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It was a warm and humid night, the buzz of stolen electricity coming from the lamps creating background noise that was as steady and calming as the inhale-exhale rhythm of Ricky’s breathing beside him. Their conversation had fallen into silence a few minutes ago and now they were just sitting, watching the plants on the table in front of them. They were growing – miracle of miracles! Julian could tell because when he went out and came back during the day, their leaves and stems would look different; different angles, different colours. Maybe Freedom 35 was going to pay off after all…
Shit, that would be good. That would be really good.
The condensation from the outside of his drink had run down and soaked a ring onto his jeans where it rested loosely in his hand, but he didn’t move the glass away. That would have meant leaning forward to the table and right now he was happy where he was, shoulder barely brushing Ricky’s, slouched back against the bench cushion. At this moment, they were the kings of all they surveyed: this dope, this trailer, and – if the curtains had actually been open to survey it – the park outside the window. Home.
After a while, he tilted his head back and closed his eyes, listening to Ricky tap his fingers against the rim of the ashtray balanced on the seat beside him. It was a meandering beat and he didn’t think it was any tune in particular, just absent minded clicking, punctuated every now and again by Ricky bringing his cigarette to his lips and sucking in. Pause. Blowing out. Julian wondered what he was thinking; probably something about Confederation or Animal Farm, or whatever else Grade 10 shit he’d been accumulating in preparation for exam time. That, or he was thinking about Sarah, or Trinity, or Ray, or even Lucy… Ricky had a knack for filling his life – people, things, events; he always had a lot going on.
And Julian? Well, here he was thinking of Ricky. He sighed. Always Ricky.
Then he felt Ricky shift a little, shoulder pressing closer; he’d turned to look at him, Julian guessed.
“Jules? You sleeping, buddy?” Ricky whispered.
Yeah, maybe. Dreaming at least…
He didn’t answer.
A few seconds later he felt the warm brush of fingers against his own as Ricky slipped the rum and coke from his hand, ice clinking on the edge of the glass when he lifted it away and took a taste himself. Then came the sound of the lighter flicking open as he got his cigarette going again and settled back even closer, body heat seeping through the material of his bowling shirt and Julian’s black cotton tee. Ricky smelled of smoke and hash and dirt; the right smell, not cheap prison soap, not nervous sweat. Julian chanced it and let his head come to rest on Ricky’s shoulder, smiling internally as Ricky just gently shifted lower to make him more comfortable.
King of something…