Method(5)

“That’s a mutual decision, one you can’t make on impulse because your friend dies.”

“Fuck,” he slaps the tile next to my head. His eyes fix on the drain between us, and all I see etched all over his beautiful face is pain.

“I love you, but you can’t disappear on me. That’s not how we work.”

“I know.”

“You started it this way,” I remind him.

“I know, baby, I know,” he replies, already a world away.

“You’re putting distance between us now,” I point out.

Accusation dances in his eyes as they snap to mine. “Maybe because I want to think the way I want to, not the way you think I should.”

Swallowing, I take a step back. “That’s why you went quiet on me?”

Guilt mars his features, but his words slice. “Some of it. I don’t need you to police me on what to think or how to feel.”

Armoring up, I try to reason with my anger. “I don’t—” I stop myself mid-sentence because he’s right. I’m twisting his feelings into some sort of quest to make him see what happened was Blake’s choice. It’s all wrong. Still, I’m cut. His words hurt.

“I’m sorry,” I offer with a sigh. “You’re right. Say what you want to say.”

He shakes his head. “I don’t need any more guilt right now.”

“Tough shit, you don’t get to take that back,” I reply with a little bite as I pour soap on a soft loofah and begin to scrub myself. I have no doubt this shower is going to be cut short by one of our tempers, so I do what I can to stop it.

“Be honest with me, or we’ve got nothing.” He stares down at me wordless, and I can see so much of what he’s not saying. He blames himself, and I’ve cornered him into discussing something he’s not ready to talk about. I have to give him the space to sort it out, but I’m not letting it go.

“Maybe we shouldn’t fight,” I murmur. “I don’t know how to help.”

His low whisper twists the knife. “You can’t help. Blake’s dead.”

It’s final. That’s the hardest part for him, maybe for us both. There’s no solution, only finality.





“My dad told me, ‘It takes fifteen years to be an overnight success,’ and it took me seventeen and a half years.”—Adrien Brody





Lucas



“I can’t do this shit anymore,” Blake says, hauling in a bus tray full of dirty glasses. “I’m done after tonight.”

“It could be worse,” I say, wiping the sweat off my chest with a bar towel, “we could be passing out flyers in a chicken suit.”

He frowns. “Who did that?”

“Brad Pitt.” I pull bottles for yet another specialty cocktail. “I read it in an autobiography, I think.”

He glances around the club full of drugged up and flamboyantly dressed men. “That sounds more appealing at the moment. I’ll take the fucking chicken suit.”

“The tips are better here, and you know it,” I say, lining up martini glasses.

He tosses the soiled dishes into the waiting soap-sink beneath the counter and raises a sarcastic brow in my direction. “Tell you what, why don’t you deliver Enrique’s ‘special’ order next time.” The regulars have a hard-on for Blake. He’s the light to my dark with curly blond hair cropped close to his head and deceptive doe eyes.

I shrug with a grin. “Hey, it’s the price you pay for real estate, pretty boy. We have to be close for auditions. You can’t afford to quit.” We’ve already been kicked out of two apartments in the last six months, always short on rent due to skipping work for last-minute auditions. It was how we met. I’d come home blitzed one night and decided to sleep it off outside my sealed front door brandished with an eviction notice. Blake had woken me when he came in from his own party and offered me his couch to crash on. Before that night, we’d been friendly in passing, but the next morning we’d gotten to know each other better through a nasty hangover. He even helped sweet-talk the landlord into letting me get my shit out of my apartment which now consisted of a duffle bag ready to move on a moment’s notice. We had little in common aside from acting aspirations, but even in his state, he was steps ahead of me.

Blake was a child star for fifteen minutes. He’s been typecast and unable to get many acting gigs since. I had yet to get my first real break, only scoring a few commercials with no lines in the last year. We were at the age where we were just young enough to land heartthrob teen or troubled son roles, but those were often passed out to those with a better portfolio. Our looks only gave us so much of an edge. And our headshots were shit. We’d let one of our regulars rip us off for a couple hundred dollars each only to get back underdeveloped photos on sandpaper to pass out to casting directors. Neither of us could afford to do better. We were both living hand-to-mouth and most of the time counted on the hospitality of the girls we bedded to get our next meal. We were literally fucking for food at this point, but just assholes enough to not let commitment deter our singular focus. I’d practically been a virgin when I got to Los Angeles and had spent the last couple of months making up for lost time.

In an act of desperation, Blake and I applied for and got hired to bartend at a dive aptly called Queens just off the strip even though we had no experience and were just on the other side of eighteen. Not that we had to fill out anything other than our jeans to get the job. The nights were long, but the work was easy and the tips we got in exchange for a shirtless few hours of objectification were worth it. Blake was uncomfortable with the attention, as hetero as they come, while I played nicer due to higher tolerance.