Archive of Our Own ^beta

There’s not much Stefon remembers about his early life, but every once in a while something will hit him right the fuck out of nowhere, like the high heel conservative drag queen Bitch McConnell threw at his head once during a German screaming match.  Go figure.

The kids in Stefon’s school used to brag about their dads taking them out fishing or playing catch in the backyard or other boring, WASP-ish type reinforcements of societal masculinity, and honestly Stefon thinks it bothered David more than it bothered him, because to this day David still won’t shut up about the fact that Stefon spent seven months on tour with his dad when they were kids.  Never mind the fact that Stefon barely remembers any of it.

(“I’m the oldest and I’m the one who got his name,” David complains.

“But he’s not your dad,” Stefon retorts, rolling his eyes and sticking his tongue out like the bratty little brother he is.  “Obviously.”)

Stefon remembers the little things:  the echoes of electric guitars and tapped cymbals at soundcheck in an empty arena, his feet dangling off the edge of an audience seat, whisperings about the stars and a calloused finger tracing out the constellations in the night sky, Stefon’s own childish giggles bursting forth like a Coke-and-Mentos geyser.  Sometimes when his brain is too loud or the pricklings of loneliness start to gnaw away at him from the inside out, he’ll go up on the roof and stare up at the stars, bobbing his head to some unheard rhythm, the setlist on repeat in his brain.

Seth’s met him a couple times, the first being when he showed up to the rehearsal twenty minutes late in faded jeans and a newsboy cap.  Most of the bridal party (Seth’s family included) spent the entire time gawking and sneaking Instagram photos while Bowie split his time between asking Stefon for club recommendations to calm his nerves and grilling Seth on why it took him so long to commit to his feelings.

(”I just don’t want you to make the same mistakes I did,” he whispered, cornering Seth at the reception.  His eyes darted toward Stefon, trying to wrestle the champagne bottle away from a disheveled and very unruly Becca.  He clapped a hand on Seth’s shoulder and smiled, a little rueful, a little fond.  “He’s been through enough, don’t you think?”)

It was difficult, given both their busy schedules and their other commitments, their families, their lives, but they made it work.  Zoleskys are flexible, and two roads that diverge in a yellow wood don’t always have to stay that way, which is what Throbert Frost always said at Twice’s annual Slammed Poetry Readings.  Whenever his dad was in town they’d meet up for coffee or something, hit up a few clubs, trade drink recs and life stories and parenting tips, reminisce about traveling the world in seven months.  Occasionally Bowie would remember some incident involving roadies or wayward goats or a groupie named Bellevetica with eyes like cinnamon rolls, and Stefon would curse his shitty memory for failing him when he saw the confusion and disappointment in his dad’s eyes.  But Bowie would always wave it off, hum a few lines from an old favorite and wait for Stefon to catch on with a grin before launching into the rest of the song, voices and faces cracking with pure joy.

January is a hard month, now.  Stefon still curls up in bed some mornings, asks himself why Bowie never told him, why he didn’t find out until it was too late.  But on the nights when he climbs to the roof and gazes up at the stars, he swears he can hear them talking back.  And when Seth comes up to retrieve him, links their fingers together and guides him downstairs, he’ll rest his head on his shoulder and sway to the beat as his father’s voice comes alive once more.