by Courtney Lux
“Yeah, I’ve heard of it.” Nate traces another scar that curves down from the small of Trip’s back to his ass. His fingers linger on it. “Could I ask you something kind of personal?”
“You can ask,” Trip replies.
“You seem…” Nate hesitates as though he’s not entirely sure how to phrase his question. He shifts his fingers to the mark on Trip’s right hip. “Do they ever bother you?”
“Nathaniel, don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’ve got two different-colored eyes, and not the sort of ‘different in certain kinds of light’ variety of different.” Trip rolls his eyes, waves a hand vaguely at his back. “Stuck with these just like I’m stuck with the eyes. Just gotta accept it or whatever.”
Trip picks up singing again. Nate’s hand is still on his hip. He lifts it back to the first mark on Trip’s shoulder. “Can I ask you another question?”
“Give it your best shot.” Trip tips his head back under the showerhead, closes his eyes against the water.
“Where’d they come from?”
“Grizzly bears, remember?” Trip tips his head down, works his fingers through the hair at his neck. “We’ve talked about that before.”
“There something real they came from?” Nate is feeling out the mark as if it might tell him something more that Trip won’t.
“All right, fine.” Trip coughs into the crook of his arm. “It was just a regular old black bear—grizzly sounds better, though, right? Big things, grizzly bears.”
“You don’t like talking about it, so you turn it into a joke,” Nate murmurs. “Or maybe you just don’t know how to talk about it.”
“I put the damn bear down, there’s nothing left to talk about.” Trip coughs a second time, and Nate rubs his back.
“You okay?”
“Fine—just a cold.”
“The Tylenol should kick in soon and help.” Nate keeps rubbing his back.
“Here I was hoping you’d given me something interesting.” Trip steps farther under the spray of the shower.
He’s about to start singing again—Dylan or Prince to sucker Nate into chattering about their Minnesota ties—when he feels Nate’s lips, soft and warm, against that mark on his shoulder. He holds perfectly still, his fingers still tangled in his hair.
It must be an unexpected move for both of them, this intimate piece of contact, because there’s a pause where neither of them moves. Nate is the braver one in these small spaces with their eyes off one another. He touches another kiss to a mark lower on Trip’s back and them moves on to a second and a third nearby.
Trip is paralyzed, frightened and soothed all at once by the softness of this contact. It’s boot theory—the other shoe has to drop eventually, and he closes his eyes to wait for whatever shatters this quiet moment. He tries to breathe and keep as still as possible while Nate lowers himself to his knees behind him, still touching and kissing until Trip’s sure he’s found every mark there is. He ends on the mark he’d first touched on Trip’s hip the last time they had shared the shower. His chin is rough on Trip’s skin; his hair is wet and warm. Trip touches his fingertips to Nate’s cheek, brushes over it with his eyes still closed.
Nate stands, a hand still on Trip’s hip. He presses a kiss to the back of his head but says nothing.
Trip stays as he is. He watches the water ebbing around his toes and disappearing down the drain. “Why’d you do that?”
Nate’s voice is warm against his ear. “I just… wanted to.”
Trip licks his lips. As he stares at the floor he realizes there’s an ache low in his gut and he’s hard. “You got condoms down here?”
Nate nods against his neck. He steps out of the shower briefly to retrieve the condom from one of the drawers below the sink. There is no other precursory conversation or flirtation once Nate gets back into the shower. One minute they are both quiet and awkward over a strange intimacy they don’t know what to do with, and the next, Trip is pressed up against the tile of the wall, Nate buried inside him. There’s not enough space to allow for any position besides this one, but the closeness, for this, at least, is exactly what Trip wants. He keeps one hand on his cock, the other pressed against the tile over his head with Nate’s fingers tangled between his. Every time Nate shifts on his toes to press even closer, Trip huffs out a breath like a sigh and murmurs a request for “harder” or “faster.” Nate obliges, his arm tightening around Trip’s middle and his breath coming fast and warm on Trip’s neck. It isn’t the best fuck they’ve had or the worst. It’s loud and quick enough that when they’re both finished, there’s still enough hot water left to finish their shower.
Trip cranks off the water, then turns to face Nate. “You’re really goddamn strange; you know that?”
Nate wipes the water from his eyes. “Yeah, I know. Sorry.”
Trip doesn’t know what else to say to him. He gives Nate a brief once-over before climbing out of the shower. He hums to fill the silence while he rubs himself dry and puts his clothes back on. He keeps his back to the door and Nate in plain sight.
Nate dresses quietly. His gaze drifts to Trip from time to time as if he knows some secret that Trip does not.
The bathroom feels claustrophobic and too hot. Trip leans against the closed door, closes his eyes for a moment.
“You okay?” Nate’s hand is back on his forehead. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”
Trip reaches blindly for the door handle. He opens his eyes and shakes his head. “No, you were fine. You were great. Just a little dizzy.”
“Have you eaten today?” Nate is still searching his face with concern.
“Does that soda and those pills count?”
“No.”
“Then no, I haven’t.”
“I can fix that.” Nate guides Trip out of the bathroom with a hand on the small of his back.
Nate likes cooking. He can make braised lamb and grilled fish and curried chicken and homemade ravioli. His kitchen is always well stocked, but today, like most days, Nate settles for making Trip eggs and toast. Today he adds fried potatoes to the plate before shoving it across the breakfast bar.
“You’re trying to make me fat.” Trip sighs happily as he takes his first bite. This is a scenario he knows well—Nate standing on one side of the breakfast bar with his plate, Trip sitting on the opposite side with his own—sometimes Nate makes them something more upscale and they sit at the dining room table. Once they sat together on the kitchen floor and drank beer and ate rotisserie chicken straight from the black plastic container with their fingers. This breakfast-bar meal of eggs and toast at any hour of the day, though, is Trip’s favorite.
“Preparing you for winter without that jacket.” Nate leans his elbows on the edge of the counter and looks at Trip’s bag resting on the floor. “What do you keep in there?”
Trip points his fork at Nate. “Severed penises. From previous conquests who asked too many questions.”
Nate wrinkles his nose. “I think I’d smell that.”
“Duct tape seals it in.” Trip mops up egg yolk from his plate with what’s left of his toast. “Just gotta open and close it quick.”
Nate frowns at him.
Trip rolls his eyes. “If you’re so goddamn curious, just go on and look for yourself.”
Nate retrieves the bag. He brings it to the family room and puts it down on the coffee table. The zipper sticks near the middle, but eventually it slides open. Nate pulls out a matchbook, turns it over in his hands. “What is all this?”
“Remember how I do the mind-reading bit?” Trip stands, empty plate in hand, and goes to the dishwasher. He tucks the plate inside along with his fork. He fills a glass with ice and water. He sits on the floor beside the coffee table and pushes the glass of water toward Nate.
As if by instinct, Nate’s hand drifts to his pocket. It’s been a long time since Trip’s
lifted anything off of him. Mostly he puts new things in his pockets when he can and waits to see if Nate notices. Today, there’s an acorn from the park, but Nate doesn’t unearth it. “I remember.”
“When I lift stuff off of people…” Trip thinks of a way to phrase it lightly. “I don’t always give everything back.”
“You steal from people.” Nate drops the matches back into Trip’s bag and pulls out a torn-looking birthday card.
“Nothing anyone will miss.” Trip shrugs. He pushes himself up onto his knees to look into his bag. He reaches in and fishes out a blue crayon. “You wanna play a game?”
“Yeah, sure.” Nate sifts through a few more items.
Trip pushes the crayon across the table. “Where do you s’pose that came from?”
“Probably a kid. I don’t know.” Nate doesn’t look at the crayon for long before turning his attention back to the bag. “You need a new bag even worse than you need that jacket.”
Trip pushes the crayon closer to Nate. “No, come on—it’s a game. Tell me a story.”
“What kind of story?” Nate takes a drink from the water glass. He picks at a frayed spot of duct tape.
“About the crayon.” Trip nudges it another inch closer. He takes the cup of water when Nate puts it down and takes a drink.
“A story?” Nate lifts the crayon to inspect it. “What do you want me to say about a crayon?”
“Anything.” Trip puts the glass down and settles back down on the carpet, his legs crossed and his hands in his lap. “You read enough; write a story for a change.”
“Once upon a time, some kid had a blue crayon and you took it out of his pocket. The end.” Nate lifts the crayon off of the table and rolls his eyes. “Happy?”
Trip frowns at him. “That was pitiful. I was hoping you had at least one creative bone in that perfectly curated body of yours, Nathaniel.”
“You’re asking me to tell you a story about a crayon. What the hell do you want me to say?” Nate’s cheeks flush red with sudden irritation.
“I’m not asking for a goddamn novel, just something small.” Trip picks up the crayon. “Like it was some business drone’s, a lot like yourself. He likes to get kids’ menus when he goes out to eat by himself. Colors them in, and people think he’s crazy, but he doesn’t mind because it’s how he unwinds the same way some people get a drink after a shit day.”
“That’s not a story.” Nate rests his elbows on his knees, peering down into Trip’s bag again as though hoping he’ll find something in there that actually holds interest.
“Sure it is. It’s better than that shit you told me, anyway.” Trip gets back up on his knees and rifles through his things. He pulls a receipt with a red lipstick print smudged across the edge. “Try that one.”
“It’s how girls fix their lipstick. They smudge it on something else.” Nate sifts through a few other items, turns his gaze back up to Trip. “Not really sure why they do it.”
Trip groans. “Honestly, Nathaniel, would it kill you to indulge me?”
“All I ever do is indulge you.” Nate shifts away from the coffee table. “I don’t know what you want from me right now. I’m not gonna get it right if I just keep guessing.”
“There isn’t a goddamn right anything here.” Trip rubs a finger over a crease in the receipt. “I s’pose that’s why you don’t like this game, though.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means you’ve mellowed out some, but you’ve still got a five-foot pole up your ass, and you can’t stand not having a right answer to things.” Trip squeezes Nate’s ankle.
“Sorry my personality fucking offends you.” Nate pulls his foot from Trip’s hold. “If you’re such a goddamn perfect novelist, you tell the story.”
“Here, look. It’s for two beers and two martinis at that bar in Bryant Park and it was back last Christmastime.” Trip scoots closer to Nate’s knees, flattens the receipt out on the table for Nate to see. “It’s a date. Two girls. One of them—the one with the martinis, let’s call her Sasha, there’s an imprint of an ‘S’ on the bottom there. She was more into it than the other one. We’ll call her Jen. Jen thinks they’re just friends; hell, she’s going on a real date as soon as this one’s over, so they get the receipt, Sasha pays, and Jen fixes her lipsticks on the receipt and leaves for her real date. Sasha gets hurt, stops talking to Jen since enough is just enough, ya know? But she keeps the receipt in the bottom of her purse to remind her why she’s not answering any of Jen’s calls.”
“If that’s true, then you just majorly fucked Sasha over by taking this.” Nate squints at the imprint of a cursive ‘S’ on the bottom of the receipt.
“Or maybe she’s moved on and forgotten all about Jen already.” Trip drops the receipt back in his bag. “Or maybe she’ll forget why they’re not talking and answer one of her calls now.”
Nate pushes aside a few things and comes up with a notebook with a red cover that he immediately moves to open. It’s been so long since Trip’s written anything in it that he’s nearly forgotten it exists down there amongst all of his stolen things. He catches Nate’s wrist before he can pull it out fully. He can’t prevent a split second of panic crossing his features, but he’s grinning when Nate turns a questioning look his way. “Not that.”
“Why not?” Nate releases the notebook, but now it’s clearly piqued his interest.
“I didn’t take that, it’s mine.” Trip pushes the notebook back down into the bag. He pulls out a plastic spider next. It’s black, missing a couple legs, and it immediately falls below the ice when Trip tries to balance it on the lip of their glass of water. “What about this guy? You wanna try again?”
“No, you go. Where’d the spider come from?”
“A guy—around your age—he didn’t know it was in his bag. He’s real scared of bugs—what’s the word for that? When it’s of spiders?”
“Arachnophobia.” Nate prods an ice cube and it sends the spider tumbling farther down into the glass.
Trip rests an arm on the table, props his chin on it so he can watch the spider. “Jack—that’s his name, the guy with the spider thing—he’s scared shitless of them and his girlfriend thinks it’s real funny, so she hides fake ones in his bag sometimes. He found this one, but he left it in there. Makes him think of her when the day’s a bad one.”
Nate looks at Trip, surprised. “Didn’t take you for a romantic, Trip.”
Trip’s gaze jerks up to meet Nate’s. He sits up straighter. “I’m not.”
“You can pretend to be as blasé and tough as you want.” Nate shakes his head, laughs. “But you so are—you’re a romantic.”
“Take it back.” Trip stands up, still glaring and all the easy silliness forgotten in his anger.
Nate studies Trip’s hands fisted at his sides. He looks at Trip’s face. “And you’ve got a nasty temper.”
Trip doesn’t say anything. He keeps flexing his hands at his sides.
“Now who’s got the stick up their ass?” Nate picks up the water glass and takes it to the kitchen. He drains it in the sink and places it in the dishwasher before pulling down two tumblers and the bottle of Scotch. He fills both the way Trip likes them and returns to the family room where Trip is still busy sulking.
Trip watches with the same stormy expression while Nate places one of the tumblers on the table and offers the second and the plastic spider to Trip. He says the one thing he knows Trip will respond to. “You wanna make a deal?”
Trip is still frowning at the plastic spider. He speaks when he can’t help himself any longer. “What kinda deal?”
“I won’t tell anyone you’re a hopeless romantic if you don’t tell anyone I don’t know how to tell a decent story.” Nate pushes the cup into Trip’s hand. He drops the spider into it.
The corner of Trip’s mouth twitches in a barely suppressed
smile. “That thing’s probably really fuckin’ dirty.”
“Alcohol cleans things.” Nate sits on the couch.
Trip takes the spot on the opposite end of the couch. He folds his feet under him. “Fine. Deal.”
Nate taps his glass against Trip’s. He drags the duffel bag to his end of the coffee table and shifts a few other things aside.
Trip watches while Nate struggles with the zipper pocket on the inside of the bag. He makes no attempt to stop him, just watches and holds his breath. Nate’s gaze lands on something else, though, and he abandons the zipper in favor of pulling a business card out from the fray of things. He turns the Ashbury-Whiteman logo toward Trip. “Tell me about this one.”
Trip squints at it, grins. “You could probably tell this one.”
Nate sips his drink and turns the card back to face him. “Pathetic business schmuck works his ass off for a company he doesn’t really like and then gets fired. He doesn’t know what to do with all his unused business cards, so he holds onto them like maybe if he waits a bit longer life will go back to what it was. Hopefully he’ll have the same office number so he doesn’t have to get a whole new set of cards made.”
“That was better.” Trip tips his glass from side to side so the ice clinks against the glass. “Not great, but not too shabby.”
“Thanks.” Nate drops the card back into Trip’s bag. “I’ll keep working on the ending.”
“You do that.” Trip shifts closer to Nate’s side. “I think it might end up being a good one.”
nine.
“It’s a stupid idea.”
“It’s fun,” Scarlet says. She looks at Trip in the mirror over her shoulder. “Why are you making it seem like a chore?”
“Because it feels like one.” Trip sits on the edge of the bathtub and rubs a towel through his still damp hair. “Why can’t you go do whatever it is you do with Kellan on your own?”
“It’s a double date. If there’s only one couple, it’s just a regular date.” Scarlett pauses to brush mascara onto her lashes. “Does Nate not want to?”