking it briefly. “Nice to meet you,” Joe says around his cigarette.

“That's a filthy habit. It causes cancer,” Denise dismisses Joe and looks up at Webster. “I’m hungry. Let's go, David.”

Webster casts a sharp glare at her. “You're being rude. Knock it off,” he snaps. He turns to Joe and addresses him, “Would you like to come to dinner with us, Joe? We’re going to that old sushi place on 7th.”

“Sure,” smirks Joe.

They head down the street, Denise still clutching Webster’s hand like it’s a lifeline. Joe chain smokes all the way there, a sign that he was nervous but wasn’t going to admit it. Webster talks idly, paying attention to the number of cigarettes that Joe somehow manages to smoke in the walk from the barber shop to the restaurant, which were only eight blocks away from one another. Joe smokes exactly four cigarettes.

They enter the sushi restaurant and Denise excuses herself to the ladies’ room and Joe fists his hand in Webster’s jacket, guiding him to waiting area. As they deposit themselves into the chairs, Joe is thumbing his lighter as he asks, “So you’re dating her?”

“No, she’s in denial,” Webster concedes. “I told her I was gay and she told me that I couldn’t be.”

“I thought you were bi,” Joe comments, glancing at him.

Webster agrees with a shrug, “It seemed easier to tell her that I was just simply gay rather than bisexual. She and big words don’t mesh well together.” He snatches Joe’s lighter away, the metal heavy in his palm. He slides his thumb over the scratched silver and sighs. “Denise only came because she insists on proving to herself that I’m not a gay man. I’ve blatantly stared at every man we’ve passed by who looks even remotely interested in screwing me. I even made sure that she caught me watching gay porn the other night on pay-per view. Nothing is working.”

“Maybe you’re just bad at proving that you’re gay,” Joe murmurs.

“Perhaps.”

Joe sits back, holding out his hand for his lighter which Webster returns. Their fingers brush and there’s a twitch of a smile at the edge of Joe’s lips that makes Webster’s heart pound. The all too familiar click of Denise’s heels on the floor fills his ears though and Webster looks up as she perches herself on the edge of the seat next to him. Her phone is in her hand.

She cocks her head to look at them and then says to Webster, “I called  your mother, David, and informed her that we would be stopping by next weekend. She and your father will be able to set you straight.”

Joe snorts and Webster has to resist the urge to kick him because that wouldn’t help his case.

“Is something funny?” Denise snaps at Joe.

“Nothing at all,” Joe bites back, “Except for the fact that you think Web’s parents are gonna make him straight because they aren’t. He’s a regular ole friend of Dorothy’s as you old types call them.”

The look of fury and shock that cross Denise’s face are both the most wonderful and terrible things that Webster has ever seen on anyone’s face in the entirety of his life. She makes a screeching sound and stands up sharply, pointing a perfectly manicured finger at Joe, “He’s not gay!”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever, bitch,” Joe mutters and Webster has to cover his mouth as his ex-boyfriend stands, stretching out his limbs. “I’ll be seeing you, Web. Come by when you dump your dumb girlfriend. Turns out blondes ain’t as fun as Buck made them out to be.” He blows a kiss at Denise and walks out of the restaurant, shoving his hands in his coat pockets.

Denise’s blue eyes fill with tears and Webster stands up, looking down at the floor. She sniffs loudly and wipes under her eyes quickly with the back of her finger. Denise takes his hand and they exit the restaurant and walk back to the hotel. Along the way, they release hands and Webster tucks his hands into his jacket pockets.

When they return to the hotel, Denise packs up his bag and he takes it. “I cannot believe you,” She whispers. “Did you ever… why did you even want to date me?”

“Convenience…” admits Webster. “My parents were pestering me about bringing a girl home and well, you were easy. And I’m not really gay, Denise. I’m bisexual. I did have some feelings for you. Regrettably, they were driven by lust and not by love. I love Joe. I have for a long time.”

“H-how long?” Denise asks, her voice cracking.

“About seven years,” He replies, “Two of which we spent broken up.”

Denise sniffs again and sits down on the bed. Her blonde curls fall over her shoulders and Webster remembers when they had first started seeing each other. It had started out much like this, with Denise in tears and Webster watching helplessly as she cried, and feeling just as hopeless as she looked back then as she does now. Back then, they were both wrecks from their previous relationships - Webster from his and Joe’s, and Denise from her own. It had been simpler then.

He sets his bag down by the door and grabs the box of tissues from the bathroom, sitting down next to her and handing her handful of the scratchy tissues.  She chokes out a bitter laugh and takes them, wiping at her eyes and nose.

“Why did you two break up?” Denise questions after a few minutes.

Webster inhales sharply, “I didn’t want to tell my parents that I was gay. Work kept coming up, we were fighting a lot - well, more than usual - and it just all kind of fell apart. Joe didn’t think I loved him anymore and I didn’t think he loved me anymore with how often he screamed that he hated me. The only thing that ever made the relationship good after those kinds of arguments was the sex.”

Denise gives him a watery smile and wipes at her face again. Her mascara runs down her cheek and Webster takes a rough tissue to her rosy cheek, wiping away the grey colored liquid. Her blue eyes flutter shut and she wraps her hand around his. “You’re a good person, David…” She tells him,“And I know that we entered this relationship because we were both drunk and heartbroken and hurting.” she swallows hard, saying, “I don’t understand why you lead me on, if you were scared or if you just wanted someone to screw but if and when you tell your parents, I’ll be there to support you.”

“I thought you said that I couldn’t be gay,” Webster comments, trying and failing to achieve a joking tone.

“You can’t,” she replies, all in jest. “But maybe, just this once - twice - you can be.” Webster smiles and Denise returns it. He wraps her in a hug, letting her bury her face in his shoulder. He sets his head against her blonde locks, closing his eyes. Denise rubs his back and pulls away, tucking her hair behind her ears. “Go, get out of here. I’m sure he’s lonely.”

“Won’t you be lonely too?”

“I’ve got pay-per view and a room service menu, honey. I think I’ll do just fine.”

He cracks a smile and gets up, heading towards the door. He picks up his bag and turns to her. There’s a sad look in her eyes but a smile on her face. “I’ll call you tomorrow, Denise,” Webster informs her, “We still have that dinner to go to.”

“Okay,” she replies. As Webster opens the door, she stops him by saying, “Can I ask you one quick question?”

Webster spins around on his heel, “Yes?”

“When you were here, three weeks ago,” Denise starts, “Did you and Joe get together?”

“I may have gotten drunk and called him, asking him to come pick me up from some club,” explains Webster. “To be perfectly honest, I didn’t think he would. It’s pretty impressive that he did, though, after all the shit I put him through. We...kissed, got off, and I left. Came home to you.”

She nods and waves him away. Webster leaves, bag slung over his shoulder as he exits the hotel and hails a cab down. He tells him Joe’s address and when he gets there, Webster forgoes the elevator, heading up the stairs from the first floor to the fourth.

He knocks on the door and Joe opens it, shirtless and pants loose on his hips. He fists his hand in Webster’s jacket, hauling him inside. They kiss, hot and heady, fingers bruising skin and one of them (Joe) kicks the door the apartment shut.

Eight months later

Webster brushes his hair out of his face, the stubborn brown strands falling back over his forehead. The silver band of right ring finger glistens in the light of the bathroom and he sighs softly. He looks down at the band, warmth flooding his chest. He shuts the lights off and pads back into his and Joe’s bedroom. Webster crawls back into bed with Joe, wrapping his arms around the other’s waist. Joe hums in his sleep, turning into the warmth of Webster’s chest. He presses a dry kiss to Joe’s head and shuts his eyes, remembering how hard it had been to get back to this point.

It’d been difficult, telling his parents that he was bisexual. Denise had been there as promised, and Joe had held his hand on top of the table. His father had cursed him out and nearly cut him out of the family if it hadn’t been for his mother. She cried but understood in the end. They invited them both to the wedding but only his mother attended. Webster’s siblings had been another can of worms, opened just as hesitantly, but they’d done it. Both accepted it, even if they didn’t like it, but they were happy for their brother.

Joe shifts in his sleep and his sharp nose rubs against Webster’s bare chest, inhaling. Webster gathers him close and they drift off, clutching one another like they were afraid that when they woke up in the morning, they’d still be broken up, over three thousand miles apart and unrequited love keeping them from moving on.