He wasn't prepared for teleportation. His knowledge of it was minimal, his practice next to none. He felt himself being stretched across time, thrust through space, begging for the reconstruction of a familiar scene.
Home.
The lad gasped, as if drowning, the moment he hit the floor of his flat. His knees buckled, his limbs feeling more like rubber bands than arms and legs. He tossed the mask from his face, it's tough plastic clattering to the floor. For the second time in a single night, Ray collapsed, embracing sleep.
Morning, then noon. Ray blinked his eyes open. Sunlight streamed through the blinds, illuminating tiny dust particles that drifted through the air, languid, free. The young man groaned as he tried to rise.
He didn't know if Joel had recognized him or not. He didn't know if his coworker had made it home safe. He didn't know if the opposing dangerous man had been captured by the police or not. He didn't care. His body ached, but it was too late in the day to sleep any more.
He grabbed his water bottle from the refrigerator and sat on the small couch in his living room. Taking an Xbox controller from off the coffee table, he tried to relax with his favorite games.
A button. Left trigger. A button. Right button. A button. B button. A button. X button, Y button...
He didn't know if his coworker had made it home safe: yet another lie to himself. He needed to stop doing that.
The Puerto Rican breathed in. He was tired of being tired, as all tired people often are.
Pulling his phone from his pocket, he selected Joel's contact info. Holding the device to his ear, he waited as it rang. Time stretched, each trill of the phone feeling like minutes, hours.
"Ray?"
Exhale.
"Hey Joel."
"I'm a little busy. Is there something you need?" Snappish, jittery.
The image of Joel shivering in terror returned to the younger man's mind.
"Um..."
"Listen, Ray, I have a lot of work ahead of me and I need to finish it up. Can you talk to me on Monday?"
"...Ok."
"Great."
The older man hung up without saying goodbye.
Ray sat motionless before bringing the phone away from his face. He stared down at the black screen. Despite his deliberate and slow action, Ray's mind twitched and flipped. The older man was distressed, as anyone in their right mind would be after nearly being beaten by a drunkard in the dead of night, but the tone he used almost sounded as if there were complexities behind that anxiety running through him.
Ray decided to be rash.
Unlocking the device, he called Joel once more. The older man answered the phone yet again, but before he could breathe a word of annoyance, Ray blurted:
"Wanna get lunch?"
A beat. Ray felt his insides tighten; he was a fool to bother Joel.
Response.
"Are you asking me out?" Ray could hear the smile on the other end of the line.
"Bitch, I might be," he laughed. Joel cooed in faux adoration, the stress in his voice melting away.
"A little sandwich shop opened up near my apartments, if you wanted to come check it out. If you're actually legitimately busy," Ray tsked, "then you should take a load off. It's fucking Saturday, Joel."
"Alright, alright," the older man huffed. "Text me directions and I'll meet you there in, what, half an hour?"
"Sounds good. See you there."
"See you."
A click.
Ray pulled himself from the couch to turn off the television. He meandered from the living space to his room's closet to the shower in his small bathroom. He pulled off his hooded jacket, staring at the handiwork.
Tina had helped him. Neither of them were perfect at sewing, but , but despite their minimal knowledge, Ray ended up with something that did the job. Thick, black fabric; white cuffs. Wobbly stitches fastened a felt rose cutout over the left side of the chest. The hood was lengthened to cloak Ray's eyes when pulled over. Tina thought it was a little ridiculous, but she asked no questions.
Ray found the mask on his own. He told himself it was for the anonymity, but he knew it was really nostalgia behind the purchase. The reason behind his feelings of nostalgia were not clear to him; It simply seemed right.
The young man turned on the shower after tossing the hoodie to the floor. Pulling off the rest of his clothes, he stepped into the stream of water, leaning against the wall. His thoughts washed out of his mind, leaving Ray to relax with nothing but the smell of roses.
Again, time passed with little fuss, little thought. Clean and hopeful, Ray made his way around the busy streets of downtown Austin. The springtime sun was bright, but It was strange experiencing lights and sounds not connected to theft or rape, and Ray found himself scrutinizing many a passerby. His usual discomfort crept upon him slowly, like a poison seeping through his veins, making him flinch and shudder inwardly. The small sparks of confidence he had felt before were smothered. Rusty clock hands clicked in slow motion. Discomfort turned to fear, fear of blue and brown and green and gray eyes staring, asking "Who is that?" "Why is he here?"
Fear was not of others, fear was of himself. Of himself. Looking down, hurrying along, like a sinner under streetlight; himself. Fear.
Fear of becoming the grime and stench of night.
"Ray!"
His entire body jolted as the rusty clocks in his mind ticked forth once more, leaving thorned flowers in their wake. Blood bubbled from pinpricks: a rose grasped firmly in his hand the cause of such sudden pain. He turned, his mind muddled but the fear dispersing.
"You almost walked right past me. Some date you are," Joel sat at a small wooden table in front of a sandwich shop. His posture was that of exhaustion, but his expression reflected gratefulness for company.
"Yeah, shoutout to me for being stupid," Ray shrugged, feigning disappointment. Joel laughed at the younger man's passive nature.
His attention was drawn away by the flower in Ray's hand. "What're you holding?" the man asked, gesturing to the rose.
"Oh, this? Uh, I just…" Ray scrambled to find a response. He had handed Joel an almost identical one last night under his guise; Joel was not stupid, he'd make the connection.
"I found it on the sidewalk near my apartment complex. I don't know, I guess I thought it looked nice," Ray lied, picking at the petals.
"That's weird."
"Yeah. Must've fallen out of someone's bouquet or something."
"Can I see it?"
Ray passed Joel the blossom. "For you," the lad cooed, snickering.
"Oh Ray, you shouldn't have," Joel mused, examining the rose. Ray sat in anxious silence, attempting to appear nonchalant.
After a few moments, Joel set the slowly wilting flower on the table and the two went into the shop to get lunch. They made light banter about favorite foods and current events, the older man rigidly explaining his views on the doomed stock market while the younger man made references that he would then clarify.
At the counter, Joel grabbed a newspaper from the rack of prints, putting a few extra dollars on the counter. The two took their sandwiches out to the table.
Ray bit into his meal as the other man flipped intently through the newspaper. "Ignoring me? Some date you are," he quipped after swallowing his food. Joel glanced up, the ghost of a grin on his face. He folded the paper, turned it to face Ray.
The article headline: "Who is TM?"
Ray bristled.
"You heard of that guy? T.M.?" Joel didn't appear to be confronting.
"...Some. Not much. I mean, I know what he does and all."
Joel was silent. He stared at the rose, pushed to the edge of the table.
Had Ray not been the mask, the man behind the roses and newspaper articles, he would not have known what to say. But he was the man, and he was perceptive in ways he was not before.
"You met him."
"...Yeah."
"When? What happened?"
Age graced Joel's features. He did not look old; rather, he looked like he had seen the world over and over again, like wisdom was worthless, like a man who, as a child, dreaded growing up. Jaded shame, disappointment.
"Listen."
Joel looked up.
"It's gonna be fine."
Ray saw the older man grow envious of Ray's naivete: furrowed brows, nervous tic motion of the head to the left, tongue stuck to the roof of the mouth. Stutter.
"I- Fuck- I have to go. Work. I have to work."
Joel rose, his movements shuddery and sudden. Ray sat motionless, his head empty. The other man was no longer in his line of sight.
The Puerto Rican stood slowly. Gathering the things up from the table, he turned. Joel was standing a small ways away. He looked ashamed.
"It's not your fault." Honesty.
Ray blinked at the older man's statement. His mind strayed.
"It's not yours either." The words sounded isolated, as if they were prerecorded.
Joel walked away, the ghost of Courtney on his heels.