Cigarettes and Scarecrows
By Rykea Night
A sort of stillness had settled over the apartment, embedding itself into the carpet, grinding through the paint. It was as if nothing existed, and at the same time so much was magnified. Pulsating. Screaming. The searing hum of electricity coursing through the walls, footsteps—miles away—quaking the ground, and the coffee brewer. Dripping. Once, twice. A sizzle as murky liquid hit a potless surface. Burning, staining, the scent of cheap Colombian blend stippling the air. It was nauseating.
A withered pack of Camels lay open on the coffee table, two lonely cigarettes filling the empty space. Then one. Resting the tip of the filter against his lips, his hands slipped through his pockets, fingering, feeling. Empty. Stepping across the room he felt the nicotine grow soft in his mouth, mingling with sticky spit. The taste was gentle against his tongue, almost familiar. Soothing.
Another coffee drop.
Drifting into the bedroom he rummaged through the discarded clothes littering the space. Pants, socks, shirts. Jean, cotton, polyester. A matchbook hit the floor; a match was lit. White light tinged with orange flared before him, tiny gasps of oxygen combusting. Inhaling the sweet dose of smoke deep into his lungs, he collapsed back against the bed. A line of gray blew from his nose.
The figure on the bed shifted, moaning lightly with the motion. "Don't smoke in here."
Kubota rested his calloused fingers against his lips, lifting away the cigarette only to exhale more chemical slate. "I thought you were sleeping."
"You're going to burn more holes in the fucking sheets."
"Hmm." Another breath of smoke.
"Are you even listening? Kubo-chan?" The figure swung around, resting his head upon Kubota's bare chest, nestling against his arm. Kubota merely draped his arm over Tokito's shoulders, his left hand slipping under the boy's unbuttoned shirt, thin fingers brushing against prominent hipbones slithering beneath pale flesh. He took another drag.
"We're out of milk."
"Mm-hmm."
"And ramen."
"Mm-hmm."
"And instant coffee."
Kubota paused. "There's granulated. Somewhere."
"It tastes like shit."
"Yeah."
The mellow afterglow of six PM seeped through the cream blinds, coating the bed in splinters of auburn and indigo. Fading light. A faint breath of October air would then press against the shades, ever so gently nudging them away from the glass, into the room, only then to dissipate, letting them freefall back against the window frame. Kubota resisted the urge to cringe. Taking another draw of nicotine, his eyes fixated on the far wall, shadows dancing over the garish white with each clunk of the frame. Violet nothings, a grisly purple-gray of dissipating sunlight and decimated blinds. Some bent, some cracked, each revealing patterns against the wall. Moving scribbles—dancing, tumbling, dying. Then nothing. Nothing more than hanging scarecrows, distorted and awkward, beautiful and frightening.
"Kubo-chan."
Gazing back at the boy, Tokito's unknowing eyes caught his, leading them down to his hand. Caught beneath the unbuttoned jeans, he felt his fingers run down the inside of the boy's thigh, the skin sultry with sweat. Taking another breath of smoke, he lifted his hand, gingerly brushing over the boy's cock before reemerging from the jean. Lifting himself from the bed, he grounded the remnants of the butt into an empty beer can lying upon the dresser. Pulling a forlorn dress shirt over his sticky skin, he waded from the bedroom.
"Where are you going?"
"Out."
"Pick up some coffee. And no more of that Columbian shit."
"Mm-hmm."
Even as the apartment door closed behind him, darkness replacing the once irritating afterglow, he felt a simple smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Gently he rested his fingers against his lips, the spicy taste of semen, sweat and smoke tainting his tongue. Biting gingerly at the skin, he felt his teeth sink deep, iron filling his mouth.
He wondered if Tokito would rather Java.
La fin.