The F Words

by Anyta Sunday

  Eric’d wondered about Rory’s story; what made him tick the way he did, and Eric thought he might be getting a little insight into that finally. And it, well, listening to him laugh like that—so hard it was almost a sob—it set sympathy alight in him. “I’m sorry, that must be hard. Ever tried fight mode?”

  But Rory ignored him, too drunk to focus on a proper conversation. He kept talking. “Fuck. I haven’t drunk in so long. Back with William . . . I could hold my booze back then, I’m telling you. I could fucking drink you under the table.”

  Eric tried to give him a smile, but it fell behind a sigh instead. “I’m sure you could.”

  Rory lolled his head in his direction and snapped two fingers into a gun. “You bet.” He kept staring at him, then said suddenly. “You used to wear glasses.”

  He did. But he hadn’t worn them in years. “Contacts now.”

  “What happened to all the metal you wore?”

  “Took it out. My grandpa wasn’t a fan.” Eric snorted at the memory. It’d been his first day back in Auckland—the first thing he’d mentioned. “Said I looked like a stitched up bull.”

  “Didn’t look that bad. Shit no.”

  Eric couldn’t help but smile at that.

  One thing was for sure, Rory was a talker when he was drunk. He didn’t stop chattering the whole drive back to his place. Eric parked, and took care of getting the bike off the back and into the driveway.

  Rory stumbled up the path to the front door, patting his pockets for his keys. “Fuck, where are they?”

  Eric grabbed Rory’s bag from the bike and shook. There came the sound of rattling keys. Rory held his hand out for them.

  While Eric rummaged to locate them in the bag, he said, “Just as well you didn’t leave them anywhere else. Otherwise, you’d have had to crash at my place. How much you’d have liked that.”

  Rory hiccupped, lowering his outstretched arm to rub his stomach. “Nah, there’s a spare set under the pot plant.” He burped quietly and leaned against the side of porch.

  As Eric went to hand him his keys, Rory held up a finger, in a ‘just a sec’ sign. Then he bent over the bushes and began puking. Between each wave, he cursed. “Fuck.”

  Eric reacted on automatic. He dropped Rory’s bag, crouched behind him and rubbed his back. Long, firm strokes from his neck to the base of his back. For minutes they sat there, Rory moaning and cursing, and Eric trying to soothe the nausea out of him, just like he’d done with his grandpa.

  He knew what had to happen next, he’d done this a hundred times. He picked up the bag and keys, leaving Rory a moment as he opened the door and dropped his stuff inside. There was no alarm, which simplified things.

  Reaching Rory again, he urged him to his feet and looped an arm around him.

  “I can walk. Fuck.”

  “Shuddup and let me help you.”

  “I’ll be fine. Drag myself into bed.” Rory stared at Eric’s other arm, as Eric kept the door open going inside. “You should go back to the party.”

  Eric glanced at the number scrawled there, and a wave of embarrassment rolled through him. It made him look like a slut. Which might have been true, but now he didn’t want the guy to have that impression of him. He wanted a chance to change things and start again. He dropped his arm from the door, hiding it at his side. “I’m not going back to the party. Now, where’s your bedroom?”

  “That guy was hitting on you. He was begging you to fuck him.”

  Eric shut the door firmly behind them. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Rory closed his eyes at that, and Eric heard the wistfulness in his words, “No, I really don’t.”

  Eric frowned. He could feel where this conversation might be leading, and he didn’t think talking about it when they were drunk was a good idea. When Rory officially told him he was gay, it should be when he was ready. And sober.

  “Where to, Rory?”

  There was a vague motion of his hand toward the stairs.

  As they climbed, Rory leaned into him, finally accepting his help.

  Rory’s weight fell against Eric, warm and weighty. It was different from how his grandpa’s had been. Grandpa had been frailer and Eric had never wanted to grip him too hard for fear he’d break. Rory on the other hand, he could hold on tight to, locking him against his side.

  Rory gave a long, muted sigh, and Eric almost stalled half-way up the stairs.

  His grandpa had given the same sigh. When Eric had asked him what was wrong, he’d say he just wanted it over. Wanted the suffering to end.

  Eric curled his arm around, almost to Rory’s chest and squeezed, as if maybe, somehow that would help with the pain.

  At the top of the stairs, Rory pulled away slightly. “I’m good now,” he said.

  Eric ignored him and went with the guy into his room. “Okay, now undress as much as you can. I’ll find you some water and a bucket if you need to spit again.”

  By the time Eric found those two things and returned Rory had disappeared. Eric panicked a moment, remembering the last time that’d happened.

  Eric had woken with a start, he’d slept in. He should’ve been up already. He moved in the dark morning to the kitchen. Cool spring draught snuck in through an opened window beside the fridge. He shut it, shivering, and made two cups of hot tea, black, no sugar, and went to his grandpa’s room. He hadn’t the spare hand to knock, and opened the handle with his elbow, hot tea splashing onto his thumb with a cruel burn.

  “Crap.”

  He carefully pushed into the room. The bed was a tangle of sheets and no grandpa. He called toward the opened bathroom door.

  His heart climbed into his throat when there was no response. No sound of water rushing or taps turning off or a wheezy breath.

  He placed the tea on the dresser, about to check the bathroom. Maybe his grandpa had gone for a walk? But as he twisted, his gaze caught sight of something in the mirror.

  It was his grandpa on the floor. So still.

  No amount of scrambling toward him could have changed anything. He was cold. Dead.

  The sound of running water came down the hall. Eric followed it to the bathroom, where through the opened door, he saw Rory, stripped to his boxers and a t-shirt, brushing his teeth.

  Eric let out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding and returned to the bedroom, wondering what he was doing pulling down the sheets for Rory.

  Habit, he supposed.

  “Thanks,” Rory murmured, flopping onto the bed.

  Eric moved the duvet so it covered him, and as he finished, Rory touched his arm. The one without the number. The one with the koru ink he wished he could make disappear. He let Rory wrap his fingers around his wrist and draw him closer.

  Awkward standing, Eric knelt next to the bed, watching as Rory studied his ink. It’d bothered him when Grill had done it at the café, but Rory wasn’t flirting. He was just . . . curious?

  “I hate it,” Eric suddenly said. “It’s a lie.”

  Rory twisted slightly so he was on his side, and his gaze flickered to his face. “It was the first thing I noticed about you.”

  “Sorry?”

  “That night.”

  And Eric suddenly saw the two of them sitting side-by-side at Kings, each alone and cradling a beer amidst a crowd of students partying it up. That was before they’d shared a few words. A few looks. Before they went outside and Eric tried to kiss him. . . . Palms on the hard brick . . . smoky eyes flash . . . a hand reaching for his tattoo . . . their lips crushing together in a wave of lust—

  And then a panicked shove.

  “Fuck. What the fuck was that? I’m not a fucking fag, man . . .”

  Rory’s hand closed around his wrist, bringing him out of the moment. That was Rory then. A different person; not the lost boy lying in front of him, gently brushing his thumb over his tattoo.

  Rory said, “I saw it distorted through your glass. I couldn’t stop looking at it.”

  �
��It’s just a koru.”

  “Why do you hate it then?”

  “Why couldn’t you stop looking at it?”

  “Because I’d just prayed for a fucking sign things would get better. Then I saw it.”

  “Did they get better?”

  “Not yet. But it will. I just want to move on.” Rory looked at him with those dark, tired eyes again, his fingers still on Eric’s wrist, absently tracing the koru. Nice and soft, prickling the hairs on his arm. Rory stopped. “Why do you hate it?”

  It took a lot to unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth. When he did, he was no more ready to speak.

  Rory squeezed his wrist gently and dropped his hand.

  Eric said, “I got this done when I accepted Mom and Dad weren’t ever coming back, and that it was just me and my grandpa. But now he’s gone too, and . . .” He shrugged.

  “Sorry. What happened to your folks?”

  “Car accident.”

  There was a long pause where they stared at each other. Rory’s eyes were still hazy.

  Eric pulled away first. He wanted Rory to know what he was telling him. What they were sharing. This wasn’t the time to talk.

  Eric felt the breeze of Rory’s freshly minted breath over his cheek, and he jerked to his feet.

  “I’ve got to go.”

  He switched the light off on his way out. Rory might have said bye or something, but he didn’t catch it. Eric moved to the bathroom he’d seen Rory in earlier. Taking a nailbrush he found on the mirror shelf, he covered his arm in soap and scrubbed Grill’s number off.

  Then he went home to his kitten and grandpa, Rory’s truth following him all the way. I just want to move on. It was exactly what his grandpa had wished, exactly the thing Eric had ignored, forcing him to the hospital for his treatments.

  He’d done wrong by his grandpa.

  But maybe this was a second chance? Maybe there was some way he could help Rory move on.

  If there was, he wanted to help.

  Chapter Eight

  Rory felt like shit the next day. What a pussy he’d become, if three glasses of wine did him in like that. Fucking pathetic.

  But then, he should be used to that.

  He’d woken up to the glass of water, an unused bucket, and a headache that had nothing to do with a hangover and everything to do with what he’d done the night before.

  Oh to not remember.

  He couldn’t bring himself to go online until after a dinner of pumpkin mash—because what else was he supposed to do with the mystery pumpkin that turned up? Normally it’d be too much of an effort to cut the darn thing and make something from it, but he felt he deserved the punishment.

  He logged onto his Gmail account. At first he was relieved that there were no messages, but that quickly turned into worry. Had he fucked up the tentative friend-thing he and Eric had going?

  He pressed on the chat button to bing him, but couldn’t bring himself to do it. What would he say? What was there to say?

  Unable to answer that, he snapped his laptop shut and grabbed his sketch book, and outlined the scene from Saturday. He couldn’t remember all their faces, so he and Eric staring across the table at one another became the focal point of the piece.

  He was surprised at how easily he captured Eric. It was almost as if it came naturally or as if he’d spent the last twenty years practicing the strokes and shades that made up his face.

  He paid extra attention to getting Eric’s ink right. As he moved his pencil in small, swift arcs, getting the curve of circle under Eric’s ear right, he replayed the moment he’d touched Eric’s koru. Heat crept up his neck. How fucking embarrassing. He’d had to tell him all that shit.

  Pressing too hard into the paper, it ripped.

  He tore it off and started again. It didn’t matter that it wasted close to two hours of work, he needed the distraction, and it wasn’t like he was going to fall asleep anytime soon, was it?

  When Eric hadn’t heard from Rory by Sunday afternoon, he sent him an email. He’d resisted doing it right away, because he thought Rory might need some time to get over his hangover and process the night for himself without Eric butting in.

  He wrote, deleted, and rewrote the short email three times before he sent it.

  To:

  rory_a_phillips@ gmail.com

  Subject:

  Feeling better?

  Spent the weekend priming walls. It’s a real boring chore, eh—almost as bad as my job. :P

  If you’re all good again, would you like to go swimming this evening? I really need to un-cramp.

  He got no response. Neither was Rory there when he went to the pools.

  After twenty-five lengths, he went back home, fed his cat, snagged his chair and opened up his laptop. Almost immediately his Skype rang. Will.

  He answered, opening a second tab to check his email. Still nothing from Rory. Dammit. Had the guy closed up again? Were they going to be back to hi’s and bye’s?

  He shook his head, and focused on his Skype call to Will.

  “Sorry my last mail was only a quick, lame happy birthday.”

  Eric waved it off. “No problem. And thanks for the card. Turns out my kitten loves it even more than I do, he’s dragged it from the table onto his chair and sits on it. I don’t get it, but it makes him happy.”

  As if he knew he was talking about him, a scratchy whine came at the base of his chair, and then his kitten scrambled up his leg, claws digging into through his slacks into his skin.

  “Ouch.” Eric lifted him onto his lap and petted his head. “No more claws, you hear?” He asked Will about his weekend, but the guy evaded the question, jaw twitching, and moved right on to Christmas.

  “You want to fly down here or something?”

  He stroked the cat a little too hard and he meowed. Dropping his hand, he said, “Thanks, but I’m working Boxing Day.”

  It was going to be weird this Christmas, the first one without his grandpa cooking up a storm in the kitchen, the smell of lamb and roasted potatoes practically wallpapering the house. He’d wondered if he should avoid staying inside all together: avoid the memories of him and his grandpa sharing gifts they’d wrapped in newspaper on the front porch. Or how each year they’d make it a competition to see who could throw the most wrapping into the tin trash can underneath the agapanthus bushes.

  Then again, maybe avoiding all those memories was a mistake? Maybe he owed it to his grandpa to carry on the tradition.

  He sighed, cutting over whatever Will was saying.

  What was the point in tradition if there was no one to share it with? The image of a long table of untouched food had him shuddering.

  “Sorry,” Eric said, steadying his focus on Will frowning, “what was that?”

  “Um . . . just wanted to know if you’re doing okay?”

  “I’m . . . I’ll be fine. I still haven’t spread his ashes in the sea, but I will. I could ask you the same question. Are things picking up with Heath?”

  Only, as soon as Eric asked, the door over Will’s shoulder opened and the guy himself walked in.

  Will didn’t seem to notice and began to talk. Eric hitched his breath. Should he stop Will from saying anything? Would that make it too obvious?—

  “Heath’s . . .” –Heath paused behind Will, his face blanching at Will’s next words—“I don’t know. He’s distancing himself from me. I’d hoped I was making it up, but I don’t think I am. This morning when I woke and went to kiss him, he sighed and turned his back on me.”

  Behind Will, Heath cringed.

  “God, I can’t say how much that little twist hurt.” Will rested his elbows on the desk and scrubbed his forehead with his palms. “Maybe he’s . . . he’s falling out of love—”

  “What the fuck?” Heath’s voice made Will jump. “Is that what you think?”

  Heath swiveled Will’s chair, kneeling in front of it, grasping Will’s shoulders. “You stupid, stupid man.” He kissed him hard and long, and Er
ic wasn’t sure whether his conversation with Will was over or not. Over, probably.

  But he was curious, too, so the excuse was good enough for him to leave his Skype call running.

  “Then . . . why?” Will gasped once he’d been freed.

  Heath dropped his hands from Will. “You’re finishing your PhD in a few months.”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “So what do you think? You’ve organized a trip back to the States and you keep talking about it. You’re so damn excited.”

  “Yeah, I am. Aren’t you?”

  Heath shook his head. “No. I’m not. That’s why I’ve been distant.”

  “You’re not . . .? But I thought . . . I don’t . . . why?”

  There was a low, sad, “What if you want to go back home? What about me?”

  “What?” Will looped his arms around Heath and kissed him. “You think I could ever leave you behind?”

  “I . . .”

  “I wouldn’t. I love you.”

  Heath rested his forehead against Will’s shoulder. “I was distant. I’m sorry. I was . . . having panic attacks, imagining you’d be gone for good once your thesis was done. I’ve . . . I’ve been trying to control them by going out for walks and things, I guess I’ve been pulling away, preparing for you leaving me.”

  “Me? Leave you?” Will laughed gently. “You’re mad.”

  They kissed, and Heath reached out to the computer. The last thing Eric heard before it cut out was Heath telling him again he loved him.

  Maybe Eric shouldn’t have watched the moment, but the tenderness he felt between them rendered him immoveable. All he could think was: I want that, too.

  On the left bar of his computer screen, Eric could see he had another message in his inbox. He quickly opened Gmail.

  But it was junk mail. He deleted.

  Stroking his kitten for a minute, he stared at the screen. Blast it. He opened up a chat window. He wasn’t going to let it get weird between Rory and him again. He knew—Rory had admitted—he wanted out, wanted to move on . . . And Eric had promised himself he’d help.