by Aiden Bates
3. Teaming Up
Vinny really does like baths. In fact, it’s only lying in the tub, with Lance’s back slick and slippery against his chest as he cradles him, that Vinny finally relaxes. His mind’s been racing most of the night with the act he wants to start with Lance, with the glory it could bring. He’d never imagined joining a duo, thought he had to be man enough to make it on his own and carve out his own fortune and prove all of Steubenville wrong, but this already feels so much better, so much less lonely. And what a beautiful solution! Don’t try to be all in one, but yin and yang instead, a partnership, the kind of art that must have synchronicity, like a dance.
His mind was on fire with the tango of success, and then his body was on fire with desire when Lance started touching him. Tonight was just like what the improv people told him was rule number one: never say no. It’s yes, and, yes, and, yes, and until the bit is exhausted every time, that’s the only way to find the punchline: go one step beyond it, and remember where the line was for next time.
Vinny wonders if he’s crossed the line here, fucking this kid, his partner, before they even start trying to work together, but he doesn’t feel like he’s overstepped quite yet, he feels like this will only make the magic they have more real. They’ll have to know each other, trust each other, and make demands on each other, and this will be part of that.
Vinny runs his hands over Lance’s skinny chest. The kid’s all pale skin over bones, a gangly little thing, but all the more impressive to watch him have full control of such an awkward-looking body. Vinny tried to pretend to faint once and he fought himself the whole way down, he couldn’t make his body resist its natural urges to stay upright and in control. Lance said early tonight that this was Vinny’s schtick, his roll that someone like Lance could imitate but never pull off as believable—constant, cool control, the man who knows everything.
Maybe that quality is why Lance is asking all the questions, and Vinny only answers. He knows enough to know this is right, doesn’t need to know anything except how soon they can meet up to practice, how soon they can debut.
“What’s Vinny from, is it Vincent?” Lance asks. His hair’s long right now, drops straight to his shoulders when wet like a girl’s—Vinny wonders whether they want to keep it long for the girly jokes or if he wouldn’t look funnier with hair they could stick up at the back; they could always add wigs to the act if it got that much applause.
“Vincenzo,” Vinny says. “I don’t really like it, it’s after my father’s father, who was an asshole, but hey, tradition’s tradition to my father. Vincenzo Paul Romano.”
“Oh, so you’re German then! I’m great with languages, really have an ear for them. Guten tag!”
Vinny chuckles, and his laughter makes the bath water ripple around them both. It’s a windowless bathroom, and an ugly bleak color with the light on, but it’s still nice to lay back and bathe like someone civilized. The shower at Vinny’s place is prison-grade depressing. This place wouldn’t be bad at all with some candles. Or better yet, maybe they could get a real place someday with a bath tub big enough to go swimming in, and fill it with money. That would be best.
“You’re a funny kid,” Vinny says.
“My family’s Jewish, Russian and Jewish mostly. Lanzo Hershkowitz, that’s me, but none of the family uses our real names on stage, it’s better to wear a mask, then you can be shameless.”
“That’s interesting. What should we be if we get famous? We’ll both want new names, don’t you think? Fake names. We should sound like Abbott and Costello.”
“Or Bonnie and Clyde.”
“Or Martin and Lewis.”
“Or Siegfried and Roy.”
“Or Laurel and Hardy.”
“Or Leopold and Loeb.”
“Ha! Chicago might be amused by a team of murderers, but nowhere else; we’ve got to appeal to the masses. Statler and Waldorf?”
“The Muppets? No, come on: let’s be Burns and Allen, the husband and wife comedy team. You’ll be the level-headed husband, I’ll be the scatter-brained wife.”
“Deal, baby, whatever you say.” Vinny starts soaping Lance again, skating the bar up and down his chest, over his arms before saying, “Hey, don’t call me Vinny, alright? I don’t mind being that name on stage, I look like a Vinny, that’s fine; that works on stage because it isn’t really me, you know? Like how you’re Lanzo, probably, and not really Lance, right?”
“What should I call you then?”
“Paul,” Vinny says. “Paul’s an apostle and a much better name I don’t have to share with any nasty relatives. If I ever named a first born son after me, I’d name him Paul and nothing else.”
“Paulie my pally! I like it.”
“I like it too, but don’t go spreading it around to everyone, it’s just you for now.” Vinny hugs the kid closer to his chest. He had a little brother once call him Paul, but that brother joined the army to get out of Steubenville and didn’t come back alive. He’ll be Vincenzo to the world, but only Paul to the people who really matter.
“You know, my mother tells me there’s a legend on my father’s side, his clan or whatever from the old country, that says the third son of a third son can conceive babies just like a woman. I’m the first born, so no worries,” Lance says as Vinny starts laughing at such a silly old wives’ tale. “She did have two miscarriages before me, so you never know, Chuckles! You never know.”
“Whatever you say, kid. You should probably get a girl if you want kids though. Or better yet, get a dog, and we’ll take the dog on tour with us when we’re famous.”
Lance laughs then shivers. They’re out of hot water, so that’s it for tonight’s bath. Lance asks Vinny to stay the night, and Vinny would, but he’s got to be awake on his side of town tomorrow for his collection duties, but they’ll meet again soon.
“Next Thursday, that’s the next time my boss is out on business, we can practice. You think of ideas and I’ll think of ideas and we’ll try stuff out, okay?”
“Okay,” Lance says as he follows Vinny to the door and halfway down the stairs. Clingy little string bean, isn’t he? But Vinny doesn’t mind for now. He backtracks up the stairs before he goes to give Lance a kiss and promises to see him right on time on Thursday. He almost manages to keep that promise too.
Except that three nights before their Thursday date, Vinny has a fight. And though he loses most of his fights and isn’t expecting to win, he did assume that he would still come away unscathed like all the times before, but this time he doesn’t. He takes a hit to the nose, and rather than having a sore, bloody honker for the rest of the week, this time something crunches, a crunch so deep and personal Vinny can feel it in the roots of his teeth, behind his eyes, and blood goes pouring into his mouth like some horror movie faucet.
It’s bad. Not just because it’s a break, but because it’s not like the underground fights provide health insurance. His boss sets the nose to the best of his ability, and gives Vinny a small bonus, enough to heal up and then come back and keep fighting, but Vinny takes that money knowing it’ll be his last paycheck for a while, because he can’t risk his face. Looking funny is Lance’s shtick, not Vinny’s—Mr. Suave can’t have a lumpy, beat-up face like a sack of potatoes. The nose is bad enough if it can’t heal straight, but he can’t do any more damage, he can’t afford it.
His boss doesn’t leave Thursday because he’s filling in for Vinny and looking for a replacement runner. Vinny stays home hating his life with ice on his face trying to hold his nose straight in the mirror so it’ll heal that way, even though it hurts like hell the whole time. Lance doesn’t know any of this, and arrives at the office only to get shouted back out into the street by the Boss Man, and asks around so pathetically at the corner stores until someone knows what building Vinny is in and points Lance to it. That’s the story as Lance explains it when he knocks on Vinny’s door and says with a sigh, “Oh, finally—your neighbors don’t like uninvited guests at all.”
Lance comes in, shuts the door, and takes Vinny’s head in both hands, holding it up (Vinny assumes) to get a look at the damage to the nose, but actually what he’s really doing is trying to find a place to land a kiss that won’t hurt Vinny’s injury. He goes with Vinny’s right cheek, and kisses his ear lobe as well. He comes in and sits down on the only seat in the joint, the bed, and says, “That nose’ll have a kink in it.”
“You don’t know that!” Vinny says, picking up the spoon he uses as a bedside mirror. “It’s not done healing yet, I keep holding it straight.”
“You broke it, Paulie. It’s not some tear or sprain, you need a doctor to set it with something that’ll hold it in place.”
“I can’t afford a doctor,” Vinny says.
“Neither can I, partner.”
“I can’t afford this place either if I’m not fighting, I’m done,” Vinny says, staring at his sad mug in the bend of his spoon. This is it, he believes. Back to Steubenville with your punched-out face, loser; nice try, but not really, you never even got a second glance.
“You’re not dead or anything, don’t be so dramatic. Let it heal how it heals and be grateful the bone didn’t jam right into your brain—then you would be dead and I’d be here crying like a baby. Let it heal, if it looks weird we’ll just putty and make-up the dent until we make it big, and then you can pick and choose between all the best surgeons in the country…in the world! And in the meantime why not just move in to my place? You already like the bath tub; that can be where you sleep.”
Lance is starting to yuck it up, thinking of Vinny tucked into his bath tub most likely, but Vinny doesn’t think this is funny yet. He throws the spoon across the room with a heavy clunk—it’s a thick-handled thing, something that Vinny had always kept next to his bed because first of all he doesn’t have a kitchen more than he has one microwave and a bathroom sink, and two because it would make a good bludgeon if anyone ever broke in.
“What, you want a ring and a dress too, Lance? You know that boy-girl stuff is an act, right? Don’t go getting confused about what this is.”
The rubber and expression go out of Lance’s face like he’s melted it all down to nothing. He crosses his arms. “You want to be a partnership and not a team, is that it? You’re so tough you won’t take help even when you need it, even if you know you’ll do the same for me when the time comes? You want to just stop right here? Because I’ll tell you Paul, I’ve worked with people I didn’t like before, but I don’t need to right now, I’m doing fine on my own. What I want is what my parents have, what we had as a family, and if you don’t want that, I guess you’re right to just quit and go home. It is your choice after all.”
Vinny puts his head in his hand in shame before he remembers how much it will hurt. He swears, but so Lance doesn’t think he’s trying to cuss anyone out or anything, he goes to pick up the spoon and brings it over to Lance, sitting down beside him. He hands over the spoon as if it means anything—it’s no long-stemmed rose, is it?—but Lance accepts it tenderly.
“Did this used to be a bowling pin or what, what is this thing?”
“I assume it was someone’s grandma’s but not made of anything worth selling, like silver.”
Lance starts to stroke it. The thing is ceramic and smooth, like a skinny eggplant or something, and the more he caresses it, the more they both realize the potential of its shape.
Vinny leans over to kiss Lance, but can’t reach him without hurting his nose. Lance puts a hand on his shoulder and whispers, “Don’t hurt yourself, just tell me what to do.”
Vinny’s heart quickens, and his cock twitches in his pants. He can give orders, really? Let’s see.
“Suck on that,” he says, nodding at the spoon. “Stick the handle down your throat.”
Lance does this, without even the hint of a gag, like a professional sword-swallower—what kind of acts did he grow up with? What a fascinating little fella. He looks so simple but seems to know everything, and so young! Vinny can’t help but be amazed that someone so unique would let a bruiser from the middle of nowhere tell him to do anything.
“Lay back,” Vinny says, standing up to clear the bed for Lance’s performance. “And take off everything below the waist.”
Shoes kicked off, socks stripped by the toe of the other foot, belt undone and pants slithered out of with the same motion he uses to do The Worm on stage. Vinny’s breath is shallow. Lance is in nothing but a t-shirt like a short skirt, and he looks as if he’s been pantsed by a bully and left lying there helpless, with that spoon sticking out of his mouth. It looks like a frat hazing gone wrong, but it’s not wrong to them—Vinny’s hard, and so is Lance, Vinny can see that. His eyes are open wide and pleading. Vinny keeps giving him orders.
“Put your feet on the wall behind you, show me your asshole.”
Lance does this; he flips up his hind quarters and gets a foothold on the wall behind his head, then walks them down a few steps so that his head is popping out from between his knees, and his most private part is out in the open, naked in the light. Vinny’s knees feel weak just looking at him in this trussed up sort of pose. Half of him wants to run and cover him up, protect him, but they’re safe in here, with no windows in the basement apartment and the door locked—this exposure is only for Vinny, just like his true name, Paul, is only for Lance.
“Take…uh, take that handle out of your mouth and fuck yourself with it.” Vinny’s mouth is dry, and he swallows hard before he keeps talking, trying to get ahold of himself. “Don’t you speak a word. If you say anything I’ll cram a dirty sock in your mouth and tape it down so it stays. You don’t want that, so just do what you’re told. Stick that handle right up your boy-cunt, and start slipping it in and out until you’re ready for me.”
Lance’s eyes flutter as he obeys. He bites his lips together to stay silent and blinks with the rhythm of his own insertion motions, bucking his rump to the same beat.
He isn’t at it long before Vinny can’t handle the sight of him anymore; he’s about to lose it in his pants if he doesn’t act. He scrambles to get his own pants off, all his composure and his semblance of control gone, the ruse broken, as he fumbles breathlessly to get his cock out, and Lance watches him with placid eyes from his crunched-up position. Who’s really got the reigns here? Who’s giving orders and who’s obeying? It’s not as simple as it looks.
“Get that spoon out of your ass, you sick little bitch,” Vinny grumbles with no authority behind his dirty attempt at an insult at all—Lance has already let go of the spoon, and Vinny pulls it out and gets himself inside of Lance for the space of only two and a half pumps before he cums. He almost loses his balance with the force of it, sees his vision dim on the edges due to the frenzy he’s worked himself into. If Lance hadn’t unfolded from his position to wrap a spent Vinny in his long limbs, Vinny might well have fallen off the bed. As it is, he’s gathered into a warm embrace.
“I’m sorry, Lance,” Vinny says with a kiss that hurts. “Ow. I’m sorry I didn’t come to the office to meet you, ow. I’m sorry I yelled, ow. I’m sorry I’m such a dumb fucking goombah, ow.” Tears are pricking at his eyes from both the pain in his nose and the regret—what the fuck was he being mean to Lance for? Of all the people in the world, literally all of them, Lance is the last person he needs to be mad at for anything.
“Don’t start in with that shit,” Lance says, “and quit it with the kisses, you’re hurting yourself.”
“But I should blow you, something, that was so fucking hot but there’s no way it was enough for you,” Vinny says, trying to lift out of Lance’s arms, to slide out of his asshole, but Lance holds on tight and drags him back.
“It wasn’t enough for me, really? Put your hand under my shirt, feel what’s there.” Vinny does what he’s told and finds his hand in a slug trail of warm semen.
“How the hell do you do that? You’re not even touching your dick and you can just cum like that? That’s crazy.”
Lance smiles, his face bac
k to being animated and playful. “A magician never reveals his secrets!” That gets them both chortling for a good, long stretch.
4. Showmance
It’s not hard for Lance to get Vinny to agree to move to his place after that little sexcapade. He’s got nowhere else to go, and Lance doesn’t mind, he’s not possessive about space or things, it all comes and goes for him, no worries. It’s funny to him that Vinny fought so hard against what he himself would want at first, but he’s like a kid underneath that cool exterior; a young kid despite his age who still wants nothing more than a pat on the head and a gold star that says he’s doing a good job. He’s a little boy with a Tall, Dark, and Handsome voice, that’s who he really is.
Vinny doesn’t own more than what he brought with him on the bus from Ohio. He packs his stuff, counts what little cash he has left, hands it over to Lance, and grabs up his suitcases. He seems pretty lost at the moment, but resigned, the way people must look when they let go of a sinking ship. If you hang on you go down right away; if you let go you still might sink, but there’s a chance to float, to swim, to survive. Lance has a few people he wants to talk to so they can see about finding Vinny a job, and once that’s settled, the world is theirs to conquer. No more broken bones, time to practice, a world of their own in Lance’s tiny apartment, a boundless sea in his bath tub, ripe for exploring. Lance is as happy as the silliest idiot in the world. Vinny takes longer to convince.
There’s an open mic night at a really big corner club in about six weeks. The place only has an open mic twice a year, and Lance has been signed up for a spot since the day he arrived in Chicago, it just seemed like the smart thing to do since it would take so long to get called up anyway—that’s where his parents’ teachings come into play again: try for everything, say yes to everything, you never know what tomorrow will bring. This tomorrow brought him a Paulie pally, and Lance has the biggest grin on his face when the news comes in the mail a week after Vinny moves in that he has ten business days to formally claim his slot at the Corner Cabana—this news turns things around.
