Confounded: Part II - 42. Chapter 42

CHAPTER 42 --==Taylan’s POV==--

“Music.”

“Now that… is a good answer,” I returned, shooting a glance sideways as we were driving down to the supermarket for groceries. Or, well…that’s what he thought we were going. “Now tell me why?”
Tom shrugged.

“I dunno. You asked what I wanted to do with my life; that’s what I wanna do.”

“You wanna compose? Produce? Be in a band? And what genre? Pop, rock, classical, new age?”

“Gothic.”
Really?

“Hmm, okay…as?”

“Composer, producer. I don’t think I’d do the performing so much.”

“Why? Can’t you sing?”

“God, no. Not if my life depended on it.”

“Somehow I think it would,” I grinned. “Have you tried?”

“No…”

“So try…”
I signaled a left and waited for the oncoming traffic to show a gap, so I could pull into the parking lot. He hadn’t seen yet where we were actually going. The perks, I guess, of someone not knowledgeable of this part of town.
“Have you composed before? Or just copied?”

“I just copy, I guess.”

“How?”

“I dunno. I hear it, I get to a keyboard and I can do it.”
He halted there and then, as if it was some major concession, he added, “After a few tries.”

“You have no idea how awesome that is? I’ve heard you do Tubular Bells, for god sakes, with a lot of thingamabobs in there.”

“Thingamabobs?”

“You know; the drums and shit.”

“The drums and shit…it’s called instruments, Maestro.”

“Whatever, you know what I mean.”

“Don’t play ditzy with me, you’re far more intelligent than you let people see.”

“So are you,” I shot back, finally pulling into the lot. “So here’s an idea. Just do instrumental stuff. Y’know, like soundtracks. Or…do it all alone, and be Michael Jackson.”

“Pffft! If I’d try to dance like that, my nose would fly off.”

“I think his did, at some point in time. They plastered some Barbie nose on him, after.”
He chuckled at that.

“Nah, I’m not destined to die so young. For one, Kit wouldn’t let me.”

“That’s a good thing,” I answered, pulling into a spot and shifting the gear to park.

“Yeah, yeah,” he waved, exiting the car.
And then, as he stretched and looked around, his eye caught the name of the store.
“Oh no. No, no, no, no you don’t. We’re getting out of here!”
He unsuccessfully tried to open the door, which I’d just locked with the remote. I grinned.

“Oh yes. Now come along, and be a good boy. I might even throw in lunch, if you behave.”

“I’m not getting a new monkey suit!”
He eyed the store wearily, just as a guy, and damn, some hunk of a guy, exited with what was obviously new threads. I practically swooned at the sight of him. Just replace his head with Mitchell’s and I’d be golden. Come to think of it, the body too. Ahuh, and his height. Mhm, oh yeah. Just leave the suit and dress my man in it. Ooh…the things I’d do to that.
“Dad’s bringing mine tomorrow!”

“No he’s not. Your mom told me that she’d prefer to gift them to Gary Glitter, once he gets out of the slammer and managed to convince your dad, so he’s not bringing the rags. The last time you wore them were about a year ago, to church. And even then you’d already outgrown them.”

“I agreed to wear those! I’m not going in there.”
True to statement, he seemed glued to the asphalt of the parking lot. I waved to the store, letting its window advertising speak for itself.

“It’s Armani,” I said.

“And?”

“AND? Whattayamean ‘AND’? They’re heaven. Or, at least, that’s what I’m told. Like some piece of orgasm you put on, without the spunk to soil it. Well, not on the outside. Put them on and you’ll come. Or so I’m told. In my experience, it’s when I take em off, but hey, semantics. Both Kit’s and Mitchell’s come from here.”

“Fine, I’ll take em off Kit, when he comes home.”

“Don’t be silly, his won’t fit you, you cross dresser. Now come, you big baby.”

“Nope. Not going in there. I’d rather wear an evening dress.”

“Sure, after we're done here, we’ll go to Rodeo Drive and fit you in one of those that Dolly Parton dresses in.”

“I don’t have the boobs for that.”

“Your butt will fit nicely in the bodice, then; we’ll just have it altered.”

“Tay!”

“You’re going in there.”

“No, I’m not.”

“I’ll have em come out and do it right here,” I threatened.

“Fine. Go for it.”

“They’ll do your inside leg for all to see.”

“Don’t care, not going in there.”
Goddamn stubborn kid. Ok, fine.

“Alrighty then. You wait here, I’ll be right back.”

It took about five minutes, but I got the manager to come out, and one of his uber-queer assistants, decked out with a heap of slacks hanging over his arms, ties and some shirts. Myself, I carried matching jackets on coat hangers, and the manager carrying several boxes of shoes.
It had taken only one minute to actually convince them. The remainder of the minutes to grab some stuff, whatever their size. I didn’t care, that kid was going in here.

Tom’s eyes actually bulged when he saw the parade heading for him.

“Are you nuts!?”
I shrugged.

“You said ‘go for it’, so I did. Now spread em so Antoine can do what he does best. Inside leg first, Antoine. Oh wait, let me get my camera first.”

“Tay! No, not you; get away from me with that thing, what are those, anyway, pliers? ….TAY!”

I backed up with my phone in prime position for a shot. True to form, Antoine actually tried to go for it. Oh god, this was a hoot!

“You come near me with that thing and I’ll kill you with it. TAY! Tell him to stop!”
I backed up further. Oh, this was too good.
“Tay! Dammit….fine! Alright, I’ll go in! No, stop it, dude. Stay away from me. What’re you deaf?”

“Antoine?” I yelled, “could you move a little? I can’t make this shot, with you in the way. Although, his boyfriend might think you’re giving him a blowj...”

“TAY!”
I lowered the phone.

“What!?”

“I’ll go in…”

“Out of your own free will?”

“Under protest.”

“Antoine….?”

“Fine! Free will, free will! No, no…you stay right here.”

**********

“You’re evil,” he hissed, as soon as we were inside in the cool, air-conditioned, store.

“Ahuh. I know. But poor Antoine, he’s out there, and do you know how hot it is outside?”

“I don’t care, he’s not coming near me with those…things.”
I grinned and I led him toward a cubicle for changing.

“You can’t let him stay out there.”

“I’m the customer; he stays right where I tell him to stay!”
Jerk. I signaled Antoine to come back in when Tom’s back was turned to the window and closed the curtain.

“Ah, so now you’re buying? Off, please. Try this one.”

Tom shot me a look that would’ve burned me alive if it had the power to do so as I handed him a pale blue dress-shirt in his size. He complied and yanked his black T-shirt over his head, letting it fall to the floor and stabbed his arms into the sleeves, beginning to button it up.

“You know damn well I don’t want this crap. You’re turning me into mass-sheep. I really didn’t think you’d do that. I thought you were like me, a free agent.”

“I’d have gone further. And I haven’t been a free agent since Mitchell came along.”

“You’re evil,” he reiterated. Then his eyes widened when the curtain of the cubicle slid aside and a visibly relieved Antoine appeared, still wiping a handkerchief over his brow. “No, you go away! Out!”

The poor guy blanched and turned to do exactly that. Tom was seething, anger radiating off of him. Heck, even I almost took a step back.

"Tom, knock it off; behave. Antoine? He's all bark, no bite. Trust me. We need you. He needs you. We need five.”

“One!”

“Five,” I repeated. “Inside leg, Antoine. And that’s just suits. Stop prancing like a pony, he’ll give you a vasectomy if you don’t stand still. You’ll have ten shirts, Tom. No less. Shall we go outside and repeat this performance? In your undies, this time? And sterilized?”
He’d unbuttoned his jeans just far enough, I guess to push in the new shirt. Not gonna happen.
“Nuh-uh; drop em, please.”

The jeans went, this time with a scathing expletive that even the manager colored to his ears. Antoine did his quickest work ever and returned mere seconds later. A dark grey pair of exquisitely tailored pants were offered, angrily grabbed and put on. A belt followed, and a matching jacket. Lastly, shoes.

“Turn.”

“No.”

“Turn!”
Dejectedly, Tom turned.

Oh god, he looked like a million bucks! If only he allowed himself to look in the mirror. And take that hideously uncomfortable look of his face.

“I knew it. Tie. Dark blue.”

“If you hand me a tie, I’ll hang myself with it!” Tom ground out, causing Antoine to draw back instantly. Poor guy, Tom really had him scared out of his wits.

“Gimme two, and I’ll hang him myself if he fails to get one around his neck.”

“Tay, please….I really don’t want this.”

“Tough. Chin up.”
I expertly knotted a double Windsor in record time and lowered the collar, smoothed it beneath the jacket and stepped back.

Hot damn.

“Turn. Look at yourself. And take that ugly expression off your face. Look!”
He didn’t even try.

“Fine. I wanna see this with a light-pink shirt.”

“Like hell you will! I’m not wearing pink!”

“What then?”

“White.”

“Fine. Bring white. And pink.”

“No.”

“I have all day, Tom. And you’ll try it on.”

“I will not!”

He wore the pink. A light and a dark one too. He looked awesome in it. And the white. And the light grey. And the Bordeaux red. Even the mint-green. The striped one, the black one (he grudgingly asked for two of those, one buttoned down, form fitting), the dark grey, the light blue, the dark one too (and a second one, buttoned down and again form fitting, at another grudging request). The striped black. The tuxedo was a gift from us, Mitchell and me, including bowtie, pocket square, wingtip shirt (his hesitant question to Antoine if there wasn't supposed to be a shirt with 'them pointy things') and even cufflinks. The rest from his parents and me personally, though he didn’t know it. And instead of five, he walked with eight. Eight suits, of which three were three-piece because even if he didn’t say it, it was kind of obvious that he liked those. Four pair of shoes. He also got two pairs of jeans and a weeks’ worth of underwear.

When he heard the total, once done, he went white as a sheet when I handed over the platinum card. And asked for the nearest toilet.

**********

“You blindsided me.”

“And once you got into it, you took to it like Paris Hilton in a sex video,” I replied, steering us out of the parking lot.

“I did not!”

“Then why are you wearing a new shirt and new jeans?” I asked, pointedly looking at his clothes. “Admit it; you liked it. And you like the clothes, each and every one of them.”

He mumbled something

“You chose every one of them. I just pointed but you had the final choice.”

Another mumble.

“Ingrate,” I mumbled, myself. But he heard it.
He remained silent for long minutes while we drove back home. It was close to five pm.

“Thank you,” he suddenly said. Moodily.
Risking a glance sideways, he met my eyes. I held it for the few seconds I was allowed, before I had to turn my attention back to the road.

“You’re welcome.”
Looking at the exit, I recognized another one. And continued, while we should’ve gotten off. He knew as well that I missed our exit, and I felt his gaze on me.

“Where are we going?”

“You’ll see.”

**********

“Flowers?” He asked, when I pulled into the small lot in front of a florist. Hesitantly, he followed me as I exited the car and approached.

“Yes. What’s your favorite color?”
Inside, fragrance wafted everywhere.

“Pink,” he returned, deadpan, the meaning clear.
Fine. Be a dick. He’d still looked awesome in it. But he’d get his wish.

“A dozen,” I told the girl who’d come to help. “Long-stemmed, pink.”

“What are you doing?”

“Buying roses.”

“Why?”

“You’ll see.”

**********

“No.”

“Yes.”

“I’m not putting pink roses on his grave.”

“You chose em.”

“I was trying to…”

“You were trying to get back at me. It backfired. You’re still a little shit but I love you anyway. And as the little shit you are, you get to give them to him. Now, which grave?”

He indicated to his right.

We came upon the stone and I looked down. It said the year of birth and the year of death beneath his name; those years were far too close together. Then I handed the flowers over.

“Say goodbye, Tom.”
His head whipped around.

“What?”

“Say goodbye. You’re alive, he’s not. Kit is alive, he’s not. I never knew him, but I doubt he would want you to stall, to not let go. You’re young. And as tragic as his loss was, I’ll be that dick to tell you to cut this last tether. I don’t want you coming back here, ever. This part is over. A new one has already begun. Let it soar where it is supposed to go. And let him soar to where he needs to go. Because he needs to be free of your mind.”
I nodded down.
“Let go.”

I walked away then, back to the car and, leaning against the hood, saw the hardest thing I’d ever seen; a young guy, who should not have seen what he did, slowly coming to kneel in his new jeans, his face contorting…and place pink roses on the cold stone.

**********

It took him half an hour to finally, really let go. It was hard to watch. Even harder to see him stand up, bent like an old man. He turned, once. Then turned back, placing his hand on the gravestone. Then he turned for a second time. And walked away.

His new jeans were grass-stained at the knees. But walk he did. His own choice.

**********

He walked straight into me, his head connecting with my chest. He cried silently as I embraced him tightly, letting him deal with his emotions. Just the shudder of his body showed the actual crying.

“Shhh…it’s okay. You’re free. He’s free. Perhaps, if you believe such things, you may meet again. Elsewhere. No more pilgrimage down here. You’ve done your part. ”
He tightened his hold.

“Why did you make me do this…?”

“I dunno…at the time, when I thought about it, it seemed right. A new beginning. The clothes seemed like a good excuse. They’re a new beginning. So is Kit. Does he deserve anything less than all of you?”

“No…”

“Then there’s your answer. Don’t cheat him out of any part of you. It was time.”

He pulled back and looked me straight in the eye, a puzzled look in his. And then it was gone. A watery smile came up, then.

“Yeah,” he said. “It was time.”