All Dylan wondered was how heavy they were as he watched Rus barrel between people, announcing his presence with an aggravated grunt as he lugged the pillars from the back.
The lights glimmered against the snakebites on Rus’ lower lip, which was prominently turned into a frown. A seemingly default scowl for the young man. Dylan attempted to count Rus’ piercings, noticing a new one every time they crossed paths. He couldn’t help but imagine some purpose behind their arranged locations. Like a constellation splattered across his face. The eyebrow connected to the nose, maybe the nose connected to the lips, the lips reached out to the earlobes, which connected to the upper ear stud. Potentially.
Mostly Dylan just wanted a reason to study Rus’ face. A reason to study all of Rus if possible.
He had the cutest curly brown hair. Deep brown and thick curls. And Dylan didn’t want to get started on the parallels of curls and chaos and how Rus was an obviously chaotic bisexual. Rus practically wore his sexuality on his sleeve—or more precisely, the neck tattoo he had on display.
It was deranged and cute and artistic all at once. A silly goose posed for a threatening attack with a knife in its bill and feathers splattered in the colors of the bisexual flag. The array of pink, purple, and blue reminded Dylan of the bizarre abstract painting from earlier, only in Rus’ case, the art made sense and held purpose.
“Oh, honey, do you mind rearranging these?” Jasmine asked with a wave of her hand as she strolled on into the gallery. “I was thinking a bit of a zigzag display to space out the audience.”
Rus nodded and went to work, moving the table pillars around, clearly having a strong understanding of the distancebetween each pillar as he made mental notes on the spacing. That impressed Dylan.
Granted, Dylan was an easy sell, since Rus could quite literally take a breath and mesmerize Dylan with the bob of his Adam’s apple and the puff of his chest. And now, Dylan had found himself lost on the flex of Rus’ muscles as he worked.
When those piercing hazel eyes flitted up for a moment, locking with Dylan’s brown eyes, he quickly turned away. He nearly swiveled into a tumble he moved so fast, but as he composed himself, he shifted his focus onto the person hosting tonight’s fundraiser.
Jasmine wore a white dress with golden lacing wrapped around it, adding to this Olympian vibe that’d been created for the evening. The white and gold complemented Jasmine’s dark brown skin, and her golden heels gave her a lift, making her a bit taller than Dylan for a change. Not that Jasmine was a short woman at nearly six feet herself. But between the heels and the way she’d styled her braids up into a high bun tied together with golden strands, she appeared to tower over Dylan and everyone else.
Dylan stood close to Jasmine as the pair observed Rus’ work.
“How are things coming along, hun?”
“Great,” Dylan said, his deep voice squeaking a bit as his self-doubts crept up. “A few hiccups, but easy enough to fix before tonight.”
“How’s this look?” Rus called out, lifting his T-shirt to wipe his face and revealing his firm, pale stomach and the briefest glint at a tattoo on his hip.
He’d dropped his shirt back down too quickly for Dylan to study the tattoo, having wasted precious seconds lost on Rus’ abdomen.
“Looking absolutely wonderful,” Jasmine said with a small applause, and Dylan couldn’t agree more. Though it wasn’t the pillar layout he sought to applaud. “What ever will I do without your assistance, hun?”
“Wither away and hope I end up with another round of community service.” Rus playfully punched upward like he was smacking the air.
“Let’s hope not,” Jasmine said with a small laugh. “They might not let you off so easily next time.”
Rus scoffed. “Between eighty hours of community service and their bullshit mandated anger management courses, there ain’t nothing easy about that.”
Dylan found himself enthralled by Rus’ presence. He didn’t fluff up his words, speaking his mind very plainly no matter who he was around. The lack of niceties for the sake of politeness exhilarated Dylan, who often found himself placating people’s feelings because the alternative seemed too cruel.
It helped that the story surrounding Rus’ community service hours got a bit embellished every time someone told it. Dylan knew he hadn’t fought off twenty bigots outside the local indie bookstore, but he had fought a handful. Still, he found it impressive as all get out. Rus had this recklessness coupled with compassion that seemed so mismatched, it captivated Dylan.
Admittedly, Dylan spent most of the summer wary of Rus, having little time or reason to spark up a conversation with the guy. However, there was something appealing about the stoic grump who helped around the youth home without complaint.
It was September now, and Dylan had barely gotten to know Rus outside of his volunteering time. He wanted to talk with Rus more than the occasional small talk between tasks aroundDorothy’s Home. He wanted to get to know Rus before he finished his community service.
Jasmine’s reminder was just the kick Dylan needed. Rus’ services were coming to an end after tonight’s fundraiser; Jasmine kindly offered a bit of wiggle room for Rus to attend and count his presence toward his remaining hours.
That type of consideration was something Jasmine always did, working to uplift her community in any way she could. As a proud Black trans woman of nearly fifty years old, she’d made it her mission to fill the gaps in the system any way she could to keep her community safe. She founded Dorothy’s Home for Wayward Rainbows and had dedicated her life to keeping queer teens off the street.
Some only stayed for a night, some only came because they were legally required, such as Rus and his community service, but everyone benefited. Especially Dylan, who found himself saved by Jasmine’s group home. It got him off the streets and helped him finish high school. Helped show him his life didn’t have to meet a dead end. And when he didn’t know where to go after he turned eighteen, Jasmine stuck around and guided him. Hence, he continued hanging around at twenty-six, still helping Dorothy’s Home in any way he could.
“All right, boss,” Rus said, approaching Dylan and looking up at him. “What’re your orders?”
Dylan found himself awkwardly hunching just enough to hide the height difference between them. Not that it did much good. He stood at 6’2”, and even hunching an inch or two didn’t make up for the fact that Rus barely reached 5’6”.
“Um, well, uh…yeah…” Dylan flipped through his to-do list, searching for something Rus could work on.
The only thing Dylan wanted Rus to work on was very inappropriate. Still, he found himself emboldened to make a move. Not now. Goodness no. They were both working.
