Drawn Together

by Z. A. Maxfield

  “That’s amazing.”

  “Yeah, well, everybody’s got a story, don’t they?” He kicked an abandoned cigarette butt into the bushes with his foot.

  “Yes.” Yamane stopped at the door of Gladstone’s, a fish restaurant on the water. “I wanted to try this restaurant.”

  “I am completely at your mercy.”

  Yamane was quiet while Rory took care of getting a table for them.

  “Is there something the matter?” he asked when he and Yamane were seated at a table on the patio.

  Yamane shook his head. “I was just making a picture in my head of what it would be like to be trapped in an attic with water rising.” He sighed. “Force of habit.” He took a sketch pad, a pencil, and a Copic multiliner out of his messenger bag and began to draw idly.

  The waiter came by and Yamane stopped his work to look at the menu. “I’ll have the Dungeness crab, a bowl of clam chowder, and a Heineken, please,” he said.

  The waiter looked at Rory.

  “Could I please have a moment?” he asked. When the waiter was gone, he turned to Yamane. “Is it all right if I order a beer?”

  “You don’t have to ask me; just order what you want. Is this a totally new experience for you?”

  “What, eating in a restaurant or being taken out by a guy?” asked Rory.

  “Please, if anything on the menu looks good to you just order it.” Yamane looked around as if sharing a secret. “My publisher is paying for this.”

  “Even so,” said Rory. His cheeks reddened. “All right.”

  When the waiter returned, Rory ordered a grilled fish dish and a Corona. As soon as they got their beers, Yamane carefully poured his into a chilled glass and Rory squeezed a lime wedge through the neck of his beer and drank it from the bottle. Just then Yamane saw a server carrying a large platter to another table and stopped him.

  “What are those?” he asked, referring to the large plate of what looked like potato chips covered in some kind of toppings.

  “These?” asked the waiter. “These are smothered chips; homemade potato crisps covered in blue cheese, bacon, and chives. Would you like me to bring you some?”

  “Yes. Please. Make it instead of the clam chowder.” He picked up his sketch pad and started to work again.

  “Chips, no chowder it is. I’ll be right back.” He moved on.

  “Somebody likes junk food.” Rory smiled.

  “Have you ever had homemade potato chips?” asked Yamane.

  “Yamane, I’m from the South. We fry our Thanksgiving turkeys down there.” Yamane stared at him. For a long moment neither of them said anything.

  Finally, Rory broke the silence. “Did I say something wrong?”

  “No, you just called me Yamane. It” -- his drawing hand stilled -- “it seemed strange. For a second I felt very Japanese and brittle.”

  “Perhaps I should call you Ran-sensei,” Rory teased, starting up a patter of informational tidbits about the Anime Expo.

  Yamane continued to listen as he sketched. Rory seemed to be one of those people who abhorred the vacuum caused by a conversational lull. He was an enthusiastic speaker and a naturally funny person. Yamane enjoyed his company. As he sketched, imagining the scene in which Rory and his grandparents burst through the roof of their house in a hurricane, he wondered how Rory could be so cheerful.

  The waiter came, bringing the enormous platter of chips. “Don’t look now,” said Rory, “but I believe the food police are hot on your trail.”

  “That makes you an accomplice. Quick, let’s get rid of the evidence.” He smiled. Rory stopped, his chip halfway to his mouth.

  “What?”

  Rory sat back in his chair. He bit the chip and chewed slowly. “You smiled,” he said, picking up his beer and shaking the lime around in the amber liquid. “You don’t seem to do that often. It’s quite…”

  “So?” Yamane, self-conscious now, dug into his chips. “These are good.”

  “I didn’t think much of the combination at first blush, but I like them,” said Rory. “Sometimes things you don’t think could possibly go together are just perfect for each other. It always surprises me.”

  “Me too.” Yamane quietly watched his companion eat. He took a sip of his beer. Their food arrived and Yamane removed his long coat and draped it over the empty chair next to him. His crab came whole with a mallet and tongs and crackers for removing the meat. He stood and rolled up the sleeves of the fine white linen shirt he was wearing. With Rory watching, he expertly removed the legs from the crab, using a nutcracker and a shrimp fork to remove the meat. Then he smacked the body with a mallet, separating and plating the meat while placing the shells on the empty appetizer platter for the waiter to remove. He sat back down and prepared to eat.

  “You look like a southern boy doing that. You certainly know your way around a crustacean,” Rory commented.

  “I especially like Dungeness crab.”

  “This is fascinating. Somehow you’ve managed to smash a crab to bits without getting the slightest bit soiled,” Rory said as Yamane delicately wiped what mess there was off the tips of his fingers before picking up his fork. Rory started on his fish.

  “So,” said Yamane. “Don’t you have a million questions for me about art or publishing or something?”

  “How old are you?”

  “I’m thirty-one; I’ll be thirty-two in September.”

  “You don’t look much over twenty-five,” said Rory. “But I knew you were older because I’ve been reading your work for so long. Tell me about the Snoggs. How old were you when you created the Snoggs?”

  “I was in high school when I started to draw them. When they started publishing that manga, the Snoggs took on a life of their own and people put so many intensely personal interpretations on it. Suddenly it became a juggernaut and I was sort of helpless against it for a while.” He motioned to the waiter for another beer. “In the beginning, the Snoggs were only little chef characters that danced and went around the world feeding hungry children. When it all took off, I felt like the creator of the Barbie doll or something.”

  Rory grinned. “I worked in a care facility for some homeless children during the hurricane relief effort. Sometimes, when I could, I’d plug my laptop into a car battery charger and run those Snoggs cartoons for the kids. There was one group of three-year-olds who couldn’t wait to do the ‘happy pancake dance’ every day. Say what you like about the Snoggs, but they really make people happy.”

  “I see. And I’m glad; I really am.” Yamane drank his beer. “But do you understand how sometimes people love my work for whatever reason, and then they get all confused and think that I, personally, am a part of the product?”

  Rory held up both his hands. “Preaching to the choir. I hear you. It’s hard sometimes to separate the artist from the art. For what it’s worth, I love your work. The cover for the latest Princess Celendrianna for example -- something about it just speaks to me.”

  “Thank you,” Yamane said in a quiet voice.

  “I guess that makes me your stalker du jour. In light of that, why on earth are you being so nice to me, of all people?”

  “Well. When you refused to leave, I…” Yamane didn’t have an answer to give. “I have no clue.”

  Rory sipped the last of his beer. “I know.” He grimaced. “I did think about it. I really couldn’t give those flowers to anyone else. It was a true epic quest -- in the literary sense -- which I have now completed. Go, me!”

  “I see,” said Yamane, picking up his sketchbook and pen again. He caught the waiter as he passed and ordered two coffee drinks. “Dessert?”

  “No thank you, I’m fine.”

  “What about you?” asked Yamane. “Where do you work?”

  “I work -- or rather, I worked -- at the Ragin’ Cajun Bar and Grille, if you can believe it.”

  “Oh, yes.” Yamane snorted. “I believe it.”

  “Well, it is summer, after all.”

  “So you go to
school then?”

  “Yes, sir, I’m getting my master’s in French lit. Ergo, my familiarity with the epic quest.”

  “Graduate school? You’re joking!” Yamane exclaimed, his drawing forgotten.

  Rory raised his eyebrows. “Is that your way of saying, ‘Run, Forrest, run’?” Yamane looked down. “It sounded like that, didn’t it?”

  “To paraphrase something that was said to me earlier today, ‘You thought I was a moron, didn’t you? I get that a lot.’”

  “I’m sorry,” Yamane told him.

  “You know what’s just nuts? Everything I wanted from you -- everything I imagined -- has become reality.”

  Yamane laughed. “I didn’t think of it like that.” He continued to sketch. “Everything?”

  “Yeah…sort of. You’re even much more beautiful than I imagined. It’s just shocking. Someone ought to put a bell around your neck; I’m sure no woman is safe within fifty feet.”

  Yamane felt Rory’s eyes on him but didn’t look up.

  “There doesn’t seem to be anyone left here. I guess we can really clear a place out. They’re probably waiting for us to leave.”

  Yamane said, “Let them wait; I’m not done yet.” He was having a fine time, though he didn’t like to admit it. He closed his eyes. Maybe it was the alcohol, or Rory’s slow, unusual way of speaking that felt like a lullaby. He tried to remember the last time he felt safe. He could feel the warmth of Rory’s admiration like a living thing.

  Yamane flushed deeply. He would never be able to explain this to his agent. He realized Rory was talking and came back to himself. “What?” Yamane asked. “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you.”

  “I just said I’m getting fuzzy-headed. A walk might be good for my brain.”

  “Fine, then that’s what we’ll do.” Yamane closed his sketchbook, putting it and his pencil and pens back into his messenger bag. He drank the last of his coffee. They left the patio dining area through a little gate in the picket fence that surrounded it and meandered along the path by the sand.

  “I feel boneless.” Rory stretched his large body lazily. “I’m glad I don’t have to drive anywhere.”

  “It’s nice to stay in a hotel so well situated,” Yamane commented. “This is my first time coming to Anime Expo. I didn’t anticipate I’d enjoy it.”

  “Your bio said ‘the reclusive Ran Yamane travels to Expo at last.’ Are you really a recluse?” he asked as they came to the hotel’s circular stairway.

  “Probably.” Yamane walked a little ahead of Rory. “I’m not considered a socially successful person.”

  Yamane was almost halfway up already when Rory reached the stairs. “For a guy who’s been drinking you’re awfully light on your feet.”

  When he felt Rory just behind him, Yamane stopped and turned around. He looked down and saw Rory bathed in silvery light that crisscrossed his face with striking shadows created by the unusual guardrail of the round stairwell. Yamane shook his head to clear it. Rory was beautiful. There was something honest and compelling and safe inside him, and Yamane responded to it without thinking.

  Yamane reached out a hand. “You’ve got something on your lip,” he murmured, rubbing it gently with his thumb.

  “What?” Rory froze.

  “Me,” said Yamane, closing the distance for a kiss. Yamane kissed Rory tentatively at first, but then, when he found no resistance, he deepened his kiss, stepping into Rory’s body by coming down a stair.

  He hadn’t planned a kiss; it came to him spontaneously to do it when he saw the way Rory was looking up at him. He twined his fingers in Rory’s hair and used his thumbs to stroke his high cheekbones. He even coaxed the shocked boy’s mouth open and stroked his tongue gently against his perfect white teeth. Finally, he broke contact and ran up the stairs. He may have been brave enough to kiss Rory, but he didn’t have the courage to face the aftermath of that act. He made it to the top before Rory had a chance to react.

  * * *

  Rory’s knees buckled, and he sat down hard on the concrete step.

  Yamane’s voice floated back to him from the walkway above. “Be careful what you wish for,” he said, “and next time, try to use very specific language.”

  Rory thought he heard light laughter.

  “Well,” Rory murmured through his hands, which he held over the mouth that had been well, truly, and expertly kissed by a really beautiful man. “Amen to that.”

  4

  Rory sat in the shadow of the stairwell for a long time. Eventually, he heaved himself to his feet and turned around to walk, not toward the hotel, but back toward the businesses from which he came.

  What the hell was that?

  He took off along Shoreline Drive, crossing the street at the light rather than using the overpass. He ambled aimlessly past the restaurants and shops, past the convention center, the Terrace Theater, and finally the arena. He reached the farthest parking lot and the safety of his car. Rory didn’t bother opening the car door, sitting instead forlornly on the hood.

  If Ran-sensei saw him as an idiot, why did he spend any time on him at all? If he wanted a boy toy, well… Rory truly thought he’d covered that ground. His biggest problem, as he saw it now, was that his clothing and some of his personal belongings were in that hotel room, and he was loath to go back. Setting aside his reaction to that kiss -- which didn’t bear scrutiny -- he felt going back was like…asking for more. Now, he had to decide if he could afford to leave everything in that hotel room behind.

  The layer of evening mist hung in the sky, obscuring the stars, with the moon a dim light hidden behind its curtain. Rory thought it must be full to be glowing that brightly despite the amount of moist air obscuring it. Rory enjoyed the feel of the cool night air on his face. Unlike the gulf, the air here was balmy but light, not oppressive like the humidity he was used to. He could almost sleep here right on the hood of his car. He probably would have had he not been invited to Yamane’s hotel.

  It was time to face facts. The situation wasn’t anything more than slightly embarrassing. He wasn’t in danger. Unless Ran Yamane was the master of some kind of queer fu, he posed no threat to Rory. Probably. Rory touched his hand to his lips, and immediately the memory of Yamane’s lips on his returned to him, startling him with its sensual intensity.

  Crap, crap, crap. He jumped off the car, sighing deeply, and began the walk back to the hotel. In spite of that kiss -- or maybe, a new and quiet voice nagged, perhaps because of it -- the only thing he couldn’t leave behind in that hotel room without a backward glance was Ran Yamane.

  As he neared the hotel on the street level, he began to plan what he would say. His assumption that the kiss had been some sort of joke was his story and he was sticking to it. He wasn’t unaware that his fascination with the strange artist overrode his common sense. It galled him that even after spending time with Yamane, Rory felt like he knew less about him than he did before they met.

  Rory entered the elevator and pressed the button for the third floor. He looked at himself in the mirrored walls and ceiling. He was, in truth, too tired and buzzed to think clearly.

  After only one fumble, the key card Rory inserted into the slot of room number 324, when removed quickly, caused the light to turn green. He turned the handle and entered the room, then removed his shoes and tentatively stepped forward. None of the lights were on. Rory sighed with relief when he discovered the room was empty. He switched on the light and found things were still just as he’d left them and sat down at the small table to think.

  Something propped on his pilot case caught his eye. Yamane’s sketchbook, and a note, addressed to him. Coloring faintly, Rory remembered writing his name on Yamane’s arm. In retrospect, he feared, perhaps that had been a little suggestive. He picked up the note.

  “Rory,” it said. “I’ll be watching the anime films at the Terrace Theater. If you choose to leave, I understand. However, please take the sketchbook as a gift and a thank-you. Ran Yamane.”

  Ror
y held the sketchbook in his hands for a time. The artist’s name was handwritten on its outside in both English and kanji. It was such a treasure Rory was afraid to look inside it. While they were dining and Yamane sketched, Rory had experienced an agony of curiosity. Now, holding the book itself, it seemed private somehow, even sacred. He forced himself to turn the cover back. The image on the page showed him with an old man and woman, water swirling around their knees, using an indistinguishable object to break through the roof as the rain poured in from a hole onto their terrified faces. If Yamane had been there, he could not have captured the emotion of the scene better. In the lower right- hand corner, the artist had titled the sketch “Heroic Rescue,” and signed his name in English and kanji.

  Rory expelled the breath he held and turned the page. The next image was Rory’s own face. He shook his head. Was this how Yamane saw him? In it, he had a wholesome quality, innocent eyes, and a charming smile.

  Turning another page, Rory froze. Yamane must have worked on this after he had gotten back to the room. It was titled, “Quest’s End, a Kiss From the Maiden Yamane” and was also signed and dated. It showed the circular stairway with its lights and shadows playing over two people who stood on the steps. Rory’s blushing face was more visible, beautifully rendered, the eyes closed. His hand on Yamane’s arm was tentative; an argument could be made that it was pulling Yamane toward him but also that it was keeping him back. Rory was on a lower stair, forced to strain upward for the kiss.

  As for Yamane, drawn as he was with his face the one more shadowed, it was impossible to tell whether he was a man or a woman. His braid hung over his shoulder, and his beautiful silk robe played in an imaginary breeze. He had drawn his own lovely hand caressing the skin just under Rory’s ear, and looking at it now, Rory could almost feel it stroke him there.