by Anyta Sunday
Rory shut the door behind him. He gripped his bag so tight the handles were burning his palm. He squeezed tighter. The pain was something he could concentrate on. Before he left the lounge, he glanced back at his uncle through the glass.
Uncle Davy had picked up the large tongs from the barbeque. He threw them across the yard into the lavender bushes, then slumped into Rory’s chair and ground his knuckles against his forehead.
Rory swallowed, eyes prickling. Then, taking that image with him, he fled the house.
Chapter Four
A couple of weeks out of the pool, and Eric suffered through twenty laps of freestyle like an old man. Well that was it. He was coming here every evening after work to train up his stamina from now on. He didn’t want to add flailing and flimsy to his F words list. There were enough on it already, thank you very much.
He dragged his sorry ass into the changing rooms, showered and dressed into a pair of jeans and ragged t-shirt. He’d need to race home and change into something better before meeting up with Marc and his friends—he checked his watch—shit, in an hour.
His tongue clacked from the dry roof of his mouth as he yawned. Crap, he was thirsty. After stuffing his wet towel and bathing suit into his bag, he headed to the pool café, and bought a Gatorade. He unscrewed the lid and gulped half the bottle as he made his way back though the tables toward the exit. At the door, he stopped, lowered his bottle, and backtracked a few steps.
Well that was just too darn funny.
Sitting partially hidden behind a sketchbook, focused intently on the paper before him, was Rory.
Eric thought for a second he might say something, but considering the last time they talked, Rory didn’t care much for chatting. He began shuffling his way back to the door, when what do you know, Rory spoke to him, “Stalking me now, are you?”
Eric smothered a sudden grin he felt tug at his lips. “You wish.” He turned and took a seat opposite the guy. He opened his mouth to say more, maybe even tease Rory a bit, just enough to see him squirm like he had in the pickup, but Rory lowered the sketchbook slightly, and Eric noticed his slightly swollen eyes.
Eric stopped staring at the pink tear stains, and asked, “So, how’s Willow?” Though what he really wanted to know was: What happened? How are you?
Rory didn’t stop drawing. “She’s good.”
“Ever eat all her sand-witches?”
Rory blinked and glanced at him before shaking his head. Was that a small smile bracketing his mouth? “Nope. Not yet.”
He returned to drawing.
Glancing at his watch, Eric knew he had to be leaving. Just as he planted his hands on either side of his chair to push up, Rory asked him a question. For the first time the cute little shit was really engaging with him. “How’s your cat, oh wait, I mean kitten?”
Eric remained seated, quirking a lip in a half-smile. This was worth indulging.
“Found out he’s a he,” he said. “Other than that, he’s annexed my home. Though, why he would, I don’t know. It’s a moldy hovel.”
“Does ‘he’ have a name?”
“Uh, no. Not yet.”
“Can’t think of one?”
“Not really, and I’m afraid if I name it—him—he’ll belong to me for good.”
“What, you don’t want him?”
“I don’t know anything about cats. I’m surprised he hasn’t triggered my allergies.”
“Cats are easy enough to get. Once you two have figured each other out, you’ll never want him gone.”
“We’ll see.”
When Rory put down his pencil and lowered the sketchbook onto the table, Eric grinned and swiveled the pad around to sneak a peek. Rory made a sound of protest, and when Eric raised a ‘why not?’ brow at him, he shrugged and lounged back, tapping his foot on the leg of the table so it vibrated.
The drawing was of the pool in the next room crowded with kids and adults splashing water, dunking one another and laughing. It was . . . well, it was excellent, in Eric’s unprofessional opinion. The tones of grey in the shading and soft curves against harder lines gave everyone life.
Taking a liberty, he flicked through more pages. . . . families eating at a restaurant . . . a crowded mall . . . a music festival, maybe? . . .
The one thing he noticed they all had in common was Rory. In every picture his figure was somewhere near the center—the spotlight of the pieces, even.
“They’re very good. Excellent, actually. But . . . you’re in every sketch.”
Rory shrugged. Then, leaning forward, he pried the art out of Eric’s grip.
“Quite in love with yourself, aren’t you?” Eric said, smirking.
“If that’s what you want to believe.”
He honestly had no idea what to believe about the guy anymore. He’d been surprised one too many times. From Rory’s red-rimmed eyes hinting at a more sensitive guy to the way he captured the soul of each scene in his art. . . . Even the fact Rory was so into art in and of itself left him speechless.
Well, maybe opinion-less was more apt.
The surface of his watch caught in the light, blinking a warning at him to get moving or be late to meet Marc.
He started to excuse himself, but instead ended up saying: “How long have you been drawing? Did you study art at uni?”
Rory caressed the glossy cover of his sketchbook as he answered, “Since intermediate school, but not at uni. Art isn’t something I could learn with facts”—he frowned slightly—“It’s all feeling.” There was a languid pause. And then, “At uni I studied psychology and New Zealand history.” His gaze lifted to Eric’s ink on arms and neck. “Are you . . . I mean, do you have any Maori blood?”
“All these questions…” Eric grinned. “Bit more than hi’s and bye’s, huh?”
It was the wrong thing to say. Rory visibly closed up. He snagged his bag from beside the table and began packing.
Eric cursed under his breath. Even though he needed to go himself and should use the excuse to move, it didn’t feel right leaving like this. “My grandpa on my father’s side was Maori,” he said, plucking Rory’s pencil from the table. “Do you come here often? To the pool, I mean?” He held out the pencil.
Rory looked at it, then him. He nodded. “A few times a week. Do . . . you?”
He pinched the end of his pencil. Even though they weren’t touching, when he slowly pulled the pencil from Eric’s fingers, an electric thrill whipped through him.
“I . . . ah . . . Yes, I hope to be here often.” He stood up. A look at his watch told him he had only a half-hour until his date. Crap. He’d just have to go right there, scruffy t-shirt and all. “Guess we’ll be seeing each other around then. Take care.”
Eric peeled his way across the city in his pickup to Marc at a small restaurant-café called Cherry Grove on the Terrace.
The façade of the building reminded him of an English phone booth. Just much bigger. Inside, he spotted Marc nestled at a corner table. Making his way over the brown and white tiled floor, Eric took in the antique, cottagey look of the place. The furniture was predominately dark wood, the benches with marble tops, and the chairs with floral insets. Baskets of flowers lined one wall and a large chalkboard menu framed the archway dividing the service from the dining area.
Marc smiled and stood when he saw him. “Hey.”
“Yeah, excuse the clothes. Time was tight, and I didn’t want to leave you”—he looked down at the table for two—“and your friends waiting.”
Marc at least had the sense to blush. “Er, um, yeah. They couldn’t make it?”
Eric relaxed into his chair. “You set me up?”
“I’m sorry?” Marc picked at imaginary dust on the table, then gave up and met his eye. “In my defense you are really hot.”
Before Eric knew it, they were back at his place.
Marc followed him inside. He glanced around, smiled and nodded. “Er, nice digs.”
Eric laughed. “You don’t have to be nice. It’s
a piece of shit.”
To prove his point, a strip of paint, hanging from the ceiling, broke and wafted to the floor.
He curled his fingers around Marc’s belt loops and pulled him into the living room. The moves came as second nature after two years practice.
Marc kissed him, pushing him back against the side of the table, his hot espresso breath moving from Eric’s lips down his neck.
Eric helped Marc strip him of his jeans. When his t-shirt came off, he found himself glancing toward the green jar on the fireplace.
His grandfather’s ashes.
Marc trailed his tongue to his nipple and teased it between his teeth.
Eric closed his eyes caught between the promise of quick relief and the ghost of his grandpa’s words.
He grabbed his t-shirt from the table as Marc and his tongue moved toward his naval, and threw it over the jar. His grandpa wasn’t there anymore; wasn’t yelling at him from the kitchen to move his arse and come help him with the dishes, wasn’t laughing wheezily as they clutched their lotto tickets in front of the television, wasn’t humming to the music from the crackling radio, wasn’t clapping a hand around the back of Eric’s neck and squeezing his ‘how ya doing?’.
He wasn’t ever going to do those things again.
All that was left was himself. He didn’t even have any friends in Wellington yet. So what if he wanted to forget all that for a few minutes?
Lips slid over him, wet and slippery. He tried to lock up his thoughts and just feel.
But as Eric began fucking Marc’s mouth, his kitten whined from the chair at the end of the table. That little gravelly cry seemed to echo one inside him.
Suddenly Eric needed the room dark so he couldn’t see Marc swallowing him or his t-shirt slowly slipping off the urn. He made himself come quickly.
He stripped Marc of his pants and returned the favor, pulling all his tricks to get it over and done with. Grunts, groans and a sharp cry later, it was finally over.
Eric wiped his mouth as he stood up.
Marc snagged his shorts and slid them on. “It’s not happening again, is it?”
Eric shook his head. “Shit!”
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” That was.
“I’m sorry, did I do something—”
“I barely know you and the first thing I do is fuck you.”
“If it helps, it was what I wanted.”
Eric sighed. “I thought tonight I would go out and meet some people I could like. Make some friends. Instead, I end up . . . doing this.”
Using his palm, Marc moved the hair out from his eyes. That blush of his was back. “I’m sorry, Eric. It’s totally my fault. I shouldn’t have lied to you . . .”
But it wasn’t Marc’s fault at all. Eric was the one who’d said yes. “I’m such a fool. I keep fucking it all up!”
Marc worried his bottom lip, glancing from the door to the chair next to his kitten. Letting out a breath, he said, “Want to talk or something?”
The offer was there; Eric could finally let out his guilt. Talk about it. But he didn’t want to do that with the guy who’d just gone down on him. It seemed tacky.
He shook his head. “Nah, I’m good. Just . . . let’s just forget about this.”
Relief flickered in Marc’s gaze. “I am real sorry.”
He waved it off and saw Marc out the front door. When he got back, he collapsed onto the dining chair next to his kitten.
He reached out and petted the soft furball, so glad for someone on his side that didn’t judge, because, even though Grandpa was dead and gone, he could feel his disappointment burning from the top of the mantelpiece into his back.
For the rest of the weekend, Rory avoided his uncle. He didn’t join him and Lily for dinner or breakfast, but rather ate out or holed himself up in his room. He even bought himself his own laptop, something he should have done right after his old one broke. With all his travelling though, he’d shrugged it off, just borrowing from friends or re-entering the nineties by going to an internet café.
The new laptop sat on his desk, nice and shiny, luring him to go over and use it. All his stuff he had stored in Dropbox, so all his files, from old uni essays to pictures and video clips, were there. Just waiting to be re-opened.
He double clicked his photos folder and scoured the sub-folders: Kepler Track, Australia Eastcoast, Bushball Mt. Aspiring, Toms Goodbye party, St Patrick’s day Christchurch . . . LOTR tour, Stewart Island . . . and at the bottom, the last folder: William.
He moved the cursor, hovering it over that one folder he’d kept closed for years—
A knock came at his door.
He shut the laptop screen as his uncle’s voice came muffled through the door. “Rory, I know you’re in there. Open the door for a sec?”
If Rory waited silently, could his uncle think he was mistaken and leave?
“Please?”
He breathed in slowly, and opened the door.
Uncle Davy, like always, got right to the chase. “We’re going on Friday morning. I’d like us to leave on better terms.”
“That a fact?” Rory bit hard on his tongue and dropped his gaze from his uncle’s face to his shoulder. “Sorry.”
“I did mean it, Rory”—Uncle Davy held his hands up to stop him butting in—“No pressure, I won’t bring it up again unless you want me to, but I can listen. It doesn’t even have to be me, I just hope you find someone who you can confide in.” He nodded. “That was it. All I wanted to say.”
He backed up from the door, still watching Rory, as if waiting for a reaction. But Rory had nothing to say. He just wanted to forget they’d ever had a confrontation. For Uncle Davy never to have seen his drawing and finding out.
But, and he laughed as soon as he thought it, the facts were Uncle Davy had seen it and knew he was a fag, and no matter how much he wished, that moment on the deck would stick with him forever.
His uncle finally twisted away, and Rory listened to his heavy steps on the stairs.
With tears blurring his vision, much like the last time they’d spoken, Rory grabbed his swim gear, took his Honda, and motored to the Kilbirnie Pools.
He scanned the lanes to see if Eric was around. He wasn’t, and Rory dove into the pool not quite as relieved as he thought he would be to be alone.
Saturday and Sunday, Eric spent scraping the lounge and hallway walls and ceilings of paint. He wasn’t even halfway done with the place, and the weekend was over. Not only was tomorrow Monday again, but he was left with a cramp in his hand from holding the putty knife so long.
“Half the month’s rent,” he murmured, shaking his head as he collapsed with his laptop onto his bed. “Should be getting paid half the month’s rent for this crap.”
His kitten butted the bedroom door so it moved enough for him to sneak in. He jumped up onto his bed and curled onto the pillow.
Firing up his laptop, he reached over to the lamp he’d bought and set up next to his bed and flicked the switch. There was a blitz of light and then the bedroom and hall light went out, drowning him in darkness.
“Double crap.”
He fixed the fuse, muttering the entire time, and jumped back into bed. He wanted to spend the last hour of his Sunday doing something fun. Or at least he wanted to block out and forget his shitty falling apart home, his boring work, and the fact his Mr. Perfect date wasn’t Mr Right.
His Skype box bleeted.
Will_Sharp
Really need that laugh . . . You free to talk?
Eric_Graham
Calling you now . . .
Will picked up immediately, his picture on screen fuzzy for a second before sharpening. Eric watched as he settled into his chair.
“Okay, now I see you.”
“What’s up?” Eric asked.
“First, I’ll need a little lead in.” Even via video, Eric could see Will looked upset. Normally, Will wore a grin that crinkled the skin round his eyes slightly. Now, though, a small sh
arp worry line creased his forehead. Heath should have rubbed it away, kissed it better. Instead he was the cause. “Tell me what’s up with you?”
About to answer, the broken window in the bathroom slammed with the wind and Eric jumped. “Jeepers.” He shook his head. “Not much happening here. I was scraping the paint off the walls all weekend. I wanted to get them smoothed and painted before my thirty-first birthday, but it’s taking longer than I thought.”
“It’s this Friday, right?”
“Saturday.”
“You have plans?”
The bathroom window banged again.
“Nah. Painting, probably.”
Will scowled at him. “Go out! Meet up with some people. Have fun.”
“I haven’t really met people I can hang out with like that.”
“Why don’t you get yourself a date for your birthday?” Will suggested. Then shook his head, the first signs of a grin warming his face. “You were always so good at scoring guys’ numbers.”
Eric puffed out a breath. “Too good. I’m a slut. Worse, a flut.”
“You weren’t always.”
“Yeah, well . . . I changed.”
“So change back.”
Long lengths of peeling paint on the wall in front of him waved with a draft chilling through the room. He leaned over, shut the door and turned his laptop so he was facing the four-paned windows instead.
Eric darted a tongue over his bottom lip and voiced the thing that’d been nibbling at him for the whole weekend. “I do know one guy in the city. Well know is stretching it. There’s someone I keep running into.”
Will raised his brows. “And?”
“And, well, you know him.”
Eric watched him frown, trying to figure out who he knew in Wellington. “It’s Rory.”
“Rory? Wait, Rory? My boyfriend’s once close friend, Rory? You’ve run into him a few times?” Will shook his head. “When were you going to tell me?”
“I’m telling you now, aren’t I?”