LJ Idol Week 32: Hands
He dreamt, as always, of slender fingers, and the smiling, boyish face of a friend.
He woke up in last night’s clothes, on a mattress that smelled like cigarettes in the middle of a stranger’s living room.
His shirt and the mattress were flecked with dried blood -and there was a split-second of panic before he remembered that he’d tripped, smashed a liquor bottle, and then cut his hands drunkenly trying to gather up the pieces. He’d slurred an apology and made noises about cleaning it up, but someone took his shoulders and steered him away. Pushed him down onto this mattress.
Initially, he’d gone out to get laid.
He woke up a bit further, and took inventory of himself. He was fully clothed. His belt and all his buttons were done up. His hands had been wrapped in bandages, and only throbbed distantly. As for the room he was in, calling it grim may have been an understatement. There was not a single aspect of it that had been maintained or cared for, from the peeling wallpaper to the water-damaged ceiling to the crumbling furniture. A slice of pizza was lying face down on the carpet -and had been there for some time, judging by the mold creeping at its edges. It was the most depressing slice of pizza he’d ever seen.
Groaning, not wanting to place any weight on his hands, he pulled himself into a sitting position -and a cluster of earwigs scattered out from under him.
“Yeeeugh!”
“Hey, you’re awake.”
He looked round. The man who’d spoken was standing in the entrance of a galley kitchen, smiling from under an over-sized hoodie.
“Feel any better?”
He looked at the man’s face. It had the doughy look of a long-since-former athlete, small-eyed and pale, and yet his smile had a benign, sleepy quality.
This was the guy he’d gone home with.
“Yeah. Thanks,” he looked around, casting for something to say. “You bandaged my hands.”
“And cleaned them, yeah. You were pretty drunk,” the man said. “That’s why I let you sleep. Wouldn’t’ve been right, otherwise, you know? It’s Jacob, if you don’t remember.”
He didn’t.
The man called Jacob crossed the room -his movements were oddly bovine, slow and heavy-and collapsed onto a sagging loveseat just across from the mattress, still smiling. His massive hands rested between his legs, fingertips pressed loosely together.
He found himself focusing on those hands. The knuckles especially; they reminded him of knots tied in thick rope, which in turn reminded him of the sea. Dimly he recalled feeling those knuckles brushing the skin of his stomach, while his shirt was being pushed up and aside; the harsh contrast of brick scraping at his back; another mouth catching his mid-gasp…
Strange to think hands like that had held his own. Tended to their injuries.
While he slept.
“Were you up all night?” he asked.
Jacob leaned forward over the coffee table and set about rolling a cigarette. He watched him work. Thick fingers making tiny, precise movements.
Maybe that was why he chose Jacob. Or tried to choose him, anyway.
Their hands were nothing alike.
“Yeah,” Jacob finally answered, without looking up. “I was afraid you were gonna throw up and choke, or something. I never picked up anyone who just passed out on me before. It was weird.”
“Sorry,” he muttered.
“Nah. Was bound to happen sooner or later. Kinda sad it was with you, though. You’re a good-looking guy.”
“Ha,” his face flushed, and he looked away. He’d never had a failed one-night-stand before. It was hard to know what to say. “Okay…look, I have to ask, why are we in your living room?” Where there’s earwigs and rotten pizza, he didn’t add.
“My kid sister is asleep upstairs. I let her have my bed when she stays over. Better for her back.”
“Right.” Oh, God.
Jacob finished his cigarette, and started turning his head slowly back and forth, patting absently at his hip -looking for a lighter, he realized. The motion reminded him of what was in his own pocket. After making sure Jacob was not paying him any attention, he pulled out his phone and checked it. He had five missed texts.
Where r u??? The most recent one asked. Its time-stamp was sixteen minutes ago.
His stomach flipped over.
“Sorry things turned out the way they did,” Jacob said. He’d apparently given up his search, and set the cigarette down, now watching him placidly. “I could still give you head, if you want.”
“…No thank you,” he said, cringing at the thought of the ‘kid sister’ wandering downstairs at a bad moment. “I actually have to get going…”
The other man nodded, and got to his feet. He helped him find his socks, his shoes. He stood by at a respectful distance when he put on his coat by the front door.
“You need a ride anywhere?” Jacob asked.
“No, I’m good. Just need to go see a friend.”
“Cool. Drop by anytime.”
Nice enough guy, he thought, as he finally escaped. But not fucking likely.
He took out his phone, and began a new text.
His friend was expecting him when he arrived, of course.
All the same, he wasn’t greeted with ‘hello.’
Instead, they began with a smile -his friend’s usual smile, the one that lifted and lit up the heavy brow which belied his boyish face. And then he saw the bandages on his hands, and the expression dropped.
“What did you do?”
“It was just-“
But he’d already reached out and grabbed them, holding them up close to his face for inspection. Brows knitted over dark, clever eyes.
His cut, bandaged hands held in slender fingers.
He stood there, allowing it, feeling his body quietly hum, and thought: Next time, I’ll stay sober.
He woke up in last night’s clothes, on a mattress that smelled like cigarettes in the middle of a stranger’s living room.
His shirt and the mattress were flecked with dried blood -and there was a split-second of panic before he remembered that he’d tripped, smashed a liquor bottle, and then cut his hands drunkenly trying to gather up the pieces. He’d slurred an apology and made noises about cleaning it up, but someone took his shoulders and steered him away. Pushed him down onto this mattress.
Initially, he’d gone out to get laid.
He woke up a bit further, and took inventory of himself. He was fully clothed. His belt and all his buttons were done up. His hands had been wrapped in bandages, and only throbbed distantly. As for the room he was in, calling it grim may have been an understatement. There was not a single aspect of it that had been maintained or cared for, from the peeling wallpaper to the water-damaged ceiling to the crumbling furniture. A slice of pizza was lying face down on the carpet -and had been there for some time, judging by the mold creeping at its edges. It was the most depressing slice of pizza he’d ever seen.
Groaning, not wanting to place any weight on his hands, he pulled himself into a sitting position -and a cluster of earwigs scattered out from under him.
“Yeeeugh!”
“Hey, you’re awake.”
He looked round. The man who’d spoken was standing in the entrance of a galley kitchen, smiling from under an over-sized hoodie.
“Feel any better?”
He looked at the man’s face. It had the doughy look of a long-since-former athlete, small-eyed and pale, and yet his smile had a benign, sleepy quality.
This was the guy he’d gone home with.
“Yeah. Thanks,” he looked around, casting for something to say. “You bandaged my hands.”
“And cleaned them, yeah. You were pretty drunk,” the man said. “That’s why I let you sleep. Wouldn’t’ve been right, otherwise, you know? It’s Jacob, if you don’t remember.”
He didn’t.
The man called Jacob crossed the room -his movements were oddly bovine, slow and heavy-and collapsed onto a sagging loveseat just across from the mattress, still smiling. His massive hands rested between his legs, fingertips pressed loosely together.
He found himself focusing on those hands. The knuckles especially; they reminded him of knots tied in thick rope, which in turn reminded him of the sea. Dimly he recalled feeling those knuckles brushing the skin of his stomach, while his shirt was being pushed up and aside; the harsh contrast of brick scraping at his back; another mouth catching his mid-gasp…
Strange to think hands like that had held his own. Tended to their injuries.
While he slept.
“Were you up all night?” he asked.
Jacob leaned forward over the coffee table and set about rolling a cigarette. He watched him work. Thick fingers making tiny, precise movements.
Maybe that was why he chose Jacob. Or tried to choose him, anyway.
Their hands were nothing alike.
“Yeah,” Jacob finally answered, without looking up. “I was afraid you were gonna throw up and choke, or something. I never picked up anyone who just passed out on me before. It was weird.”
“Sorry,” he muttered.
“Nah. Was bound to happen sooner or later. Kinda sad it was with you, though. You’re a good-looking guy.”
“Ha,” his face flushed, and he looked away. He’d never had a failed one-night-stand before. It was hard to know what to say. “Okay…look, I have to ask, why are we in your living room?” Where there’s earwigs and rotten pizza, he didn’t add.
“My kid sister is asleep upstairs. I let her have my bed when she stays over. Better for her back.”
“Right.” Oh, God.
Jacob finished his cigarette, and started turning his head slowly back and forth, patting absently at his hip -looking for a lighter, he realized. The motion reminded him of what was in his own pocket. After making sure Jacob was not paying him any attention, he pulled out his phone and checked it. He had five missed texts.
Where r u??? The most recent one asked. Its time-stamp was sixteen minutes ago.
His stomach flipped over.
“Sorry things turned out the way they did,” Jacob said. He’d apparently given up his search, and set the cigarette down, now watching him placidly. “I could still give you head, if you want.”
“…No thank you,” he said, cringing at the thought of the ‘kid sister’ wandering downstairs at a bad moment. “I actually have to get going…”
The other man nodded, and got to his feet. He helped him find his socks, his shoes. He stood by at a respectful distance when he put on his coat by the front door.
“You need a ride anywhere?” Jacob asked.
“No, I’m good. Just need to go see a friend.”
“Cool. Drop by anytime.”
Nice enough guy, he thought, as he finally escaped. But not fucking likely.
He took out his phone, and began a new text.
His friend was expecting him when he arrived, of course.
All the same, he wasn’t greeted with ‘hello.’
Instead, they began with a smile -his friend’s usual smile, the one that lifted and lit up the heavy brow which belied his boyish face. And then he saw the bandages on his hands, and the expression dropped.
“What did you do?”
“It was just-“
But he’d already reached out and grabbed them, holding them up close to his face for inspection. Brows knitted over dark, clever eyes.
His cut, bandaged hands held in slender fingers.
He stood there, allowing it, feeling his body quietly hum, and thought: Next time, I’ll stay sober.