superstar tradesman

ii.

John's sucking at the flavored air at the bottom of the glass. He must be, because there's nothing there anymore. He doesn't take ice, just a little water. Tonight it's neat, straight from the bottle. Gale watches as he pours himself another. It's better at room temperature, he tells him, though Gale's never thought of John as all that picky.

Has he ever even looked at the bottle?

"Fifteen years old, Scottish," he reads, to prove a point. "Imported by the Kraus brothers."

"Alright, alright," Gale says, waving a hand down at him.

John sits with it. It sits in a smooth amber line at the bottom of his glass. Once, he smashes one up and fucks up his hand a little. Doesn't feel a thing, he tells him, smell of blood filling up the room. Gale stands on a shard he misses the next day. It hurts, but he chews on an aspirin while John feels bad about it.

"Reckon you'd be good at that," John says.

"Good at what?"

"All that pretentious shit. Notes of vanilla and candied ginger and sandalwood."

Gale's mouth is still sweet and wet from a slice of cantaloupe. The rush of whisky over his tongue is startling, but he does taste it. Something lightly charred and fruit. The taste stays in his mouth longer than it stays in John's glass, and he doesn't ask about it either.

iii.

The thing is, Gale fucks like a gentleman, but he wants to be fucked like a man. Most of the time, John's just happy to be there.

"C'mon," he says.

The flask is at his mouth, tilting towards his lips. It makes it easier. Makes it more fun. It's supposed to be fun, John says once, voice a little small, sitting at the end of their bed. Sometimes Gale doesn't make it fun. Sometimes he's plain ol' funny about it, like John's sticking his hands down his johns for the first time, and Gale feels like breaking every bone in them, for touching him like that.

He doesn't. Doesn't have it in him. Wants it, actually. Takes a few sips of whisky to take it easier, let John inside. Knees to the heath, face to the bark. John's truck is parked not ten meters away. Someone could hear, but they probably won't.

"They'll just think I got you drunk and easy for it," John says, on his knees behind him like a good Catholic boy, already anticipating the punishment and penance. Gale lets him.

iv.

It's called wetting the baby's head, John tells him. Marge has a girl. The fella sells dairy equipment around the mid-west. Nice guy, served in the Navy at the tail-end of the war. He comes back fine, without a penchant for sucking cock. Gale's happy for her. Gale's really goddamn happy.

"Bet you wish it were you, though," John says, antagonistic with a drink in him. "Bet you wish you had it in you."

Gale's used to it. John being mean on a bad day. His bad days are worse, and he doesn't need to throw a whisky on the fire to burn the house down. Instead, he just has it to finish the bottle. It's what his mama used to do. More satisfying that pouring it down the sink, or killing the grass out back.

It scorches all the way down.

"You want the last of it, you settle down and you can kiss me on the mouth," he says, and John will, that way he always does.

v.

Gale pours a whisky. The house is quiet. He adds a splash of water, like his daddy did, like John does. He sits on the porch, imaging kids, dogs, a fence he doesn't feel like shooting through in the aftermath of a nightmare.

Whatever hour John joins him, it's before there's even a promise of a new day. Just all black, without a moon in the sky. There should be, but it's cloudy. Gale imagines rattling about in them, falling out of them. He imagines John catching him, acting like it's nothing.

"Bad one?"

"Just the kid again. Pulled the trigger," he says, taking a sip.

John hums from beside him. He scrapes his chair closer. It'll leave a mark, but John will get around to painting it. It's a growing list to keep him occupied since his heart nearly packed in. He's not allowed a drink. Gale does it for him, if only for a taste.

+ i.

Gale splashes the whisky on the headstone.