FEBRUARY 11, 2014 / STEELTON AUTOMOTIVE REPAIR AND SERVICING
It was only when exhaust fumes threatened to knock him out that Asher stepped back from the car to breathe and cough out the lump in his throat. His tongue swept across his teeth, tasting petrol.
"Christ, kid," Vanessa Porter looked up from the car she was servicing, just long enough to throw Asher a worried look. "I bet you're going to go crazy in your forties because of all the diesel leaking into your blood."
Asher grunted a reply, "I'm taking a break, then. Be back soon."
There was no sign Vanessa had heard Asher, but he left anyway. Asher hadn't taken his jacket, and couldn't be bothered going back once he realised. Instead, he rolled down his sleeves, ignoring the dark streaks his fingers left across the fabric. The light grey cotton smudged with black grease — it looked like the colour scheme for a thunderstorm.
Down the road was a quaint cafe — one minute to walk — and everyone who worked at the garage had been there so many times that trips to it weren't actually considered leaving. Otherwise, Asher would not have risked getting in trouble with his manager. It had a very DIY feel, with handwritten menus and polka-dotted bows fastened around the food displays. He especially liked coming there in winter, where the heat from the kitchen kept him constantly warm.
When Saxon Rush walked in, Asher was draining his cup of coffee. As soon as he saw the man walk in, wearing his signature fedora, all the blood in his head quickly drained. It'd been over a week since they'd even texted each other, so Saxon had more than enough reason to get mad. But he wasn't.
He was smiling softly, looking as confident as he had the night they'd met. "Long time no see. Or talk."
Asher froze, swirling the taste of coffee around in his mouth. Truth be told, he hadn't ever planned on meeting up with Saxon again. They met on New Year's, and he went back to Saxon's apartment three days later. After that, all they did was meet up for food at this very cafe, or a quick fuck. Asher had never stayed the night, and nor had he gone on a date with Saxon.
He assumed they were finally moving on, but the person sitting in front of him proved him wrong.
"I, um. I thought we were only casual. And that you probably got tired of having me in your entourage."
"Entourage?"
"Well, yeah. Your mother's a fucking millionaire. I bet you have heaps of people regularly accompanying you to parties and concerts and nightclubs."
Saxon laughed. "You think I do stuff like that?"
"We met doing stuff like that," Asher pointed out.
"Good point. See, those people who do wild shit with me do it because I pay every time, and they want to feel like their lives are significant by surrounding themselves with important people. Harsh, but true."
At the last comment, Asher let himself chuckle. Saxon always said exactly what he was thinking, with no regards to who might be hurt or what might be triggered. Then again, he'd probably grown up endlessly appeased because of the fortune to his name.
"What makes you think I'm not after you for your money?" Asher asked.
"Because," Saxon leaned closer, "I get the vibe that you have a very good sense of what's important, and what's not."
Instantly, Asher tensed up. Upon further thought, he reckoned he did have righteous priorities.
Passing his final exams was a priority. Training at the motorcycle club was a priority. Entering more competitions was a priority. Working at the garage was a priority, to pay for the gear and entry fees. Making his parents proud was a priority.
Hooking up with a New York playboy? Not important.
So, he backed away from Saxon's dangerous smile.
"What's wrong?" the playboy asked, picking up on the sudden hesitance in the air.
"Why are we doing this?"
Saxon took a moment to think. "You're not after money or commitment, and neither am I. You're fun."
Fun had never really been used to describe anything to do with Asher. By nature, he was not fun. He worked hard and cried even harder. The fucked up childhood he had the pleasure of calling his was saturated with loss, isolation, disease, and death.
Asher had been since birth, and was still, just a frail flower trying to grow in the shadows of life's greatest tragedies. Maybe he wasn't so physically weak anymore. But with the threat of his imperfecta flaring up or going deaf in adulthood, plus the chance of his career failing and having to rely on Vasily, Asher didn't want any more emotional stress.
It was not to say that his time with Saxon wasn't enjoyable. Simply put, Saxon was still young at heart and burning with that happy fire all children have. And though he was born later, Asher had well lost his youth and doused his fire some years ago.
"Saxon, I don't think we should keep doing this."
The finger that was drumming the tabletop stopped, and Saxon seemed mildly taken aback. "Can I at least ask why?"
Asher cleared his throat. That his imperfecta was slowly destroying him was common knowledge. But the energy and emotional weight of being with Saxon would only destroy the both of them. For someone like Saxon, who lived freely, Asher's baggage was far too heavy to carry. It was all of a sudden difficult to express these thoughts, despite Asher being a smart, articulate boy.
"It's nice that you're getting your fix of casual fun, but I don't live for fun."
"Says the guy who built a career around riding motorcycles."
In his mind, a few points appeared with which Asher could argue the contrary. The riding wasn't purely for fun. It was a source of confidence and strength. It provided a fairly stable income, so long as Asher kept himself keen and able. And when he really needed one, his motorcycle became a distraction. An escape from the emotions that threatened to drag him down, down to an inescapable place.
"Yeah. I guess I get along better with machinery than people," Asher shrugged. "Blame it on me never going out with my friends when I was younger."
Since he walked in, there was no moment Saxon had not been smiling. Even if it was just a tiny quirk on the left side of his lips. Now, his face went quiet. There was no cockiness to him anymore, and Asher observed how he purposefully made it so.
He always saw a beauty in the way people stopped smiling. Perhaps he'd become so familiar with pain that he could now find it attractive when other people felt it, too. To Asher, a shrinking smile was like the retreat of the sea after a massive wave. It was having scaled up a mountainside; seen the view at the summit; beginning the triumphant descent back.
Once a person stopped smiling, the focus would move from the lips, to the eyes. Of course, a proportionate curve of the lips was nice to see — but in all it's vulnerability, the eyes were what Asher thought conveyed emotion better than anything else. If a smile was a picture worth a thousand words, then the eyes were two doors leading to a thousand libraries.
The whole story was visible in Saxon's eyes. There were two sides of it, too. One side of it was quite insulted that Asher didn't want more time with him. He'd always been the popular, sexy, suave friend everyone loved having around. Understandably, Saxon was confused and almost hurt.
But the other side was at peace. This part of Saxon accepted that he couldn't have everything he wanted, that Asher was probably only ever going to be a fling. He may have been a whorish, entitled playboy that gallivanted around New York and slept around for cheap thrills — but Saxon respected Asher's right to choose his company.
Saxon's smile came back, just as bright as Times Square on New Year's. "Well, at least buy me a coffee before dumping me."
So Asher did — because no-one could contest that wicked smile. The couple chatted more in half a hour than the whole month they'd been meeting up. Saxon laughed as much as always, cheeks dimpling like the crinkles in his denim jacket.
At one point, Asher asked, "Did you drive all the way from the city?"
"Yes. My lecture finished early, and I thought I might get a white hot ass before going home."
Asher nearly choked on his drink. Unfazed, laughing his head off, watching with amusement, Saxon smacked the table. "I'm only joking."
"No, you're not."
"Damn right, I'm not," Saxon winked.
"How did you even find me here?"
"You said you worked at a garage near this cafe. So, I found it just down the road. I walked in, asked the manager if you worked there. She said you were taking a break here. Poof, here I am."
"Oh, God. Did she ask how I knew you?"
"No. I think she took one look at my car, clothes, and just hoped to sweet Jesus you knew what you were doing. Why? She doesn't know you bat for both teams?"
Asher's hands came up to cradle his head. Following the grainy swirls in the wooden table, he sighed softly. "Nope. With everything that's going on, telling people my orientation is the absolute least of my problems."
"Oh. Want to talk about it?"
"Not really."
Knowing when to back away from a touchy subject was a skill that Saxon had employed his whole life, and used well. Saxon did not pry further into Asher's personal life, instead choosing to fill the silence with advice about university. For that, Asher was immensely grateful. If he'd had enough compassion to nurture himself and another person, they would have made a fine couple.
But, as it often was, the timing was slightly off. Nothing could be done, except for drinking a few coffees, talking amicably, and shaking hands in goodbye when they were done. Whisking his fedora onto his head, Saxon left in a blur of cologne, and drove away in his expensive, gleaming Ferrari.
Asher never saw him again.