Second Chances

Day 14 Flash Fiction February

Aiden found himself caught in the clutches of life, yet again. His coffee shook and sputtered with the uptick of wind. His sheet music bristled and he stubbornly ignored the whistle through his hair, warning him of a change on the rise. His mind was determined to finish the song come hell or high water—and both were on their way. Scribbling out an arpeggio, moving into a key change before he lost the thought, his other hand blotted the spill.

The Universe had other plans.

The paper cup transformed into a caffeinated explosion against the rod iron café set as an unexpected gust of wind cut through the narrow city street. He groaned, his ritual yanked away and his hoodie now coffee covered. When he believed his torture sufficient, he sat corrected as his chorus bled on the page with each dotted tear of the sky. Resentfully accepting he was outmatched by the elements he shoved the sheet music into his guitar case, locking his work and instrument away.

Collective noise rose as the foot traffic became frantic with the rain’s increasing pace. His apartment around the corner felt like a trek to Mecca against the tide of bodies pouring from the subway. With a lowered gaze, he bobbed and weaved to outrun the onslaught of commotion, his guitar in tow. Momentum ceased as he collided with the hard lines of a very fine suit. Before he could comprehend what was happening, he found himself snatched up by the opening of his hoodie.

The city fell into a distant disarray of muted stimulus as his view filled with a long-forgotten memory. Navy blue. Bold, red tie. Freshly shaven. Honey brown eyes.

“—Aiden?” The memory whispered.

A deluge cascaded down and the world around them became a blur of gray and neon lights. The wind pushed them forward, against taxis screeching, and horns blaring; their feet thundered against soaked pavement. The mad dash ended as a corner was rounded into the quiet of a nearby alley.

Reality snapped back into focus as Aiden found himself slammed against the brick wall. The ghost of his past became clearer as the stolen oxygen rushed back to his lungs.

“Why?” Those brown eyes insisted.

“Chase?” Aiden gasped.

“Why didn’t you show? I waited for you at the station!” Chase’s pristine haircut was melting down the side of his face, like a grilled Ken doll; his pained gasps, the quiet outrage, etched features of despair.

“Fuck you—” Was all Aiden could bark out before he was silenced under the crushing weight of a kiss long overdue.

With a wave of bergamot and cedar cologne, Aiden’s understanding shattered and fell with the rain. His ginger tresses slipped through Chase’s fingers as he brought up his face. The motion of slick skin moving against the grain of day-old stubble was made torturous when the blond pulled back and hovered over his lip ring. “What are you doing in New York?” Chase asked exasperated, his chest heaving against the confines of his tailored suit.

“I live here,” the bite returned to his voice, as he motioned upward toward his apartment. “What are you doing here?”

“There it is,” he laughed breathlessly as he continued to hover over his lips, “I forgot how bitchy you are.”

Aiden chewed on the remark, his hand instinctively wrapping in that power tie, eliminating the scarce distance between them. Drawing him in, noses brushing, his voice lowered, “I don’t remember it like that.”

“Remind me,” the blond challenged.

It wasn’t long before the tie was a soppy afterthought, dripping on the radiator. The suit thrown to worn floorboards. Shoes scattered by the front door. The music of passion rekindled, swallowed by the hum of the city and the shops below. Both accepting they were literally and figuratively caught in a storm.

Post collision, breathing slowed, mirroring the recession of the rain. The remnants of the morning streamed down industrial windows of the studio. The midday sun attempted to peak through a cloudy sky, offering weak light. Aiden watched as his polar opposite wore his robe and made coffee. The American Image: Tall, fit, sun kissed, good looking. Even his singular flaw—his left incisor was slightly turned—was charming; with the temperament of a labrador retriever disguised in conservative right-wing trappings, thanks to his inherited trust fund. Of course Chase was perfect. He arrived in this lifetime unburdened. The guitarist could not say the same for himself.

“I’m buying you a Keurig, that French press has seen better days.” He promised handing over a mug.

“Its old, like me,” Aiden replied, “old and dying.” The hot coffee in his hands eased the shock of the situation; he was thankful for an occupation other than mourning the stranger at his bedside.

“You were dying when you were young,” The blond remarked casually and relished to see the guitarist’s melodrama had not faded. One of his beloved traits. The robe draped to reveal a sculpted chest, his cross dangling. Aiden hated how beautiful he was. He loathed even more how he missed him for over a decade.

“So that’s it? You’re just going to sweep me off my feet after all this time—buy new fixtures and save me from my starving artistry?” Pushing his damp hair back, Irish ringlets half dried and falling to freckled shoulders; the vitriol in his chest was locked and loaded. Ready.

“No,” Chase’s expression fell, “I need you to save me.” The words whispered stretched across a long pause, until he broached the subject again, “I waited for you,” he motioned for the face he adored, but was met with simmering betrayal.

“—Did you?” Aiden caught his hand before it could reach his cheek, his thumb ran across the wedding band. Chase set his coffee aside and looked at his hands quietly.

“You know image is everything in real estate.” He continued after a rough exhale, “I tried,” he paused and placed the ring on the bedside table. “I told myself you were a one off—but you were so much worse,” his brown eyes turned molten like syrup under fair brows, stitched in anguish.

Aiden clenched his jaw, holding onto tears that he promised he would never shed for this man, again. He watched Chase reach for the guitar case. Unlatching the top his hand gently smoothed over the inner lining. A few seconds and his fingers found what they sought. A slight tear behind the fabric concealed a folded piece of paper. Lost to the world until now.

Chase stared into green eyes as he placed the little square into his love’s hand. Silver and hematite rings clicked as he unfolded the message. Union Station 5:55pm. Aiden’s jaw could withstand no more and the tears spilled silently as he pictured Chase waiting under the art deco of the Los Angeles station, the sun fading around him, hopeless. “I woke up and you were gone—I thought—” he choked out but then covered his mouth, unable to speak.

With the unfamiliar rush of walls dropping, Aiden’s neck flushed pink with his silent confession—his shoulders shook as resentment fell away, leaving him to feel stripped and hollowed—robbed of a burden he never deserved. Chase traced the ink tattooed from wrist to chest amongst a galaxy of freckles.

Clearing his throat gently, he felt a surge that he had once known in his twenties; it was fast and impatient, the way the stomach dropped when leaning too far over a railing—the promise of flight undeniable, despite the awareness of death below. A sensation that only his musician inspired.

“You were always the one… I just couldn’t find you.”

“—I have been carrying you around with me, this whole time,” Aiden motioned the little paper to his heart, his words failing him for a second time. The faded phone number bled in the heat of his hands.

“Stop,” Chase kissed the corner of his mouth, slowing the next wave of tears. “Do you remember the song on the beach?” He breathed, a prayer between them. “Play it for me?”

Aiden nodded and took up his guitar. His fingers knew before his memory. His gravity restored as Chase stretched out beside him; the chords flowed, filling the space with something warm other than coffee.