Chapter 15 - Phoenix
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Phoenix
Tristan sat between the table and the couch, enjoying the sense of security that only Leaf’s cabin seemed to provide.
Even though this feeling of safety gave off the impression that everything was fine, he wouldn’t trade that feeling for the reality that had been so exhausting for him since the reunion with Carol.
On the living room table were the empty food containers from the Mongolian place.
Tristan was taken aback that they had finished it all.
Normally, in the heat, he lacked appetite.
Since Milo’s death, it seemed to have vanished altogether.
Yet, his body was obviously hungry, likely due to the heavy drinking the night before.
He couldn’t help it; panic had suddenly gripped him, and Snider’s pills were no longer working, so he had no choice but to drown his sorrows in alcohol.
With a sigh, Tristan picked up the pen, leaned forward, and added another word to his poem—in a scrawling handwriting that he sometimes could barely read himself.
All the efforts of his teachers and foster parents hadn’t been enough to make him write more legibly.
He just couldn’t do it. But fortunately, that had never disadvantaged him.
Even his publisher had once admitted to him that his submission had caught her attention precisely because of his handwriting.
She had even suggested incorporating originals in the poetry collection to give readers a glimpse of who was behind these highly praised poems.
Tristan had decided against it. He had been too afraid that some graphologists might create a psychological profile of him.
The first edition of his poetry collection had been sold out in just a few weeks, and he had been celebrated as the Dylan Thomas of the new generation—and he had only been seventeen at the time.
Tristan sighed and leaned his head back.
With his legs drawn up and resting against the couch, he stretched out his right arm, holding a glass of water between his fingers.
There was no way he could have drunk alcohol today.
The beer with dinner had been the most he could handle, and it had been more of a refreshment than a drug.
Instead, he had simply enjoyed writing again.
A gentle breeze blew through the open door from the balcony, briefly competing with the fan standing diagonally in front of him on the wooden bench by the window.
The sun had set by now, and the heat of the day was gradually giving way to the evening coolness—at least up here in their little forest. A faint lamp illuminated the room, and two candles burned on the table.
The singing of the cicadas drifted in from outside.
Tristan leaned the back of his head against Leaf’s leg. Knowing he was there made everything alright. It was even easy for him to overlook the fact that Leaf was spaced out right now.
If I hadn’t gone to shower, he probably wouldn’t have gotten high, Tristan thought, turning to look at Leaf.
Shirtless and only in black jeans, he lay there, his lips slightly parted, his eyes closed.
Calm. Far away. Drifting in his high. There was a slight tension between his brows.
Tristan’s gaze traveled over Leaf’s neck, his beautiful collarbone, down to his chest. The hand on his stomach moved slowly up and down.
Even and peaceful. The dragons and demons on his arms, fighting against a storm-tossed sea, shimmered under a thin film of sweat.
They twisted from his wrists to his neck.
Perched on his left chest was a phoenix, on the verge of drowning in the waves of the dark sea.
Tristan had often searched for the right words to describe this spectacle of ink. This artwork obviously hid so much more than Leaf was willing to reveal.
He didn’t talk about his tattoos, whose purpose could be guessed considering the scars beneath them. After asking once about their meaning and watching Leaf walk away without a word, Tristan knew: the tattoos were strictly off-limits.
Tristan brushed a strand of hair from Leaf’s face and lovingly stroked his temple. It hurt him to see him like this, and he was sure that Leaf was carrying an even bigger burden with him since Milo’s death.
“If only you’d talk about it,” Tristan whispered.
Slowly, he leaned forward and kissed Leaf's soft lips. To his surprise, Leaf kissed him back, encouraging him to continue. He had longed for this moment, though Leaf had always seemed unable to allow such closeness, as if something were holding him back.
Like a cat, Tristan climbed onto the couch next to Leaf and swung a leg over his.
He gently ran his fingers over Leaf’s bare chest. The fabric of his loosely fitting shirt, which was just hanging on to two buttons, lay between them.
He undid them so that he could feel Leaf’s stomach and snuggled up to him—it had been so long.
With heavy limbs, Leaf enveloped him in his arms and held him tightly; his eyes still closed as if he were asleep.
Yet, their lips found each other again. The kiss was soft and warm, igniting a desire in Tristan that was evident in his tight jeans.
However, when he slightly pulled back his head and Leaf continued to lie semi-unconscious, as if he hadn’t noticed anything, Tristan caressed his cheek.
As much as he craved him, making a move while Leaf was out of it was completely out of the question.
The nagging feeling of having lost something resurfaced once again.
This time, it wasn’t Milo scratching at his walls, but a secret that Leaf held deep within himself.
Tenderly and fearfully, Tristan placed a palm over Leaf’s hot forehead once more.
Whatever this something was, it had the power to destroy everything, of that he was sure.
But as long as he didn’t know what it was, he couldn’t do anything about it.
Instead, he wanted to cherish every moment with his beloved—no matter how much it demanded of him.
He nestled back against him, holding on tight. Pressing his face into Leaf’s neck crease, he breathed in his earthy scent. He kissed him on the neck and combed his fingers through his hair until he drifted off himself.
It was the heat between them that woke Tristan from his sleep. Despite the fan, he felt like the air was stagnant.
Slowly, he slid off Leaf and sat back on the floor. Sweat dripped from every pore, and the little water he had left was nowhere near enough to quench his thirst.
He got up and went to the kitchen to refill his glass. Taking a few greedy sips, he strolled to the balcony. The wind had closed the door behind him, so he opened it and enjoyed the refreshing breeze flowing in.
He had always felt comfortable in Leaf’s cabin. It was his home, where he felt safe. There was always something new to discover here. Just like now, as Tristan admired the wall adorned with the framed insects and noticed a new butterfly.
Every time he saw someone in Venice selling such butterflies or beetles, he inwardly shook his head, feeling sorry for these insects.
He didn’t understand the purpose of that.
Yet, it fascinated him time and time again to stand here at Leaf’s home in front of this wall with all the dead insects and examine them more closely.
When Leaf first talked about the diversity of insects, Tristan was captivated.
On the one hand, because he hadn’t thought there was anything else besides playing the guitar that could awaken Leaf’s passion, and on the other hand, he had never suspected that it was entomology, of all things, that interested Leaf.
Tristan was sure that if the dice had fallen differently, Leaf would have studied biology and become an entomologist. Just the thought of that always brought a smile to his face.
Ever since they first met at the Amoeba Music Store, it was love at first sight. He adored Leaf, quirks and flaws included. When Leaf confessed about his long and close relationship with drugs, Tristan loved him even more for his honesty.
Leaf had gradually opened up to him, sharing stories from his childhood. These stories stirred feelings of helplessness in Tristan and ignited a strong desire to protect him.
When Leaf had a relapse toward the end of the last tour, Tristan quickly realized that this situation was beyond his control. The despair had been great, but he had also learned how to support Leaf.
But this time, it was different. Leaf didn’t allow him to offer support.
Tristan knew it was his own fault; he had pushed Leaf away after Milo’s death.
This relapse was far worse than the last one, where Leaf had used cocaine before every concert.
Now, he was escaping reality entirely, making no attempt to hide it.
The supplies—cocaine, opium, cigarettes, and alcohol—were openly scattered on the table.
Tristan wasn’t a stranger to drugs, but he had never considered trying heroin or cocaine. He avoided pills and was too afraid of needles—otherwise, he would have gotten the wolf tattoo long ago. Smoking was out of the question for him as well.
He enjoyed hallucinogens, though. If something fell into the category of mind-expanding substances, he could hardly resist.
In Vegas, they often drove out into the desert and embarked on trips with various substances.
It was never about escaping reality for him.
He wanted to dive into foreign worlds and bring back what he received there to this world, be inspired by it, and unite it with reality through his art and poetry.
But now, after almost ten years of living in Los Angeles, he could count on two hands the trips he had made during this time.
The last one was more than a year ago and had taken place before the first tour.
As he stared at the half-full bottle of Jack Daniel’s on the table, he felt something tighten in his stomach. Of course, he enjoyed having a drink now and then, and when he drank alone, he often lost track of how much he drank. But he was far from having an alcohol problem.
In fact, he was still convinced he had a healthy relationship with drugs. Compared to Leaf, he’d even go so far as to call it absolutely problem-free.
Leaf’s consumption had crossed a threshold again, which was more than problematic. Seeing him zonked out on the couch was concerning because, as much as Tristan may have set his mind to fixing everything, he knew he couldn’t beat drugs.
By now, he was sitting on the wide wooden bench, which also served as the windowsill, with the fan directed straight at him, looking out. Lights were on in the surrounding cabins, and the neighbors sat on the balcony, enjoying the balmy summer evening.
Tristan finished his drink and leaned back against a wooden post, letting his gaze wander around the room.
Next to him lay a stack of books that Leaf had bought from garage sales.
As soon as he finished reading them, they seemed to disappear.
Sometimes he would leave them in laundromats or cafes, while other times he threw them away.
He only kept a few on a shelf in his bedroom.
Once, Tristan had seen him sitting under the lamp outside before sunrise while he got up to grab a drink. Leaf hadn’t noticed that Tristan was watching him for a while. Apparently, he only read at night when he couldn’t sleep.
Curiously, Tristan reached out and pulled the stack closer to examine the books. The top two appeared like crime novels, recognizable by their typical covers. The third book in the stack was Philip K. Dick’s A Scanner Darkly, a book Tristan had recommended to him.
It always pleased him when Leaf remembered his suggestions. The fourth book was one he had raved about a few months ago. Ray Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451. It had surprised him that Leaf hadn’t known this classic, considering he had to read it twice during his entire school career.
When he turned over the fifth book, he looked into the sun-tanned face of a Native American woman. Feathers adorned her head, and thick black braids cascaded down to her chest.
As if the tranquility in the cabin had suddenly been swallowed by a black hole, all the blood drained from his face.
Everything around him burst into flames.
Like a wild ride on a roller coaster, Tristan was yanked away from the cozy home and plunged at high speed into the deep abyss.
Back to the desert. Back home where he had grown up.
Artificial colors.
Artificial light.
And on the edge of this dream world, the great void.
Tristan tossed the book away and wiped his hand on his pants as if it were contaminated with a disease-causing germ.
His heart was racing. Memories rolled in like a powerful storm, bringing tears to his eyes.
There was nothing he could do about it. Anxiously, he wrapped his arms around his legs, rested his chin on his knees, and rocked back and forth.
“Leaf,” he whimpered softly. “Wake up.”