Median

Morning sunlight crept across the floor but never touched Ryo, who huddled in the shaded corner that the sun could not reach, feeling cold and wretched.  He perched on a stool at the high counter separating the kitchen from the living room.  His shoulders were hunched up and he picked nervously at a napkin, shredding it into small pieces.

A creak in the floor behind him made him jump and he whipped around.  Kento froze, hands raised in a gesture of innocence to meet Ryo’s glare.  Ryo forced himself to relax and gave a weak smile.

“Sorry.  I guess I’m a little on edge.”

“Yeah, I kind of got that,” Kento said.  He looked confused as he walked into the kitchen.  He leaned against the counter so that he was facing Ryo and eyed his friend.  Then, his face cleared and he nodded.

“He didn’t come home again last night, huh?”

Ryo bit his lower lip, pulling it all the way into his mouth and chewing on it.  He let it slide out, wet and reddened with teeth marks, and nodded.

Kento sighed and frowned at Ryo before turning away and walking over to the cupboard over the sink.  Ryo slouched even more and wrapped his arms around himself.  He suddenly thought of what a pathetic picture he made: baggy tank top hanging off his slender frame and emphasizing the sharp angles and lines of his shoulders and collarbone; his jeans torn at the knees, frayed at the bottoms and worn through gray at the seat.  He imagined he looked like some poor lost waif child and he hung his head, ashamed of making so pitiful a sight.

Ryo started as Kento put a steaming cup of tea before him.  Ryo looked up and Kento shrugged.  “It’s that mandarin orange shit I know you love.”

“Thanks,” Ryo said, his eyebrows raised.

“I heated the water in the microwave,” Kento warned.  “I didn’t feel like waiting for the kettle to boil.”

“No, thanks, it’s great,” Ryo said, putting his hands around the warm mug.  “Thanks.”

Kento cocked an eyebrow.  “You already said that.”  He started to turn away, then whirled back and slapped his palms down on the counter.  Ryo recoiled in surprise.

“Look, Ryo, I don’t know why you care so much what he does when he clearly doesn’t even—”

The sharp slam of the front door cracked the air and Ryo and Kento both looked into the living room.  There were muffled noises and a clinking sound like glass, then Rowen came sauntering into the room through the large arched doorway that connected to the front hall.

His blue hair was a ruffled tangle, his form-fitting black tank top glittered inappropriately in this homey morning setting, his tight blue jeans were cut low to reveal the expanse of his navel and the tops of his hip bones, and his shiny black leather boots looked strange against the backdrop of quaintly patterned flower-and-vine carpet.  He lifted his hand and brought an open wine bottle to his lips, taking a long drink before looking into the kitchen and spotting his audience.

“Morning.”

Ryo said nothing and turned back to the counter.  In silence he lifted his mug to his lips, but Kento continued to glare at Rowen.

“Is that breakfast?”

Rowen smirked and sipped again at his bottle.  “Nah.  Just a snack.”  He walked further into the living room and lifted one hip onto the stool next to Ryo.  Ryo felt warm pressure on the small of his back and his shoulders slumped as Rowen slid his hand up Ryo’s spine and then over his shoulder blade.  Then he shrugged Rowen’s hand off and dragged his stool a short distance away.

Out of the corner of his eye, Rowen looked at Ryo in mild surprise before placing his wine bottle on the counter.  He leaned down to unzip his boots and let them fall to the floor with two loud thuds.

While Rowen was looking down, Kento’s hand darted out quicker than the eye could see and he grabbed Rowen’s bottle.  Then he marched over to the sink and upended it over the sink.  The stench of cheap wine filled the air and Ryo gagged.

Rowen’s eyebrows were raised as he straightened back up in his chair.  Kento turned around after dropping the empty bottle into the sink, leaned against the sink counter, crossed his arms and gave a shit-eating grin.  Rowen only shrugged and reached into his back pocket to pull out a silver hip flask.  He unscrewed the lid and tipped it to his lips.  Kento scowled and narrowed his eyes, but Rowen just slipped the flask back into his pocket and rested his elbows on the countertop.

“Rowen,” Kento said in a tone verging on spiteful, “you’re a fucking mess.”

Rowen scowled, dropping his careless attitude.  “Yeah, well I like being a ‘fucking mess,’ so give it a rest, willya?”  He tilted his head back and narrowed his eyes, but a wide lock of blue hair fell down over his left eye and spoiled the effect of his anger.

Kento shook his head and walked away.  Ryo wished that he, too, could turn his back on Rowen, but instead he stared at the other, his fingers itching to brush that lock of hair back and perhaps stroke Rowen’s pale cheek with a lingering touch.  He tightened his fists and shoved them between his knees under the countertop.

Rowen scoffed at Kento’s back and turned to Ryo, who was staring with great attention at the tiled counter.  The white ceramic squares were painted with little flowers and trailing leaves and he thought that Mya, and not her grandfather, had most likely been the one to decide on the décor of the large country house.

“Ryo?” Rowen whispered, leaning in close to the black-haired boy so that his breath tickled the fine hairs growing at the nape of his neck.  “Are you mad at me, too?”

Ryo pursed his lips and exhaled through his nose.  He concentrated on the sensation of breathing in the hopes that it would distract him from the feel of Rowen’s right hand trailing gently up his left knee.  He turned to Rowen, and, faced with the other’s heavy-lidded blue eyes staring at him almost lazily and very suggestively, he could not hold up his own anger.  He shook his head silently and put his hands on the counter.

“Good,” Rowen said with a grin and jumped up.  Ryo watched him walk into the kitchen and snipe at Kento, reflecting bitterly that Rowen didn’t have to do much to get Ryo to forgive him—and once he had his assurance that Ryo was still resting comfortably in the palm of his hand, he did not feel the need to expend the energy it took to appease him.  Later, in bed, Rowen would work to soothe those hurt feelings in the only way he ever apologized to Ryo—through the pleasure and release of sex.  Until then, Ryo was sure he would be ignored, or at least treated no differently than the rest of their little clan of warriors.

Ryo could hear someone coming down the stairs and he turned to look through the doorway connecting the living room to the foyer.  He ignored the noise made by  Kento and Rowen arguing over something in the kitchen and tried to figure out who it was on the stairs based on the sound of his footsteps.  Cye? He thought.

Whichever Ronin it was paused just before stepping off the bottom rise and into the foyer.  Then Cye’s soft and cultured voice called out, “Why is it that I smell vodka at 8 o’clock in the morning?”

Kento answered with just one word, “Rowen!”

Cye padded into the living room, barefoot and wearing a threadbare white T-shirt and sweatpants.  His auburn hair was ruffled and his nose was wrinkled as he sniffed at the air.

“Rowen, up early?” he said, his eyebrows going up as he came over to the counter where Ryo sat.

“No,” Rowen answered, taking out the flask and opening it up.  He picked a carton of orange juice out of the fridge and poured some into the flask.  “Up late.”

“Ah,” Cye said, ever tactful.  In a subtle movement, Cye put a gentle hand on Ryo’s shoulder and squeezed once.  Ryo knew his friend was being kind but he resented the comforting gesture because of his need for it and shifted away from Cye.

Cye didn’t seem to notice and he took the seat to Ryo’s left that Rowen had vacated.  He pulled the morning paper over and spread it out on the counter.  Ryo turned away; the only section of the paper he read was the comics—he got most of his news from the opening monologues of talk show hosts on late night TV.

As time passed, the sun shifted and bright yellow light splashed across the countertop in front of Ryo.  He stretched his right arm forward until his hand and wrist bathed in the light; it was warm and felt good.  He stayed like that for a few minutes, ignoring the rustling of Cye’s paper and the bickering between Kento and Rowen, concentrating instead on the one part of him that was warm while the rest of him was still hunched in the shadows.

Then there was darkness on his arm, too, as Rowen hopped up to sit on the counter.  He leaned down and Ryo was caught in the blue of his eyes.

“I think I’m going to go to bed now, Ryo.  Thanks for waiting up.”

Ryo opened his mouth to draw in a cringing breath and turned his face away, grimacing and closing his eyes against his shame.  He had waited up—all night, tossing and turning and unable to sleep from fear for Rowen—and fear for himself.

Rowen slid off the counter to the kitchen floor and sauntered through the doorway into the living room.  He passed Ryo without a look, walked barefoot over the flower-and-vine patterned carpet, into the hallway and then paused at the foot of the stairs.  He turned around and caught Ryo starting after him.

“You coming?” Rowen asked, eyes wide, seemingly nonchalant and indifferent to Ryo’s response.  Ryo felt Kento’s eyes on the back of his neck and noticed that Cye had stopped rustling the newspaper, but he avoided meeting their eyes.

He slid off the stool and let go of the counter—leaving behind the damp print of a hand—and followed Rowen.  When he reached the bottom of the stairs, the blue-haired boy smiled a little and started up the stairs, and Ryo came right behind him.

***