It's a beautiful day
Don't let it get away
They’ve been together for eighteen months, living in that top floor warehouse conversion in New York. It’s a far cry from when James last lived in the city, sleeping in his car and getting beaten up by queer bashers. This is way worse than that.
He sits looking at the phone waiting for it to ring with offers of auditions and call-backs, anything that pays money, but the damn thing just grins back in silence. The messy apartment threatens him with whispers of how Chris will yell when he gets home. Like he does every night.
“Have you even fucking moved?” asks Chris when he walks into the living room two hours later. James isn’t sure. He thinks he may have gone to the bathroom. He thinks he may have just slept. Chris throws him the latest edition of Variety.
“Look for a fucking job,” he yells. “That's if couch potatoes can read.”
‘When did it all get this bad?’ wonders James as he scans the ads for anyone who might want to employ a fucked up, has-been who’s too old for all this shit – too old for the amount of shit he uses.
“You haven’t turned the fucking page in five minutes. Get your head out of your ass and start reading, you worthless piece of crap.”
Once upon a long time ago it had been good. When Chris didn’t have Emmy’s and he still had fame.
“I hate it when you screw other guys, Jamie,” Chris had said as he traced the remnants of David’s wax play with a judgemental fingertip.
James had misunderstood. He’d taken it to mean that Christian liked him.
They eat Chinese food out of cartons and stare at the TV.
“I have to fly to Hawaii for a location shoot in two weeks,” says Chris through a mouthful of noodles. “I’ll be away for a month and when I get back I want you to have a job. I don’t give a shit whether it’s pumping gas or stacking food on shelves. If not you’re moving out. It’s not like you’re worth keeping around to fuck anymore, is it?”
It’s a rhetorical question that James doesn’t need to answer.
He finds the energy to cut a path through the bad feeling and clears away the remains of the food.
“I got a phone call from Boreanaz today,” says Chris conversationally when James returns with two cups of coffee.
He doesn’t answer; keeps his eyes fixed on the chrome and glass shelving full of awards and wonders where this is heading.
“He’s in town next week meeting up with some big name. I invited him over, thought you’d enjoy ‘seeing’ him again.”
No. No. No. NO. NO. NO. NO…
No more laughter and disdain. He can’t take it. Gets enough of that from Christian these days.
“He says he might talk to this producer about getting me into a movie with him. He thinks we work well together.”
It’s always the same; Christian pushes and pushes and pushes with these vicious snide words until James explodes.
SLAM.
He unleashes his fist and it snaps into Christian’s jaw with a ferocious noise. It contains more release than any orgasm or trickle of blood ever could. Chris has his fingers wrapped around James’s throat and they tighten into a stranglehold, but it’s less of a noose than life is right now.
One split lip and a few bruises later, James is lying face down on the floor with his arms behind his back and his pants pulled down. Christian fucks him dry until he groans out his orgasm, then releases his hold and rolls James over onto his back jerking him off ‘til he comes to a bitter climax that gets worse every time.
They never speak afterwards. Christian runs off to the bathroom to shower away the filth and James is left in a cold cold heap of nothing on the floor. The only reason he’s still here is because he has nowhere else to go.
He hears Christian strumming his guitar in the bedroom and he can’t stop the tears anymore as he remembers the way they used to play then fuck all day long when they first moved in here, lilting notes, punching riffs, cool lick of strings and tongues.
He thought he had the power once, but power is only money’s bitch and they’ve both abandoned him now, leaving him for dead in this bleak apartment with the whitewash brick and the blood-come stains.
They used to fuck against the huge windows leaving rivers of white on the glass. Now he stares out of transparent bars and envies the people who are able to breathe.
*
Eight days later David and Christian walk into the apartment together, all slapping backs and best buddies. The way they used to be before James fucked that up. That’s what Chris tells James all the time anyway.
He’s cleaned the place up. He’s ordered in food. He looks around trying to think of what he might have forgotten.
“Pizza again?” says Chris laughing. “you’re not the most original guy, are you Jamie?”
James is confused, Chris told him to order pizza. Didn’t he? So many questions.
“And you know I hate olives.”
After they’ve finished eating, they get stoned on some seriously strong oil, the kind that makes your throat burn and your eyes water. It does fuck all else for James. He stares at the floor while Christian snuggles up to Dave, stroking his chest and licking his neck until their mouths meet in a furious clash of tongues. James still won’t look, keeps staring at the spot on the floor where he was raped the first time.
“James?”
The voice is muzzy and unfamiliar and he’s more confused than ever.
“James?”
“Dave’s talking to you, Jamie.” You little shithead.
James looks up at Boreanaz.
“You okay with this?”
That merits a laugh. First time he’s found anything funny in a while. Dave smiles and turns his head, losing himself back inside Christian’s mouth, fingers tugging insistently at the shirt buttons until the smaller man is half naked and arching his body like a slut.
James cocks his head on one side and watches. This should mean something, shouldn’t it? He should be burning up with hurt, head spinning, fists flying, fighting then fucking them on that couch. But he doesn’t want hot wet kisses anymore, full of original sin and accompanying pain. He knows what he wants now and gets defiantly to his feet. David looks at him and holds out his hand, curving his fingers enticingly.
The thought makes vomit rise in James’s throat and he backs away from them.
“Fuck him,” giggles Christian.
“Or not,” laughs David, licking a path of wet down Christian’s chest, his fingers burrowing inside the open fly and fishing for cock.
James staggers back and bumps into the table, almost falling over but managing to recover his balance and with it, a tiny portion of self esteem. He hides in the bathroom, slamming home the bolt and shuddering with relief when he’s locked inside this smaller and safer version of prison. Even through the painted oak doors he can hear the sounds of strenuous fucking.
They’re making it good just for him. Making him think that they’re standing outside, sniggering and forging sex sounds like bratty teenagers. If Chris was doing this to hurt him it might make it feel better, but he’s just rubbing salt in old wounds, opening them up ‘til they bleed and fester. James has had enough of metaphorical bleeding.
Curling up into a ball on the floor, James covers his ears, refusing to listen to the groans and clichéd ‘fuck yeahs.’ He tries to find a happy place to go to but he’s all out of those. He thought he’d found one once. He’s lost everything over this relationship with Christian: his son, his parents, his hope…
After a while when he thinks he might have gone to sleep there’s a banging on the bathroom door. Even now his ears prick up and his tail wags at the thought of some attention.
“Get the hell out of there. Dave needs to use the bathroom.”
Silence.
“For fuck’s sake.”
He hears the angriness even in the barefoot steps that pad away across the floorboards and wonders why it was such a big deal for them to use the master bathroom.
He’s in the way.
There’s an antique cutthroat razor on the shelf, tortoiseshell handle, knife edge as sharp as his boyfriend’s tongue. It looks good next to the sienna bakelite shaving mug and brush. They’ve made the apartment sleek and stylish between them, but chic can’t cover up the teeth chattering chill, however much it tries.
James lifts up and grabs for the razor then leans back against the bath, feeling the weight in his hand, opening and closing it and watching the steel catch hold of flickers of light, making them dance over the ceiling and walls.
Curling up on the ice white tiles he clutches the razor as if it’s a life line.
He loves me.
He loves me not.
He loves me.
He loves me not
He loves me.
He loves me not…
James can smell copper like sweaty pennies.
There’s a tentative knock at the bathroom door.
“James,” says David, “I’m going, I’ll see you around.”
*
Why does the sun always shine at funerals?
David stands outside the church with Jaime at his side and he’s still going over the ‘if onlys’ in his head. He can’t stop them. Wakes up cold and thrashing in his bed every night, has done ever since he heard the news. Sees the pool of blood spill out from under the door. Shoulder barges his way in. Stops the bleeding and presses his mouth to James’s lips but they’re always blue with cold – even in his daydreams.
He watches Christian absorb the sympathy and play the part of grieving lover with alacrity.
Only Dave knows the truth. And he doesn’t much like it.
DONE