The Fall Ch. 08

'What are you thinking about?' Dylan asked. 'You're frowning.'

'Cyril's will, and the fact that Christmas Day will be spent listening to two couples who think they're entitled to his money, and two who think that it was his money to leave to whoever he wanted.'

He kissed her. 'You can come to my family's Christmas, if you want.'

She shook her head. 'Nope. That would add fuel to the fire. Maybe next year.'

He kissed her again. 'That sounds good.'

The door to the bedroom had only been halfway closed, and they both turned to face it as they heard it swing open. Elise barging in one Saturday night had scarred them both. This time, though, it was only Ben.

Lydia lunged for her panties, which she'd tossed onto the floor, and pulled them on. The dog was an underwear thief. Just about every pair of undies she owned had been stolen from the washing basket. She was down to six pairs.

'Maybe you could get me some underpants for Christmas,' she suggested.

'I'll get you lingerie.'

'Lingerie isn't underpants.'

He grinned. 'Nah, it's better. You look really hot in your red thong and bra, Lyddy.'

'They're the most uncomfortable undies I own.'

'I like them.'

She resigned herself to receiving something grossly impractical but very sexy for Christmas. She'd have to go to Target and buy herself some regular undies. Bloody Ben.

'We should get up,' she said. 'You want to get stoned and watch Futurama with me?'

She was still off the booze, and was now a teetotaller, but she'd smoke with him on occasion. She found weed less addictive. And, at any rate, she mostly liked to be in full control of her faculties these days.

Dylan pushed himself into a sitting position. 'Sure.'

~~~~~~~~~

Dylan drove to his parent's farm on Christmas Eve so he could settle himself in before everyone arrived.

It was nice to return to the place he'd grown up, and yet by the time he was preparing to leave on Christmas Day, he was ready to return to his own place. He'd had enough of his younger nieces and nephews' questions and proddings ('Can you feel this Uncle Dylan? How about this? Or this?'), and everyone's insistence that he have something else to eat. He had a physiotherapist who would choke him if he gained weight, and besides which, he liked to stick to a predictable shitting pattern, and part of that was eating regular amounts at regular intervals.

Lydia understood his limitations, and she understood the consequences if he strayed too far from his routines. His family, as much as they loved him and he loved them, didn't. They still equated food with love. They tried to do everything for him. They out and out pitied him for having to live in suburbia.

He left the farm with three containers of blueberries and half a lamb. He didn't have the heart to tell them Lydia hated lamb. He promised to come back for a visit early in January.

He'd made it out the door and into his Charger when his phone rang.

'Kyle,' he greeted in surprise. 'Merry Christmas.'

'Merry Christmas,' Kyle repeated. 'I heard you were out visiting your folks.'

'I was. I'm in the car now, just about to start the drive home.'

'Sounds good. Hey, do you mind swinging past my place on the way back?'

Knowing Kyle something on the farm had broken down and he wanted it fixed ASAP. Farmers. They never took a day off.

Dylan bit back a groan. He wanted to get home to Lydia. He missed her. He wanted to give her a Christmas kiss. He wanted to thank her for his Christmas present; two nights away at the Gold Coast in a swanky high rise apartment, and he wanted to commiserate with her about family Christmases.

'No worries,' Dylan said. 'I'll be there in about an hour.'

He was still a sucker who couldn't say 'no'.

He drove towards Kyle's farm anticipating a night spent in a shed, under the light of a torch, trying to direct Kyle.

At least he was driving there in style. The Charger was finally finished, courtesy of his old workmates, who'd unexpectedly put together a fundraiser to help him finish off his car. When they'd handed him the cheque he'd come the closest he'd ever come to kissing another man. The Valiant was now mechanically faultless, painted orange and black, and perfectly modified for his use. Sure, it had sucked a bit desecrating it with a wheelchair hoist, and fitting hand controls, but he'd gotten over the pain.

He counted his blessings as he drove home. He had a family who always had his back. He had a partner who loved him. He lived in a solid little house, had a loyal dog, a job he didn't hate, and the car of his dreams. It was more than he could ever have hoped for.

Dylan turned onto the old bitumen road that led to the O'Sullivan farm and immediately swerved and hit the brakes to avoid hitting something lying in the middle of the road. His car fishtailed, spun, and ended up on the side of the road. He sat stock still, barely able to believe he hadn't flipped the car, and oddly grateful for the catheter, without which he'd probably be sitting in a puddle of his own piss.

Getting out of the car to see what it was that was lying on the road was no longer a simple task, so he very carefully drove the car back onto the road and crawled toward the mystery object. The object sat up and stared at him. Dylan realised it was a person. Holy fuck, he'd nearly killed someone. Dylan put the car into neutral and wound down the window.

The person - man - stood up and stumbled towards him. As he approached, Dylan saw that the man was Kyle.

'You fucking idiot,' Dylan snapped. 'You nearly got us both killed.'

'You wouldn't have died,' Kyle reassured him.

Dylan all too clearly remembered what it had been like when Lydia was drinking. The insolence. The utterly belief in herself, that she was both entitled to act however she liked, and that was she always a hundred percent in the right. There was no point arguing with Kyle.

Instead, Dylan leant over to the passenger side and opened the door. 'Get in,' he ordered.

'Hang on. I need to get my things.'

Dylan waited as Kyle returned to the place where he'd been lying and collected what remained of a bottle of rum and his cigarettes. Kyle got in the car, rum between his legs, and strapped himself in. He asked Dylan if he could smoke.

'Sure,' Dylan agreed, starting the car. 'Let's just get moving, huh? We're just off the exit. If anyone else turns off, they won't be able to see us in time to stop.'

'I can't believe you saw me,' Kyle remarked. 'I thought for sure you'd hit me.'

'Good thing I didn't. The paintwork on the Charger is only three weeks old.'

Kyle lit his cigarette and laughed. He stunk of sweat, cigarettes and alcohol. Dylan had seen Kyle drunk more times than he could count, but Kyle normally held it together when he was inebriated. He was a very quiet, professional drinker. Not tonight. Tonight he was a mess.

Dylan didn't know what to do. He was now seconds away from Kyle's farm, but he was scared of leaving the man unattended.

'Is anyone at the farm?' Dylan asked.

'Of course not. My parents are dead, Cora left, my kids have left, and the farm workers are all on holidays.'

Dylan kept driving.

'Where are you going?' Kyle asked.

'I don't know. Not the farm.'

'Why not?'

'I'm worried about you, mate.'

Kyle patted his arm. 'I'm too gutless to shoot myself. Besides, I thought you might want to kill me. I figured if I was lying on the road it would be considered a suicide or, at worst, an accident, so no one would blame you.'

'I don't want to kill you,' Dylan muttered. 'Why the fuck would I want to kill you?'

Kyle gestured as if to point out that Dylan was missing the obvious. Dylan was paralysed. He should be angry and vengeful and bitter. He should want to destroy the man who'd done this to him.

'Kyle, mate, this isn't your fault,' Dylan sighed. 'Even if it was, I wouldn't be lining myself up to kill you.'

'I ruined your life.'

'That's a bit extreme. You participated in changing it, maybe, but you didn't ruin it.'

Kyle shook his head in disagreement. He drank from his bottle of rum and started to cry. Dylan felt not unlike the way he'd felt when someone had switched the television in the gym to a Bachelor rerun and he'd had to spend forty-five minutes listening to girls weep and cry and declare their love for a man who'd had more plastic surgery than Dolly Parton.

'Did you see your kids today?' Dylan asked, trying to distract Kyle.

'The boys came around for breakfast.'

'They get you anything?'

'Yeah, a couple of shirts.'

'Lydia does that for me, buys me clothes. It's not bad. Saves me having to go to the shops.'

Kyle inspected Dylan's outfit. He was in chinos and a dark blue shirt. It was exactly the sort of outfit Dylan would have picked for himself had he not been lazy, and irritated at the layout of clothing stores. They were never wheelchair friendly.

'You've got some pretty solid muscle definition going on,' Kyle remarked.

Dylan flexed and showed off what a good amount of weight loss, and a decent amount of time in the gym, could do. He gained weight easily, but he was also someone who gained muscle quickly. It hadn't taken him long to get the sort of arms, back and shoulders that other men spent years trying to attain.

'Fuck you,' Kyle swore, swigging his rum.

'Still feel sorry for me?'

'No. Yes. I feel disgusted with myself. I feel like the world's biggest failure, Dylan. I wanted so much to succeed, but I fuck up everything I touch. Now I'm supposed to live with the fact that you're in a wheelchair, and I'm supposed to run a goddamn farm. I can't run a farm.'

'Of course you can.'

'No, no, I can't. See, that's the problem. I need Alan. My old man was right, you know that? Alan always knew what to do.'

'Not on the day of the storm,' Dylan countered. 'And not in the days leading up to it. The sorghum should have been taken in earlier, and the sheep should have been moved.'

Kyle snorted. 'No, my father was responsible for the sorghum. He told Alan when he wanted it bought in, no arguments, no exceptions. The sheep were Alan's fault, but even that wasn't a big mistake. it still worked out in the end.'

'You'll figure it out.'

'I'll screw it up. I'll never be as good as Alan was. Everyone knows that. I feel like everyone's watching me, waiting for me to make a mistake.'

Dylan pulled over to the side of the road. He really needed to stop driving until he'd figured out where he was going.

'I hate my life,' Kyle said bitterly. 'I've been waiting for this fucking shitshow to end since I was fifteen.'

'Well, drinking yourself to death and lying in the middle of the road isn't going to help you feel any better about it,' Dylan pointed out. 'You're just dragging everyone else down with you.'

'I'm not dragging anyone down.'

'Really? So what do you reckon might've happened if I'd hit you? I'll tell you. You probably wouldn't be killed instantly, so you'd be dying a slow death. The Charger would have flipped. It doesn't have airbags, mate. I'd either be dead, or just a bit more mangled up. That's two lives fucked up.

I might or might not be able to get to my phone. The cops and ambulance might or might not come. Let's say they do. Let's say we both survive. The cops have to do a report. The ambo's need to take us to hospital. We both look like mincemeat. Doctors, nurses, assistants, are all at the hospital wishing they were home with their families when we come in.

Maybe one of us dies. Our families then get to live with the fact that they lost someone on Christmas Day. Every year they'll need to figure out if they celebrate or grieve. Every year they panic a bit when someone gets in a car. Now let's say...'

'...I get the point,' Kyle interrupted. 'But none of that happened in the end, so no harm, no foul.'

'Right. Except for the fact that you scared the shit out of me, and I'm now going to have to either take you home and fuck up my evening - because I was planning on getting laid - or take you around to one of your son's. Neal. I'll have to take you to Neal's house. Just what every kid wants for Christmas, right? His drunk, suicidal father being dumped on his doorstep.'

'I'm not suicidal.'

Dylan ignored him and reached for his phone. He rang Neal, who sounded happy to hear from him, and asked Dylan how his day had gone.

'Great, until I nearly killed your father,' Dylan replied matter-of-factly. 'He called me up as I was leaving my folks' farm. I thought the fucking idiot had been working today and needed help repairing something. Turns out he thought he might have a sleep in the middle of the road and see if I managed to hit him.'

Neal didn't respond immediately. When he did, he asked where his father was now.

'Right next to me,' Dylan replied, staring at Kyle, who was in turn staring out the window and drinking from his bottle of Bundy. He had no idea how Kyle didn't have an ulcer. Maybe he did. Maybe drinking was just too important for him to consider his health. 'Do you mind if I bring him around?'

'Yeah, sure mate. We got home half an hour ago. Do you have my address?'

'I don't. Text it through to me.'

Kyle started crying again as they drove to Neal's house. Dylan was both sympathetic and annoyed. His friend obviously had some pretty big issues.

They pulled up outside Neal's place, and Dylan took a moment to try and tidy Kyle up. He didn't want to deliver Kyle in any worse a state than he had to. No man needed to see his father drunk and suicidal and weeping, least of all on Christmas. If Dylan could at least stop Kyle crying, he'd feel a bit better about dumping him on Neal.

'Mate, you really need to pull yourself together,' Dylan warned. 'This is pretty fucking disgraceful. I get that life's hard. I get that it's shit. I get that everyone fuck's up and sometimes the consequences are bad, but this drinking? It's selfish. You're being selfish. Get some professional help. Deal with whatever it is that's bothering you.'

'You hate me.'

'No, mate, I don't. I've never hated you. You used to be a really good mate of mine. The only thing that's changed that for me is the way you now treat me. I'm not a fucking pity case. I don't want to kill you. I don't want to get revenge. I want you to go back to talking to me like I'm your equal.'

A security light switched on, and the front door opened. Neal must have seen them arrive. Both Kyle and Dylan watched him walk down to the front gate, open it, and approach the car.

Kyle wound down his window and wished his youngest son a Merry Christmas. Neal took one look at his father, opened the passenger side door, and helped him out. Kyle fell onto the grass. His bottle of rum landed in the footwell of the Charger and spilt everywhere. Neal immediately leant in, picked it up, and apologised to Dylan.

'No worries, mate,' Dylan responded. 'Sorry to dump him on you.'

'Nah, it's not a problem.' Neal peered around the car. 'Nice wheels. Does she go alright?'

'Mate, what a fucking question.'

They laughed. In the background, Kyle started vomiting. Dylan thought of Lydia. He wanted to be home with her. He wanted to stroke her soft, red hair and suck on her magical titties. What was he doing in fucking Oakey with his pissed-off-his-head mate?

'Do you know how much he's had to drink?' Neal asked.

Dylan shook his head. 'No idea. The bottle of rum he took with him was almost full, so I'm guessing it's second or third for the day.'

'Jesus fucking Christ he's a mess.' Neal shut the passenger door. 'I won't hold you up.

'You gonna be alright?' Dylan asked.

'Yeah, mate. Go home to your missus. Merry Christmas.'

Dylan took the hint and put the car into drive. He glanced in the rear vision mirror as he drove off. Neal was half leading, half carrying his father inside. It was something no son should have to do for his father, particularly when the son had been as easy-going and trouble free as Neal had been.

Dylan turned his gaze from the rear vision mirror to the road in front of him. There was only one way forward. Maybe Kyle would figure that out some day, maybe not. In the meantime, he had to go home. He'd bought Lydia lingerie that was grossly impractical, probably very uncomfortable, and, of course, sexy as all fucking hell.

It was time for a Christmas Day fuck.

The End