Switch Ch. 03

"Even if you had time to rehearse?"

"Rehearse?"

"Painful Friction are breaking up. You know, Kevin's partner just had a baby, so he can't be gone three nights a week playing rockstar. The guys from Zip Code and Absinthe Make the Heart Grow Fonder have been telling me for months that they'd kill for a slot here, but they're nowhere near as good as you are. None of the groups I could get in here are as good as you are."

"You're really serious?"

"Of course. Or we wouldn't be having this conversation. And you could have Friction's rehearsal slot, too."

My heart was beating faster, faster with every passing second. "Here?"

"Mondays and Wednesdays. As many hours as you wanted."

I couldn't believe what he was saying. "That wouldn't be . . . weird for you?"

"No. Would it be weird for you?"

"I don't know."

He caught me and held me still in an earnest, vulnerable gaze. "I've missed you, Martin."

My chest ached. I didn't know if my heart was healing, or breaking again. "I've missed you, too."

"I came up with the idea because of your music. But I confess that I like the idea of getting to see you sometimes without the other guys." Then he added, "But I also don't want you to get the wrong idea."

"No," I said, trying to hide my hurt and disappointment, "I won't get the wrong idea."

"Will you think about it?"

"No. I don't need to think about it. Before . . . things went wrong between us, I promised myself I was going to start putting my time into things that really matter to me. I can't imagine a better opportunity to keep that promise."

That night, instead of writing, I spent a couple hours going through the binder of stuff I'd written over the last few weeks, and chose the ones I wanted to start rehearsing with. Then I got my acoustic guitar and practiced each one a couple times. Rehearsing for the rehearsal. I was too nervous, too excited, in a way almost too happy to sleep much that night.

When I got to the loft the next day, Dario had already told the guys about his offer to me and they called me Gwen for the rest of the night to punish me for embarking on my solo venture (which is maybe a much nicer thing to be called than whatever the No Doubt guys probably said about Stefani when she abandoned them to obscurity in her rise to global stardom). For the first time in weeks I stuck around after rehearsal and we all got stoned. It was a good night. For whatever reason, for the first time in a long time it felt like we were all genuinely close. Even Dario seemed happy. When I got home, I practiced my new material for an hour or so and then slept like a baby.

When I started rehearsing, suddenly the music didn't seem nearly as complex, innovative, transporting as it had sounded in my mind, as it had sounded in those hushed acoustic prerehearsals in my apartment. When Dario set his computer aside and swiveled his armchair to face the stage, then sat there perfectly still, staring at me as I struggled to drag my voice over the hurdle of my mounting doubts, the worst part was knowing how disappointed he must have been. How let down he must have felt. After he'd been impossibly generous, giving me a chance like that after how I'd already hurt him. After I'd gotten through the fourth song, he stood up and came over. I set my guitar aside and braced myself. He patted the edge of the stage, and I sat down, my shins dangling over the edge so he could deliver the news face-to-face.

Dario put his hands on my thighs. The memory of that first time he'd touched me, when he'd laid one hand on my thigh, midway between my knee and my hard cock filled me with melancholy. "You beautiful fucking genius," he said, like he was whispering a prayer. "I don't even want to let the hordes in to profane this with their collective din." He must have seen in my face how relieved, how surprised I was, because then he said, "What did you think I came over to say?"

"I was afraid it wasn't . . . what you expected."

"It's not. I thought you'd come with ten variations on that piece you played me that first night. And I would have been thrilled. But this is on another plane of existence. Where the fuck did this come from?"

I didn't say, my pain.

"Did you really write all of this just these last few weeks?" he asked, somberly, sadly, as if I had said out loud. His hands still on my thighs.

"Yes."

"Martin. You need to get a manager. You need to get time in a recording studio. I'm not fucking around."

"You're biased."

"You suck at taking a compliment. A heartfelt, true compliment from the man who sucks at telling white lies."

That night I left after three hours of rehearsing without a break, and on Saturday I played the set with the band, but didn't hang around after, or come for the other shows. I agreed to play the solo set the following weekend, telling myself it didn't matter that I hadn't perfected my repertoire, since basically I'd be playing for the crowd that was already loyal to Babel, so they'd be a sympathetic audience. Low pressure. After my next solo rehearsal Dario and I smoked and hung out for a couple hours, talking more seriously and more playfully than we ever did when the rest of Babel was around, and I felt a deep, melancholy contentment that even if I'd ruined what we'd had before, it looked like we were going to be real friends. The next time I was there on my own, after I'd rehearsed we spent another few hours talking even though we didn't smoke.

On Friday night I played with Babel, and on Saturday night I did my first solo set. Predictably, all my sang froid about performing for the usual suspects went out the window as the day approached, but I got through it, and I was thrilled that only half the crowd seemed dismayed to get stuck with such an intimate, moody performance so unlike the pounding, driving onslaught they were used to getting from Babel and Painful Friction, while the other half seemed genuinely into it. Enraptured, actually. I couldn't believe how still the room got, how quiet, a few people even shushing people who were talking quietly in the back. After, there was a long procession of people coming up to hug me, congratulate me, flirt with me. I adamantly refused all proffered drinks, though. Every time I saw him, Dario was beaming like a proud new father getting ready to hand out cigars. That night I lingered to bask in the glow, but left while there were still a dozen people or so, so Dario wouldn't wonder if I was planning on trying to overstay my welcome.

Monday, an hour into my rehearsal, Dario got up from the armchair where—his new habit—he'd been listening, watching instead of working, and came over. When he patted the edge of the stage, I set my guitar aside and sat down. As soon as I met his gaze my belly went taut and my heart started thumping hard. Watching me closely, he laid his hands on my thighs again, moved forward until his hips were between my knees, and came closer, closer, until I felt his breath on my lips. And kissed. My chest aching because too much happiness had swelled up too quickly, I fought my unbearable urge to pull him against me, to delve deep into that kiss. I made myself wait for him.

He was patient. Cruelly patient. Slow. Gentle. The first long, delicious, excruciating moments he only brushed his lips lightly against mine. Then he drew back, just a millimeter or two, just enough so that our lips were no longer touching, lightly as two feathers, and waited. Was he testing me? To see if I'd retreat? To see if I'd impatiently push things too quickly? Panic-stricken, I stayed absolutely still, knowing I was trembling, almost sure he must be able to feel it. Then he kissed again, now a slow, deep, tender kiss that made me feel like I was heating and melting from the inside out.

He asked, "Do you want to go upstairs?"

I was almost too stunned to speak. "Are you sure?"

It was so joyfully familiar, so him, so us, the way he grinned and said, "I weren't sure, I wouldn't have asked."

We went up to the warm nest where I'd been so shy and scared and happy, took off our clothes, and got in bed. I couldn't believe he was kissing me, touching me, mouthing my ear, biting my neck with an eagerness that was an exquisite blend of tenderness and hunger, teasing my nipples with his fingers, with his tongue and teeth, mouthing my cock, denying me even a moment of real satisfying pleasure, teasing me, torturing me, until I was whimpering with every breath, writhing with every touch of his hands, every taunting touch of his mouth. Then he stilled.

"Baby? Aren't you going to touch me?"

I blushed. He smiled. "I guess I'm axious. I don't want to do anything to . . . make you nervous."

"Do I seem nervous?"

"No."

"I needed time. You gave it to me. I'm in bed with you because I want you to touch me. I want you to kiss me. I want you to fuck me. Just stay away from the restraints. At least until I've given you a proper tutorial."

We fucked like crazy all night. To this day, I think it was the happiest night of my life.

At work the next day, I was back to questioning what I was doing with my life, which for the first time in weeks felt like it was worth living, and more to the point, worth living as well as the need to pay my rent and grocery bill and health insurance would allow. Now that the time I was spending playing my music and making love to Dario felt so intense, so lovely, I resented the hell of out the hours at a job that kept me from those pleasures and that meant nothing to me but a paycheck. But then again, maybe that was the price that had to be paid. Life couldn't be all fucking and writing and playing and kissing. Nobody's that lucky.

The next time we were alone—another game of feigned departures and coordinated text messages after the Babel rehearsal—he kissed me deeply. Smiling, looking me over like a cake he was about to take a slice of, he said, "I love how you're always warm and dewy after you play. You smell so good. Taste so good." Then added, "I'm aching to take you to bed. But then we'll fuck until we pass out, and in the morning you'll have to race off to work. And we should really talk."

I did not like the sound of that. I hated the sound of that. But I was trying hard not to fly off the handle over nothing now that I was on my second chance, so I tried to hide my anxiety and disappointment and said, "Alright, let's talk."

Dario wasn't usually much of a drinker, but he grabbed two glasses and extracted a bottle of whiskey hidden in a high cupboard behind stacks of paper cups that came out on show nights. Then we curled up on one of the couches. We both took a drink, then he kissed me, a deep, whiskey-flavored kiss that lasted longer than I expected it to. He caressed my cheek, smiled.

"Don't look so nervous. I just thought we should check in with each other about a couple of things."

"Alright." The pit of my gut still felt like a heavy, sharp-edged stone.

"I want to talk about the night you got dosed. Not about what happened upstairs. About earlier," he said, his serene gaze and voice doing very little to calm the anxiety the topic provoked in me. "I know that whatever got slipped into your drink played a big part in things that night. But I also know you were . . . pretty on edge all weekend. So I'm pretty sure there were other things going on that channeled your high in the direction it went that night. Do you agree?"

My throat felt tight, like it didn't want to let any air out, but I forced out a limp little, "Yes."

"Baby," he said in his most intimate, embracing voice, "this isn't about me scolding you. I just want us to have an honest conversation about our expectations, so we can enjoy this weird world we seem to living in together twenty-four/seven. Doesn't that make sense to you?"

I made myself take a deep breath. "Yeah. You're right." Then I took a big drink of whiskey.

"Do you want to share anything with me? Or should I start playing twenty questions?"

I was so embarrassed by all my headcase bullshit for that weekend, I didn't know how to begin to tell him what had made me act like such a dick that night.

He laughed. "Alright. First question. You wanted to keep the thing between us a secret, like we discussed—am I right?"

"Yes."

"That weekend, I was trying to act more or less the way I used to act around you. That was me trying to honor our agreement. But I've wondered since then if I did anything to hurt your feelings. Something that started upsetting you on Thursday night?"

"I got jealous," I confessed, kind of hating myself.

He laughed again. "Yes, that was obvious enough. I wasn't going to use up one of my twenty questions on that." He gave me a kiss on the cheek to take the sting out of his taunt. "We'll address the jealousy issue in a minute. I mean, should I have spent more time with you? Should I be more attentive? Because you have to know that when I'm far away, when I'm indifferent in my tone, that's me working incredibly hard not to put my arms around you and whisper naughty things in your ear."

"I know. I mean, I guess I knew it that weekend, in my brain. But emotionally, it felt bad anyway."

"Yeah. I hate it, too. But I think it's up to you to decide if you want to risk a step onto the slippery slope of being closer when we're around other people. But meanwhile, your brain needs to convince your heart that there's no one at these parties that I would rather talk to, that I'd rather watch blush, that I'd rather take to bed than you." He leaned in and gave me a slow, deep kiss that lasted and lasted, and I hoped the talk was over. But no. "Now. The jealousy thing."

"Uh huh."

"I'm going to ask you a couple blunt questions, okay?"

"Okay."

"I'll start with the obvious, already demonstrated, just to get you warmed up. Since I saw you trying to kill Joe Burke with your stare of hatred, I'll use him as an example. If I had kissed Joe in front of you that night—a romantic, maybe we're going to fuck later kiss—would that have upset you?"

No filter. I just said "Yes," and let all the hurt and revulsion of that image fill my voice.

He smiled. "I'm liking the honesty. And, just for the record, I'd rather stick a needle in my eye than let Joe Burke put his tongue in my mouth." I laughed. It was the saddest feeling laugh of my life. "My next question's going to be a little rougher on you, but I really hope you'll tell me the truth."

"I will."

"Did you kiss Melissa on the roof to hurt my feelings? To make me jealous?"

"I don't think so. I think I did it to make myself feel less bad, because it seemed like half the guys in the loft were trying to get in your pants. But I really don't think I was trying to punish you or hurt you." Then I asked the painful question. "Did it hurt your feelings?"

"A little, but not because I was jealous. It only hurt, because I thought maybe you wanted to hurt me, if that makes sense."

"But you weren't jealous?"

"I don't really get jealous. Which bothers some people. Does it bother you?"

"No. Except that it makes things kind of uneven."

"Yes. It does."

"I want to confess something. Another reason I did that with Melissa."

"Alright."

"The last thing I remember before that, was me watching you with Alex. Then Tom and Jeff noticed me watching you. They said something about my boyfriend cheating on me."

"Oh."

I couldn't read what the feeling was behind that quiet, even little syllable. "I'm not proud of it. I know I need to figure it out. And I'm sure whatever that cocktail was I got served didn't help. But I felt—"

"Outed."

I think I must have blushed when he said that. Even sitting there, desperately hoping that this conversation was going to end with Dario fucking me, and not dumping me, the implication that I was gay felt like an attack. But he was right. "Yeah. My cowardice must be getting pretty old."

He laughed. "Right. Because most people come out a couple weeks after they realize they might be into people of the same sex." Then his smile faded and he sighed. "Know when I knew? Not like you, one aberrant attraction to one person. I mean, can you guess when I knew that I would never want to be with a girl, and that I couldn't wait to kiss and get off with a guy?"

"Sixteen?"

"Eleven." A wistful smile. Like he was remembering one particular bittersweet crush. The first one. "Know when I came out?"

"When?"

"Seven years later. All those years while other kids my age were playing spin the bottle and seven minutes in heaven in the dark walk-in closets, bragging about getting to first base, second base, bragging or lying about losing their virginity, I made up pretend crushes on girls, sometimes causing tragedies of Shakespearean proportions until I learned to invent crushes on imaginary girls I'd met at a summer camp no one else had gone to, other schools."

"Yeah. But I'm not eleven years old."

"I'm not convinced it's any easier at twenty-six. Sure, it's a little easier now because there's a huge community of queer people. But I know how hard it is to face the idea of telling your friends, your parents, all the people who have an image of you as a straight guy who's probably going to put a ring on some girl's finger someday and make a couple babies, that maybe instead you're going to live with or marry a guy." For once, he blushed. "Or even just fuck one now and then. So, yeah, of course I wish we lived in a world where no one would feel embarrassed for being gay or bi or queer in whatever way, or even having people think it regardless of whether it's true. But that's not the world we're in. So I get it."

"Getting it's one thing. Putting up with it on the daily with the guy—a guy—you're sleeping with is something else."

"You're right. And I can already sense that the longer this thing between us lasts and the closer we get, the harder keeping it a secret it will be, emotionally, psychologically. But we're brand new. And unless you know something I don't, we haven't even figured out what this is, exactly. Which is fine. Unless it isn't."

I laughed. "You lost me."

"I don't need to know exactly what this is, unless you do. It's another question that cropped up at the party that night. Or maybe it's an extension of the jealousy question."

"Are you asking me if this is going somewhere?" I said in a voice that was more playful than I felt.

"I think it'll go where it's going, regardless of what we think or tell each other right now. What I guess I'd like to know is whether you have an expectation or desire for monogamy."

"Oh." Even in my own mind I'd dodged this question a hundred times since the first time I'd spent the night with him. "I don't know. Do you?"

"Well, like I said, this goes back to the jealousy issue. I like what you and I have. I'd be sad to lose it. But short of you deciding you didn't want to be with me anymore, you wanting to fuck someone else wouldn't hurt me. But I get the feeling you don't feel the same way."

"I'm starting to feel like the greedy boy who wants to keep his cake and eat it too."

"Because you want more freedom for yourself than you'd like me to have?"

"No—ha, well, maybe—but no, not really. I mean because I feel so possessive when I won't even be open about what's going on between us."

"We can put that whole thing aside. Really. I don't need to parade around holding hands. I'm a pretty private person. Or, as one or two people have put it, I'm rather guarded. Things that are precious to me, I tend to keep to myself. I guess that ties in to why I like being physical with you upstairs more than down here, where anyone and everyone roams around three nights a week."

"As long as me being 'closeted' (I couldn't keep the implied quotes out of my voice) isn't hurting your feelings. Or making you feel like I'm, I don't know, less into you than I am."