Ezra’s Point of View - Drunken Phone Call/Club-Pick-Up Scene (happy birthday, Emily!) (Patreon)

(I know that I am technically off the grid until July 1st, but I'm popping in to say:

HAPPY 22nd BIRTHDAY, EMILY!  🥰 🥳  I hope that you have a wonderful year ahead of you!  Wishing you happiness, motivation, and good health, surrounded by people who love you!

Your sweet friend Jacky reached out to me on Wattpad last year for Christmas to surprise you with a written gift, but I, unfortunately, missed her message.  She messaged again, this time for your birthday, wondering if I could pull together something for you.  She said that Wicked Boy and Black Velvet were your favorite stories and that you've been following my work for a very long time, which I appreciate so much.  I thought this was such a thoughtful thing for her to do, and I'm hoping I catch you in the correct time zone. 😭

I couldn't think of what sort of extra to do.  I did consult discord and a couple of friends trying to decide — but it's always hard to choose a writing gift for someone else, haha!  I personally like to write an insight into Ezra's feelings/POV and love seeing the alternate perspectives of characters in books and movies, so I chose to continue the club pick-up scene.  I think it's a very emotionally raw segment between the two characters, where Milan is at his lowest point, and Ezra is again there for him.

I put the three parts together so they would flow better, but as ten-tier patrons know, the third part of this is the newest addition!)

WARNINGS FOR: allusions to child abuse, alcohol dependency, suicidal ideation.  (all the themes are present in the original scene) BUT also warnings for heavier allusions to Ezra's backstory.

Heads up to new patrons:  If you would like more scenes in Ezra's POV, they are on the ten tier.  This scene will be moved to the ten tier in one week.

— PART ONE

Ezra always thought figurative language was pretentious, or some kind of intelligence-kink, spank-bank material for Shakespeare, all overly complicated sentences that the writer was likely still jacking off to, bone-dry in his grave.

Ezra never liked romance or pedestals, and metaphors were often particularly fuckin' sentimental, with a twitter-pated protagonist chirping on about some unrequited sweetheart, her pretty hair haloing in the sun, her heart as sweet as goddamn candy.

Romanticized bullshit wets panties, but Ezra would rather watch reality television and consume trashy eighties films from the comfort of his couch. Melanie Jeter's bed is always open if he's particularly bored, and there's nothing romantic about that.

Why?

Because when Ezra speaks about another — he likes to keep things short, simple, and to the point. This is how his relationships go.

Yeah, Jerry with the glasses? Lori's son. He works the night shift at the Gas'N'Go. Heard it was robbed twice last summer.

Monica? Louis' granddaughter? She graduated with Daphne. Moved out west.

That's how someone talks about a person outside of the flowery worlds of fiction, like a normal fucking human being. One that stays out of trouble, with no way for his words to be dissected — twisted one way or another.

They are what they are because he says exactly what he means.

Ezra isn't stupid; he gets the allusions, he understands what 'heart of gold,' 'courage of a lion,' and 'life is a box of chocolates' mean.

Ezra has never been called dumb by anyone but his fuck-all daddy dearest, and with the man's nose stuck between two bible quotes and his dick buried in a prostitute, his fatherly wisdom doesn't count much for anything.

He's just not into letting allusions speak for him on something that could just be said, is all.

Ezra understands how others feel. He makes his money off of it. But it doesn't mean he's good at voicing what he feels because it feels awkward and open and — throw in a metaphor or a simile, and it just goes to shit.

That sort of ticks him off, makes him itch.

If he happens to be feeling wordy, unlike a theme of Oscar Wilde's novels, an over-arching analogy isn't on his speech itinerary because he doesn't like doing things he isn't good at.

Scratch that. He only likes doing things he's good at. Maybe he'd get farther he didn't.

Whatever.

In the end, like all rambling and intrusive thoughts, it doesn't matter who he was or what he hated in English class. Ezra dropped out, like most with better to do in Huxley, and left behind all those rhetorical devices that he never entirely understood.

He made money instead, which is smarter anyway, he thinks.

As much as he didn't get the technicaldifference between analogies, similes, and metaphors and chalked that up to bad breeding, materialism, a love of hooky, and prime-time entertainment — he thought of them often.

And why they pissed him off so much.

Why the appeal just didn't make sense.

Maybe, it went more like this. Metaphors. Similes. They didn't feel particularly charming to him. Maybe he wished they did. But the reality is different.

He didn't read much, but he spent a whole fucking lot of his childhood relating people to animals, bugs, and things like doormats and dead plants — all their bad habits and mannerisms explained away because of their similarities to something that couldn't speak.

If Ezra takes something human and turns it into an insect, an object, a creature, there's no reason for the human to explain itself.

It can't.

It's not human anymore.

Not as far as Ezra is concerned.

Flowery speech didn't have the chance to be pretty. He wasn't raised with a warmth that touches his thoughts and turns them downright sunny.

The downfalls of others — they weren't just a literary tease to wonder at, an idea or a concept made more straightforward. And the comparison he made was instead, Ezra's way of surviving, his way of rationalizing bad intentions and nasty characteristics that he didn't really want to understand —

So. He likened his mother to a corpse, her clients to buzzards, his father to a weasel, and Daphne to a broken show-pony. This made them make sense. They were just animals and dead things, after all. What sort of agency did they have? Their desires and actions were just instinct — or the lack thereof.

Ezra humanized them this way and also... dehumanized them this way. He kept them at arm's length away — this way.

Nothing ever hurt, and why the hell would he complain about that?

No lover was a lover, so they didn't come with a halo or a sugary heart. They came with the right amount of cash, just enough attraction, and fulfillment of mutual needs. He wasn't daydreaming and waxing poetic about sunrise and sundown because it was what it was and not something he made it.

And —

Well.

The narrative he stuck to for years shifted without reason, like a lingering touch from a stranger who holds the door open on a bad day.

What exactly was it about Milan?

He couldn't explain it to someone else.

Ezra turns himself upside down over swollen eyes, his favorite number, and an old, ratty pajama top. He can't be bothered to keep count with how often he's compared Milan to — everything he finds interesting.

Everything he finds pretty.

He tries not to dissect it.

But unlike the others,

Milan becomes a threadbare sheet, the flicker of Ezra's bedroom light, a ghost, a bird. The difference is that Ezra finds comfort in each of these things. He thinks the concept of each is — pretty. His own personal sugared heart. His own personal halo.

Ezra thinks back to Milan often, so often that it's near pathetic. Each of the man's timid mannerisms is likened to the jittery calculation of a small, winged animal — one sitting on the feeder just outside of Ezra's porch, one watching him cautiously, one about to take flight.

There was nothing human left about Milan, which, for once, felt utterly human, and the arm between Ezra and another person fell away.

Milan felt familiar.

He felt like Ezra.

He could've said that. But Ezra was just admiring a scared, escaped bird on a feeder — relating to him in his one-sided, quiet way. The bird showed him more and more, and Ezra fell harder.

What was the bird supposed to fall for?

Ezra should've called it what it was. There was a hungry, timid bird, with no choice but him, and when Ezra tried to tempt him with blue skies, instead of himself,

The bird chose its cage.

Ezra's English teacher would've eaten it up.

— PART TWO

Ezra is a night owl, with all the trashy, late-night, drama-filled reality shows to fuel his bad habit, give his head something other to do than think, and the escape of a stranger's life to take part in. He likes to watch other people. Wants to see what they're up to, what their head is like, where their thoughts spiral.

It's entertaining. It's distracting.

It isn't him.

So Ezra stays up, kicks back, watches shitty television until his phone rings, or messes around with the parts of aging cars in his front yard. Night after night. It's a routine. If he gets drunk at the motel parties with his friends, he might lose money. Because —

Admittedly, parts of his circadian rhythm are due to tacky viewing pleasures, but others are due to business.

Being a night owl is a part of the job — Goules are good for a late-night phone call, FaceTime, picture, or videos, and practically unseen in the cities of Pennbrook and McLaughlin until called upon and prettied up.

Whether it's evening lust, soirées, business parties, or loneliness, Ezra's beckoned at night. This usually means during the day, he's running after a chance to sleep, a jolt of nicotine, and a good mid-day catnap.

He has to stay charming, after all, and shut-eye does him good — afternoon be damned.

So. Right now — it's almost dawn, and instead of sleeping, Ezra's still sitting in a suffocating three-piece suit, tie drawn tight to hide his tattoos, and mind a little on edge. He chews on a sunflower seed absently and spits the shell into his ash-less ashtray with a sigh.

Ezra's realizing...

Life is fucking dull lately.

He hasn't fought in weeks. He's hungry, pent up with wasted energy. He missed Ramirez's party at the motel in favor of Ms. Komarova's vineyard.

The dinner he had four hours ago consisted of the smallest portion sizes he'd ever seen.  He didn't feel like fucking Ms. Komarova in her pretty little vacation cottage; accent be damned, or like crawling into Melanie Jeter's silk spread on the way back into Huxley.

Weird.

He likes pretty clients for a reason.

Guess he's experiencing a dry spell.

He glances back towards his kitchen absently — but doesn't have a pack of cigarettes or snacks in sight. Oh, yeah, that's right. He forgot to grocery shop.

That's because this month fucking blows.

He thought he could relax by the television, but Gina kicked Brooke's ass on his favorite reality show — and goddamn, was Brooke his favorite.

She sort of reminds him of Daphne if Daphne had better luck —

And Daphne, well.

She doesn't. Daphne is Daphne. A shitty older sister, with tired, pissy eyes, a dirty apron, her own pack of cigarettes —

And fucking stubborn.

Must be something to do with genetics.

But Brooke got her ass handed to her, just like Daphne proverbially did by life, and now Ezra doesn't want to turn the television back on. It doesn't feel like an escape now. It's stained with Daphne's failures.

He'd put on Iron Magnolias — it always does the trick, but he can't shake Milan's delicate expression, or the vulnerability of him falling asleep to it.

Why's he thinking of this shit all a sudden?

Ezra's tried kicking this habit a couple of times.  Caring. Smoking. Binge-watching shows.

He's thrown a patch on, bought some tic-tacs and a pack of gum, sometimes a bag of sunflower seeds like tonight. Shut off his cable for a month, once, even. If he got real agitated or restless, prissy-pantied Melanie was there, answering on the first ring, begging for Ezra's bitterness. Always willing to be an outlet for the resentment he tucks beneath his skin.

That's her particular brand of escort.

A pissy Ezra.

She tips with gifts, doesn't like feelings, so Ezra never minded before.

But now? He doesn't want Melanie — because last time, his thoughts strayed to fucking a certain icy actuary, and he feels a bit bad about how hard it got him off; and now, he's bored, he wants cigarettes — his sister to accept his goddamn help and his 'dirty money' —

And one thing is always gonna be easier than the other. That's his mantra. But. Nothing feels easy right now.

Ezra isn't into doing shit that isn't smart, or dwelling on things that don't do him any good.  He's goddamn good at controlling himself — because the times that he wasn't, things went south.

So. Wearing a patch is pragmatic. Most clients don't like the smell of smoke and granted, Ezra doesn't really either. Another bad habit — an obsessional routine that gives him something to do with his fingers, his restlessness, and while heeding to the creak of his front porch's aging swing.

Smoking. Trying to quit — control and loss of it, well, it's a lot better than fucking and fighting.

A lot better for him.

But. With everything else....

Can he control it?

It's too late to try and make amends, earn Daphne's trust, get right with God, or save his lungs, he guesses. Doesn't mean he can't try. Even though —

Fixing a family like Ezra's... isn't sensible at all. Craving a man like Milan is just plain stupidity. Fucking around with a rich chick when his head is so far up Milan's ass that he can't think of anyone else isn't smarteither,

So he flicks off the television, throws his sunflower seeds in the cabinet, showers, and tucks the suit that Ms. Komarova bought him back into the dry-cleaner's plastic. It smells like her, like a businesswoman's personal potpourri.

He doesn't like the fragrance — not now that he can breathe outside the tie. He touches his neck.  He stares at his bed.

Ezra thinks of Ms. Komarova's accent.

He thinks of the soft edges of Milan's. Of his stupid little nerdy fucking watch, face-up on his wrist, his red-rimmed eyes, and permanent pout.

Ezra hasn't had a crush before. He's too busy, flighty — too mean, too practical.  Maybe that's why he hasn't wanted much of anything lately. He sort of just wants Milan —

He remembers thinking his bed looked a lot smaller with the idea of two. That should've bothered him. So. Why'd he offer? He's never considered it before. He likes his space. He really enjoys being alone, with no one to expect anything from him, with no one to tell him what to do.

But. So fucking what?

What's the use in mulling where his head was at three months ago?

It doesn't matter, because — Milan's not coming back.  Why? He's got a rich daddy that beats him down, pays him for the trouble, a pristine apartment with nothing inside to hide away in and — and — that prick. Lucas?  Jesus.  That piece of shit is just icing on the cake.

Ezra probably registers like danger, sets off every red light in Milan's little head. Another volatile, masculine presence to fear. Or. Milan likes his space, too.

They're kindred fucking spirits.

Maybe.  The problem is, Ezra would make that exception — would let Milan crawl into his sheets. Into his home. Become something that he has to think about. He'd be gentle to him.

Or. Maybe it was kind of fun, showing him his favorite movie. Or. Maybe Ezra is real fucking worried about him.

But this is Ezra's problem. His thoughts tend to circle back to places that people never do. He tends to want things that are hard to grasp. And.

Ezra is confident. He has no problem reaching for what he wants but.... If he reaches out to someone as fragile as Milan, even with the best intentions, Milan will want to please him. Ezra can see that. Ezra will take the spot of his dad — or Lucas, and Milan will say yes — and crawl into Ezra's sheets and become devastatingly docile because he thinks he owes Ezra for the offer, for the kindness.

That makes him feel itchy.

He doesn't like it.

He can't be the one to reach out.

So Ezra goes to bed with that thought. He does again the next night, and the next, exhausted, and finally, on the weekend, he says —  I'm taking the day off. I'm going to sleep like a goddamn human being,

But then his phone rings — catches him off guard, right in the middle of the deepest sleep, and wakes him up. He should be pissed. Right? It rings and rings, and it's the middle of the goddamn night —

But it's Milan.

He's half-awake and half-aware, so. Part of him thinks — is he doing better? Did he drop the bottle? Is he ready? Did his thoughts circle back, too?

Will you let me take care of you?

"... Pretty boy?"

— PART THREE

Ezra's heart is pounding. Nah. Scratch that. He doesn't want to think about that. His head is pounding. If this is a fucking dream, his subconscious gets an A plus for the realism of body aches. He sort of hopes it is a dream, so somehow, in the end, it could pan out with Milan tangled in his comforter.

He sneers, his dark sheets slipping, gathering at his naked waist.

He shouldn't have quit smoking.

"Ah. Hello."

Like a bucket of cold water, Milan's voice is slick with the diffidence of sadness. Ezra's jaw sets. He drifts bitterly out of a delusion. He props himself up on his elbow, arches his neck to free the tension in his temple, and presses the phone closer to his ear.

Again, he thinks of the bird. He thinks, tonight, that's what Milan sounds like. A soft chirp, a frail little thing that might sing him a cautionary tale of what a father's hand can do.

And...

He knows what Milan's demeanor entails.

Ezra shouldn't be entirely himself.  So he reigns back. Plays nice. Turns gentle and kind and not too honest, because honestly, Ezra isn't anything that Milan could want.  Ezra hasn't talked to the man in months. It has him feeling greedier than ever, pissier, and hot in his skin.

All of the above would scare Milan.

Wouldn't it?

So he finds himself between a rock and a hard place. He doesn't like to put himself there. Avoids it when he can. He doesn't like unpleasant feelings — he doesn't like the absence of control, but...

It's too late. Ezra has heard Milan's laugh. Seen him smile. Watched him cry. Held him in his arms.  And now, he'd do a whole hell of a lot — a whole hell of a lot of things that he wouldn't do before.

Ezra doesn't know where Milan is, can't look him in the eye, grab hold of him, change any shifting, unpredictable — volatile thought. So, he can't be greedy — ticked, anything.  He can't say shit. Can't say he misses Milan. Can't ask him how he is. Can't be pissed that he never came around.

Anything he could voice is a potential dial-tone.

For someone so used to living self-reliant and unrestrained — it's stifling, bending to the needs of another.

"Hey."

That doesn't mean Ezra hasn't been here before. He knows his way around. That's the ugliness of good old-fashioned trauma, and no matter what form it takes, it's as familiar and fresh as a nightmare. Ezra knows one thing, and that's that he doesn't know what scared Milan off in the first place. Doesn't know what triggers him.

But he's been gracefully sidestepping catalysts his whole life.

It made Ezra good with people.  Too good. He can analyze them, dissect them down, tucking inside the cavities of their temperaments, and all the rich fucks — they all start to meld together, all their annoyances stemming from the same theme, the same pride.  He knows how to flatter.  How to avoid outbursts.

Ezra does have his limits. He's an escort, not a therapist, and indifference suits him when it's necessary. Ending a contract when he can't find or fit a mold or when a client is erratic is necessary.

Milan is unstable. He should've taken two steps back from the beginning, but he didn't. Ezra plowed right into his life — to make sure the other man didn't take it. Took every inappropriate, weird, tactless, fucking step out there instead. Just to help him.

Because Ezra doesn't feel particularly flippant about Milan — actually, not at all. This oppressive feeling, he could let it go, but he doesn't want to.

He likes Milan. So he's careful.

Ezra takes his own feelings about the time that's passed, his irritation, and his worry; he strangles them with his pretty fucking escort bow, and pushes them down. He says hey, and tries to smile to himself, smile in a way that his words can mimic.

But. Milan inhales, his breath trembles, and Ezra's brows gather.

The part of him that wondered —  is he doing better?  Did he drop the bottle?  Is he ready?  Did his thoughts circle back, too?  Drops into the pit of his stomach.

"...No. I didn't — I meant..."

Milan fumbles. Angry. Sad. Confused.

Worse than Ezra's ever heard him sound.

"Jesus. Why did you answer the phone that way?"

Milan's voice trails from a nervous twittering to a combativeness that's so hot it feels like ice. That's the duality of the actuary. Ezra wonders which side of him came first. Did his dad beat this shifting mood into him?

If so, which part?

The nervous, babbling, insecurity?

Or his ability to withdraw so passively, to turn everything that he is into cold steel, so slippery, so self-destructive that —

"I'm not — and. I have something to tell you."

Fucking fantastic.

There's the bleakness of a slur that haunts the mildness of Milan's pretty accent. Ezra knows alcohol. He knows it better than most — what it sounds like, what it does, how it drips on the edges of interactions like toxic sludge — and infects the next generation.

But he tries.

He doesn't want Milan to hang up.

And —

He's a good actor.

"Aren't ya' all wound up..." Ezra teases — he placates. He spent the better portion of his childhood placating.  And his adulthood, after he worked through his own self-destructive anger, he gave months — years to his sister, tiding all the wounds that placating couldn't save her from. Cleaning drunken messes. Taking care of her kids. Dodging the scars alcohol left long before she ever turned to it. "I'll decide if you're pretty or not. Yeah?"

"You.... Don't think that you can flirt with me — just because you're good at it."  Another layer of Milan peeks out, one that's timidly desiring to preen at Ezra's flirtatiousness. But this Milan, the one of the verge of tears, doesn't trust him enough to preen. Doesn't trust Ezra's words — or anything really. And he wishes he would. He wishes he would.  "I called because I need to say something. Let me say what I need to say."

Milan shouldn't be saying anything.

Not like this. Ezra just needs to find out where he is. To call Milan's posh, protective friend to zoom over and pick him up in her Benz before he does something stupid.

"'Kay. Can I flirt with ya' after?"

Ezra wants there to be an after. But Milan says,

Let me say what I need to say,

With finality.

The severity of that finality is questionable.   What all is Milan planning to end tonight?

It's a scary question.

"Well."  The other man's voice is high before it breaks. "No."

"Because — You didn't call me."

Ezra's stomach turns. Something in Milan's voice — why does it always sound like he feels something for Ezra? Why does he sound so disappointed?

So hurt?

Ezra couldn't call.

How does he explain that? Without hurting Milan's fragile pride — how?  How does he say that? He can't. He won't be the straw that breaks the camel's back.  So he bottles it up.

"... Go on."

Club music echoes in the background. It pools into the receiver, staticky, upbeat, wrong,

"Go on?"  Milan scoffs,  "You didn't try to contact me at all. So."  He inhales, anger falling into pessimism. "Why are you...? The same."

Ezra grits his teeth. Now — he's mad. No. That's not the right word. He's frustrated because he's not the same. He's spent years trying to twist the lid on every set-back, every familial defect that festered, distancing himself from everyone — oozing with anger and grief, and all that it took to needle the care for someone else back inside of him was sad, brown doe-eyes drunkenly challenging him under motel lights.

Why?

Why?

"That your music, Milan?" His words droll into something with a bite. He tries to twist the lid, but it turns so tight that it finally pops. "Sure doesn't suit ya'."

Why do you want to hurt yourself?

"Don't."  Milan's voice is embarrassed, desperate even, cracking with the idea of being caught. Ezra doesn't give a shit. He just wants to know where he is. "Why aren't you bothered?"

"You probably knew that. That I was waiting. Did it make you feel good?"

Ezra is trying — to be patient.  To be gentle.  To be sweet.  To not be angry.

That's what Milan needs.

Right?

"I bet you call your clients. I bet you call them — and like, talk with them and stuff. I hoped that you'd do that. Call me, I mean. And you knew. So."

"I don't know why I do that. Anyway. I'm not going to think about that, anymore. I'm going to have fun. That's why I called."

"Yeah?"

It must be nice. It must be nice to finally let all that out. But Ezra can't. Because Milan knows fuck-all about him. Milan's a runner. And, if he knew anything, he'd run for the fucking hills.

Ezra's tongue makes a sound. A sound that resonates an awful lot like an aggravated tut.

He tells himself to deal with this the same way he would deal with Daphne.  Short.  Straight to the point.  No talking.  No spiraling.  Just —

Where are you?

"... Are ya' sure you're drunk enough?"

"Yeah. And?" Milan's tone turns petulant.  "I feel good. But it keeps getting interrupted by — my dad. And you. This is a stupid feeling. I don't want to feel it anymore, so I won't."

Ezra exhales.  For the first time in a long time, he feels apprehensive. I don't want to feel it anymore — so I won't.  Milan's precisely the type to do something fucking stupid — isn't that why Daphne had him check in on him months ago, in the first place?

My dad.

You.

Ezra's in the same sentence. He hates that.

"How much have ya' had?"

"As much as I want.  Okay? There's some guy here; he's bought me like, um.  Well. He's bought me however many drinks."

Ezra sits up further, his nose wrinkling, and he snags his jeans from the edge of the bed.

"...Where are ya'?"

"... Near Jameson. Pennbrook can't know I'm out. They have," Milan snorts, drunkenly distracted, "Little umbrella handstamps. Isn't that stupid? It's a weird place."

Ez hums on his end, but it's not as carefree as it usually is — instead, it's entirely vexed.  He's pissed.  He hates Milan's father.  He hates the idea of someone plowing a spiraling man with drinks — hates fucking Jameson for all that it is, hates that Milan is so damn sad.

"You think I'm stupid, don't you...? You probably think I'm stupid — or pathetic, but. I never called Lucas. Okay? Just you."

Ezra stills.

What does that mean?

"Anyway. I'm not doing it again."

He won't do this with a drunk.  He won't swap words with someone — make a misstep, make it worse.

"... So. Umbrella handstamps?  Near Jameson? What's the bar called?"

"Are you listening to anything else?"

Ez clears his throat.

He makes that tut sound again.

"You're not —"

"I said, what is the name of the bar, Milan?"

He loses his gentleness, his patience, and the words come entirely too strict.

"Fine. Don't listen. I'm going."

"Bag, Milan!  Who are you talking to? I need lipgloss!"

Milan's breath is sharp.

"You knew I wouldn't be able to come back. Didn't you? That's why you offered. You knew that I'd fuck up?"  His voice cracks.  "Whatever. I have that weirdo guy that's buying me drinks, okay? Match made in heaven. I'm tired — of..."

"I don't need you to call."

Ezra couldn't avoid the dial-tone, after all.