I'll Give You Candy, Give You Diamond, Give You Pills

“How many,” Andy said, leaning against the doorway.

“Valium this time?”

“Yeah.”

“Four I think,” Morrissey looked bored, and the smell of tea wafted through the opening in the door.

Andy tilted the bottle forward into the curved palm.

“You know, Johnny wouldn’t care,” Andy said, tired of acting like everyone’s drug use was a painful secret. Specifically his.

“Mhm.” Morrissey’s glasses slid down his nose as he nodded dismissively.

“Right.”

Morrissey closed the door with a soft click, and returned to the white hotel sheets.

He swirled the pills in his mouth with a sip of cold tea.

“Loneliness is a beautiful concept, when you think about it later,” he mumbled into the twisted sheets.

He could feel the valium scrape against his windpipe.

Hours leaked on. And he didn’t hear the door open but he felt the presence of the other man’s stare.

“Here,” a bottle thudded on the mattress next to him, “they’re probably wearing off.” Andy wiped a thin sheen of sweat off of his forehead.

“Johnny’s out tonight,” he said, “it’s Valentine’s Day, apparently. Angie practically held a gun to his head to get him to make reservations somewhere.”

The blonde dipped the bed down beside the singer.

“Oh,” Morrissey said, accepting the information without feeling it.

“I got you truffles,” Andy said, “if you want them.” He set a small box on the nightstand next to the phone.

“I don’t.”

“’Kay.”

Andy lay back on the bed so the men were facing opposite directions. For a moment everything was still. Morrissey’s ankle hung off the bed by the blonde’s ear. The pill bottle rattled as the singer pried it open. From his place on the bed, Andy could see white walls, a dog-eared copy of a book he couldn’t make out the title to, and one of Johnny’s empty guitar cases.

“I can’t breathe in here,” Andy said finally, stumbling over to the balcony door.

February air brushed the sleep from Morrissey’s cheeks. He watched Andy stand thoughtfully on the porch, the door still ajar. He pulled a cardigan from the floor and worked his arms into it as he joined the other man, shutting the door behind them.

“It’s quiet up here,” Andy said, and even stoned he knew he sounded stupid. Still, he was impressed that he hadn’t said “cold.”

Morrissey leaned over the railing and watched without interest as the world shifted below him. He felt clumsy and inexplicitly welcoming of Andy’s presence. The blonde hung back near the cold bricks of the building.

“I’m glad we’re together,” Andy offered, trying to find a way to say it without really saying it and failing.

The other man turned back towards the bassist with nothing short of disgust.

“Walk across the railing,” Morrissey said into the night.

“What?”

“You’re wondering what you can do to make me kiss you. Well, I’m not stoned enough and you’ll never be articulate enough at the very least. So walk across the railing and I’ll kiss you.”

Andy dug for a cigarette and worked hard to light it against the wind for a few moments.

“Is that right?”

“I don’t know if it’s right, but it’s the best you’re going to get.”

Andy walked closer to the thinner man, and watched the ghost of uncertainly flicker over his face.

“Fine,” he said stopping a safe inch away. Morrissey rolled his eyes and let out a dramatic puff of air that turned white and misty in the air.

Andy stared at his feet, as if sizing them up for a minute, before gripping the bar of the railing. He shakily drew himself up onto the railing and steadied himself on the hotel wall.

“It’s icy.”

Morrissey wasn’t watching.

“Do it, or don’t do it.”

His quiff blew downwards into his eyes. The wind seemed to pick up, as if it were conspiring with the singer.

“Come hold my cigarette,” Andy plucked the cigarette from his lips and held it out to the other man.

Morrissey sucked in to keep it lit in the wind. He looked downward at the world below.
Somewhere in the seemingly chaotic rows of cars below was Johnny. Somewhere in the cleanly lit buildings below was Johnny. Somewhere on the weaving cuts of cement below was Johnny.

“How far?” Andy inched, but his voice was lost in the wind. If he looked straight ahead everything was black around him, like he did when he was on stage and didn’t want to see the crowd. He put another foot forward, and slid his loafer from behind to meet it. He took a breath. And did it again.

“Moz, how far?” He called again louder, lifting his foot over a cruel looking coat of ice.

“I’m going in,” Morrissey called, throwing the cigarette off the balcony.

He shut the sliding glass door behind him. His glasses steamed up from the sudden shift in temperature and he cleaned them against his cardigan.

From the bedroom he could see a blurry Johnny standing in the doorway of the front room, his coat hanging loosely around his small frame. “There you are,” the guitarist grinned. “I came back early,” he leaned forward to kiss the side of the singer’s neck. Morrissey wrapped his arms lightly around the other man. “Were you smoking?” Johnny paused to make a face, before pressing their lips together.

Morrissey shrugged.

“You were,” Johnny laughed, mock scandalized.

“I’ve been manipulated into thinking its cool, by someone, I couldn’t possibly say who,” Morrissey blue eyes were half-lidded and soft, staring down at the shorter man.

“Surely my powers of manipulation don’t end there,” Johnny’s hair tickled Morrissey’s cheek, as he sucked warmly on his neck. Johnny was warm and real.“Come on, let’s go to my room,” he pulled the other man by the cardigan sleeve behind him.