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Iggy was silent, and when José glanced at him, his little brother just stared back.

“Come on, Ig. You know Leaf too well. When push comes to shove …”

“When push comes to shove, he’ll pull himself out of it. That’s always been the case.”

“No,” José disagreed, stopping at the next red light. “That hasn’t always been the case. The last two times, I had to call an ambulance.”

“What? Really?”

José appeared worried. To Iggy, Leaf was like a hero. It wasn’t until Iggy moved to Los Angeles for university that he discovered this other side of Leaf. Fortunately, Iggy was so grounded that he didn’t get the idea to emulate him in this regard, as he had already done with playing the guitar.

“Yeah, I know the songs,” Iggy reluctantly admitted. “Every single one. You can hardly escape Nightstalker these days. Everyone knows your songs!”

“Please, don’t let us down if things get tough.”

“Okay.” Iggy sighed and finished the bottle.

“Thanks.”

15

–––––

Phoenix

Tristan sat between the table and the couch, enjoying the sense of security that only Leaf’s cabin seemed to provide. Even though this feeling of safety gave off the impression that everything was fine, he wouldn’t trade that feeling for the reality that had been so exhausting for him since the reunion with Carol.

On the living room table were the empty food containers from the Mongolian place. Tristan was taken aback that they had finished it all. Normally, in the heat, he lacked appetite. Since Milo’s death, it seemed to have vanished altogether. Yet, his body was obviously hungry, likely due to the heavy drinking the night before. He couldn’t help it; panic had suddenly gripped him, and Snider’s pills were no longer working, so he had no choice but to drown his sorrows in alcohol.

With a sigh, Tristan picked up the pen, leaned forward, and added another word to his poem—in a scrawling handwriting that he sometimes could barely read himself.

All the efforts of his teachers and foster parents hadn’t been enough to make him write more legibly. He just couldn’t do it. But fortunately, that had never disadvantaged him. Even his publisher had once admitted to him that his submission had caught her attention precisely because of his handwriting. She had even suggested incorporating originals in the poetry collection to give readers a glimpse of who was behind these highly praised poems.

Tristan had decided against it. He had been too afraid that some graphologists might create a psychological profile of him. The first edition of his poetry collection had been sold out in just a few weeks, and he had been celebrated as the Dylan Thomas of the new generation—and he had only been seventeen at the time.

Tristan sighed and leaned his head back. With his legs drawn up and resting against the couch, he stretched out his right arm, holding a glass of water between his fingers. There was no way he could have drunk alcohol today. The beer with dinner had been the most he could handle, and it had been more of a refreshment than a drug. Instead, he had simply enjoyed writing again.

A gentle breeze blew through the open door from the balcony, briefly competing with the fan standing diagonally in front of him on the wooden bench by the window. The sun had set by now, and the heat of the day was gradually giving way to the evening coolness—at least up here in their little forest. A faint lamp illuminated the room, and two candles burned on the table. The singing of the cicadas drifted in from outside.

Tristan leaned the back of his head against Leaf’s leg. Knowing he was there made everything alright. It was even easy for him to overlook the fact that Leaf was spaced out right now.

If I hadn’t gone to shower, he probably wouldn’t have gotten high, Tristan thought, turning to look at Leaf.

Shirtless and only in black jeans, he lay there, his lips slightly parted, his eyes closed. Calm. Far away. Drifting in his high. There was a slight tension between his brows. Tristan’s gaze traveled over Leaf’s neck, his beautiful collarbone, down to his chest. The hand on his stomach moved slowly up and down. Even and peaceful. The dragons and demons on his arms, fighting against a storm-tossed sea, shimmered under a thin film of sweat. They twisted from his wrists to his neck. Perched on his left chest was a phoenix, on the verge of drowning in the waves of the dark sea.

Tristan had often searched for the right words to describe this spectacle of ink. This artwork obviously hid so much more than Leaf was willing to reveal.

He didn’t talk about his tattoos, whose purpose could be guessed considering the scars beneath them. After asking once about their meaning and watching Leaf walk away without a word, Tristan knew: the tattoos were strictly off-limits.

Tristan brushed a strand of hair from Leaf’s face and lovingly stroked his temple. It hurt him to see him like this, and he was sure that Leaf was carrying an even bigger burden with him since Milo’s death.

“If only you’d talk about it,” Tristan whispered.

Slowly, he leaned forward and kissed Leaf's soft lips. To his surprise, Leaf kissed him back, encouraging him to continue. He had longed for this moment, though Leaf had always seemed unable to allow such closeness, as if something were holding him back.

Like a cat, Tristan climbed onto the couch next to Leaf and swung a leg over his. He gently ran his fingers over Leaf’s bare chest. The fabric of his loosely fitting shirt, which was just hanging on to two buttons, lay between them. He undid them so that he could feel Leaf’s stomach and snuggled up to him—it had been so long.

With heavy limbs, Leaf enveloped him in his arms and held him tightly; his eyes still closed as if he were asleep. Yet, their lips found each other again. The kiss was soft and warm, igniting a desire in Tristan that was evident in his tight jeans. However, when he slightly pulled back his head and Leaf continued to lie semi-unconscious, as if he hadn’t noticed anything, Tristan caressed his cheek. As much as he craved him, making a move while Leaf was out of it was completely out of the question.