Chapter 7

The sudden chill in the air grates on Dylan's skin. A revolting stench creeps in like an ominous warning, jabbing at Dylan's nostrils. It smells like… blood. 

Fear cascades down Dylan's spine like a centipede burrowing through his bones. The silence is ironically deafening, the darkness blinding.

There was something familiar about this — about the scene unfolding before him — and a wave of déjà vu overwhelms his senses. Is he back in the bottomless pit? But why?

There is an almost non-distinct presence lingering beside Dylan. He's not alone. Someone or something is there with him. His heart begins to pound when he feels something cold and thin coiling around his wrist. A hand?

Shadows poured around him and the feeling of dread hovering above him seized him by the neck. 

A blur of movement crosses his peripheral vision, prompting him to whirl around. His breath is caught in his throat. It's him — looking so much like the first day Dylan saw him. A sharp pang shoots straight through Dylan's heart as he watches those lips curve in the most heart melting smile Dylan has seen. Then he's snatched from Dylan's side at a snap of a finger, being dragged to a place where Dylan can't follow. 

Dylan hollers his name, but all he can hear is the echo of his own voice — thick with the trepidation that's trying to claw out of his chest. He calls out again, but the response he gets is a string of laughter — low and sickening — that clutches at his heart.

Dylan's name echoes above the menacing sound, but the voice calling out to him sounds so far away, like it's coming from the other end of a tunnel. The voice fades gradually until all Dylan can hear is ceaseless buzzing.

"No, wait!" Dylan hollers but his voice breaks, like his windpipes had been blocked. The cold hard ground beneath his feet seems to turn into a quicksand. "Wait! Don't go!" He runs and runs and…

Dylan only sees a silhouette vanishing into the blinding light and he wills his legs to move faster. Then he takes a leap, one arm outstretched, trying to catch the vestiges of the person that made his life worth living.

He hears a chorus of "Dylan, don't!" behind him before he feels the sudden impact. The sharp pain that stabs his leg, his head, and his whole body when he hits a hard, prickly surface is the last thing he remembers before his vision clouds like he's staring at a white, snowy ground. Then everything morphs into nothing but black.

*

It was all over the tabloids and gossip T.V. shows: Lance Stradson finally found the other half of his soul.

The girl was pretty — light auburn wavy hair that fell past her shoulders making her look like some life-sized Barbie doll, bright green eyes that seemed to light up every time they fell on Lance, a laugh that sounded like a wind chime, but too demure for Dylan's taste. Lance claimed he met her at a charity function but Dylan knew better. 

"Charity function my ass." Dylan snorted. Every bit of what he was hearing sounded like it was scripted. He would bet his ass that Lance's current agent had staged all this.

Lance's popularity started dwindling ever since Dylan came out in public — accidentally, if Dylan might add. The aftermath was a nightmare. Speculations sprang left and right about Lance's sexuality and his close relationship with Dylan Friggs. 

It started when a sports news production made a special show featuring retired athletes. They came to visit Dylan for an interview.

The host, Raddick Cervado, drilled him with questions about his plans of settling down, asked if he was seeing someone and who might the lucky woman be. Dylan might have blurted out something that incriminated his sexual preference and the news spread like wildfire.

Then later, someone (from one of the tabloid shits perhaps) cornered him on his way out of a supermarket and asked bluntly about his relationship with Lance Stradson.

Dylan was floored. He kept his lips sealed, of course. The truth would no doubt ruin Lance. Not with the association, no. He was pretty sure the association was pro-equality. But he knew for a fact there were bad eggs within the nest, some close-minded bigots in the industry who would eat Lance alive if they found out the truth.

Dylan couldn't let that happen. Even though it had been almost a fucking year since they had broken up, he still cared deeply about Lance.

Lance's new agent, Russo Sigrath, probably feared Dylan would give Lance away. Dylan would bet everything he had that it was Sigrath who engineered all this bullshit, setting Lance up with this girl, probably to put an end to the rumors about Lance’s sexuality or maybe place Lance in the limelight once more.

Dylan stared at the T.V. screen, watching Lance wrap an arm around the girl's shoulders. He snorted at the ridiculous display. 

What the fuck was he doing anyway? Was this some self-punishment shit? <i>Oh well.</i> What better way to spend the weekend than watching some trashy news while nursing a can of Budweiser and a heart heavy with regret.

The sports news reporter asked about the girl and Lance declared (without blinking) that they had been dating for four months.

"Where have you been hiding her?" the reporter asked with a dash of dubiousness in his tone like he didn't buy this shit either.

Lance huffed a short laugh, making him sound younger than twenty-nine, and said, "Well, I hoped to keep my private life private but I guess you can't hide everything."

The camera caught it — the way Lance's hand moved up and down the girl's arm. The girl leaned closer to Lance, gazing at him with what Dylan could tell was adoration in her eyes. 

"Fuck."

The sight made Dylan's stomach twist. He turned the T.V. off, tossed the remote on the coffee table and rushed toward the kitchen to grab another can of beer.