Bad Idea

by Damon Suede

  Is he crying?

  “You sorta….” Trip fidgeted. “Got under my skin. Which sounds Hallmark-gaggy, I know. But, tough. Once I started, I couldn’t stop.”

  “Don’t ever.” Silas shook his head. And then he did cry. One tear—tlip—hit the picture’s eye. He sniffed and jogged his head again, smile-frowning and staring at Trip. “Beautiful.” He wasn’t looking at the drawing.

  Trip stopped flapping around and tried to hear him. “Thanks.” Relief soared through him like pigeons scattered by a taxi.

  Silas pawed through the eleven-by-seventeen art boards. A demonic talon slashed at his jailer. Scratch curled in a ball in his cold basement prison. One long panel that could’ve been Silas showering after sex, except for the cloven hooves.

  “God…” An entire page of Scratch’s impish eyes, the brows flared like seagulls above them. “…damn.”

  Silas stopped at a large close-up portrait of his face, just Mr. Goolsby peeking back over his bare shoulder, lips parted in sullen invitation… a perfect likeness except for the small horns that glinted at the top margin beyond the blue border of the comic book art board.

  Go to hell.

  “Is this how you see me?” Silas turned.

  Trip rubbed his head. “Those were just me getting him into my hands. While trying to draw this… him. Scratch. I just….” Trip fell silent.

  “Such a gift. For you to see me like that. To be able to see myself like that and believe.” Head shake. “Believe me.”

  “Just looked. I looked at you and Horny Bastard kinda took over. I mean Scratch.”

  “Horny Bastard?” Silas stood there, loose-limbed and trusting. “Is that what you called him before?”

  “Wait! No.” Agh. Worse and worse. “I didn’t mean you’re a bastard or a sex mania—”

  Silas kissed him.

  Oh.

  “Now, hush. Just let me be overwhelmed and grateful, okay?” Silas tried to pull away.

  More excuses scrambled to the front of Trip’s mouth like incontinent puppies. “Which is an awful thing to—”

  Silas kissed him again, slowly licked his tongue and pulled their hips together, his scarred hands firm on Trip’s butt. This time he drew back more slowly, stoking that odd buzzy electricity they always generated. “Okay?”

  Delicious languor stole over Trip’s limbs and the clock, melting his anxiety. He nodded again, in slow motion. “And his name is not Horny Bastard, I promise.” Trip gathered some of the loose pages into a jumbled pile, tried to hide some of the more salacious drafts on the kitchen table. “I should’ve asked.”

  “Why would I mind? You changed me into a supersmart sex demon with a magic whangdoodle.”

  “He’s not just you… I borrowed parts. But when it just sort of came together, he had your bones and bits and….” Keep on digging that grave, asshole. “I mean, I’m not a fine artist, but you gotta admit that—”

  “He looks like me. Hell yeah!”

  Trip flinched. How strange and terrifying to silently watch Silas comb through the craziest work he’d ever drawn. Totally exposed and totally safe.

  “Trip, I’m not upset.” Silas leaned forward. “Why would I be upset?”

  “I drew you fucking people. A lotta people actually. As a demon! Jesus.” Trip spread his fingers and let invisible sand slip through them. “I feel like such a tool. A jerk, I mean.”

  “Hey, cumming and sneezing use almost all the same muscles, but folks only have issues and guilt about one of them. You want hang-ups, you’re gonna have to go elsewhere.”

  Trip chuckled. “Yeah. I got that part.”

  “You made me a damn hero.” Silas mock-scowled. “If that means I have to be a slutty hellspawn who fucks the truth out of people, I’m so down.”

  “Not a slut.”

  “I’m not? That’s good.” Silas sniffed.

  “Scratch is instinctive. He works on people’s appetites. He eats their pain.” Trip slid a loose sketch of legs closer to the others. “The first book he’s been imprisoned, and then he gets rescued.” Trip realized how that sounded. “Oh—”

  “He does, huh?”

  “I just mean I’m not kicking the series off with a whole Smallville radioactive spider-bite chosen-by-aliens origin thing. Scratch kinda regains his powers. And a nerdy human sidekick helps him get revenge. Isaac.”

  “Uh-huh.” Silas grinned. “A little help from a shy guy with a big, hard talent. I’ll buy that.” He squeezed Trip’s basket.

  “Not like—” Trip blushed and started to backpedal. “I didn’t assume—I’m not trying to say—”

  “I didn’t assume, either. I’m agreeing with you, Mr. Spector. Connections are powerful things.” Silas kissed him. “Hey. Hey! Look here. Look at me.” He lifted Trip’s chin.

  If Silas was annoyed, he hid it behind a convincing mask.

  “I’m just teasing you because I’m so happy. This is the nicest thing anybody ever did for me. I’m honored, Mr. Spector.”

  Trip swallowed, unable to move.

  “I’m a fan, man. Y’see? You made me—I dunno. Knowing that I’m part of it makes me want to buy a thousand copies and send them to all my exes.”

  Trip pretended to gasp in shock. “You have a thousand exes?”

  “No. Well… no. Shut up!” He laughed and dropped a heavy arm over Trip’s neck.

  Trip let the weight tip them together. “Just sorta happened.”

  “That’s even sexier. Happy accident.” He growled. “You can use me in your personal porno creations anytime you wanna.” He bit Trip’s earlobe and sucked it for a second.

  Trip shivered. “Well… porn is interactive. I mean, it’s a picture or a story that milks a feeling out of us. They’re jerking off, and I figure the character should know it. Which even links back to the incubus touch thing.”

  “Like, he’s gonna watch them jerking off to him. Cool.” Silas grinned, all frank kinkiness. Of course he liked that idea.

  Trip grinned. “Yeah… like Deadpool, but less sarcastic. Very meta.”

  “Funny too. And sexy.” Silas bobbed his head. “I like it.”

  How weird to be able to talk about a project, a story, a set of sketches with his… fuckbuddy? Colleague? Boyfriend? Muse? Silas. How strange to see his new hero staring back at him in the musky flesh.

  My own fault.

  “We good?” Silas cocked his head. “I mean Kurt and Cliff and the rest of the gooey zoo.”

  Trip nuzzled his ear and took a breath of his soft scent. “I’m sorry I got jealous.” How stupid to bring Kurt up at all, and was his crush on Cliff that obvious?

  “Likewise.” Silas squeezed him. “Just talk to me. Okay?”

  “Deal.”

  Silas flipped through the portfolio some more, and Trip enjoyed the featherlight smile that played over his mouth as he scrutinized the artwork. So beautiful.

  Silas had a handsome face, but it wasn’t perfect… yet in this moment, in this light, in this room, the planes and lines of that face almost hurt Trip’s heart. For an endless split second, the strange conjunction of imperfections shimmered with appeal.

  For that one odd moment in the half-light, talking to Silas and caring about Silas and sharing the truth with Silas had made him the most beautiful person Trip had ever seen.

  Trip wasn’t blind to the flaws, but they added up to something beyond explanation. They reminded him of something true about the world that made his chest ache and his fingers itch to draw.

  Maybe the clocks had hiccupped. Maybe it was sorcery.

  Maybe knowing Silas had something to do with it. And his own illusions and projections. Drawing and drawing him as Scratch, Trip had tried and failed to find the thread that held it all together.

  He knew how to draw a “perfect” face, just as Silas probably knew how to build one. Most comic characters were built on the basic cultural expectations of beauty, so much so that distinguishing between certain characters was often a matter of millimeters and angle
s. Generic beauty operated as a catchall in comics: the lazy artist’s friend. Give strong men huge arms and solid legs. Give villains arched eyebrows and crooked angles. Give bold women firm jaws and lean builds.

  One tall, dark, handsome champion resembled all the others… they swooped to the rescue beside a legion of boobacious heroines with silky coils of differently tinted hair and barely there costumes.

  But now, looking at Silas in the dull amber glow of the lamp and the streetlight shining through the rain outside, how would he draw the exact bend of his cheek and the aggressive slope of his nose in a way that would catch this feeling?

  Impossible.

  Trip’s scrutiny revealed more questions than answers, an artistic cul-de-sac. He stared, and a trail of details beckoned and teased: the low rise of delicate bone behind Silas’s small ear, the width of his scarred knuckles when he closed his hands, the lush swell of his lower lip under the thin upper.

  On the wall, the second hand advanced by one.

  “What?” Silas was watching him.

  Trip grinned back. “Just looking at you.”

  Silas furrowed his brow.

  “All—” Trip closed his mouth and opened it for a moment before answering. He smiled softly at Silas. “Good.”

  Silas dropped his gaze and bowed his head slightly. “You’re giving me goose bumps, watching me like that. Your eyes are so dark.”

  “Scary.” Trip’s skin flushed with warmth.

  “Nuh-uh.”

  “Sorry.” Trip squinted at the window and pulled Silas closer. “I don’t want you to worry.”

  “Why would I?” Silas shrugged one shoulder. “What’s the point? Worrying is praying for something you don’t want.”

  “Fair enough.” Trip laughed and sighed, loved that he’d fucked up and come clean and no sky had fallen. The girls had it right; he’d gambled and won.

  Not such an awful idea.

  Silas shook his head at the floorboards. “Y’know, you could just take him directly to the fans.”

  “Who?” After a moment, Trip realized Silas meant Scratch. “Oh.” He shrugged. “How?”

  “The other pros know you, right? Artists and suits?”

  Did they? “Sure.” All the creators knew each other because they all ate and drank together those weekends. Plus, the Image and Top Cow teams always came by to say hey. Kevin Kiniry from DC Merchandising invariably checked in to see if Trip would consider illustrating some trading cards or toy packaging. Hero High had made fanboys of a couple of Vertigo editors. Come to think of it, Cliff liked to pretend those folks sniffed around Big Dog for co-branding. “Yeah. A bunch of them know me.”

  “Maybe you should ask some of them for advice.”

  Trip shrugged. “Scratch isn’t even done. And those guys aren’t gonna help with a queer sex comic.”

  “How do you know?”

  Trip frowned. Truth was, all those guys probably knew he was gay, though he’d never said anything. Nobody’s business but his own. Showing them Scratch would change the way they saw him, and maybe not for the better. “I don’t, I guess.”

  Silas grinned. “So ask one of ’em. Whoever you think will be cool with the idea.”

  Sensible, if scary.

  Trip glanced back at the Scratch portfolio. He was a sexy bastard. And Silas’s pleasure in the drawings only sweetened his pride. Even if nothing else ever happened with this crazy book, he’d know he’d done something right because of that tenderness on Mr. Goolsby’s face.

  Silas leaned over and pressed his cheek against Trip’s upper chest, that slight hollow by the clavicle he’d claimed as his. He flipped to the next page; this one showed a head-to-toe profile that emphasized the jut of Scratch’s pecs and ass, as well as the square jawline. Then a double page crayon top-down view of Scratch on all fours, the flare of his back exaggerated by the perspective. “God, I think I wanna fuck me now.”

  “You see my problem.” Trip groped the lump in his pants.

  “Well, I definitely have a solution.”

  “You kidding?” Trip turned. “You are a solution.”

  “Yeah?”

  Trip shrugged. “Oh yeah.” He walked toward Silas and backed him against the table.

  “Wait! I don’t wanna—”

  “Paper.” Trip pushed the sketchbook and portfolio off the surface and onto the floor. “It’s just paper.” He pushed Silas and stepped between his legs.

  Silas resisted with a chuckle.

  “Oh really?” Trip dipped his head and peered up through his lashes. “I’m not gonna take a no.”

  Silas slid off the table’s edge, without pulling any pages down with him.

  15

  SILAS needed to rescue Scratch from his creator. Trip might not be ready, but Scratch was.

  First, he lured Trip out to Silvercup near the end of March to see some of the shoot and hang with him in the trailer.

  “Mr. Spector.” Silas braced his back against the frame of the makeup trailer door and crossed his arms.

  “Mr. Goolsby.” Trip ambled across the concrete toward the trailer. He looked exhausted, but the grin on his face grew until it showed teeth. “A sight for sore eyes.”

  Trip walked right into his shady space for a hello peck.

  Silas loved the way Trip held the back of his skull firmly and kept their mouths together for a few breaths. In semipublic, even. He had loosened up about little things.

  “God that feels good.” Trip stole another kiss. “Hello.”

  “You better be hungry and horny. I’m nearly done.” Silas opened the door to the trailer and let Trip pass.

  He cracked his neck and Silas winced.

  “Yes, please.” Trip dropped his backpack by the door. “Like you wouldn’t fucking believe.”

  Inside, Silas stepped closer and ran a hand over Trip’s scalp. “When was the last time you slept, mister?”

  Trip twisted his face into comical horror. “No idea. I’ve got so many pages due. I took a nap at one point.”

  Silas nodded. He knew better than to ask about meals. Trip’s hands jittered, and the stubble on his cheeks was as long as the dark bristle on his scalp. When he got into studio mode, Trip lived on sugar, salt, and caffeine, with occasional servings of processed meat-goo.

  “Was the subway crowded?” Silas wiped his hands on the towel over his shoulder.

  “Took a car service ’cause I worried about getting lost.” Trip shrugged. “Crappy comics pay me well.”

  Silas fidgeted. Must be nice. He covered his bills, but even now, at twenty-nine, he lived his life hand to mouth. Showbiz had never paid steady.

  Trip blinked at him sleepily. “What are you making?” He glanced across the table at the buckets Silas had plonked on the floor.

  “I’m repairing, actually. It’s a cowl.” Silas picked the hood-thing up with one forearm inside it, a faceless head and neck. “I should have cast in silicone, but we didn’t have time and it’s more expensive.”

  Trip shrugged. “Freaky.”

  “I rushed and it’s humid, so I ended up with huge steam pockets. Moisture builds up in the molds sometimes… it leaves ugly pits and crimps when you’re baking your foam. So I spent all morning repairing shit because I rushed yesterday.”

  Trip grimaced in sympathy. “Sorry.”

  “Not your fault. I’m almost done, if you wanna siddown.” Silas wiped his chair off with his towel. “Five minutes tops. I thought Francesca would take longer to show you around.”

  “She was great. Then they asked to clear the room.”

  “Nudity.” They were shooting Leigh Ann’s lap dance for the mob boss. She’d worked with the choreographer for two days, and Silas had spent fifty minutes getting her holographic body glitter right because he loved her so much.

  Trip grimaced and shivered. “Ugh. In front of a crowd. I could never.”

  “Yeah. Actors get thick-skinned quick.” Silas bent over to dig in his kit. “I have a surprise for you.”

  �
��No way.”

  “It’s nothing serious. I goofed around with a batch of PlatSil, and I had an idea. They need paint, but I wasn’t sure about the colors.”

  “What are they?”

  Silas held the little appliance over the bridge of his nose. “Scratch’s horns. I thought if you ever wanted to cosplay Scratch at a con, you’d have a set of good horns, teeth, claws, y’know?”

  “Cosplay?”

  “Dressing up as characters at a public event. A great way to promote a new title too. Like Miss Rina’s zombie wedding.”

  “I could never.” Trip gaped in horror. “That kind of attention would freak me out.”

  “Actually, that’s what gave me the idea. I thought that the costume might buffer everything. It would promote for you, and you’d be off the hook, sorta.”

  Trip seemed hypnotized by the texture. “How do you—” He picked up the horns and rested them against his forehead.

  “You build it for the face. Usually when I’m experimenting, I use a cast of my head so I can test it on me first.” Silas winked. “That’s why I’m such a badass every Halloween. If you’re game, we’d have to do a mold of yours with Alginate.”

  No immediate protest. “Doesn’t feel like I expected.”

  “This is silicone. It feels organic. Or at least not like rubber.” Silas smirked and rumbled in his manliest voice. “Are you denying the snazzy of that?”

  Trip regarded him uncertainly.

  “The Tick?” Silas gawped. “C’mon! Greatest television ever devised, I’m telling you.”

  Trip squeezed the horns.

  Silas leaned closer. Not too shabby. “Foam latex rots, so I’m gonna run most of it in silicone, for the translucency. Takes a little longer, but it won’t read ‘cheap Halloween mask.’” He pawed through his kit for a Bondo canine and held it up. “I can recycle the teeth and claws with a couple modifications. The real issue will be painting, because I won’t have a team, but I can prepaint a lot before application. I’m good at dressing up.”

  “Does it hurt?” Trip eyeballed the chair with suspicion.

  “Not at all.” Silas tapped the spatula against the bowl. “The most uncomfortable thing is that you have to lie there while it sets up.”