The video
We got this French roulette,
Guess we’ll see how it ends.
You’re the bullet going straight through my head.
-- The Haunt, Cigarettes & Feelings
This restaurant was much different from what was regularly found in the tunnels; it reminded him of the places he used to go to with his parents. The ease with which he welcomed such familiarity burned down his throat. If he was different from his parents, then why did he find himself constantly embracing their habits? Every time he stopped policing himself and simply let go, he acted just like them. This attitude he put on underground was so intentional, crafted by his own hand, that it must be a farce. He wasn’t different and he didn’t belong here; he played a rat just as much as his brother did. The only difference was that, despite how much V and the others said it, Theodore didn’t actually think he was one of them. Laith was the only one who’d always seen that. Still, he’d humored Theodore, taking him around the place like a tour guide.
When the waiter came by, he ordered the same brand of wine his father always did and asked for an additional bottle of champagne. Whether or not that surprised the man, he didn’t let it show on his face and stoically took note of the order. Placing the menus down, he left.
“How did you know they have that brand?” Laith asked.
“I’ve been here a million times. I was born here. My parents raised me where you’re sitting.” He spoke without taking his eyes off the menu, as if he didn’t already know every item on it. This was the only French he spoke. That thought reminded him of the French lexicon Laith had used over the years, throwing words around like he’d mastered the language. It prompted him to set the menu down. “Do you speak French?”
Laith glanced up at him. “A little bit. Not super fluently, though. I learned it in school and just kind of picked it up, I guess.”
“You took electives?”
“Yeah, a bunch of them. I used to be in school all day. I was like, really smart.”
“What happened?”
A shoulder bounced as Laith’s eyes dropped back onto the menu.
Oh. Didn’t Qasim pass when he was sixteen? Hwan’s voice echoed in the back of Theodore’s mind, piercing his chest with regret. He shouldn’t have asked that. “Did you drop out?” He just couldn’t fucking help himself.
“Yeah.” Laith kept his eyes down. “If I order the lamb chops, will they just bring me two pieces of meat and a salad?”
Changing the subject was a good call, so Theodore rolled with it.
“They’ll bring you just enough, I promise.”
***
Once the waiter had taken their orders and brought the two bottles, Theodore took the champagne glass and stood up. He held his glass, almost full, extended in Laith’s direction. He’d never made a toast before, but could manufacture one very easily; over the years, he’d picked up on his father’s speech patterns, even if he didn’t use them. This time, he would. He could do this. It’d sound so professional that the audience would be left with the impression he’d rehearsed it the night before.
The room stared. He didn’t have to look to know; the clinking of silverware grew quiet as conversations died down. Even the servers stopped walking around; there was no movement in his peripherals. The attention was such that the fork by his plate wouldn’t even need to meet the glass. This must be how his father always felt at all those charity events.
This one simple action was enough to put full blown panic on Laith’s face. To anyone who didn’t know him, it looked subtle; his eyes widened just a bit and his eyebrows raised less than the tenth of an inch, but what Theodore saw was something close to horror. Without moving his head, he glanced about the room, no doubt taking notice of the crowd’s attention. Before he could say anything, Theodore began.
“Shark, you have no idea how happy I am to be here with you tonight.”
If Laith’s eyes were wide before, then this opening statement practically popped them out of his skull. He looked mortified; his body was so stiff that he might’ve pulled a muscle, hands frozen over the table, shoulders tense. It was the kind of reaction Theodore would’ve expected if he’d just shot Laith’s firstborn in front of him, not addressed him for a toast. He must’ve never experienced one before. Theodore tried not to let that bother him and carried on.
“This has been the most extraordinary week of my life, something I’ve been dreaming about since I first met you, all those years ago. You’ve always been important to me, a light at the end of the tunnel, the voice of reason in a world full of chaos. I follow you because you give meaning to everything I do—and I’ve done a lot. You’ve really made me earn it. This was the single most difficult thing I’ve ever accomplished. You’re not just difficult, you’re impossible, and in a way, that’s what pulled me towards you, what made you so attractive to me—the challenge. I’m used to winning, but I’d never had to work this hard for anything before, so thank you. You really know how to keep me coming back.”
It was easy to focus in silence. This was the first time he’d ever talked to such a big crowd, but to his father, this room would’ve been nothing.
“Even though I’m standing here as your boyfriend, I still feel like I don’t really have you. Like the chase isn’t over yet and… like it never will be. You push me to better myself, to always find new ways to grow. You make me want to be better, even if I always end up showing you my ugliest side. After all, there can only be one sun in the sky and you’ve always shone the brightest.”
Laith’s lips parted, but nothing came out. Instead, his eyebrows slowly drew into a scowl, body leaning back against his seat. His shoulders didn’t relax, but there was movement there, so minute that Theodore almost missed it. Even though he failed to read what any of this meant, he knew it wasn’t particularly good. His best guess was that, right now, Laith wanted to slap a hand over his mouth and shove him under the table. If magic was real, Laith would’ve made him disappear. Actually, he would’ve exploded Theodore to pieces. Yeah, that was what this reaction probably meant.
Breathing in shakily, he continued. “I hope that, by being the worst one of us, I can do for you even a fraction of everything you’ve done for me. May for better or worse be far better than worse, even if everything points to the contrary. That’s what my dad likes to say.”
His heart skipped in anticipation for the next part. He almost didn’t want to add it, because he knew it’d piss Laith off, but at this point, he had to. It was the last cherry of candor to top this garbage fire off.
“I love you.”
With that, he motioned to Laith and sipped on his drink. His eyes finally left his addressee and roamed the room for the crowd’s reaction and what he found, while it should’ve been expected, still surprised him: phones recorded the speech while the room slowly began to clap. Realistically, he knew that, had he not been a prominent figure underground, related to the Dead Ponies’ most notorious employee, this reaction wouldn’t have come. Either way, he appreciated it; the ovation lessened the chagrin that he felt inside. Sitting down, he set his glass back on the table.
Laith’s eyes shot daggers at him, jaw set tight. Theodore couldn’t see his hands, but knew they gripped the armrest of his chair. Ice slipped into his bloodstream, raising the hairs on his neck—he’d fucked up. God, he’d fucked up. With his eyes down, he took his silverware and started on the entrée.
“Never do that again.”
The comment paralyzed him. His heart jumped into his mouth, but he swallowed it back down. Slowly, he set the silverware on the table and slipped his hands underneath it to hide how badly they shook. They grabbed one another, squeezing. In his peripherals, Laith took his own champagne glass and drank from it.
“I said I wanted to make a toast. This is just the way I celebrate things,” he explained. His voice was a small whisper, non-confrontational.
“No, it isn’t. That’s how your dad does it.”
“Same difference. He’s just… Well, he’s better at it.”
“At what, being a pretentious dick?” Liquid splashed into a glass, filling it up with a quiet sound. “You’re only similar in appearance.”
“I’m a lot more like him than you think,” Theodore rebutted. “He and I treat Ryan just as badly. I do the same stuff he does without even thinking about it; it comes naturally to me. Before I know it, I’ll be turning into him.”
“That stuff only comes naturally to you because you’ve observed it for so long. It’s involuntary; it seeps in without you noticing. There’s a little bit of our parents in all of us, you know, but that doesn’t mean we’re not authentic; it just means we have to fight a little harder to find ourselves.” Laith moved out of view, but if he had to guess, it was to down his drink. A second later, more liquid poured into his glass. “You’re not buried under him like you think you are. Still could’ve saved the speech, though.”
Theodore swallowed thick, eyebrows furrowing.
“Here’s a tip,” Laith continued, “from now on, if you want to make my business public, ask me first.”
“That speech was about me.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. What we have is half mine. Now there are dozens of recordings for your dad to watch in his free time. Is that what you wanted?”
Oh fuck.
Oh god.
“No.” His mind raced. “It’s—it’s not gonna get to him; he’s not on social media.”
“How well do you know him?”
Their eyes met. In the silence that followed, Laith finished another glass. He kept the champagne bottle in a hand for quick refills.
“Don’t do shit like this anymore. I’m serious.”
He shut his eyes and squeezed. God, he just wanted to die. At this point, he deserved it. An image of the knife by his plate flashed in his mind, but it was too dull, too harmless; closer to a butter knife. Then, he pictured the fork stabbing into the back of his hand, pinning it to the table. No, a carving fork with the long, sharp prongs. In this fantasy, his hand tried to move, but the prongs were too deep into the wood to budge. His nails pushed into his own palms.
Laith must not want anything to do with him anymore. As soon as he got Laith off tonight, they’d be done. That would be it. His run had been short and he’d wasted it all—what a fucking idiot. Mentally stabbing himself, he pulled out his wallet and thumbed through some bills. A hundred and fifty was probably enough. It was all he had, anyway. Tossing it on the table, he got up and left.
Laith didn’t follow. That realization came to him two blocks down the passageway, when he took notice of the silence immediately behind him, with no heavy steps close by. It caused his legs to slow down, ears perked. Still nothing. He stopped and listened, heart falling heavy against his chest. Nothing. His surroundings were only comprised of the distant footsteps of the crowd and the natural hubbub of their conversations. Would Laith really not follow? Theodore had walked in a straight line; it’d be easy to find him from the restaurant.
A hand leaned on the surface closest to him, the window of a leather store. His eyes stared at a row of manmade bracelets without registering any of it; his focus was somewhere else. He could easily glance back to confirm his suspicions, but the thought of not seeing Laith there was already painful enough. He just wasn’t ready for it. Plus, part of him still held out hope that, if he just waited a little longer, Laith would eventually show up. He had to. He always did.
***
In the distance, heavier footsteps grew close. How long had he waited here? His heart skipped, lungs pulling in a big breath. As they approached, he could identify their unevenness, the missteps Laith took when he was inebriated. A moment later, he felt Laith’s presence looming behind him, bringing along a wave of cigars encased in partially see-through, but still dark, amber. His cologne was all the confirmation Theodore needed to let his shoulders relax, even if he still refused to turn around.
“Hey.” Laith’s voice was soft and quiet, the tone he always used when he was trying to avoid a fight. He clearly didn’t mind arguing with others, but Theodore was a special case. Noticing that was easy and it made him feel like shit. It seemed that, the longer tonight dragged on, the more their interactions moved onto a minefield where the first wrong move triggered an explosion. Laith, of course, played the bomb squad, defusing Theodore’s stupid ass. He really wished Laith would just punch him in the face.
His lack of acknowledgement prompted a hand to touch him on the head, heavy but careful. It followed the curve of his skull, brushing his hair back.
“Sorry for being an asshole.”
His shoulders bounced. “Everything you said was true.”
“Yeah, but I could’ve been nicer about it.”
Theodore had that problem too.
In lieu of a verbal response, he turned and passed Laith a glance. He wasn’t sure what he wanted that glance to mean, or if he even wanted it to say anything at all, but Laith seemed to get the message anyway. He always did. His eyes were soft and apologetic, fingers carding through blond locks. The warmth of his palm was soothing. Still in silence, Theodore took a step closer to him, allowing an arm to wrap around his shoulders. Their legs naturally started down the passageway, bodies moving in unison. It was really special, the kind of thing Theodore had never thought possible. Before Laith, he’d always thought Hollywood was bullshitting him with things like that.
In Cantaloupe’s tunnels, they passed the wine bottle back and forth—Laith had brought it with him. It’d been paid for, after all; why shouldn’t he keep it? They shared it while walking to the entrance, where Laith was forced to hide it from view. At least until they got back to Theodore’s place. He was clearly keeping something in the breast of his jacket and looked suspicious as hell, but as long as the world above ground didn’t see a label, he was fine.
They didn’t really talk, or rather, Theodore didn’t really talk. His mind was stuck on the invisible clock ticking over Laith’s head, running a mile a minute in hopes of coming up with something that would make Laith want to stay. The sad part was that, other than sex, he didn’t really have anything to offer. How had he even gotten Laith’s attention in the first place? Emily’s voice echoed in the back of his mind, telling him to do the exact same thing he’d done before, the one trick that had convinced everyone he was worth keeping—but what was that? What had he really done besides annoying them? That was all he could think of, how persistently he’d fought to stay in everyone’s lives. Now that there was no battle to fight anymore, how would he proceed? Think. Conjure. Plan.
Should he just… act like he’d never won? If he never stopped fighting, no one would be able to escape. If he was consistently on them, they wouldn’t have enough time to find a replacement for him. Ideally, they wouldn’t want to find a replacement. He just had to be confident; that was his whole thing, how confident he’d been that Laith would choose him over Ryan. How confident he’d been that Ryan’s friends wouldn’t give up on him. Funny how, when comparing himself to Ryan, he knew he was leagues above him, but when comparing himself to anybody else, all that confidence suddenly vanished. That wouldn’t do. He had to stay alert.
If this walk had happened two weeks ago, what would he have done? Well, first of all, he wouldn’t feel like he’d need to do anything, because Laith had already agreed to fuck him in his apartment, but that was beside the point. Two weeks ago, he would’ve been bold. He would’ve grabbed Laith’s arm, shoved him in the first alleyway in sight and sucked him off right there. Yeah, that worked. That was good; it’d keep Laith interested, it’d keep him guessing. Didn’t he love doing weird and dangerous shit? If Theodore made himself unpredictable, Laith would be all over him.
Scanning the street for an alleyway, he noticed one not too far from here, in the next block over. He could only see a small slit between two businesses, but knew exactly what that was. His heart leapt for his throat, lungs breathing in—this was his chance. He just had to wait a little bit.
He was so excited he almost didn’t notice Laith talking to him. By the time he tuned in, he realized he’d missed far more than he’d thought, because whatever story Laith had been telling him made absolutely no sense. He went on and on about some place Theodore had never been to, seemingly reaching no conclusion. Was he even close to the end? Was this the middle? Theodore couldn’t pay attention long enough to find out, eyes glued on the alleyway, watching the slit widen. He almost bounced on his feet, legs trying to move faster, impatient. He could deep-throat now—this was his redemption arc. It’d be his best performance yet.
As the alleyway approached, he grabbed Laith’s arm and honed all of his attention in timing this correctly. As soon as the last business gave way to the alley, he shoved Laith into it. His plan was to get Laith close enough to the wall that he’d be able to easily push him against it, making this a sexy surprise, but what he hadn’t accounted for was Laith’s lack of sobriety. Even though he didn’t look like it, he was so drunk that one strong shove pushed him down. Watching him fall was so crushing that the center of Theodore’s chest grew cold, as if he were the one falling. It was the same feeling he always got when the rollercoaster rushed down the tallest hill—it made him sick.
Laith landed on a shoulder, and since the wine bottle wasn’t capped, it spilled wine all over him. It was a terrifying sight that just seemed to get worse, because in Laith’s point of view, Theodore had just shoved him down for no reason. He instinctively turned to lean on an arm and prop himself up, so the wine wouldn’t waterboard him.
Theodore watched him get up with ice in his veins, paralyzed. He couldn’t believe what he’d just done. Both of his hands reached in Laith’s direction, mouth moving with a million words that tangled up and failed to come out. The bottle rolled on the ground, practically empty now.
“What the fuck?” Laith nearly shouted. His eyebrows were furrowed into a hard scowl, eyes focused on Theodore’s face. He shook his arms, wine dripping from his fingers. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“I’m so sorry.”
Laith grabbed the lapels of his jacket and shrugged it off, tossing it in Theodore’s direction. Thankfully—because the universe didn’t completely despise him yet—he managed to catch it, despite the shock and horror that held a scream in the middle of his throat. Why did he have to shove so hard? Laith ripped his mask off next, chucked it at Theodore, and moved onto his shirt next. It was pretty late at this point; Theodore could only imagine how cold he must be. In the dark, he couldn’t see the goosebumps on Laith’s skin, but had no trouble watching the wine that dripped from his shirt as he wrung it.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Laith muttered. The anger in his voice made Theodore’s lip tremble.
“I’m sorry,” he tried again, more pathetic this time. “I didn’t mean it.”
“What the fuck were you trying to do? Start a fucking fight?” Laith aired his shirt out before slipping it back on again. It stuck to his skin so uncomfortably that Theodore could almost feel it on himself.
“No, I—I had a stupid idea and I just…” he trailed off, swallowing around a lump. At this point, explaining it would only serve to make him look even worse. God, he just couldn’t win today. “I’m sorry.” Somehow, that sounded even more pathetic this time. He could barely hear his own voice without cringing.
Fuming in silence, Laith walked over and took his jacket back. There was anger in his movements, in how violently he snatched the jacket and put it on again, as if punching through each sleeve. He shrugged it on and snapped the collar up, visibly annoyed. Then, he took the mask and started walking.
Theodore followed quietly, face burning with shame; his eyes dropped to the sidewalk, shoulders up to his ears. How could he salvage this? He had to do something. Every stupid idea he had only seemed to turn Laith’s mood sourer, but he had to keep trying; tonight couldn’t end like this. Was Laith still interested in seeing it through? Considering that, as they left the alley, he continued walking to Theodore’s apartment, then the answer was probably yes. He wasn’t one to pass up on sex, after all—Theodore still had a chance. He could make this the best time they’d ever had, focused entirely on Laith and what he liked. What did he like? Everything wasn’t a valid answer; he must have preferences. All he’d ever talked about was how interested he was in making others feel good, but that couldn’t always be the case. When they’d first started going out, Theodore had taken the reigns and done whatever—Laith hadn’t minded. Sure, but had he liked it? Theodore’s inability to answer that weighed like somebody had just stepped on his heart. He didn’t know the first fucking thing about his boyfriend at all.
“Can I—can we play a game?” His voice was small, an attempt at digging himself out of this one. He needed an out.
“Sure.” As expected, Laith’s tone was stiff, not very inclined to talk. The fact he still gave Theodore the light of day, despite everything that had happened tonight, said a million words. He was way too nice.
“For every question I ask, you’ll get to do the same, and if you don’t want to ask me anything, you can just tell me what’s on your mind.” He hesitated before the last part. “Maybe something you think I should hear.”
“I have nothing to say to you.”
“Then, well—I guess I’ll owe you, then.”
Their footsteps made muted sounds against the sidewalk, soles crunching dry leaves and some litter. Laith walked pretty fast—another sign of his vexation—which forced Theodore to keep up, almost jogging on his short legs. He didn’t have to be a bystander to know he looked stupid right now.
The lack of a response prompted him to glance up. He met the side of Laith’s face, seen from the back, or almost the back, as Theodore failed to stay in step with him. It wasn’t the full picture, but just enough for him to know that Laith wasn’t looking at him; his eyes were set straight ahead, eyebrows drawn. Okay, he was pissed.
“Can I start?” Theodore pushed, because he was just a pain in the ass.
Laith passed him a brief glance, which he decided to take as indication to keep going. It absolutely did not mean that.
“What’s your last name?” If Ryan knew it, then he should too.
“Semaan.”
Laith Semaan—that was an incredibly ethnic name, yet he couldn’t figure out where it came from exactly. He’d absolutely take the loss than ask Laith where he’d come from, though. One, if he did, Laith would actually stop talking to him, and two, he’d probably get Oregon as his answer. If he absolutely had to guess, he’d say somewhere in the Middle East.
“Are you religious?” That was his next best bet.
“No.”
“Is your family religious?”
“Yeah, Christians.”
Well, that didn’t help. “What’s your mom’s name?”
“I don’t talk to her.”
He knew that already. “My mom’s name is Carolyn,” he commented. That was a less veiled attempt to smooth things out.
Laith, of course, noticed it and as always, played along. “Naja.”
“That’s pretty. What does it mean?”
“Does Carolyn mean anything?”
That was fair. It probably did have a meaning, but he had no idea what it was. He shouldn’t have assumed Laith knew what his family’s names meant. A hand fished out his phone, and two seconds later, he had the answer right on his fingertips. “Apparently, Naja means rescue or escape.”
“That’s fitting.”
Because he’d escaped from home, from her? Instead of asking, Theodore looked up his mother’s name next. “Uh, I’m getting a lot of different results for Carolyn. Happiness is one of them.”
Which was interesting, because he didn’t think of that word when he thought of her. She was definitely not known for whistling little tunes and twirling around the living room. Then again, if there ever was a woman who’d carved out her place in the world and manufactured happiness with her own bare hands, it’d be his mother. She was a warrior—that was what he thought of when she came to mind. Among other things, of course.
“I guess that’s not too far off the mark, considering how much you care about her. She must make you very happy.”
Did she? His first instinct was to disagree with that, but realistically, he’d never be able to. She’d given him everything; he had no reason to think she’d made him unhappy, or even grounds to criticize her at all. As a mother, she was excellent. Flawless. Why didn’t that word make him think of her, though? Perhaps other things were more important.
“She does.” The lie felt right; he was glad to have said it. His back straightened up, shoulders squared. “I love her,” he added, which was actually true. “I think you’ll love her too.”
Laith had nothing to say to that.
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