#demodicks

There are downfalls to big cities. Lack of fresh air, no stars, too much traffic, constantly angry people, and a startling lack of common courtesy. And, honestly, Bruce hated it. He hated the overwhelming anonymity. He hated the way the vastness of society could smother you without a second glance. He hated that when he looked up at the night sky, he didn't see the same stars he saw back home. He didn't feel the comfort of the blank darkness, sewn precisely with bright, twinkling stars, wrapping around his shoulders like a well-worn quilt. But the worst part of the city, Bruce decided as he drunkenly trudged around the packed bar, was the group of friends he found. Who left him alone at the bar. Again. Bruce leaned against a wall, pulling out his phone out yet again. Group Chat: Adam, Joel, Matt B: (1:42 am) Where r u guys B: (1:50 am) Wat the fuckk guys B: (1:53 am) U in bthrm or smthng ??? B: (1:55 am) assholes B: (2:01 am) fuucckkingg haye u rn And still no response. "I'm too fucking drunk for this." Bruce sighed, deciding to go check the bathrooms once more. He spun around, only to hit something with a solid thunk. "Oh, fuck!" Bruce exclaimed, reaching out a shaky hand to steady the other man. "I'm so sor--holy fuck you're gorgeous." Tall, muscular, light brown hair, and beautiful sky blue eyes. His type. Oh god, was he his type. "Uuh, you're pretty drunk, buddy," the guy said, amusement coloring his voice. "Got any friends with you?" But Bruce, in his alcohol-addled mind, didn't catch a word, too busy getting lost in the stranger's eyes. He laughed, "I hope you realize you're talking out loud." That caught Bruce's attention immediately. "Shit, yeah, yeah. Uh, my friends. I don't, uh, know where they are. Assholes ditched me or something." Bruce could feel the alcohol catching up to him, making him exceptionally tired. He stumbled back a bit, only for the stranger--handsome, hot, muscular stranger--to catch him by the wrist. "Okay, buddy, we're gonna get you home now." Bruce only nodded in agreement, allowing the man to help him to the bar. He zoned in and out, catching snippets of the conversation between the man and the bartender. "Lawrence--early--back after--driver--get Spoole--" "What's a Spoole?" Bruce muttered, his head lolling against the other man's shoulder. The bartender sighed. "Alright, Willems, but be back quick. This place is too busy for just me and Spoole." "Got it, boss!" And Bruce was blinded by his grin. "Fuck, I think I'm in love," Bruce whispered, too drunk to notice the looks on the other men's faces.

Bruce awoke from a dream about bright blue eyes to a throbbing, red-hot headache. He squeezed his eyes shut immediately, burrowing his face into his pillow and whimpering. His phone buzzed on his nightstand, and Bruce blindly reached for it, nearly knocking over the glass of water and the bottle of aspirin. "'Lo?" "Oh, good! You're still alive! How's that hangover, buddy?" "Uh--" Bruce started, wracking his hungover mind, "--who the fuck is this?" "Damn," the other man sighed, "I knew you wouldn't remember. I'm the bartender at the bar you and your friends went to last night. I helped you home." Bruce's eyes widened and he sat up quickly, groaning a bit when he upset his delicate stomach. "Oh, shit, yeah! Sorry, I'm a little--" "--hungover as hell?" The man laughed. "Yeah, I know. You gave me your number, so I just wanted to make sure you didn't choke on your puke or something." "Jury's still out on that one," Bruce muttered, taking the water and the aspirin. "What's your name, anyway? I don't think I asked." "You did, but I didn't think you'd remember; you were pretty far gone. It's James." "Well, thanks for saving my life, James. I owe you big time." James laughed, and Bruce figured that was the best sound he's heard in a long time. "Just doing my job as a responsible supplier of vices. Hey, I was wondering if you'd like to catch dinner or something this week. I'd like to meet the Bruce that's not drunk off his ass." "Bruce chuckled, "lemme tell you, he's not nearly as entertaining. And that sounds great. Thursday night, around 8? There's a restaurant right next to your bar we could meet at." "That sounds great, Bruce. I'll see you then. Take care of that hangover." And even after they hung up, Bruce sat in bed with the biggest grin on his face, thinking that maybe moving to the city wasn't the worst decision he could have made.

When Thursday came, Bruce was a mess. It had been a few years since his last serious relationship, and after that, he had been too busy building up his photography career. The thought of another relationship scared him, especially since his first impression had been less than stellar. So, he did what any self-respecting person would do-- "Joel, please! I don't know what the fuck to wear to this thing!" "Bruce, I'm at work! I can't drive 40 minutes to your house to help you pick out clothes for a date you have in eight hours!" "I need to make a good impression, Joel! I already fucked it up because of you guys! You owe me." There was silence on the line, but Joel sighed heavily. "I'll be there in an hour. If Adam and Matt aren't there, I'm fucking leaving." 

Bruce sat nervously at the table, his leg bouncing up and down and his eyes darting towards the restaurant door every time it opened. So far, he'd been sitting alone for 30 minutes, and the wait-staff have been shooting him sympathizing glances every time they came to take his order. He'd text James a few times, and got no response. Honestly, he was fucking pissed. Just when he was about to call Adam to pick him up, his phone rang. "James." Bruce greeted coldly. "Bruce! I am so sorry. I'm not standing you up, I promise! But, I have to cancel our date, I'm in the ER and--" "Wait, wait, what? Are you okay?" Bruce asked, gripping the phone tightly. "Yeah, I'm just waiting to be seen right now. I'm so sorry I didn't text you before." "Which hospital?" "Huh? Uh, Mercy, why--?" "I'll be there in a few minutes." "Uh, Bruce, you don't have to come down here." "I know, but I'll be there soon." "…kay." Bruce ended the call and dropped a few bills on the table for his drinks. He rushed outside, and hailed a cab, stating, "Mercy Hospital, as fast as you can." 

He rushed into the packed emergency room, about to ask front desk where James was, when he spotted him sitting in the corner, his head resting against the divider and his eyes shut. "James!" He called, sprinting over to him. James's eyes snapped open. "Hey, are you okay? What happened?" "Bruce?" James asked blearily. He gave him a half smirk, "What's cookin' good lookin'?" Bruce squatted down in front of him, placing a hand on the left side of his face. He hissed when he saw the wound on his temple, open, but now only sluggishly bleeding. "What the fuck happened to you?" "Fight broke out at the bar when I was leaving. Tried to break it up, but got hit with a bottle instead." Bruce winced. "Why are you still in the waiting room? Didn't an ambulance bring you?" James shifted, waving his hand as if to dismiss the comment. "Drove m'self. Larr couldn't leave the bar, so I said I'd drive. ER's pretty packed, y'know." He looked at Bruce through sad, watery eyes. "I'm sorry I missed our date." Bruce just sighed, "Jesus, James, I don't care about that! Next time, call me. You shouldn't have had to drive yourself." "James Willems?" A nurse called from the door. James tried getting up, but wavered, his head spinning. Bruce steadied him, keeping an arm loosely around his waist as he helped him to the door. As he settled him down on the hard, sterile bench, the nurse took a look at the gash. "It seems the bleeding has stopped, but you might need stitches. The doctor will be in soon. Any allergies we should know of?" At James' negation, she nodded and left, closing the door softly behind her.   Bruce cleared his throat. "Well, it looks like we're gonna have our date here," he smiled, glad to see James smiling back. "How long have you been a bartender?" "Eh, few years now. Came to California from the North Carolina. Lawrence offered me a job while I work as a freelance editor and writer. How about you? You said before that you were from the country." Bruce blushed, "I'm a pretty chatty drunk, huh?" "Better a chatty drunk than an angry one," James laughed, sending Bruce a wink. "Besides, it was pretty cute." "Shut up," Bruce muttered. "Came to the big city for more photography experience. I work for a wedding company right now." Knock knock "Come in," James said, turning to look at the doctor. "Hello, I'm Doctor Waller. The nurse said you may need stitches for that gash in your head. May I take a look?" 

In the end, James had received six stitches, a prescription for pain medication, and a diagnosis of a mild concussion with the directions of strict rest and no work for the next 3-5 days. As Bruce led a drugged James to his car, he chuckled. "What?" James asked as he settled into the passenger's seat. "Looks like it's my turn to return the favor," he smiled. James snorted, giving him the directions to his apartment and then resting in his seat.