017 (Four Letter Words) [PW]

i don't even know i'm doing it

dismiss it out of hand

'cause i don't even know i'm doing it...

— The Tragically Hip

Monday, July 12, 2004

AFTER A WEEK SPENT IN A HOSPITAL BED, and more poking and prodding than he really cared for, the flight overseas felt positively liberating. Now Larry Gowan sat in the back of the town car, watching the scenery move past the windows with the sort of childlike awe that would have been more befitting the young man across from him. "It's very green," he murmured, pressing one palm against the glass. "I can see why you love it out here so much. Far brighter than the drab gray of those awful cities we keep finding ourselves in."

"Oh, I don't know. Some have their charm. London, of course. And I've always rather liked Dublin. Even Cardiff has its moments..." Chauncy's eyes were firmly fixed on that hand against the glass, his own shoved deep into his pockets to prevent him from betraying himself in movement. "Even the things we don't always like at first, or which don't seem to fit... well, they eventually grow on you, at least a little, don't they?"

Larry turned his head, laughing softly as the double meaning of that statement wasn't lost on him one bit. "They do," he nodded, feeling a twinge of pain in his still-healing neck. "But then first impressions have never been something I'm particularly adept at."

"Well, you gave a perfectly good first impression to me," he clarified, a reflective air to the set of his features. He was considering what kind of first impression the two people he was about to... well, informally introduce, would have on each other. He wondered if his timing was off, if he hadn't been too rash in organising this so early. Then again, what would waiting do?

"Right. Having a complete meltdown in that karaoke bar was great." He shook his head, turning back towards the window. "Maybe this is what I needed after all. A little time away from the public eye."

"Well, it was memorable. You did want me to remember you, didn't you?" God, he was bad at banter. This was why it was easier to remain quiet: what sounded perfectly fine in his head sounded utterly ridiculous once voiced aloud. "I hope so. I'd like to give you what you need."

Gowan laughed, "I don't know what I need beyond a little quiet time to sort my head out..." he paused, realising that he really didn't have to return to the ring for another thirty days, "but when I figure it out, you'll be the first to know."

The laugh helped. A little. "We're here." Something about being home lifted the weight on his chest: one he hadn't realised had been this bad until it was lifted, even if only a little. He shifted forward in his seat, unbuckling the belt as the car slowed in the middle of the circular drive, and then pulled to a stop. "Home."

"Oh... my..." Gowan's jaw dropped, staring up at the large house— it was almost a mansion. Hell, it was a mansion by his standards. "Wow. It's beautiful." His eyes were drawn to the ivy climbing the stonework towards the windows on the upper floor before he looked back at Chauncy, his blue eyes filled with a joy that was reflected in his smile. "Honestly, it's... wonderful."

"It's terribly difficult to maintain. The roof alone is a nightmare sometimes, but... I do love it," he answered, still looking up as though seeking changes, or familiarities to reassure himself with. He turned his attention to Larry, ducking his head a little as a smile touched his lips, colour rising high in pale cheeks. "Come on, then, I ought to introduce you."

"Introduce me?" He seemed confused for a moment, and then it dawned on him as nerves settled in. "I look awful," he stammered, stalling as he unbuckled his own belt. "All disheveled and my hair's a mess."

"You look perfectly fine. You look as though you've been travelling, that's all, and of course that's not a problem." Chauncy rested fingertips on his elbow reassuringly for a moment. "Besides, it's only Mum. And she'll love you."

"I hope so." He closed his eyes for a moment, dragging in a steadying deep breath. "Okay. Let's get it over with then."

"It's not the Spanish Inquisition," he answered, with a warm rumble of a chuckle that was too forced for his own liking, and stepped out into the light warmth, already scanning for the woman he knew would have been watching from the windows.

Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition, Gowan thought to himself, unable to keep the smile off his face as he glanced sidelong at Chauncy.

She flew out— or at least, her own version of flying: a sedate glide that gave the impression of having been a dancer at one point— and met him on the stone stairs. "There you are, darling. And you brought a... friend?" The kiss on his cheek was from cool lips, but it was warm just the same.

"Mother, this is Lawrence, Lawrence, my mother, Lady—"

She extended a slim hand, nails manicured but not painted. "You may call me Sybil. Let's not stand on formality."

Gowan took her hand, raising it to his lips and kissing the back of her knuckles. "And you may call me Larry. Most people do." The fact that Chauncy hadn't remained as some sort of unspoken curiosity before he flashed that winning and charming smile, "you have a lovely home, ma'am."

"Thank you. This one rather does feel more like home, I think." She seemed surprised by the old-fashioned courtliness of the gesture, and exchanged a glance with her youngest son, looking almost approving as she glided away in front of them. "Do change: we're not doing anything formal this afternoon until dinner, but I can have tea sent up."

"Yes. Tea. Please." Chauncy's fingers twitched in Larry's direction, but he popped his hand back into his jacket. "I can show Lawrence up."

"Show me up? To my room, you mean?" He watched Chauncy's mother depart, wondering just how old she actually was because it was impossible to tell. He could have placed her age anywhere between thirty and sixty, but it was obvious to him where Chauncy had gotten his grace and arresting blue eyes from.

"Oh. Yes. Up." Chauncy pointed skyward, and waffled a hand at the driver already tugging bags from the boot of the car. "You could follow him, I suppose, but I er... wanted to show you. The house, I mean." He scuffed the toe of one shoe on the pavers. "I do apologise, Lawrence, I... I rather liked the idea of having you here."

He nodded, feeling a swell of sudden warmth at that confession, "well, of course." He reached for Chauncy's hand, "then show me all the best places?"

(the past: Toronto, Canada)

Saturday, December 22, 2007

The apartment was dim, smelling faintly of a citrusy scent that immediately made him think of something he didn't want to remember. It was probably lemon furniture cleaner mixed with one of the sandalwood candles he used to keep on dresser in his bedroom. It wasn't— the door closed firmly behind him and Gowan flinched, turning quickly towards the sound like a spooked animal. Brad Jackson folded his arms across his chest, flashing a tired smile at his friend. The room was enveloped in a smoky darkness as the weak amber light streaming in from the hall was extinguished. Without missing a beat, he reached out and flipped a switch on the wall beside the door, and the large living room was suddenly flooded with a more welcoming glow.

"Nice place," Jackson murmured, leaning against the door. "Great ceilings."

Gowan said nothing, bowing his head. He couldn't walk any further into the room as he was overcome with a sudden onslaught of emotion. He remembered bringing Chauncy here when they returned from the UK simply on the pretense of showing him the piano.

"Larry," Jackson said softly, "it's okay, man. Do what you need to do."

As though given the inclination by Brad's gentle prodding, he crossed the room, leaving behind him a trail of footprints in the layers of dust on the hardwood floors. He stopped in front of a large sofa that was draped in a heavy plastic sheet. He quickly reached down and pulled the tarp from the couch, tossing it on the dusty floor. A cloud rose up, tickling his nose as he shook his head. With exhaustion in the movement, he slumped against the overstuffed cushions. "It's a ghost town."

The words were odd, but Jackson knew what he meant. He uncrossed his arms, and stuffed his hands in his pockets, ambling across the space towards the windows. He took no pains to hide the fact that he was watching Gowan.

Larry was acutely aware of that scrutiny. They all were these days and it drove him crazy. He wasn't suicidal. Not anymore. He just didn't see any point in the mundane day-to-day nonsense. Gowan rubbed his fingers over the scars on his wrists, leaning forward and taking a shaky breath. He stayed like this for a few moments, overcome by an inexplicable dread, unwilling to venture further in this vast empty place. His ragged breathing seemed magnified in this hollow shell... nearly deafening and a sad reminder of how alone he truly was, despite the fact that Jackson was standing a few feet away.

"I can't do this," the words came out softly, "I can't give it up. I..." Maybe he was afraid of facing up to his long-buried feelings and coming to terms with his grief. Maybe he'd been running so long, it was hard to break the habit... maybe he was just a yellow-bellied chicken. Maybe he was frightened by the realization that he would have to live the rest of his life with the burden of what he'd done, and worse yet, what he hadn't, with his remorse left unexpressed and actual happiness forever beyond his reach. "Shit," he whispered, the anguished tone of his voice making Jackson turn away from the impressive view of the waterfront.

"Lare?" Jackson turned towards him. "Hey, if you don't want to sell, you don't have to. Nobody's making you give this place up."

It was a fearful weight he was feeling, but it wasn't what scared him. It was something else entirely. Something he really wasn't ready to face, let alone admit.

Gowan raised his head and ran a hand through his hair in a familiar nervous gesture. He stood again and crossed to the patio doors, which led out onto a huge balcony overlooking Toronto's waterfront. With a trembling hand, he unlatched the door, and ignoring the squeal of protest, slid it open, letting the cool breeze drag the stale air from the apartment.

In its wake, the recessional twilight drew in a breeze from the northeast. The wind-swept blue-gray water began to get choppy in the quickening onset of night. He watched the sun sink below the horizon, as the sky grew indigo. Overhead, seagulls screamed, wheeling and diving over the choppy water, their eerie cries causing Gowan to shudder. Jackson whistled low, pointing towards the fire in the sky as the sun sank over the water. "Nice view."

"It's nicer in the bedroom," he replied, "you can see the CN Tower from there."

The bedroom. No. He wouldn't be going in there. Not today.

After a while, however, Larry decided that he was being foolish. His anxiety was as irrational as a child's apprehension over an imaginary ghoul lurking in the darkness under his bed. He sighed and rested his forehead against the cool glass. He really could use a drink to settle his nerves but he'd been trying so damned hard since Newcastle to tread that thin line, even if the reason for it had already been lost.

He turned back towards the room and his eyes swept slowly over the contents. An entertainment center, barren of contents, was the focal point of the dusty room. The couch and a broken black metal futon frame, sans mattress were the only other contents in this desolate room. Gowan crossed the room towards a long hallway and vanished in the gloom.

The sound of his footsteps seemed deafening in the oppressive silence. He had the curious feeling that the apartment had been untenanted for an age, sealed tomb-tight and that he was the first in centuries to invade its silent spaces. He'd only been gone for a little over a year, but it seemed as though the place had been empty for time immemorial. Undisturbed as Tutankhamen's tomb...

He stopped in front of the first door along the narrow hall and reached out slowly to touch the cold wooden portal, which was closed tightly. He remembered this room fondly: his den. For a while he stood with his hand on the dusty brass knob. It was icy under his sweating hand, and his body heat did nothing to warm it. He heard Jackson's boots on the floor, moving closer.

"I'm okay," he called out, as if checking in was required before he ventured any further. "I'm just going to get my guitar and we can go." The knob creaked softly when he finally turned it and stepped into the large room. He turned on the lights and squinted in the sudden brightness. It was a mess. The room was just as he'd left it five years ago in his haste to escape from himself. The large desk in the corner of the room was littered with dozens of pages, some covered in chicken-scratch and others in sheet music. A battered black guitar case was leaning against the desk. In the center of the room was a large Steinway piano, which at one time was Larry's prized possession. More papers cluttered the closed top of the piano as well as the stool. A tall black filing cabinet was the only other furnishing in the room other than the gold record on the wall.

The man was coming for the piano tomorrow. It had already been sold and he didn't mourn its loss, barely even glanced at it as he crossed to the small closet and opened the door. Reaching inside, he pulled out a large suitcase. He set the case down on the floor and opened it before making a full circuit of the room to collect all the papers strewn about. He looked down at the page on top of the pile before tossing them into the case and stopped to read the lyrics aloud. His voice was pleasant, mellow, albeit slightly gravelly. His tone however, was filled with self-directed loathing: "when you've got all night for love; I see you and me there..." That fantasy would never come to fruition. He crumpled the page in his hand, driving his nails into his palm hard enough to draw blood. He began storming about the room, grabbing things from the desk and filing cabinet and throwing them into the open suitcase. Finally, his anger seemed to be spent for the time being and he zipped the bulging suitcase closed. He picked it up with one hand and crossed to the desk where Jackson waited. Thunder rumbled in the distance, mimicking the wild look in Gowan's eyes. His fists clenched and unclenched as he tried to pull back his emotions.

"Larry," Jackson pointed at the gold record on the wall, "forgot something."

"Leave it," he muttered, "it's not important." Before Jackson could say anything, he fled the room, feeling tears filling his eyes.

Sighing, Jackson pulled the plaque off the wall, and tucked it under his arm before reaching down for the handle of the guitar case. "Bitch," he chuckled, following Gowan back down the hall.

The apartment was not huge by any means, yet at this moment it felt vast, a place of unexpected dimensions and secret rooms in which unknown lives were lived and secret dramas unfolded. The silence was not an ordinary quiet, and it cut through him the way a woman's scream might have done.

While he had been in the den, a spring storm had moved in from the southwest and all hope of seeing any stars in the early night sky was lost. Darkness had congealed into a mass of dark clouds that seemed to press heavily against the earth, until the heavens were devoid of light and as oppressive as a low vault of cold stone. His sigh was lost in the sudden howl of the wind against the glass.

Three years ago, Gowan had stood at this very same window, gazing at the expanse of water beyond the apartment building. He hadn't been alone that night and they'd made a wish upon the first star they saw like children. The stars and moon reflected in the harbour's glassy surface had been a much-needed reminder that other worlds existed where the possibilities were infinite and dreams of true love and happily ever after really could come true. This night, at the age of thirty-seven, Larry stood at the same window, but the stars had been denied him. Instead, he was alone with his feelings. He saw Jackson's shape loom in the reflection, and one massive hand clapped down on his shoulder.

"You did good, man." Jackson said, and he wasn't aware of how much that gesture meant. He had never been cognizant of the reasons Gowan kept letting himself be used and abused. He didn't realize that there was more than just friendship there.

"I did well," he corrected, sighing because he sounded so much like Chauncy in that instant, "and not by a long shot. I... I don't suppose you'd be willing to join me for a drink. There used to be a bar down the road— excellent chicken wings—"

"If you want a drink, I won't stop you, Lare. Shawn's in the ground and—"

"It's not about Shawn, you goddamned idiot." The words came tumbling out as he stared out at the inky surface of the wind-whipped water. The storm that had been brewing finally broke and something inside him did too. "Have you ever loved someone you know you can never have? No, I don't suppose you have— when you want something, you take it, and to hell with the consequences."

Jackson's hand dropped from his shoulder as though he'd been burned. "Yeah, listen... I know that you're still getting over Shawn's death and all but—"

Blinding chains of silvery lightning flashed and cascaded across the sky, providing him with a flickering, unwanted glimpse of his reflection in the glass. What he also saw was the look of disgust on Brad Jackson's features.

"For Christ's sake," he spat the words, turning around, "I'm not gay and I'm sure as hell not propositioning you."

Not gay. The words echoed in his ears, making his insides twitch. If he wasn't gay, then why was he in love with another man?

"Goddamnit. Just go down to the car and I'll be down in a minute. I promise I have no plans to leap from the highest point I can find. I just want a few more minutes with," he had to force himself to say it, "with the piano... b-before I say goodbye."

"Fine." Jackson grabbed the suitcase Larry had packed and ambled towards the door, not bothering to look back. "I'll give you ten and if you're not down by then, I'm going to call—"

"I will be." He made a shooing motion with his hand, "just go."

As soon as the door closed behind him, Larry pulled out his cell phone, dialling a familiar number only to be rewarded with voicemail on the first ring. His throat locked at the beep and he had to force himself to speak. "Hi. I thought I'd wish you a happy holiday. You're probably headed home to see family so I'll keep this brief. I'm in Toronto and I was thinking about— oh God. I'm sorry, you probably have no idea who this is right now— it's me. I should've said that. It's Lar—" he caught himself, correcting, "Lawrence. Anyhow... I just... I wanted to say that I hope Santa is good to you this year." He forced a laugh, "have a safe trip." He ended the call, resting his head against the glass before one last thing slipped out, "God, I miss you."

(the past: Newcastle Upon Tyne, UK)

Monday, July 12, 2004

An informal dinner in Chauncy's childhood home wasn't exactly informal. It meant a tie and a jacket, and a return of the surly-looking driver, who clearly had more than one job on his plate as he carefully placed serving platters in the centre of the table, carefully-covered with matching white crockery lids.

When his mother entered the room, Chauncy stood, dropping a kiss on her cheek in exchange for one on his own. He still felt an almost prideful glow every time he caught a glimpse of Lawrence, despite the lack of clarification to his mother.

"How did you settle in? Did Chauncy give you the ha'penny tour?" asked Sybil, with a warm smile.

The smile on his face was warm in return as he nodded, glancing over at Chauncy before replying. "He did, yes. I absolutely love the library. All those books as far as the eye can see," he sighed wistfully, "someday I'd love to have a room like that."

Someday I'd like to give you one. Chauncy simply smiled back, his mother catching his eye as he was politely turning his attention to dinner.

"Oh, you like to read? Lovely. Chauncy does love to read, too, don't you dear? It's so nice to have things in common with one's good friends, don't you think?"

"Absolutely." The double meaning whizzed over his head, "it makes for far less awkward conversation— he's gotten me hooked on Agatha Christie," he laughed sheepishly, "which I suppose is far better than burying my head in the latest X-Men comic." Reaching for his water, he took a sip, "books, movies and music... I love them all," if there was a hidden message in that question, it sailed right over his head and smacked against the wall behind him. "We've always got something to chat about on those long nights. It's a blessing, really."

"Well, it is good to see him continuing to follow intellectual pursuits. Instead of—"

"Mum!" If he could have kicked her under the table, he would have done.

"I'm not being critical, dear, merely pointing out that I'd prefer your headache induced by study, rather than concussion." From the amused smile, it wasn't entirely clear whether she was joking or not.

Gowan laughed, enjoying the banter between the two. This was a side of Chauncy he'd never seen before and it was utterly adorable. "I'm sure my mother would have said the same, were she still with us. There's nothing glamorous about what we do out there," his hand reached up to the scar on his neck, rubbing it absently. "But there's a certain enjoyment to be found in making people smile, I've discovered."

"Well, that is true," she conceded, taking the first bowl and serving a minute portion before passing it to Chauncy, beginning a careful game of pass-the-parcel with crisp vegetables and warm bowls of exquisite tastes. "I prefer theatre, myself, to be honest."

"Well, there's... there was theatre in it." Chauncy's correction might have covered things with his mother, but he was fairly sure it telegraphed just how much he missed wrestling, to Lawrence. Which wasn't a bad thing, really.

"There absolutely is," Gowan replied, taking the bowl from Chauncy, their fingers brushing for just the briefest of moments. "If you can't make the folks watching feel something, then it's all for naught. They won't be invested— it's a bit like a rock show, one with a bit more pageantry, I suppose, but that's why I found it to be an easy transition." He spooned a helping of vegetables onto his plate before setting the bowl back down where it had come from.

She didn't miss Chauncy's silent, sharp inhale, or the way he cast his eyes towards his plate, as though he could hide his feelings the same way he'd once hidden brussels sprouts under bread crusts to avoid eating them, but she said nothing, merely echoed his smile with one of her own, and tucked the clarification away.

Larry was completely oblivious and he kept talking to cover the silence, reaching for the serving dish of meat before adding some to his place out of politeness, despite the fact that he rarely ate meat these days. "I'm not sure if he told you that. I used to be a musician."

"No, he didn't tell me very much at all." She gave Chauncy a mock-stern look, and cleared her throat. "You're definitely a pleasant surprise, though."

Under the table, Chauncy nudged Larry's foot with his own. "Well, you know, it's nothing formal..." the blush told otherwise.

"Right," he nodded, "it's not... it's not like that. At all. We're just..." and words completely and utterly failed him. They'd never really put a label on things, even though Chauncy was still a permanent fixture in his life for the past year since SAWF had gone under, taking the tag team with it. "He's my rock... my best friend, really. If he hadn't been there for the past few months, I don't know what I'd have done."

"Just don't erode that rock. I'm rather fond of him," she answered pertly, with a prim little smile that might be somewhere between approval and acceptance. "Chauncy, dear, if you wouldn't mind passing the salt..."