The Presidio, Pt. 6: It’s All In Your Head
Posted on July 23rd, 2021 by Scott Ammora

San Francisco, Earth, May 2397
Weston Brock’s Apartment, Sunday Morning, The Next Day

A beam of golden light was hitting him in the face. Scott stirred from his slumber and attempted to push the intrusion away but realized quickly that it was nothing he could hide from. His sleepy eyes opened to the morning. He followed the sunshine to a small break in the curtains across the room; it was just enough and positioned so perfectly that it was like an alarm clock that didn’t ring… it just gradually pulled one out of sleep with a gentle caress of a new day.

He turned slightly, the back of Wes facing him from the other side of the bed, and Scott grinned. The previous night’s festivities came flooding back to him. The club had been… awkward. The end of the evening had been more so. Scott remembered vividly Wes’ invitation to return to his apartment as an alternative to the dorm housing that Scott currently dwelled in. This was definitely the better choice.

Scott slowly got out of bed, managed to find some of his clothes in the disarray of garments skewed across the room, and pulled on his boxers. He fought hard to not think about the previous night’s debauchery, as amazing as it was, because he was in unfamiliar territory. It wasn’t a strange place in terms of location; well, it was, but it had been a long time since he’d gone home with someone. He had recently, but it was a friend and because he was a bit out of sorts based on what he had imbibed during the evening, but nothing like this. Not with someone like Wes.

Moving into the living area, Scott took in his surroundings. The place was quaint, but not tiny. It was spacious, but not grandiose. It was a typical apartment. There was one thing that stood apart from the otherwise drab décor… an upright piano against the northernmost wall. It was black and classy. It was polished, but used. It was a decadent ornament to the space that stood out of place and perfectly present at the same time.

Scott lifted the covering of the keys, looking at the magnificent ivories contained below. He knew that it was old, but it was kept up well. He couldn’t tell if it was a replica or authentic, but knew that it was beautiful regardless. His right index finger went to the C natural in the middle of the board, but he stopped, his eyes glancing back to the bedroom where Wes still slept. Just do it.

He pressed the key and the note hit softly, but perfectly. Scott’s eyes bolted again to the doorway. Just do it.

The bench slid silently out from underneath the instrument without a squeak or any other sound on the floor of the immaculate residence. He positioned himself on the bench, his hands placed above the piano’s keys, and he took a breath. Without thinking he began to play. He played the one thing he knew by heart. It just flowed. The notes echoed in the atrium of this foreign place he found himself in, and he continued to progress through the bridge… this piano was amazing.

Not knowing how long he had been playing, Scott’s focus was shattered by a simple word: “Beautiful.”

He turned, his eyes falling on Wes, whom was probably awoken by his playing. “Thanks. Sorry, I was up, saw it, and, uh… it’s beautiful… sounds great. Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“It’s all good.” Wes leaned in and gave Scott a quick kiss on the lips. “Coffee?”

Cue mental overdrive.

Scott looked at Wes as he moved into the kitchen. Oh my God, he’s wearing clothes. Why am I not wearing clothes? Where are my clothes? In the bedroom. Do I go get my clothes? Wearing nothing but boxers does it look weird to go into the bedroom to get my clothes? Is that an invitation to more horizontal fun? Is that a bad thing? Do I want more of that? Do I say I need to get dressed? Does that seem like I’m insincere to what happened last night? Is he going to think I’m bailing by getting dressed? No, he’s dressed, it’s fine… but is that an indicator that he’s dressed and I’m not a one-night thing? Do I care it was a one-night thing? Was it? Do I care? He’s staring, he’s definitely staring… is he? Don’t look, for the love of everything, don’t look…

Scott closed the lid on the piano.

He looks so good, do I look that good? Shit, I’m sitting at the piano playing a random song in my boxers. But he kissed me, so that’s good. But is it good? Fuck! I leaned in for the kiss. Did I? I think I did. What does that mean? Did I want that? Did I want to show that I’m interested? Am I interested? Why would HE do that? So we had sex… did it mean more to him than it meant to me? What does it mean to me? You’re still half-naked. Clothes, you fool!

What seemed like an eternity was stopped, again, by Wes: “Scott.”

Blinking, Scott looked up, “Yeah?”

Wes smirked, “Do you want some coffee?”

“I do, uh, thanks. I just need to, you know, get dressed.”

Wes winked, “Do you?”

“Yeah, probably.”

Cue mental overdrive number two.

What the hell did he mean by that? He stalked me on the overlook, lured me into seeing his band, and now he’s making sexual advances? Well, last night advanced to the point of completion… shut up, Scott. What’s his play? He’s interested, that’s what it is. Is he? What if this is just an elaborate ploy to take advantage of me? I’m young and attractive… wait… am I? No, I totally am hot. But so is he. What in the hell is happening?

Scott moved into the bedroom. What transpired next was something out of a comedy sketch. Scott fumbled to find his pants, pulled them on… backwards… and ended up collapsing into the bed before he realized the position of the legs were important to the outward appearance of his wardrobe. He put the black sweater on first, forgetting the gold button-down dress shirt, and put his shoes one without socks. After all of that he sat on the edge of the bed, exhausted, with the polo draped across his lap with the socks he’d worn visible across the room. What the hell am I doing?

“What are you doing in here?” Wes said, leaning in the doorjamb, holding two cups of coffee.

“Forgetting how to put on clothes, apparently.” Scott stated, defeated.

“You okay?”

He nodded, running a hand through his hair, “Yes. No, but yes.”

Wes sat down on the bed, handing a steaming mug of coffee to Scott. “I get what you’re feeling.”

That’s a verbal trap. Don’t say the wrong thing, don’t say the wrong thing. “I’m not sure you do.” Fair-to-middlin’ on your answer there, Scott.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve done something like that,” Wes took a sip delicately from the side of the cup, “It was unlike me to invite you back to my place. I was surprised it worked, but you had made the first step towards keeping the night going, and I didn’t want it to end. So, here we are in all the awkward glory of what makes passion so confusing.”

There was moment in that diatribe that sent Scott spiraling down the rabbit hole of his mind again. The phrase ‘something like that’, for starters. Then ‘unlike me’. Followed by ‘surprised it worked’. Immediately moving into ‘didn’t want it to end’. And, of course, the final summation of two conflicting descriptors of ‘awkward’ and ‘passion’ in the same sentence. His mind didn’t know what to make of it. He had questions – oh boy, did he have questions – but Scott was enjoying the closeness and the coffee, albeit the moment had been set forth by an uncomfortable start.

“Yeah,” the only word that Scott could form came out simply.

Awkward silence.

“I had a good time,” Wes offered.

“Me too.”

Another break in dialogue accompanied by slow drinks of coffee followed.

Scott: “I should probably go.” Wes: “Up for breakfast?” The words overlapped with two entirely different offers for how to end the impasse.

Son of a bitch. “I really should get home.” Scott stood and threw the dress shirt over his shoulder, took a gander at the socks on the floor a couple of meters away, and realized he’d leave them. How weird would that look to indicate that he had forgotten to put them on? It was going to be evident after he departed when Wes realized that those weren’t his socks. It would be something he’d think about on his trek back to the dorm. A funny conversation for a future meeting between the two. Would there be another meeting? Scott internally hoped so regardless of their current back-and-forth.

“I understand, Scott has to scoot. We’re both busy people.”

“Yeah, I’m sorry.”

Wes took Scott’s coffee and moved into the living area, “100% okay.”

Scott followed, the mish-mash of his dressing suddenly becoming horribly evident. The sweater was starting to make him itch as it laid against his bare skin. The sweat in his shoes without socks made him feel gross. But, ultimately, it was his sudden mention of departure that made him feel the worst of all. He didn’t want to leave, but he had to. The interaction had become just a little too much. “Thanks for a fun evening. I enjoyed myself.”

“Ditto.” The word was sharp and to the point, a lack of emotion absent behind it, and a sudden change in demeanor went right along for the ride. Wes recycled the cups, both probably still half full and not drank, and he leaned against the dining room table. “Can I ask for an actual date? Dinner?”

“Uh, sure, I mean, I don’t know what my schedule looks like, but if it works.”

Wes bowed his head slightly, a smirk appearing on his face, “If it works…”

“I’ll reach out. Have a good day.” Scott didn’t wait and parsed the apartment threshold into the hallway, not looking back. You’re a complete asshole, you know that? That guy is amazing! The night was amazing! What in the actual fuck are you doing? Welcome to Scott-doesn’t-know-what-he-wants-or-what-to-do-show… the morning edition. Mental overdrive moment number three.

He had managed to get about a block away from Wes’ apartment before he had to stop. He looked down the avenue that set his path back to Starfleet Academy. Turning his eyes to the apartment building he had just exited, Scott smiled openly and chuckled. He knew what he was doing: he was being stupid, foolish, misguided, and every other synonym that would describe poor choices in an otherwise wonderful situation. Spinning on his heel he traversed the sidewalk at a more rapid pace. Up the stairs and back to Weston’s door he hit the chime.

The door opened and he was met with… socks. “Forget these?”

Scott grabbed the socks with one hand, grabbed Wes’s waist with the other, and pulled him in to kiss him as passionately as had happened on the overlook two nights previous. “Uh, yeah, thanks. But, I wanted to say I’d love to have dinner. Name the place and time.”

“I’ll check my schedule,” Wes winked, “Now, get out of here, Scooter, we’ll talk soon.” And he pushed Scott lovingly out the door.