Near

–

From where he sat on the plane, Fisher could see all of Las Vegas. If it had been any other day, or any other situation, he would have been sad to see the lights fading out like this, but on this day, in this situation, he was angry. It had dimmed a little since he stormed out of the casino, but not much.

Not enough to make a difference.

His seat was uncomfortable, and he couldn’t find sleep. When the plane finally landed, he gathered his things and left, exhausted, half drunk and – ironically – penniless. It felt as though he was walking underwater, every step a conscious struggle just to lift his foot, to move it forward, to set it down and shift his weight. Anxious for forgetfulness, when he arrived home he dropped his things on the floor and downed half a bottle of Cutty Sark.

x

He sat in his apartment for two days – mismatched furniture, scotch bottles lined up on the windowsill – brooding about that last day in Vegas. He couldn’t get it out of his head, and there was one image in particular that lodged itself in his mind: Ben’s face at the card tables, and then later, at the strip club, when Fisher threw himself across that small space between them.

The next morning he told Mickey he’d been drunk. And it was true, he had been, but he’d been in complete control that night, yes, in fact he’d been unusually aware of himself that night. His legs, pushing him forward; his fingers, his palms shoving Ben back. The sudden anger that had been building and building, quietly, until the only release possible was physical violence.

And now he needed to talk, to vent, to let it all out. But there was no one. It was Vegas that had done this to him, wasn’t it? That, and the feeling that he was better than all the other students at MIT, because he had a secret, because he had hundreds of thousands of dollars stashed around his apartment. That money made him a stranger, and in the end, everyone had abandoned him – even Choi, even….

Even Choi.

He rose from his chair and grabbed a jacket, and then his house keys, and then he left. He’d only been to Choi’s house once, he recalled, but he remembered the way. Every time he passed it he would murmur “His house” under his breath, always with his eyes focused elsewhere, so as not to admit the curiosity it aroused in him. The house was normal–looking enough, but it was the knowledge of the boy who ate, slept, lived inside it that kept Fisher coming back. Choi’s flashy ways, his loud personality, the life that bubbled up within him, bursting… those things held a strange attraction for Fisher, a stronger attraction than he knew they should.

But if anyone would listen, it was Choi.

He found the right street, and then the right door, knocking softly. It took a while for the door to open, and then Choi stood staring out at him.

“Fisher,” he said softly. There was a sort of bemused expression on his face, and his hair hung down in his eyes, one hand resting on the doorknob.

“Can I come in?” Fisher asked.

“…Yeah.”

Choi tailed him into the living room. Taking in the room (whitewashed walls, tastefully matched furniture), Fisher sat down near the front window and brought out a pack of cigarettes. His movements seemed a little furtive, as though he knew he wasn’t supposed to be here.

(“Don’t talk to him, don’t see him, don’t tell him anything about what we’re doing. He’s not a part of this anymore. He’s dead.”

Mickey’s words. And yet here Fisher was, sitting in the living room.)

“What are you doing here?” Choi asked tiredly.

“I’m sick of being ignored, that’s all,” Fisher said, not caring enough to hide the bitterness in the words. Ah, there. Just for a moment, there had been guilt on Choi’s face. The sight of it was unexpectedly satisfying, but the satisfaction was soon replaced with guilt. This wasn’t what he had come here for, and anyway, it wouldn’t do any good to alienate the one person he felt he could talk to, especially when he needed a friend so badly.

Forcing the words out, he mumbled, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“No,” Choi said coldly, “you shouldn’t have.”

He walked into the kitchen, leaving Fisher feeling guilty and sick and abandoned, all those emotions fighting their way up his throat until he felt as though he might choke, his insides bursting out onto the carpet.

Fisher pushed himself out of the chair, moving to stand beside Choi at the stove, where they other boy had put a kettle down to boil. Already the stove coils were heating up to a nice, rosy red.

“You think you’re the only one who’s felt bad about it?” Choi said, voice harsh as he turned to face his friend. There was no need to say what ‘it’ was. “I sat here for two days wondering if Mickey did the right thing by throwing you out. I was worriedabout you, Fisher – made myself sick with it, spent all last night on the couch with one of those stupid ice packs on my forehead!”

“Really?”

Choi hated him then – his smug look, an expression just a shade too close to amusement. He hated that Fisher had looked so desperate and pathetic at the door, and that he hadn’t been able to slam the door in his face the way he’d wanted.

“You’re a jerk,” Choi said, turning abruptly back to the stove. The movement placed Fisher outside of his field of view, and he missed the step forward, the slow smile that spread over Fisher’s face. But suddenly, there he was beside him – hair a little mussed from the wind outside, a scarf around his neck - and standing uncomfortably close.

“Probably,” Fisher said.

And then he was kissing him, and his hand was on Choi’s arm, and Choi could taste him – vodka, cigarettes, saltine crackers. He was aware of Fisher’s fingers moving up his arms, his shoulders, his neck; he could feel the light pressure of Fisher’s body very close to his and he could see, from the corner of half–closed eyes, that Fisher had tugged his scarf from around his neck. An inconsequential detail. And then his eyes closed and he saw nothing. He only felt.

The kiss lasted no more than twelve seconds or so, and then Fisher broke away, pulling back with a light chuckle. Choi’s hands had crept up his friend’s chest, and when he noticed he dropped them (guiltily) to the stove handle behind him. His face was burning, but his stomach felt as though it might burst onto the linoleum floor. The conflicting emotions were somehow pleasant because, as embarrassed as he was, there was a peculiar warmth spreading all through his body….

Fisher reached for the kettle. “How hot do you like the water?” he asked.

Jealous of the unflustered calm of his voice, it took a few seconds for Choi to answer, his own words stuck in the back of his throat. “That’s fine the way you have it,” he managed, taking the proffered cup with shaking hands, wondering if he would drop it. But no, he was able to hold on, able to take short, mechanical sips.

“You’re a jerk,” he said again, the words almost too breathy to make out.

Fisher smiled.

“Yeah.”

finis