Les Noyades

5: Song of the Open Road

"There she is," Yves said with a grander gesture towards the Commer PB than Rumi would have expected of him. "Betsy."

"Betsy," Declan repeated.

"I didn't name her. Here, let me help you with your bags."

Rumi stood back and watched Yves with a shy appraisal as he heaved up the three bags into the back of the van. Rumi had thrown together a bundle of clothes and a few bound notebooks– the rest of the space was dominated by his father's papers and books. It could hardly be expected that he would go anywhere without a colossal trail of papers behind him. Whilst he might have said that he wanted to spend time with his son, he never would; Rumi never expected anything of his father but the odd evening conversation over scarce dinners, or sometimes they would talk about spending more time together. That was the whole extent of their relationship, really.

Yves hopped nimbly up into the cab and Declan joined him in front, leaving Rumi to clamber into the back and perch amongst the luggage. Large pillows were crammed into the sides of the back and various blankets and throws were piled atop each other– evidently they would be sleeping in the van. He recoiled at the idea of sleeping beside Yves. It was not that he disliked the idea, but instead that he liked it rather too much. He settled into the brightly-coloured cushions and tried to pay it no mind.

"She runs off twice as much fuel as she should," Yves was saying in the cab. "Third gear isn't really there, fourth you sometimes get if you're lucky, and the maximum speed is around fifty going downhill with your foot flat down."

"We'll be hard pressed getting her to Scotland, then," Declan replied in humour. "Pull over whenever you're tired and I'll drive."

"Alright. Bien, away we go." Yves knocked the van audibly into gear and it crunched into action. "Everything okay back there?"

Rumi nodded.

"Rumi?"

"Oh. Yes." Obviously he could not expect Yves to have eyes on him at all times. "All fine here."

He decided to take a nap; he was not usually in the habit of doing so but, for the absence of any viable alternative, he crushed his eyes shut and did his best to sleep.

As his lids closed they provided a pink panoramic upon which his jumping mind could project its every wish– namely, he saw Yves. Yves in various situations, propositions, possibilities. Yves as a child running, yellow raincoat and thick green rubber boots, with a bucket and spade down sparkling white sands into the arms of an aquiline-nosed woman to whom Rumi deployed the role of Mme Luscombe. Then there was Yves at Prizegivings, in the little public school boy uniform all the undergrads had once worn. The headmistress was awarding him a prize for his athletic scope in long jump that year– he shook her hand graciously, and everybody clapped for the pretty French boy upon which they could garland their every desire for a child, and then he tripped descending the stairs and returned to natural turf. Also against this glowing pink screen was an image Rumi could hardly have conceived of had it not been for Culshawe's immeasurable influence.

It was the half-drawn sketches of Michelangelo transposed over Yves' body. Unclothed, all visible bar the twining ends of limbs. Rumi saw Yves with Clive, or how he imagined Clive to look, and saw him in all the situations which Forster had shown in turn to him in Maurice. He watched behind his eyes as Yves fell in love and was expelled and was ashamed and was abandoned and was in love once more and left for countries fresher.

These tableaux made him itch and squirm, which he prayed would be taken for the natural tossings of sleep. Still on and on he could hear Yves and his father in the front discussing their poetry back and forth until it morphed like subtle persuasions into a darker tune in his pleading head. The sudden flare of fascination in Yves' voice at the revelation of a new perspective on some stanza gave Rumi palpitations as it transformed mischievously into a passionate gasp; Yves' baritone laugh would loop in and out of conversation and Rumi would hear aching moans; Yves would do so much as even say a flat sentence and thus would a begging statement reveal itself in Rumi's ear.

His thighs were clenching and toes curling with the effort of containment, and he dreaded to think of how long he would have to wait before approaching relief. Days, his father had said, where he was not certain he could last minutes further. Mercifully, after two hours of practically foaming at the mouth, Rumi heard Yves mentioning pulling into the next town for an early lunch and a petrol grab.

"Are you hungry, Rumi?" Declan thought to ask– which was not usual for him. Having his students around made him a more functional father.

"A bit." He lifted his head up to watch out the windscreen and gauge their surroundings. "Where are we?"

"Bingham. Fancy a pub lunch, eh?"

Yves laughed for some reason and Rumi ducked back down into the cushions until the laughter had stopped. He knew that Yves would not be watching him whilst he was driving, and that his father hardly every looked at him anyway— by all respects, he was safe to do as he pleased in the back, especially crouched down as he was. It was only the shame of it all that kept him from doing so. The shame, and the possibility of relieving himself at the pub which they might or might not end up attending.

§§§

The Bird in Hand was a cosy, shambolic little establishment nestled far into the westerly corner of town. They bundled in as an eclectic-looking trio, although Rumi's blood was concentrated so far from his brain that he hardly noticed by this point. He asked his father to order him some food and excused himself with a haste that bordered on impolite— not that he had ever cared particularly for social convention.

He traced the W.C.s and let himself into a cubicle with his eyes switching furtively behind and beside him. He all but collapsed against the plasticised wall and lowered down the lid of the toilet so that he could sit on it as he deftly lowered his trousers. He was already fit enough to burst and he had to use one hand to stuff his sleeve into his mouth to muffle the agonised whimper as he lowered his other to touch himself. He was aware he had little time– his father would not notice how long he was gone until his return, but Yves would suspect his lengthy absence.

He closed his hand around himself and willed it all to end so that the edge would be taken off as he sat down beside the very person whose lips he was imagining against his neck now. The thought brought rolling forth a new crest of need and he quickly ripped some tissue from the dispenser into which he came with a startled cry. He balled the tissue up and dropped it with a breath of relief into the pan, which he then flushed away along with the burning sensation of want he had been suffering under.

He washed his hands and then found his father and Yves at the bar, Declan with a pint and Yves with what was most likely water rather than a tumbler of undiluted vodka. He sat down beside Declan, ashamed to seat himself too close to the man whose face had lingered in his mind as he came in the scuddy toilets of a pub. He expected somebody to remark on how long he had been gone; instead, Yves paid him no mind, turning instead to talk with Declan about the county of Nottinghamshire. Declan had plenty to say. Rumi simply slouched upon the stool in shamed, sullen silence. He felt quickly that rather than dulling the urge, he had effectively awoken it— as Yves glanced occasionally over to him, he felt himself renewed in his vigorous lust.

God, but what was he in for?