The F Words

by Anyta Sunday

  Eric’s voice broke. He tore another piece of naan and scrubbed at his plate. He looked up suddenly. “Sorry, listen to me. You don’t want to hear that.”

  Actually, Rory did. He wanted to return the favor—be the one to listen. And comfort. Maybe. He waited, hoping Eric might go on anyway. When it was clear he wouldn’t, Rory said, “So uni is too expensive then?”

  “It would be tight. But I guess . . .”

  “Guess what?”

  Eric pursed his lips, and then shrugged. “I guess a part of me—a small part—feels like I deserve the job.”

  “Deserve the job you hate? You’ll have to explain.”

  Eric stood up, grabbing the empty containers. Rory frowned, and getting up, he reached across and pulled them out of Eric’s hands. “Sit. I’ll clean up.”

  The guy looked ready to protest, but then he nodded and sagged back into his chair. “He hated it. Every moment. But I insisted he get treatment. He did it for me. He suffered the last two years of his life for me. And even though he hated it, when I think about going back and having the chance to change my decisions—I still think I’d make him go. I loved him. I didn’t want to be the only one left.”

  Rory trashed the rubbish. Then went back for the dishes. He didn’t know what to say to Eric; couldn’t think of a way he could help. He eyed the kitten as he dropped the plates into the sink.

  Well, if he couldn’t help, maybe . . .

  Bending down, he picked up Yowler, holding him at arm’s length, and placed him in Eric’s lap. The furry spawn of the devil loved the guy. He’d make it better.

  Eric stared at Yowler for a moment, then petted his head. When he looked up smiling, Rory breathed out in relief. “Thanks.”

  “I don’t believe you’d ever intentionally hurt anyone, Eric,” he said, and he meant every word. Eric had shown him nothing but what a big, forgiving heart he had. “It’s totally understandable you’d want to keep the person you love alive.”

  “Yeah. But, still. . .”

  Rory got it. Grief was an illogical bugger—oh how he could attest to that. And somehow, Eric felt guilty for what he’d done. He wanted to reach out and squeeze his shoulder, but he stopped before he clasped Eric. With a sigh—mostly frustrated that he could accept comfort but not give it—he murmured, “I get it” and moved around the table.

  Eric picked up Yowler and kissed the top of his head. “Anyway, let’s move on from the drama, shall we? Tell me about you. What do you see yourself doing five years from now?”

  Rory felt Eric’s pleading to change the topic and went with it. “Five years?” He found a cloth and wiped the table. In fact, he’d been thinking more and more about this question lately. “Actually,”—he threw Eric a warning look—“and you better not freaking laugh or anything, but these last few weeks with Willow . . . well, I’d like to go into early childhood education.”

  “Why would I laugh at that? I think that’s”—Eric sat back in his seat and eyed Rory up and down—“I like that, Rory. I like that a lot.”

  As a blush crept up his neck, Rory turned and made his way to the sink. “Ah, thanks.”

  “Where do you, I mean, is Wellington . . . could you see yourself working here or—”

  Rory washed out the cloth and filled the sink with hot water. “I don’t want to run anymore, Eric. I mean that. I’m going to try fight through it from now on. I want a life, and a job, and a . . . and a family.” He surprised himself as he said it. But it was true.

  He heard Eric’s chair creak. “Family? As in . . .”

  “As in I like spending time with Lily and it would be nice to be close by.”

  “Oh.” Eric sounded relieved.

  “And,” Rory added, breathing through the nerves bubbling in his gut, “and I want . . .”

  “Want, what?”

  Footsteps sounded over the wooden floor and Rory tensed.

  “Never mind. Where do you keep the dish towels?”

  Eric, kitten in one hand curled close to his chest, leaned in front of Rory and tapped a drawer. Rory felt the rush of air mixed with the scent of chlorine as he did.

  When Eric drew back, his gaze was on the floor, and he was frowning. “Huh,” he said. “Strange. I could’ve sworn that skirting board was loose this morning.”

  “Hmmm,” Rory said, grabbing a washed plate and drying it. “Maybe you’re losing it in your old age.”

  “Old age?” Eric shook his head and spoke to Yowler. “He hasn’t a clue. Nevertheless, how should we punish him?”

  As if to answer, Yowler extended his claws.

  Eric laughed.

  “Bring out your claws buddy,” Rory said, shaking the dish towel at him, “and I’ll bring out mine.”

  “Feisty, aren’t you?” Eric said, looking somewhere between the kitten and Rory’s shoes.

  “The cat or me?”

  Looking up, Eric said, “Both. You’re so similar.”

  Rory pointed to the kitten, nuzzling its face into Eric’s t-shirt. “Except I don’t purr into your armpit.”

  Eric laughed, and it was a sound Rory took back home with him, making him grin all the way.

  Chapter Eleven

  With a spring in his step—it was Friday, after all—Eric made his way up the path to Rory’s porch. A grey crown pumpkin sat at the edge, shiny in an evening splinter of sunlight. Eric picked the hefty thing up, shaking his head, and hammered on the door, knock-knock-knockity-knock.

  Since the Wednesday they’d had Indian, they’d somehow fallen into the routine of doing dinner together—well, routine might be stretching it. But yesterday they’d shared fish and chips at the beach, and tonight Rory had invited Eric over. He’d expected Rory to be nervous as he asked him, but it fell from the guy’s mouth with surprising effortlessness—surprising for the both of them, he was sure. Eric took him up on it and said he’d come with a movie. Rory had been quick to accept the idea.

  “Armageddon?” Eric asked the moment Rory let him into the house.

  “Christ, no. Maybe you should give it up.”

  Eric handed over the pumpkin. “Never. What’s for dinner?”

  Rory’s smile vanished when he took it. “Jesus. They came while I was here? They’re as bad as me and Wil—” He stopped suddenly, his face draining of color, then he twisted and slunk toward the kitchen.

  Eric dropped his shoulder bag over the coat rack and trailed after him. He expected Rory’s silence to linger, but instead he kept talking, trying for jovial but reaching strained.

  “Every Friday without fail. I think they’re trying to mess with our heads—but they’re stupid, Lily isn’t even here.”

  Eric moved to the cupboards, opening doors. “Do you want them to stop?”

  “What are you looking for?” Rory came up next to him, frowning into the cupboard. Then he said, “Yeah, if it’s those boys, I do want it to stop. I could’ve caught them today if I’d heard them, and . . . I just don’t want to see them.”

  Eric located the coffee and snagged it. Rory pinched it out of his hands and moved to turn on the coffee machine.

  “Why don’t you want to see them?”

  Rory didn’t answer immediately, ditching an old coffee filter and replacing it. “The night you came over, when I wanted to run . . .” He opened up the coffee and lifted it to his nose, breathing in. His next words he spoke softly into the pack. “One of them looked just like William when he was younger. It . . . freaked me out. To put it mildly.”

  “Oh.” Eric didn’t have a response to that. He wished for one, for the right thing to say to make it better so they could move back to casual banter and catch a few more laughs as they’d been getting better at the last week.

  Rory poured water into the machine and switched it on.

  Eric hesitated, then opened another cupboard and pulled out the two Disney mugs. “Here, you need a duck.”

  Rory swung his head in Eric’s direction. “What’d you say?” When his eyes rested on the mug, he leaned back
against the counter and laughed. There was a nervous lilt to it. Then he looked over Eric’s shoulder and said, more seriously than Eric had expected, “I really do.”

  Eric passed him the mug, and snuck some coffee into his own. Rory studied Donald Duck’s outline, twisting the mug in his hands and brushing a thumb over the surface. It looked like the guy was contemplating something, maybe preparing to ask Eric something. Eric held his breath, waiting.

  Finally Rory looked at him, mouth open to speak, but then clamped it shut. He hurriedly filled the mug with coffee. “So,” he said, “I guess something with pumpkin is on the menu. Have any wishes?”

  Eric let out his breath, coffee steaming into his face. “Sure. I’ve never had pumpkin pie.”

  Rory moved to the knife board and pulled out a large knife. Handing it to him hilt first, he said, “You cut the dang thing, and I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Do we have to check for signs of teen tampering?”

  Rory reluctantly sniffed the pumpkin. “We’ll scrub it before you peel it.”

  It took longer than either of them expected to make the pie, and, by the end, Eric was splattered with bits of pumpkin and flour. Rory didn’t fare much better.

  Eric slumped onto a bar stool and rested his head in his cupped palm, elbow digging into the bench. “I’m knackered. That pie better be worth it.”

  “Agreed,” Rory said, slapping a warm hand on Eric’s shoulder, as he climbed onto the stool next to him. Eric felt the press of Rory’s pinkie, gluey with pumpkin, against his neck. “I say we stick to takeaways from now on.”

  Eric shivered at the current pouring through him from Rory’s hand—he hadn’t expected the touch. He wondered if Rory noticed he was doing it or if, finally, he’d just become comfortable enough with him that it didn’t matter.

  Eric patted his pocket. “That might be a little rough on the wallet. But I think pumpkin pie from scratch is something that we don’t need to repeat any time soon.”

  Rory nodded, slipping his hand away. “You’ve got a smear of pumpkin.” He wiped his brow to show where.

  Eric swiped it off.

  “No, other side.”

  He tried again.

  Rory laughed. “Shit, that’s too funny.” He leaned over and the soft pad of his thumb brushed across the top of his brow. “Better.” Wiping his finger on the dishtowel, he said, “So what movie did you get?”

  Eric blinked, focusing away from his brow to Rory. His voice came out funny and he cleared his throat. “Shall we turn it on while the pie finishes baking?”

  Rory agreed, and they set up in the living room. “I’ve never heard of this movie before,” he said.

  Eric knew he wouldn’t have. In fact, the movie he chose was probably a little sneaky. He felt guilty as he slipped the DVD into the player. And yet, he wanted Rory to see it.

  He watched as Rory set up the timer on the coffee table, and then they got comfy on the couch with the remote. Well, comfy was pushing it. They’d chosen to sit at opposite ends, and the few feet of space between them seemed to stretch awkwardness between them. Like neither knew how close was okay to be. Yet, at the same time, they both wanted to be relaxed about it and not make it a big deal. Rory brought his feet up slowly inching toward the middle keeping his toes on his side, but glancing toward Eric.

  Eric shuffled. Enough of this weirdness. He stretched his legs onto the couch, the soles of his feet reaching Rory. “Tell me to bugger off if my feet stink.”

  Rory gave a croaky laugh and stretched his legs too. “Same here.”

  The film began, and Eric focused more on Rory than the screen, his whole body tensed with nerves, waiting for Rory’s reaction. They were ten minutes in when Rory got it. Really got it. He froze as the main character Rick, a married man, slipped off his ring before heading into a gay club. A few screen shots later, he was pressed against the wall getting off with who knew who. Then the man left the club, collapsing into his car and began sobbing at the wheel.

  Rory drew his feet off the couch and leaned forward, fidgeting with the remote.

  Then the movie was on pause.

  “What is this?” Rory asked quietly, refusing to look at him.

  “You know what. It’s a movie about a guy coming out of the closet.”

  “Why?”

  “Why’s he coming out of the closet?”

  “Don’t fuck with me, Eric. Why?”

  Eric twisted on the couch, planting his feet on the floor, and looked at him. Rory continued studying the remote in his lap. “Because I think it might be interesting to you. Because it might help.” He pointed to the screen. “At first he’s an example of what can and does happen when you’re not true to who you are, and then, this point”—he pointed to the screen—“this is where everything changes for him. He can’t go back to pretending and hiding anymore. He eventually has to tell his very religious family who he is. And it’s not easy for him, but he’s much happier at the end because he can finally live his life.”

  Rory flipped the remote over and began flicking his finger over it. “I’ve already admitted to you I’m a fag.”

  “Maybe I’m not the one you need to be telling . . . And it’s not fag. It’s gay.”

  “Why are you doing this? Why do you care?”

  Eric opened his mouth and shut it again. Why did he care?—and he did, really, really did. “Because I want to do the right thing. Will you let me help you?”

  Rory threw the remote into the middle of the couch and stood up just as the timer went off. “Fuck, I can do it on my own.”

  Eric listened to him crashing into the kitchen, deciding not to follow him. Maybe his choice of movie had been a bit pushy. Maybe he was forcing too much on the guy too soon. He took the remote and ejected the movie. He was about to stand, when Rory came back in and slumped on the couch. When he saw the DVD player open, he got up again and pushed it in.

  Without saying a word, he took the remote off Eric and pressed play. Eric stayed right where he was, fearing if he even moved his leg, the leather would squeal and remind Rory of his presence and of his anger at him.

  It was only near the end of the film, when Eric glanced over and saw Rory’s watery eyes glittering in the light from the movie, that he got up and left the room. The guy needed a moment without him there.

  The pie sat on top of the oven and Eric found two plates and dished them both a serving. When he turned around, a plate in either hand, he almost dropped them. Perched on a barstool was Rory, watching him.

  “Yikes, you scared me,” he murmured and handed Rory a plate and a fork. “Look,” Eric mashed pumpkin through his fork, “I’m sorry about the movie.”

  Rory shook his head. “No.” He dug his fork into the pie, staring hard at it. “You were right. I needed to see that. And . . .” He cut off a chunk of the crust. “I want to move on and experience things. Be myself. But I . . . I don’t know where to start.” He looked up shyly, couldn’t hold his gaze, and went back to studying the pie. “I know I want to start though.”

  Eric nodded and diverted the tension, not wanting Rory to have to linger in his admission. “Jeez this pie is good. Best pumpkin pie I ever had.”

  “Only pumpkin pie you’ve had.” Rory ate tiny bites of his pie, stalling rather than savoring, Eric thought. Then, with one bite more to go, Rory said, “So, um, yeah, you can keep helping, Eric.”

  Once Eric left, Rory took his laptop to bed. Seeing the movie had been . . . enlightening. Not that he was going to run off and tell his mum he was a fag right away or anything.

  But, still.

  He thought about the scene where Rick let himself look at a picture of a guy in his own home, while he jerked off. It was the first time he’d done it without guilt, without hating himself for it.

  That was something Rory wanted to do for himself. No more middle of the night time jack-offs, and trying not to think about what he really wanted, because he didn’t want to face facts.

  He rolled onto his side, s
liding one foot in an arc across the duvet, to and fro, the friction buzzing heat up his leg. His heart hammered as he looked at the laptop an arm’s length from him. A gay porn registration page looked back at him. He’d typed in all the details, but he hadn’t hit enter.

  Yet.

  In the banner at the top of the screen two guys were making out. Just that had him hard. He adjusted himself through his jeans, then breathed out.

  “Fuck it.” He wanted this step.

  He was so sexually frustrated, he needed this step.

  With jittering hands, he hit the ‘enter’ key and a few buttons later, gay porn was at his fingertips.

  Naked and half-naked men’s bodies flashed before his eyes. The options were overwhelming, and Rory scrolled through seven pages, growing more excited and nervous at each one, before he settled on some short flick set in an attic.

  He turned it on mute and put on some of his own music, not caring for the stupid porno talk that was bound to go on. Before he knew it, the story line had the two guys stripping off their shirts, both of them revealing tapered torsos and, on one, Chinese tattoos running down his corded arms.

  Shit, just that made him so fucking hard. More than any of the straight stuff he’d used in the past. Rory followed the tattooed guy, taking his shirt off and rubbing his nipples.

  It was mesmerizing, watching the two guys, safe from his bed and without fear of anyone coming in and catching him. Freedom scented the quiet air around him and he drew it in with increasingly jagged breaths.

  He popped open the buttons on his jeans, and slithered out of them, then kicked them off the bed. Grabbing his cock through his briefs, he brought himself up toward his stomach.

  The guys on screen had their dicks out and were whacking each other off, heads thrown back in ecstasy.

  I want that too.

  Swallowing hard, he opened the lube he’d thrown onto the bed. He covered one finger and fished in his briefs, then dragged his finger from the base of his balls to the slit at the tip of his head, imagining what his cock would feel like if it’d been a guy licking his way up it. Fuck, yes.