Haemodynamics
by Sandrine Shaw
"What d'you think it's like?" Dean asks.
Gary has no idea what he's on about now, but Dean's eyeing Philip who's sitting alone at the bar, one drink away from the bartender calling time on him, so it's probably about losing someone or some other deep emotional bullshit. As if none of them ever lost a person they loved during the Rising. Of course, half the town has convenient selective amnesia about it now, what with the way they're suddenly cozying up to rotters like none of them ever took a bite out of their friends and family members. Like they're not all one missed dosage away from doing it again. It's fucking crazy, that's what it is.
He doesn't bother to ask what Dean is talking about, doesn't really care, just wants them to finish their beers in silence, maybe play a round of pool and go home, but Dean pushes on. "Shagging a rotter, I mean. Must be weird. They're dead, eh? They don't feel anything, so how'd it work?" The mental images Gary gets from that are bad enough and he's just about to tell Dean to shut the fuck up when Dean goes and makes it worse. "D'you think the guys can even get it up anymore?"
And that, that's enough. Gary slams his pint down on the counter too hard, beer spilling all over the dark wood. "How the bloody hell would I know? I don't spend much time thinking about rotters and their dicks. If you're so curious, go ahead and ask them. I don't give a fuck." He's done with this whole stupid conversation.
When he slips down the bar stool and turns to go, his gaze is drawn to Kieren at the other end of the room, who happens to look up right at that moment. Kieren doesn't look away, eyes holding Gary's like it's a challenge: whoever blinks first, loses.
It grates at Gary's nerves, how Kieren isn't afraid of him, even after everything. By rights, the little faggot rotter should be scared shitless, now that he knows Gary has no qualms about messing his shit up. Instead, he acts just like he's always done around him, maybe with an extra layer of contempt on top, like Gary's somehow beneath him. Like nothing can fucking touch him. Like Gary couldn't just grab him off the streets and take him deep into the woods where no one would find them. Where no one could hear Kieren scream.
Gary looks away, feeling flushed and breathless, his stomach clenching. It's the beer and the stale air and his decision to forego sleep in favour of late-night patrols. It's absolutely not Kieren fucking Walker and the way Gary's mind can't stop imagining all the ways he wants to mess that boy up.
Beside him, Dean has turned around as well, following Gary's line of vision. He perks up, and Gary knows what's coming before Dean even opens his mouth.
"Yo, Walker!" he calls through the room, loud enough to turn all the heads. "What's shagging like for you guys? Do your dicks still get hard?"
And Gary hates himself for it, but he can't stop himself from checking Kieren's reaction, how his eyes go all wide in an appealing deer-in-the-headlights sort of way. He knows it's impossible - lack of blood flow and all - but he could swear that Kieren blushes, a hint of red on his cheeks against the pale grey skin. His eyes quickly dart from Dean to Gary and back - and fuck, of course he thinks that Gary put Dean up to this. That they were sitting here, discussing whether or not Kieren could sport a stiffy. And doesn't that just take the cake?
Disgusted, Gary shakes his head. "Sod it, I'm leaving," he announces to Dean, making sure his voice is loud enough that it carries. "You sad fucks can talk rotter sex ed when I'm gone." He wants to make a quip about Kieren giving Dean a demonstration if Dean asks nicely, but that's not a mental image he needs in his head, so he cuts himself off before he can go there.
He takes a final swig from his pint and walks off, feeling Kieren's eyes on his back all the way till the door slams shut behind him and the cool fresh air hits his face like a wall he's slammed into head-first. It sobers him up so quick that it's painful, killing the boner he's been trying hard not to notice.
Small mercies.
End.