Date: Thu, 13 Mar 2003 17:25:12 -0800
From: D S <denis141@hotmail.com>
Subject: ALONE/TOGETHER: Chapter 41:  OF LOVE ALONE: Part Two: Finding Orion.

I assume that the near-deafening feedback silence that greeted the last
chapter is a sign of disappointment in Aaron and James not getting together.
  In doing the last chapter, I tried to remain honest to the characters; and
I think I did that.  With only a few exceptions, this story has never been a
full-on fairy-tale, and the romance in it has always been hard fought-for
and hard-won.  So, that said, do not despair.  Just because Aaron and James
are not together now does not mean that they might not just find a way back
to each other. (Hint, hint.)  There's a lot of story left, and more
surprises to come, so hang in there.  If you'd like to let me know what you
think about the story so far, or you have suggestions, criticism, or praise,
send the feedback to denis141@hotmail.com. I always write back, and usually
promptly. Finally, I've started a Yahoo Group where I post work-in-progress
sections of the chapters. These are rough-drafts, and so not the
final-official version of the chapter; but if you want to read along as I
crank it out, be my guest. Also, I am posting all the earlier chapters,
rewritten and revised (some more than others). To join the Yahoo Group, go
here: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/alone_together-novella/

DISCLAIMER:  I don't know NSYNC, and this story is purely a work of fiction.
  This story also contains male/male loving (and occasionally some smut).
If that's not your thing, or if you aren't old enough to read this, you
should stop reading now.  Sorry.

ALONE/TOGETHER

CHAPTER 41:  OF LOVE ALONE: Part Two: Finding Orion.

COMRADES, leave me here a little, while as yet 'tis early morn:
Leave me here, and when you want me, sound upon the bugle horn.

'Tis the place, and all around it, as of old, the curlews call,
Dreary gleams about the moorland flying over Locksley Hall;

Locksley Hall, that in the distance overlooks the sandy tracts,
And the hollow ocean-ridges roaring into cataracts.

Many a night from yonder ivied casement, ere I went to rest,
Did I look on great Orion sloping slowly to the West.

Many a night I saw the Pleiads, rising thro' the mellow shade,
Glitter like a swarm of fire-flies tangled in a silver braid.

Here about the beach I wander'd, nourishing a youth sublime
With the fairy tales of science, and the long result of Time;

When the centuries behind me like a fruitful land reposed;
When I clung to all the present for the promise that it closed:

When I dipt into the future far as human eye could see;
Saw the Vision of the world, and all the wonder that would be.-
	~ Excerpt from Locksley Hall, Alfred, Lord Tennyson.

AFTER an interval, reading, here in the midnight,
With the great stars looking on-all the stars of Orion looking,
And the silent Pleiades-and the duo looking of Saturn and ruddy Mars;
Pondering, reading my own songs, after a long interval, (sorrow and death
familiar now)
Ere closing the book, what pride! what joy! to find them         5
Standing so well the test of death and night,
And the duo of Saturn and Mars!
		~ "After an Interval", Walt Whitman (1875).

	"Men go abroad to wonder at the heights of mountains, at the huge waves of
the sea, at the long courses of rivers, at the vast compass of the ocean, at
the circular motions of the stars; and they pass by themselves without
wondering."
  			~ Saint Augustine

THE FIRST OF MAY

	The wheelbarrow felt heavy in his hands as Lance took hold of its two worn
wood handles and lifted, heaving hard into its weight, leaning forward,
pushing, his tanned bare shoulders scrunched tight to his sweaty
dirt-stained neck.  The wheelbarrow rolled slowly down the gentle-sloped
furrow that its wheel had, on each successive trip, carved into the grass.
This was his thirteenth load, and there were eight or nine to go. Sacks of
concrete mix, plastic-wrapped flats of dark-red brick, rebar, fifty-pound
bags of gravel, four-by-fours, two-by-fours, concrete blocks, octagonal
stone-specked pavers, gray-metal joists, cedar decking planks, several boxes
of galvanized nails, cans of stain and paint, a metal tub to mix concrete
in, a hammer, and a portable table-saw.

	Lance was in the middle of building a bigger backyard deck, and a brick
barbecue beside it.  The old deck had taken Lance three days to tear apart
and haul away.  Aaron had helped some after school, when he didn't have
baseball practice, but so far Lance had done most of the work alone.  He
planned to have it finished in time for Aaron's party, which was less than
five weeks away, on June second, the day after graduation.
One-hundred-and-fifty-three people had been invited, and he expected nearly
all to attend.

	Intent on unloading the wheelbarrow, Lance did not hear JC walk up behind
him. JC waited for him to finish, watching him heave a bag of concrete-mix
and place it on top of the three bags already unloaded there, next to the
pool.  Lance's hair was cut short, not buzz-cut, but close; and his back was
gently-muscled and noticeably free of fat.  He had started working out with
a personal-trainer, a man he only half-jokingly referred to as "sergeant".
Lance had hired him after becoming self-conscious about some weight he'd
gained.  Not that he'd become fat, or even close; soft in the middle was how
he had described it.  For his part, JC had not noticed the weight, except
for its absence now; and  Lance's sturdier shoulders, and the leaner slope
of his back to narrower hips.

	Standing there, admiring Lance now, a quick-sudden grin appearing on JC's
face as Lance bent to drop a bag of concrete and his cut-offs and boxer
shorts tugged down.  JC felt a familiar stirring in his stomach and thighs,
like a run of tickling fingers down the inside of both legs, and his penis
started to stiffen.  He laughed not so quietly, and then he cleared his
throat, trying to get Lance's attention.

	"Hey sexy man," JC said, arching his eyebrows and then winking at Lance as
he turned around and saw him.

	"Hey there," Lance said, smiling brightly as he wiped his hands on the
front of his cut-offs and then leaned forward to give JC a quick kiss.
"What's up?"

	"Stephane is here for you," JC said, using the tip of two fingers to wipe
the sweat from underneath Lance's left eye.  "He said you had a meeting for
today."

	"Oh fuck," Lance said.  "I totally forgot."

	"Is it about his script?"

	"Yeah," Lance said. "He got in town last night, and...shit, anyway, I said
we'd meet and talk today. Is he pissed?"

	"No he's fine," JC said. "I gave him some iced-tea and put him in the
study."

	"Cool," Lance said, kissing JC again and giving his left shoulder a quick
squeeze. "Thank you sweets."

	"Stephane's a pretty mellow guy," JC said, taking Lance's hand and walking
with him back to the house.  "A little mysterious, but always nice."

	"Did you finish reading his script?"

	"No," JC said.  "Someone interrupted me - remember?"

	"Oh yeah," Lance said, blushing. "Hopefully it was worth it."

	"When I finish the script, I'll let you know."

	"I thought it was great."

	"The script or what we did last night?"

	"Both, of course," Lance said, leaning forward and giving JC a kiss on the
side of the neck, and licking there too. "But the script is great too.  Not
real commercial though."

	"That's what I was thinking," JC said. "But you've been saying you'd like
to do an indie-film. Something different. So maybe this is the one."

	"There's not really a part for me," Lance said. "Not that I can see
playing."

	"And then there's the whole you-don't-speak-French thing."

	"Yes, there's that," Lance said, laughing.  "I think he's hoping I'll
produce it."

	"Well see - that'd be something new too."

	"That's what I was thinking," Lance said, giving his armpit a quick sniff
and then crinkling his nose.  "And maybe direct."

	"Could you?"

	"If I can round up the money, sure."

	"Now that I know you could do."

	"Yeah, but it's a question of whether I want to do the deal that would let
me."

	"Episode Eight."

	"Yup," Lance said. "I do that and they'd probably let me make a time-lapse
silent film of grass growing, with Japanese sub-titles."

	"I'll do the musical score," JC laughed.

	"Right on," Lance said. "So, uh, do you mind keeping Stephane company while
I take a shower?"

	"I thought we were on for a shower later this afternoon," JC said, sticking
out his lower lip and pretending to pout.  "You know how dirty I've been
feeling."

	"Don't worry," Lance said, laughing. "We'll get some real dirty going on
later."

	"Right on," JC said, watching Lance begin to climb the stairs.

	"I'll be down in ten or fifteen," Lance said. "And thanks."

	"You're welcome," JC said, smiling as he watched Lance reach the top stair
and disappear down the hall.

*	*	*	*	*

	Aaron climbed out of his car and squinted.  He'd left his sunglasses at the
hotel restaurant where he'd had breakfast with Marc Jacob's boyfriend and
his assistant. That meeting, and some measurement-fittings tomorrow morning,
were the reasons he'd given Lance and JC for needing to come to Los Angeles.

	 "For some modeling stuff," he'd told him. "The new cologne campaign, and
prep for the Paris shows."

	Lance had agreed without questioning Aaron, except to ask when he planned
to be back, and whether he needed any money.  Aaron had said he had it
covered, and then left it at that, not wanting to lie, except by remaining
silent about the other reason for the trip.

	Turning and walking toward the bungalow office that the guard had pointed
out to him, Aaron took a deep breath and smiled.  He was nervous, but not
too much.  The tense knot he felt in his stomach was more from excitement
than anything else; it was like he felt when walking toward the pitcher's
mound to pitch relief in the final innings of a baseball game.

	"I can totally do this," he said, speaking softly to himself. "Totally."

*	*	*	*	*

	Holding the small bent book to his face and squinting, James read the page
again.

Some one will say: And are you not ashamed, Socrates, of a course of life
which is likely to bring you to an untimely end? To him I may fairly answer:
There you are mistaken: a man who is good for anything ought not to
calculate the chance of living or dying; he ought only to consider whether
in doing anything he is doing right or wrong - acting the part of a good man
or of a bad. Whereas, upon your view, the heroes who fell at Troy were not
good for much, and, Achilles above all, who altogether despised danger in
comparison with disgrace; and when he was so eager to slay Hector, his
goddess mother said to him, that if he avenged his companion Patroclus, and
slew Hector, he would die himself - "Fate," she said, in these or the like
words, "waits for you next after Hector;" he, receiving this warning,
utterly despised danger and death, and instead of fearing them, feared
rather to live in dishonor, and not to avenge his friend and lover. "Let me
die forthwith," Achilles replies, "and be avenged of my enemy, rather than
abide here by the beaked ships, a laughing-stock and a burden of the earth."

He was reading the Apology both to study for his final exam in Philosophy
110, but also for the paper on the Iliad he was writing for his Humanities
152 seminar.

	Looking up from his book, James surveyed the dingy waiting room. There was
a dust-covered ficus plant standing in the corner next to a brass coat-rack.
  Slivers of light pierced the half-open Venetian blinds behind the plant
making rung-like rows of shadow and light on the carpet. The walls were
painted the color of lemon Jello.  James sat in one of eleven Ikea chairs
that lined two of the room's four walls, wishing he wasn't there, and
wishing that Ryan had no reason to be there as well.

	It was nearly noon, almost lunchtime; and except for the receptionist, he
was the only one there.  Ryan was with one of his doctors still. He had
picked Ryan up at Duncan-Doulay House a little less than an hour ago to
bring him here for his doctor's appointment.  It was just a routine
check-up, or that's what Ryan had said, mumbling the words.  Ryan hated
talking about being ill, the medicines he was on, his viral load or T-cell
count, things that James had asked about at first, genuinely concerned, like
Toni, who called the apartment every week to get to say hell and to ask how
Ryan seemed.

	James liked Toni a lot. She always seemed upbeat, and he envied her that.
On the last night of her last visit, the three of them had gone out for
dinner at a restaurant called The Pink Door. It had been
uncharacteristically warm for early March and they had all sat outside on
the deck.  The view west looked out over Pike Place Market to the wide water
of Elliot Bay.  Just across Post Alley, looking up and east, the backs of
the buildings that fronted First Avenue loomed overhead - Virginia Inn, Le
Pichet, Sonja's bar, and Zebra Club.  In the Pink Door's cocktail lounge, a
bald man with an ash-gray walrus-mustache played an accordion and sang in
Italian.  His voice was a cracking, sad, and gentle croon.  To James, each
song seemed scary and mysterious, even though he could easily make out most
of the words.  The songs had made him shiver, like an unexpectedly cold
draft of air on bare skin.  This feeling reminded him of hearing the Fado,
and that night in Lisbon when he realized that he was falling in love with
his best friend.

	When he drove Toni to the airport the next day, they had sat in silence the
whole way there. He parked the car in short-term parking, and then carried
her two bags to the British Airlines first class counter. He had watched her
check in, showing the woman her ID, and joking about her age.  At the
security gate, where they had said their good-byes, Toni kissed him on the
cheek and slipped something into the pocket of his coat.

	"It's money," she whispered in his ear.  "For an emergency."

	"An emergency?" he had said, beginning to laugh, but then catching it in
the back of his throat when he saw the fearful, serious look on Toni's face.

	"I feel one coming," she said.  "It's been too long."

	"Don't talk like that," he remembered saying, trying for a tone of
reassurance. "I can keep an eye on him."

	"I don't just mean Ryan," she said, squeezing his arm, almost too tightly.

	"Stop."

	"I want you to be careful," she said, kissing him on the cheek again.
"Promise me.  I mean it."

	"Nothing will go wrong," he said, more for his own sake than anything else.

	"We'll see," Toni said, apparently not joking at all.  "Won't we?"

	He remembered laughing as he waved good-bye, stunned by the seriousness
with which Toni had made her prediction.

	"Cassandra speaks," he had whispered, watching Toni disappear into the
crowd on the other side of the security station.

	But Toni's words had not disappeared as quickly as she had that day;
haunting his thoughts, her premonition had lingered, like the smell of
cigarette smoke in a room after a party. And it had caused in him a kind of
free-floating anxiety that he battled with endless inventories of all that
was not going wrong: Ryan had gained fifteen pounds, and no longer looked
skeletally thin; his skin was flushed, not sallow, and his voice more alive;
he seemed more optimistic, and even talked about the future, not just about
the past.  In fact, it had lately made James feel good to see Ryan's
progress, and feel fortunate to be some small part of it, even if only as a
witness.

	As for his own life, James did not believe that there was anything terribly
wrong about that; nor anything potentially disturbing imminent or on the
horizon.  The Stephen-situation, which is how Ryan referred to it, was the
same, no better, nor worse; and that, as far as he was concerned, meant that
things were going well.  School was fine, and he felt okay.  And Stephen had
woke him two nights again when he got home, kissing him and saying, "I'm
sorry I'm late, because I really love you."  Of course, this had been a not
so normal thing to say, but he had been grateful for the reassurance just
the same.

	The smile on James' face disappeared as he thought more about what Stephen
had said.  Things are going okay, he thought, knocking his knuckles three
times on the wood- veneered chair leg, wincing as he did it.

	His worries now rekindled, James tried to push them into the background of
his thoughts by looking at his book again; but he found he couldn't
concentrate and he closed his eyes instead.  He and Ryan would soon be
settled into their favorite place at the park; and there he could relax,
stretched out on a blanket that he would lay on the grass in front of the
Isamu Noguchi sculpture, Black Sun. But then, after a few minutes getting
himself comfortable, Ryan would start things off by saying, "So how's the
Stephen-situation this week?" And then James would sigh and frown.

	"Why is there no escaping this," James whispered, looking up to see if the
nurse-receptionist had heard him.  She wasn't there.

	He'd have lots to tell today.  After beginning to think that things were
better with on the Stephen front, this morning he'd woke up to find that
Stephen had not come home again. This not-so-unusual-anymore discovery still
bothered him, despite his best efforts to ignore it.  He had told himself
that if Stephen wanted to stay at the Phi-Delt house all the time, doing
whatever, and acting the part of mister-stud-straight-boy, then that was
fine with him - so long, that is, he wasn't cheating on him, which Stephen
had promised never to do. That was why he hadn't been much upset when
Stephen told him that he was going to live at the Phi-Delt house starting
fall semester, instead of living with him.

	"You only get college once," Stephen had said, as if by way of explanation,
even though he was not really the explaining type.  "And I'm not leaving
here feeling like I missed out on anything."

	"With college," he had added, forcefully kissing James on the mouth.  "Or
you."

	James had been about to challenge him, to tell Stephen that he couldn't
have it all; that sometimes you had to make choices; and that it wasn't fair
for him to assume that the weekend was enough; that he'd be willing to
settle for that kind of set-up, not seeing him most nights during the week,
and him home most weekends, the two of them doing things together then.  But
just as he was about to say something, to protest, Stephen kissed him again,
tilting him back in his chair and on to the floor, already undressing him;
and it was at that moment that James realized that he had already settled
for "that kind of set-up".

	"Once I graduate," Stephen said, whispering into his mouth as he lay down
on top of him. "I'll be all yours. I promise. I'll tell my parents and
everything. I promise."

	James had not decided whether to tell Ryan this last part, about the
promise.  He was not sure he could tell it without revealing, by his voice,
or in his eyes, how deeply he wanted Stephen's promise to be true.  Coming
to Seattle, he had not expected much; but what he had got, was even less
than he had expected.  Stephane had warned him that this would be how it
was, saying that it was not what you expected or hoped for, but what you
demanded that mattered.

	"Love is something you must be prepared to fight for," Stephane had said.
"And to demand.  It is only in myths and fairy tales that it happens on its
own, that it is simply given to you, and then that is the end of it.  I
learned this the hard way, you see."

	Thinking of Stephane, James smiled sadly. It had been over a month since he
had spoken to Stephane, and he wondered where he was.

	Probably at home, he thought.  I should call him tonight.

	Looking up, James caught the receptionist staring at him. She smiled
stiffly and looked back down at her work. James did the same thing, looking
down at the half-open book he held, about to close it, but then deciding to
read a little more instead.

Had Achilles any thought of death and danger? For wherever a man's place is,
whether the place which he has chosen or that in which he has been placed by
a commander, there he ought to remain in the hour of danger; he should not
think of death or of anything but of disgrace. And this, O men of Athens, is
a true saying.

	James closed the book and imagined himself as Achilles, charging across the
torn body-strewn battlefield in pursuit of Hector, the warrior who had
killed his lover.  What must such passion feel like, he wondered, defying
fate to commit an act that would end in your own death?

	Hearing the door to the reception area open, James shook his head and
looked up. Ryan stood in the doorway, visibly shaken, his face ashen, a
large white bandage nestled in the crook of his left arm, only partly
covering a blue-purple bruise.  Ryan's eyes seemed redder than normal, with
a distant gaze to them, like he couldn't quite focus, and wasn't sure where
he was.  James jumped up from his chair and walked over to where Ryan stood.
  He didn't immediately extend his arm to Ryan because he knew he didn't
like to be helped unless asked. But as Ryan continued to stand there,
wavering, it seemed, and unsteady, James reached out and gently took his
arm.  Startled, almost as if he hadn't seen James come up to him, Ryan
blinked several times before looking at James, and then down at the book he
held.

	"You're such a damn egghead," Ryan said, his words slurred, like from
sleep.

	"Yeah, I know," James said, smiling.  "You ready to go?"

	"Yeah," Ryan said, his voice much more glum than tired-sounding now.  "Get
me out of this torture-chamber."

	"Okay," James said.

	"Besides," Ryan said, forcing a smile. "There be boys in the park waiting
to be ogled, and we don't want to keep them waiting."

	"No we don't," James said, letting Ryan take his hand.

	"Lead the way."

*	*	*	*	*

	"I hope you don't mind," JC said.

	"No, no," Stephane said, setting his glass of tea carefully onto the linen
coaster JC had put on the table next to him.  "Of course not."

	"It was good," JC said. "A little freaky-well, as much as I've read.
But...I don't know...it really made me think.  And to wonder about how
Jerome would turn out later in life having devoted all that time, like
especially once Rene gets sick for so long...."

	"Well," Stephane said, gently interrupting JC. "I can only tell you how I
have myself turned out.  But I fear that is not of much real help in
arriving at a real answer to your real question."

	"You're Jerome?" JC said, startled. "Really?"

	"Let us just say that Jerome is a character that I based on certain of my
own life experiences. But - no, he is not truly me.  No, not truly."

	"See," JC said. "That makes it even more interesting. Does Lance know?"

	"We have discussed it - briefly, but yes."

	"I think he liked the script a lot."

	"That is my hope," Stephane said, charmed by JC's interest, and thinking
that he looked almost girlish in his enthusiasm.  "But you are kind to tell
me this. Thank you."

	"You're very welcome."

	"It has been quite some time since we have seen each other," Stephane said.
"You are looking very handsome still, making me wonder if perhaps you do not
age quite like the rest of us. Is this true?"

	"Okay - now you're going to make me blush," JC said. "Or want to kiss you."

	"Well, we mustn't have that happen," Stephane said. "Not if I hope to have
Lance work with me."

	"I don't suppose that would be a wise move, for either of us."

	"No it would not."

	"But it's nice to see that you're still quite the charmer."

	"People say this often to me," Stephane said, after having first paused to
consider JC's compliment. "That I am charming."

	"That doesn't surprise me."

	"It is not something I do intentionally," Stephane said, shrugging his
shoulders, as if to signal that it was not something he fully understood
himself.  "Or, like so many might assume, that I am charming with a mind
towards seduction.  It is simply how I am, my manner, and it is not
something I could easily change, without being false about it."

	"Don't change on my account."

	"No, certainly-I will not."

	"Good."

	"But," Stephane said, clearing his throat and twice coughing into his hand.
"It is a funny that you bring this up. A friend of mine in Lyon - his name
is Bênoit - he teases me about this too, saying always, Vous ne comprenez
pas le danger de votre charme - Stephane, you do not understand the danger
of your charm."

	"The danger of your charm," JC said, repeating the words slowly, one word
at a time, as if trying to measure their individual weight on the tongue.

	"Yes," Stephane said.  "He says it as a joke, at least I think he does."

	"Maybe," JC said. "But I was thinking that maybe - I don't know, your film,
maybe that's what you should call it that.  The Danger of Your Charm.  Or,
The Danger of Charm. Something like that. It seems to fit."

	"You think so?"

	"I do," JC said, smiling. "And I also think it might make a good song, if
you don't mind me stealing it."

	"They say that plagiarism is the highest form of flattery."

	"That's right," JC said. "They do."

	"But you must promise to let me hear it, if and when this song is done."

	"I will."

	"Good."

	"Now tell me though" JC said, leaning slightly forward. "Why would Bênoit
be saying this to you about your charm? Don't tell me the famously solitary
Stephane has finally taken a lover."

	"If only it was so," Stephane said, smiling, but in that sly way of  his
that made JC think that it was a smiled designed to conceal more than it
revealed.

	"But no," Stephane said, continuing once he saw that JC intended to say
nothing, and was waiting for him to go on. "Bênoit is - well, not just a
friend, he is someone I care for, in my own way.  And he is, how shall I put
it?  Let us just that we are friendly, and, yes, from time to time romantic,
but uh, how you say - in a casual way.  "

	"You're fuck buddies then."

	"Oh my," Stephane said, the words carried by a burst of shocked laughter.
"That is extremely to the point."

	"I'm sorry," JC said, wincing a little.  "I didn't mean to be rude."

	"No, it is fine," Stephane said, still laughing.  "In fact, it's rather
amusing as well.  I look forward to sharing this nom de plume with Bênoit.
Indeed, he'll be happy to hear that we are finally a something."

	"Be sure to give me credit," JC said.

	"Oh, yes," Stephane said, winking at JC. "I very much will."

*	*	*	*	*

	The young man behind the desk had buzz-cut auburn hair, a thin
lightly-freckled nose, a broad dimpled smile, and large clear moss-colored
eyes.  He wore a linen sweater with a sailor's collar that revealed the
sharp-angle of his collar-bones, which spread like wings below his long
neck.  He stood up and smiled as Aaron pushed open two heavy glass doors,
and walked between them, stepping into the office and looking around.  The
carpet was the color of dried grass, and Aaron watched as the young man,
whose name he did not yet know, came from behind his desk and took two
strides across the carpet towards him. They met in the middle of the room,
shaking hands. The young man seemed happily excited, like he had been
waiting a long time for this moment, and was glad that it had finally
arrived.

	"You must be Aaron Fatone," the young man said, smiling broader than
before, even his back teeth now exposed, along with the tip of his tongue,
which he lodged in the left corner of his mouth.  "Wow."

	"Um...actually, it's Aaron Bass," he said, extending his hand. "It was, uh,
changed two years ago.  Lance Bass is my dad."

	"That's right," the young man said, shaking Aaron's hand, and not showing
signs of letting go. "I totally knew that.  I'm sorry."

	"It's okay," Aaron said, pulling his hand back now as the young man loosed
his hold on it.  "Everyone gets it wrong."

	"I'm Jake by the way.  Jake Tyler. Two first names, I know. Weird, but not
really my fault."

	"Hey Jake Tyler," Aaron said.  "Nice to meet you."

	"Same," Jake said.

	"I'm here to see Mr. Haynes," Aaron said, glancing at the tall closed door
behind Jake's desk.  "About a part in his new film."

	"Yeah - he's totally been expecting you," Jake said.  "And me too I guess."

	"Well that's kind of cool," Aaron said, looking around again at the small
office, and at the few pieces of simple, unimpressive furniture it
contained.

	"Todd's a great guy," Jake said. "Have you met him?"

	"I don't think so," Aaron said.  "Not that I remember."

	"Well, he's great," Jake said. "Super nice, smart and funny. When he got
the call yesterday about you maybe being interested in the part, he
practically went all fan-girl."

	"Fan-girl?"

	"Yeah - it was pretty funny," Jake laughed, glancing back over his shoulder
as if to make sure the door was still closed.  "Todd's normally a pretty
laid-back guy.  But you should heave seen him - pink-faced, squealing, arms
a-flapping - it was priceless."

	"You're exaggerating," Aaron said, blushing and laughing nervously.

	"Hell no."

	"Well anyway," Aaron said, feeling embarrassed and wanting badly to change
the subject. "So you work here, like - what?  Reception stuff?"

	"No," Jake laughed.  "I'm his P.A. - personal assistant, which I guess
means I do receptionist stuff too, when it really needs being done.  But we
aren't here much."

	"How's that?"

	"This is just temporary space," Jake said, pointing at the desk and the two
chairs against the wall next to it.  "They stuck us here until production
starts."

	"That's cool," Aaron said, smiling and nodding.  "A school-friend of mine
did the P.A. thing when I was making the Star Wars movie.  It was mostly
just so he could make some green and get to hang around.  Are you going to
be on the set then too?"

	"Yeah," Jake said.  "I just graduated from film school. That's how I met
Todd. He came and spoke at this one seminar class I had.  I thought he was
really handsome."

	"No way" Aaron said, pleased that Jake had shared something private with
him.  "Did you tell him?"

	"I asked him out for coffee," Jake said.  "And flirted shamelessly."

	"Did it work?"

	"I got a job," Jake said, winking.

	"There's that," Aaron said, laughing.

	"So it looks like Todd is still on the line," Jake said, leaning back over
the desk and looking at the phone.  "You want a soda or something?"

	"No," Aaron said, holding up the bottle of water he held in his left hand.
"I'm set okay."

	"Okay," Jake said, shrugging his shoulders and smiling.

	"Thank you though."

	"Hey - no problem."

	"I think I'll just sit and wait," Aaron said, pointing at one of the
chairs.  "I'm sort of nervous all of a sudden."

	"Ahh-don't be," Jake said, patting Aaron on the arm. "You'll be fine."

	"Thanks for saying so."

	"Sure," Jake said.  "What are soon-to-be-friends for?"

	Aaron said nothing as Jake continued to smile and look at him.  The pause
in their conversation was in no way awkward; they had both eased into it.
But the notion that he and Jake might soon be friends, or close, startled
Aaron. Since James had left, he had not given any real thought to having
another good or best or close friend.  It was as if James' departure from
his life had left a hole in his life so remarkable that he had not
realistically expected to fill, or even try.  Certainly, James could not be
replaced. But that didn't mean - or did it? - that he and Jake could not be
friends.

	"I don't actually have a lot of friends," Aaron said, having thought
further.  "Guys on my team I buddy with, people at school, and a few
semi-flakes I know from modeling gigs and all, but - I ain't tight with no
one at the moment."

	"Well maybe we can work on that?" Jake said, causing Aaron to smile, but to
also wonder whether Jake was now flirting with him.  "You know, your social
skills."

	"Right on," Aaron said, trying to sound non-committal, but not pulling if
off.  He could feel himself blush, and he wiped his face with his hand to
try to hide it.

	"You sure you don't want anything," Jake asked, breaking the momentary
silence, and drawing Aaron's attention from his thought to him.

	"No, I'm good," Aaron said.

	"Okay then," Jake said, clapping his hands together. "I've got some errands
to run, so I'm have to boogie.  But I hope I see you again soon."

	"Yeah - that'd be great," Aaron said, standing up and shaking Jake's hand
again. "For serious."

	"Right on," Jake said, giving Aaron a playful wink.

	Aaron let go of Jake's hand and watched him turn and leave.  He was glad
that he had had a chance to make small talk with someone before meeting
Todd.  But he was now glad to be alone again too.  Chatting with Jake had
helped him forget the anxiety he had felt build coming here.  It was not
that he'd suddenly begun to doubt the soundness of his plan; it was that
he'd begun to doubt his ability to go through with it.

	Sitting down, Aaron screwed the top from the water bottle he held and took
a long slow sip.  After screwing the top back on, he wiped his mouth with
the back of his hand and stretched his legs out in front of him, flexing his
calves and pointing his toes to try to loosen up.  The door to Todd's office
remained closed. Aaron stared at it, the anxiety beginning to build again in
his stomach.  About to take another sip of water, Aaron nearly dropped the
bottle when the door to inner office burst open and Todd shot through it.
He   looked out of breath and panicked, his arms outstretched in front of
him and flailing, like someone who had just escaped from a burning building
with his shirt on fire. Seeing him, Aaron could not help but burst out
laughing.

	"Aaron!" Todd said, clapping his hands together three times. "Aaron, Aaron.
  I do not believe you're here. Seriously - you're a miracle. Being in my
movie. My word. My word. Crazy, crazy, crazy."

	"Uh," Aaron said, still laughing.  "Okay."

	"Yes - okay," Todd said, his hands held in the air, palms out, waving from
side-to-side in a way that JC would laughingly refer to as 'jazz-hands'.
"Super-okay."

	"And, plus, also, I've got to tell you," Todd continued, still seemingly
out of breath. This day is...oh shit, wait.  Duh!"

	Todd slapped his forehead hard with his hand, and it made a loud popping
noise.  Even though the slap sounded like it might have hurt, it was
comically over-exaggerated, although not evidently on purpose, and it made
Aaron laugh again.

	"What an idiot I am," Todd said, slapping his forehead again, this time
flinching like it may have hurt. "I'm sorry.  The wolves and jackals and
such hear I'm in town, oh, and I'm Todd Hayes.  And I'm late.  Sorry for
that, but the damn phone never stops ringing.  And Jake - you met Jake?"

	"Yeah," Aaron said.  "He was..."

	"Rotten liar," Todd said, interrupting.  "Jake is. People call.  He tells
them I'm not here, I'm in the can - whatever. They don't believe him.  He
blushes, feeling he's caught in a lie.  You can hear the boy blush, I swear
- so it's a dead-giveaway.  He feels bad about lying, so he puts them
through. And then I'm like, Jake, Jake - what are you doing here?  You're
supposed to be protecting me from this. I'm an artiste. But he just laughs.
Did you hear his laugh?"

	"Yeah I...."

	"Great laugh. Great guy.  How are you?  Tell me."

	"I'm good," Aaron said, watching Todd grab his hand and vigorously pump it
up and down. "Thank you for taking the time to meet with me on such short
notice."

	"Oh pshaw," Todd said, letting go of Aaron's hand, but then nudging him in
the shoulder, pushing it gently away.  "Thank you, which is what I was about
to say.  When ICM called and said you might be available, well, I'll tell
you, I about wet myself."

	"Mr. Haynes," Aaron said, blushing. "You don't have to say stuff like that.
I want to be in your film - really."

	"Okay, now you're teasing me," Todd said, pointing his index finger at
Aaron's nose and squinting one eye as he stared at him. "But that's okay. I
like that. Now let's go have lunch. You hungry?"

	"Totally," Aaron said, glad to have the conversation back to something
simple, like food, since he was not sure what to make of Todd's manic
enthusiasm; it was scary and amusing at the same time.

	"Well let's go then," Todd said, grabbing Aaron by the arm and tugging him
out the door. "I know a great place. You'll love it."

*	*	*	*	*

	"I'm sorry for keeping you waiting Stephane," Lance said.  "I hate being
rude."

	"No, it is fine," Stephane said, standing up and shaking Lance's hand. "Do
not be concerned at all.  Joshua has been very nice company for me."

	"We talked about you the entire time," JC said, smiling at Lance.

	"Yeah," Lance said, laughing and looking at JC.  "I bet."

	"Actually," Stephane said.  "It was more about your deck."

	"Your latest obsession."

	"Hardly," Lance said, giving his eyes a slow melodramatic roll.

	"May I see it?" Stephane said. "I would like very much to."

	"Oh - it's not done yet," Lance said.  "But it'll be done in time for
Aaron's party. You're coming, aren't you?"

	"Of course," Stephane said.  "I would not think to miss it."

	"Lance just finished tearing down the old deck apart," JC said.  "And thank
god that's over. You should have heard the noise. It was awful."

	"It wasn't so bad."

	"I survived," JC said, taking Lance's hand and leaning in to give him a
quick kiss on the cheek. "Anyway - I'm going to go visit Justin for awhile
and leave the two of you alone for a while."

	"Please say hello to him for me," Stephane said. "And thank you for the
tea."

	"My pleasure," JC said, smiling.

	"Bye sweetie," Lance said, giving JC's hand a tight squeeze and then
letting it go.

	"Oh," JC said, stopping momentarily. "Be sure Stephane stays for dinner.
Or let's us all go out somewhere."

	"I will," Lance said. "Drive safe."

	"As always," JC said, waving as he left the room.

	"Shall we sit in here," Stephane said, once JC had left the room.

	"No, let's go upstairs and sit out on the deck," Lance said, signaling for
Stephane to follow him.  "Since the one in the backyard is out of commission
at the moment."

	"It's a beautiful day," Stephane said, following Lance out of the room.

	"More like summer than spring."

	"Yes - warm and bright, and quite peaceful really."

	"Unlike your script," Lance said, turning around and smiling at Stephane.
They were in the foyer now, at the bottom of the stairs.

	"Yes," Stephane said, nodding and smiling back at Lance.  "The script, it
is a bit on the darker side. True. But it is about love.  And, so I say,
this, love, if not always like spring, or summer even, it can make one at
least hope for warmer weather."

	"That's an interesting way to put it," Lance said, beginning to climb the
stairs, with Stephane following closely behind him.

	"As a rule, however," Stephane said.  "It is a mistake to begin a sentence
'Love is like' since there is no way to complete such a sentence - not
adequately."

	"Don't tell Josh that," Lance said, pushing the double-doors to the deck
open for Stephane and then waiting as he walked through.  "He'd never write
another song."

	"Well - I suppose there must be an exception for love songs."

	"You'd think," Lance said, pulling a chair out for Stephane and then
himself.

	"Thank you," Stephane said, lowering himself slowly into the chair as he
gripped the arms and grimaced.

	"Are you all right?"

	"Oh, it is just my back," Stephane said, waving his hand as if to shoo away
any concern.  "A small strain. I will be fine."

	"All right," Lance said, sitting now opposite Stephane.  "Good."

	"So - my script, the reason I am here. What did you think?"

	"I thought a lot of things," Lance said, his chest puffing slightly as he
took a deep breath. He was wearing khaki cargo pants, and a pale blue
t-shirt with the word FAKE on the front of it, the name of the band that JC
now managed. Stephane had smiled when he first saw it, not knowing that FAKE
was the name of a band. To him, Lance was anything but FAKE; but he enjoyed
the irony anyway.

	"I'm not really sure where to start," Lance said.

	"You might say whether you hated it," Stephane said, a nervous laugh
percolating his words.

	"Hated it? No," Lance said, jutting his jaw forward and widening his eyes.
"Not at all.  It was intriguing as hell, and haunting."

	"Haunting," Stephane said, softly repeating the word, as if to closely
consider it. "As with ghosts. Yes.  Paul is haunted I would say."

	"I expected bitterness at first," Lance said. "In him. And anger. But it
never came. He seemed always so matter-of-fact, clinical almost, like in
telling his story to the..."

	"L'inspecteur révélateur," Stephane said. "The detective inspector,
Roland."

	"Yes, Roland Barthes," Lance said, nodding.  "In telling him what happened,
and what had led him to do what he did, Paul seemed - I don't know really
how to put it - it was like he didn't want sympathy.

	"Or pity."

	"Or pity."

	"I think that he is simply glad to have the opportunity to tell someone
about this affair that he has had."

	"Because it has always been a secret."

	"Or so he believes."

	"People do not see what they don't wish to see."

	"Rene's wife, Marie.  Yes."

	"I felt sorry for her," Lance said quickly.

	"Really - why?"

	"I'm not sure."

	"Well, you see," Stephane said, his hands folded together in his lap.  "My
concern was this.  To have the long affair that makes up most of the film
not seem too much like a romance, a love story - because it is not, not to
me. But I did not want to make it seem tragic either, because it is - again
to me - it even less that."

	"But it is tragic Stephane."

	"No," Stephane said, firmly shaking his head. "It is not; and cannot be."

	"Paul loses so much though," Lance said, his voice deepening, and more
serious, with a hint of anguish in it now.  "And it's so unnecessary."

	"Perhaps," Stephane said.  "But this makes it neither tragic, nor a
tragedy.  It is simply life, his life, and how it turned out."

	"You talk like it could not have been any other way."

	"But of course it could," Stephane said, looking puzzled for a second, as
if he had trouble conceiving why Lance would think this way. "To fall short,
to fail, one must have had a choice, an opportunity to avoid one's fate.
The failure comes from having chosen incorrectly; or having chosen
correctly, but for the wrong reason."

	"Or having made no choice at all."

	"Yes, that is perhaps the worst."

	 "There are many ways we fail, but not all are tragic."

	"This is true," Stephane said. "Because we are not all heroic."

	"I don't understand," Lance said.

	"It is a notion borrowed from the ancient Greek," Stephane said. "For a
failing or flaw to be tragic, it must be possessed by one heroic, like
Oedipus or Achilles.  It is the meaning of hamartia, a Greek word sometimes
translated to mean 'tragic flaw' but which literally means an arrow that
falls short of its mark.  There are no heroes in my story."

	"I disagree," Lance said softly.  "Paul is heroic."

	"No, he is everything but that."

	"Well, to me," Lance said, trying to smile, because he did not want to seem
too serious, or to concern Stephane too much about how serious he actually
felt. "It seemed like a mystery.  Not a whodunit, since - well, we know
the-who of it from the very start. But what we don't know is the why - why
Paul would be killing this old man, feeding him pill after pill, and then
finally smothering him with that small odd pillow. It was both fascinating
and scary, truly so."

	"Like many things in life."

	"True."

	"But yes," Stephane said, with a thin shy smile. "It is precisely as I had
hoped you would see it, and say.  Because, of course, it is a mystery."

	"And one that's not really solved," Lance said.  "At least, not that I
could tell."

	"Well," Stephane said, his smile replaced by an anxious look.  Lance
watched as he sighed and ran his hand slowly through thick dark hair, his
eyebrows knitted together, and his brow wrinkled.  Pausing to think for
several seconds more, Stephane exhaled, this time not so much a sigh, and
then began to speak again, to explain.

	"I think that this is the point really," he said.  "It feels a bit for me -
I mean Paul - like he has come to the end of a very long journey, sitting
there in Detective-Inspector Barthes' office, ready to confess - as it were
- since it is not truly a confession, just as it is not truly any kind of
ending. What Paul does not see, not from his perspective there, is that it
is a beginning he has finally arrived at, - yes, a beginning to find his way
out of the grip of his mistake, his failing, and to begin his journey back.
Yes, it is thus, I think."

	Stephane's voice had trailed off near the end, and Lance had to listen hard
to hear him. Done speaking, Stephane took a deep breath. He sounded tired
and wore a pained expression. Lance looked intently at it, studying him.  He
felt sorry for Stephane, but was not sure why.  Reading the script the night
before, Lance had suspected that it was a byproduct of something
deeply-felt, and that it contained more than a little of what had made
Stephane, what had caused him to be who he was: a man whose charm and sly
manner had always a whiff of elusiveness about it, like a fugitive, ready
always to flee at the slightest hint of danger, or discovery, when the
secret of some past crime might be revealed, and he might stand accused.

	But of what? What could have been his crime really? Or his rightful
punishment?  To feel an ever-present guilt - or was it a sense of loss - for
having spent his youth, and nearly two decades more, having in secret loved
a man much older than him?  To have accommodated this man's desires without
any thought of his own, making a sacrifice of himself for a facsimile of
love?  Or was it that he simply mourned the misspending of youth, because he
feared that there was no second spring for finding love, only autumnal years
threatened at the edge with a withering winter that did not end?

	Lance remembered once hearing Stephane say, "I believe that you really fall
in love only once, and then you never fall out of it.  You may move on to
other people, but there is only one you ever really love."

	He had agreed with this statement at the time, thinking of JC, and how they
had fallen in love, and never fallen out of it.  But remembering Stephane's
words again, and seeing him sit sad in the fading Spring sun, he realized
that it was not necessarily true that one could only fall in love once, if
at all.  With the unconscious wisdom that comes from living a life
closely-observed, Lance had come to understand that, for years and years,
decades even, he had fallen in love with JC over and over again, through
every season of their living together, finding feelings full and blooming,
green again, like the leaves left for JC to find on the morning of their
anniversary, and think, "There it is, the proof that he loves me anew." That
was why he did it, and he hoped that was what JC felt.

	But - no, they were not the same people, he and JC, that had first fallen
in love that one day so long ago. Through each change though, and through
each transformation, they had always found a way back to each other, like
steady-compassed travelers finding their ways home; and in arriving there,
together re-connect. Only connect.

	"I think I understand," Lance said, putting his hand gently on Stephane's
knee.

	"I fear you cannot," Stephane said, opening his eyes.  "I know that I
cannot."

	"And that is where the answer is," Lance said, smiling at Stephane as he
held tight to his knee. Lance felt strongly the need to comfort him somehow.
  "Because it must be true that you understand better now - don't you?"

	"Yes," Stephane said, stopping to think first.  "I suppose I do."

	"From writing the script?" Lance said.  "From stepping back from it all,
looking at it as a whole.  Trying to come to terms with what you think was a
mistake."

	"Yes - probably," Stephane said, nodding slowly.  "Although it was not for
this reason - not this reason alone, that I began to write my story."

	"All right."

	"I have never been a memoirist," Stephane said, continuing.  "Not in the
literal sense, if you understand what I mean: one inclined to record and
keep and retrieve things, to reexamine, and utter 'Je me souviens' again and
again, trying to get it all down precisely as possible, like a botanist
describing a plant, but a dead and shriveled one, not one alive.  No, it is
Wordsworth warning that  I believe - we murder to dissect. And I will not do
it, not even to myself.  Because even if my story is half-lie, then so be it
so long as it more the truth.  It is for this reason, and this reason alone,
I wanted to write my script, and to not act for a while, which is to
pretend. No more pretending for me! No more!"

	Lance was startled by vehemence of Stephane's outburst, so much so that he
sat in silence, waiting to see if he had anything further to say.  It was
only after Stephane had remained silent and unspeaking for several minutes
that Lance spoke up.

	"I liked your script very, very much."

	"Merci."

	"But I think that maybe you should try to write it again," Lance said,
treading carefully. "And this time put yourself in it."

	"I don't understand."

	"Well, imagine if you were to going to direct this film yourself," Lance
said, his voice slowly growing more animated.

	"It is, of course, what I hoped to do," Stephane said.  "To direct."

	"Yes, I know," Lance said.  "But what if that was part of the story."

	"In the script?"

	"Yes," Lance said, placing his hands on Stephane's knee, and shaking it
gently, as if to encourage him.  "Yes."

	"It had not occurred to me," Stephane said, closing his eyes again, but not
in pain, in thought. "But it is quite clever, I think. Yes - a man trying to
create a film from life, his own life, something that he lived, but does not
yet fully understand."

	"It would be difficult, wouldn't it?"

	"Terribly."

	"And if the director was directing himself?"

	"No," Stephane said, his eyes widening.

	"Yes," Lance said, giving Stephane's knee another shake.  "As Rene."

	"C'est impossible," Stephane said, his eyes still wide, his head now
shaking back and forth.  "Je ne pourrais pas le faire."

	"I'm sorry," Lance said, smiling.

	"No," Stephane said, switching back to English. "It is I who am sorry,
since it is you I fear who has lost me - very much so."

	"Well - think about it," Lance said, standing up and beginning to pace back
and forth.  "Your story."

	"As if I could stop myself from doing so," Stephane said, arching his
eyebrow and smiling as he stood up.  "Because, believe me, I have tried."

	"This was not the story you wanted to tell?" Lance said, watching Stephane
begin to pace back and forth across the width of the deck.

	"No," Stephane said. "Because, you see, it never occurred me to tell anyone
about Andre and I. It was such a secret for so long. No one knew."

	"Then why now?"

	"I could not help it," Stephane said.

	"But why?"

	"For the first time, three years ago-"

	"In Sydney."

	"Yes. In Sydney," Stephane said, turning to look at Lance, who looked up at
him, meeting his gaze.  "It was then that I told someone the truth about
Andre and I. I'd given it no thought for years, and thought I was free of
it. But then, there I was - telling it, this story - and it all came back to
me."

	"Who did you tell?"

	"It does not matter," Stephane said, placing his hand in the small of this
back and wincing. "What matters is that, once told, the story would not
leave me again."

	"And so you wrote it down."

	"Yes."

	Lance stood up and took Stephane's hand, holding it firmly, and looked him
in the eye.  He tried to smile but couldn't.  Stephane looked fearful, like
he wanted to flee.

	"Stephane," Lance said, speaking quietly. "Thank you for sharing your story
with me.  I am honored and grateful."

	"This is not the reaction I expected," Stephane said, his lower lip
trembling.  "Nor these feelings the one I expected to feel."

	"I hope you will consider what I said," Lance said, still holding
Stephane's hand. "Because I think that having you play the director, in the
film, and be Rene...well, it will be amazing."

	"I will consider it - certainly," Stephane said.  "But enough with serious
talk."

	"Yes," Lance laughed. "Enough."

	"How about a drink then?" Lance said, putting his arm across Stephane's
shoulder and guiding him back inside the house.  "Or a glass of wine."

	"A glass of wine would be delightful," Stephane said.  "And much
appreciated."

	"There it then," Lance said.  "A glass of wine it will be."

	"Perfect."

				*	*	*	*	*
	"No onions," Aaron said, watching the gray-haired Korean man ladle chili on
top of his hot dog. "But extra hot-sauce please."

	"Hot sauce, over there," the man said, pointing at a rickety-looking picnic
table that had an array of bottles scattered across it.  "You serve self."

	"All right," Aaron said, smiling as the man handed the hot dog to him
wrapped in a piece of wax paper.  "Thank you."

	"Oh wait," Aaron said, stopping mid-turn as he was about to walk away.
"How much do I owe you?"

	"Todd pay," the man said, pointing at Todd, who was now sitting at one of
the two other picnic tables that sat in front of the hot-dog shaped shack.

	"Okay," Aaron said.  "Thanks."

	The picnic table with the bottles of hot sauce on it took only two steps to
reach. Aaron picked up two bottles in quick succession, looking at their
labels, and then set each one back down.  He read the label on a third
bottle, KRYPTONITE, and used that one to douse his chili-dog with
glowing-green hot sauce.  Grabbing three napkins, and his bottle of water,
he walked to where Todd was sitting and waiting for him before starting to
eat.

	"I love this place," Todd said, watching Aaron carefully maneuver his long
legs under the picnic table.  "I eat here all the time."

	"I was kind of worried we were heading to some place shee-shee," Aaron
said, pausing first to chew and swallow his first bite. "Since I didn't
really dress for it."

	"I don't do shee-shee," Todd said.  "In fact, I don't usually do L.A."

	"You don't live here?"

	"Oh, hell no," Todd said, shaking his head.  "I live in Portland.  I only
come down here when I have to."

	"That's cool," Aaron said.

	"You live in San Diego, right?"

	"Yeah," Aaron said, nodding.  "My dads - you know about my dads, right?"

	"Oh sure," Todd said, wiping his mouth with a paper napkin. "I met Lance
awhile back.  I can't remember exactly where.  Really super guy."

	"He is," Aaron said, his voice trailing off a little.  "And Josh Chasez,
he's my dad too.  They've raised me like since I was not even two years
old."

	"I never wanted kids myself."

	"I'm not sure they did either," Aaron said, shrugging.  "I mean, not like
as a plan. But they're the best ever, and I love them a lot.  I was real
lucky."

	"Right on," Todd said, chewing. "So you were saying about San Diego."

	"Oh yeah," Aaron said, glancing at the half of chili dog he had left.
"They moved down there like a long time ago.  They hate LA too."

	"You ever been to Portland?"

	"Never."

	"It's nice," Todd said, smiling.  "Clean. Quiet.  People are mellow and not
nosy.  Lots of nature around.  I love it. "

	"I'll have to check it out."

	"We're shooting there," Todd said. "Didn't you know?"

	"I guess I assumed it would be Pittsburgh."

	"We'll probably do some pick-up shots there," Todd said. "And the second
unit guys will be out there for a while.  But other than that, it'll be in
and around Portland."

	"Cool," Aaron said, wondering what it would be like be there on his own -
maybe sad or homesick for awhile, but he'd get over it.

	"So, about the part," Todd said, shoving the remnants of his half-eaten hot
dog to one side of the table, and taking a short sip from his can of diet
Pepsi.  "What makes you want it? The part, tell me."

	"I'm not sure I know how to explain it," Aaron said. "It's more a feeling
really.  I mean, when I read the script I liked how crazy Cleveland seemed,
out of control, but not really, because he has a vision, a plan.  And I like
how he doesn't let what other people think get in his way, he just..."

	"Cleveland?" Todd said, cutting Aaron off.  "You want to play Cleveland?"

	"Yeah - Cleveland."

	"But you're so not Cleveland," Todd said.  "Not in a million years."

	Aaron winced hearing how emphatically Todd pronounced this judgment.  What
was worse, the crucial centerpiece of his plan - his grand new exciting
perfect plan, the plan that he had spent weeks concocting - had, before it
even started, just been stomped, and stopped, by Todd's word. Playing
Cleveland, and being in Todd's film, this was what Aaron had convinced
himself was the exact right thing to do.  Not go to Harvard in the fall.
Not be the always obedient good boy and do exactly what his dad had asked of
him. No, he wanted to be a rebel, just like Cleveland.  What did Todd mean
he could not in a million years be Cleveland. Of course he could be. He had
to be. Why didn't Todd see it?

	"Can't I at least read for the part," Aaron said, trying not to whine,
because Cleveland would never whine. "How about that scene where Cleveland
first meets Art Blechstein?"

	"You mean where he kidnaps him."

	"Yeah - that part," Aaron said, frowning.  "But see, it's not really a
kidnapping. Art just thinks it is, because Cleveland's acting all the tough
guy."

	"True."

	"So waddya say," Aaron said, thickening his voice on purpose, giving it a
rugged growl, like he imagined Cleveland would talk.  "You gotta give a guy
a chance y'know. Ya can't just be thinking that 'cause he's gotta bit of a
pretty face that he can't be tough."

	"Aaron," Todd said, laughing. "You really are either brilliant - because
this really is the kind of mistake, the exact kind of mistake, that Art
would make.  Or, if you really do see yourself as Cleveland - somehow, then
I'm even more convinced than before that you're perfect for the role I
really want you in."

	"Uh - what?" Aaron said, arching his eyebrows and jutting his chin out.
"I...uh, I don't get it."

	"Aaron, you're Art Blechstein," Todd said, pointing at him as he emphasized
the word 'you're' and then pointing at himself to emphasize the word 'my'.
"I thought you might be - or should I say, I hoped you might be - willing to
play Art. Y ou are beyond perfect for it."

	"The starring role?" Aaron said, an excited smile beginning to brighten his
face.

	Todd nodded, his eyes glinting, the happiness of his own smile rivaling the
one on Aaron's face.  Staring back, Aaron knew hardly what to think.
Reading the script, it had not occurred to him that he might be able to play
Art Bechstein. For one, Art had puzzled him at every point in the story.
And for two, he didn't think he was anything like Art.  If anything, Art had
reminded him of James - at least the wise-cracking way he kept people at
bay, and the way he worried and waffled, and got emotional at the strangest
times.

	"This is crazy," Aaron said, laughing.  "I mean like, good crazy.  But
wow!"

	"So you'll do it?"

	"Don't you want me to read for you or something?" Aaron asked. "To be
sure?"

	"Nope," Todd said. "Not necessary."

	"Josh said like half the town wanted that part."

	"More than half," Todd said. "Who's Josh?"

	"My agent."

	"Your father reps you?"

	"No. Josh Lieberman."

	"Right," Todd said, slapping himself in the forehead. "Josh at ICM. That's
right."

	"He reps Colin too," Aaron said, suddenly not nervous anymore.  "That's how
I met him. Through Colin."

	"Right."

	"I called Josh last Saturday," Aaron said. "I was thinking that I'd see
what my options were.  I was set to start college in the fall, but - I don't
know - I wanted to see what else might be out there for me, like with
acting, which I realized I really like doing."

	"And do well," Todd said, smiling at Aaron, clearly charmed.  "I've seen
Episode Seven like fifteen times.  You were amazing."

	"Well," Aaron said, blushing.  "It was just that one part.  And I got lucky
with the Academy Award thing.  I really thought Stephane should have won."

	"Nope," Todd said. "That, my boy, was a star-making performance -
flawless."

	"Thank you," Aaron said, really blushing now.  "I - uh, I owe a lot of it
to Ang, I think. And to my dad. So it wasn't much me."

	"Or so you think," Todd said, laughing as he leaned forward across the
picnic table and looked into Aaron's eyes.  "But enough with me trying to
convince you you're great. Do you want the part? Because if you do, it's
yours for the taking."

	"Just like that?" Aaron said.

	"Just like that," Todd said. "So grab the golden ring baby, the carousel
isn't going to be spinning forever."

	"Okay," Aaron said, taking a deep breath and holding it in for several
seconds, his chest puffed out, his cheeks beginning to pink.  "Yes - I want
to do it."

	"Great," Todd said, sliding his legs out from beneath the picnic table and
standing up.  "Totally great.  This is going to be big exciting."

	"It is," Aaron said, laughing as if in surprise. "Me - Art Bechstein.
Weird, but too cool too."

	"Let's head back to my office," Todd said, coming around to Aaron's side of
the table as Aaron stood up.  "And I'll give you the shooting script."

	"Wow - so fast?"

	"Pre-production is scheduled to start June 5," Todd said, looking worried.
"We were just about to push it out six-months, since I still hadn't found my
Bechstein.  But now we're a go - thank the gods."

	"When will shooting start?" Aaron asked, picking up the remains of his
lunch and following Todd to the garbage can to throw everything away.

	"See you tomorrow Lee," Todd said, shouting to the hot-dog man, and waving,
before then turning his attention back to Aaron.  "Hopefully, the first week
in September.  With rehearsals to begin in late August."

	"Cool," Aaron said. "I'll be back from Europe by then."

	"Europe?"

	"Yeah, I'm going to travel around a little," Aaron said.  "After
graduation. I'll do the Marc Jacobs show in Paris, and then hang out in
Dublin for awhile.  There's this soccer tournament I play in every year.
Then I'm going to hit the road for a while.  It'll be my first trip on my
own."

	"Right on," Todd said, slapping Aaron on the back. "I'm jealous."

	"It should be fun," Aaron said, a little sadly.  "An old friend of mine was
going to do it with me. We had talked about it since we were like little
kids, but then that kind of didn't work out."

	Aaron paused a moment, and then continued.

	"But going solo will be cool too," he said. "I'm going to take a lot of
pictures and email them back home.  You want me to send you some."

	"That'd be great," Todd said, opening the front passenger door on his
pretty much well-beat up old Land Rover and watching Aaron climb in. "I'll
give you my email address when we get back to the office. I also want you to
talk to a couple of folks at the studio. You have time don't you?"

	"I'm not driving back to San Diego until tomorrow morning," Aaron said,
after waiting for Todd to get in the Land Rover and start it. "So I have
time."

	"Great," Todd said, slapping the top of the steering wheel twice and giving
Aaron a big smile.  "Perfect."

	"Who do you want me to talk to?"

	"Just some folks in publicity," Todd said.

	"To what?" Aaron said, his voice edging higher. "To like publicize this?"

	"Of course!" Todd laughed.  "This is big news baby."

	"But you can't," Aaron said, feeling his face redden.  "I can't be in the
film if you announce it right away.  Seriously."

	"For real?" Todd said, looking at Aaron, and then back at the road. They
were headed up Sunset, and there was a lot of traffic.  Todd looked worried,
but not mad, and Aaron felt slightly better for having noted that.

	"For really real," Aaron said. "It's got to be a secret for a couple of
weeks.  I can't do it otherwise.  Is that going to be okay?"

	Todd didn't say anything for a little while. He looked like he was
concentrating on his driving.  But Aaron knew that Todd was thinking, making
mental calculations of a kind that he was not privy to.  Aaron had been in
and around the entertainment world long enough to know that it was, at
bottom, a business, and that everyone had their own angle, even Todd.

	"When do you graduate?" Todd said, parking the Land Rover in the parking
spot that had his name on a sign in front of it.

	"June first," Aaron said, not bothering yet to unbuckle his seat belt,
because for some reason he wanted it still on.

	"Is that what it's about?"

	"Yeah - and telling my dad."

	"He doesn't know?"

	"I wanted to make sure first, to find out whether I could get something
going on my own.  You know how it is."

	"I'm not sure I do, but that's just me."

	"I'm sorry if this messes things up."

	"Don't worry," Todd said.  "I've been wanting to make this film my whole
life, and waiting to do it. If I have to wait a little while longer to
announce that it's finally a go, I don't mind. So it'll be our secret until
June second, just between you and me."

	"Thank you Todd," Aaron said, unbuckling his seatbelt.  "Very much."

	"You're welcome kid. Or should I say Art?"

	"Yeah, Art," Aaron said, smiling. "I guess I'll have to figure him out
after all."

	"I'm counting on it, for real I am."

THAT NIGHT

	"Have I told you yet what that tool belt does to me," JC said, giving Lance
a half-joking leer as he gently lathered his hair, using the fingertips of
both hands, massaging Lance's scalp.  "Because you should really wear that
to bed sometime."

	"What - my tool isn't enough for you," Lance said, laughing as he kissed JC
and tasted the sweat on his upper lip and a stray wisp of soap.

	The kiss lingered and Lance gently pushed JC's lips apart with his tongue.
The tip of his tongue ran across his lower teeth like a stick across a
picket fence.  JC opened his mouth to give Lance free play to search inside,
probing the slick warmth there.  He knew the inside of JC's mouth was a deep
reddish-pink, nearly the same color as the head of his penis when he rolled
the foreskin back.  Lance loved the surprise of seeing that color appear,
peaking out, but barely, when JC grew hard and fully erect. Lance could feel
his own penis firming, and the tingling surge of subtle heat of dizzy
headiness that was his lust for him.

	JC tilted Lance's head back beneath the shower stream of water, rinsing the
soap from his hair.  Lance could feel the lather snaking down between his
shoulder-blades and back, between his legs, and then down the inside of his
thighs. His eyes were closed more from the kiss than from the fear of
getting soap in his eyes. He knew that JC was expert at this; he could not
remember the last time that soap had stung his eyes.

	"There - all clean," JC whispered into Lance's mouth.

	"And so are you," Lance whispered back, his hands on JC's shoulders pulling
him further into the kiss. "Clean, clean, clean."

	JC's tongue dipped in and out of Lance's mouth and cavorted across his
upper lip. There was a playful giggle to the kiss now, and it made Lance
make a sighing moan and think of nothing else but the kiss.  His erection
was pressed now between JC's thighs and he moved it slowly up and down,
bending his knees so that its still soaped-up head slipped slightly into the
crevice of JC's ass.  He reached down, and with four fingers, but not his
thumb, lifted JC's balls, which were newly shaved and felt smooth to the
touch, like wet silk. He had shaved them for him, and JC had shaved his in
return - the shower having been their playground for nearly an hour now.

	"I want you in me."

	"I want you in me too."

	"You in me first."

	"No. Me."

	"Together."

	"That never works."

	"It's fun to try."

	"True."

	"The bed or here."

	"Bed."

	"Yeah. Bed."

	JC stepped first around the thick glass wall that separated the shower from
the rest of the bathroom.  He handed Lance a towel and then grabbed another
one from the pile that sat on the edge of the tub.  Lance crouched down and
dried JC's right leg, starting at his ankle and then slowly working up.
When he reached the top of JC's right hip, Lance leaned forward and noisily
slurped just the head of JC's erection into his mouth.  He kept his lips
tight, gently push-rolling the foreskin back.  It tasted of soap and
something else he always tasted there, a taste he associated with the
ecstatic pleasure of having JC hard and in his mouth, something elemental,
beyond description, more a feeling than a taste, and unlike anything else.

	He could hear JC's soft murmuring and the slight soft tickle of his fingers
on the back of his neck. JC otherwise was still, standing there as Lance's
mouth and lips moved up and down on him - one inch, two inch, three inch,
four inch - but hardly ever more.  This was not about how much, but how; and
how it was was Lance's head and mouth and lips moving as slowly as the
slowest things. Lolling. Time lolled, lolled and disappeared.  Space
collapsed. And on the bed they found themselves, without seeming to have
moved at all.  They were just there, naked, intimately entangled.  Neither
one had even noticed how they had arrived; it did not matter.  All that
mattered was the sudden filling full fulfilling feeling of him in him, and
the slow slip slippery slip-glide in of him in him, and out and in and in
and in.

	He lay on his side, like always, one leg tucked tight to his chest, and the
other leg held by him, up and arched, his knee held by his hand so that his
ankle rested atop his shoulder. He slid slow in again, inside him, slow,
pushing barely slow.  They did not hurry this; nor need to.  Their stares
did not deviate or wander from the other. Staring at each other, watching
the gentle shock of pleasure always new.

	"And we're in," he whispered.

	"I know."

	"It never feels the same."

	"I know."

	"I love you so much."

	"Me too. So much."

	"You love me."

	"Yes."

	"Do you want to try again? Like you said?"

	"No, this is good. Really."

	"But you think we can."

	"We did it once."

	"Just for a second."

	"Or finger."

	"No finger. I don't like that."

	"I bet you'll like this."

	"Hey. Where'd that come from."

	"A new toy from under the bed."

	"I see."

	"It's me."

	"What?"

	"It's me. I made it. They have kits."

	"That's funny."

	"And fun."

	"Let me see."

	"See."

	"No - I want to hold it."

	"Here."

	"It is you."

	"Yes it is."

	"There's that vein.  I love that vein."

	"We can make one of you too."

	"You bought two kits?"

	"Of course."

	"How fun."

	 "It's easy."

	"Tell me how."

	"You just get hard and shove it in this thing full of sticky stuff."

	"To like make a mold?"

	"Yeah."

	"But how do you get it out?"

	"Duh - you let it shrink."

	"Right."

	"Then you pour in the plastic goopy stuff and let it set."

	"You are a very clever naughty boy."

	"At your service sweetie."

	"I love you."

	"Let me put it in you.  Then we'll both..."

	"Yeah."

	"That's what I was thinking."

	"Do it."

	"Close your eyes."

	"Kiss me first."

	"Of course."

	"Mmm-"

	"How's that."

	"Perfect. Like always."

	"You ready."

	"Yeah."

	"Okay."

	"It's cold."

	"That's lube."

	"Yeah."

	"Move your leg a little.  Yeah - like that."

	"Give me another kiss."

	"Mmm-"

	He kissed him, lingering there, his head hovering above him. He felt his
arm tense and the cold pressure that felt like when they'd used condoms.  It
did not feel bad or hurt. He tried not to flinch, but he always flinched a
little.  The head was big and it always was a small surprise, a little pain
to surmount, which he did, gladly.

	"Oh man."

	"Yeah?"

	"Oh man."

	"Yeah?"

	"Yeah."

	The word came out like a long long breath exhaled, his head tilted back,
and his eyes closed.  He had never felt like this and wondered why they
hadn't thought of this before.  He was in him, hunched over him, kissing
him, and beginning to move in and out of him again now.  But he felt himself
full now too, filled with what was not him, but as close to it, without it
being so, that it could be.  He felt this replica, this facsimile, this
gorgeous reproduction, moving in and out in counterpoint to his own rhythm.

	"This is making me crazy."

	"You should see your face."

	"You should see yours."

	"I don't want this to ever stop."

	"I want to do it again."

	"Right away again."

	"It's crazy."

	"Yeah."

	The words were whimpers and pressed into the other's lips like notes passed
back and forth in secret.  He could taste the sweat again on his lips. He
smiled thinking, We'll need to shower again.  But not until the end of this.
  Which was close.

	"You're hitting it baby."

	"Yeah."

	"I'm so close. So. Close."

	"Tell me when."

	"Yeah."

	"Right now?"

	"Can you?"

	"Totally."

	"Okay."

	"There. There."

	"Yeah."

	"Oh yeah."

	"I love you."

	"Yes."

	"I love you."

	"Yes."

	"Yes."

	"I love you."

	"Oh god, so much."

	"Yes. Yes."

	"Yes."

	"Yes."

	"Yes."

	"Yes."

	"Forever yes."

	"Yes. Forever."

*	*	*	*	*

	"You must be excited," Jake said, leaning across the table between them.
"To get the starring part.  And he didn't even ask you to read?"

	"Nope," Aaron said.  "Which felt weird. But he said it wasn't necessary."

	"Todd's been wanting to do this film for a long time."

	"That's what he said."

	"On our second date..."

	"Hey - I thought you weren't together."

	"It's complicated," Jake said.  "But - no, we aren't. We dated a few times.
  And it was okay.  Some sparks. No fire. Now we're friends."

	"That's good I guess," Aaron said.  "Since you're working together and
all."

	"Probably," Jake said, shrugging.

	"So you were saying."

	"Oh yeah," Jake said, with a soft glad laugh, a laugh that Aaron had
already come to expect, and enjoy.  "So, on our second date he gives me the
book."

	"The Mysteries of Pittsburgh."

	"Yeah.  Have you read it?"

	"Just the script."

	"The shooting script?"

	"I just got that."

	"It's quite a bit different."

	"Do you want that last piece of focaccia," Jake said, pointing to the bread
basket.

	"No, you can have it," Aaron said. "I've had three pieces."

	"It's really good. I'm usually not such a pig."

	"Enjoy."

	"Thanks," Jake said, grabbing the roll, tearing off a piece, and using it
to dab at the remaining tomato sauce on his plate.

	"So what's different?"

	"In the which - the book, the script, or the shooting script?"

	"Okay," Aaron said, conscious of his own laughter now, and wondering if he
was as natural-sounding in the way he laughed as Jake was.  He was not
usually this self-conscious, worrying about what kind of impression he was
making.  Probably still in audition mode, he thought.

	"I think you've totally confused me now," Aaron said, choosing not to laugh
this time.  "Are all three different?"

	"Yeah," Jake said, wiping his lips with a napkin, and swallowing before
speaking.  "Todd's script for The Mysteries has been kicking around forever,
the script you read.  I heard about it first in school. There was this kind
of famous list of the best scripts never made into movies, and Todd's script
was like number one on it."

	"Really?"

	"Totally."

	"That's cool it's getting made then."

	"It is," Jake said, pushing his plate to one side so that he could lean
farther forward, and still be heard while speaking in a lower, softer voice.
"Because Todd's not really had a hit in a while, which he pretty much takes
in stride, but it bothers him."

	"Well sure," Aaron said, pushing his dinner plate to the side and resting
his arms on the table in front of him, listening closely to what Jake had to
say.

	"So yeah," Jake said, smiling and pushing his plate out of the way too,
just like Aaron had done. "He decided to haul it out, the script, and send
it around again. Sort of a last hurrah."

	"Better than giving up."

	"Oh for sure," Jake said, smiling.  "But - funny story.  Todd's agent sent
it to your dad - Lance.  Like direct, and not through his agent, which is
usually a no-no"

	"No way."

	"Totally," Jake said, smiling.

	"He probably didn't read it," Aaron said. "Like every two years my dad's
agent, this guy name Steve, goes postal and practically holds a gun to my
dad's head trying to get him to do another film."

	"You're career! You're career!" Aaron said, imitating how Steven bellowed.
"It's dying Lance, it's dying!"

	"That's funny," Jake said. "Doesn't your dad like acting anymore?"

	"No," Aaron said, shaking his head and then cocking it to one side. "I
don't know. I think it's just that - this is going to sound kind of spastic
- he's just really into my other dad Josh, and, you know, me too, I guess,
and us all being together as a family. He'd just rather stay home and hang
out."

	"That's really amazing cool," Jake said, obviously meaning it.

	"I think so - actually."

	Aaron looked down at his plate, which was mostly empty, except for a last
piece of bread.  He pushed the plate to one side and then watched as the
waiter came over to the table to clear it of dishes.  Jake looked intently
at Aaron, watching him watch the waiter; he looked away as the waiter walked
away, not wanting to get caught staring.

	"So," Jake said. "Now that we've got some elbow room, what was I saying? Or
was I? I can't remember.

	"Your story about the script."

	"Oh right," Jake said.  "So it's like this.  Your dad did read it."

	"Wow," Aaron said, arching his eyebrows and looking surprised. "He probably
liked the fact that it got to him in like normal mail, and not from Steve."

	"I don't know," Jake said. "But he gave Todd a call - personally, and he
told him that he really liked the script."

	"But he isn't in it?" Aaron said, too quickly, and worried. "Is he?"

	"No," Jake said.  "He passed on it, which bummed Todd to no end."

	"That sucks."

	"Kind of," Jake said, nodding.  "But you know what they say, it's the
hot-hand thing - if you're hot, and your dad was."

	"Is."

	"Sorry. Is."

	"No problem."

	"Anyway," Jake said, shrugging apologetically, not having intended to
slight his new friend's father.  "When you got the hot hand, what you touch
gets hot too. So when the buzz was that your dad was interested in doing it,
the studio was like - Todd, you're a genius, here's fifty million to make
your flick."

	"But then my dad passed," Aaron said.  "That had to hurt?"

	"Todd?"

	"Yeah."

	"Maybe," Jake said. "But being the cool guy I'm sure your dad is, he passed
the script along to Colin Farrell, and he..."

	"What?" Aaron said, pressing his hands down against the table and half
standing up from his chair.  "Colin's in the movie?"

	"Didn't you know?"

	"Oh shit."

	"What?"

	"I am so over with now."

	"What do you mean?"

	"Long story," Aaron said, sitting back down in his chair.

	"I got time."

	"Nah - it's better I keep shut about this until I get it figured out."

	"Okay," Jake said, frowning slightly. "If you say so."

	"No - don't get jigged," Aaron said, reaching out and touching Jake's hand.
"It's not on you. Believe me, it's all on me. I got - I don't know.  Let's
just say I got some shit to sort through before I show up for rehearsals."

	"Does Todd know?"

	"Sort of," Aaron said, releasing a long, noisy sigh.

	"And he's cool with it?"

	"Cool enough."

	"All right."

	"But hey, that reminds me," Aaron said, leaning forward. "Me being in the
movie is deep-cover and top-secret for awhile. Okay?"

	"Sure," Jake said.

	"Great."

	"You trust me?"

	"I do," Aaron said.  "Shouldn't I?"

	"No you should," Jake said, his eyes wide and intent. "Totally you should."

	"Then I owe you one."

	"I'm not about payback," Jake said. "I never play it that way."

	"Well, that makes two of us then," Aaron said, the corners of his mouth
climbing slowly into a tight toothless smile.

	"So what were we talking about?"

	"I don't remember," Aaron said, laughing.  "Oh wait, the script."

	"Oh yeah," Jake said, laughing now too.  "So, uh...when Colin said yes, the
film got a solid green-light and the rest of the cast, except for your part,
of course, pretty much fell into place."

	"Why did it take so long to cast Art?"

	"I'm not sure," Jake said. "Todd would settle on someone, and then change
his mind.  Like everyone read for it."

	"Well, I'm glad I got it."

	"Me too."

	"Thanks."

	"Let me know what you think of the shooting script," Jake said.  "I helped
Todd with it, so be kind."

	"You were saying this one's different from the first."

	"Well," Jake said, blushing for some reason.  "The story is pretty much the
same. Let's just say that some parts a bit more explicit now."

	"Like how?"

	"Like - you know?"

	"Not the sex scenes," Aaron said, laughing nervously.

	"That would be one thing - yeah."

	"Ah feck," Aaron said, cringing.

	"It'll be cool though," Jake said, reaching for the check. "Todd's a
classy..."

	"No," Aaron said, pulling his wallet from his back-pocket and grabbing the
check before Jake could get to it. "Let me get this."

	"No way," Jake said, snatching the check from Aaron's hand. "I'll expense
it."

	"You sure?"

	"Totally," Jake said, smiling.  "Beside - I'll let you buy me a drink."

	"Not twenty-one."

	"It's L.A. dude," Jake laughed.  "And you're a star."

	"I'm not a star," Aaron said.

	"Okay - you're a nice guy who co-starred in a one of the bigger movies of
the last five years or so, and you're the face of Marc Jacobs for Men."

	"Stop it," Aaron said, blushing.

	"Yeah okay," Jake said, signing the credit card slip that the waiter had
handed to him.  "I'm stopping."

	"Um - sir?" the waiter said, looking at Aaron, and handing him a menu card.
  "Do you think maybe you could please sign this for me.  I'm a huge Star
Wars fan."

	Jake looked at Aaron and started to laugh, each laugh louder until he
covered his mouth with both hands.

	"Ha-ha," Aaron said, mouthing it silently at Jake and smirking.

	"Sorry," Jake mouthed back.

	Aaron took the menu card and signed the back of it with the pen that Jake
had just used.  "Here you go," he said, handing both back to the waiter and
standing up.

	"Thank you sir," the waiter said, shaking Aaron's hand.

	"You're welcome."

	"See, you are a nice guy," Jake said, standing up now too.

	"And so nice guys don't have to be twenty-one to drink in L.A.?"

	"Okay - stars don't need to be," Jake said.

	"I don't need star treatment," Aaron said.  "Seriously."

	"My gawd!" Jake said, pretending to be both mortified and shocked. "You're
not going to get far in this town with that lack of attitude. In fact, it
may be against the law."

	"Hey buddy," Aaron said, putting on a pretend-serious face and pointing at
Jake. "You're sworn to silence, remember?"

	"You sure you don't want to grab a couple drinks with me?" Jake said,
amused by Aaron's little performance. "That may help me forget all the goods
I got on you."

	"Yeah right," Aaron said. "But, seriously, I was thinking that I'd just
watch the game in my room, and then hit the bed.  It's my dad's birthday on
Monday and I need to get back early tomorrow to get him a present tomorrow.
Me and my dad Josh always go shopping together for him."

	"That's cool then," Jake said, signing the credit card slip that the waiter
had just handed to him. "You want company watching the game?"

	"You like college hoops?"

	"Go Tar Heels!"

	"The Tar Heels!" Aaron said, cringing melodramatically.  "Don't even go
there."

	"What? You don't like North Carolina?"

	"No way," Aaron said, stopping near the front of the restaurant to pull on
his coat. "I'm a Dukie - the Blue Devils all the way."

	"Please," Jake said, feigning disgust. "Next you'll be saying you like
Stanford."

	"That's my second favorite team!" Aaron said, reaching across the table and
punching Jake softly in the arm as they both stood up.

	"They playing tonight?"

	"Yeah - against the Huskies."

	"Connecticut?"

	"No," Aaron said, pulling his windbreaker on. "Washington."

	"How about watching it at my place then."

	"I dunno," Aaron said, looking at his watch.

	"It's not far," Jake said.  "We could walk."

	"Okay. Sure," Aaron said, following Jake from the restaurant and into the
cool air outside. "And I'll even buy the beer."

	"Now you're talking," Jake said, gently bumping Aaron's arm with his elbow
as the two of them headed for the door. "Star-man."

TWO FRIDAYS LATER

	Colin stared red-faced and incredulous, his pressed against his temples.
If he had felt even slightly less stunned he probably would have crawled
across Josh's shiny black-walnut desk, which was approximately the size of a
car, and strangled him.  Staring back, the look on Josh's face transformed
in an instant, going from his usual self-satisfied smile to a puzzled,
fearful, thin-lipped frown.

	Josh had thought this mid-morning meeting would be a quick in-and-out,
shoot-the-shit, and then say-so-long affair.  Colin was here to pick up the
shooting-script for his next film, having flown in from Ireland the night
before. He'd been Josh's client for years and years, and certainly one of
his most lucrative, which was why the thought that Colin might fire him was
more painfully terrifying than the thought that Colin might, as he had just
put it, rip his head off and piss down his fucking throat.

	"Wait!" Colin half-shouted, standing up and knocking his chair backwards on
to the thick-carpeted floor, which it hit with a dead thud. "You what
again?"

	"I sent Aaron to meet Todd about Mysteries," Josh said, stammering and
standing up. "He said..."

	"Who feckin' said?"

	"Aaron."

	"What did he feckin' say?"

	"He got my name from you."

	"From me?"

	"Yeah," Josh said, eyeing the door, and wondering if maybe he should run
for it. "From you.  He said he got my name from you."

	"Listen you feckin' eejit," Colin shouted, jabbing his finger in Josh's
direction. "I didn't tell Aaron to ring you up, and don't feckin' be telling
nobody I did."

	"But he knew I repped you."

	""He knew I repped you," Colin said, using a derisive mincing sing-song
voice as he jabbed his finger at Josh, this time leaning over the desk and
nearly hitting him in the chest. "Of course he feckin' knew you. You bloody
met the lad in Sydney.  I feckin' introduced the twos of you."

	"See then."

	"Aw - mah - feckin' - gawd!" Colin said, tilting his head back as he slowly
spun around, his hands held out from his sides until looking back at Josh
again.  "Don't ya be saying 'See then' ta may.  Ya ain't me bloody mam, for
feck's sake!  See then! A bloody can of piss is what you be."

	"Colin - be reasonable."

	"Be reasonable me arse," Colin said, jumping forward from where he'd been
standing in the middle of the office, slapping both hands on the desk, and
then quickly pointing at Josh again.  "I be in a load of bloody feckin'
shite now.  And if I be endin' in the shite, you best be preparing to be
right deep in it with me."

	"Colin - seriously," Josh said, pleading.  "I thought you knew."

	"Is that what the lad said?"

	"No - but..."

	"You feckin' assumed," Colin said, slapping the desktop and then,
apparently not satisfied with the amount of noise the slap had made, he
pounded the desktop three times with his fist, his face bright red again.

	"That's what you feckin' did," Colin shouted. Ya feckin' assumed!  Ya
assumed because you feckin' wanted ta think it couldn't be anythin' but
true, for ya own bleedin' self-feckin'interest - that's how it bloody be."

	"Colin-"

	"Oh shut your feckin' gob," Colin said, his voice hoarse from shouting, and
not as loud as before.  "This bloody town's been gummin' for another piece
of that lad for near three feckin' years now, and you, sure as me mam be a
right woman, knew you'd be quite the top and shiny shite for snaggin' him
for a flick - for sure you feckin' did."

	"He's eighteen now," Josh said, slumping into his chair.  "He's old
enough..."

	"Oh - and ain't that precious," Colin said, snarling the words. "He's old
enough is he? Old enough to make a right hames of it is what he be."

	"Hames?"

	"Shaddup! You're a bloody deutz for thinkin' that shite. Turning eighteen
don't mean ya gotta feckin' lick of sense in ya. He's a laddie, Josh! And he
be green.  Shite."

	"Well..."

	"Go on outta that," Colin said, waving his hand dismissively.

	"He said he wanted to do another movie. And you know Todd..."

	"Todd, Todd, Todd," Colin said, waving both hands now, and scrunching up
his face.  "Who the feck gives a shite about Todd.  It's Aaron that this be
about.  And about how we best fixing this before he actually goes gets
his-self the bloody part and..."

	"He's got it," Josh said, his head hanging low, like wished he could
disappear.

	"Like that?" Colin said, shouting again, his head jutting forward over the
desk, his eyes wide and glaring. "He just strolled in and snagged it?"

	"Todd called me the middle of last week," Josh said, watching Colin turn
and walk to the opposite side of the room and then back to the desk again.
"He loved Aaron.  Said he was perfect.  He was gushing.  Said he..."

	"Was a feckin' opener," Colin said, turning and shouting even louder now.
"That it'll get his feckin' lil indie-film in a thousand bloody theaters on
openin' day, and double the feckin' marketin'  budget too."

	"Probably but -"

	"But what?" Colin said, pointing at Josh again.

	"So the flick does well, so what?"

	"Ever heard of a thing called college?"

	"Yeah, but -"

	"Ya know," Colin said, moving to come around the desk, but then stopping
and jabbing the air in Josh's direction instead.  "If you say but one more
feckin' time, I swear I'll rip your pecker clean feckin' off, ya got that?"

	Josh nodded slowly, saying nothing.

	"Todd'll be playing this up in no time," Colin said, starting to pace
again, this time across the width of Josh's office. "If he ain't already.
And the studio too. He feckin' knows the buzz this'll buy 'im."

	"Todd isn't like that," Josh said, meaning it, but surprised nonetheless by
the sincere sound of his voice.  "In fact, he said I had to sit on the news
until June second."

	"Oh me arse," Colin said, still shouting. "He just be wantin' the news for
his own feckin' self, that's what that is."

	"I don't think so," Josh said.

	"Like I be caring what you be thinkin' right 'bout now. Christ!"

	"Todd's not like that."

	"Everybody be feckin' right like that in this shitty arse of a town.
They'll bloody eat your arm off if you stand still long enough to let 'em."

	"I'll get good people for him," Josh said, standing up.  "Seriously - we
can handle the PR-thing. We'll get the best behind him."

	Colin walked slowly toward the desk again and leaned forward over it.  His
squinting eyes were but dark and angry slits, and they stared at Josh
without blinking. A minute, or what felt like it, passed in silence; and
then when Colin finally spoke, he did so in low and growling whisper.

	"He's already got best behind him," he hissed.  "And that be me bloody
point. What needs be doing is to make feckin' sure he don't get bloody
arse-wise with them. "

	"What?"

	"You think Lance be knowin' about this? D'ya?"

	"I..."

	"Assumed."

	Josh mumbled something indiscernible, even to himself, and once more eyed
the door. He had seen Colin plenty mad before, but never like this.  About
to speak, he found himself nearly saying 'but' again, and so he bit his
lower lip to keep quiet instead.

	Colin stared at Josh for a moment longer, and then turned to leave,
slapping his hand against the side of his head.  A rush of air blurted
noisily from his mouth, like he'd been holding his breath in and just then
finally let it out.   Josh slumped back down into his chair, shaking his
head as he watched Colin about to go.  But as Colin reached the door, he
paused. His hand remained on the doorknob, and his shoulders slumped
forward. He seemed to be thinking. Josh glanced at the clock on his desk and
watched the second hand click silently through twenty-five seconds. Looking
back at Colin, Josh met his gaze, and noted its sadness. Colin's his eyes
were wide, round, and red-rimmed, and his lower lip was trembling and wet.

	"You tell Todd that he can right find another actor to play Art's aul man,
because I sure as shite ain't doing it now."

	And having said that, Colin tugged the office door open and left.

*	*	*	*	*

	"That one's kind of cute," James said, pointing at a man just done from
running laps around the reservoir, half-bent over, his hands on his knees,
breathing hard.

	"You think so?" Ryan said, looking up from the magazine he was looking at,
last month's issue of Vanity Fair.  "He seems a little old for you."

	"No - I meant for you."

	"Oh please," Ryan said, rolling his eyes.

	"I'm serious," James said, putting his hand on Ryan's shoulder.

	"Don't you have some studying to do or something?" Ryan said, looking back
at his magazine.

	"I only have one final left," James said. "And I'm pretty much ready. I
turn in my Humanities thesis a week from Monday.  Then that's it."

	"I was thinking you had another two weeks to go."

	"Nope, I'm near done."

	"And then what?"

	"I don't know," James said, shrugging. "I was hoping that Stephen and I
might go to Vancouver, you know, take the train up there, and hang out for a
while before he goes back to San Diego - something romantic."

	"Ugh."

	"Don't be so negative."

	"Don't be such a Pollyanna."

	"I've never been accused of that before," James laughed.

	"First time for everything I guess."

	"I'm going to get a soda," James said, standing up. "Do you want one?"

	"No thanks."

	"I'll be right back though."

	"James," Ryan said, looking up at him and smirking. "Go. I'm fine."

	"Okay," James said.  "But no chasing after some guy while I'm gone."

	"I'd rather read about Colin Farrell here in the magazine," Ryan said,
smirking.

	"I bet," James said, smirking back at him, and then turning toward the
parking lot, across which sat the refreshment truck that most days took a
space there to sell sodas and snacks to people at the park.

	Ryan watched as James jogged across the narrow parking lot. On the other
side of the lot, behind the refreshment truck, was the Seattle Asian Art
Museum.  Last week he and James had wandered through it, looking at the
exhibits, and sitting and resting when James said he was tired.  He knew
that James had done this for his benefit, letting him catch his breath, and
at first he had resented it.  He didn't like to admit that he was weak or
ill, and that he needed people to care for him.

	But at least James was subtle in the ways he cared for him, and careful to
respect the boundaries that Ryan insisted on drawing.  Picking him up at
Duncan-Doulay House, James had waited in the car while Ryan opened the
car-door himself and then climbed in on his own.  And after his doctor's
visit, James had not asked what good or bad news the doctor may or may not
have told him, like how certain drugs he was on might no longer be working,
or that an unexpected side-effect might be endangering liver function, or
that doctors were more and more seeing rare-forms of cancer, and that people
with AIDS might die, irony-of-all-ironies, from something else totally
unrelated.

	Putting down his magazine, Ryan laid his head on James' backpack, which he
had covered with his coat.  The air was warm and smelled of cedar and
freshly-cut grass.  A crow sitting atop the sculpture behind him cast a
strange-shaped shadow that Ryan stared at and tried to decipher. The sound
of an airplane flying high and banking through the sky overhead rumbled
softly, like far-off thunder.  Hearing it, Ryan closed his eyes and thought
about an early autumn day long ago, the day that he had taken JC to the
airport in Orlando. He had spent the day helping JC pack for his trip to
Munich.

	 JC had been unusually quiet that day, while they split his belongings
between two suitcases, and the three cardboard boxes that he had agreed to
keep for him, while JC was gone, and until he got back.  When done packing -
it had taken an hour at most - he had made JC lunch, probably grilled cheese
sandwiches, because those had been his favorite. Then he packed snacks for
him to eat on the long flight overseas.

	JC had remained mostly silent while Ryan wrapped the cheese sandwiches in
wax paper, tying each one closed with a piece of green string.

	"Do you want me to cut the apple into slices?"

	"No, leave it whole."

	 "Okay."

	JC stared into a distance that was not really there in the kitchen, which
was small and shabby, and painted the color of cherry cough syrup.  Ryan
still remembered how badly the windows used to shake when a plane took off
from the nearby airfield, and flew over the house on it way to
who-knows-where.  JC had always insisted that he didn't mind all the noise
the planes made, and Ryan had believed him; back then, he believed
everything that JC said, even that he didn't love him.

	He had known JC for two years, and they had grown close by default.  He
learned to heed JC's need for distance, and the sharp boundaries of his
silences.  He had asked JC once about his parents, and his childhood; the
cold stare he received in return taught him to not ask any further
questions.  That was how JC was back then: moody, distant, and a loner. He
acted as if didn't need or want anyone in his life. And while Ryan had
respected that, or thought he had, he was mystified how JC might have
changed, although he had no doubt about by whom.

	Ryan had assumed that JC knew he was in love with him. He may have even
told him once, although he could not really remember.  He had fallen in love
with JC from the start of their having sex together, and his discovery that
he had the power to give pleasure to someone, to serve their needs and
satisfy, something he sadly felt he no longer had the power, or even the
inclination, to do.  That was what he had tried to do with and for JC,
insisting over his protestations that it did not matter that it was just
sex, and that he was not in love with him.  JC had apologized to him so many
times that it had hardly seemed to matter. All he knew was that the look on
JC's face when he got close to getting off was the most beautiful thing that
he had ever seen.

	He had pretended not to mind when JC decided to leave, pretended that it
didn't matter because, weren't the two of them just friends anyway?  That
was what he had told JC, again and again, luring him to bed: it's okay that
it's just for fun, for pleasure, to feel good.  It feels good doesn't it? Of
course it does. And so, yes, they'd had an on-again off-again
not-too-serious thing, which meant that JC leaving was how it should be,
without a fuss, or serious protestations. They would stay in touch, and it
would be all right.

	"We can pick up where we left off."

	"Wherever that it."

	"Yeah wherever that is."

	With little time left, they had walked hand-in-hand toward and into the
empty lot behind the house, the dried and matted grass littered with bottles
and cans and tires. They stood together there, among cast-off debris,
holding hands and watching airplanes lined up alongside the distant runway
waiting their turn to taxi and take off.  The airport was not much more than
a mile away, and when each airplane got its turn, and climbed aloft, it
would bank and fly directly overhead, the noise so loud it was more felt
than heard. And it prevented them from talking.

	After a half-hour of this, it was finally time for JC to go.  He turned and
looked at Ryan, and kissed him good-bye.  He remembered that JC had allowed
his lips to linger, and his mouth to open, as if about to speak, to tell him
something he wanted him to know at last, and before he left. But nothing was
said; perhaps because there had been no words to describe it, nor any want
for them.

	Or so he had so wrongly thought. He had assumed that there would be plenty
of time left later for words, a time when no airplanes roared overhead, and
when the grass they stood in was not dried and dying, but bright green and
alive. So Ryan had said good-bye to JC that day like the good actor he had
become, solely intent on not wanting JC to feel bad for leaving him behind
to wait for his not-promised but presumed return.  It was only afterwards,
sliding JC's boxes to the back of his closet that Ryan had let himself cry.

	He still had those boxes. If only he could remember where he'd left them.

*	*	*	*	*

	"May I speak to James please?" Toni said, absentmindedly tapping the
table-top with the fingernails of her left hand.

	"Who's this?"

	"Someone calling for James," she said, not bothering to mask her impatience
once she realized that she was once more talking to Stephen. "Is he there,
pray tell?"

	"No," Stephen said, the sound of him chewing clear over the phone.  "He's
still at that place, you know, the AIDS place."

	"The AIDS place?"

	"Yeah, where he does that volunteer AIDS thing."

	"Are you eating?" Toni said, her impatience having turned to outright
irritation.

	"It's just a sandwich."

	"That would qualify as eating," Toni said.  "To most intelligent people,
that is."

	"Yeah - whatever," Stephen mumbled.  "You want to leave a message or bust
my chops some more.  It's your call."

	"Do you have something to write it down with?"

	"I'll remember it," Stephen said, taking another noisy bite.

	"Somehow I doubt that."

	"Look - tell him when he gets home."

	"And when will that be?"

	"I don't know," Stephen said, noisily smacking his lips on purpose, knowing
that it would irritate her. "Probably soon.  He's supposed to make me
dinner."

	"And the sandwich?"

	"Snack."

	"I see."

	"Are you going to leave a message or what?"

	"I'll call back later."

	"Suit yourself."

	Hanging up the phone, Toni shook her head, rolled her eyes, and muttered.

	"James - how do you do put up with that man?"

*	*	*	*	*

	Stephane turned to Benoit and smiled.

	"I am happy for you," Benoit said.

	"I am not sure what to think," Stephane said, brushing an eyelash from
Benoit's cheek, just to the right of his eye.  "I am excited, certainly.
The financing came together quickly.  And I like Lance a great deal."

	"But you are fearful?"

	"Yes."

	"Stephane - it is all right to be afraid."

	"It is not just the fear. It is what I fear."

	"And what is that?"

	"Becoming Andre."

	"For the role?"

	"That too."

THE LAST FRIDAY IN MAY

	James looked at his watch. Ryan had been asleep for over an hour.  It was
now nearly three o'clock and the sun had begun its evening descent.  Looking
out across the reservoir from the short grass slope on which they lay, James
watched an airplane make a slow banking turn over the city, from heading
north to heading south, toward the airport.

	The setting sun hung darkening-deep orange in the sky above the Space
Needle's spire.  James loved this view of Seattle, the sky and sky-line was
framed by the tall stands of cedar and Douglas fir trees at the park's
western edge.  A long metal spout in the middle of the oval reservoir shot
an umbrella of water into the air which, when the wind blew inland, like
today, James could feel on his face.  He had emailed his mother a photo of
this scene, telling her in the note that this was a place he liked to come
to, to relax and read, and to write in his journal.

	Hearing Ryan begin to stir, James looked at him and smiled, waiting for his
eyes to blink open. He looked forward to these days, more and more, even
when Ryan was sad or irritable, and took things out on him, as if James was
the cause of all that felt wrong to him that day.  Nonetheless, it still
felt good to know that he was helping Ryan, getting him outside where he
seemed better able to relax and sleep.

	James had come to consider Ryan a close friend, someone who listened to
what he had to say, not just his stories and complaints about Stephen, but
about growing up, about how he met Aaron, became his friend, and then fallen
in love with him.  This story had taken more than one afternoon at the park
to tell, especially with Ryan probing him for greater detail, both about his
feelings, and about what had occurred. When James was finally finished,
having described for the first time to anyone what had happened on that cold
winter night that was their last together, Ryan said nothing; he nodded
slowly, and then he sighed, like he was tired.  James had been tempted to
ask Ryan what he thought, but he had let the moment pass, content to having
been listened to, and not interrupted.

	"I've been thinking," Ryan said, drawing James' attention back to him.
"That we should go on a road trip.  You and me.  To escape."

	"Escape?" James said, laughing, but only barely, unsure whether he was
joking or serious, and not wanting to make him mad. "Escape from what?"

	"Seriousness," Ryan said, suddenly grinning like James had never seen him
grin before.  "From stupid fucking seriousness."

	"From seriousness?"

	"Yup," Ryan said, slowly sitting up. "And it's not like Stephen came
through with the trip to Vancouver."

	"He couldn't," James said, frowning. "He's got a make-up exam, and some
stupid frat-thing that I don't really get."

	"And then he'll head back to San Diego," Ryan said.

	"He said we'd still hang," James said.  "Besides, he has to go to San
Diego."

	"He wants to."

	"Ryan-"

	"What?"

	"His parents pay for school," James said, not wanting to talk about it any
further. "So it's not like he can dodge on going home for the summer."

	"You staying here then?"

	"Yeah," James said. "My mom might come visit in July or something."

	"I'd like to meet her," Ryan said.

	"Really?"

	"Yeah."

	"I've told her all about you."

	"And my tragic affliction."

	"Ryan," James said. "Your only affliction is a morbid sense of humor."

	"Or so you like to say."

	"Are your parents alive?"

	"Nope," Ryan said, shaking his head.  "Not for a long while."

	"Were you close?"

	"Not really."

	"My mom and me used to be real close," James said.  "When I was little, she
was like my only friend.  She tried to sign me up for things, you know, like
with little league, and other after-school or weekend stuff. But I just
liked to come home and go to my room and read. Books were my best friends."

	"I hated reading," Ryan said.  "Dyslexic."

	"I'm just socially dyslexic," James said, laughing.  "My affliction."

	"You're living with your affliction."

	"Hey - no more Stephen-bashing today."

	"Sorry," Ryan said, but not sincerely.  "It's just so easy, and so fun."

	"For you maybe," James said, rolling his eyes.

	"And you'd deny a dying man his moment of fun?"

	"Oh lord, anyway-"

	"Yes, anyway - you were saying?"

	 "Right.  My mom.  After I met Aaron, and got a little older, my mom and me
just - I don't know - it just seemed like we had less and less things in
common to talk about."

	"Yeah?"

	"We were always more like buddies," James said leaning back, his hands
behind him on the grass at the edge of the blanket.  "She was never real big
on having a little kid around, or doing the
I'm-the-parent-and-you-are-the-child thing, which was fine with me since I
was never real big on being babied, or acting like a little kid."

	"I was like that too," Ryan said.

	"My friend Stephane..."

	"Stephane," Ryan said, his voice quickly emphatic.	"Now that's the man, by
the way, I should have gone after."

	"You and me both," James said, laughing.

	"I always sort of thought you had," Ryan said.  "You were always on his
heels."

	"That's true," James said, a little sadly. "I had a super-big crush on him
when we first met, in Sydney.  I used to jerk off like all the time thinking
about him."

	"I will be so insulted if I didn't star in at least one of your fantasies."

	"You really wouldn't want to know."

	"What?"

	"What I thought about...no, I can't say.  It's too embarrassing."

	"Oh please," Ryan said, sitting up from where he'd been leaning back
against the rolled up coat that James had set behind him to use as a pillow.
"Humor a dying man."

	"You're not dying."

	"We're all dying."

	"Ooh," James said, grinning at Ryan and pretending to look scared. "Mr.
Gosling invokes the existential curse of man's being."

	"So tell me," Ryan said, laughing in a way that still seemed unexpected to
him; he had not laughed like this, or as much, in years.  "What was your
fantasy about me?"

	"Well - actually," James said, blushing slightly, and hoping that Ryan
would not notice and tease him about being embarrassed.  "You weren't the
only one in it. Brendan was too. I used to imagine you to - um, well you
know - and me too."

	"A threesome?" Ryan said, laughing again.

	"Yeah," James said, blushing even more noticeably now.

	"No offense, but - ugh!"

	  "Are you mad?"

	"Oh hell no," Ryan said.  "You probably got more pleasure imagining it than
I got out of actually doing it."

	"Wasn't Brendan very good in bed?"

	"He was a bit of a slammer," Ryan said, leaning back down on the blanket,
but on his side, with his head propped up on his left hand.  "Okay for the
occasional fuck, but not so interesting on a daily basis."

	"Stephen's like that," James said.  "He thinks it's hot - for some reason."

	"He's probably watched too many pornos."

	"That's what I was thinking."

	"What's he say doing it? Guys like that...

	"Hey - Stephen's not like Brendan. No more..."

	"Stephen-bashing. I know."

	"Anyway-"

	"Anyway," Ryan continued. "Guys like that - slammers - they always have
some stupid chant, something they say over and over and over again.
Brendan's was - Oh yeah-oh yeah-oh yeah, oh-yeah-oh-yeah-oh yeah. Drove me
fucking nuts."

	"Stephen's is - That's right, that's right, that's right."

	"And when he comes?"

	"He just kind of grunts and head-butts me."

	"That's romantic."

	"Not really," James said, shrugging. "But he does have his moments where
like, out of the blue, he's - I don't know, like up behind me in the kitchen
while I'm making dinner, and he turns off the stove.  This was last week.
He turned off the stove and pulled me down on to the floor and made love to
me, really really slow and soft, kissing me all over, totally nice.  And
when we were done, I was like, Wow, where did that come from? He just
laughed real sexy and picked me up and carried me into the bedroom and we
did it again, like for half the night, and never even had dinner."

	"He must have felt guilty about something."

	"You are so cynical sometimes," James said, rolling his eyes.

	"Do you blame me?"

	"No. I guess not."

	"All right then."

	"We should probably get going," James said, sitting up straight again and
wiping grass from his hands.  "It's getting a little cool, and you don't
want to miss dinner."

	"Oh yes - my daily gruel - yum."

	"It's not so bad," James said, standing up.  "I've eaten there sometimes."

	"Sometimes," Ryan said, holding his hand out so that James could help him
up off the blanket. "Try it everyday, then you'll change your mind."

	"I'll bring you some treats on Tuesday."

	"How about taking me to the Deluxe tonight instead - for some real food."

	"I don't know," James said.  "I should probably get you back."

	"Take me to Deluxe and I promise to tell you a dark tale from my past."

	"Tempting, but..."

	"It involves someone you know."

	"I've heard the Brendan story."

	"Someone else."

	"Really? Who?"

	"Take me and you'll find out."

	"Okay," James said, after thinking for several seconds.  "Let's go."

*	*	*	*	*

	"Oh thank god I finally caught you," Toni said, sounding plainly
exasperated. "I swear, if I'd been forced to speak to that insipid cretin
one more time I'd have plunged a letter opener into my ear."

	"Hello Toni," James said, flatly.

	"Oh well anyway darling," Toni said, giving the words a sing-song lilt.
"Now that I have, tell me how you are. Grand, I hope."

	"Hmm," James said, rubbing his eyes as he leaned against the kitchen
counter. "I guess all right. Not grand, but sticking in there."

	"Well, things will be looking up soon," Toni said, her voice taking on a
strange girlish enthusiasm.  "Because mama's coming to town on Friday."

	"Where are you?"

	"Hell-ay," Toni said, sounding exasperated again.  "And, as always, it's
dreadful"

	 "You want me to pick you up at the airport?"

	"No," Toni said.  "I'll just arrange for a limousine or something. So no
worries."

	"It will be nice to see you again," James said, yawning.

	"And you as well, my sweet."

	"Do you want me to tell Ryan?"

	"No - let's surprise him.  I'll be getting in late, so meet me at the hotel
Saturday morning.  Let's say ten."

	"At the Sorrento?"

	"Of course."

	"All right," James said.  "So I'll see you then."

	"Yes you will," Toni said.

	"Great."

	"Yes it is."

	"Good night Toni," James said, yawning.

	"Yes. All right sweetie. Good night."

  THAT SATURDAY MORNING

	Aaron stood spread-legged in front of the washing machine, stuffing clothes
into it, mostly jeans and sweatshirts.  He hadn't showered yet, and his
hair, grown long again, was mussed and sticking out on one side, and
pillow-flattened on the other.  A pair of red boxer shorts was all he had
on; they hung low on his hips, revealing a tattoo just above waistband in
the small of his back.  Closing the washing machine lid, Aaron turned around
and saw the door at the top of the stairs open and two feet appear.

	"Hey dad," Aaron said, walking toward the stairs and looking up as JC began
to walk down.

	"You're up early," JC said.

	"No clean jeans."

	"Ahh-" JC said, stopping at the bottom of the stairs.  "Crisis."

	"What are you up to?" Aaron said, running his fingers through his hair and
getting it out of his eyes again.  "Planting time?"

	"Almost time to put them out," JC said.  "They're all about to bloom."

	"Man - so soon?"

	"Time flies," JC said.  "Look at you."

	"Dad," Aaron said, shaking his head and frowning.  "Come on. Not the
it-seems-like-only-yesterday-I-was-in-a-stroller speech. You got plenty more
years of my bad self hanging around here."

	"All right," JC said, rubbing Aaron's arm. "Any more finals?"

	"Calculus on Tuesday," Aaron said, leaning against one of several
floor-to-ceiling metal shelves stacked with boxes. "Which sucks, but then
that's it."

	And Wednesday's the last day of school."

	"Senior skip day."

	"Skip day?"

	"Yeah, it's a tradition," Aaron said. "All the seniors skip school and have
a beach party.  But I'll be cool, so don't worry."

	"What's that on your neck?" JC said, pointing.

	"What?"

	"It looks like a bruise."

	"Probably nothing," Aaron said, shrugging.

	"It doesn't look like nothing."

	"Dad - I took an elbow or something. It's no big deal."

	"Fine," JC said, holding his hands up in a sign of surrender. "Okay."

	"Anyway - I'm going to jump in the shower. You want help with the flower
pots after? I don't have anything going this morning, so I got time."

	"That's okay. I like to do it."

	"Well, let me know if you change your mind."

	"I will," JC said, turning away from Aaron but then stopping and looking
back at him.  "Wait."

	"What?" Aaron said, stopping half-way up the stairs and turning around.

	"Come here."

	"What? I got to shower."

	"Come here," JC he said, his voice thick and serious-sounding, and edging
toward anger.  "You're keeping something from me, from us - something
important."

	"Dad..."

	"No Aaron, listen to me," JC said, taking hold of Aaron's right arm and
staring up at him. "I don't know what it is, that you're not telling us,
that you're hiding, but you should put it on the table soon, real soon -
because if you don't, and you let it..."

	"Dad - I haven't lied to you."

	"Silence can be a lie Aaron."

	"But-"

	"But what Aaron?" JC said, his expression both angry and sad. "You're
eighteen now.  Is that what you want to tell me?"

	"No."

	"And that bruise - I know what that is.  I'm not stupid."

	"I know you aren't. And I never said you were.  There's just some stuff I
need to sort out on my own.  Seriously - and then I'll talk to you about it.
  Don't you trust me?"

	"The real question," JC said, his eyes narrowing, and his grip on Aaron's
forearm beginning to tighten.  "Is whether you trust me."

	"All right," Aaron said, pulling his arm from JC's hold on it. "I get it.
Okay."

	"I'm just..."

	"I know," Aaron said, not trying to hide his anger, but also puzzled by it;
he knew he had no right to anger. "I understand. I get your point. I got
it."

	JC said nothing for a moment, and then said, "Fine."

	This word was barely uttered, and hardly even heard, before JC was gone,
and Aaron was left standing there alone, the whining metallic groan of the
washing machine running now the only sound in the room.


JUST BEFORE NOON

	"Hey big fella," Colin said, slapping Lance on the back and startling him.
"That be a right mess of bricks you got going there."

	"Hey C," Lance said, turning around and smiling at Colin and shaking his
hand. "You just get here?"

	"Like ten minutes ago," Colin said.  "Dropped me shite in the bedroom, and
then I wandered out here to see what be."

	"Trying to get this barbecue built before Aaron's graduation party."

	"That deck there be bigger than me feckin' house," Colin said. "And then
some."

	"It turned out good," Lance said, his hands on his hips, looking at the
deck, and smiling. "Don't you think?"

	"May be the damn finest deck in all of bloody Christendom," Colin said,
laughing as he slapped Lance on the back again.  "I swear on me mam's
eyesight."

	"Don't blame me if she goes blind."

	"Aww-she be half-way there aw-ready.  She'll hardly be noticing."

	"You seen Aaron yet?"

	"Nope," Colin said, shaking his head.  "Looked a bit, but I don't be
thinking he's about just now.  How's he be doing?"

	"Great," Lance said, smiling happily and nodding.  "Really great."

	"Can you be believin' he's 'bout to graduate?"

	"And head off to college.  It's hard to believe."

	"Uh, well - I never went to college me self.  Had no use for it."

	"I always wished I had," Lance said.  "It's one of the things I most
regret."

	"It ain't like you got no time ta still be doing it, ya know."

	"True," Lance said, tilting his head to one as he looked at Colin and
smiled.  "But it's so much easier to live through your children."

	Colin's eyebrows arched and he frowned. Running his right hand through his
hair, he took a deep breath and coughed into his hand.  The sun was bright
and warm, and he could feel it on his neck and arms, along with the burning
feeling that was now there too.

	"Ya ain't serious about that, are you?"

	"About what?" Lance laughed.  "Living through Aaron?"

	"Yeah."

	"Colin - get a sense of humor.  I was joking.  You should know that."

	"You'd feckin' think," Colin said, scratching his head and then putting his
hands into the back pockets of his jeans.  "Wouldn't ya?"

	"So you want to help me with this?" Lance said, pointing at the barbecue he
was building.  "It goes faster with two."

	"Better not," Colin said.  "I'd make a right hames of the job fer sure.
Besides, I got some calls to be making.  You don't mind me using the phone,
do ya?"

	"Help yourself," Lance said.

	"All right - I'll be going in then."

	"It's good to see you," Lance said.

	"Yeah - it be bloody good to see you too," Colin said. "And I - uh, well, I
dunno, sorry 'bout bein' of no use with that grill there ya be building."

	"Not a problem," Lance said, picking up a trowel.

	"See you then."

	Lance watched Colin turn and walk back towards the house.  He had seemed
ill at ease somehow, and Lance wondered why.  Perhaps he was tired from
travel, or had some sort of problem on his mind.  He hoped it was nothing
serious, and thought it probably wasn't.  Colin was not the kind of person
to keep things to himself, and he'd always been a good and close friend.
Smiling, Lance turned back to the pile of bricks beside him, and picked one
up, and put it into place.  He knew that if he worked the rest of the
afternoon, he would have the barbecue one-third built. And with the
graduation party still six days away, there would be plenty of time to get
it done.

LATER THAT DAY

	"Your arse," Colin said, his finger jabbing at Aaron's chest, but not
really hitting it. "In that there chair. Now."

	"Da - what is up with you?" Aaron said.  "Your face is like ten feckin'
shades of purple and red right now."

	"Sit down!"

	"Okay - I'm sitting," Aaron said, sitting down with a noisy thud in the
chair that sat opposite Colin's bed in the guestroom.  "Keep your drawers
on."

	"You and I," Colin said, point first at Aaron and then at himself. "Lil'
fella, haves ourselves a wee bit of a problem, and it be called The
Mysteries of Pittsburgh."

	"Uh...the Mysteries of what?" Aaron said, trying to act calm, but feeling
anything but. "Is that like a..."

	"Oh - feck, A-Bomb," Colin said, slapping his forehead hard with the back
of his hand.  "What do you take me for?  A complete and utter eejit!?"

	"No, it's just," Aaron said, rubbing the back of his neck and finding the
skin there covered with sweat. "I was just, I mean...uh...The Mysteries
of...what was that again?"

	  "Oh - ask me arse," Colin said, looking disgusted.

	"This is feckin' bollixed up," Aaron said, resting his forehead in his
hands.

	"Well ain't that a feckin' brilliant deduction," Colin said.

	"I was going to tell you."

	"When?" Colin said, his voice pitching high and turning shrill. "Like on
the first feckin' day of shooting.  Well hello there Mr. Colin Farrell, I'm
Mr. Aaron Bass, and I'll be starring in this movie with you. Oh, yeah -
that'd be a bloody feckin' nice surprise."

	Colin stared at the top of Aaron's head and his slumped shoulders.  He
waited for him to say something, or at least look up.  But he remained
silent and unmoving.

	"Hey," Colin said, nudging Aaron's chair with his toe.

	"What?" Aaron said, looking up at Colin, but just barely.

	"Things ain't as feckin' arseways as you be fearing they be right now."

	"I'm sorry I didn't tell you," Aaron said, staring at the floor again.
"It's only been like a couple weeks since I first talked to Josh at ICM. I
knew you liked him."

	"I bloody feckin' used to," Colin said, but not angrily.

	"I couldn't risk calling Stephen, my dad's agent.  I knew he'd rat me out."

	"Rat you out?" Colin said, trying not to sound angry, but feeling its fire
again.  "Is that what this be all about? Getting ratted out?"

	"I didn't want my dad to find out," Aaron said, glancing at Colin, but not
for long. "Not until everything was set."

	"Set so it couldn't get undone," Colin snapped.  "That's what you feckin'
mean to be saying, ain't it?"

	"I just wanted this to be my decision," Aaron said, looking straight up at
Colin. "I wanted to make it on my own."

	"Because you be all grown up now," Colin said, not sure whether it was
anger or frustration that he more felt.  "Is that what it is?"

	"I'm eighteen.  Old enough to sign a contract on my own."

	"That's a feckin' load of shite, A-bomb," Colin said, his finger jabbing in
Aaron's direction again.  "And you be feckin' knowing it."

	"Whatever," Aaron said, standing up, as if to confront Colin, but not
angrily. "But I got the part.  Todd wanted me in his film.  And I signed on
to do it. So there it is."

	"And so you'll be a college drop-out before you set a single bloody foot
there. Oh my, yes sir - ain't that a feckin' brilliant plan.  Any thoughts
on maybe becomin' a drug addict too?  I hear heroin's right back in style
these days."

	"I still be bloody going," Aaron said, snapping at Colin. "I'm just be
putting it off for a feckin' semester. Or maybe a year at most. It ain't a
bloody disaster - shite - your worse than me aul man."

	"Any how ya be bloody knowin' that?" Colin growled. "Ya be a feckin'
mind-reader now?"

	"It ain't gonna be a bloody disaster," Aaron said again.

	"Oh it ain't," Colin said, giving Aaron the wide-eyed, eyebrow-arched smirk
that was Colin at his most bitingly sarcastic. "Well that must be why your
folks be so feckin' happy for ye. Why yes, how could such happiness be a
bloody feckin' disaster. Silly me."

	"Whatever" Aaron said.  "I was going to tell them."

	"When?" Colin said, almost shouting.  "When a bloody monkey flew out of me
arse and danced a jig?  Or maybe when the sun turned blue and I grew a pair
a tits?"

	"I almost told me dad this morning," Colin said, his voice quiet again.
"Me dad Josh - he knows something's up.  He always does."

	"Well that be interesting," Colin said.  "Because I 'bout spilled the
feckin' beans to Lance an hour or two ago."

	"You did not," Aaron said, his eyes wide, panicking.

	"I most certainly did," Colin said.  "And I bloody shoulda too. But it'll
be me arse for not telling, you can be sure of that. And it's a deadly shame
too, because Lance be a fine friend, and I ain't one for lettin' me friends
down."

	"You didn't," Aaron said, looking away and then at the floor.  "He'll
understand."

	"Why's that?"

	"He knows you're a good man Da."

	"I'm not feeling much like being called Da at the moment, to tell you
true."

	"I thought you'd be proud of me," Aaron said, looking at Colin, whose eyes
were cloudy and wet.  "For doing something on me own, deciding what I wanted
to do."

	"Proud huh?"

	"Yeah."

	"You proud of yourself?"

	"I was."

	"And now?"

	"I don't know."

	"Well tell me this then," Colin said, sitting on the end of the bed and
looking up at Aaron.  "If you were so feckin' proud of all these decisions
you made, how come you done made 'em all behind your aul man's back, and
mine as well?"

	"I guess I thought ....I don't know."

	"Aaron-" Colin said, standing up and putting his hand on Aaron's shoulder.
"I love you more than all there is on earth.  I do and bloody more.  You're
like me own flesh and blood, you are - which is why this be so bloody
tough."

	"I'm sorry Da."

	"I can't be in the movie you know."

	"What?" Aaron said, his head jerked back, staring up at Colin.  "You have
to be."

	"No - in fact, I bloody don't."

	"But Da."

	"I'll be telling Lance on Monday morning," Colin said, putting his hand
beneath Aaron's chin as he looked at him.  "About me quitting the film. And
why."

	"Shite," Aaron whispered softly beneath his breath.

	"So I expect you'll be having something to tell him before then, won't ya?"

	Colin took his hand away, but continued to stare at Aaron, watching him.
Aaron blinked several times, looking like he might cry, but he didn't.  A
minute or more passed before either of them said anything.  The sound of
their breathing was all that could be heard, except for the occasional
thudding-clang of Lance's trowel as it pounded another brick into place.
Standing up, Aaron put his arms around Colin and hugged him.

	"I'll tell him soon," Aaron said, and then he turned and walked away. "I
promise. I just have to figure out how."

AS THE EVENING APPROACHES

	A light misting-rain fell, sprinkling the windshield, but not enough to
need to turn the wipers on. The traffic was light on Madison as James pulled
out of the parking lot and turned right, heading west up Madison. The heater
was on full-blast and just warming up.  Ryan sat quietly in the passenger
seat, his hands resting on the dashboard as if bracing for a collision.  It
had not taken long to pack Ryan's things into a suitcase, two boxes, and a
shopping bag - all of which easily fit into the trunk, next to James'
backpack and duffel. There was a box of books, and cooler with food and
soda, sitting in the back seat.

	"Are you warm enough," James said, glancing at Ryan, who was wrapped in the
cashmere blanket that Toni had bought him for Christmas last year.

	"Doing great," Ryan said, looking at James and smiling.  "Really great."

	"Right on," James said, touched by the evident sincerity of Ryan's smile.

	"How far is it to the freeway?"

	"Like three minutes," James said. "It's really close."

	"You sure you want to do this?"

	"I should be asking you that," James said, furrowing his brow, and looking
less than certain. "You're the one ignoring your doctor's orders, not me."

	"I'm tired of taking fifty pills a day," Ryan said.  "And it's not doing me
any good staying here just waiting to die."

	"Ryan-"

	"I'm serious," Ryan said, his smile inexplicably brighter than before.
"Besides, I - this is something I need to do, before - you know.  And I want
to do it."

	"Yeah, all right," James said, watching stoplight sway in the hard wind
that was blowing and then turn green.  "I know."

	"And it'll be an adventure, a road-trip, just you and me and the
open-road-"

	"- running away from all that depresses us."

	"Okay, there's that too," Ryan said, laughing.

	"You got the map?"

	"Right here," Ryan said, pulling it from beneath the blanket, and beginning
to unfold it.  "So let's see..."

	  "South on I-5 right?"

	"Correct. Then east on I-90."

	"The mountains should be pretty by now."

	"You think?"

	"I do."

	"Thank you for doing this for me," Ryan said, reaching over and putting his
hand on James' knee.  "I mean it."

	"You're welcome Ryan," James said, sighing softly, and trying to smile.  "I
just hope it turns out okay, and that you find what you're looking for."

	"Me too," Ryan said.  "Me too."

SUNDAY NIGHT, JUST AFTER NINE

	The barbecue stood half-built.  Aaron feared that it would remain that way,
with one side two-cornered and as tall and even as intended, and the rest
descending from that completed part in a jagged zipper-pattern of
stair-stepped brick, like the steep-sloped side of a ziggurat.  He had
watched Lance walk past the barbecue without giving it a glance, like it
didn't matter anymore.  And of course it probably didn't.

	Lance stood now at the edge of the yard, beyond the wisteria-covered
gazebo, out where the bright green grass of the lawn gave suddenly way to
clay and stone and deep ravine.  The wind had picked up and was pushing now
at the mist that most nights formed above the bay.  He knew it would float
inland soon, clouding the coastline, and filling the ravines and arroyos
that fissured the landscape there where land and ocean met.

	Aaron felt no tears, nor need to cry.  He believed he deserved neither
sympathy, nor pity; it was an awful mess he had made, and the bloody
disaster that Colin predicted. Or so it felt to him.  The proof of it stood
there before him: a half-built brick barbecue; a deck completed, but not yet
stained, except by his mistake; and his father at the place he only went to
in despair, there at the deep-carved line that marked what Lance called the
low point.  It was there he'd stood when he thought he'd lost his Josh, the
only man he'd ever loved.  It was there he'd stood when he'd thought that
his little boy might die.  And it was there stood now, going there without a
word to anyone,  a half an hour ago slipping his chair back from the table
and standing up, folding his napkin and setting it next to his half-eaten
dinner, and wordlessly leaving the room, his son wrapped in silence and
shame and fear, and JC and Colin gape-mouthed, staring at him.

	Now Aaron stood on the upstairs deck, leaning against the railing, and
looking out at Lance.  Barely lit, Aaron could barely make Lance out; he
could see only the outline of his silhouette, and barely that.  It was
almost too far for him to see.

	"I should go talk to him," Aaron said, hearing the door behind him slide
open, not knowing whether it was Colin or JC, but assuming it was JC.

	"Let him be," JC said, slipping his arm around Aaron's waist.  "He needs
time to think and sort through all this.  He'll be less angry then."

	"How did this happen?"

	"It was a mistake not telling him."

	"I know it was."

	"Do you really?"

	"I think so."

	"Come inside," JC said, taking Aaron's arm. "I want to show you something."

	Aaron turned slowly, except for his head, which stared straight ahead,
continuing to look at Lance; he feared that losing sight of him might let
him disappear.  He could see the mist moving inland, like a ghostly arm and
hand reaching out to steal his dad from him.  But there was nothing Aaron
could do now, not with him out there alone, and he up here. Aaron blinked
and closed his eyes, and then turned fully around. JC was waiting for him,
framed by the door, and lit from behind by the single lamp turned on inside
house.

	"Come on," JC said, holding out his hand to him.

	"All right," Aaron said, looking at JC's hand, but not at him.

	Aaron let JC lead him back into the house.  They walked slowly past the
kitchen and into the hall.  For no reason he understood, Aaron made note of
each door he passed, turning his head left then right, taking inventory, as
if he feared that this was the last time he'd see these things, that he was
on the brink of some kind of banishment:  bathroom, pantry, studio, dining
room, his dad's room, study, closet, his bedroom, and then the last room
upstairs, the one easily missed right at the top of the stairs.  JC stopped
and opened the door.  This had been Aaron's room at first, when he was still
a baby.  There was no crib in it anymore, but his toy-box and several pieces
of small furniture were still there.  A chair against the wall sat under the
window.  It was there that he and JC used to stand and watch for Lance to
come home, crossing the bridge that was at the last curve up the winding
drive to the house.  Aaron's room was now on the west-side of the house, but
for the first ten years of his life, this was where he slept each night.

	JC let go of Aaron's hand and turned on the overhead light in the room.
Aaron blinked adjusting to the added brightness, and then he watched as JC
walked over to a tall cabinet filled with books and mementos.  There was a
multitude of picture frames, filled with photographs, mostly of him as a
baby.  JC reached for the upper shelf and moved a picture frame, sliding it
to one side.  He then pulled down an envelope that the picture frame had
evidently been sitting on top of.

	"Do you know what this is?" JC said, turning around and showing him the
white envelope he held.

	"No," Aaron said, dislodging the word with effort from his throat, like it
had been a piece of food stuck there, threatening to choke him.

	"What do you think it is?"

	"An envelope."

	"Yes," JC said, his eyes narrowing, as if to concentrate on what he was
saying, to get it right.  "But what else?"

	"A letter."

	"That's right.  A letter.  To you."

	"To me?"

	"Yes, to you," JC said, holding the envelope with both hands now, and
holding it up.  Aaron could see his name written on it now, in sharply-drawn
capital letters.

	"It's from dad," Aaron said. "Isn't it?"

	"Yes," JC said.  "It is. He wrote it fifteen years ago."

	"Really?"

	"Yes he did," JC said, slowly nodding as looked directly into Aaron's eyes.
  "You were three years old and we'd just brought you home from the
hospital."

	"The E. coli thing?"

	"When we almost lost you," JC said, blinking several times, his eyes now
wet.

	"I know," Aaron said, stepping forward and putting his hand on JC's arm.

	"In the car you called Lance daddy," JC said, still struggling not to cry.

	"He is my dad," Aaron said, still holding JC's arm. "And so are you."

	"Yes," JC said, taking a deep breath. "But before we went through that with
you, in the hospital, and everything - just everything, and finally being
able to bring you home again, when we'd just days before thought we might
never be able to..."

	JC stopped, and Aaron stared at him, unblinking.

	"Aaron, that day, your dad and I, we had never felt so lucky, so blessed.
It was like a miracle to us, that day, when you were finally safe and coming
home again."

	"When you called Lance daddy," JC said, his words unsteady, and tentative,
like each one was difficult to summon forth, and he had to search hard first
to find them. "I think he felt it to his very core, and in a way defined
him.  He told me later that it was that moment when he realized that we
weren't just raising you for Joey, like baby-sitters, or fill-ins.  We were
your parents, and you were our son, and we were a family."

	"We still are dad," Aaron said, beginning slowly to cry.  "Don't make it
seem like it's over, that there's no more."

	"I don't mean to," JC said. "Just like I don't think that you meant to."

	"Dad- "

	"Wait," JC said, holding up his hand. "Let me finish."

	Aaron waited, saying nothing.  He wiped his nose on the back of his hand,
and his shoulders slumped.  JC looked at him with no anger, but no evident
sympathy either.  It hurt Aaron to see this.

	"What I wanted to tell you is that, after we put you to bed that first
night back home, Lance said he wanted to write you a letter, to try to put
his thoughts down on paper, what it meant to him being your father, and you
being his son."

	"That sounds like something he'd do," Aaron said, bowing his head, and
smiling.

	"He was going to give you this the day you graduated from high school."

	Aaron reached for the chair against the wall and slumped into it.  His
hands felt numb and clammy.  Tears filled his eyes.  He did not know what to
say.

	"What do you think it says?" JC said, his voice soft, caressing. "Tell me
what you think that your dad wrote in this."

	"Dad I can't," Aaron said, crying hard now.  "I don't know what it says."

	"Not the exact words. No.  But what do you think he'd want to say?  That
was so important he wanted to write it down."

	"That he loved me," Aaron said, choking.

	"Yes."

	"That he was proud to be my dad."

	"Yes."

	"That he would always do his best for me, and try to never let me down."

	"And?"

	Aaron looked up at JC and met his expressionless staring gaze. JC no longer
held the envelope; he had put it back, back in the spot it had sat waiting
for so long to be given to him, and now maybe lost forever.

	"He would always be there for me," Aaron said, barely able to speak he was
crying to hard.  "That he would never turn his back on me. No matter what I
did or said. And that no matter how old I got, I should never be afraid to
come to him, with anything at all, no matter how bad it seemed, because he
would always love me. No matter what."

	"That's right," JC said.  "No matter what."

	"I'm sorry," Aaron said, standing up and walking to where JC stood,
grabbing his hands, and holding them to his chest.

	"So am I," JC said, his face still blank, like it had lost the ability to
show emotion.

	"I didn't mean to let him down," Aaron said, tugging on JC's sleeve, trying
to get him to look at him again.  "I know how much Harvard meant to him."

	JC looked up, startled.  His mouth fell open, his face flushed, and his
lower lip trembled.  Aaron could not tell whether he'd just made JC terribly
sad or terribly angry, but whatever it was that JC felt, it was plainly
terrible.

	"You really don't understand, do you?"

	"What?" Aaron said, clinging to JC's shirt-sleeve now, tugging at it like a
child would trying to get his dad's attention.  "What? Tell me."

	"Harvard doesn't matter to him," JC said, pressing his finger hard against
Aaron's chest, like he was trying to tip him over, and he almost did. He
stared into JC's eyes, searching. This was his punishment coming, he
thought. And he deserved it.

	"You matter to him Aaron," JC said, his voice a sharp snapping rebuke.
"You!  Not some damn school."

	"But..."

	"But what?" JC said, cutting him off.  "You were afraid he'd disagree. That
Lance would ask hard questions, questions you hadn't thought to ask
yourself, and that it might change your mind, make you rethink everything,
and maybe want to do something else."

	Aaron said nothing.  He wanted to look away from JC's insistent stare, but
he did not.  This stare was his judgment, plain and cold and true.  He
deserved this too.

	"You shut him out Aaron," JC said, his voice firm but not angry.  "Shut him
out. Just like you didn't need him anymore, like turning eighteen meant that
you didn't need a dad anymore.  You gave up on him - for what?  For the
supposed thrill of making your own decision, going your own way, being your
own man - when you didn't have to."

	"I thought I had to."

	"Why?" JC said, almost shouting.  "Because you have parents that love you
as much as two parents can, instead of a father and mother that get drunk
and beat you, and abandon you for days at a time to take care of yourself
and your brother and sister too? Because you have a dad like Lance who,
unlike his dad, never once pushed you away, or stopped talking to you, just
because of who you loved or wanted to be with?"

	"Stop dad," Aaron said, gasping like he had just been punched; and it felt
like he had. "Please stop. I do still need him. I do. And you too. I'm not
grown-up. I need my dad. Both my dads. Please. I always will."

	"Yeah well," JC said, sighing and shaking his head.  "I don't feel
particularly needed. And I don't expect that Lance does either.  Not right
now."

	"I'm sorry dad," Aaron said, leaning his face close to JC, right in front
of him, so that he had no choice but to look at him.  "I didn't mean for it
to turn out this way.  I really didn't. You have to believe me. Please."

	"I believe you Aaron," JC said, taking hold of Aaron's right hand, but only
for a moment. "I do.  But now it's up to you to find a way to make things
right again."

	"I'll call Todd tomorrow and tell him I can't do the film."

	"Why?" JC said.  "Why would you do that?"

	"To make things right," Aaron said, his eyes wide and questioning,
searching JC's face for answers. "Like you said. The film doesn't matter to
me anymore."

	"Sweetie - listen to me," JC said, putting his hand on Aaron's shoulder,
finally free of the anger he'd felt a moment ago. "What's done is done.
You've made a decision, maybe even the right one.  But I don't know the
reasons that you made it, whether they're good or bad, stupid or smart. And
neither does your dad, because, of course, how could he?  You never told
him."

	"He has always been there for me," Aaron said, whispering. "And you too."

	"We did our best Aaron, we really did."

	"It was better than the best," Aaron said, his eyes gleaming, catching the
light, as he looked up, almost expecting to see stars on the ceiling painted
there, and there were.

	"I forgot that Dad painted stars in here too," Aaron said, looking back at
JC.

	"We did it together," JC said, looking up.  "We took turns holding the
ladder."

	"I wish I could remember."

	"It was not long after Joey's funeral," JC said. "A couple of weeks at
most."

	"Why'd you do it," Aaron asked.

	"I'm not sure," JC said, shrugging.  "I think it was because we painted the
room blue, and Lance said that it looked like sky."

	"I guess it had to have stars in it then."

	"Yeah."

	"That's Orion," Aaron said, pointing.  "In Ursa Minor, the Little Bear."

	"I thought that was the Little Dipper."

	"Part of it is," Aaron said, smiling at JC, and nodding.  "The handle is
the bear's tail, and the cup right there, that's his flank.  Polaris, the
north star, is right here."

	"The wishing star."

	"And the star sailors used to find their way home."

	"That's right."

	"I think maybe I'll go outside and see if it's still there."

	"Why don't you do that."

	"Yeah - I think I will."

	"You still have your compass?"

	"Of course, it's right here. I always have it.  You gave it to me when I
was six."

	"I was just wondering."

	"I love you dad."

	"And I love you."

	"Thank you."

	"Go on now."

	"Yeah."

	"Good night."

*	*	*	*	*

	"Where do you think he's gone?" Toni said, hunching over the small round
table in the kitchen part of James' apartment, still not quite believing
that she was sitting there with Stephen.

	"I have no idea," Stephen said, shaking his head. "He said he that needed
to help a friend, and he wasn't sure how long it would take.  I thought he
meant like maybe he'd be late or something, and I shouldn't worry or wait
up."

	"You don't strike me as the worrying-type," Toni said, wishing for the
tenth time that day she hadn't quitted smoking.  "Do you have any
cigarettes?"

	"Nah," Stephen said. "But the 7-Eleven is just across the street."

	"I'll survive."

	"I got some dope, if you want to get high."

	"Uh - no thanks," Toni said, rolling her eyes.  "I'll stick to martinis."

	"That's cool," Stephen said, pushing back from the table and standing up.
"And, by the way, I do worry about James, if that's what you meant.  He's my
boyfriend."

	"Or so I hear."

	"You know," Stephen said, turning around from the window and glaring at
Toni. "I don't give a rat's ass whether you dig me, but lay-off me and James
- that's our thing, and you ain't got no right running it down. I love
James, and he loves me."

	"Any-way," Toni said, unmoved. "I take it you have no real idea where they
might have gone, he and Ryan."

	"I just hope he don't catch anything," Stephen said.  "If you know what I
mean."

	"You mean, something he hasn't already caught - like scabies?"

	"That wasn't necessarily me," Stephen said, crossing his arms across his
chest.

	"Right."

	"You can get that stuff like in a locker room, you know."

	"Yes, and with James so athletic, that's a likely scenario."

	"Oh whatever," Stephen said, turning back around.  "He shouldn't have told
you about that shit anyway.  It was supposed to be private."

	"Yeah," Toni said, snarling. "Just between you and James and whatever
person you picked the up from."

	"But speaking of privacy," Toni said, standing up. "I'll leave you now to
yours.  I left my cell-phone number written on the pad next to the phone."

	"Yeah, yeah - I'll call you if I hear anything, or get a postcard."

	"Right," Toni said, about to roll her eyes but stopping herself because it
was about to give her a headache.

	"You walking?" Stephen said, turning around and looking at Toni, a look of
fear, or perhaps it was sadness, in his eyes.  "Because I could walk with,
if you want company, that is.  I don't much like to be alone."

	"No, I'll be fine," Toni said, pulling on her coat.  "And it isn't far."

	"All right," he said, looking back at the window, and moving closer to it.

	Toni reached for the doorknob, and was about to open the front door, when
she stopped and pulled her hand back.  She turned to look at Stephen and saw
his face cast in the green-and-orange glare of the illuminated sign outside.
  With him standing there, so solitary and still, it was easy to imagine
James having spent nights standing there, in that exact spot, wondering when
Stephen might get home.  There was a cruel and obvious justice to this
juxtaposition, she knew, with Stephen standing there where James had so
often stood, feeling abandoned and alone.  But for some reason she found no
pleasure in it, in seeing Stephen standing there, confused and sad. Perhaps
he really did love James, in the only way he could, which was imperfect, but
no less real.

	We all fall short, she thought, feeling sorry for him all of a sudden; he
looked so lost.  And worse, he didn't seem to what he might be losing.

	"I changed my mind," Toni said, in a loud cheerful voice she knew did not
sound genuine. "Come along with mama and we'll have ourselves a drink. You
have fake ID I assume."

	Stephen, his dark brown hair askew, and his squinting-laughing eyes coming
back to life and brightening, spun around and smiled at Toni, saying, "You
bet I do."

	Toni laughed and waved at Stephen to come with, shrugging her shoulder bag
half-way up her arm and pulling the door open.  "We can sit and drink and
try to figure out where our Bonnie and Clyde is heading."

	"Okay," Stephen said, grabbing his windbreaker from where it had been
hanging on the back of a chair.  "Shall I bring a map?"

	"You got one?"

	"Sure."

	"Okay, bring it along," Toni said, beginning to laugh.  "We can at least
plot our own escape if need be."

	"Right on," Stephen said, looking up from digging in a kitchen drawer.
"But I have to be in San Diego by Friday.  The parentals have commanded it."

	"Well what a coincidence," Toni said.  "Me too.  But not at the command
of...what was that?"

	"Parentals, as in parental units."

	"I see," Toni said.

	"Want to drive together there?" Stephen said, holding up the map.  "I was
going to before James took my car.  We could rent a car, and maybe look for
them."

	"Sweetie," Toni said, taking Stephen's chin in her hand, and then pointing
down behind her back. "This ass was not made for cross-country driving,
sorry."

	"Well, that's cool," Stephen said. "You ready?"

	"Yesterday."

	"Okay, let's go."

	Following Stephen from the apartment, and watching him lock the dead-bolt
on the door, Toni could not help but laugh to herself and think, How do I
fucking get myself into these things? I swear, I'll never know.

EARLY MORNING, MEMORIAL DAY

	Lance shook off sleep, but sadness clung to him like dampness to old
clothes.  He turned away from the bed after draping the comforter back over
JC, covering him again; and then he stepped into a pair of pants, which were
pooled on the floor beside the bed.  Dressing slowly, and quietly, Lance
tried not to breathe hard, or sigh; but it felt like he couldn't quite catch
his breath.

	He had not slept much the night before; but the fatigue he felt this
morning was not just due to lack of sleep.  His thoughts had refused to stay
at bay, refused to still from stirring him, refused every one of his
suppressing efforts, refused to coalesce, refused to clear, refused grant
him peace or understanding, or simply go away.  He had fought with thoughts
all night long, only to finally now arise defeated in his effort to stop
thinking, again and again, of Aaron's solitary decision to put off beginning
his college studies, and to pursue acting instead.

	Last night he had made his way, in the dark, down the narrow precarious
path that winded through the dense-packed sycamores, wild red-berry,
eucalyptus, and ferns, to a secluded spot near the shoreline which was
peaceful, and far enough from city-lights to be able to see more clearly the
stars.  He had sat there alone, until well past midnight, before finally
making his way home.  Everyone had been asleep by then, except Colin, who
was awake and sitting in the downstairs kitchen, drinking scotch.  Lance sat
down and shared a drink with him, neither one of the saying much, except
when Lance had stood to go, and put his hand on Colin's shoulder and said,
"You and I are fine, okay?  This wasn't you, I know."

	"It don't feel so good," Colin said, looking up with watery red eyes at
Lance.

	"No, it don't."

	"I'll be doin' what you ask. You can count on that."

	"Thank you."

	"Yeah well, it's nothing. But you're welcome."

	JC murmured something behind him, and Lance turned around and looked. JC
lay there still asleep, his hair splashed across the pillow like a
brushstroke.  Lance smiled as a shiver ran through the length of him.  He
curled his toes into the carpet remembering how he and JC had kissed last
night and then made love, neither one of them having expected that the other
might be willing or need or want to.  But meeting in the middle of the bed,
they had found in the other the corresponding need to hold and be held, to
hang on to something not just familiar, but known; and to speak silently
through touch, touch alone, and reassuring caress, to map the contours of
familiar flesh, finding faith, and reaffirming that this at least felt right
and good and true and real and dear, and connected.

	"What a blessing you are to me," Lance whispered, still staring at JC.

	Turning slowly to go, Lance opened the door only enough to slide through
it, not really knowing why, and then pulled it thud-quietly closed.  He
walked quickly down the hall, his bare feet making a soft padding sound on
the floor. The doorway to the big room at the far end of the house seemed to
glow as sunlight overflowed into the hall. The big-room, which is what they
had come to call it, was where they had always spent most of their time -
preparing meals in the open kitchen that looked out onto the upstairs deck,
eating together at the small kitchen table that sat in the midst of it,
stretched out or sitting in the soft sofa or chairs, reading or talking or
watching television or a movie, playing a game, listening to music, he and
JC snuggled on the couch watching Aaron sprawled on the floor doing his
homework - all of these activities had made the room the heart of the house,
their home.

	The window above the kitchen sink was half-open, and walking toward it
Lance could smell cold-morning ocean air. He traced his finger along the
countertop as he made his way around it, heading first toward the couch, but
then turning toward the glass doors that led outside.  A zip-front
sweatshirt hung on a hook next to the door, Lance grabbed it and slid open
the door. Opening it made no noise, except for the small thud the door edge
made when it hit the far wall.  Lance left the door wide-open, as if to let
fresh air into the house, and then stepped outside, pulling the sweatshirt
on as he went.

	Below him Lance heard the sound of wood hitting stone or brick. He wasn't
sure which, and he bent over the deck rail to see from where the noise was
coming.  Wearing an old baseball shirt, and cut-off jeans, Aaron stood bent
over the barbecue that Lance yesterday been working to complete.  Aaron had
just slid a brick into place, atop a layer of wet dark-gray cement, and was
now hitting it with the end of a trowel-handle, making sure it was secure.
Lance watched Aaron place three more bricks before climbing down the stairs
from the deck above to the newly-completed deck below.

	Aaron was startled when he heard Lance clear his throat behind him. It
could have been no one else, and Aaron did not need to turn around to know.
He carefully placed another brick into place, still building, as he had been
doing since morning's first light, not wanting to let the wet cement he'd
spread begin to harden before a brick could be put upon it.  Lance watched
from behind him as Aaron carefully placed another bricks. When Aaron was
done with this one, Lance walked around to the other side of the barbecue,
as if inspecting Aaron's work. Running a finger across one finished edge,
Lance looked up at Aaron unsmiling.  His lower lip trembled a bit, and Aaron
watched Lance bite it.

	"How's it going," Lance finally said, eyeing Aaron, and still not smiling.

	"I could really use your help dad," Aaron said, gulping back tears. "I
don't think I can do this on my own, not without wrecking it - like
everything else."

	Lance reached across and cupped his right hand against Aaron's cheek, his
thumb softly rubbing the edge of his jaw.  Aaron stared at him, his eyes
gaping, blurry, and red-rimmed.  Aaron's face seemed ready to dissolve, to
lose all discernable shape, like a wax-mask melting.  A sob escaped from
Aaron's throat, and then another, tangled with a skein of garbled words,
knotted and confused, which Lance heard more than understood.

	"Oh daddy," Aaron said, his eyes round and frightened.  "Please help me -"

	Then Aaron could not go on; but not for lack of words.

	Lance stepped over the bricks and pulled Aaron to him, wrapping his arms
around him, squeezing him hard as he pressed Aaron's face into the soft
cradle of his neck and shoulder.  For several long minutes Aaron cried while
Lance held him, slowly stroking his back, up and down, up and down, up and
down. Eight inches taller than him, Aaron was forced by this embrace to
stoop and bend his knees in order to be held by Lance.  But he did not mind,
nor even notice, plunged into the moment, and unaware of anything but how
safe he felt again, and how loved.

	Held in his father's arms, Aaron was set free from the disheartening burden
of his mistakes, their consequences contained like storming flood-water
behind levies, the threat of drowning and destruction held at bay.  There
were no words to describe how Aaron felt, nor thoughts that might give birth
to them.  Aaron knew his dad was there for him, again as always; and without
even asking, he was forgiven.  There was only future now.

	And so it was thus, you see, and surely might have expected: Aaron would
recall this moment for the rest of his life, revisiting it so often that it
would become for him a touchstone, a well-loved and familiar place that
never failed to pacify any cynicism that threatened to grow in him. Like the
compass that he carried in his pocket his entire life, and reached in and
rubbed, not for luck, but for the reassurance to be had from knowing that it
was still there, rubbed smooth by near-endless years of keeping and holding
it, yes, this was a touchstone too.

	Years later Aaron would mark the beginning of his becoming a man as that
early morning in May, Memorial Day; it became for him a point of departure
so significant that he would take an entire lifetime to fully comprehend it.
  Indeed, it would take someone writing the story of this day, as a kind of
gift for him, and of all the years leading up to this day, and after, for
Aaron to both see and recognize the enormity of this moment in his life, how
it colored all that followed, and explained all that had come before. The
day was a pivot on which all else turned, and it was so because of the love
of two remarkable, imperfect, generous-hearted, stubborn, beautiful men: his
fathers.

	But either way were you to see it, from the perspective of that moment,
right then and there, or looking back at it from nearer to life's end, in
apologia, Aaron had know way of knowing certainly how much that embrace had
meant to his father as well, nor the long walk after, side-by-side, hand in
hand, as Lance showed him the way safely down the winding trail that led
through natural unkempt part of the property north of the house, past the
stone cabin where tools and other things were stored, and down along a ridge
that rose and fell, creeping through a clearing and then to shore.

	Years and years later Aaron would catch a glimpse of what Lance must have
felt, because he felt it himself, when he told his own two sons the story of
that early morning walk, when Lance showed him his special place, and of all
things that Lance had said to him that day there, words that seemed less
like wisdom then, than simply love distilled, and, like cool water for a
thirsty throat, infinitely soothing.

	"I never doubted my dad again," Aaron would later say, sitting on the shore
where he had once sat with Lance, looking out.  "Never once. And he never
let me down."

	"Did you finish building the barbecue dad?" Jeremy said, looking up at
Aaron, his eyes filled with concern. "With grandpa back then?"

	"Yeah we did.  And it turned out really great."