The trees were bare on the highway south to New York. The sky was gray, the pavement a darker gray, and even the billboards seemed faded and monochrome. It happened every winter in this state.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Everything just turned gray.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWe should have rented a car,\u201d Demos said. He slouched in the passenger seat. His shirt bunched against the tan leather, making his gradual descent even more melodramatic.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWe could have taken my<\/em> car,\u201d Ferris said. Presently, they were in Demos\u2019 Alfa Romeo. Demos had insisted it wasn\u2019t suited for icy roads, followed up by a refusal to put \u2018road trip miles\u2019 on it. But the Bentley\u2019s heater was broken, so here they were.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYeah, I don\u2019t think so\u2014your car is so old it could have driven Jesus to the Last Supper.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Demos wasn\u2019t entirely wrong. The Bentley Eight that Ferris had bought from his aunt was, as of that month, exactly twenty years old. In the grand scheme of things, it wasn\u2019t that old. In car-years, however, it was ancient.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Ferris\u2019 hand tightened on the cold, hard steering wheel. \u201cThis<\/em> car is even older than mine.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cIt\u2019s not old, it\u2019s vintage<\/em>.\u201d Demos waved a hand. \u201cYours is just regular old.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Ferris wasn\u2019t in the mood to verify exactly what \u2018regular old\u2019 meant. He\u2019d let Demos have this one, for the sake of his dwindling energy. It wasn\u2019t normally a long drive to New York City, but the Ghost had made it that way. Cigarette breaks, stopping for coffee, changing his mind about stopping for coffee \u2014 it had added up.<\/p>\n\n\n\n They arrived in Manhattan later than Ferris had wanted to. It was the peak of rush hour, making it impossible to do anything but inch forward and pray he wouldn\u2019t strike a stray pedestrian. He swore to himself that once they parked, they wouldn\u2019t step foot back in this vehicle unless it was to drive back to Southport.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Even in traffic, Demos remained semi-liquefied in his seat. He gazed out at the piles of brown slush and dead Christmas trees stacked on a curb.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cAh, January,\u201d Demos said in what amounted to a poet\u2019s voice. \u201cThe sunniest, most romantic month in New York.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cJake said their venue was booked solid for a year. This was the only opening they could get.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThis better be some<\/em> venue.\u201d Demos picked at the end of his scarf. \u201cThey\u2019re going to have a piano, right? I didn\u2019t bring a one.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Ferris sighed. \u201cNobody is expecting you to bring a piano. And sit up straight, you piece of crap. We\u2019re almost there.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n It was strange to be staying in a hotel. Most of his father\u2019s side had been born and raised in the Five Boroughs, and there had always been a family member to stay with. Now, he was too old to be sleeping on his uncle\u2019s living room floor. He tried to think back to the last time his family had all been together. <\/p>\n\n\n\n The funeral. <\/p>\n\n\n\n His eyes tensed as he attempted to focus on the road; the hotel was only one block farther. A lot had changed in the last few years, but there was one constant that kept him going. One that he\u2019d lost, then found his way back to. One that he never wanted to lose again. Ferris glanced over at the passenger seat.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The shadow of the hotel portico cast over Demos as he made a face. \u201cWhat\u2019s that look for?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cNothing,\u201d Ferris said. \u201cGet your shit out of the trunk, the valet is ready.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThat\u2019s what bellboys are for.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Maybe it wouldn\u2019t hurt to lose him again, just for a few minutes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Ferris\u2019 precisely organized itinerary was once again disgraced at the check-in desk. He had accounted for the drive, the schedule, and even his violin case. What he\u2019d completely glossed over was the fact that he\u2019d reserved this hotel room back before Demos had come into the picture.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cOkay, Mr. Levinstein. We have you down for the traditional room with one king bed.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cOne\u2014 oh.\u201d Ferris dragged a hand down over his mouth. \u201cShit. Um, are there any rooms with two beds available?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cJust a moment. I\u2019ll take a look.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Demos elbowed Ferris through his coat, whispering. \u201cAw, is this going to be like a sitcom?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI reserved the room back when I thought Alex was coming.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWell, that\u2019s okay,\u201d Demos said with a shrug. \u201cYou can sleep on the floor.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Ferris shot an icy glare at his friend. \u201cFuck you, I\u2019m not sleeping on the floor.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cFine, we can cuddle.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI\u2019m not doing that either.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n The clerk cleared her throat. \u201cI\u2019m afraid we\u2019re booked up, Sir. We can send up a cot, if you\u2019d\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThat\u2019s okay,\u201d Demos said. \u201cWe\u2019ll manage, thank you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Ferris swallowed whatever he had meant to say. It was probably for the best\u2014 if there was a cot in the room, he\u2019d definitely be the one who ended up sleeping on it. Maybe Demos was taking pity on him. It was too late to find another hotel in the Upper East Side, not to mention this one was the actual reception venue\u2014the ballroom, anyhow. This would have to do.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The Polestar was a storied hotel: a 500-room white glove landmark whose front doors opened directly onto Fifth Avenue. For nearly a century, it had welcomed dignitaries, aristocracy, and celebrities. Now, it had been reduced to hosting two out-of-town crooks sharing one bed\u2014a tragedy in three acts for everyone involved.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Demos tipped the bellboy outside their room, then looked in with a frown.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThe sixth floor? You couldn\u2019t get anything higher?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Ferris made his way to the window, unfazed. \u201cI could have, but I wanted the west side of the building.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n The curtains rattled as he parted them, allowing white and gold city lights to filter in through the glass. He was quiet for a moment, looking down at the vast spread of trees, their branches bare and tinged with snow.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cIt\u2019s across from the park,\u201d Demos said. He\u2019d stepped up beside Ferris without a sound.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYeah. I thought she\u2019d\u2014\u201c Ferris stopped himself. It didn\u2019t matter if Alex would have liked it\u2014if it was romantic. She wasn\u2019t there. \u201cUm\u2014it\u2019s nice, right?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Bodies moved over the sidewalk below, hunched, dark shapes clutching coats, holding hands. When Demos didn\u2019t reply, Ferris dared a glance to his side. His friend was transfixed on the view, the edges of his face highlighted by the glow of street lamps. There was a faraway look in his eyes, not the apathetic one he tended to wear. Ferris could have sworn, somehow, he looked pained. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cAre you okay?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Demos closed his eyes. \u201cYeah.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n When his eyes opened again, he was smiling. Whatever he was thinking, or feeling\u2014he had silenced it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cIs your mom staying here, too?\u201d Demos asked. A change of subject.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cShe couldn\u2019t make it.\u201d Ferris closed the curtains. \u201cAunt Deb is getting surgery this weekend and she wanted to be there to drive her home.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cOh. Is she all right?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYeah, it\u2019s just a joint replacement. She\u2019ll be fine,\u201d Ferris said. \u201cUm, hey\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Demos looked up. \u201cYeah?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYou sure you\u2019re okay?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI\u2019m fine, just hungry. We haven\u2019t eaten all day.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Ferris decided not to mention this lack of food was explicitly Demos\u2019 fault, as he had hemmed and hawed at every single rest stop they\u2019d visited.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThen make yourself useful and pick a place for dinner.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Demos slipped a small memo pad from his coat pocket, giving it a little wave. From where Ferris stood, he could see lines of handwriting: restaurant names and addresses, dishes worth trying and reservation times. Ratings. Personal notes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWay ahead of you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Ferris only stared. Even after a decade, Demos could still surprise him. Through his air of indifference and idle, self-absorbed complaining, he had known Ferris wouldn\u2019t choose any restaurants. He had known to fill that gap in the itinerary without asking. He always knew\u2014he always would.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The room felt hot. Ferris\u2019 coat was suffocating, heavy on his frame, trapping warmth deep in his chest.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Demos tilted his head, one eye squinting. \u201cWait, is this checklist turning you on?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cShut up, we\u2019re leaving.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cGod<\/em>, you\u2019re a nerd.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Demos was laughing when the door closed behind them.<\/p>\n\n\n\n #<\/p>\n\n\n\n Sharing a bed turned out to be much less of a thing than Ferris had expected. There was plenty of space between them, enough to fit a third or even a fourth person beneath the duvet. It wasn\u2019t the first bed they\u2019d shared; he\u2019d spent the last month staying in Demos\u2019 room while he\u2019d healed. It probably wouldn\u2019t be the last, either.<\/p>\n\n\n\n It was the same every time. Demos slept on his side, body hunched just slightly. Dark hair left lines on the white pillowcase\u2014 his frame rose and fell gently with each breath. He was quiet. Vulnerable. Blurry. Ferris would watch the back of his head, wondering what his friend was dreaming, wondering if he had nightmares too. Wondering what that corner of skin on Demos\u2019 bare shoulder would feel like beneath his fingers. Wondering if that pale back would be warm against his chest.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Ferris looked across that wide, empty valley of sheets between them and, for what wasn\u2019t the first time, felt it was too wide. Too far. Beneath Ferris\u2019 ribs, there was an ache\u2014something hollow that hounded him. Something he couldn\u2019t ignore. This was it. This was all it could be.<\/p>\n\n\n\n This was as close as he would ever get.<\/p>\n\n\n\n #<\/p>\n\n\n\n Jacob Levinstein was the first of Ferris\u2019 cousins to be married. It was the same as every wedding Ferris could remember\u2014 the chuppah, the sound of crunching glass, the tears. Wine. There was always so much wine.<\/p>\n\n\n\n This time, though, there was Demos. It was incredible how easily the Ghost could switch from a cold, self-centered criminal to a charming socialite\u2014 how he leaned on the grand piano, wine glass swirling in his right hand as he shared mild yet delightful anecdotes. He wore a three-piece suit that was such a deep red it was practically black. Precisely tailored, lines meeting in sleek angles. Effortless. It was something only Demos could do. Never, at a hundred weddings over a hundred years, could Ferris ever have pulled off a burgundy suit.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The evening outside seemed to seep into the ballroom itself. The space was dim, long shadows cut with warm, golden lights. The venue was certainly something. Its ceiling seemed to rise into eternity, adorned with a half dozen gilded chandeliers, each of which could surely crush a city bus. Corinthian pillars, thick as redwoods, ran in parallel formation down the length of the hall. It was all a bit too grand for Ferris\u2019 liking, but he could see why it was a highly sought locale. There was a timeless dignity amidst all the excess.<\/p>\n\n\n\n When the time came for their duet, Ferris had nearly forgotten about it. He\u2019d been quiet, listening more than speaking, watching in lieu of dancing. With a few marked snaps, he opened his violin case. How long had it been since he\u2019d performed for an audience this large? College? He hadn\u2019t missed it. Somehow, all of those duets with Demos with offhanded bickering, with no one else to listen\u2014somehow, that had been enough. <\/p>\n\n\n\n For the first time that night, the reception hall was dead silent. The band had stopped and the chatter had settled. Hands lifted over keys, a bow raised over strings, and they began.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Can\u2019t Help Falling in Love.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n The notes entered softly, simultaneously, filling the quiet air like a whisper into an ear. The violin crested. Ferris pressed a vibrato into the neck of the instrument, fingertip rolling along the string. He had spent nearly two decades finessing and expanding the vibrato\u2014 on the fingerboard, on tabletops. Somehow, it all seemed to be for this moment. The strings sang, mourning, swelling in deep ripples. He let the sound soak through him, through the polished maple, to somewhere deep in his chest that light never touched.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The piano\u2019s notes embraced his own\u2014 raindrops on black concrete. The unspoken lyrics hung between each key, each string, warming him from the inside out. It felt right\u2014 so remarkably, painfully right to play each note. Wasn\u2019t that what Demos had said?<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYou look happy when you play it.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n Did he look happy? Did Demos really watch him when he played?<\/p>\n\n\n\n There was a pause in the music, the notes drifting into silence before the final refrain. Ferris opened his eyes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n A fastened gaze met his own. Through the piano, past the cut of the lid prop, Demos was watching him. Ferris didn\u2019t breathe. <\/p>\n\n\n\n The bow settled on the strings once more, drawing the remaining notes up from the stillness. Keeping his eyes on Demos was painful\u2014a hand on a hot surface, the suffocating pressure when drowning. He couldn\u2019t understand how it was possible, how eyes so soft could have such an iron, unyielding grasp on him. He couldn\u2019t look away.<\/p>\n\n\n\n He didn\u2019t want to look away.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Without voices, they spoke to each other, sound expressing what he\u2019d always been too cowardly to say in words. Every eye in the hall was on them, but Ferris could only feel the gaze of one person. No one else was there. No one else had ever been there. He remembered a different voice, a different conversation. It felt like so long ago.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWere you ever more than friends?\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n Ferris wasn\u2019t sure if his heart was trying to escape his chest or if it was just the earth turning beneath him. The song neared its close, a door drifting shut. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cHave you ever wanted to be?\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n The ache in his core had reached every last part of him. Ferris couldn\u2019t deny what was staring right back at him. Not this time. His fingers finished the last few notes on their own. He wasn\u2019t present for them. <\/p>\n\n\n\n The song was over.<\/p>\n\n\n\n An hour later, Ferris couldn\u2019t remember what the applause had sounded like. It had been muted static in his ears, background noise as the world was stripped away. He had closed his eyes and let his heart go dark\u2014a light clicking off in an empty room.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cFerris.\u201d The voice at his side was like gravity, grounding him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cHey, Uncle Joe.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYou two were incredible. Your father would have been so proud of you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Ferris\u2019 mouth shifted into what he prayed was a smile. \u201cI hope so,\u201d he said. \u201cThanks.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cAnd your hair\u2014I haven\u2019t seen it this long since your bar mitzvah. You look kind of like your dad, you know? I mean, before he started balding.\u201d Joe gave his nephew\u2019s shoulder a slap, laughing. \u201cI remember when you first started that violin. Could barely count your age on one hand\u2014and you sounded terrible<\/em>.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cIs it too late to take back my thanks?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Two minutes passed and Ferris realized he was alone again. He scanned the open ballroom, looking for a hint of that brazen burgundy suit. Demos kept abandoning him to mingle. He was a horrible date, but fortunately, he was easy to find in a crowd.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Ferris saw him, standing near a group of tables. He was talking to someone\u2014Ferris\u2019 younger cousin, Rebecca. Likely attempting to pry out humiliating childhood stories that could be stashed as blackmail. There were plenty of those. Demos was speaking with his hands, nearly every Giorgetti did. He was composed. Deliberate. Impersonating a pleasant human being.<\/p>\n\n\n\n If only they knew.<\/p>\n\n\n\n It was baffling, how good the Ghost looked that night. He always wore suits; this was nothing new, nothing special. It could have been the lighting, the way the glow hit the darkest, deepest reaches of his eyes, the soft angles of his face\u2014the sheen in his hair that left a pattern of gold on black. The voice from before came at him again, louder this time. Urgent.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cHave you ever wanted to be?\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n Another voice from even longer ago.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYou came back for him. Not me.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n Ferris rubbed his hand over his face, wishing his eyes didn\u2019t feel so heavy. He responded under his breath.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cFuck.<\/em>\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n He needed a drink. Maybe twelve. Fortunately, there was plenty to go around. With a wine glass in each hand, he began the shameful walk between the space he had been abandoned at and the space where Demos was. Maybe they could get a moment to talk. Maybe\u2014<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cAnd that was such a beautiful song,\u201d Rebecca said. \u201cAre you two, uh\u2014?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Demos laughed, waving a hand across his face. \u201cOh, God no. He\u2019s not my type.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Maybe there was nothing to talk about, after all.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Ferris stopped walking\u2014stopped listening. The entire guest list was crowded around the dance floor. The bride and groom rose over the sea of bodies as their seats were lifted, rising toward the ceiling that was so vastly, impossibly far above. There was laughter, and there was love.<\/p>\n\n\n\n That feeling. It must have been nice.<\/p>\n\n\n\n One song ended and another began. Ferris looked down into one of the wine glasses, wondering if he could finish it in a single draw. A voice forced his attention upward.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThere you are.\u201d It was Demos. There was a light flush dashed across his features, one or two cocktails worth. His hand was outstretched, inviting him to take it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cDance with me,\u201d Demos said, smiling. \u201cJust one song, remember?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n The words left Ferris\u2019 mouth before he could close it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhy don\u2019t you find someone more your type?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Each syllable was dry, a venomous tonic with a dash of broken glass. The smile faded from Demos\u2019 features. He stared, hand still outstretched, lips parted with nothing to say.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cHey, Ferris!\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n It was Jake\u2019s voice\u2014the groom. Ferris held his next words in his chest, glancing over to see his cousin. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThis is who I wanted you to meet.\u201d Jake gestured to the man at his side, one of the groomsmen. \u201cMy old roommate from NYU.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cOh.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cHe\u2019s running this campaign I thought you\u2019d be into. The 3.5 homebrew I told you about\u2014you remember, right?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n It took every spark of consciousness in Ferris\u2019 skull to focus on his cousin\u2019s sentences. It felt like noise, like buzzing, and he struggled to string each word together into something meaningful. He didn\u2019t notice when Demos turned away\u2014didn\u2019t notice when his friend grabbed an entire wine bottle by the throat on his way out.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYeah,\u201d Ferris said. \u201cI remember.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n It was getting harder to nod, to pay attention. In the back of his mind, all Ferris could see was that look on Demos\u2019 face, the way that smile had died right in front of him. He\u2019d seen that look in his eyes by the window the night before\u2014 <\/p>\n\n\n\n It was pain.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cAnd the whole premise is based on this upheaval between social classes.\u201d Jake\u2019s friend was talking. \u201cLots of politics, deception. I think you\u2019d\u2014\u201c<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cDid you see where Demos went?\u201d Ferris said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWho?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Ferris pulled out his phone, pushing buttons with an unsettling urgency. There was one ring. <\/p>\n\n\n\n It was behind him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Ferris turned around to see Demos\u2019 phone on the table beside a dessert plate. It buzzed in vain, a forgotten prop left behind by its owner. His eyes fell on the chair Demos had been sitting at. His coat was gone.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cShit.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cEverything okay?\u201d Jake said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI have to go.\u201d Ferris fumbled with his own coat, tugging it on with surprising clumsiness. \u201cI\u2019m sorry, I\u2014fuck. Sorry.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Ferris was certain his apology wasn\u2019t enough to cover his blatant rudeness, but he was incapable of forming something better. Jake and his groomsman were left staring as Ferris faltered through the crowd of guests toward the door.<\/p>\n\n\n\n There were no signs of the Ghost in the lobby nor at the hotel\u2019s entrance. Any hopes that Demos had simply stepped out for a cigarette were dashed when he scanned up and down the sidewalk to see not one familiar face. There was a doorman.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cHi, uh\u2014did you see this guy leave?\u201d Ferris tilted his phone to show the doorman a picture of Demos at last night\u2019s restaurant, a photo he\u2019d refused to be a part of.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The man mumbled a response and a gloved hand pointed across the street. There was an entrance to Central Park, chained off and draped in shadow. Closed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThanks.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Ferris stumbled between cars, nearly tripping as he stepped over the long, icy chain. Snow had been falling for what appeared to be hours, leaving a layer of white across the path. There was only one set of footprints\u2014only one person stupid enough to traipse through the park in the middle of the night. Well, now it was two people.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Ferris followed the steps down the path. Rock formations formed a wall at his side, leaving him flanked by bare trees. He had never seen the park so empty\u2014 so completely and utterly quiet. A wine bottle had been discarded at the foot of a bench, one with a label he recognized. Ferris grit his teeth against the cold then tossed it in the trash.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYou asshole<\/em>.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n The footprints continued, disappearing into a pitch black shadow beneath a bridge. Ferris quickened his pace, not wanting to see how far Demos was capable of getting before he was murdered in the middle of the park\u2014 or before he murdered someone else. It wasn\u2019t until Ferris reached the Mall that he slowed. <\/p>\n\n\n\n He felt exposed in this open space. The Mall\u2019s path was so long, two endless lines of benches coated with a dusting of snow. City lights floated in the east, winking in the unforgiving winter air. The walkway was lined with old trees. They were silhouettes in black and white, motionless beneath the falling snow.<\/p>\n\n\n\n There, halfway down the wide path, was one figure walking. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cDemos, wait\u2014\u201c<\/p>\n\n\n\n There was an anger in Demos\u2019 pace, something inflamed in each step he treaded through the snow. He stopped at the sound of Ferris\u2019 voice but didn\u2019t turn to look.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWait, just\u2014\u201c Ferris caught up, pleading with the back of his friend\u2019s head. \u201cI\u2019m sorry. I didn\u2019t mean\u2014\u201c<\/p>\n\n\n\n Demos turned with a snap.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYou\u2019re<\/em> the one that said it.\u201d The Ghost was nearly out of breath, his shoulders rising and falling with the weight of his words.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Ferris stared. \u201cWhat?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhen I came out to you. You<\/em> said you weren\u2019t my type.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYou remember that?\u201d Ferris hadn\u2019t, not until now. Sweat began to bead on the back of his neck, sticking skin to the collar of his coat. Pathetic. One brisk walk and he was already disgusting. He racked his brain, trying to visualize that moment at the summer house all those years ago. What had Demos said? <\/p>\n\n\n\n Ferris\u2019 eyes drifted from the ground back up to his friend. \u201cYou didn\u2019t deny it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI was terrified.\u201d Demos\u2019 voice shuddered. \u201cI didn\u2019t want to scare you away.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cBut I promised,\u201d Ferris said. \u201cI promised you I wouldn\u2019t be scared.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n They both stood frozen in the empty mall. The landing strip of amber street lamps faded into dots in the distance. Every breath stung, frigid air searing Ferris\u2019 lungs and escaping his throat in a brisk, lucent plume. He couldn\u2019t remember everything Demos had said that night, but there was one thing\u2014one bitter, underlined thing that had been left unsaid.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Ferris\u2019 eyes tightened. \u201cYou never did tell me what your type was.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Demos\u2019 hand slid into the opening of Ferris\u2019 coat, knuckles crumpling around the fabric of his shirt. The space between them was gone. Ferris felt a mouth meet his own, soft and flushed, lips parting to take in every cut of his being. That devil\u2019s hand tugged him in, his body unable to escape the black hole that was Demos Giorgetti.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Ferris could have sworn he was falling. It was that feeling just before sleep, when the bed, the world, seemed to slip out from beneath one\u2019s body. He couldn\u2019t hear, couldn\u2019t see. The only thing he could take in was the braced, warm pressure of Demos\u2019 mouth. Somewhere in his core, Ferris\u2019 body was kicking into fight or flight. The boiling pump of blood, the tight, raw throat\u2014all signs pointing to a successful escape if he would only lift his legs.<\/p>\n\n\n\n He closed his eyes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The snow around their feet was scuffed, prints and arches choreographing a car wreck between two human bodies. He could feel the outline of Demos\u2019 chin flush against his own, drawing upward into a barely audible gasp. <\/p>\n\n\n\n He couldn\u2019t move. Ferris had spent an entire lifetime stuffing feelings into a cage, imprisoning thoughts, memories. Wants<\/em>. Each freshly born desire was given a life sentence without parole, never to see the light of day. The prison his heart had become was overcrowded. Tall, concrete walls had managed to incarcerate every single instance of Ferris imagining this moment.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Demos\u2019 hand on his shirt, skinny fingers twisting threads beneath the weight of his coat, had left him defenseless\u2014exposed. Ferris moved without thinking, taking Demos\u2019 face in his hands. It was cold palms on hot skin, fingertips dragging over the line of his jaw. He felt a warm breath as Demos panted then cocked his head to angle their lips. The kiss was deeper, closer, a spear wrenching itself into Ferris\u2019 chest cavity. It hurt\u2014why did it hurt? <\/p>\n\n\n\n A tongue met his own and Ferris felt dizzy. He could taste him, tobacco laced with strong, red wine. Wine. He couldn\u2019t simply taste the wine, he could smell it. An entire bottle\u2019s worth and then some. The stench of alcohol had permeated Demos\u2019 jacket, his hair, his breath. The spear faded. The walls stopped crumbling. Ferris\u2019 hands seized in place, shaking.<\/p>\n\n\n\n None of this was real.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Ferris pulled away. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYou\u2019re drunk,\u201d he said. He\u2019d nearly fallen for it, nearly given himself up to an alcohol-induced practical joke.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Demos\u2019 eyes were still closed. He caught his breath, his face flushed with warmth.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI\u2019m\u2014\u201c The fingers on Ferris\u2019 shirt tightened then dropped. \u201cYeah.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n There was a lifeless silence between them. The illusion was over. All that remained was reality, the bite of cold air and flurries of snow. The park that they had no business being in this late at night. The tunnel of impossibly tall trees left bare and gray, branches reaching for one another across the wide path.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The black hole had collapsed without a sound. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Demos swallowed. \u201cDo you want me to apologize?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n He didn\u2019t give Ferris a chance to answer, only slumping forward onto his chest. Demos was half-tucked into the other\u2019s coat, burying his face in layers of wool. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI\u2019m not sorry,\u201d Demos said. His voice shook.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Ferris longed for the pain of that kiss. The caustic plunge of steel was preferable to what it had left behind. Now, there was nothing\u2014a spear-shaped hole in the hollow of his chest. It ached. Under the influence, Demos had kissed all kinds of things\u2014strangers, friends, inanimate objects. Probably a lamp. He had an excuse for this behavior. It wasn\u2019t a turning point; it wasn\u2019t some kind of confession. Ferris was just another friend, a lamp, a thing in Demos\u2019 line of sight while he was intoxicated. He probably wouldn\u2019t remember this in the morning. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Ferris sighed. \u201cYou should be in bed.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n He eased himself back, dividing their bodies. The space where Demos had been was already freezing. The warmth had faded so quickly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cLet\u2019s get you back to the hotel,\u201d Ferris said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Demos didn\u2019t answer. He still hadn\u2019t opened his eyes. Tufts of snow continued to collect on his coat and head, white wisps on pitch-black hair. His face was burning, but he looked so cold.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cOkay,\u201d Demos said. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Ferris felt a tug at his sleeve. Demos had taken hold of him once more, a fist on gray wool to keep his balance on the ice. He was still avoiding eye contact and it made Ferris feel sick. Something rotten hung low in his gut and he took a deep, cold breath to stifle it. It didn\u2019t work.<\/p>\n\n\n\n His arm hooked around Demos\u2019 wavering frame, keeping him upright as they shuffled toward the park entrance. Ferris would put this memory away in a place it couldn\u2019t haunt him, where all those memories were entombed. He would swallow this humiliation. Most importantly, above anything else, he\u2019d take a shovel to the cold earth of his heart and bury the fact that he had kissed Demos back.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" The trees were bare on the highway south to New York. The sky was gray, the pavement a darker gray, and even the billboards seemed faded and monochrome. It happened every winter in this state. Everything just turned gray.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0,"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":true,"jetpack_social_options":{"image_generator_settings":{"template":"highway","enabled":false},"version":2}},"categories":[5],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-628","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-fishbones-book-02"],"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p4oWx8-a8","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"post_mailing_queue_ids":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.fishbonescomic.com\/novel\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/628","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.fishbonescomic.com\/novel\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.fishbonescomic.com\/novel\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.fishbonescomic.com\/novel\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.fishbonescomic.com\/novel\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=628"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"http:\/\/www.fishbonescomic.com\/novel\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/628\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":679,"href":"http:\/\/www.fishbonescomic.com\/novel\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/628\/revisions\/679"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.fishbonescomic.com\/novel\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=628"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.fishbonescomic.com\/novel\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=628"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.fishbonescomic.com\/novel\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=628"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}