Big Dump

Oh, oh


Préambule,
Jonny:

Thom, dropping off the records at our house. A box of them, all shabby and neat, and smelling of old paper. Colin watches him with a smirk and pokes his nose into the box, sliding out a random one and quirking his eyebrow at him,

“We used to listen to this when we were 14. Whom are you trying to amuse?”

Thom just jerks his shoulder and carries the records up the stairs to my room, knocks on the doorframe and smiles broadly.

“Thought you’d like these,” he says, putting the box on the floor. Then, off-handedly, offers an explanation, “I was cleaning out my room before moving out and came across some old ones. Um. I don’t listen to them much and I knew Colin didn’t have the copies. So.”

I nod and smile curtly and he retires, nodding as well. Then he descends down the hallway and I return to the book, trying to find the trance that his presence dissipated. Before long, there’s his figure at the door again.

“So Jonny,” he says enthusiastically, “What do you think of Joy Division?”

I clench my jaw to keep myself from laughing. He feels dumb, I see it, he tried to stop himself from saying it, but it was like watching a shipwreck on the horizon. He blushes and his shoulders move as if he is about to turn around and go.

“Well,” I say, my voice soft, “They are…nice. You know. Not my cup of tea. But very good.”

“Oh,” he says, entering the room as if it’s been an invitation, “How do you mean, you don’t like that kind of stuff?”

I put the book down a little indiscreetly and his eyes flash to its cover quickly, “I didn’t want to disturb you…”

“Oh it’s fine.”

“No, really, it looks rather interesting,” he comes close and leans over to read the title, “Oh, I see. Well. You definitely have to read. I reckon it’s for a class.”

“No, not really.”

“So you just picked it up?”

“Yes,” I say, thinking about sitting up properly but then letting the idea go.

“You know I’ve got lots of those…”

“Books?”

“Oh yes, definitely. I could bring you some.”

“That’d be lovely.”

Tomorrow, I think, there’ll be a box of books next to the box of records.


Ambule,
Colin:

We are on a lake with Thom, just a about twenty minutes outside of town, and he throws the flat stones into the water making them jump one, two, three times. The hair on the back of his neck is sunburnt and golden against the skin, and his spine is flat, with two jutting plains of shoulder blades working underneath the t-shirt. He looks around twelve, even though he’s recently turned twenty and I study him the way I always study people who attract my attention. He doesn’t find it strange and lets me, learning to keep his consciousness at bay, and I’m allowed to think about him in any way I wish. So I trace the ridge of his spine with my eyes and he turns his head a little, noticing my gaze.

“What?” he says, eyelashes cast downward a little, waiting for a reply.

“I wonder if I’m attracted to you,” I say and step a little closer to him, putting my hand on his shoulder and making him turn around. He does, looking at me with slightly weary eyes. I run my hands over his sharp collarbones and up his neck, then into his hair. He hums in his throat, then emerges with a crooked grin.

“We are a bit late for that,” he laughs, rubbing his elbow, “Just a couple of years, but still.”

“What, there’s a timetable?” I smile after him, tracing his cheekbones with thumbs.

“I’m sure there’s one set up,” he laughs again, blushing, looking down at our shoes, “But you can do whatever.”

“Oh? So I’ve got a universal pass?”

“Yes,” he laughs again, rubbing his eyebrow this time. I like the sound. I like feeling the bones of his skull and I trace them with my fingers.

Jonny:

At night I think about Thomas. That’s what I’ve started to call him inside my head – Thomas. I imagine I’m some stiff-collared infatuated scholar and I call him Thomas. Thomas was acting rather stranger today, I note in my imaginary diary with my elegant imaginary handwriting, and I wonder why. Perhaps he is involved with someone, I think closing my eyes. Perhaps he is uneasy. However he is rather lovely when he is distressed. His cheeks are rosy and he touches his lips and leans forward when he is talked to. Thomas. I turn over to lie on my stomach and I bury my face in the pillow. Inside my head, the images flicker. I think about his eyes and the blue veins that run under his almost-transparent skin. I imagine him as a network of threads, all intercepting each other loosely, forming him in brave graceful stretches, in small shady knots and deft nooks. When I’m almost asleep I think about my lips on him, and my stomach tightens with warm feeling as we are kissing, and I’m me, just regular me.

Colin:

Thom’s right temple is sweaty, his hair sticking to it – I’m lying next to him on my stomach and staring at his sleeping profile while he is on his back. It’s afternoon, after university, with slight nausea coming in from the whole day spent in wool sweaters. University, and he is Raskolnikov finally at peace, I chuckle, throw the image away and continue my visual exploration of him. I lie there as one would sit on the museum, staring at the canvas for a long time, noticing every detail and getting up to step closer once in a while. I bring my fingertips to his skin and trace it without touching, as if there’s an old lady sitting on the chair and watching me carefully, ready to spring up to her feet and shoo me away from the painting. There’s a red line between me and Thom, a red line I cannot cross and reach out, a small air pocket between my flesh and his, and I don’t know what to think of it. Suppose I broke the rule and stole the painting. What does one do with it once he possesses it? What for does one want it in his living room if it’s there for him whenever he wants it?

Jonny:

One day, I thought, I’d fall in love. In any kind of love. And it would make me pull my hair out.

It is a strange day, well, it’s a Monday, Monday after spending the weekend in my own world, with minimum interference. I’m giddy and covered in sweat, and I’m cold at the same time – it is raining after all, or beginning to rain, with clouds heavy and promising and people walking on the streets rapidly, as if escaping the only-preparing rain. I stop by his flat after school, biting my thumbs and ringing the doorbell, dancing on the spot and giggling nervously, and inside my head I say Thomas, Thomas, Thomas.

He opens the door and I slither in quickly before he can step aside to give me some space, laughing when I bump into his arm, his hand on the door, and he moves it away quickly to let me through. I think he said hello, so I answer a cheery hello back and trail into his living room, waiting for him to follow.

“Do you want anything to drink?” he asks, entering, and I smile, my hair in my eyes.

“No, Thomas,” I say, calling him that out loud for the first time and noticing him frown a little. I laugh quietly and push him into the armchair, sinking in front of him and keeping my hands on his knotty knees. “Thomas,” I breathe and bury my face in his thigh, sighing, closing my eyes. He is warm. I pull my head up, pushing my nose against his flesh, inhaling his smell. He is frozen beneath me, hands on the armrests, his jaw slack. “Thomas,” I sigh out, fitting myself between his thighs and bringing my face to his neck. I rise on my knees then and press my forehead against his, staring into his eyes. One day you’ll fall in love and it’ll make you pull your hair out, I smile again, only my eyes are serious. I take his hands and put them on my waist, smiling at his lips parting slightly and whisper “There”. Our noses touch and we nuzzle each others’ faces. “Thomas,” I whisper again and keep looking at his lovely face, holding on to the image, reluctant to close my eyes. But I do, eventually.