Swallows - Larry Stylinson

Chapter 1

"Mom....I need some ice"

"That's twice this week Louis" Her tone vaguely disapproving, though he had no real control over the spontaneity  of his nosebleeds. They had plagued him for years; multiple doctors assuring they posed no real threat, only slight embarrassment. A hand reached out the window with a concerned huff, bearing a plastic bag filled with ice cubes. He hung his head back in the motel balcony chair, allowing his mind to wonder as the ice numbed him; thoughts mingling with the soft light that shone over the beachside town as dusk settled. The peachy pastels of low buildings dancing with brushstroke clouds of like colors. It had become a ritual, spending evenings alone on the balcony with meandering thoughts each summer they came to town, vaguely bored but content in his mid-august stupor. He felt he could just exist on the island, rather than stoop under the radar, nose stuffed in a book, as he did when school was in session.

                                 • • •

He splashed cold water on his face then  buried it in a motel towel that smelled subtly of shampoo and rust before looking up to the mirror. His skin was tanner than usual, eyes bluer, lips pinker in the summer. He squinted at himself, then tilted his head back, and peered through his lashes, flaring his nostrils before relaxing the muscles in his face and furrowing his brow. The look of menace he'd aimed for had an unwelcome softness to it, the femininity of his features giving his face a girlish charm that spelled innocence rather then intimidation. He flicked off the bathroom light and face planted into bed, lulled by the chirps of crickets in summer air.

                                  • • •

He brought his tea down to the motel pool that morning, his mum still asleep in her room, craving the peace and welcome breeze of early august mornings. Once settled on a pool chair, he blew on the mug in hand, red lips forming a soft bow. After sipping tentatively, he laid his head back and let his eyes wander to the motel balconies, scanning the various swim suits and towels hanging up before falling on a figure leaning his arms on the railing, wrists nonchalantly hanging and shoulders slightly hunched. Their was a regality in his stance, the slight curve in his back, the angle of his head, the hanging of the hands as if carved from stone. Louis moved forward in his seat, allowing light to shine on the stone-like man. The sun glinted on silver rings decorating nimble hands, light catching the curls of the figures hair, which hung loose, framing a strong jaw, and the green of lash lined eyes. The silhouette stared into the sky, intent in his expression but also a blankness, as if he wasn't focused on what he saw but rather lost in some profound thought. Their was a maturity, almost intimidation in his body, the height and build of a lean but muscled man, coupled with the softness of his face, spelling youth and mystery. With no warning he moved suddenly, gracefully, turning on his heel to return to his room; bringing Louis out from his voyeuristic trance.