#tbam

. . .

The press conference ended as unremarkably as it had started. In Sarge’s opinion, Roger Callahan did not have a chance at winning the nomination. Ever since Humphrey had entered the running, the outcome was completely clear. It was frustratingly hard to beat the incumbent vice president.

Whatever. It wasn’t like Callahan would’ve gotten Sarge’s vote, anyways.

He packed his notebook and pen neatly into the pocket of his jacket, happy to finally be leaving. Now that all of this press conference stuff was over with, Sarge could get back to the work that actually mattered. The Democratic Convention in Chicago was only four months away, and he had a great deal of planning to get done. There were phone calls to make, and permits to obtain…

“Hey!” 

Sarge kept walking. Whoever it was—they certainly were not talking to him. He didn’t even know anyone in the state of New York—

“Wait—” 

A hand landed on Sarge’s shoulder, effectively stopping him in his tracks. He turned, irritated, before his heart dropped into his chest. Senator Callahan’s son stood before him, looking as though he had been running to catch up. His clothing was slightly rumpled, jacket thrown haphazardly over his impeccable suit as though he had been hurrying. 

The senator’s son laughed sheepishly, stepping back. “Uh… Sorry,” he said, “I just… I wanted to talk to you.”

Sarge stared back at him, completely floored. He said the only thing that came to mind, “… Why?”

He blinked back at Sarge, laughing again. “I think you should have the truth,” he said. He waved one hand over his shoulder, “My father doesn’t care about the war. You should tell your newspaper that.”

Sarge struggled to think of something intelligent to say. Meeting the son of the prodigal Roger Callahan was the equivalent of meeting a Kennedy; how, exactly, was he supposed to react? He said, dumbly, “Lets, uh… Let’s talk about this over a drink.”

. . . 

Senator Callahan’s son was named Fillmore, and he was twenty years old. He incessantly looked over his shoulder, spoke extremely quickly, and he drank straight tequila with lime. 

“You know, the crazy thing—” Fillmore poorly disguised another glance over his shoulder, “—My father actually supports the war. He thinks we’re in good business, over there.”

“Business?” Sarge asked, scribbling it down on his notepad. “Does he profit from the war?”

“Everyone does,” Fillmore replied. “It’s, uh…” He lowered his voice to a whisper, as if someone other than Sarge would hear him, “It’s sort of fucked up.”

He stole another glance over his shoulder, anxious. Sarge finished writing his note and watched him for a moment, strangely enthralled. He was a good-looking guy: broad shoulders, nice hair. It was a shame that he was so jittery.

“Why do you keep doing that?” he asked. 

“Doing what?” Fillmore replied, quick.

“You keep looking over your shoulder.” Sarge joked, “Are we being wiretapped, or something?”

“No, but…” Fillmore sighed. He looked back to Sarge, brown eyes briefly flashing orange in the low lighting of the bar. “I’m trying to see if we’ve been followed.”

“Why?”

“He doesn’t trust me,” Fillmore said quickly. “My father, I mean. He actually almost kicked me out, a couple of years ago—ever since then, I’ve been under a fucking microscope.”

“Why did he almost kick you out?” Sarge asked, intrigued.

“Well, uh…” Fillmore cast a nervous glance down at Sarge’s notebook. “Off the books, okay?”

Sarge shut the notebook, and tucked it back into the pocket of his jacket. He repeated, “Off the books.”

Fillmore hesitated; he threw back the remainder of his tequila, shuddering. “He, uh…” he averted his gaze as he responded, “He found me, uh… in close quarters with another man.”

Sarge blinked. Fillmore Callahan, it seemed, was full of surprises. “Meaning…?”

“Exactly what you think,” Fillmore said quickly, looking away. “I won’t be offended if you want to leave, now. I’m used to it.”

“No, uh… It doesn’t bother me,” Sarge said. 

Fillmore (finally) looked back at him. His brown eyes caught the light in such a way that they turned reflective, although they were shadowed by his thick eyebrows. He studied Sarge for a moment, eyes flicking briefly over his appearance. “Really?” he asked, disbelieving. 

“Really,” Sarge echoed.

Fillmore sat back in his seat, crossing his arms. “That’s not what I would’ve expected from you,” he said, “You seemed very… Traditional, to me.”

Sarge shrugged. “I guess it’s just something that I got used to, working with all of those hippie-freaks in the Movement.”

Fillmore nodded, turning back to his drink; he seemed dismayed to find that it was gone. “How about another round?” he asked, “On me.”

“Oh, I couldn’t,” Sarge declined, “I have a flight back to Ohio in the morning, I don’t want to miss it.”

“Oh, please,” Fillmore said, “One more drink isn’t going to kill you.”

He stood from their booth and disappeared across the bar, apparently ending their conversation. Sarge whistled quietly, looking down into his drink. Apparently, Fillmore did not like taking no for an answer. 

He returned a few minutes later, two more drinks in hand. He smiled at Sarge as he sat gingerly down in the booth, careful not to spill.

“I got you another Old-Fashioned,” Fillmore said, sliding it across the table, “But, I had them use nicer whiskey, this time. I don’t know how you can stand that Ballantine’s crap.”

He began to stammer, “You didn’t have to—”

“Sarge,” Fillmore interrupted, exceedingly calm, “My family is rich. It’s alright.”

Sarge stared at him for a moment, and then turned his gaze down to his new drink. “Um… Thank you.”

“It’s nothing.” Fillmore smiled at him again, moving to take another drink from his tequila. “Hey— Why do people call you that, anyways? Sarge.” He said the name as though he were trying to savor it, the smile lingering on his face. “Last I checked, you peaceniks don’t exactly like the military.”

Sarge chuckled, replying, “I went to Vietnam last year. Got drafted, went through hell, came home… When I started going to SDS meetings, people thought that it would be funny to start calling me that.”

“Wow.” Fillmore whistled. He rested his elbows on the table, leaning forward slightly. “That’s sort of disrespectful.”

Sarge shrugged. “I don’t mind it. I kind of like it, actually.”

Fillmore hummed, smiling down into his drink. “It’s fitting, in a weird way.”

Sarge looked back at him. Fillmore was almost untouchable: the lighting had given him a strange, ethereal glow, and his face was flushed pink from their drinking. His lips had remained pulled into a softly absent smile as he took another sip of his tequila. 

Now that Sarge was thinking about it, Fillmore was incredibly attractive. Arched eyebrows, thick eyelashes. Long fingers free of adornment, curled around his glass. 

Their eyes met. Sarge looked away.

. . .

When they left the bar, two drinks later, it had begun to rain. Fillmore smiled drunkenly into it, taking off down the street. Sarge was quick to follow him, unwilling to get lost in New York City in the middle of the night. 

It was electric when Fillmore took his hand, pulling him down the street. 

“Come on!” he said, “I know a place—it’s just this way.”

They walked maybe six blocks, laughing and drunkenly clashing into one another at every stoplight. Fillmore’s cologne was intoxicating, as was his touch, as was his smile. 

There was a line along the sidewalk outside of a rather unassuming bar. A bouncer stood at its head, collecting cash from groups of young people. Fillmore pulled him into the line, fingers lingering on his arms. 

“This place is cool,” he said, grinning. “I haven’t been since, uh…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “Nevermind.” 

It took maybe fifteen minutes to get to the front of the line. Music boomed from inside, feeling as though it was shaking the street beneath them 

“Ten each,” the bouncer said, smirking. 

Sarge reached for his wallet, and Fillmore’s hand once again found his forearm. 

“Let me,” he murmured, “My father’s a millionaire, you know. I don’t think twenty bucks is going to go amiss.”

Sarge watched rather helplessly as Fillmore produced a crisp twenty-dollar bill from his wallet. The bouncer pocketed it, and then stepped aside. 

Fillmore took his arm and pulled him inside. Sarge’s skin buzzed where he had been touched. It was thrilling when his fingers dropped, taking Sarge’s hand instead. 

It was extremely crowded inside the club. Couples danced under technicolor lights, thrashing against the beat of the latest psychedelic hits. Fillmore pulled him through the crowd, finally landing at a long bar along one wall. He shouted something incoherent over the music, slid the bartender a five-dollar bill, and shot Sarge another one of those dangerous looks. 

Sarge’s heart pounded in his chest as Fillmore leaned in close. 

“I got us shots!” he shouted over the booming music. 

Sarge nodded, wide eyed.

Internally, he tried feverishly to convince himself that he did not want to get into any trouble. It did not matter that Fillmore was a knockout, nor did it matter that they were currently standing in a queer nightclub, ordering their fourth (fifth?) drink of the evening. None of that changed the fact that Fillmore was the son of an insanely-rich senator, of whom was terribly fond of threatening to kick his son to the curb whenever he did anything wrong.

Fillmore was passing him a shot, now, something clear and smelling of liquor. Their eyes met again-- hot, electric, wonderful-- before Fillmore tossed back his shot. Sarge struggled to keep himself from watching; he forced himself to look away as he downed his own, leaving the glass on the bar in front of him.

“Let’s dance!”

Sarge did not get a chance to respond. Fillmore pulled him onto the dance floor, through the crowd and into an empty spot directly under a menagerie of flashing lights. 

“Do you know the Doors?” Fillmore shouted.

“Uh… Not really,” Sarge replied.

“That’s okay!” 

Fillmore was grinning back at him and, for a moment, Sarge was almost lost in him. He forced himself to focus; he was not about to lose his head, regardless of their circumstances.

Unfortunately, Fillmore could (somehow) see right through him.

“Loosen up!” He said, laughing tipsily as he lightly punched Sarge’s shoulder. “It’s only fun if you let it happen.”

Fillmore took his hands, pulling him along in rhythm with the beat. Sarge’s heart pounded against his ribcage as they brushed against one another in their clumsy dance. The music boomed in the back of his brain, and he quickly lost any resolve to keep his head on straight. 

Fillmore was terribly attractive: his tie hung loosely around his neck, and his shirt was half-unbuttoned. His hair had wrestled itself free from its gel, now falling haphazardly around his face. He shot Sarge a grin—a real, unashamed grin—and spun around, laughing along with the music. Three hours ago, Fillmore had been the trust-fund son of a senator; now, he was an animal, thrashing drunkenly with the beat.

They clashed into one another, and suddenly Fillmore was closer. His fingers caught the sleeve of Sarge’s jacket, hot and electric where they grazed over the exposed skin. For a moment, Sarge was fully captivated by him: Fillmore smelled expensive, some lovely cologne wrapped into the folds of his crisp sport-coat and hanging from the rainwater that lingered in his hair. He was more handsome up close, all curved angles and soft eyes.

Ten seconds felt like ten minutes. Fillmore was intoxicatingly close, so gorgeous, so glowing—

It felt mindlessly natural when they met. Fillmore’s lips were warm and buzzing with intoxication, hands wandering, breathing deliberate. 

Sarge felt nearly lost as Fillmore pushed himself away, taking a few stumbling steps backwards. His mouth moved, but Sarge did not hear what he was saying: it was drowned in the thrumming of the music against the walls of the club, the shouting and movement of the crowd.

And then, Fillmore was gone. 

. . .

The rain had stopped, leaving shining puddles on the streets. The humidity had chilled the air into something that felt more like late-winter than springtime in New York. Sarge pushed through the streets, desperate: surely, that wasn’t the end? Drinking, dancing, kissing drunkenly… and then, nothing?

He caught sight of brown hair, of a crisp sport-coat.

“Hey!” Sarge called, “Wait up!”

The figure turned, and appeared to walk faster. Sarge sped up, jogging to catch up. He spoke without meaning to, “Fillmore—”

The figure spun around in a flurry of brown hair and expensive fabric. “Shut. Up,” Fillmore said harshly. He grabbed Sarge’s elbow, pulling him into a nearby alleyway. 

The next thing Sarge knew, he was pinned against the cold, wet brick of a building. Fillmore’s fingers were tight on the collar of his jacket, keeping him in place.

“You have no fucking clue, do you?” Fillmore hissed.

Sarge, more shocked than anything else, struggled to respond. “... What?”

“Listen very, very carefully,” Fillmore said, “My life depends on keeping myself out of this kind of trouble. I will not be risking my neck for some farm-boy who I’ll never see again.”

Sarge was incredibly unintimidated by Fillmore, and fully intended to keep it that way. He replied flatly, “I was just trying to make sure that you were okay.”

Fillmore deflated, letting go of him and taking a step back. “I’m just fine, thank you,” He said. He had again turned anxious, eyes flicking nervously around the alleyway, hands absently smoothing some nonexistent wrinkle from his sport-coat. 

Sarge said, “You know, if I didn’t know any better, I would think that you’re scared.”

“I am fucking terrified!” Fillmore exclaimed. “You drop into my life, take me out for a drink, and actually listen to what I have to say…” He huffed, pushing his hands through his messed-up hair. He looked back at Sarge, eyes pleading, “I thought I could be done with it. You know, never thinking about being queer again, but… but then you…” He sighed, leaning back against the brick wall.

Sarge listened, heart aching. Unfortunately, the magic of the bar had faded: the clock had struck midnight, and Fillmore was once again an heir rather than a human being. 

“My father is running for president,” Fillmore continued quietly, absently. “It’s a bad look to have a queer son, you know? I could ruin his career.” He laughed again, scrubbing his hands through his hair. It fell limply around his face, framing it delicately. He added, “Sorry. You must think I’m some kind of pompous asshole.”

“I don’t think that,” Sarge replied, quickly.

Fillmore glared at him, eyelashes heavy in the darkness. “I find that hard to believe.”

“You’re just… Shaped by your upbringing, I guess,” Sarge offered. He added, halfway jokingly, “Which. in turn, makes you some kind of pompous asshole. But a tolerable one.”

Fillmore chuckled, looking away. “Thanks.”

They stood there quietly for a moment. Their knuckles brushed together, and— by some miracle— Sarge found the courage to commit to it. Through the darkness, he took Fillmore’s hand and squeezed it, and was quietly ecstatic when the gesture was returned.

Sarge began, “Fillmore—”

“Yes?”

“I’m, uh… Not coming on to you, when I say this,” he continued, “Do you want to stay with me tonight? Just so then you can get away from everything, for a little while.”

Fillmore sighed. His fingers loosened in Sarge’s hand, but did not slip free. “I wish I could,” he said, “There would be hell to pay, though.”

Sarge hummed. “Right. Sorry.”

“That’s alright. I appreciate it, anyways,” Fillmore replied. “I’m sorry it had to be like this.”

“Neither of us can help it.”

Fillmore squeezed his hand again, fingers tightening briefly. “Hey, um… Where do you go to school? I don’t think you ever said.”

Sarge replied, “Ohio State.”

Fillmore laughed. “Wow,” he looked back at Sarge, expression soft. “I’ll make sure that we make it out there on my father’s campaign tour.”

“I suppose I wouldn’t mind taking you out for another drink, whenever that happens,” Sarge replied, captivated. 

The air was still in the shadowed alleyway, light reflecting off of the puddles of rainwater littering the ground. Somehow, Fillmore was even more radiant now: his dark eyes were wild and perfervid, his lips slightly parted. 

“Alright, then,” he murmured.