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I: Airborne
It occurs to me somewhere in the middle of this Warfield thing that I am a fly.
Yeah, I know I'm not exactly Mister Metaphor here. Cut me some slack. I read a book once. Anyway, it was--I know exactly, it happened when I was pulling up to him in the GTO while he's standin' outside Warfield's club. He's doing his statue thing just like he does in front of the Consulate, and you would think since there are no big wood doors or fancy stone steps to provide a backdrop, like, that he'd look...different. Less than he usually is. Just a guy in a dumb red suit posed in front of a brick wall that winos piss up against at three a.m.
But the thing that gets me, the thing that gets me thinking is, see, he looks like more than he usually does. Which is hard to imagine. You've seen him, right? He's hard to miss, but it's not the uniform or the looks that hold you, not after the first second. What keeps your eyes on him is tougher to understand, and once you get it, it's got you trapped, sure as steel. It's all of those ingredients that make a good cop, or a good man or woman, I guess. It's all that crap you never want to admit you believe in, 'cause it's not cool, but you do, otherwise why the hell did you ever agree to take on this crazy job we do? I'm talking about the Big Ones, right?
Honesty.
Bravery.
Justice.
Integrity.
I'm driving up to him in the Goat, and I've got the speech all rehearsed, because he finds ways to get around me and under me and inside me until we're done talking and I realize he's won again. But everything I have planned goes right out of my head when I see him, standing there, the physical fuckin' embodiment of all of those untouchable things. Standing on guard for thee, yeah, okay, I get it now.
Well, sort of. If you believe that, that he's some kind of symbol in the flesh, you should be able to reach out a hand and grab his shoulder and say, there, that's integrity, and the big toe inside his right boot, that's a piece of truth, but it's not like that either. Because he's untouchable too, at least he seems untouchable to me this afternoon. Like all those virtues had put up a special shield around him to keep the dirt off. Though I don't doubt Turnbull would give him a good swish with the feather duster if he ever needed it.
It occurs to me right then that I was like that once. I had my shield, all six coats of gloss black and waxed and polished to within an inch of perfect, and I was going to smite the infidel, slay the dragons, milady, all that jazz. Just point me toward the dragon and I'll get slayin', no prob. That was me, back in the days of Merlin, in the days of Stella, with her long tresses and adoring eyes, handing me the hanky to wear against my heart, under my armor. Because every knight needs a motive; I mean, Lancelot wasn't doing all this wacky shit for himself.
Not that I blame her for messing up my beautiful shield. It was dulled and chipped and dented nice and slow, so slow I didn't even see the damage right away. When I did figure I was losing it, that I was going to turn around one of these days, and whoops, no shield left, just a few flakes of paint and a rusty handle, I told myself it wasn't something I had any control over. It was the way the world worked, right? There were no more dragons left, just little rats scurrying around at your feet, so who needs a shield? Some of them were fatter than others and had better lawyers, but they were all still rats. Nothing to get worked up about. You are on the job. You are not the job. Skewer as many rats as you can on the end of your sword, but accept that you will always be wading through the fuckers.
When Stella cut her tresses and took back her hanky and quit cheering for her Lancelot, it wasn't the final blow, but it gave me one less reason to pay attention to the dents.
Okay, I digress. It's a habit I've picked up recently. The fly.
Hold on to your hats. I'm about to mix metaphors.
What, did I promise you Hemingway?
I get out of the car and I talk to him, but my heart's not in it anymore, hell, it never was, but anyway he sidesteps me sweeter than John L. Sullivan, and sooner than I could have guessed I'm back in the car, driving away. And usually I'd be thumping the steering wheel and cursing, because it's what I do and it pisses off the dog, which is a bonus. But I'm not doing that. My hands are positioned at ten and two and my mind, my body, my everything is still, calm, because now I know. I know what he is, and what I am, and it makes sense, and it's...
Oh, it's, God, it hurts like being gutshot.
He is what I was.
That shield of his has seen as much use as mine, more maybe, and I realize it's still as perfect as the day he walked out of cadet school. How does he find time for the maintenance, the upkeep? Does he have to get out the Turtle Wax every day after he grinds out the dings and scratches and puts on a new clear coat? Does he take a shammy and buff that baby until she shines?
He knows the rats aren't dragons, he knows they're all we've got, but he still believes they're dragons, and no one can tell him otherwise. And just for him, because God help me, I see them too when I'm around him, they are dragons again, breathing fire and smoke, their scaly wings taking them up, out of our reach. And he, he gathers himself and soars right on up after them, an avenging eagle, maybe. No, something mythical, think, think...griffons, right? Hey, not bad for one year of college. Yeah, a griffon, with the big-ass claws and a roar that out-roars Niagara Falls on a good day.
He's climbing up after them, and I watch, and I think, this is nutso, stay on the ground, skewer some rats, but he makes me want to grow wings. And I try, I really do, but I'm--I'm like one of those fallen angels, okay, I made my decision and now I'm fucked. So the best I can manage is maybe--a fly.
So I'm turning the corner on Wacker and suddenly I picture one of those cartoon flies with Ray Kowalski's head attached. Screaming Help me, help me! in that helium voice like Vincent Price. And I have to pull over, pull over and stop, because I'm laughing and then I'm crying and then the dog is licking my face because he knows exactly what's the matter with me. After all, he lives with the guy twenty four seven.
I lean into the furball, and bury my nose in his neck. Hey, might as well have the hairs to go with the spit, right?
"I'm never gonna catch those dragons, Dief."
He says, never say never.
Jesus. I am going nutso. Well, might as well hold up my end of the conversation.
"Don't try to make me feel better. The best I can hope for is to keep from gettin' my ass swatted."
He doesn't say anything this time, only looks at me, through me.
I blink first. Shove the car in gear and let fly enough swear words to turn the inside of the car blue.
I roll down the window and they soar out and up, mixing in with the rest of the pollution.
II: Earthbound
Did I say he was untouchable?
When I get the call, I'm stunned. Which, when I give it a split second's thought, is the most fucking stupid reaction to anything I've ever had in my life. Of course he'd get the shit kicked out of him sooner or later. You should have shadowed him, should have kept an eye on him. What did you think he was?
Well, says I to myself, I thought he was untouchable. An embodiment. A griffon. I thought that shield would make the bad guys bounce off. I thought his strong, beautiful wings would carry him skyward, away from all the squealing little rats.
Definitely insane. Worse than insane; negligent, a bad partner, a bad buddy, because I know rats. Rats are my stock in trade. And I've been so busy looking up and wishing for something I can never have, I forgot to watch the ground so I could see them coming. It's not like he'd see them. Correction: it's not like he'd care if he saw them.
If I can't soar, I can crawl, kick, bite. But I couldn't even manage that.
The weight of his arm across my shoulders is the perfect complement to my lousy mood. I deserve every minute of being this close to his hurt and his ragged breath, sucked in over a pulverized lip, which is the least of his injuries, no doubt. I've given up trying to get him to go to a hospital; he says he's fine like he can feel every bone and artery and organ inside him and can tell his vena cava isn't leaking into his whosits. The dumb thing is, I believe him.
I watch Frannie poke him and prod him and stroke him and I want to punch the wall until my hand looks like his face. I want to tell her to leave him alone, and I do, sorta, but then I remind myself it's not my place. It just seems--wrong--for anyone to touch him like that. It shouldn't be possible.
But I have been trained to recognize evidence, and the evidence is there in the cuts and the bruises and, worse, the tired lines of strain around his eyes and mouth. The lines that say, okay, Chicago, you win, I'm laying down my fucking shiny shield.
And then the voice in my head talks. Sounds like Dief, that's what a mess I am right now.
What are you complaining about? This is what you've wanted all along, isn't it? To bring him down to your level with the rats? To clip his wings so that he'll be grounded with you?
No, dammit, no. Never. I want to be up there too--I want to--
Oh, man, do I want to.
Like my tiny little fly wings will carry me that far.
The thought of what I want scares me half to death, and before I know what I'm doing I can hear my mouth flapping at Stella, as if I've conveniently forgotten minor obstacles like estrangement and divorce. I wish Welsh had let her finish her sentence, because I needed that final helping of humiliation to snap me back into my old life. Hey, for a minute there, you were trying to elbow your way into somebody else's reality. What were you thinking, huh?
And then, he says it. Says he's licked, he's going home, he doesn't wanna play any more, and I watch him walk away. Frannie stares at the wads of cotton she's still holding, and I can see they're pink. That's him on that goddamned cotton. That's him. Pieces of him everywhere, in here, on my jacket, lying on the ground outside Warfield's club. Could we send a team, maybe, and gather him in plastic baggies and put him back together? 'Cause he's got to be whole again, he has to be, or else what hope is there for the rest of us?
Oh, Christ.
Just that suddenly, it hits me. He's not giving up because of the beating. He's not afraid of that, and he doesn't have enough sense of proportion to know that a kid getting slapped is not worth his hide. He doesn't weigh things on the same scale as the rest of us. It's not that.
He's licked because we're all still sitting on the ground.
It's up to us to make our own hope. To get up off our asses and soar.
I look at Welsh. He looks at me.
"We fucked up," I say.
"Uh hunh," he says. "You got any ideas?"
The first smile I had in days spreads over my face. "I got plenty."
III: Liftoff
I'm good to go.
Oh man, am I ever.
Even Dewey is into it, for Christ's sake. Frase's quiet speechifying has the guy doing a one-man wave, and for a scary sec there I feel like joining in. Wasn't any hardship getting him and Huey in on our plans for mayhem. They're as sick of the rats as me and Welsh.
They want a crack at the fucking dragons again.
We're back in the car now, after we've dropped Welsh at the two seven and the kid at his place, a street over from where that guy left my GTO a few weeks ago. Ugh. Fraser chats with him for a couple of minutes outside the car while I keep the engine running--no way am I taking the chance of breaking down in this neighborhood.
He gets back in and I look over at him and before I can ask him the same question is coming back at me.
"How are you feeling?"
I gape at him for a second, wondering if he and the dog have this weirdo Innuit psychic ability, brought on from eating raw seal blubber. Then I think, well. Just--do it.
"I'm great. I'm better than great. I'm--"
I'm babbling.
He smiles at me, a real, one hundred thousand percent smile, and my hands twitch on the wheel. "I'm glad, Ray," he says.
"Wouldja let me take you to the hospital now?" Oh, hell, does that sound desperate. But I am, kind of; he may be sure, and if he's sure, I'm sure, but I'm scared, dammit, I'm scared, okay. "Or..there's a clinic in Cicero I've been to a couple of times. I know the doctors. We'll be in and out, fast. I promise."
He studies me like a bug under glass. Which I am.
Help me, help me.
"All right. I suppose it would be prudent."
I drive as fast as I can without making him squawk, so I can get there before he changes his mind.
Sheila tells him there's a risk of concussion. He raises his eyebrows at that, but so what if I had a private confab with her before she came in to deliver the verdict, he can't pin nothing on me. After that, it's easy to convince him to come home with me, because he can't go back to an empty Consulate in that condition. Very dangerous, right? Right.
We both know it's bull. But he humors me anyway.
It's late by the time we're settled and sitting on my living room couch, staring at an old movie neither of us wants to watch.
"I think you broke Warfield's back tonight," I say, my eyeballs still stuck to the screen. "I think he's goin' down for good."
"I think we broke Warfield's back," he says softly, and I have to shake my head at that.
"We let you down. We were late. Sure, we finally got into it tonight but it's not anything to be proud of."
Like I was proud of you. Yeah, that was hard to say, but not for the reason he probably thinks. I got no problem admitting I fucked up. It was hard because I had to practically smack myself with a mallet to keep from saying the rest of it. Wouldn't the Lieu have loved to get an earful of what was buzzing around my head.
I'm proud of you.
I'm amazed by you.
I want to fly with you.
But the thing is, I think I forgot how.
"Ray?"
"Hunh? What?" I turn away from the TV and he's there, close, closer than he ever managed to come before, just on his own. His eyes look almost black, no pupil anywhere. Or is that iris? I can never keep those straight.
"We did it," he says, and I never heard a voice so quiet sound so firm.
I shake my head again. "I should've been there."
He frowns. "When?"
"When you were--" I raise a hand and gesture at the cuts all up the right side of his face.
His face clears. "Oh. No."
"Whaddaya mean 'no'?" My voice is a whip crack.
"It's--" He falters, and I want to kick myself, hard. "You can't protect me every time I want to hare off and tilt at windmills."
One corner of my mouth finds that funny. "What does that make me? Your Pancho Villa?"
The opposite side of his mouth mirrors mine, and I try to keep my eyes off it. "Something like that."
I let my head flop sideways against the back of the sofa. "So I don't know what's worse there, me bein' a donkey-riding sidekick, or you bein' crazy enough to see dragons nobody else sees."
"I'd be willing to trade roles with you any time."
Something in the way he says that, sad and knowing, burrows a hole in me, opens me up and makes the words pour out. "I couldn't be you. I couldn't. I mean, I think I used to be, about a thousand years ago, but I, ah..."
Shut up shutupshutup.
"You what?"
"I--" How do I begin to explain it all? How I want him to be untouchable again so he can be safe in the clouds and I can be safe down here with the rats? Because then I can believe I'm not ever gonna get close to him, so no point in trying.
He must see something of that in my face, because he knows it's about him, but he reads it wrong. "Someone told me tonight that I was obsessive, overbearing and arrogant." He whips his head around and scowls at the air. "'Possibly arrogant'. My mistake." Back to me. "I can't imagine you were ever like that, or that you'd want to be."
My heart is trying to crawl its way out of my chest. He's looking at me like...like I guess I must be looking at him. Only that's impossible, yeah? I mean, come on. We're...I'm in fucking Antarctica while he's drinking tea with Mrs. Claus. It's not as if he could see that when he sees me.
Nothin' to see here. Move on.
"I'm not--you're not--hell." Real smooth there, Kowalski.
He cocks his head like Dief. "Why not?" he asks.
Man. We're not talking about the same thing. We can't be.
I close my eyes. "I--can't. I mean, you're messing me up here, Frase."
There's a soft rustle, and I feel the couch move a little. "I'm sorry. I'll--"
He grunts with the effort of trying to get up, and my eyes fly open. "No!" My hand jabs out and snags the first thing I can wrap it around. Happens to be his neck, so what? "Don't go."
He's whispering now, and his eyes are black, no more almost. "What do you want?"
Hell, what don't I want? That'll take less time to explain.
"I want you--not to get hurt." God, almost stopped at the halfway mark there.
"I want the same of you," he murmurs, and I have to keep from falling off the couch at the sound of those words coming out of that mouth.
Look, I was never good at using context, okay?
"What else?" Like rough silk, that voice. Christ, it's hot in here.
"I want..." I want to turn back the clock to when I was new. Because then maybe I could do this.
"Too much," I say, finally.
"No," he says. "That's not the problem."
"What is it, then?"
He hesitates. His eyes are all over me, like he's searching me for evidence.
"You think you deserve too little."
Remember that hole? Well, that sentence dives right in and makes itself at home in my gut. Still, I don't want to believe my own ears. "I don't deserve a lot of things. I don't deserve..."
You, I was about to say. Nah, probably wouldn't have had the balls. Anyway, he cuts me off, so I'll never know.
"You're wrong," he barks.
I smile. "Don't get overbearing on me, here."
He smiles back, and a couple of the watermelon-sized knots in me loosen up a little. I clue in that I'm still holding his neck, touching his skin. There's stubble there where his haircut ends, and one of my fingers moves over it. Burns, like 220 grit sandpaper.
He shudders under my hand, as if he's got some knots that are letting go too. And I remember the feel of his hand in the same place on me a month ago, when I sat in the Goat and bawled like a baby. Is that what he's feeling now? Could he need that comfort? Could he need me, even half as much as I need him?
And then it slams into me, nearly broadsides me. Trust the evidence. Trust the heat of his skin, a little sweaty from exertion and way too much pain. Real. Trust the fast, steady pulse you can count when you move your thumb around to find the artery. Alive. Trust the breath he sucks in when you get closer, the way his eyes drop to your mouth at the last second.
He's human. Oh, man, is he ever.
Real. Alive. Human. Not an untouchable emblematic flying fucking symbol of all that is good and true.
Just--Fraser. But that's enough.
That's everything.
His eyes get wide as my lips touch his with the softest, sweetest pressure. No way am I going to let him bleed again, now that he's just stopped.
When I pull back, he reaches up between us and two fingers trace over his broken mouth.
Contact, buddy. And easy as that, I'm flying. Soaring. Who needs wings, or dragons, or hankies?
Letting go of him, I get to my feet. "Come on. You need to sleep." He looks up at me, and I can't help the grin that takes over my face. "And I need to watch you."
He takes the hand I offer, and we stand together.
IV: Orbit
So maybe I'm not a fly. I don't know what I am anymore. I'm airborne but I'm tied to him, floating, hovering over him, in a holding pattern. Making sure he's okay. Because he's not untouchable, and he needs someone to keep him safe.
Talk about a kick in the head.
I brought a chair in from the kitchen so I'd be uncomfortable enough to stay awake. He argues that it's not that bad, that I don't have to lose sleep over him, but I want to be in the same room with him, and I can't be on the bed and not embarrass myself here, so I tell him to shut up, and lo and freakin' behold he does.
Besides, I want to look at him.
The moon's up tonight, big and full and heavy. There's a sliver of light from the window, and it slices across his chest, bounces off the blizzard white of his shirt. My fingers remember the elastic feel of his suspenders as I slid them from his shoulders. It was weird, me undressing him for bed, both of us knowing nothing was going to happen tonight, both us knowing something would soon. It should have been scarier than it was, but we were in synch, even though we didn't say much of anything that made any sense.
"He's more fragile than he looks, you know."
The sound of the voice, three feet from my elbow, almost gives me a heart attack. I scramble for my piece, then realize it's over in the nightstand. I turn around and there's an old guy standing there in a Mountie outfit.
In a Mountie outfit.
"Shit."
He bows his head forward. "Indeed."
Perfect, I think. First the dog, now this. "Well, Merry Christmas." I turn back to look at Fraser, who's still down for the count. "And I know. I know that."
"I don't mean the bruises and the cuts. Those will heal."
"Yeah," I say, kind of annoyed now. "You, ah, you his personal chaperone or somethin'?"
He comes forward to stand beside the bed, and the look he gives his son twists me inside out. "No. I never was." He takes a breath, lets it out. Lifelike. "But he does need someone, even if he's convinced himself he can go it alone."
Huh. I spent my life convinced I couldn't do a damned thing alone. But I've learned otherwise over the past year. A pathetic need to pair off with a warm body is not the reason I'm here.
"So how do I--?" Great. Just because he's dead don't make him Dear Abby. I clear my throat.
"How do you make him believe you love him?" he asks, and all my muscles seize up, then relax. It's too bizarre to get worked up about. "You--stay."
I nod. "I can do that. One thing I know how to do. I was always the last guy to get the hint it was time to leave the party."
"Good. Because he might try to throw you out on your ear before he comes to his senses."
Yeah, sounds like Frase all right. But I have to ask: "Why? Why does he make it so hard, huh?" He could have anyone, I want to say, but it seems kind of kinky to tell his father that.
He skewers me with a look. "Because everyone else left."
God. I don't get that. I don't. If I ever got the chance, I'd hold on with fingers and toes until he had to pry me off him with a crowbar. If I bit it first, I'd be haunting him like this. Day and night. Hovering, floating, in orbit around him.
Another thing Dad doesn't need to know.
"Well, I'm off then," Pop says, then starts digging in his coat pocket. "I wonder...if you would wrap this for me," he murmurs, taking something out and handing it over.
It's a picture in a frame, about five by seven. Three people in parkas. My finger skates over the glass.
Of course he was a cute kid.
"There's an astonishing lack of gift paper in the afterlife."
I tear my eyes away from the picture. "Sure. I'll get the biggest bow I can find."
He lays a hand on my shoulder, at least I see him do it but I can't feel it, and he smiles. "You do that, son."
I look over at Fraser. Then I look some more. My hands grip the frame until the metal edges leave red marks across my palms.
V: Dive
"What is it?"
His eyes rise to mine, and I'm glad I played dumb, because the smile he lets me have is worth it.
"It's my family."
Behind him, there in the middle of the squad room bigger than--well, whatever--his dad throws a wink my way. Old, dead bastard. I can't help the smile, and Fraser frowns, like he can track where my eyes are looking.
Oh, right. He probably can.
We do the egg nog and ho-ho-ho thing a while longer, and when everyone's pretty much maxed out on holiday cheer I sidle up to him. Nothing untoward, as they say, about that; I'm always in everybody's space.
"What are you doing Christmas...Christ-mas Eve?" I croon, real soft and low. It's not as good as Ella's version, and okay, the song is about New Year's Eve, but it gets the message across.
"Tonight?"
I roll my eyes. Ruin the effect, why don'tcha. "Yeah, Frase. That would be tonight, as opposed to Christmas Eve, 2045."
"Ray, I'm not entirely sure where I'll be then."
Now he's being a shit. Wave the red tunic, buddy, I'm ready.
I lean in close. "Want to make a date with me? Top of the Empire State Building."
"Tonight?"
"No, 2045." I lean even closer, so he can feel my breath on the back of his neck. I've been having big-time fantasies about that neck the past few days. "And 2044. And 2020, and 2003...and every goddamned year in between. Whaddaya say?"
"Ray!" I don't have to see his face to know it's getting red. So is his neck.
Man, oh man. I love him all scandalized.
I decide to take pity on him, and me, and finish my scandalizing in private. No way will Huey and Dewey not pick up on me humping Fraser's leg like a poodle, no matter how much eggnog they've knocked back.
"C'mon," I murmur.
He grabs his coat.
"May I have my hat back?" he asks, sounding a little pissed. What happened to that Yuletide spirit, huh?
"I don't think so," I throw over my shoulder, knowing he's too polite to just yank it off my head once I've said no. I can practically hear his lips purse.
Even if I wasn't trying to rile him, I'd want to keep the hat a few minutes longer. Kind of makes me feel like he's mine, looky looky, 'cause I get to wear the hat. Not that he offered or anything; I snatched it off the desk and stuck it on, but, hey.
Hey.
What am I doing here? What the hell am I doing? It's like junior high, where the girl steals the football jock's funky jersey and wears it to bed.
I'm nuts. I've gone round the bend in the river. Talking to dogs and dead guys and making myself believe I can have this.
I was always the last guy to get the hint it was time to leave the party.
You were imagining it. He was hurt and lonely and vulnerable and he would've let Magilla the Hun take his freakin' suspenders off if he'd been there instead of you. It don't mean nothin'.
"Ray?"
We're standing by the car. "I--yeah." I grab the hat off my head and toss it across the roof. "Catch."
He shoots me a funny look, but gets in without saying anything else.
VI: Soar
He bought me something.
Of course I bought him something--a good quality, artsy fartsy coffee table book of Ansel Adams photos. Figured he'd go for those sweeping vistas, and he does, flipping through the pages and exclaiming over the purple mountain's majesty. Only in this case it would be black and white mountain's...whatever.
Anyway, considering how he was going on about making his own presents, I was expecting something like he'd given Frannie, but the box under his arm when he comes out of the Consulate is huge and I think, what did he do, whittle down a redwood? And here I am sitting with him on the floor under my crappy little four foot Charlie Brown tree, legs crossed, and my hands are just resting on the box in my lap, like I'm scared to open it.
He looks at me, asking a question with his blue, blue eyes, and I shake my head and start ripping.
It's...it's a fancy set of winter mats for the Goat. I've seen them at the custom shop a couple of times and salivated. How did he know--
"I thought they might be effective at combating body rust." He reaches out, fingers the shredded paper nervously, and I realize I'm probably looking like Rudolph was just run over by a Mack truck. I feel bad, rotten, and he's seen it. Shit.
I shouldn't have made fun of that damned log. He shouldn't have had to change to suit me.
"It's, uh, they're great, Frase. Really. But you didn't have to...I mean, they're kind of fancy."
"If they're not appropriate, I can return them--"
"No! No, they're perfect. I--it's just, how come you didn't make something? I thought you were--into that." That sounds like I'm disappointed, and it stuns me when I think, well, I am. I wanted something shaped by his hands and his crazy brain, that I could touch and--
Oh, God, have I got it bad.
His mouth twists in one of those sad smiles, and he says, "The bough that cannot bend must break."
"What? What does that mean?" Why is he giving me Confucius?
"It's--something my father once said to me."
Yeah, last week, probably. I never got along great with Stella's in-laws, but suddenly I want them back again. "Well, you don't have to bend for me, okay? I don't want you to ever feel that way around me. I know sometimes I make fun of you and your woodsy ways and stuff, but I'm not--it's just kidding around, right? You know that, right?"
We're back to desperate again. Why do I always do this?
But he doesn't seem rattled. He just says, real calm, "Yes, Ray. I know that."
"And the thing is, I don't want you to be different. You're--" And I have to stop right there, because I'm about to gush like a fountain. You're perfect the way you are, yah ta ta, cue the violins.
He stares at me for a long time, and it's all I can do to keep from curling up in a ball and covering myself with a blanket. He cuts right into you with that stare of his, opens you up and you know he's seeing everything, and I wouldn't mind that but then he wants to show you what he's found, too, and that's the worst part.
He opens his mouth, closes it again, and I watch his tongue poke at the corner of his mouth and my whole body feels it.
"But what if I want to be different?" he asks finally.
I shake my head slowly. That steel trap has got ahold of my leg. "That makes no sense to me. That makes no sense."
He doesn't say anything, and I get even more fidgety, I'm, my fucking skin's too tight all of a sudden, and then I can't hold myself in any more.
"Why would you ever want to? You're up there, Fraser, higher than the trees, higher than the fucking mountains, even, and you want to come down? You want to be down here with the rats and the filth, so much of it everywhere it gets all in your wings, gums 'em up? Then you're, you're one of those Arctic whatchamacallits after the Exxon Valdez, you try to lift up and you can't, you've got no more goddamned lift, because they took it from you and you don't know how to clean yourself off you so you can get back up in the air where you belong..."
I'm babbling, I'm babbling and my face is covered in wet and he's shaking, the room is shaking, shit, I'm the one who's shaking.
"Ray," he's whispering, "Ray, Ray..."
"Why you want to do that, huh, Fraser? Why would you want to be stuck here with me?"
I look at him then and his eyes are leaking as bad as mine, they're getting red but he's sitting there calm as you please, and those same eyes are still slicing through my skin and cutting deep. And in that instant, I can see everything reflected in them.
Oh. Jesus. Oh.
That's it.
He wants to be dragged down, doesn't care if he gets stuck.
Because it's where I am.
And for a second I forget to worry about the why and the how and the ten million other questions and doubts, and just open up and let it all in, open myself to him. Because I can't not do it. He's not anything I've ever had the power to stop.
And I don't know who moves first, probably it's both of us, because it's a duet, it's always been a duet from day one, and he's got my face in his hands and his fingers are sliding around and smearing the wetness into my skin and his, and I'm doing the same all over his face, so that's okay.
His mouth meets mine but he doesn't kiss me so much as smash into me, and he's whispering, "It's so lonely, Ray, you have no idea--"
"I do," I say. My voice is raw, scraping against his lips. "I do, Christ, I do, but don't come down, okay, just don't, help me to get up there with you, I'll be there but you gotta show me how, all right? Because I used to know but I forgot--"
And then I can't talk anymore because he's kissing me for real now and his tongue is swooping low and tasting me, and I think about licking electricity and I'm pretty sure this is what it feels like.
"I'll help you," he tells me when he finally comes up for air. His fingers thread into my hair, pulling me close. "If you'll help me find a place to land."
And that's, man, that's-- "You trust me to find you a safe place? You trust me that much?"
He nods. "I trust you with everything."
His eyes are brimming, a smile's lighting up his bruised mouth. He's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen, not because of what he looks like, but because he can say that, and make me believe it. He can take his sword and slice through all the doubts and the fears and the filth, and lift me right up along with him.
I stand up and reach down a hand to him, offering an anchor and a way up at the same time. And as his warm palm covers mine, I know it's not as simple as I thought at the beginning.
You can't live all your life in the air, because sooner than you think you'll come crashing down, hard. And with no one to catch you, you're worse than dead, because there's nobody to even look up and say, I remember seeing that beautiful bird soaring across the sky.
You need the ground once in a while, a place to rest, regroup. A place to put down that shield of Honesty and Integrity and Bravery and stand without armor, naked against your worst fears.
Of not being worth it.
Of not being loved.
Him and me, we laid down our shields together, and now he sleeps beside me while I watch.
Watch over him until he takes to the sky again.