“Yeah, but I don’t like him. Donatello did similar things, only better. Botero too, but his art was more political.” I was proud of myself for speaking despite my floaty brain. I knew my way around art thanks to Nanna Ruth; she used to take me to museums and buy me art books.We need to put some art in your head instead of those damn scriptures, young man.
“You know a thing or two about art,” The Director said, for once not looking at me like an annoying fly.
“Because of Nanna Ruth,” I said. “I also studied a bit of sculpting when I was younger. My dad said it was for queers.”
“What were your favorite materials?”
“Hmm, metal and copper. Sometimes clay.” I raised my hands. “I loved fingering the clay.”
The Director let out a choked laugh, which he quickly masked with a cough.
Eliot moved his chair closer to me. “You never told me those things.”
I shrugged. “I’m full of surprises.”
“Eliot,” The Director said with a sigh, “I won’t take it easy on him. He’ll be treated like the rest.”
The rest?
“I know,” Eliot said. “Just promise to give him a chance.”
“I’ll do my best. Let’s proceed, then. And damn you.”
I was about to make it clear I didn’t want any part in this man’s productions, but before I could speak, Eliot told me, “Let me help you up.”
He led me into the house and onto the couch we sat on yesterday to watchA League of Their Own.He sat next to me, and I leaned my head against his shoulder, feeling deeply tired. Icouldn’t have sex with him in this state, but I was sure he’d wait until I woke up.
“You’re beautiful,” Eliot whispered, “and you are strong, so very strong.”
“Then why do you sound sad?”
He didn’t answer.
At the sound of approaching footsteps, I cracked open my eyes and tried to blink away the blurriness. The Director watched me from a chair, with two strange men standing behind him.
“Do you see them too?” I whispered to Eliot.
“I do.” He squeezed my hand.
“Will he fight?” The one who asked that was chubby, his beard messy, and his eyes small and unkind.
“He won’t fight,” Eliot said. “Let’s get this over with.”
Over with?
The bearded man crouched in front of me, smelling of cigarettes. I watched him numbly as he held my hand without asking for permission.
“I don’t like you,” I said.
He snickered. “Oh yeah? Don’t worry; we’ll have plenty of time to get to know each other better. I’m a peach.”
I had no intention of getting to know him better, and I was about to let him know that when a sharp pain jolted me. I hissed and looked down at the syringe in my arm. I gawked, too stunned to react. When he pulled the syringe out, a drop of blood slid down my skin.
“Breathe,” Eliot said, his voice far away.
“He… he…”
“Just breathe, Jonah. You are strong; I know you are.”
