"Do you like being scared?"

A nervous, giddy energy fluttered in Case's chest. He looked down, hiding his face as a half-smile and tittering laugh escaped him. His vocal cords were almost healed, allowing him to give a crackly reply,  "Uh . . . yeah. Sometimes."

"What's your favorite scary movie?"

Case bit his bottom lip, thinking. His mind ran through blood and gore. Monsters and demons. Terror, the sustained sense of dread and anticipation of fear. "I don't know. OG A Nightmare on Elm Street is always a classic."

Sir hummed, approving. "Ooh, I know that one. That's, uh . . ." He clicked, as if scraping his memory banks. "Freddy Kleuger."

"Krueger," Case corrected, smiling through his voice crack. Sir made those kind of small mistakes quite a bit. He'd never admit it (not even to himself) but Case thought these blunders were endearing. They softened Sir's edges, made him seem more like a goofy dad or a charming stranger.

"That's the one," Sir replied, snapping his fingers. "Why, I remember sneaking into the theater to see that one when I was just a boy. Scared the bejesus outta me." He smiled. A genuine smile—rare, only recognizable by his dimples.

Case chuckled. He liked these moments. He probably spent half of his waking hours wishing these meetings would come sooner (the other half, wishing he could go home). He enjoyed—no, needed—the human interaction. The normality. So much so that he didn't even register he was required to strip down to his underwear.

He pulled his shirt over his head, going through the motions of their PG-strip show, his mind still on horror movies and fictional monsters. "I snuck in on my older brother's sleepover once, and they were all watching the remake," he continued. "I was like seven or eight, and yeah, it scared the fuck out of me, too."

Case knew time had passed. He knew by the way Sir's bruises turned from dark purple to sickly yellow-green (how long did bruises take to heal? Two weeks? Three?). But he also knew by how comfortable he was becoming, the unconscious easing of his boundaries. The way he missed Sir when he eventually left.

"Wait!" he said one day as Sir was about to leave him standing alone in his underwear, yet again. Sir paused, turning around to look at him, and Case had no shame in asking, "When are you coming back?"

A wolfish smirk. "Why?" he asked, his tone now dark and teasing. "Will you miss me?"

In his gut, Case answered yes. He hated the loneliness, the boredom, the nothingness. He craved human connection, if not the touch then the sound of a voice other than his own. He wanted to admit yes, I will miss you, but instead he managed to compose himself. He shrugged. "No, it's fine. I've got a rat in the wall to keep me company, so . . ."

Sir smiled knowingly. "Oh, Casey," he replied softly, his tone taking a dark yet alluring turn. "You're never alone down here. But that doesn't mean you can't miss me when I'm gone."

Wait . . . What? Confusion and realization worked through his brain like thick molasses pouring from a jug. Is . . . is he . . . ?

Yes, Casey, the voice resounded through the dizzy haze in his head. He's flirting with you.

Case was still in a lightheaded daze, still accepting the voice's words as reality, when Sir chuckled from the stairwell; as if he could see the inner-conflict playing out on Case's face. Or maybe he really could see right through Case, read his mind and reach into the dark and ugly recesses of his psyche where Case didn't want to go.

Case spent the rest of the night unable to sleep, restless and fixated on trying to define whatever the fuck this relationship was turning into. There was a fine line between friendly and flirtatious. If a girl spoke to Case the way Sir did, of course he'd be over thinking whether their banter was loaded with sexual subtext. The fact Sir was a man should have made it easier, but instead it made everything worse. Confusing. Uncomfortable. Scary. And Case had never liked having to sit with his own thoughts and feelings.

"He wasn't flirting." His voice was crackly, but he kept using it, kept saying the same phrase to himself as if that would make it true. "He wasn't flirting with me."

Don't be silly, the voice stirred, reawakened and emerging from the dark as if it were a snake that had been hiding under an overturned rock, now ready to strike. it hissed, taunting. It slithered to the forefront of his mind. He was flirting with you. He's so nice and kind to you—maybe he's starting to like you?

"No." Case rolled over, squeezing the pillow over his head. No, that wasn't real. He forced his brain to shift gears, to picture the basement door swinging open, a SWAT team of police coming to his rescue. He filled his head with the fantasy, letting him distract him from the silence and loneliness, until Sir returned the next night.

Sir came down the stairs, a bottle of whiskey at his side. "C'mere," he said, unscrewing the cap. "I'm gonna show you a trick."

"What kind of trick?" Case asked as he approached. He eyed the dark amber liquid sloshing inside the glass. Could smell the aroma, like phenol mixed with BBQ sauce.

"Well, it's not a trick, per say." Sir surveyed him for a beat, his features pinched in thought. He took a quick swig from the bottle, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand and letting out a breathy aaahhh after he swallowed.

Guess that proves it's not spiked or poisoned.

Sir gestured for him to come closer. "Here, it'll be easier to explain if I show you. Open your mouth."

It occurred to Case that Sir hadn't brought any glasses. Sharing a bottle meant sharing saliva. Like secondhand kissing, almost. Case was still unsure if that bothered him as he folded his arms and tentatively opened his mouth for Sir to pour him a drink.

"Don't swallow," Sir quietly instructed as he touched the bottle to Case's lower lip. The glass was cold and wet. "Just hold the liquor under your tongue." He tilted the bottle, letting the whiskey gently pool into Case's mouth.

Case heartbeat quickened, anticipating and nervous for the familiar burn of straight liquor. The alcohol fumes swirled in his mouth. The taste was strong, adult almost; nothing like the stale beer or vodka-mixed-with-soda stuff he was used to.

"Take a breath," Sir whispered. "Slowly."

Won't I choke? Case wondered, but followed along anyway. He inhaled, as if taking a drag from a joint. The alcohol vapors travelled down his throat, blooming inside his chest and bursting like fireworks. Case sputtered, then giggled from the sensation; Sir laughed at his reaction. "Holy shit," Case gasped when he swallowed. The back of his throat burned. His insides burned. His skin burned. He couldn't stop giggling. "Blaagh. Oh my god. What was that?"

"That's a technique used by distillers, in order to appreciate the full scope of the alcohol's flavor and potency. Pretty neat, huh?"

Case coughed, clearing his agitated throat. "I wanna try again. I wasn't ready the first time."

"Alright, if you insist."

Sir held up the bottle. His pour was more generous the second time, but Case was steadier, pretending he was taking a deep pull from a bong. The vapors streamed through him, spiking his bloodstream with ethanol and heat. He took a step backward, staggering; he had carousel brain, the basement tilting on its axis. He giggled through tight lips, until he gave up and let the alcohol spray as he howled with laughter. Why hadn't he known he could get this super drunk, this super quick until now?

Sir reached into his jean pocket for his phone. He tapped at the screen, summoning the moody rise of synths and chiming guitar chords. 

"Yo," Case said, shouted in recognition. The music picked up, an almost melancholic pop-rock memory of the 80s. Astounded, Case stared at Sir, searching his knowing smirk for confirmation.

The Killers, 'Smile Like You Mean It.' One of Case's favorite songs. How? Case wondered, racking his brain for recollection if he'd ever shared that information with Sir. Why?

The phone's speakers were small and shitty, lacking the nuance that the song needed—but Case didn't care. It was music, something he'd been deprived of for weeks. Months? Too long.

Sir clicked along to the cymbal. He hunched forward, clicking clicking, as he eased toward Case. The vocals kicked in, nostalgic and moody, and Sir lazily shimmied his shoulders. Swayed his hips. Gave a coquettish grin, an invitation for Case to follow.

Recognizing an escape route to fun when he saw one, Case closed his eyes and danced to the beat. The music played, the chorus moody but upbeat, the kind of song that demanded to be sung. Case hollered along with the chorus, sensing Sir gravitating into his orbit.

Sir pulled Case into him, locking their hips into a slow grind.

Case giggled, a silly, nervous reaction. Even in his tipsy haze, he could feel a firm bulge against his thigh. He knew Sir was leading him to cross a boundary. Instead of following, he took the half-drunk whiskey bottle from Sir's other hand and took a swig. No need to inhale vapors. He swallowed, guzzling down liquid fire.

Here was familiar. This felt good.

"Easy," Sir drawled, lowering the bottle from Case's mouth.

He spun away from Sir, swaying to the music. His head swayed along. Spinny, hazy. Case collapsed on the bed, his head feeling as if he was still freefalling backwards. He gripped the mattress, needing something stable against the constant spinning. Even the stain on the ceiling seemed to be moving, shifting. Like a growth of black mold, spreading its infestation.

"I am easy," Case slurred. He heard himself, then laughed, spitefully. "I'm so fucking easy."

The bed dipped under Sir's weight. "I wouldn't say that."

The edges of his vision went fuzzy. Drowsiness crept in. Case sensed his consciousness, his control over his body, slipping away. Coarse mattress fibers scratched his skin as if he were laying across gravel. Cold. Strange cold. His skin prickled with goosebumps. His mouth went sour with the taste of raspberry vodka.

"This doesn't mean I'm giving you consent, by the way."

Sir gasped; even through the drunken haze, Case could hear the bullshit. "I'm offended you'd even suggest such a thing. Why, I'm a man of my word and I'd never do something so vile—"

"I know, I know," Case interrupted, scrunching his eyes tight. In the dark, he could feel the coldness of night, smell dirt and leaves and residual exhaust fumes and sickly-sweet perfume. Stop it. Stop, block it out. "I know. I'm just . . . I'm just saying . . ." Dubstep and chatter and laughter in the distance. Alcohol. Swirly brain, unable to move. Drunk, too drunk. His stomach churned with the threat of vomit. His lip quivered, his broken voice cracked with weakness, "I went to this party . . ."

No. The voice took command. The memory was forced behind heavy, white walls. Block it out, Casey, the voice told him, helping him. Case's focus was forced onto the discolored spot on the ceiling. A fine, hairline fracture like lightening slicing through beige water spots. If he stared hard enough, Case could see into the crack, into the darkness, could feel the plaster's need to burst open and suck him into the unknown.

"And . . . ?"

The white walls wavered. A high-pitched whirring rang in his ears. Sense-memories streamed back to him, bringing with them a jittery wave of anxiety and adrenaline. No. No, I can't do this. Case bolted upright. "I wanna dance."

Sir flinched. "What?"

Case got to his feet, pacing, restless. It was too risky, laying still . . . letting his thoughts wander.  "I need to dance," he repeated. "C'mon, play some music. Get drunk and listen to music with me."

Sir watched him for a moment, his brow creased with an answer Case didn't want. So, Case took him by the wrists, pulled him to his feet and tried to coax him to into a swaying dance.

"Play something. Please. Anything. Anything, please."

Case held Sir closer, wanting to entice him to say yes. His face pressed into Sir's button-down shirt. Sir's big, grown-up man body was warm, solid and soft. The sharpness of cologne and alcohol and the undefinable human smell filled his nostrils. A plastic button dug into his cheekbone.

"What's your favorite song?" His voice was muffled against Sir's torso. His tear ducts burned with the threat of emotions he couldn't bury. "What's the worst thing that's ever happened to you?"

"Hey . . ." Sir wrapped his arms around Case. "Shhh," he hushed, as if he were the gentle breeze rustling through treetops. "Talk to me," he said, the low hum of his voice reverberating inside his chest and into Case. "What are you thinking about?"

Case's hitched breathing shuddered to a stop. Instead of the unwanted thoughts, his brain had gone blank. All he could think of now was Sir's thumb, softly circling his back.

This is real, the voice told him. This is real and here and now. Focus here.

"Tell me," Sir pushed against the silence.

"I can't."

"You have to. We're building a relationship now, and that involves having uncomfortable conversations. Even if we don't want to."

Case gave a miserly laugh. A relationship.

Sir's hold tightened. "I want to know everything about you, Casey. I want to know every joy you've felt, and every hurt you carry. I will see the deepest, rawest parts of you, and I'll never leave you . . ."

Look how much he cares about you, Casey, the voice told him. Look here, feel how good he is to you.

Case bit the inside of his cheek. If he opened his mouth he wouldn't speak, he would scream. Through the drunken haze, he tried to attach himself to reason. He tried to convince himself that maybe this was one of the ugly truths found only in growing up: relationships weren't the soft and happy things found in the movies; relationships were carnal at their core, and held together by the fear of loneliness. He wanted to accept that truth. After all, it'd been the thought lurking in his mental shadows since he was 16-years-old.

But instead, his fingers tightened around the whiskey bottle's neck. He pushed away from Sir, snatching the bottle along with him. He lost balance, nearly faceplanting into the concrete. He stumbled upright, laughed then screamed, unhinged. He took another drink.

Still familiar. Still good—destructive, but good.

Case kept drinking, kept dancing and bouncing from the walls, even when he couldn't hear the music anymore. Finally, his brain was untethered—from the basement, from the bullshit—and he was floating up and up, into the oblivion of space. He flew beyond the stars, spiraling into a blackout. When he woke up the next morning, he was on the bed, nursing a headache but fully clothed. Untouched, unharmed (so it would seem). He was alone, in the quiet. Nothing but a splitting hangover, the voice, the basement, and everything he didn't want to face.