Listening to Dust (5 page)

Chapter 8

The Diner
 

Robbie looked at Stephen and chuckled. “Yup, you two are of the same mind.”
 

“Excuse me?” Stephen asked, pulling himself back to the present.
 

“You and Dusty, you both get that far off look when y’all thinking ‘bout each other. He had it bad as you.”
 

Stephen looked up at this overblown version of Dustin and felt a tear slip out before he could stop it. He wondered for a moment if Robbie realized how much Dustin had sacrificed for him. How much his own human dignity had been forfeited to protect little Robbie, and how much of the rest of his life had been spent in devotion to the one moment Dustin perceived himself to have failed at that task.
 

Dustin had once told Stephen that the official story circulated after Robbie’s accident had been that Robbie was out playing when the rainstorm struck and, not wanting to get his parents angry over sopping wet clothes, he had stripped himself naked under a tree, folded his clothes up, and was about to dash for home when he was struck by lightning. The ridiculousness of that fiction hit Stephen’s sensibilities instantly. No ten-year-old boy would consider such a thing; maybe the innocent logic of a five-year-ld streaking across a field would make that a laugh for future social occasions, but not at ten. However, with the damage done to Robbie’s mental capabilities after the strike, the story was simply accepted, and Stephen had no doubt that this had only added to Dustin’s self-inflicted guilt over the situation.
 

Robbie was still watching him. “You never said,” he advised Stephen.
 

“Said what?” Stephen asked.
 

“How y’all met. Dusty never spoke of that. ”
 

Stephen smiled internally, the only real smile that had come to him since he had started this journey, and it seemed odd to him that Dustin had spoken to Robbie about his letters, but not about how they met.
 

But then, their meeting was such a small memory; small, and yet so very large. Maybe Dustin still had some shame over it. Stephen had no shame; he thought Dustin was bloody beautiful the first time he laid eyes on him. He was utterly drunk, but still strangely innocent and lovely all at the same time. And in that state, seemingly carefree and completely opposite his sober self, Dustin did rather remind him of the younger brother who sat before him now.
 

“You really want to hear this?” he asked Robbie.
 

“Yup.”
 

So simple. But it wasn’t.
 

Chapter 9

London
 

It was a bitter morning in London when Colette called from Aix. She had pretty much laid waste to Stephen’s plans, and had, unintentionally, pushed him out the door with the useless hope that he could get away from his angry memories. She hadn’t meant to injure him of course, but every anniversary she called and spoke of the stipend they had received from Her Majesty’s government and the ‘invaluable service’ his parents had provided the nation before they were blown to hell by some unnamed terrorist organization.
 

What she never mentioned, and what Stephen thought of most on this day, was the silence that same government had over the incident. There had been no memorial, no sound bites. All he had ever gotten was a vague sheet of paper filled with useless platitudes about their service, and immediate assistance for his Gran at getting him out of the country so that he could be properly cared for as he grieved.
 

The reality was that the PM at that time didn’t want a cute little twelve-year-old lad spilling crocodile tears all over the front pages of the Times. It was bad for business, and definitely bad for all the secret oil deals they were trying to make in light of an ongoing war.
 

What his parents did, why they were targets, or even where and when they were killed were still mysteries to him twenty-five years later and probably would be forever. And yet Colette still called each and every anniversary, as if, despite her statements to the contrary, she had never quite gotten over the mysteries of the death of her only child. A misery she felt obliged to share with him.
 

When he finally walked out of the pub that evening the dark sky told him how long he’d been inside. He wasn’t drunk, as least not as drunk as he’d assumed he would be, but he was leaving alone.
 

And, in truth, he hadn’t really expected to be taking anyone back to the flat anyway. The anniversary of his parents’ death, Colette’s familiar call to punctuate it, and the problems he had been having on the current manuscript had left him more miserable than usual, and he couldn’t picture anything more than a good cupper and the cusp of his pillow. Maybe that book he’d bought some months back, but never got to, would provide some leisurely inspiration before he dozed off.
 

The plain fact of the matter was that he had been tired of the drink scene for months, and was well aware that he was getting too old for the courting drama that revolved around the semi- anonymous pickups he dragged home. He also quite readily recognized that the tittering from the half-aged little bum chums in the pubs he frequented was no different than the same desperate duffer’s neediness he’d witnessed and chuckled at some fifteen years back. So yes, if a search for stability and commitment meant a spark of desperation, he would have to plead guilty. He was turning into a desperate old duffer himself, and that, for any single gay bloke was reason enough to be counted among the bitter.
 

A taxi pulled up in front of him just as he was about to step off the curb. He stepped back as the door swung open and stopped to watch a mass of balloons float out and hang suspended in the evening sky.
 

Nice arse
, he thought as the passenger crawled out backwards and leaned inside to pay the fare. The bloke withdrew from the taxi and placed his palm on the roof to steady himself just before it pulled off again. They looked at each other for a moment, appraising each other with a quick smile before Stephen decided that he wasn’t up for another disappointment and cast his eyes further up the street to start for home.
 

“Where are you going?” Dustin asked, his southern American drawl immediately identifying him.
 

A soldier?
Stephen wondered without turning around. His hair was certainly short enough. But Stephen had taken a few military Yanks home before, and it was always a quick ‘got-to-go-before-anyone-finds-out’ kind of night, or some nutter that had wanted to tie him up and spank him. He definitely didn’t need either of those on this day.
 

“Going home, mate,” Stephen answered over his shoulder.
 

“Can I come?” Dustin called back.
 

Stephen felt the accent crawl into his head and stopped, turning back to really look at him. Dustin wore a crooked smile and stood there grinning and holding his balloons as he wavered back and forth like a puppet, as if the balloons had replaced the support of the taxi and held him upright against the ruffle of the wind. He was shorter than Stephen by a good three inches, had beautiful, though short, auburn hair and was lighter by at least two stone, possibly three. His eyes were crystal blue, though a bit heavy from the drink. With the freckles and a bit less weathering on his face, he could easily have been taken for a teenager; though if he had to guess, Stephen would say early twenties. But he also looked completely drunk, and that held Stephen back from an immediate and affirmative reply.
 

He had to ask himself if he really wanted to drag another drunk back to the flat. Hot Yank or not, he’d replayed this scene over enough that even his very straight, but busy bodied neighbors commiserated and were trying to hook him up with someone sane.
 

“What are the balloons for?” Stephen asked.
 

Dustin glanced up as if surprised to see them and opened his hand. They both watched as the balloons drifted away before he turned to look at Stephen again. “I.... can’t remember.”
 

His response was light and unburdened, and Stephen laughed and gestured for him to follow with a quick jerk of his head.
What the hell
, he thought.
He might be fun for a shag or two.
 

Stephen watched him out of the corner of his eye as they walked to the flat and felt the unusually close proximity of his body. It was odd because most American blokes had an exaggerated sense of personal space that seemed to stay fully intact right up until the moment they hit the edge of the bedroom door. More than once he’d been suddenly tackled from behind upon entering his bedroom when coming home with a Yank, and he had grown cautious about who went in first. He assumed it came from their primitive American views on sex and public affection, but had wondered, when doing a research piece for a client, if it didn’t also come from the wide expanses of their country. But this bloke was different from any American he’d met before; he hovered right next to Stephen as if daring him to pull him in closer; as if he needed more than the occasional bump of their shoulders made by his drunken missteps.
 

“So what’s your name?” Stephen asked.
 

“Dustin. Dustin Earl.”
 

Unusual
, Stephen thought, but he liked it, liked the way it curled on his tongue and all the imagery it brought up in his mind. “Military?” he asked.
 

Dustin shot him a suspicious glance. “Was, I’m out now,” he answered cautiously.
 

Tossed out?
Stephen wondered. “The haircut gives it away,” Stephen said, watching Dustin’s misgivings retreat a bit. “Most Yanks go right back to the States,” he said, reframing his curiosity a bit.
 

Dustin shrugged. “I’m acting as a foamer. Well, for my brother anyway.”
 

“Foamer?” Stephen asked.
 

“Train spotter,” Dustin explained. “My little brother
really
likes trains. I thought I might spend a little time bouncing around Europe getting pictures and engine numbers for him before I go back.”
 

“That’s very generous. Are you a ... foamer too?” Stephen asked.
 

“No.” Dustin answered firmly and without further explanation. “What do you do? I mean for a living,” he asked Stephen.
 

“I’m a writer.”
 

Dustin paused slightly mid-step. “Living an Orwellian existence?”
 

Stephen glanced at him with a quick reassessment. This was no ordinary bloke at all. “No, I’m a ghost writer,” he answered. “I’ve been lucky enough to forego the dishwashing bits; though that always seemed a bit romantic to me.”
 

“Anything I might have read?” Dustin asked.
 

It seemed unlikely, but he didn’t want to sound like an arrogant twit. “I’m bound by pretty tight non-disclosure contracts, it’s mostly non-fiction. But I’ve worked with a few well known fiction authors as well,” Stephen answered.
 

“But you can’t say.”
 

“No, sorry,” Stephen told him.
 

“Ever think about publishing your own work?” Dustin inquired.
 

It was an assumption not too far from what anyone else would suppose, but that wasn’t Stephen’s cut at all. He was quite happy with what he did and the only private work he had was his personal journal, and
that
would never be published. He stole a quick glance at Dustin and wondered if that was an increasing nervousness he saw creeping in around Dustin’s eyes, or if it was just the drink adding late night worry lines to his face.
 

“No, the spotlight isn’t for me,” Stephen answered his question. “I’m a simple, quiet bloke. They can have all the drama.”
 

As Stephen turned to start up the walk to his building Dustin unexpectedly grabbed his forearm and stopped him, glancing up at the building with apprehension. Stephen took quick note of his unease and the strength of his grip; his were not writer’s hands at all.
 

“What was romantic about it?” Dustin asked, his hand still clasping Stephen’s forearm.
 

Stephen studied him curiously for a moment. Dustin suddenly seemed quite sober and more than a little unsure of the situation. He kept glancing back up at the building and chewing on his lip like a child who was certain he was being led into a trap but didn’t quite know how to get himself out of the potential harm that was sure to follow. Stephen put his palm gently on top of Dustin’s hand and watched him snatch it away with an embarrassed flush around the edges of his cheeks. For a moment he considered that maybe he should just leave Dustin on the sidewalk, and not deal with his insecurities, but… something within him, within this bloke, kept pulling at him otherwise.
 

“I think it was the grit of the situation,” Stephen finally answered. “How all our romances seem to come from the dirt we bury ourselves in rather than the glitter we throw up for the show.” He spoke slowly, still unsure whether he should go any further.
 

“Shall we go up?” he asked Dustin after they stared at each other in a momentary silence.
 

Dustin nodded slowly and without reply.
 

When they got to the flat Stephen unlocked it and walked in, expecting Dustin to follow, but when he turned to offer him a drink, he noticed that he was alone.
 

At first, Stephen considered that Dustin might have been more drunk than he’d previously thought and  had simply fallen into that standing stupor of immobility as a few of his other inebriated strays had. From the manner in which he exited the taxi, and from their stumbling walk back to the flat, that didn’t seem like too far of a stretch. He also considered that he might find Dustin crouched outside the door half asleep and ready to piss on the floor like a mongrel dog. Unfortunately, that would not be the first time that had happened to him either.  He sighed, cursed himself silently for falling into the same predicament again, and went back to get him.
 

“Are you coming in?” Stephen asked.
 

Dustin was leaning against the wall on Stephen’s side of the foyer looking at the flat door opposite. He didn’t look drunk, or angry, or even sober. He looked lost, but not lost as in a place, but lost as in being; as if he was down inside himself searching through his scuffed heart for some mystery that he had yet to unlock. When he turned to look at Stephen he was trembling and completely silent, and with a plea so real in his still expression that Stephen was struck speechless.
 

Stephen looked deeply into Dustin’s blue eyes and felt a cool puddle bleed into his own chest from... he didn’t know where it came from. He just felt it liquefy there with a singular and instant yearning. He wanted this man, wanted him suddenly more than anything or anyone he had ever wanted in his life.
 

He reached out slowly and touched Dustin’s hand, caressing his fingers as he wove his own across their hard pattern. He didn’t ask if this was Dustin’s first time; didn’t inquire what had given Dustin the courage to finally come out of his seclusion. Maybe the alcohol had played a part in it, maybe not. There was more in Dustin’s eyes than the mist of spirits; more than the texture of desire. This was need and want and hurt and longing. It was the gentlest part of an unspoken embrace; the heat of a lost touch; the echo of a depth of yearning that Stephen had never encountered before, not even within himself, and despite the fact that he thought he knew loneliness quite well.