The F Words

by Anyta Sunday

  “Wow, yeah, I’m just . . . it’s been a while since I’ve heard anything. Heath’s wondered what happened to him.”

  “He looks tired,” Eric said, remembering his dark, flat eyes that first night. He reached instinctively for the kitten on the pillow. The kitten raised his head and gave a long, whiney meow as Eric petted his head. “Is he such an awful person, do you think? I used to think so, but . . .” He shrugged.

  “Well, he’s not exactly gay-friendly. But you know that well enough. I can’t say I hold too much opinion of him. Dislike, if anything. But Heath loved him. He once said to me if he had to choose all over again, he still would have picked Rory for a friend.” Will went quiet for a moment, just staring at his computer screen. “After I heard about that kiss you had with him, I asked Heath his thoughts. He said, thinking about it, it might make some sense. . . . Um, Eric?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Are you . . . interested in Rory?”

  “I must have misheard you.”

  “Are you—”

  “No!” Certainly not that way.

  “Well, good, because if I can impart some of my hard-earned wisdom: don’t date closeted guys. It only ends up hurting you.”

  “Thanks, but I’m not looking to date. If I do, I’ll be sure to heed your advice. Let’s move on. We’ve warmed up enough now. What’s up between you and Heath?”

  Will’s lips thinned into a somber line. “I don’t know. He’s . . . being so hot and cold at the moment. I don’t want to talk about it.”

  Eric nodded. “Right. Sorry.”

  With a strained-looking smile, Will shrugged. “I’ve got to get back to some work, but I’ll call you this weekend. Have a good birthday, yeah?”

  They said their goodbyes and hung up. Silence temporary filled his room until the bathroom window gave another large thwack!

  Groaning, Eric closed his computer and flopped face down on top of the bed. His kitten whined and then snuggled his way closer until Eric felt him climb onto the back of his neck, purring under Eric’s ear.

  Warm, soft and comforting, he imagined for a moment what it would be like to have this from a man he cared about. . . . a gentle nuzzling at his ear . . . his hot breath whispering the promise of a beautiful day. . . .

  Chapter Five

  Every evening, after his day with Willow, Rory went back to the Kilbirnie pool. In what seemed a vain effort, he swam and swam and swam to rid himself of the pent-up, twisted energy that was rotting inside him.

  On the Tuesday, he’d managed fifty lengths before he pulled himself out of the water, cursing.

  This wasn’t fucking working.

  He yanked off his goggles and tossed them in the pool with a low ‘fuck it all’.

  “You might want to be a tad more discerning,” came Eric’s low, amused voice to his right.

  Rory looked down. There was Eric sitting on the edge of the pool with wet hair, dripping water onto Maui’s Hook—the tattoo taking up the broad width of his shoulder.

  Blinking, Rory refocused his gaze on Eric’s smiling face.

  Rory opened his mouth, and the words just tumbled out. Unexpected and just right. “Sorry.” He planted himself on the diving block one aisle over and answered the confusion etched into Eric’s brow. “I was a real dick that day. All the days, actually.”

  The relief at finally apologizing to the man floored him. It was as if, in that single sentence, a whole chunk of that rotting energy in him just vaporized.

  Eric hmmmed, then slid into the pool and swam away from him. Just as Rory began to frown, Eric untwisted Rory’s goggles and threw them back at him.

  In a less than swift move, Rory caught them. At the same time Eric asked, “Want to get a drink?”

  Staring at his goggles, he stuttered, “I—I . . .” He looked around to see who was watching them and heard Eric sigh.

  “It’s just a drink, Rory. You can do that, can’t you?”

  He nodded. “A drink. Yeah. I’ll meet you over there. I’m”—Eric pulled himself out of the pool and shook the water from his hair. It splashed over Rory and trickled down his chest. He lost his train of thought. “I’m, um, just going to . . .” He jerked a thumb toward the men’s changing rooms as he stumbled backward to get there.

  “No bailing,” Eric said, waggling a finger at him, and smiling. “See you in ten.”

  Rory didn’t bother with a shower. He just pulled on his jeans and t-shirt. He couldn’t get Eric’s bright smile out of his mind. Rory didn’t deserve it. He’d been a fucking arse. He didn’t get how quickly Eric seemed to have forgiven him—well, that first night in his pickup excluded. But since then, since then the guy had been a mixture of snarky and sweet whenever they met.

  The image of him at the supermarket staring down at two cans of cat food in the pet aisle came to mind. For days the scene had stuck with him. It was so vivid, he’d once or twice thought of sketching it.

  He hadn’t. He’d ditched the idea pretty damn fast. But it kept coming back. . . .

  Glancing briefly in the mirrors, Rory tousled his chlorine-enriched hair. His stomach tightened and nerves drummed through him with heartbeat. “This is ridiculous,” he mouthed to himself in the mirror. “No one will think anything of it. Just two dudes having coffee.”

  He splashed his face with water.

  If friends could do it, why not two fags?

  Snatching up his shit, he made for the café.

  Eric sat at the same table Rory had the last time they’d met, still in his swim gear but with a t-shirt thrown on. He cradled a single coffee in his palms, taking a sip when he spotted him. Rory went to the counter and ordered himself a flat white.

  With his coffee, he made his way as casually as he could to Eric. He stumbled as he tried to pull out a chair.

  Eric reached up and took the sloshing coffee from him, setting it down on the table. Dropping his bag to the floor, Rory used both hands to unhook the chair from the table leg and sat. “So . . .” he said, battling the blush he could feel spreading up his neck. “What the hell do we talk about now?”

  “What you usually talk to your friends about.”

  Rory thought of the friends he’d had over the past few years. They’d all been temporary and they’d done nothing more than shoot shit and eat junk food together. He wasn’t sure he could call them friends really. He hadn’t had one of those since Heath. And he’d fucked that up well and good.

  “I don’t talk with friends. I really don’t have anything to say.”

  Eric took another sip of his coffee. “Well, you’re in good company then. I know how to do that very well.” Eric frowned. “Though in the last week, I seem to have taken up kitty-talking to my cat. But I don’t know if you’d classify a pet as a friend.”

  “Why not? I’d imagine they’re the best type.”

  Eric raised a brow.

  “They purr at all your jokes,” Rory said. “And they don’t judge.”

  A warm smile and a glazed look deepened Eric’s expression, as if he’d been reminded of something. Then he nodded. “Point. I’d love to pitch in here that I don’t judge either and could make a good friend. But I’d be lying. I’ve judged people far too quickly before. Though I’m sorry for it.” Eric held his gaze at the last part. “I pinned you for the biggest prick that walked the earth after that first time we met.”

  Rory heard himself laugh. “Well, in that case, you wouldn’t be half wrong.”

  “But some wrong, nevertheless.”

  He swallowed a sudden lump in his throat. “I hope.”

  Eric smiled. His gaze dipped to the bag at Rory’s side. “Bring your art today?”

  “No. Today I just needed to swim.”

  “Shame. I would have liked to have seen more of your work.” Heat prickled up Rory’s neck, rising faster when Eric added: “You seem really talented with a pencil.”

  “I work with charcoal, too. Depending. Charcoal for the bigger pieces.” Rory leaned to the side, unzipped his bag, an
d scrimmaged for a small notebook he always carried with him. It was a tiny thing, the size of his palm, but whenever he got an idea, he had to make a quick thumb print of it. He had hundreds of them in the book. He showed it to Eric. “I don’t turn all of them into full sketches. Just the ones that stick out for me.”

  Rory expected Eric to take a cursory look, but the guy took his time, studying carefully the different scenes. He pointed to one near the middle of the book. “This scene at the restaurant. I saw the bigger version of this the last time, didn’t I?”

  “Yes.”

  Eric continued to stare at it, frowning slightly. “You’re not in this version.”

  “Yeah, well . . . the final product often changes.”

  Flicking through the rest of his book, Eric stilled on a couple more pages. When he reached the blank pages at the end, he looked up. “May I have a pencil?”

  “What—”

  “No questions”—he beckoned for the pencil, curling his fingers for it—“just pass it to me.”

  Rory pulled out a pencil and handed it over.

  Eric grinned as he scrawled something at the back. When he was done, he carefully closed the book and snapped the elastic over the cover, keeping the pages tight together. He handed both the book and pencil back.

  “For later,” he said.

  When Rory got back home that evening, the house was dark and empty. He briefly wondered where his uncle was and felt a surge of guilt that maybe he’d made the man feel uncomfortable in his own home.

  He unpacked the wet gear from his bag and threw it into the wash. Then he grasped at the notebook in the side pocket of his duffel. A part of him was impatient to see what it was Eric had written, but he was anxious too, and that stopped him from prying it open.

  Instead, he showered and slipped into a pair of boxers and a t-shirt. Feeling fresh again, he trudged up to his room, grabbed his new laptop, and flopped onto the bed. Maybe he’d watch a movie or something.

  A year ago, he would have used the time to surf for some hetero porn, convincing himself as he came that it was the woman he’d been watching the whole time and not the guy’s cock as it slid in and out of her, or the way his arse flexed with every bang and grunt.

  He couldn’t do that anymore. Now he only fisted himself once a day, usually in the middle of the night when he couldn’t sleep, and was tired enough not to concentrate on any mental images. Or at least not to remember them in the morning.

  His computer screen hummed to life. It was exactly as he’d left it when his uncle had knocked. His Dropbox was opened to his pictures. His gaze immediately fell onto the William folder.

  There wasn’t much decision to it. Just a sudden need to see them all again. He double clicked. Almost instantly, hundreds of images of him and William popped up. He scrolled through them, forcing his way through each and every one of them. Maybe, by the time he was at the end, he’d be desensitized; maybe he’d finally break through the pain. Each passing picture of them laughing, drinking, hugging nailed into his chest until his eyes blurred and he was sobbing.

  At the end, there was a video clip. They were on a boat, dressed as Vikings for Rory’s twenty-first. Whoever held the camera had to have been pissed off their arse as the frame was shaky as shit.

  Rory roared into the camera beating his chest, when William came up to his side, a sly grin cupping his lips. “Dude, you’re a Viking, not fucking Tarzan.”

  Rory had been smashed, he couldn’t remember this. He watched as he threw his arms around William and lifted him up. “Either way, I’m bloody strong.”

  William laughed, and, watching it on screen, through the tears training down his face, Rory smiled too.

  Once William was on his feet again, he draped his arm around Rory’s shoulders. “I love you, bro. Happy birthday.”

  Rory replayed the last part again, his insides swollen with pain and love that he thought he’d burst. “…I love you.” He stopped it. Played it again. “…I love you.”

  He listened again. William saying the words that Rory had failed to ever admit back to him. He’d never said the words in any way to William, joking or not. . . .

  After the seventh re-run, he jerked his cursor away from the play button. He needed to stop this. He lurched off the bed. Fuck the world and back again. His uncle was right. He needed someone to talk to. Someone who’d be on his side. Who understood. . . .

  He searched the house for Uncle Davy, but it was still dark and empty. He was alone, shaking like a leaf—so fucking pathetic.

  Slipping on some running shoes, he left the house and the pictures and video clips of William behind and chased for freedom, running as hard as he could all the way to the ocean in Island Bay. Where he collapsed on the sand, digging his fingers into it and throwing lumps as hard as he could, only to have them blow with the hard wind back into his face. A slap in the face. A wake up call: Get over it!

  Those three words followed him the rest of the night as he stalked out his anger around the bays.

  It was approaching dawn by the time he arrived back home. He tried to sleep—it didn’t happen. Too tired to work, he called Alice, apologizing, and told him he couldn’t take Lily. Alice sounded frustrated and stressed on the phone, but wished him better health soon.

  When he hung up, he cursed himself for lying and being unprofessional. Then he slumped to his bed, where he dropped into a fitful half-sleep.

  It was two-o’clock when he woke, eyes crusted from the night before. He washed up, forced himself to eat some toast, and curled back into bed with his art pads and pencils.

  His small notebook lay on top of his larger sketchbook. Sinking back into the pillows, he opened it and flicked to the end. To what Eric had written.

  My first judgment was that you were a homophobic prick who only cared about himself.

  Now my impression is you are a talented and seriously confused guy who might just need a friend.

  Email me at: Ericgraham8 @ gmail.com if my second judgment is more accurate.

  At the bottom of the page, in much smaller writing, it read:

  P.S. Please don’t hesitate to email during working hours. Work’s so bleeding boring.

  Rory bit the end of one of his pencils. Something he never did. He kept chewing, reading and re-reading the message. Eventually he chucked the pencil to the side, grabbed his laptop and opened his email.

  To:

  ericgraham8 @ gmail.com

  Subject:

  My address

  Yes.

  He hit send before he could debate himself out of it.

  He was about to logout when his chat pinged.

  Eric:

  Are you still online?

  Rory wasn’t sure if he could handle chatting right now, he moved the cursor to the red ‘x’ at the corner of his screen, but he couldn’t press it. He clicked into the chat box.

  ---------------------- 1 minute

  me:

  yes?

  Eric:

  you love that word today

  :P

  help me out here. I need some clarification r.e. your mail.

  Yes, what?

  Yes you’re talented?

  Yes you’re confused?

  Or yes you might need a friend?

  ---------------------- 1 minute

  Eric:

  take your time answering. Nothing going on here, anyway.

  ---------------------- 2 minutes

  me:

  all three.

  Eric:

  LOL!

  wait that probably comes out wrong

  I was laughing at your confidence in your talent

  I mean, I like it

  ---------------------- 1 minute

  Eric:

  Okay, say something now . . .

  me:

  I can take a little ribbing. But I got it, anyway.

  I’m just tired. And I don’t know what to chat about.

  What’s so boring with work?

  Eric:<
br />
  Gah, yeah, you really don’t know what to chat about.

  Jk

  My boss came in this morning to give me a poster to ‘decorate the empty wall above my desk’. It was a giant flow chart of the ice-cream manufacturing process. ‘In color’. *groans*

  ---------------------- 2 minutes

  Eric:

  See, I’ve bored you already, haven’t I?

  me:

  was googling an image online. Sounds just riveting.

  I do like eating ice-cream though.

  Eric:

  oh yeah, me too

  love hokey pokey

  you?

  me:

  boys

  Rory’s fingers slipped on the keyboard before he finished, entering the text. “Shit, fuck.” He quickly retyped, but not before Eric’s next line.

  Eric:

  I’m obviously working for the wrong company. Who makes that flavor? ;)

  me:

  boysenberry

  fuck

  Eric:

  Speaking of ice-cream. Has Willow eaten all her sand-witches this week?

  Hey, don’t you have her now?

  me:

  not today

  Eric:

  you sick or something?

  me:

  that’s what I told her mum.

  I just wasn’t feeling great today. Bad night.

  Eric:

  I’m sorry.

  ---------------------- 1 minute