Plastic Jesus by Poppy Z. Brite Page B

room.
    Seth Grealy had visited Jonathan's midtown office twice a week for five years until his death a fortnight ago. Except for brief incommunicado periods, he never missed a session. Jonathan was Seth Grealy's psychiatrist, more commonly referred to by Seth as his head-shrinker, his witch doctor, or his little tin Freud, depending upon how bad Seth's mood was on any given day.
    Jonathan often wondered whether Seth would have gone into therapy with him had the man known to what extent he had been Jonathan's teenage idol. Jonathan was ten years younger than Seth, and had seen the famous Stonewall interview with Seth and Peyton when he was still a teenager agonizing over his sexuality. Without it, without them , he believed he might still be living in the closet.
    But Seth Grealy had had no idea that a young and confused Jonathan Pumphrey had once owned all his records, hung posters of him on the wall and occasionally even masturbated to those posters. He didn't know he had been a shaping force in Jonathan's life. He'd just wanted a therapist who wasn't “an old fart,” as he put it, and he'd been given Jonathan's number by a friendly GP who knew Jonathan was fresh out of medical school with a hungry new practice, and he'd called to set up an appointment. That was where they had begun.
    Though Jonathan had counseled many patients for grief, he couldn't imagine how he would survive if Rick died. He wondered how Peyton was managing to get along without Seth. He felt he had come to know Peyton Masters vicariously through Seth's therapy, and suspected there was a core of steel in the man that could survive just about any loss. But mustn't it be different if, in addition to suddenly, brutally losing your lover, you also found yourself now only half of a world-beloved gestalt? Mustn't it cleave you too, somehow?
    Jonathan thought of the picture they had presented to the world, Peyton's sweetness and Seth's studied bad-boy act. You could tie your mind in psychedelic knots with Seth's songs, then clear your head with Peyton's. To the world they were equals: equal in genius, equal in love. But Jonathan knew how dependent Seth had become on Peyton in the past decade. He felt sure that Seth could not have survived Peyton's death. He wondered whether Peyton was experiencing survivor's guilt, especially since he'd been right behind Seth when the murder took place.
    The news had come shockingly to Jonathan two weeks ago, the morning after Seth was killed, Rick calling the office and saying in a shaken voice, “Turn on the news, baby, it's Seth Grealy.” Jonathan canceled his sessions, sat by the radio all day, tried to take it in. Apparently Peyton had remained in the limo during the shooting and its immediate aftermath. Seth had just unfolded his lanky frame from the car and Peyton was sliding across the seat to get out when the shots began. In a bit of quick thinking that may have saved Peyton Masters’ life, the driver twisted around, grabbed a handful of his heavy winter coat, and hauled him back into the limo. By the time he fought his way out, the doorman of the building had gotten the gun away from Brinker and Seth was beyond recognizing anybody. How did one stand such a thing?
    Jonathan took a peek in the mirror, smoothed his hair over his forehead, straightened his tie. He went to the door of his office, hesitated for a moment, then opened it. “Please come in, Mr. Masters."
    As Peyton stood, Jonathan experienced a moment of the dissonance that is often involved when confronted with the real-life version of a famous face. Peyton had always been stereotyped as the “cutest” of the Kydds, with his charismatic curly smile, thick dark shock of hair, and liquid long-lashed eyes. Seth and Peyton had been out of the public eye for some time, so Jonathan's mental image of Peyton was several years out of date. Still, the majority of the changes appeared recent: the red-rimmed eyes; a few days’ worth of