Kiefer sits on the raw, ragged edge of the deck and watches the fiery sun sink into the smog. Even with all the pollution, it's a great view. New York never had enough horizon for his taste, too many summers in Quebec with the northern sky spread out overhead like a soft blanket.

 

He made good progress today, and if he doesn't have to wait too long at the audition tomorrow, he should make it home in time to finish nailing down the rest of the planks. Then he just has to figure out where to rent a sander and then rope Billy into helping him put on the sealer. He should have the last check for Levi's ad by Tuesday, which means he can buy some new clothes and maybe even pay rent with real cash instead of manual labor. And then he has to get something, even something little, maybe this Spielberg thing will come through. He's not going to call his mom for money. He's just not.

 

There's an icy, wet pressure on the back of his neck and when he turns around, Bobby hands him a bottle of Molson. "Lookin' good," Bobby says. He's wearing jeans with a hole in the knee and a faded Shakespeare in Central Park shirt that hangs on his skinny frame like a sail. "The deck, I mean."

 

"Oh, thank you. We're almost there."

 

Bobby flops down next to him. "What's this 'we,' white man?"

 

"Well, Sarah bought the wood."

 

"Only because she finally got paid for Footloose." He winks at Kiefer, fast like a twitch. Bobby's always winking, or laughing, or kicking up his heels and dancing down the middle of Santa Monica. He's got more energy than a chorus line.

 

"I'm just grateful not to be sleeping in my crappy car, Bobby."

 

"Nah, a kid with your talents? You'd definitely be able to sleep in someone's nicer car."

 

Kiefer takes a long drink. It's hotter today than it's been all week. He's sweaty and his jeans feel hot and stifling. Maybe tomorrow he'll work in his underwear. There's nobody back here anyway. The bottle in his hand is like a frozen lake, snapping him back into his body. "I forgot to ask, how was your day?"

 

"Not bad. I had to do twelve thousand takes on this one shot, but otherwise." Bobby's lower lip is bitten and raw.

 

"Everything okay?"

 

"Yeah, I just couldn't quite find it."

 

"You get it eventually?"

 

"Take twelve thousand and one, I just reached down and dug out the most nasty, bitter day I ever had. I thought Fritz was gonna kiss me." Bobby smirks and tilts his head back, pouring in a stream of beer.

 

Bobby's the closest thing Kiefer's had to a best friend since he left home. Sarah and Billy and Tom are great, but they showed up in California with a bag full of dreams and expectations as wide open as the skyline. Bobby came home last week with a stack of video tapes and a borrowed VCR and said, "Let's see what tricks the old men had up their sleeves, what do you say?" After Kiefer got off the phone with his dad, blubbering and caught between pride and shame it took so long for him to realize he was doubly blessed, Bobby just gave him a long, hard hug. "He's your dad, buddy. He knows you were just trying to do it on your own."

 

He knows under all the glib choreography, Bobby's had more than his share of bitter days. He slings an arm around Bobby's shoulders. Bobby recoils, wrinkling his nose and batting his hands at Kiefer's sweaty chest. "You're so gross right now, I can't even --"

 

"Like after twelve thousand takes you're not a little ripe?"

 

Bobby cranks his neck at an impossible angle and sniffs towards Kiefer's armpit, then his own. "I think it's a draw."

 

"How convenient," Kiefer says, but he puts his arm down anyway. Bobby bumps his shoulder and scoots closer until their legs are pressed together from knee to hip.

 

"I was thinking about you today." Bobby waggles his eyebrows.

 

"When you were trying to find bitter?"

 

"When I was imagining what I could possibly look forward to on the other side, and I thought, I'm gonna come home and have a beer with Kiefer. And it'll be okay that I am going to spend the rest of my life, I don't know. Picking petunias."

 

"With your talent?"

 

"Maybe they'll let me graduate to the rose garden after a while." He smiles and his face moves in a thousand directions at once. Kiefer's suddenly seized with affection for Bobby and his flexible face, for a house full of friends who always bring home groceries when they get paid, for the possibility of a future that makes his family proud.

 

"You can do anything you want," Kiefer says, and the joy finally creeps into Bobby's eyes, too.

 

Bobby tilts his head and says, softly, "Thanks." They're a few inches apart, quiet and sharing breath. Bobby leans in and closes the distance, pressing dry lips to Kiefer's.

 

Kiefer nods but can't make his throat work to say "you're welcome."

 

Bobby bends forward and kisses him, a little longer this time, definitely a kiss this time. He closes his eyes. And then Bobby pushes back, away, and whispers, "Sorry."

 

"For --"

 

"Baby!" Sarah jumps out the back door, landing with two thundering feet. He must know how to build a deck after all. "The deck looks fucking amazing."

 

"Thank you," he says. "Thank you for the lumber."

 

"It's an investment." She puts fifty cents of every dollar she makes in the bank, without fail. It still ends up being more than she grew up on. "So what're you two up to out here?"

 

Bobby gestures expansively. "Resting on our laurels."

 

"Speak for yourself," Kiefer says. He swallows the rest of his beer.

 

"Davey and Paul and I are gonna go down to the corner and get a drink. You guys coming?"

 

Kiefer gets to his feet. "I need to clean up. But thanks for the offer."

 

Sarah points at Bobby. "Junior?"

 

He shakes his head. "Long day. I just want to chill here."

 

She shrugs. "All right," she says, and bounces off.

 

Kiefer snags his discarded shirt and makes a pass at the sweat and grime coating his arms. Bobby and Sarah have both been working so much it's not obvious whether they're still together, together again, or taking another break. "So how are you and Sarah?"

 

"She's a great roommate, when she's around." Bobby leans back and then sits up again, picking a splinter out of his hand.

 

"Ouch."

 

He sucks a little at his palm. "I am, apparently, a lousy roommate, even when I'm gone. I don't know. I want it to work."

 

Bobby never lies when he's working, but Kiefer sometimes thinks he fools himself everywhere else. Or he's like a kid with candy in his pocket who will look you straight in the eye and swear he brushed his teeth. It's true, it's just not the answer. "Do you?" Kiefer asks.

 

Bobby looks up at him and Kiefer reaches a hand down, hauling him to his feet. "I don't know," Bobby says.

 

He's still holding Bobby's hand and he doesn't let it go, squeezes the knuckles tight as he lands on Bobby's mouth. It's a hard kiss that rocks Bobby back on his heels, and he grasps out for balance, fingers skating uselessly across Kiefer's suntan. Kiefer holds Bobby's elbow, keeping him close.

 

They taste like beer, and then each other, and then Kiefer doesn't notice taste or smell over the rising hum of desire. Bobby's smooth fingertips on his rough, unshaven face. His narrow hips and the heat of his body through the worn cotton t-shirt, so hot it makes the late summer night air feel cool. His wild, dark eyebrows in the crook of Kiefer's neck as he sucks skin between his teeth, which makes Kiefer take Bobby's face in his hands and rub the short, dense hairs all backwards until they stand up over his eyes like tiny forests.

 

Bobby laughs, a deep, gurgling mirth that bubbles out like a spring, and slides his hand down Kiefer's jeans. He knows what he's doing, but Kiefer's played acting class games all his life. He follows along, mirror to mirror, their arms and legs colliding, the sound of Tears for Fears drifting over from a neighbor's window and hiding their harsh panting and slapping skin.

 

They hold on to each other, extra arms draped over shoulders like otherwise they might all fall down. They don't speak, except right when he's coming, Kiefer hears himself say, "Oh, Bobby." His voice sounds sentimental, almost nostalgic, like he's already sure it won't happen again. Bobby whimpers and bites his collarbone.

 

Bobby stumbles a little when he steps back and sits down hard and fast on the deck. Kiefer gives into his weak knees and collapses beside him. He feels a little like he just got in a fight, wrung-out and trembling and sorry someone else got in his way.

 

"You're gonna get a job," Bobby says, and wipes his hands on his pants. "A good one. I can feel it."

 

Kiefer says, "You too," which doesn't answer any of the questions Bobby just asked.

 

Bobby curls his legs under him and springs up. "If you want the first shower, you're gonna have to race me for it." He takes off running into the house, down the thin-walled hallway, shrieking like a banshee. Kiefer pushes himself up off the deck and follows him.

 

 

 

END.

 

 

Credit to Jamie, who only said, "I'm surprised it took you this long." This one, I think, is for circusgirl. We're bringing back the Brat Pack. I've followed most of the facts you can find here and at IMDB, except when earlier, vauguer versions of the stories Kiefer tells had already inspired me to ignore the truth. And if he'd never called him "Bobby" on Ellen, I wouldn't have thought to even look.

 

Make what you will of the fact that Kiefer named his first-born daughter after SJP, or that this is what he has to say about RDJ now: "The worst thing you can say about a few of us, myself included, is that we didn't fully grow up. There's a wonderful childlike quality about Bobby that I hope he still has, because it's part of his magic as an artist. I don't use that word lightly. I don't call myself an artist. Bobby is."