The water cascaded through his fingers as Tristen held up his cupped hands. Nothing remains. It’s all fleeting. Love, friends, life, glory, pain, heartache...all is fleeting.
No wonder Jaime said I should be a poet. Then again, he also proved I could be a theorist. He did help prove everything I just thought.
Sitting in the bath, lean whipcord body shinning from the water sliding off his skin, streaked blonde hair lying flat against his temples, Tristen stared into the water. He marveled at his own form...far from beautiful, since beauty was fleeting anyway, but nonetheless one he never tired of pampering. There was a knock at the door.
“Tristen, are you done yet? Hurry up, I’ve got a date!”
With any luck, Lisel rooming with us will be just as fleeting as everything else.
“I’m almost done!” Tristen called out to his little sister, reveling in the sound of his baritone voice reflecting against the walls. It was gone all too soon-fleeting, again, like all, like the water cupped in his hands pouring out of them. Everything is out of my hands. There is nothing anyone can hold.
“Tristen! He’s at the door, come on, I have to shower, and your stupid boyfriend is ready to leave.”
“Roommate,” he corrected as he stood, water cascading off his form back into the tub with splashes that ended as soon as they sounded.
Poetry. Music is poetry. But fame is fleeting, everything is, and fame moreso. I’ll stick with archaeology. Studying what others have left behind in their brief moments. That’s what’s important.
“Fuck buddy, then.”
“Tell him that.” Tristen’s hair waved back at forth as the blow dryer came on, never holding the same position for very long. It was life, nothing ever stayed the same for long enough to savor it, so savor what you can get your hands on the second it arises. Once his hair was dry enough to not set in tangles, he opened the door. “Cover your eyes, dear sister. I don’t want to offend you.”
Lisel complied. “Horny bastard.”
“You brought up the fuck buddy part.”
“Always blame me.” She cracked open her fingers, blue eyes following him down the stairs. “Where are you going?”
“Downstairs.”
“You’ve got clean clothes in your room, what are-” She stopped, and her mouth dropped open. “You wouldn’t!”
“Carpe diem, baby.” He waved over his shoulder, feet slapping against the wooden stairs and leaving little puddles that would dry up as soon as everything else.
Downstairs, Lisel’s date sat-average college freshman, nervy and trying not to look it, with black hair cut in new age spikes, full lips, and green eyes to die for. Tristen walked past him, smiling flirtatiously. “Hey there. Lis’ll be down in a bit, she’s just lathering up for after dinner.”
Lisel leaned over the railing. “I’ll kill you, Tristen! I can’t believe you’d do that!”
Tristen laughed and went on into Michael’s room, where he flopped onto the bed, savoring the cheer he’d gotten for as long as it lasted. “So how long is this torture going to last?”
“I told you you couldn’t go a whole month without me. You set yourself up.”
“I just wanted free tickets to that crap band. You made sure we’re getting backstage, right?”
“Tristen, you’re the horniest bastard on the planet.”
“You and my sister should get together.”
“You mean she’s finally discovered what a dick she is?”
“I always suspected. I bet it’ll be a sad thing for that hunk of wonderful sitting on my couch out there.”
“I thought I paid for it.”
“You paid the holding fee. I paid the majority. You stop taking me out, I take back rights to furniture.”
Michael rolled his eyes, and ran his hands along Tristen’s legs. “I guess I should consider myself lucky that my ex isn’t jealous enough to throw me out.”
“Not now, you. I’m saving myself for that cute bassist.”
“Oh, you prude you.”
“That’s me.”
And the banter was over. Sometimes fleeting was good. Sometimes it was bad. Joy and sorrows never last.
*
It’ll end. Everything ends. This will be over soon.
And yet the opening act played on.
Tristen felt the floor pounding, the music screaming through the air like a cruel wind, and wished fervently that he was wrong about life. This would be one of the times it would be nice if things ended quickly, but living moment to moment was what got him into this bet in the first place.
And then as if to prove him wrong, the final act began, the crowd surged forward, and with a cry something him in the back.
“Shit...” Tristen put out a hand, catching the small body before it hit the ground. “What are you thinking? Are you all right?”
The face shifted into the light, Tristen’s eyes suddenly staring into dazed, night dark ones that seemed to absorb all the light and reflect it back at him, eyes that took all the darkness and turned it into something brighter than that.
“Sorry, sorry.” Somehow, the quiet tenor floated above the noise of the band. The bassist was onstage. Tristen didn’t look. He led the boy back out of the melee of fans, and waited until he had reoriented.
“Are you sure you’re all right?”
“I’m fine, I’m fine.” The boy-he was a boy, he didn’t look much older than Lisel’s date, and more likely younger-brushed his wispy bangs from those deep eyes. He wore all black-ebony button down shirt with black embroidery on the cuffs that looked like it might be silk, black leather pants with flared legs, boots that clicked on the rungs on the chair as he sat. His hair matcher perfectly, as night dark as his clothes and his eyes, longish and tousled from the crowd, pulled back into a loose tail with a few strands escaping and falling into his face. Tristen’s eyes darted to the light above them, and back down at the boy. For all his darkness, he seemed brighter than anything else in the room. Even the stage lights reflecting off his pants and that shirt, the shirt that looked almost as soft as his hair...
“What are you doing up there?” he asked. “Fan of the band?”
The boy shook his head, bangs obscuring his face for a moment. “I can’t stand punk music. It’s so hopeless.”
You look like you don’t know the meaning of the word-or that you do, but you don’t believe it. “Then why the hell were you up there in the mosh pit?” Tristen raised a dark gold eyebrow. “You definitely look like you couldn’t survive up there. It’s probably a good thing you ran into me when you did.”
The boy shrugged. “It’s my job. Until my first year of college is done, I review for the city paper.”
College? “You’re in college?”
“I will be next semester. I just graduated in December.”
Tristen re-examined the boy, disbelieving. “You’ve got to be kidding. Don’t get mad, but you look like you’re my youngest sister’s age, and she’s a sophomore.”
“I’m seventeen.” The boy looked back at him calmly. It wasn’t the defensive glare Tristen had expected. “I skipped second grade. I’m not quite that young, though.”
“Seventeen isn’t young?”
The boy’s brow furrowed, and Tristen’s mouth quirked. Oh yum. For that, I could be tempted into cradle robbing. He absently blew a few of those loose strands of silky hair out of his face before answering. “I didn’t phrase that well. I guess you would say I’m old for my age.”
Tristen looked at him more closely. Absolutely beautiful. And so sweet...I’ve never met someone so...so...
It’s just the moment. It won’t last. He’s got a temper like anyone else. In the next moment, he’ll change. Better take advantage while I can.
Tristen ran a hand through his hair, and raised his arm. “Yo, barkeep! Can I get a couple drinks here?”
The boy shook his head. “Just one. I don’t drink yet. I’m seventeen, remember?”
“Oh, come on. You need to start sometime.”
He looked at Tristen with sudden pain in his eyes. “No. I don’t like...feeling muddled.”
He looked down, as if aware that Tristen had noticed the pause, cheeks slightly flushed. Tristen’s lips twitched. “You’re cute when you blush.”
The boy’s head snapped up, and he stared at Tristen, face an unreadable mask. Tristen leaned forward on his elbows, trying to hide the fear he suddenly felt.
There’s fish tap dancing on my spine. I’m nervous. I don’t get nervous. What if he says no? Does it matter? It’ll end anyway.
I don’t want it to end. Fuck living life moment to moment. I don’t want to go on to the next one. I think I could be forever happy if this moment lasted forever.
He smiled-not his usual killer smile, just a pure grin that was the most genuine thing he’d done in years. “So. You don’t drink yet. Would you like to go ut to dinner sometime instead, then?”
The boy just stared, face mask like. Tristen went on, feeling like he was babbling, looking away. “And then maybe when you turn eighteen I can take you out to a bar sometime...you know, just give you a little taste...of course, if you still don’t like it then that’s fine, some people don’t...it’s a taste thing, I guess...anyway, how would you like to go ut sometime?”
He looked back at the boy. His expression hadn’t changed a bit. Finally, he spoke, voice low. “What was that?”
The note of fear and surprise in those words took Tristen aback. The fish turned into elephants trampling across his chest.
Humiliated...stupid stupid, Tristen. You just make assumptions and don’t bother to find out if they’re right...what do I care? It’s fleeting anyway...
It didn’t stop the pain and humiliation he felt.
Tristen looked away. “Hey, sorry. I just...with you hair and...and the way you look and all...I just assumed...not that you look gay, I didn’t mean that...it’s just...”
His words stumbled to a faltering conclusion. “I just assumed. I’m sorry. I’ll go now. I’m so sorry, really. I shouldn’t have assumed.”
He stood, trying not to betray the suddenly oppressing dejection he felt.
“I’d love to.”
Tristen stopped as that wonderful voice reached his ears. He felt a hand on his shoulder-light touch, and he could see the thin finger out of the corner of his eye. The boy’s voice was closer now, practically in his ear. “I’m sorry. It’s just I’ve always been the one asking the other boys out. This is the first time I’ve been on the receiving end.”
Tristen turned, and the animals inside him melted with his heart at the shy smile on the boy’s face. “But I’d love to go. When?”
For the first time he could remember, Tristen was at a loss for words. He thought quickly. “Do you need to be home at any time?”
“Before two am. My mother’s fine as long as I’m back before then. She has her reasons for...for not wanting me out too late.”
Tristen didn’t even notice the pause this time. “All right. Two. Got it. Home by two. How about Tuesday? Seven? I’ll pick you up...we can go to the Golden Lotus...do you like Chinese?”
The shy smile turned into a wry grin. “I’m open minded.”
Tristen laughed, a little too loudly, thoughts racing. “All right. We’ll go there. Don’t dress up...I mean, do, but don’t feel like you have to...I’ll get you at seven, then. And home by two. I can do that. We can go to a movie after dinner, walk around downtown, maybe go back to my house for-”
“Seventeen.” The boy’s voice rose nervously. “I’m seventeen.”
Tristen blinked, slowing down. He frowned. “I wasn’t going to do anything to you. Don’t freak.”
His new date looked down. “Sorry. Reflex. I didn’t mean it. What were you going to say?”
“I could introduce you to my evil little sister, and we talk and listen to music or something...you have any siblings?”
The boy shook his head. “None. My father died before I was born, and my mother never remarried. You’re a big music fan?”
“I’m a musician. Well, not really, I really want to be an archaeologist, that’s what I’m studying in school-wow, that makes me seem old, but it’s only my second year, I’m just twenty, so I guess it’s not that old. What do you want to do?”
“I’m studying journalism. I’d like to write.”
Tristen blinked. “Interesting. That’s pretty neat.”
The song finally changed, and Tristen frowned. “I hate this concert. I’m only here on a bet. Let’s get out of here, all right?”
The boy looked thoughtful, then nodded. “All right. I can write my review with this much.”
“I’ll walk you home.”
That smile again, this time with no trace of shyness. Tristen’s heart pounded as he answered. “Sure. I only live a few blocks away.”
They exited the hall in silence, a silence that lasted most of the way to the boy’s house, broken only by a few questions, and comments about the terrible concert. Tristen fell in love with the boy’s laugh-he didn’t laugh often, but when he did...
Dear God, please don’t make him change in a new moment. Let this not be fleeting.
The strength of that thought surprised Tristen. He brushed it off for the morning as they reached to boy’s house-a small duplex with bushes and a tiny flower garden near the porch. There was a light on in the front room, and Tristen suppressed a feeling of disappointment.
The boy seemed to read his thoughts. “It’s been almost two years since we moved, and my mother still worries about me. Don’t worry. It’s not even midnight, so she’s probably just waiting for me to get home. After one is when she starts watching for me. I shouldn’t get in any trouble, and she’ll be glad someone walked me home safely.”
Tristen wondered why on earth the boy's mother would act like that, but didn’t say anything. He walked him up to the porch, and shoved his hands into his pockets, feeling a little warmth go back into his fingertips. “So, I’ll see you in a couple days, then?”
The boy beamed. “Seven on the dot. I’ll be waiting.”
Tristen smiled in reply. “I’ll try not to be late.”
He looked away for a moment, and took his hands out of his pockets. He glanced at the boy’s, and blinked at the way he was clenching them in a way that showed how cold they must be getting in the early spring air. He took them in his own without thinking, and began rubbing them. “Pants without pockets aren’t very smart.”
The boy blushed a little, and laughed. “Well, I never claimed to have common sense. I just do well in school.”
Tristen snorted, and dropped his hands. “Well, you’d better get inside before you freeze. I’ll be here, then.”
The boy nodded, and smiled again. “Thanks for walking me home.”
Tristen shrugged, and looked away, embarrassed. “It’s nothing. I didn’t mind at all.”
They stood there for a moment in silence. Finally the boy spoke. “Well, I’ll see you, then. Have a nice evening.”
Tristen turned, and leaned forward quickly before he could change his mind. His lips brushed the boy’s as he dropped a light kiss on them, and he straightened up quickly, hoping the darkness hid his red face. “Good night.”
He turned and began to walk down the steps. The boy ran his fingers over his lips absently, a surprised smile tracing across his face. He called out. “What’s your name?”
Tristen turned. “Tristen! Yours?”
The boy grinned. “Devon. Devon Morris!”
Tristen waved. “Good night, then...Devon.”
Devon waved back, and walked through the door to his house. Tristen looked after him for a few moments, smiled broadly, and began the trek to his own place.
*
It was almost noon when the sounds of Michael flirting on the phone with his latest awoke Tristen. He lay there, uncertain as to why the dust motes in the light looked so incredible today, why the light seemed dimmer, why his bed felt so incredibly empty. He sat up, took a few aspirin he kept near his bed, and stretched languidly.
Stupid concert. I don’t know why I ever do those stupid things. Oh well. They have some perks. Meeting the bassist...no...
He remembered, and suddenly the dimness of the light made perfect sense-somehow, his young shadow boy had been brighter than even this.
No, not meeting the band. Meeting Devon.
Tristen touched his own lips, feeling the imprints on them, and the corners of his mouth turned up. Maybe everything isn’t fleeting. Maybe it only is until you find something important enough to freeze the moment with.
I hope Devon likes sharing chopsticks.