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All he wanted now was one thing — to see Jonathan.
The clouds overhead were thickening, as if reflecting his anxious thoughts. He’d screwed up. He’d really fucked up.
“Fuck!”
He should never have opened his mouth and talked about things he didn’t understand. Spoken in Jonathan’s words.
He shouldn’t have let Cait leave.
Guilt was tearing him apart, and he pedaled as fast as he could. It was completely dark, and rain was about to start. The guilt for himself, for his mother and her actions, was almost replaced by another wave of hatred — breathing became, as always, painfully difficult, but Jonathan’s building appeared around the corner, and his heart flooded with blood anew, driving away all other thoughts.
He had to somehow get inside. But he didn’t even know the apartment number.
“What a fucking idiot I am! Idiot! Idiot!”
Suddenly a woman appeared behind the glass door, and he stepped back, drawing a deep breath into his lungs.
“Hello, could you tell me where I can find Jonathan Kritchevsky?” — his eyes were full of hope.
“Ninth apartment,” she said, holding the door for him.
“Thank you!”
The stairwells, lit by red bulbs, seemed to warn him to stop. But Fraser climbed as fast as he could, frantically searching for the right apartment number with his eyes. There it was. Now everything would be fine — he just had to ring the bell.
“Fraser?”
“Jonathan! I just wanted to say that…”
The prepared words fly from his lips faster than he realizes what he’s seeing in front of him. Jonathan is wearing nothing but hastily pulled-on underwear, which he quickly tugs up over his hip bone when he notices where Fraser’s gaze instantly falls.
“I read the book and I really liked it! I didn’t expect to like it, but I liked it!”
Out of nervousness, Fraser repeats this phrase several more times, rearranging the words in the sentences, unable to suppress his smile — he never can when he looks at him, just like now, staring, while Jonathan smiles softly.
“Okay.”
“Yeah, okay—” — the smile is wiped off Fraser’s face like sandpaper when he sees Marta. Also in nothing but underwear.
“Fraser! It’s Fraser, hi!”
The way Jonathan’s expression changes. The way he pulls her toward himself. Fraser feels like throwing up right there on the doorstep. He barely suppresses a grimace of disgust toward both of them. He stays silent. It would be better to leave right now.
“Don’t be rude, let him in,” Marta grabs his hand and pulls him toward herself. “Come in, come in, sweety.”
Jonathan’s hand slides over his shoulder, and he hesitantly steps inside.
“Do you want something to drink?”
“No, I mean yes — water.”
Fraser still doesn’t dare take more than one step away from the door. Jonathan’s chuckle knocks the thoughts out of his head.
“Water? You drink water?”
Again, he can’t find an answer. He’s never been good at lying, especially to him. The defensive smile lasts about thirty more seconds — just long enough to finish scanning the apartment. This time, he understood everything about their relationship correctly. No one was even trying to make the bed or pretend this wasn’t happening. He looks dejectedly at Jonathan, who, from behind, was staring at the same things as Fraser. He lightly taps his shoulder, as if trying to distract him.
“Come on, come in.”
Fraser’s mind is empty. The mechanism is overloaded, and he needs time to understand what to do next. He takes a glass of water from Marta’s hands and doesn’t hear them addressing him — he stares into that emptiness, trying to gather his thoughts into one whole. The room seems to be painted red again.
“You seems lost.”
“You always seems lost, isn't that true?”
Fraser’s gaze darts around the room. He’s trying to latch onto anything, anything at all that could ground him right now. He looks at Marta and doesn’t hear her words. Behind Jonathan, who is leaning against the wall, there is a terrarium. Without hesitating any longer, Fraser slips between him and the wall, almost not touching his naked body.
With a sharp movement, he ends up next to the glass parallelepiped and bends toward it, leaving the unnecessary glass nearby. Jonathan deftly turns toward him, and Fraser catches his interested look, but, inhaling, ignores it, burying his nose back into the terrarium.
All his attention is filled by a pair of chameleons, and for a few moments it becomes easier. Maybe he should, like them, camouflage himself? Adapt to the environment? Accept the situation? But the time for making a decision is running out, because unpleasant music pours into his ears along with Marta’s even more unpleasant voice.
“I know you’re a great dancer.”
Fraser’s glance in her direction is almost frightened. That’s the last thing he wants to do right now. But maybe he should at least try? Pretend? He stands up. Looks at the terrarium again. Still hesitates. In the end, he mostly just stands in front of her rather than dances with her. His legs are almost stone, unmoving no matter how hard he tries. He’s too tense, anxious, compressed.
It’s warm in the room; in his jacket and sweater it’s hot. Jonathan’s gaze, which has been on him this whole time, literally burns his back. Fraser can’t take it and turns toward him, sharing one smile between the two of them. Maybe he did everything right.
However, he no longer has the strength to pretend, and leaving Marta alone, he presses his back against the wall where Jonathan had been standing. He feels the warmth coming from it and watches his actions.
He pours him a beer. Jonathan knows that he needs beer. But Fraser’s eyes are not fixed on the glass in his hands. Jonathan notices. Smirks. Hands over the beer only on the second attempt, after meeting his gaze. Fraser greedily swallows, trying to get rid of the dryness in his mouth. He’s almost ashamed of himself. He hides his gaze in the wall and tries to finish the beer, but Marta interferes again. She reaches to take off his jacket, and in confusion, Fraser sets the beer down on the cabinet, not having time to understand what’s happening and what she wants. Jonathan takes a sip of whiskey, watching as Fraser’s sweatshirt flies off somewhere to the side.
Fraser realizes that he’s losing control again. He’s being led by the hand once more, playfully laughing and swaying her hips. He has to dance with her again. But this time it seems easier for him to play his role. An interested spectator appears in this show, whom Fraser himself now invites to take part.
He sees that Jonathan joins the dance, even if for now only from the side, and it seems he understands what’s happening. Seems to be controlling it. He gives himself to the music. Even takes a drag from a cigarette offered by Marta's hand. But he can’t stop glancing back. He needs Jonathan to be closer.
And suddenly he is. Too close. But not the way it should be. The opposite. He ruins everything. Destroys it.
He kisses Marta, pulling her toward himself. Ignoring Fraser. He ends up almost trapped between them when it happens and barely finds the strength to step half a step aside.
They are kissing literally right in front of him. He can’t help but look. But he turns away. For the first time, Fraser doesn’t want to look at Jonathan. The fire in his eyes slowly goes out, like a smoldering match. He feels like a fool for having lost the last thing — hope. His face no longer reflects emotions. He feels betrayed.
But finally it ends. Fraser looks at them in turn with a lost gaze. Especially at Jonathan, who has almost already turned his back on him. Something snaps inside Fraser in an instant, and he makes a decision too quickly.
He takes off his T-shirt. And Jonathan immediately reacts, helping him, because his movements are too clumsy and sharp from nerves. It falls to the floor, and Fraser looks in its direction with a strange sense of achievement. Of having reached his goal.
He slides his body into the rhythm of Jonathan’s body and still looks at Marta in confusion. She shouldn’t be here. He dodges her hand on his stomach, moving his hips in time with Jonathan’s hand, which weightlessly touches his waist with a thumb, the palm lowering slightly below.
With parted lips, Fraser turns toward him. At last, Marta’s hand rises into the air.
Jonathan waits for an answer and doesn’t dare fully touch him. They hold eye contact, but a second later Fraser gives in to himself. Several convulsive breaths tear out of him, and he takes Jonathan by the wrist. Pulls his hand to his jeans and gently covers it from above himself.
Marta is still too close. She presses in nearer. Fraser doesn’t look at her. He barely breathes, watching Jonathan unfasten his jeans. He helps him, though it’s not necessary at all. It feels good.
But something breaks again when Jonathan’s fingertips slide between the fabric of his underwear and his skin. Fraser timidly turns and hides in him, pressing close. Wraps his arms around his waist, stifles a moan in his neck, and Jonathan’s hands carefully settle on his back and shoulders. Just as quickly, he pulls away and moves his hands to Fraser’s chest. Jonathan’s face is unbearably close, closer than it has ever been before, but he simply can’t take the first step. He’s already taken hundreds of steps.
He unconsciously tilts his head higher, but nothing happens. Fraser feels powerless.
More quickly now, but still shyly, he moves his hands over Jonathan’s chest and collarbones, as if not believing that he’s really touching him. But all of this feels somehow fake. As if he doesn’t feel desire in return. Or maybe it’s all because of Marta. Or maybe this is all just a play.
Even now, he’s losing control over himself and his emotions. As if his role in this play can’t be rewritten.
He presses against him again, burying his lips in his neck, but the responding hand movements are more soothing, and the drawn-out “shh” from Jonathan’s lips into his ear only makes things worse. He feels nauseous again. For them, this really is just a play.
Fraser pulls away and, picking up his clothes from the floor, leaves the apartment. In the process, he looks at him one more time, but now there are notes of disappointment in his gaze.
In the red light of the stairwell, he feels frightened. He breathes in ragged, rapid gasps. He’s still too aroused by the situation. He doesn’t know what to do next. He doesn’t understand what happened. He doesn’t understand anything about himself anymore. His further actions are purely automatic — he’s still too shocked.
Finally, outside, when fresh air fills his lungs and drops of icy rain strike his face, realization comes to Fraser.
Emotions crash over him with a force he can’t handle any other way. He never could. He slams his shoulder and head against the metal wall several times. Each time harder, more painful, until he can’t take it anymore and covers his face with his hands. That’s not enough — tears still burst from his eyes.
Fraser presses himself into a corner, shaking all over. Pain breaks him in half. His face contorts into a grimace of grief and terror as it freezes in silent sobbing. He hides his head in his hands and knees, but it’s not enough to calm down. He just keeps choking on tears, unable to stop.
He screwed up.
Now everything is definitely over.
Or maybe it only ever existed in his head to begin with. Again.