Page 34 of Hamartia

We’d not spoken a word to each other. On the flight—private, paid for by Halcyon, now that we’d won a Grammy I guess we were important—he’d already been seated when I arrived and hadn’t looked up from his phone when the others had said hello.

After landing he’d pulled his hat low and his hoodie up and slept on the drive from the airport to the studio where we’d been sent straight to makeup. As we’d waited for the lighting issue to get sorted, he’d slept some more and during the Times interview he’d said all of four words.

This isn’t unusual for him though so nothing would have seemed off to how he normally is, but the band felt it. We had been asked about Asher, but Zeke had shut it down pretty quickly and that had been that.

Cleo and I had talked during the delay and she was okay about it, seemingly happy that Asher was happy, and satisfied that her brother wasn’t doing porn out of financial desperation. Turns out he is some kind of superstar in the industry. He’s doing well. Really well. He’s been offered brand campaigns for underwear and sex toys and basically can’t move from offers from adult film studios. From sheltered religious choir boy to New York’s porn darling in less than three years. It’s impressive. It’s a blockbuster movie waiting to happen.

Camille has called every day since she landed in Sydney but I’ve managed to successfully avoid every single one. The morning after Jae’s call, I’d texted her, saying Crawford and I had gotten wasted the night of the Grammy’s and I’d crashed at his place and hadn’t woken up until Monday morning. I’m sure she bought it; she trusts me. And it’s something I’ve done a lot of times before, so there’s no real reason for her not to.

I’ve drafted more than one ‘we need to talk when you get back’ text in my notes app. It’s on its eighth redraft at this point. But it’s still unsent, because I can’t quite bring myself to do that while she’s thousands of miles away and working. It’s a bullshit excuse, I know it. I’m just being a coward; I know that too. It makes me think that maybe I am my dad’s son after all.

I’m back at the hotel and just out of the shower when the text I’d been checking my phone for all day arrives with a ding and rumble on the bathroom counter. The floor beneath my feet tilts slightly as I read it. The address is there. Along with:

I will be free from eleven.

I read the address over and over until the characters blur together and the words mean nothing. I conjure the apartment in my mind, along with his bedroom, him, me, us. Arousal, nerves, anticipation, and guilt all swirling together in my gut until it becomes overwhelming. I only just make it to the toilet before the Five Guys and Iced coffee I had for lunch empties itself into the bowl.

After, I sit with my back against the shower door and breathe. Deep and slow. Just like how I do before going on stage, when that same overwhelming panic that I’m gonna fuck up massively in front of thousands, threatens to drown me. With my eyes closed I focus on the way my diaphragm contracts and expands, drawing a square in my head each second. I pull the air in, hold it there at the base of my lungs, and then slowly push it out. I’m on my third one of these when his next text comes in, vibrating against my palm.

If you have changed your mind, please let me know.

I stare at it a minute before going back to breathing. When I’ve done another couple, I feel a lot better, my stomach more settled, my head clearer. The panic and reality of it might have set in, but I haven’t changed my mind, I know that much. I still want him. I still want all the things I told him I wanted on that phone call, and more than that—I need those things now.

I text him back:

I haven’t changed my mind. I’ll be there at 11:30.

I rinse out my mouth, brush my teeth, and then place a room service order for a bottle of Tequila. I’m doing this. I may just have to be a little drunk while I do it.

The apartment is one of those buildings that has been gouged out from the inside and remodeled, the outside still the face of the 18th century, the inside modern and sleek.

I look down at his message again: Apartment 106. I press each number with a trembling finger, counting each one as an inhale as I do.

As I’m waiting, another message from Camille comes through. Another one I read and ignore, but which sits heavy in my back pocket as a reminder that my life is waiting for me on the other side of whatever this is. Whateverheis.

“Yes,” he answers, voice deeper but still recognizable.

Takes me a second to find my voice.

“Hey, it’s me. Raphael.” My voice sounds weird, rattling with something I can’t name.

There’s a pause before he unlocks the door, then there’s a buzz and the sound of the door lock unlatching, and I’m pushing it open into a dark stairwell lit by the huge skylight several floors above. I don’t remember the journey in the elevator to the 10thfloor but suddenly I’m at his door, which he’s left open for me.

The sound of music drifts out from within; Korean, grungy, and lo-fi with a deep male voice groaning out lyrics.

Inside, it’s all wood floors and sleek modern furniture. Muted greys and burnt orange accents which don’t seem entirely him somehow. He’s standing in the middle of the large sitting area with a small nervous smile on his face and it gives me some strength to see it. To know he’s nervous too.

He’s barefoot and wearing jeans that are tight around his thighs and ripped across the knees. A black t-shirt hangs looser over his frame, a few silver necklaces draped around his neck. He looks good. Really fucking good.

“Hey,” I manage to smile a little.

“Hello,” he says, holding my eye a few moments. “I did not know if you would come.”

“I told you I would.”

“Then you always keep your promises?”

“Like maybe…” I make a show of thinking about it. “86% of the time.”