Book II – Chapter 34: Desk

Posted On November 5, 2020

The bookstore felt different. On a normal day, Ferris could find comfort in the walls of hardcovers, the texture of paper under his fingers, and the muted rustling of pages. There was always something new was he was bored, something old when he needed a fix of nostalgia.

Demos had said more than once that Ferris smelled like this place. Like mahogany and coffee. Hints of old paper and leather armchairs. Maybe he spent too much time here. But today, it wasn’t bringing the comfort it normally did. He was pacing the aisles with slow, hesitant steps.

Ferris had no idea how this was supposed to work. Everything had changed, or it was supposed to have. Should he have been talking to Demos differently—treating him differently? He’d suddenly become hyper-aware of how much time they spent together. There wasn’t anything to worry about before. There was nothing suspicious about two friends being friends.

But they weren’t just friends anymore.

Ferris was doing it again, smiling alone in public for no obvious reason. In a bookstore, of all places. He couldn’t help it, even if it made him look a little—off.

One thing was definitely different: Demos had been touching him a lot more. He’d been standing closer, lacing their fingers that much tighter. Demos would press against him, chest to hip, laying a kiss on the corner of his jaw, and—

Ferris could tell he was turning red. Again, in public. Maybe staring harder at this wall of books would help. His finger tapped the spine of a bound volume, slipping it out halfway to glimpse at the cover. Infectious Diseases of the 16^th Century. Okay, maybe this was the wrong section. Why was his face still so hot?

That shameless memory—it always stopped there. Right at the kiss on his jaw. Panic would seize all the way from his stomach to his throat and he’d pull back. Step away. Make an excuse. “I’m going to be late for work.” “I’d better answer this text.” And that look on Demos’ face—that quiet, empty look. It killed Ferris every time.

Demos didn’t talk about it, but he didn’t need to. He had experience, to say the least. Ferris could count his intimate partners on one hand, and every one of them had been women. But Demos—he knew what he was doing. He’d probably seen it all. From garden-variety to profound. He knew what felt good, what didn’t. What he liked—what other men liked.

Ferris drew a hand over his face. He hadn’t felt this naive, this incompetent, since high school. After all this, the years of stupid, stupid pining, that moment in the park, in the car. All for it to come crashing down after Demos would eventually blurt, “Oh my God. You’re really bad at this.” Or something like that. Then he’d say, “This was a mistake.”

Wouldn’t he?

Ferris dropped his hand from the shelf. Right. He was looking for a different kind of book. A different section. One he hadn’t browsed before. Where the hell was it, anyway? He snuck into the next aisle like some kind of gauche burglar, scanning the little white signs that indicated what niche he’d ended up in this time. Psychology & Counseling. Not quite. Gay & Lesbian. Okay.

There had to be something here. He covered his mouth with a hand, peering at each book spine. There was one, on the fourth shelf from the floor. Going Both Ways: A Guide. Maybe this would—?

Ferris closed his eyes tight. A book, really? A fucking book? This was how he planned on coming through for Demos? Maybe he should have done this online. But no—he had to support this local bookstore. It was the right thing to do.

Or—maybe it was time to just go home.

No. He was an adult. He could look at one damn book. Ferris opened his eyes, then reached up to slide the paperback free.

“Oh, hey Ferris,” came a voice at his side.

The book slapped back into place and his hand jerked away as if it had touched fire. With an inhale that was much too sharp, he turned to see a familiar face. Sandy. From work.

“Uh—hi,” Ferris said. Shit, he was sweating. “What are you doing here?”

“Looking for books,” Sandy said with a raised brow. “I think that’s what most people are doing here.”

“Haha, yeaaah.“ Ferris was 100% certain his smile looked unhinged.

“You feeling okay?” she said. “You’re not going to take another two weeks off, are you?”

“Oh. Sorry. I was—taking care of someone. A sick family member—“ He swallowed. “Who was sick.”

“Yeah, that’s what I heard. Are they feeling better?”

“Mhm,” Ferris said. His fingers were digging into the back of his own neck. “Thanks for covering for me. I’ll make it up to you—anything you need.”

“You sure about that? ‘Cause I will make you do my weekly audit.”

“Yeah, sure.”

By the time Sandy was gone, Ferris had somehow dug himself into three extra projects at the office plus a month of account audits. Sure. That was fine. Everything was fine. Ferris looked back at the shelf. With a sigh, he pulled the book down. Might as well.

Demos was right—he really did overthink everything.

#

There was nothing charming about this alley. It was a narrow space behind the restaurant, half-blocked in by a box truck. Demos and Ferris were flanked by old trash cans and crates, red brick reaching up two stories and leaving the tight tract of pavement doused in shadow. This alley—it would always be the place Ferris had first seen that body.

But at least they were alone.

It had been difficult to get time to themselves. Ferris’ apartment usually had Seamus in it. The compound was full of every Giorgetti that had ever been born. Neither of them lived alone, and Demos had outright refused to go anywhere near a motel. For some reason.

And now they were standing in the alley. Demos had dragged him outside for a quick smoke. It was the same every winter—he’d light a cigarette with shuddering hands, moving to hug his own elbows against the cold. Scowling as he exhaled some combination of smoke and warm breath, the clouds rising and dissipating in the air.

“You cold?” Ferris asked. He tried not to smile, but didn’t succeed.

Demos puffed out a single plume. “Shut up.” There was a keen orange glow in the dark as he inhaled. The smell of tobacco was muted. “Is Seamus home tonight?”

“He is.” Ferris fisted his hands inside his coat pockets. “Should we, uh—tell him?”

“He’ll figure it out.” Demos made a barely audible hum against the cigarette filter. His eyes flickered over. “Can I ask you something?”

“No.”

“Wow, fuck you.”

Ferris shrugged. “That’s what you get for asking if you can ask something.”

“You’re my boyfriend—“ Demos flicked his cigarette. “You should be nicer to me.”

Ferris hoped the violent flush that had surely crossed his face wasn’t visible in the dark. Boyfriend. That was his new title, wasn’t it? A promotion to a position he’d pretended he didn’t want. Better benefits. Jesus Christ. He adjusted his glasses, keeping his face averted toward the wall. “Fine—yes. You can ask me something.”

Demos stopped smoking just long enough to gnaw his lower lip. “How long have you—wanted this?”

Ferris took a moment to stifle his instinctual desire to respond with a flippant remark. It was something about the way Demos asked, about his voice. He sounded open. Vulnerable. And that question was just a little suspicious.

“Why?”

Demos cast an impetuous smile in his direction. “I need to know how much sex we have to make up for.”

Ferris could immediately feel his soul leaving his body. He wondered, if he dropped dead right in this alley, how long it would take for anyone to find his remains. Demos seemed to realize that this was not the right way to get a rational answer from his partner.

“But really,” Demos said. “How long?”

Ferris watched his own breath rising, racking his memory. How long had he wanted this? Probably forever. How long had he been aware that he wanted this?

“Since I came back,” Ferris said. “When I found you in that church—when I held you. It all kind of just—fell into place. Nothing had ever felt more right to me. I didn’t want to let go.”

Demos was looking down at his cigarette instead of smoking it. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Ferris huffed a laugh. “You’re way out of my league. I thought if you saw me that way, you would have said something.”

“But—“ Demos narrowed his eyes. “I thought you were straight.”

“So did I?” Ferris gave an apologetic shrug. “But what about you?”

“Back when I came out to you, when I said I was into guys—“

Those words ripped the ground out from under Ferris’ feet. When he came out at the summer home in Long Island. In high school—that was six years ago.

“I—“ Demos pushed back some of his hair, which instantly fell back into place. “I wanted, more than anything, for you to say ‘me too.’ But you didn’t. I thought—I hoped, maybe you just needed time. But it never came.” He paused to take a slow drag from his cigarette, then exhaled. “So I let it go. I mean, I tried to. Every time I thought I’d moved on—“

Demos finally glanced back over. “You made me fall in love with you all over again.”

Shit. There Ferris stood, the world’s stupidest asshole. Six years. There was that familiar sick feeling, tangling up wherever his heart was supposed to be.

“God, I’m an idiot.” Ferris drew both hands to his forehead. “I’m sorry. I felt—something. I just didn’t understand what it was.”

“We’re both idiots.” Demos tapped ashes onto the pavement. “So, you’re a numbers guy. How much fucking would you say equals about six years?”

That was not an equation Ferris had ever been asked to process before. This was clearly Demos’ way of punishing him. For being an idiot.

“If you’re trying to embarrass me, it’s working,” Ferris said.

At this, Demos stepped closer. The scent of tobacco intensified as Demos draped both arms over Ferris’ shoulders, clasping his hands at the back of his neck.

“You know, I did try to tell you.” Demos pulled him closer, speaking only inches from his lips. “A few times.”

Ferris leaned in just enough to bump Demos’ forehead. “And how many of those times were you drunk or grievously injured?”

“Uh—“ Demos glanced sideways. “All of them?”

The side door opened with a creak. The two shoved apart in a frantic split second, spinning to face whoever had just stepped out.

“Are you going to stand out here smoking all night, or are you going to close up?” It was Victor, one hand in his pocket and the other holding a black trash bag.

Demos tucked his hair once more, making a poor attempt to hide the rush of heat to his face. “I thought Emily was closing.”

“She has an exam tomorrow.” Victor dropped the bag into a large can, which shut with a clang. “So get your ass in there, unless you’ve enrolled in some college I don’t know about.”

“Okay,” Demos said.

The door shut behind Victor with a slam.

Ferris swallowed. “Christ, that man is scary,” he said under his breath. Victor had always been terrifying. Memories hit Ferris all at once. That afternoon in the living room. The lie about truth or dare. The threat he’d made to the waiter—the one about boiling his scalp off in a stock pot.

Now he was doubly terrifying.

Demos dropped his cigarette, crushing it out with the edge of his shoe. “Well,” he said. “Looks like we’re closing.”

#

By the time the final lamp clicked off in the restaurant, Demos and Ferris were the last souls left. Only one room had still light, still held voices—the back office. Demos had found a seat on top of the desk in spite of the perfectly functional chair just behind it. This office, this desk—there was so much Ferris could remember. Spreading books and notes out on a rainy afternoon, studying. Completing ledgers, stacking rows and rows of bills. He was glad they’d rebuilt it the same way.

Ferris could see hints of his own reflection in the rifle cabinet behind the desk. He shifted his attention back to Demos, who had taken both of his hands. Demos’ thumbs ran over his knuckles, slow enough to send a prickle straight up into his chest.

There was a tart smile on Demos’ face. “I think we’re alone now.”

“You’re not going to start singing the rest of that, are you?” Ferris said.

“Why not?” Demos asked. “Unless you can think of some other—fun activity?”

“Nothing could be more fun than watching you belt out some Tiffany.”

At this, Demos hands went to Ferris’ waist. He tugged him in by his belt, drawing him close enough for a kiss. It was the kiss he had waited all day for, unable to get close enough between public spaces, kitchen staff, customers—everyone. Demos’ lips were longing against his own, slow, taking in the moment. It took a second for Ferris to get in a solid breath. His mouth opened and a tongue traced against his. He shivered.

Then, he felt it—the hands at his belt sneaking up under his shirt. It was happening again. Demos was coming at him and an unholy mixture of anxiety and wanting had paralyzed Ferris’ whole being. As fingers rose up on bare skin, Ferris’ entire body went stock-still. Every muscle in his frame tensed and there was a falter in the kiss, a three second pause that felt much, much longer.

Demos let go.

His hands dropped, followed by his eyes. Demos was staring at the floor now and there was that look—the same one on his face. Every time. Ferris felt a wash of rotten sickness overtake him. He was hurting Demos in plain sight. That look was his fault.

Demos rubbed his own arm. “Um—I need you to be honest, okay?”

“Yeah. Of course.”

“Are you—“ His lips pressed flat, a weak flush rising in his ears. “Are you attracted to me?”

“Yes,” Ferris said. It wasn’t an answer he had to think about. “God, yes.”

“But you keep—“

“I know.” Ferris reached forward, taking Demos’ hands back into his. “I’m sorry. I just—I’ve never—“ Now it was his turn to avert his eyes. “I don’t want to disappoint you. I don’t want you to regret this.”

Demos touched Ferris’ face, guiding him back so their eyes could meet again. “Nothing on earth could make me regret a single second I’ve spent with you.”

“What about that global warming documentary I made you watch?”

“Well—I mean—“

Ferris smiled, then leaned in to finish the kiss they’d started—so he wouldn’t have to answer that question. His first attempt at being “nice to his boyfriend.”

Demos tasted Ferris’ lower lip, then murmured against his mouth, “This is all I’ve ever wanted.” Tentatively, the hands returned to Ferris’ waist. Demos’ fingertips moved slowly, testing, sliding back beneath the shirt. Now there was no tension, no pause. Ferris wasn’t pulling away this time. Demos smiled against the kiss and moved to begin unbuttoning the shirt.

“For so long,” Demos said, reaching for the last button. “I—“

He fell silent. When Ferris opened his eyes, he saw his partner staring at the burn scar on his side. His fingertips had stopped just short of it.

Ferris’ gaze tightened. “You okay?”

“I’m—“ Demos’ words were faint, hard to make out—like a distant shape in the fog. “I’m bad for you, aren’t I?”

The words stung. Ferris’ heart twisted up in his chest like a wrung dishrag. He took each side of Demos’ face.

“Hey,” Ferris said. “Look at me.” He waited until Demos’ eyes had locked back onto his. He could see the pain in them, the guilt, the reason he had told Ferris to leave. It felt like so long ago—five years. It had been five whole years since Demos had said it. “You’re not safe with me.” Five years since they’d parted on that stoop in front of his house.

“The worst mistake I ever made—“ Ferris’ thumb traced down the side of Demos’ cheek. “Was saying goodbye to you. It doesn’t matter if you’re good for me, bad for me. In my life, you’re not optional. Do you understand that?”

All Demos could do was nod. He pressed his face into the side of Ferris’ neck, fingers clutching the back of his shirt. Ferris held him back for a while, closing his eyes and taking in the soft beats of Demos’ pulse against his skin. It was the worst thing about this scar—not that it was ugly, or that he’d lost feeling beneath it. It was the way it seemed to torture Demos with that memory, each time he saw it. Hopefully, in time, that would fade.

It was then he felt Demos’ fingers twist into the shirt, tugging it down to free his shoulders. Well, back to it then.

“You sure you want to do this here, in the office?” Ferris asked.

“Yes,” Demos said, sitting back to watch his face. “Are you?”

Ferris nodded. “Yeah.”

The shirt dropped from his shoulders, settling somewhere on the floor. This wasn’t at all fair; Demos was still fully clothed. Seeking to remedy this injustice, Ferris reached for the collar of that Oxford shirt. His fingertips trailed down to the first clasped button and Demos lifted his chin, exposing the flush in his throat.

Ferris popped the first button free then the second. “Remember when we weren’t even allowed in this office?”

“If anyone finds out what we’re about to do—“ Demos’ lips curved, the smile of a con artist.  “We won’t even be allowed in this building.”

“Oh?” The third button parted. “What are we about to do?”

“Nothing, if you don’t stop being a jackass.”

“That’s fair,” Ferris said. The last button came loose and an old daydream hit him, one vivid enough to make his heart skip. It was one he’d had more times than he’d like to admit, parting those buttons, tugging that shirt down past pale shoulders. “So—did you ever imagine this?”

“Every night,” was the immediate answer. Ferris’ hands paused halfway through parting the shirt. It was then Demos seemed to realize what he’d actually said. He made a weak attempt to clear whatever was stuck in his throat. “Well—not literally every night.” A sharp breath followed, as if it would distract from the redness in his cheeks. “Stop looking at me like that—you’re ruining this.”

There wasn’t any other way Ferris could look at him. Demos was glowering, blushing—in such rare form. He was perfect in every way.

Ferris offered an abating smile. “I did, too.”

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