Young Writers Society

His best friend, Philip ‘Lip’ Garcia, lived alone, separated from the Hartmans by one floor, 304 to their 404. His apartment was built the same and furnished with much nicer things; a brand-new couch, a flat-screen TV, a wooden kitchen table, and photographic prints hanging on the walls. Rhys paid no attention to any of this as he entered the apartment, immediately shedding his jacket and shirt before taking Lip by the hand and leading him back towards the bedroom.

“Not even a hello?” Lip said, but he was grinning, and captured Rhys in a kiss as they crossed the threshold of the bedroom, unbuttoning the younger man’s pants as he pressed Rhys into the mattress. Rhys flowed through the motions; pants off, kiss neck, moan, boxers off, get it inside you, gasp, moan, kiss neck, moan; spread your legs and tense, clench and unclench, and then the same for your jaw; moan again; say his name; gasp, whimper; moan. It was like a dance he had memorized ages and ages ago, something that seemed to come as natural as breathing, his one purpose in life, his one good use. He tilted his head back and moaned again when Lip bit into the large expanse of throat now available to him. Spread legs, gasp, moan, say his name, moan again, grab his hair, gasp; step and step and back; same soup, just reheated.

When it had all passed by in a dissociated blur, Rhys de-straddled Lip and lay back against the headboard, reaching over and plucking his pants off the floor to dig his cigarettes out of the pocket. He lit one, reclining once again against the headboard as he exhaled smoke.

Lip lit a cigarette of his own as he settled down beside him, staring at the ceiling and exhaling smoke slowly.

“We gonna talk about it?” he asked quietly, not taking his gaze off the ceiling. Rhys examined his cigarette and took another draw, looking undisturbed.

“Talk about what?”

“The fact that I can count your ribs by just lookin’ at ‘em,” Lip replied, smooth and unwavering as he finally glanced over, his honey-golden eyes full of concern. Rhys didn’t meet his gaze, shifting under the attention and taking another draw.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine, you’re dyin’.”

“You’re exaggeratin’,” Rhys replied, and cringed at the way his southern accent was being coaxed out by Lip’s own. “I’m fine.”

He flicked his ashes into the tray on the bedside stand, sticking his hand up under his binder to scratch an itch. Now that he thought about it, he was fucking starving, and with a slight hint of pride, he found he couldn’t even remember the last time he had ate. He sat up to finish his cigarette, figuring that he would get dressed and pay at least one of his brothers a visit.

“You wanna get Two Wolves with me?” he asked as he pulled his shirt on over his head. He felt the weight of the bed shift as Lip sat up, then stood. There was the sound of clothes rustling - Lip getting dressed - behind him for what felt like forever before the other finally answered.

“Sure.”

They finished getting dressed and walked together out of the apartments, climbing into Lip’s old red Ford Ranger, where they both lit fresh cigarettes and Lip backed smoothly out of the parking spot, guiding the car out of the apartment complex’s parking lot.

The ride to Two Wolves was soundtracked by a tangible, semi-comfortable silence. Rhys watched houses and shopfronts go by, the buildings becoming more and more spaced out the farther they got away from the heart of downtown. The cracks in the concrete grew fewer and fewer just as the sidewalks themselves grew more even, the bricks of these buildings bright cherry red and unblemished, proper painted shutters; he could even see elegant, oversized Christmas trees peeking through the curtains of the impressively, just as oversized houses they began to pass as they took the backroads through one of the nicer neighborhoods. Rhys had once thought they’d escaped poverty by moving out of the mountains. He learned, rather quickly, that they had only gone from poor hillbillies to poor city slickers, and that either way, they were poor all the same; trailers replaced by crammed up apartments, diner shifts replacing what should have been a career in coal mining, or at least would have been, at some point in the past, before the economy collapse; the heroin and meth were just as rampant, the healthcare just as shitty; same soup, just reheated.

He leaned back, half against the door and half against the seat, putting his feet up on the dashboard and admiring his boots for a moment before fiddling with the radio. Sweet Home Alabama came on, and he leaned his head back, watching winter shrug off its coat and settle into Birdsboro as if coming home after a long trip abroad. They pulled into Two Wolves just as it got to his favorite part.

“Bar or booth?” Lip asked as they stepped inside. It was retro-fitted with the same outfit as every other aspiring fifties diner, a lot of red and black and neon, padded booths, milkshakes, jukebox, the whole shebang. Shitty wolf art hung on the walls and the floor was carpeted, but aside from that, it was a typical mom-and-pop shop.

“Bar’s fine,” Rhys muttered, taking a seat at the counter, a couple of bolted-down, oscillating stools away from a very burly looking man wearing a Make America Great Again hat. They purposely avoided each other’s eyes, and Rhys picked up a menu to pretend to look over.

“How was therapy?”

Ethan appeared out of nowhere, nodding ‘hi’ to Lip as he set down two mugs of coffee (Two Wolves served nothing else). Rhys didn’t have to look up to know how his brother was dressed; same bright yellow Two Wolves t-shirt, same paint-stained jeans, same towel thrown over his shoulder; same disheveled hair, same too-wide, puppy-dog eyes and yellowed smile; same look of concern he always had when it came to Rhys. Rhys leaned back, pulled seven packs of sugar from the caddy on the counter, and began to methodically add them to his coffee without looking at his older brother.

“It was fine.”

“The usual?” Ethan asked Lip, who nodded before the elder Hartman turned to his younger brother again. “Just fine?”

“Fine as in fine, E.” Rhys fiddled with the menu. “Can I have corn dog bites?”

“Sick of hashbrowns for once?” Ethan arched an eyebrow, but turned to drop the corn dog bites into the fryer anyway. Rhys began to pick at the wounds on his hands again.

“Stop,” Ethan said and Rhys immediately obeyed; another one of the games they played.

“You make another appointment, then?” Ethan asked, leaning with his knuckles against the counter. Rhys nodded, taking a drink of his coffee.

“You’re in therapy again?” Lip asked, and Rhys nodded again. Ethan turned to flip something on the grill, and Rhys, quick out of habit, retrieved a flask from the inside of his jacket and poured a bit of the contents into his coffee. He had the flask replaced and was taking a drink by the time Ethan faced him again. Lip, having watched the whole affair, said nothing, looking disappointed but not surprised as he took a drink out of his own mug.

“Guess you need it,” he said, leveling his gaze at Rhys. Rhys took another drink of coffee in response, glancing down the counter as a Black woman with electric blue dreads sauntered towards them, wearing the standard Two Wolves uniform along with a waitressing apron. Her teeth were straight and white, her face thin and her jaw square, shoulders broad; her nose scrunched up when she smiled, which is exactly what she did as she collected the check from a nearby table. Rhys watched her for a moment; he glanced at his brother and found him doing the same, a much more interested glint in his eye, his gaze travelling the length of the waitress’ body. Rhys made a vomiting noise in his head and reminded his brother about the corn dog bites. Ethan obediently turned away to pull up the fry basket, sliding a plate full of the corn dog bites in front of Rhys a moment later before excusing himself to the back with the excuse of doing the dishes, following the dread-headed waitress through the swing door. Rhys took another large gulp of coffee, shifting under Lip’s hard stare.

“You’re staring.”

“What’s in that flask?” Lip asked in a low voice. 

Rhys rolled his eyes and took a drink of his coffee.

“Just a pick me up.”

“I thought you quit drinking?”

“August was quite a month,” Rhys nodded, recalling in his mind’s eye the alcohol poisoning he had endured two months before; just another attempt, another failed act of self-elimination dubbed an ‘accident’. “But it turned out fine.”

“You almost died.” Lip’s eyes flickered away. “Again.”

“You don’t have to bring up last year,” Rhys reminded him, taking another resolute gulp of hot coffee. “Forget about it.”

“Quit acting like it doesn’t matter.”

Rhys swallowed his response, staring down into his coffee as he carefully bit a corn dog bite in half. He was very quiet when he spoke, “can we please drop it?”

As if to save him - as always - Ethan appeared again, done with the dishes, evident by the lingering suds clinging to his arm hair. He grabbed a towel off the counter and swiped the suds away, parking his gum in his right cheek as he leaned once again against the counter, knuckles against the cherry red surface. Lip took a bite of his eggs, swallowed forcefully, then washed it down with some coffee before nodding his head at the elder Hartman.

“How’s Jay doing?”

They both ignored the way Rhys looked away, visibly stiffening, picking at his hands again. Ethan shifted from foot to foot and shrugged a bit.

“Same as always.”“Sentencing coming up soon, yeah?”

Ethan nodded jerkily, and Rhys shoved his hands in his jacket pockets before standing. “I’m gonna go smoke.”He put his hood up and disappeared through the diner’s door, visible through the large windows as he hunkered against the wind and lit a cigarette. Ethan and Lip watched him for several long moments.

“He’s getting worse,” Lip said. Ethan was quiet for a minute.

“Hopefully the therapy will help.”

“Has he even talked to Jason since - ?”

Ethan shook his head. “Not a phone call or even a letter. I give him all the ones Jay sends him - I don’t know if he reads them or not.”

He stared down at the table, scrubbing it with a towel idly as he spoke. Lip nodded, examining his hands for a moment, unsure what to say. Ethan glanced up again.

“Where’d he go?”

Lip’s head snapped up to stare at the now empty spot where Rhys had been standing just a second ago. “Shit.”

He made to stand, grabbing his car keys out of his pocket, but Ethan just shook his head.

“Don’t bother. He’s probably hopped a bus by now.”

They both knew Rhys was just that quick.