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He thought it was strange.
A voice, a name. He didn’t catch it; had never caught it. It was always gone as soon as it came, fabric and toes curling in wind and sand.
That was okay.
It was once a year, only once a year.
A year, as measured in clocks, and he thinks he might’ve seen one once. The mantle of a caravan, secured with frayed leather thongs. A mule snarled. He thought of red wool blankets and the smell of dust, but from where he was he could only see brown and smell the heat.
Another, different, travelling man (for they are never the same, except Him) had once told him that the heat stank. Heat stank of the sun, obviously, then the sand and wind in equal measures as they are as one, but as you divide it up even further you began to notice other things. His grandmothers bread. Smelt of flour, spice - could taste it. Heat smelt of dryness, stillness, smelt of restlessness; smelt of stories. Could hear things in the smells, too, tomes upon tomes; scrawls translated into mutterings of unbelievable things from lands far away, where the sand was white and the heat retreated in fear and whimpered and died alone and shaking. Heat smelt of blood and betrayal, fights and unease.
Smelt of passion.
Every year it was the same. He would come by, pass through the town like so many others. Strange goggles, strange way of talking, but he wasn’t a stranger - he wasn’t a stranger to him. Definitely strange, no doubt about that, but he was so used to strange, and this man’s kind of strange was familiar. Comforting, even.
Or not.
His look was asking if this was alright, so polite. He wasn’t polite with anyone else, fought with everything. Snapped, snapped, snapped; started fights constantly; not fightfights with fists, but with words instead - him and his tongue of swords and fire, jitter jabber like a waterfall; like a-
“Jake.”
He blinked in response. Apologies and dates a mantra.
Stranger who wasn’t strange didn’t smell of the heat, though. He was the opposite to the heat, right, so he must smell of cold. But that was impossible, because he was not of the cold, and neither was he. A different kind of heat? He wasn’t making sense.
There was a hand on his thigh and he didn’t know whose it was, until the man moved it. Eyes of cattle - large, forgiving. Dark with blown pupils.
“What are you thinking about?” and the meaning was shifting as he shifted to accommodate him in return, and he felt bad. Once a year, only once a year, and he was fucking it up. He didn’t answer.
Instead, another stammered apology.
The man sat up and away from him. He would be leaving again soon.
-
It had started with his grandmother asking him to shoe the horses a few years ago. He was more than happy to oblige; he earned his keep, earned the roof above him that blocked out the stars. He was thinking about a story a woman had told him about a fish from the sky, sat on a stool and prodding a hoof, trimming and clipping and scraping out sand from joints and brushing, too, and then there he was, a shadow blocking out the light.
He said something and he hadn’t understood his accent, so he carried on with the cleaning. To him the man was another wanderer, and as much as he was interested and fascinated by the people that moved and roamed and scoured, he was busy thinking about the woman and her adventures and the fish. Didn’t know what he wanted, hoped he’d go away.
The man had told him he was doing it wrong.
He looked up at the stranger’s pointed goggles, felt offended. The man had smirked, folded his arms, leant on the stable wall; “Oh, you understood me that time?”
Didn’t reply.
Strode over to him, picked up the shoe and the hammer gently from his clammy fingers, did it himself. Watched his gloved hands and exposed fingers move expertly, artfully. “I’m a farrier,” he explained, answered a question he wasn’t going to ask.
Million questions, million responses - gotta boil down, trim out the fat. Thought about water collection; condensation; the funny things you notice on lazy days. “Really?”
He looked at him, then, and he could just make out the outline of his eyes through his lenses. Didn’t answer him, either - he supposed that that was fair.
He watched with a blank mind as the man worked methodically, not a peep from the horse. Finished too quickly, so he flashed him a doubtful look. The man smirked.
Noticed the man was no older than he was.
He knew that the travellers didn’t like to be asked about names, didn’t like to be asked about home towns, faces, places. So he never did. Always listened around the tavern and the fires, never spoke. Prompted every now and then, but never asked any important questions. No-one liked important questions, and they were only here for the night, but he was there for the stories.
Didn’t know what the man wanted.
The man was wearing loose clothes that were suspiciously clean. Sighed through his nose, like he was a horse himself.
Walked out the gate.
And then he was left in the thick dark of the shady stable, cool but hot. The man was gone forever, he supposed.
That evening he realised he had stolen his rasp.
The next time, he was sweeping.
It was a year later, when the hot season had come back around. He didn’t have anyone to pass him money other than his grandmother, so he relied on work. Market stalls, broom slick. Midday was the time everyone went inside; too hot to work.
They called him crazy for continuing. Begged him to come inside.
He preferred working in the day. Could get lost in his head too easy, liked heat to beat on his dark skin and beat on his mind. This time he was thinking of a man who had told him about his fortune and the rich markets in the south. Thinking of gold and silver and jewels and smiling and-
He startled at the touch to his shoulder, spinning around, wary of the offender.
“Hey,”
He had licked his lips, throat dry from thirst, before looking either way and back. Straightened the broom, leant on it.
The man’s head tilted to his torso, which was open due to the heat. Silence, and he felt his face flush, then a smirk. A comment. He was sure he recognised that smirk but his mind was popping up red flags and he was stammering and laughing nervously at the man’s forwardness. Redirected the conversation and popped the question of familiarity.
Then he was rummaging in his bag and brought out his grandmother’s rasp, with a small smile.
Expressing gratitude with a grin.
“You work here?”
A nod.
A small break as he looked around. Asked for a name.
“Jake English.”
“Cute.”
Blinking and laughter again. The man didn’t laugh.
He asked for his name, in return. He said it.
Jake forgot it within two minutes.
In the year that passed, he had thought of the man exactly three times. Once was offhandedly, while shoeing the horses. The next was when a nomad passes through the market selling goggles. The third was in a dream.
He couldn’t remember what the dream was about, except darkness and warmth, but he had woken up with an uncomfortable tension in the pit of his stomach that wasn’t entirely pleasant.
The third time was when he was sat by the fire another year later.
Some idiot had thrown some bad wood on it and as a result it was belching out thick smoke. It didn’t deter the conversation though, and as usual the stars cast their gazes down from their high council and the flames lapped the feet of the elders. Words flew like embers themselves and he had felt himself lulling off to sleep, warm with the balm of the voices.
Someone sat next to him and he glanced at them, content.
Upon recognising the glint off familiar triangular goggles, he broke into a grin, which the man reciprocated. A whisper. “Life treating you well, English?”
He had suddenly felt giddy. He forgot about listening the stories of the other travellers, instead favouring an excited and muted conversation. His grandmother had shot him a look, smiling, and knowingly asked him to run home and fetch something. He knew what she was suggesting as he stood up and walked away from the fire.
The man joined him.
He took off his goggles and grinned at him, and he had felt his stomach flutter.
They had another conversation, about nothing in particular and traded stories of their own like it was a currency. He offered him a drink, he refused. Asked for his name again.
He rummaged around in his bag, in the half light of the night and the lantern on the table, and he thought that this man might be his friend. He was certain of this when the man drew out a strange, metal trinket about the size of his hand. Upon questioning, the man replied he had made it.
He had asked him, then, if he had always been in this village. He had replied with a yes. He had looked away thoughtfully. He had asked him how long he had been travelling, forgetting the rules of never mentioning such a thing, and it was no surprise when he just shrugged and put his goggles back on, quiet.
He asked him why they were triangular, to which the man’s mood changed and he replied with glee and said something confusing about perfect triangles and mathematics and ancient philosophers.
His head had hurt.
He woke up the next morning and the man was gone, and his head hurt again, but it was a different kind of hurt.
The next year saw lots of thoughts, too many thoughts. Stopped thinking about stories as much. Whenever he thought about the stars or the mountains in the distance he thought of the man and if he would think the same thoughts. Or different ones, probably different ones. He wanted to know what they were, he found himself wanting his opinion on everything. Wanted to know his story. One conversation hadn’t been enough.
Distracted. Couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t work. Felt impaired. Didn’t understand why he was experiencing this, knew this man to be a stranger, kept quiet about his turmoil.
He felt wrong when he touched himself and thought of golden eyes in the half light, the hands of a man who knew how to shoe horses properly.
Found himself sitting quietly in the early hours of the morning, holding the weird clump of metal from the man’s satchel.
His neighbour was a lovely girl, and when her father suggested he and her marry, he felt lost and confused. His grandmother had stepped in, and he had cried and thanked her.
Coincidentally, he and the girl became good friends, even moreso than before. And although he missed the man with all his heart, sometimes he forgot him when he was with her. And that was okay, he thought.
All through the summer, he was on tenderhooks. Waited anxiously, as the sun caused the sky to shake, blended blue and orange, sand and sky.
The season passed, but he didn’t show.
The next year was of no importance. Spent it feeling empty, lost.
The next time was in the storm season. Could feel dust under his tongue, there was mist in the mornings. Was absentmindedly petting his grandmothers dog and watching the sunrise, crosslegged. The dog wheezed and wagged its tail lamely, it was getting old.
And then he was there, as if he had been the entire time.
He had forgotten his name again, he realised.
The man wasn’t looking at him, he was looking at the sunrise. He turned his head to follow his gaze and it was quiet as the man sat down with him and they watched it together. The dog wandered off and he let it.
He can’t remember what he was thinking of, as the sky turned pink then yellow then white and started to turn blue, except that it was deep and philosophical and probably irrelevant to everything.
“Jake?”
He turned to him, and saw a great sadness.
Without thinking he wrapped his arms around the man. Was aware that he had never really touched him, felt a familiar flutter. The man hugged him back tightly, had buried his head into his shoulder, mumbled something. Sounded like something sincere.
Leant back after his leg had started to ache, and was surprised to find the man’s lips on his. Kissed him back nervously, gently.
The man broke away, looked scared and apologetic.
He kissed him, much to the shock of the man, and smiled. Felt him smile too.
They had risen and walked to the shrubby dunes a mile away, laughing and talking, and kindled a fire and drunk strange orange beverages from his flasks.
Spent the day trading words.
They had returned to his house in the late night.
He had begged him to stay. He had shaken his head, told him he had to go with a voice that said the opposite, so he had kissed him again on impulse and panic. Dragged him inside his house, in the dark, ran his hands up and down his sides and begged him.
Pulled him over him.
-
“What are you thinking about?” and the meaning was shifting as he shifted to accommodate him in return, and he felt bad. Once a year, only once a year, and he was fucking it up. He didn’t answer.
Instead, another stammered apology.
The man sat up and away from him. He would be leaving again soon.
“You never told me your surname,” he choked out. Needed to cement his name, why couldn’t he remember it?
He looked at him again, with his dark eyes and smiled softly. “Dirk Strider.”
“Cute,” he whispered, smiling back.
Sat beside him on his small bed. Dirk sat beside him on his bed. Dirk. His name was Dirk. Why had he never been able to remember the name? Dirk, Dirk, Dirk. He put a hand on his thigh. Dirk’s thigh. Jake put a hand on Dirk’s thigh. Shot him the same polite look.
Dirk kissed him, kissed him with the same intensity of which Jake had in the doorway five minutes previous. Or maybe five years previous. Wasn’t sure, it seemed like an age.
Supposed that right here and right now was timeless and thus outside of time and maybe space itself maybe this was a dream?
He was getting deep again; he really needed to stop with that.
Then Dirk - god what a name, god what a good name, because that’s what he was, he was Dirk in essence with his once-a-year appearances and stupid attitude and ridiculous remarks and bloody irony and stupid devilfucking triangular goggles I mean who really wears friggin triangular goggles, and he was Dirk. The man who pulled him on top of him was Dirk. The man who let him leave light and not so light kisses down his neck was Dirk. The man who had once commented on his torso in the market and the midday sun was Dirk, the very same Dirk who was writhing and - oh god - whining his name in return, voice leaden in his ear, laced with apologies of his own and neediness.
Jake thought it was funny, how a name could be a whole person.
And the next morning, the man wasn’t gone. Dirk wasn’t gone, because he was next to him and breathing and asleep and didn’t look real.
Jake had remembered his name, and he thought that that was strange.
“Yeah?”
“Can I come with you?”
Ricochet. A brush of lips to cement an answer.
They left the day after the next.