The Breaking Point: M/M Mpreg Alpha Male Romance

by Aiden Bates

  Lance sticks the letter under Vinny’s nose, and watches his face transform as he reads it. If only he could do that on cue, he could be a movie star, but this is all real life, not theater. He looks up from the page and says, “You and me?”

  Lance nods. “Get your ass in gear, Paulie—you need a job ASAP and we need to know its schedule so we can practice. Have you talked to my manager yet, the one whose boyfriend works at that bar? Between the two of them they must know someone who has a job somewhere, get going!”

  Vinny launches up right that second, even though it’s Lance’s night off and the order isn’t that hurried, but after a week of moping and tweaking his own battered nose in the mirror, Vinny finally has something to shoot for, and that sweet spark is back in his eyes. Hopelessness is the only thing that will ever stand in his way, Lance can tell right now, but Vinny isn’t hopeless tonight.

  He’s gone for an hour, while Lance cleans up the place and gets it ready for a rather strange romantic evening: making a game plan over a cheap cheese and toast dinner, and only one candle ready to go next to the bath tub because who can afford a bunch of candles? Still, a slot at the Corner Cabana is as good as an audition, and there’s even more to celebrate when Vinny gets home, smiling, stroking the lapels of his coat, saying, “Your manager, her boyfriend? He needed another bouncer at the bar. He said with a face like mine I looked just the part. Can you believe it? I think this busted nose made all my dreams come true.”

  “You think so, pally?” Lance says, jumping up and circling his fists around like a cartoon boxer, right in front of his face. He bounces from foot to foot and says, “I’ll sock you again and again if you think it’s so good for you!”

  Vinny starts laughing and asks what’s for dinner, and that’s their first night as happy as newlyweds, with everything to look forward to and nothing to regret.

  The coming weeks are a whirlwind, however. Lance works lunch to dinner, Vinny works nights at the bar, and they barely have time to kiss hello and goodbye (hello on one cheek, goodbye on the other—the one-two punch), between their shifts. They have to practice every morning, after Vinny gets home tired and Lance wakes up grouchy, but they treat the majority of those first few weeks like they’re living in a firehouse: shift work, important work, you ain’t got time to be tired, and they communicate mostly via text to make sure food gets got and bits get framed so they can try them out when they’re together. It’s hard work, but it won’t last forever—this is their big shot, and not only is it worth trying for even if they fail (they’re certainly both getting better at everything they do with the practice), if they catch a break here it’ll be worth everything.

  The night approaches, and both Lance and Vinny clear the whole day and the next so they can sleep half the day before the show and be energized when their number is up. They’ve decided to have Vinny sing, the straight man, sing as if it’s any fine concert hall, and Lance will do comedic interpretations of the song lyrics beside him. They get one shot at this, just under ten minutes to do three songs, and three bits, and boy does that seem like a short show until they’re up on stage.

  The lights are so bright it feels like lamps are in the front row, coming to see the show. The first song gets a few chuckles for Lance, and few whistles and applause for Vinny when he holds a song note clear and strong, but halfway through the next song, Lance can tell the people are disappointed. They look at each other and at their watches like, Is this it? It’s not enough! Vinny glances at Lance, he won’t know what to do, he isn’t really trained to adlib, but he can adapt, and he can read Lance well enough that they can play off each other, and so for the third song, when Lance dives into his bag where he’s kept a change of hats, shirts, and wigs for each song, he cobbles together something he can sell as a waiter’s outfit if he acts it right: a blond wig over his arm as if it’s a towel, a white doctor’s coat tucked up into his pants like a maître d’s jacket, and a stiff posture once he jumps down during Vinny’s opening notes and starts talking to the audience.

  “Fill up your drink, fresh pepper?” He says that enough times so people will get where he’s going, and when he starts drawing their full attention he raises his voice and gets silly. “MADAM, I really don’t see how a HAIR,” up comes the blond wig over the arm, “could ever get into your food, I’m sure it’s just a VERY SLIM noodle and that you are TOO SLOSHY-NOSHED on wine to see that, hmm!”

  He moves on after that to abuse a few more people, to spill things on himself and blame the customers, to trip and fall so the wig lands back on his head and then pretends he can’t see, and all the while Vinny’s still singing until Lance rounds on him and says, “Hey, keep it down, would you? These people are trying to EAT.”

  “Oh, you call these people?” he says. “I would think that decent people would have the sense to get a waiter like you fired.” A few hoots go up and the audience starts applauding themselves, asserting that they are indeed people who would do that, so Lance turns back on them as if he’s affronted.

  “I thought we were friends! Here I am making a mess of myself just to serve you fine folks, and you take this second-rate singer’s side against ME? I’ve got a cat at home that sings better than he does when she’s yarping up a hairball! I’ve got ambulance sirens and car alarms from all over the world that go easier on the ears than this yutz, are you kidding me?”

  “I’ve seen waiters that are better kidders than you, pally,” Vinny says in a dulcet aside to the crowd. Lance does a big harrumph and makes to crawl onto the stage (falling theatrically twice) until Vinny helps him up. “Come on, you putz, you’re too sad to even look at, you need all the help you can get.”

  Lance stands, straightens up, throws the wig from his head into Vinny’s face like it’s a glass of water, and then sticks his finger right in Vinny’s face.

  “You’ve got a lot of nerve, fella!” Vince says.

  “You’ve got a lot of sense if you’ve noticed that,” Vinny says, which gets the biggest laugh yet. A red light starts flashing out in the distance—their time is almost up, they’ve got to bring it home.

  “How about I knock some of my sense into you, huh?” Lance says, leaping into his goofy fighting stance. Vinny brings out the last thing at the bottom of their bag of tricks, his fighting techniques. He doesn’t hit Lance, just throws a quick fist out to tap him a few times on the chin like he’s a punching bag, and when Lance does a prat fall onto the stage like he’s been knocked out, Vinny polishes his knuckles against his jacket and says, “Good thing I’m not a piano player.”

  The audience loves him. That smooth son-of-a-gun sells that sort of wry coolness in a way Lance never could, just like Vinny could never go over-the-top cartoonish the way Lance does, he wouldn’t believe it enough. Lance could never feel that cool and Vinny never this outlandish, and what would be a lost opportunity for a man alone makes them the perfect pair. They walk off stage and even though there are other acts to go after them, no one’s rushing them to the stage the way they did Lance and Vinny. People start waving them and pointing them in different directions, the other acts look at them with hunger and hatred at once, and anyone who knows where they’re headed next says, “Good job, boys,” or “Was that you out there, you planned all that? Nice work!” A voice comes over the speakers and announces an intermission with deals on certain drinks and shots. Vinny and Lance are shuffled into an office and find themselves jammed together on a tiny couch facing an empty chair. Lance feels like Tweedle-Dum for sure.

  Whoever’s office this is comes in looking rushed but cheery.

  “Good stuff, guys, good stuff, it’s good to see such young kids brave enough for crowd work actually pull it off. My name’s Matt, Matt Pringle, no relation to the potato chip—joke. Look, I assume you two are hoping to make it, yeah? Want a chance to shine? If you think you can pull that stunt you pulled tonight again and again, I’ve got an opening act slot you can fill for the next three months, how’s that? We want to loosen up crowds, this is a cute
little thing you’ve got going, I’ll pay you to do it if you can do it, can you do it?”

  Lance wonders how this guy breathes when he’s talking that much and that fast, but he knows his answer as much as he knows Vinny’s, and so he says it for them both: “We’re in.”

  “Great! Here are some drink tickets,” he throws those out of one pocket like confetti on the ground, “and this number, my office girl, say you’re the opening act for the Comedic Climbing show, got that? Comedic. Climbing. Opening act, you met me here, you’re in for the opening act, and she’ll get your names, give you the details, the times, the dates the pay, and all that, I got to get back out there. You two hug it out in here, do what you gotta do, sorry no disrespect throwing those drink tickets at you, but I’m juggling a hundred things. Health and laughter, boys, I’ll see you later.”

  With that, the Pringle man is gone. Lance is still holding his card up in the air as if he had just taken it, and Vinny starts to slowly lean down and gather up the drink tickets.

  “You know if we play this right,” he says, shuffling the tickets together, “you and I could get really drunk tonight.”

  Lance snorts and starts laughing, and that breaks the spell. Vinny starts laughing too, and Lance gets to laughing so hard that he’s actually weeping, and they start hugging and kissing, kisses that taste like the happiest salt in the world, like the salt on the rim of a giant goblet of tropical booze, the bearer of good times, the good life.

  “We gotta…” Lance begins, wiping his face and looking around to make sure they’ve got all the tickets and can leave when they’re ready. “Like, plan for this. We might have to quit our jobs, but what if it doesn’t pay enough? And it’s only for a few weeks he said, but it’s an opening gig, you know, so if we do well we can probably find something else, but who knows . . .”

  “Don’t worry about it, baby,” Vinny says, picking up Lance’s hand and wrapping him in his other arm, so he can dance with him. “These are the best problems in the world. We love these problems, they’ll be fun to solve, but tomorrow, okay? Tonight we drink well, we go back and tell the restaurant the good news, you know they’ll feed us after that, and then tomorrow we sleep in, remember that?”

  “Vaguely, but it’s been so long.”

  Vinny is smiling at Lance and practically carrying him around in this dance, but then stands him straight and says, “Hey, before it all starts though, let’s settle something I’ve been thinking about. Let’s not tell people we’re a couple, alright? We’re a team, right; we’re pals, we’re buddies, we love each other, we’re like brothers, a duo, but let’s not tell the rest, okay? Let people see whatever they want to see, the audience and the other acts, everyone. Let’s be us off stage, and on stage we’re just a twosome—no more and no less. Are you fine with that?”

  “Yeah, Paulie, you and me, we’re us on our time.” Lance is never exactly himself on stage, so why should this bother him? Vinny smiles at him and his heart melts, and that makes him feel right about everything. Yes, and…? That’s his motto. Yes and yes and yes.

  “That’s my baby, now what’s your poison? Hey, you’re not old enough to drink, are you? Have you done it before? Oh kid, you better let me do the ordering then, and if you don’t mind, I’ll get you stuff that won’t mix bad on you if you don’t know the top from the bottom of a booze bottle, you don’t want to go pouring everything on the shelf into this cauldron, baby,” he says, touching Lance’s stomach as he ushers him out of the office. “These chemicals tend to react, you know?”

  “I’ve heard,” Lance tells him. He’s certainly seen enough stumbling drunks on the road with his parents, enough to imitate every single one of them: the fighter, the mourner, the lover, the fool, and the sleeper. His parents told him everybody falls into one of those categories when they get drunk (that’s why mom and dad were more herbal in their substance use and abuse; they liked to keep things peaceful and organic). Lance wonders which is himself and which is Vinny, and by the end of the night he finds out.

  With nine drink tickets for the two of them, that’s five drinks for Vinny and four for the babe. Lance decides he cares more about taste and quantity of booze, and so Vinny spends their tickets on nothing but Long Island iced teas—all the booze and almost none of the taste, like magic! Vinny the lover takes him home, and Lance wakes up groggy and disappointed that’s he’s a sleeper (though not too terribly broken up about it considering the other options). Booze puts him straight to bed. He wants to tell Vinny the good news, that they’re the best kind of drunks around, the luckiest guys in the world, but he finds Vinny sitting in the empty bath tub, with a bottle of gin he must have snuck out and got on his own after Lance was out like a light, and he’s not making love to that bottle, he’s sharing his sorrows with it.

  “You okay, Paul?”

  Vinny wipes his eyes and sniffs up his poor busted nose and says, “Yeah,” with a slur. “I’m more worried about you, first night of hard drinking, how do you feel?”

  “Fine,” Lance says. He’s a little woozy but it’s fun, like getting dizzy from spinning in circles. “You sad about something?”

  “Oh, no,” Vinny says, reaching out his hand when Lance sits down on the toilet lid and patting his knee. “Not sad, just serious, you know? I dreamed about this for years, just about ten whole years, and I think it’s finally happening, and it’s just…well, it’s kind of scary.”

  “But a good scary, right?” Lance asks. “Like you said, these are the best problems we’ve ever had, the best problems in the world. A plus, number one, first world, top of the top and best of the best problems, right?”

  Vinny smiles, but only with half of his mouth and says, “You’re right, I’m right. How smart of you to think like me.”

  They both start laughing again, and Lance helps get Vinny and his buddy Gin back to bed. They’ve got some sleeping in to do.

  Part II: New York

  5. Audition

  Vinny is happy, of course, that they’re the warm-up act for this showcase of Pringle’s, but he’s not happy about it like relieved, overjoyed, and charmed (the way Lance is)—more like happy about it like he’s terrified of losing it. This is not success, this is an opportunity; every night is an audition, and they have to earn their place on that stage over and over again, and be so good at it that they get more gigs, better gigs, and after that: so famous they can be choosy with gigs and demanding with payment. Vinny knows this is only the start of a career; he’s still on thin ice and might be a flash in the pan that never pans out as gold, a thousand metaphors of failure. Lance acts like he got a free ticket to summer camp with this job—the summer would have been great anyway, but now a bonus, wow! He’s restless on stage but has no drive or work ethic when it comes to building an empire. Vinny wants an empire.

  They make enough money to quit their jobs only for the time being, it’s not enough to save going forward, only enough to concentrate. Lance doesn’t give a flip, to him jobs come and go, and he always finds one when he needs one and has fun doing it, but Vinny can’t join him in that. Every job Vinny has that isn’t his dream job is a factory in Steubenville to him, a stopgap that at any moment might turn into the rest of his life. He has to keep finding more, better jobs, going up and up and up like a firework that bursts at its peak and only comes down to earth after it’s dead. That’s Vinny’s true thinking, but he doesn’t spew all that to Lance.

  “Why so serious?” Lance says every night before they lead off the stage, and he pulls a big, clownish Joker face every time, it becomes their good luck ritual: Vinny is somber, Lance is silly, everything’s in order for a good performance. It’s the moments before they’re called out by the voice in the speakers that hurts Vinny the most—once the lights are on him it’s like being drunk. Front and center, middle of the spotlight, that’s how Vinny feels when he’s hammered, and to feel that way sober always ends much better. He’s admired when he’s sober, and if he worries that he’s about to lose the crowd, Lance is ri
ght there to reign in or play off of…they have yet to screw up at the same time. And while that’s a comfort to Vinny most of the time, he also worries what will happen when they’re both out of steam, both out of ideas. If anything goes wrong for Lance, he assumes he’ll survive and adapt. Vinny knows for sure that his next gig is Steubenville and his next partner a bottle of gin until one or the other kills him.

  Lance calls it the terror of hope.

  “You think this opportunity is the only one, but Paulie pal, life is cyclical. You don’t have to go back to Steubenville ever; you’re with me, you and me—we go together, and when am I going to Steubenville? Probably never, so why worry about that? Worry about the show in front of you,” he says, pointing out at the stage from the wings and whispering behind Vinny’s ear when he does so. “That’s the only sure thing that’s happening to you unless you literally break a leg from here to there, and even so, you’d take your broken leg onto stage the next night, we’d do a bit with the cast somehow, I’d sign it! A bunch of hearts and shit, different colored markers, like a tattoo sleeve that you’d say you hated but when that cast came off you’d keep it, you know. We’d have to de-stink the thing and hold onto it because it would mean so much to you, my boneheaded scribbles all over your cast, that’s what you should be worrying about, and what’s to worry about there? As long as you’re alive there’s hope, pally. Paulie wally ding dong, relax.”

  If Vinny hears all of that before a show, he’ll walk out into those lights like they were the sun on the first day of a Chicago summer, bathed in warmth, and he’ll start singing and nothing is easier than that. Lance is the one who has to do all the creative work, all the changing outfits and attitudes and running around, all the one-on-one crowd work, all Vinny has to do is sing and make sure the audience likes him by the end. If they like Vinny, and Vinny likes Lance, everyone agrees that they’re a hit each night, and that magic and applause bolsters Vinny…for a second. A couple of martinis can keep the optimism bubble from bursting for a little bit longer, but by the time he’s back in Lance’s tiny apartment each night, it’s only Lance that will pull him out of his dreadful cesspit.