Title: Jersey Boys
Author: Kelandris the Mad
Fandom: View Askewniverse, post-everything, AU from original ending 
of Clerks
Pairing: Jay/Jamie (implied), Bob/Austin (implied), Jay/Bob 
(potential)
Rating: Songfic. R for language, adult themes, references to old 
homosexual relationships. No actual sex.
Status: New
Archive: Usual places--the Jay and Silent Bob list archive, 
automatic; all others drop me a note and it's yours. And on that 
note...
Feedback: kel@crazysheep.net
Series/Sequels: Finisher story. End of the line. Concept piece. 
Set in the vicinity of 2016, not that it matters.
Disclaimers: All parts of my fannish being are enriched by the 
presence of Kevin Smith, Jason Mewes, Jason Lee, Ben Affleck, and all 
the merry characters at View Askew Productions (including their 
current master, Miramax,) save for that pesky financial part of my 
being, which receives no compensation whatsoever for these tawdry 
little tales.
Notes: Concept piece. What if Jay and Bob broke up, and Jay, 
several years later, comes to him with the breakup letter in his 
hand? What would happen?
Summary: Jay discovers a piece of his past and wonders where the rest 
of it's got to.
Warnings: Drifting, angsty kind of resigned sadness all through this 
piece. Some kissing. Hanging out in a gay bar. Language. That's 
about it.
Dedication: for the one line I felt I had to include, this one's for 
you, for your mix of gentility and savagery. Golden-haired and sky-
eyed, Magne Etresvaag of Alesend. You'll never see it, you'll never 
know it, and we'll never speak again. But I remember you. Ten years 
gone and counting.

"Jersey Boys"
by Kelandris

*there's a letter on the desktop
that I dug out of a drawer
the last truce we ever came to
in our adolescent war*

"Hey."

The man in black looked up, squinting a bit at the figure silhouetted 
against the light. Indistinct, it raised a hand, then stepped 
forward, resolving into a short, thin man with a shock of flaming red 
hair. The man sat back from the notebook on the table, smiling.

"Jamie. Hey. How you doin'?"

"Better, now that I know where you *are*," the man said waspishly. 
His bright smile took the sting from the words. The man walked into 
Jersey's, Jay's home away from home, and waved to the bartender, 
polishing glasses on the long, black marble bar.

"Rusty. Hey."

"Hey, Jamie."

He picked his way across the polished steel dance floor--he'd slipped 
once, about a year ago, and was slightly afraid of it now--and 
through the tall graphite-and-chrome tables ringing it, to where 
Jason Fletcher leaned on a stool, writing in an open notebook.

He'd asked him once about the last name, because a while back, at 
some get-together, he'd mentioned it wasn't his. Jason had just 
shrugged. "Someone," he said, looking sad, "told me what it meant 
once. Means someone who makes arrows." 

Then he'd looked around, grinning at the boys around him, and 
said, "And I liked that movie."

"Which movie?" some wit asked.

"Fletch, a'course. What, you've never seen it? Oh, *man*..." 

And Jason and his gaggle of new converts had walked into the video 
room, where he explained the differences between each of the four 
filmed versions. 

Jamie finished threading his way through the tables, and walked to 
Jay's side, holding a pink box by one thin white string. He looked 
down at the words pouring from the pen the man clenched like a dagger.

"What is it now, Jay? More tales of love gone wrong?"

The man smiled ruefully, rising from the table and looking down. 
Eyes like a stormy sea met eyes like moss trapped under snow; both 
men shrugged.

"Hey. Write what you want," Jamie said.

"Nah, it's not that. It's more, my misspent youth on the cruel 
streets. Hopefully not as fucking melodramatic as that sounded."

"Yeah... Speaking of--" Jamie lifted the box, placing it carefully on 
the table. "Happy birthday."

"Happy--" Jay calculated a bit, his eyes scanning the ceiling. 
Fucking hell, he was right. He'd made it to forty. He blinked, 
shaking his head. 

"Can't believe I made it four decades."

"Without dying of something no one else would have the nerve to die 
of?"

"Fuck off."

Jamie chuckled, and sat, poking the box forward.

"Open it."

Jay sat back down, looking nervously at the box. Presents always had 
consequences. Including the last present he'd ever gotten 
from...someone he had no intention of thinking about. Blinking, he 
flipped out the switch in his pocket, snapping the blade to full and 
slicing through the ribbon.

*and I start to feel a fever
from the warm air through the screen
you come regular like seasons
shadowing my dreams*

He lifted off the lid. Jamie rose, wandering over to the bar. He 
looked over his shoulder.

"Hey!"

Jason looked up. "Yeah?"

"I know you're closed `til later, but are you serving?"

"Sure," he said distractedly. "Rusty, make him happy."

"Oh, if only..." Rusty sighed, dodging the punch Jamie aimed at his 
chest.

Jay turned his attention back to the box. Sliding the lid off, he 
peered over the edge. Inside he saw a little cake, adorned with a 
plastic martini glass, complete with a tiny, plastic pink elephant, 
stuck in the frosting next to a large looping `J'. And next to 
that...

Oh, Jamie. His heart leapt into his throat, and he had to swallow 
several times, reaching in with a trembling hand to pull out a letter 
and a picture he'd almost managed to forget.

*and the Mississippi's mighty
but it starts in Minnesota
at a place where you could walk across
with five steps down*

He tried to laugh, and the laugh died in his throat as he caught a 
glimpse of his reflection in a mirror across the room. He leaned 
forward then, meeting the known stranger's eyes, wondering, as he 
always did when he saw himself, whether Bob would recognize his Jay, 
all grown up.

The dealing days were long over. Sometime between Justice and 
Hooper, sometime between Dante dying and Randal grieving, sometime 
between the movie and its sequel, things had started to change. 
Sometime. Some in-between, indeterminate time.

And it wasn't that all the changes were bad ones. He'd loved Bob all 
along, he could face that now. And when they started sleeping 
together, it had been, on his side, more something to keep Bob happy 
than him content. But it had altered, the sex, the friendship, the 
love affair, into something that enriched his life, broadened him in 
ways he never expected. It had definitely taught him how to care for 
someone other than himself.

And then the long, strange trip to California, the specifics of which 
changed every time he tried to remember it. He was fairly sure he 
had been seriously tripping for the entire journey, pink pills to red 
ones, red ones to yellow and black ones, yellow and black ones to 
pale brown, melt-in-your-mouth tabs, with the acid bite of 
unsweetened lemon. All through the Hollywood days, he'd been 
watching California melt.

It was a wonder Bob managed to put up with him at all.

*and I guess that's how you started
like a pinprick in my heart
but at this point you rush right through me
and I start to drown*

And in a way, that explained Justice. Jason knew these things about 
himself: that he *was* more invested in his own interests; that he 
*was* at his core an impulsive person; that, no matter what happened 
around him, or to him, these basic facts would not change. And he 
had blindly leapt, in the middle of an affair that seemed to be 
playing out all aces, into something else that wasn't even on the 
table.

Bound to destabilize the situation. And it did.

Jay sighed, shaking his head at the mirror man. The mirror image--
crisp grey suit, silver-and-ruby Art Deco-style brooch holding his 
collar closed, dove grey shirt beneath that, tailored blond ponytail 
pulled sharply against the nape of the neck, streaks of platinum 
silver just beginning to show--shook his head back, looking just as 
disappointed.

He didn't blame the mirror man in the least. Who else lets their 
lifemate walk away?

*and there's not enough room in this world for my pain
signals cross and love gets lost
and time passed makes it plain*

He realized his hands were still trembling. He had to laugh a bit at 
that. His hands amused him on their own, some days. They looked...
thing was, they didn't even look like his father's hands. They 
looked like *adult* hands, true, all soft and manicured and lightly 
tanned. All the scars of youthful fighting had healed, and the heavy 
writer's callus was visible on his right-hand middle finger, the 
callus from holding various pens, forcing the words onto the page, 
fighting to write. Had to have something to do other than deal, he'd 
thought, and Bob had always made writing look so easy.

He blinked, rubbing his eyes, and reached into the box. It wasn't 
easy. Writing was more difficult than dealing on someone else's 
turf. He sat and stared at a blank notebook page until drops of 
sweat covered his forehead, and then he forced all that pain, all 
that energy, down the narrow conduit of nerves and ink until words 
began to flow. It wasn't easy. But it was all he had since Bob had 
left.

*of all my demon spirits
I need you the most
I'm in love with your ghost*

The picture by the letter was one he knew by heart. It was the first 
publicity still Trish had ever sent him of Bob and his band. He'd 
also seen all the others. He owned every album Six Feet Under had 
put out, including the one solo effort that Bob had laid down. It 
had sold pretty well, considering it wasn't SFU's trademark sound of 
overdriven guitar and bone-rattling drums. It was a quieter album, 
full of old torch songs, somehow perfectly suited to the sound of his 
voice.

Bob's voice. Bob's voice keeping him up nights. The days of Bob 
being silent were as far gone as Jay's dealing ones. Shaking his 
head, he finally unfolded the letter.

*dark and dangerous like a secret
that's whispered in a hush
when I wake the things I dreamt about you
last night make me blush*

*"Jay,"* it began. He'd always loved Bob for that. It would have 
been too scarring to read "Dear Jay", he'd always thought; far too 
close to "Dear John". Even though it was a break-up letter.

*"I can't help but think you're better off now, than you have been, 
and that's the only thing that gives me strength enough to do this."*

And hadn't that phrase stung? He remembered, he'd been on the phone 
talking to Justice, who was about a year from release at that point, 
when the mail had arrived. He'd made some cute little noise, not 
even words--to this date he could still hear it echoing in his head--
and hung up the phone. And he'd gone to get the mail, scattered 
across the carpet from the slot in the door.

And the first words had burned across his eyes, scarring forever the 
surface of his brain, and he'd fallen to the floor, not even 
registering until after the letter was finished that he'd sprained 
his ankle in the fall.

*when you kiss me like a lover
then you sting me like a viper
I go follow to the river
play your memory like a piper*

"*I love you*", the letter continued. "*I know that now. I love you 
more every day that goes by, every hour, every...but it doesn't 
matter, because you love her.*"

Which was the really appalling part: just as he'd suspected, 
Justice had lasted about as long as her getting out and coming to see 
him. About a day, total. They'd had time free from the pressures of 
drugs and thievery to sit and talk, without barrier of courts and 
bars. Without extraordinary circumstances pulling them together, 
they fell apart. He'd suspected it would happen, but the reality of 
it hit him with a vengeance once he remembered the letter.

He'd actually gone home the day she'd left, bound for San Miguel, and 
dug up the letter in a box of Bob's old poetry. He sat by the box, 
reading the letter over and over, and didn't realize he was crying 
until a tear splashed the page.

He touched the rough circle, still slightly raised after all these 
years of drying. He'd dried out some, too--first, when he'd decided 
he didn't need to call Trish at all, after Justice left. Because 
what would she do? Tell Bob Justice was gone. So Bob could sneer 
and laugh?

It didn't occur to him in that moment, scrambling up from the floor 
of Bob's room, that the last thing Bob would do is laugh.

But the more compelling concern was Bob himself. He was in the 
beginning leg of a European tour. The last word he'd had from Trish 
had said Bob--Silent Bob, have-to-pull-words-outta-him-by-force Bob, 
Jedi Master Laconic--had joined a band.

That had baffled Jay. That had just blown Jay away. And then, of 
course, to walk into a store, and hear something wonderful and oddly 
familiar on the speakers, and turn to ask who it was--and have the 
clerk show him a CD with Bob's face on the cover--that had been the 
cap. He couldn't tell Bob. He had to let Bob finish the tour, at 
least. Too much pressure on the road, or something. He couldn't let 
him know.

*and I feel it like a sickness
how this love is killing me
but I'd walk into the fingers of your fire
willingly*

Six Feet Under. He had all of their CDs, some double copies so he 
had one for the car, one for the house. Of course, that had been 
after he'd finally broken down and gotten clean. All of it. Ditched 
the methadone to keep him from heroin, ditched the blow to keep him 
from methadone, ditched the pot that kept him off X, ditched the 
alcohol that kept him off pot. Everything, step by step, over the 
course of three years, three of the hardest years of his life. 
Eventually, he'd gotten to where he could drink again, without 
falling down the rabbit hole of suck-and-swallow, taking candy from 
anyone who'd hold it out. Junkie Jay fast became a memory in town, 
and five years past that, not even that. But he still had Bob's good-
bye. He still kept Bob's room. The door was closed now, but it was 
still there, and once a day, Jay opened the door, waved to the room, 
and closed the door. That started out as a tradition that left him 
in tears. Then it became slowly bearable. Five years later it was 
habit.

"*And it's okay, it's finally okay. I realize that now*", the letter 
said. The drug years, he focused on those words, as if Bob was 
holding him again, telling him it would all be all right. Still, he 
didn't call Bob, even though Trish called now and again, dropped off 
promos the public never saw, kept him updated. He never told her to 
stop calling. Maybe he should have, but...he'd been wrong once, and 
had driven away the other half of his soul. He didn't want to drive 
away Trish as well.

"*I know enough of your past to know that you may never be 
comfortable loving and accepting another man in your life. In your 
bed is another question entirely, and you've done that often enough 
that it's second nature. But to love one--really love one, as I love 
you--that's hard for you. I know that. And I don't want to 
interfere.*"

That was the section that hurt the worst. Because he knew the truth 
of it, engraved deeper than his skin, into his very bones. Even at 
the ten-year mark, when women had ceased being of any interest to 
him, he still wasn't comfortable loving men, really loving men. Men 
were great lays, men had some good points, but love one? Really, 
truly *love* one? Please.

Except, he had. Once. He could remember the feeling. He just 
didn't know if he could love anyone else. 

*and dance the edge of sanity
I've never been this close
in love with your ghost*

Seven years into their separation, he'd worked his way up as a writer 
to the bestseller lists, for fiction and non-fiction. Fiction was a 
set of stories as overdriven as Six Feet Under's guitars: strong, 
powerful, Americans-in-space stories. He'd been called the new 
Heinlein, which had promptly made him run to the stores, snapping up 
Heinlein books right and left. By and large he approved of the 
designation, and privately, was amused that several of his characters 
had spawned slash stories on the net. He remembered back when he and 
Bob had been comic-book characters for a while, and how many Bluntman 
and Chronic love stories he'd found at one point. Of course, now, 
Bluntman and Chronic memorabilia was "retro", and he'd turned a tasty 
profit on certain items on eBay.

It was a living. And, of course, the really amazing part of that 
year was his status on the nonfiction lists. Critics raved it was a 
work of genius. Women flocked to him, ready and able to share his 
pain. He shook his head, bemused at the attention, wondering why it 
was better for people to read of the horrible things he'd lived 
through, than for him to live through them. The first book focused 
on the first 20 years of his life, from the first time he was hit to 
the last time he was sold, Everyone was astounded he was still sane.

Fuck that. He had to be sane. Or at least, he was pretty sure he 
was sane. Or at least, he was sane before he drove Bob away. Now he 
had a new set of interesting coping mechanisms, but they got him 
through his days.

And besides, he'd been too worried the bulk of that year that Bob was 
going to show up on his doorstep. He had mentioned him in the book, 
after all. He'd made no effort to conceal the name, yet, oddly, no 
one seemed to connect the Silent Bob in his book to the "Robert 
Quietus" who was the lead singer of Six Feet Under. He always had to 
laugh when he heard the name. Apparently they'd both decided pen 
names were useful things.

*unknowing captor
you'll never know how much
you pierce my spirit
but I can't touch you
can you hear it
a cry to be free
or I'm forever under lock and key
as you pass through me*

Ten years into things, he thought he'd finally managed to settle 
down. Successful writer, enough money to finally buy a small house 
and a small bar and start saving for that rainy day everyone talked 
about. Property-owner. Who would have thought Junkie Jay would go 
so far? More books had been forced from the pen, more kudos, some 
hate mail here and there, and yet, not once had he ever been booked 
on a show with SFU as a musical guest. He began to wonder if it was 
something in Bob's contract with each show.

He'd been on the Tonight Show, Late Night, Later, the Daily Show, 
even Saturday Night Live once, and they'd gone so well he'd even 
briefly thought of acting. But he was 38 now, and feeling the urge 
to slow down a bit. No more eighteen-hour days for him, thanks.

Besides, in moving, he'd found Bob's letter again. And of course, 
he'd had to reread it.

"*So, as hard as this will be for me, I'm leaving. I'm already gone, 
if you're reading this. I can't live with you and have only half of 
you; I need all of you or nothing. And since I can't have all of 
you, as petty as it may sound, I'm choosing nothing.*"

*now I see your face before me
I would launch a thousand ships
to bring your heart back to my island
as the sand beneath me slips*

Nothing. That word had burned through him in 2014. I'll show you 
nothing, he thought. I'll prove it to you. It had been his most 
productive year yet, but it was a year swollen with resentment, 
seething with anger he'd somehow forgotten to express. Book after 
book, article after article poured from his pen, just as the bar was 
taking off and he began to book bands, shows, drag extravaganzas.

Because that was the second surprising thing. Gay bar. Junkie Jay 
owned a gay bar. But he didn't seem to mind. Hell, some of his best 
customers were his best friends, now--Hooper. Banky. Hell, even 
Holden dropped by now and again, still not able, himself, to face 
being gay in the open.

And Jason had met Jamie at an after-party. Short, vibrantly red-
headed, enough attitude for ten terriers on steroids. And so 
profoundly unlike Bob. Oh, he'd had dates now and again, women and 
men, until he'd started to add the numbers up and figured out which 
way he was leaning, and took it seriously. But he'd always measured 
them up against Bob. Bob the lost. Bob the lifemate. Bob, the 
meaning behind the pattern of Jay's life.

Jamie was the only one who took it in stride. He liked Six Feet 
Under as much as Jay did, and didn't mind Jay's reason. In fact, he 
was young enough to think it kind of cool that the lead singer of a 
major band was gay. And slowly, he wore away Jay's defenses, though 
not aggressively, not painfully. His was an odd mix of gentility and 
savagery, good for what ailed Jay, and what ailed the bar. And 
slowly, Jay emerged from self-imposed isolation, and took back his 
life, making his reality vibrate with the force of his personality. 
About damn time, as Jamie would say. Yeah. Maybe. And maybe it was 
just love.

One year into the relationship, Jamie had moved in, and Jay had 
really thought this was it. This was true love. Forever-like, 
even. But sometimes, even true love isn't enough.

It hadn't been with Bob.

"*I hope you'll be happy with her,*" Jay remembered reading. "*I 
hope she gets out and everything works out for you both. I've left 
my number with Trish, and if you ever need to reach me--for anything, 
Jay--please call her. She'll get me the message.

"*I love you. Please remember that. Be happy.

"*Bob*"

And he'd never called him. Not once. He'd wanted to, a double 
handful of times, but he'd always found a reason not to. And he 
clung to it, even when life seemed hopeless, even when life seemed 
barren of all good things. He had to stand on his own. How would 
Bob ever respect him if he couldn't solve his own problems? And 
after a while, he forgot the reasons why he wouldn't call. It just 
became a point of honor not to. The longer he held out, obscurely, 
the better he felt.

And that lasted until today.

*as I burn up in your presence
and I know now how it feels
to be weakened like Achilles
with you always at my heels*

2016. Two years into the relationship, two years into owning the 
bar. Two years of exploration and adoration blossoming into love. 
Two years of Jamie encouraging him, delighting him, involving him, 
challenging him. And now...this. Letter in a box. Picture in a box. 
Why?

He folded up the letter, placing it carefully back into the box. He 
shook his head. Why now, he thought, swiping a finger across the 
frosting. Carefully he licked it clean, staring at the bar behind 
him. Staring at Jamie, sitting at the bar.

Excellent question. He turned to Jamie, calling his name.

The young man turned, cocking his head. Jay waved the letter.

"Why this, Jamie? Why now?"

"You needed to see it now."

Jason blinked.

"Why, exactly?"

"You needed to reacquaint yourself with the past."

"I'm fairly familiar with my past. We're on good speaking terms."

"Are you really?" Jamie's enigmatic smile did not light a glow in 
his grey eyes, as he crossed the polished floor towards Jay. 
Carefully, he pulled out a large, squarish manila envelope from his 
vest pocket.

"Because this is the future, and it sounds a lot like your past."

"What?" Jason rose, walking towards the diminutive man, taking the 
letter from his hands. He turned the envelope over and over, staring 
at it. It was addressed to Jamie. It was from Trish.

"Well? Aren't you going to open it?"

"I'm assuming you already have," he said softly.

"Jason. You'd think you were suspicious or something."

"Well...why would Trish be writing you?"

"Because I answered the phone one day, stupid. And we got to 
talking. Turns out I know one of her sisters."

Jason shook his head. "Don't tell me, I don't want to know. 
So...what...?" he asked, looking at Jamie.

"Open...envelope," Jamie said patiently. He reached out, flipping 
the flap back, waiting for Jay to reach inside. 

It contained four items, each one a hammer blow all its own. The 
first was a new color glossy of Bob, standing with his bandmates, his 
arm around one of them, a man with hair nearly blue-black and almond-
shaped dark eyes. The picture was signed simply, `Bob", across the 
guitar he held.

The letter was even simpler: "Jamie," it said. "Get him here." And 
it was signed with Trish's name. Inside the letter were two tickets 
to see Six Feet Under at the Coliseum, that night.

"This is...it's..." He looked up, his breath hitching even as he 
tried to slow it down and breathe evenly. Jamie touched his arm 
lightly.

"Hey, remember me? It's still me. I just want this cleared up."

"Why?"

In answer, Jamie hugged him close, standing on his tiptoes to gently 
kiss Jay, before releasing him and stepping back.

"Because we're getting serious. And you still have a serious thing 
for guitar-boy, there. I wanna know how serious it gets before we go 
any further."

Jay looked back down at the picture in his hands. Twelve years. 
Everything can change in twelve years. Would he even want Bob at 
this point? Would Bob want him?

"And what if I find out I still want him?"

Jamie's eyes, unbelievably, were understanding. "Then we've had a 
good run." And he smiled wickedly. "And I have better stories to 
tell the boys now."

Jay laughed, shaking his head, and walked Jamie back to the bar.

*and my bitter pill to swallow
is the silence that I keep
that poisons me
I can't swim free
the river is too deep*

Two hours before the show, Jay had shown up. He'd managed to find 
another ticket online, and had let Jamie and Rusty take the tickets 
that had come in the letter. He wandered up to the back entrance, 
wondering if this was going to work.

He stepped up to the security guard on duty. 

"Hey," he said softly, smiling vaguely. "I don't know if this--"

The guard looked down at the book he held. "It's you," he said 
wonderingly. "You're him. I mean, you're he--I mean--you're 
Fletcher, aren't you? Jason Fletcher?"

Huh. Not a first, but the first time he'd been caught by a security 
guard *that* way. He looked down, scanning the title of the book. 
*Trophy Boy*, it said.

"Yeah," he said, bemused. "That sold pretty well."

"Um, can I ask--can you, um--sign it?" The guard looked up, a 
familiar glitter in his wide eyes. Jay half-smiled, tilting his head.

"I'll trade you," he said.

"What?"

"I sign the book, you let me in for a while?"

The guard pursed his lips. "I don't know if I can--"

"Hey, it's cool," he said, holding up the ticket. "I can come back 
later." Then he played the hole card.

"I was just researching some new material," he said softly. "What 
it's like backstage at rock concerts. Thought if I could speak to 
the band, talk to some of the roadies...?"

And just like that, he was in, the guard respectfully at his side. 
Fame had its uses. He was shown the access tunnels, the guard 
station, and managed to pause long enough by the backstage entrance 
to sign the book. It was now or never, he thought, hoping the fates 
would smile on him.

But the moment came and went. Sighing silently, he signed the book, 
and walked slowly back outside with the guard, the guard taking the 
tour to the side of the stage where the dressing rooms were. Before 
they reached the entrance to the tunnel, however, a dark-haired man 
stepped out from the curtain onstage, walking down the short flight 
of stairs and brushing up against the guard with a murmured apology. 
Immediately the guard got out of the way. Jay stood there.

He'd always abhored the phrase, 'time stood still'. It was such an 
unbelieveable cliche. But for this moment, this single, glittering 
moment, he might have believed time had slowed a little, in the 
circle they stood within.

Bob's head rose, and Jay was waiting when those coffee-dark eyes took 
him in, and widened. It was funny, he thought, how little Bob had 
changed, compared to how much he had. He'd grown into an adult, 
shoulders broadened, suits pressed, hair neatly combed back. Bob, on 
the other hand, still looked much like the man who'd left him twelve 
years ago. Maybe a little thinner, maybe a little wiser, but he 
still kept the close-cropped dark beard that Jay remembered. And his 
hair was longer now, long enough to brush mid-chest, and Jay 
suppressed a shiver, thinking of what that hair would be like, 
brushing his skin.

"Jay," he said quietly, his eyes nearly stabbing through him, picking 
him apart and storing him in Bob's memory whole.

The guard looked from singer to writer and back again.

"You know Mr. Fletcher?" he asked, mouth an O of surprise.

Bob's mouth quirked. "Yeah, you could say that. We used to be 
roommates."

And still they couldn't stop looking at each other. The guard 
drifted off, assured that Jason wouldn't cause trouble, and whole 
minutes passed, both of them unsure of what to say. Finally, their 
contemplation was broken by the almond-eyed man in the photograph.

"Hey, babe," the man said, swinging down from the stage. "We need 
you to run through A channel with us, see how it bounces in the 
space."

Bob looked at Jay, looked back at the man.

"Austin...yeah," he said. The man leaned over, kissing him soundly, 
wrapping an arm around his waist briefly.

"Don't be long," he said, trailing the words behind him like pearls 
as he vaulted onto the stage.

"Don't go anywhere," Bob said, looking at him. Jay only smiled.

"I'm here, aren't I?"

Bob stared intently at him, leaned forward as if on impulse, brushing 
his lips across Jay's. Then he turned, climbing the stairs to the 
stage again. For the next few moments, Jay heard them running scales 
through the various channels, snippets of tunes he recognized, 
snippets of songs he didn't. He stood there, an oddly bemused look 
on his face, touching his lips gently.

Finally, Austin and the other band members were satisfied, and they 
wandered off, yelling catcalls and friendly insults back at their 
lead singer. Bob waited until they'd all left, then walked back to 
the edge of the stage, still holding his guitar. He stood there, 
looking unsure of himself, or unsure of Jay.

Jay looked up at him. Bob looked back, looked after his departing 
band members, and sighed.

"I guess we need to talk," Bob said, nearly whispering the words.

"So let's talk," Jay said, nearly as quietly, leaning against the 
stage. Bob sat down, leaning his guitar on his lap, carefully 
unplugging it from the amp.

But for a long time, neither man spoke. They just stared at each 
other. Smiling.

*though I'm baptized by your touch
I am no worse than most
in love with your ghost*

END BEGINNING
(Song, mostly intact, is "Ghost" by the Indigo Girls)
*****
Kelandris the Mad
curling up in the house of the snake