When You're Gone Away

You're not the only one who's been ruined, Trey slurred aloud to his own image in the toaster.

Harley's older brother pushed the small appliance away, not wanting to regard himself in it any longer. He leaned over the stainless steel sink and turned on the faucet, splashing cold water onto his face. He cupped his hands to take a drink, in order to ward off the alcohol-induced dehydration that was already setting in.

Trey grabbed the floral tea towel that Harley had hung neatly over the edge of the drain board, smiling affectionately at his brother's attempt to conform to his own compulsive sense of orderliness. He dried his face with the towel, the cloth imprinted with a picture of potted violets.

He turned and leaned back against the counter, swaying slightly from the alcohol buzz. Closing his eyes again he sighed, convincing himself that he was about to do something not out of drunkenness, but out of serious deliberation.

For better or for worse, Trey had made his decision.

He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket, searching for a number that he rarely ever dialed if he could possibly help it. If there was one person who could reason with him and talk him out of what he was about to do to his beloved brother, his lover, this was the one. Trey glanced at the clock on the wall as he listened to the phone ringing in his ear. It was four-twenty in the morning. The phone rang six times before anyone answered.

"This had better be a fucking beautiful woman," groused the man with the English accent.

Part VI: "I Realize I'm Never Gonna Quit You Over Time"

Trey clicked off his cell phone, glancing at the time on the color display before closing the clamshell.

Six a.m. He'd spent the better part of ninety minutes talking to Jake, and as much as he hated to admit it, he was actually beginning to like the Brit. The man, who usually just annoyed the hell out of Trey, had been kind and compassionate, and had given him some very sound advice.

Regardless, Trey was petrified. Harley had always been unpredictable, and his older brother had no way of knowing how the boy was going to handle the news.

Yes, Trey had made his decision, and Jake had confirmed the wisdom of it. Now all he had to do was summon up the courage to share it with Harley.

Trey reached for the half-empty bottle of Patrón, pouring himself another healthy shot. The glass had barely touched his lips when he sat it down on the kitchen counter. This was the most important thing he'd ever have to do, and he acknowledged that he needed to do it without any additional Dutch courage. He screwed the cap back on the bottle, rinsed out the shot glass, turned off the lights, and headed upstairs.

---

Trey sat quietly in Harley's ratty, velour recliner for two hours, watching his brother sleep.

When he'd first sat down on the worn cushion, he had to smile at the recollection of the horrible fight he'd had with Harley when they'd bought the house and began furnishing it. Harley had insisted that the old, harvest gold chair be placed in their bedroom. He'd told Trey that it was his script-reading chair, and that it had been lucky for him, besides being comfortable. Trey had been furious; he'd gone to a lot of time, trouble, and expense to decorate their new home perfectly, and the ugly chair, aside from not matching the rose and cornflower blue color scheme, was... well... it was just plain fucking ugly.

Harley had not played fair that night. As he was prone to do, he dangled the prospect of sex in front of his older brother to get his way, and in the midst of Harley giving him the blow job of the century - with Trey seated in the ugly old recliner, no less - Trey had apparently capitulated, agreeing that the hideous chair could stay.

If nothing else, Trey was a man of his word, even if that word had been given under duress.

Trey nearly jumped out of his skin when the alarm clock began screeching at eight o'clock. Without moving anything else, Harley slapped his arm across the bed, feeling around for the clock on the night stand and finally locating the snooze button.

Three, ten-minute snoozes later and Harley finally rolled over, propping himself up on his elbows.

"Trey."

"Yeah," the older brother smiled wanly, "I'm still here."

"I didn't expect you to be." Harley pulled off the bedclothes, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He reached over and turned off the alarm clock, then walked into the bathroom, scratching beneath the waistband of his plaid boxers as he closed the door behind him. After the sound of a flushing toilet and water running in the sink had stopped, he came back into the bedroom. He sat down at the foot of the bed, facing his brother and ruffling his fingers through his long, tangled up curls.

"You look terrible, Trey," Harley commented. "You look hung over."

Trey snickered. "I'm not hung over. I'm still drunk."

"Then perhaps this isn't a good time to talk." Harley folded his hands on his lap, staring down at them.

"I'm notthat drunk," Trey said. He smoothed his hand over his hair. "I had a long talk with a good friend of yours last night, after you went to bed. He gave me some pretty good advice."

Trey sighed. "He loves you, you know, Jake does," he admitted.

"I know he does. I love him, too." Harley closed his eyes, his pretty eyelashes batting as he opened them again to address his brother. "But not like I love you."

Trey's eyes began to sting and his vision became blurry. Not from the alcohol, but from the tears that were now threatening. He suddenly stood, walking over to Harley and taking a seat next to him on the edge of the bed.

Harley looked down as his hands again. Trey dropped his gaze to his own hands resting on his thighs, the pesky hangnail still there, his finger sore from picking at it.

"I'm so scared, baby brother," Trey said with a shuddering breath. "I am really and truly scared."

"So am I," Harley stated sadly, tears brimming in his eyes. "I'm scared you're about to tell me that you're leaving and you're not coming back."

Trey put his hand on his brother's back, between his sharp shoulder blades, the boy's skin almost hot from having been buried under a heavy blanket and a bedspread on such a warm night. A gasp escaped Harley's lips at the touch, the touch he'd missed so badly during the long, agonizing months that had gone by since Trey had left him. Harley blinked, tiny tears dripping onto his cheeks from his blue eyes.

"If you're going to go, you'd better leave now." Harley felt his brother's hand slowly sliding up his back to grasp his shoulder, his body being pulled in close to the other man.

Trey rested his head on Harley's shoulder, tilting his face so his mouth was near the boy's ear. "I'm not leaving, Harley," he whispered, "not now, not ever."

Harley made a noise when he heard those words, a squeaky sort of whimpering sound, somewhere between a choked-up sob and a high-pitched wail. His eyes closing again, he felt Trey's fingers on his face, tilting his chin up. He felt lips - warm, soft, and nearly as pouty as his own - pressing against his, the faint aroma of tequila still lingering on his brother's breath.

As his brother gently lowered him onto the mattress Harley sighed, his heart threatening to pound clear through his chest. "I've got a nine o'clock with my publicist," the boy said, half speaking, half moaning.

Trey lay down next to Harley, running his tongue down the boy's neck, sucking and biting at his pretty collarbones, lapping his way over his chest and stopping to take a playful nip at the soft, supple flesh of his belly. He looked at his little brother, grinning, happy for the first time in a long time.

"You're going to be late."

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© Copyright 2006 Justin Tyler. All rights reserved. Publication or distribution of any kind is prohibited without the written consent of the author.