Death of a Bachelor

by M. A. Hinkle

  Cathal shrugged. “Yes, well, I never would have bet on Leonardo DiCaprio winning an Oscar, and yet here we are.”

  Damon smiled, finally. Letting that go felt good. “Leo earned that Oscar. Don’t talk shit.”

  “If I didn’t talk shit, I’d never talk at all.” But he was smiling in a quiet, satisfied sort of way. It was good to look at.

  “I wish,” Damon said. Then Cathal dumped the popcorn on his head.

  AFTER THEY CLEANED up the couch, they ended up watching Jessica Jones, because Felix wouldn’t shut up about it. They got into an argument about whether Krysten Ritter or evil David Tennant was better looking, but otherwise, they mostly sat in silence. And not a bad one either. They were both just…thinking.

  Or Damon was, anyway. When Netflix asked him if he was still watching, he turned to ask Cathal if they were done for the night, only to see that Cathal had slumped over against the middle cushion of the couch, asleep. He’d tucked his hands up under his face, and he was frowning in his sleep. Damon reached to wake him, and then stopped, his hand hovering over Cathal’s hair.

  If he woke Cathal, Cathal would say something stupid, and Damon would get distracted and lose his train of thought. Now, with the TV quiet and Cathal asleep, maybe….maybe he could figure it out.

  He leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest, and tried to recapture the thought that had been out of reach before.

  Cathal had done nothing but help since Era died. Grudgingly. Sarcastically. But Damon couldn’t claim he’d been eager to be helped. Eventually, Damon would have come out of his room and found a way back to living by himself, but he wouldn’t have gotten as far without Cathal yelling at him every step of the way. Life without Era wasn’t good, by any stretch of the imagination. But when he was working with George—or when he was spending time with Cathal—he could see his way further down the path, to a point where he wouldn’t wake up every morning feeling like someone had sucked all the air out of the room.

  Why? Why had Cathal been able to help him when everyone else annoyed him?

  This whole time, he’d thought he’d been tolerating Cathal—that he was looking forward to the day when Cathal walked out of his door and never came back. When he would have the house to himself again. When someone wouldn’t be pulling on his arm, telling him to get off his ass and do something to make himself feel better. To make himself be better.

  Except none of that was true. He wanted Cathal around. Not only because Cathal helped him think more clearly, or because he could always argue Damon out of his depressive ruts, but because Cathal would forget to eat if you didn’t remind him. Because he would pretend he didn’t give a shit about anyone or anything if you let him. Because…because maybe he needed someone to take care of him as much as Damon did.

  How was Damon supposed to tell him all that? If he said anything, it would come out wrong. Cathal would make fun of him for it, and Damon would try to pretend like he never thought it at all.

  What else could he do to make his point?

  SOME TIME LATER, Cathal came awake. Damon was watching sports with the sound turned down. He hadn’t noticed that Cathal was up, so Cathal took the moment to study him, pretending it wasn’t for his own pleasure.

  Damon’s color had improved—his shade of pale was closer to “mushroom growing under a rock” versus “could be auditioning for Gollum.” The dark circles under his eyes had faded, although he still wasn’t getting a lot of sleep. And he was sitting up straight instead of slouching. Most importantly, no undercurrent of tension held him stiff. Despite Damon’s troubling words, he was doing better. Cathal couldn’t pretend it didn’t ease his heart.

  “You pick weird places to nap,” said Damon without looking at Cathal.

  Cathal wondered if he’d been caught staring. He forced back a blush and straightened up, pushing his hair out of his eyes. The pieces of his hair tie fell into his hands, and he scowled at them. “A couch is a normal place to take a nap, thank you.”

  “The couch is, but you take naps other places, and they’re weird. I’m surprised Era never found you curled up under your desk at work.” His voice was quieter than Cathal was used to.

  Cathal had slumped over in his sleep, which meant now that he was sitting up, they were hip to hip and shoulder to shoulder. Cathal tried to insist he didn’t care for this either, but that was a lie as blatant as any Felix told when the Lucky Charms box was empty. Cathal wanted to lean against Damon and go back to sleep.

  “I don’t sleep under my desk when I sleep at work. I sleep in the teacher’s lounge. Or the lab. Obviously.” Despite himself, his lips quirked in a smile. Waking up and finding Damon there was nice. He was so solid you could almost pretend he’d be there forever. Almost.

  Damon leaned forward, reaching for a stainless steel water bottle Cathal had never seen.

  “Is that actually water?” said Cathal, raising his eyebrows.

  Damon made a face at him over the rim. “Yes, not that it’s any of your business.”

  “Since when were you all eco-friendly?”

  Damon turned it, revealing the logo of The Jasmine Unicorn. Cathal slumped against the couch.

  “Why don’t you like George?” Damon’s voice was soft.

  Cathal bit the inside of his cheek to keep himself still. “I don’t like anyone.” It wasn’t a real answer, and he knew it.

  Worse, Damon knew it. “Yes, but you really don’t like George, which is weird, because usually when we run into another gay man, the two of you link arms and throw shade at everyone in the room.”

  Cathal kept looking at the TV, even though it was off. “Since when did you know the phrase ‘throw shade’?” His voice was sharp, not light. “That’s the wrong generation, anyway. Gays my age are catty.”

  Damon said nothing—in that irritating way of his—and it made Cathal want to spill everything. “Something about him rubs me the wrong way, that’s all. I don’t get along with most people. Again, you know this.”

  “I do.”

  Cathal glared at him. “But?”

  “I didn’t say anything.” Cathal kept glaring at him, and Damon shifted. “Cathal—” He turned, suddenly, so their faces were right next to each other. Cathal kept the scowl on his face by sheer willpower, even though he wanted to squeak like a schoolgirl at her first dance. “I don’t understand you at all.” Damon’s voice was almost a whisper.

  “And in that, we are perfectly matched,” said Cathal.

  Then Damon kissed him.

  Damon was a hesitant kisser—soft, gentle, not grabby. Cathal wondered when he’d last kissed someone outside of a hookup at a club or a cruising spot. He couldn’t remember, and the thought made his stomach twist.

  Or it would have, anyway, if his stomach wasn’t already in knots because Damon was kissing him.

  Cathal wanted nothing more than to lean into the kiss, to climb on Damon’s lap and let the cards fall where they would. As it was, he couldn’t help but open his mouth, inviting Damon to deepen the kiss—which he did, although the movement of his mouth remained slow. Cathal could count on one hand the number of times he’d been kissed with such care, and even though he knew he needed to stop this before it spiraled out of control, he couldn’t.

  He just wanted this moment to last forever. He tangled his fist in Damon’s shirt, his only concession to desire, but Damon didn’t take the invitation. Damon’s hand crept up into Cathal’s hair, twining through the loose strands. Cathal wore his hair long because he liked the way it looked, not because he cared what anyone else thought, but he’d never realized how nice it was to have someone stroke it. Damon was gentle, as Cathal was starting to realize he would be about everything.

  Cathal lost track of how long they kissed—it was the longest he’d spent simply kissing since he’d left his teens behind.

  It was blissful, and that was the worst, but Cathal couldn’t even concentrate on how it was going to end soon. He was too caught up.

  Then the front door
crashed open.

  Cathal jumped back like he’d been shocked; Damon remained on the couch, looking startled. His lips were swollen with kissing. It was a good look for him.

  “Who’s there?” Damon called, his voice rough. Cathal didn’t remember untucking Damon’s shirt, though he did remember smoothing his fingers along the line of hair that disappeared under his jeans.

  “It’s me, Dad!” Felix leaned in the doorway of the living room, looking dazed. He was also dripping wet, but it didn’t seem to bother him. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to bang the door like that. The wind blew it open.”

  Cathal moved aside so Damon could get up.

  “What happened?” Damon asked, getting to his feet. “You’re a mess.”

  Felix blushed tomato red and said nothing.

  “What happened?” Damon repeated.

  “Uh—” Felix glanced at Cathal. His blush darkened. “It’s kind of a long story.”

  Cathal got to his feet automatically. “Do you need some advice?” It felt so easy asking now. Still confusing, but not difficult anymore.

  But Felix fidgeted. “Um—I wanna talk to Dad, actually.”

  Cathal pretended interest in the pillows they’d knocked aside. “Oh. All right.”

  Damon looked at Cathal, and Cathal made a shooing gesture, fixing Damon with a glare he didn’t actually feel. Damon glanced back at Cathal before he herded Felix out, but Cathal avoided his eyes. Not that he could focus on anything in the room anyway. His vision had gone blurry.

  After he heard Felix’s door close, Cathal made himself go upstairs instead of staring dumbly at the empty spaces where Era’s pictures belonged. He shut the guest room door and locked it. He’d come to think of it as his room, but everything, from the pretty quilt that forced Cathal to make his bed in the morning to the cactus in the window, had been Era’s choice.

  He sat on his bed slowly, like he was in a dream. And he had been in a dream. His best friend was dead, and here he’d been, treating her son like his own, giving him romance advice and sticking his nose in his business. Kissing Damon on the couch littered with the cute Easter pillows she’d bought years ago. He’d been pretending he was a part of this life, when that couldn’t be further from the truth. He belonged holed up in his apartment, eating ramen noodles out of a cup while he skimmed research articles. Alone.

  He realized he was crying, brokenly, the way he had after his family kicked him out. The way he’d never shown anyone else. Not even Era. Even to her, he pretended nothing mattered. That she didn’t matter. And now he could never tell her she was the only thing that ever did. He’d never tell her anything again.

  Eleven: Metaphors Are Bad Enough. Similes Give Damon Hives.

  DAMON WAS TOO thrown off by his own actions to argue with his son. A few hours ago, he would have given anything for Felix to come to him first for advice, but now he was wishing his son would have held off. Damon had never initiated a first kiss.

  He couldn’t even blame it on being drunk, but he didn’t want to blame it on anything—it felt right at the time, and it still felt right, and fuck that was weird. He had his own sorting out to do. So maybe Felix’s return was a good thing.

  Felix sat on his bed, and Damon shut the door by leaning against it. “What are you doing back already? It’s not anywhere near your curfew.”

  Felix fidgeted, biting his lip. “Well, um. Somebody brought beer to the party, so Mr. Lewis kicked us all out.”

  “What?” said Damon, straightening up.

  “I didn’t have any!” Felix’s stricken expression meant he was telling the truth. “A bunch of kids showed up, not even all people who were in the play. And I guess somebody got the wrong idea. I don’t really know, though. I was sort of hiding in Gareth’s room the whole time.”

  “Sort of hiding?” Maybe it was a good thing Cathal wasn’t running this conversation. He couldn’t abide Felix’s method of storytelling, which involved a lot of dancing around the point. Damon thought getting frustrated with someone for dancing around the point made them dance around the point more, but Cathal never listened.

  He never listened to anything. Damon put his hands in his pockets so he wouldn’t pass them over his mouth.

  “Sort of,” Felix repeated, pulling his knees up to his chest. “I was just—” He paused and hid his face in his knees, taking in a deep breath. Then he lifted his head again. “I was feeling really sad about Mom, and I didn’t want to talk to anyone else because they were all in a good mood after the play, so we hung out by ourselves. And I played him a song that he helped the band with. And we talked about feelings. And he—told me he liked me.”

  “Wait, Gareth did?” Damon asked. “The bad twin. Not Morgan.”

  Felix hugged his knees tighter, nodding, too embarrassed to speak. Damon wasn’t sure if he was embarrassed because he had to talk about liking people in general or Gareth in particular. Maybe both.

  “Morgan and I, um, we talked about. Everything. A while ago.” Felix rubbed his cheek, as though to erase the blush he was so famous for. “It turns out he doesn’t like me. Well, I mean, he likes me. As a friend. But he doesn’t like anybody, you know, romantically. And I know I should have said something to you guys, but I’m not, like, upset about it. Morgan’s been going through some—stuff. He’s not sure what kind of stuff yet, but he’s gotta work through it before he can even think about other people.”

  Damon pushed off the door and sat beside Felix. Felix leaned into him, although he avoided his father’s eyes. “So…how do you feel about that?”

  Felix shifted his weight a few times before answering. “I dunno. There’s…something else I haven’t told you and Cathal about.”

  Damon raised his eyebrows. He doubted his son was talking about anything bad, but it was always good to be prepared.

  “Not anything like that. It’s…well, Gareth and I have had to spend a lot of time together because of the whole playing each other’s spouses thing. And he’s…not so bad. He has no filter, I guess, but…he’s actually really nice. He just acts like he isn’t for some reason. I think maybe he’s used to people picking on Morgan because Morgan’s so shy, but I dunno, really. I’ve …learned a lot about him, I guess.”

  “And how do you feel about all that?” Usually Damon got lost when Felix insisted on explaining every single piece of backstory before explaining his problems, but sorting through all of it did make for a good distraction from Cathal.

  “I don’t know.” Felix laced his fingers together. “I…I think maybe I was going after Morgan because it felt good and not because it felt right. I was honestly kind of relieved when he turned me down, and I thought things were going back to normal, but now Gareth—” He broke off, looking away. “He’s actually helped me with a lot of stuff. And I like having him around. But I don’t know if that means anything more than normal, and I dunno when I’ll get a chance to talk to him, since Morgan told me they’re both grounded. And I thought finally liking somebody would tell me where I fit in or how I identify or whatever, but it all feels more confusing than ever.”

  Felix curled a strand of hair around his finger. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you the truth. You and Cathal really liked that I liked Morgan, but…I don’t know.”

  “Were you afraid we’d judge you if you liked someone else?”

  Felix rocked his head back and forth. “You’d be all confused and I’d have to explain, I guess. And I don’t know how to explain. I still don’t even know how I feel.”

  Damon rubbed the back of his neck. “Not that I’m not happy that you came to me to talk about this, but I am surprised. You’ve had good luck with Cathal, strange as that is to say.”

  Felix looked at him for the first time, his eyes bright. “But that’s the thing. You hated Cathal at first, but then you realized he’s not so bad, and now you guys are getting along, and I thought…maybe you could tell me how that worked. I guess.” He tipped his head back. “This is complicated and I don’t like it.”

 
; “Life is always like that, kiddo. I wish I could tell you what I’ve figured out, but the truth is, I have no idea. I’m about as useful for advice as… I don’t know. Something that’s not good for advice.”

  Felix swung his legs. “I guess it’s good to know you don’t know what’s going on either. That’s what I wanted. Cathal always sounds like he’s so sure.”

  Damon was about to agree, but then he remembered the surprise in Cathal’s eyes when their lips met, the tentative nature of his movements. “If you need someone to be confused with, you came to the right place.”

  “I know, Dad.” Felix leaned against him, heaving an oversized sigh. “I think I wanna go to sleep now. Maybe I’ll feel better when I wake up.”

  Damon patted his shoulder. “Good strategy. Now I’m trusting you to actually go to bed and not stay up all night on Snapchat or whatever.”

  “Dad.” Felix rolled his eyes. “Obviously I’d be on Tumblr. But I really am tired.”

  WHEN DAMON STEPPED out into the hallway, he realized he had no idea what he wanted to do next.

  Well. He did know. He wanted to rewind to the part where he was kissing Cathal, so they could discuss what that meant, but that wasn’t going to happen. So how would he get back to that point?

  He went to the stairs and peered down them for a sign that Cathal was still there. The TV wasn’t on, but he couldn’t remember if they’d been watching anything.

  He went to Cathal’s door instead and listened. Within, he heard papers shuffling and furniture being rearranged, so Cathal had come up here while he was talking to Felix.

  If Damon went to his bedroom without reaching out, Cathal would act like none of this had ever happened. Damon had seen firsthand how good the other man was at concealing his feelings. Damon felt like a car stuck in neutral. Or maybe a car where the driver wasn’t any good at shifting gears, and he was stressing himself out trying to function.

  Fuck. Metaphors. That was the last thing he needed.