(first then)
John turned on the water and let it stream over him. He wouldn't let his hands shake. He wouldn't. 'Take a shower as you would normally,' Mr. McFarland said. Take a shower as he would normally but normally he didn't take showers with audiences. Normally he didn't let other people see bruises or cuts or him. Christ, it was almost a year before he would walk around without a shirt in front of Bobby, before he stopped bringing his clothes into the bathroom to change into, damp skin and humid air making them sticky.
He reached up and searched his hand through the shampoo bottles. Everything felt empty but for one. Apple. He rubbed it into his hair and tried to ignore the glass between the shower and the outside. And John could only think of his father. His fucking father. Oh God, he was such a queer; it might as well be fucking official now, with hats and pins and slogans and shit. And a fucking whore now. A god damn- his father had every right to hit him, to hate him because he was letting someone, a fucking guy at that, watch him shower for money. No. No mustn't think of that. Mustn't think of the outside. John cleared his mind and took the shower, moving in and out of the stream.
He rubbed a palm against the glass so he could look out. "I'm done," he said over the water. Mr. McFarland nodded lazily and buttoned his pants. John shut the water off and grabbed a towel, covering himself. "I want to get dressed now. By myself." Mr. McFarland left.
John tried not to look in the mirror as he dressed, barely drying off, his hair soaking the back of his shirt as it dripped, twisted and tangled. His woven black bracelet hung soggy on his wrist and he knew his rings would leave rust stains on the roots of his left ring finger and thumb, where metal touched. He didn't care. Mr. McFarland waited in the hall and eyed up John but John guessed there was nothing to say to him, nothing he could say. "How does this work?" he asked, hating being the first to speak.
"How do you want it to work?"
"You pay me cash the day of. I come when I want to, leave when I want to. You don't call me, you don't tell anyone. You don't say anything about my body. You don't touch me or ask to." Mr. McFarland nodded for each request.
"Is that it?" John shrugged. "When you come here you come in the back door. If I have company you leave without making a scene. You can come when you want, go when you want but do not try to cheat me John." John nodded, his turn now. "Are there shampoos you like? Soaps?"
"Just shit that smells clean. Nothing scented." Nothing like apple. Or berry. Or Bobby's peppermint.
"Are you hungry?" John shook his head.
"I think I want to go." Mr. McFarland nodded and handed him the money. John put it in his pocket, itching the skin next to his lighter. He ran his fingers over the metal casing as he walked home, shook his head like a dog and felt the water fall back upon him.
(earlier)
So it wasn't goddamn love. At least John knew that. Accepted it. Could call himself on it. What it was, was people staring at the pucker in the back of his jeans because he wasn't wearing a belt, the fingernail curve of his black boxer-briefs, his black T Shirt, his arms. Not so much his face. What it was, was free drinks on his birthday, his first in this country. What it was, was touch. What it was, was ignoring the goddamn rules for one night, ignoring Bobby's morals and ignoring any thoughts of Bobby's lips, his eyes, his laugh, his comatose sugar high smile. "Can I buy you a drink?"
"Sure. Surprise me." The guy didn't look that old, but then again, looks were deceiving. John didn't look newly- sixteen, hadn't looked his age since he turned thirteen, and this had always bought him enough drinks. Maybe thirty, early thirties? Late twenties? Really good plastic surgery or organic living or whatever was in style? Who cares, he told himself. He's buying drinks.
"A rum and coke for this gentleman, and a white Russian for myself." The bartender slid over the napkins, taking away John's empty beer bottle whose top he had been suckling for the past few minutes, wondering if it was worth trying to barter another drink without ID.
John drank.
"So, what are you doing later?"
"Nothing in particular." John had been keeping track of the drinks. Three for him, plus the bottle of beer and the vodka shot from before, when it was Howie sitting next to him, Howie with his boyish face and eyes that kept wandering to the metal stud in John's chin that he got when he was twelve and had been rewarded for his act of independence with a beating via some assholes from the Upper Forms and then his father, for the piercing and getting into a fight at school. Howie who had to go and mention comic books. And for this guy, Andrew, that's what he claimed his name was, a White Russian, then something John couldn't remember and then his current White Russian. Were there any drinks named for this country? Or was America as much as a melting pot when it came to alcohol as it was with people? John toasted his last gulp to himself. To walking two miles to get to this fucking five-mile town and then having to look for a bar. To forgetting. To breaking the Mansion's goddamn rules. To Bobby's lips and the ideas they held, the feelings in his gut and sensations across his skin that they brought up. To Bobby's easy ability to throw his arm around his shoulders. To Bobby's familiarity with touch that John envied, that made his lips spasm. To cheap sex and whatever B movie (John thought it was 'Jesus Christ: Vampire Slayer') Bobby had thought to put on and watch. To sitting in this man's lap as he drove down the street, to his apartment, kissing Andrew's neck, his lips, his collar bone, his chest while Andrew steered and switched gears with one hand and didn't wear his seat belt.
John lay on the black black sheets, listening to Andrew breathe drunkenly, softly. Sighing he untangled his arms and legs, sliding out from under Andrew, who nestled his cheek into the pillow instead. Gathering up the condoms, he tied them and threw them into the trashcan in the attached bathroom that didn't have doors, John didn't think there were doors anywhere in this apartment; pulling back on his underwear, he went to the leather couch and fell asleep there, his skin sticking to the black animal skin, letting it wrap around him and hold him, watching the sky going lighter through the blinds. He missed Australia sometimes, watching the sunrise especially. It felt so late here; even almost a year after he had found his way to New York.
He awoke a few hours later and listened. Quiet. No pipes running, no Bobby's whispering snore. He walked back into the bedroom and got dressed watching Andrew watching him. "You weren't here when I woke up." John shrugged. "You sure you don't want to stay?" Andrew motioned to the bed, the melted pools of candles, himself. John smirked.
"I'm alright for now. Going out for a bit." John grabbed an apricot from the produce drawer in the refrigerator and left, walking back to the Mansion. Scott picked him up a mile out of town and proceeded to end life as he knew it for the next month and a half.
(now)
"John. John!" John woke up. "Put it on." His father was staring down at him; John scrambled up. His skin did look light reflective white in the dark, he thought for a moment looking down at his bare chest, then back at his father. Bobby was right. He shook his head for a second, slightly, trying to distill the random line from an email from his mind.
"W- what?" His father shoved his mother's make up kit at him, pushing it into his chest. "Dad, I-"
"Do it John." His father yanked on his arm, pulling him into the master bathroom. John's eyes watered and involuntarily closed at the sudden outburst of light. He slowly put the makeup, feeling his father's breath on his neck, his eyes watching him over his head. The make up was running down, he could see a plastic hole through the foundation. Maybe that meant he would have to buy some more soon, an action he didn't want to consider until he didn't have a choice in the matter.
He finished and looked into the mirror, the corner of his eye watching his father look at him. He concentrated and looked at his face carefully, searching out pieces of his mother. John could see the curve of her jaw within his own, her eyes except they were the wrong color, gray blue and hers had been a brown that looked like you could fall into them. Like Bobby's. He removed his father's nose, the chin labret, the thicker eyebrows, the peroxide hair falling into her eyes- he could see how his mother's face could super-imposed upon his own.
John felt his father's hand grip his hip, wrapping around his stomach, pulling him so he faced him, to look at him. And John realized for a second, that these were the only times since he'd been back that his father had touched him, outside of beating the crap out of him. His father's fingers touched his cheek- John looked at wall, trying to ignore the still persistent pull upon the belt loop of his jeans (Bobby hated it when he slept with his jeans on, thought it was unclean. He would almost force John to borrow sweat pants or shorts, which John had always considered more laundry and thus more work). He felt lips touching his and he flinched, trying to back away, the counter indenting a keen line into the small of his back, fingers moving up from his cheek to twist in his hair, the routine repeating itself. John waited for it to be done. "Dad-"John gagged as he always did, receding from tongue. His father should back away now, should be looking at him disgusted, blaming him for looking so much like his mother, having skin like his mother's; his father should not be pressing into him more. John couldn't bend any farther away. His father slid his hand over, and grabbed his crotch, clutching into jeans- a death grip tight, painful, as if he thought they were women's pants, flat- and John pushed him, off of him. That was new and not welcome. His father stared at him and seeing him and that he wasn't who he had hoped for, imagined into being, and lurched forward and pushed, then punched once, leaving John's eye throbbing. He let his legs go loose and hit the ground. His father left the room.
He let himself curl into a ball, staring at the wall, letting his eyes drag down the spot from before. His father was throwing things, pillows, shoving the mattress off the bed, hurling a picture frame and when John left the bathroom finally, after scrubbing the make up down, into his skin, and eventually off, he made sure not to step on the broken glass in his bare feet, the slam of the front door still ringing in his ears as he lay in bed waiting for sleep. He kept his watch pressed to his ear, listening to the small tick and concentrating on the touch of the metal.