(no subject)
Czeslaw and Red again. Because they came in.
Czeslaw talked in his sleep. With his face crushed against Red's chest and their bodies closer than lovers' bodies, he mumbled Polish words that Red had never understood.
Some of them sounded like names, others like complaints; one last night had sounded like terror, and Red had elbowed the other man awake and out of whatever dream had frightened him. They had lain awake like that for long minutes, studying each other by breath and by scent and by sound because their room had no windows, and for no reason at all Czeslaw had punched him hard enough to loosen a tooth and mark the Pole's hand with blood.
Blood had welled in Red's mouth--metal like the air of the factory, and in the morning there had been a stain on the mattress as though someone had been murdered there.
It was the first time that Red had ever even thought that Czeslaw only sounded stupid because his English was poor and his accent wasn't charming--it was the first time that he had wondered if Czeslaw spoke Polish Shakespeare in his sleep.
He had thrown himself kicking and biting on Czeslaw, pressure stinging hard against the gum of his loose tooth--legs flailing in the darkness, hands grabbing at hair and nightshirt and neck--
Czeslaw had kissed him.
In the morning, his lips had been bloody, and whether it was Red's or the Pole's, the Irishman didn't care to speculate. He'd managed a few good hits; if he'd loosened a tooth for the Polack, it was only fair.
They hadn't spoken in the morning, but then again, it wasn't as though they'd ever spoken. "Rent late," Czeslaw said sometimes; "Talk too much--sleep now," he said other times. He never said anything like "Didn't mean to hit you, old bean, terribly sorry about that; don't know my own strength, you know." He didn't say anything like "Why the hell did you hit me like that? I'd kill you if I could afford the rent by myself!" He most especially didn't say . . ..
. . . but how did you explain a man kissing another man? Nightmares? Vapors? A desperate gambit to stop the Irishman hitting him?
It was night again, and Czeslaw said words that could have been poems and could have been numbers and could have been "I love you" over and over again against Red's chest. On a bed as small as theirs, men had to share; if that usually meant that men had to hold their bodies close together so as not to fall out, or that they had to listen to each other mutter and grunt and fart at night because they were thinking too hard to get to sleep . . . well, that, Red didn't know.
Czeslaw's lips moved like a kiss, his forehead was drenched with sweat, and Red had never, ever known what he was saying.
Czeslaw talked in his sleep. With his face crushed against Red's chest and their bodies closer than lovers' bodies, he mumbled Polish words that Red had never understood.
Some of them sounded like names, others like complaints; one last night had sounded like terror, and Red had elbowed the other man awake and out of whatever dream had frightened him. They had lain awake like that for long minutes, studying each other by breath and by scent and by sound because their room had no windows, and for no reason at all Czeslaw had punched him hard enough to loosen a tooth and mark the Pole's hand with blood.
Blood had welled in Red's mouth--metal like the air of the factory, and in the morning there had been a stain on the mattress as though someone had been murdered there.
It was the first time that Red had ever even thought that Czeslaw only sounded stupid because his English was poor and his accent wasn't charming--it was the first time that he had wondered if Czeslaw spoke Polish Shakespeare in his sleep.
He had thrown himself kicking and biting on Czeslaw, pressure stinging hard against the gum of his loose tooth--legs flailing in the darkness, hands grabbing at hair and nightshirt and neck--
Czeslaw had kissed him.
In the morning, his lips had been bloody, and whether it was Red's or the Pole's, the Irishman didn't care to speculate. He'd managed a few good hits; if he'd loosened a tooth for the Polack, it was only fair.
They hadn't spoken in the morning, but then again, it wasn't as though they'd ever spoken. "Rent late," Czeslaw said sometimes; "Talk too much--sleep now," he said other times. He never said anything like "Didn't mean to hit you, old bean, terribly sorry about that; don't know my own strength, you know." He didn't say anything like "Why the hell did you hit me like that? I'd kill you if I could afford the rent by myself!" He most especially didn't say . . ..
. . . but how did you explain a man kissing another man? Nightmares? Vapors? A desperate gambit to stop the Irishman hitting him?
It was night again, and Czeslaw said words that could have been poems and could have been numbers and could have been "I love you" over and over again against Red's chest. On a bed as small as theirs, men had to share; if that usually meant that men had to hold their bodies close together so as not to fall out, or that they had to listen to each other mutter and grunt and fart at night because they were thinking too hard to get to sleep . . . well, that, Red didn't know.
Czeslaw's lips moved like a kiss, his forehead was drenched with sweat, and Red had never, ever known what he was saying.