Înflori

There were few things in life Dustin hated as much as the rain. It didn’t just make life difficult, it made it all but unbearable: wet shoes, wet hair, wet clothes—dank, dark, moody, blah. It was the kind of weather that teased migraines to life and poked at less than perfect joints. “Weather to hang yourself by,” as his grandfather used to say. The tires of passing vehicles spit ice-cold water, the drivers oblivious to, or uncaring of, Dustin’s discomfort and compounding melancholy. Clouds rolled by, gray and heavy, pregnant with malaise. But for the occasional car, the street was empty. Most people, Dustin chided himself, knew better than to stand in the rain. His head still pounded from the previous night’s indulgences and his body ached in ways that made Dustin think he should probably remember why said pains existed. His stale, soaked hair had once been cleverly styled but now lay in disorder consistent with rodents’ nests; his eyes had that darkly circled look coveted by vampires and punk rockers alike. He just wanted to get home, climb between his sheets, and sleep the rest of the day away. Which he would do—gladly. If the goddamn cab would ever show up. Apparently, it wasn’t enough that the cab company would want to charge him thirty-some bucks to drive across town. No, they were intent on making Dustin stand underneath a canopy that wouldn’t keep a small puppy dry, waiting in endless frustration. Dustin closed his eyes, rested his head back against the brick wall behind him, and breathed deep. Earthworms, decay, mildew, and exhaust. A wind—still too freaking chummy with winter than the calendar would lend one to believe—tried to sneak under his jacket. Dustin pulled the lapels that much closer, tucked them against each other and used his arms to keep them there. He lowered his chin to his chest. He was tired. Sick and tired. Sick and tired of feeling sick and tired. Twenty-eight years behind his belt, and he wasn’t looking forward to the next three decades any more than he did the first three. Not that anyone would have guessed it. If there was one thing Dustin could do well it was fake it. At least until whichever chosen stimulant kicked in at whichever moment it was required. Then Dustin didn’t have to fake it: he could let the drugs or the booze remove him from his mind. And if that landed him in the crosshairs of the next Mr. Nobody a little too often, well, that was all right with him. He was single, he was young, and he was fairly cautious. The nightstand had been littered with more than one torn foils when he’d slunk from the blankets and stealthily located clothing that morning—a good sign of precaution at least. Which meant that nobody was getting hurt. Promises were not being made and then broken. Dustin wasn’t looking for Mr. Perfect; Mr. Nobody would do just fine, thanks much. Mr. Nobody went away. Mr. Nobody didn’t bring baggage into Dustin’s life. The last thing Dustin needed was more baggage. A voice, his father’s voice, chuckled softly in Dustin’s mind. “So how come,” it asked, “if everything is so fine, if everything is just the way you want it, why do you feel so empty?” How come it felt like it could rain forever, and Dustin still wouldn’t feel clean? Why did the thought of holding his breath, until his mind fogged over and thought ceased, sound so appealing? Dustin shuddered against the internal berating, against the cold, against his life. It’s just the weather, he told himself, the rain and the residual effects of whatever still swam in his system from the party. That was all, nothing to dwell on. Dwelling wouldn’t help anyway. The bright sound of bells, out of nowhere and on the wrong side of cheery for Dustin’s somber mood, startled him from his reverie. He had a moment’s thought to search the sky for trinket wearing angels or giggling fairies, before he shook his head at the ridiculousness of the idea. A presence, nonetheless, too close for comfortable, too conscious not to search out, drew his attention. Interest, not fascination he would later tell himself, had Dustin’s eyes traveling over a man who could only be defined as displaced. European, Dustin decided, with dark thick hair that, no doubt, loved the rain—the kind of hair that curled at the ends with even a hint of moisture. He had weathered skin, but in that rugged I’ve-spent-far-too-much-time-in-the-open-air kind of way, and an odd mix of clothing that spoke of a love of comfort and ease of movement, as opposed to fashion or color sense. Two dogs, indeterminate in breed, affectionate in expression, flanked him, their eyes filled with the kind of intelligence Dustin likened only to humans or primates. “You’re cold,” the man said without introduction or preamble, and held out a steaming foam cup. “Tea,” he continued. “Nothing more. It will do you no harm.” Dustin was too stunned to do anything but reach for the cup. Instant warmth radiated through the material and into his palm. Dustin sought out the stranger’s eyes with his own, was caught by the brilliance of them, a blue so bright it was startling—before realization hit. Blind. “Stay warm,” the man said, stepping past him. His dogs followed without lead or instruction, each pressed lightly against one calf. Dustin was granted a brief pause to let his eyes trail over the man’s back—solid, strong—before the man stopped and turned a chin to direct voice over shoulder. “Try to keep in mind that the sun still shines behind the clouds.” As he walked away, the man did not cower into his clothing. Nor did he lower his head to block out the rain. He walked with his back straight and shoulders set as if the steps below him were not be cautioned, nor the rain above him to be flinched at. And that was damned impressive, Dustin thought, for someone who couldn’t even see. Headlights winked into view just past the shortening form. They caught the rain and set it on fire. For a moment that was all Dustin felt: the warmth in his palm, the heat of his own breath, and the imagined blaze of a million infinitesimal flames. As the vehicle advanced, as the cab lights became brighter, as the man disappeared, Dustin lifted the steaming cup and sniffed experimentally. Chamomile, lemon, and something sweet that reminded him of Christmas and his grandparents. In a million other instances Dustin would have tossed the cup into the gutter, would never have dreamed of putting something to his lips that had been proffered from a total stranger. Yet Dustin found himself sipping at the hot liquid without a second thought. * * * * The flashing lights were harsh and insistent as Dustin made his way through the crowd and up to the bar. His face was known; there was no need to shout his order over the pounding bass, his bill accompanied by a wave and a familiar, appreciative nod. No mood enhancers lightened Dustin’s step, no prescriptive attempts at happiness, and he was feeling all the worse for it. Dustin stepped back into the swarm of people, became ensconced in radiance as color flashed over, around and on both shirt and jeans, white and faded blue almost glowing under the black lights. The gin and tonic in his hand shone like some form of alien goo. And all Dustin could think about, even as other bodies pressed against him and tried to inspire him into dance and touch, was the similarities to the verve of blue that belonged to a pair of dead eyes. It was all, in fact, that Dustin had been thinking about for the past three days. He couldn’t place reason as to why the man was haunting him. Their meeting had been a random act of kindness, certainly nothing more. Surely Dustin had not become so jaded that something so mundane would ingrain itself that deeply inside his head, that a sympathetic gesture would leave an inerasable impression? And it was far more than the man’s expressionless gaze, more than the handsome face or hair. It was the words that wouldn’t let Dustin go. Simple, something you might say to a child, that the sun still existed behind the cloud cover, but the meaning kept hitting Dustin at the most random moments. Like when he looked in the mirror. When he kept asking himself: are you there, sun? Behind the clouds in my eyes? Maybe it was just the lack of believable answer that was bothering Dustin most. “Hello there, gorgeous.” A deep voice purred uncomfortably close to Dustin’s ear and a palm snaked boldly down his spine. Dustin turned, did not recognize the face, and forced away an instinctually snarled response. After all, what else was he here for? “Dance?” the voice asked, and though the taste had suddenly become venomous, Dustin swallowed the drink and set aside the empty glass. He shivered, shook off the bite, and shrugged. “Sure, why not?” The music was the perfect background for thoughtlessness. The beat was everything—hands groped in time to it, breath was huffed into ears alongside of it—even thought process was sorted to the music. Would you like to take this higher? Dustin’s answer was a hissed, “Let’s do this,” and the hopeful look on his dance partner’s face morphed into feral grin. Dustin’s wrist was snagged; he was hurried through gyrating bodies, the bathroom door, a stall, he was shoved against the cold metal side, and a face he did not know met the skin of Dustin’s neck with harsh bites and hungry moans. A body, already hard from dancing, nudged insistently at Dustin’s hip through clothing. Fingers began to dig for the fastening of Dustin’s belt and Dustin flinched; spit wet Dustin’s neck and he swallowed a mewl of disgust. Overhead lighting, too bright, too obvious, shone into Dustin’s upturned eyes. He turned his head, blinked hard, if for nothing else than to place his line of vision out of the rays that shone (as bright as sunlight, his mind whispered) and Dustin frowned at the arbitrary thought. The stranger lifted his head to brush hot breath over Dustin’s ear, and a palm began to work itself into the front of Dustin’s jeans. Dustin sighed in relief when the man’s head effectively blocked the light (but the sun still shines behind…) until the man moved, (like cloud cover…) and Dustin opened his eyes wide, staring blankly. “You okay?” the man asked, feigning concern while never once stopping the roaming of his hands or the desperate attempt to remove tight clothing. Dustin turned a disinterested glance towards speech. “I mean, whatever and all, just…you’re not hard or anything.” Dustin looked down, as surprised as the man was annoyed, not trying to hide his reaction. “It’s okay,” the man continued, suddenly aware he was losing ground “I don’t care if you don’t.” Nope, Dustin’s mind agreed, and a light slowly started to flicker to life in the back of Dustin’s skull. He doesn’t care one tiny bit. I could be on fire, Dustin thought, and if I told him not to worry about it, to just ignore it and keep trying to pull my jeans off, he would. Where the question came from, Dustin had no clue. “What do you think about the sun?” Already reattached to Dustin’s neck, latching on skin in an effort to re-establish compliance, it took the other man a second to respond. When he did, it was with irritation. “Wait…what?” “The sun…” A frown and puzzled uncertainty stilled hands. “You have a son?” Dustin shook his head, confusing himself as much as he knew he was confusing the other man, but something gnawed at him. He couldn’t stop himself. “Not a son, the sun,” Dustin insisted. “Big ball in the sky, shining light of life, glowing orb…” “Listen, gorgeous.” The other man smirked, a small smile that only lifted one side of his mouth. “Whatever you’re on, enjoy the trip.” Both of the stranger’s hands pressed denim back and down, exposing warm skin to cool air. “Don’t get me wrong,” the man said, palms tracing hipbones, fingertips wandering through curls. “I’ve got no problem with chatting during s*x. I can think of all kinds of things to whisper into those pretty ears of yours if you want me to. But if you wanna talk about the logistics of the sun, you got the wrong guy.” The man’s tone was playful, the reply spoken with a grin, but none of it registered in Dustin’s minds except the last five words. “You got the wrong guy.” Forest green eyes sought out his own. Not blue. (You got the wrong guy.) Desperate floundering all but begged for permission. Not quiet confidence. (You got the wrong guy.) “I’m sorry,” Dustin said, pushing the other man away by his forearms. “I can’t do this.” Lust dropped to defeat. “Wait!” the man urged, reaching for Dustin quickly. “I was just kidding around. We can talk about whatever you want—I love the sun! Everybody loves the freaking sun!” Realization hit harder as Dustin began to refasten clothing. “Come on, don’t be a f*****g tease! This is bullsh—” “I’m sorry,” Dustin cut him off and pushed his way free of the stall. There were a hundred other desperate souls in the club. The man was smooth. He’d find a way to procure someone else. Dustin didn’t stop at the bar. He didn’t head back to the dance floor. He walked past it all and pushed his way outside. * * * * “Let me guess,” the shopkeeper said once the ring of the bells died away. “He bought you a tea, said a few words and you’re back to leave a message about how it changed your life.” Dustin looked around the shop with wide-eyed approval. It had to be one of the coolest little stores he’d ever seen. Glass jars of dried everything lined the shelves. Vials of liquids, beads of every color imaginable, fabrics, burlap bags that contained only God knew what, all manned by a clerk that could, by the looks of it, have been somewhere around three-hundred and ninety-two. “Uh, yeah, something like that.” Dustin walked deeper into the labyrinth of packaging, feeling very much like he’d stepped back in time. Perhaps to another dimension even. “How’d you know?” “Recognized you.” The old man nodded. “Hard to miss a young man standing in the rain like an orphaned kitten. Especially one wearing a jacket that looks like it’s worth my mortgage. One wonders why a man with those kinds of funds is standing waiting for a cab.” Dustin ignored the prompt. “How did you know he told me something?” The old man smiled slowly. “Happens all the time.” And for some reason that answer made Dustin’s heart sink a little. The man waved Dustin over impatiently, almost irritated. “One day it’s a raspberry blend to a woman in pain, the next a licorice mix for a cranky child. There was a homeless man out front last year, sleeping in the snow. Nicolae picks for him a herbal tea, I don’t even remember the kind, walks out front, kneels down beside and says whatever it is that Nicolae says, then…” the man snapped his fingers, “Nicolae ups and he leaves. The man sits up. He drinks the tea. He leaves too.” The shopkeeper eyed Dustin, confirming attention before continuing. “Three weeks later the homeless guy is back. Tells me he got himself a job. A decent one too. Gives me a hundred bucks and tells me to pass it on with his thanks.” “Oh?” Dustin intoned, doing his best to appear interested while his mind clung to a single word: Nicolae. The man’s name was Nicolae! “So, you know what our Nicolae does? This man who barely has two dimes to rub together? He gives me back the bill, laughing, and he says to me ‘Suko, pass this on to someone who actually needs it.’ If you can imagine.” Dustin looked over quickly, gnawing at his inner cheek to still his tongue and not blurt out, “Shut the f**k up and let me talk because if I don’t find out about this strange blind man who won’t leave my head I’m going to go insane!” Instead, he smiled sweetly. “‘Our Nicolae?’ Then you know him personally?” Gossip darkened into suspicion. “Well enough, da. I came over to offer my tired and beaten bones to Lady Liberty about the same time his parents did, when he was still a boy. Why?” “I don’t know,” Dustin said, feeling a blush creep up his neck. Another shock for him—the last time Dustin blushed he was probably two. “You don’t know why you ask? Well, then.” The old man nodded. “I guess I am not the one to tell you what you should know.” Embarrassment, confusion, the fact Dustin didn’t even really know himself why he was there, activated his flight instinct. “I…no. I suppose you’re not. Well, never mind then. Thanks for the tea. It was good.” Once again, a puzzling head bob met Dustin’s words, paradoxical agreement flanked by negation. “Not mine. I told you—Nicolae picks his own blends. Takes a good long look, sizes up what he needs and goes from there.” Dustin was already at the door when the words caught him. He stopped, frowning. “Wait…how? Nicolae…” He had to pause and let the name linger on his tongue for a moment. “Nicolae is blind, no?” A grin warmed the worn face. The old man pulled a pad of paper and a pen from underneath his counter and pointed at it. “Leave what you need to leave, boy. And yes, Nicolae’s eyes are broken. But that does not mean he has no sight.” A thick chuckle rattled up the man’s throat. “As God is my witness, young man, the fact is that no one sees better.” Dustin’s escape was usurped by interest. He walked over and picked up the pen. Stark white paper mocked Dustin’s lack of motion as he stared at the page and tried to focus. What to write? To the man he couldn’t forget? To a man who had spoken no more than a dozen words but refused to leave Dustin’s mind? That reminded Dustin every time he looked in a mirror that a light existed behind the dark? So he wrote the one thing that he hadn’t written down for anyone since high school: his phone number. * * * * The message was gruff, almost to the point of rudeness. Even woven into sonnet and sung from a balcony it would have been hard to make the words sound anything but cruel. “I do not like technology. And it does not like me. So if you would like to speak to me then you must come find me.” And how exactly, Dustin snarled at the phone, did one find someone without address, direction, or surname? Especially when that someone had called him from, of all places, the shop of which Dustin had already been to and been denied any useful information? He hefted the weight of the phone for a split second trying to decide if he was going slam it against the wall or throw it out the window. He had no avenues open, short of going back to the store and dropping to his knees begging for something, anything that would lead him to Nicolae. Of course, the shopkeeper would merely toss his head back with a laugh and once again refuse him. Well, Dustin’s conscience prodded, he hadn’t actually been refused the first time. After all, the questions Dustin had deigned to ask had been answered. Perhaps it was he, that little voice teased, that had failed to ask what he needed to know? And why did that realization make him want to beat his head against hard surfaces? “Communication,” Dustin could almost hear his father’s voice. “As much as I love you, son, I can’t read your mind.” Dustin growled and tossed the phone on to the couch where it bounced safely and, for the meantime, still whole. With exaggerated movement and an epic pout, Dustin flung himself into a chair. He didn’t need this. He didn’t want this. Dustin didn’t chase men; men chased Dustin and he didn’t like this switch in dynamics. Not in the slightest. Why that disgruntled feeling drove Dustin to call the cab, ride across town, and face the shop yet again, was beyond him. Yet there he stood, reading the handmade posters that he couldn’t understand, and silently cursing his own weaknesses. It urged him further still, to grab the handle, to grit his teeth and yank the door open. It pushed him into the shop and towards the counter and forced him to stop and wait for the shopkeeper when the man was not behind the register. And he was pretty sure it was the same emotion that caused the unreasonable, incomprehensible, and irrational wave of jealousy when a young, pretty, dark-haired woman stepped from behind the curtain that masked off whatever it was hiding from the rest of the store. “Hello, there,” she said with a smile, all warmth and sunshine and Dustin resisted the urge to stalk from the store in a fit of God-only-knew-what-the-hell-he-was-feeling. “Is the owner in?” Dustin asked, returning the smile and ignoring the bile creeping up his throat. “Ah, no,” she offered back. “He’s already left.” Ingenuity and years of perfecting lies provided his next sentence. “Damn. I just missed him then?” She frowned. “No. He left early this morning.” Dustin ran a hand through his hair and pasted on an expression of angst-ridden bewilderment. “Damn. Damn, damn, damn.” “Is something—?” He shook his head before she could continue. “I must have misunderstood. I was supposed to meet him at four-o’clock.” He let his expression fall to sheepish. “I guess I picked the wrong four didn’t I?” The woman’s face softened. “Oh, dear. Probably. He did leave very early. Were you supposed to help him set up for the wedding?” Dustin’s brain racked through possibilities, all in a split second’s pause. “No, not exactly. I was more just muscle.” He grinned, faked a flex. “I know, I know, not much of body-builder, but I got it here,” he said, patting his chest, “where it counts.” She laughed, a bright, melodic sound, and it reminded Dustin of happier times, family moments, shared jokes. “And let me guess,” she said, her face still light with amusement, “Papa didn’t tell you the actual address because hey, why use things like numbers and street names when you can remember your way by landmark and funky trees, right?” Papa. Damn. Grandfather? Father? That meant it probably wasn’t a family wedding, or else this woman would be in attendance as well. Which, in turn, meant Nicolae would probably not be a guest. It also meant that Dustin was going to have to be cautious of what he said. “You got it!” He smiled his most dazzling smile back. “And why is it that you’re not going?” “Oh, I am.” The woman put out her hand. “I didn’t need to be there quite so early so I offered to watch the shop until the party started. I was actually just considering flipping the sign when I heard the bells. I’m Christina.” “A lovely name,” Dustin said, taking the offered hand. “And one hell of a grip, too!” Christina lifted an eyebrow. “And this is where you tell me your name.” Nothing came quickly enough. “I’m Dustin.” “And how do you know Papa?” He cleared his throat. Tension lit fires along nerve endings. “I’m a friend of Nicolae’s.” Christina’s eyes lit up. “Oh! Nico! How wonderful!” She gave him a quick, appreciative once-over. “I didn’t know he was dating again.” Dustin almost curled up his nose at the abbreviation. It sounded…wrong. Then his mind replayed the sentence. Dating. Again. As if…they could be dating. Nicolae and him. Halle-freaking-lujah. “Nicolae is gay!” He didn’t even realize he’d said it aloud until he caught Christina’s expression. “You don’t know Nico at all, do you?” Damn it, Dustin cursed silently. Retreat, his mind warned urgently. But before he could throw on his customarily sported figurative running shoes, his tongue reacted without him. “No. But I’d like to.” A grin replaced Christina’s concern. “Oh, really?” “Hell, yes.” “Well then,” she said coyly. “Feel like going to a party?” * * * * Dustin had no idea why a wedding in April came with the express instructions to ‘dress warm’. Christina hadn’t been kidding either. She’d pulled up in…something that almost resembled a vehicle, albeit rattling, shaking, and puffing smoke, wearing full regalia—winter jacket, scarf, hat, gloves and boots—and promptly sent him back into his apartment to change. Twice. He decided on well-fitting black jeans (“Slacks will be too chilly Dustin, trust me.”), high boots (“You do not want to wear those shoes if you like them, hon.”), and black leather gloves and jacket over a heavy gray sweater and scarf. It was the most bizarre outfit Dustin had ever worn to a wedding in his life. But he should have known it would be no ordinary wedding, Dustin thought, when they pulled up to the massive, unlit farmhouse and struggled to find a parking spot within walking distance; when they stepped out of the car and he was instantly met with the aroma of burning hardwood and the sounds of music. Somehow he should have known. “Christina?” Dustin called, stuck to the side of the car, suddenly terrified to go any further. She stalked back towards him, grabbed his forearm, and dragged him forward. “Come on,” she urged. “All you’re going to get standing here whining is cold. Besides,” she huffed, “after all this effort I want to see some guy on guy smooching tonight!” Dustin frowned, yanked his hand back. “I’m kidding!” She laughed, then faked a serious expression. “Unless of course you can actually pull it off. Then I’m totally not.” “Sick!” “And why do I think that sick is just your kind of thing?” Christina asked playfully. “Why would you say that?” Dustin asked, wounded. “You don’t even know me.” Christina shrugged. “Just a hunch.” Then she grinned again. “We’re good with those kinds of things. Hunches, vibes, feelings. Papa and I both. Mama’s not bad either. I’m not sure if it’s a family thing or a people thing but I’m leaning towards our people. Because Nicolae’s not related and he is most certainly the king of the hunch.” Dustin nodded. “Like you mean with the tea thing.” She laughed. “No. I mean like with the ‘everything’ thing. You should see him with animals.” “I did…” “And weather! The man is just…weird when it comes to weather. If I didn’t know his mama personally, I would have sworn the man is a child of Mother Nature herself.” Christina wound her arm underneath his and began to walk towards the house. “I’m not entirely convinced he’s not anyway.” Dustin dug his heels in and forced them both to stop in the gravel driveway. Christina looked up, he looked down, and the world seemed to freeze for a minute. “Do you think he’ll like me?” Christina smiled warmly. “I think he already does.” “Oh?” Dustin frowned. “Why would you say that?” “No dogs,” she said. “Nico’s got two, Papa’s got one and at least three more live here. You’re a stranger. If Nicolae didn’t want you here you’d know by now.” Panic gripped Dustin’s chest. “You think he knows I’m here?” Once more feet were urged into steps. “I can guarantee it. “In Dustin’s mind the words were met with the ominous sounds of heavy bass and dark violins. Flames towered behind the house. No mere bonfire, this. Above the fire, wandering sparks skipped in pantomime of the figures below, some standing, some milling, some kicking up heels and swinging partners alongside. The entire space was alive with activity. Smoke didn’t seem to linger, it was swept high and away, while guests ate and chatted, danced and sang. A small band, from the looks of them no more than guests themselves, sat and stood in varying poses while happy notes poured from where fingers met instruments. “Food,” Christina pointed. She flitted to the left. “Wine.” Then she touched Dustin’s shoulder and pressed him off to the right. “Nico.” Then she was gone, swept up in a clutch of chattering young women, and whisked towards a lively group of dancers. Dustin watched her leave, felt a moment of disconcertion, and shrank back against the wall of what he assumed was a barn. While rough wood brushed finish from expensive leather and the heels of his boots sank into mud, Dustin watched Nicolae with the fascination of a child. Once again fashion had been pushed aside for comfort and convenience, and once again it still managed to look right on Nicolae’s frame. Heavy pants, perhaps corduroy, perhaps wool, a thick dark sweater, and long coat draped Nicolae’s form as the man sprawled lengthwise on the bench of a picnic table. Reflected flames gave Nicolae a look of youth and vitality and Dustin couldn’t help but wonder what the light did to his eyes. Nicolae’s body swayed along with the music, even in repose, keeping perfect time to flute and strings. A large tumbler sat ignored on the table beside him, kept company by an all but empty plate. Dustin felt a twinge of hunger that he fought to ignore, not certain if the sensation stemmed from the intense aromatic presence of the heavily laden tables of food, or the man himself. He was suddenly at a loss, and Dustin was never at a loss when it came to seduction. No man had ever inspired the urge to hide. If anything, his usual reaction was the exact opposite: outright attack-mode. Find a target, coerce it, woo it, f**k it, and slink away. This man, however, this Nicolae, was so very different that it threw Dustin into a tailspin. That scared him. It freaking terrified him. Dustin watched Nicolae lift his hand, wave over another man, younger, smaller, and say something into the man’s ear. Then Dustin watched in interest that quickly grew to absolute horror as the young man stood, looked in Dustin’s direction, and began to walk. Dustin drew back further, pressing harder against the barn, silently begging every known deity to cloak, to hide, to completely assimilate Dustin into the wood if need be. “You,” the young man said, pointing. “There against the wall. Please step out into the light.” Thought lifted a plea for diversion. Every nerve tensed. Yet it was impossible to stop his body from following the directive. “Nicolae has requested that I ask you to stop lurking in the dark.” “I was not…” Dustin swallowed hard. “Lurking. I was just, uh, getting a feel for everything.” “I see,” the man said, and nodded towards Nicolae. “You should go and say hello. I’ll get you some wine.” The walk through hell, to face one’s accusers, could not feel more treacherous than the walk towards Nicolae did. As the fire danced, as people moved out of the way to let Dustin pass, every flicker of instinct was on alert. Even though Dustin knew that Nicolae could not see his advance, he had no doubt that Nicolae knew he approached. Like a moth to the flame, Dustin recalled from some long drawn out passage from his youth; pulled by warmth, by comfort, but to the unavoidable result of consumption. “And you find me,” Nicolae said when the distance was gone and Dustin stood within the range of comfortable speech. Nicolae lowered his heels to the ground and patted the bench alongside. “Now you can tell me why.” Butterflies began uproarious flights within Dustin’s stomach; meandering out to brush teasing wings all the way from chest to bowel. “I…did. Tell you why?” “Yes,” Nicolae prompted. “Why did you search me out? What do you need?” “I need…” and Dustin’s mind provided the good reaction to stop his tongue before it foolishly uttered the “you.” “To say thank you. For the tea.” Nicolae made a sound that could have been taken as acceptance, or amusement. “You went to some trouble for a simple thank you. But, if that’s your wish, consider yourself most welcome.” Nicolae once again lifted his heels back to the bench and began to whistle to the music. Dustin frowned. Was the man being smug? Or making a point? Dustin tried again. “And…” Words failed him. “Ah.” Nicolae let his legs fall for a second time and reiterated his call to the bench with another light tap of palm. “There is always an ‘and.’“ Nicolae waited, head tilted, and Dustin could only imagine what the other man must have been thinking as Dustin stood in front of him and stuffed and unstuffed pockets with fists, shifting weight from foot to foot like a preschooler with a full bladder. “Please,” Nicolae said, “sit.” And though his voice was lowered, there was a commanding tone that made Dustin’s knees want to buckle. The choice between sitting beside Nicolae and falling to his knees had Dustin moving quickly. Was it reality or mere fantasy that voices suddenly seemed that much further away, Dustin asked himself? As he sat beside Nicolae and found the man’s eyes, did the fire really seem that much warmer? Or the sky so much darker? “And…to meet you. I guess.” It was only an inch that Nicolae moved, a lean to bring Dustin’s quiet words closer to his ear, but it made Dustin’s heart start to beat like Nicolae had just offered to remove clothing and dance naked. An eyebrow lifted subtlety up Nicolae’s forehead. “So, have you met me?” “Yes?” Dustin said, because damn it, what were you supposed to say to that? “And?” “And…” A million things came to the forefront of Dustin’s mind: and your eyes really are mesmerizing in the firelight, and I’m pretty sure I’ll never get your face out of my mind now, and would you be totally against me stripping bare and letting you f**k me senseless right here, right now, on the table? Dustin settled for socially acceptable. “And it’s a pleasure to meet you.” Nicolae smiled. “But we haven’t really met, have we? I do not even know your name.” Dustin gave his name, almost too quickly, ridiculously pleased that Nicolae would ask. It was a question, in all fairness, that did not make it into many of the conversations Dustin had with other men. Nicolae hummed. “How fitting: dust. That which we come from, to that which we end. Scattered on wind or lying silent on dune. Worn on the shirt of every downtrodden man and scraped from the foot of every wealthy one. Dust is everywhere, unconquerable and yet constantly fought against. The ultimate contradiction.” “Uh.” Dustin shifted nervously. “I think it means fighter or something.” The frown that Nicolae turned his way almost made Dustin flinch. “I do not care what it means to anyone else. I only care what it means to me. Or, perhaps, to you. Does it, Dustin? Mean anything to you? And do watch to your left.” “It’s just a name,” Dustin scoffed, turning his head slightly, not seeing anything although not really paying attention either, and raised both hands in a gesture of question. “Whoops,” came a voice and Dustin watched, mortified, as his fingers knocked the tumbler of wine being handed his way before it was gripped again by another set of fingers. Stunned, Dustin stared at the blind man that had just caught a full tumbler of wine without spilling a single drop. “I did tell you to mind,” Nicolae said. Dustin ignored the reprimand. “How’d you do that?” Nicolae’s expression softened though he didn’t outright smile. “I reached?” “Ha, ha,” Dustin deadpanned. “How did you know where to reach? How did you know he was coming? You…you’re,” Dustin pointed, a gesture no doubt lost to the man in front of him, but Dustin wasn’t sure how to say it without sounding rude. He decided to stop trying. “Blind, right?” “Blind?” Nicolae’s lips quirked. “Never.” “So you can see?” Dustin frowned. “Or no?” Nicolae handed Dustin the cup and then reached for his own. “I see,” he said, “that my definition of sight and vision are not the same as yours. Perhaps, Dustin, you are the one who is blind?” Dustin blinked. “Are you always this cryptic?” The question inspired a reaction that just about melted Dustin’s soul. Nicolae put his head back and laughed, a deep, throaty laugh of the likes that Dustin had not heard in a long time. It was neither faked nor forced. It was the kind of sound that encouraged a smile out of everyone who heard it. “Actually, yes.” Nicolae finally chuckled. “It is, apparently, a fault of mine.” He held the wine out in front of him. “Dustin, my friend, it is a pleasure to meet you.” A shy smile played on Dustin’s face. He didn’t know why he was smiling, but it felt good to relax the suspicious frown off his forehead, to soften the pull at the sides of his mouth. Dustin clinked his glass against Nicolae’s suspended one. “No, sir. The pleasure is all mine.” * * * * The wine was strong, spiced, and warm. It moved through Dustin’s body like lava, slow but powerful, heating him from the core out. “Do be careful with that,” Nicolae warned. “It is a treat that should be indulged of with caution. It is quite strong.” Dustin laughed out loud at the warning. If Nicolae only knew… The effects were both enjoyable and quick. The wine brought life to limbs and an ease of expression that explained the smiles and the dancing far more than just the company of good friends. So when Christina approached them both with the playful demand to dance, Dustin didn’t balk when Nicolae pulled him up and dragged him towards the trampled circle of grass. He did, however, shake his head when Nicolae dramatically pulled him close and smiled back. “I don’t know how to dance to this,” Dustin laughed. “There is nothing to know,” Nicolae said. “Just move.” They didn’t dance as a couple, nor did they dance alone. It seemed the entire group of people danced together: hands to hands, a random shifting of space and energy that somehow became pattern. Laughing eyes and smiling faces, simple enjoyment and nothing more; no hands groped illicit areas, no cologne drenched leeches tried to dry-f**k Dustin through clothing. Rather a head-lightening swirl of body and smoke, wine-sweetened breath and palms against his own—some rough, some smooth, some grips firm and others light—moved Dustin from place to place. And yet, even amongst the crowd, Nicolae was never far away. If Dustin turned his eyes back up, searched out the faces for the one that had grown familiar far too quickly, it was only a matter of seconds before Dustin’s gaze would find Nicolae’s. Sometimes smiling, sometimes laughing, always moving; but even more thrilling to Dustin’s spinning mind, Nicolae always seemed to know when Dustin was looking. By casual lift of palm or tilt of chin, by teasing smile, Nicolae acknowledged Dustin’s glances without fail. The music never faltered, sliding from one song to the next without pause, in an exhaustive effort for both dancers and musicians, until one by one the group of bodies began to disperse. As the group diminished, so too did the music, softening with the advancement of midnight and pulling tired bodies into embraces. Dustin fell away from the group and took a long moment to watch. His body swayed along, be it the lingering pull of the music or the effects of the wine, and the wind felt so much cooler away from the activity and the body heat. And just for a moment—a moment within a moment, no more—Dustin let the hurt surface. Memories: his parents in each other’s arm, swaying to the quiet sounds of their stereo as Dustin watched, hidden and crouching at the top of the stairs. Regrets: of dozens of what-ifs that Dustin had snuck away from, too scared to risk anything further. Fears: of loss; of failure. “You think enough for a thousand men,” said a deep, quiet voice in Dustin’s right ear and Dustin leaned, as though he knew that Nicolae would take the weight without question. “Nico—” and his throat refused the abbreviation, “…læ.” Dustin licked his lips in an effort to encourage them to work properly, “Christina told me…she said that you were…you know.” He looked up, caught the eyes that did not hold yet still seemed to burn into his own, “Gay.” Dustin swallowed hard. “Is that true?” Nicolae’s pull was almost too strong to fight. Dustin turned, using his lean against Nicolae’s body as direction for slow-to-respond muscles and murky vision. He moved towards the scent of the man: musky sweat, food rich in spice, smoke, wood, earth, and drew a breath against Nicolae’s neck. “Do you like men?” Dustin repeated the sentiment of the earlier question, pausing only briefly before adding, “Do you like me?” Fine goose bumps rose on Nicolae’s neck and Dustin smiled loosely, but the hand that lighted on Dustin’s hip made Dustin all but swoon against Nicolae’s body. It was a deeper tone still that answered Dustin’s question. “I do not pick my lovers based on gender, Dustin.” Nicolae’s palm slid to the small of Dustin’s back, coerced a soft groan that Dustin would tell himself later did not come from him, and made him grip Nicolae’s jacket in an effort to stay upright. “And yes,” Nicolae said, nudging his chin to speak against Dustin’s ear. “I like you.” “Nicol?” a call came; harsh, disruptive and Dustin bristled. Damn it, did no one use the man’s full name? And why in hell did everyone have their own little twist on what the abbreviation should be? Cold rushed in to replace Nicolae’s departing form and Dustin gritted his teeth with the intensity of gravel-crushers. He slumped on the picnic table bench, dragged his wandering gaze over to the glowing embers of the fire and reached for his previously deserted wine. At least, he hoped it was his wine. Hard to say for sure. It would do though. He wondered if Christina was going to drive him home. He wondered if maybe he should just sleep there, on the bench. For a minute. It couldn’t hurt. There were other forms on other benches that had succumbed to the same idea. And the fire was warm. And it was late. And his legs hurt from dancing. And his head spun with wine. So…maybe just for…two minutes then. * * * * Dustin recalled being moved, maybe helped to his feet, perhaps even carried. He did know that he was shaking like a leaf against the body heat of the person beside him, and that he was pretty sure that he was in the bed of a pickup truck. It had a cab, at least, but that didn’t stop the wind from whistling in at every little misfit crack along its perimeter, or the fact that there was no heater. Two smaller forms rested alongside him, one over his leg, the other against his thigh, and the air was rich with the smell of animal hair and wet straw. One of his hips lay against metal, bouncing along with the truck as tires shakily made their way over potholes and pavement. The other hip, and the majority of Dustin’s body however, sprawled chest down against another’s. It was from that body that Dustin pulled his warmth—one arm resting on top of torso, Dustin’s head against the man’s shoulder…man? Yes, man. There was too much hard, too much strength underneath Dustin for it to be anything else. Besides, the man had a familiar masculine scent. Dustin nudged into it, drank heat and comfort and something else…something that might have been the edgings of arousal. Dustin could do desire, the trade of lust for comfort, that sounded like a fair enough exchange to him. There were lesser things he had offered himself up for. Besides, the smell of the other man was intoxicating. Their height, their sizes, fit together perfectly, sculpted—one from two. Like Lego pieces they rested; face pressed into shoulder and neck, crotch against hip, even the curve of pectoral that provided support for Dustin’s hand. And all the while, underneath Dustin’s ear, the strong and steady thump, thump, thump of a heartbeat. From its current perch, Dustin willed his hand to rise slowly, seductively, tracing the cool bare skin of neck and jaw, ear and cheek. The faint pulse of interest Dustin had felt earlier flared, a puff of wind on a fresh ember. The beat beneath Dustin’s ear picked up its pace, and Dustin’s own body jumped at the reaction. Bolder, he let his touch wander, now down neck, across shoulder and chest, pressing aside the fabric of an open coat to slide fingers into the warmth below, lingering on a cloth-covered n****e already hard from the cold. Breath was caught, not Dustin’s, at least he didn’t think it had been—it was hard to tell. With a mind slow from alcohol and eyesight all but non-existent in the darkness, the only thing Dustin really knew was that he felt good. And that he felt good, because the man beside him felt good. Symbiotically, Dustin channeled desire, so when the other man’s breath increased, Dustin’s did as well. When the other man’s heart skipped, Dustin’s also made a quick two-step. It didn’t matter why. All that mattered was comfort, the encircled arms and the overwhelming urge to keep them there, to satisfy in compensation for the rainbow of emotions and feeling of stability that Dustin had at that moment. Strangers, these emotions, but fascinating ones nonetheless, and Dustin wanted more. Intrigued, Dustin’s touch continued to scrutinize, pressing palm over belly, lighting fingertips over buckle, and finally sliding with enough slow anticipation that it made Dustin want to grind into the man beside him, Dustin found the center of the man’s body. He groaned at the way it filled his hand, and yet again at the thought the man was just starting to get hard. Because God, if it felt that good already… Dustin’s wrist was grabbed. His hand stilled. Though the grip that stopped Dustin was firm, the arm around Dustin’s shoulders was kind. It pulled him closer, brought him to the spot where lips could be pressed to his ear, and Nicolae’s voice was gentle but assertive. “I have no desire for heartless games, Dustin. You owe me nothing.” The words cut like a lance. Fighting breath, forcing his heart back to normalcy, Dustin willed his body to stop and pull back, to retreat from the connection and close it. “Sleep, Dustin,” Nicolae said, voice heavy and exhausted. “You’ll need the rest.”