you can have it all: michael donovan

[secondhand_stars]

Paris was to be their personal wonderland; a haven drenched in the enchantment of La Fee Vert and flighty muses. At the height of their intoxicated delirium, they had sworn off their old lives for this brave new one. Of course, by morning, most of their planning had been lost and the frightening repetition of possessive pronouns shunned off again. They had fallen asleep upon the weathered floorboards of the prophet's flat like two drowning men; lost in a tangle of limbs and with fingers hooked in the other's hair, at the hem of an unbuttoned shirt. Upon waking, however, each parted and withdrew into his respective shell. While Harlen sulked and scowled over ghosts kept canvas-wrapped and shrouded in the closet, Michael felt himself drawn to windows. He stared out into the city and attempted to differentiate the landscapes. He was lost in some frightening between spot that wasn't easily shrugged out of.

By the time that the sun had set and dinner-plates washed clean in a show of domesticity that was less born from affection and moreso from the need to remain busy, it was evident to the clairvoyant what he must do. He waited however. He floated alongside the prophet like a ghost. The man knew well enough not to ask or prod the other one.

It was a waiting game that Michael played. He bought his time in sighs and shallow breaths. He eased back the migraine that had begun to threaten his vision and turn images off-kilter. Something brewed from the south: not a thunderstorm, but something far more dangerous. Shrugging off affection and the random nudges of comfort that were given to him, he waited until the elements were right. Eyes squeezed shut and limbs aching with still, he lay stretched out alongside the prophet. Rather than fall into that natural gravitational pull, that pattern that inevitably led to tangled ankles and arms hooked across ribcage, he turned away from Harlen and waited for the man's breathing to still into that calm, sleeping lull.

Then, when the prophet finally descended into the dreaming, Michael slipped from the sheets. Crossing the bedroom, he dressed quickly in whatever first touched hands. Shoes were shoved on and the bag that had yet to be unpacked was slid from the closet space. He didn't bother leaving a note. In the morning, one would be blessed if they weren't aware of the circumstances surrounding his disappearing act.

If would have been easier for him to flee out of fright. A coward's way out was an often travelled road. But this, this was something new and uncharted. Rather than a one-way ticket, he bought a returning flight. He would be back. The only thing unknown was in what shape, the clairvoyant would be in.

As the plane skipped from Paris down to the southernmost tip of Spain, Michael watched the horror unfold. Into the wax-lined paper of an airsickness bag, he choked out the contents of Adela's bitter tea. His stomach knotted with that basic taste. Poison.

In hysteric, Lani would shriek out the names of her husband and twin interchangeably. Caught up in her care as bloody towels were replaced with fresh ones and healing compresses were slathered upon her belly, neither of the Aunts realized that when the woman called for her brother that it was out of surprise rather than anguish. Fever and a strange twist of genetics had bound the two together. Michael watched from his twin's bedside as the doctor navigated a portable doppler machine across his sister's stomach and then, finally, when the aunts began to cover the mirrors with their traditional coverings. White cloth, not entirely different from the lengths of silk that had so recently covered the tables at Lani's reception.

So distracted by the undoing of his sister was the clairvoyant that he failed to register the strange unearthing that had begun in a long ago boarded up and forgotten portion of his heart.

[secondhand_stars]

[previously posted January 14, 2005; taken from a liveplay with notmyvoice and landfillsky]

With Lani asleep, Asher slipped up if only to go to the bathroom. A passing glance through a window showed a car arriving and curiosity pulled him to stare a moment longer. The figure that stepped from it looked familiar, and with a focus of eyes, Asher didn't need to confirm before he was flinging the front door open and marching towards the car. It wasn't him. It couldn't have been himself in this body, Asher didn't harbor the ability for this sort of emotion. It simply didn't come out of him.

"Turn around." He ordered. "Turn around. Get in your car, and go home."

A finger lifted and pointed to the rental and he stopped charging forward when he was close enough to not have to scream unless he wanted to. "I can't believe yew. I can't believe yew would even have the nerve to show your face after this."

He flirted with catastrophe. Driving, under good conditions with proper lighting and rest and focus, was a dangerous task. However, half-dead and undone, it was a wonder he didn't swerve off the road at a phantom bend that no longer existed in the dusty landscape. Asher was a thunderstorm of emotion. Concealed by his grief, Michael scarce recognized the ancient face that peered across the drive at him as body unfolded from driver's seat. The request made his steps falter, pausing just short of the car.

"What?" He blinked widely, head tipping to an angle. "Are you kidding me? There's no way." Begining again, steps took him forward again though gravity drew him back. "I need to see Lani. I, found out what happened. I have to see her. Oh god, is she okay?"

"Wot the fuck do yew care if she's okay!?" His voice lifted in a slight shout, but nowhere near its full capacity. "Yew didn't find out, yew knew. Yew knew all this time and yew didn't say a word because you're a fucking terrified idiot. Yew thought you'd smash all her hopes and instead this happens. Your lunatic fucking relatives and their.." He paused, his lungs screaming for a breath when he denied them. Pausing to breathe in, he narrowed eyes. "Get away from me. Get away from us. She doesn't need yew here, and I'm sure once she finds out wot yew did, she won't want yew here, either." All logic and reason told him to calm himself, but something refused, something told him to stay lit and furious, burning and explosive.


Another detour. Asher's words built roadblocks for Michael to either pause by or leap over. This time, he whipped around and moved to face off with the grief-stricken man. "I understand you are very upset. We all are, but --" A furious breath hissed through teeth as he fought to keep his composure. Pressing fingers into the corners of his eyes, he pinched down upon the slant of his nose for a moment. "Don't you fucking question my level of caring for my sister. I was there. I was with her."

He stopped there and didn't confirm or deny his preknowledge of the unfortunate events. There was no changing the situation -- there had never been an easy solution. Slowly, he began to become suffocated by all sides of the argument. He saw all angles, all losses, all gains. Save, of course, for that essential one that now flooded voicemails and answering machines.

"She does need me. She wants me here. I can feel it, Asher. I can --" Eyes rolled towards the hazy sky where sun was begining to rise. A new day. Things moved on even if people didn't. "We house fragments of one another. We share everything. You don't want me here. You don't need me here. Speak for yourself, not for her."


"Yew were with her? Yew think that that gives yew some fucking priority!? Don't fucking.. patronize me! Yew have no idea how to understand how I hurt! Yew have never loved anyone as much as I love her! Yew have no idea wot it's like to go through this, don't yew even fucking try to come close to that!" A finger lifted and pointed angrily, something boiling and bubbling in him that he hadn't felt before, something uncontrollable, something unpredictable and wild. "She needs me. My wife needs me, Michael. Feed me all the bullshit yew want about sharing and housing, but yew did not die with her. Yew did not die with her." A slow pause. An attempt to calm himself that crashed and burned among the heat of a heart that itched to crack open and burst. "Get in the car, go back to the airport and get on a plane, Michael. Your precious Lani will be fine without yew."

He stood his ground. He wouldn't be moved by the explosive components that rattled in the shattered heart and mind of the Briton. Instead, a hand swiped over his mouth to keep back words, to keep back the flying swing of his knuckles. He wanted to shake Asher, to fill him with sense. Most of all, he just wanted to fix everything. Insult upon insult weighed him down until shoulders slouched and fingers tangled in hair.

"No, I didn't die with her. I didn't. You're right. But I lived with her." Hand arched out then, fingers pointing towards the doorway that he could so easily stalk off towards. "I lived with her while you died with her." Two different hers: a child, a woman, both lost.


"And I live with her now. So wot the fuck does that make me, Michael, certainly not below yew on the fucking importance scale." He snapped in a mocking lilt of voice.

"I might not have a spousal relationship like you do, but I'm capable of love. I do love. I love my sister, my twin more than anything else in this world. You can't deny that sort of feeling. You had it yourself. You have," he corrected himself, "it. So, Asher, I'm going to stand here for two more seconds and then I'm walking through that fucking door and finding her. And you are going to have to deal with it because I'd never deny that right to you if I had the privilege to."

It took a moment for words to form into sense, but there was a trigger pressed, a button pushed. In a lash of almost violence, palms reached forward and slammed into shoulders, knocking Michael back as much as he could with that first burst of something never used. Asher had taken abuse. He had been smashed against an oak desk in a violent slam. But no one spoke about Serena, and not when he was tender. Not when he was already broken open. "Mention my sister again, yew smug fuck! Go ahead! I never would have done this to my sister! I never would have let Serena suffer a loss like this if I knew about it ahead of time! I would have fought fate, I would have fucking fought God for her! And wot would yew do? Nothing. Yew disgusting coward. Yew sat back and let it all happen. Yew think a hug and an apology makes up for that? Yew think your half-assed brand of comfort will make her feel better!? Go ahead Michael. Walk through the door. Go find her. I want yew to."

He stumbled backwards a couple of steps, the angle of his shoulders aching against the cut of Asher's palms. Michael would let the Briton rage on as he pleased. He'd take every cuff and blow. He was mostly numb to anything outside the rattling leaf of his sister's heart anyway. "I'm not omniscient, Asher. I knew something was coming, but I didn't know it would be this, now until this morning. And what if I knew before?" Chin tipped up defiantly towards the other man. "What the fuck was I supposed to do? Ruin my sister's wedding by telling her she's going to miscarry? Send her crawling into her cave until she lost the baby anyway? There was nothing that could be done. If there was, it was done. So yeah, call me a cowardly fuck. Why not, I have it coming to me anyway. Hit me again, but --" A hand lifted, index finger extended towards him. "Don't be pissed off just because she asked for me too. You have her heart, but I share a goddamned soul with her. So get out whatever you need to now because I don't want to add this to her load."

"They killed her, yew ignorant bastard! Turn your fucking eyes on! Look! Look at what happened!" The only reason Asher knew any of this was the clarity of a poisoned death. The way lines crossed with the old women and the empathy shared with a child. "Your bloody relatives murdered my daughter. And yew are one of them. All of yew, twisted Devil's children. How the fuck do I know yew didn't know about this!? Don't yew lie to me. Yew share it with them, yew share all that knowledge, all your bullshit tradition and ritual. That's wot yew were supposed to do. Stop them. Stop this. Tell her. Because I knew too late. And yew knew too soon. Ruin our wedding, fuck, who cares, but don't ruin our lives and our hopes and our family!" A hand smeared his face miserably, turning his head away before he let out a howl against a blood red Spanish dawn. How appropriate. "Get out! Get out of here! Go home!" Another shove at shoulders, harsher, angrier. "Get out! You're a liar, you're a fucking betrayer!"

From the enchantment of a green faeriescape, he had woken to find himself in a new world. Lines had been severed and redrawn in new places. It was a civil war that threw brothers against one another. To Asher's Christlike figure, he was the cowardly Judas swinging a rope around. Denial set in first. He couldn't -- or rather, wouldn't believe what poured out of the man's mouth. Instead, shove was matched for shove and his own palms crashed down upon the shoulders of his brother-in-law. Michael shook Asher.

"What the hell are you still doing here if we're nothing more than a bunch of murderers, a bunch of so-called devil's children, a bunch of fucking, pagans?! Why are you ordering me out of my dark lair where I cook up atrocities towards my own? Wake the fuck up, Asher. It was an accident. I had absolutely nothing to do with it. Nothing." Pushing the Briton away, he began to stalk towards the door again.

Shaken, he was pushed past and followed with stalking steps. He would not get near. He would not be allowed to get near. Hands fisted Michael's collar and he was driven steps back with the intent of bending his spine back over the hood of the car, a violent thrash of a push to send them toppling. "Open your eyes! Open your fucking eyes! They took her in a room and would not let me in! Wot did she drink, Michael! Yew share her soul, yew tell me wot the fuck they made my wife drink! Stop playing dumb for once in your miserable, lonely fucking life and stare at reality, Michael! Get out of the otherworld and live in this one for just a fucking moment! Tell me wot they did! Yew can't lie to me, do yew forget that!? Tell me why! Tell me fucking why!"

Without noticing it, Asher's eyes had begun to brim red, a trail and stain of blood and saline dripping down the sharp of his cheek and onto Michael's shirt when it fell. He didn't care. It was nothing in comparison to before.


All the world just stopped, now. Michael allowed himself to be dragged, bowed back in a pose that was purely submissive. While he was deathly still and quiet, Asher could rage on and hurl accusations and questions that could not yet be answered. Staring up over the outline of the man, he watched the sky shift and mix its colors between night and day. He waited -- for illumination, for a slap, for anything to bring everything back into order. For once, it was the Ecstatic who knew more than him. Their metaphysical politics shifted power source.

Rolling back upright, fingers smeared over the diluted bloodstain that had spread over cloth. Rather than argue, he pressed forward. Arms dragged around the lanky frame of the other man. He trapped Asher tightly in his grip, holding him steady. "I -- I don't know. I'll find out. I'll, I'll do whatever you want." Arms sank down heavily to sides and Michael slipped out of the narrow space between man and car. Hands dove into pockets to search for the car keys. "I'll go. She's your wife. You know best." Jaws locked tight, a quick snap of muscles pulling. That admittal, whether it was true or not, chipped away at Michael. It broke down the shell of his pride.

There was a shift. A grand twist of everything and it all was a big swinging spin. A one-eighty. Michael's power dissolved and Asher's grew. Asher's helplessness turned into anger, and then back into a sort of remorse. Maybe it was the promise to find out. The surrender. The offer of power. The embrace. The need for something, for someone to fucking talk to about all of this. Asher's rage seemed to melt into desperate melancholy, something heavy and weighting that shoved a stone in his throat and choked him when he spoke. "No. No."

He had to think of Lani. What she wanted. What she needed. "Give me your keys." His hand held out. That was what he wanted. "Go in there and see your sister. Do wot yew have to do. When I get back, you're gone. Because we're gone." He'd get something to make a quick and light breakfast with, in hopes of tempting Lani to eat, he'd find a phone to call from town about plane tickets (for fear the women listened on the line) and he'd come back with the intent of going home. "Keys."

The keys lacked that efficient cool to them. Instead, the burned in his palm, the metal filling with a heat and life of its own. Michael stared down at them as they glinted in rose-colored shades in his hand for a long moment. There was relief in Asher's decision. It was the right one. He was rising above the grief and the ruin. Slowly, but surely things would begin to set and heal. He kept a low pose, something quiet and respectful towards the other man. "Thank you," he murmured quietly as the keys were handed over.

Without waiting for any words of advice or threat, he turned and quickly began to cut through the walkway towards the house. He'd make his visit short for the sake of everyone.

[secondhand_stars]

Had circumstances in their life been different, the bonds would have been broken. Like an umbilical cord, perhaps what was once a vital source of life and synthesis would have withered and fallen away from them. However, what was done was done. They were permanently fused, a dependence had been cultivated and flourished like kudzu. Tragedy made them less soul-same and more same, altogether. Michael shivered as he crawled into his sister's mourning bed. Drawing up covers and tucking himself beneath, a palm rolled carefully over the surface of her dark hair. The man who always stumbled and struggled for words, didn't fail. Clearing his throat, mouth opened to bubble and form muted syllables.

Lani shuddered pathetically, her arms reaching out where eyes were shut away altogether. From their wrinkled scrunch, hot tears seeped out and rolled down the sides of her sallow features. "The baby," she choked quietly. The baby.

He drew her tiny frame in, arms cutting against bruised lines and chin settling in at temple. Rather than fill in the blanks, a breath cut through teeth. He hushed her with that hissing sigh. Desperately he swam against the current that filled him. He was drowning from the inside-out with tears. He hated crying. It was a shameful practice. It was --

"I want to die."

A flash of a stranger sparked in his eyes. He froze, grip slackening upon his sister as she began to slip out of his grasp. While her shoulders slumped back against the mattress, he was left with the afterimage that was slow to fade. Like a camera spark, the dark-haired woman whose features were lost in the foggy-haze of a plastic bag layered over his frame of vision and slowly receded back. "No, no no," he whispered damply, "don't talk like that."

Piece by piece, he found himself being worn smooth by choked, exhausted sounds that came from his twin as she shifted restlessly. Her frame sought out a comfortable spot on the bed that was impossible to find. Twisting herself in upon him, arms wrapped tightly around his ribs and head buried into the space below chin. Her jaw chattered violently against chest. It was what broke the man. Gasping out, he bowed into the part of her dark hair and shut eyes. Slipping from beneath eyelids, tears rolled down cheeks and wetted the inky tangles of her hair. His previous fallen knight stance had only been a foreshadowing. Now, with his armor peeled back and sword left abandoned upon the floor, useless, he was little more than a reflection.

"I'll fix it. I'll fix it. I'll make it better. For you and Asher, both. I won't ever let this happen again. I won't --" Trails of saline rolled off cheeks, curving at nose and jawbone. The salt from them burned into skin to make nose run and throat go thick again. He felt himself build into a quiet undoing, a belated hysteria. His words were punctuated abruptly with a childish hiccup.

"You knew, Michael," Lani wailed back. Her voice echoed through the room, surprising in its strength as it rocketed from a body as limp as a rag doll in her brother's grip. "You knew. And I knew. Not exactly, but enough."

"I didn't want to ruin --"

"I know."

"Don't despise me," he whispered before shoulders lurched up with another stifled hiccup.

"He won't." She corrected tenses and turned meaning upright. Michael never had to worry about her hating him. It was an impossible task that had been tested time and time again, but always to fail. Sniffling, a hand curved out and the heel of her palm rolled over a cheek. "He'll be okay eventually. He'll get over it. He --"

"Yes, I know."

Silence passed over the twins. They were left now, not to the horrors of the evening, but the somber grief of the new day. From the window across the room, early morning poured in without note. Life went on, even if the people within it doubted it's ability to. Tears and hiccuping tapered off. For another day, a more private moment, it was folded into a back pocket.

"Michael, tell me a story --"

He bowed to his sister's quiet request. Though he could scarce see past the flash of nightmarish imagery, the bloody sheets and suffocated woman, he nodded and began seeking out a beginning to his story. That was always the hardest point, finding that perfect opening line, the meaning. However, reverting back to that nearly forgotten slur of the language they had crafted so long ago, he did. Words were a blend of English, Castilian, and enough pig Latin to make it more or less indecipherable. He built a world for her. There was the brat Prince, for comic relief, and his page who spoke in riddle. A shining knight who didn't realize he was a warrior at all. A fair maiden with more than a pretty face in her arsenal. A gallery of characters were created and thrust into the sometimes thorny kingdom that Michael created.

When Asher returned, he paused. They had, afterall, made an agreement. He would allow him to drive the rental car into town to make travel arrangements while the husband allowed him to see her. Now that he was back, it was his turn to leave. Fingers smoothed over his sister's hair, combing out tangles and inky knots, as good-byes were hummed against protesting sighs. He kissed her temple before retreating. A glance to the Briton, but no more.

He knew what he had to do. This, not facing his sister, was the hardest part.

[secondhand_stars]

As he made his way through the labyrinthine halls of house, Michael was haunted by the words of his brother-in-law. Perhaps they were the devil's children, the damned, murderous savages. He didn't doubt his fault in the entire situation, but he did question his moral thread. Was he as wicked and dark as Asher made him out to be? Was he blindly destructive in ways that bled out from his bedroom habits? There would be time -- much more time, perhaps too much of it -- later to analyze and dissect his behavior. For now, he was pushing open the heavy wooden door from its archway. In response to the faint touch the door stood in place and his lanky frame crashed painfully into it. Michael cursed loudly, bouncing away from the door. Smearing a hand over his bruised features, eyes narrowed in upon it. Nothing. Where it should have flung open with his fury, it remained within hinges. Locked, perhaps. A hand reached out to purposefully turn the knob. It completed its rotation and the panel pushed out.

"Curious," he breathed aloud and to the women gathered inside the room.

Adela lifted from her spot in the circle, withered hands extended to her favorite nephew. The look upon her face wasn't drawn with loss. No, they had become desensitized to loss. They had seen the passing of sisters and other relations. Death was merely an open doorway that didn't slam shut. It was a shift in being rather than end.

Michael ignored her open arms. Instead, stalking through the ring of women, he planted himself at the middle. Feet broke the design that had long ago been carved into stone. A pagan design. One that had been inked into his skin upon his coming of age. "What did you do?"

The rush of English, the irreverent addressing, made the woman gasp and fan hands over their cheeks and knees. They were a flurry of tiny movements, of differing attitudes. Where Adela and Maria represented the proud front with their beaming eyes and settled mouths, Carmen and Blanca still daubed at their pink eyes and stared at their laps.

"What did you do," he asked again into the unsteadily silence.

"Your mother wakes," Adela answered finally. "Finally. After all this time, Ch--"

"Michael. Don't call me that name anymore."

"It was necessary. You understand how. Do not be angry with me, mijo."

"I'm not your son," he spat at the older woman. Stalking out of the inner-circle, Michael paced restlessly around the room. He ached to rattle the shelves and send the ancient texts within flying. It didn't make sense how everything could remain so still and untouched. Left to his own devices, hands seized up the heavy sphere of the looking ball and tossed it against a stone wall. As crystal crunched violently and scattered in shattered pieces across the floor, he screamed out a lost note.

"She'll have more children, Miguel! She's strong! Look how strong she is --"

"It doesn't matter! Did you even ask for her consent? Of course you didn't. You, you --" Twisting back around to face the women, hands extended out to draw them all out. A coven of elderly faces peered, in waiting, in dread. "Bitches! Fucking lunatics! All of you! And you --"

Adela looked up, her head rising from its meek bow.

"You are the worst of them," Michael hissed.

"It was inevitable, Michael."

"No, no it wasn't. You had to go in, you saw an opportunity and you made it happen!" Stepping back around, he angled past one of his aunts to face off with their ringleader. The Hecate that Asher so desperately tried to pick out from the bunch, was now found. Grabbing the frail woman by the shoulders, Michael shook his aunt. "What did you give her? He knows you gave her something. What did you make her drink, you bitch."

Adela laughed, growing limp in his arms. Knees cutting in and spine unfurling, she drooped and dragged like a doll. "So self-righteous! You are just like him! That lamb of a husband! You -- "

Her words were cut off by the crack of knuckles against jaw. He didn't fall back in horror at his action, his violent swing. Instead, Michael glared at the muted woman and shoved her back. Adela folded into the heavily carved wood of her chair, a hand pressing delicately to the throbbing of her jawline. He turned around then, giving a steady look to each of his aunts. No one dared to speak. The power shift that had always been rumbling beneath the surface of the house had finally unearthed itself.

"No more," he whispered. His anger had been spent on the old woman who now curled, cowering in her seat. She knew what would happen if she dared to speak out again. Michael bit back a sigh, his hands smearing down the cut of unshaven cheeks. He was rumpled, hardly the princely heir to a pagan throne. "I want you all to listen closely to what I've to say. This -- This dabbling, this weaving of the worlds must stop now. It should have stopped ages ago with my mother, with your mother, but now it ends with Lani. This will not be our continuing legacy. What happened today, regardless of whatever good may come from it, was wrong. We all have blood on our hands. Yes, myself included for allowing it. I claim responsibility and consequence. Yes, consequence. There is a worldly punishment. If I suspect any dark art, any foul -- plotting from any of you, I will cut you all off. I will sell the house and the land on it. I don't give a damn how old you all are, you'll be left to the charity of the Church. Is that understood?"

It was perhaps the most that the clairvoyant had ever said in his life. He neither faltered, nor stammered over points. Instead, everything was delivered with a clean efficiency. He spoke clearly and most frighteningly of all, calmly. As the women began to nod their heads gently and absorb the information, Michael nodded likewise and turned to leave the room. Fingers sprawled over the surface of the door-knob, but paused just short of turning. Glancing over his shoulder, a final look was given to the women as a whole. " I wash my hands clean of all of you."

[secondhand_stars]

Indefinitely had become the new word of choice. Indefinitely they would be residing within the beloved alternate reality that was Paris. Indefinitely would a key to the pianist's flat be nestled alongside the mix-and-match of his own home and office. Indefinitely would they spend each day in the same leisurely fashion as the one before it. To the soundtrack of Harlen's fragmented, unfinished masterpieces, Michael wrote his novel. At sunset, he could almost imagine New York upon the horizon though an ocean stood between him and the city. Simple things called him back in brief, lapsing moments: a telephone ring rippling through paper thin walls, a laughter like his sister's, a pair pale blue-green eyes in passing. Like all moments however, they faded off into a contentment that he could scarce remember ever having before. He was happy. He was not painfully alive, but beautifully so.

Yet his need for escapism would never die away. He would always wake to random spots where impulse triggered a need for movement. Today was no different as he woke from the tangled sprawl that two bodies made upon couch.

Now, an hour later and several blocks later, he sat perched in a vinyl chair with forearm unfurled against the armrest. Upon the inside of his wrist, drawn in carefully penned cursive was a single phrase: Je t'adore. The tattooist smirked up at Michael, fingers carefully prodding into skin and tracing out the ink-stain design. "I -- worship you?" He translated in heavily accented English.

"That's what it says." He countered easily with a careless tone that was punctuated with the slow lift of shoulders. Ignored were the amused looks that the tattooist and his assistant traded with one another.

"You sure you want this? Tattoos are permanent, my friend." Index finger tapped down upon the design; once and twice more. As dark eyes met with the cool slide of his client's, he backed off and wheeled stool back to gather his supplies.


Michael's eyes dropped down to the scrawl upon the inside of his arm. Pulse throbbed just at the looping of the first letter and then again at the space where final word curved out. Taking in a deep breath, he steeled himself against the first bites of needlework that would soon come. He felt half possessed, strangely mad. This was not the Michael Donovan of New York who steamrolled over the hearts of sweet blue-eyed girls and buried himself beneath piles and piles of dusty books. It was someone new, someone less mechanical and more organic. The tattoo was neither a bleeding heart to wear on his sleeve nor a testament to something kept buried deep down within him. It was a memory and souvenir. It was a marker. Once, in a gilded city full of tattered ghosts and song, everything was in perfect alignment.

"Yes," he murmured quietly. "I'm sure."

[secondhand_stars]

I've grown to despise New York. I know that eventually this deep sentiment will surface and taper off to a quiet dislike, but for now? I absolutely loathe the city. I hate everything about it -- the crowded subways, the filthy streets, the honk and hum of taxi-cabs, how loud and obnoxious Americans are, the coarseness of the English language, how gloomy the streets look after neon signs have been turned off and metal grates pulled down, et cetera. He was right -- and, I hate how he's always right -- when he said that I'd love Paris and never want to leave it. In a perfect universe, everyone would be packing up their homes right now and having it all shipped overseas. We'd load ourselves onto a plane and take off. We'd say good-bye to all the memories and rubbish that clutter up the walkways here.

Honestly? I -- I think, I'm going through a bit of a crisis now. I'm too young for a midlife crisis though. It wouldn't suit anyway. I don't like to drive and have never been interested in young, buxom blondes. So, the sports car and shamefully young girlfriend will have to be shoved onto some other, unfortunate soul. Such is life. C'est la vie. I want to disown everything. I want to quit my job at the university. I want to ship my frighteningly juvenile stories off to an agent. I want to lay in bed all morning listening to old Maria Callas records and smoking. I want to lean over and tap out ashes into the dish that rests upon his belly. No, no scratch that. No smoking. No ashtrays. No ancient opera. There's no point for the latter with his arrival to the midmorning fantasy. I want to lay with my ear pressed to his bare skin. I want to listen to the strange organic orchestra of his insides: a distant heart, a gurgling insistent stomach, the flutter-hiss of lungs. Yes. That's what I want.

For now, I'm left to my own devices and this curious, streaming monologue. I'm perched in my favorite armchair that isn't nearly as comfortable as the sagging couch in his flat. I'm flipping through a worn paperback and distractedly watching the saga of one Dorian Gray unfold as I wait for my modern-day one. He took the subway. It'll be another twenty minutes until he hits ground level. By the time he walks in, his feet will be frozen and hair a'mess. And I? I'll try my damnedest not to look pleased by the entire thing. Two hours, I'll say in a mocking tone. What a baby. You need me. You adore me. You are lost without me. He'll say something wicked and foul to counter it, if only because neither of us really know what to do with the truth that's become our personal joke-well. Or at least, I don't know what to do.

It's easier to keep everyone guessing, I suppose. I told Asher. Between my sister and him, it's only a matter of time until I've got every member of their circle of friends giving me that knowing look as they make vague comments about my even moreso ambigous sexuality. I don't care though. I don't mind a bit. The hardest part is over. Soon enough all the catchphrases and stinging words will fade off just like my dislike for the city. I won't hear Asher's voice echoing against the rafters: Illicit, unlawful, fleeting, scared, occupational perk, blood-sucking leech, fling.

I shouldn't be bothered or bruised by it all. Really now, what's the fun in that? I've got a reputation to maintain. I'm Michael Donovan. I break hearts. I abandon people. I don't care. I'm impassive. I'm cold. Detached, even. I do not attach.

Yet here I am. I'm clinging to this notion of something like a drowning man. I can't move past this point. I can't even begin to work upon the idea of possibly having what I want. Want. What do I want? For the first time in twenty-seven years, I can quite nearly answer that question. The ability has left me with an astounding amount of blatant honesty at my disposal. I can, for once, talk. It's all about picking the battles rather than fleeing them. I want Paris in a green haze thanks to La Fee Vert. I want Art Deco posters and a mismatched library of records. I want brioche and coffee in the morning. I want the smiling face of Mona Lisa, distorted and wavery behind its thick glass casing. All these things lead up to one big want. It's like a holiday. You get lots of little presents, but wait for that long-sought after bicycle or red-ribboned puppy. I want him. Here, now, indefinitely.

I can hear the sound of his shoes hitting the hallway. He's stamping off the snow that rings soles and making a mess of everything. It's fitting though. It's expected. Look at what a mess he's made of me. I wonder if he's going to bother to knock or just enter the apartment. Either way, the countdown has begun. Quickly, I'm slouching into a lazy pose and pushing my glasses off the top of my head. Readjusting frames, ashes spill carelessly over the front of my t-shirt. I leave the sooty crumbles there rather than brush them away. I'm on page one hundred and seventy-six. That's one hundred and seventy-six missed pages of dialogue and story. It's fine though. I've read this book a million times before. It's the story that's unfolding that's got me on the edge of my seat and anxious to flip the page. Shit, I've become a statistic and a cliche.

[secondhand_stars]

There were several elements to the professor that made him more student than educator. With the top button of his dress shirt undone and tie wriggled loose, he sat slouch-spined in his chair with feet kicked up onto the narrow ledge of his window sill. The spot had once been his favorite place to perch, but the cold weather out had forced him back. Rather than freeze against the blustery wind that whined between panes of glass in an ancient window setting, he watched from afar as students trudged across the commons with their head bowed towards the chilly wind gusts and backs heavy with backpacks. Michael's mouth was twisted into a slightly petulant look. He felt every bit the prisoner here rather than the warden. Though his name was etched professionally upon a plate in front of the door, it was unfamiliar and awkward: Miguel J. Donovan, Ph.D; Literature.
He should have stayed home. Had he canceled his classes and kept the light in his office off, they could have wasted the morning away in bed until creative impulse and the need for breakfast rumbled in their stomachs. They could have dressed nicely and dropped in on his sister and Asher. They could have called a realtor and scheduled an appointment to begin their apartment-search. They could have packed. In any other case, Michael would have dragged his heels and resisted the notion. Yet here, now -- he folded like a deck of cards. He lost. Sighing, a hand smeared over the sharp cut of features and dragged away the look that had been painted over his irritability.

Behind him, the door knocked quietly before it was pushed open. Michael's chair squealed as he straightened up from his lean and twisted it towards the desk again. Knees fit inside the empty space again and fingers lifted to straighten his tie. He stopped once familiarity set in. A snicker rocked his shoulders and bowed head. "Kathleen, hello. Right. Ah. Have a seat?" A hand gestured towards one of the chairs in front of him.

Veering towards middle age, but still attractive in her own, unintimidating way, Kathleen was a comfortable looking woman. She was your kindly neighbour or local librarian by all appearances. However, it was more or less a facade in this semi-professional setting. She smiled vaguely, her head shaking at the offer. "No, no. I just wanted to drop by your story."

"You've -- You've already read it?" Eyebrows furrowed as green eyes flickered towards the print-out stuffed composition book that rested at her hip. Immediately, a self-conscious wave passed over him and sent collar to tighten. He coughed and hooked a finger against the white cotton slant.

"I couldn't put it down."

"...Really?"

Nodding, muddy eyes brightened and head bowed in. She pressed the book to the front of her soft, pleated blouse and splayed a hand against the marbled back of cardboard-covered notebook. "It was wonderful. A bit dark. A bit... morbid, at parts, but isn't that what's selling? What with Harry Potter and Lemony Snicket? Very Smart though, Dr. Donovan."

"Michael," he insisted.

"Michael," she echoed. "You should talk to one of my friends. He's an agent with lots of ties to the publishing world."

"Publishing?"

"You wanted to, right? I mean -- Why else would you have me read it?"

"I... I don't know. Yes. Of course. Give me his number. I'll -- I'll, you really think it's good?"

"Brilliant," she insisted. Stepping in, the book was lowered with certain reluctance to the edge of his desk and inched forward. "I wish I would have had you in my Juvenile Fiction class when you were doing your undergrad here."

"I hate children's literature."

Kathleen laughed, her voice a shocked and strangled sound. A hand quickly fluttered up to cover the cupid's bow of her mouth behind it's soft white. Shaking her head, eyes slanted away. She stared at the composition book for a moment before reaching out to flip open the cover. At the front, bordered in Michael's erratic, uppercase script, was a rectangular photograph. It was a remnant of Paris. He stopped to stare at the matte finish of the still. It was Harlen sprawled lazy as a cat across the couch. A lanky thing, his legs hung over the edge as cheek burrowed into one cushion. One high cheekbone was cut by the ribbon of dark hair. Eyes were sleepy, but not completely devoid of that private joke that sparkled inside them, that he, the Brat Prince, was adored.

"Your muse?"

He had stared too long. Clearing his throat, Michael reached over to snap shut the front of the notebook and shove it closed. In a move that was equally protective as it was possessive, forearms dropped over the cover and he hunched in. "Who?"

"The man in the photograph."

"I don't quite follow," Michael lied beautifully with an innocent blink of his eyes.

"It's not like... A big deal if he is. I just-- There's another picture somewhere else in the notebook. One of you two together. You didn't tell anyone that you went to Paris over the break."

"Paris?"

"You two were in front of the Lourve," she said in a flat, unamused tone.

"I wasn't aware that it was policy to report our break, Dr. Walker." He coughed quietly, his mouth twisting into an obnoxious grin. Angling over, a palm lifted to smear over a cheek. "But very well -- I went to Paris over the holiday."

"My husband and I went there for our honeymoon."

"I didn't know you were married, Dr. Walker!"

"I didn't know you were gay, Dr. Donovan!" She countered him easily, her soft smile gaining a razorblade edge. Vicious and pressing, Kathleen dared him to squirm and wound himself upon her suggestive edge. The blink of her eyes was sugar-spun sweet. "He's a very handsome man."

"He is wont to agree."

"And you?"

"I keep my opinions to myself."

Kathleen laughed, amused by the entire display. A hand dropped over, fingers tapping out an insistent beat upon the cover of his composition book with its tucked in pages and inkstained edges. "Amongst other things. Call the agent, Doctor."

"I will."

[secondhand_stars]

It was a whirlwind affair fitting the reckless impulsivity of one and openly defying the set-norm of the other. Time had slipped free from the scene like a second skin shed. To count back the months and trace a hyperevolution would require Michael to unearth a calendar from one of the boxes that littered his living room. In a handful of weeks they had gone from wary strangers full of bite and suspicion to lovers with a six month lease.

As cardboard lids were taped shut and sides neatly penned with a content list, he should have felt panicked and out-of-order. This wasn't him. He should have felt disconnected. This, in any other circumstance, would have classified as an out-of-body experience: a step forward into an unofficial domesticity. However, it had all been rationalized ages ago. This was cheaper, safer, more convenient. He added cheap excuses to the whimsy-edged imaginings of cardboard boxes labelled as 'his' and 'his': Harlen, bathroom; Michael, office; kitchen; et cetera..

The door rattled in its hinges with a knock. It was that thin sound from bony knuckles that sent him toppling out of his thoughts into the harsh sphere of reality. Disoriented and still angled over the wall of bookcases, Michael stopped to give a curious look over. "Coming," he mumbled as hands smoothed over the front of his t-shirt and feet wove through the stacks of boxes.

When the door pulled open, the face that was revealed was a familiar one, but in a way that dimmed everything. It was a wary knowing. Green eyes lost the subtle wave of animation inside them and shuttered. He glanced backwards into the living space rather than look too long.

"Paul."

"Michael," he echoed teasingly. Head bowing in, pale eyes widened playfully and his mouth stretched into a Jester's grin. It was obnoxious and charismatic all at once. It begged for the receiver of a grin to adore the wearer. Falling back, fingers lifted to tap over the shape and ruin its design. "What am I doing here? I know that's the next question. It's always the next question. I'm here to get the release form."

"Oh, right. Come in --"

Trailing away from the door, he began his search to find the abandoned manuscript and forms attached to the document. It was somewhere. It was the one thing that he had specifically left set aside. He didn't want to read anymore, much less pack it for future keeping. Behind him, Paul wandered curiously around the boxes and flicked at the open lid of one to peek inside.

"Moving."

"I am."

"Where?"

"Ah --" He moved to speak, but stopped just short of stating the actual location. There was no need to conceal. Paul was a remnant of the past, nothing more. Just like the ghosts that lurked around the flat and the city, he didn't deserve a response. Shoulders shrugged. "Across town. Chelsea-Soho."

Paul hummed, impressed by the location. Fanning himself with a hand, eyebrows arched high and mouth tipped into a silly grin. "Oh, lah, lah professor. How fancy. How -- Posh."

Looking up from the files and stacks of loose paperwork that were scattered upon his desk, Michael rolled pale eyes towards the other man. He knew exactly what was building up between the pair. It was the same thunderstorm that had existed years ago. Save for now it was worse. It was a dangerous game. It lacked the stirrings and confusion of then and had a steely edge of something deliberate and harmful. Fingers smoothed over the mess of papers. "I can't find it."

"Bullshit. It's there somewhere. I'll help."

He was comically gaunt. As he strode purposefully over to the desk, his legs were like stilts beneath the pinstriped fabric of his suit. He was sharp-boned and Michael was half afraid that the material of his jacket and trousers would rip as he angled in to aid in the search. Recklessly hands dove into documents and flipped through assignments and receipts. "Mm. Paris. You didn't tell me you --"

"There was no need," he interrupted as fingers moved to snatch up the ticket stub.

"Michael," Paul sighed. Half folding onto the desk, the lanky man fell into a leaning pose. Fingers smoothed over a lapel of his jacket, flicking away invisible dust particles and dirt. They stopped at midpoint between the clairvoyant and himself. It was an empty gesture and a loaded gun. "Don't hate me."

"I don't."

"You resent me."

"I feel nothing towards you."

Blue eyes widened with surprise. It was a false expression. This was a fact that had been made clear to both men ages ago. Nonetheless, Paul pressed on. Lifting up from his pose, an elbow hooked at Michael's shoulder and he leaned back in. "Well," words pressed to the shape of his ear. "I still adore you."

"It's not possible, Paul. The only person you can feel anything for is yourself. Let's not mistake fact with fiction." The envelope holding the contents of his former roommate's manuscript and official documentation was found then, as if perfectly scripted into the scene. It was like a movie -- an awful one full of choppy dialogue and vague expression. Michael held the envelope out for him to take.

"Fine," he sighed with a slump curving his shoulders. The envelope was taken and tucked beneath an arm. "You're right. I don't adore you. I don't even particularly like you. However --"

"No."

Vexed by the constant interruption of the professor's voice, pale skin brightened and forehead furrowed. What had once been smooth was now scored with quiet lines. They were aging. They had grown up physically whether or not their emotional insides wanted to follow suit. Clucking, fingers hooked at the sharp of Michael's chin. He nudged the unwilling over and bowed head to force eyes to meet. "Curious. You've always known... exactly what I am going to say before I say it."

"It's because you've always wrote shitty dialogue. Common, expected phrases."

"What?" Paul gasped, taken aback by the sudden flash of truth. It was a slap in the fact, but not one entirely unwelcomed. Instead, it sparked the volatile elements inside him. The firestorm began in his chest and extended out into arms. He wrapped the professor up tightly, teeth sinking into the shape of his bottom lip. He, as common and human as his writing, couldn't taste the sickness growing in his chest. Harlen could have, but not Paul. "Prick."

Rather than shove the writer off, he fell slack. A bundle of useless, unaffected limbs, he sank into the sharp-boned man who enveloped him and waited for the dead-weight and nonchalance to send Paul backwards in disgust. Upon the inside of his lip, blood welled from the minute cut left by an incisor.

"Fuck dialogue. You always know I've been better at action."

"How... macho, of you."

"Bastard!" Paul laughed. As hands dropped from shoulders and trickled down over sides, he watched as Michael's impassive expression began to curl. It wasn't from want or desire so much as displeasure. He watched that infamous, slow-growing grimace crease eyes and droop the corners of his mouth. Fingers hooked upon the line of his belt, thumb pressing in upon the cold metal of it. "Stop that. Stop grimacing."

He sighed, breath fluttering from the part of his bruised mouth. "You have your release forms, your book. Just -- leave."

"Don't be a bitch, Michael." He snarled quietly, hands dropping away from hips and setting back upon his own. Paul stepped backwards and his shadow stretched over the smaller frame of the professor. What had all the makings for intimidation was now, much later, merely pathetic. "What? Afraid your girlfriend is going to walk in and see her perfect little boyfriend bent over a desk. I bet that would put a real damper on your move-in, hn? Dear Michael, the fag."

Fingers lifted to smear away the streak of blood left behind on his mouth as he sighed impatiently. Breath fluttered against the crookedness of them and caught up all the makings of his cold. The quiet stench of sickness had always nauseated him. As Paul pushed all the old, inactive buttons and waited to see some fantastic, explosive reaction, green eyes rolled dully over to stare. "Tell Anna, I said hello."

Minutes later the door slammed shut so violently that the brass hinges that kept it fixed in place hummed long after the door had rocked back out from its hold. He watched as the writer stalked furiously down the winding line of steps. He was slowly reduced: pinstriped suit sinking into scratched wood until all that was left was a head and then, a trace of strawberry blonde hair. It wasn't until footfalls had faded back down into silence that he dropped hand away from the ruddy palm-print left behind upon one cheek.

[secondhand_stars]

The actual childhood memories that Michael had of his father were few and far between. James Donovan was a shadowy figure upon the landscape of their child's world. More myth than man, he had been there for all the important events on the first row with his shoulders proudly pressed against those of other parents. However small things, simple things were unheard of. There were no trips to the zoo, no weekend getaways to the beach. When the twins went to their summer house, it was with their nanny or Aunt, who had flown in for the month. Their father always stayed behind to work. It was merely what he did.

Just as Lani had always felt excluded from the otherworldly dealings of her brother and aunts (and later husband,) he had never quite fit into the landscape of his home. He lacked that certain fine tuned business mind that everyone had expected, via primogeniture, for him to receive. It was Lani, instead, who was able to talk to their stony, silent father. From childhood, she had been the one to receive winks from their passing father as he marched past the breakfast table to work each morning. Lani, never Michael, took the subway to her father's office to play with stamps and stare wide-eyed at the impressive roster of musicians who filtered in and out of James Donovan's office.

However, there was one memory that Michael had all to his own. It was one that often occupied his mind now that more often than not, the early morning hours were filled with the care of the pianist. As he daubed at throbbing temples with cold rags and dragged fingers reassuringly through tousled hair, he found himself treading backwards.

When he was eight, he had spent a week sick with the flu. At the beginning of that week, he had woke in the middle of the night delirious from fever and chattering with chills. It had been his father who had taken on the role of night nurse that first night. The next day, someone was brought in to care for the quarantined Michael, but in the early morning hours previous it was James who fumbled and blindly searched his way through the care and comfort of his own child. When rag slipped from his grip or touched down too damply upon Harlen's forehead, he was reminded of his own father's touch.

It was a moment captured in time and rendered starry only by illness. Michael doubted his father remembered the event at all. Even if he did, they would never speak of it. It wasn't their way.

Once the headache had vanished as abruptly as it had started up, they crawled back into bed. Spent to the point of utter exhaustion, each slept relatively close to where they fell. It was only later that the gravitational arc would send lanky limbs to tangle to an impossible degree. Stretched out now across the bed with an arm extended out as the other hooked over the edge of the bed, Michael slept heavily. Upon his chest, Harlen's head pressed down into ribs. He breathed shallowly then, rather than force lungs to bolster the weight of the pianist's head.

Behind closed lids, the sticky tangle of sleep began to layer like seaweed. He was dreaming in seascape. The beach was familiar, but it took him a moment to recognize the exact location. Lost, briefly, he turned a circle in the sand and took in the sight. One way was endless sea as the other was a high, rocky cliff-wall. He was home. Spain. The heat should have been his first indicator. It clung likewise to him. Shimmering invisibly like a volatile, shifting screen, it gave everything the impression of movement.

Reaching down, he picked up a skinny branch that had been carelessly tossed from above. It was nearly as high as he was tall and knotted to crookedness with various bends where other, smaller limbs had sprouted and been cruelly snapped off. Rather than use the limb as a walking stick, he allowed it to drag lazily behind him as he padded towards the sea.

The waves were high this time of day. They reminded him of the Japanese screen-paintings he had seen once at a gallery showing. Crests were cartoonishly overdrawn with thick ridges of sea-foam topping dark blue water. They moved aggressively forward and pushed everything minutely further up the coast with each crashing-in. At the heart of one big wave, something pale and unformed sat in its heart like a vestigial member. It wasn't a part of the process. It had no purpose. It merely, was.

As water hit damp packed sand, the object was spat out and revealed. It was a body. No, it was a woman. He could make out her shape and upon the angles of her face and neck, black hair clung like leftover rope upon wreckage. She didn't move. Instead, still as driftwood, she lay in her painfully crooked pose with legs bent out and arms tangled beneath her body. Spine was exposed through the rip in the thin cotton dress she wore.

Casually, he walked towards the woman. Behind him, stick dragged into sand and drew a deep grove from his starting point to an end mark. Cool and unaffected, Michael stared at her indifferently. She was still alive. He could see the vaguest lift and flutter of breath hit her shoulders.

In a moment, the facade broke. He was small now. Childishly so. The woman no longer inspired clinical curiosity, but fear. Helplessness, even. Green eyes lifted from her still frame and flickered around for any sign of assistance. They were alone, however. The beach was abandoned. Sucking in a deep breath, he gathered up his courage and stared back at her. Her position was unchanged. She was still breathing shallowly and limb-tangled. Pulling the limb up from the trench it drew around itself, he lifted it and nudged at her shoulder with the slanted end.

She was unresponsive.

Again, slightly more forcefully, he nudged at her.

This time, the woman moaned weakly and her head lifted minutely from the shell that shoulder made. Casting the branch aside, Michael kneeled before her. Hands reached out and gently turned the rag doll creature onto her back. It was only when palms gripped her shoulders that he realized how alive she was. The insides of his hands burned against the processes of her body: a rush of blood, the collapsing of lungs, how her stomach churned with acid. He gasped and withdrew.

One pale hand lifted with surprising speed and caught around his wrist. She kept his hand locked in midair, though surprise could have done just as efficient of a job. Groaning again softly, opposite hand lifted to smear away the thick bands of hair that blanketed features. Slowly, the pieces of her identity came together. Her eyes were sharp and slanted. When they opened, he would be able to see himself in their dark brown depths. Her nose was delicate and complementary to the point of her chin. Everything about her was orderly and put together. Her cheekbones were like razors.

Her salt-chapped mouth had once been lovely and heart-shaped. Now, it threatened to crack as jaws worked and pulled the papery edges away. As she swallowed, there was a subtle roll of her voice-box. He stared intensely now, afraid to recognize her.

"Miguel," she whispered.

Her eyes snapped open then. They were dark as sin and frighteningly empty. They were the sort of eyes that no mother should have. Most of all, her eyes were the one piece of the puzzle that didn't fit.

Worlds bled together now as his mouth opened to let out a howl of surprise. He screamed openly in his dream. The force of his singular note hit the dreamscape and sent cracks into its thin shell. The sea bled out and transformed into the darkness of their bedroom. The sand was the itchy press of sheets against his bare back. In reality, he gave out little more than a shocked choke. What had been strong and destructive in one world was now little more than a pain in his lungs. He gasped and clawed at his eyes to rub away the hazy, starry effect of his waking.

Later, he would analyze. Now, he stared into the darkness and used the warm frame around him, now overlapping his with knotted ankles and a cutting chin, as an anchor.

[secondhand_stars]

Though the inevitable had happened and night bled into day, the conversation lingered. In his ears, words looped and formed blocks of dialogue over and over again. Soon, it was like listening to two actors practice their lines with a robotic-sort of control. He paced his office anxiously. The lack of space provided for a tight, circular pattern that turned him dizzy easily. Stopping at his desk, he pressed palms ot the flat of it and stared out into the square. Spring was beginning to show its first color upon the branches of the trees and underfoot. It was only a premature budding. One last ice storm would kill out all the newness.
Michael turned eyes towards the plastic phone just alongside one hand. It was an intimidating device now that purpose was attached to it. He envisioned himself carefully dialing in the numbers to his father's office up-town and waiting for the line to click over. It was simple. It was a quick pressing down of a finger tip and waiting game. Yet, he lacked a certain amount of courage necessary to perform the imagined tasks. Reaching out, fingers stilled upon the receiver before falling into a useless pile against its neck.

In the back of his mind, a voice scolded him. No. Harlen was right. He deserved to know his father -- even if he didn't particularly care for who he discovered. And vice versa. Unlike the pianist, his father was alive and nearby. There was no reason for it.

Reluctantly, phone lifted and pressed to the shape of his ear. At the sound of the dialtone, his throat tightened and mouth dried out. Courage threatened to fail him. Dragging in a deep breath, he held it in and kept lungs inflated as number was hastily dialed in. It was a direct connection. He wouldn't have to go through the receptionist that sat at a glossy desk outside his father's office. Instead, a rarely lit light would go off on the panel of his phone and be pressed upon.

"Hello?"

The sound of his father's voice breaking through the frantic wreckage of his thoughts startled him. Choking out, he hastily rid lungs of burning carbon dioxide and drew in a clean breath of air.

"Dad. It's -- Michael."

"Michael. Is everything okay? Your sister--"

"Fine," Michael supplied.

"Right."

The silence that the two men settled into wasn't awkward as much as it was a haven. They descended into their separate spheres though the telephone wire connection kept them tangled and bound together. Michael rifled through the loose composition blue books that were stacked upon his desk. After a moment, he dared to enter the ring again. "How have you been, Dad?"

"Ah --"

A long silence. In the back of his brain, static hummed and whirled to life. He grimaced and reached up to rumple fingers through the overgrown dark of his hair. Against the throbbing pulse of pressure, the heel of his palm rolled.


"I'm doing very well, son. Brilliant, actually."

"Good. I'm glad to hear."

"...And you?"

"Well, also."

"Good."

"I haven't seen you since Lani's wedding."

"Has it been that long?"

The pain ebbed off into a low whine. Concentrating on the composition books in front of him now instead of it, one was pulled from the stack and thumbed through. The writing, though elementary and crude in its penmanship, was a relief and blessed distraction. "Yes," he murmured. "It's been that long. Listen -- Do you want to have dinner sometime?"

"...What? Oh. Sure. Of course. When are you free?"

"My schedule is more or less open."

"Tomorrow at eight?"

Michael choked quietly upon the sudden rise of anxiety that knotted in his throat. Dropping the essay back down upon desk, fingers reached up to hook around his collar and pull the crisp cotton of his oxford away from skin. Tomorrow, eight. It was all so sudden. Too sudden. But, he felt himself crumbling. Nodding mutely, another tug was given to his collar. "Yeah. Sure. Dinner at eight."

"Brilliant. I'll let Alicia know."

"...Do you mind if I bring along a friend?"

"Sure, I don't see why that would be a problem."