Alexander's Gift

The Playboy- 3

Whoosh. The grass-stained golf ball soared through the air in a smooth, long arc before landing a foot away from the hole on the putting green. Dean smiled widely, pleased with himself, and Dick patted him on the back in congratulations. Their eyes met in silent understanding for a second as they began their walk in pleasant silence, and Dean felt that same warmth of friendship toward Dick. He hated people who felt they must talk all the time, and who could not stand silence. Dean knew he'd go crazy if he had no time to himself to think, what with everybody always wanting something from him.

It had been two months since that first meeting between Dick and Dean, and ever since, they had been spending nearly every afternoon together either golfing or going back to Dean's pad. Almost everyone who worked with Dick and heard of the two becoming fast friends mumbled to themselves that the whole situation was awfully weird, and Dick must be trying to kiss up to Dean because of his money. That was just the nature of people. Despite knowing the unselfish person Dick was, they willingly and eagerly twisted reality to fit their story and fulfill their achings for something dramatic to happen in their very undramatic lives.

"Could I have today's paper, two packs of Dentyne, and uh . . . " Dick surveyed the newsstand carefully casually, as if he was just deciding what to buy now. "An issue of Ace High, please."

The man behind the stand gathered the requested items with expert swiftness before looking disinterestedly over his horn-rimmed glasses at Dick. "That'll be 50 cents." The man had a dull, monotonous voice, and looked rather dull himself.

Dick deposited the change into the man's outstretched hand and grabbed his purchased items perhaps a little too quickly. As he strode away from the stand, Dick allowed himself a peek at the comic. The cover was vibrantly bright, with gun-wielding cowboy, Slim Dexter, in bright colors jerking the tablecloth out from under a poker game. The painted sunlight cast bold, angular shadows of masculine determination in his cheeks and marked his wide, set jaw. The ideal man: the cool, eternally handsome ladies' man whose stance reminded Dick of Jesus overturning the merchant tables in the temple.

Dean resisted the urge to eagerly leap from the couch when the door swung open to Dick striding in with what he bought at the stand. Dick tossed the comic book to him in amusement. "I don't understand why you insist on me buying your comics for you. It's not like a grown man's never read one before! God, you're acting like it's an issue of Playboy!" Dick shook his head with half-hearted exasperation, a part of him pleased in sharing in this lesser known side to the famous Dean Russo.

"I don't care if people think I'm a carousing good-for-nothing, but I still got a reputation to uphold." Dean felt himself cringe at the thought, and anxiety washed over him, so he quickly fixed Dick with a warning glare and opened his comic.

No matter who you were or how much of a wretch you were, Dean firmly believed that you still had a standard you had to measure up to. He hated that about the world, and he refused to acknowledge the fact that everything he chose to do was because of that. Despite all of the loathing thoughts he had for everyone else around him trying desperately to reach that elusive standard, Dean still had the audacity to be just like them, then close his eyes and wish his problems away- well, drink them away at least.

###

"I've never been here- don't you think I'm a little under-dressed?" Dick whispered with an accusing look to Dean as he surveyed the sea of men who were dressed as if they were going to a wedding when this was in fact a bar. Not just any bar, mind, you, but a bar for the more fortunate, one could say. If you weren't dressed in the right clothes, and you didn't look like you came from the right side of town, the bouncers- who were simply men of uncommon size- would politely tell you that the bar was closed.

"You're fine, don't be such a broad. Anyways, you're with me." Dean answered in a low voice, absentmindedly stirring his martini with a pinky. He could act the part, alright. 

What're you kiddin' yourself for? 

He froze, trying desperately to push the thoughts away. But they wouldn't leave so easy this time. 

You're really going to pretend you're any different from all the rest of them? 

No, he wasn't like them. 

You didn't earn your money, did you? 

Shut up. 

You think just because you see through the I-have-everything façade of who everyone thinks you are and they don't, you're suddenly better than them? 

I . . . I am.

You feel the same primitive, self-destructive desires as they do! You live unashamed and unchanging in the way you are deep down, only you force these miseries on yourself based on 'moral dialemmas' you know you should have as a virtue, as a star you can pin on your chest to set you apart from all the rest! 

That's not true! Dean cried back at the voice; the cruel, slippery little thing that leered at him, grinning smugly. 

It doesn't fundamentally separate them from you. You're all liars, and you're all proud of who you are, no matter how hard you try not to be.

A crash startled Dean from his trance before anything more frightening could be thought, and in an instant he was brought to the reality of Dick astride someone on the floor, punching the living daylights out of him. A second later, there were men dragging Dick off the poor bastard. The whole room had fallen silent, leaving only the bleeding, groaning mess on the floor. The owner, Rudy, who was an old family friend of Dean's, had rushed over to the scene and was assessing the situation with the two graying wings of his moustache quivering nervously.

Grimacing, Dean drew his wallet from his coat with two fingers and began taking out several bills before Rudy shook his head.

"Don't bother, Dino." He said gruffly, not unkindly. "I know who started it. He'll pay. Why don't you just take your friend home?" Dean nodded gratefully and put back his wallet without questioning- he didn't want Rudy to change his mind. Without a word, Dean grabbed a hold of Dick and pulled him by the collar on his way out of the bar.

Nothing was said until they reached Dean's penthouse, at which point Dean turned to Dick with an amused grin playing on his lips. Not at all the reaction Dick had expected. "Never woulda fig-ered you for the fighting type. What'd the other fella say?" Dean's been the cause of more than one such fight himself over the years, so he was more curious than angry. After all, why would he be angry? He wasn't Dick's damn wife.

To his surprise, though, Dick shifted from foot to foot uncomfortably, not meeting Dean's eyes. With a light smile, Dean hit Dick gently on the arm before stepping back in resignation, sensing that Dick was truly upset. "Well, are you hurt?"

There was an unreadable glint in Dick' eyes as he just held up his hand into the light, revealing the split knuckles- he seemed to be struggling with something, and it didn't take much for Dean to guess the trouble lay in what the guy said to Dick. And, knowing Dick, he thought he had a pretty good idea who the insult was about. "What'd the fathead say about me?"

Clearing his throat, Dick finally met Dean's eyes. "He said you were a real pistol."

"That's all? Hell, I've heard loads worse!" Dean exclaimed cheerily.

"No, that's not all. They said you knocked off your old man for the money." In repeating it, Dick's anger looked like it had returned.

A cold, laugh-like sound escaped Dean's lips. It was supposed to be a laugh- but it was harshly bitter . . . If Dick could have understood that sound, he would have caught a glimpse under the mask that Dean always wore to hide himself from the world.

"Listen, I'm sorry about your hand. I appreciate what you did." Dean allowed himself to say politely, and then fell silent in such a way that Dick knew that was the end of that conversation.