The Gift

by A. F. Henley

The cool breeze that swung through the curtains called him. He knew he was dreaming; only in a dream did the feet have to follow the eyes no matter what. Because, somehow, someway, August was already sure that the last place he wanted to be was on the other side of those swinging drapes. They floated in an ominous roll of fabric, like poisonous gas over land, squirming like thousands of irritated insects. The room was familiar—Doren's room—and August's heart beat a frantic call of longing for him. He knew Doren was on the balcony, past those clinging, swaying, breathing folds of material, but even still, he struggled to find the courage to press past them. A horrible, panicked arrangement of music drifted through the open door; it chattered in his mind—thousands upon thousands of busy teeth. August opened his mouth to call out, to bring Doren back through to him instead, but speech failed. A fresh gush of wind blew into the room; it swept right through the thin fabric of his shirt, freezing his skin and chilling his resolve. Yet it also brought a harsher sound, closer, scarier, and with it came a sense of urgency. He had to act now or it would be too late.

  With a deep breath August closed his eyes and pushed back the drapery. It enveloped him, wrapped him, and his head was filled with the sounds of hell: tortured agony, screaming insanity, the tear and crunch of bones and sinew. August rushed past it, whipping the drapes off of him, forcing the sound away with it. But it was not the balcony that August found himself on at all. Fires burned in rages, hard rock glistened, and falling ash littered the ground. August looked forward and there, standing at the edge of a jagged overhang, Doren stared into the darkness below. August found his voice, finally, and called out, but the words were stolen by arid wind and stinging sand.

  Still Doren turned, hearing him without the need of voice, and reached. Yet in that second of contact the roar of a crowd pulled Doren's attention away, back to the ledge. "Look, Auggie," he spoke as though into August's mind. "Look at all the people."

  August had never known such trepidation as what he felt walking towards the precipice and peering over the edge. Below them massed a stinking throng of tens of thousands of bodies: twisting, screaming, and writhing. Sweating together as one great beast.

  "Jesus," August gasped and pulled back. "Doren, you have to move away. Stay away from them."

  Doren lifted his eyes briefly, rapture burning in the blue, his smile greedy. The crowd began to lure him, chanting his name as one, and Doren smiled, lifting his arms in a welcoming salute. "My people, Auggie. My fans."

  "Doren, those are not people."

  August's words fell on deaf ears. It wasn't until the first set of dirty, broken fingernails began to scrabble over the edge that August rushed Doren and tried to force him away. Another set of hands followed the first, then another, and another, not only gaining purchase on the ground but also catching hold of Doren's ankles and legs. August pulled. They pulled. But no matter how hard August tried, he knew that one man could not defeat an army. Doren's body began to sway, to totter towards the crowd and the edge.

  When Doren turned back again, fear and confusion had replaced the adoration that had been on his face. August cried out for him, gritting his teeth as he tried desperately to keep Doren in place.

  "Help me, Auggie," Doren begged. "Please help me!" But it was too late. Even as August leaned all his weight back, willing to die in his place if it would mean keeping Doren from falling forward, Doren's body had already started to tumble. August cried out, cursing, screaming Doren's name as his body slipped into the abyss and fell on the squirming mass. Doren reached up, August's name still on his tongue as Doren's body was absorbed by the crowd.

  August woke in a panic, his throat raw, his clothes drenched in sweat. His brain pounded in his head as badly as his heart did within his chest. He was hit with a fit of nausea and scrambled from the bed, making it to the bathroom just in time to heave into the sink. An awful dream brought on by an awful lot of booze, he told himself. August racked his brain and came up empty; he couldn't even remember leaving the restaurant, though bits and pieces of conversation stuck with him, igniting unreasonable flashes of fear. A memory of something awful scratched at the surface of his mind but the fog of whatever he had drank, done, or been given the night before held it firmly at bay.

  The sight of his wrinkled clothes distressed August far more than he could understand. Had he been dumped into bed and left there? By whom? Surely Doren would have thought to take the suit off him? Apprehension swept through him; had Doren made it back all right? Had they traveled together? He peeled the clothes off his body, tossed them into a pile, and threw on one of the hotel robes. Then, oddly nervous, August checked the door that would bring him to Doren's room. And for the first time since they'd been there, the door was locked on Doren's side. Go figure; the one time when he had an insatiable urge to get through it.

  Fifty bucks lighter and ten minutes later August was let into the room by a nervous cleaning lady. He was grateful, and far more skeptical of the hotel's security, when he waved the woman away and watched her scurry down the hall.

  The room was enveloped in blackness and had a musky animal odor that curled August's lip and tried to push him back out. He flicked on the desk lamp, the only other light in the room the red eye of the stereo system, and walked to the bed. Doren slept on top of the covers, his body dewy with sweat and the sheets below him drenched. August reached for his forehead—cautious, breathing too hard—and let out a sharp squeal when Doren grabbed his wrist in a panic. Doren sat straight up, his spine rigid, his eyes wide.

  "It's okay, it's only me."

  With a deep moan Doren fell back to the sheets. "Please, don't touch me."

  "What's wrong?"

  He shook his head, slowly, as if trying not to displace anything. "Nothing. Just too much. My head is killing me."

  "I'll call a doctor," August said, reaching for the phone.

  "No!" Without any warning, Doren swatted the phone from his hand and it clattered to the floor. "I'm fine. I just drank too much and I feel like shit. Leave me alone, August. My head is pounding and I can barely sit up."

  "Oh." August tried not to let his wounded pride sound in his voice. It wasn't unreasonable that Doren wanted to be alone if he felt like crap. August wouldn't want anyone around either. Probably. Maybe. "I'll come back later?"

  Doren had already turned on his side, his back to August. "Later. Okay. I'll come see you later."

  Doren

  He dragged himself out of bed an hour later feeling hung over and itchy. The shower didn't help; the bursting water beat on his ragged nerves and made his ears ache. Food didn't help; it rolled in his stomach like poison. He didn't even attempt coffee. Or daylight. Even the thought of sliding the blinds open was enough to send shocking flashes through his skull deep enough that he felt them in his teeth. He sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed his temples, trying to ignore the flash, flash, flash of the DVD system. They must have had a power outage. Not that he recalled one. Not that he recalled much of anything—just the righteous car and the killer music and the way it had made him feel. He'd been up until well past four a.m., looping the CD, more impressed with it every time it played. Within an hour he'd been mouthing the words and by two he'd known them, singing along as if they were his own. But it was obvious that the lack of sleep was catching up with him. Doren couldn't remember a time when he'd woken up feeling quite so crappy. And he knew that if that DVD system didn't stop flashing in his face he was going to end up smashing it into the wall. Gritting his teeth Doren reached for it, his hand hovering over the play button. He couldn't say why the temptation was there, but instead of powering it down, instead of snuffing the light out of sight and out of mind, Doren pressed it on. The CD whirled in its compartment and a rush of music poured out of the speakers. Instantly his headache faded and his mind opened with a burst of energy.

  He smiled and lay back on the bed.

  August

  Twenty-two hours. It had been twenty-two hours since August had seen Doren if he counted the nigh
t after dinner when they'd slept alone. That was almost an entire day. Hell, that was a day if one rounded up. He was going stir-crazy in his room. He'd read and reread Doren's contract, then reread it again twice more after that. He was, in all laymen and professional terms, an expert on it. He could probably quote it by section if he had to. He'd memorized Doren's song listing, the proposed tour dates, and the four CD titles that the label had narrowed their decisions to. And the only thing August had left to do was wallow in the fact that Doren still hadn't come for him.

  Was Doren still ill? Had the headache got worse? August had debated calling on the phone but Doren was right next door; that seemed ridiculously childish. He didn't want to push himself on Doren either. That would be a desperate thing to do and he'd seen Guy fall victim to it too many times back home. "Oh, please," Guy would beg on the telephone to the most recent guy that had gotten tired of him the minute he'd yanked his dick out. "Just let me come over. I won't get in the way. I just want to see you!" And minutes later Guy would be dropping the phone and ranting about how badly men sucked and how he was going to be alone forever. There was no way in hell August was going to be that guy. But if Doren was sick, if he had got worse, there would be no way to know by just sitting around worrying. At the end of the day he was Doren's assistant, first and foremost. It was his job to make sure Doren was okay.

  Still, it was to front door and not the adjoining one that August went. He hesitated out front of it, almost losing his nerve. "Come on, don't be an idiot," he grumbled. "It's Doren, for Christ's sake!"

  August's rap on the door was met with a loud, "Come in, it's open," and he was greeted by a blast of sound when he followed the command. It reverberated through his eardrums, trying to slide its way into his brain like a snake. With a huff, August stalked over to the stereo and turned it down.

  "Hey!" Doren walked out of the bathroom, wet and steamy from the shower. "Quit it." He reached past August and turned it back up.

  August followed Doren to the bathroom where Doren stood in front of the mirror, putting the finishing touches on a perfect shave. "Thank goodness you're all right. I was worried about you."

  Doren snapped the razor against the sink and rubbed his face with a towel. "Why?"

  He didn't mean to let out the breath of frustration but it came without pause. "Well, I haven't seen you in two days. I haven't heard from you at all, in fact." Doren stared blankly at August in the mirror, his only reply a roll of his eyes. "Doren," August insisted, "you said you'd come see me. I waited for you."

  "Why?" Doren turned to lean against the sink, crossing his arms over his chest. "Did you want to fuck?"

  August frowned, confused. "No."

  Doren shrugged and lifted his hands. "Well then? What did you want?"

  "I wanted to know you were okay, damn it. I told you, I was worried!"

  A new song started up from the stereo, louder and more vicious that the one before it. Doren closed his eyes and rolled his head. When he opened them again they were cold, disinterested. "Don't be. I'm a big boy. I can take care of myself. Thanks anyway, bro. Now, if you don't mind," he waved August away. "I'm kind of trying to get ready here."

  August blinked back the emotion that seemed to be collecting in his eyes. Stop it, August, he told himself. Don't you dare let him know he's bothering you. "What are you getting ready for?"

  "I'm going out."

  "Where?"

  Doren pushed past him and walked down the hallway, swinging open the closet. "Out."

  "Out?"

  "Yes, out." He pulled on his jeans.

  "When will you be back?"

  He pulled on a clean shirt. "Later."

  "Later? What does that mean?"

  Doren spun on him, closing the distance between them in a blink of an eye. He grabbed August's shoulder and growled, "Look August. I told you: I'm a big boy. I don't need a daddy or a partner or a fucking boyfriend. So stop acting like one. You are my assistant. You assist. Next time I need something typed or faxed or booked or I'm too goddamn horny to go out and hunt up some strange, I'll call you. Get it?"

  His words hurt worse than a punch in the face. August's chest ached so bad it felt like he'd been shot. He could barely hold back the quiver that threatened to multiply in his lips. "Yes," he said quietly. "I get it."

  Doren walked past, grabbing his wallet at the door and left him, standing alone in the room. And in a moment of uncontained frustration August sat on the couch and let the tears spill. Had he really been that stupid? Had he really let Doren do that—talk the sweet bullshit and lie the sweet lies that would worm into his heart until he caved? Had he really just let that man break his heart when he'd sworn he wouldn't allow it to happen?

  A click at the door alerted August to his return. Had he come back to apologize? "Please God," August whispered, "Let him have come back to say sorry. Please God, I won't even be mad at him." August swiped at the tears on his face as Doren walked into the room and over to where he sat. Please Doren, he begged in silence. Please don't do this to me.

  Doren eyed the tears August was still wiping off his face. Then walked past him and scooped the CD out of its compartment. "Sorry, forgot something."

  Without another word Doren turned and walked out.

  Doren

  He stood at the front desk, annoyed, and waited for the attendant to arrive with the car. He clicked the keys against the counter in a steady drum, recalling the beat of the CD. Third track, second verse, he recited. The lyrics go like this ... then he noticed the desk clerk's attention on his hand.

  "What's your problem?" The words came out a little rougher than Doren meant them to, but too bad, that's what the jerk got for looking at him like that.

  "Nothing, sir. My apologies." The desk clerk looked back down at his paper and then up again. "Will August be joining you tonight?"

  Doren shook his head, narrowing his eyes. For some reason the mention of August's name made him jumpy. "No. He won't. Not that it's any of your business."

  "Of course not, sir." The clerk paused, as if dropping the subject, then continued as if he was unable to stop himself. "Great guy though, isn't he? Sweet, too. One would be very lucky to find someone so complimentary, wouldn't you say?"

  Doren closed his eyes, his brow twisting into a frown. His temples were starting to pound again. "I don't know. Why don't you go ask him out yourself if he's so amazing?"

  The clerk chuckled. "Oh no, not me. He's not the kind of partner for me, sir. I'm just a simple desk clerk and he, well; he's destined for greatness. Wouldn't you say?"

  Doren lifted his hands to his forehead, pressing on the throbbing ache that was escalating quickly. "No. I wouldn't say. You're the one saying it so why do you keep asking me if I would? God, where do they find you people?"

  "Sorry sir, of course. I'm speaking out of place again. I tend to do that. It's a bad habit of mine. And I just got a message here that your car is on the way. They had it way in the back. For safekeeping, of course." A long pause followed. "I sure am glad that August boy isn't mine, though, I'll tell you that."

  Doren pretended not to hear him—tried to refuse to fall into the game of baiting conversation. The attempt failed miserably. "Okay, okay. I'll bite. Why?"

  "You know, all alone up there. In this great big place, with all those vultures out there." The clerk shivered. "You never know what could happen. You know what I mean?"

  Before Doren had a chance to speak the Lotus appeared, reflected in the mirror behind the clerk. Doren grabbed his keys. He used his back to open the door and spoke to the clerk as he went through. "He's a big boy. He'll be fine."

  Anton

  The phone rang, once, twice, three times before August finally picked it up, and August's voice was exactly as Anton had expected it to be: husky, wounded, broken.

  "August," Anton purred. "Are you feeling better?"

  August sniffed a "yeah" into the phone and Anton grimaced, holding it away from his face.

  "That's good, I'm so
glad. And how is Doren doing?"

  There was a long pause and ... was that a tear the little prick was holding back? An excited rush pulsed through him. It was working. There was no point then in stalling on the rest of the plan then. "I'm so sorry to bother you so late. But I really need to see you, August. If you have a half an hour or so."

  "I don't think so, sir. Maybe tomorrow."

  He clucked into the receiver. "It really has to be tonight, August. It's a matter of extreme urgency concerning both you and Doren. If you care at all about his career then I'm going to need you to attend to this immediately."

  "Oh? What is it?"

  The give in August's tone was obvious and Anton had to slide his palm over his lips to hold back the glee and re-center before he spoke again. "Not here, August. Not over the phone. It's ... not secure. I'll come get you. Half an hour, hmm?" He didn't give August a chance to answer before he hung up the phone.

  Morana came up behind him, stroking his shoulders as she circled her way around to face him. "Are you bringing him here or to the office?"

  Anton smirked, looking over at the bed, now clear of the body but its sheets still entangled and unmade. "Here. Don't bother to change the sheets."

  Doren

  The car roared underneath him, the music banged around him, and he cruised the streets aimlessly. The Lotus steered like they were in water—fluid and easy, shifting like a dream, without effort, without fail. He pressed on the accelerator and watched the immediate rise of the needle, urging it faster, whipping around corners and screeching to stops. If his boss was going to be fool enough to let him borrow his car, then it deserved all the abuse it was going to get. He sang along to the song—sixth track, chorus line—and lurched to a start when the light turned green. The sickly thump of something in front of him stopped Doren cold and a blur of red hair tumbled past the windshield.