They talked and they talked, and they talked some more…but not about what they wanted to, not exactly. Both were beating around the bush, because talking about what they wanted to was just, frankly, too damn personal and too damn risky yet. Neither felt comfortable. But Head knew that he had to bring it up, because it was killing him inside. He just had to start off slowly.

"So…you going out with Ethan, now?"

Munky shook his head, no. This clearly surprised Head. Was Ethan a one-night stand, then? No. A booty call that would last until they got out of Chicago? …Fuck buddies?

"Duuude."

"Sorry, just asking, man."

Shrug. "I guess we’ll write after tomorrow. And just be friends."

This was hard: "Were you safe?" Munky was confused. "You know…using a, um…" It took Head five seconds to spit out ‘condom’.

"No. It was sex, but not actual sex-sex."

Head tried to pretend that he understood…and failed miserably.

Munky didn’t know why he wanted to know what they had done, and made that clear before he spit out, "We didn’t fuck up the ass." Munky fought the anger and the frustration welling up inside him. Cherry rose in his cheeks. He had to fight it; they weren’t done yet.

That’s all Head wanted to hear. "I just don’t want you to get an STD man, that’s all."

"Don’t worry about me."

"But I do. I do, a lot."

There was silence for a couple of minutes. Head finally sat down on the closed lid of the small toilet, and it almost looked comical. He crossed one leg over the other. The bathroom was so small and cramped that Head’s face was only about a foot away from Munky’s stomach. Head noticed that the black of Munky’s shirt meshed well with the gray strip of wallpaper running horizontally across the wall at Munky’s midriff. A couple years ago, a committee of interior designers decorated the tour bus. They did a good job with the rest of the tour bus, but the bathroom looked like an old blind woman’s closet. The bland wallpaper was peeling in the humidity.

Sure, ignore making the shitter pretty. Who could ignore the logic in that?

"Anything else?" Munky prodded. He wasn’t going out with Ethan; he hadn’t had sex-sex with Ethan. He was clean. Don’t worry, Head, you’re not gonna get AIDS from living with me.

"Yes, there’s something else," Head admitted.

Munky waited. He shifted his weight from side to side uncomfortably.

"I know that in front of everyone you implied that you never had any…attraction towards any of us…"

Munky knew where this was going. He groaned.

"…but have you?" Head looked very nervous, Munky caught at once. He wasn’t nervous in an uncomfortable kind of way…this was more like…

(what was the right word?)

Again Munky needed a thesaurus to describe it. There was a certain vulnerability in Head as he blurted the question and waited for an answer. He wanted to know: Had Munky ever, ever, ever looked at any of them and thought something. Even if it was just a passing fancy, anything to award a raised eyebrow or a brief thought. Anything.

Attraction.

Oh, Munky had been attracted.

But he would never admit that.

Was Head testing him? Why was he asking Munky that, and acting so goddamn exposed while he did? There was just something wrong in the way he sat, his legs tight together, as if he had tucked himself in for protection. As if Munky could wound him. His large beautiful green eyes were big and glassy. Munky looked away. Head took the opportunity to quickly wipe the arch of his eyebrow and at the same time smudge a tear. Head’s hands trembled.

Just thinking of asking was wrong. So why was he actually doing it? Putting himself on the line? Over the years he had suffered through many restless nights, and he just finally had to be sure. He needed closure; this last straw, Munky’s coming out, made things so much worse. Eventually Munky’s lips parted to respond, but as Head watched them, time froze.

It sucked that Munky had come out. Now, Head was tiptoeing on ice. Anything Head did would arouse suspicion. He had to make sure that any affection was subliminal and/or private. Munky expected things to change between them. As a consequence, Munky assumed there would be no more touching. No more massages or private conversations in the dark. Munky didn’t want all that to stop, but assumed it would, because Head’s façade didn’t tolerate queers.

It was clear that Munky expected to be an arm’s length from his best friend from now on. Just so that Head felt comfortable.

The impulses were so strong in Head that he slowly got up. Munky muttered the words, "No. I’ve never been—attracted—to any of you."

Head winced, and Munky saw it. Head braced Munky’s shoulders, feeling the strong muscles twitching beneath his shirt, and put his face very close to his. Despite the sweat curdling on his lip, he asked Munky, straight in the face, searching his soul, "Tell me the truth."’

Please let him say no again, a voice in Head’s mind argued. Think of Jen and Bekkah—

Head’s voice faltered. A whimper escaped him at the thought. He didn’t even have control of his own body. His heart was speaking. His heart, instead of his head, was holding Munky, searching his eyes, hunting for something, anything, to give him hope that Munky felt the same way. His mind screeched desperately, but Head wasn’t listening to his head.

Oh, his heart ached.

Munky’s lips moved again, and in the fuzzy confusion that was his reality Head didn’t catch the sound of his words. But he read Munky’s lips.

I’ve never liked you that way. Stop this.

Head knew Munky was lying. He had to be lying.

He had better be lying, because Head couldn’t take it anymore.

It hit Munky like a semi: Head wants to kiss me.

His large hands touched Jimmy in a new way, not far fetched from the lingering tenderness of their massages but more sensual, more nervous. Before Head knew it, he had pressed his body against his, subtly, then more assuredly as his fingers trailed paths over Munky’s curved upper body until they eased onto the nooks just above his pelvic bones. Munky wanted to ask him what he was doing, but couldn’t mutter a word. He was watching Head’s lips as they came together and parted anxiously; the uneven stubble that lined his mouth and the hint of a hidden tongue consumed him. Warm breath against his neck, a quaking twig breaking the path of a clear wind. Cologne that smelled like fresh babies. A swinging pair of entwined braids. Just the warmth of him.

Fear swept through Munky.

He realized that he wasn’t surprised.

He loved Head.

And Head loved him.

This was it. After all these years.

Complete certainty.

Finally.

Head sat up in his cubby. He clicked a button on his Rolex to illuminate it: he had a couple hours before practice. It would be hell, he knew, and the dream he had made him shake.

Afternoon wood.

It was so real. A ring of sweat trickled down from his neck onto his T-shirt. He changed. David was still sitting in the living room with Ethan, and Munky was out there with them this time. They weren’t racing anymore; Ethan secretly let David win a tournament, and that afternoon David was the proudest straight man in the entire world.

The actual conversation between Munky and Head in the bathroom had been to the point, but only scratched the surface of what they wanted to talk about. Head had almost lost control; his dream was a modified version of their conversation. He had thought about it, but hadn’t gotten up the balls to actually reveal himself. To ask if Munky had ever been attracted to anyone in the band.

Head had been "saved" by David who, rowdy from beer and racing games, needed to take a wicked whiz. The convo had abruptly ended. Munky and Head hugged and patted each other on the back.

Macho, macho man. I have to be a macho man.

Now, Munky was on the couch next to Ethan. Munky sat at an angle, leaning against Ethan’s chest. There was a certain light in Munky’s eye that Head had never seen before as Ethan admired his hair and played with it, marveling at how he could mold the path of his knotted dreads and make them stick out in nearly all directions. David watched with a tolerant yet blank stare. The couple sat very close together. They looked so goddamned giddy it almost made Head sick. All the blood left his face, his color fading until he was deathly pale.

He was merely a silhouette from Munky’s view. But when Munky saw him, something changed. The shine fled Munky’s face. His eyes darted towards the door. He suddenly wasn’t so happy; he almost looked ashamed. Caught.

Ethan didn’t notice and neither did David.

I hate my fucking life, Head deplored. He turned around and as silently as he came stole back into the half-darkness that was his only solace now.

With his dreams to take him places he would never go in real life.

Before he struggled for sleep, he traced the outlines of the pictures of his wife and kid. He peeled them off the wall one by one. They left a yellow residue on the wall, but he couldn’t see that in the poor light and he didn’t fucking care. He loved his family; he was going back to them very, very soon. He was determined to make himself happy for once instead of so totally involving himself in someone else’s life. He could never have Munky and he should just fucking deal…but it wasn’t that easy. He couldn’t see the fine features of his daughter’s face for they were blurred by his tears. It was better that way. He flipped through the ripped off pictures one at a time. Glue residue stuck to the calluses on his fingertips. When he was done looking at them, he lifted up a corner of his mattress and stuffed the pictures away, in the space above Jon’s favorite Playgirl magazine. The missing one. The one Head had stolen. A month ago.

Head hadn’t liked looking at it. The first time had been hell. He had vomited. But when he looked at it in the dark, drunk, fresh out of the shower, he could see Munky’s face instead of the models’. Head was fucked up. He knew it. His biggest problem was that he couldn’t accept it.

As he struggled for a sleep that wouldn’t come he prayed to just never wake up. It was easier than going back home, where those he loved had no clue what a demented fuck he was.

There, at home, surrounded by those who loved him, he was a family man.

He was no fagot.

……………………………

The booming shouts of angry voices and frustrated tones punctuated the brief period that night in which the band struggled through their first practice in two weeks. All of them were distracted, and as they looked out at the empty arena they each wondered how the hell they were going to pull off the show with decent reviews. Their manager, Kurt Krywonis, was pissed; he read them some reviews of their last few shows. Needless to say, they were less than satisfactory.

"Disgruntled confusion," complained one musical critic who had written and praised past Korn performances in his local Arizona arena for years. "Korn has, sadly, seen their best day. It’s time for Korn to hit the canned produce section…Perhaps there’s still time for this washed-up quintet to rent a garage and discover for themselves the true reason they’ll never sell out any more arenas."

…and another one…

"Though the entire band hunkered around onstage like hunchbacks in heat, the blender mix of ear-shrieking dissonance and Jonathan Davis’ (vocalist) uninspired growls somehow failed to pump up a normally rowdy crowd. Only near the end of the show did a spiffy disco light show have any effect on the audience. The best song was A.D.I.D.A.S., a spoof about masturbation….go figure. The music stunk, but hey, the guitarist looked cute in his corset."

…and the manager’s oh so favorite…

"It’s not often that you see sixteen year-old girls kick hard rock icons in the sack. These girls will be around long after the Korn guys get off the drugs and get their act together. If that ever happens."

"Hey! I don’t even do drugs!" David had protested. But the point was made. They weren’t together lately, and it was showing. They just weren’t really into it. The franchise they had built up over the years was slowly crumbling. None remembered more than David what it was like to sacrifice: he had dropped out of high school to pursue a career in music. He left the nest early and went out on his own. He was wet behind the ears but tenacious as a pit bull. Tomorrow night he was going to put on a kick ass show. It didn’t matter to him that Munky liked men. That had nothing to do with him being a great friend and a fellow musician.

Fieldy, despite efforts, wasn’t getting the message. He was as mad at Munky as he had been the morning the first groans arose from the answering machine.

It took them twice as long as it should to get through the set. Head was having problems of his own, and he kept forgetting to turn on the right pedals on cue. They had to repeat songs they had ripped through mindlessly countless times. Fieldy parked himself ten feet behind Head, practically next to David. He refused to look at Munky.

Munky was tired; he hadn’t had a night’s rest, and it was showing. His fingers kept slipping; his shoulder hurt. His mind reeled. Ethan was coming to visit him that night, and he was nervous about being with him. Actually having sex-sex with him. It was a lot of pressure.

Jon was simply a wreck. The cracks in his voice suggested that his throat was irritated. He kept going off pitch or whimping out while screaming. His heart wasn’t into it.

Until they got to Faget.

The manager requested that they play it, and Jon looked at Munky. Munky nodded. Head looked at Munky. They nodded. Head was about to start the opening riff when Fieldy decided to run his big mouth. "Wait. Wait. We shouldn’t play this. Might offend the resident cocksucker, God-fucking-forbid."

"Shut up," Head muttered. He started to play again, and messed up. Fucking-A. Their manager told him to start over again, and he fucked it up again.

"Head, just do it, come on, big boy," Fieldy teased.

That was the last straw. "Fuck you." Head slid his expensive custom Ibanez off of his shoulder and let it crash onto the ground, the strings vibrating crazily. The neck snapped and twisted back, sending splinters poking like nails at an angle towards Fieldy. Head didn’t care, even though he’d had that guitar for years.

Backstage. Ethan was there. Waiting. Listening. He didn’t look too impressed. He didn’t have a reason to be. Head sat down and pulled out a cigarette; couldn’t get a spark. Lighter out of juice. Ethan saw his despair and offered his lighter. Head lit up and puffed. There was a moment of soundlessness, some muffled shouting, and Munky started to play Head’s riff. They got through it. No one said anything to Head about it then, or ever again. His identical back-up guitar would be shipped. He would have it by tomorrow night.

He had even named the guitar that he broke. Xerxes.

That had been a damned good guitar. Oh well.

When Head got to his hotel room he took another guitar in there with him and sat down and played. Mournfully. He hummed sweetly along with his swift fingers as they plucked the extra light gauge strings. He was in the pitch darkness. He hadn’t bothered to turn the lights on. There was no need to. The hotel rooms always blended together in a confusing blur. They all looked the same. All he cared about was the tiny shower, the cooler, and the bed.

Munky was probably with Ethan. Or if he wasn’t, he would be.

The dry thrum of tuned-down, unplugged electric guitar was far from comforting. Electrics had such a metallic, wimpy sound without an amp. After about an hour, he put the guitar beside him and sprawled onto the bed. He placed his large hands onto his stomach. And thought. He went through his mental checklist of Things Head Loves to Do:

Nah. She’s sleeping.

3: Wack off

But he didn’t feel like taking a shower, and Head only really enjoyed drinking in the shower. He didn’t smell; he had taken one that morning after smoking up (another Top Ten Thing Head Loves to Do). He went through his list of Things Head Loves to Do Dead Drunk Off His Ass:

1: Look at porno

None here.

2: Choke the Bishop

Um…Nah. Hand too tired.

3: Get some weed

Jon’s got it all.

4: Visit Munkdawg.

He actually brightened.

He wanted to visit Munky. He wouldn’t get drunk. He just wanted to see him. Talk to him. Hang out with him. Convince him that they could be friends like they were before, touching and everything. Head just wanted Munky to stay in his life somehow. He needed Munky in his life.

Five minutes later, Munky opened the door to Head. Head had a twelve pack of Coors Light: a beautiful sight in Munky’s eyes.

(I don’t care if Adolf Hitler brewed it)

"I come in peace."

Munky’s head stuck out the window, and he had to close the door on Head before he let him in.

Tonight, Munky had a first-class, state of the art suite. Sometimes he felt like having one, and Brian liked to do that on occasion, too. The only problem with doing that was that it all added up after a while. All the special treatment you receive ends up coming straight out of your pocket eventually, so the standard hotel room often had to suffice. Only when Bekkah came to visit did Head get a suite. He could usually handle the homesickness okay.

That’s how Munky handled his homesickness: everyone once in a while he got a big ass suite. It was like a really big apartment, complete with master bedroom, dining room, kitchen, living room, and Jacuzzi. Head knew Munky had patted himself on the back. He had reserved the suite at a convenient time, considering that Ethan was coming to spend the night with him.

Munky’s dreadlocks dripped across his chest, and his wet body was soaking his newly-donned pair of Slipknot boxers. He smelled like chlorine, and not far away Head heard the Jacuzzi sizzling and bubbling. Munky left to turn off the Jacuzzi, but before Head could think about it, he removed his shirt. "Don’t," he insisted.

Munky went to the fridge in the kitchenette of his suite and pulled out a bottle of some old, expensive wine. Head couldn’t discern the label, but he could tell that it was something European. Europe sucked, but the alcohol was good.

Head took off his pants as Munky poured two glasses. Head remembered that he was wearing white boxers. He stopped pulling his pants down for just a moment—he would be completely see-through when he came out of the Jacuzzi—but he continued to pull it down. Munky had seen him butt-ass naked a trillion times. Just never when they were alone. He glanced up at Munky, whose lips were pursed. His face straightened in a crude attempt to hide a laugh. He realized that Head would be transparent, too.

Head jumped in. His boxers filled with air, and he opened the slit in his boxers discreetly to let the air bubble to the surface. The steam made Head’s hair frizz; Munky’s was puffy.

"Cheers," Munky resounded solemnly, and their glasses clinked before the tipped their heads back and sipped. They looked at each other as they did.

Where was Ethan? Head didn’t have to ask.

Munky moved his free hand on the top of the water as he talked. "Ethan had to work a couple hours. He wanted to come see the practice, but wasn’t too impressed. I had to explain to him all the trouble we’re going through and shit." He paused to take another sip. "He has to work a couple hours, anyway."

Head nodded. He hoped he didn’t look hurt, jealous, anxious, stupid, ugly, or any combination at the moment. Although he felt like all of the above. Head had to know. "When did this all start? When did you start being—you know?"

A thin smile cracked Munky’s lips. A sad smile. Head saw that Munky hadn’t gotten sleep in days, perhaps: his eyes were dark underneath, and his skin was dipped in yellow wax. Obviously, being this way bothered him a lot. It was a burden for him to bear, and it was harder for him to accept it than it should be for anyone else to. If only Fieldy could see that. "It actually happened a couple of days after I…"

Munky told Head everything about going to his neighbor’s, about his sessions with Shawna, about the pounding fear when she asked him seriously, "Are you gay, Jimmy?" People had asked him as a joke before, but never seriously, and when he finally fucking sat down to think about it, about his childhood, about the thoughts he occasionally had…well, he realized that he was. And all this happened, he said, in the past week or so. "After I had that dream my life just flipped completely upside-down." He didn’t expect everyone to find out so soon, he said, but he’s glad that it’s over with.

"But enough about that," he finished. He waved his hand. He was done with it, and talking about it seemed tiresome and repetitive to him at this point. "When are you going to visit Bekkah? What day? We only have a week and a half left of the tour, man, it would probably be easier if they came out to visit for a couple days instead."

Head had forgotten about talking to Munky about that. That night, backstage, where they had hugged forever. He freaked when Munky found him in the dark like that. There was no one around; they could’ve done anything they wanted. Head had been sitting on an amp, with an annoying hard on, trying to rid his mind of all his guilt. As he sat in the Jacuzzi, it came upon him that the only thing between him and loving Munky was their life-long friendship and his daughter.

Obviously, now there would be little to no awkwardness on Munky’s part to know that another man liked him, which had been Head’s main fear heretofore.

Head loved his daughter more than his wife, as most parents do, and losing Bekkah, though extremely terrible,

(stop thinking these things)

was fathomable as compared to never at least telling Munky how he felt.

By expressing his feelings for Munky, he was also risking a lifetime friendship. If they did become lovers (which Head would never let happen), they might risk everything they had established thus far in their lives. What if things just didn’t work out? What if Head didn’t want to do…physical things…with Munky? What then? The thought of being intimate with a man both disgusted and scared him shitless, so what were these deep-rooted, groundless desires?

So many questions, and no answers. No time. Ethan could show up at any minute. He finished his wine in one chugging swallow. He was quiet for a long time, and Munky looked at him curiously.

Munky talked to him a little bit as they worked through their twelve pack, but Head wasn’t really listening. He went through the motions of conversation. Grinned when Munky expected encouragement. Yep, Mmmhmm, I hear ya, okay, good idea, that’s it, awesome, man, yesyeyesyes—

"What? You think the band is going to break up because of my being—?"

Head quickly shook his head. Wrong answer. He snapped back into reality. He admitted that he hadn’t even really been listening. Instead of being insulted, Munky let loose a slow breath and let his body sink almost up to his neck in the warm water. The boiling humidity was making Head’s heart pound even faster than it had been originally. Munky’s goatee was covered in bubbles when he rose back out of the water, and Munky wiped it off thoughtfully. Finally, Munky said, "These boxers are chafing me. Couldn’t expect anything better from Slipknot boxers, though. I guess I’m not surprised."

The tone of his voice was cautious. Head figured out that Munky wanted to take them off. When the realization hit him, Munky added quickly, "Dude. I’ll put them back on before we get out. Don’t worry."

"I’m not. You just want to be naked with a hottie like me. I understand," Head joked. "Just don’t get any ideas." He had to pretend that the prospect wasn’t driving him nuts.

"Yeah, that’s it. I’m all shriveled up and not too impressive right now, anyway," Munky joked back. He leaned forward into the water and pulled down his boxers, his stomach coming very close to the surface. A wet smack. Munky’s black boxers were a hump on the tile. Munky’s eyes softened, and he looked far more relaxed.

Less than a minute later, Head was free as well. Floating free. Actually, he wasn’t floating. He was too hard for that. They were sitting only feet away from each other, and Head pretended to look comfortable as he squirmed. He moved his foot through the water, gingerly probing the Jacuzzi floor and letting the lower jets massage his calves. He stretched out his foot and it accidentally caressed Munky’s leg.

"Head?" Munky cocked an eyebrow.

Head’s mouth opened and he put his leg back. This wasn’t real. He wasn’t in a Jacuzzi with his best, newly come out friend, and he didn’t just rub Munky’s leg.

(Jenjenjenjenjenjenjenjen)

Just ask him. Get this over with.

"This is really hypothetical, Jimmy." Head was out of his mind. "It won’t affect anything if you say yes, but…"

This is it. A cold steel that was his own fear filled his mouth.

"Have you ever been attracted to any of us?"

The question lingered in the air, light to the earth as compared to the weight of the question itself. Unconsciously, Head made fists underneath the water. Either way, he was going to take it like a man, and not change anything. The answer wouldn’t affect him, he promised himself, wouldn’t hurt him if Munky said no and wouldn’t make him give up everything if Munky said yes.

Munky did say yes.

"Who?" Head cried out, surprised. He never thought that Munky would actually admit it. Admit it so forthright.

Why didn’t he just make things so much easier and say no? Why do you do this to me, James?

"Do you promise not to tell anyone?" Munky asked seriously. Head leaned forward. He was waiting for it. Munky’s tone was deep and luxurious, and his eyes twinkled a little bit. He was going to tell Head that he was attracted to him, and then Head would leave, because if he didn’t, Head would reach over again with his leg and move it against Munky’s….

Head flashed back to the time when Munky told him that he had cheated on Kaitlin, and Head had wished that he would never fuck up and give in like his best bud. But now, if he did give in, it would be to the very person that had made him vow not to cheat. He had been attracted to Munky back then, as much as he was now, but knowing that Munky could possibly like him was overwhelming.

"Do you promise not to tell anyone?"

"That depends," Head choked.

"You have to promise."

"Tell me first and then I’ll promise. I promise to promise after you tell me."

"Promise now."

"Tell me and then I’ll promise."

Munky shrugged. "Well, then, I guess I’m not going to tell you."

Head needed to know. Head wanted this moment to end as much as he wanted it to go on forever. "You want to tell me. I—" he stammered. "I can see it in your eyes."

Munky searched his face for a second. Then he settled back down. Fingered his goatee again. "I’ve thought about David a couple of times."

David?!

The tears sprung into Head’s eyes before he could stop them.

"David?" he squeaked. Whoa. What was wrong with Head? Why wasn’t his body in his control anymore? Why couldn’t he take this like a man? After all these years of expecting rejection, why couldn’t he just suck it up?

Because, in spite of all those years of knowing he would be turned down, for the past few seconds he had tasted the fluffy lightness of hope.

The smug nervousness on Munky’s face twisted into a frown. Head feared that Munky could read everything on his face like an open book. Head didn’t expect any of this, and it showed plainly.

"Look, you have to promise not to tell anyone."

"I got to go."

"Where?"

This was hell. Population: One Stupid Idiot Named Head.

"Back."

"Back where? Head, what?"

Head leaped out of the Jacuzzi, and avoided Munky as he squeezed into his wet boxers. They stuck to his skin, so he wasn’t even graceful at it. The idiocy felt inside was made obvious by his jerky movements. Munky kept his distance, but he was watching him, and that made things even worse, so he kept his eyes on the dripping tile as he pulled them up, up, up over his stiff crotch. Most of his back was to Munky, so he hoped Munky wouldn’t be able to tell from the wan light of the Jacuzzi that he had a boner. His third for the day.

David.

"Wait, dammit!" Munky cried as he tried to get into his boxers. By the time he got them on, Head zipped up his fly. He was sobbing. His world had officially fallen apart. He just wanted to go home. His shirt was over his face by the time Munky grabbed his shoulders. He yanked Head’s shirt back over his head and Head hoped that the motion had wiped away his tears. But his eyes were still red. Inside, Munky knew, but he wouldn’t admit it to himself. This was unlike anything he had ever dreamed of.

Munky hadn’t told Head the absolute truth because of what it would mean. Telling Head the truth put everything out in the open. Head claimed that it wouldn’t change anything, but Munky knew it would. If Head knew Munky thought about him a little, he wouldn’t hang around him anymore. Munky knew it would scare Head away if he told him the truth.

However, he hadn’t given him the answer Head wanted to hear.

Head pushed him away and ran for the door.

"Head—wait up, what’s wrong?" Munky grabbed his shoulder. Head whirled around and shoved him to the ground. One of Munky’s legs tripped Head, and he collapsed halfway on top of Munky. A tear from Head dripped onto Munky’s cheek. Munky blinked. Head trembled, and his body lingered over Munky’s. After a long ten seconds creeped by he scrambled to his feet. He turned away and opened the door. Before he left, he looked down at Munky again.

"I promise not to tell."

Then, he left.

Munky stayed on the floor until Ethan came. Ethan asked him if anything was wrong, and he didn’t respond. Ethan brought Vaseline, but when they got into bed together, Munky rolled onto his side, away from him, and said that he had a headache.

Ethan was gone the next morning when Munky woke up, and Munky never heard from him ever again. Ethan walked out of Munky’s life as abruptly as he had entered it. All that Munky had left from Ethan was a large tub of Vaseline on the dresser by his head, with a letter attached to it that read,

James,

I’m sorry that I’m leaving you. I feel so bad. I cannot stay with you anymore, because doing that means that I’ll have to say goodbye to you face to face. And I care about you so much.

I’m so sorry I can’t live like this anymore.

Ethan

P.S. Remember me.

Munky read it ten times before he crumpled it up and threw it away. He took a shower, got dressed, blah blah blah. Went through the motions he went through everyday. It was human nature to be fastidious about self-hygiene, but sometimes the whole thing seemed just a trifle ridiculous to Munky. If he wasn’t performing every night, he usually didn’t shower. Big deal. People thought people with dreadlocks didn’t wash their hair, anyway, but shampooing, despite popular belief, was good for dreadlocks. That’s why he did it. Otherwise, he would give up on the time consuming activity altogether. It took his hair hours to dry, and was painfully heavy and sticky until it did. His hair was a bitch and a half…which only reminded him that he had an appointment with the band’s hair dresser that day. Wonderful.

Everything happened from a distance to Munky that morning. Never seeing Ethan again hurt him, but what hurt him even more were the feelings that had lingered between him and Head for years.

Even when Munky had refused being gay, when Shawna asked him who he would sleep with, he made up his mind just like that: Head. If he was going to sleep with any man, and he had his choice of any guy in the world, of course it would be his best friend, he argued to himself. But why not someone more typically attractive, like David or Antonio Banderas or Brad Pitt? Why, of all people, had he chosen his happily married best friend?

They bombed the show that night. Bombed.

Fieldy was fuming backstage somewhere. Head was on the phone with Bekkah. Jon was with a couple of groupies. David was showering. Munky sat numbly on a chair as their manager bitched. What was going on? Why is everybody so fucking pissed off? Why had what they loved become a chore? Why was everyone turning against each other? Did Munky have anything to do with it? Did he know anything—

"Look! I’m gay, okay?! And they found out, and they’re all fucking mad at me!" Munky shrieked. It was as if he had just walked into the room, his outburst was so sudden. Kurt’s ass hit the chair. Hard. His face turned gray.

"You’re not going to come out in public about this, are you?"

"And what if I did?" Munky threatened. "What if I got up and went out there to the few pouting fans who are still waiting for a shitty encore and scream ’Anyone out there have a cock I can suck on? Because I’m a flaming fucking—‘"

Fieldy stormed into the room. His eyes filled with rage. "What were you saying, buttfucker?"

Fieldy had flicked him off onstage one of the several times Munky messed up that night, and Munky had been a second away from chucking a foot pedal, his guitar…anything at him. The fans cheered, thinking Fieldy was joking when he really wasn’t.

"Come on, asshole! Hit me. I know you hate me, so just hit me!" Munky challenged.

Fieldy did hit him. And Munky covered his cheek after as the shock resounded through it. A blinding agony filled his mouth, and blood drooled from his lips. Kurt sat, petrified, and he didn’t even try to break them up as Munky tackled Fieldy and they rolled around on the ground, grunting and pulling hair and generally beating the fuck out of each other. Munky had to fight back, nay, to win; he wasn’t a man anymore to Fieldy; he was some sally. He didn’t hate Fieldy, even though he had good reason to. He was just sick of his bullshit.

He didn’t know how hard it was for Munky to deal with being like this.

"You don’t even know what I’m going through, Fieldy, you don’t even know," Munky grumbled as he pinned Fieldy onto the floor. Fieldy fought frantically against the restraint, but eventually gave up and just laid there. "I just can’t believe it," he finally stammered. His eyes filled with tears. "I can’t believe that you’re going to be with men now."

The rage seeped out of them both, as if they were balloons that had just deflated. They sat together. Rubbing their injuries. Fieldy let Munky rub his back for a second. "I can’t change how I am."

Fieldy considered this, and then he shivered. "But why? Why do you like men—"

"I don’t know, Fieldy, and it’s not your place to wonder."

"Yes, it is. It is my place to wonder. I’m your best friend," he said.

Munky looked at him. "Really? You’ve been a complete asshole to me." Fieldy didn’t take that very well, the blunt edge of his own pride being chipped away at. He softened. Like a clam ripped out of its shell. "I’m still your friend, Fieldy. I always will be, no matter who you are or what you do."

Fieldy got up and walked out, wiping his eyes, his head down. From that point on he made sure never to be alone with Munky, but he also stopped calling him a fagot.

The next morning, Munky bought the paper. It was dreadfully early. They had stopped at a gas station to fill up before heading to their final couple of shows. They were leaving Chicago for over a year: after this, they were going back into the studio to record their next album. The project was an ominous, looming doom that all refused to think about. They just had to get through the rest of this tour. That’s what they had to concentrate on. Shawna was on the tour bus, and she was going to have a group session with the entire band about the issues plaguing them. It was their manager’s last hope in getting them on their feet for the last couple of shows.

Ha. Group counseling. Family counseling. What had happened to Family Values?

In the obituaries Munky saw a familiar, breathtaking face. Ethan. He had killed himself by retracing the scars on his wrists with a butcher knife. In the bathroom. Ethan had no immediate family. He had a distant relative in England but Munky got the feeling that she wouldn’t be coming for the service or the funeral.

Munky doubted that the Catholic Church even held funerals for homosexuals.

Munky threw the paper in the trash and got into the tour bus. Everyone was waiting for him. He sat down next to Head, and Head looked away.

Munky took Head’s hand.

"Ethan’s dead," Munky said.

Head pulled away.

On an impulse, Munky wanted to take Head’s hand again, pull his turned away face towards his, his beautiful, long face, with his thin mouth that stretched nearly across his narrow chin, and his cute little munchkin nose. He wanted to see his forehead and his braids, wanted to feel their curly ends caressing his neck. To see that one pair of braids perpetually stuck together, as if they were always making love to each other. And the large diamond studded earrings in his earlobes, to kiss those, to smother him in his skinny arms and feel the little curved in burrow in the middle of Head’s chest, just below his slightly protruding stomach. He was embarrassed by the burrow, it was why he hardly ever went around shirtless, but Munky loved it. It made Head Head. Munky loved everything about Head.

But Head was hurting him now.

……………………………………………..

"Head, why can’t you love me now that I know?" I ask him later on, after the session, that night, and Head’s head turns so fast a braid smacks him in his beautiful green eye and he swears.

If only it could ever happen.

Munky had an arm draped over his eyes to keep on imagining it all, because it was so real in his mind’s eye. If he could only truly ask him the question: Head, why can’t you love me now that I know?

Then maybe he could get some real answers.

Until then, his imagination would have to serve.

He really was laying with Head, however; Head had come to him, and now they were together, in Munky’s cubby. Him and Bekkah had had a fight. She had been busy when he called to say he was going to come home about a week ago, so that hadn’t worked out. And when he asked her to come out instead—his schedule was filled until the end of the tour—she had blown up on him. He was never home. She couldn’t always be the one going after him, you know. It was about time Head was the one who made a sacrifice.

She had hung up on him.

He came to Munky about it.

And he was laying with Munky. Munky faced the wall of his blank cubby, thinking as Head draped an arm over him from behind and slept contentedly. Head’s knees were bent back, and so were Munky’s. Neither wanted to think about the prospect of someone pulling back the curtain of the cubby, for their bodies were so close together…

Munky wished that they had enough room to stretch out, though. Head had moved Munky’s dreads aside, and his breath was blowing peacefully and deeply against his neck, rarely interrupted in rhythm with a soft snore or two. The only thing he sometimes did was rub his feet together, and it made a scratching sound. They were shirtless, and sometimes Head’s fingers twitched against his bare stomach. Each time he hoped Head woke up, and was caressing him. Munky could then tell him that he had lied to him the other night about not liking him.

The slight cramps in Munky’s back worsened as he tried to escape his fantasies and fall asleep. So finally, when the cramps became too much to bear, he rolled over to face Head. Head’s eyes fluttered, and he smiled wanly in the dark. Head rolled over onto his back. Munky stretched a leg over both of Head’s, and Head pulled Munky’s head down onto his shoulder. Head faced Munky, so that their foreheads touched. One of Head’s arms wrapped protectively around Munky, and Munky placed his hand on Head’s chest. He fought the wanton urge to trail circles around Head’s nipples with his callused fingertips, to examine his tattoos, as he had in his dream.

But that was risky.

"Goodnight," Head mumbled before oblivion reclaimed him.

Head was hurt about the other night in Munky’s suite, but it wasn’t over between them. That’s why they were both in there, crammed together like two sardines in a can.

Two peas in a pod.

Double the flavor. Double the fun.

And any other corny catch phrase possible to describe two things, two entities…anything to describe the bond between two people that were just meant to be together.