3. Highlander

 

The other Boys liked it because it was shown in English, and it was cheesy but Kevin looked a little like Adrian Paul, and in the early days, he says that'd helped with the girls. Now it's the other way round maybe, but they can all still quote lines from it.

Aaron knows it the way he knows about He-Man or Blossom. Cheesy TV shows his brother had grown up on, the way New Kids on the Block makes Nick wince, but mean nothing to Aaron except that Joey McIntyre had managed to come back, so there's hope if Aaron ever bombs. He listened dutifully to their albums, swore not to ever call himself funky, and told Nick with a straight face that his favourite was Danny.

Someone he likes in Harry Potter wrote other stuff, nothing he really knew. He doesn't get to watch a lot of TV. It has to be taped and set aside, and he has better things to do than watch TV, so he learns the right names from magazines and tries not to mix them up in interviews.

She did Highlander, and he remembers that, a couple of episodes that Nick had on tape. Lazy Saturday afternoon, Nick home for a break, and he'd been eleven, and there had been sun coming through the window. Over the back of their legs, stretched out on the floor in front of the TV, and Nick had fallen asleep, snoring quietly.

Aaron reads the Highlander story, and finds another one, and another.

He isn't sure why he reads them, but sitting in a hotel bathroom one night, off the bus for the weekend, with a glass of minibar whisky in one hand, and the blunt side of a knife against his other, he thinks maybe he does. He takes a sip, wincing as he swallows. The knife isn't really sharp, the kind of wooden-handled knife used to slice apples. His hand curves around it, palm folding around the blade, the sharp bite almost breaking his skin, almost.

He puts the glass down on the sinktop and slides onto the floor of the shower stall. He thinks maybe he'll cut himself, the way teenage girls do in the magazines that have his interviews, and he thinks it sounds a helluva lot better drunk than before. Turn the water on and watch the blood swirl down the drain. Little cuts on his thighs, little sharp slices.

He tips his head back against the tiles and lets the knife fall silently on his lap. His pants are wet from the damp floor, and he's cold and drunk. Slice, and he'd bleed and then he'd have to go and ask Lisa for help, and it just isn't worth it.

He drinks the rest of the whiskey, throws up and has another shower.

He thinks about Methos in bed. Not the other thoughts, the kind he has in the rush to shower and get out the door in the mornings, a slip-slide of bodies twisting, tongue and cock, bodies opening and closing, under hands, knives, kisses.

He thinks about being old, so old everyone else is ephemeral and slips away like dust. He thinks about losing Angel, losing Leslie, his parents. He thinks about seeing Kevin and Howie grow old, going to their funerals and waking up in a city where no-one remembered him, remembered now.

Aaron slips his hands under his pillow and stretches out. The air-conditioner hums and he closes his eyes and thinks about Duncan and the way Methos watched him. Thinks about a sword at his throat and being forced to his knees. He doesn't take his hands out from under the pillow even though he's achingly hard. His hips move, hotel blankets a heavy, even weight over him. Everything laundered and clean, anonymous. He likes hotels, likes his bus with the sheets from his own bed, but he likes hotels more.

Sword against his throat, one cut. Blood trickling down the hollow, and there's nothing to do but wait. His hips jerk up and he curls his hands into fists, breathes until he's steady, until he's back on his knees, and there was nothing but loathing in Duncan's voice, nothing but fear. I'm dangerous, Aaron thinks. Older than you, older than everything. I could kill you, and I'm letting you kill me. I could hurt you so much.

In an alleyway, on the boat. In a field. Ice all around, nothing but the clang of swords and broken screams. People dying and quickenings burning. Falling to his knees, pinned down, and there was nothing like the first kiss, nothing except the first shove. Back on his knees, and eyes closed, mouth open, waiting.

Aaron comes, silently. He rolls over to the edge of the bed, pulls the blankets up in a heap over his head, and goes to sleep.

 

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