The F Words

by Anyta Sunday

“Fuck you.”

  “Huh, we’ll see—” Eric snapped his mouth closed. Rory’s pencil stopped scratching, and Eric shifted in his seat. He hurriedly said, “Finished already?”

  The scratching against paper started up again.

  They sat in silence for the next ten minutes, Rory alternating between drawing and staring at him. Eric could almost feel his concentrated gaze on his hair, his eyes, his nose . . . his lips.

  Slowly, the room darkened, latticing more shadows over Rory only the back of his sketchbook glowed, reflecting the orange from the neighbor’s sensor light when it went off. Rory dropped his pencil on his case. “I think that’s it.”

  Eric sidled down the bed to the end and beckoned for Rory to come over. “Can I see now?”

  Rory shrugged. “Sure. Of course.” He rested his pencil by his case on the floor and came over with his sketch book. He sat next to Eric and opened to the page.

  Eric inhaled sharply at the detail Rory had gone into. It was so lifelike, capturing the emotion of the moment—at least the way Rory saw it. He’d thought before the two looked at each other timid and hopeful, but now there was so much more there. He noticed most the concern in the way he gazed at Rory, and there was something in Rory’s look Eric couldn’t quite pinpoint, but it made his stomach flip.

  Rory pointed to the background figures, resting one hand on Eric’s shoulder and he leaned over to scrutinize it. “Marc and Grill need a lot more work.”

  Eric followed his finger to Grill, who was staring at the koru on Eric’s wrist.

  “I like that it’s just us in focus,” Eric said, noting Rory had pulled away from the picture, but hadn’t dropped his hand from his shoulder. In fact, at his words the hold grew tighter than before.

  Eric’s sleeve caught on the corner of the pad, lifting the page. He glimpsed another sketch underneath. Rory’s clutch was almost digging into his shoulder now. But he made no move to stop him, it was like he was nervous but also wanted him to see.

  He flipped the page. There, in the center, was a small sketch of Eric in the supermarket, looking unsure at two cans of cat food he held.

  He swallowed. Rory had remembered the moment perfectly. The way Eric looked on page was the way he’d felt that day. Eric glanced at Rory to see he wasn’t looking at the picture, but at him.

  Eric shifted his hips, conscious suddenly of the sound his breath made as it came out—catching slightly. He should probably look away—Rory surely didn’t realize the way he was looking at him—but . . . once their eyes met, he couldn’t.

  He’d noticed before how thick the guy’s lashes were, how they framed his dark eyes, but this close to him he noticed the tiniest freckle under his eye, and the way his bottom lip jutted out, the same deep burgundy as his duvet. His gaze travelled lower to the rest of him. Though he’d seen Rory in less many times, he seemed different right now—

  God, what was he doing?

  Rory was . . . his friend. A guy he wanted to help. That’s all. And he wasn’t even out yet. No way should he be noticing the intimate way Rory sucked in his lip. Or the way the light hit his hair showing up a fleck of dust near his ear.

  Eric hesitated, then said, “So, did we want to eat some of that pie?”

  He shuffled away a fraction.

  Rory lessened his grip on his shoulder, and Eric breathed out in a mixture of relief and disappointment.

  But before Eric could stand up, Rory’s hand slipped to the back of his neck, clammy but insistent. Rory cut the distance between them, catching the edge of Eric’s mouth with a hard kiss.

  Eric pulled back a fraction.

  He looked at Rory. It was only a couple of seconds, but they held each other’s gaze. It was a moment of confusion, not having any idea what’d just happened or how they should proceed. But then Rory’s tongue darted over his lip. And it looked so soft and sensual, that Eric leaned forward, and kissed him back, tasting Rory this time. His mouth was warm, the brushing of their lips, soft. Rory’s tongue slid tentatively over Eric’s bottom lip as if he wanted to part them, but wasn’t sure that was okay.

  Eric cupped his hands on either side of Rory’s face and opened for him. As soon as their tongues met, giddiness and electrical current swarmed to his core. He’d felt this before between them, but not in this intensity. He moaned, and the sketchbook slipped off his knees, thudding onto the floor.

  The sound had Rory jerking back out of the kiss. He scuttled across the bed, away from him, spluttering in shock. Then he was on his feet, grabbing his sketch book and—

  “Where’re my pencils?”

  Lost, Eric frowned. “What?”

  “My pencils. I gotta—”

  “Don’t say ‘go’.” Eric’s voice came out croaky.

  Rory rubbed his forehead with his palm and looked at him. “Shit. Fuck. I’m sorry.”

  “What for?”

  “I just kissed you! That wasn’t right.”

  “So . . . you’re not ready to live this part of your life then?”

  “No. Yes. But I never should have with you just because I was curious. Not with you.”

  Rory couldn’t have been clearer. Eric had to look away. He focused on the light breeze coming through the window, hoping it would wash away the pain that suddenly cut through him.

  Of course it was just curiosity. Just Rory trying things out. That’s what they’d been talking about only minutes before.

  He wanted Rory to disappear and leave him to choke out the sudden nauseous squirming in his gut, but at the same time, he couldn’t. Rory was freaking out, and Eric couldn’t have him going back a step after so much progress. He had to let him know it was okay. He rung out a laugh, hoping it sounded light and genuine.

  “It was just a kiss, Rory. I know you didn’t mean anything by it.”

  “But I—”

  Eric stood and took him by the shoulders. “Calm down.” Though it felt like he was telling himself those words. Touching Rory was a reminder of what they’d just done, and the sting grew in his gut. He let go and forced out, “I get it. You want to experiment, know what it’s like being with a guy. That’s natural, and I’ll help you get it.”

  “Y-you will?” Rory’s gaze flashed to the bed.

  “Yeah.” Eric grabbed his wallet and keys from the window sill. “Get your shoes on. We’re going out.”

  A frown cut into the guy’s brow. “Out?”

  “Gay club. Where you can meet heaps of guys you can be curious with.” The words came out more bitter than he’d intended.

  Eric expected it when Rory froze, but he didn’t expect the slow release of breath attached to a sad sounding “Oh”.

  “Just to get out there in the scene, Rory. You don’t have to take anyone home or even give them your number. Just look. Maybe dance. Fantasize. Share a pitcher of beer—or, er, coke—with me if that’s all you want.” God he hoped that was all he wanted.

  Rory ran a hand through his hair, shifting his weight from foot to foot in a way that made Eric want to reach out and steady him. But he wouldn’t do that—somehow he didn’t trust himself to without pulling the guy close again and pressing their lips together once more.

  They just kissed once, but it didn’t matter. It’d opened a door that Eric wouldn’t be able to shut any time soon.

  “Can you handle that?”

  Can I?

  “Uh, yeah. I mean . . . sure, I can handle that.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Warm night air leaked over the dance floor and through the club from the opened terrace. It mixed with sweat and beer, and tangoed with music before whipping away Eric’s sigh as he and Rory cut through the crowds.

  He hadn’t been to this club before, but it was the same as all the others. At least the slick, sweaty skin, bodies pressed together, and prowling gazes were anyway. The sequins on the back wall caught and spat out light as they moved inside, and a dragon over the bar breathed fire when the barman pulled a cord.

  Rory was at his side, their shoul
ders touching as they pushed toward the bar. He’d been quiet in the pickup on the way over here—nerves, he guessed. Before they’d gotten out of the car, he said they could leave at any time. Rory had opened his mouth, and for a second, just a second, he’d thought he was going to ask to leave right then and there. But then the guy’d cleared his throat and nodded. “I’ve always wondered what it’s like inside one of these places.”

  Well, the whole point of the evening was to indulge that curiosity. So in they’d come.

  “Let’s sit there,” he said, pointing to two free stools at the corner of bar covered in wood-burned dragons.

  “Fuck,” Rory said, slipping onto the stool. “It looks like half of Wellington must be fags.”

  “Saturday. Busy night. And it’s gay.”

  When the bartender moved over and flashed them a dimpled smile and questioning brow, Eric looked at Rory. No need for a pitcher. “Just a Tui, thanks.”

  Rory ordered a large coke, his eyes sifting to each corner of the bar. Their seats were close, and Eric felt the warmth of Rory’s leg lightly pressing against his. He wanted to push back, just a little, but the lines had already been blurred between them once tonight. And Rory had made clear it meant nothing.

  Rory leaned toward him when the music changed to something a little louder and a load more obnoxious. The beat throbbed through their seats. “Do you come here often?” The puff of each word hit just beside Eric’s ear and he shivered.

  He watched Rory’s interested glances toward the bodies writhing to the music.

  “It used to be my scene,” he said aloud, and took a long drag of his beer. “Not anymore.”

  “Oh. This, huh?”

  He used to get himself lost in the crush of guys on the dance floor. It was a place, like sketching was to Rory, where he’d grow numb from the real world. Where he wouldn’t have to think about his dying grandpa or what it would mean being the only one left.

  But also, like Rory, he was growing tired of that. From that moment with Marc in his dining room, he knew it wasn’t what he wanted anymore. Like his grandpa said, he wanted to live his life, not this slutty bullshit. He wanted to find some real friends, a real future.

  Rory glanced at Eric’s beer and picked up his coke for a long sip.

  So what was he thinking bringing Rory here, introducing him to the same life he didn’t want for himself anymore? Had he done it because that was the only way he knew to fulfill that curiosity? Was prowling bars for quick fucks his default setting?

  Eric rubbed the pressure building at his brow with the back of his thumb.

  Maybe he’d suggested coming here because that was what he did when he didn’t want to think about things. He’d come here to be numb. To forget the softness of Rory’s lips on his, and the deep swirling feeling he’d gotten because he liked it and didn’t want it to stop.

  Not with you.

  Eric grabbed his beer and downed the rest of the bottle. A month ago, it was him saying those words. A month ago, he didn’t give a damn.

  But now . . .

  Why did I bring him here?

  Maybe he should get Rory and himself out of here. Give the guy some advice like finding a guy he likes, who’ll be careful with him and teach him anything he needs to know.

  He swung his legs to the side, ready to get up and take Rory away from the place, when a guy with a semi-mohawk and jeans so tight they looked sewn on tapped Rory’s shoulder. He stared at the fingers resting too long and too close to Rory’s skin to mean anything but he was interested.

  Eric ground his teeth as Rory started and twisted toward the Mohawk, feeling the loss of contact as Rory’s legs moved away from his. Thanks to the screaming music, he only caught pieces of what they said, but it was clear the guy was asking Rory if he wanted to dance. And if there’d been any chance there was a more innocent reason for coming over, it was shot down when Mohawk jerked his thumb over his shoulder toward the dance floor.

  Rory glanced over his shoulder at him, looking hesitant. Then looked back.

  “Oh,” Mohawk guy said. “Are you with . . .” There was a motion his way, and he began picking at the label on his beer as he strained to hear how Rory answered.

  “Uh, no. No.”

  He ripped a jagged strip of sticker off the bottle so fast, it spun. Quickly, he braced a hand around it.

  “So . . .” Mohawk said, gaze intent on Rory, a small smile twitching his lip.

  Rory’s shoulders rolled back, scrunching his t-shirt, then, nice and confident that his hand, white from gripping his stool so hard, belied, said, “Sure.” Standing, Rory turned to him. “Watch my drink for me?”

  Before he could follow the guy, Eric whipped out a hand and snagged Rory’s sleeve, pulling him close for a second. “Sure you’ll be good?”

  His eyes flared the same way they had the first night they’d gone out to meet Marc and his friends. Crap, he’d just made it a challenge. The last thing he wanted. If Rory was to go out there and dance, it was meant to be because he wanted to. Not to prove something. Dammit.

  Rory’s gaze dropped to his sleeve and for the briefest moment, when he touched his hand tenderly, Eric thought maybe he’d changed his mind. But of course it was all in his head; Rory’s fingers gently tugged him away, and then Rory slinked onto the dance floor.

  “I’ll have another beer, thanks,” he said when the bartender took his empty bottle. “In fact, make that two.”

  Eric skulled a quarter of the first bottle. He felt a familiar ache of loss as he watched Rory, at first rigid and staccato on the edge of the floor, slowly relax into another guy’s grip. The rawness inside didn’t seem to be appeased by the rest of his beer.

  Or the next one.

  What would happen when Rory finally fully accepted himself? Where did that put Eric? The guy would have no use for him anymore—

  He tore his gaze away from Rory to find the bartender staring at him as he dried a martini glass. “Another one?” he asked, inclining his head toward the empty bottles.

  “I don’t think a dozen of them will be enough. Just water.”

  He shouldn’t have glanced to the dance floor. Mohawk had his mouth at Rory’s ear, whispering something. Rory laughed.

  Eric winced, and dropped his elbows to the bar.

  A glass of ice and water slid in front of him. “There you go, man.”

  He took it, murmuring a half-hearted ‘thanks’ and went back to studying the wood-burned dragons, sticky from hundreds of spilt beers. It was taking everything he had not to storm over there and plead with Rory to go home with him.

  He’s enjoying himself. The guy had held back his whole life. Now he was getting a taste of what was out there. Whether the bar scene was the right way to go about it or not, Eric couldn’t justify taking Rory away from something that made him feel good.

  He was just going to have to deal.

  Rory couldn’t handle it. Really, he couldn’t. What was he doing here, sardined between guys, letting someone he didn’t even know hold his hips and grind against him?

  He didn’t want to be here. What he wanted was time to process what the fuck had happened back in Eric’s bedroom. Yes, he was curious what it was like with a guy in real life, but that hadn’t been what was going on through his head when . . . He shivered just thinking about the kiss. When Eric had seen his picture and had drawn in a soft breath, releasing it with a tender smile . . . Fucking, eh. He was absolutely positive not one coherent thought passed his mind after that. He’d been transfixed by the warmth glowing in Eric’s expression. It beckoned him, humming through his veins, and the pull to get closer to that smile, as close as he could, had him inching nearer until—

  Rory’s dance partner winked at him as he slipped his hands further around his waist, drawing him tighter toward him.

  So far he’d faked everything. The laugh, the flirting . . . He wanted Eric to notice. To see he was ready for this. To have some reaction. Something other than questioning if he had the guts to
come out here and dance.

  When a nose slid down the side of his neck and moist lips plucked at his skin, Rory froze. His heart hammered in his chest. He knew he could push the guy off, knew he could stop it, but . . . Was this something he had to fight through and get used to? Like he’d been thrown in the deep end of the ocean and had to just fucking swim already?

  “Ngya,” he said, forcing himself just in time to stop saying ‘no’. Of course, now it sounded like he was enjoying it. Fuck.

  He centered himself with a deep breath. Just focus on everything—anything—else. Like the doors to the terrace, the music so loud it made his ears ring, his shoes as they lifted with a sticky slurp off the floor.

  A tongue licked circles up his throat.

  He couldn’t take that shit anymore. He pulled back. Mohawk seemed to think Rory was just repositioning himself or something because he smiled low and sly, then came for his lips.

  Before they could touch, something, or rather, someone, grabbed Rory’s shirt from behind, yanking him away. Then came the familiar sound of Eric’s voice at his ear. “We need to get home.”

  Rory couldn’t believe the relief he had at hearing those words, but as soon as that safe feeling flooded through him, he hated himself for needing it. He lashed out at Eric, though, really, it was at himself.

  “I said I could handle it.”

  Mohawk, still dancing like the interruption was just something temporary, winked at him. He suppressed a shudder.

  “I’m sure you can handle it, Rory,” Eric said, his eyes flashing between him and his dance partner. “But I can’t so much, okay?”

  All the dancers around him faded and the music was the barest of background noises. He no-longer felt the beat of it through his feet, instead was a harsh pounding of his heart. He’d never felt so still. “You can’t?” But he’d only whispered the words.

  Eric frowned, and slid an arm around his shoulders coming closer. In his ear he said, “Are you all right?”

  Rory inhaled sharply at the words, and something, fuck, something shattered in him. He pushed Eric away. Then, without even a backward glance, he charged out of the bar.