Chapter 1: Morning Glory and the Bare Awakening
The bedroom door banged open, slamming against the wall with a crack that vibrated in Dave’s skull. Harsh July sunlight flooded the dim room, outlining Patrick’s lean frame in the doorway. He was shirtless, jeans slung low on his hips, a sheen of sweat glistening on the sculpted planes of his chest and stomach, catching the light like oil on water. “Rise and fucking shine, Hercules!” Patrick’s voice, usually a lazy drawl, had a ragged edge to it.
Dave groaned, burrowing deeper into his sweat-damp pillow. The thin sheet was tangled around his waist. “Go ‘way, Pat. Sun’s barely up.”
“Sun’s been up for hours, Sleeping Ugly.” Patrick stalked across the worn rug, the scent of cut grass and warm skin preceding him. He planted a knee on the edge of the mattress, making the old springs shriek in protest. Without ceremony, he grabbed Dave’s shoulder and shook him. “Move your carcass. Today’s the day.”
Dave’s protest died in his throat as he instinctively stretched, a full-body arch against the lingering inertia of sleep. His arms went over his head, his back bowed, pulling the thin sheet taut across his lap. The unmistakable, rigid outline of his morning erection pressed sharply against the fabric, a silent announcement in the suddenly charged air.
Patrick froze. His gaze snapped down, then flicked back up to Dave’s bleary, half-open eyes. A beat of silence stretched, thick and humming. Dave felt the heat flood his face, a prickling wave that had nothing to do with the sun now warming the room. He started to pull his arms down, to curl away, but Patrick’s hand was still clamped on his shoulder. Patrick’s throat worked. When he spoke again, the ragged edge was sharper, almost a crack. “Jesus, Dave. Keep that thing on a leash.” The words were gruff, but his eyes held a flicker of something else – surprise, maybe, or… something Dave couldn’t quite name. It wasn’t disgust. It was intense.
From downstairs, a burst of raucous female laughter erupted, followed by the frenetic, uneven whirr of a sewing machine. It sounded like it was about to vibrate off the kitchen table. Then came the sharp clink of glass against metal, loud even through the floorboards. Dave recognized the sound instantly: wine glasses hitting the sewing machine head.
“Heather, darling, if you spill that merlot on the satin, I swear I’ll stab you with this pinking shears!” Dave’s mother’s voice, slightly slurred but infused with dramatic indignation, drifted up the stairs.
“Oh, relax, Margo!” Patrick’s mother’s voice, higher, brighter, equally slurred, countered. “A little wine stain adds character! Besides, it’s practically camouflage for this ridiculous loincloth endeavor. Who wears golden clasps anymore? Did you raid a museum costume department?”
“Authenticity, Heather! The flyer specified ‘Greco-Roman Chic’. Clasps are chic!” Margo retorted. Another clink. More laughter, dissolving into giggling hiccups. The sewing machine whirred again, sputtering.
Dave tore his gaze away from Patrick’s unreadable expression, focusing instead on the cracked plaster ceiling. The sounds from downstairs painted a vivid picture: his mother, Margo, determined and slightly drunk, wrestling slippery gold satin under the needle of her ancient Singer; Patrick’s mom, Heather, equally drunk, likely leaning precariously on the counter, swirling cheap wine in a glass destined to collide with machinery again. They’d been at it since yesterday afternoon, fueled by boxed chardonnay and a shared, slightly hysterical determination to outfit their sons for the ridiculous ‘Bacchanal Bonanza’ festival happening later that day in the town square.
Patrick finally released Dave’s shoulder, pushing himself off the bed. He ran a hand through his messy dark hair, avoiding looking directly at Dave. The atmosphere crackled with the unsaid thing, the sheet-tent still starkly visible. “Point is,” Patrick said, his voice forcibly casual now, aiming for the doorway, “they’re almost done. Downstairs in ten. Don’t make me come back up here.” He paused, hand on the doorframe. “And for god’s sake, Hercules, maybe… tuck that away before you parade past the Bacchantes in the kitchen.” He didn’t wait for an answer, disappearing into the hall, pulling the door mostly shut behind him with a soft click.
The whirr of the sewing machine downstairs stuttered and stabbed at the quiet. Dave lay very still. The morning sun felt suddenly intrusive, highlighting the dust motes dancing in the air. He could still feel the imprint of Patrick’s hand on his shoulder, the unexpected intensity in his eyes. And his own body, awake and insistent beneath the thin sheet, a persistent reminder of the awkward, charged moment. He took a slow, deep breath, the air thick with the scent of his own sleep, Patrick’s lingering sweat, and the faint, distant tang of spilled wine. Ten minutes. He shifted carefully, the sheet rasping against sensitive skin. Getting up suddenly felt like a monumental, perilous task.