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fan_flashworks2020-05-01 07:59 am
nyctanthes) wrote in fan_flashworks2020-05-01 07:59 am
Entry tags:
Paint Challenge : As You Are : Fic : How To Make A Memory
Title: How To Make A Memory
Fandom: As You Are
Relationships: Jack/Mark, Jack and Sarah
Rating: Teen+
Length: Approximately 5,100 words.
Content Notes: A brief reference to past parental abuse, a brief moment of cultural incompetence. Drug and alcohol use. A late teen (19 years old) semi-closeted relationship. Sex, overstimulation and (mostly) repressed anger.
Author notes: Despite the content notes, this story is on the softer side. It’s a missing scene from a canon-divergent AU I wrote in 2018-19. It should make sense to anyone who hasn’t read the original story/isn't familiar with the source, but does contain vague, inexplicit references to a significant, unfortunate event that happened off-screen, precipitating this scene. The album referred to is Spiritualized’s Lazer Guided Melodies.
Summary: Ten hours. But who’s counting.
Except for essential trips to the bathroom and the kitchen, they haven’t left their room in forty hours.
Outside, it smells like mid-spring in northern climes. Fresh cut grass and weather that hasn’t reached its full potential. Thin rain, thick fog, pollen and wet gravel. The squashed flat, pink and grey carcasses of the baby birds that speckle the driveway. The sun moves toward the horizon and heat leaches from the earth's pores, green and mushroom sweet.
Inside, it smells like sweat and salt and pepper. Pizza crusts stiff as tree branches, congealed cheese and clots of red sauce. A spunk-splashed, tomato-colored polyester fuzzy rug that he’s decorated face down, face up, on his shins, and on all fours: in purposeful strokes, careless dribbles and concentrated, I can do this fine lines. His sheets smell soft, pungent and oily. They're crunchy with potato chip crumbs. Stained old ivory, caramel and day-glo orange from dried come, slops of soda, and cheese puff residue - the fat, smooth kind. They're powdered white-on-white with the drifts of skin, fine as confectioner’s sugar, that slough from their bodies as they move against each other, over and over.
He likes the smell. They keep the windows closed.
He folds the tomato rug in half once and once again, squashes it behind his chair. Pushes into place the hump of clothes that threaten to fall off it. On the floor they sit cross-legged, between bunk bed and desk, knees touching, butt bones digging into the grey carpet. Between the two of them - Mark in a t-shirt, him in shorts no underwear - they’re almost dressed.
The tube is squat and black, shiny underneath its wrapper of clear plastic. With his pinky fingernail he finds the seam and tears it off, a satisfying crackle-crunch that reminds him what he holds in his hand is new and untouched, only for him. He removes the top and twists it open. The room’s only illumination comes from his desk lamp: a dimming, forty-five watt bulb. The best he can tell is that the lipstick is purple-brown or reddish-brown. Sarah is an earth-tone girl.
During the time it takes him to breath in and out Mark looks dubious, on the verge of recalcitrance. Then, he remembers and grins: lopsided, self-deprecating.
“Don’t take it seriously. That’s what you said.”
“Exactly. You asked me if there was something I wanted to do, before you left. This is it.”
*
With the fingers of one hand he holds Mark’s face firm: thumb and first finger stabilizing his jaw, his chin braced against the webbing between the two. With his other hand he smooths the ubiquitous chunk of hair, today more brown than blond, away from Mark's eye; tucks it behind his ear. He licks his thumb and cleans the corners of Mark's mouth, where crumbs have collected. Swipes at chocolate ice cream that’s melted into the narrow valley between his cheek and nose.
A tentative, lipsticked swipe across Mark’s top lip is followed by a firmer one. Same for the bottom lip. They’re wide, but narrow. He’d never noticed.
The color smudges. It’s hard to get it to stay within the lines. Again, he wets his thumb, this time to wipe clean (-ish) the circumference of Mark’s lips.
Next is powder: medium brown and the consistency of refrigerated butter. He applies it with a mashed thin puff he finds nestled inside the case. It spreads patchy and uneven: thick along his cheekbones, the bridge of his nose and forehead; thin under his eyes, across his cheeks and along his jawline. He adds more to where there’s less. Uses his fingers, then his palms to rub it in, smooth it out.
Through these ministrations, Mark’s eyes remain closed, his body pointedly still. As his fingers touch his face he opens his eyes; looks at him with a face too neutral to be natural.
He shows him what’s next. “You’ll need to close your eyes again, for this.”
To his lids, he applies eyeshadow the same color as the inside of mussel and clam shells, the ones so blue they’re purple. (Sarah, he notes, really likes purple.) Compared to the other colors in the case - colors creamier, rosier, pearlier - the purple seems dark. But in low light, on skin it’s shimmery and translucent. So he applies more, and higher: until the little brush, he likes the brushes almost more than the colors, reaches bone. He leans back, re-considers and wipes half of it away. For the eyeliner (green) and the mascara (brown) he once again holds Mark’s chin. His expression has turned mulish, is not just doubtful but downright skeptical: it's a joke taken too far.
“Jesus, be careful with my eyes. Where you’d find that? Is it going to give me pinkeye?”
When he’s done he lays Mark on the floor and stands up, one leg on either side of him. He frames him between a rectangle of fingers, like he would if he had Sarah’s Polaroid.
Over the years he’s seen Mark every which way. Freshly showered, filthy and under water. Covered in blood, mud, concrete dust, wood shavings and paint; smelling of booze, varnish, vomit, weed, sweat, sex and Sarah’s perfume. Tanned red and brown, left cod pale and black and blue. He didn’t think it was possible for him to look anything less than beautiful.
Now he knows how to fix that.
“Change of plans.”
“I knew it. Bring me a mirror you…” But he’s already out the door.
He goes to the bathroom. Returns with one soapy washcloth with which he will scrub scrub clean. One dry washcloth with which he will blot blot dry. Mark’s off the floor and standing by his desk, paging through his anatomy textbook. He glances at his reflection in the window and - amused, appalled, aggravated - immediately looks down. Looks up, he doesn’t want to but can’t help it, looks down. He steps closer to Mark, wraps an apologetic arm around his stomach and presses into his back, rests his chin on the top of his shoulder. The washcloth drips warm water on his toes. They’re looking at a picture of a skinned body. Not only the bones and muscles, their names are hard enough to keep in his head, but everything that lies in-between and connects them: ligaments, cartilage, tendons, and fascia, the giant sausage casing that keeps everything in place.
“What lies under the skin, it still freaks me out, even after I’ve seen it. Turns out that looking at the insides of a dead person is less scary than the idea of looking at the insides of a living one.”
Mark leans into him, turns his head and blows gently on his cheek. He mouths it, with teeth, leaving sticky traces of lipstick and powder, and thumbs his Adam’s Apple.
“While you talk shop, can you take this shit off my face?”
When Mark’s face is cleaner than it’s been in days, he chucks both washcloths in the direction of his trash can. One even makes it, hangs over the edge, a third in. They smoke a joint and he puts on a CD, something new. He’s getting used to it, deciding how much he likes it. It’s hypnotic, but also restless. To anyone who will listen the songs declare: It’s time to go. For me, for you. The lead's voice is quiet, searching, but it doesn’t matter. He's backed up with horns.
Legs crossed, Mark lies down and closes his eyes. He cactuses his arms, riding his shirt to chest level, naked from his nipples to the soles of his feet.
“Hippie, drifty shit,” Mark complains. “Blat, blat, beat. Moan, moan, sigh. Is that a guitar or a keyboard? What’s he droning about, all dreamy and serious? Relentless. It's like being inside your head, Jack, when you watch me 'cause you think I’m not paying attention. I’m always paying attention.” He releases his legs, spreads his arms wide.
Better
Run run run away
Better
Run run run away
He’d raise an eyebrow, if he could.
“Seems pretty clear to me,” he says, but too late. Mark’s asleep.
He ambles to the kitchen. Pops a handful of steak and cheese Hot Pockets into the toaster oven and stares dreamily out the kitchen window, looking but not looking at the El Camino just off the driveway, in a weedy section of lawn. It’s been there, on blocks, for as long as he can remember. Dad was forever intending to re-build it, have it ready for him when he got his license, Junior year. He failed to stick around long enough to break his promise; left it for Mark to notice and wax enthusiastic, gush romantic. Mark knows a guy who can help them. A stand-up guy who’ll hook them up with parts. Wouldn’t that be sweet. A new engine. 350 V8 diesel, of course. It’s not a powerhouse, like the ones from the ‘60s, but it’s still a great ride, a cool car.
He takes the bus, mostly.
Standing by the kitchen counter, shifting his weight back and forth, side to side, he can’t remember what he results he hoped to achieve through this makeup experiment. Was it something petty and awful, revenge in a form Mark can’t object to? Turnabout, after all, is fair play. More likely it was something trite, an opportunity to brand Mark. Mine mine mine. Not with anything as obvious as a burn or a bruise, that’s last year’s news. Nothing cheesy and permanent, either, like the tattoos that are Mark’s obsession; or whose intimacy is stage-managed, like Sarah's photographs. Anyway, he doesn't own a Polaroid.
The day he got the makeup from Sarah, she was getting ready to go out with Nick. She stood in front of her full length mirror, brow wrinkled with concentration, turning this way and that as she tried on outfit after outfit, rejecting each with a grunt of despair, tossing the No ways all over her room. He lay on her bed, playing with her horse figurines. (He’s partial to the Palominos.) She eventually settled on something Good enough. Ugh, why do I care so much? (A rhetorical question. No, he cannot remember what she chose. He suspects it was the first outfit she tried on.) Next came the careful application of foundation, eyeliner, mascara, eyeshadow and lipstick. Hands on hips, she pouted at herself, vamped with herself.
“What do you think?”
“You look good,” he replied automatically, not bothering to look up from his Anheuser-Busch style Clydesdales.
“Jack!”
He looked up. “You do look good. Not just good. Great.” He shrugged. “You always do, though.”
She growled with irritation, snapped something low and blunt. Typical. This is serious. How am I supposed to believe a word you say if you always say something polite and generic. Only out of habit, though. They’ve known each other too long.
“Don’t you think,” she circled her face with an impatient hand, “this makes me look older? More sophisticated and date ready?”
“A date? That’s an awfully fancy word for parking.”
“We do more than that!”
“Really? So where do you go? What do you do?”
“Mostly,” she admitted, “we go to the movies. Sometimes, though, we drive into the city, for dinner.”
“That sounds nice.”
What it sounded, was weird. Having someone take her out and buy her dinner, though she can afford to buy her own. Aping adult rituals that, from what he’s observed, the adults in question don’t typically enjoy. It’s just what they’re supposed to do, to show that they care, that they're able to.
“He knows I can afford it, but so can he. It’s nice, to be treated. I’m not like my mom, trying to make a point by paying for everything herself, having a separate bank account from my dad. Besides, it’s not like Nick’s expecting anything in return. You know how he was!”
“So it’s fun, going out like that, all formal and official?”
She pursed her lips, gave his question more thought than it deserved.
“Yeeesss. If the food is good.”
Walking out the door with Sarah to meet Nick (more importantly, Nick’s car, his ride home), he reminded himself that he took what he could get, what he’d agreed was reasonable and acceptable, and was satisfied. He wasn't entirely satisfied but, eight and a half times out of ten managed a decent approximation of this emotion. Things could be worse. Things had been worse. He mustn’t get greedy.
His evergreen mantra.
Then, despite his best efforts, everything went to shit. He asked Sarah for lipstick and stuff.
"Why?"
"Because."
"It's for you?"
"No."
"For someone else?"
"I didn't say that."
“You’re not going to tell me?”
“Hmmm…”
"Do you have a color preference?"
"No."
"By when?"
"Next week. Thanks."
He should have explained. She doesn't like him to keep secrets from her. She always finds a way to make him regret that he tried.
He wakes Mark up with the scent of sizzling beef product and pastry burned at the corners. Cola he’s mixed with the ends of a couple of liquor bottles Mom doesn’t care about.
“I’ll be back,” he says, unnecessarily.
*
He turns left and walks five steps to the end of the hall, to Mom’s bedroom. Inside, he heads to her dresser and opens the top drawer, where she keeps her supplies and the tools to apply them. There’s too much to choose from: tubes, tubs, brushes, sticks and pans stacked one on top of the other, the overflow shoved towards the dark and crusty back corners.
The slick black plastic, so many shades of black, has faded over time, filmed with a residue of itself. The contents, once creamy smooth, powdery smooth or sharply smooth, have lost their sheen, are well worn and sticky smudged. He assiduously reads the labels: nail polish, liquid blush, liquid foundation, powder blush, powder foundation, liquid eyeliner, pencil lip liner. Mascara for long lashes, thick lashes and fake lashes; eyeshadow sparkly, satin and matte. There are multiple colors and multiple variations on each color: blue, green, purple, red, pink, beige. Except they’re not called that. They’re named after places, none of which he’s ever been. Marble mouthed, he recites them: Santa Fe, Mont Blanc, Siberia, Fiji, Zanzibar, Punjab. There’s fruit he’s never eaten and flowers he’s never smelled: Love Your Peaches, Watermelon Glow, Rosie Posie, Lewd Lilac, Tarty Apple and Strawberry Cream. There’s sex, of course: Anytime, Anywhere. The Lady is a Tramp. Slow and Easy. Not the kind he’s had.
He pulls the entire drawer off its casters and walks it back to their room. Mark is still on the floor, propped against the bed, contemplatively polishing off his post-midnight snack. He kicks the door closed and walks short steps to the rug, straightens his arms and drops the drawer. It hits the ground with the sound of splitting plywood that he’ll feel bad about in the morning.
“I left you a couple.”
“Thanks.” With an oomph he sits down. His tricep, elbow, hip, knee, side of the calf, ankle and foot make contact with Mark. His eyes are trained on the window, on the off-kilter reflection it provides of his bedroom furniture, the two of them on the floor. He picks up his Hot Pocket and bites into it: crunchy, doughy, chewy, cheesy, oily and tepid. Delicious. Chases it with a sip of boozy soda.
A car roars past. He sees the hummocky lawn and the trees bordering the edge of it. Their trunks splash yellow, the road is briefly spotlit. A reminder, not that he needs one, of the world outside their door, one they’ll be joining in a few hours. From the corner of his eye he hazards a glance at Mark, bare assed, red sauce mustache and beef bits on his collar. The road once again empty and dark, he returns his attention to the window, examines himself reflected in it: glassy-eyed, lank-haired, short and skinny, a zit the size of Mars high on his left cheek. He could be disgusted, but a grin pulls at the corner of his mouth. He tugs the end of Mark’s shirt, where it’s loosely covering his dick, brushes knuckles across it.
“Take this off and lie down.”
He splits a nail prying off the inside lid. Once clear plastic, now a dusty, pinky beige that brings his fingerprints out of hiding. He sprinkles it over Mark with an even back and forth movement of his wrist, like Mom does when she’s breading chicken. The thought makes him smirk, but Mark’s eyes are once again closed, face failing to remain neutral as powder snows down on him. He sneezes.
He rubs the powder in with food slick fingers that add their own color and texture. Light reddish ochre streaks chalky and granular from left hip bone to right bottom rib. A smoother, paler layer crosses it, from right hip bone to left middle rib.
“Is that it?”
“No.”
Mark silently grumbles. He doesn’t listen. He’s too busy assessing his work. Hardly begun, but he already knows it’s wrong. The frustration rises, dull but powerful. His most vocal critic.
X *marks* the spot. Get it? Nice work, Jack. You, son, are destined for a life of greatness. Pay no attention to what everyone says about you. You’re simply, too subtle for them.
He’s stuck, can’t think outside the box. The tub. Can’t get away from that bloody lump in his chest, its beat beat blat and what it wants.
He closes his eyes, remembers something Ms. Tronic said in art class, the one he took fall semester his Senior year because it was an easy A. He needed one to pad his pathetic transcript. He thinks about her for the first time since he finished the class, perhaps for the first time since he stepped into her classroom. He remembers her as a grown woman with a child’s body. Flat, wiry and bouncy, with over-sized hands and feet she would never grown into. She had probing, dark eyes and held her head slightly off-center from her neck. The cumulative effect was that of a mutant, curious animal. A bird, perhaps. Or a fox, though her ears weren't especially large. Before Shit Town she worked in an arty field, with people who were definitely older than twenty-one.
“Creating, “ she informed the class, “is about recognizing a feeling in yourself that you can trust. A genuine impulse: half desire, half something more serious. It is essential that you learn to trust this feeling or you’re nowhere. The best piece you make will be described as nice or good or cool.” She drew out the last word, said it more like queue-lllllllll. Leaving him unsure if she was trying to make fun of them or if she truly believed that’s how it was pronounced. “You,” she said, sweeping her hand wide, encompassing all of them, six to table, the one time they’re allowed to sit unregimented, outside of rows and desks, “need to think about how to free yourself, not be weighed down and dictated to by extraneous thoughts and impulses. You must learn to just do.”
“It!”
“Her!”
A rote, half-assed snicker threaded the room. Her only response was to press the play button on a mini-boom box. The whole semester it had sat on the shelf behind her chair, underneath the chalkboard, collecting dust. She perched at the end of her desk, restless legs penduluming.
“What I want you to try to do,” she said over the drums, flutes and Eastern string instrument that plink plinked away, each loud note from the too small, poor quality speakers loose knuckles to his TMJs, “is to pursue unity in the process of seeing and drawing. Unity in the total act of creativity. As you can hear, there’s music,” and a voice mixed in, soared above the tuck-a-thump of the hand drums. (The musician used a technique he could appreciate if not enjoy; he'd recently learned how hard it was to make any kind of drum sound good.) It was a male voice pitched high and nasal, singing one on top of the other nonsense words that used a lot of tongue, front of the palate and upper throat. They weren't nonsense words to whoever understood them, but he didn't. No one in the class understood, not even Raj, the Indian kid taking the class because there was a fine arts requirement to graduate, and he heard this one was an easy A.
“I’ve put on this music to establish rhythm, to help you quiet your mind and access your body’s full possibility. Don’t expect to get it immediately. It takes time, and if all goes well, we’ll do this again.”
Then she handed out bandanas.
Apparently, she had No idea this would happen. No idea that giving twenty-four high schoolers blindfolds, acrylic paints and an invitation to do would create nothing but the fine work of chaos. It came to her as a revelation that none of the higher ups gave a shit about such an old-fashioned and snooty art form as painting; one that couldn’t even cover itself with the fig leaf the photography department used. We provide career training! Her only job was to keep the inmates in check for forty-seven minutes before sending them onwards: rested and ready for real work, fresh and clean.
For a moment, he feels bad for her, wonders where she ended up. It must be a sign of maturity.
He shifts to his knees, takes a good look at what he’s drawn on Mark then closes his eyes. Inside his eyelids he sees after-burn, television static skewing yellow, a long white line moving erratically up and down, side to side, like in Pong. Pretty, but too distracting. It needs to be blackest black. There’s a scarf in the drawer, a silky purple and black one wrapped around a handful of glass bracelets. It’s flimsy and transparent, but also sufficiently long to wind twice around his eyes and knot tight in the back, like Mom does when she’s warding off a migraine.
“Shouldn’t you be doing that to me?” Mark laughs, nudges him with his knee.
He reaches and touches air and rough carpet fibers. He shifts to all fours and gropes for the drawer. From it, he randomly selects bottles, sticks, tubes and pots. He gives them a sniff test and, if they pass, bumps them against Mark’s side. He pushes the drawer away, gropes for Mark’s thighs and straddles them, puts hands on him - pins on a map. Mark shifts under him, restless. He's waiting for him to hurry up and say something, do something. Time is finite, the hours are winding down.
“You ok?”
“Sure. A little bored, but ok.”
“Not much longer.”
He smears his hands, wrist to fingertip, with a viscous fluid the consistency of blood. Rubs it anywhere he can reach that’s not Mark’s face, like his only objective is to get it off his hands. He opens a different container. The liquid is tackier, finely milled mud; again, he rubs Mark down.
Since he started whatever-this-is, Mark’s been tense, waiting for the punchline that is sure to come, delivered at his expense. Slowly, against his will, he relaxes. He hears shoulders crack, one and the other as Mark stretches his arms fully over his head. He flexes and twists, but slowly, enjoying it. Spreads his narrow, bony body wider.
Mark hums along to the song. They both do.
Cause I'm blind, but not as blind as blind as you.
I’m sick, there's not a thing I want to do about it
I’m dumb, but now I want to mouth off about it
I’m tired of it all, I guess that I am through with it all
Yeah I'm tired of it all, I guess that I am through with it all
This time, he doesn't note how on point the lyrics are, risk breaking the flow with laughter or derision or both. Just wiggles lower, so he’s resting high on Mark’s shins.
Pencil thin sticks. Thick ones, too. Baby’s first colors. He picks up a chubby one. Twists it too far open, presses down too hard and breaks it in two. All that’s left in the stick is a concave, waxy stub. He splits the broken piece in half, one for each hand, mashes them between his fingers and across his palms. The fragments divide and dissolve, melt from the heat radiating from his skin. He rubs his palms against each other, along the tops and insides of Mark’s thighs. He likes how it feels. Pale hairs sticky red. He reaches for another stick, twists it all the way open and snaps it in two. Scootches further down, off Mark's legs. Rubs the fragments between his hands and transfers the color below: toes to knees. With a third stick he paints Mark’s dick and balls. Impersonal motions, he strives for them, but Mark was already half-hard when minutes ago he touched the top of his leg, a bob and weave near his fingers. A few drops land on his fingers, warm and sticky, and he mixes them in.
“Jack,” Mark says, hoarse. A scratch, a rasp in his throat that comes from much deeper down, that bristly, prickly want he hears at work and school, waking and sleeping, when he's busy or doing nothing at all.
“Hmmm….”
“Are you done?”
“Almost. I promise.”
A swipe or two more, and he unties the scarf.
Mark interprets this as permission to prop himself up on elbows and see what’s been done to him. He tilts his head to examine himself: first from this angle, then that one. He looks at him, briefly, before returning to examining himself. He frowns, trying to understand the method behind whatever-this-is, but not having much luck.
“What? You can say something,” he says, not defensive or worried. Not anything, really.
Mark looks at him, one corner of his mouth quirked up, lids heavy but eyes curious, seeking. “You’re just…I don’t get it. This is what you wanted?”
“Yes.” He’s pleased to realize it is. He knows what to do next.
Mark bends a knee and gives him an MC’s gesture: Carry on. His dick twitches, a thick, lurid crimson you don’t see in nature. Something shown to him in the light of a single red bulb in an otherwise unlit, dive bar bathroom. (He’s expanding his visual horizons.) He didn’t think it was possible, thought he was done for the night, but there it is: a stirring, a swelling of interest.
A couple more finishing touches: a squiggle here, a squaggle there. It's more for show than anything substantive. These won’t matter, for how the final product looks.
He clambers off Mark and stands up: stiff and dizzy, dry mouthed and fading.
He offers a hand. “I’m done. You can get up.”
He strips off the top sheet, the blanket and both pillows. Places Mark belly down on the bottom sheet. His legs are hitched wide, his ass is in the air, hands wrapped around the bars of the bed. Mark rocks against the mattress in anticipation.
And there it is, finally. Late but arrived. More potent because he’s been waiting and waiting, anticipating it: the dissatisfaction, the rage.
With slick fingers he scrapes, presses rough. Presses where he imagines it’s puffy and raw, around, on top and inside. Mark shudders and clamps down on his fingers. He tucks his his ass and curls away from him, into the mattress.
Just as quickly as the feelings arrive, they dissipate. He doesn’t have time to hold on to anger, to want something more. In the end, there’s no reason for it, any of it. What’s the story, with the scorpion and the trusting (lovesick, heart-stupid) idiot who offers him a ride across the river?
Promise not to sting me?
Of course I promise. Would I lie to you?
Not on purpose.
He brushes with his fingers, this time on the outside only, the barest tips, soothing and cool. Mark sighs, relief and desire mingled, and rises to meet them.
“Are you sure? We should do something else. I don’t want to…”
“You’re like an old lady, Jack. Anyone ever tell you that?”
He fucks Mark, as slowly and carefully as Mark wants but doesn’t usually get because he’s nineteen, likes it hard and fast, sees stars when the tip of his dick brushes Mark’s asshole, forget about getting inside it.
But it’s been thirty six hours, give or take a few breaks. It’s late, he can hear it, the crazy bird that starts at three in the morning. Mark pushes into, past the discomfort. Grabs his hands and presses them against his forehead, into the mattress, so he can’t escape. He talks and talks, but he’s not listening, not changing his mind. Manages a soft, choked off wave, an eighth of a teaspoon of splooge.
The next morning, Mark leaves. Five hours by bus, three hours by car, though he doesn't mention he's looked these facts up.
“I’ll be in touch,” he says to Mark, as they stand on the front lawn and Mom, gone all night in a show of greatly appreciated discretion, if she’s noticed the drawer she’s not saying anything, pretends to clean up the breakfast dishes. "In the meantime, you do your thing, and I’ll do mine. Whatever happens, happens. Good luck with your new job!”
Mark has no choice but to agree.
The sheet is colorful. Streaked pink, red, black and brown. Smudged green and purple. Dotted silver and gold. He sees fingers and a thumb, the imprint of what might be the heel of a hand. Crooked lines made by what is undoubtedly a dick. The bony, rolling bits - knees, elbows and hips - leave their marks too. Some colors are bright, others vague. The whole effect is that of someone taking multiple chalks, dusting the sidewalk with them, then shuffling through the design with bare feet; or wiping it down with a hasty, damp hand.
Beyond the colors, there’s nothing out of the ordinary about it. It’s a dirty sheet that says nothing to anyone who wasn’t there.
That night, everything of Mark’s goes into the box. Dead lighters, creased comic books, slimy t-shirts and wormy flannels; a smelly pair of sneakers with a hole in the right toe; tapes he doesn't listen to but won’t throw away; a pack of guitar strings, a frayed deck of cards, a pawn that got away; a torn sandwich bag with a fistful of shake; sealed bags of jellybeans, candy corn and watermelon Jolly Ranchers; mini snow globes, dollar sunglasses, novelty key chains, and other equally useless items “liberated” from all over town then gifted to him, like a cat bringing dead birds home.
The sheet stays. It stays on his bed through June, July and half of August. Smelling first like Mark, next like him, then a high school gym, armpit and jock strap, and finally nothing in particular. Or maybe like an attic: dry and musty, stuffed with dead things. That’s when he takes it to the laundromat two towns over.
Fandom: As You Are
Relationships: Jack/Mark, Jack and Sarah
Rating: Teen+
Length: Approximately 5,100 words.
Content Notes: A brief reference to past parental abuse, a brief moment of cultural incompetence. Drug and alcohol use. A late teen (19 years old) semi-closeted relationship. Sex, overstimulation and (mostly) repressed anger.
Author notes: Despite the content notes, this story is on the softer side. It’s a missing scene from a canon-divergent AU I wrote in 2018-19. It should make sense to anyone who hasn’t read the original story/isn't familiar with the source, but does contain vague, inexplicit references to a significant, unfortunate event that happened off-screen, precipitating this scene. The album referred to is Spiritualized’s Lazer Guided Melodies.
Summary: Ten hours. But who’s counting.
Except for essential trips to the bathroom and the kitchen, they haven’t left their room in forty hours.
Outside, it smells like mid-spring in northern climes. Fresh cut grass and weather that hasn’t reached its full potential. Thin rain, thick fog, pollen and wet gravel. The squashed flat, pink and grey carcasses of the baby birds that speckle the driveway. The sun moves toward the horizon and heat leaches from the earth's pores, green and mushroom sweet.
Inside, it smells like sweat and salt and pepper. Pizza crusts stiff as tree branches, congealed cheese and clots of red sauce. A spunk-splashed, tomato-colored polyester fuzzy rug that he’s decorated face down, face up, on his shins, and on all fours: in purposeful strokes, careless dribbles and concentrated, I can do this fine lines. His sheets smell soft, pungent and oily. They're crunchy with potato chip crumbs. Stained old ivory, caramel and day-glo orange from dried come, slops of soda, and cheese puff residue - the fat, smooth kind. They're powdered white-on-white with the drifts of skin, fine as confectioner’s sugar, that slough from their bodies as they move against each other, over and over.
He likes the smell. They keep the windows closed.
He folds the tomato rug in half once and once again, squashes it behind his chair. Pushes into place the hump of clothes that threaten to fall off it. On the floor they sit cross-legged, between bunk bed and desk, knees touching, butt bones digging into the grey carpet. Between the two of them - Mark in a t-shirt, him in shorts no underwear - they’re almost dressed.
The tube is squat and black, shiny underneath its wrapper of clear plastic. With his pinky fingernail he finds the seam and tears it off, a satisfying crackle-crunch that reminds him what he holds in his hand is new and untouched, only for him. He removes the top and twists it open. The room’s only illumination comes from his desk lamp: a dimming, forty-five watt bulb. The best he can tell is that the lipstick is purple-brown or reddish-brown. Sarah is an earth-tone girl.
During the time it takes him to breath in and out Mark looks dubious, on the verge of recalcitrance. Then, he remembers and grins: lopsided, self-deprecating.
“Don’t take it seriously. That’s what you said.”
“Exactly. You asked me if there was something I wanted to do, before you left. This is it.”
*
With the fingers of one hand he holds Mark’s face firm: thumb and first finger stabilizing his jaw, his chin braced against the webbing between the two. With his other hand he smooths the ubiquitous chunk of hair, today more brown than blond, away from Mark's eye; tucks it behind his ear. He licks his thumb and cleans the corners of Mark's mouth, where crumbs have collected. Swipes at chocolate ice cream that’s melted into the narrow valley between his cheek and nose.
A tentative, lipsticked swipe across Mark’s top lip is followed by a firmer one. Same for the bottom lip. They’re wide, but narrow. He’d never noticed.
The color smudges. It’s hard to get it to stay within the lines. Again, he wets his thumb, this time to wipe clean (-ish) the circumference of Mark’s lips.
Next is powder: medium brown and the consistency of refrigerated butter. He applies it with a mashed thin puff he finds nestled inside the case. It spreads patchy and uneven: thick along his cheekbones, the bridge of his nose and forehead; thin under his eyes, across his cheeks and along his jawline. He adds more to where there’s less. Uses his fingers, then his palms to rub it in, smooth it out.
Through these ministrations, Mark’s eyes remain closed, his body pointedly still. As his fingers touch his face he opens his eyes; looks at him with a face too neutral to be natural.
He shows him what’s next. “You’ll need to close your eyes again, for this.”
To his lids, he applies eyeshadow the same color as the inside of mussel and clam shells, the ones so blue they’re purple. (Sarah, he notes, really likes purple.) Compared to the other colors in the case - colors creamier, rosier, pearlier - the purple seems dark. But in low light, on skin it’s shimmery and translucent. So he applies more, and higher: until the little brush, he likes the brushes almost more than the colors, reaches bone. He leans back, re-considers and wipes half of it away. For the eyeliner (green) and the mascara (brown) he once again holds Mark’s chin. His expression has turned mulish, is not just doubtful but downright skeptical: it's a joke taken too far.
“Jesus, be careful with my eyes. Where you’d find that? Is it going to give me pinkeye?”
When he’s done he lays Mark on the floor and stands up, one leg on either side of him. He frames him between a rectangle of fingers, like he would if he had Sarah’s Polaroid.
Over the years he’s seen Mark every which way. Freshly showered, filthy and under water. Covered in blood, mud, concrete dust, wood shavings and paint; smelling of booze, varnish, vomit, weed, sweat, sex and Sarah’s perfume. Tanned red and brown, left cod pale and black and blue. He didn’t think it was possible for him to look anything less than beautiful.
Now he knows how to fix that.
“Change of plans.”
“I knew it. Bring me a mirror you…” But he’s already out the door.
He goes to the bathroom. Returns with one soapy washcloth with which he will scrub scrub clean. One dry washcloth with which he will blot blot dry. Mark’s off the floor and standing by his desk, paging through his anatomy textbook. He glances at his reflection in the window and - amused, appalled, aggravated - immediately looks down. Looks up, he doesn’t want to but can’t help it, looks down. He steps closer to Mark, wraps an apologetic arm around his stomach and presses into his back, rests his chin on the top of his shoulder. The washcloth drips warm water on his toes. They’re looking at a picture of a skinned body. Not only the bones and muscles, their names are hard enough to keep in his head, but everything that lies in-between and connects them: ligaments, cartilage, tendons, and fascia, the giant sausage casing that keeps everything in place.
“What lies under the skin, it still freaks me out, even after I’ve seen it. Turns out that looking at the insides of a dead person is less scary than the idea of looking at the insides of a living one.”
Mark leans into him, turns his head and blows gently on his cheek. He mouths it, with teeth, leaving sticky traces of lipstick and powder, and thumbs his Adam’s Apple.
“While you talk shop, can you take this shit off my face?”
When Mark’s face is cleaner than it’s been in days, he chucks both washcloths in the direction of his trash can. One even makes it, hangs over the edge, a third in. They smoke a joint and he puts on a CD, something new. He’s getting used to it, deciding how much he likes it. It’s hypnotic, but also restless. To anyone who will listen the songs declare: It’s time to go. For me, for you. The lead's voice is quiet, searching, but it doesn’t matter. He's backed up with horns.
Legs crossed, Mark lies down and closes his eyes. He cactuses his arms, riding his shirt to chest level, naked from his nipples to the soles of his feet.
“Hippie, drifty shit,” Mark complains. “Blat, blat, beat. Moan, moan, sigh. Is that a guitar or a keyboard? What’s he droning about, all dreamy and serious? Relentless. It's like being inside your head, Jack, when you watch me 'cause you think I’m not paying attention. I’m always paying attention.” He releases his legs, spreads his arms wide.
Better
Run run run away
Better
Run run run away
He’d raise an eyebrow, if he could.
“Seems pretty clear to me,” he says, but too late. Mark’s asleep.
He ambles to the kitchen. Pops a handful of steak and cheese Hot Pockets into the toaster oven and stares dreamily out the kitchen window, looking but not looking at the El Camino just off the driveway, in a weedy section of lawn. It’s been there, on blocks, for as long as he can remember. Dad was forever intending to re-build it, have it ready for him when he got his license, Junior year. He failed to stick around long enough to break his promise; left it for Mark to notice and wax enthusiastic, gush romantic. Mark knows a guy who can help them. A stand-up guy who’ll hook them up with parts. Wouldn’t that be sweet. A new engine. 350 V8 diesel, of course. It’s not a powerhouse, like the ones from the ‘60s, but it’s still a great ride, a cool car.
He takes the bus, mostly.
Standing by the kitchen counter, shifting his weight back and forth, side to side, he can’t remember what he results he hoped to achieve through this makeup experiment. Was it something petty and awful, revenge in a form Mark can’t object to? Turnabout, after all, is fair play. More likely it was something trite, an opportunity to brand Mark. Mine mine mine. Not with anything as obvious as a burn or a bruise, that’s last year’s news. Nothing cheesy and permanent, either, like the tattoos that are Mark’s obsession; or whose intimacy is stage-managed, like Sarah's photographs. Anyway, he doesn't own a Polaroid.
The day he got the makeup from Sarah, she was getting ready to go out with Nick. She stood in front of her full length mirror, brow wrinkled with concentration, turning this way and that as she tried on outfit after outfit, rejecting each with a grunt of despair, tossing the No ways all over her room. He lay on her bed, playing with her horse figurines. (He’s partial to the Palominos.) She eventually settled on something Good enough. Ugh, why do I care so much? (A rhetorical question. No, he cannot remember what she chose. He suspects it was the first outfit she tried on.) Next came the careful application of foundation, eyeliner, mascara, eyeshadow and lipstick. Hands on hips, she pouted at herself, vamped with herself.
“What do you think?”
“You look good,” he replied automatically, not bothering to look up from his Anheuser-Busch style Clydesdales.
“Jack!”
He looked up. “You do look good. Not just good. Great.” He shrugged. “You always do, though.”
She growled with irritation, snapped something low and blunt. Typical. This is serious. How am I supposed to believe a word you say if you always say something polite and generic. Only out of habit, though. They’ve known each other too long.
“Don’t you think,” she circled her face with an impatient hand, “this makes me look older? More sophisticated and date ready?”
“A date? That’s an awfully fancy word for parking.”
“We do more than that!”
“Really? So where do you go? What do you do?”
“Mostly,” she admitted, “we go to the movies. Sometimes, though, we drive into the city, for dinner.”
“That sounds nice.”
What it sounded, was weird. Having someone take her out and buy her dinner, though she can afford to buy her own. Aping adult rituals that, from what he’s observed, the adults in question don’t typically enjoy. It’s just what they’re supposed to do, to show that they care, that they're able to.
“He knows I can afford it, but so can he. It’s nice, to be treated. I’m not like my mom, trying to make a point by paying for everything herself, having a separate bank account from my dad. Besides, it’s not like Nick’s expecting anything in return. You know how he was!”
“So it’s fun, going out like that, all formal and official?”
She pursed her lips, gave his question more thought than it deserved.
“Yeeesss. If the food is good.”
Walking out the door with Sarah to meet Nick (more importantly, Nick’s car, his ride home), he reminded himself that he took what he could get, what he’d agreed was reasonable and acceptable, and was satisfied. He wasn't entirely satisfied but, eight and a half times out of ten managed a decent approximation of this emotion. Things could be worse. Things had been worse. He mustn’t get greedy.
His evergreen mantra.
Then, despite his best efforts, everything went to shit. He asked Sarah for lipstick and stuff.
"Why?"
"Because."
"It's for you?"
"No."
"For someone else?"
"I didn't say that."
“You’re not going to tell me?”
“Hmmm…”
"Do you have a color preference?"
"No."
"By when?"
"Next week. Thanks."
He should have explained. She doesn't like him to keep secrets from her. She always finds a way to make him regret that he tried.
He wakes Mark up with the scent of sizzling beef product and pastry burned at the corners. Cola he’s mixed with the ends of a couple of liquor bottles Mom doesn’t care about.
“I’ll be back,” he says, unnecessarily.
*
He turns left and walks five steps to the end of the hall, to Mom’s bedroom. Inside, he heads to her dresser and opens the top drawer, where she keeps her supplies and the tools to apply them. There’s too much to choose from: tubes, tubs, brushes, sticks and pans stacked one on top of the other, the overflow shoved towards the dark and crusty back corners.
The slick black plastic, so many shades of black, has faded over time, filmed with a residue of itself. The contents, once creamy smooth, powdery smooth or sharply smooth, have lost their sheen, are well worn and sticky smudged. He assiduously reads the labels: nail polish, liquid blush, liquid foundation, powder blush, powder foundation, liquid eyeliner, pencil lip liner. Mascara for long lashes, thick lashes and fake lashes; eyeshadow sparkly, satin and matte. There are multiple colors and multiple variations on each color: blue, green, purple, red, pink, beige. Except they’re not called that. They’re named after places, none of which he’s ever been. Marble mouthed, he recites them: Santa Fe, Mont Blanc, Siberia, Fiji, Zanzibar, Punjab. There’s fruit he’s never eaten and flowers he’s never smelled: Love Your Peaches, Watermelon Glow, Rosie Posie, Lewd Lilac, Tarty Apple and Strawberry Cream. There’s sex, of course: Anytime, Anywhere. The Lady is a Tramp. Slow and Easy. Not the kind he’s had.
He pulls the entire drawer off its casters and walks it back to their room. Mark is still on the floor, propped against the bed, contemplatively polishing off his post-midnight snack. He kicks the door closed and walks short steps to the rug, straightens his arms and drops the drawer. It hits the ground with the sound of splitting plywood that he’ll feel bad about in the morning.
“I left you a couple.”
“Thanks.” With an oomph he sits down. His tricep, elbow, hip, knee, side of the calf, ankle and foot make contact with Mark. His eyes are trained on the window, on the off-kilter reflection it provides of his bedroom furniture, the two of them on the floor. He picks up his Hot Pocket and bites into it: crunchy, doughy, chewy, cheesy, oily and tepid. Delicious. Chases it with a sip of boozy soda.
A car roars past. He sees the hummocky lawn and the trees bordering the edge of it. Their trunks splash yellow, the road is briefly spotlit. A reminder, not that he needs one, of the world outside their door, one they’ll be joining in a few hours. From the corner of his eye he hazards a glance at Mark, bare assed, red sauce mustache and beef bits on his collar. The road once again empty and dark, he returns his attention to the window, examines himself reflected in it: glassy-eyed, lank-haired, short and skinny, a zit the size of Mars high on his left cheek. He could be disgusted, but a grin pulls at the corner of his mouth. He tugs the end of Mark’s shirt, where it’s loosely covering his dick, brushes knuckles across it.
“Take this off and lie down.”
He splits a nail prying off the inside lid. Once clear plastic, now a dusty, pinky beige that brings his fingerprints out of hiding. He sprinkles it over Mark with an even back and forth movement of his wrist, like Mom does when she’s breading chicken. The thought makes him smirk, but Mark’s eyes are once again closed, face failing to remain neutral as powder snows down on him. He sneezes.
He rubs the powder in with food slick fingers that add their own color and texture. Light reddish ochre streaks chalky and granular from left hip bone to right bottom rib. A smoother, paler layer crosses it, from right hip bone to left middle rib.
“Is that it?”
“No.”
Mark silently grumbles. He doesn’t listen. He’s too busy assessing his work. Hardly begun, but he already knows it’s wrong. The frustration rises, dull but powerful. His most vocal critic.
X *marks* the spot. Get it? Nice work, Jack. You, son, are destined for a life of greatness. Pay no attention to what everyone says about you. You’re simply, too subtle for them.
He’s stuck, can’t think outside the box. The tub. Can’t get away from that bloody lump in his chest, its beat beat blat and what it wants.
He closes his eyes, remembers something Ms. Tronic said in art class, the one he took fall semester his Senior year because it was an easy A. He needed one to pad his pathetic transcript. He thinks about her for the first time since he finished the class, perhaps for the first time since he stepped into her classroom. He remembers her as a grown woman with a child’s body. Flat, wiry and bouncy, with over-sized hands and feet she would never grown into. She had probing, dark eyes and held her head slightly off-center from her neck. The cumulative effect was that of a mutant, curious animal. A bird, perhaps. Or a fox, though her ears weren't especially large. Before Shit Town she worked in an arty field, with people who were definitely older than twenty-one.
“Creating, “ she informed the class, “is about recognizing a feeling in yourself that you can trust. A genuine impulse: half desire, half something more serious. It is essential that you learn to trust this feeling or you’re nowhere. The best piece you make will be described as nice or good or cool.” She drew out the last word, said it more like queue-lllllllll. Leaving him unsure if she was trying to make fun of them or if she truly believed that’s how it was pronounced. “You,” she said, sweeping her hand wide, encompassing all of them, six to table, the one time they’re allowed to sit unregimented, outside of rows and desks, “need to think about how to free yourself, not be weighed down and dictated to by extraneous thoughts and impulses. You must learn to just do.”
“It!”
“Her!”
A rote, half-assed snicker threaded the room. Her only response was to press the play button on a mini-boom box. The whole semester it had sat on the shelf behind her chair, underneath the chalkboard, collecting dust. She perched at the end of her desk, restless legs penduluming.
“What I want you to try to do,” she said over the drums, flutes and Eastern string instrument that plink plinked away, each loud note from the too small, poor quality speakers loose knuckles to his TMJs, “is to pursue unity in the process of seeing and drawing. Unity in the total act of creativity. As you can hear, there’s music,” and a voice mixed in, soared above the tuck-a-thump of the hand drums. (The musician used a technique he could appreciate if not enjoy; he'd recently learned how hard it was to make any kind of drum sound good.) It was a male voice pitched high and nasal, singing one on top of the other nonsense words that used a lot of tongue, front of the palate and upper throat. They weren't nonsense words to whoever understood them, but he didn't. No one in the class understood, not even Raj, the Indian kid taking the class because there was a fine arts requirement to graduate, and he heard this one was an easy A.
“I’ve put on this music to establish rhythm, to help you quiet your mind and access your body’s full possibility. Don’t expect to get it immediately. It takes time, and if all goes well, we’ll do this again.”
Then she handed out bandanas.
Apparently, she had No idea this would happen. No idea that giving twenty-four high schoolers blindfolds, acrylic paints and an invitation to do would create nothing but the fine work of chaos. It came to her as a revelation that none of the higher ups gave a shit about such an old-fashioned and snooty art form as painting; one that couldn’t even cover itself with the fig leaf the photography department used. We provide career training! Her only job was to keep the inmates in check for forty-seven minutes before sending them onwards: rested and ready for real work, fresh and clean.
For a moment, he feels bad for her, wonders where she ended up. It must be a sign of maturity.
He shifts to his knees, takes a good look at what he’s drawn on Mark then closes his eyes. Inside his eyelids he sees after-burn, television static skewing yellow, a long white line moving erratically up and down, side to side, like in Pong. Pretty, but too distracting. It needs to be blackest black. There’s a scarf in the drawer, a silky purple and black one wrapped around a handful of glass bracelets. It’s flimsy and transparent, but also sufficiently long to wind twice around his eyes and knot tight in the back, like Mom does when she’s warding off a migraine.
“Shouldn’t you be doing that to me?” Mark laughs, nudges him with his knee.
He reaches and touches air and rough carpet fibers. He shifts to all fours and gropes for the drawer. From it, he randomly selects bottles, sticks, tubes and pots. He gives them a sniff test and, if they pass, bumps them against Mark’s side. He pushes the drawer away, gropes for Mark’s thighs and straddles them, puts hands on him - pins on a map. Mark shifts under him, restless. He's waiting for him to hurry up and say something, do something. Time is finite, the hours are winding down.
“You ok?”
“Sure. A little bored, but ok.”
“Not much longer.”
He smears his hands, wrist to fingertip, with a viscous fluid the consistency of blood. Rubs it anywhere he can reach that’s not Mark’s face, like his only objective is to get it off his hands. He opens a different container. The liquid is tackier, finely milled mud; again, he rubs Mark down.
Since he started whatever-this-is, Mark’s been tense, waiting for the punchline that is sure to come, delivered at his expense. Slowly, against his will, he relaxes. He hears shoulders crack, one and the other as Mark stretches his arms fully over his head. He flexes and twists, but slowly, enjoying it. Spreads his narrow, bony body wider.
Mark hums along to the song. They both do.
Cause I'm blind, but not as blind as blind as you.
I’m sick, there's not a thing I want to do about it
I’m dumb, but now I want to mouth off about it
I’m tired of it all, I guess that I am through with it all
Yeah I'm tired of it all, I guess that I am through with it all
This time, he doesn't note how on point the lyrics are, risk breaking the flow with laughter or derision or both. Just wiggles lower, so he’s resting high on Mark’s shins.
Pencil thin sticks. Thick ones, too. Baby’s first colors. He picks up a chubby one. Twists it too far open, presses down too hard and breaks it in two. All that’s left in the stick is a concave, waxy stub. He splits the broken piece in half, one for each hand, mashes them between his fingers and across his palms. The fragments divide and dissolve, melt from the heat radiating from his skin. He rubs his palms against each other, along the tops and insides of Mark’s thighs. He likes how it feels. Pale hairs sticky red. He reaches for another stick, twists it all the way open and snaps it in two. Scootches further down, off Mark's legs. Rubs the fragments between his hands and transfers the color below: toes to knees. With a third stick he paints Mark’s dick and balls. Impersonal motions, he strives for them, but Mark was already half-hard when minutes ago he touched the top of his leg, a bob and weave near his fingers. A few drops land on his fingers, warm and sticky, and he mixes them in.
“Jack,” Mark says, hoarse. A scratch, a rasp in his throat that comes from much deeper down, that bristly, prickly want he hears at work and school, waking and sleeping, when he's busy or doing nothing at all.
“Hmmm….”
“Are you done?”
“Almost. I promise.”
A swipe or two more, and he unties the scarf.
Mark interprets this as permission to prop himself up on elbows and see what’s been done to him. He tilts his head to examine himself: first from this angle, then that one. He looks at him, briefly, before returning to examining himself. He frowns, trying to understand the method behind whatever-this-is, but not having much luck.
“What? You can say something,” he says, not defensive or worried. Not anything, really.
Mark looks at him, one corner of his mouth quirked up, lids heavy but eyes curious, seeking. “You’re just…I don’t get it. This is what you wanted?”
“Yes.” He’s pleased to realize it is. He knows what to do next.
Mark bends a knee and gives him an MC’s gesture: Carry on. His dick twitches, a thick, lurid crimson you don’t see in nature. Something shown to him in the light of a single red bulb in an otherwise unlit, dive bar bathroom. (He’s expanding his visual horizons.) He didn’t think it was possible, thought he was done for the night, but there it is: a stirring, a swelling of interest.
A couple more finishing touches: a squiggle here, a squaggle there. It's more for show than anything substantive. These won’t matter, for how the final product looks.
He clambers off Mark and stands up: stiff and dizzy, dry mouthed and fading.
He offers a hand. “I’m done. You can get up.”
He strips off the top sheet, the blanket and both pillows. Places Mark belly down on the bottom sheet. His legs are hitched wide, his ass is in the air, hands wrapped around the bars of the bed. Mark rocks against the mattress in anticipation.
And there it is, finally. Late but arrived. More potent because he’s been waiting and waiting, anticipating it: the dissatisfaction, the rage.
With slick fingers he scrapes, presses rough. Presses where he imagines it’s puffy and raw, around, on top and inside. Mark shudders and clamps down on his fingers. He tucks his his ass and curls away from him, into the mattress.
Just as quickly as the feelings arrive, they dissipate. He doesn’t have time to hold on to anger, to want something more. In the end, there’s no reason for it, any of it. What’s the story, with the scorpion and the trusting (lovesick, heart-stupid) idiot who offers him a ride across the river?
Promise not to sting me?
Of course I promise. Would I lie to you?
Not on purpose.
He brushes with his fingers, this time on the outside only, the barest tips, soothing and cool. Mark sighs, relief and desire mingled, and rises to meet them.
“Are you sure? We should do something else. I don’t want to…”
“You’re like an old lady, Jack. Anyone ever tell you that?”
He fucks Mark, as slowly and carefully as Mark wants but doesn’t usually get because he’s nineteen, likes it hard and fast, sees stars when the tip of his dick brushes Mark’s asshole, forget about getting inside it.
But it’s been thirty six hours, give or take a few breaks. It’s late, he can hear it, the crazy bird that starts at three in the morning. Mark pushes into, past the discomfort. Grabs his hands and presses them against his forehead, into the mattress, so he can’t escape. He talks and talks, but he’s not listening, not changing his mind. Manages a soft, choked off wave, an eighth of a teaspoon of splooge.
The next morning, Mark leaves. Five hours by bus, three hours by car, though he doesn't mention he's looked these facts up.
“I’ll be in touch,” he says to Mark, as they stand on the front lawn and Mom, gone all night in a show of greatly appreciated discretion, if she’s noticed the drawer she’s not saying anything, pretends to clean up the breakfast dishes. "In the meantime, you do your thing, and I’ll do mine. Whatever happens, happens. Good luck with your new job!”
Mark has no choice but to agree.
The sheet is colorful. Streaked pink, red, black and brown. Smudged green and purple. Dotted silver and gold. He sees fingers and a thumb, the imprint of what might be the heel of a hand. Crooked lines made by what is undoubtedly a dick. The bony, rolling bits - knees, elbows and hips - leave their marks too. Some colors are bright, others vague. The whole effect is that of someone taking multiple chalks, dusting the sidewalk with them, then shuffling through the design with bare feet; or wiping it down with a hasty, damp hand.
Beyond the colors, there’s nothing out of the ordinary about it. It’s a dirty sheet that says nothing to anyone who wasn’t there.
That night, everything of Mark’s goes into the box. Dead lighters, creased comic books, slimy t-shirts and wormy flannels; a smelly pair of sneakers with a hole in the right toe; tapes he doesn't listen to but won’t throw away; a pack of guitar strings, a frayed deck of cards, a pawn that got away; a torn sandwich bag with a fistful of shake; sealed bags of jellybeans, candy corn and watermelon Jolly Ranchers; mini snow globes, dollar sunglasses, novelty key chains, and other equally useless items “liberated” from all over town then gifted to him, like a cat bringing dead birds home.
The sheet stays. It stays on his bed through June, July and half of August. Smelling first like Mark, next like him, then a high school gym, armpit and jock strap, and finally nothing in particular. Or maybe like an attic: dry and musty, stuffed with dead things. That’s when he takes it to the laundromat two towns over.