snowdarkred

Lost Boy (the stars breathe in the empty spaces)
Part Two of Three

There's a knock on his door, and he freezes mid-step. He's not expecting company. There's a baseball bat by his door, a leftover from long gone days living in less than stellar apartments and dorms, and he picks it up when he flips the lock. The guy on the other side blinks at the side of him, and the first words out of the guy's mouth give him pause.

“Dude, we're in California, not New York,” the guy says, and he backs away from the door slightly. His eyes take in sight of the half unpacked living room just beyond the door, and he continues: “Just moving in? I'm Zach, and you're Christopher, right?”

He nods slowly—even though he actually moved in two months ago, he's just too lazy to put his stuff away—and he adjusts his grip on the bat. “And....?”

Zach blinks at him again before a proverbial light bulb goes of f above his head. “Oh! Right, yeah, you go to Mike's gym right? You left your wallet there.” He holds out his hand, and sure enough this Zach guy has his wallet. It's the same wallet that he's had since he was a teenager, and he kind of wants to chuck it out the window, along with all the memories that it has attached to it, but he doesn't.

“Thanks,” he says instead, and he takes it carefully, making sure that no part of their skin comes into contact. Zach furrows his eyebrows and frowns, but he doesn't say anything, and he doesn't protest when the door closes in his face.

The apartment smells heavily of cardboard, and the scent is suddenly nauseating. He throws the wallet unto a stack of boxes and flees to the kitchen, where at least it smells like Pine-Sol rather than.... Yeah. At least it smells like Pine-Sol.

---

The night is beautiful, and he can't tear his eyes away. He's practically in Zach's lap at this point, but the man is sleeping, so it doesn't matter. He should have fought harder for the window seat, because goddamn, that's a view. Zach shifts slightly, and then he's suddenly there, that familiar little frown teasing at the corner of his very distracting lips.

“Chris?” Zach asks, sleep strong in his voice. “What are you doing?”

“Look at them,” he says, and he moves to point outside the tiny round window, but his arm is caught between their bodies. He gives up within a few awkward seconds and juts his chin instead. “The stars.”

Zach stares at him instead of out the window, and he doesn't know what to do. They're on their way back to Los Angeles after the whirlwind press junket; they're in a public place; and the silence has changed in the space of a few seconds.

Or did it? he wonders. Did it really change, or has it been this way all along? He's afraid to find out.

He sits back in his seat. Zach makes a small noise at the back of his throat, but then he goes silent. They don't speak for the rest of the plane ride. Zach is awake though, and they avoid each others' eyes when they land.

Did something change, or had they just been to blind to see it before? He doesn't really know, and he's sure that Zach doesn't either. There's nothing that they can really do about it either. Not with the life they live.

---

Winter here is beautiful and impossibly cold. He bundles up in a parka and a scarf, with an ugly beanie pulled snugly over his ears. His breath streams in front of him, and when he inhales, the icy air cuts straight to his lungs. His cityscape dreams are replaced with a frozen forest, soft snow delicately heartbreaking and perfect. The nightmares are fading from his consciousness, and restless nights spent wandering the bad parts of the city become a thing of the past.

The University of Leeds' dorms are poorly heated; he buys so many blankets that his dick of a roommate laughs at him for a solid hour, all in that snobby accent. It's not his fault that he grew up with the sun on his back and the dry Santa Ana winds against his face. His exposed skin is raw by the end of the first real day of winter, and his lips are so chapped that they split and start bleeding in the middle of rehearsal. He smiles anyway because even though it's ridiculously cold and miserable, he can think. Even though it hurts, he can feel, with the sharp edge of frost biting at his cheeks.

During the day, he laughs, and it's not forced or fake, and at night, he can see the stars suspended above the white-frosted campus. Soon he'll have to return to that dry desert, with so many false lights and deceptively deep shadows, but for now he's in this still wasteland, and it's so much better than anything back there.

---

They've only been back in LA for a few days when he invites Zach over to his house to hang out. They watch movies and make fun of the dialogue, slipping in and out of character for the hell of it. Soon they have each other laughing so hard that it's all they can do to sit upright. Then—

The laughter fades, and they're left staring awkwardly at each other in the sudden silence. The clock in the kitchen is ticking in time with his heart's beat; his head is scrambling to catch up. Zach is as frozen as he is, and they hang in that moment together, held perfectly in the ringing stillness.

One of them twitches—he's not sure who—and the next thing he knows, they're there, and together, and he can taste the salty sweetness of Zach's popcorn on his tongue. They're breathless and fumbling, and he notices that the remote is digging into his hipbone, but then Zach's hands are trailing down his sides, and....

The clock fades away as the his living room is filled with harsh pants and deliciously low moans. He picks at Zach's buttons, trying to undo his shirt without stopping the movement of their hips. They're soaring together, Zach's mouth is sucking at his lips, and it's just too damn bad about Zach's shirt because he rips the stupid thing open without further ado.

Buttons go flying everywhere, and one glides across the floor, coming to rest in the shadow of the flickering TV.

His couch isn't the best place to have sex, but they make due. Zach's hands (Jesus, yes, do that again) grip his hip, knocking the remote away (thanks, just—) and he grinds down onto him (Why am, uhgg, I on the bottom?) and it's like fireworks are going off in his head. (Just—God, Zach—keep doing that, yes, don't stop—) He writhes up into it all, licking a line across Zach's shoulder and tugging his leg free. He wraps it around Zach's and uses it to urge his, his best friend, other, on. He arches just right, and Zach gasps just right, and Jesus Christ, they're coming in their pants like teenagers, panting and giddy.

“Fuck, Chris,” Zach says and kisses him. He can still taste the popcorn. The television hums quietly, the muted words ghosting against the edge of their consciousness. “These are my favorite pants.”

Zach says this so seriously, and they stare at each other again before laughter overtakes them once more.

“Don't worry,” he says, “I do own a washing machine.”

---

He's been expecting this call ever since he decided to become an actor. If he had stuck to stage, it would never have been a problem, since stage actors can have all kinds of shit in their pasts and no one blinks. But he's a film actor, someone who lives in front of a camera, and so it really does fucking matter. It shouldn't. Or, hell, maybe it should. He's not really the best person to judge these things.

His agent calls while he's eating dinner with the Star Trek cast, laughing over their latest projects and catching up with each other's personal lives. They tease John about his TV show, and they tease Zach about his, and they giggle at the posters of Zoe, blue and gorgeous, that are popping up everywhere. His phone is set to vibrate, so when it goes off, everyone pauses for a moment to check their pockets and, in some cases, purses. Such is Hollywood, and sometimes he hates it, but not right now. Now he's just happy that they're all together again, with Simon at one end of the table and Karl on the other, and their little star-power family spread in between.

He answers it, not bothering to leave the table, and conversation resumes without him. It dies again soon enough, since everyone can hear his agent start shrieking as soon as he hits talk.

“Chris!” she shouts, her voice thin and harsh in his ear. “You goddamn moron! Why didn't you tell me?! Do you have any idea what this is going to do—?! What damage—?!”

Chris jumps up from his chair, stumbling away before anyone can hear any more. He doesn't know what exactly has happened, but he has a good idea, and he knows that this could be it. It could all come crashing down around him because no one wants to hire the guy with the emotional baggage so heavy it could sink the Titanic. No one, except those snotty-ass independent companies, and even then, they only want angst on demand.

He slips through the kitchen; the staff doesn't even blink. They live in LA, after all, and they're used to celebrities escaping through side doors and alleyways. It's an every day occurrence, and when they go home at night, they get to tell their families, Look who I saw today....

His agent is still screaming, and he doesn't blame her. He still doesn't know what happened, but there are any number of things in his past that could send him straight to the unemployment line, and he didn't exactly give her a proper heads up.

Then he finally hears just what someone has dug up, and he can't stop the sickening relief that he feels when he learns that it's not that, it's just about blow jobs in back alleyways.

---

He's still new to the neighborhood when he finds the perfect place for coffee, even if it is outrageously expensive on a bit-parts-only salary. The coffee is damn good, though, and it's not like he isn't aware that his parents have been 'sneaking' money into his bank accounts again.

He's sees that guy there again, the one who returned his wallet. He looks familiar, and not just from before. But, whatever, since this is LA and everyone has been an extra here, or a stunt double there. It doesn't really matter. Or, it doesn't until he's at a friend's house and there a commercial for a TV show on, and oh fuck, there's that guy again.

Great, he thinks as his friends continue to talk around him, I had a chance to network with a successful actor and I blew it because I have 'issues'.

Shit, damn, and motherfuck.

---

Filming is about to draw to a close, and he feels...sad. A little empty for the first time in months. Having work, real work, work that's challenging and terrifying and intellectually stimulating and fun, has filled him up and smoothed over some of his fault lines. Now that's ending, and he can feel the darkness creeping up to cradle him into nothingness again.

At least they still have the press tour, just a few months away. Or longer still, since they're talking about moving the release date back. He doesn't quite know how he feels about that, since it would put him in limbo once more, stuck between two points of his life, trapped.

But, well, at least he's made some friends. There's John and Karl, Zoe and Anton. Bruce, Eric, and JJ. They're closer than he thought they would be when he signed on. He should have known that it wouldn't turn out the way he expected when he found out that Zach was involved. Zach had a way of changing everything, just like he'd changed the lowly bit-part actor who shared the same coffee shop and went to the same gym.

---

God, he was so glad to be fourteen. To have that excuse to act out, to get pissed off. He feels rough around the edges, never quite right, and his parents get so used to his bullshit that they don't even make a fuss when he disappears for a night. They trust him to come back, because that's what he does.

They have no way of knowing what happens this time. It happens, and he stops fucking around for a while, and they're too glad to really question it beyond speculative looks. Well, and it's a nice break before he just says fuck this and goes back to his old bullshit with a new, driven intensity.

He's fourteen years old, and he's never felt more misaligned or broken, and he doesn't even know if that's normal or not. How could he check? He's parents send him to those wacky therapists, but he knows that if he actually says something, something true, one or all of them would probably die of shock. They have it all figured out, and he just doesn't feel right, shattering their self-assured belief systems like that. So, whatever, they can live in sweet ignorance.

Or that's what he tells himself, right up until he just stops caring. The obliterating darkness is a blanket, a cocoon, wrapped around him so tight that he's not even sure where it starts or ends. He doesn't know what to do about it, so he just lets it go, and lets it go, until it's not a cocoon. It's a funeral shroud.

He's fourteen and fucked up, and he's doesn't know what to do about it, so he does nothing.

---

They keep having sex, which is fantastic, and he feels the pieces of his life start to meld together once again. He goes to sleep without dreaming, wakes without screaming, and he wonders when his lame sense of poetry came back. Zach is...Zach, and all that entails. The man doesn't push when he has bad days, but he knows that Zach watches. He knows that Zach eyes him when he thinks he won't notice, that he tries to figure him out.

Zach knows that there's something missing from the puzzle, but he can't tell him what it is, because he doesn't know either. There's something missing, and it's been gone for a long time, long enough that he barely even feels its absence anymore.

So, they have sex, and Zach doesn't ask, and he's... he's happy, which startles him a little. He wasn't expecting it. It's a nice surprise.

---

Zach follows him out of the restaurant, because that's what Zach does, and he stands there as the shouting winds down. His agent is still furious, and he knows that he's going to have to send the woman some flowers or something. She deserves it, for what she's about to do. They can't afford to have this get out, since he's an 'All American Boy,' or whatever, and All American Boys don't suck cock in back alleyways. Especially not for money.

His agent ends the call with a cold click and the immediate flat tone, because she's still mad, and he has nothing to do but to turn back to face Zach. The expression on their faces are hidden by delicate shadow, twisted into lacy shapes by the faint streetlight and the passing cars. He can hear them, humming at his back, and he knows that he has at least one escape.

He doesn't like thinking in those terms, but his mind returns to the same thoughts again and again. Escape, fight-or-flight, survival. Those words were tainted; they left a sour taste on his tongue and in his head.

“Chris,” Zach says, and his voice is low, a caress in sound waves. “What's wrong?”

He doesn't know what to do, and that grates on him in a way he wasn't expecting. He'd held onto his control by the edges, with his fingernail and raw desperation, and now everything is crumbling away. He can see it vanishing before his eyes, slipping through his hands, evaporating into the night. All because of all kind of shit in his past, stuff that he hasn't even repeated since—

Well, Zach is still staring at him. He still hasn't answered the other actor's question, and he's not sure he can.

“Chris?” he's asked again. Zach steps forward, but he steps back. Soon he's running, again, leaving Zach behind in the alley while he fleas into the California night.

Somethings are too painful to look at, so we hide them in the dark. Sometimes the dark is too harsh, so we stumble into the light. Sometimes, we hang in between, with no place in either.

There once was a boy who lost something, but he didn't know what....

Except he did know what. It was just too late to change it.

---

The heat of LA is like a slap in the face after so long in the cooler regions of the UK. He's not really sure that he wants to return to begin with, which is worse somehow. His parents pick him up from the airport, and his mother hugs him close. His father claps him on the shoulder, and he feels like he's with two strangers. He has to get to know them all over again, even though it's been less than a year and they're his parents. This shouldn't be a problem.

They know he's changed, somehow. He knows he's changed too. He goes back to Berkeley, finishing out the school year and getting ready to graduate. He looks for that girl—woman, whatever—because he wants to tell her—something. He wants to tell her that he's changed, that something in him shifted, and it's because of her (it's her fault) that he's this way. That he's raw and open. The air is too hot, and his shirt sticks to his skin in the heat of it.

He looks for her, but he doesn't find her because she died. She died, while he was gone. She died.

He barely hears the explanation—car accident, wasn't her fault—because fuck. Fuck.

But what do you do?

He goes back to the bad side of LA, to his favorite bar, wreathed in smoke and illuminated by blue neon lights. He sits at the bar, drinking until his wallet is empty. He's twenty-two years old, he has no money for a cab, and he can't even remember the name of that girl—woman, whatever. It's digging under his skin, that he never bothered to learn it, that he didn't care enough to. It's a goddamn shame. He's a goddamn shame.

“Hey there,” someone says. He feels a body slide up to him, and it doesn't surprise him. He's well known here, though not by name. Never by name. “Do you want a drink?”

He's already drunk, and the other guy is too sober, and there's something about how the other guy watches him that puts his teeth on edge. So he turns him down.

It used to be that he wouldn't care. He would have done it anyway, even though his stomach was clawing at him to run. But he's changed, and that girl is dead, and the sex isn't really that great anyway.

He doesn't have any money, which is a problem, but the bartender—Stan or something—knows him. Stan tells the guy to fuck off and calls a cab company to send someone over. The guy who wanted to proposition him is still hovering though, obviously annoyed that his “sure thing” turned him down. Stan growls at the guy—they hate each other, apparently—as he drags his drunk ass out to the cab, and he's grateful to Stan. Without Stan there to tell the guy off for him, he knows what would happen to him. He knows it like he knows every scar on his body.

“Thanks,” he mumbles, and he's not sure if he's talking to Stan or that girl whose name he's never going to know. “Thanks for...everything.”

---

He runs and runs, even when the air starts to burn in his chest. He runs until he can barely feel his legs, but even then, the stars stay out of reach.

---

He likes napping with Zach. Of course, Zach does the napping, and that's just fine. But he likes it. They fit together. It's comfortable. He's kind of surprise that they waited until they were sleeping together to do it, since it's so goddamn soothing. He wants to sleep, but.

He'd rather be awake, honestly. He'd rather study how they fit together, how their bodies mold and bend. How they yield and support. He loves it. His loves how Zach's shoulder fits into the sweep of his neck, how his hand fits around the curve of Zach's ribs. How everything seems to slow down and ease up when they lay together, unassuming and giving.

Zach dreams, and when he wakes up he talks about what happened in his dream. The house is filled with laughter and happiness, and that fits too.

---

He stops running.

---

Master Post | Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Author's Note