things could happen when you depended on someone to be waiting for you with comfort. Self-sufficiency was a virtue.
With a practiced motion he put his ear-buds in and hit play on his iPod. He liked music. All music—classical, jazz, old rock, new rock, rap, pop, metal, strings, brass, and the didgeridoo. He had earned enough money for a laptop when he’d been twenty years old, and his next purchase had been the iPod. It was old, and it couldn’t hold as many songs as he’d like, but he could spend hours picking out what would go on it, and that was something.
Moodily he leaned back against the canvas back of the stool and peered up at the stars. His fingers went to the little pouch, and he pulled out the number and looked at it.
It looked legitimate. Go figure. He knew people—he should give someone those numbers and make the stupid cop a prime victim of identity theft. He reached into the pouch again and pulled out his little vial of oil and pulled off the cork, inhaling lightly.
Involuntarily his eyes closed. He could still smell the oil on the big stupid cop’s skin, under his leather jerkin. He could see his broad, friendly face splitting into a grin—a shy grin—under the autumn sun. He could hear his voice telling him… miracles, if truth be known. A man who would spend a fortune on children who were not his because he wanted to see them smile. A man who would come to a world he didn’t understand and buy clothes to match in order to impress a sister he hadn’t seen in years. A man who would look at him, track marks and all, and call him, Mikhail, a hope.
Stupid man.
Carefully Mikhail put a little bit of scented oil on the receipt in his hand and then replaced the cork and put the vial and the phone numbers back in his pouch. He had a box at home for such things. Then he resumed his contemplation of the sky. The stars were coming out, and since Gilroy was mostly rural farmland, that meant something. It was getting a little bit cool—sometimes an ocean breeze made its way in from the coast—and Mikhail reached inside the tent for the shirt Shane had bought him.
It fit very well, and Mikhail took out a little bit of oil and daubed it on the shirt too. The promise was a lie, of course, but it would be nice, Making Promises
sometime in the future, to remember the lie and pretend it might someday be real.
He put the oil back and was prepared to tip his face to the sky and enjoy his music (Coldplay was the band today—“Kingdom Come” was a favorite song, as was “Clocks”) when a silhouette interrupted his view.
“Go away,” Mikhail said sourly. “I do not wish to speak to you tonight.”
Brett leaned forward and tried to touch lips with him, and Mikhail rolled off the chair, onto his knees in the dust, and came up furious.
“I said go away! You think I want to touch you now? After what you said to that nice man?”
Brett rolled his eyes and shrugged. “It was a Faire hook-up, Mikhail—you have them all the time. And then we have them, and then we have next weekend, right?”
“Nyet.” But it was true, he thought, not liking the way it sounded when Brett said it.
Brett smiled and moved behind him, trying to wrap his arms around Mikhail’s chest. “C’mon, Oberon… let’s you and Puck go make a little music, right?” Mikhail shrugged him off and turned around.
“I don’t think so,” he said. He was going to add, “Not tonight,” but he remembered the way Shane had flushed in embarrassment, had called himself fat, had generally made very little of himself with all of his kindness and his quick words and his beautiful smile. “Not again,” was what he said instead, and he kept his face carefully cold as Brett jerked back, hurt.
“Mikhail….”
“No. You were possessive. You do not say mean things like that unless you think a hook-up is a lover, or a boyfriend or…or….” Or a promise. “I do not feel any of those things for you, and you will only be hurt if we keep
With a practiced motion he put his ear-buds in and hit play on his iPod. He liked music. All music—classical, jazz, old rock, new rock, rap, pop, metal, strings, brass, and the didgeridoo. He had earned enough money for a laptop when he’d been twenty years old, and his next purchase had been the iPod. It was old, and it couldn’t hold as many songs as he’d like, but he could spend hours picking out what would go on it, and that was something.
Moodily he leaned back against the canvas back of the stool and peered up at the stars. His fingers went to the little pouch, and he pulled out the number and looked at it.
It looked legitimate. Go figure. He knew people—he should give someone those numbers and make the stupid cop a prime victim of identity theft. He reached into the pouch again and pulled out his little vial of oil and pulled off the cork, inhaling lightly.
Involuntarily his eyes closed. He could still smell the oil on the big stupid cop’s skin, under his leather jerkin. He could see his broad, friendly face splitting into a grin—a shy grin—under the autumn sun. He could hear his voice telling him… miracles, if truth be known. A man who would spend a fortune on children who were not his because he wanted to see them smile. A man who would come to a world he didn’t understand and buy clothes to match in order to impress a sister he hadn’t seen in years. A man who would look at him, track marks and all, and call him, Mikhail, a hope.
Stupid man.
Carefully Mikhail put a little bit of scented oil on the receipt in his hand and then replaced the cork and put the vial and the phone numbers back in his pouch. He had a box at home for such things. Then he resumed his contemplation of the sky. The stars were coming out, and since Gilroy was mostly rural farmland, that meant something. It was getting a little bit cool—sometimes an ocean breeze made its way in from the coast—and Mikhail reached inside the tent for the shirt Shane had bought him.
It fit very well, and Mikhail took out a little bit of oil and daubed it on the shirt too. The promise was a lie, of course, but it would be nice, Making Promises
sometime in the future, to remember the lie and pretend it might someday be real.
He put the oil back and was prepared to tip his face to the sky and enjoy his music (Coldplay was the band today—“Kingdom Come” was a favorite song, as was “Clocks”) when a silhouette interrupted his view.
“Go away,” Mikhail said sourly. “I do not wish to speak to you tonight.”
Brett leaned forward and tried to touch lips with him, and Mikhail rolled off the chair, onto his knees in the dust, and came up furious.
“I said go away! You think I want to touch you now? After what you said to that nice man?”
Brett rolled his eyes and shrugged. “It was a Faire hook-up, Mikhail—you have them all the time. And then we have them, and then we have next weekend, right?”
“Nyet.” But it was true, he thought, not liking the way it sounded when Brett said it.
Brett smiled and moved behind him, trying to wrap his arms around Mikhail’s chest. “C’mon, Oberon… let’s you and Puck go make a little music, right?” Mikhail shrugged him off and turned around.
“I don’t think so,” he said. He was going to add, “Not tonight,” but he remembered the way Shane had flushed in embarrassment, had called himself fat, had generally made very little of himself with all of his kindness and his quick words and his beautiful smile. “Not again,” was what he said instead, and he kept his face carefully cold as Brett jerked back, hurt.
“Mikhail….”
“No. You were possessive. You do not say mean things like that unless you think a hook-up is a lover, or a boyfriend or…or….” Or a promise. “I do not feel any of those things for you, and you will only be hurt if we keep
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