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Gus will always be there.
God, when did that stupid thought even get stuck in his head? Shawn can’t remember what he ate for lunch two days ago, let alone whether he even ate at all. That’s always been the way his brain works, Henry’s fault or the ADD’s, who the hell cares, because even if he can tell how many stupid hats are in the room he forgets everything else, everything important, every date that should actually matter, every short lived relationship’s three month mark, everything normal people care about, barring the offchance that he can connect it to something his brain already had decided was worth remembering.
But that thought’s there.
Seems like it’s always existed.
No matter how cluttered his brain gets Gus will always be there. Even separated by college, different states, different countries….Gus will always be there. Without end, without beginning.
Shawn scowls at the clutter on his desk. It’s cast in orange light from the streetlamps outside, which almost manage to make the mess look like a cohesive surface. Purposeful. The sun went down thirty minutes ago and he really did mean to turn the light on, but he’s been spiraling since that morning, finally retreated here about an hour ago, and now he’s sitting in his sad and lonely office in the dark like a sad and lonely person. If this is pathetic, he doesn’t care.
Gus will always be there.
Without beginning, maybe, but for the first time in just shy of thirty years of life, he’s been thrust into the awareness that it might end. Will end.
Shawn sighs and leans back in his chair to stare at the ceiling instead of his desk.
He tries it out: Gus….might not always be there.
It’s a very sour thought. Shawn tries mouthing it, though he doesn’t dare make a sound, as though he’s seven years old again and believes in the childhood magic that giving voice to thoughts can doom you to them. It even makes his mouth taste sour. Dry. Like he threw up.
Gus will not always be there.
Gus won’t always be there!
Damn it all to hell and throw in the handbasket too, because Gus will not always be there!
It doesn’t make him feel any better. It’s not supposed to. Reality doesn’t care about his feelings, because the reality is that Gus. Will. Not. Always. Be. There.
It hit in a dream he had last night. He’s tempted to fall for his own charade and call it a psychic vision, but the truth of it, and the part that really, really hurts, is that it’s not guaranteed. Besides, the dream spun off from something that happened yesterday.
It was a phone call.
Nothing big. Gus’s mom rang to remind him that he better show up on time next Sunday and to wear something nice, since so-and-so’s daughter would be there.
Shawn had asked, “Aren’t you dating that one chick still? Wears the green dresses all the time?” once Gus had hung up.
Gus had hummed and tilted his head.
“Gus.”
Gus had hummed again.
“Tch! You broke up with her? Already? Man, I thought you kept saying that this one was the one!”
“I was mistaken. Besides, there’s nothing wrong with meeting new people! It’ll make my mom happy.”
“Is it gonna make you happy?”
“Puh-lease. I get to sneak into a potluck, and I might find my future bride? Even if we don’t click, I heard Mrs. Gilberts is bringing her triple fudge pudding cake, Shawn. Triple fudge pudding cake.”
Shawn would’ve preferred to dream about the triple fudge pudding cake, but instead he dreamed about the other thing. The Gus-going-to-a-potluck-and-meeting-his-future-bride thing. That thing.
In his dream, Gus was getting married to the girl he’d meet at the potluck. Everything was fine up through the ceremony, Shawn serving as best man, Gus’ family and friends all shedding the appropriate amount of tears, the sun shining and the organ organing. But then Gus and his new wife had driven off into the sunset.
And he’d been left staring at an empty road with nothing on the horizon.
He hadn’t been able to move.
Everyone else had packed up the wedding gear, tamped down the candles, and left without him. He’d tried to call out for someone to help him move, but no one had come.
He’d yelled for Gus, but Gus was gone.
Because that’s the thing, right?
Shawn rubs at his eyes and tries to will away the deepening shadows on the ceiling.
That’s the thing. Gus is straight. Straight enough for discomfort. If Shawn is seeing a guy, he doesn’t bring it up. If he flirts with a guy, well, he certainly doesn’t do it in front of Gus, Lassiter being the exception since it’s easy to brush it off as Shawn fooling around. Trying to make people uncomfortable.
Gus knows. Of course he knows. He’s known since they were in middle school, and not even Henry or his mom know. But that doesn’t make either of them comfortable with it.
Guys, gals….Shawn’s gotten both off and can get off with both, and can get by without just as easily. And it isn’t like he’s emotionally picky either. It seems like Chief Vick is more of a father figure than Henry ever was some days, he has confidants in Juliet, Buzz, and yes, even Lassiter, and he’s not going to pretend he isn’t good at being friendly with strangers either. Flirting is just another game to play, and it isn’t like it’s hard to figure out once you get started.
Except for this.
Shawn doesn’t want to just flirt with Gus.
Hell, he doesn’t even think he wants to sleep with Gus! Less out of personal disinterest, maybe, and more out of an inability to imagine buttoned-up, straight, church-going Gus ever being as enthusiastic as Shawn prefers his partners.
But—and this might be the lack of sleep, or the couple beers he slammed back before coming into the office, or the time of day. Evening. Whatever it is now.
But.
It doesn’t stop Shawn from loving Gus.
Shawn leaves the MP3 player charging on top of Gus’ desk and flicks off the one lamp he bothered to switch on. It is 4:37 AM. He is, technically, probably, at this point, sober. It took long enough for the file to finish saving. He still isn’t sure where he’s headed when he hops on his motorcycle.
Gus finds the MP3 player at 10:16 AM.
Hey buddy!
Alright, full disclosure: I may be a little drunk right now. I haven’t eaten since noon and you know how Lil’ Joe’s Pizza Joint never makes their pies big enough, but they’re somehow always so filling so I don’t end up eating until the next day. I think it’s the dough. They’ve gotta use whole wheat.
So, uh.
[muttering] Shit.
[sighs]
I don’t know how to say this.
Alright, um, I guess I’ll just start? I had this dream the other night—actually according to the clock it was probably almost exactly 24 hours ago. You’d gotten married. The ceremony was beautiful, by the way, very tasteful. I think you would’ve liked it. But, you know me, I can’t write a script and I’m horrible at set design, and unless we can get Val Kilmer to play the priest, then even trying to put on a production of it would just be an affront.
But you drove off. With your wife. Afterwards. And I couldn’t move. And everyone else had left. It was like my feet were glued to the pavement. I just kept watching this empty road, but you were already over the horizon and that didn’t seem to bother anyone else.
You know what?
No.
No, that’s a horrible place to start. A dream? Really? No. This deserves better.
Alright. [clears throat] You and I have been friends since birth. Before birth. Friends since before birth. You have been there for me in so many different ways and at so many different points in my life, I don’t think I can even list them all off.
I mean, I can certainly try.
Elementary school. You were there for me during all of that. Middle school too, except for that one week, and okay, you know what, I am a man, Gus. I am a man, and I can admit that that week was my fault. I screwed up. But you came back. And you were there for me during high school. After the divorce. I know we didn’t see each other a lot when you were in college, but somehow you were still there for me, you know? And now with Psych and everything, I mean, I don't know if I could've gotten half this far without you. With Psych or in general.
You’ve been there for me almost every hour of every day for our entire lives, and in almost every single way.
God, this is starting to sound depressing. This isn’t a suicide note, by the way, because I know you’re going to start worrying your sweet, sweet head.
If I’m honest, I don’t know what to call this. Does it even count as a note if it's spoken?
Did you know this MP3 player did voice recordings? Who knew, huh? I mean, I had to finagle it a lot. Technically I think the computer is recording and then just writing the file onto here. Had to pull all my music off it to get it to fit, but worth it! I’m not sure if I understand it completely though. Had to do a lot of googling. Actually, that might have been on your computer. I didn’t go through the history, don’t worry.
….
That’s a lie. Online poker, Gus? Really? Are we back to that? Man, I thought you stopped playing that like a year and a half ago, after the whole thing with the dude and the flower and the car dealership?
Oh, God.
That guy was like….a younger version of me. Holy fuck, Gus, how did I miss that?
[the sound of Shawn rummaging around in a desk drawer]
Dude!
Did you know I have a pin with a picture of your mom on it? Wait, that doesn’t make any sense. It must be yours. Damn, I can’t even remember when I took that from you. Sorry, by the way. If it was important.
….
Ugh.
Your mom.
I don’t mean it like that.
I just—fuck.
Okay, can I start again?
My entire life, I was raised to be a cop. It sure as hell didn’t work, and maybe this is just because my mom’s been back in town and I’ve been talking to her, but even if it didn’t work, I think the way I turned out makes sense given who I was raised by. My dad is a cop, I’m a psychic investigator. Henry is….Henry, and well, there’s the psychic part. Mom’s a counselor, I’m good with people. They got divorced, I’m a commitmentphobe.
I just mean that it all makes sense.
It’s cohesive.
And you….your parents care, and you ended up caring too. It makes! Sense!
….but dammit Gus, why couldn’t your parents have not cared?
I don’t mean that. You know I don’t mean that. Fuck. I like your parents. But they have the whole thing, you know? Two kids! A big house! All of you are employed! Hell, all of you have careers! Are they perfect? No. But you’re all….respectable, you know?
You, Gus, are a point of pride. You have a steady job. Two steady jobs, actually. So what if you play online poker and aren’t married? Your parents cared about all of….that….and so do you.
But that’s the problem! You grew up with people that tuck their shirts in and do stuff like potlucks! And that’s not enough! To people like that, that’s not enough! I mean, you are enough Gus, and I don’t think your parents are disappointed at all. But they want better for you, you know?
And I can’t ask you to step back.
I don’t want you to disappoint your parents, and even if I think you’d have turned out so much different—hell, we both would have—if we weren’t raised by who we were raised by—but that’s unfair. We wouldn’t be who we were, and we never would’ve met….
Ugh.
This isn’t going how I planned.
Can you tell?
Gus, you know me better than anyone in the world.
That’s going to be true in a week.
In five years.
In thirty.
I can’t imagine a single thing that could change that. You….are always going to know me. Even if it’s been years since we talked. Even if you get married and drive into that horizon, you know? You are always going to know the whole of who I am. I don’t think it would be possible for me to change enough in one lifetime for that to stop holding true at this point. I mean what, I’m only going to live another thirty years or something, right? And that’s assuming I don’t go bald.
Wait. Bald. Not dying. I’m going to live longer than thirty years, right?
I mean I certainly hope so.
And you’re going to live at least another fifty years at this rate. You don’t get to outlive me by twenty years, okay? That’s not allowed.
Fuck.
I might’ve had another beer before recording this and I think it’s hitting finally.
You want a wife. And that’s awesome, dude. I don’t think you shouldn’t want a wife. What’s the rule with double negatives? I think I nailed that.
Anyway.
You want a wife, and I might be the most selfish person on this planet, because even if I don’t think you shouldn’t want a wife, I don’t want you to want a wife. Because I don’t want you to have a wife.
And I don’t mean it like that. I don’t mean that I want you like—like—like you want girls or Jorge wants a meatball sub. And I don’t want you to stop liking chicks either. Chicks are great, you know? Sex is….sex is nice. God, this isn’t going the way I wanted it to at all.
It’s okay that I want you without wanting to sleep with you, right? That’s okay? That’s something that can exist? Because it’s going to exist whether it’s okay or not, and I’m kind of freaking out right now because if it isn’t then you’re going to get married and you might still know me but once you go over that horizon I don’t think you’re ever going to come back the same. And I mean really go over that horizon. Not like with Mira.
I don’t know what I’m going to do with myself when you get married. I mean, you’re still going to be you. You’re still going to be Gus.
But you’re not going to be Gus. Not my Gus.
Can I say that either?
I don’t want to own you.
You know I don’t want you to own me either.
I don’t know how to put this into words. I don’t know if there are words for this. I want you to know how important you are to me because I am always going to love you, and at this point I don’t think it’s wholly the way that two men can platonically love one another while still loving their wives because Gus, when I think about dating I think about pairs, the whole exclusive bit, and if I have to be in an exclusive pair then it’s always going to be you buddy, I don’t see any way I can live without it being you. I don’t think it would be possible.
But I don’t want to date you in the way that I’ve dated women. Or men, for that matter. I am a massive commitementphobe. You know that. I am never going to be able to move in, or make it past the three month mark, or meet someone’s parents. But I am always going to orbit you. You don’t even have to ask for that other stuff.
I just don’t want things to change.
I am terrified of things between us changing, and I know I am absolutely fucking all of that up by making this. Does it make any sense to say that I can’t bear things changing but I can’t live with them staying the same?
God, I’m making a mess of this.
Gus, I love you. I am always going to love you. It isn’t the kind of love your parents would like but I don’t think I know how to love like that, and besides that I’m not a full figured church going woman, and even if I was this is the only thing I can offer.
I don’t know where I’m going after this. I put my signature on the paperwork to end the lease for Psych. You can just….I don’t know. Toss all this crap. God, there’s so much of it. Where did I even get all this stuff? There’s a spatula in one of my drawers, Gus. I don’t even remember putting this here. Maybe Henry would want it? I mean, you’re going to have to fill out the rest of the paperwork, and I guess we’ve still got another month to go before you could actually end the lease.
Maybe I’ll go south. Mexico is good this time of year. Mm.
Give Chief Vick my love. Hoo boy. That’s going to be a fun conversation. You know, I didn’t really plan to leave until I started making this. I could just delete it all and….nah.
Well.
Hopefully I see you again.
If not, then….I guess it’s some solace that I fucked this up on my own, you know? It wasn’t just fate pulling us apart or something like that. God, I’ve been watching too much Hallmark.
See you around, buddy.
Shawn’s phone rings for two hours straight, from 1:59 PM to 4:05 PM. He doesn’t answer it. The fact that his phone breaks the next day falling out of his pocket at a gas station in Arizona is either a stroke of luck or the exact opposite.
It has been five months, three weeks, and two days since Shawn left Santa Barbara, and he’s drunk. He doesn’t get like this much. He tries not to. Sure, he was in a funk for a few weeks after leaving, but most of that time was spent on his motorcycle, and it’s hard to feel down when you’re on an old desert highway going ten over just to keep up with the rest of traffic.
Shawn has worked four jobs since leaving. It would have been one a month, but this last job, the one he thought was actually going well, that might just actually break him out of the cycle like Psych almost did, lasted longer than expected. He hadn’t felt the pull to leave like he usually did.
Actually, he hadn’t felt the pull at all, and might’ve kept on working until the day he died if he hadn’t gotten fired this morning.
Which is why he’s drunk at a dive bar that should be smoky and filled with the clack of a pool table, but isn’t, which would’ve been depressing if it hadn’t been someone’s birthday in the corner and someone else’s weekly after work get-together that, from the way the seats at that table are worn, has been going on for at least four years.
It sounds like an eternity.
It sounds like longer than he lasted with Psych.
Shawn rests his forehead on the table and tries to keep the world from spinning out from under him again. There’s a shot glass by his forehead. He can feel the glass brushing his hair. He rarely drinks. Not like this. Why did he get drunk today?
Oh.
Right.
Fired.
Shawn must pass out because it’s definitely later when he blinks, eyelashes uncomfortably damp from something spilled on the table. Hopefully not his drink. Although, hopefully not someone else’s either. That would be gross.
“Shawn!”
Right! Someone’s shaking his shoulder.
“Huh?”
He manages to peel his face off the table with a sticky squelch that would be more revolting if it wasn’t Gus shaking his shoulder and talking to his face.
“Who does that? Who leaves a message like that and then just walks out? Do you know how long I’ve been looking for you?”
“Issit before or after midnight?” Shawn asks. His forehead dips back down to the table. Dammit, can the world go still for a moment?
Gus!
Right!!
Gus is here!
“It’s a quarter to two, Shawn! The bar is about to close! Man, would you stop laying down? We have to get out of here.”
“Gus? Gus!” Shawn is upright again—when did that happen? —and staring at Gus’ face. Yeah. Yeah, that’s Gus’ face. Is he actually here? He must be. His dreams don’t usually include him having this much alcohol in his system. Fuck. Gus is still talking. Eh. From the sounds of it it’s all the same stuff as before. But he’s here! Gus is here. “You were looking for me?” he interrupts.
“Tch! Come on son.”
“Oh. Did I ask that already?”
“Like four times.”
“Whoops!”
Gus manages to pull him up until he’s standing, or close to it, but immediately pulls a face.
“Man, how much did you have to drink?”
“I don’t know! Too much?”
“Definitely. You’d better get sober. You can’t just drive off to avoid a conversation.”
“Yes I can.”
“No, you can’t.”
“Well I did a good job at it for—for—for five months, three weeks, and three days.”
“Shame on you for knowing exactly how long it’s been. You couldn’t have picked up the phone? E-mailed? Written a letter?”
“I was—I was avoiding,” Shawn stutters out. They’ve made it out of the bar finally. The night is a wash of blue and red and green and orange, lights and dark and everything spinning into itself. “Where’s the Blueberry?”
“That’s a company car, Shawn. You thought I was going to drive it all the way to Louisiana?”
Shawn hears what Gus says, but he’s having difficulty parsing it.
“Would you stop smiling?” Gus snaps at him. “I have to get a taxi still, and once I’ve gotten seven to nine hours of sleep and you’re sobered up we are having that conversation. From the way you ran off I didn’t think you’d be happy about that.”
“Yeah. Yeah, no, but Gus, Gus, you came looking for me. You looked for me!”
It might be the alcohol, or it might be the time of night—morning—whatever, but Gus’ voice is soft when he says, “Yeah, yeah I did.”
It is two weeks and three days later when Shawn returns to Santa Barbara, four days after Gus flew in.
They meet at the Psych office.
The window still has the decal. Inside, the clutter is the same. Well, not exactly. It’s clear that Gus did some stress cleaning, and tore things apart, and did some stress cleaning again. From the sounds of it, Lassiter and Jules might’ve had a hand in pulling things apart, trying to make sure Shawn’s disappearance wasn’t masterminded by a kidnapper or something. They’d threatened to charge Gus for withholding evidence—he hasn’t let a soul touch that MP3 player—before Henry stepped in and said that this was just about par for the course when it came to Shawn, and that they could trust Gus that things were fine. Ish. Things were fine-ish.
But the window still has the decal. The clutter is still all there. The posters. The TV. The frog. The little toy police car stacked on top of the files.
He stares at it for close to fifteen minutes before Gus gets out of the Blueberry and meanders over to where Shawn’s propped up next to his bike.
“You really kept it that whole time?” Shawn asks. Gus had told him back in Louisiana, of course, but seeing it is something else.
“Of course.”
Shawn’s thinking of heading in when a dinging down the beach draws both their attentions.
“Horchata?”
“Bet. But you’re buying.”
“What? Why me?” Shawn asks, jogging to catch up to Gus.
“Because I am a queen, Shawn, a queen, and you better treat me right.”
“Really? Is this how it’s going to be now?”
“That’s how it’s gonna be.”
“Ugh. Fine. Race you.”
“Shawn! That’s not fair! You were warmed up! You had a head start! Shawn! Get back here!”
“Ah hahah!”