by Peter Styles
“You both did fantastic,” she announces, sighing as she slumps against the front counter. Rowan is already finishing up at the front end, tables cleaned and floor swept.
“Yes, we did,” Stephen says, winking at Rowan. “In fact—”
“You’re both coming with me tonight. Drinks each, on me,” Jen smiles, stifling a yawn. “Anyway, it’s high time Rowan met some of my friends.”
Stephen freezes. Rowan seems to stop, too, and then his eyes immediately meet Stephen’s. They share a brief, electric moment of communication. Stephen can see the hesitation and guilt in Rowan’s eyes and the way he seems torn between letting his sister down and trying to make both invitations work. Let it never be said I wasn’t a team player, Stephen thinks, feeling the let-down like a small bruise before he covers it up with the knowledge that at least they’ll be together anyway. He’s not even sure Rowan wants to be alone with him.
“Okay,” Stephen says, nodding at Rowan, “but I am not going to get trashed. One and done. I’d like to be able to drive home.”
“That’s up to you,” Jen says cheerily, sliding away from the counter. “Ro?”
“Yeah,” Rowan says, still looking at Stephen, “I’m up for it.”
It’s not one of Stephen’s usual bars. This one is further away from the downtown center, closer to the city-styled part of Oriole. It’s newer and it seems like most of the people inside are younger; college students and traveling twenty-somethings practically spill over the booths and tables in the place. Stephen feels paradoxically out of place; he’s probably the oldest person there.
Rowan seems a little on edge with the crowd so Stephen decides to take a chance, moving closer to brush his hand against the other man’s. He ducks down a little to speak over the music and chatter.
“I thought we were going to a bar, not a concert,” he jokes.
“You’re not kidding,” Rowan says, raising both eyebrows as he follows his cousin.
Jen’s friends are familiar to Stephen. He waits while they’re all introduced to Rowan—there’s Amy, Ben, Cassidy, and Jordan. Half of them are high school friends while the other half are people Jen met somewhere or the other. As far as friends go, they’ve always seemed pretty nice, if a bit young for Stephen. He’s always a little bewildered by their stories of cross-dating and office drama.
It occurs to him after a few minutes that maybe coming wasn’t the best idea. As the new guy and Jen’s cousin, Rowan is practically absorbed by the group, questions flying at him from every angle. After ten minutes of cross-interrogation, Stephen decides to step in.
“Wanna go grab a drink?” he asks, leaning in to talk. The relief in Rowan’s expression tells him it was the right move.
“Yes,” the man says, immediately following him.
They navigate the crowd easily, slipping through gaggles of students on their way to the bar. At least here, Stephen feels more at home. He’s definitely not in the mindset he usually is, though.
“That was intense,” Stephen smiles, glancing sideways at Rowan.
“God, you’re telling me. Now I know what it felt like for Leo,” Rowan mutters, barely audible.
“Who?” Please don’t say a boyfriend. Please don’t—
“Leo. He’s dating one of my best friends. Long story,” Rowan smiles, leaning against the bar. What does that mean? Stephen wonders what it implies. Does he like people being straightforward? He considers whether he should start making his intentions clearer. It certainly wouldn’t hurt. He reasons with himself that if Rowan isn’t interested, at least they won’t be working together for much longer. It could be simple for the both of them.
“What about you? I’m sure you’ve had your fair share of romances, though not strictly in the office,” he adds, remembering Rowan’s strict propriety the first time they met. Rowan seems to notice the characterization, a little pleased by it. He even blushes a little, trying to hide it by ducking his head for a moment.
“Not really. I never got into dating. Just…too much time, outside of work. I guess it would make sense for me to meet someone at work, then, but I’ve never been interested.”
“Really? Why not?”
“Oh…I don’t know. Too much the same, maybe? I guess it’s just that most animators have a long-term plan and it’s so hard to match up...and we don’t compromise on our plans,” Rowan adds, laughing.
“Well, at least you have one,” Stephen snorts. “My plans consist of trying to make money for bills and not forgetting to check the bread for mold.”
It sounded a lot more depressing than it did in his mind and he almost thinks he’s lost Rowan, his messy life burning under the spotlight again. Instead, he’s granted another delicious taste of Rowan’s laughter. The man shakes his head, leaning forward on his elbows as the bartender takes their orders.
Why does he not hate me? He can’t bring himself to figure it out. By all accounts, Rowan should be disgusted by Stephen. He was disgusted by Stephen, not too long ago. Somewhere along the line, though, the contempt turned into friendship or even something a little more intimate. What the hell could he possibly be attracted to in me? He knows his life is a mess—he has an ex-wife and a kid, for crying out loud. Most single men—much less those younger than him—wouldn’t go within fifty feet of him. Even the strangers in bars never expressed more interest other than passing the time with a drinking partner or having a one-night stand. Having someone actually build up to something like this hasn’t happened since—shit, since high school, he thinks. It’s flattering.
He tries to stay true to his word, nursing the same drink for most of the night, but Rowan goes back to the bar twice—never anything strong, Stephen notices, but Rowan also seems to be unused to drinking because he’s very quickly a little flushed and a lot looser than he’s been for most of the evening. Nothing about his manner seems drunk; he goes slowly enough that Stephen is pretty sure he’s just tipsy at best. Tipsy and a little…closer than usual.
“I’m starting to get a headache, honestly,” Rowan mutters after their second hour at the bar, leaning close in the dim light.
“I can take you home, if you want—”
“It’s fine. It won’t do much good, now.”
“Well, if you still want to get out, we have time for dinner. It’s only…ten o’clock. Ish.”
Rowan grins, leaning into Stephen; his body seems warm. More solid and real than most things—certainly more real that Stephen’s failing imagination. He hopes his blush isn’t visible. Calm down.
“Let’s go, then. I’m starving.”
Rowan says goodbye to Jen quickly, brushing away her protests and questions, and they somehow make it out the front door without being followed. Stephen almost can’t believe it’s happening. It’s not until he’s in the car, turning the key in the ignition, that he realizes his mistake.
“Uh…I don’t think anything is open right now, other than fast food,” he says, staring at the steering wheel. Damn it, Stephen. You can’t even get your offers right. Rowan snorts, laughing easily, patting Stephen’s shoulder with surprising gentleness.
“Hell yes. My aunt and uncle are health nuts and I—no matter how businesslike—do enjoy a good burger.”
It’s a self-aware jab, which Stephen appreciates. He feels less nervous as he turns the wheel, starting down the street. The city is mostly dead, a handful of bars open and a few college students trudging home like zombies.
“Got a preference?”
“Somewhere we can pick up. I’d rather not sit inside a hyper-fluorescent box,” Rowan grimaces, “Do you mind? I mean—I don’t want to just invite myself over or anything…”
It takes Stephen a moment to realize what Rowan’s asking. He’s not just agreeing to food; he’s asking Stephen to take him back to his place. Oh. He panics, wondering if his place is clean. He can’t remember what it looks like for a terrifying moment. Is there even a guest bathroom downstairs? Jesus, when was the last time I vacuumed my couches? Suddenly, he fe
els much less confident than he did before.
“No. Yes,” Stephen corrects, trying to explain, “it’s fine. I’m not in the mood to deal with drunk teenagers, either.”
He has trouble concentrating while he orders. All he can do is worry—worry that things will go wrong, somehow; that Rowan will be put off by the house or unhappy with Stephen. He can just imagine them eating in awkward silence at his tiny dining room table, wanting the silence to swallow them whole. Before he knows it, they’re pulling up in front of his place, the dark night enveloping the world outside.
“It’s nice,” Rowan says as he jumps out of the truck, carrying their drinks. He looks over the small garden in the front. “What flowers are those?”
“Anemone,” Stephen says, glad to have something to talk about. “Jordi wants me to plant something livelier, like it’ll make me suddenly the happiest man on earth.”
“Blue is lively,” Rowan argues, following Stephen inside, “and they’re pretty. Anemone.”
Please don’t hate it, Stephen thinks, leading the way to the kitchen. He’s not sure what to say. “Welcome to my home, it used to be a lot livelier but then my wife divorced me and my kid went off to college”? Part of him wants to reach for the whiskey in his cabinet to fill the other half of his soda and take the edge off. He knows it’s a stupid idea, though. He didn’t come here to watch you get drunk. By all accounts, he hates it when you get drunk.
“Have you always lived here?” Rowan’s question jerks him out of his stupor and he takes a seat quickly, unloading the paper bag as Rowan pokes his straw into his cup.
“No. I lived in a shitty apartment in college. Melissa and I moved here after Jordi was born and then…I just kind of stayed.”
“Huh. It’s nice,” Rowan smiles, reaching for a fry, “Cozy.”
“Why did you leave? You used to live with Jen, right?”
“Yeah. At first, I just left for college, but then…I kind of stayed gone,” Rowan shrugs, looking a little uncomfortable with the thought.
Great going. Change the subject, Stephen berates himself, trying to swallow his food quickly enough to speak. His mind races. There’s not much he can really say. I don’t even know what the point of this is. Is this a date? Or something? He can tell Rowan is still the tiniest bit buzzed, his cheeks pink and his usual straight-laced posture relaxed. He’s by no means drunk but he’s at least riding the liquor high.
“Must be lonely, living so far from your family. Do you live alone?” An innocuous question, but probably a little probing. Stephen hopes it isn’t going too far.
“I’m not bothered by being away from family, though I do like coming back often,” Rowan says, swirling the ice in his cup. He frowns at it, something displeased entering his expression. “I do live alone. The apartment’s probably too big for just me but it’s not like I can’t afford it.”
“Oh,” Stephen drawls jokingly, “so you’re rich.”
“Of course. I even have someone pour my water for me.”
“And a gold toilet?”
“Please. Platinum is much classier,” Rowan says, grinning. Just like that, whatever tension Stephen feels dissipates. There’s no pressure in the way Rowan jokes with him, all of it casual and easy. He feels no need to talk or come up with conversation; he’s content just to let things happen.
“Must be nice to be rich. Sorry I couldn’t get you a gourmet burger.”
“I demand a taxation of French fries,” Rowan snorts, reaching over the table. Just as his arm crosses, Stephen lifts his and then suddenly the cup between them goes flying over, ice and soda rolling over the table like a tsunami to hit Stephen’s shirt and drip into his lap.
They stay frozen there for a second, wide-eyed and mortified, and then Rowan laughs. Stephen just laughs along, glad it hasn’t ruined the mood, trying to sop up whatever he can with cheap napkins.
“I’m sorry,” Rowan says, still laughing, “I promise I’m not drunk.”
“Yeah, I know,” Stephen says, feigning anger as he gets up from the chair. I usually have laundry down here from when I can’t be bothered to sleep in bed. Maybe there’s a shirt in the living room. “Where’s my other…”
He doesn’t think too much of pulling his shirt off, soaking up what mess he can while considering whether he should change or just shower, and then he hears a small cough and realizes he’s very much half naked in front of Rowan. Who is staring very hard at a spot just to the right of Stephen, blush a little too red to be just from alcohol.
“Oh. Sorry—” Stephen says quickly, ready to unravel the soaked shirt and yank it back on, but Rowan waves a hand at him.
“No, no. It’s fine. Um. What…what are your tattoos?”
Stephen pauses, trying not to smile at the way Rowan’s voice cracks a little. Rowan gets up from his seat, studiously throwing away their trash, trying to help clean up the spilled ice from the table.
“Which ones? I mean, some are older than others. I almost forget I have most of them, since I can’t really see what’s on my back,” Stephen jokes. He moves towards the staircase, wondering if he should get a shirt. Rowan follows and then seems to realize what he’s doing, one foot pausing above the first stair and hovering there. His gaze is questioning. Stephen tries to take it in stride, waving a hand as if he meant for them to go upstairs.
“The rose. On your left shoulder,” Rowan adds, humor in his tone.
“Wow. That one’s pretty old,” Stephen says, thinking back. “It was my third. Got it when I was nineteen—I wanted something to remember a trip I took. I went to California with a class and it was just roses, roses as far as the eye could see. Most amazing thing I’d ever seen. It kind of got stuck in my head. I thought, if I could, I’d love to live somewhere like that. Surrounded by flowers and green.”
“It sounds beautiful.”
“It was. Didn’t even want to leave. I spent too much time looking and not enough listening—the professor had us write some stupid review of the trip and I couldn’t even do it. Had to ask Melissa to do it for me.” They step into his bedroom and Stephen throws his dirty shirt into the hamper in the corner, turning towards the closet.
Something brushes against his back and he stops, holding his breath. He wants to move so badly but part of him recognizes that Rowan’s hand is on his skin, tracing over some of the tattoos curled there, exploring. He doesn’t want to interrupt whatever is happening, no matter how badly he wants to look over his shoulder. He waits.
“Did they hurt?”
“Most things in life hurt,” Stephen laughs, the sound humorless. It’s a trite saying but he can’t help himself from saying it. It’s true. “That doesn’t make them any less beautiful. And it sure doesn’t make you want them any less. Yeah...it hurt—”
Rowan’s hand curls around his shoulder and Stephen finally turns, heart hammering in his chest. It seems silly, to be so afraid of a guy both younger and physically slighter than him, but he can’t help it. Stephen knows he’s a mess. He’s a man who should be settled down and instead, he has a child and an ex-wife and a drinking problem. The only thing that’s going right in his life right now is his job. He has nothing to offer.
So why is he still getting closer to me?
There are no mops or brooms between them this time. They’re closed off from the world, hidden behind closed curtains and doors and the security of Stephen’s home. This time, when they kiss, it’s not a fleeting exchange. They move heavily, like two planets pulled into the same orbit, just so close to touching. Stephen can feel Rowan’s fingers brush the back of his hand; it’s almost like they’re swaying in place, wanting more but almost unable to follow through.
He doesn’t really care that Rowan tastes sticky, like soda, the faraway bitterness of rum on his tongue. He can’t even bring himself to care that his stubble is probably scratchy because Rowan hasn’t pulled away and they’re moving closer together. Stephen somehow tangles his hands in Rowan’s jeans, tugging carefully at the belt loops because
he doesn’t know how far the other man wants to go.
He’s almost shocked when Rowan starts guiding him back towards the bed. He pulls Stephen closer, fingers pressing against bare shoulders, and Stephen takes it as a request. He somehow gets Rowan’s shirt up and over his head—when they break apart, he misses his warmth, hungry for something he didn’t know existed before. He already feels embarrassingly hot, blood rushing in his ears like he’s a teenager all over again. Slow down, he thinks, his mind stuttering as much as his hands, you need to make sure—
“Um—Ro—Rowan,” Stephen tries, reluctantly untangling himself from a kiss, “I need—I need you to wait. Hold on—”
“What? What’s wrong?” Rowan asks, panting just a little, honey-brown eyes lust-hazy as he tries to focus.
“Nothing. Nothing—I just need to know this is okay. I don’t—”
“Yes,” Rowan says without pause, fingers inching along the band of Stephen’s jeans, “I want this. Okay?” He asks carefully, as if making sure Stephen is fine. It’s comforting to hear.
“Yeah. Okay,” Stephen agrees, barely getting the word in before his mouth is occupied again.
God, I forgot how good it was, he thinks, barely remembering to help Rowan out of his jeans. He really has almost forgotten how it felt to kiss someone—how it felt to be touched, outside of casual hugs and heavy arms around his shoulders from drunk people at the bar.
And Rowan knows how to touch him. Somehow, everything the other man does is careful, as if he’s tending to some task that needs his undivided attention. As if he’s making something at the shop, Stephen realizes, laughing a little at the thought. Rowan huffs, pulling away to frown slightly at him.
