Drawn Together (11 page)

“You forget I’ve lived a lot longer than you.”

“Yes, I know. Age and beauty. I’ll be home around dawn.” Rory hugged him.

Yamane looked around, but no one paid attention. He wondered if that was because in the clothing he wore, he could easily be mistaken for a boyishly made woman. He decided to walk some more, and looked in on the casinos. He didn’t like the atmosphere or the crowds.

62 Z. A. Maxfield

At least he felt he could smoke freely, but then he laughed at himself when he picked up his cigarette butt among the thousands on the ground to throw it away. In the end he decided to get a nice big bottle of something lethal and go back to the room.

* * * * *

The phone rang at about six a.m. but Yamane only heard it as a distant annoyance from beyond the billowy cocoon of misery he’d wrapped around his head. It had seemed like a good idea to maintain a blissfully oblivious buzz all night, but now, in the painful morning after, not so much. He ignored the phone completely, so when he heard the key turning in the lock he tried to ignore that too.

“What the hell?” came Rory’s voice from somewhere far away. Another planet.

“What?”

“Are you drunk?”

Shirtless, Yamane arose like a zombie from the rumpled motel bed.

“You got a problem with that?” he asked. His head was ringing, and his mouth tasted like he was sucking on dirty socks. He sat cross-legged on the bed. He plastered a phony smile on his face. “So, how’d it go?”

Rory stood framed in the doorway. “I’m not a subtext kind of guy, Yamane. If you have something to say, please say it.”

“I need a shower.” Yamane tried to walk past him.

“Not so fast, cher.” Rory caught the smaller man as he attempted to slip by him.

“Whoa, you smell like a still.”

“Sorry.” Yamane had worked himself into such a state of self-pity that he’d bleed out his eyeballs before he’d let this man cher him.

“When you come back, I have some things to show you,” Rory said simply, letting him go.

While Yamane was in the shower, Rory tidied up bedroom area. He needed a nap.

First, though, he had to find out why the princess was in a royal snit. He hadn’t been very forthcoming about his plans, mainly because if he failed, he didn’t want Yamane to know it.

Yamane thought he was a naive otaku who lived in a world of comic book fantasies.

Rory admitted he might have done something to enhance that idea by driving all the way from Louisiana to win over his “sacred maiden.” Rory got out the packages he brought with him. Sometimes things just don’t go the way you plan.

He sat down at the little desk, using his pocketknife to open a blister-packed pain reliever. He chewed the tablets, making a face that only people who chew medicine like that can make.

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When Yamane finally emerged, he was scrubbed clean with wet hair, wearing jeans and a huge T-shirt. Rory thought he looked like a drowned cat.

“So, are you going to tell me what this is about?” Rory asked. “I called to tell you I would be late, but you didn’t answer.”

“I’m sorry. I must have been passed out.” Yamane looked away.

“Drinking like that is often its own reward, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” Yamane bit his lip.

“I bought some things. I got phones; we’ll need to charge those,” he said, going through the packages. “I got myself some clothes. I didn’t bring many when I left home. We can do some laundry this afternoon, if you’d like.” He held out a rectangular-shaped velvet box. “I bought you a present.” He blushed now that it came time to give it.

“Rory, for me? This is by far the strangest thing ever. I’m sitting here thinking, ‘Why am I waiting in a motel like a child while you go out with a woman?’ But then you come back with a present for me. Why would you bring me a present? You didn’t steal all this, did you?”

“Of course not. How much did you drink, Yamane?” Yamane nervously began to braid his hair. He winced at the pain in his left hand, putting it on his lap impatiently. “What the hell are we doing here?”

“What?”

“I have no clue what’s happening here.” Yamane looked small and angry as he tried again to tug his hair into its braid. “I can’t use my damned hand!”

“Here,” said Rory gently, “turn around.”

Yamane did as he was told. “I don’t know what we’re doing, except trying to hide. As for what you were doing, you were getting roaring drunk. Could it be that you were a little put out to be left behind?”

“Well.” Yamane’s muscles relaxed as Rory stroked his hair.

“Well,” echoed Rory. “I didn’t go out with Avery -- we went to play poker.” Yamane turned around to look at him. “Hey, hold still. I asked her to stake me because I didn’t have enough cash for a buy-in at the level we needed, plus I didn’t want to get anted and blinded out before I had a chance to read the table, so I needed cash for a backup rebuy. I needed a much bigger bankroll than we had. Although I normally make money, I couldn’t bear it if I didn’t and you saw me as some kind of loser. As for the present, I wanted to do something for you because I know it’s making you sick to hide your manly beauty.” Yamane yanked his hair out of Rory’s hands. “That is so not true.”

“Ha!” said Rory. “The second you saw Avery, out came the hair and that lovely, lovely face of yours.”

“Hm.” Yamane seemed marginally appeased.

64 Z. A. Maxfield

Rory began to braid Yamane’s hair again. “Hold still; you’re worse than the kids.”

“Where did you learn to braid hair?”

“One of the girls at the Red Cross shelter taught me when I helped with the children.”

“Is there no end to your heroic accomplishments?” Rory’s hands stilled. “That didn’t sound very nice, Yamane.”

“I’m sorry,” Yamane said in a small voice. “It’s just that you’re everyone’s big hero.”

“And that’s bad because…?”

“Because I wanted you to be just my hero. Stupid, huh?” Yamane wouldn’t meet Rory’s eyes.

“No more stupid than believing that something about an artist’s work is personally calling you to them.”

“Rory, I know you’ve been with only women, but I’m prepared to be anything, do anything you --”

Rory cut him off. “I’m sorry, Yamane.” He truly was. “I can’t.”

“If I were a woman --”

“If you were a woman, we’d be having wild monkey sex on that bed right now. But you’re not.”

Yamane took Rory’s face in his hands, kissed him delicately, and whispered, “Close your eyes, Rory. For you, I could be anything.”

“It’s not about that.” Rory gently disengaged him. “It’s not about what you could be for me.” Rory’s heart hurt. It’s about what I want to be for you. It’s about figuring out why I want to be with you. Why I can’t walk away. Why I set my heart on some nameless, faceless woman from another country in the first place instead of all the girls I’ve had in bed with me here. Rory wanted to tell him but found he couldn’t say the words. He didn’t understand it himself. “It’s about finding out what’s happening to me before I let the genie out of the bottle.”

“Rory.”

“I promise you, I’m not rejecting who you are; I’m trying not to use you for something you’re not.” He ran a hand through his own hair. He put a stack of hundreds on the table.

“There’s about seven thousand dollars there. I was up nine, but I also spent some on clothes and things. Your present is this.” He slid over the black bracelet-sized box. “We’ll engrave anything you want on it, just let me know. I’m going out. I’ll come back with coffee and pastries from Avery’s place. I need to pay her back.” Rory walked out the door without another word. He thought he heard Yamane say

“My damn hero,” as the door snapped closed.

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Chapter Eleven

When Rory returned to the motel, Yamane was a little more relaxed. He wore his normal clothing, without the jacket, although he needed help with the buttons. He also needed help with Rory’s gift, a chunky gold identification bracelet that had, next to the place where the name goes, a sculptured heart charm dangling from it. He held it out for Rory to fasten onto his wrist the minute he returned. It was elegant, if a little large, on his arm. He greeted Rory shyly. “How are you feeling? Are you tired?”

“I’m fine. Avery let me take one of her carafes. I brought some pain au chocolat.” Yamane got out one of his ubiquitous sketchbooks and began to draw some of the images he’d seen since leaving Long Beach.

“What are you drawing?” asked Rory between bites of pastry. “I love to watch you work. The other night in the restaurant was the best night of my life.” Flustered by his candor, Yamane stopped briefly. “Why?”

“I don’t know.” Rory tilted his head to one side as if to consider the matter. “It’s not like I saw what you were drawing until later. But when I watch you, I imagine how it evolves. At first it’s just lines, and then -- voilà -- it takes form like magic. Like alchemy. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve traced my fingers over your work, trying to capture some understanding, or even some glimpse of you in it.” Yamane’s hand began to tremble as he took this in, then stilled. “High praise indeed.”

“Really, I get a little stupid about it sometimes, I guess.”

“All artists work pretty much the same way. They use the same pens, the same inks.

The process is pretty standard. I sometimes wonder why someone like you, or especially someone like Amelia, picks one over the other.” Yamane tried to sound as though he weren’t desperate for the answer and at the same time terrified to hear it.

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“For Amelia, I couldn’t tell you. I can’t even understand how a cruel person could be touched by your work. I feel like it should be invisible to evil people.” Rory smiled. He put his elbows on the small table and leaned his head in his hands. Yamane saw he was wearing down from his long night of gambling.

“I see. My work must only be seen by the pure of heart.” Rory looked up. “Don’t make fun of me.”

“I’m not, Rory.” Yamane bit his lip.

“I’m sorry.” Rory sighed. “As for me, if I tell you why they speak to me, you have to promise not to call the police or something, okay?”

“That’s a little alarming.” Yamane suddenly realized that he was alone in a motel with someone who was, essentially, yet another stalker.

“I know. I know. But I promise you on my life that I will never willingly harm you. I hope you know that. Do you?”

Yamane looked at Rory. “Yes. If I could be wrong about that, I wouldn’t want to --”

“Sometimes you make me happy and sad at the same time.”

“Why?” Yamane asked again. “Really. Why me?”

“I’ve always loved your work. But when I saw the first Celendrianna, it was like a message in a bottle washing up from the ocean. If I didn’t answer it, I knew, I knew I’d always regret it. I was hoping for a miracle of recognition that didn’t happen. It felt like some part of myself was out there calling, and I could finally bring it home.” Rory got up then and stretched. He took off his shirt as he crawled into bed.

“I’m sorry. I’m really sorry I wasn’t what you thought.”

“I would say, rather, that I’m sorry I wasn’t worthy to receive such a message. You are certainly what I thought. More than I dreamed. I have to get some sleep.” Rory folded and punched his useless pillow. “This evening I’ve found someplace to go. I think it might be fun for us…” He was already half-asleep. “Do you like to look at fish?”

“Fish? Like in the ocean? Sure.”

Once Rory was sleeping soundly, Yamane walked over to the side of the bed where he could study Rory’s face. Bright sunlight filtered in through the tattered and dirty drapes. It was still cool enough in the room with the air conditioner going, but Yamane knew from his experience the day before that the little space would heat up by afternoon and make it unbearable.

He focused on Rory’s face. In repose, it was so childlike. He went back to the table for a chair and his sketch pad. He wanted to capture Rory in his sketch pad, in his heart, forever.

Yamane’s stylized manga characters, with their wide-set eyes, long bodies, and overly large hands, had a certain look. He always presented a hyperreality that made them lovely and fluid and perfectly impossible. But as a classically trained artist, he could create a portrait Drawn Together

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so real it could stride off the page, and he employed these skills now as he had for the family they’d helped on the road.

As he worked, he thought about what Rory had told him. Message in a bottle…

Yamane felt sick. If ever there was classic stalker talk that was it. Even those harmlessly obsessed fans with their stuffed toys, their flowers, and their endless talk of devotion were convinced, utterly convinced, that he was sending a message only to them.

Poor Rory, thought Yamane. He was like the knight who fought through the very gates of hell for his princess only to find out that the long golden hair streaming from the arrow slits in her tower came from her armpit.

Hovering somewhere between maniacal laughter and bitter tears, Yamane drew several wonderful studies he called The Sleeping Boy.

Yamane made Rory a silent promise. Just as Rory had bitten back his disappointment with the Yamane he found at the end of his quest, somehow Yamane would protect Rory from further disappointment, from Amelia, and from Yamane’s own less-than-wholesome thoughts about him.

The realization penetrated his long-frozen heart that he loved Rory. Please, Rory, please, wherever you’re going, let me come too.

* * * * *

Rory’s first observation when he awoke was that Yamane was remarkably different from the man he’d talked to before he’d fallen asleep. Gone were the insecurity, the self-pity, and the pouting of the earlier Yamane, and in its place was the fastidious überelegance that had so intrigued and intimidated him when they first met.

“I always feel that I should say, ‘Good morning, and who are you today?’”

“What?” Yamane put the finishing touches on his hair.

“It’s like you’re a different person,” complained Rory as he rose from the bed. “If you’re happy, I’m delighted, but could you give a guy some warning?”