23 Armand Lets the Side Down

July 22nd - Twenty-four days until the convention

"All right." I threw up the slide I'd made of several pages side by side: a classic Kirby dynamic spread, a Satrapi progression, a Tezuka action sequence. "You lot can see this, aye?"

There was a general murmur of assent from the class.

"You see the movement? It's not always about fancy panels, action lines, and all that. Look at the breaths here, the negative space. The bits you show, the framing, the perspective, they're important, aye? But it's also the bits you skip, where you linger— Er, yes?"

I should have known all their names by now, but the girl with her hand in the air was unfortunately known to me only as "the one with blue glasses and afro puffs who needed to work on her word-to-picture ratio."

She beamed at me. "Like pages twenty-two and twenty-three in Issue Two?"

I tried not to visibly cringe, but I did audibly gulp. The only thing worse than people reading or discussing my current work was people reading or discussing my past work. The spread she was referring to depicted a truly loony sequence, involving a drop of water and a moth, that, to be fair, I'd drawn while coked out of my mind four years ago.

She had a point, however.

"Oh, aye, right." I tried to smile at her. "Exactly. It's about the choices you make. You get to ... to curate. To make good choices. Encapsulation, see?" I switched the slide to a page from Keum Suk Gendry-Kim's Grass.

There was another murmur of understanding that made its way through the classroom. People made notes or nodded, as if what I'd said had made perfect sense to them.

"Young artists tend to throw all their energy into characters and micro-expressions," I heard myself continue to ramble against all odds, "becoming slaves to the close-up and allowing the rest of the world to hang off them like scenery, but—but it's always struck me as a flawed approach, you know? I want you lot to at least have the tools you might need to create story-scaffolding through form decisions—a stage for your characters to perform on that's more than just a bland vehicle for content. Is that so wrong?"

The students stared at me wide-eyed, almost somber. After a moment, one of them said, "No, we get it." And the others nodded along as if I'd just given them a rousing speech outside the gates of Syracuse.

This was never going to stop being bizarre.

But it had got a bit ... fun.

My rapport with the classroom had been improving steadily, to the point where I no longer vomited before class. However, they still left me drained at the end of every evening; I felt I'd come off eight hours of manual labor rather than two hours of talking.

The students, strangely enough, seemed to be enjoying themselves. More strangely, their work was improving. Some were hopeless, aye, but a few seemed to be picking up what I was trying to teach them and applying it to their artwork. Nearly everyone's pacing had gotten better.

Even Finch had refined his odd vampire romance cartoon. Though he'd seemed rather distracted lately.

"Hey, Armand." He approached me awkwardly after class, worrying his hands. "Um, sorry, I messed up the schedule. I've got rehearsal tonight; is there any chance you could take a rideshare home?"

Something was clearly wrong. Finch usually exuded joy like cartoon stink lines, but now he was gray and sketchy around the edges—it was abundantly clear that his "hot date" had not gone to plan. He still carried the same amount of nervous energy, but he was framed by a blight of sheepishness rather than his usual crackle of mischief.

I felt bad now for having been annoyed by his chirpiness. "Not a problem, Titch. Er. Are you all right?"

"Huh? What? No, I'm great." He gave me a brittle grin. "Sorry again. Gotta run. Have a good weekend!" And darted out of the hall.

Right.

I was more than capable of finding my own way back to the flat. I gathered my things and started out of the classroom, finding myself unwilling to go home directly. I had no desire to sit in my office for any length of time, but the longer I took getting home, the less likely I was to run into Lucas.

I wandered across the campus, thinking about the next day's lesson—we were still on layout and gutterlines but preparing to move onto foreground. I was less concerned now with my students being tempted into all-consuming detail work; we'd established a strong baseline, and they were unlikely to lose sight of the bigger picture.

At this point, I looked up to find I'd wandered so far from the arts building and was quite lost. Chagrin burned in my chest. Also heartburn. I hated the idea that without Finch's gentle guidance I was not quite capable of getting myself home.

I got handled. I knew this, but nowhere in my soon-to-be-dropped contract did it say I had to like it.

I channeled enough brain power into analyzing my surroundings to realize I was nearly off campus, faced with a row of pubs and shops that were doing a lively evening trade. A small world of soft lamps and the clink of glasses and dull roar of conversation. This allowed me to discover something new about myself.

It turned out, I was now a codger who hated university pubs.

They were full of light and laughter and youth. These aspects had not always been repulsive to me, but I supposed we grew and changed as people. I had not previously known that I had grown and changed to this extent, and I wasn't particularly grateful for the opportunity to find out. But I wasn't ready to head back to the flat, and it couldn't hurt to have a few drinks at a shitty pub before a rideshare took me home and I'd have to ink more pages.

I'd been having miniature heart attacks whenever the pages I'd left out to dry in the living room suddenly vanished, but I always found them again in a neat pile, accompanied by a snarky note. Though I hadn't heard from Lucas since yesterday.

It was possible that Martha was not pleased with me. Perhaps I'd done something especially heinous, though as certainly had become quite evident, I was a veritable joy to live with. One mirror drawing too many, perchance.

Even Gaston and LeFou had begun giving me reproachful looks lately. All the more reason to do my drinking out of the house.

I chose a little place called Valhalla, the outward appearance of which was deceptive in regards to the amount of noise one encountered upon entering. Noxious pop music filled the air, large screens displayed the physical achievements of various athletes, and the population was largely juvenile, drunk, and sloppy.

They all looked so happy it made my gorge rise.

Codger.

Still, I found a spot at the bar and squinted up at the drink prices scribbled in chalk. I couldn't help softly whistling through my teeth.

The bartender headed over, looking not quite as happy as the clientele. She apparently took her job seriously, however, as she leaned past the beer tap and shot me a white, perfectly symmetrical, American smile. "What can I get you, stranger?"

I sighed. "I don't suppose you have discounts for faculty?"

She laughed, which was not a good sign.

"The prices here are aimed at the trust-fund crowd." Someone chuckled over my shoulder, and I turned to see a young man seated next to me, smiling and cleaning his glasses with an honest-to-gods handkerchief.

Perhaps young was a bit generous, especially considering the average age in the room was barely out of its teens; he had to be in his midforties, going very distinguished at the temples and sporting the kind of laugh lines and crow's feet that made me think of strong Western men in blue jeans and plaid.

I swallowed heavily. "E-excuse me?"

He replaced his glasses and immediately went from roguish to sophisticated, smiling at the pretty bartender with only half his mouth.

"Two gin and tonics, honey." He glanced over at me as an apparent afterthought. "You a gin man?"

"W-whiskey," I managed.

"All right then, one gin and tonic, one whiskey sour for my young English friend here." He slapped a card on the bar, then glanced over at me, still smiling. "Discount for faculty, huh? You giving a class on how to perfect an East London accent?"

A smile pulled at the edges of my mouth. "How long?"

"Three years." He grinned. "Got my MA at Oxford." He paused for a moment as our drinks arrived, and took an appreciative sip of his gin and tonic, while I downed about half of mine out of sheer nerves. He chuckled at me again for no apparent reason and leaned in a little closer. "So what brings you to our shores?"

I cleared my throat. Surely it hadn't been that many decades since I'd flirted with anyone ... Except it had. I was learning how to person again, I really was, but this felt like a sudden jump in difficulty level. A surprise exam. "I'm teaching a comics workshop," I said finally. "Extremely prestigious."

"Dr. Ken Lazlo." He presented me with a hand to shake, which I did. "I'm a postdoc in the English Lit department. Visiting Scholar, technically."

"Of course you are." I couldn't help myself.

Luckily for me, he chuckled and raised an elbow to show me the leather patch. "I keep my pipe in my other tweed. So what's your name, lad? Don't force me to start calling you Laughing Boy."

I smiled despite myself. "Armand. I'm just tired."

Laughing Boy was an ironic term for someone looking miserable—very English and sardonic. And dated.

I know it made me trash, but I really couldn't help it: I found it charming.

Ken could tell. He placed a hand on my arm. The hairs there tried to stand to attention as gooseflesh pervaded up and down my skin. I swallowed again and looked over at him fully.

The glint in his eyes told me he had a bit of a head start on me as far as gin was concerned, but the sudden subtlety of his touch on my arm and the discreet angling of his legs told me a lot more. The area between my jawline and my ears grew hot, color rising to my cheeks. How long had it been?

Over a year. Even before Drake House had signed me and I'd quit my old job, I'd somehow managed to keep myself to myself. I still went out with friends on occasion, but they tended to keep me close, like I was a precious, somewhat addled elderly relative being shown a night on the town. When I did the rare signing or promotion event (where I was merely expected to sign things or stand places), there was always Lakshmi or some liaison or other; Robin Finches in their various guises and incarnations tasked with keeping me on track.

I hadn't been out to a pub on my own in ages, and I was starting to remember why.

Ken ordered and bought me half a dozen more drinks, telling me all about his novel, screenplay, and the stage play he'd written. He told me about his research and travels. About how he'd spent a month stranded in Glasgow with pneumonia. About how the policemen in Venice could be easily bribed with pirated DVDs of Space Trip. About a certain little eatery in New Delhi, etc., and once I couldn't help laughing or smiling at practically everything he said, Ken called us a car and next thing I knew ...

I leaned my forehead against the cool metal wall of the lift that was taking us up to Ken's flat. His mouth was against my neck and his index finger was snug in one of my belt loops, his large square hand secure and solid over my hip. Once the doors slid shut, Ken pressed my back into the wall, fingers already fiddling.

I responded in kind, letting an entire year of missed opportunities tremble their way through my fingers as I loosened his tie.

July 23rd - Twenty-three days until the convention

I woke to the sound of the shower running, and my first thought was to wonder what Lucas was doing home so late on a Saturday morning.

Then I opened my eyes and realized that while Lucas might have been home, I was not.

I was at Ken's flat, in Ken's bed, and I could see, from where I lay, my underpants flung over a lampshade.

Before I could stop myself, I'd curled into a ball and was trying to stuff my fist into my mouth.

Why did I do this!

I actually liked Ken. I wanted him to think of me as something more than an easy pub pull, and naturally, I'd chosen to demonstrate this by being an easy pub pull! This was why I wasn't allowed out on my own.

I straightened out again, covering my face with both hands, and then peeked through my fingers at the flat. I'd been a bit busy the night before and had yet to fully take in the surroundings. It was small and overstuffed with books and oversized antique furniture, but it was clean, and there were no immediate indications that I'd gone home with an axe murderer. I sat up in the large, tousled bed, and glanced over at the door that—by the sound of it—led to the bathroom. Should I join Ken in there or wait, pretending to be asleep when he came out?

I really had enjoyed myself last night; he was funny and sophisticated, and I couldn't help liking the way his nostrils flared whenever he was being overly descriptive in that delicious, self-indulgent, patronizing way of untenured men. Also, needless to say, we had enjoyed quite a lot of nonverbal fun, and he had excelled at that as well.

In the back of my mind, my friends judged me: Sam rolled their eyes and Craig tutted. I was notorious for my taste—they would have seen Dr. Ken Lazlo coming and hastily herded me away from his tweedy arse—especially when it came to intellectually superior men in middle age whose pomposity could and would not be curtailed. Men who would, without the slightest provocation or note of apology, correct my pronunciation or patiently explain that the Hegelian Dialectic wasn't simplistic and dichotomous, actually, for the following reasons.

I'm not proud of this, but there was a special little glow I felt when men like that deigned to take time out of their day—or night—to try to educate me.

I was about to get out of bed and go join Ken when the sound of the tap shut off. After a few moments, he came out of the bathroom wrapped in a thick robe, his salt-and-pepper hair slicked down and glinting.

When he saw me, his eyes widened and his mouth quirked off to the side in a surprised smile. "Hey, you're still here ..."

My stomach dropped.

I tried to smile as well. "Yes, er, good morning."

"Good morning." He made his way over and cupped the back of my head with one hand, gently kissing my forehead. "I think I saw your pants over by the bookcase."

I nodded a little brokenly and got up to start hunting for my clothes, wrapping the sheet from the bed tightly around my waist.

I'd already collected everything but my shirt, when Ken's arms suddenly snaked in from behind and fastened over my chest and stomach, his head resting on my shoulder as he nuzzled my temple. His stubble tickled, and I had to fight down a shiver.

"I'm sorry I'm practically throwing you out, but Charlene's plane gets in this afternoon," he murmured, as the hand on my stomach began to both travel and misbehave itself.

I drew a hissing breath and gripped his wrist, stalling the hand's nefarious designs. "Charlene?"

"My wife, remember? I told you last night. She went to Michigan for a job talk and she's coming home today."

I tried to ignore the bitter lump rising in my throat. "Oh, aye, right."

Ken chuckled and nipped at my ear. "Could you be any more adorably English? ‘Oh, aye, right,'" he mocked. "You're a better man than I am, Gunga Din."

"Aye. Wow," I muttered hoarsely. "Have you seen my shirt?"

Less than ten minutes later, I was fully dressed in a rideshare, and twenty minutes after that I was standing in the Briars lot.

He might have mentioned a Charlene last night. I didn't remember.

Maybe.

Damn.

I didn't know why I ever expected things to go differently ... I truly had no one to blame but myself and my warped proclivity for rejection. Who the hell was I to lecture anyone about making good choices? Even in the intensely specific context of bloody comics layout.

Deep down, I clearly hadn't expected things to go differently. I'd actually been relying on the fact that Dr. Lazlo would toss me out on my ear come morning.

I stood staring up at the stairs of the Briars complex that led to my flat and tried not to think of them as unsurmountable. My body felt heavy but hollow, and also very far away. I was safe, though, in the knowledge that Lucas was almost certainly out—it was nearly noon on a Saturday, and he was likely somewhere doing something supremely Californian and aesthetic which might involve horses. It was a small mercy that while he was unfortunately witness to many other shameful aspects of my life—such as everything about me—this particular walk would go unseen.

Eventually, I made it up the steps and got my keys in the door, preparing for an hour or more spent in the shower, but then ...

I stepped off the welcome mat into a disaster area.

There were messily balled-up tissue papers covering practically every surface, so that for a split second I thought I was faced with the results of an indoor snowstorm. Interspersed among the tissues were bits of ripped-up photographs and wispy stuffing—the kind you might pull out of a stuffed toy. There had been a few spills in the kitchen—Kahlua and cocoa, as well as several patches of melted ice cream and an uneaten frozen burrito in the microwave.

A glint drew my eyes back to the living room and I watched the sunlight wink over a messy pile of CDs next to the hi-fi. I sifted through a few of the albums: Tchaikovsky, Mendelssohn, Mozart ... ABBA? And here was Queen's Night at the Opera and some Celine Dion ...

Out of curiosity, I pressed Play on the stereo.

The sound of synths pulsated under Steve Perry's voice telling me that one day, I would be found by love.

Oh my god.

Before I could stop myself, I pressed Skip. And Eric Carmen was telling me about his long-gone, misspent youth. That now, against his wishes, he was all by himself.

Oh my god.

I shut the player off and before I could think better of it, I turned toward the hallway and called out, "Lucas?"

Silence.

I tried again, louder. "Lucas, are you there? Are you all right?" I stepped into the hallway and knocked on his door, then pressed my ear against it to listen—nothing. I knocked once more, and this time the door cracked open enough for me to peek in and confirm the room was empty. I shut the door, checked the bathroom—nope—and that was it, that was the entire flat.

He wasn't here.

I sat down heavily on the couch, surveying the devastation spread so eloquently before me.

It was safe to say that whatever degree crap I was feeling, Lucas was out there feeling much, much worse.