Qway awoke to a sledgehammer to the temple.

It fractured his skull, opened him up for grubby fingers that eagerly dug into the newly exposed, delicate tissue. Or at least, that was what it felt like. Smacking his lips, he tried to dispel the taste of curdled milk that coated his tongue in a foul, viscous film. Tried to use it to moisten them. Found that he had fallen asleep with his mouth open and that as a result, not only was his tongue as dry as paper, but also that the moisture that had left his mouth had gone on to form a dark puddle where his cheek met his pillow. His eyes spun within the sockets, attempting to locate his mind in the darkness that swirled behind his lids.

A dry, crisp chill caressed his cheeks, drawing him further back into the body that throbbed in time with each heartbeat. He allowed it to frost the top layer of his skin for a while longer before the dull pressure in his groin grew to be too much.

Since he’d returned to Saint Louis for winter break, this had become routine. As a child, he’d done nothing but dream of the day that he could stay out until one day blended into the next, sleep in as late as he wanted. He’d seized the freedom that college had offered him with rash greed, spending most mornings of the past year in his single dorm with his head dipped into a toilet ringed with filth. Countless lessons learned on unrestrained indulgence, countless lessons learned on the benefits of being a recluse.

This morning, it became immediately apparent that he had disregarded not one but all of those lessons and for an instant, he was unsure of where he was, his name, or reality itself. He pried his eyelids apart, blinked the duck butt out, and found himself staring into a face he did not recognize.

That quickly, his morning was ruined.

The longer he stared, the clearer the face became. To Qway’s chagrin, it slowly grew more masculine in nature, all edges and defined lines that were made softer by sleep. An arm, warm and covered in coarse hair, was draped across Qway’s bare chest. He stared at it as if it were a live snake.

“Aye, man,” His tongue was thick in his mouth; the words were hardly coherent even to his own ears, and so he tried again, a little louder. “Aye, man. You got to go. Get up.”

He extracted himself gracelessly, nearly falling flat on his behind in his haste to exit the bed that was suddenly too hot for him. The man watched him as he stepped into the jeans he’d worn the night before. Qway immediately felt better for having something to cover his bare ass, as if that could somehow aid him in his case to deceive himself about the drying condom that sat in the waste bin next to his bed.

“What’s yo’ problem? You good?” The man’s voice was lukewarm as he sat up with care, as if Qway hadn’t said anything at all. He stretched, ropy muscles rolling beneath taunt, carob colored skin. Tattoos that looked like they belonged in a children’s classroom peppered his defined chest, too many to count, though Qway had already caught himself trying.

“You got to go.” Something in his voice drew the man’s eyes back to his face. His name. What was his name?

“Arshay,” Patience told him, but of course her friend didn’t hear. A shame – it was pretty name, pretty like the mouth that curved into a grimace as he too slid from the bed.

“Ah. See, I should have known.” Arshay rolled his eyes, bending over the side of the bed to snatch his clothes off the floor. The comforter fell away, staunchly white. 

Should have known what? What could this man have known about him? Qway was sure that there wasn’t a damn thing.

“You never meet good niggas at the club; it’s always the DL niggas who got the most balls. I need to start remembering that shit.” He seemed to be talking more to himself than Qway, who wearily shifted from foot to foot near the door. He was too aware of himself, didn’t know what to do with his hands but didn’t want to find something just in case they needed to fend off this stranger. He was both in awe and disgusted by Arshay’s boldfaced nudity.

The one before this, two days ago, had spat at him. The one before that, five days ago, had cried. He vowed that that would be the last time he brought home a white boy - even if he was pretty. He was prepared for anything, had learned to be, but this man seemed content to pretend that Qway no longer existed. Arshay trailed behind him on the balls of his feet, quiet enough that Qway felt the need to look over his shoulder and check that Arshay was there at least twice before they reached the front door.

“Bye,” Qway said awkwardly, more out of habit than anything, fingers curling around the door frame. It hung oddly in the air between them, and so he tacked on a thank you that only made it worse.

Arshay arched a brow at him. Even with a crumpled polo and his wheat Timberlands unlaced and clunky, this man looked good. Better than good. It made his dismissal sharper, more critical. As soon as the door was closed behind him, Qway clenched his fists until he could see the bones of his knuckles beneath the tawny skin, straining until it seemed that they were but a second away from splitting through. Cradling his head in his hands, he groaned as his brain swam within his skull.

The next twenty minutes were spent pulling himself together; he brushed his teeth whilst reading the back of the tiny bottle of hotel shampoo, scrubbing his tongue until he tasted rust. He downed three Tylenol tablets dry from a bottle he’d picked up two days earlier after a particularly bad hangover. A while later, he could finally open his eyes fully. With the threat of collapsing hanging over his head, he stripped off the little clothing he’d been able to find and stepped into the tub. Wash day wasn’t until Thursday, but he needed something monotonous. A twist out was the perfect task.

Under the trickling, piss warm spray of a low-pressure shower, he slowly massaged shampoo into his scalp, gently loosening memories of the previous night. That was right – it had been him who’d approached Arshay first. He’d been bored. Clubbing was something that he and Patience did together, but as far as he knew, she was busy spending time with her own family. To drink alone in a hotel seemed too sad even for him, and after typing club nearest me into his GPS, he was off. The rest of the night was a whirl of strobe lights, sweaty Stella Artois beers, and early 2000s music that made more sense at his freshman year homecoming dance than it did there.

His hair hung limply around his shoulders, a dark spidery network of curls that dripped rivulets of cooling water. He hitched a towel around his waist, leaving a trail of damp prints on the carpet on his way back to his room.

The room was quiet around him. He didn’t know where his parents were and once again, he was grateful that he’d sprung for a hotel. Drunk Qway had been more of an idiot than usual.

He sat on the edge of the bed and was bombarded with the image of the man taking off his shirt. As soon as it had come off, Qway’s gaze was drawn to the clumps of white deodorant stuck to the wicker basket that was his armpit hair. He was struck by how much the sight disgusted him, though it hadn’t been enough for the intoxicated version of himself to say no. It made him feel a little better, that there was something wrong with this man who seemed to think that he had Qway all figured out, but not so much that he no longer felt the need to call Patience to dispel the gross feeling that was slowly leaking into him.

A quick glance at his phone, helpfully left plugged up to the expensive charger that he’d purchased from the airport giftshop, revealed that he’d drunkenly texted Patience to meet him at a club somewhere in Tower Grove. She hadn’t responded.

Since they’d both gone to college, he’d gotten used to text conversations that spanned not only hours but days.

Instead, his call log was full of calls that spanned anywhere from fifteen minutes to several hours, one a week when the two were busy and up to multiple a day when they weren’t. The time was just past one in the afternoon. If he knew anything about his friend, it was that she would never miss a chance to step on his neck when he was too inebriated to come up with a decent reply.

He busied himself with carefully picking the leftover crust from his eyelashes, his thumb sliding down the screen until it rested above her name. Clearing his throat, he spat a mixture of phlegm and toothpaste into the half-empty cup on his nightstand before he lifted the phone to his ear. Straight to a voicemail box that wasn’t even fully set up yet. He sucked his teeth as a woman’s monotonous voice explained to him how to leave a message, then forced himself to relax when his impatience only exacerbated the pounding in his head.

“So we just not answering phones now? Don’t make me come to yo’ damn house, Patience, you know damn well I will. Pick up yo’ damn phone.” He paused, and added, “Come do my hair.”

He hung up just as something began to tickle his throat. He tried to ignore it, redialing her number. When it didn’t go away and he got sent to voicemail once again, he tried coughing. Let her get that; punishment for not answering. A moment later he was bent over, his hands on his knees as he hacked up what he was sure was a lung. Eyes watering, he snatched up the cup on his nightstand and lifted it to his lips.

Next Chapter: 6