Learning Curve (Rictor/Shatterstar, R) Part 3
Title: Learning Curve
Author: persepolis130
Fandom: X-Men
Pairing(s): Rictor/Shatterstar (main), Shatterstar/various
Word Count: novella (WIP)
Rating: R
Summary: Shatterstar's revelations about emotions, birthday presents, gaydar, prophylactics, and why an "open relationship" is a whole lot more complicated than it sounds.
Author's Notes: Thanks again to surfer_yuun for the Spanish help. There's a bit of both Cadre and Spanish this time, but the only expression that doesn't seem self-explanatory (to me, at least) is "No voy a dejar que me dejes," which means "I won't let you leave me." Let me know if you'd like anything else defined! Thanks also to shawn_anne and fushicho_eien for their support. Again, no accents will be attempted!
Previous Parts: PART ONE / PART TWO
* * THREE * *
"Rahne says that you jumped off a building," I tell Rictor.
He looks up from his magazine. "Um, sort of busy here?"
I close the bathroom door and cross my arms. "She says that you intended to kill yourself. We will address this issue," I inform him.
He sighs and shifts against the toilet seat. "Can we talk about this in, like, five minutes? Because I'm not really comfortable with--"
"We will speak about it now. You have already kept this from me for too long," I insist.
He makes a face and pulls his jeans up to his knees. Men's Heath sits across his lap, a weak shield in the face of my attack. "We'll talk about it, okay. I promise. But could I please finish taking a crap first?"
"No," I tell him.
He sighs and tugs at the toilet paper. "Look, I was going through a… bad spell. I'd just lost my powers, and it felt like my whole world was ending, and--"
"And splattering your brains across the pavement seemed like a valid option," I finish for him.
"I changed my mind," he insists. "I didn't jump. Jamie's dupe pushed--"
"If Rahne and Jamie had not been there, you would have jumped," I snap.
"Star, I--" he sighs. "Could you at least turn the other way for ten seconds? I'm not going anywhere. You're in front of the door, and the window's too small to get out of."
"No," I tell him. "I am very upset with you."
And I am. I am so upset that my nails bite into my palms, and my jaw clenches. Something vicious bubbles up inside of me, threatening to take over. The emotion feels like the rage of battle, but it is not him I wish to destroy. I do not understand it, and I do not like it.
"You don't have to worry, it won't happen again," he tells me. "I was feeling really down, but I'm not anymore. I'm happy here. With you. Okay?"
"You made me leave!" I insist, not convinced. "In Mexico, after putting your cousin in jail, you told me--"
"Star, I was confused!" he says. He makes use of the toilet paper but does not stand.
"I never should've done that to you, and I'm sorry. I just… needed time to think. I didn't have a hold on my own feelings."
"You told me to leave. You said that I was the one who needed time. That I was the one who did not understand my feelings!" I inform him.
His brow furrows and lips twist unhappily. "I know that, and I'm sorry, okay? What else do you want me to say?"
The angry feeling does not go away. It squeezes my insides like hands around a windpipe. "We will not part again. I refuse to allow it."
"Star, come on. Don't--"
"You will agree to this," I demand. "There is no option!"
"Por favor, Star, no te--"
"When you are alone, you do foolish things! You will not leave me!" I shout. "No voy a dejar que me dejes!"
"Calmate, corazon," he urges, up beside me with his hands on my shoulders. "Everything's fine."
But it doesn't help, and I pull away from him. "Nothing is fine! Duspla-nja! " My mind blurs, and the words sound like someone else is saying them. The room presses in on me like a vice, and I squeeze my eyes shut so tightly they hurt. "Chunplen!" I cry out with another man's voice.
"Codlista, dusplaj'ne, esta bien! No one's leaving, alright?" Rictor's hand wraps around my wrist. Blood drips from my knuckles. They sting.
"Excuse me? Is everything okay in there?" a voice asks from the hallway.
"Not now, Rahne," Rictor tells her, looking at the hole in the drywall. I do not remember punching it.
"I'm sorry, Ric… Layla's in the bathroom downstairs," Rahne says, "and the baby's sitting right on my bladder…"
I shake my hand and attempt to squeeze the fingers together. The appendage seems quite broken. I take a deep breath and rest my head against Rictor's shoulder. His uemeur is warm and soft against mine. It untangles my twisted threads of emotion. The ends are bare and unraveling.
Rictor sighs. "Yeah, just… hold on a minute," he tells Rahne.
Turning back to me, he smoothes a hand across my shoulders and murmurs, "You alright?"
"Fine," I tell him. I don't know if this is a lie. My hand will heal in minutes, but my ears are still buzzing, and my stomach feels unsettled. "But you must swear it to me on your honor as a warrior. Swear that you'll never leave me again."
"Well, I don't have much honor, and I'm not a warrior, but sure," he says. "You're the one who wants to sleep with other people." It sounds like an accusation. I do not understand it.
"Ric?" Rahne pleads. "I'm sorry, but I really have to go!"
Rictor sighs, kisses my cheek, and pulls up his pants. He reaches behind me and opens the door.
"Could you not tell him stuff that freaks him out?" he says to her.
She frowns and bites her lip, hand against the swell of her stomach. "I thought you told him! How was I supposed to know?"
"Look, he's sort of sensitive, Rahne," Rictor tells her. "He's still figuring out his emotions, kind of like a little kid, and the last thing he needs is you overloading them."
"Well," she counters, "maybe you shouldn't be sleeping with someone with the emotional maturity of a little kid."
"I can hear you both," I inform them. "And I am not a kid."
Rictor and Rahne exchange an incomprehensible look. Rahne lowers her eyes.
"Sorry, Ric," she says. "Hormones. And too much lemonade."
Rictor sighs and tugs on my arm. "Come on, let's let Rahne use the bathroom. We need to work on that case before Jamie gets back, or he's gonna pitch a fit."
Downstairs, I sit beside him as he scans ebay listings for our client's stolen merchandise. Monet believes that the pink Fendi handbag will be a dead giveaway, if placed on the market. "Why don't you get on the laptop and check craigslist?" he asks.
"I would prefer not to," I inform him.
He gives me a look which might be concern.
"I am tired," I tell him. But this is not quite right. "My uemeur is tired."
He nods. "Yeah, I know the feeling. Why don't you try taking a nap? I know it's not the same thing, but it might help."
"I would rather just watch you," I say.
He gives me another look that I do not understand and reaches out to cup my cheek. I press a kiss against the warm skin of his palm. I imagine him never touching me again, and my stomach lurches.
"It's going to be alright," he promises.
"Okay," I agree, and take his hand in mine. My knuckles are healed, and the swelling is nearly gone. In a few minutes, it will be as though it was never injured.
If only my emotions could heal so quickly.
That night in bed, I feel a desperation I've never known before, and nothing seems to be enough. Our bodies come together over and over, skin covered in sweat and limbs exhausted, but still I crave more.
"Don't," he murmurs as I draw him to me once more, lips bruised from my kisses. "I'm gonna pass out if we do it again."
"Good," I whisper against his neck.
He gasps, "Dios…"
"Te amo," I tell him, and cover his mouth and his body with my own. When he goes limp in my arms, I hold him and watch the sun rise upon a day we might never have had.
The indefinable feeling in my chest subsides but does not leave me. I take hold of it, twist its neck, break its spine. It looks up at me with unseeing eyes. A smile spreads across its dead lips.
I pull Rictor closer and do my best to forget about it.
Emotions can be frightening things.
* * * * *
Rictor's birthday is tomorrow. Twenty-two years ago, he was born in Guadalajara to a mother who died when he was a child and a father who would be murdered in front of his eyes. I have no idea how old I am. I was never born to anyone and have never celebrated a birthday. When Theresa asks what I will give Rictor as a present, I admit that I have purchased nothing.
She and Monet take me to the mall.
We end up in a large department store with more mazelike passageways than Murderworld. I look at leather jackets because Rictor looks nice in them, and he says that New York is too cold. Each sleeve is attached to the display case by a metal band. Monet says that this is to prevent shoplifting. She advises me not to cut them with my swords.
I ask my companions if the jacket I have selected-- jet black with white piping down the sleeves-- would make an appropriate gift. It would accentuate Rictor's shoulders superbly. But they are distracted.
"Oh, handbags!" exclaims Theresa. "Do you think I can use my 15% off coupon on those?"
"Hmm. I didn't know they carried Coach here," says Monet.
They leave me standing with the jacket in my hands, unsure of its suitability but positive that Rictor would not appreciate a handbag. I hang the jacket back on the rack and begin a systematic search of the premises by zone and priority level.
The shining lights of the jewelry booth catch my eye. A woman with dark lipstick and a brightly bleached smile asks if I require assistance. A plastic tag on her shirt indicates that she is called Patti.
"I come in search of a birthday present, Patti. Have you any jewelry suitable for an attractive young man of Hispanic origin?" I ask. She smiles her overly bright smile and shows me to a case.
When Theresa and Monet return with their purchases, I am counting out three hundred twenty five dollars in paper bills and fifty four cents in coin. Hopefully, this is an appropriate amount for a gift. Patti has placed my purchase within a velvet box bearing the store's name.
"You bought him jewelry?" Theresa asks. "Are you sure that's a good idea? I'm not sure Ric's really one for, ah…"
"Bling?" I suggest.
"I have no idea where you heard that word," Monet says, "but please never say it again."
"I have been promised by a certified Customer Service Specialist that my selection is both gender and age appropriate," I assure her. "I believe that Rictor will like it."
"Would you like the receipt in the bag, sir?" Patti asks.
"I'll take it," Theresa says. "The return policy is thirty days, right?"
On our way out, Theresa is distracted by a storefront exhibiting an mind-numbing array of scented candles. Monet insists that they smell like a brothel in Bangkok, but they both enter the store nonetheless. Wondering idly why Monet would frequent such establishments, I excuse myself for a trip to the Food Court to use the bathroom.
Outside the door to the ladies' room stands a line of young women with glittery bags of cosmetics. One sprays perfume that Monet would not approve of. I nod at them, and they titter amongst themselves like nestling birds.
"Hello, ladies," I say, and smile.
I am exchanging phone numbers with one of the young women when Theresa approaches. She has another shopping bag slung over her shoulder, but the scowl on her face does not bode well. "What do you think you're doing?" she demands.
"Making use of the facilities," I tell her as my nestlings giggle, tug at each other's arms, and retreat for the Food Court.
"See you later," says the one whose number I have programmed into my cellphone. She flutters her eyelashes at me. Her name is Briana.
"Shame on you, Shatterstar!" Theresa scolds. "Flirting with other people when you're supposed to be shopping for Ric! And with schoolgirls!"
"I have already succeeded in purchasing an excellent gift," I say, holding up my own bag to remind her. "Has my mission not been accomplished?"
"Maybe so, but how would you feel if the shoe were on the other foot?" she demands.
"Why would I put my shoes on the wrong feet?" I ask. "It would be terribly uncomfortable."
She sighs. "What I mean is, how would you like it if he were involved with other people? How would that make you feel?"
"Would I get to watch?" I ask. It is a shame that Rictor is uninterested in such things. The idea is quite an enticing one.
Theresa throws up her hands in frustration. "Men!" she exclaims.
I fail to comprehend this interjection.
* * * * *
That night, after Rictor has consumed nearly inhuman portions of both beer and cake, miraculously without vomiting, we sit together on our bed. "For you," I tell him, and pull the gift from my pocket.
"You really didn't need to get me anything, amigo," he says, slurring slightly but smiling. "It's enough just being with you."
"I really did. Monet and Theresa insisted. Also," I add, "I like to make you happy. If you are not pleased by my selection, I will return it and purchase you something more suitable. Theresa kept the receipt."
He takes the velvet box in his hands and frowns at it. "Is this jewelry?" he asks, looking doubtful.
"The return policy is thirty days. Please open it," I tell him.
Offering another dubious look, he cracks open the box and looks inside. Blinking, he holds up the bracelet. Cords of blackened metal entwine thick silver plates cut in the shape of the symbol of his god.
"Wow, that's… not what I expected. It's actually really nice," he says, and more closely examines it.
"Yes," I agree. "It is."
He snorts, shoves at me playfully, and wraps it around his wrist. "Here, do the hook thing for me…"
"Clasp," I inform him, and take the metal between my fingers. It is cold against the warmth of his skin and reminds me of the comforting feel of my blades.
"You know, it's… sort of weird," he says, admiring the look of the bracelet on his wrist, eyes slightly glazed over. "I mean, I always pictured myself buying jewelry for a girl. Not, you know, someone buying it for me. That's not the way it's supposed to work. But it's not so bad, I guess."
"You guess?" I ask, as jewelry purchasing seems to hold a connotation unknown to me. I wish that Theresa and Monet had explained. I presumed only that they had questioned my taste.
He shrugs. "Sometimes, life turns out different than what you planned, that's all. But I really like the bracelet. And I like my life, too. For a long time, I couldn't say that, but… I do. So. Thanks."
I smile and take his hand. "I would like to see you wearing my gift," I tell him.
"Uh, I am," he tells me. "I really like it. I think I'll just keep it on all the time."
"No," I tell him, and run a hand down his chest. "I want to see you wearing only my gift."
He blinks at me for a moment before comprehension dawns upon him. This sometimes happens when he's been drinking. "I should've guessed that was the plan," he grins.
"If it involves you naked, it is always the plan," I inform him.
He snorts and pulls his shirt over his head. Beneath the fabric is that comforting stretch of smooth skin just begging to be touched. "Funny, I was going to say the same about you."
"Good. I am glad that we are on the same chapter," I say.
"Page," he tells me. "On the same page."
"Whatever," I say, and lick a stripe across his chest.
"I think this is gonna be my best birthday ever," he tells me.
I cannot help but agree.
* * * * *
Briana's parents are gone for the weekend visiting her older brother in Boulder. He attends the University of Colorado. In the fall, she will be moving to Illinois to study at a private university there. Her father's liquor cabinet is well-stocked, and she insists that I try some of the Cuervo. The taste of it burns my throat.
"You want another shot?" she asks. She is wearing a tantalizingly short dress, and her legs are very tan.
"No," I tell her. "But I would like to take your clothes off."
She giggles and twists a finger into her hair, her cheeks gone red. "Only if I can take yours off first," she says. Her eyelashes flutter in a highly appealing manner.
"Alright," I agree, smiling, and lead her to the couch.
Her mouth tastes bitter from the drink, but I don't mind. Inside, she is tight and slick, and those tanned legs are smooth around my back. She gasps, "Ben, oh Ben!" as this is what I told her my name was.
Afterwards, she kisses my nose and tells me, "You are so much better at this than my boyfriend."
"You are not better at it than mine," I answer. I cannot link uemeur with someone who does not know my name.
She giggles and reaches for her underwear. "You're funny."
"You have nice legs," I tell her, which earns me another giggle. "And I think--"
In the back pocket of my pants, my cellphone rings. I climb down to search for it in the pile of clothing beside us. Briana tells me not to answer, but I inform her that this is not an option, as the call is from my boss.
"Really? Cool," she says.
We dress as I speak with Jamie, who requires my immediate presence. Our client's credit card has been used again at a store in lower Manhattan.
"I'll give you a call the next time my parents are out," she tells me as I tug on my boots.
"I look forward to it," I tell her.
NEXT PART
Author: persepolis130
Fandom: X-Men
Pairing(s): Rictor/Shatterstar (main), Shatterstar/various
Word Count: novella (WIP)
Rating: R
Summary: Shatterstar's revelations about emotions, birthday presents, gaydar, prophylactics, and why an "open relationship" is a whole lot more complicated than it sounds.
Author's Notes: Thanks again to surfer_yuun for the Spanish help. There's a bit of both Cadre and Spanish this time, but the only expression that doesn't seem self-explanatory (to me, at least) is "No voy a dejar que me dejes," which means "I won't let you leave me." Let me know if you'd like anything else defined! Thanks also to shawn_anne and fushicho_eien for their support. Again, no accents will be attempted!
Previous Parts: PART ONE / PART TWO
* * THREE * *
"Rahne says that you jumped off a building," I tell Rictor.
He looks up from his magazine. "Um, sort of busy here?"
I close the bathroom door and cross my arms. "She says that you intended to kill yourself. We will address this issue," I inform him.
He sighs and shifts against the toilet seat. "Can we talk about this in, like, five minutes? Because I'm not really comfortable with--"
"We will speak about it now. You have already kept this from me for too long," I insist.
He makes a face and pulls his jeans up to his knees. Men's Heath sits across his lap, a weak shield in the face of my attack. "We'll talk about it, okay. I promise. But could I please finish taking a crap first?"
"No," I tell him.
He sighs and tugs at the toilet paper. "Look, I was going through a… bad spell. I'd just lost my powers, and it felt like my whole world was ending, and--"
"And splattering your brains across the pavement seemed like a valid option," I finish for him.
"I changed my mind," he insists. "I didn't jump. Jamie's dupe pushed--"
"If Rahne and Jamie had not been there, you would have jumped," I snap.
"Star, I--" he sighs. "Could you at least turn the other way for ten seconds? I'm not going anywhere. You're in front of the door, and the window's too small to get out of."
"No," I tell him. "I am very upset with you."
And I am. I am so upset that my nails bite into my palms, and my jaw clenches. Something vicious bubbles up inside of me, threatening to take over. The emotion feels like the rage of battle, but it is not him I wish to destroy. I do not understand it, and I do not like it.
"You don't have to worry, it won't happen again," he tells me. "I was feeling really down, but I'm not anymore. I'm happy here. With you. Okay?"
"You made me leave!" I insist, not convinced. "In Mexico, after putting your cousin in jail, you told me--"
"Star, I was confused!" he says. He makes use of the toilet paper but does not stand.
"I never should've done that to you, and I'm sorry. I just… needed time to think. I didn't have a hold on my own feelings."
"You told me to leave. You said that I was the one who needed time. That I was the one who did not understand my feelings!" I inform him.
His brow furrows and lips twist unhappily. "I know that, and I'm sorry, okay? What else do you want me to say?"
The angry feeling does not go away. It squeezes my insides like hands around a windpipe. "We will not part again. I refuse to allow it."
"Star, come on. Don't--"
"You will agree to this," I demand. "There is no option!"
"Por favor, Star, no te--"
"When you are alone, you do foolish things! You will not leave me!" I shout. "No voy a dejar que me dejes!"
"Calmate, corazon," he urges, up beside me with his hands on my shoulders. "Everything's fine."
But it doesn't help, and I pull away from him. "Nothing is fine! Duspla-nja! " My mind blurs, and the words sound like someone else is saying them. The room presses in on me like a vice, and I squeeze my eyes shut so tightly they hurt. "Chunplen!" I cry out with another man's voice.
"Codlista, dusplaj'ne, esta bien! No one's leaving, alright?" Rictor's hand wraps around my wrist. Blood drips from my knuckles. They sting.
"Excuse me? Is everything okay in there?" a voice asks from the hallway.
"Not now, Rahne," Rictor tells her, looking at the hole in the drywall. I do not remember punching it.
"I'm sorry, Ric… Layla's in the bathroom downstairs," Rahne says, "and the baby's sitting right on my bladder…"
I shake my hand and attempt to squeeze the fingers together. The appendage seems quite broken. I take a deep breath and rest my head against Rictor's shoulder. His uemeur is warm and soft against mine. It untangles my twisted threads of emotion. The ends are bare and unraveling.
Rictor sighs. "Yeah, just… hold on a minute," he tells Rahne.
Turning back to me, he smoothes a hand across my shoulders and murmurs, "You alright?"
"Fine," I tell him. I don't know if this is a lie. My hand will heal in minutes, but my ears are still buzzing, and my stomach feels unsettled. "But you must swear it to me on your honor as a warrior. Swear that you'll never leave me again."
"Well, I don't have much honor, and I'm not a warrior, but sure," he says. "You're the one who wants to sleep with other people." It sounds like an accusation. I do not understand it.
"Ric?" Rahne pleads. "I'm sorry, but I really have to go!"
Rictor sighs, kisses my cheek, and pulls up his pants. He reaches behind me and opens the door.
"Could you not tell him stuff that freaks him out?" he says to her.
She frowns and bites her lip, hand against the swell of her stomach. "I thought you told him! How was I supposed to know?"
"Look, he's sort of sensitive, Rahne," Rictor tells her. "He's still figuring out his emotions, kind of like a little kid, and the last thing he needs is you overloading them."
"Well," she counters, "maybe you shouldn't be sleeping with someone with the emotional maturity of a little kid."
"I can hear you both," I inform them. "And I am not a kid."
Rictor and Rahne exchange an incomprehensible look. Rahne lowers her eyes.
"Sorry, Ric," she says. "Hormones. And too much lemonade."
Rictor sighs and tugs on my arm. "Come on, let's let Rahne use the bathroom. We need to work on that case before Jamie gets back, or he's gonna pitch a fit."
Downstairs, I sit beside him as he scans ebay listings for our client's stolen merchandise. Monet believes that the pink Fendi handbag will be a dead giveaway, if placed on the market. "Why don't you get on the laptop and check craigslist?" he asks.
"I would prefer not to," I inform him.
He gives me a look which might be concern.
"I am tired," I tell him. But this is not quite right. "My uemeur is tired."
He nods. "Yeah, I know the feeling. Why don't you try taking a nap? I know it's not the same thing, but it might help."
"I would rather just watch you," I say.
He gives me another look that I do not understand and reaches out to cup my cheek. I press a kiss against the warm skin of his palm. I imagine him never touching me again, and my stomach lurches.
"It's going to be alright," he promises.
"Okay," I agree, and take his hand in mine. My knuckles are healed, and the swelling is nearly gone. In a few minutes, it will be as though it was never injured.
If only my emotions could heal so quickly.
That night in bed, I feel a desperation I've never known before, and nothing seems to be enough. Our bodies come together over and over, skin covered in sweat and limbs exhausted, but still I crave more.
"Don't," he murmurs as I draw him to me once more, lips bruised from my kisses. "I'm gonna pass out if we do it again."
"Good," I whisper against his neck.
He gasps, "Dios…"
"Te amo," I tell him, and cover his mouth and his body with my own. When he goes limp in my arms, I hold him and watch the sun rise upon a day we might never have had.
The indefinable feeling in my chest subsides but does not leave me. I take hold of it, twist its neck, break its spine. It looks up at me with unseeing eyes. A smile spreads across its dead lips.
I pull Rictor closer and do my best to forget about it.
Emotions can be frightening things.
* * * * *
Rictor's birthday is tomorrow. Twenty-two years ago, he was born in Guadalajara to a mother who died when he was a child and a father who would be murdered in front of his eyes. I have no idea how old I am. I was never born to anyone and have never celebrated a birthday. When Theresa asks what I will give Rictor as a present, I admit that I have purchased nothing.
She and Monet take me to the mall.
We end up in a large department store with more mazelike passageways than Murderworld. I look at leather jackets because Rictor looks nice in them, and he says that New York is too cold. Each sleeve is attached to the display case by a metal band. Monet says that this is to prevent shoplifting. She advises me not to cut them with my swords.
I ask my companions if the jacket I have selected-- jet black with white piping down the sleeves-- would make an appropriate gift. It would accentuate Rictor's shoulders superbly. But they are distracted.
"Oh, handbags!" exclaims Theresa. "Do you think I can use my 15% off coupon on those?"
"Hmm. I didn't know they carried Coach here," says Monet.
They leave me standing with the jacket in my hands, unsure of its suitability but positive that Rictor would not appreciate a handbag. I hang the jacket back on the rack and begin a systematic search of the premises by zone and priority level.
The shining lights of the jewelry booth catch my eye. A woman with dark lipstick and a brightly bleached smile asks if I require assistance. A plastic tag on her shirt indicates that she is called Patti.
"I come in search of a birthday present, Patti. Have you any jewelry suitable for an attractive young man of Hispanic origin?" I ask. She smiles her overly bright smile and shows me to a case.
When Theresa and Monet return with their purchases, I am counting out three hundred twenty five dollars in paper bills and fifty four cents in coin. Hopefully, this is an appropriate amount for a gift. Patti has placed my purchase within a velvet box bearing the store's name.
"You bought him jewelry?" Theresa asks. "Are you sure that's a good idea? I'm not sure Ric's really one for, ah…"
"Bling?" I suggest.
"I have no idea where you heard that word," Monet says, "but please never say it again."
"I have been promised by a certified Customer Service Specialist that my selection is both gender and age appropriate," I assure her. "I believe that Rictor will like it."
"Would you like the receipt in the bag, sir?" Patti asks.
"I'll take it," Theresa says. "The return policy is thirty days, right?"
On our way out, Theresa is distracted by a storefront exhibiting an mind-numbing array of scented candles. Monet insists that they smell like a brothel in Bangkok, but they both enter the store nonetheless. Wondering idly why Monet would frequent such establishments, I excuse myself for a trip to the Food Court to use the bathroom.
Outside the door to the ladies' room stands a line of young women with glittery bags of cosmetics. One sprays perfume that Monet would not approve of. I nod at them, and they titter amongst themselves like nestling birds.
"Hello, ladies," I say, and smile.
I am exchanging phone numbers with one of the young women when Theresa approaches. She has another shopping bag slung over her shoulder, but the scowl on her face does not bode well. "What do you think you're doing?" she demands.
"Making use of the facilities," I tell her as my nestlings giggle, tug at each other's arms, and retreat for the Food Court.
"See you later," says the one whose number I have programmed into my cellphone. She flutters her eyelashes at me. Her name is Briana.
"Shame on you, Shatterstar!" Theresa scolds. "Flirting with other people when you're supposed to be shopping for Ric! And with schoolgirls!"
"I have already succeeded in purchasing an excellent gift," I say, holding up my own bag to remind her. "Has my mission not been accomplished?"
"Maybe so, but how would you feel if the shoe were on the other foot?" she demands.
"Why would I put my shoes on the wrong feet?" I ask. "It would be terribly uncomfortable."
She sighs. "What I mean is, how would you like it if he were involved with other people? How would that make you feel?"
"Would I get to watch?" I ask. It is a shame that Rictor is uninterested in such things. The idea is quite an enticing one.
Theresa throws up her hands in frustration. "Men!" she exclaims.
I fail to comprehend this interjection.
* * * * *
That night, after Rictor has consumed nearly inhuman portions of both beer and cake, miraculously without vomiting, we sit together on our bed. "For you," I tell him, and pull the gift from my pocket.
"You really didn't need to get me anything, amigo," he says, slurring slightly but smiling. "It's enough just being with you."
"I really did. Monet and Theresa insisted. Also," I add, "I like to make you happy. If you are not pleased by my selection, I will return it and purchase you something more suitable. Theresa kept the receipt."
He takes the velvet box in his hands and frowns at it. "Is this jewelry?" he asks, looking doubtful.
"The return policy is thirty days. Please open it," I tell him.
Offering another dubious look, he cracks open the box and looks inside. Blinking, he holds up the bracelet. Cords of blackened metal entwine thick silver plates cut in the shape of the symbol of his god.
"Wow, that's… not what I expected. It's actually really nice," he says, and more closely examines it.
"Yes," I agree. "It is."
He snorts, shoves at me playfully, and wraps it around his wrist. "Here, do the hook thing for me…"
"Clasp," I inform him, and take the metal between my fingers. It is cold against the warmth of his skin and reminds me of the comforting feel of my blades.
"You know, it's… sort of weird," he says, admiring the look of the bracelet on his wrist, eyes slightly glazed over. "I mean, I always pictured myself buying jewelry for a girl. Not, you know, someone buying it for me. That's not the way it's supposed to work. But it's not so bad, I guess."
"You guess?" I ask, as jewelry purchasing seems to hold a connotation unknown to me. I wish that Theresa and Monet had explained. I presumed only that they had questioned my taste.
He shrugs. "Sometimes, life turns out different than what you planned, that's all. But I really like the bracelet. And I like my life, too. For a long time, I couldn't say that, but… I do. So. Thanks."
I smile and take his hand. "I would like to see you wearing my gift," I tell him.
"Uh, I am," he tells me. "I really like it. I think I'll just keep it on all the time."
"No," I tell him, and run a hand down his chest. "I want to see you wearing only my gift."
He blinks at me for a moment before comprehension dawns upon him. This sometimes happens when he's been drinking. "I should've guessed that was the plan," he grins.
"If it involves you naked, it is always the plan," I inform him.
He snorts and pulls his shirt over his head. Beneath the fabric is that comforting stretch of smooth skin just begging to be touched. "Funny, I was going to say the same about you."
"Good. I am glad that we are on the same chapter," I say.
"Page," he tells me. "On the same page."
"Whatever," I say, and lick a stripe across his chest.
"I think this is gonna be my best birthday ever," he tells me.
I cannot help but agree.
* * * * *
Briana's parents are gone for the weekend visiting her older brother in Boulder. He attends the University of Colorado. In the fall, she will be moving to Illinois to study at a private university there. Her father's liquor cabinet is well-stocked, and she insists that I try some of the Cuervo. The taste of it burns my throat.
"You want another shot?" she asks. She is wearing a tantalizingly short dress, and her legs are very tan.
"No," I tell her. "But I would like to take your clothes off."
She giggles and twists a finger into her hair, her cheeks gone red. "Only if I can take yours off first," she says. Her eyelashes flutter in a highly appealing manner.
"Alright," I agree, smiling, and lead her to the couch.
Her mouth tastes bitter from the drink, but I don't mind. Inside, she is tight and slick, and those tanned legs are smooth around my back. She gasps, "Ben, oh Ben!" as this is what I told her my name was.
Afterwards, she kisses my nose and tells me, "You are so much better at this than my boyfriend."
"You are not better at it than mine," I answer. I cannot link uemeur with someone who does not know my name.
She giggles and reaches for her underwear. "You're funny."
"You have nice legs," I tell her, which earns me another giggle. "And I think--"
In the back pocket of my pants, my cellphone rings. I climb down to search for it in the pile of clothing beside us. Briana tells me not to answer, but I inform her that this is not an option, as the call is from my boss.
"Really? Cool," she says.
We dress as I speak with Jamie, who requires my immediate presence. Our client's credit card has been used again at a store in lower Manhattan.
"I'll give you a call the next time my parents are out," she tells me as I tug on my boots.
"I look forward to it," I tell her.
NEXT PART