desireearmfeldt

I don’t mean to suggest that I loved you the best
I don’t keep track of each fallen robin
I remember you well in that Chelsea Hotel
That’s all; I don’t think of you that often

            --Leonard Cohen

Sometimes—not all that often, but now and then—Billy thinks about that guy at the Chelsea Hotel in the grungy end of Halifax.

He meets a lot of people on tour, obviously.  Most of them he forgets completely or they become part of the jumble of faces and voices and random snippets of conversation that sloshes around in the back of his brain.  Fans and casual fucks and diner waitresses, reborn as song lyrics, like jewelry made out of beach glass, unrecognizable as the remains of smashed beer bottles from some stupid kids’ beach party.

A few people, though, make some kind of impression Billy can’t quite shake. 

He wasn’t a fan.  Just some guy in a bar.  Middle-aged guy in a beat-up windbreaker; weather-lined face and workman’s hands.  Billy wouldn’t have given him a second glance, except it’s not every day he runs across someone who looks enough like Billy to be his brother.  Hell, they could almost have been twins.  At first Billy figured it was maybe some kind of stunt—publicity? stalker? wacked-out fan?—and smart might’ve been to walk right back out of the bar and get back to his hotel, warn security or at least the rest of the band. 

Instead, he walked over and plunked himself down next to the guy, who was staring into his half empty glass of something clear, and said, “Who the hell are you?”

The guy’s head came up fast, his body tensed for trouble, but when he saw Billy’s face he blinked a couple of times, relaxed a little, and shook his head.

“No one special,” he said in a quiet, steady voice that for some reason, Billy really liked. 

He took another look at Billy, taking his time, and Billy’s used to people looking at him, but usually it’s because they want something from him, and that didn’t seem to be this guy’s thing at all.  It felt like he was reading Billy’s whole life off his face, which made Billy really want to turn away, but the last thing he was going to do was back down from some stranger just looking at him, and especially not for a dumb reason like that.  So he stared back with as much attitude as he could muster.  It was a little freaky, like scowling into a mirror and having his reflection ignore what he was doing and do its own thing, give him back a kinder, wiser look than he’d ever seen on his own face.

“Who are you?” the guy asked after what seemed like a million years.

“Billy Tallent,” Billy told him, not sure if the guy was yanking his chain or just not a music fan or what.

The guy nodded slowly.  Billy wondered what the fuck that was supposed to mean.

“Duck McDonald.”  The guy held out his hand and Billy shook it, because what else was he supposed to do?

“You live here?” he asked.

Duck shook his head.  “Just passing through.”

“Me too,” said Billy.

“Buy you a drink?” asked Duck.

“Why?”

Duck shrugged.  “Beats getting wasted on my own.  Less likely to regret it in the morning.”  His eyes flicked up to meet Billy’s at the end of the stock phrase, a little question there, a little heat buried under that low-key manner.  Enough to get Billy’s blood pumping, which surprised him, but hey, gift horse. 

“How about we skip the formalities?”  He reached across Duck, picked up the man’s glass, and tossed back its contents, surprised to discover that it was plain soda water.  Duck didn’t make a move to stop him, just gave him another one of those weird considering looks.

“You wanted to get wasted, you were taking your fucking time about it,” Billy said, mostly to get Duck to knock it off.

“Hadn’t made up my mind,” said Duck.  He fished a couple of crumpled bills out of his jeans pocket, laid them down on the bar, and stood up.  “I’ve got a room.”

Billy had a room too, a way fucking nicer one than Duck’s, which was one step up from a broom closet in a fleabag hotel that looked like it was a relic from the 1800s but at least didn’t seem to have actual fleas.  But if they’d gone back to Billy’s room, it would have been Billy bringing some stranger in past the gossiping staff and the stalkery fans and the rest of Jennifur having their own parties in the neighboring rooms.  Getting it off with his fling of the night surrounded by guitars and gear and the trappings of being Billy Tallent.  Not to mention the chance of some random tabloid getting a picture of Billy and his body-double; he’s never been all that famous, but who would pass up a gimmick that?  And it’s not that he cared, but Duck didn’t seem like the kind of guy who wanted to be dragged into any of that; besides which, Billy just didn’t have the energy for any of it

So instead he ended up flat on his back on a nylon bedspread, staring up at the slightly water-stained ceiling, listening to sirens wailing like electric guitars a couple of blocks away, while Duck sucked him off so slow and sweet and gentle it was like no sex Billy can remember before or since.  A couple of times during what felt like fucking hours of this, he managed to look down at Duck, and every time, Duck would look up at him and smile with just his eyes, fans of little creases blossoming around them, while his mouth kept sliding over Billy’s cock.  Seemed like that smile wasn’t even about sex at all, although Duck was breathing almost as fast as Billy himself.  It was something else, maybe just friendly, maybe amused about something, Billy couldn’t even tell, but each time Duck gave him that look, it set off a cascade of warm shivering in the pit of Billy’s stomach.  He couldn’t look for very long, so he’d let his head flop back on the pillow, go back to staring at the ceiling and letting those slow waves of pleasure wash over him.

Besides that, he doesn’t remember a lot of the details about the sex, but somehow after it was over, after he’d finally come, Duck had Billy wrapped in his arms, holding him firmly as Billy’s body tried to shake itself to pieces.  Billy tried to get a grip on himself, but his breath just kept coming in these big gasping gulps, like he’d been knifed in the gut or something, and all he could do was bite out fuck fuck fuck against Duck’s warm, solid shoulder.  Duck’s hand rubbing his back, the other one stroking his hair; Duck’s quiet voice that really wasn’t much like Billy’s at all going shh, shh now in Billy’s ear.

Billy clutched Duck like a life preserver with one hand and got the other down around the guy’s cock, because fair’s fair, after all.  Duck’s whole body jerked at his touch.

“You don’t have to,” said Duck.  “Don’t worry about it.”  But there was a hitch in that quiet voice, and anyway, Billy didn’t give a damn, this was what they'd come here for.  So he just started moving his hand, fast and hard, and suddenly Duck was panting against his neck, hot and quick and all but silent, and Duck’s arms were clenching around Billy like he was being electrocuted, and yeah, fuck don’t worry about it, just fuck that.

Duck came without a sound, which Billy might have taken as an insult except for the way the guy buried his face in Billy’s shoulder and shuddered violently and then went totally limp, one hand resting on Billy’s stomach, like maybe he was never going to move again.  And even though Billy’s never been much for cuddling and bed-sharing and all that shit, right that minute he didn’t much feel like moving either.

“I grew up on the ocean.”  Billy remembers Duck saying this while Billy’s head lay on his chest and Duck’s hand gently stroked Billy’s shoulder.  “On an island.  Never feel right if can’t see water, hear it.  Smell it.  It’s the only thing that says home to me, I guess.”

“How come you left?” Billy asked, and discovered he was actually curious about the answer.

“It’s cold,” Duck said.  “Thought I’d made my peace with that, but it turns out it’s hard to go back to.”  His arms tightened briefly around Billy, just a little squeeze.  “Found out how good it is to get warm, and now. . .well.”

“Lost someone?” Billy asked, fuck if he knew why, it was the last thing he wanted to talk about, but. . .

“Yeah.”

Billy waited to hear what Duck was going to say next, and waited, and Duck still didn’t say anything, and Billy lifted up his head and saw that Duck was just staring off into space, and then he saw that there were tears on Duck’s face, though he couldn’t tell if Duck even noticed.  And that was so weird that Billy didn’t know what to do except scoot up and wiggle around until it was Duck’s head on Billy’s shoulder and Billy’s arms wrapped around Duck like that was going to do any good at all.  But Duck relaxed against him like a little kid, and Billy’s neck and shoulder got all damp even though Duck never made a sound, and Billy just kind of hummed under his breath into Duck’s hair, and who knows, maybe it did some good after all.  It’s kind of nice to think so, anyway.

He also remembers—although it seems unlikely, so maybe he dreamed it, or imagined it later, or some damn thing—mumbling into Duck’s shoulder, “I’m so fucked up,” and Duck saying, “Well, everyone is, pretty much.  You shouldn’t let that stop you from living your life.”

It was probably four in the morning when Billy finally struggled into his clothes.  He could see Duck thinking about inviting him to stay the night, and maybe that wouldn’t have been the end of the world, but Billy was just passing through and so was Duck and really, what would the point have been?

“I was thinking of looking him up,” said Duck as Billy pulled his boots on.

“Bad idea,” said Billy.  “Just fuck you both up.”

“Yeah, probably,” said Duck. “Still, things sometimes work out.  And anyway, I’d like. . .”

“What?”

“To look him in the eye and ask him why he left.  I want to know what he’d say.”

“You don’t, really,” said Billy.

Duck shrugged.  “I’d rather know than imagine.”

“What if he just wants to forget you and get on with his life?” said Billy.  He wanted to make Duck flinch, but even so, he was surprised at how harsh his voice sounded.  Surprised, too, at how little he enjoyed the pain that flashed over Duck’s face and was gone like ripples over a pond.

“That would make things simple, I guess,” said Duck, his voice level.  If he was pissed, Billy couldn’t tell; if anything, he looked like he was feeling sorry for Billy, which pissed Billy off.

“Well, it’s your life,” he snapped.  “You fuck it up whatever way you like best.  Good luck to you.”

“And to you,” said Duck.

Billy had his hand on the door when suddenly Duck crossed the room and put his hand on Billy’s arm.  Billy jerked back, elbow cocked, expecting a punch, but Duck just fished the scarf out of the sleeve of his windbreaker where he’d stuffed it and wrapped it around Billy’s neck like Billy was some fucking six-year old, while Billy stood there like an idiot, letting him do it.

“It’s cold out there,” Duck said.

Billy purposely left the scarf in his hotel room when he checked out.  Sometimes he wishes he hadn’t, but really, it was just a fucking scarf and hanging onto it wouldn’t have made any difference.  He still thinks about Duck from time to time, anyway.  Wonders how he’s doing; how it all turned out; if he’s home by the ocean.  Hopes he’s keeping warm, one way or another.