Moonstruck

by Aleksandr Voinov

  A full six days after the con, he felt human enough to do more than shovel soup into his face. Still coughing and scratchy, he sat down at his desk with a cup of tea for his throat and another of coffee for his brain.

  Emails. So many goddamned emails. He needed to sort through and respond to the messages Chas had passed on to him, but that could wait until he felt a little less like he’d fought a Mack truck and lost. For now, he perused his personal emails.

  Leanne. Leanne. Chas. Leanne. Forwarded joke from Chip. Lyle. Leanne. Forum notification. Forum notification. Forum notification.

  Nothing from Samir.

  Anthony sipped his tea as the forum loaded. Maybe he had a private message on the site—that was their usual means of communication, after all.

  Nothing.

  The light beside Samir’s name was gray. He had no recent activity on the forum. His Facebook profile hadn’t been updated since before the convention, though at least a hundred people must have posted on his wall since then. Small wonder he was avoiding it.

  But the complete radio silence was unsettling.

  Anthony picked up his phone and, in between coughing, sent a text: Hey, how are you doing?

  Then he went back to perusing his other emails while he waited for a reply. After he’d responded to the important ones—mostly people checking to make sure Chas wasn’t lying and he really was alive—he glanced at his phone.

  Nothing.

  He debated calling. How would that come across if he texted and called in rapid succession? What if Samir was busy?

  With someone else?

  That thought kicked up a serious pang of jealousy, and he quickly banished it. They weren’t exclusive. If Samir was with someone, more power to him. Besides, they’d been joined at the hips for weeks before the con. Samir might very well have needed some breathing room and maybe a new face next to him in the mornings. Anthony wasn’t going to be That Guy who interrupted everything.

  Not jealous at all. Nope.

  And out of coffee. Again.

  He picked up his empty teacup and coffee mug and went downstairs, but he couldn’t keep his mind off the silent phone in his pocket. All jealousy aside, this wasn’t like Samir. It was entirely possible he was down with the convention plague as well—it took no prisoners and had no mercy—but he would’ve said something to somebody, wouldn’t he?

  Give him one more day. One more day, and then he’d try calling. If Samir didn’t answer, then ...

  Then Anthony supposed he had his answer.

  Or perhaps something bad had happened. Sometimes, he cursed himself for being a thriller writer, because to a thriller-steeped brain, car crashes, abductions, terrorist attacks, and hostage situations seemed just like another day in the life. Being a paranormal author didn’t help either, though his rational brain had much more trouble thinking that radio silence meant somebody had been bitten by a vampire or sucked into an alternative reality.

  No, he managed fine without me and before me. He’s fine.

  So if he was fine, then what about them? Why the radio silence?

  Anthony checked his phone for the hundredth time. Still no response.

  Damn it.

  Herbal tea in one hand, silent phone in the other, he wandered aimlessly around the house. That didn’t help—though this place was his sanctuary, his space, it felt too big today. Too empty. Too devoid of Samir.

  And that was weird. Usually, when a houseguest left, Anthony was relieved to have his world back. He was even grateful for the con crud that knocked him on his ass a few times a year—since it always guaranteed a week or so to himself.

  But Samir’s absence echoed off the vaulted ceilings and lurked on every armchair cushion that didn’t have the slight “someone was just here and he’ll probably be right back” indentation. It was as if Samir had never been in the house at all. Anthony had just imagined him, dreamed about him being here, and now that he was awake, couldn’t shake the feeling that he needed Samir to be here for real.

  Anthony pressed his shoulder against the library doorway and looked around at the books, the chairs, the places where they’d spread out troublesome pages and stacked the finished ones. He could almost hear the quiet, tinny music that had escaped Samir’s earbuds when they sat shoulder to shoulder on the sofa.

  Anthony rubbed his hand over his face. After a convention and a houseguest, he should have been embracing the peaceful stillness of his house.

  Instead, it just made him lonely.

  Where are you, Samir?

  ***

  That evening, the first half of edits dropped into his inbox, and that gave him something to do. His head was still stuffy and slow, but he knew those books by heart now, and for the most part, he could trust the editor. As expected, he’d suggested cutting all of chapter one and working in some of the details into chapter two. So Anthony filled up a large thermos and set to work. Somewhere between chapter four and coughing his lungs out, he fell asleep on the couch.

  The next morning would more accurately be described as the next afternoon. Once Anthony came to, he checked his phone. No messages.

  Those worst-case scenarios were beginning to look more and more plausible. Dating another writer was always a minefield anyway—twice the moods, the strange habits, the legion of characters rampaging through one’s brain. Twice the “I can’t, I have to write,” twice the “Sorry, I know we had a date, but I just got a million urgent edits.”

  Anthony knew one mixed-arts couple—a painter and a writer—who respected each other’s productive cycles and foibles but weren’t in competition. The one writer/writer marriage he’d known had ended very badly after she’d started making more money, drawing more fans, and vastly outearning him. In response, he had grown resentful and turned from beloved first beta to merciless critic. Once she’d had enough, she’d divorced him and replaced him with a younger, less sarcastic model.

  Anthony had always expected to either get old on his own, while maintaining a fuck buddy or two, or end up with a supportive “civilian” who had a consuming passion of his own, ideally something Anthony could relate to. Never ever a fan, and ideally not another writer who worked in the same genre.

  Best-laid plans and all that.

  Samir had seemed perfect for him—as a friend, as a lover, as a cowriter, and as a partner too. And then there’d been the con, and ... nothing. Samir didn’t even deign sending him a break-up text.

  Maybe Anthony had read too much into things. Friends sometimes came and went. So did booty calls and crit partners. Maybe he’d been a little too optimistic when he’d thought of Samir as his boyfriend. That was probably something they should’ve found two minutes to discuss during the whirlwind that had been the last few weeks.

  Well, if Samir couldn’t even send a text to let Anthony know he was still alive, never mind that he wanted to call things off, then obviously this didn’t need to continue.

  Unlike these edits ...

  Chapter 20

  The message from Anthony chipped away at Samir’s conscience.

  As he stared at his laptop and the green light beside Anthony’s name—Samir was in stealth mode—his chest ached with guilt. He didn’t want to leave him hanging, but he wasn’t ready for a conversation either. Even a benign response to a bland “I’m okay” text would be too much because it meant they’d be talking as if everything was fine while everything was going wrong. Or that everything was going fine while he was inexplicably falling apart.

  Fucking hell. If a magic genie had come out of the sky and offered him the chance to go back to his normal life, normal job, normal bills, normal friends ... he’d take it in a heartbeat. All the gossip around the water cooler, the stress, the death by PowerPoint, the meetings that made him want to shank himself with a coffee stirrer, the paychecks sucked up by a mortgage and tooth extraction—all of it.

  But what about Anthony?

  He focused on that green light, debating whether or not to miss another opportunity to
settle this, or to man up and face the man who’d been so good to him. He’d resigned himself to his relationship with Anthony being over, just not the part where one of them actually had to say it. He didn’t know how to ask if they could still be friends, if SirMarrok and Ulfhedinn could still chat and bullshit the way they had before they’d met. Or, more to the point, he didn’t know how to cope with the “no” that was getting more inevitable with every hour that passed in silence.

  He switched to his email client and opened a blank message. Heart pounding, he addressed it to Anthony, and then stared at the blinking cursor in the text box for a full minute before he finally started typing.

  Anthony,

  I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to get back in touch. It’s been a tough week. And I guess it’s given me some time to think about a lot of things. I think we

  He gnawed his lip as the cursor continued to blink relentlessly at the end of the unfinished sentence. How the hell did he word this, anyway? It wasn’t like they’d ever defined their relationship. There was sex, there was writing, there was talking. What did that make them in Anthony’s mind? He imagined Anthony reading a Dear John letter and thinking, “What the hell? You were just an ass for me to fuck.”

  Swearing under his breath, Samir rubbed his eyes. Then he deleted what he’d written and started over.

  Anthony,

  Sorry for the lack of contact. Getting right to the point, I think we need to talk about stuff. Us. You’ve got an awesome thing going with the series, and you’re right at home at the cons. I don’t think I can cope with that. I’m thinking I need some time away from that entire scene, so I can get my head around everything, but I don’t know what that means for us.

  Yes, he did. Hadn’t he explained that to Nizar the other night? Fact was, Anthony was a package deal. His life was a roller coaster, and Samir wasn’t quite tall enough to ride it.

  He deleted the message again.

  Anthony,

  Sorry for being so quiet. I think we should talk. Probably on the phone, since I feel weird doing this via email, but I don’t think I can keep

  He sighed. I don’t think I can keep typing that sentence, apparently.

  Whatever he wrote, it either sounded too passive-aggressive, too whiny, too cringing, or bland. He wanted to talk in person, but couldn’t bring himself to suggest it. He wanted to go visible on chat, but was terrified of Anthony’s response. Or maybe that Anthony wouldn’t respond.

  It was all such chaos and he didn’t feel in control of it at all. But that was his whole life—he hadn’t gone to his writing groups in weeks. The fanfic group was off-limits per his publishing contract. The “serious” writing group, well, he wasn’t so sure he could face them anyway.

  It felt like he had to rebuild everything from scratch. If not for the fact that he loved the city, he might have moved somewhere else where no one would figure out who he was. He might not have to run at all, just wait until the worst was over and then slowly return to going about his life again.

  And he’d avoid the internet forever. Damn it, why the hell had he insisted on Sam Ardenghi as a pseudonym? Why hadn’t he used a name that at least fifty thousand people on Facebook had?

  He hemmed and hawed for another few days, unable to make up his mind and dreading the inevitable. That the book would come out and really set the craze rolling. At least he’d managed to get Vicki to take over his admin duties on the forum. It was an easygoing place, but sometimes a troll made it through security and needed to be muzzled or kicked out.

  Then an email from Anthony arrived. Edits, pt 1, it said in the subject line.

  He dreaded opening it, but it wasn’t as bad as he’d feared.

  Samir,

  Here’s the edits. I addressed everything, but had to rewrite some scenes that you wrote, so I want to make sure you’re good with the changes.

  A

  Samir took a deep breath and clicked on the file. It took an impressively long time to load, and he saw why when it opened up on the screen. Red, red, and more red. The first chapter was gone entirely, and almost fifty percent of chapter two was new. After that, there was an edit in almost every line. He considered it a good page when there were only three or five marks on it. Much of it was fine-tuning, but quite a lot of it was exploring thought processes and feelings. It was still their book, but Anthony must have deleted about fifteen percent and then added twenty.

  As he scrolled through, he remembered the joy and excitement of creating the book, but now he felt almost sick looking at it.

  Anthony had done a great job and it was definitely a text Samir could live with. He enjoyed the occasional turn of phrase that sounded so much like Anthony, now that he’d met him in the flesh, and those passages made him feel like a fan again. He loved seeing Anthony’s brain at work and his sense of humor. But both were so much Anthony that they just tore off all the Band-Aids he’d put on the fear and self-loathing.

  Two days later, another email.

  Samir,

  Here are the remaining edits for AM. Let me know you got those and are okay with the changes.

  Anthony

  He opened that file too and read the second half of the book—more than seventy-thousand words, as familiar as the back of his hand for the most part. If he didn’t respond, Anthony would likely just go ahead with the editor, which would be fine. Anthony had to make the pre-Christmas release. He couldn’t possibly wait more than a few days for Samir’s approval. They were Anthony’s damned characters and plotlines anyway. He’d be fine by himself.

  For that matter, looking at the extent of the edits, Samir wondered why they’d bothered buying the damned thing in the first place. The edits on the first three chapters resembled the opening scene of Saving Private Ryan, and they didn’t get much better after that. This was the book they were hyping up all over the known universe? Shit. It must’ve been crap if it needed this much work to fix it.

  At least everything Anthony had done to it looked sound. But then, the original book had looked sound to him. They’d probably eviscerate this version too. By the time they finished changing every goddamned nuance, it wouldn’t resemble the original at all. It would probably be Little House on the Prairie With Werewolves or some crazy thing like that.

  He shook his head and set his laptop on the coffee table. He was halfway to the kitchen for a cup of coffee when the doorbell rang.

  Samir froze. No one knew where he lived besides his actual friends and family. He wouldn’t open the door and find a gaggle of screaming fangirls. Right?

  With blood pounding in his ears, he approached the front door. Why the hell hadn’t he had a peephole installed? With as much as he’d paid for this place, he needed—

  Oh well. Moot point.

  He pulled open the door, and his heart fell into his feet. “Hey.”

  Anthony shifted. “Hey. I, um. I hadn’t heard from you in a while. Just wanted to see if you were all right.”

  “Yeah. Yeah, I’m ...” Such a hot mess. Holy shit. “You want to come in?”

  Anthony hesitated, but then nodded. “Okay. Sure.”

  Samir stood aside. As he closed the door behind Anthony, he said, “I was just going over the edits.”

  “Oh. Good. I wasn’t sure if you’d ...”

  “Yeah, sorry.” Samir cleared his throat. “Do you want a cup of coffee or something?”

  Anthony shook his head. “I’m fine. Thanks.”

  “I’m going to get one for myself.” He gestured for Anthony to follow him into the kitchen. At least making coffee was something to do besides fidget and look uncomfortable. God, he’d never experienced this kind of thing with Anthony. Awkward silence didn’t even seem like something Anthony was capable of participating in. But what the hell? With everything that had happened recently, Samir was surprised purple dragons hadn’t invaded Seattle and Godzilla hadn’t run for president, so why not a little moment of weirdness with Anthony?

  “So, um.” Anthony shifted his weig
ht. “You’ve been quiet. Online, I mean.”

  Samir suddenly forgot how to work the coffeepot. His hands stopped, and his mind went blank. “Um.”

  Behind him, Anthony stepped closer. “Is everything all right?”

  “Of course.”

  “Really?” An uncharacteristic note of hostility slipped into Anthony’s voice.

  Samir turned around, and the man’s blue-gray eyes weren’t so warm and friendly anymore.

  Anthony folded his arms. “What exactly is this about?”

  “You wanted me to leave. I—”

  “Wanted you to leave?” Anthony shook his head. “No, I wanted you to do what you needed to cope with the con. They’re overwhelming. Sometimes people need—”

  “And what if what I needed was to be with you?”

  Anthony blinked. “What?”

  “How would you have responded if I’d said that what I needed was to stay with you?”

  Anthony just stared at him, as if he didn’t quite comprehend.

  Samir went on. “You’ve said all along you wanted space.” He swallowed. “And I’ve done my best to give that to you. I’m sorry we had to be under each other’s feet while we worked on the books, but ...”

  “This doesn’t have anything to do with that.”

  “Doesn’t it?” Samir narrowed his eyes. “Because you seemed pretty happy with the idea of me getting the fuck away from the con.”

  “Jesus, Samir.” Anthony raked a hand through his hair. “I was only trying to look out for you. I wasn’t trying to send you away.”

  Samir chewed his lip. “But how long before you do?”

  Anthony stared at him. “Before I do what? Send you away?”

  “Yeah.” Samir shrugged. “Or should I say, how long before you’ll want to? Because we’re pretty much stuck together.”

  Anthony stiffened.

  “Like it or not,” Samir said quietly, “we are. And quite honestly, I kind of feel like I’m handcuffed to you, and at the same time being held at arm’s length. I mean, if we hadn’t had to go to the con, how long would things have gone before you decided you needed some breathing room?” Anger and frustration and the threat of tears made his chest tighten. “What the fuck do you want from me, Anthony?”