Trin

by J. M. Snyder

  He makes two sandwiches and cuts them both in half diagonally. When he reaches for a plate, though, his brother is there beside him, blocking his way. Blain gives him an unreadable look. “So where’s this gunner now?” he wants to know.

  The first thing that pops into Trin’s mind is, he’s upstairs. Between his sheets or at the window maybe, waiting for dinner. But that’s a different man and he bites back the reply before he can let it slip. “He left,” he says simply. He doesn’t look at Blain.

  His brother waits. Trin promises himself he isn’t going to say anything else unless Blain asks for more, but it’s hard to ignore the steady gaze bearing down on him. Sniffling against tears he isn’t crying, he mumbles, “Let’s just drop it, okay?”

  “What happened?” Blain asks patiently.

  With a shake of his head, Trin sets each sandwich on a plate, then stacks the plates one on top the other. “Trini?” Blain prompts.

  “I’m fine, alright?” Trin scoops a generous helping of potato salad from the sandwich bar onto the top plate. “Nothing happened. A few things were said—”

  Blain touches his arm. “What kind of things?” Trin shrugs him off and steadies the plates in his hands. “What did he say to you? Was it something about Gerrick?”

  “He’s hungry,” Trin murmurs. “Can we talk about this later? I haven’t seen him all day.” Without waiting for an answer, he edges around his brother and takes the back steps two at a time. He doesn’t have to look at Blain to know he disapproves.

  Upstairs the hall is dark and hot, the heat of the day stifling despite the open window at the far end. Outside the sky has darkened to a deep indigo, but there’s enough fading light to drape the hall in shade. Trin moves quietly, his bare feet silent over the worn wooden floor. Here in the closeness of the corridor he can smell himself, a stench of sweat and grease and the oil Aissa spilled into his pants a little while ago. He’ll shower after they eat.

  At the door to his room, he juggles both plates in one hand to knock. No answer, but then again, he doesn’t expect one. After a moment’s hesitation, he turns the knob, pushes the door open slowly, and steps into the room. “Hey,” he sighs.

  The room is dark. What scant light there is comes from the halogens stuttering to life in the growing dusk beyond the open window. Trin’s pallet is empty, the sheets turned down. The candle he left lit beside the pallet this morning has burned out.

  In front of the window is an old weathered rocker, and in the rocker sits the shadow of a man. Closing the door behind him with one foot, Trin smiles at the silhouette backlit against the sprawling junkyard below. “Brought you something,” he says as he crosses the room.

  Only when Trin stands beside him at the window does Gerrick look up. “You hungry?” Trin asks. His gaze wanders over the gunner’s face—the network of scars crisscrossing his cheeks and nose stands out fierce and red in the dying sunlight. One eye is milky, unseeing, the other still rimmed with bruised flesh. Healing stitches slice one side of his moustache in half, the hairs there not yet willing to grow back. His hands, curled in pain, lie forgotten in his lap. Motioning to the plates he carries, Trin says, “Thought you might be up for a bite. Chicken, I think. How are you doing today?”

  Gerrick turns back to stare out the window and doesn’t answer. An uncomfortable silence stretches between them, sullen, bitter. Leaning back against the windowsill, Trin sets one of the plates down beside him and toys with the sandwich on the other as he searches for something to say. “I brought you some of Clay’s potato salad,” he offers, talking to the plate in his hands. “I know you said you liked it last time she made it—”

  With difficulty, Gerrick clears his throat. The hands in his lap clench into fists. “I heard a truck,” he says. His voice, once melodic and strong, is now barely a whisper. His good eye glances at Trin, then looks away again.

  “A gunner,” Trin admits. The sandwich’s crust crumbles beneath his anxious fingers. “First one through here all summer, but he didn’t stay.”

  Gerrick clears his throat again, an old man sound that makes Trin sad to hear it. Cautiously, he holds out half of the sandwich like a peace offering. “You need to eat.” But Gerrick doesn’t move, doesn’t take the sandwich. Switching tactics, Trin asks, “Please? For me?”

  That does it. Now one of those gnarled hands comes up to take the sandwich from him. Trin wipes the crumbs off his palm onto his pants, then brushes away the hair that’s fallen across Gerrick’s brow. The hand falls back to the gunner’s lap, the sandwich still held tight, uneatened. “Did he…” Gerrick starts, his eyes slipping closed as Trin runs his fingers through the thinning hair. “He didn’t make you an offer. Did he?”

  “I told him no,” Trin says. Gerrick’s face scrunches up in pain and he doesn’t bother to add that the gunner threatened to fuck him anyway. “Eat up. You’ll never heal—”

  Interrupting him, Gerrick wants to know, “Did you want to?” His eyes open and he stares at Trin, his gaze brutal. “Tell me that, kid. You wanted to, didn’t you?”

  For a long moment Trin studies him, this ghost of the man he’s wanted for so long. The tanned skin has faded to a pale peach now, the hair darker than the sunny blonde it used to be, the body broken and scarred like a battered, discarded toy. More often than not, now it’s Trin’s arms that hold Gerrick close in the night and not the other way around. There’s no strength left in the gunner’s body to hold him anymore, and when those hands smooth over his flesh, it’s with a fragile touch. The memory of their passion haunts Trin. That was another life, another world, one where he was left aching and alone. But this morning when he woke? Gerrick lay between their sheets, watching him dress. In his papery-thin voice, he admitted, “You’re all I have left, boy. You’re the only one who stood by me through this, despite everything, and you’re the only one who’ll still have me. I suspect I have to love you for that.”

  “I didn’t want him,” Trin whispers, and it’s the truth. Even if the stranger had been coy about it, there’s nothing he could’ve said or done to get with him. Frowning at the half a sandwich still on his plate, he tells Gerrick, “At night, when we’re alone? Just before we fall asleep. It’s like nothing ever happened. I mean with the accident and all. You’re still the same man to me.”

  Gerrick doesn’t speak. He looks at the sandwich in his hand with a bemused expression on his face, like he just discovered he’s holding something. “I didn’t want him,” Trin says again. “I’ve been by your side every day, Gerrick, and you know it. I’ve fed you, and bathed you, and dressed you when you couldn’t do those things yourself. I share my pallet with you, and my room, and my body. You think some stranger can just walk up in the middle of that? You think I gawk at other men? I’m not like you—”

  “I’m not that way,” Gerrick mutters. Raising his hand to his mouth, he takes a savage bite out of the sandwich, and bread crumbs fall to his lap. “Not anymore.”

  Trin nods. “And you’re all I ever wanted.”

  More silence. Trin has grown accustomed to so much of it since the accident. Breaking off tiny chunks of his sandwich, he eats it piece by piece, wordless while Gerrick thinks. Sometimes it takes him a little longer now to mull things over in his mind. That’s one thing about him that has changed, and no matter how tight Trin shuts his eyes, he can’t pretend this hesitation away. It’s in the way Gerrick talks, the way he moves, the way he thinks. When the pain isn’t so bad and they make love, it’s slow now, not the hurried rush sex used to be. A slow, repetitious rhythm that still manages to burn Trin up inside. It seems to take hours, Gerrick moving steadily above him, riding him into the mattress, stopping every few minutes or so to catch his breath. The lull of their bodies swaying together has put Trin to sleep before, and at those times he wakes when the rush of orgasm flares through him. They don’t do it every night—hell, not even every week—but it’s enough. This is still the only man he wants.

  Trin starts fishing around for something else to talk ab
out, uneasy in the quiet dusk. Just as he’s about to tell Gerrick about the way Aissa kicked over the drop pan and the oil stain on his leg, the gunner rests a hand on his knee. The soft weight is warm, heavy, through Trin’s jeans. When he looks up, Gerrick’s chewing the last of his sandwich thoughtfully. “Maybe tonight,” he offers. “It’s been a little while, hasn’t it? Since we’ve done more than sleep in that pallet.”

  “A couple days,” Trin hedges. Ten to be exact. The past few nights Trin has had to sleep on his stomach to keep himself pressed flat against the mattress so Gerrick’s closeness between the sheets didn’t get him hard. The brief flicker of lust he felt this afternoon stemmed not from the stranger’s attractiveness or strength but more from the mere fact that he hasn’t felt a loving touch in almost two weeks. Sleeping next to Gerrick isn’t enough. Sometimes he wants to feel the man inside of him, deep inside, where he feels stronger and more alive than he appears to be. “This is about that gunner, isn’t it?” Trin asks. “You don’t have to prove yourself, Gerrick, not to me or anyone else. If you’re not up for it—”

  But Gerrick nods, his hand on Trin’s knee sending shivers of anticipation up his thigh and into his groin. “I am,” he promises. A phantom smile tickles his lips and is gone. “I will be. Anything to keep you happy, boy. You’re all I have left.”

  After all that’s happened, it’s going to have to be enough.

  THE END

  ABOUT J.M. SNYDER

  A multi-published author of gay erotic/romantic fiction, J.M. Snyder began writing boyband slash before turning to self-publishing. She has worked with several different e-publishers, including Amber Allure Press, Aspen Mountain Press, eXcessica Publishing, and Torquere Press, and has short stories published in anthologies by Alyson Books, Aspen Mountain Press, Cleis Press, eXcessica Publishing, Lethe Press, and Ravenous Romance. For more information, including excerpts, free stories, and monthly contests, please visit jmsnyder.net.

  ABOUT JMS BOOKS LLC

  Founded in 2010, JMS Books LLC is owned and operated by author J.M. Snyder. We publish a variety of genres, including gay erotic romance, fantasy, young adult, poetry, and nonfiction. Short stories and novellas are available as e-books and compiled into single-author print anthologies, while any story over 30k in length is available in both print and e-book formats. Visit us at jms-books.com for our latest releases and submission guidelines!