Book II – Chapter 32: Wedding

Posted On October 14, 2020

The trees were bare on the highway south to New York. The sky was gray, the pavement a darker gray, and even the billboards seemed faded and monochrome. It happened every winter in this state.

Everything just turned gray.

“We should have rented a car,” Demos said. He slouched in the passenger seat. His shirt bunched against the tan leather, making his gradual descent even more melodramatic.

“We could have taken my car,” Ferris said. Presently, they were in Demos’ Alfa Romeo. Demos had insisted it wasn’t suited for icy roads, followed up by a refusal to put ‘road trip miles’ on it. But the Bentley’s heater was broken, so here they were.

“Yeah, I don’t think so—your car is so old it could have driven Jesus to the Last Supper.”

Demos wasn’t entirely wrong. The Bentley Eight that Ferris had bought from his aunt was, as of that month, exactly twenty years old. In the grand scheme of things, it wasn’t that old. In car-years, however, it was ancient.

Ferris’ hand tightened on the cold, hard steering wheel. “This car is even older than mine.”

“It’s not old, it’s vintage.” Demos waved a hand. “Yours is just regular old.”

Ferris wasn’t in the mood to verify exactly what ‘regular old’ meant. He’d let Demos have this one, for the sake of his dwindling energy. It wasn’t normally a long drive to New York City, but the Ghost had made it that way. Cigarette breaks, stopping for coffee, changing his mind about stopping for coffee — it had added up.

They arrived in Manhattan later than Ferris had wanted to. It was the peak of rush hour, making it impossible to do anything but inch forward and pray he wouldn’t strike a stray pedestrian. He swore to himself that once they parked, they wouldn’t step foot back in this vehicle unless it was to drive back to Southport.

Even in traffic, Demos remained semi-liquefied in his seat. He gazed out at the piles of brown slush and dead Christmas trees stacked on a curb.

“Ah, January,” Demos said in what amounted to a poet’s voice. “The sunniest, most romantic month in New York.”

“Jake said their venue was booked solid for a year. This was the only opening they could get.”

“This better be some venue.” Demos picked at the end of his scarf. “They’re going to have a piano, right? I didn’t bring a one.”

Ferris sighed. “Nobody is expecting you to bring a piano. And sit up straight, you piece of crap. We’re almost there.”

 It was strange to be staying in a hotel. Most of his father’s side had been born and raised in the Five Boroughs, and there had always been a family member to stay with. Now, he was too old to be sleeping on his uncle’s living room floor. He tried to think back to the last time his family had all been together. 

The funeral. 

His eyes tensed as he attempted to focus on the road; the hotel was only one block farther. A lot had changed in the last few years, but there was one constant that kept him going. One that he’d lost, then found his way back to. One that he never wanted to lose again. Ferris glanced over at the passenger seat.

The shadow of the hotel portico cast over Demos as he made a face. “What’s that look for?”

“Nothing,” Ferris said. “Get your shit out of the trunk, the valet is ready.”

“That’s what bellboys are for.”

Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to lose him again, just for a few minutes.

Ferris’ precisely organized itinerary was once again disgraced at the check-in desk. He had accounted for the drive, the schedule, and even his violin case. What he’d completely glossed over was the fact that he’d reserved this hotel room back before Demos had come into the picture.

“Okay, Mr. Levinstein. We have you down for the traditional room with one king bed.”

“One— oh.” Ferris dragged a hand down over his mouth. “Shit. Um, are there any rooms with two beds available?”

“Just a moment. I’ll take a look.”

Demos elbowed Ferris through his coat, whispering. “Aw, is this going to be like a sitcom?”

“I reserved the room back when I thought Alex was coming.”

“Well, that’s okay,” Demos said with a shrug. “You can sleep on the floor.”

Ferris shot an icy glare at his friend. “Fuck you, I’m not sleeping on the floor.”

“Fine, we can cuddle.”

“I’m not doing that either.”

The clerk cleared her throat. “I’m afraid we’re booked up, Sir. We can send up a cot, if you’d—”

“That’s okay,” Demos said. “We’ll manage, thank you.”

Ferris swallowed whatever he had meant to say. It was probably for the best— if there was a cot in the room, he’d definitely be the one who ended up sleeping on it. Maybe Demos was taking pity on him. It was too late to find another hotel in the Upper East Side, not to mention this one was the actual reception venue—the ballroom, anyhow. This would have to do.

The Polestar was a storied hotel: a 500-room white glove landmark whose front doors opened directly onto Fifth Avenue. For nearly a century, it had welcomed dignitaries, aristocracy, and celebrities. Now, it had been reduced to hosting two out-of-town crooks sharing one bed—a tragedy in three acts for everyone involved.

Demos tipped the bellboy outside their room, then looked in with a frown.

“The sixth floor? You couldn’t get anything higher?”

Ferris made his way to the window, unfazed. “I could have, but I wanted the west side of the building.”

The curtains rattled as he parted them, allowing white and gold city lights to filter in through the glass. He was quiet for a moment, looking down at the vast spread of trees, their branches bare and tinged with snow.

“It’s across from the park,” Demos said. He’d stepped up beside Ferris without a sound.

“Yeah. I thought she’d—“ Ferris stopped himself. It didn’t matter if Alex would have liked it—if it was romantic. She wasn’t there. “Um—it’s nice, right?”

Bodies moved over the sidewalk below, hunched, dark shapes clutching coats, holding hands. When Demos didn’t reply, Ferris dared a glance to his side. His friend was transfixed on the view, the edges of his face highlighted by the glow of street lamps. There was a faraway look in his eyes, not the apathetic one he tended to wear. Ferris could have sworn, somehow, he looked pained. 

“Are you okay?”

Demos closed his eyes. “Yeah.”

When his eyes opened again, he was smiling. Whatever he was thinking, or feeling—he had silenced it.

“Is your mom staying here, too?” Demos asked. A change of subject.

“She couldn’t make it.” Ferris closed the curtains. “Aunt Deb is getting surgery this weekend and she wanted to be there to drive her home.”

“Oh. Is she all right?”

“Yeah, it’s just a joint replacement. She’ll be fine,” Ferris said. “Um, hey—”

Demos looked up. “Yeah?”

“You sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine, just hungry. We haven’t eaten all day.”

Ferris decided not to mention this lack of food was explicitly Demos’ fault, as he had hemmed and hawed at every single rest stop they’d visited.

“Then make yourself useful and pick a place for dinner.”

Demos slipped a small memo pad from his coat pocket, giving it a little wave. From where Ferris stood, he could see lines of handwriting: restaurant names and addresses, dishes worth trying and reservation times. Ratings. Personal notes.

“Way ahead of you.”

Ferris only stared. Even after a decade, Demos could still surprise him. Through his air of indifference and idle, self-absorbed complaining, he had known Ferris wouldn’t choose any restaurants. He had known to fill that gap in the itinerary without asking. He always knew—he always would.

The room felt hot. Ferris’ coat was suffocating, heavy on his frame, trapping warmth deep in his chest.

Demos tilted his head, one eye squinting. “Wait, is this checklist turning you on?”

“Shut up, we’re leaving.”

“God, you’re a nerd.”

Demos was laughing when the door closed behind them.

#

Sharing a bed turned out to be much less of a thing than Ferris had expected. There was plenty of space between them, enough to fit a third or even a fourth person beneath the duvet. It wasn’t the first bed they’d shared; he’d spent the last month staying in Demos’ room while he’d healed. It probably wouldn’t be the last, either.

It was the same every time. Demos slept on his side, body hunched just slightly. Dark hair left lines on the white pillowcase— his frame rose and fell gently with each breath. He was quiet. Vulnerable. Blurry. Ferris would watch the back of his head, wondering what his friend was dreaming, wondering if he had nightmares too. Wondering what that corner of skin on Demos’ bare shoulder would feel like beneath his fingers. Wondering if that pale back would be warm against his chest.

Ferris looked across that wide, empty valley of sheets between them and, for what wasn’t the first time, felt it was too wide. Too far. Beneath Ferris’ ribs, there was an ache—something hollow that hounded him. Something he couldn’t ignore. This was it. This was all it could be.

This was as close as he would ever get.

#

Jacob Levinstein was the first of Ferris’ cousins to be married. It was the same as every wedding Ferris could remember— the chuppah, the sound of crunching glass, the tears. Wine. There was always so much wine.

This time, though, there was Demos. It was incredible how easily the Ghost could switch from a cold, self-centered criminal to a charming socialite— how he leaned on the grand piano, wine glass swirling in his right hand as he shared mild yet delightful anecdotes.  He wore a three-piece suit that was such a deep red it was practically black. Precisely tailored, lines meeting in sleek angles. Effortless. It was something only Demos could do. Never, at a hundred weddings over a hundred years, could Ferris ever have pulled off a burgundy suit.

The evening outside seemed to seep into the ballroom itself. The space was dim, long shadows cut with warm, golden lights. The venue was certainly something. Its ceiling seemed to rise into eternity, adorned with a half dozen gilded chandeliers, each of which could surely crush a city bus. Corinthian pillars, thick as redwoods, ran in parallel formation down the length of the hall. It was all a bit too grand for Ferris’ liking, but he could see why it was a highly sought locale. There was a timeless dignity amidst all the excess.

When the time came for their duet, Ferris had nearly forgotten about it. He’d been quiet, listening more than speaking, watching in lieu of dancing. With a few marked snaps, he opened his violin case. How long had it been since he’d performed for an audience this large? College? He hadn’t missed it. Somehow, all of those duets with Demos with offhanded bickering, with no one else to listen—somehow, that had been enough. 

For the first time that night, the reception hall was dead silent. The band had stopped and the chatter had settled. Hands lifted over keys, a bow raised over strings, and they began.

Can’t Help Falling in Love.

The notes entered softly, simultaneously, filling the quiet air like a whisper into an ear. The violin crested. Ferris pressed a vibrato into the neck of the instrument, fingertip rolling along the string. He had spent nearly two decades finessing and expanding the vibrato— on the fingerboard, on tabletops. Somehow, it all seemed to be for this moment. The strings sang, mourning, swelling in deep ripples. He let the sound soak through him, through the polished maple, to somewhere deep in his chest that light never touched.

The piano’s notes embraced his own— raindrops on black concrete. The unspoken lyrics hung between each key, each string, warming him from the inside out. It felt right— so remarkably, painfully right to play each note. Wasn’t that what Demos had said?

“You look happy when you play it.”

Did he look happy? Did Demos really watch him when he played?

There was a pause in the music, the notes drifting into silence before the final refrain. Ferris opened his eyes.

A fastened gaze met his own. Through the piano, past the cut of the lid prop, Demos was watching him. Ferris didn’t breathe. 

The bow settled on the strings once more, drawing the remaining notes up from the stillness. Keeping his eyes on Demos was painful—a hand on a hot surface, the suffocating pressure when drowning. He couldn’t understand how it was possible, how eyes so soft could have such an iron, unyielding grasp on him. He couldn’t look away.

He didn’t want to look away.

Without voices, they spoke to each other, sound expressing what he’d always been too cowardly to say in words. Every eye in the hall was on them, but Ferris could only feel the gaze of one person. No one else was there. No one else had ever been there. He remembered a different voice, a different conversation. It felt like so long ago.

“Were you ever more than friends?”

Ferris wasn’t sure if his heart was trying to escape his chest or if it was just the earth turning beneath him. The song neared its close, a door drifting shut. 

“Have you ever wanted to be?”

The ache in his core had reached every last part of him. Ferris couldn’t deny what was staring right back at him. Not this time. His fingers finished the last few notes on their own. He wasn’t present for them. 

The song was over.

An hour later, Ferris couldn’t remember what the applause had sounded like. It had been muted static in his ears, background noise as the world was stripped away. He had closed his eyes and let his heart go dark—a light clicking off in an empty room.

“Ferris.” The voice at his side was like gravity, grounding him.

“Hey, Uncle Joe.”

“You two were incredible. Your father would have been so proud of you.”

Ferris’ mouth shifted into what he prayed was a smile. “I hope so,” he said. “Thanks.”

“And your hair—I haven’t seen it this long since your bar mitzvah. You look kind of like your dad, you know? I mean, before he started balding.” Joe gave his nephew’s shoulder a slap, laughing. “I remember when you first started that violin. Could barely count your age on one hand—and you sounded terrible.”

“Is it too late to take back my thanks?”

Two minutes passed and Ferris realized he was alone again. He scanned the open ballroom, looking for a hint of that brazen burgundy suit. Demos kept abandoning him to mingle. He was a horrible date, but fortunately, he was easy to find in a crowd.

Ferris saw him, standing near a group of tables. He was talking to someone—Ferris’ younger cousin, Rebecca. Likely attempting to pry out humiliating childhood stories that could be stashed as blackmail. There were plenty of those. Demos was speaking with his hands, nearly every Giorgetti did. He was composed. Deliberate. Impersonating a pleasant human being.

If only they knew.

It was baffling, how good the Ghost looked that night. He always wore suits; this was nothing new, nothing special. It could have been the lighting, the way the glow hit the darkest, deepest reaches of his eyes, the soft angles of his face—the sheen in his hair that left a pattern of gold on black. The voice from before came at him again, louder this time. Urgent.

“Have you ever wanted to be?”

Another voice from even longer ago.

“You came back for him. Not me.”

Ferris rubbed his hand over his face, wishing his eyes didn’t feel so heavy. He responded under his breath.

“Fuck.”

He needed a drink. Maybe twelve. Fortunately, there was plenty to go around. With a wine glass in each hand, he began the shameful walk between the space he had been abandoned at and the space where Demos was. Maybe they could get a moment to talk. Maybe—

“And that was such a beautiful song,” Rebecca said. “Are you two, uh—?”

Demos laughed, waving a hand across his face. “Oh, God no. He’s not my type.”

Maybe there was nothing to talk about, after all.

Ferris stopped walking—stopped listening. The entire guest list was crowded around the dance floor. The bride and groom rose over the sea of bodies as their seats were lifted, rising toward the ceiling that was so vastly, impossibly far above. There was laughter, and there was love.

That feeling. It must have been nice.

 One song ended and another began. Ferris looked down into one of the wine glasses, wondering if he could finish it in a single draw. A voice forced his attention upward.

“There you are.” It was Demos. There was a light flush dashed across his features, one or two cocktails worth. His hand was outstretched, inviting him to take it.

“Dance with me,” Demos said, smiling. “Just one song, remember?”

The words left Ferris’ mouth before he could close it.

“Why don’t you find someone more your type?”

Each syllable was dry, a venomous tonic with a dash of broken glass. The smile faded from Demos’ features. He stared, hand still outstretched, lips parted with nothing to say.

“Hey, Ferris!” 

It was Jake’s voice—the groom. Ferris held his next words in his chest, glancing over to see his cousin. 

“This is who I wanted you to meet.” Jake gestured to the man at his side, one of the groomsmen. “My old roommate from NYU.”

“Oh.”

“He’s running this campaign I thought you’d be into. The 3.5 homebrew I told you about—you remember, right?”

It took every spark of consciousness in Ferris’ skull to focus on his cousin’s sentences. It felt like noise, like buzzing, and he struggled to string each word together into something meaningful. He didn’t notice when Demos turned away—didn’t notice when his friend grabbed an entire wine bottle by the throat on his way out.

“Yeah,” Ferris said. “I remember.”

It was getting harder to nod, to pay attention. In the back of his mind, all Ferris could see was that look on Demos’ face, the way that smile had died right in front of him. He’d seen that look in his eyes by the window the night before— 

It was pain.

 “And the whole premise is based on this upheaval between social classes.” Jake’s friend was talking. “Lots of politics, deception. I think you’d—“

“Did you see where Demos went?” Ferris said.

“Who?”

Ferris pulled out his phone, pushing buttons with an unsettling urgency. There was one ring. 

It was behind him.

Ferris turned around to see Demos’ phone on the table beside a dessert plate. It buzzed in vain, a forgotten prop left behind by its owner. His eyes fell on the chair Demos had been sitting at. His coat was gone.

“Shit.”

“Everything okay?” Jake said.

“I have to go.” Ferris fumbled with his own coat, tugging it on with surprising clumsiness. “I’m sorry, I—fuck. Sorry.”

Ferris was certain his apology wasn’t enough to cover his blatant rudeness, but he was incapable of forming something better. Jake and his groomsman were left staring as Ferris faltered through the crowd of guests toward the door.

There were no signs of the Ghost in the lobby nor at the hotel’s entrance. Any hopes that Demos had simply stepped out for a cigarette were dashed when he scanned up and down the sidewalk to see not one familiar face. There was a doorman.

“Hi, uh—did you see this guy leave?” Ferris tilted his phone to show the doorman a picture of Demos at last night’s restaurant, a photo he’d refused to be a part of.

The man mumbled a response and a gloved hand pointed across the street. There was an entrance to Central Park, chained off and draped in shadow. Closed.

“Thanks.”

Ferris stumbled between cars, nearly tripping as he stepped over the long, icy chain. Snow had been falling for what appeared to be hours, leaving a layer of white across the path. There was only one set of footprints—only one person stupid enough to traipse through the park in the middle of the night. Well, now it was two people.

Ferris followed the steps down the path. Rock formations formed a wall at his side, leaving him flanked by bare trees. He had never seen the park so empty— so completely and utterly quiet. A wine bottle had been discarded at the foot of a bench, one with a label he recognized. Ferris grit his teeth against the cold then tossed it in the trash.

“You asshole.”

The footprints continued, disappearing into a pitch black shadow beneath a bridge. Ferris quickened his pace, not wanting to see how far Demos was capable of getting before he was murdered in the middle of the park— or before he murdered someone else. It wasn’t until Ferris reached the Mall that he slowed. 

He felt exposed in this open space. The Mall’s path was so long, two endless lines of benches coated with a dusting of snow. City lights floated in the east, winking in the unforgiving winter air. The walkway was lined with old trees. They were silhouettes in black and white, motionless beneath the falling snow.

There, halfway down the wide path, was one figure walking. 

“Demos, wait—“

There was an anger in Demos’ pace, something inflamed in each step he treaded through the snow. He stopped at the sound of Ferris’ voice but didn’t turn to look.

“Wait, just—“ Ferris caught up, pleading with the back of his friend’s head. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—“

Demos turned with a snap.

“You’re the one that said it.” The Ghost was nearly out of breath, his shoulders rising and falling with the weight of his words.

Ferris stared. “What?”

“When I came out to you. You said you weren’t my type.”

“You remember that?” Ferris hadn’t, not until now. Sweat began to bead on the back of his neck, sticking skin to the collar of his coat. Pathetic. One brisk walk and he was already disgusting. He racked his brain, trying to visualize that moment at the summer house all those years ago. What had Demos said? 

Ferris’ eyes drifted from the ground back up to his friend. “You didn’t deny it.”

“I was terrified.” Demos’ voice shuddered. “I didn’t want to scare you away.”

“But I promised,” Ferris said. “I promised you I wouldn’t be scared.”

They both stood frozen in the empty mall. The landing strip of amber street lamps faded into dots in the distance. Every breath stung, frigid air searing Ferris’ lungs and escaping his throat in a brisk, lucent plume. He couldn’t remember everything Demos had said that night, but there was one thing—one bitter, underlined thing that had been left unsaid.

Ferris’ eyes tightened. “You never did tell me what your type was.”

Demos’ hand slid into the opening of Ferris’ coat, knuckles crumpling around the fabric of his shirt. The space between them was gone. Ferris felt a mouth meet his own, soft and flushed, lips parting to take in every cut of his being. That devil’s hand tugged him in, his body unable to escape the black hole that was Demos Giorgetti.

Ferris could have sworn he was falling. It was that feeling just before sleep, when the bed, the world, seemed to slip out from beneath one’s body. He couldn’t hear, couldn’t see. The only thing he could take in was the braced, warm pressure of Demos’ mouth. Somewhere in his core, Ferris’ body was kicking into fight or flight. The boiling pump of blood, the tight, raw throat—all signs pointing to a successful escape if he would only lift his legs.

He closed his eyes.

The snow around their feet was scuffed, prints and arches choreographing a car wreck between two human bodies. He could feel the outline of Demos’ chin flush against his own, drawing upward into a barely audible gasp. 

He couldn’t move. Ferris had spent an entire lifetime stuffing feelings into a cage, imprisoning thoughts, memories. Wants. Each freshly born desire was given a life sentence without parole, never to see the light of day. The prison his heart had become was overcrowded. Tall, concrete walls had managed to incarcerate every single instance of Ferris imagining this moment.

Demos’ hand on his shirt, skinny fingers twisting threads beneath the weight of his coat, had left him defenseless—exposed. Ferris moved without thinking, taking Demos’ face in his hands. It was cold palms on hot skin, fingertips dragging over the line of his jaw. He felt a warm breath as Demos panted then cocked his head to angle their lips. The kiss was deeper, closer, a spear wrenching itself into Ferris’ chest cavity. It hurt—why did it hurt? 

A tongue met his own and Ferris felt dizzy. He could taste him, tobacco laced with strong, red wine. Wine. He couldn’t simply taste the wine, he could smell it. An entire bottle’s worth and then some. The stench of alcohol had permeated Demos’ jacket, his hair, his breath. The spear faded. The walls stopped crumbling. Ferris’ hands seized in place, shaking.

None of this was real.

Ferris pulled away. 

“You’re drunk,” he said. He’d nearly fallen for it, nearly given himself up to an alcohol-induced practical joke.

Demos’ eyes were still closed. He caught his breath, his face flushed with warmth.

“I’m—“ The fingers on Ferris’ shirt tightened then dropped. “Yeah.”

There was a lifeless silence between them. The illusion was over. All that remained was reality, the bite of cold air and flurries of snow. The park that they had no business being in this late at night. The tunnel of impossibly tall trees left bare and gray, branches reaching for one another across the wide path.

The black hole had collapsed without a sound. 

Demos swallowed. “Do you want me to apologize?”

He didn’t give Ferris a chance to answer, only slumping forward onto his chest. Demos was half-tucked into the other’s coat, burying his face in layers of wool. 

“I’m not sorry,” Demos said. His voice shook.

Ferris longed for the pain of that kiss. The caustic plunge of steel was preferable to what it had left behind. Now, there was nothing—a spear-shaped hole in the hollow of his chest. It ached. Under the influence, Demos had kissed all kinds of things—strangers, friends, inanimate objects. Probably a lamp. He had an excuse for this behavior. It wasn’t a turning point; it wasn’t some kind of confession. Ferris was just another friend, a lamp, a thing in Demos’ line of sight while he was intoxicated. He probably wouldn’t remember this in the morning. 

Ferris sighed. “You should be in bed.”

He eased himself back, dividing their bodies. The space where Demos had been was already freezing. The warmth had faded so quickly.

“Let’s get you back to the hotel,” Ferris said.

Demos didn’t answer. He still hadn’t opened his eyes. Tufts of snow continued to collect on his coat and head, white wisps on pitch-black hair. His face was burning, but he looked so cold.

“Okay,” Demos said. 

Ferris felt a tug at his sleeve. Demos had taken hold of him once more, a fist on gray wool to keep his balance on the ice. He was still avoiding eye contact and it made Ferris feel sick. Something rotten hung low in his gut and he took a deep, cold breath to stifle it. It didn’t work.

His arm hooked around Demos’ wavering frame, keeping him upright as they shuffled toward the park entrance. Ferris would put this memory away in a place it couldn’t haunt him, where all those memories were entombed. He would swallow this humiliation. Most importantly, above anything else, he’d take a shovel to the cold earth of his heart and bury the fact that he had kissed Demos back.