Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/557426.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Thor_(Movies)_RPF, Thor_(Movies)
  Relationship:
      Chris_Hemsworth/Tom_Hiddleston
  Character:
      Tom_Hiddleston, Chris_Hemsworth
  Additional Tags:
      Underage_Sex, Underage_Drinking, Age_Difference, Coming_of_Age,
      Recreational_Drug_Use, Teacher-Student_Relationship, Neighbors, Alternate
      Universe
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-11-08 Chapters: 4/4 Words: 41172
****** taste of cherry ******
by townpariah
Summary
     chris moves in across the street the summer tom is seventeen.
Notes
     this is for umakoo one of the most terrific human beings i've ever
     encountered in my short life. i promised to write her lolita au fic
     but halfway into writing this i realized it read more like a fish
     tank au with its coming-of-age themes. there is less sex than
     intended. anyway, i'd compiled a 20-track fanmix to accompany this
     fic, which i will link in the last author's notes where the credits
     will be condensed. warnings for underage sex, recreational drug use,
     and at least a ten year age difference. the title is a reference to
     an iranian film of the same name. i wish i had an excuse for this but
     i don't. sorry about the typos; i tried. EDIT: i forgot to mention
     this fic takes places in the early to mid 90s.
***** one *****
A mustard orange Saab pulled up in front of the old Helprin house across the
street.
Tom heard the engine putter to a stop and lifted his eyes from page forty-one
of his book where the heroine of the story was about to plummet to her death in
a dark ravine. He pulled his red plastic sunglasses down his nose and set his
book face-down on the grass.
A warm breeze lifted the edge of his picnic blanket and he smoothed it down
with his hand, anchoring it with a flipflop and a bottle of mosquito repellant.
He switched off the radio, cutting Sammy Davis, Jr. off mid-croon and watched
as a man emerged from the car’s driver side, one well-polished black shoe and
then another, before standing to admire the overgrown yard that the Helprins
had left untended for weeks.
The man was tall and well-defined like the hull of a ship was well defined, and
his blond hair was tied in a loose ponytail behind his head. He was dressed too
warmly for the summer, in a rust-colored shirt with the sleeves rolled up to
his elbows and fitted dark jeans with tears that lacked any real mileage.
Next to him, his car was overloaded with junk: a surfboard was strapped on the
roof and canted a little to the left, the trunk gaped like an open maw, with
boxes bound in masking tape.
When the man turned all of a sudden and caught Tom watching him from across the
street in his front yard, he squinted his eyes before smiling genially; then he
nodded hello.
Tom slid his sunglasses back up, picking up his book before nodding too and
averting his gaze.
---
Tom’s mother smoothed her hair back from her face and adjusted the neckline of
her dress one more time. She was in her Sunday best, a droopy satiny frock that
looked like a worn nightgown after years of use. Her favourite pearl earrings
which she’d inherited from her own mother made her earlobes sag with their
weight. She patted Tom on the head, ruffling his curls, before marching out the
door with a bowl of baked lasagna for the new neighbour.
Tom walked after her, towards the front door across the street, painted a
forest green just like their own. His mother knocked twice and the door opened
just as she was about to go for a third. The man from yesterday stepped
outside. He had paint stains on his clothes. His hair hung loose in tangled
unkempt waves. He smiled at Tom’s mother, then fixed his eyes on Tom and
grinned, his top teeth showing. Tom smiled back and then shrugged when his
mother raised an eyebrow at him.
The man introduced himself as Chris. Tom wondered if it were short for
Christopher or if he, like a boy Tom knew in class, was simply a Chris. Tom
could detect the hint of an accent but wasn’t sure where to place it. Chris’
vowels were long and lazy, a prolonged drawl. He was nothing the likes of this
town had ever seen. He even had a ponytail.
“We’d like you to have this,” said Tom’s mother and leaned forward to pat Chris
on the bicep, a gesture that would seem offhand to a casual observer though Tom
knew was anything but. He tried not to roll his eyes. His mother had been young
when she had him, eighteen, the year before she was supposed to go traveling,
and often said she felt robbed of her youth raising Tom alone.
Chris, whether he felt unsettled by the familiarity, didn’t show it and
accepted the bowl of lasagna before tucking it under one arm. “Thanks,” he
said, laughing, scratching a spot on his chin.
“If there’s anything you need,” said Tom’s mother, leaning in again. “Anything
at all…” She nodded her head meaningfully.
Chris flashed her a smile and retreated into the door. “Right,” he said,
earnest and polite. “I promise to let you know.”
Then he shut the door.
Tom watched his mother sigh and shake her head before tottering back home in an
annoyed huff. He felt himself smile as the front door closed behind her,
slamming with a thud that seemed to echo throughout the street. Then he went
around the Helprins’ old yard where he used to help Mr. Helprin, a junior
teller working at the local bank, light fireworks on New Year’s Eve.
With him gone, the grass grew wildly here and there, high enough that it
brushed Tom’s calves. Mr. Helprin had left his old rotting couch under the
sycamore tree in the back and it shone in velvety mildewed patches under the
sun.
Tom stood on his toes and peered in through the kitchen window, blocking off
the light with his hands cupped around his face.
The kitchen was empty with some of the old furniture missing and boxes stood in
tall precarious heaps like hunched old men. The moving van had arrived sometime
last night when Tom was about to brush his teeth before bed. Men in matching
overalls had hauled furniture onto the lawn as Chris stood shouting orders,
waving his arms like he was directing traffic.
An hour later the men left with a series of loud honks that made Tom jerk up in
bed, hitting his head on the sloped ceiling. When he went to check the window,
he saw Chris hosing something down in his driveway, crouching down to coil the
hose in a loose circle once he was finished before standing with his hands on
his hips to admire the night sky.
Tom turned at the sound of the front door opening and there he was: Chris,
leaning against the door frame, hair tied again from his face. A stick of red
liquorice bobbed from the corner of his lips. He looked unbelievably cool: his
white shirt was matted with sweat at the collar; his biceps bulged from the
tight sleeves. Something about him made Tom feel equal parts brave and self-
conscious.
“Hey,” said Tom.
“Hey,” Chris echoed, eyeing him curiously. “You’re still here?”
Tom shrugged one shoulder and pocketed a hand. “You have paint on your shirt,”
he said, but didn’t take his eyes off Chris’ face. He wasn’t that old, maybe in
his late twenties or early thirties, though his forehead creased with deep
lines when he smiled.
“I’m painting the living room,” he said, then jerked his head in its general
direction for emphasis. “Or at least I’m trying to paint it anyway.”
“Need a hand?” asked Tom. He waited a beat before walking up to the front porch
where Chris watched him with a warring mixture of amusement and wariness.
“What did you say your name was again?” he asked, finally, stance relaxing.
Tom wet his lips with his tongue and felt a cool breeze prickle the hairs on
the back of his neck. He shivered and rubbed at the spot, then pretended to
look at something in the street before turning his eyes back to Chris. “Tom,”
he said, and felt his body flush as Chris gave him a once over before laughing.
“You listen to The Rolling Stones?” he said, indicating Tom’s shirt which he’d
bought for himself when he turned sixteen last year. At Tom’s nod, his smile
widened. He pushed his door wide open with his shoulder. “I can’t pay you,” he
said. “Just so we’re clear on that.”
“I don’t really care,” Tom told him.
“Okay,” said Chris.
Tom stepped inside the bare living room. “Cool,” he said and wiped his shoe on
the newspaper on the floor.
Paint chips littered the room. It looked nothing like when the Helprins used to
occupy it when the walls had been covered in floral wallpaper and the windows
adorned with long white curtains.
Tom remembered where everything was, the long brown couch under the window, the
shelf that housed the semi-expensive china standing by the far wall, the oval
coffee table with the coffee stain in the middle of the room.
Chris’ maroon couch was covered in clear plastic. Boxes were left everywhere
like unattended sleeping animals. Chris disappeared down the hall for a minute
before returning with a paint roller which he handed to Tom with a flourish.
“You know what to do right?” he said.
Tom shrugged again. He hadn’t painted a room in his life but he wasn’t an idiot
and could learn just from watching Chris. They spent the afternoon in moderate
silence, slathering cream paint on the wall, sweat dripping down their noses.
It was harder than it looked. Tom felt flecks of paint drip down his shirt
every so often and his arm started to hurt from the repetitive movement. Once
they were done, an hour or so later, Chris invited him to the kitchen where he
placed two high stools next to the kitchen island. He peeled back the foil on
the lasagna, took an experimental sniff and then loaded the bowl into the
microwave. He scooped Tom a doughy portion and pushed a plate towards him. He
held out a canned drink, eyebrows raised in question.
“Coke?”
Tom nodded, smiled, and popped the tab open, drinking his fill. He still felt
the kick of brain freeze so he massaged the bridge of his nose. The wave passed
after half a minute and he put the can down gingerly.
Chris grinned at him, licking the tines of his fork, and stabbed at a chunk of
pasta, pushing it around his plate.
“Thanks for helping me out,” he said. “I really appreciate it.” He took a bite.
“This lasagna is amazing,” he sighed. “What’s in it?”
“The usual,” said Tom who doubted his mother had a special recipe. She made
brownies when she had guests over but most of the time Tom was kept on a steady
diet of cereal and corn bread. Chris continued eating thoughtfully before
slurping his drink and dunking the can into an empty box behind him, like he
was shooting a basketball. He made a triumphant noise as he scored.
“Still in school?” he then asked, wiping his hands on his jeans.
“Yeah,” said Tom. “You?”
Chris laughed and Tom felt stupid, embarrassed. He stared at his lasagna which
looked like a heap of orange mush. “Do I look like I’m still in school?” said
Chris. “I was offered a teaching position at Gates. You might run into me more
than you’d like.”
“That doesn’t sound too bad,” Tom murmured.
“Maybe not now,” said Chris, laughing lightly. “But a few months down the line
you may just get sick of seeing me around all the time.”
“Well, I don’t go to Gates,” Tom said.
“It’s a nice school,” Chris said.
“Are you nervous?” asked Tom. “About starting there?”
Chris leaned against the fridge, crossing his arms, mulling over the question.
He chewed on the corner of his lip then made a face, like he’d already decided
on the answer. “It’s just a bunch of high school kids with money. I’m not
particularly frightened.”
“I hear some of them can be really nasty,” said Tom.
Chris shrugged and continued to smile, and when he reached over to snatch a
piece of Tom’s lasagna with his fork, Tom knew he was going to enjoy having
Chris around. “I swear,” he said, his cheeks stuffed. “Your mother’s lasagna is
the best.”
---
Chris drove to the supermarket that afternoon because he wanted, he said, to
stock up on food. Tom sat in the passenger seat, telling him which turns to
take, the window rolled down to let the summer air in. Chris had been worried
at first, bringing Tom along without his mother’s permission, but Tom insisted
she wouldn’t mind as she often left him alone to do whatever he wanted, anyway.
She probably wouldn’t even notice he was missing. She rarely did.
Chris parked the car next to a battered blue pickup, twirled his keys around
his finger, dropped them on the hot asphalt, twirled them again before
pocketing them. The supermarket smelled sterile and impersonal like a hospital,
the floors as bright and blinding as the lighting.
Chris bought his stuff and Tom followed him from aisle to aisle. He kept his
distance -- he didn’t want to seem uncool and pedestrian -- and ran his fingers
along colorfully-packaged foods as he lagged several paces behind. A few times
Chris had asked him if he wanted anything but Tom just shrugged and told him
not to worry about it. Cool, he thought. He had to be cool.
In the car, Chris handed him a cherry popsicle and Tom tore open the plastic
wrapper before swirling his tongue around the frozen tip. Chris had his own
popsicle, a bright neon orange thing that he sucked on as he went over the
receipt in his hand. He glanced up at Tom, hair in his eyes, and smiled warmly
as Tom stared back then blinked.
“Your mouth is all red,” Chris said, before turning on the engine.
Tom checked his reflection in the sideview mirror. Sure enough, smeared in
coloring, his lips looked swollen like the wet pink inside of a fruit. He
licked them clean and heard Chris laugh over the hum of the engine.
---
Tom liked Chris, and his new house, which used to smell old and musty when it
had been inhabited by the Helprins, a couple whose childlessness caused a
strain in their marriage.
Chris’ living room smelled like fresh paint and to keep the smell out, he left
his windows open during the day. During the night, Tom spied him in his
upstairs bedroom, reading by the open window, backlit by a watery orange light.
Sometimes, Chris forgot to shut his window and during those nights Tom would
keep his eyes fixed on his silhouette, watching him read and wondering if
Chris, too, found their town boring like Tom did. There was nothing to do there
unlike back home where Tom had friends and went to a school he enjoyed being
in.
They’d moved out here– Tom and his mother – three years ago from Bilbury, lured
by the prospect of a better kind of life after Tom’s mother’s latest beau, an
aspiring novelist with anger management problems, promised her marriage. He
left, like most of them did, and because they’d already paid for the house,
decided to stay until they had the money to move back home.
Tom had never asked Chris what he was going to teach at Gates, the private
school for boys just outside of town. Chris didn’t look like a teacher, with
his cool long hair that he was going to have to cut before the term began, and
his bright blue surfboard that he kept like a trophy in the living room.
Tom had only been over to his house a few times, once when he’d helped Chris
paint his living room, another time when Tom’s mother sent him to retrieve her
bowl. Both times Chris had invited him in for some food and Tom lost track of
the time.
The third time that Tom went over to Chris’ house, Chris had been in the middle
of fixing the sink and answered the door with his shirt completely drenched,
see-through. Tom sat at the kitchen table while Chris tinkered with the
plumbing with a rusty red wrench, his shirt riding up his smooth back, the
waistline of his boxer briefs showing. With his wide shoulders straining under
his white damp t-shirt, Tom thought he looked like the furthest thing from a
teacher.
It was probably because of this that Tom often found himself fantasizing about
being Chris’ friend. None of the kids in school were as interesting as Chris;
no one could whistle ‘Mr. Tambourine Man’, owned a car or surfed. Tom had so
many questions for him but he didn’t want to seem too eager, and by extension,
desperate, so he waited until the right opportunity presented itself before
inviting himself over to Chris’ house.
A week passed and finally, on a sunny morning, there was Chris in the driveway,
head ducked under the hood of his car. The weather was cool for a July morning,
sweet and just beginning to turn. A soft warm haze blanketed the air. Tom
checked his reflection in the hallway mirror before trotting out the front
steps in his favourite running shoes, the same pair he wore when he had
finished the 5-Kilometer Fun Run last year. He wore a beige shirt that read
Nice Guys Finished Last and grubby cargo shorts he had bought at a secondhand
shop. He tried to look as aloof as possible, sucking on a fruit rollup as he
ambled towards Chris.
“Hi,” Tom said as he crossed the street.
Chris smiled and waved, wiping grease across his shirt. “No lasagna for me?”
Tom shrugged and peered into the engine. “What’s wrong with your car?” he said.
Chris scratched a corner of his face, unknowingly streaking it with soot.
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” he said and ran his eyes over Tom’s
shirt. His smile deepened, turned amused.
“Can I watch?” Tom asked.
“You want to watch me fix my car?”
Tom shrugged again. “It’ll be an educational experience,” he said, and sat on
the second step of Chris’ porch, which felt slightly damp on the seat of his
shorts. He moved up a step and glanced up and saw that Chris was staring at
him, leaning against the hood of his car, one eyebrow raised.
“What?” said Tom, feeling foolish all of a sudden, his bare arms rising with
goosebumps.
Chris laughed and turned away. “You mind grabbing me a beer from the fridge?”’
he asked.
Tom, still flustered, went without protest, figuring he may as well make
himself useful.
Chris’ fridge was now covered with a few pictures of family and friends, kept
together by plastic fruit magnets. Tom handed Chris his beer, watching the foam
dissolve in a corner of Chris’ mouth as he took a short swig. He looked like he
hadn’t shaved for a couple of days, his jaw rough with prickly growth. Chris
thanked him and set his beer aside and Tom sat on the porch, leaning back on
his elbows, watching a kid on a bicycle meander by.
Chris worked on his car, turning on the engine, shutting it off when it made
banging noises like a shotgun, taking long swigs of his beer until he had to
send Tom inside again for another one.
It was nice, peaceful, even though they hardly talked about anything of real
importance – what year Tom was going to be in next year, if he liked the people
in his school, if he’d ever gone camping, what his favourite books and movies
were, what he and his mother were doing here, of all things, in America – as
Chris wiped oil off the hood with a dirty rag and then finally took a break at
half past noon.
“You hungry?” he asked Tom who’d brought a book with him to read – of Mice and
Men – that he had to write a paper for last term. He dogeared the page he was
on and followed Chris into the kitchen where Chris started heating butter on a
skillet to make grilled cheese sandwiches. He couldn’t completely get rid of
the grease from under his fingernails no matter how hard he scrubbed so he had
Tom cut up the bread on the counter.
In a corner of the room, by the open window, the radio blared familiar sounding
tunes, soft jazzy songs that Tom hummed along to. Oh why can’t we love, just
like other sweethearts do?
When he’d finished with the bread, which he bisected into four smaller
triangles, he held one aloft which Chris ate directly from his hand, inclining
his head and snapping his mouth, his tongue brushing Tom’s fingers.
Then Chris turned his back again and flipped the last two sandwiches, like that
was a completely normal thing to do, accidentally lick your neighbor’s skin.
Tom watched him, rubbing his fingers together, telling himself he was being
ridiculous by thinking it meant something more. Chris was probably just hungry,
he thought.
---
Tom killed time in front of the TV.
The hours crawled by, slipping past easily and he fell asleep with a bowl of
half-eaten cereal in his lap.
When he woke it was already evening and his mother was wearing her deep purple
dress, the one she wore to dates, her makeup deep and garish, her hair high and
stiff. She left Tom money for food and hurried to her car, heels clicking clack
clack clack on the gravel.
Tom watched her drive off from the living room window and caught sight of Chris
across the street. He was walking from his car to his front door, armed with
bulging paper bags of groceries. He wore pleated pants and a white dress shirt.
His hair was tied again.
Tom leapt off the couch, smoothed out the wrinkles from his shirt, grabbed the
keys to the house and waited a few seconds before locking his front door and
marching across the street, feigning casualness.
Chris, who’d heard him approaching, left the door open for him as he set his
groceries down in the kitchen, voice echoing down the hall as he told Tom to
shut the door.
“My mother had just left,” Tom said, helping Chris unload his food, boxes of
cookies and granola bars, cans of soup and beer, half a dozen cup noodles. He
set Chris’ toiletries aside, reading the labels with a quick eye. “I think she
has a date,” he said, putting down Chris’ can of shaving cream.
Chris waggled his brows. “Is that why you’re here, then? Because she left you
all alone?” He made it sound like Tom was terrified of the fact which made Tom
feel slightly annoyed.
Tom said nothing and passed him the carton of milk to put in the fridge. Chris,
as if sensing his mood, pressed a cool can of Coke into his hand and slapped
him gently between the shoulder blades, rubbing him gently to appease him. “I
was joking,” he said. “You want to stay over for dinner till she comes back?”
“She’s usually back the next morning,” Tom said, remembering the last few times
she had gone to meet men out of town. Future prospects, she’d called them. Her
ticket out. He set the drink aside, not in the mood.
“Want to stay here till then?” Chris asked. “It’ll be like a sleepover. Which I
promise sounds less creepy than I’m making it sound.”
“I’m seventeen, not twelve,” Tom snorted, ducking away as Chris attempted to
slap him on the back again, probably. He was annoying like that.
“I know you’re not twelve,” Chris said gently. “I was just trying to be
neighborly. You’re sure? I mean, we can order pizza and wings…” he trailed off,
waiting for Tom’s expression to break.
“We can drink beer,” Tom suggested in a softer voice, looking up hopefully.
Chris made a tsking noise as he shook his head. He unbuttoned his shirt,
stopping at the third button which left his white undershirt, slightly matted
with sweat, exposed. “You’re seventeen, you can’t have a beer.” He shook his
finger in Tom’s face.
“I won’t tell anyone,” said Tom, widening his eyes in hopes that Chris wouldn’t
be able to resist him. It worked enough times in the past on different people,
a little cajoling and pleading, some theatrical pouting and Tom got what he
wanted, but Chris, whose resolve was more or less made of steel, wouldn’t
budge.
Chris laughed and ran his fingers through Tom’s curls, ruffling them, making
Tom feel like a little kid, stupid and silly and insignificant. Tom hated that
but didn’t move away because the warm weight of Chris’ hand felt nice and
comforting. His ears felt hot but the good kind of hot, like a fever easing
through his skin like tea steam.
“You know I have to be the responsible adult here,” Chris said, bending down a
little to his eye-level. “So no beer until you’re of age.”
“You rarely act like one though,” Tom said, unable to keep the whine from his
voice. “Like an adult, I mean.”
“I’m not sure how to feel about that,” said Chris, looking nervous.
Tom shrugged. “You should feel flattered. You’re fun, you’re not boring. You
have a surfboard and everything. And you have a house all to yourself.”
“Okay,” Chris conceded. “I do have a surfboard and a house, but I don’t know
about being fun and not boring.” He folded the paper bags together and
flattened them with his palms, leaning his elbows on the counter. “But thanks,
I guess,” he said, as an afterthought, smiling softly. “You’re fun too, at
least for someone your age.”
“What does that even mean?”
Chris shrugged, tapping him on the nose like Tom was five. “Figure it out for
yourself,” he said. “You’re the smart one.” He laughed lightly when Tom blinked
at him in confusion, swatting at his hand.
“Call for pizza,” Chris said, grabbing his messenger bag from the stool,
swinging it by its worn leather strap. “I’ll just be in the shower. Yell if you
need anything. No, yell only if there’s something you’re not physically capable
of handling.”
“Like what exactly?”
“A murderer on the loose,” said Chris, nodding his head seriously.
Tom smiled, in spite of himself, and felt his chest balloon with cold air. He
wished it didn’t happen often, especially not when he was around Chris. It felt
weird and altogether too confusing. He wasn’t sure what it meant.
“I’ll order ten pizzas,” he said, making a face, like he was considering it.
“As long as you can finish all of them, go ahead,” said Chris coolly. He waved,
turning, climbing up the stairs, door creaking closed behind him.
When there was nothing more from him, Tom walked over to the phone which was,
just as the Helprins had left it, still attached to the wall. He dialed for
Pietro’s Pizza.
---
The pizza arrived thirty minutes later and they ate in the living room, in
front of the big TV.
Chris put on a movie but Tom was barely paying attention, twirling thick
strings of cheese around the tip of his finger and sucking it into his mouth.
He sat cross-legged on the floor but the rough beige carpeting made his ankles
itch so he moved to the couch, folding himself on the opposite side as Chris
scooted over to make room.
The movie was about a sociopathic alien clown who lived under the sewers,
preying on kids. Tom thought it was stupid but a little scary, especially when
the clown pulled back his lips to reveal a row of sharp bloody teeth. He
started pulling kids through the bathroom drain and even though that pushed
believability, it was still horrifying to watch.
It was only nine o’clock when the tape deck whirred, signaling the end of the
movie.
Chris put the lights back on and stretched, then cleared the coffee table of
paper plates and empty cans of beer that were mostly his. He returned a few
minutes later, looking down at Tom expectantly, hands planted on his hips. Tom
still wasn’t ready to go home but he wasn’t tired either and he wondered, as
Chris stared at him, if Chris was going to ask him to leave.
“Can I use your bathroom?” said Tom to dispel the moment. Chris shrugged and
wordlessly pointed him down the hall.
In the bathroom, Tom ran his fingers through his hair, pushing his sweaty curls
from his forehead. He cocked his head to one side and then another before
pinching his cheeks and stretching out his face. His teeth needed brushing, he
thought, flashing them in the mirror, checking for stuck food. He stepped back
from his reflection and touched his fingers to the globs of toothpaste that
have hardened into stalagmites on the sink.
Back in the living room, Chris sat in the couch, his hair pulled up in a messy
bun. He looked funny, the back of his neck exposed and slightly flushed above
the stretched out collar of his shirt. Tom sat next to him and tapped him on
the knee and felt the scrape of Chris’ leg hair against his fingers.
“That was a nice movie,” Tom said, and tucked his leg underneath him.
“Do you even know what it was about?” Chris asked him, raising an eyebrow.
“Clowns and aliens?”
Chris laughed, tipping back his head. He laughed with his whole body and the
sound of his laughter was a low rumble, raspy like a smoker’s. Chris scrubbed
his face.
“Did I get it right?” Tom asked, still watching him. He wished he were half as
cool as Chris who never seemed to miss a beat. He was calm all the time and
funny, but without trying too hard. He dressed well and smelled clean. And he
was nice. No one was nice anymore, not to Tom, anyway. No one treated him like
his opinion mattered.
Chris shrugged one shoulder, staring at Tom for a long moment before blinking
and rubbing him on the back. “Yep,” he said quietly. “You did.”
They played cards to pass the time, and then when they got bored, they turned
to Scrabble, sharing a bowl of salted pretzels between them. Chris used words
like ‘accrue’ and ‘gerund’ and kept trying to block Tom from any high-scoring
plays. Tom was ninety points behind even though he knew for a fact he had an
extensive vocabulary. When he was a lot younger, he won the spelling bee three
years in a row and Will, this bigger kid in his class with eyebrows shaped like
boomerangs, teased him and called him a fag. Tom threw a rock at his head and
he stopped. Will had needed stitches.
At half past eleven, Tom felt sleep tug at his eyelids and he rose from the
couch and wobbled to the front door, feeling his joints pop as he stretched.
His legs had fallen asleep and his toes tingled in his shoes. “I’m going home,”
he told Chris who folded the Scrabble board together, wiping his hands across
his shirt.
“I’ll walk you,” Chris said.
“I can walk fine on my own,” Tom grumbled, but felt secretly pleased that Chris
would bother to escort him, even though he just lived across the street. The
keys in his pocket jangled as they walked outside, Chris’ button down flannel
shirt flapping in the cool July breeze that blew in their direction.
Finally, they were on Tom’s front porch and Tom turned to slot the key in
place, pushing the door open with the heel of his hand. He breathed deeply
before facing Chris again, plastering on a halfhearted smile even though he
felt delirious with glee.
Chris stood in the doorway, peering over Tom’s shoulder, blinking in surprise
when Tom turned on the lights without warning.
Tom wanted to invite him inside and show him to his room where he kept posters
of his favourite bands on all of the walls and a record player he’d bought off
a garage sale under the bed where he knew his mother wouldn’t check but then he
realized with sinking gloom that now wasn’t the time for it and that Chris was
probably already tired, given how late it was and how extensively he had to
entertain Tom that night. He was probably only being nice to Tom. Neighborly,
like the word he’d used before.
Tom nodded and lingered in the doorway, shrinking back from Chris who kept
smiling stupidly at him, softly, arms crossed.
“Thanks for the pizza,” Tom said.
Chris laughed. “I’ll send your mother the bill.”
Tom chewed his lip, nodding without really understanding that Chris only meant
to tease him. “Good night,” he said.
Chris climbed off the porch and when he was halfway across the street, waved
goodbye at Tom, body canted in his direction and half turned away. “Good
night,” Chris said, loud enough that Tom still heard him from where he stood.
Tom felt it then for the first time, that nervous flip in his stomach like he
was suspended mid-air at the highest peak of a roller coaster, about to plummet
to the ground at an imaginable speed. He knew the feeling was dangerous, but he
also knew that that didn’t mean it was completely bad, just that he better
tread the waters carefully, exercise caution. The shiny novelty of it would
fade away in time and besides, Tom reasoned with himself, watching Chris’ porch
light flicker on and then off, it was already too late to stop.
---
The next morning, Tom was shaken roughly awake. White sun slanted in through
the crack in the curtains and he’d sweated in his clothes the night before so
the discomfort, coupled with the rude interruption of his sleep, made him
cranky. He swatted at the hand jerking his shoulder and heard his mother’s loud
yelp as Tom slapped her wrist completely by accident.
“Are you awake yet,” she asked him, crossing her arms and shaking her head in
disapproval at him. She did that a lot on a regular basis; Tom was unfazed.
Tom rubbed at his eyes and sat up, taking his time. He remembered snippets of
last night, Chris smiling at him kindly, his warm knee under Tom’s fingers, and
his mood improved considerably. He glared at his mother who rolled her eyes at
him and threw up her hands. “Don’t give me that look, you remind me of your
father. Get dressed, we’re going to a party.”
“At noon?” Tom asked, shooting the plastic clock on his bedside table a quick
glance.
She shrugged. “It’s a barbecue,” she said, and then tapped her watch before
lifting two fingers. “Two minutes or I’m leaving you here.”
“I’d rather not go anyway,” Tom complained.
“There’s no more food left in the fridge!” she called from the hall. Tom
flopped back down on the bed and sighed. He dressed quickly, pulling on his
last clean shirt that didn’t have any holes or stains in it. There was a
picture of a cartoon duck silkscreened in front of the one he chose and the
paint had faded gradually. Now the duck, which wore a top hat when Tom had
bought it two years ago, looked like it had a halo over its head. Tom thought
it was especially interesting this way because it made his shirt look cool and
unique. He had just zipped up his pants when there was a series of loud honks
from the driveway.
“Are you coming or do you want to starve?”
Tom rolled his eyes, taking the stairs three at a time and hopping the last
step.
Tom didn’t like Ellis, who lived three neighborhoods away, in a quaint part of
town where all the affluent people, like kids from Gates, were concentrated.
Ellis was married to a banker’s daughter, this woman with fake blond hair and
thick lips in a permanent pucker. They didn’t have any children, which wasn’t
all that surprising. Sometimes Ellis dropped Tom’s mother home from the
hospital where she worked as a part-time nurse.
Tom’s mother parked the car across the street, checking her reflection one last
time in her compact mirror before pressing her lips together with a loud smack.
People, some Tom knew peripherally, were gathered in the pool area drinking
from red paper cups or carrying a hotdog. Ellis stood in an unbuttoned Hawaiian
print shirt by the grill, flipping burgers and smiling at people manically. His
wiry grey chest hair puffed out like the hide of a dead animal.
Tom’s mother cozied up to him but Tom turned around quickly before the sight
sickened him. He poured himself some wine-red punch, which tasted thick and
sugary like maple syrup and grabbed greasy finger food to fill his plate with.
He snatched a cold burger from the next table, taking large bites as he
searched for a place to sit in peace. The barbecue was mostly adults only
though there were kids, five year olds, maybe younger, the hapless offsprings
of guests, Tom supposed, bobbing in floaters in the pool, screaming their
little heads off.
Tom sat down in a bench outside the pool house, eating from his lap. The pool
water sparkled blue under the hot summer sun. He chewed idly on a homemade fry
and allowed himself to enjoy his moment of solitude, letting his thoughts
scatter and weave as he chewed mechanically. He glanced up when someone went to
sit next to him on the bench. Tom nearly fell off in shock when he saw who it
was: Chris. He had a Bud Light in one hand and his hair was held back, neat.
“You too?” said Tom, making room for him.
“I was invited,” Chris said, shrugging. “I’m a family friend.”
“I didn’t know that,” Tom said, not realizing he was talking out loud.
Chris grinned. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” he said, waggling his
fingers like he was casting a spell.
Tom rolled his eyes. “How mysterious.”
Chris just laughed. “Ellis actually offered me the teaching position at Gates,”
he said, sobering. He took a chug of his drink. “He’s a really good guy, you
know.”
Tom remembered the expensive gifts from Ellis last Christmas and supposed he
wasn’t so bad, not when he was giving away watches and jewelry. “Maybe,” he
said noncommittally. He held up his plate and Chris smiled and took a fry,
stuffing it in his mouth.
“Why aren’t you out there?” Tom asked.
“What do you mean?”
“You know.” Tom gestured across the pool where his mother and Ellis were
laughing theatrically on the deck, their voices carrying across the water, soft
and mellifluous. “With the adults,” he said with emphasis, unable to keep
himself from snorting in disgust.
“Well, I’m not sure you’ve noticed but I’m not very good at being an ‘adult’,”
Chris told him. “And I saw you here sitting alone and thought, now there’s a
familiar face.”
Tom fought off a smile. “Adults are weird anyway,” Chris continued, ducking his
head like he was sharing a secret. “I don’t think I’ve ever learned how to be
one and I’m almost thirty.”
“At least you get to buy beer,” Tom told him.
Chris laughed again and stole his last fry. “There’s more to being grown up
than being able to buy beer.”
“You also don’t get carded at clubs,” Tom supplied.
“You go to clubs?” Chris raised an eyebrow.
“Do I look like I go to clubs?”
Chris made a face, tapping the corner of his chin. “Honestly?”
Tom nodded.
Chris gave Tom a prolonged once over, his eyes lingering on the print of Tom’s
shirt. Tom dropped his gaze and felt embarrassed all of a sudden, fingering the
crumbling outline of the cartoon duck. “You like it?” he asked.
“It’s very unique,” Chris agreed, snickers tapering off after Tom shot him a
feeble glare. He reached out and ran his fingers down Tom’s shirt, jerking his
hand away after he’d realized he was practically stroking Tom’s stomach. Chris
sipped his beer quietly, blushing wine red.
“Can I have some?” Tom asked, elbowing him in the ribs.
“Maybe when you’re eighteen,” Chris teased.
“You suck,” Tom told him. “I just wanted you to know that.”
Chris patted him companionably on the knee and squeezed. “Ask me again next
year,” he said.
The barbecue went on for another few hours. Eventually, Chris had to leave the
pool house to socialize with other people ‘his age’, laughing at the same
stupid jokes Tom had been overhearing during the entire course of the party.
Tom kept to himself and watched kids splashing water at each other, running in
dizzying circles around the pool and shooting water guns.
By the time most of the guests had left, Tom’s mother was nowhere to be seen.
Neither was Ellis, to no one’s surprise. Someone else was manning the grill, a
woman in a red bikini top with painted white toenails. She snapped her gum at
Tom and winked when Tom asked her if she’d seen where they had disappeared to.
Tom caught Chris on his way out. He jogged after him, following him to his car
which was parked a few blocks away from Ellis’ house. Chris ducked into the
driver seat, one leg propped out, famous black shoe slapping the asphalt. The
engine roared to life and he slammed the door shut, patting the side of his
car.
“Can I get a ride home?” Tom asked, lowering his head to Chris’ open window. “I
can’t find my mum,” he explained when Chris raised an inquisitive eyebrow.
Chris leaned across the passenger seat and opened the lock without a word. The
stereo was on, crackling and rustling with static. Chris twisted the knob and a
song from the Beastie Boys came on. Round round get around I get around. Tom
clipped on his seatbelt. “Thanks,” he said, and studied his reflection in the
rearview mirror. His curls looked equal parts droopy and greasy. A few red
spots covered his chin. He made a face at himself, gritted his teeth,
contorting his face into an unlovable grimace.
Chris snorted and thumped him gently on the back of his head. “You look
ridiculous,” he said. “Stop that.”
Tom stuck out his tongue. “I do what I want,” he told him, and Chris laughed in
short bursts before shaking his head.
“I’m beginning to see that,” he said.
Tom hung out at Chris’ living room for awhile, waiting by the window for his
mother to show up. She had brought the house keys with her which meant Tom was
locked out until she decided to go home. An hour passed and he saw his
situation as a lost cause, snapping the curtains shut as he wandered into the
kitchen. Chris was on the phone, the cord stretched taut as he reached for a
pad of paper on the kitchen island. Tom handed it to him and Chris smiled
gratefully, cradling the phone between his ear and shoulder as he scribbled
something on the pad.
Then he fixed his gaze on Tom as he hung up. “So you’re still here,” he sighed.
“What am I going to do with you, huh? Why am I always stuck with babysitting
duties?” He mussed Tom’s hair as he passed him on his way to the fridge where
he retrieved a can of Coke. He popped the tab open before handing it to Tom.
“Does this happen a lot?” Chris asked.
“That depends on what you’re really asking,” Tom said, setting the drink aside.
He wasn’t thirsty anyway and he didn’t want to seem like some kid who always
needed to be handed a treat.
Chris sighed again, pulling out a stool. “I think I’m sensing a pattern here.”
“Pizza and a movie sound nice,” Tom suggested. He smiled when Chris made an
obligatory groan and clutched his face.
Chris pointed at Tom with a shake of his head. “You’re going to wear a rut in
my pocket, kid,” he said. “You come here and eat all my food, and what do I get
in return?”
“The pleasure of my company?”
“You’re hilarious too.”
“Well,” Tom said. “You want me to start paying?”
“Maybe you can start doing a few chores around the house,” Chris said. “Like
make me coffee in the morning or shine my shoes.”
“I’m not a fifties housewife,” Tom said. He blushed as soon as he said it,
picturing himself knotting Chris’ tie before Chris left for work, waving at him
from the driveway with a frilly white apron over his clothes. Chris went to
call for pizza an hour later, despite his protests, and soon Tom found himself
watching another strange horror movie in the living room. This one was scarier
than last night’s because people were dying in their sleep and no matter how
hard they tried, they couldn’t wake themselves up from their nightmare.
The lights were turned off in the living room and every flicker of movement
from the corner of his eye made Tom jump in his seat. Chris would laugh and
nudge him in the knee, tease him about being such a kid, but Tom couldn’t help
it; he was genuinely terrified. He clutched a pillow to his chest and watched
the movie between his spread fingers. He hated the dying parts when people
started gushing blood like a bubbling fountain, pouring from their mouths,
noses and ears.
When the credits rolled, Chris waited a minute before switching on the lights.
He peered out the window then shook his head. “Looks like you’re stuck here for
the night,” he said.
“You could sound a little more enthusiastic.”
Chris laughed. He made Tom take the couch, fetching him a big fluffy pillow
from the closet and a thin sheet that looked like it had seen better days.
“Thanks,” Tom told him, smoothing a hand across the pillow, staring at his lap.
He felt his ears burn. “I mean, for everything.” He didn’t know why he was
going to through all this trouble to embarrass himself but he didn’t want to
seem ungrateful.
Chris made a thoughtful noise before retrieving the box of pizza from the
coffee table, tucking it under his arm. “Don’t mention it.” He smiled. “I
expect my breakfast tomorrow. Bacon and eggs, coffee.” He patted Tom’s head
again as he passed, fingers absently carding Tom’s curls.
Chris turned off the lights but left the ones in the porch on and Tom listened
to his soft footsteps creak up the stairs. Tom couldn’t sleep at first, hand
tucked under Chris’ pillow as he lay curled on his side. The couch was too
small for him and he could feel unknown debris scratch his skin. He sniffed the
pillow, closing his eyes.
It smelled like Chris, a musty spicy sort of scent, like aftershave. The smell
made his stomach flip a little, and before he knew it, he was getting hard,
squirming under the thin sheet and moaning at the friction it generated. He
felt like a pervert, thinking about Chris as he rubbed himself through his
shorts while Chris slept obliviously upstairs.
Tom masturbated often enough to a random assortment of thoughts – nothing too
lewd, just the standard stuff --though lately the faceless participants in his
fantasies have started developing specific attributes, like long hair and
muscled arms. He checked the hall. It was empty and dark. Safe, he thought.
Tom unbuttoned his pants and slipped a hand inside the waistband of his
underwear, massaging his cock gently. His own touch felt dizzying but then he
thought about Chris’ broad hand stroking him instead and his blood spiked
instantly. He checked the hall again. Nothing. Still empty.
Tom slid his pants off, then his underwear, and folded them together in a heap
on the floor. Then he spread his legs, forming a tent under the sheet, then
tugged the sheet off because he didn’t want to get it dirty. He should’ve
probably just done it in the bathroom where he didn’t have to worry about
getting caught, but Tom liked the thrill of doing it out in the open, the sweat
in his naked thighs cooling in the night air.
He finished up in just a few minutes, biting his lip to keep himself quiet,
panting as his breathing settled and the noise in his ears quieted to a steady
rush. He hurried down the hall to wash his hands and then slid back under the
sheet, feeling a warm contented buzz spread through his bones. He fell asleep
right away and dreamt he was at the bottom of an inky blue pool, watching the
light of the sun refract in the water.
He swam up, beating his legs and when he surfaced he was eight years old again,
the same age he remembered being when his mother left him in the supermarket
after he’d thrown a tantrum. Then Chris was there, leaning over the edge of the
pool, which, upon closer inspection, was actually an inflatable one. He was
pulling Tom up, up, up, from the water, cradling him in his arms and telling
him everything was going to be all right, and Tom looked down at himself and
realized he was his age again and no longer eight, but still, bafflingly,
wearing the same pair of swimming trunks in lurid red.
Tom woke disoriented and panting. It was morning again and he was hard but
luckily he hadn’t made a mess of himself which would’ve been hard to explain to
Chris. Sunlight eased through the curtains, casting slices of light on the
floor. Tom went to the bathroom to take care of his problem and it was over
after just a few strokes. He felt strangely disappointed and cheated, washing
his hands in the sink of the evidence.
Chris was in the kitchen with the radio turned on to Bob Dylan. He lifted his
head, hair flying into his face when he heard Tom come in.
“Morning,” said Chris, tapping the end of a spatula against the stove. He was
in a white shirt that hugged his arms and chest. His boxer shorts had race cars
on them and his legs were long and toned and covered in a film of dark blond
hair. Chris was barefoot and nodding along to the music, swaying a little bit,
foot tapping.
As soon as Tom realized he was staring, Tom blushed and looked away.
“Coffee?” Chris asked, glancing at Tom who had seated himself at the table. He
clicked off the radio.
Tom shook his head. “I’d love some orange juice though,” he said.
“Make it yourself,” Chris told him.
Tom sighed and poured himself a glass of water. Chris was making bacon and eggs
and it was starting to smell great, the slow sizzling noises making Tom’s mouth
water. Chris made Tom scrambled eggs with grated cheese sprinkled over the top
and pushed the steaming plate in front of Tom. The edges were soft and thick,
the underside brown where Chris had left it to cook too long.
Tom cut himself a piece with his fork and felt the cheese ooze in his mouth.
“This is amazing! You’re a miracle worker!”
Chris shrugged and pulled out a mug from the shelf, pouring himself coffee. “I
think your mother’s home,” he said, not looking up from the morning paper. “I
saw her car when I went out for a jog this morning.”
Tom continued to eat his eggs. “Do you want me to leave?” he said. “I’ll leave
now.”
Chris rolled his eyes but didn’t stop him from setting his plate in the sink.
“I wasn’t kicking you out,” he sighed. “I just meant you should probably go
home, take a shower, say hello to her.”
“I guess,” said Tom though the bigger question was where she had been all
night. He probably didn’t want to know.
“She’s your mother,” Chris said, like he could read Tom’s thoughts.
Tom realized he was still sanding by the sink with his hand clutching the plate
and relinquished his grip, embarrassed. “Thanks for the eggs,” he said.
“You didn’t finish them though.” Chris shook his head. “Such a wasteful little
boy.”
“I should probably be along,” Tom said, and scratched his neck. He waited for
Chris to say something but Chris kept his eyes firmly fixed on the paper so he
turned and started for the door.
Chris followed him out, grabbing his arm, reeling him in. “Hey,” he said
gently. His eyes were a hypnotic blue up close. “You’re always welcome here,
okay? Except on weekdays and Saturdays from noon onwards.” He smiled at Tom’s
confused look before squeezing his shoulder.
“I was joking,” he said, squeezing Tom again.
“I know,” Tom lied.
Chris nodded before stepping back. “Say hi to your mother for me,” he said, and
watched Tom make it safely across the street before shutting his door.
Tom found his mother on the couch, shoes kicked off on the floor, her clothes,
like her hair, a rumpled dark mess. Her make-up had smeared off. She looked
like a clown with mascara running off in wings across her eyes. She was
clutching her head and moaning when Tom banged the door shut behind him.
“Had fun?” he asked.
“I was securing our future,” she said, waving him away like a pesky gnat. “You
should thank me.” She eyed him from head to toe. “I thought you’d be here,” she
said, in a flatter tone.
“Chris gave me a ride,” Tom explained. “I slept at his place.”
“Oh, right, right. Chris.” Her laugh was not very kind. “Are you best friends
now? With Chris?”
When Tom didn’t respond, she laughed again and pointed at him like she was
shooting a gun. “He’s probably a child molester. Spending an indecent amount of
time with a kid your age just screams mental health problems.”
“And you’re not worried?” said Tom, feeling a fuse ignite inside him, burst
into flame. She obviously didn’t know what she was talking about.
“I know you can take care of yourself, Tom. You’ve practically raised
yourself.” She began massaging her temples, closing her eyes like she was
fighting a headache. Then she frowned, face crumpling. “As if you’ve ever
needed me, anyway,” she muttered.
Tom rolled his eyes and kept his hands balled into fists at his sides. He
didn’t want to hurt her; he had to remain calm. “He’s not a child molester,” he
said, a hard edge to his voice that he barely recognized. “He’s nice and cool
and he does more for me than you ever have in your life.”
The insult rolled off her like water. She smiled, showing her teeth and Tom
hated her even more. “Better slow down a little there. It sounds like you have
a crush on him. Anything you want to tell me? Should I be worried?”
“Why start worrying now,” Tom said, and took the stairs three at a time,
slamming his door and locking it. He threw himself face-down on the bed,
shaking his shoe off his foot and hurling it at the door.
---
Two weeks before the new term began and Chris was packing his surfboard,
looking like he was getting ready to go on a long trip. He was throwing a large
black duffel bag into the backseat of his car when Tom stomped out the house,
grabbing his bike from the shed in the yard so he could exercise off his
annoyance. His mother was in one of those insufferable moods again because
she’d had a little to drink.
Chris waved as Tom clambered on his bike, cruising towards him. “Going
somewhere?” Tom asked, stopping in front of him.
“Surfing,” Chris said, reverently patting his board on the roof. “Plus, I’m
seeing some of my friends before I start teaching at Gates and get suckered
back into the academic life.”
Tom nodded and hoped he wouldn’t be gone very long because he’d miss him. “Can
I come?” he blurted. Chris looked surprised he’d even asked and Tom shook his
head, face burning as he turned away, babbling before he could stop himself.
“Sorry,” he said. “I’m an idiot. Sorry.”
Chris touched his arm. “Tom,” he said and sighed. “Tom.”
“Do you feel sorry for me?” Tom asked, keeping his head down. He felt a ripple
in his stomach as Chris rubbed his arm soothingly.
“There’s nothing to feel sorry for,” Chris told him. “You’re great, you’re
terrific. I have fun with you.”
His thumb traced the curve of Tom’s elbow and Tom shivered. “Think you can be
ready in ten minutes?”
Tom packed for the weekend, took his toothbrush from the sink and shook out
loose change from his pants in the hamper. He collected thirteen dollars in
total, crumpling the bills and stuffing them in his back pocket. He combed his
hair and felt jittery with excitement as he lugged his backpack down the stairs
like a suitcase. He’d never gone on a trip before. He wondered if he should
borrow his mother’s camera. She was in the kitchen, talking to someone on the
phone. She craned her neck as she heard him lumber down the stairs.
“I’m going on a trip!” he told her. “Surfing!”
Tom heard her repeat that information to whomever she was speaking to on the
phone. “All right, darling. Have fun!” She shut the door with her foot.
He left her a note on the fridge anyway, in case she forgot and threw a fit.
Chris helped him with his backpack, asking Tom to double-check if he’d
forgotten anything; the drive was most likely going to take a few hours, he
said. Chris rolled the car into first gear, maneuvering it down the street. The
interior smelled like limes. The seat felt sticky, warmed by the noonday sun.
“What did she say?” Chris asked, turning on the stereo. There was a traffic
forecast followed by a weather report. He switched off and tapped the wheel.
Tom shrugged as he unfurled a paperback he had brought with him, opening it to
a dogeared page. To Kill A Mockingbird. “She said to have fun.”
Chris raked his fingers through his hair as he made a left turn. “I hope you
brought sunscreen with you,” he said. Then he reached over and pushed Tom’s
feet off the dashboard.
---
Tom watched the scenery drift by. The roads were wide and empty with just a few
cars speeding past them. The sky above looked seamless, a bright blinding blue.
He’d never been out of town before, or gone to the beach. After Quentin, his
only friend, moved away two years ago, there had been no one else to do things
with. His absence leeched all the enjoyment from Tom’s life and Tom couldn’t
quite understand why when Quentin wasn’t even a real friend, not in the truest
sense of the word; they just hung out at each other’s houses and played video
games, sometimes going through Quentin’s dad’s porn collection or fiddling with
the lock on his liquor cabinet.
Chris drove the car up steep hills that zigzagged dangerously and Tom fell
asleep to the white noise of the stereo. He woke to the first drops of rain
trickling down the windshield. The wipers made a squeaky noise against the
glass, protesting against the friction.
Chris told him to roll up the window.
Tom checked the clock on the dashboard. It read 2:47. They’d been driving for
almost three hours. “Are we there yet?” he asked, and only realized how stupid
the question sounded once Chris shot him an amused grin. The last thing he
wanted was for Chris to start regretting his decision to bring him along.
“Give or take another hour,” Chris said, and peered up the sky. The sun had
gone and hidden behind a dense roll of storm clouds. It didn’t look good.
Tom reached under himself and rubbed the feeling back into his ass. Chris
laughed after he’d caught Tom with his fingers kneading his thighs. “What?”
said Tom. The back of his neck prickled with heat and Chris shook his head.
They drove some more as the roads narrowed, flanked on either side by rows of
Victorian houses crumbling with neglect. The mountains looked dark against the
misty grey sky as rain continued to fall, sluicing the windows in shimmering
lines.
“Are you hungry?” said Chris after what felt like an hour.
Tom nodded but tried to appear noncommittal. “But don’t stop on my account,” he
said. “I can wait till we’re there.”
“Well, I can’t,” Chris said. “I’m starving.”
He pulled up in front of a place called Sallis’ Grill just as lightning whipped
across the sky. Chris nosed the car right up to the steps like he was docking a
boat before turning off the engine and rubbing his hands across his knees.
“We’re going to have to make a run for it,” he told Tom who raised his eyebrows
and squinted through the rain. He nodded his assent, tossing his paperback into
the backseat before unlocking his door.
They ran and kicked up puddles, shielding themselves from the rain with their
arms held above their heads. A gust of wind sent a lone plastic cup sailing in
their direction and Tom kicked at it and almost tripped.
There weren’t very many people inside, just the servers and a few customers in
denim jackets scattered here and there, men nursing beers at the bar, minding
their own business, and a family of four eating quietly in the corner, their
silverware clinking.
The place was brightly lit and not leery at all, with seventies wood paneling
and faded photos of 80s beer girls hanging on the walls. A bearded man with a
beer gut handed them the menu the second they seated themselves by the window,
pouring them a glass of water each and even bowing like he was some sort of
butler.
Tom shook the rain out of his hair like a dog and picked up the menu.
Everything on it looked greasy and artificial. He got a grilled salmon sandwich
with a tall order of strawberry milkshake while Chris got himself a smoked beef
brisket and coffee. Chris handed the menu back to the man and folded his hands
together on the table, then rubbed at his neck, popping a crick. His hair had
come loose from its ponytail, but he still looked good bedraggled, older, more
mysterious. It helped that he brought a leather jacket with him that he’d
folded over the back of his seat.
Tom rubbed his knees under the table, knocking them together back and forth. He
felt like he was on a field trip and realized he had nothing to say to Chris
who kept looking at him and then away, like he wanted to start a conversation
but wasn’t sure how. Tom sighed, picked up his spoon and Chris’ and showed him
a trick he’d learned on TV, banging them together to make something akin to
music.
“What was that supposed to be?” said Chris, eyebrows furrowed.
Tom shrugged and put the spoons down. “Nothing,” he said, flushing in
embarrassment. He gnawed on the inside of his lip, hooking his fingernails into
the edge of the table. “Thanks for letting me come,” he said, staring at his
cuticles.
“Your mother knows you’re with me right?” Chris said.
“I left her a note,” Tom assured him.
Chris scratched his stubble. “I just don’t want to be accused of kidnapping or
some heinous crime I didn’t know I had committed. Do you think she’d call the
police?”
“She’s crazy but not that crazy,” Tom said.
Chris smiled gently, leaning forward on his arms. “Maybe I am too and you just
don’t know it yet.”
“Maybe,” said Tom. “But maybe I don’t mind.” He looked up and watched as Chris
leaned back slowly, still studying his face.
“I have a friend who owns an ice cream parlor by the beach,” he said. “And I
think you’ll love it there. She makes her own recipes.”
“I’m not five years old,” Tom snapped, annoyed all of a sudden.
“Well, you don’t have to yell at me,” Chris said, wrinkling his forehead. He
ignored the man pouring him his coffee and leaning over the table. Chris dunked
two sugar cubes into his cup and stirred his coffee noisily, not looking at
Tom.
Tom turned his gaze out the window and ran his hands up and down his arms.
“Sorry,” he said in a small voice. “I didn’t mean to yell.”
Chris sighed but said nothing.
***** two *****
The radio silence continued even after their food had arrived. Tom listened to
the patter of rain beating steadily against the window as he finished his
milkshake, chasing the last few drops at the bottom of his glass with the end
of his straw. He made a slurping noise and chewed absently on the complementary
cherry that came with his drink, worrying the rubbery stem between his teeth.
Chris, after wiping his mouth on a paper napkin, crumpled it in a heap and
tossed it aside. He looked at Tom again before leaning back in his seat. There
was no talking for a while.
“Did you bring your sunscreen?” Chris asked, finally breaking the silence.
Tom shrugged and glanced away from where Chris had parked the car outside. “I
brought mosquito repellant,” he said.
Chris smiled tentatively. “You know it’s not the same thing.”
“I know,” Tom said. “Sorry I yelled at you.” He peered up at Chris quickly who
had an inscrutable look on his face, his eyes looking past Tom like he wasn’t
completely there.
“I was just thinking,” he said softly. “I’m not angry. I didn’t mean to treat
you like a kid.”
Tom shrugged again.
The rain died down an hour later and they walked back to the car in silence,
Tom making a game of avoiding the puddles, stepping around them and hopping his
way back to the car. During the drive there was no talking either and Tom, just
to have something to do, pretended to be engrossed in his book. He didn’t want
to seem rattled by the sudden awkwardness that had punctuated their drive. He
wanted to pretend they were going somewhere together, that Chris had planned to
bring him all along and didn’t feel like Tom was his responsibility, his
obligation. Tom fell asleep, scooted in an unimaginably uncomfortable position
against the door.
Stars were winking from the sky when he opened his eyes again to the gentle
rattle of loose change on the dashboard. It was dark and they were driving up a
rutted dirt road. Gravel crunched underneath the tires. Tom sat up and blinked
and Chris seemed like he was in a better mood, a faint smile on his face as he
glanced down at Tom. His eyes were red though, lacking sleep, but he seemed
otherwise agreeable. “We’re here,” he said, and unclipped his seatbelt,
hunching over the steering wheel and gripping it with both hands.
“There she is,” he whispered, grinning at something in the distance. Tom
followed his gaze but couldn’t see anything in the murky darkness. Chris eased
up the sloping driveway, the headlights of his car twin spots of orange
illuminating the sandy ground. Chris exited the driver side, leaving the engine
running, and before Tom could ask where he thought he was going, ran up the
front steps of the single story house they were parked next to.
The front door opened after he rang the doorbell consecutively and a woman in a
sari top with long flowing brown hair stepped out to embrace him. They talked
for awhile, keeping their arms around each other. Tom turned off the stereo and
watched them hug one more time before Chris kissed the woman on the cheek. Then
he seemed to remember Tom was there too and glanced back at the car.
“I have someone with me,” Tom heard him say, laughing, and then Chris was
jogging to the passenger side and telling Tom to grab his things. Chris killed
the engine, took his duffel from the backseat and ushered Tom inside, one hand
absently trailing the small of Tom’s back.
Persian rugs covered the living room floor. The walls and ceiling were lined
with stained pine wood, sparkling like they had been newly varnished. Across
the room, facing the glass doors, sat a suede couch in a U shape. Tom was
careful not to knock over anything expensive; this was the nicest house he’d
ever been in. Everything looked like it had been bought from a furniture
catalogue.
“Who’s your friend?” asked the woman sauntering towards them with a drink in
her hand. She had nice white teeth – bleached? – and seemed friendly enough but
something about her made Tom feel on edge. He adjusted the string of his
backpack and smiled politely.
“Student? Tutee?” She began rattling off a list of things she thought Tom was
to Chris and Chris laughed them all off but didn’t confirm or deny them. He
seemed like an entirely different person, touching her all the time, leaving
Tom to fix himself a drink.
Tom sat on the couch with his backpack in his lap and stared at the large
framed painting of a waterfall hanging above the aquarium. It seemed weird to
him to keep an aquarium below a painting of a waterfall. He wondered if it was
a personal touch or completely the decorator’s choice.
“It keeps me calm,” said the woman, like she could sense his confusion. She
introduced herself as Patti, a friend of Chris from his days at the circuit,
whatever that meant.
“Are you his student?” Patti asked, sipping her drink. “Chris loves kids which
is why I guess he started teaching. I can’t see the allure myself, I mean, no
offense, I think being a kid is great, but I’d lose my shit if a kid ever
talked back, you know? Chris is great at that though. He’s very patient. He’ll
make a good dad one day or something.”
Tom said nothing and tried to imagine Chris as a father, patting a baby’s back
to get it to sleep. It seemed funny to him somehow and a laugh bubbled out of
him. Patti looked at him oddly before leaving him to fetch her sleeping pills.
“You tired already?” Chris asked, looking far too cheerful for someone with a
glass of scotch in one hand. He took Tom’s backpack without asking permission,
jerking his head in the direction of the hallway. “Come on,” he said, slinging
Tom’s backpack onto one shoulder. Tom followed him down the hall, past rows of
painted doors. He could hear music coming from inside some of them and wondered
who Patti was in relation to Chris.
Chris opened a door to his left, turned the lights on in the room and tossed
Tom’s backpack onto the narrow single bed which was covered in thick quilts.
The room was tiny, like a closet, with a sloped ceiling and a wooden dresser
jutting out from the wall. Above the headboard was a sliding glass window which
Chris pushed open to let the air in. Tom thought he could hear the sea but also
thought maybe he was just tired.
He sat on the bed and slowly untied his shoes, aware that Chris was watching
him closely from the doorway, observing him. Chris seemed far too tall for the
room, his head nearly touching the ceiling, his bulk making the room seem
smaller. He sipped his scotch and waited until Tom’s shoes were completely
removed before speaking.
Tom shoved them under the bed.
“I hope you like it here,” Chris said quietly.
“I already do,” Tom said, even though his heart wasn’t in it. He ran his hands
across the topography of the bed so he didn’t have to look at Chris’ face.
Chris must’ve sensed something was wrong because he was quick to amend the
situation. “We can go surfing tomorrow if the weather’s good,” he promised,
like that would somehow make things better. “A few of my friends are dropping
by. They’d love to meet you, I think.”
Tom sincerely doubted anyone would be dying to meet him but he said nothing and
simply shrugged. Chris’ smile was uncertain and it made something strange and
heavy clog Tom’s throat.
“If there’s anything you need,” Chris told him. “Anything at all…” He trailed
off and pocketed his free hand. “Just ask Patti, okay?”
Patti. “Patti,” Tom repeated, nodding obediently. He leaned back on his palms,
raised a thumb. “Got it,” he said.
“Okay,” Chris said. “Good.”
He shut the door.
Tom stared at the ceiling and watched moths circle the fluorescent bulb. It was
warm in the room so he kicked off the quilts and dressed down to his shirt and
boxers. Cooler, he lay back down on the bed and listened to the sounds of the
night: wind whistled in through the open window, people argued in the room next
door, and somewhere in the house, someone had put on music.
Tom could hear the thump thump thump of percussions rattling the walls, echoing
under the floorboards, shaking the bed. He didn’t sleep that night; he didn’t
think he could, anyway, not even if he tried.
---
Patti was the first person to greet him the next morning, her hair in twin buns
on top of her head. She wore a white summer dress that covered her feet and
carried the same green drink from last night, leading Tom to the kitchen, a
tall-ceilinged cylindrical room with a patio that looked out into the sea. The
sun had risen high outside, white-hot and bright. After breakfast – eggs and
pancakes – Tom asked Patti where Chris was and she said he went swimming with
the others.
“Woke up at the crack of dawn and whoosh.” She made a quick motion with her
hand that approximated a rocket taking off. “Anyway, he said I’d better give
you this.” She reached for something on the shelf and Tom perked up until he
saw that it was just a bottle of sunscreen.
Breakfast took awhile to digest. Patti kept drinking as she sat at the bar,
tugging at the red thread that dangled from the hem of her skirt. As soon as
Tom was finished, she gladly hopped off her stool and took his plate to the
sink.
“You wanna go out for a swim?” she asked, clapping her hands together, turning
to face him.
There was nothing else to do so Tom went with her after putting on a pair of
nondescript swimming shorts. He pocketed the bottle of sunscreen and slid into
a pair of flip-flops that were three years old and one size too small. He
grabbed the towel in the closet, throwing it across his shoulders.
“You’re too thin,” Patti told him, examining his chest with a critical eye,
clicking her tongue. Her plastic sunglasses were pushed over her head, keeping
her hair from falling into her face. “You should eat more, Tom. Or work out.
Something. What’ve your parents been feeding you, anyway, mm?”
“I’m naturally thin,” Tom said and that made her laugh but leave him alone.
They walked down the driveway, where, flanking Chris’ Saab respectively were a
dusty blue Lexus and a shiny red Corvette. Patti kicked up miniature sand dunes
with her feet until they reached the bottom of the hill where they stopped to
catch their breath and take in the scenery.
The ripples in the water, from their vantage point, looked like sparkling
wrinkles in a blue sheet.
They kept on walking.
People in electric-colored bathing suits were thronged on the shore, sunning
themselves on beach towels. A few kids were running around and throwing a
plastic ball at each other and Tom felt grossly out of place with his pale
pasty skin.
Patti spread a striped white and blue towel alongside his and waved at a couple
of passersby that jogged past them. Then she started slathering sunscreen on
her arms which were already peeling with sunburns, humming happily under her
breath.
“Where’s Chris?” Tom found himself asking, sitting cross-legged next to her. He
popped open the bottle of sunscreen, poured a generous dollop between his palms
and rubbed his fingers together before rubbing it down his arms.
“Didn’t I already tell you,” she said slowly, voice cadenced with amusement.
“He went swimming.”
Tom nodded and waited a few minutes before proceeding with the next question.
“How long have you known Chris?” he asked, trying to seem casual, cool. He was
starting to sweat off the sunscreen so he turned his face away from the sun,
pulling his knees up his chest. He squinted down at Patti who lay flat on her
back, one arm curved towards her head like a ballerina. She was beautiful.
“Mm,” she murmured and slid her sunglasses down her nose. “Wouldn’t you like to
know.” She smiled at him but didn’t answer his question.
Tom wandered down the shore, letting the waves lap at his feet. He stepped out
of his flip-flops and set them aside, wincing as the sand steamed his toes. He
waded into the water, and held his flip-flops aloft, careful not to get swept
up in the waves. He took his time, riding each ebb and flow, and the water felt
good against his skin, a cool salty rush.
He walked deeper into the water, past a middle-aged couple taking a picture of
themselves, and turned around to check just how he stood from the shore. He
couldn’t see Patti anymore, she was just a colorful speck in the distance,
baking under the sun like a desert lizard. As Tom ventured farther, he wondered
where Chris was and why he’d left without telling Tom first.
Tom could see white unmoored sailboats bobbing in the distance but no surfers.
The tide wasn’t high enough for that. Tom bent his knees and submerged his head
in the water, letting his arms drift up his sides like he was a ragdoll. A
particularly strong wave pushed him back, knocking his flip-flops from his hand
as he coughed a mouthful of water. He swam after them for a few minutes,
managing to catch one but not the other. He watched as his left flip-flop
floated further and further away until it was nothing more than a black dot in
the water. Tom couldn’t swim very far and the salt made the corners of his eyes
sting so he staggered back to the shore, hopping from foot to foot.
He felt a sharp pain under his foot but ignored it and kept walking. It was
only until he was seated on the towel again that he realized he’d cut himself
on something sharp. A gash about two inches long ran across the underside of
his foot. He was bleeding on the sand, not too heavily, but enough to cause
alarm.
Patti sat up abruptly and grabbed his ankle, inspecting the damage. She shook
her head. “This is why we don’t walk barefoot in the beach,” she said,
squeezing his foot and making it hurt even more.
She got up, stretching, packing her towel and sunglasses in a small canvas bag.
Then she helped Tom to his feet and escorted him back to the house, one arm
looped through his as she dragged him up the steep flinty path. In the kitchen,
she sat him down on a stool and fetched the First Aid kit and Chris walked in
just as Patti was dabbing antiseptic to the cut. Tom nearly kicked her in the
stomach after she applied pressure with her thumb.
“Sorry,” he said.
Patti rolled her eyes.
Chris, who was dressed in military green cargo shorts and nothing else,
lingered in the room to watch the proceedings. His hair was damp and his skin
was flushed. He wore a hemp bracelet in his left wrist and was barefoot.
Patti finished up quickly, taping gauze to Tom’s foot and wiping the back of
her arm against her forehead like she’d worked up a sweat. She elbowed Chris on
her way out and they shared a look that didn’t go unnoticed. Tom wondered how
much she knew about him.
“What happened?” Chris said once she had left the room.
Tom wiggled his toes in Chris’ direction. “I cut myself on something,” he said.
“But I’ll live. I think.”
“Can you walk?” Chris asked. “Your mother will kill me when she finds out you’d
injured yourself. On my watch.”
“Well, it’s not your job to look after me,” Tom told him. He tried not to let
his voice rise. “I can take care of myself. I’m not a child,” he said.
Chris looked immediately apologetic. “I didn’t say you were.”
Tom shrugged and waited for him to say something more. When the silence
continued, he pushed himself off the stool, lowering himself carefully on his
uninjured foot. “I’m going back to my room,” he announced, waving at Chris. He
hobbled down the hall, one hand braced on the wall and heard Chris shout after
him: “I’ll see you at lunch, okay?”
“Whatever,” Tom said, too soft for anyone but himself to hear.
---
Tom fell asleep as soon as he lay on the bed and woke some odd hours later to
the smell of dinner wafting in from the kitchen.
There were people there that he didn’t recognize, a couple of women, a blonde
and a brunette, wearing bikini tops tied around their neck in flimsy string.
Two other guys that looked like they spent all their free time at the gym were
crowded around the table, making sandwiches, plates piled high. One was blond
and bore a striking resemblance to Chris, another one was bald and mustachioed.
Chris was nowhere to be found and Patti seemed to be missing too. There two
empty seats at the table.
“Hey,” said the Chris look alike, waving Tom over. “You must be Tom. I’m Liam.”
He thrust out a hand, and started introducing everyone else: Sarah with the
donkey bray, Marisol with the deep-set eyes and Ryan in the University of
Adelaide sweatshirt.
Marisol gave Tom a thumbs up. She had a lip ring and looked like a blonde
Audrey Hepburn. “So you’re the one Chris can’t shut up about,” she teased.
“You’re his neighbor, right?”
“Yeah,” Tom said.
He made himself a sandwich and listened while Liam, who was apparently Chris’
younger brother, tried outtalking the others. Sarah was the loudest,
gesticulating wildly as she told a joke she’d heard on the train about two
monks and a fisherman.
“I don’t get it,” said Liam, furrowing his brows.
“You don’t get anything,” Marisol told him. Finally, they rose from their seats
and one by one drifted out to the patio. Tom waited until they were gone before
snagging a beer from the fridge. He’d seen the pack this morning when Patti
made him breakfast and felt an excited wobble in his stomach as his hand closed
around the sweaty can.
Liam clomped back inside, just as Tom flipped the tab.
“Are you allowed to be drinking that?” He narrowed his eyes and then shook his
head. “We’re heading down to the beach. Wanna come along? I’d feel bad if we
left you here. Chris did say to keep an eye on you.” He winked and Tom sipped
the froth off the top of the can and shrugged in response.
“Sure,” he said and chugged.
---
Liam and his friends were capable of amazing amounts of talk and on and on they
went as they took large swigs of their beer: about their plans once summer was
over, about what car they wanted their parents to get for them once they
graduated, about boyfriends and girlfriends and how they couldn’t wait until
they had enough money to travel the world.
They were nice and friendly people, not unusually superficial or insufferable,
but Tom, who lacked the necessary social graces, felt like he had nothing to
say to them. He couldn’t flirt or make small talk unless it was about something
completely boring like the weather or a movie he’d seen recently and felt like
discussing.
Liam was only a few years older than him, attending his first year of
university in September. He tried to get Tom to talk, giving him openings,
elbowing him under the ribs playfully but Tom couldn’t think of anything
interesting to say. He didn’t do much outside of school. He read a lot and
biked around town during his free time so he didn’t have to think about
anything. Last year he worked as an errand boy for Mrs. Braffet, the old widow
with the crazy teeth. A week before she had died, she’d given him a pair of
brass antique knockers that Tom kept wrapped in a perfumed handkerchief inside
his dresser drawer.
Liam stared at him expectantly. Tom sipped his beer, letting the cool drink
settle in his belly.
The conversation continued as the night wore on: about fake IDs and puking
episodes and furtive sexual encounters over the years. Tom tried not to fall
asleep though he felt himself nodding off a few times after Marisol recalled
how she’d hit on her History professor at a bar last year.
“I didn’t know it was him,” she explained. “I was so shitfaced I thought they
just looked alike. I kept calling him Mr. Collins.”
“I bet Chris gets hit on a lot,” said Ryan, snickering. “By his students.
Didn’t he almost lose his license because of that girl? What was her name
again?”
“Kathy?” said Sarah.
“No, she was Korean,” Ryan said. He snapped his fingers. “Kim. Kim Park.
Remember he was teaching at that place with the nuns? And the girl would call
him every night and even showed up at Luke’s wedding?”
“That was really awkward,” Sarah agreed, tossing something into the water.
Marisol burst into laughter and her tongue ring caught the light. “He attracts
troubled teens, Chris,” she muttered, tipping back her beer.
Tom stood up, wincing as he put pressure on the wrong foot. “I think I’ve had
enough to drink for the evening,” he said, and kept his face impassive even
though his voice was on the verge of breaking. He walked back to the house and
ignored Liam who went jogging after him and grabbed him gently by the arm once
he was close enough.
“They didn’t mean that,” he said. “They were just being stupid. They’re drunk.”
As if that explained it anyway. Tom shook off his arm. He could still see the
three of them gathered around the bonfire, the flickering red light casting
shadows on the moonlit ground. Ryan had stood up to take off his sweatshirt. He
was dancing around the fire, arms akimbo.
“It’s fine,” Tom assured Liam. He wasn’t lying. It was. “I’m just tired, I
suppose. I didn’t get any sleep last night and my foot is still hurting.”
“Do you want me to—”
“It’s fine,” Tom told him. He started walking away.
---
There was a knock at the door as soon as Tom closed his eyes. He ignored it and
pretended to sleep but whomever it was was persistent and seemed bent on
further ruining his evening. Tom groaned and buried his head under the pillow,
kicking violently when he felt someone touch his foot. He glanced up: it was
Chris. His hair was loose and scraggly and he wore a grey Quiksilver shirt that
slid smoothly over his muscles.
Tom flopped back on his stomach and kept his gaze to the wall. His arms, which
still smelled like soap, pebbled in goosebumps. He hadn’t bothered getting
dressed after his shower because the heat in the room had been too stifling
even with the window open. His towel had slipped some time long ago and Chris
had a full view of his bare ass but he didn’t care.
“How’s the foot?” Chris asked, like he didn’t just barge into the room
uninvited.
Tom didn’t respond. He felt the bed dip as Chris sat down and pushed his legs
aside to make room.
“What are you doing here?” Tom asked.
“I thought I’d check up on you,” Chris said. “I went in here earlier but you
were gone.”
Tom said nothing. Chris reached out for his foot and ran his fingers around the
edges of the gauze. His touch was feather-light and tickled a little and Tom
kicked at him halfheartedly and he laughed.
“How’d this happen?” Chris said, still grinning.
“Is it true you almost lost your license because of a student?” Tom asked.
Chris didn’t let go of his foot. “Where’d you hear that?”
“Does it matter?” said Tom.
Chris let out a noisy sigh. He was prolonging the moment, pressing his thumb
against the sole of Tom’s foot. “Why do you want to know?” he said.
Tom wasn’t sure himself. He hated how whiny he was becoming. Nothing was going
his way at all. He slipped his head back under the pillow and willed himself to
stay calm but something about the pine wood scent of the sheets and the
unfamiliar smallness of the room, and the way Chris was stroking up his ankle
and touching him tenderly made a sob hitch in his throat. He felt angry at
himself and stupid, coming to this trip when Chris probably didn’t even want
him there; he had only agreed to take Tom to be kind.
“Tom,” said Chris gently. He tugged at Tom’s towel, slipping it up to cover him
before scooting up the bed.
“Do you think I’m troubled?” Tom asked him.
“Why would I think that?” snorted Chris. He laughed softly and Tom felt his
hand again on his calf, tracing an absent pattern.
Tom rolled onto his back.
Chris had one knee pressed to his chest and he was leaning against the wall. He
lifted his hand as Tom shifted around but put it down again, this time on Tom’s
knee. He didn’t seem to be aware he was doing it; his eyes were fixed on the
ceiling.
“Why did you bring me here?” Tom asked.
Chris shrugged, made a face, and thumped the back of his head against the wall
behind him. “Because you asked, I guess.”
“That isn’t what you were supposed to say,” Tom told him.
“Well, what do you want me to say?”
“I don’t know,” said Tom. “Sugarcoat it for me.”
“I’m just being honest.” Chris shrugged again. “Aren’t you cold?” He knocked
his foot against Tom’s calf.
Tom frowned. “It’s really hot in here. I couldn’t sleep last night.”
“Mm,” Chris hummed.
Tom leaned up on his elbows. “How is it in your room?”
“Just as bad,” Chris said. “But I’ve got a bigger window.”
Tom smiled a little and watched as Chris reached underneath him for the quilt,
tossing it over Tom’s legs, up his stomach. Tom closed his eyes for a second
and when he opened them again a few minutes later, a soft shaft of light had
seeped its way between the curtains. He’d fallen asleep but Chris was still
there, still leaning against the wall. He glanced down at Tom and smiled
tiredly.
“Do you want to see the sunrise?” he asked.
Tom shrugged. He felt better after his nap; the sullen mood had gone,
dissipated over night. “Okay,” he said. His voice croaked so he cleared his
throat. “Just let me put something on.”
“You sure?” Chris teased before hopping off the bed and patting his leg. He
closed the door behind him and Tom dressed quickly, easing his feet into his
shoes but not tying the laces. They walked to the beach in relative silence.
The air was cold for the end of August and Tom shivered, pocketing his hands,
sneaking jealous glances at Chris who had left the house in a warm sweatshirt.
His foot hurt less but he suspected it was because he was in a much better
mood.
When they reached the shore, it was empty, like Liam and the others hadn’t even
been there the previous night. Tom glanced back at the rounded hills behind
them, adorned by colorful beach houses, one of which was Patti’s though from
the distance, he could hardly tell which one was hers. The sun was just
beginning to rise, peeking from the edges of the water. Ribbons of pink ran
through the sky.
Tom rubbed warmth back into his elbows, breathed in the air, gasped.
“You cold?” Chris asked, eyebrow raised. Without any prompting he started
shucking off his sweatshirt, handing it over to Tom who took it gratefully,
reverently, and slid it over his shoulders. He pushed his arms through the
sleeves and balled his hands inside the pockets which were comfy, soft like
they were lined in down. The sweatshirt was still warm from Chris’ body heat
and it smelled just like him, a little musty like it hadn’t been worn in awhile
but laced with Chris’ distinct citrusy scent.
“I was planning to teach you how to surf,” Chris said. “But then you’d gone and
injured yourself so maybe another time.”
“Maybe I can watch you instead,” Tom told him. “Learn by example.”
“Maybe,” Chris said distractedly.
“You don’t really think I’m troubled?” Tom asked, simply because he had to
know. Chris threw an arm around him, which surprised him at first and made him
jump, but Chris squeezed him a few times and it was easy to just sag against
him, let Chris’ arm hang casually off Tom’s back.
Chris’ hand closed around Tom’s shoulder and pulled him in till Tom was wedged
underneath his arm, his face practically tucked into Chris’ armpit. Tom felt
awkward with his hands still pocketed so he curled an arm around Chris’ waist
until Chris had looked at him oddly.
Tom let the arm dangle at his side instead as Chris continued to hug him
sideways.
Chris didn’t let go, not for a long time. “I think you’re many things,” he said
in low voice, “but troubled isn’t one of them.”
“Is exceptionally clever one of them?”
Chris smiled. “Of course,” he said.
Tom kicked at a spot on the sand with the toe of his shoe, digging a small
hole. Chris’ arm around him slackened before tightening considerably around his
middle. “I wish you could see yourself the way I see you,” he said.
“I’m not that great.” Tom rolled his eyes. “I don’t even like myself most of
the time.”
Chris laughed. “You’ll get over it. When you get older, you’ll see. Things will
be great. You’ll figure things out.”
“I just wish it would happen sooner,” Tom said, and smiled in spite of himself
as he tucked his head into Chris’ shoulder. He felt Chris’ sigh ruffle his
curls. “I feel like I’m losing my mind sometimes.”
“I feel like that too,” Chris said. “It never really goes away but you get
better, over time, I think, at dealing with it.”
“That barely sounds comforting at all,” Tom said.
“I’m just being honest,” Chris told him and mussed his hair before squeezing
him.
---
Rizzo’s was a one-story clapboard house with a cherry red roof. A painted sign
hung outside, advertising the flavors of the month: penuche pecan, black
raspberry, butter crunch, lemon crisp, all for half a dollar a scoop.
Kids sat at checkered tables in the wraparound porch, munching on ice cream
cones, their mouths dribbling with thick chocolate sauce. Chris pushed the door
open and a bell above it tinkled in greeting. He let Tom in first, walking
behind him and pointing him to an empty table by the window.
The place was cozy and roomy, with a rattling air conditioner in the corner and
shelves of sweetened treats in jars. A small queue had formed in front of the
counter where a tanned woman in a red sarong stood manning the register. Behind
her was a large chalkboard where the menu was written down. Everything was
cheap and affordable except for today’s special, the strawberry rhubarb pie. A
staggering seven dollars.
Chris called the woman’s name -- Noelle -- and her face lit up immediately. She
put down the wad of bills in her hand and winked at Chris.
“I’ll be just a second,” she promised, holding up a finger.
Chris went back to their table, sitting with his legs spread and tipping back
his chair so that it creaked on its legs. The queue shortened after a few
minutes as people left with their sundaes and ice cream cones.
Tom scratched his arms. His skin had started to itch from the peeling sunburns.
He’d spent the whole day at the beach, lying face down on the sand and
finishing The Sun Also Rises which he didn’t even enjoy while Chris dropped by
every half hour to see how he was doing, cradling his surfboard, his long wet
hair plastered to the sides of his face.
A few times he had sat down next to Tom and asked him about his foot. He’d make
small talk for awhile before leaving to chase the waves with his friends. Liam
also kept Tom company, apologizing again on behalf of his friends. He had asked
if Tom wanted to do something later on and Tom told him sure, if he wanted to,
without asking Liam to elaborate on what he had planned; Tom didn’t want to
seem perpetually glued to Chris’ side. He’d seen the way Patti looked at him,
like she was suspicious but also trying to piece the clues together.
Noelle wandered over to their table, leaning behind Chris’ seat and patting his
thick shoulder. “I didn’t think I’d see you here again so soon,” she said.
“What are you doing back?”
“I missed the ice cream,” Chris said, waggling his eyebrows.
She flicked him between the eyes and he caught her hand and squeezed it. “I
heard you got a new teaching job. How’s that going?”
“I start in a couple of weeks.”
Noelle glanced at Tom before turning back to Chris. “Who’s your friend,
Chris?”>
Her eyebrows climbed up to her hairline after Chris finished with the
introductions.
“Your neighbor?” she repeated. She slapped him on the arm. “He didn’t kidnap
you, did he?” she asked Tom. “You look a bit young. How old are you?”
“Hey,” said Chris, laughing just as Tom said seventeen.
Noelle nodded and patted Chris again. She seemed to enjoy touching him. “What
would you guys like, then? On the house.”
Tom ordered a frozen pudding pop. Chris said he wasn’t in the mood for ice
cream but Noelle insisted he try her special sundae, anyway. It had walnuts and
wild cherries, a sweet syrupy caramel sauce whose recipe she’d perfected with
her sister.
Once Noelle was out of earshot, Chris bent his head like he was whispering a
secret. “You all right?” he asked after Tom started rubbing the sides of his
neck which had started itching too.
“I don’t think you should be scratching that hard,” Chris said, grimacing.
“But it feels good,” Tom told him, moaning pleasantly as his fingernails worked
at the prickling spot.
Chris blushed, looking away, and fiddled with the napkin dispenser at their
table. Their ice cream arrived before Tom could ask him what the problem was,
perched on a round tray and carried by a girl roughly Tom’s age. Unlike Noelle,
she was in jeans and a babydoll blouse and her hair was tied in red pigtails.
“Pudding for you,” she said, handing Tom his treat in a wrapper. “And a
Summerlong Sundae for you with extra syrup.” She tucked the tray under her arm
before stepping back, informing Chris it was on the house so he needn’t worry
about the bill.
Tom slid the wrapper off his frozen pudding pop and began to lick, sucking at
the tip eagerly which was creamy and slightly salty.
Chris tapped his spoon on the rim of his bowl before scooping a bite into his
mouth and making a pleased face. “She wasn’t joking. This is actually pretty
good.”
“Can I have the cherry?” Tom asked. There was one submerged in a mountain of
whipped cream, red stalk curved and beckoning.
Chris nodded, pushing the bowl across the table. Tom felt self-conscious as he
brought the cherry to his lips and bit into the soft flesh. Chris was watching
him closely, not even blinking, his eyes never moving away from Tom’s face.
Tom swallowed the last bite before setting down the stalk.
“I wish I knew how to do tricks with my tongue,” he said. “With the stalk. I’ve
seen people do it.”
“I really wish you didn’t say things like that,” Chris told him.
“What?”
“Nothing,” said Chris. He pointed at Tom’s arm. “Your ice cream’s dripping,” he
informed Tom. He grabbed a handful of paper napkins and started wiping Tom’s
hand then stood up from his seat, knocking the Sundae bowl over with his arm.
Its contents splattered all over Tom’s lap.
Tom leapt up and the bowl clattered to a fluffy white and brown mess on the
floor, walnuts strewn everywhere.
“Shit!” Chris hissed. “Fuck, I’m sorry.”
Tom picked up the bowl from his feet just as the same server from earlier came
rushing to take care of the mess.
“Sorry,” Tom told her.
Chris looked embarrassed as she handed Tom more paper napkins.
“You want to just leave?” Chris asked him. Tom nodded, shrugging. The commotion
had attracted the attention of a nearby group people who looked about
university-age. They craned their necks, watching and whispering
surreptitiously.
Chris went over to Noelle and hugged her at the counter before saying goodbye.
“See you later. And sorry about the mess,” he said before joining Tom at the
door.
They drove back in Ryan’s corvette. Nothing good was on the radio so Chris
turned it off as he eased the car onto a gravel road.
Tom started feeling sticky and uncomfortable in his shorts which bore a hideous
chocolatey stain in the middle. He covered it up with his shirt, stretching his
shirt over his knees, and watched as they zipped past a stand of low trees.
Something inside the glove compartment was clattering and Chris asked Tom to
have a look.
Tom rifled through the matchbooks and manuals and pulled out a Ziploc bag of
handrolled cigarettes. He held the bag to eye-level, jiggling it a little.
“Look,” he said.
“Don’t touch that,” Chris said.
“Why not?”
Tom rolled a cigarette between his fingers. “I want to try some,” he said and
rooted through the glove compartment for a lighter.
“Tom,” said Chris. “Tom.”
“Do you have a lighter?” Tom asked him.
Chris hesitated before rolling his eyes, massaging the bridge of his nose.
“Those aren’t cigarettes,” he said.
“I know,” Tom told him.
Chris pulled up on the side of the road, parking the car under the dim shade of
a tree. Sunlight glimmered through its leaves, casting a mottled pattern of
light on the windshield.
“You can try one,” Chris said. “But only one.” He reached across Tom’s seat and
pulled out a lighter from the compartment.
“Just one,” he repeated and lit up.
He held the joint towards Tom who took a ceremonial hit. Chris told him to hold
it in and not to suck too vigorously but he couldn’t stop coughing the first
time. He tried again and the smoke rose up in his throat and sputtered out
between his lips. On his third try, he didn’t cough and he held the hit in his
lungs before blowing it out. It felt good.
“My head feels weird,” Tom said as the weed settled over him a few minutes
later. It imposed itself as a sharp tingling inside his skull, a weighing down
of the limbs. He watched as Chris took the joint from him and held it between
his lips. The burnt end flared orange as he took a powerful hit, a thick curl
of smoke drifting into Tom’s face that Tom inhaled deeply.
“I haven’t gotten high in a long time,” Chris told him, voice raspy. He pounded
his chest with a fist.
“Why not?” Tom asked as Chris passed him back the joint. His smile turned
rueful as he shrugged. “I’m a teacher,” he said, as if that answered anything.
“It’s hard for me to think of you as a teacher,” Tom said and he took another
hit. It burned its way down his throat, soft and thick, and the edges of his
mind started to soften, turn fuzzy. He thought about his mother sitting at the
kitchen table, talking on the phone in her favourite purple frock; he wondered
if she’d seen the note he’d left her on the fridge. He should call her, let her
know he was fine or mostly fine, anyway.
“You shouldn’t think of me as anything,” Chris said, retying his hair behind
his head, arms bulging out of the sleeves of his shirt. “Nothing at all except
your neighbor.”
“You’re a nice neighbor,” Tom said.
“Thanks.” Chris started laughing. “I think.”
They didn’t say anything to each other, passing the joint back and forth until
it got too short and Chris flicked it onto the dirt. They sat staring at the
shadows of leaves crisscrossing the dashboard and Tom closed his eyes and
opened them again before glancing slowly to his left. Chris’s head was angled
back lazily, his arm folded out the window. He glanced back at Tom, eyes half-
lidded, and suddenly Tom knew what he wanted to do.
He leaned across his seat which squeaked under the sudden movement, catching
Chris’ jaw in his palm before surging up to kiss him. Chris didn’t respond at
first and Tom thought he was just being shy so he kissed him harder and faster
in turns, clumsy in his eagerness. But then Chris put a hand on his chest,
stopping him, and shoved him off firmly before Tom could climb into his lap.
Tom felt like he’d been slapped in the face.
“Tom,” said Chris. He sighed and rubbed a hand across his mouth, erasing the
mistake. “I can’t do this with you. We can’t – we’re friends.”
“Friends?” Tom repeated. He lurched back in his seat, his face burning, and
felt something inside him snap in two. “Fuck being friends,” he said.
“Tom,” Chris begged.
Tom slapped Chris’ hand off his arm. He hated the touching, realizing now that
they had probably meant nothing to Chris, that he’d deluded himself all this
time into mistaking Chris’ kindness for something else. He felt irrationally
angry at himself and at Chris, and willed himself not to start crying even
though he could already feel a particularly violent wave of desperation come
over him. He blinked back the sudden wetness in his eyes and kept his teeth
clenched together, telling himself to focus on the anger because it was safer.
But it was like he was balancing on a tightrope, tiny ripples upset his
delicate balance. One wrong thing said and he’d be crying like a child, Tom
knew. That was all it took.
“What was I supposed to think?” he said, keeping his head down, his fists
clenched in his lap. “You take me here on this trip—”
“You asked me to take you!” Chris screamed.
“Well, stop giving me mixed signals! Stop touching me all the time!”
“Do I--” Chris’ face fell and he groaned into his hands. “Jesus,” he said. “Oh,
Tom. Tom.”
Tom left the car, slamming the passenger door shut and marching down the road.
The sun had baked the ground under his feet. A lizard sunning itself on his
path skittered back into the bushes. He didn’t care where he was going, all he
knew was that he had to leave the car or he’d lose it. He couldn’t stand seeing
Chris’ sorry face staring back at him, sympathy written in the lines around his
mouth. He had probably taken a good look at Tom and thought Tom was someone in
need of saving, a project to undertake like an orphaned puppy. Maybe his
friends were right; maybe Chris attracted troubled teens.
Tom heard Chris behind him but didn’t stop even when Chris called his name.
Chris grabbed him by the elbow when he got close enough, spinning him back
around and dragging him forward. Tom tried wrenching his arm free but Chris’
grip was firm and unyielding, bordering on painful as Chris’ fingers tightened
around his arm.
It was the first time Tom realized Chris was older than he was, stronger,
bigger, and that he could probably hurt Tom if he wanted to if Tom tried his
patience.
“Don’t be like this,” Chris said. “Listen to me.” He let go of Tom’s elbow and
studied his face.
“I don’t think we can be friends,” Tom told him, keeping his gaze on the
ground. He was afraid that if he looked directly at Chris, he would start
crying and never stop. A lump had firmly lodged itself in his throat. Chris
said nothing for a long time and then stepped back, sighing and running a hand
through his hair.
“I think you’re right,” he said resolutely. “I’m sorry I led you on. I’m sorry
I took an interest in you; I thought you were… I don’t know what I thought you
were or what I was thinking at the time, but you’re right. You’re totally
right. We can’t be friends. Not like this.” He made to touch Tom’s shoulder
then thought better of it and swung his hand back down. “Can you at least get
back in the car with me? Please?”
Tom shrugged, pocketing both his hands, and stared down at the dirt, at the
straggling weeds that shot up between his shoes.
“I’ll wait,” Chris told him. “Take your time.”
Tom watched as Chris walked away, the dark shape of him growing fainter and
fainter as the distance between them lengthened. Even though it wasn’t that
hot, heat waves were rising off the ground, shimmering as the sun baked the
dirt.
Tom waited a few minutes before starting after Chris. No cars drove past him on
the road.
By the time Tom reached the corvette, his foot had started hurting again and he
forgot all about wanting to cry.
---
Tom started pulling his shirt off the second he locked the door behind him. He
needed a shower; his shirt smelled rank with sweat. He changed into cleaner
clothes and rolled his socks together in a ball before stuffing them at the
bottom of his backpack where his clothes from yesterday were folded.
He felt dizzy from the weed, a little lightheaded, so he lay curled up on his
side on the bed and closed his eyes. Birds were squawking outside his window,
calling out to each other. Somewhere below the ocean hummed and Tom imagined he
could hear it, wind lapping the sparkling surface.
He reached under the quilt and felt the worn material of Chris’ sweatshirt
brush his fingers. He pulled it out, holding it to his face then folded the
sweatshirt to use as a pillow. It still smelled like Chris but his scent was a
little fainter now, harder to chase.
Tom fell asleep and dreamt that Chris was stroking his hair. He lay with his
head in Chris’ lap and they were back in Chris’ couch, watching a silly black
and white movie on VHS. When he jerked awake to the vigorous knocking on the
door, Tom blinked around, frantically looking for Chris till he remembered
where he was. He stuffed Chris sweatshirt back under the pillow and smoothed
back his hair.
Outside it was already dark. No stars though, not tonight. Tom answered the
door and it was Liam, holding a plate of food.
“Did Chris send you?”
Liam shook his head. “He went for a drive with the others. I stayed behind.
Well, they didn’t really want me to come, but I didn’t want to go, either, so.”
He set the plate on the dresser which was cluttered with some of Tom’s stuff: a
bottle of mosquito repellant and some sunscreen, one flip-flop, the few
paperbacks he’d brought with him stacked in a haphazard pile.
“You like Hemingway?” Liam asked, seating himself at the foot Tom’s bed. Tom
inspected the plate: a turkey sandwich cut in twin triangles, a few baby
carrots on the side, a spoonful of mustard.
“I don’t particularly hate him,” Tom said, chewing on a piece of carrot. “Do
you read?”
“Not enough,” Liam laughed. “Chris does though.”
Tom tried not to let his expression betray anything. “Does Chris teach
literature?” he finally asked.
“Economics,” Liam said knowledgeably. “Our dad was the Lit professor before he
retired. Now he just lectures horses back at the ranch.”
Tom nodded and took another carrot, sucking it into his mouth absently. “Thanks
for the food,” he said eventually.
“Don’t mention it. I hope I didn’t wake you or anything. You’ve been asleep the
entire day.”
“Not really,” said Tom. “Just for a few hours.”
Liam blushed. “Yeah, that’s what I meant. Anyway.” He stood up and patted his
pockets. “I’ll just leave if I’m bothering you. My room is three doors to your
left so if you need anything, you know where to look for me. Enjoy your food.”
Liam nodded then left, closing the door behind him.
Tom sat at the dresser and ate his dinner in silence, realizing he was hungrier
than he initially thought. He finished his meal under ten minutes and
afterwards went to what he assumed was Liam’s door.
Liam opened after the fourth and final knock, blinking at Tom in surprise, like
he was expecting someone else.
They were nearly the same height and it was jarring to be standing almost nose
to nose with him. Liam looked exactly like Chris except his face was narrower,
and his eyes, up close, were a little too close together. But he had the same
thick eyebrows and wide shoulders, with a few details off the mark like a self-
conscious hunch that Chris didn’t seem to have.
“Hi,” said Tom, not really knowing why he was there. He put on his best smile
and it hurt a little, keeping it in place. “Didn’t you say you wanted to do
something, earlier?”
Two hours later they were sprawled on Liam’s floor, drunk on cheap gin. Tom
watched the ceiling fan spin in dizzying circles above him and complained to
Liam that his room wasn’t even properly ventilated.
“It used to be a store room,” Liam explained, rubbing a hand through his face.
He made a blubbery noise and Tom laughed because he thought it was funny.
“Are you really my brother’s neighbor?” Liam asked.
Tom poured himself a cup of sprite which they had mixed earlier with the gin.
“Why do you ask?”
“I don’t know,” said Liam, watching him suck on a lime. “He had bad experiences
with his students before. There was this one girl who fucked him up. That Kim
girl, who I guess you already sort of know about.”
“What happened, anyway?” Tom asked carefully, pushing himself next to Liam,
dunking the lime back into his cup. He watched it float in his drink, sizzling
to the bottom, as he waited for an answer.
“She was kind of normal at first, you know,” Liam said. “But then she started
following my brother around and calling him at home and when he told her to
stop she went crazy and told anybody who would listen that she used to be in a
relationship with Chris.”
Tom stiffened and almost dropped his cup. “Did she?” he asked.
“What?” said Liam.
“Did she used to be in a relationship with Chris?” Tom asked.
Liam snorted at him, shoving at him gently. “Don’t be stupid.”
“I guess we’ll never know,” Tom said.
“Shut up.” Liam shoved again; he got physical when he was drunk, Tom noticed.
“He wasn’t. Trust me, I’d know. Chris isn’t all that hard to read.” He eyed Tom
from head to foot and then smiled, shaking his head. “How old did you say you
were again? Fifteen?”
Tom finished his drink and felt it burn down his throat. He wobbled a little as
he lifted himself up to the bed. “Seventeen, not fifteen,” he croaked.
“Could have fooled me,” Liam said. “Anyway, I hate to break it to you but
you’re too young for my brother.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” said Tom, laughing nervously,
feeling his heart climb up his throat. He looked at the ceiling and realized he
was lying flat on his back, not even knowing when that had happened.
“I really hope for your sake and his that you don’t do anything you’ll both
regret,” Liam continued in the same wistful tone.
“Why are you telling me this?” Tom said, face reddening. He was drunk and
irritated, all set for a fit. He sat up and felt the world swim underneath him
so he lay back down and settled on his side instead. He had a good view of
Liam’s flushed face, which up close, looked like a giant messy blur, vague and
colorless.
“Seriously,” Liam said. “Don’t do it.”
“Don’t do what?” said Tom.
Liam shrugged and tipped back his head. He opened his mouth like he was about
to say something and Tom realized he had fallen asleep when Liam started to
snore.
Tom left the lights on and stepped over Liam’s extended legs, stumbling back to
his room. He lay on the bed, in the dark, and watched patterns of light bisect
the ceiling. He was only half-asleep, dreaming he was crouched at the bottom of
the sea, waiting for the right moment to emerge, when Chris shook him awake the
next morning.
“We’re leaving,” Chris said, getting up from the bed.
Tom’s head was hurting. The gin had made his stomach feel sour and he was
cranky on top of the headache. The sun had asserted itself in the sky.
Chris said he wanted to leave before lunch so Tom better get ready and haul his
things back to the car. It was only nine in the morning when Tom went to check
the time in the kitchen, lugging his backpack behind him, dragging a path of
dust across the floor. He made the bed in his room and put everything back in
its proper place, closing the drawers, smoothing the wrinkles from the sheets.
He shuttered the window.
They were pulling out of the driveway when he remembered he’d left Chris’
sweatshirt folded under his pillow. He darted back into the room and stuffed
the sweatshirt inside a canvas bag that he found lying around in the kitchen –
Patti’s probably – ignoring Chris’ questioning look as he returned to the
passenger seat and put on his seatbelt.
“What’s in the bag?” Chris said, like yesterday’s argument hadn’t happened. His
face seemed believable, his eyes calm and cool.
Tom didn’t answer and Chris put on some music before backing the car out of the
driveway. He adjusted the rearview mirror when they reached the bottom of the
hill and waved as they passed Marisol and Ryan who were on their way to the
beach.
---
Tom’s back started itching halfway into the drive. Chris stopped at a
convenience store to buy him some aloe vera gel and even asked if Tom wanted to
call his mother from a payphone. He seemed to be trying to force some degree of
normalcy back into their drive and even went as far as giving Tom money for
food.
Tom wasn’t hungry though, just tired, and his stomach roiled with every bump
they passed on the road. He was more focused on getting his back to stop
itching, scraping his nails down his skin and trying to reach impossible spots.
Tears of frustration sprang to his eyes. The incessant itching made him
irritable and he snapped at Chris when Chris asked him if he was all right.
Chris suspected the itching was caused by sunburn and steered over to the
gravel shoulder to examine the damage.
“It looks bad,” he said, pushing Tom’s shirt up, fingering sections where the
skin have peeled off. He didn’t elaborate on how bad he thought it was and
pulled Tom’s shirt down. Tom spent another half hour rubbing his back furtively
against the seat, scratching himself like a cat, ignoring Chris’ warnings not
to aggravate the skin, mostly to spite him but also, in part, because the
friction felt good.
Finally after another half hour, they procured some aloe vera. Chris watched
Tom struggle with the application and veered off to the roadside, leaving the
engine running as he unclipped his seatbelt to face Tom.
“Take your shirt off,” Chris said.
Tom flinched and Chris asked him again. “Come on,” Chris sighed and gave him an
annoyed look. He parked his hair behind his ear. “What?” he said. “Now isn’t
the time to act like a big baby. Just take off your shirt.”
It was that particular comment that set Tom’s teeth on edge. He kept his face
turned away as he hitched his shirt over his head, rolling it in a tight ball
in his lap. Behind him, Chris clicked his tongue, the same way Tom’s mother
used to when Tom did something she deemed foolish or annoying.
Chris poured a glob of gel onto his fingers before tentatively lathering Tom’s
back. The gel felt cool and soothing and dried quickly on Tom’s skin, which
tingled a little from the residual heat of Chris’ palm.
Chris rubbed some more between Tom’s shoulder blades, like he knew where the
itch was concentrated and paused once he reached the top of Tom’s spine. His
hand closed around the base of Tom’s nape, making the tiny hairs there stand on
end as he began a slow massage.
“You’re too thin,” he said, rubbing more gel onto Tom’s back. He was methodical
about the whole process and never lingered, working in slow circular strokes
that made Tom sigh and his shoulders droop forward.
Tom held his lip between his teeth; he didn’t want to make any weird noises. He
thought about the kiss yesterday and how he had embarrassed himself; he told
himself none of this meant a thing, not to Chris.
“You need to eat more,” Chris said.
“I’m just naturally thin,” Tom told him but Chris didn’t laugh. He finished
after a few minutes and handed Tom the bottle.
“Maybe you should keep your shirt off,” Chris said, staring at his hands which
were shiny with gel. He wiped them on his shirt, leaving damp patches.
“You all right? Feeling any better?”
Tom shrugged. It didn’t itch as much but the discomfort hadn’t completely
abated. He reached over his shoulders and slapped a fat dollop between them for
good measure, looking up at the sound of Chris’ sudden laughter.
Tom put on his shirt gingerly, leaning forward with one hand braced on the
dashboard, careful not to let his back touch the seat.
“You know, you look funny like that,” Chris said and tugged Tom’s shirt over
his waist. He smoothed it down with his fingers and smiled before tapping the
steering wheel with the same hand. The song on the radio changed to something
more upbeat, something about the sun and a long desert road. Tom thought it
sounded familiar but couldn’t put a name to it and before long Chris started
humming as a field of corn loomed into view. It was getting dark again, the sun
gone into hiding as dark clouds rolled across the sky.
Tom kept his gaze trained dutifully out the window and remembered he had less
than two weeks left before school began. He was starting to miss it, the
grueling assignments, his required readings, the drama club which he’d recently
joined.
Soon, his back started itching again; he didn’t ask Chris for help.
When they stopped for food an hour later at a roadside inn, Tom spent ten
minutes in the bathroom, reapplying aloe vera to his shoulders. He washed his
hands in the dirty sink and he didn’t feel safe touching the toilet paper so he
dried his hands on his shirt and pants.
As he walked back to the room, he caught Chris staring morosely at the bowl of
soup in front of him, elbow propped on the table.
Tom felt secretly gratified to see him looking so dejected and let Chris
wallow. He waited awhile before joining him, ignoring Chris’ strained smile and
attempts at making small talk.
It was better this way, he told himself. He didn’t want to feel kindly towards
Chris.
***** three *****
Tom began to dream that he was eight years old again and lost in the woods.
The temperature felt Arctic as he plodded through the snow, dragging a bettered
red sled behind him. Then the ground beneath him started to shake, splintering
in all directions till it cracked open under his shoes. He fell backwards in a
dark chasm and woke violently with his cheek swimming in a small puddle of
drool. He was lying with his feet pointed to the headboard, his headphones slid
over his ears, playing the same Bob Dylan track on loop. He checked the time on
the nightstand. 6:45 in glaring red. He had half an hour to get ready for
school.
Downstairs, his mother was checking her reflection in the hallway mirror. She
smiled at him as he passed her on the way out, fingering her curls before
puckering up. Maybe it was the knowledge that she was pregnant but it looked to
Tom like she was already starting to show; her breasts seemed rounder and
fuller, her stomach pushed out like she had too much to eat. She handed him
lunch money from her purse and watched him make his way down the street before
closing the door.
Tom’s first week back had taken some getting used to; he kept waking up from
strange dreams that made him feel inexplicably tired the next day. Eventually
the dreams stopped exhausting him though they still remained strange and
confusing.
He had a Physics test in the afternoon that he’d barely studied for and a paper
due that week on Niccolo Machiavelli’s The Prince.
Tom mentally went over a list of assignments that had to be turned in that day
as he waited for the bus to arrive, tapping his foot to the warbled music
floating from the house behind him. At lunch, as June tucked herself into the
table, asking him if he’d read the first five chapters of A Tale of Two Cities,
he handed her his highlighted copy of the book with notes scribbled on the
margins. He’d met her at a club meeting when the drama moderator, Mrs. Lumbly,
assigned them roles for the Christmas play. They were both in the props
department; neither of them could act, she said.
Together, they walked to the Physics lab, firing questions about capacitors and
sound diffraction at each other. June was nice, a freckly waifish girl with
round silver glasses and she made Tom feel less alone. June was friendless just
like he was and had moved in recently from Canada. She was just as hopeless and
they had recognized that in each other on the first day.
The two of them kept walking, pulling their sleeves over their hands in the
growing cold, shouldering past each other.
It was only October but the trees that flanked the courtyard no longer provided
any shade. Sometime a few weeks ago they’d begun fast shedding their leaves.
Tom thought they looked sickly naked, stripped bare to the bark, their branches
like thin dark scribbles in the dreary morning sky.
Tom did badly on his test, twirling his pen between his fingers as he stared at
the questions till they seemed to blur in front of him. He gave himself a
headache, embedding the tip of his pen into the paper until he’d worn a hole
through, thinking about the Christmas play and lighting cues he kept getting
wrong during rehearsals.
Later, June walked home with him in commiseration, even though she lived in an
entirely different neighborhood, twenty minutes away. They spent the rest of
the afternoon playing music and taking tiny sips of the gin she had nicked from
her mother’s stash.
June leaned out of the open window, her arms and hair dangling in front of her.
“Your really hot neighbor’s home,” she said, pointing across the street,
turning to him. “And he’s got a lady with him. An equally hot lady. ”
Tom lifted his head and crawled over to the window. June wasn’t lying: Chris’
car was in the driveway and a tall blond woman was helping him ferry boxes from
the trunk. Tom watched them for a moment, talking and laughing, touching each
other a lot, before walking back to his bed where all his history books were
spread out in a half-circle. He smoothed the sheet with one hand and then
remembered he was still standing so he sat down, behind the half-circle.
“He’s really good looking,” June said. He heard her sigh.“Doesn’t he teach at
Gates or something? You should introduce us.”
Tom shot her a look.
“Or maybe not,” she said, rolling her eyes and adjusting her glasses. She
passed him the bottle of gin, shrugging when he didn’t take it, taking a tiny
sip and then a heftier one.
“My cousin goes to Gates,” she told him, watching him pretend to read his
barely legible notes. “He says all the boys there are mostly gay. Mostly
because when they’re in school, they’re into guys and suck each other off, but
then they leave or graduate and they’re hetero again. Just like that.” She
snapped her finger. “Cool, huh?”
“Stupid more like,” Tom said, disgusted.
June rubbed the skin under her eyes, like she was getting a headache. “It’s
true though. Rich attests to it.”
“Is your cousin gay?”
“He could be,” said June. “He probably is. All that Shakespeare and Latin.
Plus, he spends a lot of money on hair products and has really nice nailbeds.
You might like him. He’s a little bit like you, a bookworm.” She sniffed and
sat cross-legged on the floor to start on her homework.
Tom saw her off at the front door and waved goodbye, watching from the corner
of his eye as Chris and the woman walked back to the car. He caught Chris’ gaze
for a second then looked away, dropping down to his feet to retie his
shoelaces. He heard the rev of a car engine and looked up to see Chris’ car
easing onto the street. As it cruised past Tom’s front porch, he saw Chris
laughing in the driver seat, reaching out for the woman next to him to help her
with her seatbelt.
Tom stood and watched the car disappear round the bend. Then he went upstairs
and threw himself facedown on the bed, forgetting to do his homework. He fell
asleep.
---
Halloween was a night of black and orange. Tom had planned to stay indoors that
night and watch something on TV but his involvement with the drama club made
him socially obligated to attend a party that one of the main actors was
throwing. Besides, he had nothing better to do anyway and he didn’t want to
keep watching the light in Chris’ window turn off then on. It was too
depressing. He’d exhausted himself crying the first night he’d returned from
their trip. The week after that, he went through his routine like a zombie,
only acutely aware of his surroundings until schoolwork started piling up and
he had no choice but to snap himself out of his daze.
They were doing Anna and the King that year and the girl playing Anna had
invited everyone to her house, including the crew. Tom didn’t even know what
her name was; he and June were invited by association, hearing all about the
party via osmosis.
It was a costume party and because Anna’s parents were lenient and she was a
senior, June said there was more or less going to be alcohol. June went dressed
as The Good Witch Glinda from The Wizard of Oz, outfitted in dusty pink tulle
and a coffee can disguised in glitter and silver fabric sitting atop her head.
Tom couldn’t think of what he wanted to go as so he had let June pick. She
decided he had to be the Prince from The Frog Prince.
“It’s a little romantic,” she’d told him. “A kiss from your true love would
turn you back into a handsome prince.”
“That remains to be seen,” Tom said.
June shrugged helplessly. “Hope springs eternal.”
From the bottom up, Tom’s costume consisted of scuba flippers, green tights,
and leotards he had borrowed from his mother’s closet. A green felt cape was
sewn haphazardly on the back of the leotards, reaching past his knees. June
daubed green face paint onto his cheeks, nose, and forehead, and Tom checked
his reflection in the hallway mirror and saw that he looked nothing like a frog
or a prince. “I’m not sure what I am anymore,” he said.
“A mutant,” June said, grinning. They burst out laughing. Neither of them owned
a car so they took the bus to Anna’s house, shaky with excitement as they
walked through the wrought-iron gates.
The brick driveway was lined with carved pumpkins whose ghastly faces glowed
orange in the dark. Inside there were already a handful of people, standing in
corners, holding plastic cups. The living room was decorated in orange and
white streamers, tiny fairy lights that blinked in alternating patterns. Tom
allowed himself to be impressed and headed to the punch table where he poured
himself a drink, poured June one too and watched as people drifted in and out
of the door, like wraiths.
To a certain extent, everyone seemed to know each other. People were kissing on
the cheek, like they hadn’t seen each other in a long time, laughing at the
same stupid jokes. Someone started a conga line and several people followed,
whooping and cheering, dancing to trumpet-filled tunes that thumped from the
speakers. Tom wasn’t sure why but he felt uneasy watching them. He wondered if
he could ever be like that, carefree and fun instead of anxious and sad.
“Let’s look for booze,” June said.
Tom followed her out the door. They joined a rowdy crowd of people sitting on
the grass outside. A girl dressed up as a bumble bee sat on a cooler, smoking a
cigarette. When Tom asked one of them – the guy with the fake prophetic beard –
if he knew anyone who had access to liquor, the bumble bee girl laughed and
threw back her head. Her breath smelled sour as she swung an arm around Tom’s
shoulder and handed him a can. “There’s plenty for everyone,” she said.
She wasn’t joking. Pretty soon, Tom felt the alcohol work its way into his
system. His fourth can and he was tipsy, loose, laughter escaping him in sudden
bursts as he lay on his back, pointing at the stars winking down at him. He
tried naming all the constellations he knew, stopping abruptly as soon as he
realized no one was listening or interested. The Prophet started doing
backflips to impress the girls who clapped their hands and tittered, telling
him to do some more. When Tom finally got up an hour later, his head swam a
little and he had to brace himself against the wall to maintain his balance.
June had left an hour ago and disappeared with someone in a wizard robe. Tom
thought about searching for her, seeing if she was doing all right, but he was
drunk and started caring less about her and more about himself. He took the bus
home, snagging the felt cape off his shoulders and using it as a pillow. He
walked down the dark street to his house, remembered his mother was still at
the hospital with the keys, and sat out in the porch, cradling his face in his
hands. He wanted to sleep. He was hungry, his stomach cramping from the wave of
hunger and the settling booze. But he wanted to sleep it all off.
Tom looked up at the sound of a screen door banging shut: Chris was taking out
the trash, in the same flannel shirt Tom remembered he wore the night they
watched that movie about clowns. Chris saw him staring and waved, and,
mistaking Tom’s lack of hostility as an invitation, walked towards Tom
cautiously, like he was circling a scared animal.
Tom closed his eyes again, willing him to go away, please please go away, but
Chris sat next to him on the creaky third step, oblivious to his turmoil. He
even nudged Tom’s knee with his, grinning.
“Hey,” he said.
Tom made a noncommittal noise, still clutching his face. He waited a beat
before answering. This was the last thing he needed, he thought, and berated
himself for not remembering to ask his mother for the keys. She’d been there
when he had left for the party; he’d forgotten she had to work tonight.
“Hi,” he said.
“What are you supposed to be?” Chris asked, eyeing him with raised eyebrows.
Tom shrugged, scrubbing his face of face paint till his cheeks started to hurt.
He knew he probably looked like an idiot, with flippers and fucking green
tights which made his ass and thighs itch as he sweated in them. Embarrassed,
he tilted his head sideways, towards the street, and let his arms hang over his
knees as he sniffed. “What do you think?” he said. “What do I look like?”
“Very green,” said Chris. He laughed softly. “Are you a newt?”
“I’m a mutant,” Tom snorted, rolling his eyes. “Close,” he said when Chris
frowned at him. “I’m a frog.”
“That’s very creative,” Chris said. He ran a hand along Tom’s arm, feeling the
shiny green leotard with his fingers, making Tom’s heart jump in his throat.
Tom tried to remember how Chris’ kiss tasted like two months ago, heady from
the pot, but underneath that wet and sweet. He didn’t want Chris to stop
touching him. He wanted to lean his head against those great big shoulders and
fall asleep to the sound of Chris’ voice. Tom thought about all his favourite
movies, about the pivotal scenes in them when something fantastically strange
happened to the characters. It altered the course of their fate, filling their
lives with greater meaning or else led them to the road to ruin. He wondered
now if this were his moment. He felt like doing something brave and stupid but
he’d done that before and it didn’t lead him to any epiphanies. All it did was
bring him grief.
Tom’s chin wobbled as a crisp breeze ruffled the top of his hair. It was a
windy night tonight and he shivered and bent forward, looping his arms across
his knees, hugging them to his chest.
“I feel like we haven’t talked in awhile,” said Chris.
“Whose fault do you think it is?” Tom mumbled. “What ever happened to ‘we can’t
be friends’?”
Chris looked at him, said nothing for a long moment. “Sorry,” he said with a
wry smile.
Tom was sorry too. He wished things could go back to the way they were before.
He wanted to hang out at Chris’ house again, sit on his couch, watch his stupid
movies, eat his food. He didn’t care whether Chris liked him back or not; it
was the pity in his eyes that Tom couldn’t stand.
“How’s your mother?” asked Chris.
“Pregnant,” Tom said. Ellis’ baby, he supposed. He tried not to think about it.
“Three months.”
Chris smiled gently. “And you?”
“I’m a green mutant, obviously,” Tom said, stretching his arms for emphasis and
shaking a flipper. It fell with a loud slap on the ground which made Chris
laugh and throw an arm around his shoulders though he pulled away again a
second later.
“Your mother’s not home yet?”
Tom swiveled his head in his direction. “What do you think I’m doing outside?”
“Getting fresh air?” Chris guessed.
Tom got up to his feet and stretched, feeling his joints pop. “Yes,” he said,
gritting his teeth. “That’s totally it.”
Chris stood up too. “Have you been drinking?” He didn’t look like he approved
so Tom didn’t answer him and simply shrugged. “I was at a party where there may
have been alcohol. What else was there to do? I didn’t want to be a social
pariah.” He tried not to raise his voice though the way Chris was staring at
him now made it hard; he hated that judgmental look. He got enough of it from
his mother; he didn’t need to see it on Chris too.
“What have you been doing all night?” he asked instead, changing the subject.
Chris pocketed one hand, pushing the hair back from his face with the other. He
looked strange with his shorter hair, older, more responsible. Tom resented
this new haircut and wondered what other things Chris had to change about
himself in order to fit in at Gates. It didn’t seem fair.
Chris answered him with a wry smile. “Nothing too important,” he said. “You
know. I didn’t feel like going out so I mostly sat around in the living room
grading papers.” He frowned when he reached for Tom’s cheek and brushed paint
off with his thumb. Tom shied away from the touch when he did it again, pausing
to look into his face without blinking. Tom rubbed at the spot frantically,
hating the way his skin filled with heat.
“Careful,” he said, curling his toes in his flippers. “You don’t want me to be
getting any wrong ideas.”
Chris just swiped his finger across Tom’s cheek again, smearing paint off his
jaw, with more force, like he was trying to spite him. “Your make-up is
starting to melt,” he said, like it genuinely bothered him. He frowned, tipping
up Tom’s chin, palming his cheek gently, examining the green residue between
his fingers.
“It’s not make-up,” Tom said, watching him frown at his hand.
“Well, whatever it is, you should wash it off.”
“Probably,” Tom agreed. “I’m locked out though.” He gestured to the door behind
him and Chris nodded, slapped Tom on the shoulders, nearly knocking him off his
feet with his strength. Tom glared at him but his ire faded; Chris’ gaze had
softened and he was staring at Tom in a way that made Tom’s pulse accelerate.
But he didn’t like it; he’d felt this before.
“You hungry?” Chris said, rubbing him on the shoulder. “I’ll make you a grilled
cheese sandwich while you get that gunk off your face, how’s that sound?”
Truthfully, Tom wanted to tell Chris he wasn’t a kid anymore and that he hated
it whenever he was treated like one, belittled because of his age. He was a
teenager, not a moron. But he was tired and Chris’ arm felt warm around him,
familiar and safe.
Tom focused on keeping his breathing even and steady, and felt his resolve
crumble as Chris squeezed him again. He leaned in in spite of himself and let
Chris lead him across the street, up to his familiar green door, and inside his
living room which smelled clean and floral like air freshener. Nothing about
the living room seemed to have changed; everything was in its rightful place:
the couch with its lumpy cushions, dented where Chris had been sitting in it
the whole night, the TV which played a flickering old film. Even the curtains
were the same, a deep patternless blue.
Chris pointed him down the hall, clapping him on the back. He seemed happier
now and Tom tried to summon an ounce of glee but couldn’t.
“You know where everything is,” Chris said. “Get that stuff off your face and
no flippers in my bathroom.” He smiled, wagging a finger, before heading into
the kitchen. Tom watched him leave.
---
Tom stood in front of the bathroom mirror, assessing his face. The green hadn’t
come off completely no matter how hard he scrubbed; the soap made his skin itch
and his curls were drenched from the repeated rinsing. He walked to the kitchen
where a plate of fresh grilled cheese sandwiches sat at the table.
Chris was setting a mug down in the sink and hanging an apron on a hook behind
the door.
“Bon appétit,” he said with a theatrical bow. “Hey, your face is still green.”
“I know,” Tom said. “It is. Thanks for the food.”
Tom ate quietly, slowly, washing his sandwiches down with a glass of orange
juice that Chris poured for him while he jabbered on about work and graded
papers, circling wrong answers with a red felt tip pen. Crumbs dotted Chris’
face as he finished his own sandwich, stuffing the last bite into his mouth and
reaching for another set of answer sheets to grade.
Tom still found it hard to think of him as a teacher, especially with the way
Chris carried himself. He didn’t sound particularly intelligent or
knowledgeable in his field of interest, and even his house held no indication
of his profession. Tom tried picturing Chris lecturing a roomful of students in
pleated pants and crisp Oxford shirts, talking about aggregate supply and
demand and wearing a respectable blue bowtie. In this fantasy, he held a large
ruler aloft.
Chris, with his long hair and surfboard, seemed more at home at the beach. It
didn’t seem to make any sense that he’d make a career out of teaching.
Chris gave him some Vaseline for the face paint and lingered at the table long
after Tom had finished eating to help him scrub off. Tom wondered what a
picture they must make to an onlooker: Chris in a pair of worn out moccasins
that he used as slippers, in his jeans and old flannel shirt, Tom dressed like
a terrible excuse for an amphibian, tipping his face up as Chris wiped his chin
clean like Tom was five years old and incapable of doing it himself. Finally,
Chris was done and grabbed their plates to set down in the sink.
“You want to change out of your costume?” he asked over the sound of running
water. “I’ll get you a clean shirt. Hang on a second.”
Chris fetched him a set of clothes from his closet, thundering down the stairs.
The clothes were big but comfortable, hanging off Tom’s body like a bed sheet
or a parachute. He folded the sleeves to his elbows and padded back into the
living room barefoot where Chris sat with his legs crossed at the ankles and
propped on the coffee table. He was wearing reading glasses, writing in a
leather journal.
Tom’s mother still wasn’t home when he peered out the window. He sighed and
threw himself on the couch. It gave a miserable squeak.
Chris looked up from his journal, one eyebrow raised. His glasses slipped down
his nose so he pushed them up.
“She’s still out and about,” Tom explained. He folded his hands across his
stomach, drummed his fingers against his knuckles, staring at his lap. “How’s
work?” he asked, not looking at Chris.
“Work is fine,” Chris said. “Thanks for asking.”
“Are those Gates boys giving you trouble?” Tom asked, remembering how June said
some boys would sneak into the woods behind the school to smoke or masturbate
with each other. “I hear they can be quite the handful sometimes.”
“They’re…” Chris paused, like he was grappling for the right word. “Radically
different from what I’m used to but they’re not so bad. Some of them like me. I
think.”
He shrugged, caught Tom looking at him and smiled awkwardly. “How was your
party?”
“Uneventful.” Tom stared at his toes, hooking them over the edge of the coffee
table. They were too pale, long and curved like little maggots. “It’s weird,”
he said, eventually. “Sitting here again. With you.” He chewed on the inside of
his lip and heard Chris putting down his journal and shifting around to face
him.
“Yeah, it is, I guess,” Chris whispered. “But I missed having you around too.
Eating all my food, barging in here at the all hours of the day.” He tried to
make a joke out of it, Tom could tell, but he was failing miserably, his grin
melting off the longer he held it.
Still, the effort was appreciated. Tom faked a smile that Chris returned and
for a brief moment it felt like the last two months had never happened, that
the argument and the kiss in the car had been nothing more than a bad dream, a
fluke, and that Tom didn’t spend the first two weeks after their trip sick with
heartache, watching Chris from his living room window, waiting until his car
appeared in the driveway.
Chris left him in the living room to sleep, when, an hour later, there were
still no signs of Tom’s mother. Tom lay there in the dark, restless, curling
and uncurling himself on the couch, his face powdery with leftover paint. He
shook out his blanket and grabbed a glass of water in the kitchen, standing
under the warm glow of the refrigerator light.
He couldn’t sleep, so he started exploring the rest of the house, recalling how
certain rooms looked when the Helprins used to live there: the cluttered
closets and overstuffed drawers with yellowing receipts and jewelry, the boxes
packed with old clothes and cheap trinkets and photo albums. But most of those
were gone now, replaced by moderate pieces of furniture, a light dresser, a
Scandinavian bookshelf laden with paperbacks, a wooden table filled with
photographs of Chris’ friends and family. Tom collected all the CDs he found
lying around and put them back in the rack in living room.
He climbed up the stairs and lingered in the open doorway of Chris’ room. He’d
never been on the second floor before – it had always been out of bounds till
now and he never really had a reason to venture there.
Chris was asleep on his stomach, his hair falling like an avalanche across his
face. The walls of his rooms were bare, painted a forest green. Light spilled
in from the window, illuminating the polished hardwood floors. The room, when
Tom breathed in deep, smelled faintly of pine.
Tom heard the distant rumble of a car chugging past in the street below. He
held his breath, thinking that the sound would wake Chris but Chris barely
stirred and his breathing remained even. Tom waited a whole minute before
sneaking towards the bed, keeping his footsteps light and quiet, making sure
nothing creaked. He sat at the foot of the bed and watched Chris sleep. The
sound of his gentle snoring filled the room and his back expanded under the
thin sheet with every breath.
Tom lay down on the cool side of the bed, careful not to let any part of
himself touch Chris. Then he closed his eyes.
It was still dark when he woke to the bed shifting. He heard the mattress
squeak, felt it dip and lift, and when he finally blinked his eyes open saw
Chris as a lumbering blur making his way out the door. Chris returned a few
minutes later with a glass of water which he set down on the nightstand and Tom
snapped his eyes shut, forcing himself to relax and appear asleep.
Chris sat on his side of the bed. It was a long moment before Tom felt safe to
open his eyes again. Chris’ back faced him, and he was hunched over his knees,
staring at something on the floor. Before Chris caught him awake, Tom shut his
eyes again and felt Chris move next to him, shift around; he heard him sigh and
mutter something that Tom couldn’t quite catch.
Tom knew Chris was staring at him, looking into his face. He wasn’t sure how he
knew it, but he was positive that that was what Chris was doing. Somewhere in
the street a car honked its horn twice. The window rattled then creaked as
early morning wind pushed against it. Tom counted his own breathing, making
sure it was deep and relaxed.
Then Chris’ hand was suddenly on the hem of his shirt, pulling it down where it
had slid up his stomach in his sleep. Chris touched Tom’s hair, swept it to one
side and then the other, parting his curls, rearranging them. He thumbed Tom’s
hairline gently, letting his knuckles drift over Tom’s eyebrows, down his cheek
and jaw. His fingers ghosted across the sides of Tom’s mouth which Tom did his
best not to part though what he really wanted to do was lean over and kiss
Chris’ hand. He didn’t do it though; that would’ve been stupid, strange. He
wanted to savor this, take in and remember every little detail.
Chris let go of him and got up before he could linger, throwing a sheet over
Tom’s chest and tugging the end over Tom’s feet. Then he stood by the bed some
more and sighed before turning around and leaving.
As his footsteps began to fade, Tom released a shuddery breath and sat up. He
stared at the empty cavernous doorway and touched his chest. His heart raced
under his shirt.
---
Tom couldn’t concentrate on his schoolwork. He couldn’t bear to look at his
notes from class or his books. He was sick of all of it, of all his classes,
and kept thinking back to that night in Chris’ room, the touching that was a
little more than friendly. Chris said they could only be friends but Tom
wondered constantly what that even entailed. Chris was nearly thirty, taught at
Gates, and most probably didn’t see him as anything more than a stupid
teenager. They had nothing in common except for the fact that they lived in the
same street.
Still, there was that night that Tom kept replaying in his head.
Sometimes, he’d dream about it too, about Chris’ hand on his face, moving down
to his chest, under his shirt. In his dreams Chris would be undressing him,
kissing every inch of him until he squirmed and panted hard. His skin would be
damp from Chris’ licking, as wet as Chris’ mouth. And there were Chris’ hands,
which were capable of such tenderness but also great violence, kneading his
thighs, parting them, his long fingers leaving indentations where they gripped
Tom’s hips.
Tom would usually wake from these dreams before anything substantial happened,
aching in his underwear or having already come in them. He’d sit by the window
afterwards, freshly showered and drinking tea, curled up in his favourite chair
as he watched cars coming home or driving past Chris’ house, sometimes
wondering if Chris thought about him too or if he was asleep and dreaming of
the same thing, of Tom.
---
The play was scheduled to run for three nights in a row starting on the twelfth
of December. In the days preceding that, Tom found himself busy with crew work,
carrying planks backstage and helping build the set, arriving home too tired to
do anything else but eat and sleep. He stopped doing his homework. He and June
practiced lighting and sound cues together and after rehearsals tried out all
of the costumes, swarthy silk robes and long flowing dresses, scratchy cheap
wigs that swallowed their entire heads and were dusty from unuse.
“You should keep the wig,” June said one day when they were fooling around,
swapping scarves and hats in front of the full length mirror. All the actors
had gone home and they had been left behind to do cleanup. She adjusted the
puffy dress he’d worn over his clothes, twirling him around so that the thick
skirts swished around his legs. “You’d make a pretty girl,” she said. “It’s
your cheekbones; you have really nice ones. Here, put on some lipstick.”
She stood in front of him and applied red lipstick to his mouth carefully,
looking pleased with herself after she had finished. Tom checked his reflection
in the mirror and thought he didn’t look any different, not particularly pretty
or ugly, but plain and unassuming. He rubbed the lipstick off his mouth and it
smeared like clown make-up across his cheek, red and angry.
June pocketed her lipstick. “Even better,” she said. “Now you look like a sad
prostitute.”
On the last day of rehearsal before opening night, all the actors missed their
marks. They stood in the dark, reciting their lines, even though Tom’s lights
were right where they should be, on taped Xs on the floor. Tom went home later
than usual, in a jauntier mood because tomorrow was the night of the play. It
made him excited, being part of something; he felt like he actually served an
important purpose.
As Tom was walking to his front door, he saw Chris taking out his trash. Tom
swung his bag over his shoulder, ignoring him, peering in his own living room.
His mother was inside, having fallen asleep in front of the TV again. Her
swollen feet rested on the coffee table where a plate of congealing food sat,
attracting moths.
Tom was about to knock when he heard Chris call his name. Chris crossed the
street, waved at him. He hadn’t changed out of his dress shirt and his hair was
lank and damp. His collar was unbuttoned. He looked tired but otherwise glad to
see Tom.
“Hey,” he said. “You’re home late.”
“Club activities,” Tom explained and reached into his bag for a poster he had
stolen from the bulletin board. He had intended to keep it as a memento but
wanted to show Chris he did other things too besides mindlessly trudge into all
of his classes, waiting for the bell to ring.
Chris gave the poster a cursory glance before handing it back. He didn’t seem
all that interested but his feigned enthusiasm was probably more out of
politeness than any lack of concern.
“You should come,” Tom said before he could stop himself. “Tomorrow night at
six. I mean, if you have time or whatever.”
He shoved the poster back into the bag and grabbed the ticket he had saved for
his mother, creased in the corners and folded in two. “Here,” he said. “It’s
not front row, but it’s a good seat. You can have it.”
Chris laughed and slipped the ticket into his breast pocket, patting it twice.
“I guess I’ll see you there then,” he said.
“I guess,” Tom said. “But I’m not acting in the play; I’m actually just part of
the crew. So don’t expect to see me onstage. Because you won’t.”
Chris nodded. “Well, thanks for the ticket, anyway,” he said. “I look forward
to seeing your play. I love plays.”
“It’s not really my play,” Tom said, embarrassed Chris kept saying that it was.
He looked up and caught Chris watching him, amused and flushed, pocketing his
hands and kicking a rueful spot on the floor.
“You don’t have to come,” Tom reminded him, keeping his gaze down, level with
Chris’s knees. “I don’t want to pressure you or anything. Besides, it’s a silly
play anyway. It’s about this widow Anna who travels to Thailand and meets this
King who wants his children to be taught English and—”
“I’ll be there,” Chris promised, cutting him off. “It sounds amazing already.”
“If you say so,” Tom said even though he had serious doubts Chris was telling
the truth. He shrugged then said nothing for a while, waiting for Chris to say
something, anything.
“See you there,” Chris finally said. “Good night.”
Tom said goodnight back. Then Chris smiled and headed back to his house and Tom
waved at him even though he had his back turned and couldn’t see Tom waving.
Tom leaned against his door with his bag at his feet, wishing he could go back
in time so that it would be summer again.
---
Tom had to wear black overalls like the rest of the people backstage. He felt
like a ghost, flitting through the shadows of the stage, helping with last
minute preparations. The plated glass windows of the auditorium were glossy
with early evening and expectation as guests filed in ones and twos through the
double doors. Tom checked his reflection in the dressing mirror, his baggy
black shirt folded at the sleeves, up his bony shoulders. He had such skinny
arms. Bird arms, his mother used to call them. He pinched the skin under his
arm which felt elastic under the bone. He needed to start eating more or
working out. His cheekbones were too sharp and he looked undernourished.
June stood behind him in dark jeans and a long-sleeved black blouse, looking
radiant with her hair tied back from her face. “Let’s do this,” she said.
“Let’s break a leg.” She clapped her hands excitedly.
Before curtain call, Tom caught Chris by the door, craning his neck as he
searched for his seat. He wore a striped brown tie and a dark blue coat was
folded over his arm. A copy of the program was gripped in his free hand. He
smiled as Tom wandered over to him. He even smelled like cologne.
“How’re you feeling?” Chris asked. “Nervous?”
“I feel like I may just wet myself,” Tom said, bouncing on his heels, loopy
with excitement. Chris laughed and eyed him up and down, his gaze lingering on
Tom’s lips before moving up to his face. Tom had worn lipgloss that night
because June had insisted he would look better with it, prettier, a faint
shimmery smear on his mouth that smelled and tasted like cherries. He wiped at
the corners, suddenly shy. He pressed his lips together, feeling the delicate
skin glide wetly, easily.
“You want me to show you to your seat?” Tom asked, rubbing at the back of his
neck.
“No, actually, I was just waiting for my friend to oh, yep, there she is—”
Chris stopped as the friend in question sauntered towards them. She was the
blond woman from before who had helped Chris carry boxes from his car. She wore
pleated pants and a black turtleneck. A silver crucifix hung on a silver chain
around her neck. Her hair was smooth and shiny, curving towards her chin.
“This is Gretchen,” Chris said, curling his arm around her waist. “She teaches
Bio at Gates.”
“Hi,” said Gretchen. She had such a happy hi like she was genuinely thrilled to
see Tom.
“It’s so nice to finally meet you, Tom,” she said. “I’ve heard so much about
you.” She thrust out her hand which Tom shook perfunctorily. She had a good,
solid grip.
“I hope those were good things,” said Tom feebly, plastering a painful smile.
“Oh, of course,” said Gretchen. She squeezed Chris’ arm, grinning up at him.
Chris grinned back.
Tom left them before he did anything stupid, like shake Chris violently by the
shoulders and scream in his face. The show began ten minutes later and he
missed only a few of his queues, distracted by his own thoughts. During
intermission, after the fifth song, he stood in the shadowy wings of the stage
behind the sound equipment and spied Chris and Gretchen walking back to their
seats. They made such an attractive couple that Tom resented them a little and
looked away before they started rubbing noses or something equally nauseating.
When the play was over and the curtains fell, everyone backstage erupted into
cheers and started congratulating each other, hugging and crying like they were
veterans on Broadway. June patted Tom on the back and smiled at him, then
pointed to the side door where Chris stood waiting for him expectantly, holding
up his thumb.
“Your hot neighbor,” she said, giggling. “Are you going to introduce us?”
Tom rolled his eyes. “Maybe next time,” June agreed, then went to the dressing
room to change into a less sweaty shirt.
Tom rolled down his sleeves and walked over.
“The lights were great by the way,” Chris told him, looking like he wanted to
hug Tom. “You want to sign my program?”
“Don’t be daft.” Tom didn’t ask where Gretchen was and hoped she’d gone home in
a fit of boredom.
“Let’s celebrate,” Chris said.
“Celebrate what?” Tom leaned out of the way as Anna still in her costume
bustled out the door.
“The success of opening night,” said Chris, still watching him.
“Well, I wouldn’t call it a success,” Tom said. “I kind of fucked up the
lights.”
“Come on, I just want to take you out,” Chris said. “Please? Free food? No?”
Tom sighed. He didn’t want to look too closely at the decision but he’d already
made it. He took the backseat of Chris’ car because Gretchen had already taken
the place of honor: the passenger seat. She talked relentlessly about work,
about students who were failing and about those she believed would achieve
greater success in the future, about Chris and their many points in common,
like their mutual dislike of a certain faculty member who abused his parking
privileges. Tom tuned them out and started thinking about the last song he
heard on the radio, a new one from Billy Joel.This morning’s paper says our
neighbor’s in a cocaine bust. Lots more to read about Lolita and suburban lust.
Chris bought them rootbeer floats and burgers and asked Tom inane questions
about the play, how school was going, and if his mother’s pregnancy was doing
well. It seemed like he was putting on a show for Gretchen’s benefit and
forcing Tom to participate. Tom smiled at all the appropriate intervals and
pretended to be interested in what Gretchen had to say next. There was talk
about everything: her days as a preschool teacher, her studying for a PhD, her
admiration for Chris who went out of his way to sometimes tutor kids in class
who were essentially slow learners.
Tom wanted to like Gretchen, in part because she seemed like she was such a
nice person but he couldn’t stand the way she kept touching Chris all the time
and laughed when he wasn’t even telling a joke. The food tasted like cardboard
but he was grateful for the meal. Standing in the parking lot where kids his
age sat on the hoods of cars or congregated in front of the entrance, he
overheard Gretchen thanking Chris for a wonderful evening. He was afraid for a
second that Chris would lean in to kiss her – they stood so close their faces
were almost touching–that he hurried to the car and waited until Chris unlocked
the backseat.
The drive to Gretchen’s house was quiet. Gretchen lived in a flat featureless
town, west of the lake. In two months, the lake would freeze over when snow
started to fall, but for now it flowed serenely, covered in a frosty silvery
sheen. Tom rolled down the window to let the icy air hit him. It felt good in
his lungs and made him feel more awake. He stopped thinking about anything else
and enjoyed the ride, counting the houses they passed, losing track after he
got to ten.
Chris walked Gretchen to her front door and Tom watched from the backseat as
they talked and laughed. Gretchen leaned over and smoothed Chris’ hair from his
face and Tom turned away, embarrassed and a little ashamed of himself, before
he saw anything he wasn’t supposed to see. Bile rose up his throat; he felt
like throwing up.
Chris hummed and turned on the stereo as they drove down the street. All the
houses looked the same, boring and cheerful. Tom kept his hands inside his
pockets and focused on the song playing on the radio. He wished he’d worn
Chris’ sweatshirt because his teeth were chattering. Before he left for school
that morning, he had planned on taking it out, giving it another try, but the
shirt hadn’t been washed since its last use, three months ago, and he knew he’d
only feel stupid walking around in Chris’ clothes.
“Is she your girlfriend?” Tom asked, staring impassively ahead.
Chris didn’t answer.
A few minutes later, he stopped the car, coasting onto the gravel shoulder. The
headlights of a passing truck bounced off the windshield, blinding Tom for a
moment before receding in the darkness. Tom blinked and Chris had his hands on
the steering wheel, clenched tight. His knuckles were white-tipped.
“Are you going to spend all night pouting like that?” he asked.
“Maybe,” Tom said.
“Sometimes I wonder why I even put up with you,” Chris said. He shook his head,
running a hand through his hair which had grown a little longer now, past his
ears. He looked more like himself, like a surfer, but he was still wearing a
tie which made the whole picture seem unsettling.
“I wonder about that myself,” Tom said. “When you act like an asshole half the
time.”
“I’m the asshole?” Chris scoffed and swiveled around to face Tom. “I’m the
asshole?”
Tom shrugged. He felt like a little baby but he was angry at Chris for taking
Gretchen with him. He’d given Chris his mother’s ticket and Chris hadn’t even
used it. He had bought tickets at the entrance and taken a date he had most
probably kissed while Tom sat in the backseat of his car, absolutely miserable.
“Look,” Chris said slowly. “I try to be nice.”
“Well, I never asked for nice,” Tom said. He grabbed his bag and pushed himself
out of the backseat, intent on hitching a ride home. He didn’t even know where
Chris had stopped the car but he didn’t really care. He wanted to make a point;
he wanted to get as far away from Chris as possible, from everything else.
Chris climbed out after him and grabbed him by his shoulder but Tom shook him
off and wheeled around to punch him square in the jaw. He hurt his fist and
dropped his bag on the dirt and Chris spat blood on the ground before glancing
up at him, confused. “You just hit me!” he said, like he couldn’t believe it.
He wasn’t the only one. Tom massaged his throbbing hand. Pain shot up his arm.
“You want another one?” he asked, voice shaky, and Chris started laughing, soft
at first before dissolving into loud guffaws. He slapped his knee and shrugged
his shoulders and Tom felt embarrassed, being made fun of.
“Sorry,” he said, flexing his fingers. Chris had a solid jaw. “Does it hurt?”
Chris shrugged again, wiping the blood off his mouth with the end of his tie.
“Well,” he said, sniffing. “I’m bleeding. I guess that should clue you in.”
He walked over to Tom, his mouth still red, and smiled crookedly, looking a
little manic. “I guess I deserved that,” he said.
“You deserve another one, really,” said Tom.
“Well, maybe a few more,” Chris agreed. “Did it make you feel good?”
Tom nodded. “I hurt my hand though,” he told Chris and Chris laughed again and
smiled. He took Tom’s bag and they walked back to the car, their arms and
shoulders brushing, and Tom realized that he was almost as tall as Chris.
Chris threw his bag into the backseat but opened the passenger door for him. He
smiled softly which made Tom brave so Tom wound his hand around Chris’ tie and
pulled him close. Then he kissed him, closing his eyes, knowing it was going to
end soon anyway so he might as well enjoy it, commit the moment to memory. But
then he opened his eyes again and Chris was still there, his mouth hot on his,
his breath silky sweet. His kiss had tasted coppery as fresh blood welled from
his split skin.
Chris cupped his jaw and looked like he wanted to say something important but
instead he nudged Tom’s knees apart and slid his leg between them, one hand
flat on Tom’s stomach to keep him still against the car while the other grazed
the side of Tom’s face.
It took awhile before Chris kissed him back and ran his tongue along Tom’s
bottom lip, seeking entrance. His hands clutched Tom’s hips like a lifeline,
and when they’d finished kissing, which felt like a lifetime later but was
probably only a few minutes, Tom’s knees felt weak and his stomach had started
to shake. He felt nervous and afraid but also like he might start crying though
he couldn’t understand why. He wasn’t particularly sad or gleeful but felt
alarmingly calm, like he was watching everything from a safe distance.
Tom remembered his first month back from their trip, how, after he had finally
stopped crying, he sat in the kitchen over his cereal bowl and stared at his
reflection in the window, certain he would never feel whole again.
Chris squeezed him against his chest and kept him there, mumbling something
indistinct. He kissed Tom’s temple and nuzzled it, his stubble rasping Tom’s
eyelids, his mouth wet and soft on the bridge of Tom’s nose. Tom realized that
his eyes were getting damp so he rubbed his face against Chris’ shoulder which
quaked as Chris laughed.
“My face really hurts right now,” Chris told him quietly, still holding him. “I
wish you hadn’t punched me. You’ve got a mean right hook.”
Tom heard a car rattling past on the road, zipping by in a steady rush.
“Sorry,” he said, laughing too, eyes slipping shut.
Chris kissed him again soft on the mouth before letting him go.
---
They were back on the road, headed home, ambling past cookie-cutter houses and
immaculate lawns, onto more familiar streets lined with weather-worn trees. Tom
had his gaze to the sky. The stars were out. The night felt endless and
beautiful. Chris dropped him off in front of his house and then drove up to his
driveway, waving at Tom who stood in his porch.
“Come over,” Tom said, loud enough that Chris would hear him. His mother
wouldn’t be home until late. He cupped his hands around his mouth. “Come over,”
he repeated. He waited and Chris sighed and pocketed his keys, taking the front
steps two at a time. Tom led him inside and flicked the lights on. Chris sat on
the couch, looking awkward, his hand resting against his knees.
“This is the first time I’ve actually been invited here,” Chris said. Tom went
upstairs to change his shirt. He washed his face in the bathroom and dried his
face on a paper towel. When he walked back to the living room, Chris had
slipped off his tie and was looking at the photographs on the mantel.
“Is this your dad?” he asked, picking up a framed picture. He set it down after
Tom shrugged.
“You want something to drink?” Tom asked. He left without waiting for an
answer, pouring Chris a glass of pulpy orange juice in the kitchen, watching
the thick orange liquid fill the glass. He heard Chris walk up behind him so he
put the glass down on the sink. Tom turned, and there Chris was, his hands
slipping up Tom’s hips as he pulled him close. He pressed their foreheads
together, bowing a little, before kissing Tom slowly.
Tom felt Chris’ breath on his mouth before the kiss and parted his lips and
felt the slightest pressure of Chris’ tongue touching his own.
“I’m really glad you came over,” Tom told him when they pulled away, breathing
hard. He folded his hands over Chris’ forearms, clenching his shirt in his
fists. “Do you want to come upstairs?” he asked. He didn’t want Chris to say
no. He pictured him saying it, his mouth forming the words, and steeled himself
for rejection.
“I don’t think that’s such a good idea,” Chris whispered. “Your mo—”
“It’s okay,” Tom reassured him. “She won’t be coming home till midnight.” He
waited again. Still nothing.
“Okay,” Chris finally said. “Okay.” He kissed Tom again, wet, and increments,
and followed him up the stairs.
Tom pushed the door open, locked it behind him once they were safely inside.
Chris looked at everything, touching his posters on the wall, his cassette
tapes spooled on the floor, his rickety dresser, the drawers crammed full and
left open to reveal hidden messes: a yellowing sock, a hairbrush twined with
blond hair, plastic CD cases with the album jackets missing.
Tom felt embarrassed and foolish, watching Chris move around his room,
inspecting his things, glad that he had the foresight at least to hide Chris’
sweatshirt at the bottom of his closet drawer. Chris sat down on his bed which
seemed small somehow and breakable under his bulk. Chris patted the empty space
next to him.
“Come here,” he said and Tom obeyed, sitting next to him, letting their knees
brush. He let Chris kiss him again and sighed as Chris’ hands slid under his
shirt, pushing it up over his head and tossing it on the floor. Then he was
leaning over Tom, guiding him onto his back and staring at his collarbone or
his chest, some unidentifiable spot below Tom’s neck that seized his attention.
He said nothing and seemed to move like he was in some sort of daze, gliding
his mouth down Tom’s neck and licking a wet path down Tom’s sternum. They
kissed some more and Chris slipped his knee between Tom’s legs, kneading him
gently till he was fully hard in his pants, his voice rising in a high whine.
“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do this,” Chris said.
Tom squirmed underneath his hand. “Please don’t feel sorry for me.”
Chris rubbed his thigh, squeezed his cock through his pants. “I really don’t,”
he breathed.
Tom panted up at him. He moaned and trembled as Chris started kissing the nubs
of his nipples, sucking them into his mouth in turns until they were hard and
wet with spit. Tom wanted more but all Chris did was kiss his chest, run his
fingers down the sides of his ribs until his skin pimpled in goosebumps. His
hands were huge and rough with calluses and Tom thought they could turn him
inside out, feeling out every groove and every scar, till he’d mapped out every
inch and there was no part of Tom’s body that he hadn’t touched.
Chris massaged Tom’s clothed cock and cupped him firmly, watching Tom’s face
until he came, embarrassingly quick and with a sharp gasp, in his underwear.
Tom felt wet and soggy and stupid afterwards, finishing in just a few seconds,
flushing up at Chris whose eyes had darkened with lust.
Chris rubbed his sides, spreading warmth through his palms.
“You all right?” he asked, running his knuckles down the sides of Tom’s face.
His lips looked swollen.
“Yeah,” Tom whispered, curling into his touch, flushing harder. “I think so.”
He changed into cleaner clothes and lay back down on the bed where Chris
stroked his hair and held him, not saying anything. He was hard too and Tom
wanted to do something about it, suck him off, or let Chris finish against his
thigh, but then he heard his mother’s car pull up in the driveway, hitting her
horn. Reluctantly, he pushed himself off and watched as Chris slipped on his
shoes without a word.
Chris snuck out the backdoor in the kitchen as Tom greeted his mother
downstairs. She sighed as she eased herself onto the couch, clutching her
bulging stomach, eyeing Tom with sad tired eyes rimmed with makeup. “How was
your play?” she asked, freeing her hair of bobby pins.
Tom shrugged. “Sorry I didn’t invite you,” he said.
She laughed and thumped him on the stomach with the back of her hand. “Let’s
not kid ourselves. You wouldn’t have wanted me there anyway. Whose is this?”
She picked up Chris’ tie from the coffee table and Tom snatched it from her
hastily and pocketed it. “Just a friend’s,” he said, hoping she didn’t pick up
on the trepidation in his voice.
“You have a friend who wears silk neckties?”
Tom nodded and she looked at him skeptically but didn’t press for questions.
“Are you hungry?” she asked suddenly.
“Not really,” Tom said.
She nodded and reached for a bag of steamy takeaway, clutching her back as she
set it down on the coffee table. She pushed the magazines aside with a
stockinged foot. “Okay, then,” she said. “More noodles for me.” She smiled at
Tom’s blank look. “Go to bed. You look tired.”
“Will you be all right here?” Tom asked, remembering how she would sometimes
complain about phantom aches and pains.
“I’m pregnant.” She laughed again. “Not an invalid. Go.”
She waved her hand in dismissal and Tom went.
Upstairs in his bedroom, he turned off all the lights before running to the
open window and closing it. The light in Chris’ room was on and Tom fingered
Chris’ tie which was curled into a little ball inside his pocket, pulling it
out, holding it against his face. The corner was rusted with caked blood. His
fingers still hurt when he flexed it but it was a good kind of hurt. Tom walked
back to his bed and he slept, dreaming, for the first time in a long time, of
nothing.
***** four *****
Chapter Summary
     the end.
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Tom didn’t see Chris again until a few days later when he was walking home from
school, the cold December air making his face feel wind-burned and chapped. The
skies had filled with clouds as the first flakes of snow began to fall.
Blanketed in fierce white, everything looked strange and desolate, the barren
trees weighted down and shadowless, the grass glistening with ice. The roads
had turned slippery, covered in grey slush. Tom shoved his hands inside his
pockets to keep them warm and watched as his breath fogged up the air.
Chris’ car was in the driveway and he was carrying groceries from his car to
his door.
Tom went over because the front door had been left unlocked. He’d resisted the
urge to come over sooner because he didn’t want to seem too eager. His mother
had always told him that what you wanted too much could never be good for you
so he kept his distance and waited for the right time, pushing Chris to the
back of his mind but never really keeping him completely out. He wanted Chris
to kiss him again and do more, but he was afraid that if he’d push too hard
Chris would realize he didn’t want Tom in that way after all.
The TV was on in the living room. Tom threw his bag on the floor and walked to
the kitchen where Chris was shelving his food, his back turned.
“Hi,” Tom said.
Chris jumped, wheeled around, clutching his chest. “Jesus,” he muttered, a
little wild-eyed with worry. He scrubbed a hand through his hair which looked
stiff with snow and product. “It’s you,” he said.
“The door was open,” Tom said, embarrassed. Chris looked flighty and nervous
which made Tom feel a little hurt and confused.
“Yeah,” Chris said. “How’s school?” He went back to arranging things in the
pantry, stocking it with boxes of microwaveables and ready to bake mixes. He
grabbed two mugs and put a kettle on to boil, shucking off his jacket and
folding it on the back of a chair.
“It’s good,” Tom said and watched as Chris kept himself in constant motion,
freeing his tie, combing his hair with his fingers, pouring hot water into the
mugs as soon as the kettle whistled and mixing in spoonfuls of powdered
chocolate into the water. He pushed a mug towards Tom who smiled gratefully and
took a perfunctory sip, blowing steam rising off the surface. Too sweet but he
said nothing and had some more. Chris took the carton of milk from the fridge
and asked him if he wanted some and Tom waved a hand at him and said he was
fine.
“Thanks though,” Tom said.
Chris took an experimental sniff of the lid before pouring milk into his mug.
His spoon clinked against the ceramic as he stirred it. He kept his eyes fixed
on the wall, on a spot above Tom’s head. They sat there for a time at the
kitchen table, not talking, shoveling handfuls of store-brought pound cake into
their mouths, crumbs falling off their chins. Chris finished his hot chocolate
and set his mug down in the sink where he let the water run until it filled his
mug and overflowed. He turned it off when Tom walked behind him to hand him his
own mug, easing it from Tom’s grip and putting it down.
Tom reached out first, folding his hands over Chris’ arms, sliding them up his
shoulders as he tipped up his head. Then Chris breathed and grasped Tom’s face
and Tom closed his eyes and they were finally kissing. Tom still felt clumsy
and inexperienced, brushing his tongue against the faint pressure of Chris’
own, making too much noise and panting too hard, but Chris didn’t seem to mind,
or if he did, made no indication of it, licking Tom’s bottom lip till Tom
shivered, all hot breath and slow movement.
Chris walked him backwards against the counter and let his hands rest on Tom’s
back, reeling him in every time Tom pulled away. “We’re going to have to talk
about this,” Chris said, pressing their foreheads together. His breath steamed
Tom’s face and Tom inclined his head, kissing him again until Chris kissed
back, touching the sides of his face with his fingers.
“You know we’re not supposed to be doing this,” Chris said. “I’m too old for
you. I can get arrested.”
“You’re not too old,” Tom told him.
“Trust me,” Chris said. “I am. And I’m your neighbor.”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“I’m supposed to be the responsible one,” Chris said. “I’m the adult. I’m a
teacher for fuck’s sake.”
“You’re not mine,” Tom said. He looked up at Chris as he said that: neat hair
swept to one side, Chris’ forehead lined with wrinkles. His mouth parted when
he sighed.
“Just tell me you want me,” Tom said. He pushed his head under Chris’ chin and
felt Chris breathe down his hair, rocking him a little, swaying him like they
were slowdancing. He waited a beat. Chris started rubbing his back, kissing the
top of his head. He didn’t respond, so Tom asked him again, suddenly afraid to
hear the answer. Even with Chris holding him like this, nothing felt certain.
Chris seemed faraway to him and unreachable, like a distant star he would die
trying to reach. Tom kept thinking of Gretchen and how she could touch Chris so
freely and without hesitation. She could lean against Chris and get away with
it; they seemed happy together, perfect for each other.
“Do you want me?” Tom asked again.
“This may seem like a good idea now,” Chris said softly. “But when you really
stop to think about it—”
“Do you want me?” Tom asked with a little more force.
Chris squeezed him to his chest, his arms flung tight around Tom’s waist. Tom
braced himself for the impact, the eventual letdown, but it never came.
“I do,” Chris said and laughed shakily, the sound like a sob that hitched in
his throat. “I do.”
---
Tom’s eyes were still closed. It was late, he knew, and he’d fallen asleep on
Chris’ couch as Chris started making dinner in the kitchen. He’d stayed
afterwards because he had nothing better to do at home and the thought of
walking back to an empty house on a snowy December day seemed sad somehow and
depressing. He sat up to the sound of paper rustling. Chris had his reading
glasses on again and was shuffling a stack of answer sheets in his lap, filing
them into a binder which he set on the coffee table.
“Hey,” he said. He folded his glasses together and he looked like himself
again, silly and unassuming. “You hungry?”
Tom ate leftover beef stew in front of the TV, tucked into a corner of the
couch where he pretended not to be watching Chris from the corner of his eye.
He was tired from his nap and still sleepy, because cold weather often made him
drowsy, but he didn’t want to go home, not yet anyway, or ever, if he could
help it, when the situation with Chris seemed to be improving.
A documentary was on that night about goat packing in the Wind River Mountains.
Tom put down his bowl of food and crawled next to Chris, keeping his eyes to
the screen so he didn’t have to see Chris’ skeptic look. Chris stretched his
arm and curved it tentatively around Tom’s shoulders. Tom inched closer and
leaned in, pulling his knees up and bracing his heels against the edge of the
coffee table.
Chris rubbed down his arm and squeezed his elbow.
“You cook really well,” Tom said.
“Thanks,” Chris laughed. “You’re the first one to say that actually. Usually I
only have myself to feed.”
Tom moved up to kiss him. When they broke apart, Chris was staring at his face,
his hand drifting down to Tom’s hip where his shirt had shifted up the
waistband of his pants. Tom wanted to have sex with him. He’d often thought
about it in the months that led up to this, the many different ways Chris could
take him, bent over the kitchen table or spooned in behind him. He’d seen a
dirty magazine like that once, abandoned in the woods and tucked into the
hollow of a tree.
The magazine was in Russian and showcased men in various erotic poses, wearing
a combination of women’s underwear and tottering around in high heels. It
focused mainly on young newly shaven boys getting fucked by stockier mean-
looking men. Tom’s favourite position, the one he masturbated thinking about
most of the time, involved having both his leg hitched up to the shoulders as
Chris fucked into him, deep and slow. He thought about now and felt his skin
thrum in excitement. He wished it were easier to get things started; he wished
there wasn’t all this dead air and waiting around for the right moment. He
didn’t even know how to broach the topic of sex. He worried Chris would think
he was too eager or too desperate, and by extension, foolish and juvenile. He
realized now that he was new to this and it made him feel both bold and
terrified.
Tom climbed into Chris’ lap and swung one leg over Chris’ knees, waiting for
Chris to push him off. When Chris did nothing of the sort, Tom took it as his
cue to slide across Chris’ lap, pressing his knees on either side of Chris’
hips as he positioned himself to sit directly against Chris’ crotch.
Chris slipped his hands under Tom’s shirt and kneaded his sides with his palms.
“What are you doing, mm?” he said, watching Tom closely, bemused.
Tom shrugged and scooted closer. “I’m not really sure.” As soon as he said it,
he realized it was the truth. He was nervous, his heart beating wildly in his
chest as he got comfortable in Chris’ lap.
Chris told him in a quieter voice that his skin smelled good before pressing
his nose against his cheek and breathing him in. Tom felt Chris smile against
him, his lips curving and drifting across his jaw, and feeling brave, pushed
his hips forward to meet with Chris’.
Chris groaned and gripped him harder. “I want to take your shirt off,” he said.
“Will you let me?”
“Go ahead,” Tom said. He leaned back as Chris dragged his fingers up his sides,
bunching his shirt up his chest, then his arms, pulling it swiftly over his
head. Tom shivered as soon as the cool air hit him and gasped as Chris brought
his hands down and felt for his ribs.
“Do you still think I’m too thin?” he asked.
Chris kissed his neck in answer, cradling Tom’s hips as he squeezed them. Tom
reclined his head so that Chris could lick him on the collarbone, and Chris
sucked at the soft skin there and held it between his teeth.
Tom felt himself getting hard, squirming as Chris tongued his nipples before
moving his wet lips across Tom’s stomach. He pressed a noisy kiss to Tom’s
bellybutton, which made Tom laugh, and kept Tom precariously tipped back that
Tom worried for a second he was going to topple onto the coffee table, hurt
himself. But Chris held him firm before shifting them around, maneuvering Tom
onto the couch and sliding between his knees. He reached for the button on
Tom’s pants and Tom stood, helping him push them off.
Chris sat back on his haunches and watched him. “Wait,” he said when Tom
stepped out of his pants which had pooled on the floor. Tom did as he said and
waited and Chris kissed the tops of his thighs. His fingers skimmed up Tom’s
calves and up the back of his knees before resting lightly on the curve of his
ass.
Tom felt silly standing in his underwear in Chris’ living room while Chris
knelt in front of him, still fully clothed. The front of his briefs was stained
wet where precome had seeped through and his socks didn’t even match because he
hadn’t planned ahead for this.
Chris sucked at the spot of dampness in the cotton, closing his mouth and
swirling his tongue around the tip of Tom’s cock. Tom moaned, knees buckling,
grabbing him by the back of his head, wanting him close. He didn’t want to come
too soon like last time but he was already finding it hard to stand upright.
Chris slipped off his underwear and let it suspend between his knees,
collecting around his ankles in a crumpled circle. He sucked in a sharp breath
and glanced up at Tom through the fall of hair over his eyes; his face had
clouded over with lust and the ferocity of his stare made Tom’s toes curl
pleasantly.
Tom felt Chris’ hands on the small of his back glide down towards his ass to
cup him. Tom spread his legs and Chris’ fingers teased the cleft, slowly, until
his breath sped up and Tom rocked his hips forward, cock pushing up Chris’
cheek.
“You’re beautiful,” Chris said, touching his tongue to the swollen head of
Tom’s cock. “Just gorgeous.”
He took Tom’s cock in his hand, which was already covered with spit, then he
stroked, building a steady rhythm. “Oh,” Tom breathed as Chris’ worked his
tongue up the shaft. It felt good, so good, that he forgot about his initial
self-consciousness, his fear of coming too soon before anything significant had
begun.
Chris was kissing the head and watching him, squeezing the base gently and
moving his palm up to pump his cock. He laved his tongue over the slit and
jerked his fist once, twice, and Tom felt like he would burst out of his skin,
his spine shivery and tight. And then he was coming, swallowing a ragged moan
as his back arched and Chris milked him dry.
His knees felt wobbly afterwards and when he opened his eyes, Chris was still
there on the floor, on his knees, wiping come off his cheek and blinking up at
him.
Chris smiled and kissed his thigh and Tom felt embarrassed all over again, with
his underwear bunching around his feet, and wearing nothing more than his
socks.
Chris stood up to his full height and sat on the couch and Tom began putting
his shirt back on in a hurry, buttoning his pants, grabbing his shirt from the
floor where Chris had tossed it aside. He supposed it was his turn now and
wondered what Chris’ cock would taste like, if it would fit in his mouth, or
were as big as he’d fantasized, bruising the back of his throat with every
thrust.
Chris patted his knee and Tom went up to him and sat in his lap again, curling
his arms around Chris’ shoulders.
Chris was just about to kiss him when the phone rang in the kitchen, stopping
him halfway. His hand on Tom’s jaw tightened as he grunted in annoyance. “I
probably have to answer that,” he said.
The phone rang again. “Do you have to?” Tom asked.
Chris paused like he was thinking about it and lolled his head across the back
of the couch, rolling his eyes. “I’ll just be a second,” he promised, then
lumbered over to the kitchen, rubbing himself through his pants and muttering.
Finally, the phone stopped ringing. Tom watched the news while he waited for
Chris to return, and ran a hand across his shirt which he realized he’d put on
backwards.
---
Tom could hear shouting all the way from living room but couldn’t make out what
his mother was saying so he crept closer to the window and tried to listen in.
He still couldn’t discern anything, but she was shrieking at Ellis who had
dropped her off after their date and shoving him on the shoulder. Her voice was
clogged with hiccups and tears; mascara ran down her face in comical dark
rivulets.
Tom moved away from the window as soon as his mother clomped towards their
front porch, throwing the front door open and locking it behind her. Then she
flung herself on the couch and began crying, pressing her face into her hands.
Tom handed her a box of tissues. She looked up at him petulantly before
grabbing a handful and blowing her nose.
“Thanks,” she said. Tom sat next to her and rubbed her arm, and the action
seemed to set her off again, making her let out a wet shaky sob.
In the days leading to Christmas, she sat around in the living room, eating
everything in the fridge and missing work, making a general mess of the kitchen
and the living room. She left dirty clothes in random piles on the floor. Half-
eaten plates of food sat in haphazard stacks in the kitchen.
“I think she’s depressed,” Tom told June who had come over one day to drop off
a Christmas present. She was leaving town in a few days to visit her
grandparents in Alberta and wouldn’t be back until after the New Year.
“Maybe it’s just hormones,” she said.
“Maybe,” Tom agreed. They spent that afternoon the same way they always did,
listening to music in his bedroom and watching cars drive past outside. At some
point, June asked him about Chris, his ‘really hot neighbor’ and when Tom told
him he’d been busy a while which was only partially true because he hadn’t
spoken to him in a few days, she wondered out loud why Tom never introduced
them when he and Chris were such good friends.
When it got dark, June went home, hugged him by the door and wished him happy
holidays.
The light in Chris’ house still wasn’t on so Tom stood in the porch for a
little while, rubbing warmth back into his hands before going inside.
---
Tom thought it would be a good idea. He wasn’t sure what possessed him to do it
but before he could think it through he was sneaking into Chris’ kitchen
window. The lock had dislodged a long time ago and it was easy to rattle the
window open by giving it a few shakes. He eased himself through, climbing
inside, sliding the window closed again to keep the wind out. He walked through
the comforting darkness, running his fingers along the wall. Chris had a sickly
looking tree set up in the living room, drooping with tinsel and shiny plastic
ornaments. There was a pile of unread mail on the coffee table.
Tom padded up the stairs, into his room and sat on his bed, which was wrinkled
and unmade, the sheets heaped to one side of the floor.
He walked to Chris’ closet and looked through all his clothes, pulling out a
comfortable plaid shirt with smooth silver buttons. He wore it over his shirt
and then wandered downstairs, making himself hot chocolate and turning on the
TV. Nothing good was on so he shut it soon afterwards and went back upstairs to
lay down on Chris’ bed.
The pillows all smelled like him. Tom kicked off his shoes and shimmied under
the covers, and thought about Chris coming home to him, seeing him there in his
bed, like this, the shock in his face and his inevitable acceptance of the
situation. It was too cold to undress fully even though Tom felt like taking
off all his clothes, sleeping there naked while he waited for Chris. It would
be a surprise and Chris may or may not appreciate it.
Tom was still thinking about whether or not the whole thing was a stupid idea
when his eyes closed and he started dreaming. It was pitch black outside when
he woke again. He staggered to the window as soon as he heard Chris’ car ease
up the driveway, followed by another car behind it. Tom heard voices in the
den, Chris’ and a few others’ and waited at the stairs for Chris. The smile
melted off Chris’ face as soon as he reached the top step. Tom had expected
just as much but he didn’t think that it would hurt.
Chris steered him back to the bedroom; his grip was almost painful. “How did
you get in here?”
“The window,” Tom said. He didn’t elaborate.
Chris ran a hand through his hair, freeing the strands from its crusty gel. “I
have some friends over,” he explained. “So I can’t – we can’t…” He seemed
unable to finish the thought, staring at Tom in his flannel shirt, looking, in
parts, confused and horrified.
“I can wait,” Tom told him.
“You don’t want to go home or anything?”
Tom shrugged and shook his head. “I don’t really mind waiting.”
“I don’t know how long they’ll be over. We’ve got food and alcohol and some of
the guys are feeling celebratory.”
Tom tried not to let his disappointment show. He’d wanted to have sex that
night, but he also just wanted to hang around Chris, bask in his company, like
old times. “I just thought I’d drop by,” he said. “I haven’t seen you in a
while and I got bored.”
“I’ve been busy,” Chris said.
“Grading papers?” asked Tom.
“Well, with a little more than that.” Chris said. He clapped Tom’s shoulder.
Tom felt Chris’ breath on his face and smelled the fresh scent of beer. Chris
kissed him quickly, pulling away before Tom could think to respond.
“I can bring you food up here if you’re hungry. Are you hungry?”
“You don’t always have to feed me,” said Tom. “That’s not why I’m here.”
“Sorry. Force of habit.” Chris ran his thumb across the collar of the flannel
shirt. “Are you cold; is that why you’re wearing my clothes?”
Tom didn’t answer. The truth was a little more than embarrassing. He liked the
smell of the flannel shirt, which, like Chris’ pillows, made him feel closer to
Chris. The shirt ensconced him like a glove, warm, heavy, and if the weather
allowed it, he’d be walking around Chris’ house wearing nothing but the shirt
to make it easier for the both of them, if Chris were in the mood, to get
things going.
Chris rubbed at Tom’s jaw and made a face, lost in thought.
“So I can stay?” Tom asked. “Please?”
Chris’ face softened and he squeezed Tom’s shoulders, then stroked his neck
with his thumbs. “Okay,” he said, nodding. “You can stay.”
Tom listened to the refracted conversation from the landing as he waited for
Chris to finish up downstairs. He couldn’t hear what was being talked about but
the voices carried in from the living room, a female voice, and a few male ones
including Chris’. There was laughter and then someone put on the TV. Tom walked
back to the bedroom and left the door open a fraction. He peered out the
window, at the gray trees in the woods behind his house.
Across the street, directly in his eye level, was the window to his room.
He was in bed, half-asleep, when Chris climbed up the creaky stairs and pushed
the door open. He stood next to the bed for a minute, looking at Tom, before
seating himself at Tom’s feet and leaning down to stroke his hair. His
movements were tired and sluggish. The scent of beer, and something else, like
smoke, were strong but when Chris pressed a kiss to his temple, his breath
didn’t smell like cigarettes.
Chris began taking off his shirt, the blue silk tie, the rumpled dress shirt,
folding them on a chair next to the window so that he stood in a flimsy
undershirt. He unbuckled his belt next, and hopped inelegantly out of his
pants, tossing them in a heap next to his shoes before worming his way under
the covers, behind Tom. He didn’t spoon Tom or anything, just lay there on his
side of the bed, at arm’s length, shivering and moaning about having had too
much to drink.
Tom turned to him, swaddled in layers of clothes, and felt overdressed and
heated. Chris started kissing him, cupping his face, licking his bottom lip,
groaning as he slid his hands lower and clutched the small of Tom’s back,
pulling him in.
“I thought about you the whole time,” he whispered between their wet mouths.
“Lying here, in my bed.”
Chris slipped his hand over Tom’s ass and squeezed, laughing as Tom lurched in
surprise, squeaking.
“Hey,” he said. Chris squeezed again. He took Tom’s hand then he kissed it,
pressing it to the side of his face. “I need to tell you something.”
“Can it wait?” Tom slithered up his chest, hooking a knee between his legs.
“I’m leaving tomorrow morning,” Chris said, keeping him at bay. “For my
parents’. I’m spending Christmas there and won’t be back until Wednesday.”
Wednesday. Six days, Tom thought, and felt his heart sink. Chris tapped his
cheek. “I’m coming back,” he said “So don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“You know like what.”
Tom didn’t and wondered just how transparent he was, or if Chris simply had the
ability to see through him.
Chris kissed the tip of his nose, then the corner of his mouth, pushing him
gently onto his back and tugging at the waistband of his pants. “You’re wearing
too many clothes,” he observed. Tom blushed as he wriggled out of his pants,
then his underwear, kicking them off his ankles and breathing hard as Chris
started nosing at his ankle, running his lips across Tom’s shins, his knees,
stopping before he reached Tom’s thighs.
“Can I try something?” he said.
Tom leaned up on his elbows. His chest rose and fell rapidly; he tried to think
of the magazines he used to beat off to, of the promise in Chris’ eyes, of
Chris holding him down, fucking him till he was aching and full, his hole loose
and slippery with come. He nodded and gave Chris permission and Chris shifted
in behind him, spooning him, tugging off his boxers so that when he pulled Tom
to him again, Tom felt his hard cock nudge him between the thighs. Chris’ whole
body felt hot, wrapped around Tom, sturdy, reliable; the hair on his thighs was
raspy but not uncomfortable, when it brushed the back of Tom’s legs.
Chris curled an arm around his waist and buried his face in Tom’s neck, his
breath equally steamy. “Is this okay?” he asked. “Tell me it’s okay.”
“Yes,” Tom panted. “It’s okay.” He shivered as Chris trailed his wet mouth down
his shoulder, suckling a bruise. His tongue squirmed up Tom’s neck and Tom
heard himself whining, tipping back his head as Chris traced a path down his
collarbone with his tongue. He closed his eyes as Chris’ palm, big and rough
and hot slipped down his hip, his fingernails grazing the jutting bone, before
finally circling around Tom’s cock, stroking him, thumbing the tip, wringing
out drops of come until Tom let out a whimper and wrapped his hand around
Chris’ wrist and Chris’ movements began to slow.
Chris eased his grip and, lifted Tom’s knee, thrusting his hips forwards so
that his cock pushed up against Tom’s ass, hot and wet and persistent.
Tom stiffened for a second, knowing he wasn’t ready, not like this, when Chris
was too big for him and he was already on the precipice of coming.
Chris dropped a kiss behind his ear and he sagged against him. “I won’t, we
don’t have to, not tonight,” Chris promised and then rocked again, rubbing his
cock against Tom’s ass and falling into an easy rhythm. Then he was back to
stroking Tom and Tom came with a low moan, shuddering as Chris squeezed him
through his orgasm, allowing him to ride it out. His mouth lowered to Tom’s
shoulder, left slight indentations with his teeth.
Chris finished off behind him, rutting against the small of his back, one hand
clamped against Tom’s side to keep him in place. Afterwards, they lay there for
some moments in a quiet lull. The noiselessness made Tom’s ears roar and he
shivered as Chris put a hand on his bare hip where it curved around his waist.
“I don’t want you to go,” Tom told him.
“It’s just six days,” said Chris. “You won’t even notice I’m gone. I’ll call.
Or something. I don’t know.”
Tom wished he didn’t have to go and almost said it out loud.
Chris began wiping them both down with his discarded shirt before settling in
behind Tom and pulling the sheets over both their shoulders. Chris’ legs pushed
in behind Tom’s knees and Tom felt his heavy arm loop around his chest, his
long fingers tracing Tom’s collarbone absently. His breath stirred the curls on
Tom’s nape.
Six days, he thought. He was already counting the minutes.
---
“I have a job for you,” Chris said the next morning. He was packed and ready to
go, his duffel bag at the foot of the bed, his hair neat and combed back. His
face was cleanly shaven and his favourite brown coat was folded over his arm.
He shut the curtains and then stood at the foot of the bed, waiting for Tom to
fully awaken.
“What kind of job?” Tom asked him, still too drowsy and comfortable to leave
the bed.
Chris left the room and came back with a potted cactus which he set down on the
nightstand. “I need you to take care of my plant while I’m away,” he said.
“Can’t you just bring it with you?” Tom asked.
Chris shrugged and reached for Tom’s foot under the covers and Tom let him cup
it, massaging his ankle. “So can you do it?” he said. “For me?”
“How much watering does it need?” Tom asked a few seconds later.
Chris smiled. He left shortly after breakfast and from his front porch, Tom
watched Chris’ car disappear down the street. He looked down at his lap, at
Chris’ cactus that Chris had named Wilbur and brought it with him inside the
house where he stared at it for some time before getting bored.
Chris said not to water Wilbur too much or he’d drown but hadn’t specified just
how much water the plant needed. Tom put Wilbur next to the window in his room
and sprayed him with water twice that afternoon, watching dew roll of the
prickly spines.
Downstairs, his mother still hadn’t left the couch. Tom grabbed a random book
off his shelf, flipped to a bookmarked page and began to read.
---
Tom had just returned from the supermarket – the fridge needed restocking or
neither he nor his mother was going to eat if he didn’t do something about it –
when the phone rang three times and then stopped. He answered it when it rang
again consecutively and it was Chris, calling like he’d promised he would. His
voice sounded distant on the phone, almost tinny, a little warped with static.
Tom pictured him huddled inside a phonebooth, his collar turned up to his face
as snow whipped outside. He knew Chris was probably indoors in the living room
or something but he liked the thought of Chris sneaking out to call him. Their
secrecy gave him an inexplicable thrill.
“Tom?” Chris said, sounding unsure.
“Hi.” Tom put the groceries down and sat at the kitchen table. He checked the
hall: his mother was asleep in front of the TV, her feet facing him. Tom could
hear her loud snoring.
“I wasn’t sure you were home,” Chris said just as Tom shut the door for some
privacy and then sat down again. “I’ve been calling all afternoon.”
“Sorry.” Tom rubbed his elbow. “I was running some errands.”
“Yeah,” said Chris. “How’s my plant? Wilbur?”
Tom forgot to water him that morning but knew he shouldn’t be alarmed. Wilbur
was a cactus and didn’t need much watering anyway; he would live and survive
the winter. “Your plant’s fine,” he said, a little annoyed Chris asked about it
first. “He’s doing well.”
“Great,” Chris said. “What about you? You doing all right?” There was a
scuffling noise in the background and Chris yelled for someone named Luke to
quiet down. Finally, he was back on again, sniffing like he had a cold.
“Sorry,” he said, his voice breathy all of a sudden in Tom’s ear. “You were
saying?”
“I’m fine,” Tom said. He pressed his lips together and flicked lint off his
shoulder, drumming his fingers across the table like he was playing the
keyboard. He wanted to tell Chris a lot of things, like how his mother was
unstable and how much he missed seeing Chris’ car in the driveway. But it
didn’t feel right to say all those things when Chris was somewhere far away,
and they couldn’t see each other eye to eye. He didn’t want to worry Chris
either and seem like he was too needy. He wanted Chris to have fun, wherever he
was.
“I’m glad you’re doing okay,” Chris said.
“What about you?” Tom asked and Chris said that he, too, was doing fine, a
little tired from the drive but happy to see his family again after some
months.
They talked some more, about the weather and Chris’ holiday plans, about
surfing and Tom’s upcoming tests, and Chris’ mother’s plum pudding which he had
a hand on this year. Tom felt uncomfortable in the silences between the words,
when Chris paused and waited for him to respond appropriately. He wanted the
conversation to end but also hoped Chris would never stop talking.
There was something about his voice that was soothing even though their
conversation felt largely forced and stilted. Still, Tom tried his best to
summon an ounce of glee. Chris had called him and that should have been enough.
He’d fulfilled his promise; Tom had no right to complain.
Tom couldn’t wait till Chris was home again and they didn’t have to whisper
back on forth like this on the phone. Tom would sleep in his bed, and watch him
grade papers, ask him questions about Gates that he didn’t think to ask in the
last few months. Maybe when Chris got back, they could even do something
together, like ice-skate at the mall. As soon as Tom thought it, he felt a
flush spread across his face, creeping up from his neck. Ice-skating was just
silly; something a person Chris’ age would most probably not enjoy.
“I need to go,” Chris said after some time. “Someone else is going to use the
phone and I need to drive my sister in law to the bank later, so.”
“Okay,” Tom said. “Right. Well, bye.”
“You take care of yourself. Bye,” said Chris, then hung up. Three more days,
Tom thought. He sighed and put the phone back on its base.
---
The next morning was bleak and dark. Snow covered everything outside and sat in
gleaming piles in the street. Strings of Christmas lights blinked from the
roofs of neighboring houses and Tom sat by his window, watching glumly,
wondering how June was doing in Alberta. He still hadn’t opened her present; he
thought he would wait until the 25th so he had something to look forward to.
Tom thought about buying her something, a shiny trinket, like those foreign
coins at the local night market that sold for twenty cents apiece. She loved
old coins, especially those that came in different shapes. She’d shown him her
collection once, copper coins and shiny silver francs, handed down to her by
her grandmother. Tom wondered what Chris would like. It wasn’t too late to get
him something, maybe something he could use at work like a brand new tie or a
pair of socks.
Tom padded downstairs to start making breakfast and was surprised to find his
mother had already left the couch. Everything was scrubbed clean, crumbs
vacuumed from the carpet, the curtains changed. The cactus Wilbur, whom he had
forgotten in the bathroom sink the previous night, sat on the coffee table
which had been cleared of plates and bags of crisps.
The living room smelled like artificial flowers and not foot odor. There was
something disconcerting about all of it even though Tom was grateful the mess
had gone.
Tom found his mother in the kitchen, dicing onions on the cutting board. She
wore her hair up in a messy bun. A fiery red apron hung from her neck, left
untied around the waist.
She smiled at him as he entered, uncharacteristically cheerful and pointing him
to the table. “I made pancakes for breakfast,” she said.
“Why?” Tom asked.
“Do I need a reason? Sit down.” He poured him a cup of tea.
Her strange mood continued well into the afternoon when she sent Tom out to buy
flour. The last time she’d cooked she was dating an optometrist and Tom was ten
years old and suffering a bout of chicken pox. Tom helped her with the spring
rolls, the creamed onions, the strawberry-sugar biscuit trifle which needed
garnishing. She baked a tray of cookies which she left to cool on the counter
while she worked on the pot pie.
Tom thought it was a little excessive but didn’t say anything. It was rare for
her to be in such high spirits, especially after her fight with Ellis. Around
dinnertime, she showered and changed into a soupy brown dress which did little
to disguise the bulge of her stomach. They sat down to eat, the radio turned on
in the background to cloying holiday tunes. In the meadow we can build a
snowman, then pretend that he is Parson Brown.
“I thought we were expecting guests,” Tom said.
Her back stiffened. “I wanted us to have a little sit down dinner,” she said.
“As a family. We haven’t had one in ages. I thought it was about time.”
“I guess,” Tom said.
She patted her stomach and cut him a slice of pot pie, raising her eyebrows
like she was daring him to defy her. Tom kept his mouth shut after that. The
food was better than he expected and warmth settled peaceably in his stomach
after a few more bites of pie. Once the two of them were full, he started
putting everything away in tupperwares, saving a plate of cookies for desert.
His mother made herself a fat sandwich and then waddled into the living room
where she watched TV and with her feet up on some couch cushions she had
arranged on the coffee table.
Tom joined her when he was done in the kitchen, munching on a cookie. He felt
stupid with a clip-on bowtie but she had insisted he be dressed for dinner. A
TV movie was on in black and white and everyone in it seemed to move in
exaggerated speed, like they were in a hurry.
When a man and a woman started kissing passionately onscreen, declaring their
love for each other, Tom’s mother put her plate down on her belly and sniffled.
“Ellis is a moron,” she said. Her voice sounded raw even though she hadn’t been
crying. She didn’t even look at Tom as she spoke.
“I’m sorry he hurt you,” Tom said.
“I wish I didn’t fall for the wrong people all the time,” she told him.
“It’s not your fault.” Tom wondered if his dad, whom he barely even remembered
because he’d left them so early in his life, fell in the same category of
‘wrong people’. He wanted to comfort her, rub her arm to convey his sympathy,
but he wasn’t sure how to touch her. They hadn’t hugged in years.
She dabbed at her eyes, shaking her head, strands of her hair tumbling free
from its pins. “I could use better judgment,” she said, and glanced at him
sideways, smiling ruefully. “Look at us.” She shook her head again, slower this
time, dramatically. “All alone on Christmas Eve.” She reached out and ruffled
his hair which Tom felt silly about, because he wasn’t five years old anymore.
“At least we have each other,” Tom told her, shrugging as he pointed to her
stomach. “And the baby,” he added. She started to laugh.
---
Tom snuck back into Chris’ house on the fourth night he was gone. He wore
Chris’ sweatshirt which he’d washed out of necessity because it was starting to
smell and collect dust in his closet, and now the scent of softener hung on the
fabric, sweet and faintly floral. The sweatshirt was still a little warm from
the dryer. Tom slid his hands inside the front pockets and walked over to
Chris’ house.
The window took some time to open as it had frozen shut, but after a few
minutes of relentless rattling, Tom was finally able to climb through. The
kitchen was dark and eerily quiet in its stillness so he switched on the
lights. He blinked, waiting for his eyes to adjust.
The mug of coffee Chris had drunk from the morning he left still sat in the
sink, the surface filmy with condensed milk. Tom washed it and returned it to
the shelf then walked from room to room. He still hadn’t decided what to get
Chris for Christmas even though the day had already passed. June had bought him
a cheap pocket watch and attached a note on it that read this is as English as
I could possibly get.
The bed was just as Chris had left it: the sheets dented, the pillows forming a
lumpy pile at the headboard. Tom sat by his window, opening the curtains, and
watched his mother’s car scuttle down the street. He felt homesick, sitting in
Chris’ room like this, wearing his sweatshirt and waiting for him like some
lovelorn character in a romance novel. It was a strange new feeling and he
wondered if it would last.
Then Chris called him that night to say he was coming home, just as Tom was
reheating leftover Christmas dinner.
“I got you some things,” Chris said, giddy with excitement which, over the
phone, made him sound incredibly young. “I wanted to call you a few days ago
but I had too much to drink on Christmas Eve and by the time I was pulling
myself out of bed in the morning, my nieces were dragging me to watch Mrs.
Santa Claus.”
“Well, how was it?” Tom asked.
“How was what?”
“The movie,” Tom said. He turned on the microwave and set the timer to five
minutes.
Chris laughed. “It wasn’t that bad,” he said. “You might like it.”
“I might,” Tom said and rubbed his nose on the sleeve of Chris’ sweatshirt. He
sniffed.
“Are you sick?” Chris asked.
“Maybe a cold,” Tom said, sniffing again. Chris’ phonecall finished quickly
because someone was calling him to dinner. Tom sat alone in his kitchen, eating
his pot pie, spooning steaming carrots and peas into his mouth as he listened
to the news from the living room. He sneezed a few times.
---
On Wednesday, the light was on in Chris’ living room. Tom combed his hair, put
on his best pair of pants, made sure his socks matched and spritzed on some of
his mother’s perfume, the one that didn’t smell overbearingly sweet. He rubbed
the scent onto the pulse points on his neck then grabbed Wilbur from the
dresser before ambling straight to Chris’ front door with no pretenses on how
he was just wandering by. He knocked and Chris answered on the third knock,
holding a Bud Light in one hand and looking tired.
“Hey,” he said.
Tom nodded. “Hey,” he said. He handed Chris his plant and Chris grinned, taking
it with him inside. Tom shut the door behind him and followed him into the
kitchen where Chris set Wilbur down on the counter before turning around to
face him. “You’re back,” Tom was going to say but Chris scooped him up for a
hug, then a kiss, lifting him up so that he was suspended in a tight embrace
and standing on his toes. The next thing Tom knew his back was against the
fridge and Chris’ lips were tracing his throat.
“I missed you,” he said.
“Me too,” Tom told him, choking a little.
Chris pulled back, still touching his face. “Are you wearing perfume?”
Tom nodded. “Why?” said Chris.
Tom shrugged. “I thought you might like it,” he said, then rolled his eyes at
himself, embarrassed. He didn’t really know why.
Chris’ grip on his shirt eased.
“It’s my mother’s,” Tom explained. “I don’t own any perfume. Does it smell a
bit weird?”
“It smells wonderful,” Chris said, pressing his nose to the side of Tom’s neck
and breathing him in. He laughed and kissed Tom again, slower this time, sweet,
full of tongue. Tom pushed up against him and felt Chris’ hands grabbing his
ass, squeezing gently, hoisting him up by the back of his thighs till Tom felt
his toes miss the floor. He wrapped his arms around Chris’ shoulders, hoping
they wouldn’t fall over. They didn’t and Chris lowered him to the floor again,
drawing up Tom’s shirt and running his thumb around Tom’s bellybutton.
“I got you presents,” he said, smiling a huge smile. “For Christmas, I mean.
Just some stupid things.”
“I haven’t gotten you anything,” Tom said.
“You don’t have to,” Chris told him.
“Did you really miss me?” Tom asked.
“Yeah I did,” Chris said, blushing. “I thought about you the whole time. I
wanted to see you so bad I thought about driving back as soon as I had left.”
“You shouldn’t have left then,” Tom said. “In the first place.”
“I missed my parents,” said Chris. “Plus I promised to drive up to see them. I
missed everybody too. I wanted to see my new niece.” He hugged Tom again and
started playing with the tuft of hair that curled at the nape of Tom’s neck,
sliding it between his fingers.
“Do you want to come upstairs?” he asked.
Tom felt his stomach flip, realizing what that meant. “You can say no,” Chris
said, peering into his face, looking concerned.
“I’ll come upstairs,” Tom said.
---
Tom sat at the foot of the bed. He felt nervous, watching Chris move around the
room. Chris turned on the bedside lamp, switched off the fluorescent tube that
hung from the ceiling and then sat down next to him on the bed, brushing his
curls with the side of his hand. The change in lighting did little to quell
Tom’s anxiety. He’d been wanting this for a really long time, had thought about
the many ways the scene could play out, but now that it was actually happening
he wasn’t quite sure what to do; in many of his fantasies he played a much
active role, luring Chris to his bed by acting invitingly coy.
Tom tilted his cheek into Chris’ hand. Chris’ breath was beery and warm and his
hand rested lightly on the curve of Tom’s knee. “Is this all right?” he asked,
searching Tom’s face for signs of uncertainty.
Tom nodded and let out a shaky breath. “Keep going,” he said.
They began kissing, shyly at first, Chris bringing his hands up to clasp Tom’s
neck, stroking the back of his ears with his thumbs. He pulled away a minute
later and Tom scooted up the bed, slithering backwards so that Chris could
climb on top of him.
Chris skimmed his fingers across the button of Tom’s pants but then hesitated,
glancing up, like he suddenly remembered something. “Do you want to take these
off?” he asked. His finger was poised right above Tom’s zipper.
Tom tried his best to keep his mind blank before he lost his nerve and did
something embarrassing, like flee. The last time they’d done this, he’d been
pliant with drowsiness; the first time, too eager, and because of that, less
tense.
He gave Chris an answering smile and helped push his pants off his legs,
kicking them down his ankles. Chris paused again as soon as they were off, one
hand hot and heavy pressed against Tom’s thigh. He slid a knee between Tom’s
legs and nudged them apart, holding Tom in place with both of his hands clamped
tight on his thighs to give himself a better view.
Tom blushed as Chris began kneading up his legs. He touched the pad of a finger
to the stain on Tom’s underwear and rolled his thumb against the damp head of
Tom’s cock. He smeared the slick around slowly and looked up through the hair
that fell between his eyes. “You’re really wet here,” he observed and continued
stroking for a few more minutes until the cotton had soaked through completely.
Chris dipped his head and mouthed at the hard outline, massaging the base with
his free hand as the other continued to hold Tom down and keep him still. He
nuzzled Tom’s thigh and Tom squirmed, pushing up, cock straining in the cotton.
“I’m going to take these off,” Chris said, and hooked his fingers into the
waistband.
“Then do it,” Tom hissed, leaning up to his elbows.
Chris laughed gently, his breath stirring the hair across Tom’s skin. “I just
want to make sure I have your permission.”
Before Tom could respond, Chris tugged off his underwear and dropped it without
ceremony in a heap on the floor. Then he slid his hands underneath Tom’s thighs
and rubbed the crease with his thumbs, then kissed his way up to Tom’s cock to
reach underneath it, teasing Tom’s hole with the tip of his finger.
“Do it,” Tom said. He breathed hard, closed his eyes. Chris’ dry finger pressed
in shallowly. “Fuck me.”
Chris nodded and scrambled off the bed. He left the room, feet pounding against
the floor, returning with a tube of lube and two square foils which he placed
on the bedside table. He squeezed a large dollop of lube between his fingers,
rubbing them together in his palms before pressing his thumb around Tom’s hole.
He circled it first, watching Tom’s face for signs of discomfort, before
leaning down for an experimental lick.
Tom lurched up in surprise, gasping, but this seemed to only encourage Chris
who satisfied himself with a few more wide licks, languorous and sweeping, then
quick and teasing as he flicked his tongue across Tom’s hole and curled it
lewdly inside. He grasped Tom’s knee and shoved his legs widely apart, kissed
his hole until Tom felt his cock harden again. Then Chris wormed in a slick
finger, alternating between nips to Tom’s thigh and noisy suckles around his
hole before pushing in deliberately. He worked his way up to the knuckle,
groaning as it fit with slippery ease.
It didn’t hurt, only felt strange, and Tom willed himself to relax as Chris’
finger pushed slowly in and out.
“I can wait,” Chris told him. “We can stop. Just tell me to stop and I will.”
Tom shook his head and angled his hips, watching Chris’ finger slide clean
inside him and then push out. “I don’t want you to stop,” he said, and flushed
as Chris’ finger crooked and brushed against something that made his blood
jump. “I can take another finger. I want more.”
Chris licked his lips before easing in the second one which sank inside with a
little more resistance than the first. He pulled out, poured more lube onto his
hand, and then slipped the two together, rubbing Tom’s hole and easing the way
with wide strokes. On the third finger, Tom felt himself relax completely, body
loosening the longer Chris continued to finger him.
It was starting to feel good and before he could help himself, a low whine
escaped his lips. Chris stretched him wide open with his fingers, rubbing and
teasing till Tom’s thighs trembled and he felt himself teeter on the brink of
something he couldn’t quite name.
“Please,” Tom begged, head lolling across the pillows. It sounded pathetic even
to his own ears, a hiccuppy sob that hitched up his throat. “Fuck me, please,”
he said and grabbed Chris’ wrist.
Chris clenched his teeth, wiping his hand across the sheet before smoothing it
back up Tom’s thigh which he rubbed gently. “Jesus,” he muttered with a short
huff of laughter, “look at you. You’re sure?”
Tom nodded and then Chris was undressing quickly, leaning over Tom and slipping
Tom’s shirt over his head so they were both naked.
He tore the foil open with shaky fingers and then rolled the condom on,
greasing it with lube, his palm shimmery with sheen as he curled it down the
long curve of his cock. Tom watched him position himself and tried not to panic
as Chris settled between his legs and gripped his knees. He thought instead of
Chris’ cock going in, stuffed so deep in Tom’s body Chris was buried to the
root.
Chris kissed his collarbone and eased his thighs apart, hiking Tom’s knees up
to his ears till he was almost bent in half. He guided the head of his cock to
Tom’s hole, looking to him for permission, before pushing gently inside and
stopping when Tom seized up immediately after the first inch.
Chris kissed his temple but didn’t force himself in. He was shaking a little
with the effort, his arms trembling around Tom as he leaned down to press their
foreheads together. “Let me in baby,” he murmured. “Relax. I’ll take care of
you. Relax.”
Tom counted all the way up to ten before Chris was fully sheathed inside, one
sudden heave and then he was buried to the hilt, big and hot and slippery. Tom
felt like the breath had been punched out of his lungs, he felt so full, his
skin tight with electricity, and it was so good even though it hurt a little.
Chris’ cock had stretched him open; there was hardly any room to move. Every
tiny movement made his mouth slacken with pleasure.
“Feels good to be inside you,” Chris said, kissing the corners of Tom’s
eyelids, grinning drunkenly. “Tell me what you want me to do. Let me make you
feel good.”
Tom shuddered and raised a shaky hand to Chris’ shoulder. He wanted everything
but he couldn’t seem to find the words to ask. “Give me a second,” he said and
Chris did, waiting till he was ready, palming his hip absently and smoothing
down his curls with his other hand. He pressed in as soon as Tom nodded for him
to continue, moving his hips in minute thrusts.
“That feel good?” he asked, breathing heavy.
Tom dug his fingers into Chris’ shoulders. He panted up at Chris’ mouth to
receive his sloppy kiss. “Fuck me harder,” he said, a low whimper bubbling up
his throat.
Chris groaned. “Don’t say things like that unless you mean it.”
“But I mean it,” Tom said. “I want you to fuck me harder.”
Chris stared at him to confirm his sincerity. Then he took Tom’s knees again
and hitched them higher, burying himself deep and then deeper still with every
thrust. He was thorough and took his time, working his cock inside with lazy
drags of his hips as he let Tom bask in the slow ache of being properly
stretched.
“I’ve thought a lot about this,” Chris confessed, ducking his head and
flushing. “That first night you slept over. Remember that? I had this dream
that you let me fuck you.”
“You wouldn’t have had to ask,” Tom said. “Because I’d have let you anyway. I’d
have wanted it too.”
“Yeah?” Chris said. He laughed a little, the tiny reverberations making Tom’s
toes curl pleasantly. “Have you ever …” He trailed off, waited, and Tom knew
what he was asking. Tom shook his head and felt his skin prickle in
embarrassment and wondered what gave him away, how Chris knew he hadn’t done
this before.
He inhaled sharply as Chris rocked into him.
Chris kept himself still, suspended on top of Tom, waiting for his answer. “So
this is your first time then,” he said, eyes stormy with lust as soon as the
realization hit him.
Tom breathed, nodding his head and turned his face away so he didn’t have to
look at Chris and feel doubly embarrassed, but Chris tipped up his chin and
kissed him, coaxing his tongue out with his, running his hand down his cock to
squeeze gently. “In my dream,” he said, sliding in so deep and quick it made
the both of them groan. “In my dream you were sitting on my cock and you were
so wet with my come because I’d fucked you in so many different ways.”
“What kind of ways?” Tom asked, remembering how he’d sometimes think about it
too, letting Chris come inside him till his hole leaked full of it. He’d spread
his legs to show Chris, the fat white trickle that dripped down his thighs till
Chris went at it again, fucking him till he was a sobbing trembling mess, so
wet and slick and hot inside. Chris would fill the ache with his thick cock,
would stretch him slow and sweet, would let him savor every inch, acclimate
himself to the impossible girth.
“What kind of ways?” Tom asked again.
“On your hands and knees,” Chris said.
“And?”
“Like this of course,” said Chris with a ragged breath. “So I could see your
face while you took my cock.”
Tom bit his lip and shuddered. “I wish you’d fucked me bare instead,” he said.
“So when you came, I felt it inside me.”
“Oh, Jesus,” Chris groaned. “Don’t say things like that.” He pulled back his
hips and slammed in in one hard thrust.
“Maybe I’ll do it,” he said. “One of these days. Fill you up so good you’d be
ready again without any prep. Wet for me.”
Tom tucked his face into Chris’ neck to stifle his whimpers. “God,,” Chris
hissed. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
Chris pounded into him and ground up, swiveling his hips, forcing himself
deeper with a shudder and a shaky moan. Tom could hear every slick push of
Chris’ cock, each slap of skin as Chris fucked into him hard and sloppy and
wet. He was begging again, pleading for Chris to go even faster, to fill him
with his hot come when Chris slid his hand between them and tugged, once, twice
at Tom’s cock.
Then Tom was coming, shuddering through his orgasm as his vision turned white-
hot; he tensed, his muscles clenching around Chris’ cock. He felt Chris freeze
on top of him, hips stuttering in tiny little jerks as he came too and rode the
aftershocks. Then he grunted and pulled out afterwards, slipping the condom off
his cock and tying one end before chucking it at a nearby bin. He missed the
bin by a few inches, flopped onto his back next to Tom, and scratched his
stomach. Chris ran a hand through his hair, yawning, shuffling his feet.
They lay side by side in the aftermath, not talking. Tom opened his eyes and
glanced at Chris, bone-deep tired and wound down. He didn’t feel happy, but
felt something akin to it, lying here next to Chris. His breathing settled; his
heart stopped beating loudly in his eardrums and settled too.
“What now?” he asked, not quite sure what he meant by the question. He thought
he heard the window rattle as wind blew outside, whistling through the crack.
“Now?” Chris said. He blinked one eye open, shrugged. Then he pulled Tom to him
and kissed his neck, burying his nose into the crook.
“Now we sleep,” he said.
---
It was barely morning when Tom woke with a sudden start. He leaned up on his
elbows and glanced to his right and saw that Chris had left the bed, the sheets
on his side cold and pushed back, like he’d crept out the night before while
Tom was asleep.
Tom knew he should probably go home before his mother noticed he was missing or
realized he’d spent the night at Chris’ house again, but instead he just lay
there, thinking about what they’d done last night. He felt overwhelmed. He
didn’t expect there to be any fanfare when he lost his virginity; the doing
away of it was the important part but he had hoped to feel a little different
afterwards, more mature. Tom slipped out of bed when he failed to summon sleep
again, dressing quickly to stave off the cold. His underwear felt damp and
gritty and walking was a little strange. He was sore and lumbered with a slight
limp. He found Chris in the living room, drinking coffee and sorting his mail.
The clock on the wall read 7:26. Still too early for any sane person to be up.
Chris smiled at him as he approached. “Hey,” he said, his voice hoarse. “You
feeling okay?”
Tom blushed and shrugged his shoulders. He didn’t tell Chris about the soreness
but when he sat down next to him on the couch, he shifted and felt some pain.
Chris’ forehead creased when Tom winced. “Hey,” he said, softer this time.
“I’m fine,” Tom assured him; he didn’t want Chris to worry. “Just a little
tired,” he said.
Chris nodded, looking relieved, rubbing him on the knee. Then he went back
upstairs to fetch some things, gifts that he’d bought for Tom during his
holiday. He returned a few minutes later with an armful of shopping bags: CDs,
silkscreened concert t-shirts of sullen European bands, a pair of warm-looking
earmuffs, a grey hooded sweatshirt with a little surfboard on the front pocket.
Tom rifled through all six of them, pulling out thing after thing, amazed
whenever there seemed to be something new to unearth at the bottom of every
bag.
He piled everything on the floor, touching the shirts reverently, running his
fingers across the topography of the prints. Most of the CDs were of bands he
had never listened to: the Kinks, Joy Division, Mott the Hoople. There was one
of The Rolling Stones: Between The Buttons.
Tom couldn’t explain it but he felt a lump rise in his throat. He blinked away
the moisture in the corner of his eyes and picked up the sweatshirt, pulling it
on. It smelled store-brought and brand new. Perfect.
“I didn’t get you anything,” he said and slid on the hood which swallowed his
entire head.
Chris laughed and tugged it back down. “Don’t worry about it. You don’t have
to,” he said, and brushed something aside from Tom’s cheek. “You look great by
the way,” he said. “Amazing.”
Tom gave him a little turn, arms spread out in front of him. “I guess,” he
said, even though the sweatshirt was two sizes too big. “Thanks. I love it.”
“Come here,” said Chris, and hauled him over by the front of his sweatshirt.
One of his hands came up and caressed Tom’s mouth before he leaned over and
kissed it, his fingers trailing across Tom’s cheek, lifting his chin. “We’re
going to have to talk,” he said. “Eventually. About this, about us. What we’re
doing.”
“It can wait,” Tom said.
Chris sighed. “I was just thinking,” he said. “About some of the things I
probably shouldn’t have done knowing how old you were. But as I was doing them,
all I could really think about was how right it felt. You’re not much older
than the kids I teach at Gates.”
“Did you sleep with that student? Kim Park?” Tom asked.
Chris flinched but shook his head, squinting into Tom’s face like he was
searching for something. “Why would you think that?”
“I’m sorry,” Tom said, embarrassed. He didn’t bring up Gretchen but hoped that
he was wrong about her too.
“For what?” Chris asked.
“For asking. For coming around here all the time.”
Chris smiled and squeezed him so tight Tom thought he would break in half. “We
wouldn’t be here right now if you didn’t. In a way this is all your doing.” His
lips moved against Tom’s curls as he spoke, then he canted back. “You want some
breakfast?” he said.
“Eggs and toast,” Tom told him. “Please,” he added and Chris smiled again,
laughing. His breath was coffee-scented, sweet, moist against Tom’s cheek.
Chris squeezed him one more time before leaving for the kitchen. Tom shoved
everything back into the shopping bags and put on the Rolling Stones CD,
blowing dust off the player and flipping to a random track. He lay on the
couch, listening, his hands curled in the front pockets of his new sweatshirt,
his head pillowed against the gummy armrest.
Why do my thoughts loom so large on me? They seem to stay, for day after day.
And won't disappear, I've tried every way--
Tom closed his eyes and drummed his fingers. Outside, it started to snow again.
Twenty minutes later, Chris walked back into the living room, sipping on a cup
of freshly made coffee. Breakfast was ready.
“I love the Rolling Stones,” Chris murmured and Tom smiled a little, hearing
his voice. “Yeah,” he said. “Me too.”
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Chapter End Notes
     This fic would not have been possible without the following people,
     enablers you would call them, encouraging me on Googledocs and
     holding Googledocs chat parties without my knowledge/consent. They
     have all my love and gratitude:
     Sikuriina, luccellino, yourfriendlyneighborhoodanon,
     Velociraptor_Hands, insouciant, HandfulOfPoppies, norsevibes, &
     hurricanewinds.
      
     You guys are incredible. Thank you for putting up with this fic and
     those bi-weekly updates.
     The songs mentioned in this fic include the following:
     gene_austin_-_everything's_made_for_love.
     beastie_boys_-_i_get_around
     billy_joel_-_no_man's_land
     the_rolling_stones_-_she_smiled_sweetly
     And lastly here is the mix, split in two, that I'd made while writing
     this fic:
      
     MIX_1
     MIX_2
      
     I know it's too late to apologize but sorry for any typos; I tried my
     best to comb them out but some just slip past my ~notice~. Thanks
     again for reading!
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