Outsiders. Part 27

"Sheila and I go every year, so I got handed the curator duties on the local section of the Film Festival installation. The theme is Michigan Memories. I'm supposed to gather video and photos. We'll talk about it later, the movie's starting."

There were heroism, and darkness, monstrous villains to be defeated only by a lone vigilante with courage, will, and blind determination in the force of justice. Thrilled, Joan let it wash over her. The fighting was epic, cras.h.i.+ng into their personal s.p.a.ce, debris shattered in explosive showers, car chases that ended in rolling, blazing glory. After, they sat and let the crowd push its way out of the theater, then they walked slowly toward Joan's car. Billy kept his 3-D gla.s.ses on.

"Do you need a ride?" Joan asked, realizing that Billy didn't have a car.

He opened the door and sat down, gla.s.ses red and blue like insect's eyes slipping down around his neck. "You're not tired."

"It's two o'clock in the morning, Billy."

There was amus.e.m.e.nt in his grin. "Tell me you can come down after that. It'll take me hours. What do you have planned for tomorrow?"

"Carol the treasurer is coming over in the afternoon to measure my backyard, or something like that."

He nodded, pleased. "Then we have plenty of time. Stop at my place, I'll grab what we need. We're going to your place."

This surprised Joan, as they never had spent any time at her house. "Why?"

"My roommate has finally come back from her road trip, and I suspect you'd rather hang out without more company."

"I didn't know you had a roommate."

"Isn't it fun to find out new things?"

At his house, he sprinted up the shallow steps. He was gone for five minutes to gather supplies and, presumably, converse with his roommate. Billy came back with a worn Army satchel well stuffed from the weight hanging on the strap.

"Okay, we're good."

They hadn't spent time at her house, but Billy romped into the living room by instinct, turned on a few lamps but ignored the overhead light. He sat down on the floor in front of the fireplace, cross-legged, and upended the satchel. Comic books spilled out en ma.s.se.

"Would you like something to drink?" Joan asked, more aware of who she was supposed to be in her own s.p.a.ce. Billy, not looking up from his pile of comic books, seized her hand.

"Sit down. Relax. This is me."

"I'm well aware of that," Joan said tartly, but sat down on the upholstered footstool. Billy let her hand go. He held up a comic book with a lurid cover: a woman in a chain mail halter and thong stood poised atop a heap of enemy dead, braced on a ma.s.sive two handed sword, a look of wildness in her flas.h.i.+ng eyes and floating hair. "Sword Queen."

"Oh, we're on to the ogling girls stage of bonding?"

"Did we ever leave? You don't know Sword Queen? This is good s.h.i.+t. Female protagonist, good stories, brilliant warrior queen of her barbarian people, trying to resist the might of Rome and defend her homeland and her people's way of life against the invaders."

"Historical mishegoss."

"But fun! How do you expect people to love history if they don't get to hear the stories? Sword Queen and her loyal companion Carthax, fighting back to back, making their last stand against the fading light of the Empire."

"I'm not a comic-book reader."

"Yet. You're a sn.o.b. That's fixable. Hadrian didn't disdain any field of knowledge. One issue. If you don't like it, after that, I'll relent," Billy said.

Joan took it, reluctantly. Billy fished in the satchel again. "And, the second ingredient in coming down." He held up a joint. "Smoke?"

Joan took it without comment and lit it up, pulled deeply, then handed it to the boy.

"I see you are familiar with the ritual." Billy took a drag, then held his hand out to her.

Joan took the joint back and inhaled with enviable lung power. "You don't have to introduce me to everything, Billy. I've been here longer than you have."

"I'm well aware of it, Hadrian, why do you think I sought you out?"

"Antinous caught the Emperor's eye, not the other way around."

"Modern life is complicated."

Joan stood up and left the living room. She came back with a cigar box and a great scientific ma.s.s of gla.s.s, and set it down on the floor in front of her, sitting cross-legged opposite Billy. "You smoke shake. I have something more selective." She took out a film canister, a seven layer metal grinder, and a tiny Chinese ceramic cup, blue and white. After grinding and sifting, she poured the leaf into the cup and held it out to Billy. He inhaled deeply, closing his eyes. The bong was gla.s.s, multi-chambered, German, practically a work of art. Joan dropped an ice cube down the neck, to the pinches, loaded the bowl and handed it to Billy. She picked up the remote to the CD player and turned it on. Dusty in Memphis.

"Modern life has its pleasure."

Sometime later, Joan tossed aside a Sword Queen comic and reached for the next issue. Billy, lying on the couch with his feet up, was reading the next issue. Incense sticks glowed cherry and candles, melted into protean state, licked up the last tongue of flame, adding to the haze. Joan commanded the other end of the couch, her back against the arm, so their legs fell parallel in the middle.

"Hurry up. I want to see what she's going to do now that her army has mutinied, the Gauls are surrounding the camp, and her lover has betrayed her."

Billy closed the comic halfway, keeping his place with his left hand. "Knew I'd get you hooked."

"Yeah, well. So I'm human."

"You've never admitted that before, we are making progress. You deserve a reward." Billy handed her the Sword Queen issue, leaning forward. Joan heard a strange noise and looked up, unable to place it, until she saw the quality of light in the sky. It was birds, chirping at the coming sunrise. She leaned back against the arm of the couch.

"Why do I feel so at ease with you?" Joan asked aloud at the same moment she thought it. Smoking took away her inner filter. She felt the pulse kick up in her throat, a fear reaction, until he looked at her solemnly, unusual for him. The novelty of it arrested Joan. His face was designed, she thought, for smiling, for laughing, for warmth. He would have wrinkles around his eyes, his mouth-all well earned and honored in the pursuit of friendliness-to mark every smile he'd ever shared. One day, when his face was more lived in, his character would be more evident. For now, his beauty did get in the way. Skin like a snow peach, absurdly pink and white and p.r.o.ne to redness in the sun to match red lips, bludgeoningly blue eyes, an excess of color and size that belonged in one of his comic books. Hair pale to colorless, chilled blond, brows all but invisible, and rough tender growth of change on his cheek. No baseball cap tonight. He looked at her, and his mouth was solemn, his brows down.

"Because you are Hadrian and I am Antinous. The Emperor and the favorite."

Joan smiled slowly in answer, enjoying it more than needing to correct it.

"See, I would never tell you that you should smile more, because you should do whatever you are feeling. But I will say I have never seen anything quite as beautiful as you when you smile for real."

There was the border; they were back on the porch on the first night, and this time he'd walked right up to it. Then he pushed the border back, by crawling up to her side of the couch and settling himself in next to her. Joan held very still.

"Billy, you're going to get me singing some Dusty Springfield here in a minute if you don't move away."

"By the time you get past my name you'll be kissing me."

Joan took the dare and tried it, but Billy was right. By the time she got to his name she was kissing him, really kissing him. Then Joan pulled back.

"Billy."

"Antinous."

"Antinous," she granted him, for he was. In the first shreds of dawn light, he was golden, languid, and as full of mystery as Hadrian's beloved.

"You're not going to make a speech, are you?"

"Probably."

"Let me. I'll respect your c.o.c.k, and expect you'll respect mine. Enough speech." Billy went back to kissing her. Joan slid her arms around him on the couch, pulling him in. His arms were rounded with muscle, new muscle, but there was still a softness of youth to him. There was also impatience, when he finally betrayed his nervousness in the way he kissed her, a little too hungry, as if he couldn't believe it were happening. That, too, spoke of youth. Joan felt both l.u.s.t and tenderness, sifted together so finely they were indistinguishable. She pulled back from him in smaller kisses, until she closed his lips and was apart from him. The scruff on his upper lip was still soft, but coming in more coa.r.s.e.

"What?" he asked, his lips moving back toward hers.

"Not just yet."

"Never?"

"Not never, but not just yet. Lie with me for a while."

They lay facing one another, thigh to thigh, bodies meeting, arms around waists, heads close. The difference between talking and kissing was slight.

"You've got some shoulders there."

"Made them myself."

"Nice."

"If you like those, you should feel this." Billy took her hand and put it on his flank.

"You have been working out."

"And this. Squeeze. Pure muscle." He guided her hand around the bend.

"You should be very proud."

"If you are pleased, my lord, I am happy."

"How could I be anything else, Antinous? The most beautiful boy in the world, my favorite, shares my couch with me." Joan stroked his side, from shoulder to hip, in a long, circular caress. Certain areas of his body she could touch, those areas he'd led her to. The rest was conflicted territory.

"Then why do you look haunted again?"

"Not haunted, honey. Thinking."

Joan felt Billy's hand rest against the side of her face. "Can I make you stop?"

"Yes, I'm afraid you could." Joan s.h.i.+fted her gaze, and hooked a finger in his collar. "Why two t-s.h.i.+rts?"

"Protective covering. Haven't had top surgery yet."

Joan nodded, her hand resting along his collarbone. "Do you have it planned?"

Billy's smile was blinding. "August."

"You sound happy."

"I am."

"Is it okay if I touch your chest? I mean, I'm not sure how you feel about-"

"How do you see me?"

"Pardon?"

"Am I your boy?"

"Yes."

"Then go ahead."

Joan did. Billy's lips moved close to her ear. "Share with me many kisses, upon your couch, as we meet with the holy union of our thighs."

"You paraphrase lost Aeschylus beautifully."

"I bet you say that to all the boys."

There was exploration and retreat, regrouping and sallying forth again, Joan hesitating and Billy pulling her onwards. There was a tangle of limbs, still clothed but well entwined. The light went from dawn to day, exhaustion coupled with momentary peace, caresses slowing to soothing, to stillness. They fell asleep, her arm around him.

This is how Sheila found them four hours later, when her crutch knocked over the fancy German art gla.s.s bong. Sheila hopped back on her good leg, let the door bang closed, and then looked at the couch, where her oldest friend's dark eyes were looking at her, startled, over the very comfortable-looking, pa.s.sed-out Billy boy.

"Oh, for the love of f.u.c.k," was all Sheila could manage before she crashed down in the recliner.

"Shh," Joan said.

Billy stirred, smiled, and opened his eyes. "Hey. Sheila?"

"Dr. Cross," Joan corrected, feeling very foolish.

"I think the boy can call me Sheila now, Joan."

"What's going on? What time is it?" Billy asked, sitting up. He looked like he didn't let go of sleep easily.

"Billy, would you mind going in the kitchen for a bit? Joan and I need to talk."

Billy looked to Joan first, who nodded. He raised his eyebrows; she pointed down the hall.

"Kitchen. Coffee top shelf, cabinet left of the fridge. French press, kettle on the stove. Cups in the side cabinet. Would you?"

"It's my calling." He wandered away down the hall, loose limbed, scruffy, unfazed by the night.

Sheila watched Joan watch Billy walk away. When Joan looked back at her, Sheila dramatically swept the room with her eyes, from the knocked over German bong, to the puddled candles, spider's leg remnants of incense sticks, the guilty cigar box, to the sea of comic books, tossed around the room. She then looked at Joan, sitting up now, staring back at her with sleep-deprived eyes like a disturbed owl.

"Good morning. Evidently we haven't met. I'm Sheila. What's your excuse?"

Joan ran a hand through her hair. "I don't know that I have one."

"Dogs and cats living together, I tell you. When I said you'd hit it off, I wasn't thinking of that kind of hit it off. What are you up to?"