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19. Phoenix

Phoenix

Spit It Out

E li is smoking out on the balcony.

It’s not the Arctic like in other parts of the country, but it’s still chilly for Los Angeles in December. Low 60s at least. He shouldn’t be smoking, not with his stomach all jacked up. Even as I think about it, I take a pull on my vape and look down at the text I sent Jorge a few minutes ago.

I fucked him.

My phone buzzes with his incoming text.

And how do you feel?

Why did you give him my address?

Avoiding the question isn’t going to help.

And because he was in a rough spot. Apparently, his aunt won’t leave his house. She’s an alcoholic.

He told Jorge that?

I glare at the back of Eli’s head as he stares blankly. We kissed until we physically couldn’t anymore, then we cuddled and napped for a few hours. We showered after that, then I sucked him off in the shower because I needed to taste him. I’m reeling over the fact he told Jorge but not me. Why won’t he talk to me?

I don’t know if I was supposed to not tell you that, but oh well. I knew you wouldn’t turn him away.

Isn’t this the exact thing you told me not to do after we broke up?

Shrug emoji

Unhelpful. Truly.

So, how do you feel now that you’ve touched each other’s buttholes?

We didn’t “touch each other’s buttholes” dickhead.

Welllllllll

I pinch the bridge of my nose and puff my vape.

Fine. I feel…weird.

Define weird.

It felt like before.

Isn’t that a good thing?

I don’t know.

Eli stubs out his cigarette but doesn’t come in. He simply stands there.

From my position at the table, I can see his jaw clenching. I wonder if he’s itching for his drugs yet. A large part of me thinks he'll use if he gets a chance to. Maybe I should keep him here until Kelly gets back, and then we can stay at a hotel or something. I would ask my mom if we can stay there, but I think my dad will have a stroke.

But this does feel weird.

The way we fucked earlier was exactly like we used to. I’d somehow fallen back into being a sub for him. Eli isn’t a big guy; he’s never been. Even when we were together, and he weighed twenty pounds more than he does now, he’s 5’8, and I’m 6’4. I have this weird stigma that nags at me that because I’ve been bigger than all my sexual partners, that makes me automatically the top. I guess I didn’t have a huge interest in bottoming until Eli. He’s got this way about him that makes me want to get on my knees or put my ass in the air.

Like he doesn’t care that I could overpower him, maybe he thinks I won’t.

I certainly tried earlier when I was pissed. I'm still upset over what he said and that he wouldn’t cough up why he’s ashamed. I can take a guess or three, but it’s not my place or right to try and tell someone how they feel. I’ll never know. I won’t push that shit on anyone. But I sure as shit projected how I was feeling onto him.

I wanted him just as desperate as I have felt this whole time. Towards the end, I nearly lost sight of it all. I broke. I gave in to my love and need for him. But ultimately, I wanted him to know that even though we were jumping back on this fucked up merry-go-round, it doesn’t end with happily ever after.

It can’t, no matter how badly I want it to.

Yes, you do. You just don’t want to tell me.

Maybe I’m afraid of the answer.

Talk to him, then. If you start yapping about all your issues, it might encourage him to do the same. Mutual trauma bonding sesh.

I don’t have issues.

Pinocchio emoji

Fuck off.

Love you too, bebe. Oh no…the service

you’re…breaking

signal error

I can’t help but roll my eyes and laugh at my best friend’s shenanigans.

He’s got a point, though. I’ve expected Eli to tell me his deep, dark secrets without ever revealing my own. I’ve told him about Oliver, but that’s fairly common knowledge. It’s not difficult to put it all together as to why I don’t like addicts. And honestly, it’s not even that. Not a dislike, per se. I simply don’t understand them. And maybe I’m taking the selfish high road here. Sometimes, things weren’t always good for me, and I didn’t turn to drugs. I also was raised in a home that didn’t do them.

Hell, my parents only ever drink wine , and that’s during holidays.

Eli shivers outside, burrowing into his hoodie. Sighing heavily, I get up and go out there. I slide the glass shut, step behind him, and curl my arms around his middle. He immediately sags into me, resting his head on my collarbone.

We stay like this for a while, watching cars go up and down the street. It’s about 6 pm so people are coming home from work. A daydream comes into my mind, one I used to have. I’d be working somewhere, satisfied and eager to get home because someone I loved would already be there—waiting for me.

Eli is that person. I always pictured him.

“If you had the opportunity,” I start, “and nothing was stopping you. Would you pick another life?”

“Yes,” he answers immediately.

“What would you do?”

“I’d have parents.”

My stomach knots. I don’t want him to clam up, but I also want to encourage his fantasy. “What would they be like?”

“My mom would take me to dance classes and buy me tights. My dad…well, he’d teach me how to treat people. Show me how to change a tire. Mom would love ballet as much as I do. She’d be one of those dance moms that gives a shit, ready to throw hands if someone so much as side-eyed me. Dad, well, he wouldn’t understand it all, but he’d support me. He’d come to recitals and take pictures of me with my trophies.”

I squeeze him tighter. I didn’t know he ever wanted to dance. “Where would you live?”

“Somewhere with trees. Maybe even a lake nearby because my dad would fish. He’d wear those ugly hats and vests you can attach tackle on for easy use.” He snorts. “He’d be a hunter too. Protective over me and Mom.” His hands curl over my arm as he sighs. “And we’d go to summer cookouts. Mom would be a baker. She’d teach me, too, so I could bring good stuff to the starving dancers, but I wouldn’t have to worry about my figure.”

“What about your house? Is it big or small?”

“Medium,” he says without missing a beat. Like he’s thought about this in great detail before—wished for it. My eyes water while I listen to him describe everything he should have had. “A modest three-bedroom because Mom would want a spare room for crafts. She’d like pretty things and making them. There’d be a tire swing in the backyard that wasn’t safe, but we’d all use it anyway. And the garage would be Dad’s domain. All his fishing stuff, a boat, and his mid-life crisis car would be in there. He also has a pool table he only uses when his buddies from work come over.”

The tears drop down my cheeks as I nuzzle the side of his head. His fingers squeeze my arm tighter.

“And I’d meet you, somehow,” he whispers. “At that point, I’d be a dance instructor with my own studio. You’d be walking a dog outside of it.”

A watery laugh escapes me. “I’m a cat dad.”

“But you’d have a dog too. A Great Dane. Those cool two-toned ones.”

“Merle,” I smile, “they’re called Merle.”

“Yes. That. And I’d see you walking your big dog, and we’d make eye contact. And we’d know.” He spins in my arms, lashes fluttering through tears I didn’t know he was shedding. “We’d just know.” Rising on his tiptoes, he kisses me deeply, throwing his arms around my neck.

I wish I could give him that alternate life.

If I had the power, I’d go back in time and make sure he was born to people who could handle the crushing weight of living. People who knew the risks of drugs and the ripples that’d never stop once they started. Salty tears coat our lips, showing me through action just how badly he wants something different.

Maybe Jorge was right.

Maybe last year was Eli being terrified.

He was terrified that he’d end up like them.

“ H i, baby,” my mom chirps as she answers.

I made an excuse to leave the apartment, so I’m hovering near the dumpster I just tossed the trash bag into. “Hi,” I say and swallow hard. “Mom, I have to tell you something.”

“Okay,” she says slowly.

“I caused the car accident.”

She’s quiet, and I don’t know what she’s thinking because I can't see her face. My guts twist and turn. “Mom?”

“What do you mean you caused the accident? I thought Elijah was driving.”

“Well,” I kick a rock, “yeah, he was. But—”

“Then you didn’t do it.”

My eyes shut tight as I tip my head back. That’s what the cops were told. That’s what the stupid fan who happened to see it all recorded. Eli crashed into the stop sign at fifty miles per hour—in a residential area. “I’m seeing him again,” I tell her instead of what I want to say.

She sucks in a breath. “Phoenix…I…well, quite frankly, I don’t know what to say.”

“Me either.” I blow out my lips and scrub my face. “I love him.”

“I know you do. You lost your apartment because you love him. You nearly quit your band because you couldn’t get out of bed—because you love him. Honey, this isn’t good. And after everything you told me a few weeks ago…”

“I’m well aware this isn’t good , but I can’t leave him.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

“It’s like you and Dad. No matter what he does, you still love him and stay.”

“Your father has never done anything even remotely close to what Elijah has.”

“He calls gay people fags and pedophiles.”

She’s quiet.

“ I’m gay, Mom. But you love him anyway.”

“Baby, he’s never called you a…fag,” she whispers the last word.

“No. Not directly, but he’s come close. And I wouldn’t put it past him to have said something to Eli at Veronica’s wedding.”

“Phoenix, what is this really about? If you’re looking for a blessing on this relationship, I don’t know if I can give one. I was hoping you’d be able to understand your brother better because of this experience, not become a couple again.”

We aren’t a couple…at least not officially. We had sex. That’s not the same thing. But I don’t bother telling her that. She’s dismissing me because I’m complaining. I’m not the child that complains. I stay silent, rock-like, until something horrible happens and people notice me.

So, I swallow the lump in my throat and say, “He’s not Oliver.”

“Of course not. I’m sorry this seems like tough love, baby, but you two were unhealthy. What happened after was not healthy. I don’t want you hurting.”

Like you’d know if I was…

“What?” she asks, voice higher.

Fuck. Did I say that out loud? “Sorry,” I grumble, inwardly cursing myself and kicking the dumpster.

“If I did something wrong, you need to tell me.”

My eye twitches while I zone out on the asphalt. “No. It’s fine. I’m just tired.”

“Do you feel ignored?”

“No,” I growl and then pinch my lips shut with my fingers.

“Phoenix Sawyer, do not lie to me.”

Damn it. Damn it. Shit dick. “What did you say?” I ask dramatically.

“Do not lie. Tell me the truth.”

“I can’t hear you. You’re breaking up.”

She repeats herself, flustered with me, and I yell into the receiver, “Shitty service. I’ll call you tomorrow. Love you.” I hang up, fist my phone, and take a deep breath.

Do I feel ignored? Yeah. Yes, I do.

Everyone else comes first. I’m fucking used to it. She didn’t need to ask me that. All I wanted from this was to tell someone the truth about what happened last year. I may be searching for reasons to justify my wishy-washy attitude over this situation with Eli. Maybe if I can get it out of me, this secret I harbor, then I’ll feel better about diving into the deep end when I’m not sure that I won’t drown in it.

I’m upset with my mom.

She’s usually more supportive, especially if I come to her with things. Maybe I shouldn’t have told her about the tour. She could be on some maternal protective kick, too. She could be trying to protect me more now that I’m older and clearly struggling, whereas when I was a kid, I fled to the shadows like a vampire. I groan loudly, leaving the dumpster and walking back to the apartment.

People make crazy decisions all the time. I usually don’t, but that doesn’t mean I’m somehow barred from doing it too. Part of me wants to call her back and tell her that she doesn’t get to decide to be an authority figure now. I’m not asking for her blessing. Oddly enough, I’m surprised Jorge isn’t the one criticizing me for everything. My best friend has seen it all with me, been through the trenches of my breakup beside me. I think he cried almost as much as I did initially because he’s a sympathy crier and didn’t know how to help.

I’m taking it as a green light.

Jorge gave Eli my address deliberately. He probably knows something I don’t, which is fine because I intend to figure it out for myself. It’d be stupid not to take advantage of Eli being with me and sober. Maybe…I can help him. Finally, I can get him to see that he’s better than shitty pills and being so closed off—that he’s better when we’re together.

That’s what I’m sticking with anyway.

I climb the stairs with something like ambition swirling inside me. Pushing through the front door, I see the living room is empty. Frowning, I go to my room and find Eli curled in a ball, sweating and shivering. He’s got a pot by his head with some foamy bile already in it. What had the doctor said he’d been taking again? Vicodin?

Perching behind him on the bed, I run a hand down his bare back while he moans weakly. “What can I do?” I ask.

“I need my medicine,” he croaks.

“The stomach stuff? Is it in your suitcase?”

His eyes pinch shut, arm weakly tugging the pot closer. “I’ll just throw it up.”

I chew my lip, mind racing through what knowledge I know about withdrawals. With Oliver, he had to go to a facility where they gave him these alternative drugs and slowly weaned him off. Eli hasn’t had anything in two days. Did the hospital not give him resources? I’m sure they must have. This shit can be lethal depending on the severity of your addiction and how often you use whatever drug. He moans again and whimpers, toes flexing like they’re cramping.

“Let me call someone,” I tell him, brushing his hair from the back of his neck.

“No,” he grumbles.

“It’s dangerous to do it this way. Like…really dangerous.” I swallow hard.

“I said no, Phoenix. Either get me my medicine or shut the fuck up.” There’s no heat to his words. In fact, he’s almost exhausted. It's like he can’t be bothered to mean what he’s saying.

I should call someone, at the very least, a drug hotline or whatever. Taking out my phone, I quickly search for just that, but he smacks my hand. “You need help. I’m not a doctor,” I tell him and pick up my phone again.

“Goddammit!” he yells, this time full of heat. His head shoots up, eyes wild and wet. Through chattering teeth, he says, “I’ve done this before. Many times. I’ll puke, my body will hurt everywhere, I’ll be bitchy and mean.” He takes a breath, cheeks visibly green. “I’ll probably shit a lot, too. It’s not like heroin. And I don’t take the stuff enough for it to kill me. Just…let me be miserable, okay?”

“You shouldn’t be vomiting with an ulcer.”

He laughs bitterly. “This isn’t even my first one, I’m sure. It’ll get better.”

Fuck he’s stubborn. “Fine. What can I do, then? Other than ‘get your medicine.’”

Flopping back on his side, he moans before barely getting his chin over the lip of the pot to heave. Nothing comes out, thankfully. “Give me the Zofran.”

“That, I can do.”

I haven’t slept in two days.

It’s not that I try to compare every little thing Eli does to my younger brother, but I do it regardless. I didn’t witness the ugly parts with Oli because he was always in some facility whenever he decided to get clean for a few months. That’s not the case with Eli. During the day, he’s restless and sick. He catnaps when it all gets to be too much. He’s wide awake at night, hungry, and bags under his eyes.

I wasn’t going to pass out and leave him to his own devices.

Last night, I almost did and caught him trying to sneak out at 1 am. We argued, and he threw one of Kelly’s sandals at my head. Then, I wrestled him to the ground until he gave up his fight. Currently, I’m nursing a cup of coffee while he showers. A few times, he’s tried to get me to have sex. It feels wrong now that I know how much he’s struggling, so I’ve been saint-like and refused him.

That part hasn’t been as easy as I’d hoped because, apparently, my cock is the devil.

From my research, the worst of his physical withdrawals should be over with for the most part, so I want to get him out of the apartment for some fresh air. I could use it, too.

It says online that he might go into a depressive state of mind. He could even become suicidal, depending on his brain chemistry. I’m scared shitless that will happen. Kelly is coming home on Sunday. It’s Thursday, now. I’ve debated asking her if he can stay with us until I can get him to cough up whatever is happening with his aunt and house. On paper, it seems like a good idea, but I know Kelly isn’t going to want to deal with our drama.

All in all, I don’t want Eli alone.

He’ll relapse, and all of this will be for nothing. That’s how it always happens with Oliver, too. With all these ambitions, he’d leave rehab clean as a whistle. He’d stay at my parents' house and help around the house. He'd discover old interests and hobbies and show immense progress for a few weeks. And then, one day, his cravings would get too much—whatever demons he struggled with would gain the upper hand, and then he’d leave. No one hears from him for a few weeks until he begs for cash.

It’s a vicious cycle.

He still hasn’t called or texted me, either.

It’s probably too late for Oli and me, but my sad heart still hopes it isn’t for Eli. I’ll never admit it out loud, but taking care of him these past few days has shown me that I never stopped caring—never stopped loving. Having him rely on me makes me feel like a superhero. Like I’m the most important person in his life. And damn, if that doesn’t do all kinds of shit to me. I’m not the most important person to anyone except maybe Jorge.

I groan internally when Eli emerges from the shower, dressed in a pair of low-slung skinny jeans and a long-sleeved black shirt. His shoulder-length hair is damp; that cute curl resurfaces because he brushed it. The complexion is returning in his face, and he looks less sunken. I’ve been feeding him well.

I eye-fuck him with zero shame. That taste of what once was three days ago has my dick saluting him.

“Sure you want to go out today? Looks like you want to spend it with your cock down my throat.” His snark is not lost on me, but I can tell he’s serious. He’d totally suck my dick for the entire day.

I groan and rub my face. “We’re still going.”

“To the fucking zoo. In December.” He rolls his eyes and nibbles his lip rings.

I never thought I’d be so into snakebites, but they hug Eli’s bottom lip deliciously.

Fuck.

Maybe I should jerk it before we go. I rise from the couch, adjust myself, and cross the space. His eyes flash, possibly wondering if I’ll reconsider because damn if I’m not eating him alive mentally. Even all fucked up and going through withdrawals, I wanted him. It’s been a nightmare to keep my hands off him.

Instead of throwing him over my shoulder and sitting on his cock, I grab his chin and kiss him. It’s been days, alright? His hands fly to my hips, tugging me flush with him. “Come on, baby. Let me suck you,” he rasps, flicking his tongue over my top lip.

I thrust almost instantly, then shake myself mentally. “Nope. Just a kiss.”

He sucks my tongue into his mouth, and my eyes roll. The sneaky fucker is trying to work his magic. I grab the back of his neck, palm his ass, and hump like a teenager. It’s sad how much I want him. Satisfied that he’s riling me up, he grins against my lips and slips his hand down the back of my pants. His finger swipes down my crack, and I rub my dick against his.

“Bet you’ll come like this,” he says and latches onto my neck.

“Asshole.”

He bites me, and my eyes cross.

As hot as he gets me, I see the writing on the wall…even if he doesn’t. My body will always crave him. It will always respond. That’s just the science that goes into the makeup of what we have. But I wasn’t lying a few days ago. I want more. And more means taking him to the fucking zoo for some fresh air and normalcy. I tell my dick to get over it, that if all goes smoothly, we can pick this up later and ease myself off him.

Eli tries to kiss me, but I tighten my grip on his neck. “Zoo.”

“Fucking tease.” He thumps his head against my chin, and I chuckle.

“It’ll be good for you. See some of your distant cousins,” I tease and press a lingering kiss to his forehead.

The scowl on his face transfers through my lips. “Whatever,” he grumbles but curls himself around me.

I hold him for long seconds, savoring it. This all seems too easy if I’m being honest—the sex, the new sobriety, him here. I don’t want to get my hopes up too high. There is a very real possibility that what’s happening now might vanish tomorrow. Like it never happened.

That old wound pulses in my chest, but I ignore it for the moment. I’m…going to try even if I don’t know what all that will entail or ask of me.

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