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Silent Awakening

An Original Homoerotic Fiction Magazine to Premiere at Media West 2002
Digest Format

"What sort of company did you have in--"

Jesus Christ. The kid couldn't take a fucking hint and he never shut up. *Whap.* His palm impacted against Paul's chest. Caught off guard, Paul fell back against the wall with a low 'whoof' as his breath whooshed from his chest, struggling to brace himself so he wouldn't go down.

"You, me, and the rest of that vodka." Stewart enunciated as clearly as he could, staring straight into the blue eyes; this was the point of no return, the one you couldn't hold back from tonight and wished like hell you didn't remember in the morning.

"But the bottle's emp--"

"Like I need a bottle?" He heard rough velvet in his voice, and then there was skin under his tongue, tart with the alcohol residue and tangy with just a hint of sweat.

 

It's hot...constant-stream-of-sweat-down-his-back, can't-even-stand-a-t-shirt *hot*. The heat rises up from the sidewalks and streets like shimmery apparitions--now you see 'em, now you don't. Drew had only been in Memphis two days when he walked into a barbershop and got a buzz cut. Now three weeks later, his hair's starting to grow out again and he can feel sweat prickling in it when he swipes his bandanna over his forehead. He's never been so glad for the holes in his jeans, and he'd give anything for a cool breeze right now. But all he gets is more sunburn on his peeling shoulders and hazy, still air that dulls the senses and even makes the flies lazy.

The foreman--*Mister* Brown--gives him that get-back-to-work look so he puts his cap back on and crams the bandanna in his back pocket. He hefts another bag of concrete mix and dumps it in the wheelbarrow. His nose is so full of the pale grey dust that he hardly notices anymore the cloud that poofs up when he does it. When the grit gets in his mouth, he just spits it out and keeps going. It coats everything from his faded blue cap to his well-broken-in work boots. He looks like a ghost except for the dark tracks his sweat cuts through the dust.

Every day by eleven a.m., he's got a dull ache in his back. His last job was months ago and wasn't exactly strenuous. Oh, he didn't use his brain *there* either, but it paid okay. Night watchman at a warehouse full of stolen televisions and VCRs--not the kind of place you want a bonded professional on the job. He'd still be there if the cops hadn't raided the place two hours after he left for the day. Timing is everything, isn't that what they say?

That was a powerful sign that it was time for him to hit the road again. Twenty-eight years of twisting and turning and falling through the cracks and then to get caught for someone else's crime? No thank you. He's paid enough stupid tax for one lifetime already.

Whether he would have *wanted* him is another question altogether.  The mystery is part of Drew's charm--maybe the main part, along with his couldn't-possibly-give-a-shit attitude.  Because of the heat, a lot of the guys stopped bringing their lunch and started going to a nearby cafe.  So many times--through careful maneuvering--Jeremy has ended up next to Drew at the big communal table in the back of the dining room.  This has given him the chance to observe his prey a little more close up.

Drew's quiet, answers when spoken to, but has this intelligent gleam in his dark eyes that makes Jeremy think the guy's quickly sizing up and dismissing everyone around him.  He doesn't appear to be friendly with anyone in particular, and speaks to everyone--from their boss to the waitress-- in exactly the same tone of voice, disinterested and polite.  He never flirts with or checks out the waitresses either--like Jeremy doesn't.  So, of course, Jeremy's thinking this is no coincidence.  Even the married men check out the waitresses, out of form if not actual interest.  

Jeremy wants to ask Drew out--has been thinking about it all week.  But how to do it?  Can't make it sound like a date because that could get him in trouble.  But that's what he'd consider it. 

"I don't care if I'm spoiling your mood.  Someone has to talk some sense into that thick head of yours.  Might as well be me."

"Guess you hadn't noticed I don't *want* your advice, huh?"  John yelled at him.

Rick put his hands on his hips and stood in front of the couch.  "Guess you haven't noticed that I'm not willing to let you kill yourself.  Come on, let's get you to the hospital."

John tossed his head back and started laughing hard.  "Look at you… you're so… calm… can't I ever… make you mad?"  His words were broken by his laughter at Rick.

"I'm pretty pissed right now as if you can't tell.  Get your ass up, and let's get out of here."

"No."

 

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Revised: 30 March 2002