John went and got the mail, ignoring the weekend assignments he had to do. He pulled out a small brown envelope, no postmark, no return address. It felt heavy and was addressed to him. It said 'John' on it in handwriting that definitely wasn't Ellis's, or Rachel's, Marc's or Bobby's. Dropping the bills and the junk mail on the kitchen table he took the envelope up to his room and opened it carefully.
Reaching in he pulled out a few thin CD cases, with burned CDs inside and a paper back book with the title "Void of Course". Shaking the envelope, a note finally fell out, handwritten on computer paper.
'Some CDs I thought you might like, as per our conversation last week. I wrote the track lists on the cases. Figured you might be into Jim Carroll- seems your style- especially 'Now She's Gone' and 'Jukebox'. Don't mention it.
McFarland'
John flipped the cases over and read the names of the bands- Alkaline Trio. Nick Drake. Josh Rouse. The Postal Service- he knew that one, but hadn't bothered to get the CD yet. Looks like he didn't have to now. The Ramones. Great. McFarland was fucking turning into Bobby. Taking the Postal Service CD, he put it into his stereo and ripped up the envelope and the note, making sure no one would be able to put the words back together and figure out whom it was from. He lay down on his bed and opened the book.
John banged on the door. Not too loud, but loud enough to make everything sound urgent. It was. Mr. McFarland answered, looked surprised. "John? What are- what happened to you? Come inside, are you alright?" Mr. McFarland moved a hand to touch John's lip, the right corner torn in a backwards 'c'. John moved his face away before he could really touch him, the edges of his fingernails tracing his bruised cheekbone.
"How much will you pay to fuck me?"
"Wh-"
"How much will you pay?" John twisted his fingers through his hair for a moment, faking as if he were straightening out the rain soaked bangs. Every time he dyed it he couldn't get his hands off it for a while; it took time to adjust to the new hue. Bright red. Lola red. Fuck me for money because I don't give a shit any more red. I need to leave this town before my father tries to fuck me red. I just got groped and beaten by my father again and there's school tomorrow and it's not like I just skip for the rest of the week red. I'm tired of lying to my friends even if they know the truth red. Just unbuckle your goddamn pants before I do something really stupid red.
"What happened?" I dyed my hair.
"I got into a fight at school."
"It's nearly eight o'clock John, how-"
"I was out walking, I got jumped by some fuckers from school. I have to get out of this town! How much will you pay to fuck me?" John hated that he sounded tearful on the last bit. That sucked.
"I- are you hungry? I was, I was going to eat. Do..."
"I'm not hungry! OK... I..."
"Look, come upstairs, alright? The shades aren't all down." They went up the back stairs, over the basement or cellar or whatever, guessed John. He was trying to keep all thoughts, all emotions at bay and it was working a little bit. He concentrated on keeping his mind blank, within the proper side of reason. They sat on the guest bed, John digging his fingers in the edge of the mattress, biting the inside of his cheek and gripping the cover hard enough to hurt his joints and make them feel like they were sticking as his blood tightened. He tried to time his breath to the beating of rain drops. "Why..."
"Just... will you do it? If you're watching me shower and getting off, that must mean you're attracted to me on some level, so... "
"But why?"
"I have to get out of this place. I can't, I can't do it anymore, I... And I need money to leave." Mr. McFarland started to say something and then stopped. John didn't listen, staring at Mr. McFarland's hands, his thumbs.
He turned and kissed him, moving his hands so he had him cornered between his arms. "John-" started Mr. McFarland, but John just opened his mouth and kissed back, watching his eyes. Applying pressure with his upper body he leaned into him and pushed him down slowly, moving his legs awkwardly to drape on top of Mr. McFarland and over the side of the bed. Not sure what to do with the hand that wasn't supporting his weight so he didn't rest on his chest he moved it down Mr. McFarland's torso slowly, sliding his fingers between the side of his hip and the silk fabric of his boxers.
Mr. McFarland was kissing him back now, fully and moving his hands on John's back, sliding them under his T Shirt, tracing his shoulder blades with the tips of his fingers, the bottom of his neck and John remembered his mother's back rubs, her cool light hands pressing into his skin leaving gentle fingerprints behind, and then Mr. McFarland's hands slid to hold onto John's sides. He retreated into his own mouth, flinched from the pressure on his chest, closing his eyes. He opened them and kissed Mr. McFarland again, sliding his fingers against his hip still, sliding against the silk and foreign skin, the top of hair. Mr. McFarland rubbed his hands against John's torso, up his rib cage to his breastbone. John flinched again, not breaking eye contact though.
Mr. McFarland slowly pulled his head to the side, dropping his hands to the bed. "John". John started to kiss his jawbone, tracing down to his neck. "John. Stop. Ge'roff." John sat up, rolling off him, wincing where his ribs pressed against Mr. McFarland's, sitting on the edge of the bed again.
"What? Do, do you want to be on top?"
"John, you're flinching."
"It's nothing. My ribs, ok? Look, do you want-"
Mr. McFarland sighed. "Lie down alright?" John did, on the edge and then sliding over as Mr. McFarland moved, their arms and legs touching but both lying flat. "Are you ok?"
"Yeah." They paused, waiting.
"Do you want to stay here tonight? This bed?"
John exhaled through his nose and licked his lips. Closing his eyes, "yeah." I'm afraid to go home and I will never admit that to anyone but myself. Because the minute I do, I'll say too much.
"Right. You hungry?"
"A little."
"I was making dinner when you came. It's, it's like this taco mix."
"Like..."
"Turkey and beef, um, fresh citronella, peppers, sour cream, cheese, tomatoes, some seasoning, mushrooms. You put it on tortillas."
"Kinda like chili?"
"Thinner. And without the beans. They'd mess up the taste. You want some? Or I can make you a sandwich or something, or like a pizza-"
"Your taco thing sounds good."
"Right." Mr. McFarland sat up and sliding over John, went to leave. Hesitating, John got up and followed. Dinner was a mainly silent affair, as John ate four of the tortillas, feeling them sit in his stomach, warm. He felt a little sick too; he hadn't eaten this much since Bobby's last shipment of Krimpets a week ago. "You sure you're alright?"
"Yeah. Fine." Mr. McFarland sighed through his nose, quietly and rubbed face against the palm of his hand, resting his elbow on the table. "You know your, uh, aloe vera stuff? Do you think I could, um, use some?"
"On your ribs?" John nodded, not looking anywhere but the Spanish tile. "Yeah, come on. I'll grab a bandage so it doesn't it get on your shirt or anything." John started to reach for Mr. McFarland's bowl, to clear the table but his hand was grabbed, and then dropped. "Leave 'm. I can get them later."
"Thanks." They went up the front stairs this time. It was dark enough that a neighbor would have to press their face against the glass to see them moving in the dusky house. John waited outside Mr. McFarland's bathroom door, watching the man move, and then looking at tile. Not really looking, because there had been enough showers to do that but looking for the sake of having something inanimate to rest his eyes on, listening to Mr. McFarland fossick through the cupboard. He followed him to the guest room, and after hesitating a beat, removed his shirt.
Mr. McFarland's mouth visibly dropped, even though the light was set on dimmers. It was enough to see the pattern of the bruises and to distinguish this light from the darkness outside, and dark enough that John didn't feel obligated to meet Mr. McFarland's eyes. He sat down, bringing his legs up to cross, waiting. Mr. McFarland sat on the edge of the bed and began to gently rub the gel into John's skin, stopping briefly every time John flinched or hissed, which was often. "It never looks this bad..." trailed Mr. McFarland. 'Through the shower glass,' thought John for him. That's cause it's gotten worse.
Perhaps with a lotion or under different circumstances John would have thought the whole thing vaguely erotic as Mr. McFarland's warm hands moved against his nipples, over his bellybutton. He kept thinking of his mother rubbing sun block over him at the beach, Ellis holding his hand or Bobby's cold, slightly high, arm resting on John's shoulders. Mr. McFarland moved to the large bruise across the back of his right kidney and John didn't know what he was going to say if he was asked why that bruise looked like the indentation of belt buckles converging together.
Mr. McFarland wiped the last of the gel onto John's shoulders and capped the tube. Picking up the bandage he started to wind it gently around John's chest and back, firmly but not too tight, not needing to ask if it hurt because John wasn't flinching. When he was done, wrapped from the bottoms of his armpits to over his belly button, John lay back, not bothering to put on his shirt, bending his knees.
"So you got in a fight." Mr. McFarland traced one finger along the bandage; the touch sending small shivers to John's skin and nerves where he could feel it, where he imagined it was.
"Yeah." John kept his eyes glancing out the inch of window that showed, under the curtain.
"Happen a lot?"
"Once in a while."
"And the rest is just falling. Repeatedly. Hard."
"Yeah."
"John." It sounded like half a question and the rest was said in silence.
"Yeah." John looked back, really looked and what every emotion was brewing behind his face come to surface and stay there, didn't try to clear his eyes of whatever expression they held. For once. No smirking. No cocksure. Just him. Mr. McFarland stared at him, and John met his eyes, strongly. Slowly, he bent down and kissed him and unsure for a moment, John closed his eyes and kissed him back.
Mr. McFarland slid over him, so John was still on the outside and Mr. McFarland had his back to the window, cupping John to him, kissing, moving his hands gently against the bandage, John moving his hands under Mr. McFarland's black T Shirt, feeling a little coarse hair hit his hands but mainly smooth skin. Mr. McFarland's tongue was working John's cut and for a moment, John was afraid it'd open because it had taken almost half an hour to stop leaking blood initially. He traced Mr. McFarland's prominent collarbones and Mr. McFarland slid his hands into the top of John's jeans, and hesitated. John unbuckled his belt and his pants, opening his eyes for a moment to look back at Mr. McFarland. He raised his eyebrows slightly and gave a small smirk, which he let change into almost a smile. Mr. McFarland rolled onto his back and John followed, feeling hands inside his boxers, and traced the cut of Mr. McFarland's hips, then slid his hands up his skin.
Mr. McFarland sat up, leaned into him and John pulled off his black T-Shirt shirt then fell back onto his chest as Mr. McFarland lay back down, whimpering slightly, arching, groaning as Mr. McFarland's hands worked, keeping their mouths together. His pants, while sliding down, stayed loosely on his hips. He gulped and then let out, closing his eyes for a moment as Mr. McFarland gently bit his bottom lip. Mr. McFarland wiped his hands on his shirt, pulling it up from the ground and tossing it down again, still kissing John Not hesitating, John stayed on top and slowly worked his way down, kissing Mr. McFarland's skin.
John came up after Mr. McFarland finished, and slowly slid off of him, so he was being cupped again in his arms, his Adam's Apple hard in his throat. He lay back, letting his lips be kissed, his jeans still hanging loosely on his waist, his belt undone and lying across the boxers that showed through the V his open pants made, his bandage slightly askew, lying in Mr. McFarland's arms. Mr. McFarland was kissing John's forehead, only in his boxers, his pants shimmied to his ankles by John and kicked off. Gradually Mr. McFarland too, laid back on his side and they were quiet, John's arms half wrapped around the older man.
John exhaled through his nose and let himself fall asleep, Mr. McFarland's hands warm as they ran their tips over the bandage, over the seams of his belt loops. He woke up early in the morning curled, cupped in Mr. McFarland's embrace, his hair being tossed slightly by Mr. McFarland's breath. His jeans had dropped and were low around his hips, hanging onto the tops of his thighs by sheer will alone, it seemed. His chest still hurt. He waited a bit and then disentangled himself, pulling up and fastening his jeans and belt, heading down stairs barefooted.
When Mr. McFarland came downstairs wearing pants again, his hair tousled, John was sitting on the couch in the early morning dusk, his one leg folded across the cushion and the other bent, his elbow wrapped around his knee. He stared at the blank TV screen, holding a mug of coffee in his hands. "I pulled down the shades." John twisted his chin stud with his thumb and pointer finger, feeling the metal touch the edges of his hole.
"K." Mr. McFarland went to go and get himself a cup and John added to his back, "I put in some of that Irish liqueur stuff."
Mr. McFarland came back, sipping his own coffee. He didn't say anything about the cleared dishes but sat next to John. "John... I... Are you alright?"
"Yeah, just... I... you... didn't have on a condom. And that kind of screws me over if..."
"Oh. I'm clean John." John nodded. "Are you?" John nodded. "When was the last time you got checked?"
"I... I've only hooked up with anyone twice in the past two years and I've gotten physicals and I was clean."
"Did they check for STDs and things?"
"Yeah."
"This... this wasn't...."
"My first time? No. Not having oral sex. Had sex before too."
"Is it... a girl?" John shook his head. "A bloke?" John hesitated and shrugged. "Ellis?"
"What? No. Ellis? No. It was, I met this guy when I was in America. We, we started to get to be friends and we kind of hooked up but I don't think of it like that and... not like this. It was different; it was weird. Only kissed him but... I mean, I still think about him. A lot. And that was little more than three months ago."
"Oh." John drank more of his coffee. The liqueur left a slightly milky taste in his mouth after swallowing, but it felt good.
"When I was little... when my parents drank wine, I used to beg to be allowed to fill their finished glasses with water and drink 'em, cause you till got the remnants, that like fruit taste. Most of the time they said yes."
"John, does your dad know that- you've," Mr. McFarland faded out.
"Had sex with guys? Have camp predilections? No. He would kill me. He thinks homosexuality is wrong, and it makes you not a man and that's the worse thing anyone, or I, can be. Not a man." John drank more and stared at the couch, following the pattern with his eyes, the brown and yellow lines intersecting with the thin red ones, tracing the plaid pattern.
"Everything is about being a man. Real men ignore the pain John, real men don't... aren't faggots. Real men don't back down. Real men don't have piercings- they're for fucking fairies. Real men don't take pills, don't need to take pills. Real men can deal with what's wrong them. Real men don't complain, don't admit their pain, that they're weak. Real men don't draw, don't listen to music, don't play music. Real men work construction or with cars or plumbers or electricians..." he finished, mocking, his right hand spasming slightly in some bastard memory of the piano notes he used to play, before his father burned the books and beat his hands swollen with a belt.
Since then he had only let himself live through CDs, through examining other's work. Pages of his sketchbook were ripped out and burned and anything he wrote for school was almost just short of talent. With Bobby, with Bobby fuck the rules. Fuck the boundaries he had set up long ago that defined right and wrong; what was deserving of love and respect and what wasn't.
"Oh."
"Are you? Gay? Or do you just like watching boys shower and then having them go down on you?"
"You're not a boy John. Young man, maybe, but not a boy." John looked at him, under his messy bangs. "Yeah. I'm gay."
"Then... I mean, what's with groping kids on Halloween?" The expression hanging in Mr. McFarland's eyes changed slightly, from concern and a bit of regret to almost sorrow. He sighed.
"I don't know. I haven't, not this last year or the year before. Not after you- that one night- and even before only you... Everything was rumors... but you..." John nodded.
"It's about touch, isn't it?" Mr. McFarland met his eyes and nodded. "You... I didn't lose anything. I don't think anyone did, really." Mr. McFarland drank a little of his coffee, closing his eyes. "I should get going." Mr. McFarland nodded, worrying his lip between his teeth. John stood.
"Your bandage is loose."
"A little." Mr. McFarland leaned and put his mug on the floor, stood and fixed John's bandage, unwinding it and then rewinding it around his skin, the cloth thick and heavy with the gel still. "Thanks." Mr. McFarland nodded and walked John upstairs, watched him put on his polo shirt that was once Bobby's but fit him better because his shoulders weren't broad, then his shoes and socks. They walked to the back door, still not speaking. "I'll see you?"
"Yeah." John nodded, not really answering anything then leaned forward and kissed his lips, gently and quickly, mindful that he was standing in the doorway.
"Thank you." Mr. McFarland nodded.
"See you John." John nodded and walked into the rising sunlight, cutting through back yards to the kitchen window, climbing through and heading upstairs to his bedroom, to wait until it was time for school.