We Are Bulletproof

"...and this is a piece by a Spanish painter, Angel Miguel Albares..."

The group moved as one toward a bleak, dark painting hanging by a corner of the gallery. Soft voices murmured, mused over the deliberate slashes cutting swathes through a landscape of blacks, blues, purples and greens.

"There is a fragility in the deliberate use of cold colors here. It seems evocative of the artist's sadness, quietude and contemplation of self."

Angel glanced up from studying the key in his hand as the voice of the guide continued on. He went largely unnoticed, seated by himself on a bench off to the side with his hood drawn over his head. The gallery owner was a friend of his father's and had requested both his paintings and his presence here, on opening night. Unlike the other pieces with price tags dangling off of their plaques, Angel's work was not for sale. They were mostly filler, he thought--something interesting to look at but not necessarily things one wanted to hang up on a wall.

A well-dressed couple glided past, the woman's hand perched delicately on the man's arm. Angel spared them a glance; the woman smiled politely at him as their eyes met and he immediately lowered his head. The key was warm in his palm.

"How much does this painting cost?" A man's forceful voice cut into the guide's introduction of the next painting.

"Ah... I'm sorry sir, that piece is not for sale."

"Preposterous. Everything has a price. Ask the painter. Money is no object."

Angel shook his head silently and then shifted away uncomfortably when someone sat down beside him, not really paying them much attention as the argument waged on over his showpiece.

The key was a sweet gesture but a part of Angel thought... maybe Julio still didn't understand. That maybe he was still trying to keep their relationship—such as it was—alive by giving him a pass back into his apartment. And while Angel was glad to have it, glad that the rifts created this evening weren't irreparable, he was sad, too.

Truly, he didn't wish any kind of unhappiness on Julio. He wished he was better, that he could be the kind of person he knew Julio deserved. Someone happy, someone to take away his pain rather than adding to it. But all Angel did was cause pain and that was why he needed to remove himself now, before it was too late.

All the same, being held by Julio warmed his heart. He pulled back afterwards with a little smile and put the key away, even though he knew he should set it down. Set it down and walk away. Conflicted as he always was between what his head and his heart wanted, he kept it and he made sure it was secure and wouldn't fall out of his pocket.

He left without saying anything more, closing the door lightly behind him. Outside it was cold and dark, and he realized... he didn't have a phone. It was back at his own apartment. Angel breathed out and looked back up towards the building. He could go back and ask Julio for his phone to call a cab but maybe he could walk. It wasn't ideal, though. He might get jumped again, but his head was buzzing with thoughts and a walk might help clear some of them. With another sigh, Angel headed off.

A car glided up to the curb and stopped, its headlights helping shine the way. Angel briefly, idly, glanced into through the window and thought he saw one of the strippers from the party behind the wheel, getting ready to cut the engine. Maybe a friend of Julio's, he thought; someone to keep him company perhaps? He walked off before the man could notice him, turning the corner and making sure to stay on the main street and out of alleyways.

There was a moment during the evening when he could have saved it. When he could have made a choice, a conscious decision, not to reveal the whole truth, keeping that final secret close to his chest. Then maybe he could have carried on pretending that things weren't falling apart, and he wouldn't have scared himself with the truth.

The truth was that he was scared of happiness. He was scared to find it, to have it, to love and be loved and then to face the reality of his own mortality. He was scared that when the time came for him to leave this Earth, that he wouldn't want to. That it would be so unbearable in his final moments, fighting to keep living but still knowing that his body was incapable of accepting any type of medication needed to keep him alive. Angel wasn't brave; he didn't have that kind of fight in him.

So. It was better to not know anything than to know it all. Angel was sure this was the end, that Julio's nod meant he was giving up. Good. Right? But every step towards the door felt like the wrong direction and he almost didn't clear the doorway. Julio was stopping him anyway, and he turned out of surprise, hand taken, something cool and lightweight and small pressed into his palm.

He stared at it. The last gesture of goodwill. A final plea. He could come back at any time. The key... stupidly it felt like Julio was giving him the key to happiness. In that moment, that was what it represented to him. This place was a place of refuge, a place full of warmth and salvation. And he had the key to it.

"...thank you." Angel didn't know what to do with himself just then. He blanked and his arms were around Julio's shoulders, body pressed to his, cheek touching cheek. "Thank you." Even if he might never use it, he had it, and that in and of itself was a great comfort.

It happened again and again and again. Any time someone tried to get close to him, Angel shut them out before anything meaningful could develop. Before the friendship could evolve into a deeper connection, he backed out and turned away, scared of disappointment, of disappointing the other person. Scared of the ticking clock counting down the seconds remaining of his life.

But it never happened like this. He never hurt this badly before. He never... wanted someone like this before and all of it was proving to be too much. Angel was so overwhelmed, by the party, by his brush with death, by Julio's well-intentioned attempts to help him. That made it worse, somehow, that Julio wanted to help him so much. So badly.

Overwhelmed didn't even half cover how Angel felt right now. Overwhelmed and sorry and guilty, which made things that much worse. The emotions were running so high that he felt suffocated by them, and he was already high-strung to begin with.

He walked over to place the clothes down beside Julio, on the couch. Then he straightened and his hand, of its own accord, slid out. Paused. His fingers flexed for a second, a twitch forward then one back. He wished that he could make things better but how could he, when he was the problem? Angel's fingertips touched him, barely, somewhere between neck and shoulder. An awkward place.

He wanted to apologize but again, didn't. So he pulled his hand back and turned away, swallowing all of the useless words that were building up inside his heart.

Angel felt deeply uncomfortable—and deeply guilty. It didn't make him feel good in the least to hurt Julio and he didn't think he deserved to be here, even if Julio was still kind enough to let him stay until the morning. It was true that Angel didn't have anywhere to go. His apartment was taken over by the party; he didn't feel right staying with Julio after what just transpired.

"I can go to a motel."

He looked down at the clothes, which were soft and a little worn, but comfortable. It would have been nice to slip into them. They smelled like Julio—clean, masculine, a scent that was pleasant and natural. It would have been nice to curl up with him in bed and be held. Or maybe... even to hold him. In that moment Julio probably needed someone to comfort him, too.

"I should go," he repeated again, still contemplating the clothes. "I'll be okay. I can get a taxi." He had his wallet and money. For once, having money didn't seem like a bad thing.

By the time he was out, Angel heard the television going in the living room. He loitered at the bathroom door, uncertain as to how the night would pan out now. Telling Julio everything opened up a world of hurt—for both of them. There was so much tension in the air, he could practically feel it.

Slowly, agonizingly slowly, he made his way out of the bathroom, clutching the clothes that Julio had given him, still wearing the ones he came in with. He didn't change. Inside the bathroom he sat on the toilet and buried his face in his hands and just... did nothing.

How could he stay, after he told Julio to keep away from him? After locking him out of his life—kicking him out, really—he couldn't make himself change into those clothes and then curl up in Julio's bed. Or even on the couch. He couldn't make himself stay just to hurt him more. Seeing Angel would be a constant reminder of the terrible way he rejected any overtures of friendship and help and comfort.

"I..." He held the clothes in his hands, feeling so stupid. So useless and nothing like the heroic figure Julio used to see him as. Right now he felt like nothing and if he felt like this, Julio probably felt so much worse. "I'm... I should go."

Was it worth it? To be happy for a brief while, and then... And then what? Angel had a year, maybe two. Three or four, to be optimistic. In the advanced stages of illness he would probably only end up being a burden to Julio and for what? A few months of happiness?

He had to weigh the pros and cons and the cons seemed so much heavier. Keeping himself far away from everyone was his way of protecting them, somehow. As though... if they no longer saw him in person, they could erase him from their lives. He wasn't trying to erase Julio—he was trying to get Julio to erase him.

Somehow, in some way, Julio managed to get through the barriers. Almost effortlessly, it seemed, he began to occupy Angel's thoughts. He became his muse. When they were together, Angel almost forgot his death sentence and he started to live again, but he could not in good conscience let Julio do this. Get close. And then lose him.

Better to never have him, right?

He watched the furious signing and while he didn't understand most of what was being conveyed, he understood the body language. The frustration. The hurt. A little hurt now, before they got too close, was better than a lot of hurt later. Angel never meant to do any of this—hurt him, make him run back and forth saving him. He lowered his head in silence; Julio didn't need to hear more from him. Anything he said, any well-intentioned warnings, only hurt him more.

When the clothes were set down, he took them. Sleep. That one was easy. Angel nodded and stood up with them in his arms, awkwardly lingering and wishing that he could make Julio see how futile it all was. He started to apologize, thought better of it and turned away to find the bathroom so that he could change into the clothes offered to him.

Angel flinched when the paper hit the floor with a tiny smack, not because the act was violent but because of the unexpectedness of it. The fact that Julio's frustration showed through in a physical act wasn't something he necessarily expected from someone who had only been gentle and careful with him.

"There is no future." He pushed the paper away, far away from himself as though the words themselves were poisoned. Julio meant well and Angel knew what he was saying. He did, the message wasn't lost but--Julio didn't know. Angel brought the pills up again to look at the tiny words on the label.

"These don't work, Julio. Nothing's been working. I told you... I got checked too late. The drugs don't work. So... there is no future. You see? Not for me, not for us as... friends or as anything. That's why you should just... let go. Stop coming for me. I know you want what's best for me but there's... nothing in this for either of us. I wish it wasn't like this but you'll just get hurt again. Over me. It's not worth it."

He tucked the pills back into his pocket with a slow, small smile. "You know they used to call me an alien back in high school, because I was weird. Maybe they were right. Maybe I'm just a visitor to this planet..."

The tell-tale line. The scar, shining dimly silver, skin slashed and healed over but--not quite right. Never quite the way it used to be, never able to be mended to blend in seamlessly with the rest of his skin. Angel's breath seemed to stop at the base of his throat, catching there with a small sound of pain.

He turned over his own arm too and pulled his sleeve up. He was so... ashamed of them. His own scars, there on the upper part of his wrist but also all along his inner forearm, up to the crook of his elbow. They were everywhere--on his other arm, on the insides of his thighs, places he could cover with clothing. Places he was terrified of people seeing, and yet desperate for someone to notice.

Angel dyed his hair bright blue and he lived in an ostentatious apartment and lived in luxury, as if those superficial things were what he wanted people to notice. But what he really wanted was someone he could show those scars to--someone who understood. And he knew Julio did, from the moment they locked eyes, but...

"There is no future for... us, Julio. I can't be like you. I don't know how to be... brave like you. If you let me go now, you can still find someone. Someone who deserves you."

He could only shake his head in silence. Julio thought he knew him. He had an impression of him that translated into the heroic figure on paper but... that was it. An impression. Maybe a hopeful vision of what he thought Angel was capable of being, an equal and a partner.

Even while Julio was writing, Angel was looking at the picture. He wished this could be him. He wished that he could prove Julio right and make him proud, but it was just as he said: Julio didn't know him. And reading what he wrote affirmed that. Slowly Angel shook his head again, closing his eyes to block out the desperation he could almost see in the words and the writing itself. He didn't want to see it in Julio's eyes too.

"Did you know that my father is the Spanish ambassador, Julio? That our family is so rich, he bought his way into the government? If he knew we were even friends, he would have you removed before you could even blink. And."

Angel slipped a hand into his pants pocket, where he always kept a little container of assorted pills, mixed in together. "These. These are more dangerous than my father. I had myself tested... But I went too late. Years later, I went. And these are the reason you need to cut your losses while you can. Because you don't know me. Do you see? You don't know Julio... You don't know how much I... don't want to be..." Alive.

It stayed with him because he couldn't tell anyone about what happened. All the memories stayed with no outlet, no closure; he was trapped in his truth and bound by his shame to silence. If the kids at the school found out, he would have been bullied. He saw what they did, what people like Jaime and Jen did. To them, finding out a story like his would have been 'entertaining.'

And Angel might have learned how to fly far earlier than tonight if they had gotten wind of what happened at the party that night.

He sat in silence until Julio touched his cheek, and almost robotically turned to look at him. "You shouldn't have come. You don't even know me, Julio. Or anything about me. This." Angel lowered the picture into his lap and stared at it again. "This isn't me. You should never have gotten involved with me."

Angel was silent for far too long, holding the picture and staring off at the edge of the dresser. When he spoke, he spoke to the dresser and with his head turned. It had been years since he revisited those memories; honestly he wished he didn't have to but Julio deserved an explanation after saving his life. Twice.

He spoke haltingly, stopping and starting at odd moments. But once he started, it felt like he couldn't stop, as if he had been waiting all this time for this very moment, to be able to tell someone. "When I was fifteen, my family moved to Barcelona and my father enrolled me in a private school. The person who threw the party tonight is someone I knew from back then.

There was another party... back when I first joined the school. He invited me and I was curious about it, so I went. Alone. I didn't know anyone. There were a lot of older kids there. University students. One of them came up to talk to me and I thought...

He was nice. He had a nice smile. And he said all the right things and I don't know... I thought he liked me. I liked him. So when he suggested that we go upstairs, I... I thought maybe he just wanted to talk where it was quiet. But...

He said it was my fault. He said... I led him on. So I didn't tell anyone and... parties like that, with all the noise and the music, it all just... I only wanted to get away, Julio. I didn't mean to scare you but I couldn't stay there."

Shoes, coat, wallet, keys—things that weren't important left a trail from the living room to the bedroom. It wasn't a long walk because Julio's apartment was so much smaller than his own, but he was glad for that. He didn't have to feel like he needed to run a half-marathon just to get from the kitchen to the bed.

Inside the bedroom again he paused at the door, swallowing hard. Angel was guarded; he knew it must have shown on his face and he couldn't help it. This wasn't his bedroom. Everything was in a different place and the newness and strangeness of his surroundings made his anxiety ramp up. Eventually, though, curiosity took over—after Julio pointed out the stack of papers. Drawings.

He ventured inside and took the topmost drawing, the one Julio showed him earlier on his phone. Angel couldn't help but smile. His drawing. There was something appealing in its roughness. There were others too, that he glanced through—some good, some... less so. Some mere outlines, others in advanced stages. One scratched out.

And all the time he looked through them he was aware that Julio was on the bed, waiting. The room was dimly lit—as though he knew that Angel hated to be in the dark. He knew. Or he felt things. Julio was sensitive like that. Angel glanced over his shoulder at him for a long moment; there was a lot of room on the bed for him.

He walked over and slid onto the mattress, holding the drawing close. "...about what happened at the party..." It was kind of a relief to say the words, and it was terrifying. Though he asked to go to bed, he sat there at the edge of it, holding the drawing to his chest like a shield.

"I'm sorry. I must have scared you."

"...no... I'm not hungry."

Angel stood slightly inside the doorway for a minute hugging himself before he worked up enough courage to fully enter the apartment. The setting was familiar—even if he'd only been here once—because Julio was here and his presence was soothing, but being back in Hazleton again brought with it a prickle of discomfort. He was running out of places to run to; Portland wasn't safe and Hazleton had traumatic memories of its own.

But Julio... He was a comfort. Angel made a beeline for him and hugged Julio tightly. He buried his face into Julio's shoulder for a moment and closed his eyes. Silence. Except for street noises and the hum of appliances, there was finally blessed silence.

"Can we go to bed? Please?" He just wanted to curl up somewhere warm and feel safe, to shed that jittery sensation that had taken over and refused to let go.

He would probably never meet someone like Julio again. Somehow this level of understanding, their unexpected connection, happened like a miracle. At his lowest point Julio found him, picked him up, rescued him. And now he was saving Angel from his own tortured thoughts, the way superheroes did. They never did what they did to be praised or rewarded—not the good ones, anyway. The good ones saved people out of the kindness and goodness of their hearts. And Julio, his heart was kind and good.

Angel didn't say anything more, he didn't move. He just hugged Julio and let his thoughts wander away into the ether. It was nice to be held, not too tight, not too loosely. Julio had a knack for knowing what he needed to feel comfortable. Did he ever need someone to do this for him? Was that how he knew? Because Angel still felt jittery and skittish, buzzing from the nasty shock of the party, and silence, a soft touch, was helping him calm down. He didn't need someone asking him a million questions or pushing him for answers.

It wasn't until the cab slowed to a stop in front of Julio's apartment that Angel pulled back, realizing that he was still holding Julio's phone. He smiled at the picture again before handing the phone back. "I want the real thing," he said as he reached back into his pocket for his credit card, to pay the expectant driver. "It'll look nice beside the other one you drew."