That Silent Moment

It is coming up to 2am when Will calls. Shouting over a dull throb of bass, he tells me he won’t be coming over tonight. I try to ask why, but an electronic wail silences me, and under its cover he says goodnight and hangs up. He gives no reason; no explanation; no apology. This was a routine I’d slowly become accustomed to in the course of our eight months together, one that I resignedly anticipated every Friday night. He would promise to be over, no later than midnight, but then I’d get a text, or a call if he was sober enough, saying that he wouldn’t be coming. I’d learnt not to question him about things like this; no longer did I ask what, or where, or with whom. I pretend I put up with it out of love for him, though my motives are undoubtedly far more selfish. Perhaps it is simply because having him a few nights a week is convenient fun; perhaps I am that apathetic. Either way, I’ll welcome him into my apartment tomorrow, into my bed, and cradle him while he shivers, exhausted and hung-over, and tell him I love him.

By the time he arrives, a little after nine in the morning, I have showered and made breakfast. He pounds on the heavy door with his fist, and as I cross the room to let him in I hear him fall against it. I open the door and he collapses in onto me, clumsily stumbling into the hallway of my apartment, bracing himself against the white walls as he tries to right himself. He is well-dressed, if a little dishevelled, and his hairstyle has collapsed almost entirely, leaving concreted coils of fine blonde hair matted to his skin. Leaning against the wall, he slides his feet out of the Lacoste sneakers I’d bought him for his eighteenth birthday and kicks them into a pile alongside my shoes, several pairs of which were neatly paired and lined up against the wall of the entranceway. Pulling a crumpled packet of cigarettes from the pocket of his jeans, he turns to me and smiles.

“You look perky this morning. Early night?” he asks. I think he is mocking me.

“Hardly. I waited up, you know.” He knows.

“I’m sorry, babe. You know I would’ve preferred to be here with you, but you know how things go. A beer here, some cocktails there, then someone decides they want to go dancing and the next thing you know it’s the morning after.”

“I know, I know, I was eighteen too.” He is pawing at the pockets of a blazer I haven’t seen before, searching for a lighter. I walk past him into my lounge and grab mine off the couch where I’d waited last night. He follows me in, still attached to the wall, sidling along as though it were a window ledge. I hand him the lighter, letting our hands meet for longer than they need to before heading into the kitchen.

“I just made a pot of coffee, do you want some?” I call back into the other room. He doesn’t reply, so I pour myself a cup and get a glass of water for Will. He isn’t in the lounge when I arrive, but the door to my bedroom is open. I cross the room slowly, not wanting to spill any of my rather expensive imported coffee on the expensive rug I’d bought to cover an ugly gash in my hardwood flooring. His blazer is draped over an armchair, and as I step into my bedroom I see his white shirt on the floor by the door. His jeans are slowly sliding off my bed, upon which he now lies facedown, naked except a pair of black socks and grey briefs. I put the drinks down on my nightstand, pick up his shirt and jeans and throw them into my laundry basket. I strip off my t-shirt and slacks and lay down beside him on my bed, the crisp duvet crackling as our weights shift. I watch the barrel of his chest expand with each breath then collapse with a sigh. My hand hovers over his back for a few moments before I allow it to settle on his shoulder, my fingertips tracing the taut, fibrous muscles of his back. I leisurely slide my palm down his back, crossing the ridge of each individual rib smoothly, letting my fingers trail down behind. I then trace my fingers along his spine, running them slowly up his body until he finally shudders back to life. He lifts himself and rolls to face me.

“I never sleep this well in my own bed,” he tells me, his eyes only half open, lips curling into a coy smile.

“You know you can sleep here whenever you want.” He is gorgeous. His body is perfectly proportioned, toned and smooth, and his smile is so childish and innocent that I almost forget how good he is in bed. But even with him here, naked, flirting with me, I am unable to ignore the blanks he hasn’t yet filled in about last night. “Where did you end up sleeping?” I ask, trying to maintain a weightless tone.

“I didn’t really. I think I tried to on Alex’s couch, but that wasn’t until maybe 4, and I couldn’t sleep anyway so when the sun came up I decided to come over here.”

“Why the wait? You knew I was here.”

“I knew you were here at 2. By that time of the morning you could’ve been anywhere. Or with anyone.”

“You really think I’m like that? Like I’d wait up all night for you and then just call some back-up?”

“That’s not what I meant. I just thought that it would be a safer bet if I waited until a reasonable hour of the morning to, I dunno, impose upon your generosity.” We lie in silence. I’m not sure what to make of his excuse. Maybe he is being sincere, but I can’t help thinking that if Will got to Alex’s at 4, they would’ve had at least four hours together before he came to me. Perhaps sensing something is wrong, he reaches out and takes my hand in his, our fingers intertwining. He is watching me closely; I can’t look at him. Within minutes we are both asleep, still hand in hand.

It’s late afternoon when we wake up; the navy blue curtains drawn over the large window in my bedroom filter the light into an azure haze. Silver specks of dust seem to flash in and out of existence, like tiny fish in shallow water. The coffee by my bed is cold and stale, so I get up and take it into the kitchen, dropping it noisily into the stainless steel sink. My head is throbbing with a dull ache behind my eyes, so I walk through the lounge to the bathroom and rummage through my over-filled medicine cabinet. Among the various bottles of anti-depressants and strips of foil-wrapped condoms are several packets of painkillers. I pop a few tablets into my hand, throw them into the back of my throat and swallow hard, scooping water from the tap into my mouth. Back in the bedroom, I take a cigarette from the pack on my dresser and light it. I open the curtains and watch the sunlight cut through the rising smoke with ever-shifting shafts of light. The sudden illumination rouses Will, who turns away from the window with a groan. Leaning against the dresser, I admire his body as he slowly gains consciousness. He stretches his arms out and above him, pulls his shoulders back, arches his spine. With a soft grunt of effort, he sits upright and, rubbing his face with one hand, reaches silently with the other for my smoke. I walk over to the bed and put the filter to his lips. He inhales deeply, reclines and blows the smoke straight up above him.

“What time is it?” he asks without turning to look at me.

“About 3. Early yet.”

“Mmm. You know its Howie’s birthday today, right? You didn’t forget or anything?” I had forgotten. I’d hoped he had too, though I should’ve known that wouldn’t be the case. Will had excitedly told me about it earlier in the week; everyone was going to be there, it was at the Power Station, they’d even booked some hot DJ.

“How could I forget? You haven’t shut up about it for weeks.”

“That’s not true,” he laughed. He was genuinely happy, relishing the opportunity to bring me into his social world. His friends rarely afforded him one.

We pass the afternoon together in bed, at first just lying together as the afternoon fades into an orange dusk, then making love just as languorously. We order pizza for dinner so that Will has more time to prepare. Following a long, scalding shower he begins his facial skincare routine, cleansing and exfoliating and moisturising, before spending at least twenty minutes sculpting his hair delicately into a pyramidal peak. Finally, he spends almost another hour searching through the wardrobe I’d encouraged him to keep at my place so that he could spend more time here, settling after much thought on an ensemble that costs more than I earn in several months. I don’t ask where he got the clothes. He doesn’t tell me. We leave the apartment a little before 10.

The club was already packed when we arrived. Howie was working his way across the dance floor to greet us. He was wearing a white two-button blazer over a band t-shirt with skinny black jeans. On anyone else it would’ve looked trashy, but Howie, a half-Chinese-half-European model, made it look good.

“Will,” he screamed over the music. “Is this great, or what?”

“It’s amazing,” Will assured him. “Howie, this is Tim, my boyfriend.” Howie looked me up and down slowly. I’d never felt more self-conscious in my life. He finally looked up at me and smiled, and offered his hand.

“It’s so good to finally meet you, Tim. Will’s told us all about you.”

“Not all bad, I hope.”

“Of course not, of course not.” This trite introduction was leading nowhere and I could tell Will was glad. He was searching the room and had spotted Alex with a few other guys at a table in a dark corner. He excused himself and went to join them.

“Well, Howie, it was great to meet you. Now go enjoy your party, I’ll be fine.”

“Have a great time, Tim.” He called back as he went to the bar. I looked over at the table Will was now seated at. They were drinking heavily; shot glasses were being piled together in the middle of the table to make room for the next round. I knew this would happen. He would make a big fuss about getting me to come with him, promise me he’d make sure I had a good time, and then leave me for Alex.

I have a plan B. I go into the bathrooms and duck into one of the stalls. I pull a tiny bag out of my pocket and take two E tablets out of it. I swallow them without water and make my way back out to the bar. I order a J&B, drink it too quickly and stumble onto the dance floor. For a few minutes I force myself to dance, to try to enjoy myself, and some of the other boys invite me to dance with them, but once the tabs kick in I don’t need to pretend. The pulse of the bass drowns out the palpitations of my heart as I dance, alone, with someone, on stage, on tables. I lose my shirt somewhere on the floor. I don’t care.

At about 1, things start to wind down. The DJ is getting ready to go, as are most of the guests. I am still pumped as I start searching for Will. They are no longer at the table, and I hadn’t seen them dancing at all. I wander down an unlit corridor with rows of doors on either side. Some are locked, others are empty. Some I open to find guys having sex on long couches or tables; in others they are doing coke and rolling joints. I find Will in the last room on the left, still clothed, his belt lying on the table next to an empty syringe. I slam the door open, hearing plaster crack as it hits the wall. Other guys are laying on the floor, on couches, on each other, some naked, all high. I kick the table over, sending the junk all across the room, glass shattering as it hits tile. I grab Will’s belt, and when some guy grabs my shoulders and tries to pull me out of the room I spin and hit him across the face with it. When I reach to pick up Will, I see blood on my hand. I half-carry him under one arm, guiding him out of a back exit and the end of the hallway and into a parking lot. He is barely conscious as I lower him into the back seat of my car.

I turn back to the club and see a few guys stumble out into the lot, drunkenly staggering towards me. Alex is among them, shirtless, like me, blood drying on his face; he was the one I’d hit.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing, asshole?” he shouted. He was still coming towards me, the other guys holding back, watching him advance. The chemical light of the exit sign highlights the oblique contours of his shoulders and arms, and for a moment he seems to radiate a toxic green luminance. He’s too wasted to put together a sentence, so all I hear from him is a deep growl before he lunges at me, misjudging the distance and falling to the asphalt half a metre away from me. I turn to open the car door to drive away and see Will, awake now, climbing out of the back. Alex is lying on his back, the neon light making the blood on his face and hands glow in the darkness. Will pushes himself out of the car and crawls over to his fallen friend, then falls to the ground beside him. Alex’s eyes are shut tightly, his face contorted into a pained grimace. Will just looks up at me silently, playing through the episode in his head, still only just conscious, then falls on top of Alex. The other guys are picking them both up, supporting them as they try to walk over to their car. No one says anything more as they drive out of the parking lot.

I stay there for a long time. The music from the club has stopped and a few people come out and drive off. I don’t see Howie. Eventually I get behind the wheel and start the engine, unsure of whether to go home or to find Will. I open the glove box and pull out a small bottle of vodka. It’s lukewarm, but I swallow a few mouthfuls anyway. I head out of the car park and head in the direction of Alex’s house.

There are two cars parked at his place. One of them is the car they drove away in before, the other I didn’t see at the party. I bang on the door a few times. It’s almost 3. Howie opens the door, still dressed, but his hair is messed up and he looks like he’s been crying. Eye liner runs almost down to his mouth. He steps aside and lets me in silently, telling me that they’re upstairs. I walk through the living room and kitchen, both of which are filled with empty bottles of beer and tall glasses. I head upstairs, not caring that the sound of my footsteps is echoing down the vacant hallway. There are only two doors. I open the one on the left; it is a bathroom, there is a guy lying on the tiles. I close the door and head to the other one. The room is dark, but the light from the hall gradually reveals a large bedroom. There are two bodies on the bed. I hear Will before I see him, breathing the same way he had done in my bed that day. As my eyes adjust, I begin to make out features of his face, and beside him, the face of Alex. I close the door, and head back down the stairs, silently this time. I guess I’m crying because my eyes start to sting. Howie blocks my path as I head for the door.

“It’s not what it looks like, Tim,” he says. “They just-” I shove him against the wall, cutting him off midsentence. I’m pressing my arm against his neck, staring into his eyes and he struggles, and all I see is Alex, and I punch into the wall beside his head, feeling the plaster collapse and pull away with my hand. I leave, heading straight to my car, then home.

My bed is still unmade, the sheets still twisted where our bodies had been. I fall against the bedroom wall, staring at the place where just hours earlier we had been together. I don’t know what time I fall asleep.

It’s still dark when I wake up to my doorbell ringing. I dress hastily, my head throbbing again, and answer it. Will is standing there, unable to look at me. For a few moments we stand there, and in that silent moment we are unable to connect. Finally, for a second, he raises his eyes to meet mine, before I step aside and let him in. I close the door behind us.