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>Crimson and clover (over and over). > >--- > >“That’s it. You’ve had your chance being in charge of >your life. Now it’s my turn.” > >This would probably be a little more arrogant, a >little less reasonable, if I wasn’t standing on the >wrong side of the railing of our 14th floor hotel room. > >I have both my arms sort of bent backwards gripping >the railing, but still. You can see how it would be a >bit alarming. > >I take too long to respond, and Kyle starts in again, >panic mostly overshadowed by anger, disgust. > >“Is this a joke? Because – I’m not saying I wouldn’t >still beat you up if it was – at least then I might >not be as upset about it after.” > >“It’s not a joke Kyle,” I say, rather petulantly. >Although it’s not exactly the other thing either. >“It’s symbolism.” > >Kyle swears a bit, and the fact that it’s largely >incomprehensible may have more to do with me than him >at the moment, and then he grabs me hard around my >upper arms and pulls so my shoulder blades are pressed >uncomfortably tight against the slats of the balcony. > > >Now would probably be considered a reasonable time to >tell you I’m slightly stoned from the pot I didn't >tell Kyle I was bringing and very drunk off those >little bottles of alcohol they have far too >conveniently located in the mini bar. At the time, it >didn’t really have anything to do with getting really >drunk and symbolically killing off my former self, it >was just about how tiny and cute the bottles were. I >mean, at least it kind of was. Probably it was >actually also a little bit about Celery and his new >‘normal’ friends and being alone with my head for the >first time since we got here. That, but also >definitely how cute the bottles were. But anyway, I >don’t really think that’s why, I mean I don’t think >the drunk’s why I’m here, but I’ll let you draw your >own conclusions. > >What it’s essential for Kyle to understand, but >largely understandable if he doesn’t right now, is >that I wasn’t trying to kill myself. I was allowing >an opportunity for my old self to die. Symbolic or >not, it was something I felt I had to do. Because of >a decision I made, not as the result of all these >tiny, gradual, inevitable increments occurring in >time. And I guess I thought maybe if my parents >could read about that in the paper, somehow the new me >would be real to them, and to me. > >Anyway, that’s what it was about. Symbolism. > >Or you know. Maybe that’s the mini Drambuie talking. > >We last in that holding pattern for a few minutes, >until I start to feel Kyle’s fingers shaking against >my arms. I start to say something, maybe a joke, >maybe I’m sorry, and he tells me to shut the fuck up >before I’ve even really started, pulling at me again, >this time clearly trying to haul me over the railing >back onto vaguely solid ground. Presumably so he can >kick my ass. > >I’m not entirely against the idea, at least some parts >of it, even if I wasn’t exactly done what I went out >here to achieve, and I try to move, like he wants me >to, to help him, but the angle’s bad, and for a minute >on not nearly enough space, I stumble, and there’s a >second that I’m sure is far too long for Kyle that one >of my feet is completely off the ledge and in that >same second his hands go slack, and I have a chance to >think ‘hey look I’m gonna die – shit’, but then it’s >okay, because he’s yanking me back towards the railing >and my hands are finding bars to grab onto. > >When he says, “Damnit Jonas, you fucking prick,” with >real panic crackling in every syllable, “You have to >help me, I can’t do this shit on my own,” well, that’s >symbolic too. > >Eventually, we get me over the railing back to the >side Kyle can breathe properly with me on. He catches >up on that for awhile and then he takes me basically, >by the scruff of the neck, and sits me down at the >kitchen table of what amounts to the kitchenette in >our suite, which is where it gets its name, and then >goes to the drawer by the sink, contemplates it for >awhile, and then takes something out. He returns and >in a frighteningly controlled gesture he sets a large >serrated knife down on the table. > >"You wanna go first or shall I?" > >"Kyle—" > >"If it's alright with you – I mean, if you don't mind >– I'd prefer to go first. But then, maybe that's not >dramatic enough for you. And I suppose, it's possible >that it might screw up the rotation." > >Somehow, probably because I'm still residually stoned, >I dare to ask, "The rotation?" > >"Well yeah. Sure. You jump off a balcony – I bleed >to death from a mortal kitchen knife wound in the >bathroom… in a few days Carrots and Celery come >looking for us and find the whole bloody mess – or >maybe they hear about you on the news and that's how >they find out. Either way – they freak out. Carrots, >because he's like that, makes Celery do him and then >Celery offs himself, or they make it back to Winnipeg >and they get the twins in on it too. There are a >couple variations on that theme." He looks at me >meanly. "Want to hear them?" > >"No." > >He makes a disgusted noise in his throat. > >My head is spinning, but I don't think I can blame the >mini Smirnoff. > >"Kyle—" I try again. > >He looks up at me, and I think he's done being calm. > >"How else did you see this going down? Did you think >we'd just shrug and get on with our lives? That I >would?" > >I don't respond. How the fuck am I supposed to? > >He sighs. > >"You're a fucking asshole." > >"I wasn't –" > >"Jonas – whatever you were doing – you're a fucking >asshole." > >And then, before I can stammer out a reply, Kyle gets >up and walks out of the room. > >--- > >It’s a few endless hours, more miserable than I can >remember spending in years, before he comes back. >When he does, there's a second of bone deep relief >that passes across his face, quickly hidden by an >averted look and a sharp smack up side my head. He >follows this up with an oddly placed smile. I'm >certain I don't deserve it. > >"Wanna watch a movie?" He asks, so casually, such an >absurd question at a time like this, and I think I >might do a little hysterical laughing of my own, but >instead, somehow, I manage to nod, and we go down >stairs to the lobby area, where a selection of movies >are available for rent to patrons of the hotel. > >We decide to watch Lady Hawk, because we remember >liking it as kids, so maybe it’ll be comforting, and >Kyle’s good mood and relentless not talking continues >in a bizarre and alarming fashion that leaves me >dazed, following him around waiting for someone’s head >to explode. I don’t know anything and he might know >even less, but it’s been decided, I can see that much, >that we will not talk about this. We will leap over >it. It has been decided also, in that same way >dictated by silence, that I really will stop being in >charge of my own life, as it is now, officially, >Kyle’s, since he saved it. Apparently that how it >works. And maybe, in another life, I might have had >something to say about that, but tucked up against >him, wearing his softest, oldest sweater, watching the >beginnings of a movie I used to love, I’m just too >tired, and maybe a little too sated, to argue. > >We watch the movie, which is much longer than either >of us remembered, and not nearly as good, and his >somewhat belligerently calm and cheerful mood >eventually softens into something a little more >natural, and I’m half asleep on his shoulder with the >closing credits going before I remember what exactly >happened a few hours before, and the still glaring >difference between what happened and what he thinks >happened. I struggle, first to wake up, and then to >think of something to say, but Kyle’s not saying >anything is so forceful and determined I give up >before I’ve hardly even tried to begin. > >I let him carry me into bed and kiss me goodnight in >the same way, too tired to argue; being let off, as >always, far too easy to dare complain. > >--- > >The next morning (capital letters implied) Kyle and I >make love slowly, and every second is about control. >Usually, sex for us is a grappling match, playful, >aggressive, two guys used to the fairer sex suddenly >struggling for physical dominance. But this time, >Kyle is fully in charge, and it’s entirely about >making sure we both know it. By allowing him to be I >was trying, I suppose, to show that I meant it, that I >understood. Message received. I was handing over the >reigns. We both knew it wasn’t really going to be >that easy, that simple, that clean, but we needed to >let ourselves think it that first morning. Believe it >until that alone would make it true. > >--- > >Kyle talked, then, with no mention of why, with a new, >complete confidence and assurity. About the future, >all the things we would do. As the plans formed about >his words, detailed and concrete, I felt a sharp >twinge of the old unease, and shivered, just once, >against him, before allowing my head to be kissed and >securing myself more tightly and comfortably along the >contours of his body. My new jailer – whom I had just >allowed to throw away the key forever. > >--- > >When we next saw the super vegetables, I half expected >Celery to take one look at me and know instantly >(although I wasn’t even entirely sure what exactly it >would be he knew) and for Kyle to break down at the >sight of his worn out, love bruised little brother. >Instead, Carrots smiled reassuringly at Kyle and >ducked under Celery’s half protective half possessive >arm to avoid further questioning. Celery tried >briefly to meet my eyes, but I smiled and shifted >myself closer to Kyle. Celery raised his eyes >briefly, mostly to himself, and then shrugged. Kyle >and Carrots were already distracted talking about what >we were going to do today. Celery’s eyes stayed on me >for one moment more, and then he too got drawn into >the conversation. I watched Kyle’s back carefully as >he walked ahead with C and C, but no tension was >visible in his shoulders. He was chuckling along with >the playful argument Carrots and Celery were having, >but I hung back, unable to believe it could really be >this easy, certain that this was going to be the time >I was left dangling painfully on the hook. But >instead, when I continued to lag, Kyle turned back to >look at me and grinned, hand stretched saying, “Come >on slow poke – you’re falling behind.” I hesitated >for a moment, and then allowed myself to be drawn back >into step with the group. > >And I guess maybe that was rather symbolic too. > >--- > >The irony of this situation is now beginning to get >annoying. > >As reluctant as I am to ever talk about it again and >as grateful as I am that Kyle hasn’t been pushing >relentlessly and seems himself content never to speak >of it again – I realize we’re kind of going to have >to. I mean, for one thing, I’m more than a little >afraid he killed someone that night in between the >time he left and the time he came back, strangely >cheerful. But also, and more importantly, at least as >it pertains directly to our relationship, I’m not >entirely sure he gets it. Because I wasn’t out there >on that balcony because I’d had too much to drink or >because I wanted to die – and it’s rather essential >that Kyle know that. > >The problem is that telling him that would involve me >beginning a conversation about something neither of us >really want to talk about, and I have no idea how to >do that. I have much more experience in the weaseling >out of those conversations than I do in starting them. > Honestly, I have no idea how to go about it. > >Hence, you know. The irony. > >First of all, there’s my obvious and considerable >reluctance to bring it up again based on the merits of >my actions, and certainly the last thing I want to do >is rock the boat he’s so generously hauled me into. >By that I mean, for whatever reason, its apparent >Kyle’s forgiven me, or at the very least isn’t going >to murder or shun me, and I’d really rather keep it >that way. Even so, action must be taken. > >But even setting that aside, the on behalf of me not >wanting to get killed reluctance, I don’t have fucking >clue where to begin. Which brings us back to my >central problem, ie: knowing that I have to get him to >talk to me doesn’t make it any easier. It doesn’t >change the fact that I’ve got what basically amounts >to no experience in the area, plus a serious amount of >precedent relating to my own secrecy and his patience >in all matters I refused to talk about working against >me. Plus, Kyle’s a good hider. Make no mistake, I >think he’s an idiot and a saint for letting me get >away with as much as he does, but I also know that at >least part of it is more about him than it is about >me. Him being patient with me where he can’t be >patient with himself, stockpiling for such a >circumstance, letting me keep secrets to distract from >the fact that, just maybe, he’s doing the same thing. > >So basically, for anyone who hasn’t gotten there >already – I’m fucked. > >--- > >And then there was the time Carrots punched Jared in >the face. > >And, I’ve got to say, I really have to hand it to >Carrots and Celery. I mean, for the love of god >people. I may or may not have tried to kill myself in >Kyle’s mind, and he should be all over my ass with the >questions and the rage and the whatever, but instead, >we’re both still so deep into trying to get us all out >of Calgary alive, particularly Celery and Carrots, >it’s not just Kyle’s who’s distracted, *I* keep >forgetting about it. I mean, I’m not forgetting the >same thing as Kyle, maybe, but still. I know I have >to talk to him (and I know even more how impossible >that’s going to be, from bitter experience in fact) >and I know that he was right, and I am basically a >fucking asshole, which maybe I should try to work on, >and there’s all this stuff and it’s happening right >NOW and to ME, but I barely think about it. When >we’re not with them, we’re planning battle strategies, >drinking to forget and generally gnawing away at our >fingers out of worry. > >Which is not, I’m going to go ahead and say, a bad >thing. From like, my perspective that is. Not only >do I get to not deal with my own shit or face >responsibility for it just yet, I get to work off >guilt coupons by rising to the occasion and doing >everything I can to help my brothers. My family. > >And hopefully somewhere along the line Kyle will >understand that that’s what I’m doing, and I’ll be >able to stop looking for fear in his eyes. > >--- > >Every way I look at it, or rather, the only way I can >currently handle looking at it, Kyle is a traitor. He >broke his promise and fucked it all up. And by ‘it’ I >think you’ll find I mean our deal. Our modus >operendi. > >I’m a runner. It’s what I do. The going gets tough? >I get going. Get gone, more specifically. Why deal? >Bail. I am a master at the art of bailing. Sticking >around, figuring stuff out, working through things – >not really my style. > >It is Kyle’s though, except apparently not in this >case. > >But, I mean, that’s what Kyle does. That’s how we >work. This is HIS fucking job. I don’t want to tell >him stuff, he makes me. Eventually. Usually. > >And I mean, if part of his new in charge plan involves >him no longer being in charge of making me talk about >stuff, we’re still going to have a serious problem. > >Like at the diner with Carrots and Celery. At first, >I felt as though he was taunting me – feigning >uncertainty about a topic he knew very well was >already decided. I would have been sure that was what >it was, if I didn’t know Kyle could never be that >cruel. So it had to be something else. If not >uncertainty on his part, uncertainty about me, it had >to be reluctance. To talk about anything, to go over >why, for example, everything was suddenly so very >sorted. Not the hardest thing to spot when you’re a >master of such behavior yourself. Except Kyle isn’t. >He’s very bad at it in fact. Gets angry, up in the >corner, gets a little mean. The sharp surprising >prick of his anger would have been enough to make me >leave, make me flee, but it was more than that this >time. It was a plea. I run – he comes after me. >This too, is how we work. I understand I have to >change, be better, be more present, committed, I want >that, and I think I might honestly be ready for it, >finally, but I don’t want to lose all the good stuff >as well. The familiarity. The parts about us that >gave me reason to hope and believe in the first place. > So I bailed, and I waited about a half a block away >for him to find me. > >But he didn’t. A few seconds later Celery charged in >and he flinched when he saw the look on my face, but >he got in enough to shake his head, offer me a hand >for a moment, sit with me in silence on a curb until I >could breathe again, and then take me back to where I >belonged. Inside Kyle’s arm was raised and welcoming, >a soft apology on his lips. I accepted all of this >gratefully, and tired not to think too hard about what >he might be apologizing for. > >--- > >“Kyle?” > >“Jonas.” His tone is pleasant enough, body and voice >infuriatingly relaxed. > >I look up at him dolefully. I’ve been trying to get >him to talk to me for the last two days, and I’ve >reached the conclusion I don’t know how to do this >when he’s not making it easy for me. Which in the >logical system I’m not working in, means this is all >his fault. > >He smiles, in direct opposition to what I’m trying to >achieve, and places a lazy kiss on the side of my >forehead. It’s usually the kissing that gets me, I >can get as far as the kissing and then he wins. But >not his time. I shift away from him and but on my >resolve face. Which lasts about a second, and the >morphs into my pouty distressed face. > >“I have to – I need you to…” It’s farther than I’ve >ever got, but he silences me effectively with nothing >more than a small incline of his head. > >I could relax back into him, so easily, but I shake my >head a little, and prepare to try again. > >His eyes flash. “It happened, you made a choice, and >now it’s done. Over.” His tone is dangerous, words >chosen with force and care. Finality. > >“But I just don’t think – I wasn’t…” I fumble, rushing >to start again before he cuts me off again. “I love >you – I’ve always wanted everything from you. But >maybe I haven’t been sure if I could give everything >back – but I can now – I know I can – I want to. >That’s what I was doing – it was symbolic you know –“ > >His hands are tight against my shoulders, his eyes are >a little frenzied, and we’re back there again, right >back to when he’d just hauled me over from the wrong >side of the railing, but I’m more frightened now of >what he might do than I ever was then. He holds me >like that for a moment more, pressed harshly against >the back of the couch we were both sitting on, far too >close, breathing ragged, before letting me go and >allowing his face to fall into his hands, sobbing >taking over like a tidal wave across his body. I sit >there in absolute shock for a moment, watching him >collapse under a life times worth of holding himself >and everyone else together, until I understand what it >is I’m seeing, what I’m being allowed to see, and I >very carefully take him into my arms, rocking him >gently, and promising him everything is going to be >okay. > >(fade to black) > > > >The End

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