Unwelcome

by Michael Griffo

  “Apologies, Brania,” Jean-Paul said. “You caught us, how do you say? Weeth our pants down.”

  Two out of the three people in the room laughed. Remaining silent, Nakano rolled his eyes. No, our pants were not down; we were just kissing, just trying to feel some warmth during a free period so when I go back to that prison everybody likes to call a school, I won’t feel so miserable. But you two wouldn’t understand that, he thought. You two get to do pretty much whatever you want. Your lives aren’t controlled by school bells and class schedules and writing reports on subjects that have absolutely nothing to do with real life. Panting, Nakano didn’t notice that the laughter in the room had subsided. His mind, like his breathing, just kept racing, stopping only when he heard Brania speak. “I would never stand in the way of true love, or whatever is taking place between the two of you,” she said. “But a word of advice: My father is not as understanding. So please practice caution if not restraint.”

  Turning to go, the only thing that prevented her from leaving was the music. And the only thing that prevented Jean-Paul from answering his cell phone was the glaring look she gave him when he was about to flip it open. Small pleasures, that’s all I ask for, Brania reasoned. Swaying to the music, her fingers played with the hem of her black wool miniskirt and raised the material an extra inch. She closed her eyes and soon she was far away from this place, the concrete floor replaced with sand, the ceiling lifted to reveal an uninterrupted ribbon of blue, and each breeze that floated through her hair carried with it the most exquisite melody. Along with the harshest scream.

  “Jean-Paul!” Vaughan shouted. “How dare you not answer my call!”

  When Jean-Paul saw that his boss, impatient and unused to such blatant insubordination, had entered the hideout in search of his unresponsive employee, he remained calm, unruffled. It was Brania who became livid by the interruption and shouted back, her voice quite a few decibels higher, “How dare you screech over Puccini!”

  Despite her interference, despite being the obvious reason his driver wasn’t doing his job, Vaughan couldn’t take his eyes off of Brania. She really is a voluptuous creature, not like Edwige, not at all like Edwige. Now why the bloody hell was he thinking of that one when Brania was standing right in front of him? These women were going to drive him round the bend, he just knew it. “Vaughan,” Brania purred. “What a pleasant surprise.” And he was right.

  Stab, stab, stab, one metal heel jabbed into the ground after the other as Brania walked toward Vaughan, the music silent now except for the tune that continued to play in her mind. She stopped only when she was a few inches away from him, closer than he expected, and she saw his shoulders stiffen in response. She knew what she had to do. “Why don’t we take advantage of the moment,” she proposed, “and go up to dead Jeremiah’s apartment to play?”

  Completely ignoring the fact that the last time they were together, Brania rebuffed his advances, and the fact that he had pertinent business to attend to, Vaughan felt his head nod in agreement and his legs start walking toward the staircase that led upstairs. Just before she closed the door behind her, Brania called out, “Have fun, boys, but do remember my warning.”

  Finally alone, Nakano felt tense instead of relieved. He looked at his watch and realized he had about three minutes to get to geometry, another free period wasted. When Jean-Paul tried to kiss him good-bye, he brushed past him and gathered up his books, now more preoccupied than passionate. “Are you afraid of Him?” Nakano asked, trying to sound nonchalant.

  “Of Brania’s father?” Jean-Paul replied. “No. When you respect and trust someone, there’s no need for fear.”

  That’s a roundabout answer if ever Nakano heard one. “What do you think he’d do if he found out about us?”

  Jean-Paul looked down at Nakano and smiled, his hair falling from behind his ear, creating a shadow across his face, “Mon cher, don’t you think he already knows?”

  Sitting in the chair a foot away from where Jeremiah had died, Brania recalled a memory. She was once again in this room, watching a man undress, the multiple layers of her long, pale blue silk skirt keeping her body warm despite the chill that clung to her heart, to the fragments of her soul that she still believed existed. He took off his waistcoat and tossed it onto the floor, undid the ruffled ascot that was wrapped skillfully around his neck. Thick curls of black hair peeked out from the top of his tunic, and Brania felt the chill inside her turn icy. She knew how those curls would feel against her naked skin, harsh, oppressive, necessary, and it made her want to flee this place, but she couldn’t. In the corner of the room, unseen by the man, her father was watching, making sure that she did what needed to be done.

  “Brania, my darling,” David had told her, “we need a place we can call home. This man is offering to rent us these accommodations and he wants so little in exchange. You.”

  She closed her eyes; a new memory took shape. Another man stood before her, darker, his chest hairier than the last, his stomach plump. He rolled his shoulders so the suspenders fell against his wide hips, undid the buttons of his full, pleated pants, and Brania watched as they collapsed onto the floor. Involuntarily, she crossed her legs, but the shimmery beaded cloth of her dress raced up her thigh and exposed too much flesh. She shivered, her hair bouncing slightly. She loathed this haircut. She felt like a boy wearing a short bob and remembered how beautiful her hair used to be, but this look was all the rage so she had no choice if she wanted to fit in. She brushed a piece of hair that had gotten caught within the crease of her mouth and pulled it sharply in an effort to stop her body from shaking. Behind the man, her father nodded approvingly. He thought she was playing the game perfectly.

  “Brania, sweetheart,” she remembered her father saying to her, “this man is giving us the deed to this land so we can own this piece of earth forever. In return, he asks so little to secure the deal.”

  “I’m not sure that I feel comfortable doing this.”

  Pulled from the past, it took Brania a few seconds to address the comment. “We’re both adults, Vaughan. There’s no reason why we can’t find comfort in one another.”

  Rebuttoning his shirt, Vaughan continued, “But he isn’t, that kid downstairs with my driver. It just doesn’t feel right.”

  Why are men so close-minded when it comes to everyone else’s desires except their own? “Seriously, Vaughan, you need to get over this problem you have with boys who like boys.”

  Searching for his shoes, which he kicked off moments before, Vaughan protested, “No, it isn’t that! Though personally I have to admit I don’t understand that tendency. What bothers me is the age difference.” One shoe found, where’s the other? “Nakano’s just a kid and Jean-Paul, I’m sure you’ve noticed, isn’t.”

  Grabbing the shoe out of his hand, Brania flung it over her shoulder. “Do you have any idea how much older I am than you?” This man was wasting her precious time. She had work to do.

  “Brania, angel,” David had cooed, “Vaughan’s factory is a godsend to us. I would prefer that he continue to help us willingly and not seek out a new partnership elsewhere. He is getting rather chummy with Edwige. So do what you do best and make your father happy.”

  Ripping Vaughan’s shirt open, she was thankful that men today at least waxed their chests. Unable to resist her force or her kisses, Vaughan succumbed. Brania pushed him onto the bed and straddled him. She leaned over, her long, luxuriant hair falling around her face, concealing the dead look in her eyes. Not that Vaughan would have noticed; he wasn’t looking at her face.

  She bit his earlobe, the sharp pressure of her teeth making Vaughan writhe underneath her, simultaneously lost in his own thoughts and physically connected to her. He thought he would feel her fangs pierce the fragile flesh of his neck, take some of his blood, but instead she needed to plant a seed. “Don’t underestimate the next generation,” she whispered. “You should reach out to your son.”

  Looking up, Brania saw her father in the corner of the ro
om, his mouth, once again, in the shape of a satisfied smile. He nodded his approval and then disappeared so his daughter could complete her task.

  chapter 5

  With each step, the earth crunched under Ronan’s feet. Dirt underneath grass hidden by snow covered by ice, each element bowed when it felt the presence of the young man. Nature understood power. And, in turn, Ronan understood the power of nature.

  The rain that fell was more like hail, some particles large, some quite small, bouncing off of Ronan’s body, hardly painful, quite refreshing actually, as he walked steadfastly across campus to his dorm, to Michael. Moving in long, purposeful strides, he felt like a king returning home after a long journey to meet his prince. He heard his own voice mock him, sometimes Ronan you really do let those books you read decorate your thoughts. Rubbish, what’s the harm in a little embellishment, he thought, when his real world was just as fantastic as any piece of fiction.

  “Where the hell have you been?!” Michael yelled before Ronan could even close the door behind him.

  So much for romanticizing his reality. “Just running an errand,” Ronan replied calmly, rivulets of icy rain traveling down the sides of his face.

  “What kind of errand could possibly take all day?” Michael asked. “And you do know that you’re getting water all over the place, right?”

  “Yes, Michael, I do know that. I’m the one who just came in from the rain.”

  Yanking a towel off of a hook that hung behind the bathroom door, Michael started to blot up the mess, mumbling something about Ronan being inconsiderate while furiously rubbing the floor until it was bone dry. What was going on here, Ronan questioned, a minute ago he felt like the king of his own castle and now he was being treated like a guest who had long overstayed his welcome.

  “Michael, what’s wrong with you?”

  “Me?” Michael snapped. “So this is my fault?”

  Ronan knew that Michael liked things tidy, but he couldn’t possibly be this upset just because he got the floor a little wet. “I’m sorry if I tracked some ice in here. I’ll clean it up.”

  Ronan tried to take the towel from Michael, but angrily he brushed his hand away. Well, more like swiped. Were those tears in his eyes? Ronan wasn’t sure, but he knew that something was definitely wrong. And somehow, unwittingly, Ronan was the cause.

  “I woke up from our nap and again you weren’t here!” Michael cried. “I looked all over for you. . . . It was dark . . . and I was alone!” He hurled the towel at Ronan and spat, “Why do you keep leaving me?!”

  Ronan felt short of breath. He was right, he was the cause. He had done it again, made the person he loved feel afraid, abandoned. It was a terrible thing to do. He knew how it felt and he didn’t think he could be so cruel, so thoughtless, but he had. “No, no, I’d never leave you.” Ronan tried to embrace Michael, hold him close, but Michael was too angry for that. He didn’t want to be held, he only wanted to be told the truth. “I went out to get you this.”

  Ronan reached inside his jacket pocket and took out a brown paper bag, stained by a few drops of rain, and pulled out a book. “I wanted to get to the bookstore before it closed,” Ronan said sheepishly. At the time it felt like a romantic thing to do, a sweet gesture, to sneak out while Michael was still asleep and then present him with a gift when he woke up. “It’s a collection of Oscar Wilde short stories that I thought you’d like to read instead of another dull textbook.”

  Wiping the tears from his eyes, Michael took the book from Ronan. On the cover was a drawing of a handsome young man. Could have been Dorian Gray, could’ve been another character the writer created. Michael didn’t know his work that well so he couldn’t be sure, but he knew why Ronan chose this anthology. “He reminded me of you,” Ronan said quietly. “Forever beautiful . . .”

  “Forever mine,” Michael said, finishing their phrase. It was a thoughtful thing to do, Michael acknowledged. And how did I respond? By attacking him, thinking the worst of him. Is this what it’s like to be in a relationship? One minute the world couldn’t be more perfect, and the next it’s on the verge of complete ruin?

  Ronan and Michael spoke at the same time. “I’m sorry.”

  “No,” Michael protested, holding the book close to his chest. “It’s me, I overreacted. Lately I guess I’ve been . . .” What exactly was the word? What exactly was the feeling? Michael really didn’t know. All he knew was that he was confused and more than a little embarrassed. Shaking his head, he continued, “No, Ronan, you have nothing to be sorry about.”

  “Yes, I do.” Taking his boyfriend’s hand, Ronan led him to their bed so they could sit and talk truthfully. “It’s been quite some time since I’ve had a boyfriend.”

  Great, let’s start the heart-to-heart conversation with a lie. “Nakano wasn’t really that long ago,” Michael corrected.

  “He wasn’t a boyfriend, not in the real sense of the word.” Softly, Ronan traced the lines of Michael’s palm with his finger, so many different etchings, intertwined, overlapping, just like the two of them, at least just like how the two of them should be. “I guess I’ve forgotten what it’s like to be in a relationship, to be linked to someone and have to consider their feelings and not just my own. I now have someone I need to answer to.”

  Michael pulled his hand away. “Look, the last thing I want is for you to feel obligated to me.”

  “But I am,” Ronan replied. “In the most wonderful way you can imagine.” He had to make Michael understand. “My people believe we are not complete until we are partnered, and not just with anyone but with our soul mate. I know that sounds like tommyrot. What do you Americans call it? Malarkey? But it’s the truth. You are my soul mate, Michael.” Ronan wrapped his leg behind Michael and pulled him closer so they could embrace, so their bodies could intertwine just like their souls were doing at this very moment within the depths of The Well. “But . . .” Ronan hesitated.

  “After all that, there’s a ‘but’?!” Michael replied, unconcerned that his voice rose higher than Phaedra’s.

  Michael’s eyes grew so wide and his expression turned so comical, Ronan couldn’t stop himself from kissing him. “But I’m a bit rusty is all.”

  Better rusty than inexperienced. “I get it,” Michael said. “Well, I kind of get it, some of it anyway.” He took a deep breath so he wouldn’t continue to rattle on incoherently. “I’ve been trying to avoid it, been trying to convince myself I know a lot more than I do, but the truth is I’m brand new at this relationship thing, so I’m bound to make a lot of mistakes.” He took in another deep breath, this time smelling the rain that still clung to Ronan’s skin. “Like yell at you because you didn’t tell me you were leaving.”

  “I crocked up, Michael, I’m sorry.”

  “That means you screwed up, right?”

  Ronan nodded. “I’d like to say it won’t happen again, but we both know it will.”

  It was Michael’s turn to kiss his boyfriend. “That’s okay, as long as you keep bringing me gifts.”

  “That I can promise,” Ronan said confidently. “Mum’s quite wealthy and I have access to her bank account.”

  Kissing while laughing was definitely one of the most pleasant sensations Michael ever experienced. “Excellent, let’s always shower each other with presents,” Michael said. “And let’s always be honest with each other.”

  Keep kissing him, Ronan, don’t give him any reason to suspect. “I promise,” Ronan mumbled, knowing full well that he was lying. For a second he thought the truth was going to tumble out, that he was going to tell Michael that David was Brania’s father, but he remembered what his mother said. Blimey! Why was he listening to her and not to his heart? Why was he deliberately concealing the truth when he just promised to be honest? Maybe he was rustier at this relationship thing than he thought. Or maybe he just wanted to allow Michael to remain innocent until it was no longer possible. He had plunged him into this new world so quickly, even harshly; why not let him become comfortable, more a
t ease in his new environment, before changing the rules yet again?

  Shaking off a chill, Ronan wanted nothing more than to hold Michael, hold him close, feel his warmth, but for the moment he needed to get away. “I could use a hot shower.” Entering the bathroom, he realized his comment could be interpreted as an invitation, which normally he would have welcomed but at the moment would have interfered with his need for privacy, so he suggested Michael start reading. “The story of the young king made me think of you.”

  It was the night before the day fixed for his coronation. Michael smiled and shook his head at the same time. Ronan really does like to imagine that I live on a pedestal, he thought, like I really am something special. Gently, he stroked his neck and remembered the first time Ronan touched him there with his hands, his mouth, his fangs. Abruptly, he pulled his hand away. It could also be precarious living up there on a pedestal. The lad—for he was only a lad, being but sixteen years of age. Hmm, becoming a king at sixteen must be intimidating, scary, kind of like becoming immortal. Lying there, wild-eyed and openmouthed, like a brown woodland Faun, or some young animal of the forest newly snared by the hunters. Sounds like this Oscar Wilde knew what it felt like to be transformed into a vampire. Or more likely that he knew what it was like to fall deeply, unflinchingly in love.

  When Michael finished the last line of the short story, he was reminded of why he loved Ronan so much. And the young King came down from the high altar, and passed home through the midst of the people. But no man dared look upon his face, for it was like the face of an angel. The words passed through Michael like waves of emotion, pure and resonant, clinging to his heart and convincing Michael that experienced or not, being in a relationship with Ronan was where he belonged. Being beside this beautiful person who considered him an angel. If that was true, then why was he in one room and Ronan in another?