Samhain Enchanted Evening

He clutched his glass of scotch like a life belt and watched his breath mist in the cold air. The night was soft, the kind of darkness that enveloped everything…so thick it was almost possible to believe it had mass, like velvet or silk. The various coloured lanterns and strings of star- and daisy-shaped lights that festooned the garden did little to really puncture it; in even the tiniest chinks of shadow, the darkness seeped back in.

“Hi.”

Matt glanced around sharply. He hoped his sudden intake of breath hadn’t been audible, but he wasn’t expecting the voice that rippled through the air at his side.

The man stood unusually close—closer than necessity demanded, because there was hardly anyone else out here. He wasn’t much taller than Matt, though his presence filled up the air, as if there was a great deal more to him than first met the eye...not that Matt had any problem with what first met the eye. He blinked and tried not to look like he was letching. Broad—stocky, really, though not fat—and dark-haired, his complexion just the healthy side of pale, the bloke had something instantly attractive about him, something that engaged the eye and encouraged trust. It made Matt ashamed of the small burst of annoyance he’d felt at being caught unawares, and he smiled awkwardly, a dark pit of embarrassment opening up inside him.

“Hello.”

The man grinned, displaying an even row of dentist-white teeth and devastatingly gorgeous dimples, like some kind of preternaturally photogenic fashion model. His eyes creased up when he smiled, and faint lines traced from their corners over the outline of his cheeks. Matt supposed he must smile a great deal, and then he was smiling too, but properly, not the gawky pretence at politeness that he’d first summoned.

“Not your bag, is it? This.”

The man glanced over his shoulder, back towards the house and the thumping music, the shrieking laughter and the occasional tinkle of broken glass. Matt followed his gaze then shook his head.

“No. Well, I mean—not that I don’t... It, um, it isn’t really, no,” he admitted. “I don’t know anyone here. Except Tony and Cathy, obviously.”

“Right.”

The man kept looking at Matt, kept smiling, almost encouraging. Matt couldn’t help but speak, just to fill the void. It definitely wasn’t that he wanted to gain anyone’s interest or approval.

“My brother,” he added. “Um. Tony.”
“Right.”
“I’m sorry...I didn’t catch your, um, name.”
“Ciáran,” he said, and Matt caught the slight hint of an Irish brogue he hadn’t noticed before. “And you’re…?”
“Matt. Um, hi.”
“Hi,” Ciáran echoed, and they both laughed, the awkwardness giving way to something that felt, for a moment, like intimacy, or at least friendship.
It flustered Matt, though he tried hard not to show it, a stab of anger going through him at this man who could cause so much consternation with just one simple look. The fact he couldn’t stop picturing what the guy looked like under his clothes wasn’t helping matters either.
“Special night,” Ciáran observed, tilting his head to look up at the stars.
Matt followed his gaze, seeing nothing much except the yellowish, opaque cast to the undersides of clouds, dulling the few pinpricks of stars he could make out in the city sky.
“Is it?”

“All Hallows’ Eve,” Ciáran said, still staring up into the muted dark.
Matt tried not to notice how handsome he was, the tawdry party lights sending slices of translucent colour across his face, and his expression all bound up with that strange, hidden melancholy. He seemed to be focused on something only he could see, or perhaps understand. Matt wondered if he’d run into a certifiable nutcase, but Ciáran appeared totally rational, totally…well, better than normal, in a number of ways.

“Right,” Matt said, inwardly cursing himself for not picking a better response. “Yeah.”

Ciáran smiled and turned to face him. “Would you like to go somewhere? Get a drink?”

Matt blushed. He hated himself for it—hated the way it took him right back to his adolescence and the first few agonisingly embarrassing times he’d tried to flirt with another bloke—but he couldn’t stop it. The heat just flooded up through the centre of his body, washing into his cheeks like high tide on an empty beach, and all he managed to do was work his lips around a small, pathetic ‘yes’. It was so transparent. His lust, his need, his emotions and desperation…and the nakedness of Ciáran’s question.

Matt recognised that as easily as he did his own inadequacy. It wasn’t what he said, but the way he said it. The look in his eyes—were they green or brown? The shadows made it hard to tell—the curve of his lips, and even the subtle lilt in the voice all said the same thing.
Come home and fuck me.

Matt had already agreed, even before he wanted to back-pedal and call it off. He didn’t do this; he wasn’t that type of guy. He wasn’t impulsive, or confident, or able to put off—for at least the time it took him to finish—the nagging fear that a casual partner he’d just picked up wouldn’t turn out to have something horrible.

Yet, all the same, every instinct and rational thought in his head currently meant less than dandelion seeds on the breeze, next to the absolute certainty he felt that this was what he wanted. This was right.

Nobody seemed to notice them leave. It was around eleven and, though things were winding down, the party was far from over. Matt followed Ciáran a little way along the street, supposing he had a car parked somewhere, and wasn’t entirely surprised when Ciáran turned suddenly and kissed him. Up close, he felt just as strong as he looked: muscular, hard...mouth insistent and enduring. Matt tasted him through the flavour-haze of the scotch he’d been drinking. Something like rain on cold windows and Irish stout, all mixed up together. He palmed Ciáran’s chest through his black t-shirt, the zip of the black fleece catching at the side of his hand. Breaths, tangled and shorn at the edges, mingled in the space between them.

“You’ve been sad for a long time, haven’t you?”

Ciáran’s voice softened, the words barely needing to pass his lips before Matt could hear them...as if they were sharing the same thoughts. He reminded himself of how ridiculous that was, but it grew hard to concentrate when there were so many kisses and so many new places to touch. Ciáran’s hands skimmed the waistband of Matt’s jeans, and he wondered—for one fleeting, terrifying moment—if he wanted to try and suck him off here, amid the privet hedges, streetlights, and parked Fiestas.

“I...”
“You have. I know. I can tell. But don’t be, all right? D’you trust me?”
“Trust?” Matt floundered, the edge rubbing off his desire. “I’ve only just met you. What—”
“C’mon.”
Ciáran moved away, his smile still so tempting, and walked backwards along the pavement. The uneven pools of orange light spilled over him in waves, highlighting him for just a moment before the shadows rolled back up around him, leaving just his face and hands pale against the gloom. A car whooshed past, and Matt flinched, almost as if it was a strange thing intruding on them from some other place, some other time.
He shook his head.
I can’t believe I’m doing this.

_____________________


Author Bio:


M. King writes vibrant, compelling fiction across a wide range of genres, frequently with a strong GLBT focus. She lives and works in a damp, verdant corner of SW England, within sight of a disused tin mine, and enjoys long, muddy walks with her dogs. You can find more about M. King, and the various other people she is, at www.flippedfrogcollective.com, where worlds—and authors—collide.