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The kitchen door flies open suddenly. Brock stumbles in, eyes half open, mouth slack. “Does anyone work here? The hell is goin’ on? Shit, just sittin’ out there, alone, gonna—mmph—make myself a whiskey sour, unless—Oh.” He squints, staggers a bit, makes a face. “What’re you doin’ on the floor, Kyle?”
Kyle rises to his feet, wipes any remaining tears out of his eyes. “I’ll take him home. Um … thanks,” he says to the others, who still stare at him with questions in their eyes. “If you don’t mind, I’d … like the ring back. It has sentimental value to me.”
Brock lets out a belch, slumps against the swinging door. “I am fuckin’ wasted,” he grumbles, then leaves.
This is not how Kyle envisioned his night ending.
Of course, the whole day has been unexpected, ever since Brock barged back into his life as suddenly as the storm did.
They walk to Kyle’s from the bar. “You’re such a … a great friend, man,” mumbles Brock, arm slung over Kyle’s back to keep himself walking straight. “Look how you take care of me. Takin’ care of your ol’ pal. Your man. Heh, heh, yeah.”
Kyle supports Brock with a hand around his waist, guiding his noodle legs as they make their way. It takes little effort, but is annoying nonetheless, and with the whole incident involving the ring, Kyle doesn’t feel at one hundred percent.
And his other hand holds a Ziploc baggie, inside which the culprit pinky ring dangles, its silver rendered harmless thanks to one and a half thousandths of an inch of polyethylene.
“You’re a man of honor, of fuckin’ honor, Kyle.”
They’re passing by the park, the rundown swimming pool, an old bench. “Thanks. One foot in front of the other, let’s go.”
“Never really … e-expressed how much it means to me. How much you mean to me.”
“Sure you have,” says Kyle tiredly. “Expressed it all night, in fact. To everyone in the bar, anyone who’d listen, even the wall at one point.”
“Kyle … I …”
“We don’t have much farther to go. My neighborhood’s up ahead.”
Brock takes hold of Kyle by the shoulders right then, faces him. His harsh eyes are upon Kyle’s, drunken and wet, staring at him for too long.
Kyle is about to say something when Brock rushes forward and plants his lips on him.
Brock’s lips tremble as he kisses Kyle.
A stiff, trembling, terrified union of mouths.
Icy fingers of fear and thrill and elation assault Kyle’s body, all of it Brock’s, every bit of it Brock’s fear, thrill, and elation as their lips touch.
“H-Hey,” sputters Kyle against his lips as he backs away.
It inspires Brock to rush forward again, desperate for more, forcing their lips back together. Kyle’s heel hits the base of a streetlamp at the edge of the park. Brock’s mouth continues to tremble in fear as he pours all of his emotion into this kiss.
Kyle presses his hands to Brock, pushes him away. “What the hell is this?” he blurts out.
Brock stares at him hard, drunk, eyes glassy and vacant.
Then Brock lets out a sudden laugh. “What? Can’t I … I just … Can’t I just express how much you—how much I—” He laughs again as he steps back. “You should see your face right now. You look so serious.”
Kyle stares at him in shock.
Then the longing surges forth again, swelling like a storm ready to fall from the heavens, to drench the earth. It roils and churns and grows by the second. Kyle feels every bit of it.
Suddenly Brock is upon him again without warning, this time grabbing hold of his head and pressing his lips to Kyle’s mouth with urgent force.
Kyle grunts out the word, “Stop, Brock,” against his lips. The kissing persists. “Brock,” he warns yet again.
Brocks hand slides down the side of Kyle’s body like a rake of desperate fingertips, takes hold of his ass, gives it a desperate squeeze as he pulls their hips together with a quivering moan, a sad and desperate and pitiful moan, a whimper.
Kyle shoves Brock off of him with such power, Brock flies out into the street with a shout, struggles confusedly to find his footing, then slams onto his back in the middle of the road.
Silence falls between them.
Brock rolls onto his side. “The fuck …?” He appears dazed as he sits up, blinks, then lifts a hand to his lips, touching them. “Did you—Did you just—?” He scrunches up his face. “Have you been workin’ out?” He lets out a sudden laugh, then falls back again, sprawled out on the road, still laughing.
Kyle stares down at him, sickened. This is the last thing he needed to deal with. Considering everything else on his mind, he doesn’t even have a spare second to pay this any more mind than he already has.
Even now, Kyle can’t help but feel sorry for him.
