Author Games: Red Room

Task Eight: Zion Contreras

Sometimes even small noises can sound like screams. Like the singing of a kettle boiling, the quiet buzz of a doorbell, the creak of aching wood, or the cold space between lovers when there should be none.

All of these were present in the pale blue, two-room apartment where the sunlight barely filtered in through the blinds. The air was warm and stale, thick with dust and the hollow feeling of regret that boiled in Zion's stomach like a hunger that refused to be satisfied. He buried himself beneath the sheets of the bed, feeling heat radiating off of the body resting beside him but unable to touch it. Tammy's chest rose and fell with the ease of sleep, hair tangled around his cheeks as each breath escaped his parted lips. Zion adored the look of ease on his face when he slept. He was more beautiful than he had ever been before; and Zion felt his heart swell each time his eyes traveled over Tammy's sharp jawline and the way his eyelashes fluttered with the presence of his dreams. Still, he could not touch him— couldn't do anything more than look at him and look away in shame. In guilt.

Being beside the person he loved had never made him feel further from him.

"Zi?" Tammy's voice was a rasp called up from sleep, arm thrown over his eyes as he turned onto his side. There was a gasp in his words, almost a yawn as he struggled to pull his dreams back up to the surface of his conscious. "Will you get that?" he asked, and for the first time the metallic buzz of the doorbell ringing in the other room reached his ears.

Zion didn't answer, instead choosing to slip out of bed and let his feet touch the cold wooden floorboards. A shiver coursed through his body as he stepped lightly through the bedroom. From the bed, Tammy sighed in his sleep, content in the response Zion had provided. He treaded gently through the apartment, stepping through the kitchen long enough to pull the kettle off the stove before he reached the front door. The doorknob was icy in his hands when he twisted it, silencing the apartment's chatter in one swift movement as the door opened.

Snow fluttered to the ground from the outside, sending a rush of winter air across Zion's skin. On the doorstep, a man stood with a package in his hands, bundled up against the cold. "Iziah Ross?" he asked. For a moment, Zion only stared, the name foreign and unfamiliar to him. Lips parting, his tongue recoiled from the bite of cold that flooded his throat. "Are you Iziah Ross?" the man repeated.

At last, Zion blinked. "Yes?" he answered hesitantly as the man shoved the package towards him. Hesitantly, he let his grip on the doorknob relax, reaching for the box with both hands. His gaze never left the man in front of them, but beneath his hat and scarf it was difficult to make out more than the bridge of his nose and the glint in his eyes. He started to turn away, back into the snowstorm. Only then did Zion allow his eyes to dart to the label on the box in his hands. It was still warm, a floral design reading Jenni's Cakes marking the outside of the package. A box checked with black sharpie told him the contents were red velvet. "Wait," he called. "I haven't ordered—"

But the delivery man only waved away his concerns with the back of his hand, hopping into his still running truck before pulling away from the curb.

When he closed the door again, the chill in his bones was much heavier than anything the snow could have provided. Zion carried the box gingerly, letting it come to rest on the kitchen counter. The sweet smell of sugar and chocolate wafted up from beneath the cardboard, but he could not bring himself to open it.

The floorboards creaked from behind him. "What is it, babe?" Zion turned long enough to see Tammy in the doorway, hand tousling his tangled hair as he scratched at his scalp. The other boy stepped closer, coming to rest just inches away from the chills that spilled from Zion's skin.

Slowly, he shrugged, letting his thumb trail over the thin pieces of tape holding the box closed. Zion swallowed the stone in his throat, rubbing his fingers against the rough, scarred skin of his palm. "I think it's cake," he answered. He could still feel the heat of the stove from where it sat only a few feet away. Somehow, even with the kettle breathing steam into the air, he could not chase the frost from his bones.