A red tainted Silence (70 page)

So, anyway. We were at this guy’s house, Nicholas and I. I think it was just after our first number one, when I found myself surrounded by a group of people -- and him. James Rivers, his name was. I remembered. He started fawning over Nicholas, saying hey, if we ever got tired of our current situation, to look him up, he’d do right by us. Nicholas was dazzled by the attention -- it still hadn’t really hit him, what was going on, the power he had. He was still so like a little kid then, staring in disbelief at the magic taking place around him, naively unaware that he was the cause of it all.

But I knew.

I looked Rivers square in the eye. “You mean you want to represent Nicholas? Nicholas Kilmain, who you once said screamed like a stuck pig in heat, whose shallow lyrics you wouldn’t use to wipe your ass? Nicholas Kilmain, who even if he did get anywhere with his music, it would be only fit enough to entertain drunken fags?” Okay, it was something to that effect. Maybe not the exact words, but close.

Nicholas stared at me in shock. “When did he say that? We’ve never even met him before.”

I grinned and held my glass up to our manager Steven, who was also there. “Not in person. But we encountered him, all right. About five rejections before Steven recognized the brilliance that is you.” I turned to Rivers then. “By the way, I didn’t get to say it then.

But fuck you.” Then I flipped him the finger and walked off.

I heard Nicholas sputter something, then come after me. But instead of the chastising I expected, he threw himself into my arms -- something he rarely did by then. I laughed, hugging him back, and we escaped that party, a bemused Steven accompanying us, more than a few people wondering about the quick kiss Nicholas gave me, but which I quickly covered by grabbing him by the neck and rubbing my knuckles on his head, making him laugh.

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By then, I was well practiced at covering for Nick’s occasional slips. Not even Steven knew Nicholas and I were lovers. By then we lived in separate houses, and Nick’s continued marriage to Karen, though not exactly something I liked, had proven to be quite useful. He’d started to wear his ring, and though it seared my heart to see it, I knew it was the right thing to do.

That night, though, was a long ways away from that hot day at the end of December, when Nicholas first started to come down with a cold that would put him in bed for a week.

But would also put him there, with me, when we finally got the news we’d dreamed of getting -- and I’d feared we never would.

* * * * *

“I’m sorry, baby. What can I get you? Some more soup?” I sat wearily in the chair, ready to forget my own tiredness if he wanted something.

He lay back with a thump on his pillow. “I hate soup. I never want soup again, ever, ever, ever, okay?”

A whole bag of soup cans sat on the counter in back of me, but I nodded. “Okay.”

“I want a prime rib.”

I laughed. “But you’re a vegetarian.”

He sighed, closing his eyes. Drew the blanket up to his chin. He had the chills, had on both his robe and mine underneath the blankets and was still cold. “Right now I’d eat a whole cow if it would make me better.”

I smirked at that. “I won’t hold you to it. You’ll get better. You’ll see. We’ll rest all weekend, and by Monday you’ll feel fine.”

He noticed then that I’d slipped on my shoes. “Where you going?”

“To check the post.”

“Why bother?”

I grimaced, stared at the box that held all our rejections. Almost all, that is. Except for those I tore up to protect Nicholas. I’d marked them as “no response” on our checklist. “Hey, you never know. We could hear from one of the sweepstakes places today. We could be millionaires.”

He laughed bitterly at that. “Like that will ever happen,” he said, his voice trailing off into a sigh. He grabbed another tissue and wiped his eyes, then turned to me and held out his hand. I smiled, reached out, and took it, letting him pull me to the bed. My heart thumped wildly as he looked at me, touched my cheek. We hadn’t kissed in days, much less made love; he was too afraid of making me sick. This was his third really bad cold since I’d known 414

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him. They always affected his voice, and that worried me. I reached for his medicine and shook two pills out, handing them to him.

“Swallow these like a good boy.”

He wrinkled his nose. “They taste like chalk. Do I have to take them?” he whined.

“Yes. You won’t get better if you don’t.”

He pouted at me, but I gave him a stern look. He took the meds, whimpering as he lay back. I pulled the covers back over him. “You’re not dying, you know.”

“I feel like it. You don’t look so good yourself.” I sighed. “I think I might be getting your cold.” He thumped the bed. “I knew I shouldn’t have let you sleep with me. I breathed all my nasty germs on you.”

I laughed, then grabbed a tissue and blew my nose. I really did feel sick-tired, sort of dizzy even. “I wasn’t about to sleep on the floor. I’ll be fine.”

“Where are you going?”

“To get the post, bonehead. Remember? I haven’t checked in a few days.”

“Oh. Isn’t everything back now?”

I bent down and laced my shoes. I paused as I looked at them -- I’d grabbed my running shoes. I hadn’t done any running since we’d left Murrieta, I realized. Not that I missed it. I’d never really liked it anyway, but just had been ... compelled, I guess you’d say, to keep it up.

My stomach clenched, and I wrapped an arm around myself, took a deep breath.

“Brandon, you okay?”

I took a deep breath and nodded, willed my stomach to relax. Finally it did, and I tied my other shoe. “Yeah. You don’t have a stomachache or anything, do you?”

“No. Except from throwing up. I threw up so much this morning I thought I was going to make my stomach explode.”

I grimaced at him, and a wave of sympathetic nausea roiled over me. I really wasn’t feeling so hot, I realized. “Thanks for sharing that. I hate throwing up.”

“You think I like it? Go check and hurry up. I want to snuggle. I’m cold.” I laid my hand on his forehead. He still felt so hot. Hopefully the meds would bring his temperature down again fast. “I’ll hurry. Don’t answer the phone if anyone calls, okay? You need to save your voice.”

He closed his eyes and nodded. “Okay,” he whispered. “Hurry back to me, Brandon.” I leaned over and kissed him on his forehead. Figured if I was getting sick already, there wasn’t a reason not to. “I will.”

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I left the apartment, headed for our post box. It was hot without any clouds in the sky.

The sun beat down on me, making me feel dizzy. I really needed to eat more than I was, I guessed. I’d just gotten paid, but almost all the money went to meds for Nicholas. All I’d been able to buy was more soup. And like Nicholas, I was really getting sick of soup.

I took a deep breath, trying to breathe in something besides the stench-laden air. I passed a couple of guys Nicholas talked to occasionally, but didn’t stop -- I’d insisted we keep our living together as quiet as possible. We existed in a little vacuum, Nicholas and I, a small circle of hope and love surrounded by depression and blight.

The neighborhood we lived in was gay-friendly, but rough. Too many of our neighbors were like us -- young, in love, rejected by their families. And damn poor. Not that Nick and I were rejected, but my dad had pretty much made it clear I wasn’t to come back around the house unless he was gone.

The last time I’d stopped by to see my mom -- and get the money she insisted I come get -- my dad came back home with Adam from the grocery store. Adam had moved back home, which my dad had allowed with open arms. The bastard. I was in my old room, which my dad planned to make into a study, getting the last of my books to take with me, when Adam walked by. I’d just picked up the book where I’d hidden the little pictures of Nicholas.

Adam startled me -- the pictures slid out of the book, fluttering to the floor.

“What the fuck’s this?” Adam said, all innocence, swooping down and snatching one up. I knew from my mom that he’d known about the pictures, so he wasn’t fooling me. I grabbed for it, but he was quicker.

“Give it back, Adam.”

But he danced out of my reach and started to laugh. “Look at this, it’s Nicholas. And didn’t he look sweet back then? So cute and innocent, so fuckable.” I grabbed for him, but he jumped on my bed. I gave up. Pushing it would make his taunting continue, and I’d about had enough of my brother. I put the rest of the pictures back in the book and put it in my box.

“What, you giving up that easily? Of course, you have the real thing now, don’t you.

No money to eat on, but you can eat each other, huh?” He jumped off the bed and shoved the picture in my jeans pocket. He laughed at my frustrated snarl, leaned close to me, and whispered in my ear. “Tell me, little brother. Which of those did you jerk off to every night?

I used to hear you, you know.”

I wrenched from his grasp. “Cut it out, Adam.”

He laughed, then threw himself on my bed onto his back, crossing his feet and putting his hands beneath his head. “You thought you were being quiet. It was hilarious. Oh, oh, oh, Nicholas! Baby! Make me come, baby. I wanna come!” He started to buck on my bed. My face flamed, and I picked up the box and left the room.

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He jumped off the bed and followed me. “What’s wrong, Brandon? That’s what you said. I heard you. Nick, Nick, Nick, make me scream, Nick. Oh, yes, suck my cock, Nick!” I whirled on him. “Shut the fuck up!”

He threw his hands up, his eyes lit in mock horror. “What’s the matter, Brandy boy?

Afraid the parents will hear you jerked off to a little picture? I’m sure they know already.

You’re really loud. A screamer. Did you pretend he was in there with you, yanking your dick?” I turned away from him and headed down the hallway, anger spurring my steps. He stayed on my heels. “Which one of you is top, Brandon? I sure as hell bet you aren’t. You’re the fucking girl, aren’t you? You the wifey, Brandon? Do you let Nicholas stick his little bitty dick up your ass, wifey boy?”

I dropped the box, whirled around, and punched him in the face. He stumbled against the wall, knocking a picture off. It crashed to the floor, glass flying everywhere. Then he came after me, swinging wildly.

I went nuts. Hunger, frustration, fear, worry over the futility of what we were doing, and fury at Adam’s taunting took hold of me then and I went after him. We fell to the floor, the glass cutting me on the arm, pummeling each other until my dad came roaring in, jerking us apart.

We were both cut and bleeding, and I’d never felt so much hate for any one person in my life as I did then.

“What the fuck are you boys doing?”

“Brandon’s nuts, Dad. He punched me.”

“Only because you wouldn’t leave me alone!” I took a step toward Adam -- he backed up, right into Mom.

“What is this all about?” my dad demanded.

I stared at Adam -- and he grinned. Blood trickled from his nose and his eye was swelling, and he fucking grinned at me. “I’ll tell you if he won’t,” he said.

“No!” I yelled, then leaped for him.

My dad pushed me against the wall. My head snapped back, and I cried out, which made Adam laugh all the harder.

“Brandon!” I slumped to the ground as my mom knelt beside me, brushing my hair from my face. “Honey, are you all right? What is this all about?” My face heated as I stared up at my brother. He leered at me, mouthed, Momma’s boy.

Hatred rolled through me, but he just grinned, pulled the book out of the box, and yanked out a picture of Nicholas. “Caught Brandon jerking off to this.” Stunned, I stared as my dad took the picture, disgust reddening his face. He crumpled it, then threw the paper at me while Adam laughed and my mom tried to soothe me.

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“Leave me alone,” I said, pushing off the wall. My heart clenched -- that was the first time I ever rejected my mom, but I didn’t need her babying me, not in front of Adam.

“Don’t you dare leave, Brandon Ashwood,” my dad said.

“Leave me the fuck alone!” I grabbed the box and ran through the house to my car, bloodied, cut, humiliated. I threw the box into the back seat and sensed my mom coming after me, but I slid in and slammed the door shut.

“Brandon --”

I looked up at her. “I wasn’t doing that. He lied.”

“I know, dear.”

“Why, Mom? Why do they hate me so much?”

“They don’t hate you. Brandon, please come back inside.”

“No. I’m not going back in there. I just want to go.” I started the car and took off. When I reached our apartment, Nicholas had been home, so I hadn’t been able to hide the cuts from him. The scene that followed then was almost as bad. Nick’s a soft kind of guy until he’s angry. I almost had to beg him not to drive to my parent’s house and add a few more bruises to Adam’s face.

“Hey, you getting your mail or what?”

I startled, realizing I stood in front of the mailboxes, our key in my hand. I’d lost myself, hadn’t realized what I was doing. I looked up to see Mrs. Parkson, one of our neighbors, staring at me. “Sorry. Was just thinking about something.” She gave me a funny look. “Hurry up. I’m expecting a letter from my sister.”

“Oh, yeah, okay. Sorry, Mrs. Parkson.” I keyed our mailbox and opened it, my heart sinking as I saw the mail stuffed inside. I hadn’t had the heart to check it lately, hadn’t wanted Nicholas to suffer through more rejections while he was so sick.

I pulled everything out and sorted through them real quick. It wasn’t much. Bills, circulars, and ... My heart skipped a beat. One of the people we’d sent our demo to had written back.

“Son, I’d really like to get my mail.”

I looked up. “Oh, sorry. I’m sorry.”

She frowned, then said, “Are you okay? Bad news?”

“I -- I don’t know.”

I tucked all the mail underneath my arm except for the letter and headed back toward our apartment. Sliding my finger in the corner, I ripped it open, then stopped. Stared at the letterhead. I began to shake. “Oh, my God,” I whispered, staring at the words. “Oh, my God.” Dear Mr. Kilmain and Mr. Ashwood, I reviewed the demo tape you sent me and would like to talk to you at your earliest convenience --