Silence = Death
By Michael Pretorius
“I got fired.”
“What?” Donovan could hardly believe it.
“I got let go,” Jason repeated, the last two words emphasised with snotty accentuation in mockery of his ex-boss.
He slammed the front door behind him and tossed his satchel onto the couch, coming to remove his coat so violently, it looked as if it were fighting back.
“What happened?” Donovan asked softly, despite Jason’s dangerous temperament.
“David found out about my diagnosis,” Jason explained simply, planting himself down besides his ill-treated belongings.
He shook his head.
“Tch.”
Donovan settled down beside him, laying a palm over Jason’s closest forearm. Heat pulsed from him, tense and agitated.
“Maybe it’s for the best,” Donovan tried to reason. “From the way you’d rant when you’d come home at the end of the day, it was beyond a toxic environment - and you’re such a hard worker. I’m sure you’ll find somewhere better in no time.”
“It’s not that simple,” Jason sighed. “The contractors are all in cahoots with each other. I bet Dave’s already put out an alert on me.” He sprung up suddenly, startling Donovan back. “‘Hey everyone! Don’t hire anyone by the name ‘Jason Moore’, cause the bastard’s got AIDS!’”
“Christ, Jason, you don’t have AIDS!”
“AIDS, HIV, what's the difference to those assholes?”
“Who gives a fuck about what they think!” Donovan intercepted, his voice peaking in effort to override Jason's worked-up vitriol.
Donovan’s sudden assertiveness shocked Jason into silence. He took in his boyfriend’s words with wide eyes and a partly slacked jaw.
“Seriously, who cares? You’ve been working tirelessly to fit in with and appease people who want guys like us dead, Jason.” Donovan’s tone softened as did his features. “You’re justifiably upset for being fired over such a trivial matter, but getting yourself all worked up like this is not going to do you any good.”
The simple comfort of Donovan’s presence reignited Jason’s composure; his aggressive features laxed and he slumped back down with his hands in his lap. There was a moment of silent understanding that passed through both of them. It iced Jason’s nerves and allowed Donovan’s speech to seep in.
Jason exhaled the last of his resentment, looking down at his hands.
“You’re right,” he began. “It’s just so… difficult. I was working with Dave while on smack, and he didn’t even think of firing me once because of how damn hard I worked, regardless. Then he finds out I’m HIV positive and I don’t even get a chance to reason with him. And the way he looked at me when he broke the news…”
His voice trailed off to a shaky tremor that racked Donovan’s heart.
“... it’s like he didn’t even know who I was.”
There was a special type of heaviness in his murmur that reflected in his vacant expression, a unique type of despondency that was caused by so much more than his termination. Donovan felt it too, but it was diluted by his clean blood.
This divide was persistent throughout their relationship; it meant that when Jason brought his attention back to Donovan and implored him with his swimming eyes and ever-so-slightly parted mouth, Donovan could only return the kiss by pressing his lips to the back of Jason’s hand.
“You’ve had a rough day,” Donovan whispered. “I think it would do you good to rekindle with the community.”
“You mean the pier?”
Donovan nodded.
“I don’t know.” Jason rubbed the nape of his neck. “I don’t want to risk getting caught again.”
“Why does that matter?” Donovan challenged, surprised by the playfulness lightening his tone. “You’re a free man now, Jason.”
Jason chuckled in a single, disbelieving breath. “I guess I am… and I guess that means I don’t have to worry about any coworkers talking behind my back.”
“Not at all.”
“Alright.” Jason clapped his palms down onto his thighs decisively then stood.
He offered Donovan his hand, who was more than delighted to take it. He rejoiced in Jason’s raised spirits and the potential of their first carefree evening.
Out by the Hudson, all Donovan could hear were the chirping of season-confused crickets and the fat lap of waves against the pier while he and Jason walked down to the vibrant lights of Christopher Pier. The aAutumn breeze snaked up Donovan’s sleeves and nipped his arms, but the warmth of Jason’s hand in his own chased the worst of the weather away.
Silence settled between them. A pleasant, nice silence that was just as fulfilling as conversation.
Donovan was lost in his thoughts when Jason suddenly stopped walking, his grip fastening around his boyfriend and anchoring him to his side. Donovan was ready to scold Jason for his carelessness, but seeing the expression of horror on his face reduced the playfulness of Donovan’s mood to a cold memory.
“‘Needle sharing’ my ass!”
Donovan whipped his attention to the caustic sneer, which had pierced the atmosphere like shattered ceramic. He recognised the man as one of Jason’s now ex-coworkers; his name was Dylan, and Jason had always been especially vehement towards him because of his tendency to lurk and cat-call around the pier. The air around him was different tonight though, and Donovan felt the power of its oppression when he realised Dylan had not shown up without company.
“You’re a fucking faggot, Moore! I damn well knew it,” Dylan continued, his steps heavy as he advanced closer.
The deep thud, thud, thud of his boots against the wet concrete synced with the pounding of Donovan’s heart. He hated how much he tremored, how he instinctively slunk behind Jason’s stoic poise for protection - but Jason wasn’t foolish, and he could recognise a losing fight from miles away.
With his hand still in Donovan’s, Jason retreated and began to usher the two of them down the way they’d come.
“Don’t walk away from me when I’m talking to you!” Dylan shouted after them, his pace picking up to match.
“We’ll take a left up here and head back onto the main street,” Jason said, his steps and voice tied for speed.
Donovan couldn’t even find it in himself to respond.
It seemed they’d hardly made any progress when the weight of their hopeless reality beared down; the heat of Jason’s breath against the back of Donovan’s neck was overcome with an icy rush of nothingness as Jason was struck from behind. It hadn’t fully registered to Donovan what had happened until Jason’s pained screech, so raw and vulnerable, split the sunset-calmed waterfront. Donovan turned, faltering at the sight of Jason crumpled against the concrete, the hand that had only a few seconds ago been holding Donovan’s own now clutching a broken hip.
That’s as much as Donovan saw until he was dealt with; there was the white hot flash of pain, joined with the thunderous crack of broken bone as he was nailed with a closed fist.
A further jolt of agony left him winded as his knees jarred against the concrete, his fall violent and sudden despite how everything around him slowed. Through tears, Donovan opened his eyes and stared down; there was a sudden stickiness in his mouth that paired with the iron drowning of his olfactory sensors as blood gushed from his broken nose, spattering warm on the ground below.
He looked over his shoulder and at Jason, who’d endured another hit. His usually luscious hair was stuck to his temple where the skin’d been split, absorbing his blood like a sponge. Jason glared up at Dylan with wide, glazed eyes that herald the defiance of a trapped, desperate-to-live animal.
“We should kill you fags before you give us AIDS!” Someone close to Donovan snarled.
He was struck again, this time with a blunt, hard object like a piece of wood. It was swung from above like a golf club, nailing his temple and causing everything to go dark.
- - -
The warmth of a mid-June sun shone down atop the bustling festivity of Greenwich Waterfront., Tthe celebration centred around Christopher Pier for its 70th anniversary.
Donovan watched from the balcony of his high rise, enamoured by the flashes of colour and the ruckus of excitement, the waving of flags and banners, the way streamers caught the light and glinted like trapped water.
Usually he’d find himself in the midst of it, but he’d stepped back in recent years after coming to realise he could no longer keep up with the fast-paced parade. Though he hardly minded; he was perfectly content watching his community reign controlled havoc from his balcony.
Donovan dropped his gaze from the vibrant horizon down to the glass table by his side. Atop the patterned surface was an old and dented cigarette tin; Donovan’s heart ached with the bittersweetness of memory as he thought about his first love and how different things should’ve been.
Though he’d come to realise there was a glimmer of hope inside him that grew brighter every year, and it’d began to melt away the glacier of his pain drip by drip. Donovan allowed it to warm him up like the summer breeze.
He gazed back down to the joyous celebrations highlighting the Christopher, unable to help a small smile.
We made it, Jason.