11. Alexei
11
ALEXEI
I ’m not a huge fan of feeling conflicted about things.
I make plans and execute them. I stick to what I’m interested in, know where I stand, and have an iron will about pretty much everything. Life taught me to prepare, fear made me a bit anal retentive about it, and my neurotic mind just appreciates organization and planning.
But now my interests are conflicted. It’s the middle of a Wednesday, and usually I’m focused and productive, knocking out client demands and completing my online jobs. But on this particular Wednesday, I’m thinking about tile grout. More specifically, which colour of grout would look best in the upstairs, west side, third bedroom bathroom. It’s one of four bathrooms on the second floor, and I love it in there. Dad’s letting me have free rein.
And it’s confusing. Because I’m not the kind of guy who thinks about tile grout on a Wednesday afternoon. Maybe a Sunday, but definitely not a Wednesday.
Alexei 3: Want to go to the city with me after our dinner date? I need grout.
Gage: Shh. I’m working.
Gage: Do you know Morse code? Look out your window.
I do. And see nothing but the couple who own the sex shop chatting with the parents of the happy foster home.
Gage: I’m flashlight signalling you.
Alexei: It’s daylight…
Gage: You’re no fun. Yes, I’ll go to the city with you after our dinner/friend date ;) I need to score some needles.
Gage: For sewing.
Gage: That’s addict humour. Was it funny?
Alexei 3: No.
Gage: Pick me up at 18:30 in your fancy car. Xoxoxox
He’ll hug and kiss me in text form, but I’ve not experienced it body to body yet.
I set my phone down, try not to think about grout, and focus on work. But again, my mind is elsewhere. It’s on Gage and his flashlight signals. Does he really know Morse code, and if so, what message was he sending?
Why do I hate my job today? Am I distracted because it’s almost May 17th?
Why am I maybe realizing that I don’t love my job as much as I tell myself I do? Am I seriously so set in my ways that I can’t even admit when something I used to enjoy isn’t as enjoyable anymore?
I blow out a slow breath and get back to work. Gage and grout can wait.
Gage once mentioned that I dress a little gothy, but the goth vibe isn’t why I wear black. I wear black because it’s easy to be deceptive in.
Black hides sweat, spills, and intent. So, because it can be both classy and bummy, Gage won’t know that I dressed up in my best dark look just to impress him. He doesn’t have to know the intent behind my outfit because I know it, and that’s enough for me.
Black pants with a black button-up might come across as effort, but the black zip-up hoodie I layer on top gives it a casual mood. I feel classy; Gage will see casual. It’s the perfect illusion. I feel masculine and confident and awkward and it’s great.
I wasn’t expecting the nerves, though. It’s just dinner at a diner that holds a part of his past, and he was very insistent that I knew it was a friend date, but in my head, it’s a real date. And it’s the first one I’ve ever had. I’m nervous about that.
More than that, I’m nervous about being seen in town with Gage. Not because of his past or who he is, but because of who I am. While I’m not usually one to worry about what other people think of me, I’m worrying about what they’re going to think of Gage for being on a non-date date with me. I’m the weird guy around town. He’s the former cool guy. What sort of pairing do we make? I’m cool with being weird, but is Gage cool with me being weirdly cool?
We aren’t wine and cheese or peanut butter and banana. We’re more like the egg white and the yolk: we belong in the same shell but are made up of completely different compositions. He’s the yolk.
Because this is a date in my head, I walk to his front door and knock. One of the twins opens the door, and Slash stands behind him, staring me up and down to assess my worthiness.
“Hey,” Nick says. “What’re your intentions with my brother?”
I know he’s being witty, but I answer anyway. “To convince him that this is a real date without actually stating so.”
Nick laughs. “Good luck. He’s trying pretty hard to pretend like he isn’t into you.”
“I know.”
“Gage! Alexei is here!” To me, he adds, “Wanna come in?”
Just as I step through the door, Gage practically trips down the stairs, shirt half on, abs and chest on display, jeans slung low on his hips with the button still undone. Hair messy from a shower, dark and damp. He hasn’t shaved, and I like the stubble that lines his jaw almost as much as I like his abs. And his chest. Which is tattooed with mechanical looking things, real steam-punk style. That surprises me.
“You’re staring,” he says to me, grinning.
“I’m wondering how an anti-athlete gets definition like that. Doesn’t work for me.”
“Genetics.” He shrugs. “Too bad Nick got all the wrong genes.”
Nick punches Gage and steals his shirt before he can get it all the way on, buying me a few more minutes of shirtless staring. Nick smiles at me like we’re in cahoots before running away with it.
“Mind if I wear this?” Gage asks, smiling wide, showing me his naked torso.
“Not even a little.”
Because I’m not nervous or worried about what anyone will think anymore. I’m not daydreaming about tile grout or Morse code. I’m looking at a body I want to be all over, seeing the man of my fate bare before me, impressive and sexy. I’m too busy being attracted to a body I desire, matching the imperfect perfection of it to Gage’s personality, wondering how I’m going to be patient enough to let him realize we’re soulmates all on his own.
And maybe, in the back of my mind, I’m thinking about sex addiction recovery and how I can support him in that while wanting him as badly as I do.
“You look good, Alexei,” he says, drawing my attention from his chest tats to his face. “Really good.”
“Friend-like?”
“Mm, so companionable, yes. Totally innocent and entirely platonic thoughts are running through my head right now.”
“Same.” I link my fingers behind my back. “Feel free to show me your cool attic bedroom again.”
Gage laughs. “Careful, Alexei. Hang on a sec.”
While he runs off to fetch his shirt, I face the front door and adjust myself. It’s going to be one of those nights where my dick goes up and down and annoys the living hell out of me. His companionable thoughts need to take a turn soon.
When we get to the diner, Gage acts fairly normal. He’s not locked up and tense like the first time we walked in here, but he’s not happy-go-lucky either. He’s attentive and reserved, and when we pick a booth near the back, he flops onto the bench and stares straight at the circular booth to our left.
Across from him, I keep my hands on my lap and try not to look disgusted by the smell of all the greasy food. This is not my typical establishment. In all honesty, I’m not a fan of restaurant eating. I prefer to prepare my meals at home, even if they come from a meal subscription box.
Gage orders Pepsi to my water and a burger with fries to my chicken salad with lemon wedges. When the food comes, he scarfs and I chew.
“Right there, in that booth, I got a handie under the table while I was rolling way too hard to even really notice. Maybe it was a blowjob. I can’t even remember.”
I look at the circular booth. So unsanitary.
“I spent a lot of time in this diner in high school. I’d be mostly drunk when I got here, high on something by the time I left, and probably paid for less than half of the meals I ate here. I had like three different friend groups at that time. One was artsy, and I liked being around them because they were inspiring, but when my buzz wore off, I always reverted to the other two groups. The one that just drank and partied like normal teens, and then the other one… the one that kept encouraging my habits.”
“You blame your friend group?” I ask, picking at my salad.
“Nah.” He wipes his lips with the back of his wrist and swigs some Pepsi. “But I kept hanging around them because they didn’t judge me for the shit I did. When you wanna get high, it’s always more fun to be around other people who wanna get high. Makes you feel less shitty about yourself. Like, everyone else is doing it, so I’m not so bad.”
He looks at the plastic cup, almost empty.
“First time I’ve eaten here without spiking my drink.” He smiles, but it’s a reserved one that means he thinks himself pathetic. “Tastes better this way. You don’t drink pop?”
“I’ve had ginger ale for an upset stomach.”
“You have no vices?” he asks, appalled.
“Not really. I just cope.”
“What about pleasure? Like… do you ever have an ice cream cone just because you’re craving one?”
“I don’t really crave sweets. If you must know, my food choice for guilty pleasures is popcorn. And yes, I put butter and salt on it. I also enjoy a shrimp cocktail every now and then.”
Gage laughs, looking beautiful and bright. “You’re so wild, Alexei. You never indulge?”
“Not really.”
“Ever heard of moderation?” he asks.
“How has moderation worked out for you in the past?”
“Touché.” He sighs.
“That wasn’t an insult. I’m just aware. Addictive instincts can run in families, and since I had two drug-addicted parents, I try to avoid whatever I can. I’m not afraid of bad food, and I don’t judge others for eating it. Well, except you because you’re already pretty unhealthy. But the benefits I would get from consuming an unhealthy diet aren’t worth the mental health implications they’d cause me. I don’t love a burger enough to eat one often. Milkshakes make me feel way too full, so I just get water. I don’t feel like I’m missing out on the ‘guilty pleasures’ you speak of. I feel more like I’m avoiding a bloated and bogged down feeling. I prefer my way. You prefer yours. That’s okay.”
Gage sets down the last bite of his burger and stares at the single fry left on his plate. “I do feel pretty bloated and bogged down. But I wouldn’t have stopped because I finish things. I don’t think about the feeling afterward. I just eat.”
“I know. How’s it feel to be here?”
He looks around again, taking the whole place in. The grimy but well-loved counter, all the pies and desserts behind the glass case, the little window that shows a peek into the kitchen, and the other patrons dining. He spares another glance at the circular booth before looking right at me, eye contact and everything.
“Like… like maybe I’m over that phase of life.” He’s reluctant to admit it because he doesn’t want to give himself false hope, but that impresses me because it means he’s determined yet realistic. He’s self-aware, and what is sexier than being self-aware? “Like maybe the eighth time really is the charm.”
I’ve wanted to ask this since I found out he’s been to rehab that many times. “What kind of person goes to rehab eight times? That’s not… very common. One time, maybe two or three, before the person decides it’s not for them and they try another method.”
“Or overdose,” he adds. Pushing his last bite and last fry away, he leans back and fiddles with his cup on the table. “Because I think I’m a bad addict. I’m pretty fucking awesome at coming up with excuses to use, reasoning with myself that it’s just one more time, how bad can it be, right? But deep down, I’m scared. Always have been. Despite how many times I’ve almost died because of myself, I don’t really want to.”
I nod, encouraging him to go on. He’s so fascinating. The reasons behind actions are my favourite part of a person.
“So, Mom threw rehab at me that first time. I went, and even though I already had one foot out the door and didn’t take it too seriously, it gave me a safety blanket. Like, okay, I’m a fucking mess, but this is always an option. It’s here, waiting for me, ready to keep me alive when I can’t do it myself. So whenever I went to rehab, I guess it was when I was feeling like… if I stayed away, I’d die.”
My chest cinches. “So, to protect yourself from yourself?”
“Yeah. That.” He nods. “It’s stupid, and I failed at it so many times, but… I’m still here. So those eight torturous detoxes and states of withdrawal were worth it. This is the longest I’ve been sober since I was fourteen.”
“And the longest time you spent in rehab? A whole year, right? Is that common?” I ask.
“No. Not common. I guess the rehab portion was only a few months, but I stayed at the facility for a year by choice. Almost like a wellness retreat,” he says, laughing a bit. “But not that calm wellness you see in movies. It was hell, but it made me stronger, especially with the sex portion, and I dunno. I’m glad I stayed a year. I needed to hit that milestone while there this time.”
“Feel good about it?”
“Yes and no. Proud but pressured. I hate measuring things in lengths of time. Makes me feel like there’s an expiration date on it, so it gives me this urge to ruin the timeline so I can stop feeling so much pressure.”
I remember my dad saying something like that, too. Back when I didn’t believe a word out of his mouth and always assumed he’d fail. Now that Gage has expressed the feeling of pressure it brings, and I’m in a state of mind to listen and understand, I realize that I was the pressure my dad didn’t need. I assumed his failure. I brought up lengths of time. I doubted every minor-to-me but monumental-to-him accomplishment and undermined it with a doubtful thought that he’d never hit the next one.
“You should talk to my dad about that,” I tell Gage. “I think he felt something similar, and he started measuring progress in projects instead. If I can complete this project, it’s a win . But he’d already have his next project aligned by the time the current one ended, so it felt like he was hitting milestones without the ‘now what?’ feeling attached at the end of them.”
Gage’s eyes are still on mine when he smiles, looking down at where my hands are hidden beneath the table. “Thank you. But fuck, I’m sick of everything being about me and my recovery. Tell me something about you.”
I inhale, and on the exhale, decide to tell him about my lack of focus. “I think I’m starting to lose interest in my job. I don’t know. I’m a pretty easy person to please, and it’s not like I have a lot of issues I need to work through. Bit of an irrational fear that my dad is just gonna die like my mom did, even though I know he’s healthy now. But it’s my control freak personality that’s messing me up a bit lately. Like, I don’t enjoy my job, but I’ve told myself I need to, so I’m struggling to accept that I am going against my own rules.” Whoa, there it is.
“You can still be in control even when your interests and passions change. That’s allowed, you know?”
“I’m trying to accept that, yes.” I nod.
“I wanna hold your hand right now, Alexei.”
Do it. Please fucking do it.
It’s a biological response to a mental reaction, but I’m thankful I wore black because my body flushes and I break out in a light sweat. Not many things have the ability to make me sweat, but Gage is disrupting all the firm lines I thought I knew about myself. I’m tongue-tied, too, which is new for me.
“So, let’s get out of here before I do it,” he adds, deflating the moment, but not enough to cool me down. He makes it worse when he adds, “I’m paying. You can shut up about your power imbalances.”
Further proof that this is a real date. I knocked on his door, picked him up, sat across from him as we shared a meal, and now he’s paying. He’s slow to pick up on the cues that we’re starting a relationship, so I inform him. “This is very date-like behaviour, Gage.”
“Mhm.” He grins, hiding it from me. “Or I’m just a nice guy taking my web designer out for a meal because I’m trying to get you to drop the non-flirting tax.”
“I won’t be fooled by bribery, so I’ll pay for my own.” I reach for my wallet.
Gage. Touches. My. Wrist.
Skin to skin. Fingers wrapped around my knobby wrist bones. Fires are burning and black clothing is essential, and despite how cliché it is, sparks are floating around everywhere, threatening to combust this whole diner and the grease in the air. Because Gage is touching me, and I’m more certain than ever that he’s my soulmate.
He’s looking at me, and his lips are moving with spoken words, but I’m not hearing anything he’s saying about me not paying and him actually flirting because he’s still touching me. Gage already had a relapse in a coffee shop when the window exploded, and I don’t want him in further distress when this diner blows up from our tension, so I look down at where he’s touching me, trying to rationalize it.
It’s just his hand on mine. His skin against mine. He’s touched my hand before. People touch all the time and nothing happens, so I don’t know why I’m making such a big deal out of it while standing here with a completely stoic face. But my world is turning and my axis is tilting, and every fundamental part of me is changing.
Because I understand addiction now.
All my years of trying to get to the bottom of chasing a high and getting caught in a loop of ups and downs are making sense. I’d chase this feeling forever. The feeling that brings my blood to life and opens new parts of my brain. An effervescent moment of clairvoyance like I’m not actually supposed to have this super ability to feel things this ferociously. Everything before this touch felt good. Everything after it will pale in comparison. I’ll try to find it again forever.
Gage finishes saying whatever he was saying, offering a smile before he drops my wrist. I look down again, wondering if I can see the tether that stretches between him and I. Because the intensity of the moment has faded, but I’m still tingling. Warmth battles coldness, and I’m in the middle. My sweat is the condensation, the result of a tick in time, signalling my transfer from ‘before’ to ‘after’ Gage Rossum touched me on a date.
“Alexei?” Gage’s voice comes back online through my muffled hearing. “I asked if you wanted anything for the road? A dessert?”
Maybe the new me is someone who gets dessert now. “Chocolate,” I mumble, completely dazed and unsure why I say it. Do I want chocolate?
I don’t know what he ends up getting, but I’m following him and a bakery paper bag out the front door into the evening hues.
“Rossum! Rossum, is that you?”
Our moment—or maybe just my moment—shatters when Gage stiffens.