bleeding soul-ache heart
His lips kept bleeding. The November air chapped them, and he had been breathing through his mouth all day, Saturday, to avoid the gasoline fumes. Tucked under cars, two-wheel-drive and four-wheel-drive, clicking through their underbellies with a wrench and an oil gage, checking on gas pumps and cylinders, leaning under the hoods to adjust the engines of vehicles he couldn't imagine owning.
Okay, he could imagine it. But if he had that cash flow, he wouldn't buy a fancy car. He would buy a college degree and a house and some clothes he could straighten his back in. He would buy some self-respect, and maybe some self-esteem to go with that withering, crippling pride he had in his bright red and bleeding soul-ache heart.
The ache had gotten better, since he had come into his becoming. He felt stranger, certainly. He thought less about certain things, like girl's legs and full, round breasts, and more of others: his friends, their ideas, their desires…
But really, nothing ever changed for Adam. Here he was, fixing engines on the edge of Henrietta, an American heartland town, on the edge of poverty and static radio stations, racism and indiscernible white-man slang. Fixing cars on the edge of a tomorrow that he only dreamed: he, the magician, who couldn't string together a future worth a damn.
His lower lip was bleeding again. He wiped it with his filthy rag, smelling the oil stains as he did, and slammed the hood of the Bentley. It was nearly eleven at night and he should go home, 'home', and work on his homework, look out the tiny, shitty apartment window and think of a future that rang like a brass bell. He thought, to have a future worth-a-damn, you have to be worth-a-damn yourself, boy.
The night was stilled and dark. White moths fluttered in yellow light-beams, and Adam sat on a wooden stool at a work station, alone and self-pitying. He was sweating, despite the cold. He was tired and hungry, but didn't want sleep or food, because once he had satisfied those mammalian desires he would be back where he started, but emptier because he lacked the desire. Desire kept him motivated.
He stiffened. He hadn't heard it, but he knew something was lingering outside the garage. He could sense its presence of something graceful and dangerous. He flicked his gaze to the light illuminating the entrance. A pool of yellow spilt upon the blacktop, speckled with white-winged moths. Adam tensed and felt Cabeswater with his mind.
Where are you now, my friend? I might need you tonight.
Adam stood and moved several silent steps forward. He waited in the shadows, his stomach muscles tensed. Something was coming. Something alien and deadly as iron shearers… A dark figure stepped into the light, and Adam couldn't see its face.
"Parrish?" The figure said.
Adam felt his muscles relax. "Jesus, Lynch," he said. "What the hell are you doing out there?"
Ronan stepped into the garage. "I scare you?" He said. "Pussy."
Adam didn't answer. Instead, he grabbed several used rags from the ground and tossed them into the laundry bin, then began to clean up the tools.
"I stopped by your place," Ronan said.
Adam still said nothing. He sucked his lower lip into his mouth, tasting the blood from its cracks. He lay a wrench on the nearest tool bench.
"Why are you here, Lynch?" He didn't have the patience to deal with Ronan's games, his sarcasm or his aggression. If Ronan had had a bad day, let him take it out on Gansey tonight. Adam was tired. Adam was worn and filthy from overuse.
"I need help," Ronan said. He walked farther into the garage and stood beside the tailgate of the Bentley.
"What?" Adam said. "On Latin?" Sarcasm felt thick in his mouth. He wasn't in the mood for it anyway. He finished putting the tools away and turned walked towards the door and towards Ronan.
"Look," Adam said. "I'm tired, and tonight's not a good night for me. What do you need?"
He stopped before Ronan and wiped his hands on a final rag. Ronan's eyes were black, slanted slightly, and he wore a black tank-top and low-slung jeans. The muscles in his arms looked etched in the crude interior lighting, and Adam wondered if Ronan was the only teenage boy whose jaw looked sharp enough to touch.
"Fucktard, your lip is bleeding," Ronan said.
"What?" Adam said. He licked his lower lip. "Oh yeah. It gets dry. Lynch, it's late."
Ronan shifted in place. He looked uncomfortable, and Adam thought if he couldn't feel Ronan's thoughts he was imagining them: dark snakes writhing and a sudden heart-stop of pounding what?- Desire.
Ronan said, "Mine never get dry enough to bleed."
Adam felt a pulse under his skin. Maybe they were talking about something else. Maybe they weren't standing in an empty garage near eleven at night talking about Adam's lips.
"It happens every year," Adam said. Ronan had stepped closer still.
"Maybe buy some Chapstick, idiot," Ronan said.
"Fuck off," Adam said.
Ronan was very close now, within two feet, and the proximity made it difficult. Adam thought, I need to go. He thought, I don't want to go. He stepped to the side, slightly.
"Is that all?" Adam asked. "You just wanted to berate me for my lip hygiene?"
Ronan smiled. "No," he said. "I want something else too." He stepped up closer and touched Adam's collarbone. Adam felt himself shiver. "Don't you want to know what?" Ronan said. He brushed his fingers against Adam's temple and Adam tasted blood in his mouth. Then Ronan's hand was back at his side, and he was looking at Adam.
"No," Adam said, but he couldn't move. He felt stiffened in place, and frozen. "I think you should leave."
"Yeah?" Ronan said. "Know what I think?" He cuffed the side of Adam's head and brought it closer, so their foreheads rested against each other. His breath smelt of mint gum and whiskey.
"I don't," Adam breathed
"I think you should hit me or kiss me already," Ronan said. "Straight-boy." He smiled. "I want to fuck you or bleed."