Rókus

by Edward Kyle Stokes

Chapter 2

A Proposition

Rókus woke with a start, the familiar light of morning filtering through his thin bedroom curtains. The curtains fluttered gently, pushed by a breeze that smelled of damp earth and fresh air. He was in his own bed. He sat up, the comforting reality of his room slowly sinking in. The previous night's frantic rush and disorienting colours felt like a bizarre, fading dream. He could recall the music, the smell of the club, Laren's touch, and the sharp cold of the night air. Then, the panic in the tunnel, and the bridge... The train's shriek echoed in his mind, and the memory of the swirling black water below made his stomach clench.

He got out of bed, his legs feeling weak and shaky. He walked down the stairs, the creaks of the old wood a comforting, normal sound. In the kitchen, his dad was at the table, a steaming mug in his hand, a newspaper held open in front of his face.

"Morning, sleepyhead," his dad said, not looking up from the paper. "Coffee?"

Rókus just nodded, his mind still piecing together the fragments of the night before. As his dad poured the coffee, he folded the newspaper and looked at his son with a warm smile.

"So, who was the friend who brought you home?" he asked casually.

The question hung in the air. A friend? Rókus' mind went blank. He remembered nothing after the bridge—nothing of getting home, nothing of who helped him. The memory was a dark, terrifying void. He took the mug from his dad, the warmth seeping into his cold hands. "What friend?" he asked himself, a chill spreading through him as he realised the missing hours, the terrifying blankness where his memory should be.

"Who brought me home?" Rókus asked, his voice barely a whisper as he held his head in his hands.

His father's smile was gentle. "You want a paracetamol? There's a packet in the cupboard." Rókus nodded, his head pounding. He grabbed a tablet from the foil packet, poured a glass of water, and swallowed the pill, washing it down with a few sips.

His dad folded the newspaper neatly on the table, his eyes full of a quiet concern. "A young man. Quite tall, nice looking. I didn't get his name, I was more occupied with getting you upstairs and into bed. You were pretty out of it. He just said he was a friend from the club and had helped you home. I thanked him and told him I could take it from there."

He paused, a faint wrinkle forming between his brows. "He seemed a bit flustered. Had this sort of panicked look in his eyes. Said fine, he had to go. Just left you on the doorstep, really. But he made sure you were upright." He looked at Rókus, his expression softening. "He was a good lad to get you home at all. What was his name?"

Rókus just stared at him, the half-eaten pill still a bitter taste on his tongue. The fog in his memory was thick, impenetrable. He didn't know. He had no idea who the man was.

After the turbulent weekend that had started with a desperate need to face the world and ended in a terrifying blank, Rókus returned to his job. He was a trainee manager for the local council, a position that gave him a broad, hands-on understanding of the city's different departments. For the next two or three months, his assignment was with the city gardeners.

Rókus liked the work. The sun on his back, the scent of fresh-cut grass, and the earthy smell of soil were a calming presence after the chaotic memory of the club. His days were spent alongside the seasoned gardeners, learning how to prune roses in the public parks, plant new saplings in the pedestrianised zones, and maintain the elaborate floral displays in the city squares. He was a quiet presence among the team, observing the way they handled their tools with practiced ease, their conversations a mix of friendly banter and expert knowledge. He listened more than he spoke, absorbing the rhythms of the work and the quiet pride the gardeners took in their craft.

The venture into the "outside world" of last weekend still felt like a raw nerve. It rested heavy on Rókus' mind—not just what had happened, but the question of who his mysterious good samaritan was. His dad hadn't seemed too concerned, perhaps chalking it up to a single night of youthful excess. But for Rókus, it was much more. He'd gone to a club for the first time, drank alcohol, and taken an unknown pill. The missing hours, the blank space in his memory, and the man who had brought him home, were like a puzzle he couldn't stop trying to solve.

The need to know who the man was drew him back to the club. He stood in the short queue, his heart pounding a nervous rhythm. Inside, the music was a familiar thrum, the air a mix of sweat and spilled drinks. He made a beeline for the bar and, finding Carl, gave a small smile and ordered a drink. He couldn't help himself.

"Do you happen to know a tall, nice looking guy who comes in here? Sort of my age, maybe a bit older?" Rókus asked, trying to sound casual as he gestured vaguely.

Carl just looked at him, a knowing smile on his face. He nodded his head along the bar and toward the tables by the dance floor. "There are a few. Take your pick."

Rókus scanned the crowd, a familiar mix of nervous anticipation and a strange kind of hope bubbling in his chest. He was searching for a face, a clue, a lead. He was so engrossed that he didn't see Laren approach until the man was standing right beside him.

"Well, look who it is," Laren said, his voice a low rumble over the music. He was wearing a different shirt tonight, a dark blue one that clung to his muscular frame, but the pale blue eyes were unmistakable.

Rókus' breath caught in his throat. He hadn't been looking for Laren. The memory of their last encounter was a hazy, terrifying jumble.

"Hi," Rókus managed, his voice barely audible.

"Don't sound so surprised," Laren said with a wry smile. He gestured to the drink in Rókus' hand. "No rainbow umbrella tonight?"

Rókus shook his head. "No. Just ice."

Laren's smile faded, replaced by a more serious expression. "I was wondering... what happened? The other night. I thought... I thought you wanted it." His gaze was intense, searching. "You came with me. I didn't force you."

Rókus swallowed hard, the cold drink suddenly bitter in his mouth. He looked down at his glass, then back up at Laren. "I... I don't know what happened," he began, his voice shaky. "I... I'm a virgin." The words came out in a rush, a quiet confession. "I've never done anything like that before. And... I don't really drink. The pill... that you gave me. I just... I panicked. I just wanted to go home."

Laren's expression softened, the hard edge in his eyes giving way to something that looked almost like understanding. "A virgin?" he repeated, a hint of surprise in his tone. He looked Rókus up and down, a slow, appraising glance. "I guess I misread the signs." He was quiet for a moment, the thrum of the music filling the space between them. "I'm sorry," he said, and the apology sounded genuine. "I should have been more thoughtful. I didn't know you were so... new to this."

"Want another one?" Laren asked, gesturing to his glass, a glint in his pale blue eyes.

Rókus nodded, his gaze fixed on Laren's lips as he spoke. Carl served them both, and as Rókus picked up his glass, he couldn't help but stare over the rim at the hunky man in front of him. This time, a pale blue umbrella was tucked into his drink. He toyed with it, his eyes roaming over Laren's broad shoulders and muscular arms. A pleasant warmth spread through him, and his body responded, a quiet hum of desire stirring beneath his skin.

"We could try again?" Laren suggested, his gaze intent. "My place is free. We can take it slow." He took a long sip of his own drink, his eyes never leaving Rókus. Laren had found his perfect type—slim, smooth, and boyish, with an innocent look and a firm little arse. The knowledge that Rókus was a virgin was a secret thrill, a promise of something he could control.

Rókus gave Laren his shy, cute smile, feeling the alcohol warm him and blur his reservations. Laren's proposition was becoming more and more appealing. Still, a last flicker of his original mission pulled at him. He took one final, lingering look around the club, scanning the faces in the crowd.

Laren noticed the distraction. "If you were meeting someone..." he began, his voice a low drawl.

Rókus's attention snapped back to Laren. "No... no one," he said quickly, his cheeks flushing. He looked at Laren, his heart thumping in his chest. "Sounds good," he whispered, a decision made. The search for a vague, remembered stranger was impossible anyway.

"Let's go then," Laren said, a satisfied smile spreading across his face.