Resist (Sphere of Irony 3)

He huffs and stomps over to where I’m lying on the couch in my hotel room, feet propped up on one arm. Hawke reaches out and smacks my leg.

“Ow. What’s your problem?” I glare at my best friend.

“Dude, you can’t hide in here all the time.”

“The fuck I can’t.”

“Jesus, Gav. We’ve been in New York for four months. Don’t you want to see some, I don’t know, art or some shit before we finish the album and go back to L.A.?”

My eyebrows must hit my hairline. “Art or some shit?”

Hawke smirks, his unusual eyes flashing behind those black-framed glasses he wears as a shield. “Yeah, some shit. I know you like that kind of stuff. We could go to the Museum of Modern Art or whatever it is people do in New York. Hell, even Ross went out. Don’t make me go alone, because you know I’ll do it.”

The guilt card, of course. Hawke is the king of that move.

“You suck, you know that?” I swing my feet to the floor, grumbling and groaning. “It’s not like we haven’t been to New York a dozen times before. And just because I’m gay doesn’t mean I like art.”

“Maybe, but the fact is you do like art, gay or not. How many times have you been to the Guggenheim? Huh?” Hawke grabs my wrists and hauls me to my feet.

“Guggenheim? Are you feeling all right?” I glance over my shoulder to get a look at my best friend’s face as he shoves me towards the bedroom. “You sure you don’t want to go bungee jumping, or skydiving, or hell… I don’t know, swim in the East River or something equally dangerous?”

Hawke barks out a laugh, giving me a final push into the bedroom. “Get dressed, asshole. We’re going to look at some high-class art. I’m going to enjoy it even if the pretentiousness smothers me to death.”

I grab a clean shirt off of a hanger, sliding it on over my bare chest while shaking my head and smiling.

“Brush your teeth too. I’m not going out in public with a complete slob. I have a reputation to uphold.”

Unable to hold it in, I laugh out loud, sputtering to catch my breath.

“What?” Hawke asks innocently, blinking wide eyes and running a hand through his wild dark hair. His sleeve pushes back, exposing one of the colorful tattoos that spans from his wrist to his shoulder. “I do.”

“Give me five minutes,” I respond, still smiling.

“Five. Not a minute more, Walker.” Hawke spins around to leave the room.

“Hey, Hawke,” I call out.

He stops, turning his head just enough to show his profile. “Yeah?”

“Thanks, man.”

A slash of red colors his cheek, visible for only a brief second before he walks out. Hawke speaks with his back to me. “Anytime, man. You’d do it for me.”

And I would. We get each other. More than anyone knows. The two of us were brought together by horrifying circumstances. Despite our troubles, we bonded right away and have been friends ever since. Almost eleven years.

I shudder. I can’t believe it’s been nearly eleven years to the day since I sat on the beach and swallowed a handful of pills. If that lady and her dog hadn’t found me… I shake my head, pushing it out of my mind.

I brush the fuzz off my teeth and splash water on my face. Bracing my hands on either side of the sink, I stare at the mirror, trying to remember a time that I didn’t hate the person on the other side.

“Fuck.” I push off the counter in disgust.

“Gavin, let’s go!”

Smile, Walker. Hawke is doing this for himself as well as you.

I fix my facial expression, grab my wallet, and head into the sitting room.

“Ready?” Hawke turns off the screen and slips his phone in his pocket.