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It’s the 3rd of December and I’m walking through the cold Manhattan air with Timothy Price after work. I’m wearing a 2 piece Valentino charcoal black suit with a Versace winter coat from the newest season, dress shirt and slacks from Armani, loafers from A. Testoni and Price is wearing a 3 piece dove grey suit, linen dress shirt, silk tie stained a deep black all from Versace. His shoes (A. Testoni, obviously) looks unpolished which appears so cheap to me that I feel a visceral urge to comment on it but I resisted. The switchblade that is tucked in my suit pocket digs in my fist and if Price continues to keep on this sour mood of his, I almost want to consider to slit his throat right here in the streets and lap up the blood that will surely seep from the cut, maybe making a few more stabs into his abdomen and sticking my hands into his guts while listening to his probable yells and screams and the image is almost so tantalising to me that my face feels hot so I make a show of wiping my face with my palm to feign that the weather is making me this way. Today’s Patty Winters show is about married closeted homosexuals.
Price seemed very edgy tonight, barely lacing our conversation with grating remarks with the intent to offend minorities and instead deciding to busy himself by plugging his ears with his walkman that he bought with me the other week while shopping for gifts for the rigged parcel event Evelyn had scheduled on the 15th. The loud music of Vivaldi is sound I am almost sure if Craig McDermott was here, the prick would have turned Price’s walkman off and blame it on me. He does, however, manage a whistle at a hardbody passing by, great tits with an okay ass, does have one of the best shade of blonde, an almost golden shine to it reminding me of that chick I’ve invited to my apartment the other night. I’m still a little aggravated having to take extra steps to dump her body in another dumping ground a little further than my apartment because the usual one I go to, at the back of this cheap love hotel, had to undergo some investigation due to complains from the ‘rotting’ smell from my other kills.
His hand is shaking, almost erratic and I could only wonder what’s going on in Timothy Price’s head, probably something alike to mine, I hope. I offer him the courtesy of getting us a cab and he only managed a curt nod but that has so far been the only effective communication we have done this evening. I waved us a cab and we get in and I tell the driver to take us to a bar downtown, Tim’s usual favourite place. He, of course, doesn’t even have the decency for a thanks but I have never expected that anyway. We sat silently in the cab ride when his hand lands somewhere on the flesh of my thigh and our eyes actually met for the first time today and I get to fully take in the extent, now in this forced proximity, of his light coloured eyes and the different shades and hues of his iris, the blonde eyelashes peaking ontop of his eyelets and he looks almost handsome in this light and I realised the nature of my intense gaze before shaking my head and jolting away. Price doesn’t seem bothered about this and doesn’t react when his hand is pushed off and I’m stuck wondering if he had planned this another way or if this is some bad joke.
“Cigars?” Price asks and he’s tapping my coat pocket. I check my face and it’s still unfortunately hot and I could only hope that he does not see the hue reddening my face in the low light of the shitty cab ride. I frown but fetch my box of cigars and offer one to him and he thanklessly took it, not lighting up yet and only having it wedged between his fingers and I expect he will ask me for a lighter too. He does not however and just slots it in his pocket.
“You are.. very moody today,” I offer a lighthearted comment and while I expected a glare and maybe a snappy attitude, Timothy only responds a light grimace before collapsing his head, bearing his weight onto my shoulder and I nearly jostle in fear he will wrinkle as it is from the latest season. His eyes are shut and I’m wondering if he is sleeping but the light breath he is taking, his chest heaving slowly comfirms to me that he is still unfortunately alive and human.
“Bateman?” Price.
“Yes, Tim?” Me.
“What’s the rules for pocket squares?” Price and there’s an almost comedic pause like an audience laughter was expected to sound.
“Well..” I trail off, sweat suddenly collecting on my forehead. Suddenly all my fashion knowledge or lack thereof dissapears in an instant but I always made sure to look so confident that it appears that I infact do know about it. “For one, you should always use a secondary colour. Something that doesn’t match your tie or suit but instead compliment it.”
“And if it’s matching your socks?”
“That should be fine but the colours of your socks are a different topic.”
“Right,” Price says, almost dismissively despite asking the question and the weight of his head is bearing down on my shoulders but I have started to grow accustomed to the feeling and there’s a lingering feeling of pleasure to it. His eyes are now open again and he looks almost boyish. We are quiet for the rest of the ride.
We get off the cab and the driver had been thankfully silent so I decide to leave him a generous tip to flex to Tim my unfathomable income and the goodness of my heart or atleast the imagery of kindness that I display. We get into the bar and is immediately greeted with blinding neon LED lights, different colours ranging from green, blue but most noticeably red, some pop music is playing and I’m a little embarrased I do not recognise the band but I’m a tad surprised there aren’t too many patrons here which would explain the easy entrance. Price is now in a better mood, more like his usual self and we find ourselves a free table. Tim has draped his Versace coat over his chair before going to get us drinks and I yell at him to get me a J&B. I busy myself with playing with the napkins at our table and I took notice on how the table is clearly meant for 4 people and I guess that both Price and I had been so accustomed to the companies of others that we instinctively took a table meant for all four of us. Van Patten informed me last week he was going to his other house, somewhere at Arizona with McDermott to play golfs and I wanted to ask on why the fuck would he not invite his other two friends but perhaps it’s some kind of guy thing that only they have. McDermott says I have the same thing with Price but from what I recall, I have never been in his apartment before and so has he in mine so that comparison is far-fetched.
Tim comes back with a Finlandia and then hands me my drink to which I, unlike him, thanks him for it. He sits across me which isn’t our usual seating position during our outings with others as we have preferred to sit next to each other or atleast have this silent agreement to do so.
We aren’t really that close.
Price is too busy looking around to properly face me and while this would be very a huge turn off in a normal date, this doesn’t affect me because we aren’t on a date. He does however finally look into me again. “When do you think the guys’ll be back?” He asks me absentmindedly. I blink and watch with a rapt attention the way his lips close around his glass and the bob of his adam’s apple and I almost want to reach out and bite it to feel the spray of blood, his blood and staining my unfortunate too nice suit. “Van Patten says maybe by the weekends, they’ll turn up.”
“What do you think those two are doing?” Price murmurs, resting his head on his palm.
“Golfing,” I say dumbly.
I hear Tim scoff, rolling his eyes before his eyes drift away from me. “Are those two faggots?” I look to follow his gaze to see nobody before he snaps, his hands flicking off infront of my face “No, you moron. I meant the guys.”
“They have some sort of.. guy thing going on. It’s like us.” I say shrugging.
“We don’t have a ‘guy’ thing, Bateman.” Price groans and he leans back to his chair “Don’t tell me you actually believe Craig. He’s a total jackass,” And for once I’m silent because I infact do agree with him. A thought was at the back of my head but I don’t entertain it.
“You think they’re running off?”
“To where?”
“Not where—“ Price waves his hand off “From us, I mean,” He says and I’m a little stumped. He’s usually not this confusing. My mouth opens before closing back like a fish out of water because what can I say? “I.. think we’re cool.”
“Oh my god, Bateman. You’re really pissing me off here.” He gritted his teeth and I’m suddenly a little nervous and an apology is sitting at the back of my throat. Sorry for what though I’m unsure but Tim seems to be getting more testy by the second. “Look at you. At us.”
I check myself at the mirror at the corner of the bar before fixing my tie and running my hands through my hair “Is the gel too much?” I ask and this seems to be an okay answer to his irritation because he just shook his head and now stills into silence. We are now both just staring at each other and I feel as if my sense of time is missing and everything is fake and the Timothy sitting across me right now is some sort of amalgamation of my past memories mingling into creating something— anything and I’m suddenly so lost I nearly spill my J&B.
We split the check, paying with our American Express and walked on the streets and Price is still silent, presumably pissed at me for what reason it’s unclear. I notice that he seemed more messy now as the evening progresses, there are wrinkles he had caused on his once pristine clothing and his tie is loose around his neck and a part of me wants to fix it for him, wrap my fingers around the silk fabric and pull. I don’t know how long we have been walking when I’m suddenly stopped by Tim’s hand infront of me forcing to turn my head to him. His hand’s at his pocket before taking out the same cigar that he had took from me during the cab ride. I question why doesn’t he just ask me for the cigar this time instead moment ago but he has already been so vexing to me that if I question his actions anymore, I might actually go through and kill him right here.
“You got a light?” He asks and his eyebrows are furrowed into a scowl and I would want to deny him it just as punishment for being such morose bastard this evening but I know he’ll get pissy so I hand him the lighter anyway and I decide to smoke aswell, taking another cigar from my box before shoving it back into my coat. I test the light, flicking it once and then twice and I grimace with the looming realisation that I do not have enough light for both of our cigars and now I’m stuck between relenting to Tim and lighting his cigar or being realistic for once today and lighting mine. Tim senses my conflict “Give me that,” He says snatching the lighter from me and I do not resist.
“Get closer. I don’t bite,” He says and I think that’s an attempt of a joke though I do not laugh at it. I step closer to him until we are inches away then am I properly able to assess our height difference, his neck craning slightly to meet mine with a cigar now on his lips. I have mine on my lips aswell. I could feel his free hand splaying his palm across my lower back to push us closer whether that’ll be for the benefit of mine or whatever fucked up thing is going on in his head to initiate this. He held the lighter and lit it, the fire glowing making for an orange wist consuming the cold air and our face is so close I can’t concentrate on my cigar also being lit along with his. Our noses almost bumps against each other and I can’t help but stop breathing as I’m far too concentrating counting on each individual strand of his blonde eyelashes, the way his hand is still on my back and how unbelievably faggy this entire thing is. It is something resembling a kiss. After what seems like forever, he pulls away and the hand that was on my back is gone and I bit my lip at the way I almost yearn for it again. I think I’m going crazy and all the blood that is swimming in my head is rushing straight south and I’m awfully erect, my cock straining against my black slacks and I thank that we have spent so much time together that it is dark so he does not see or maybe just chooses to ignore my unintentional arousal.
I’m taking long and deep breaths, air almost wheezing out of my lungs but it could be assumed as just from the cigar even though we both know that isn’t the case. I think my face is sweating and my face is hot. Price for one seems calm almost serene and now the image that he is nothing but just what I remember of him resurfaces and I do not know what is real and what is fake. I’m looking at him and he looks to the cars passing by, sounds of honking and the usual camaraderie that completes mine, his and our life.