By Quon and Tom
1.
It took Carlos two looks to register; all he could think of it was absolutely
uncanny. Disturbingly so. He was drunk off his ass, but this sobered him somehow.
The young man had lurked near the DJ booth for close to an hour now; he
nursed a dark bottle of carbonated cat piss, its Bud label picked to a fray at one
corner, and he disturbed Carlos in ways he’d never imagined. This kid could have
been Paul’s twin brother and fooled everyone.
He was just like Paul with deliberate mistakes: shadowy hazel eyes, a lack of
the speckles on his face that defined Paul, his hair just barely lighter and longer than
his friend’s. But he had the same soft-featured face, the same silky blonde hair, the
exact same stoic, supple mouth. Carlos didn’t like the way the kid kept looking at
him, as though trying to observe him without being noticed. Carlos had noticed.
He didn’t really like it.
It made him uncomfortable, for one; on the other hand, it made him
ridiculously horny. He tried not to think about the fact that the kid was probably
jailbait, tried not to think about just how like Paul he was, about how pretty he
looked just sitting there, like someone watching pigeons in the park.
Fuck it, Carlos thought, his limitless intemperance rising to the surface. If I
can’t have Paul… The thought was as shocking and unsettling as the kid’s depthless
stare; he looked down, met that dark gaze regarding him, and offered a smile.
The kid smiled back. Carlos’s set was over; he stepped down from the DJ
booth and approached him, his heart pounding wildly in his throat.
“How’s it going?” he managed to say with only the slightest waver in his
voice. He fought for his composure, but there was something about him that
disturbed Carlos to the depths of his soul.
The kid smiled and gave him a thumbs up as he swigged from his beer
bottle. Carlos winced at how the shit had to taste.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Christian,” he told Carlos. His voice was very unlike Paul’s, he found.
The kid didn’t look like his name was Christian, nor did he look old enough to be
putting away the Bud like he was, but Carlos pushed those thoughts away. He tried
to make light conversation with the kid, but it seemed awkward under the stark
regard of that gaze.
The kid’s bottle slipped from his fingers suddenly and shattered on the floor.
Carlos jumped; Christian’s eyes had gone strangely wet despite the lack of change
in his expression, and Carlos bent quickly to help pick up the pieces of shattered
glass.
It was Christian’s turn to jump as he reached for a piece of dark amber glass.
A long bright thread appeared on his index finger as he jerked his hand away from a
gleaming shard. Carlos thought he could smell it.
No, he didn’t think he could smell it; it was as potent in his nostrils as the
bite of the finest vodka, metallic and bitter-rich, somehow alluring. Carlos
swallowed, tried to steady his thoughts. What’s going on? he wondered wildly.
This wasn’t supposed to happen. This was wrong. But the scent was loud and
strong in his nostrils. He wondered what was going on, if he was drunk, if he was
having a nosebleed; he gingerly touched his nose with the hand without glass in it.
Nothing. But he couldn’t pass up an opportunity with this pretty boy, no matter
what he happened to be thinking. He felt his drunkenness coming back, and he
encouraged it as Paul passed by with an offer from his narrow-necked bottle of Grey
Goose.
“Come on,” Carlos said to Christian. “Let’s go outside.”
With a grateful look at Carlos, Christian followed in his wake like a pet.