Title: Desperation 1/1
Author: Bartleby
Rating/pairing: PG-13, Tom/Max
Disclaimer: I don't own '8mm' or the characters therein; they are property of Columbia Tri-Star and Surround Sound and Joel Shumaker. I was just borrowing them for a little creative prose. Suing me would net you nothing.

Desperation

"...first, there's always a victim, second, don't be it..." -Max California

"Do those kinds of places turn you on?" Max sat on the bed that doubled as his couch in the squalid little apartment he lived in. He cradled a guitar on his lap.

I paused and looked at him. He was talking about that S&M club. "No, I don't-"

He smiled at me in that smart assed way of his. "But they don't turn you off either." He glanced away from me. "See? The devil's already changin' you." He picked out a few notes. They sounded muted, like the sound of plucked rubber bands.

I studied him for a long minute. He was just a kid, barely half again my own age. I considered all the things that had brought him here to this place. And I watched him play, and I realized there was something that endeared him to me. The blue hair, the eyebrow stud; the scar on his upper lip. I found myself wondering idly where he had gotten it. He stopped playing and looked up at me. I saw his eyes were green. And I knew that in spite of everything, in spite of all that he had seen; all that he would see, he was innocent. A kid with a dream, a dream all shot to shit - like Mary... He looked a bit petulant, and picked out a few more notes. The music softened him. He was no longer the waggering, fast talking, king of the underworld.

"What are you looking at, Tom Welles?" He asked me carefully, afraid perhaps to betray that he felt anything other than bored. The words were without the usual sarcasm he attached to my name.

"What's your real name, Max California?"

Max studied me; his eyes were intense. I could not look away; I had to, _needed_ to hold his gaze.

"That _is_ my name." He said finally. "Whatever else I might have been
called..." He trailed off with a flick of his wrist.

I nodded, I understood. We all had our demons.

"Are you going to just stand there?" He asked me softly.

I turned the rest of the way around and hesitated a minute. He put the guitar down and looked up at me. I walked the short distance to the bed and sat next to him. He watched me patiently, and I scrubbed a hand over my sweating face. And I watched _him_. A few minutes stretched out into eternity, and something inside me wanted to hold onto this moment forever. He leaned forward and kissed me suddenly. I didn't know what to do, and I found myself kissing him back. And I knew that I needed this, the way a starving man needed food. Someone who had seen what I had seen; been through what I had been through.

Thoughts of my wife suddenly filled my mind and I broke the kiss as a knife of guilt twisted in my gut.

"What's wrong?" He asked me softly. I looked at him, and my heart nearly stopped. His face, open to me for the first time, looked plaintive, pleading silently for me to continue. His eyes still burned n the dim light.

"I thought you were-"

"Straight?" He barked a short laugh. "I thought you were married." For a minute I saw hurt cross his face before it was covered by his usual bravado. "Besides, you need this as much as I do."

I couldn't argue with him. It was true. He leaned in a kissed me again, and I let him. It was shocking. And I loved it. His hands pushed my jacket off and roamed up under my shirt with practiced ease.

"You've done this before." I said.

"The porno biz doesn't pay all the bills." He said, breathlessly. "I gotta eat."

I let him kiss my neck before I pushed him away. "I can't let you do this." I said. My throat was tight.

He jerked back from me, as though I were too hot to touch. "Wh-what?" Shock and anger flitted across his face. He was disappointed, so was I.

I pulled my shirt back down. "I just can't."

Max sat back, his face once again shuttered against me.

"Look, Max, I'm sorry, I-"

He waved me away. "Forget it. See you tomorrow." His voice was cold and tight.

I shrugged my jacket on, another finger of guilt working through my conscience. "Yeah." I said. "Yeah." I turned away. He picked up the guitar again, and I could hear him teasing careful notes out of the strings. "I'm sorry, Max." I said. And I let him to his music, and his demons. I had my own to fight.

~Fin