The Floating World

Authors' note. This is a collaborative story by Electricblue66 and

Jason Clearwater

. We have each taken one of our previously established characters and brought them together in a combined world, writing turn and turn about with no pre-conceived plot. The result is quite unexpected...

"Hey, Ruth, how are you? It's been a while, hasn't it?"

"Adam. Where have you been?"

"Got a new job, working from home. I only need to come into town for regular project meetings now. Can I have my usual, sit in?"

Adam handed Ruth the right money and scanned the loyalty card. Forty-five points, free coffee one after the next.

"Is Vanessa here? Oh, there she is, hiding around the other side."

Adam stepped away from the counter.

Ruth watched him, and smiled at the look of delight on Vanessa's face as she saw Adam.

The younger woman put down the plates she was carrying, and moved around into the public space and into Adam's open arms, reaching her arms up around his neck, reaching up for a kiss.

"Hello darling, did you miss your Adam?" He lifted Vanessa off her feet, and spun her around once, his arm right around her tiny waist.

"Adam, yes. You went away too long." Vanessa touched his arm, and it was her shy possession of him. Her eyes were black, and Adam adored her.

He took a step back, and bumped against the person standing next in line behind him.

"Sorry mate, public display of affection! I haven't seen this lovely girl for months."

He placed his fingers against Vanessa's cheek in recognition of her, before turning to the young man he'd stumbled against, to apologise properly.

As was his way, Adam touched his fingers to the other guy's shoulder as if to make sure he still had his balance. Instinctively though, he was warning anyone else away from Vanessa. For this fifteen seconds, it was her moment. And his.

"No, that's okay, I dodged. But thanks."

Adam was close enough to the guy to breathe in the fresh scent of a lemon scented shampoo and to register dark eyes with long lashes, almost hidden by a long fall of dark hair. He was slender, pale.

Adam glanced down and noticed black painted fingernails. Amanda's voice flashed through his mind,

"Anthony wore black."

With a jolt, the memory of Anthony's slim cock, the taste in his mouth, stilled his mind and hung there, a perfect moment.

Time started, and the moment stopped.

"Ah, OK, good. I won't be so clumsy next time, sorry again."

Adam turned away and headed for a small table by the window, grabbing a newspaper as he went to wait for his coffee. Vanessa would bring it, and again touch his arm.

Ruth took the young man's order. She too was taken by his casual beauty, and noticed his glance towards Adam.

That man,

she smiled to herself.

I should bottle him, I'd get rich.

A minute later, Vanessa brought Adam his coffee, and he charmed her. Ruth chalked up an imaginary sale.

After a few minutes of idle concentration on headlines in the paper and sipping at the coffee, Adam looked up and around the cafe. He knew he was being watched, casually, from a distance. He looked for single women in the room, or someone bored with her friend's same chatter, but couldn't see anyone hiding glances. He shook his head to clear whatever lingered; thought no more of it, and returned to the paper.

Five minutes later, he was done. Adam got up and moved towards the door, dropping the paper back to the rack. "See you next week, Ruth. Same time."

"Yes. Bye, Adam. See you."

He stepped outside and paused, looking up to the sky, seeing the sharpness of leaves in a tall tree in the square. He walked towards the trams.

* * *

Jesse sat near the counter, his eyes cast down at his laptop as he worked on his latest piece. This one had to sell. If it didn't, he was royally fucked, and he'd be looking to crash on someone's couch again... and he'd be hard pressed to find a couch where he hadn't already worn out his welcome.

He felt a tug in his gut and looked up. That guy who'd bumped into him in line. Who the hell

was

that guy? In his late forties, or an incredibly well preserved early fifties, he had some kind of George Clooney effect on the girls behind the counter. The way they looked at him... if girls looked at Jesse that way, he hadn't noticed. It was the black nail polish. Maybe it was time to stop wearing it.

Jesse glanced down at his screen again, a lump in his throat. What the fuck

was

that? That... feeling. In his gut. Some kind of weird magnetic pull to the man staring intently at his newspaper instead of at an iPad, or his phone. It gave him a retro charm, a chic. An I-don't-know-fucking-what.

Jesse, fuck's sake, concentrate.

But he couldn't. It was the lemon-scented crap he'd borrowed from his flatmate. Usually he'd have used OGX Vitamin E shampoo from the supermarket—the scent calmed him, helped him concentrate—along with his hair worn long, to block out humanity while he worked. A scented curtain of privacy, even as he craved the company of strangers, surrounding himself with them while he wrote. It was his paradox; the compelling urge to hide, and the desperate desire to be seen.

But this morning he'd run out of OGX—a cataclysmic moment of carelessness, brought on by the lingering chest infection that'd laid him low for days—and there was no way he was going to leave the house without washing his hair. That was the routine, and the routine was sacred.

He paused typing, and twisted the lightweight leather band on his wrist. It was a calming gesture that brought him back, helped him ground himself.

You're here, you're now. This is happening.

He threw down another paragraph, concentrating on structure over word count, knowing his career, the roof over his head, and the ability of his dented ego to recover from his recent rejections, all relied on getting this right.

Only four years out of University, and with a father convinced his son had chosen a dead end career, he couldn't fail so soon. Couldn't give everyone around him the satisfaction of being right.

Concentrate!

But it was no use. He couldn't keep his mind on his work. He glanced up as a chair scraped back and saw the enigmatic stranger had gotten to his feet.

As Clooney of the Coffee Shop dropped the paper back onto the rack and said goodbye to the staff, Jesse felt a twitch in his gut. It wasn't something he felt often, but when he felt it, he never, ever ignored it.

"See you next week, Ruth. Same time," said the man.

"Yes. Bye, Adam. See you."

Adam. His name's Adam.

Jesse forgot himself and watched brazenly as Adam said his goodbyes to the enchanted women of coffee, and made for the door. There was a grace to his movements, to the way he held himself.

He's hot.

Oh, God, let that not be what he felt. The last thing he needed was to fall for another straight, emotionally unavailable guy.

He touched you.

The breath caught in Jesse's chest. He put a hand to his shoulder where Adam's hand had fallen. For a moment he'd felt the man go inside himself, and in that moment, he'd thought he'd felt a warmth. As if this stranger had noticed him.

Why would he? Don't kid yourself. He's a nice guy, but he's already forgotten you exist.

Jesse watched with dark eyes as Adam stopped on the pavement outside the coffee shop and looked up. Jesse watched him pause and realised—

He's doing what I do. He's seeing how sharp the leaves look against the sky. Every time. I do that every time I step outside.

Something about the Australian sky made everything so much more vivid. In Bristol, the best you could hope for most of the time was a pale imitation of the sky here, which was blue and wide and went on forever.

Jesse watched as Adam headed towards the tram stop and something in him snapped. There was a story here. There were words in this man. Whatever his story was, Jesse knew instinctively he had to hear those words.

He closed his laptop and shoved it into his bag, then gulped the last of his coffee down.

He's not going to let some gothed up weirdo interview him.

No. Probably not. But if they had the same routine, maybe Jesse could get to know him, get to know his story. Could find out what made this man so magnetic. Could tease out his words and in doing so, revive his own failing career.

Yeah, your career.

He glanced down at his clothes, and winced at his own bad judgement. At least he wasn't in leather today. But black skinny jeans and a Muse t-shirt with a black canvas jacket thrown over the top, didn't scream 'professional journalist'.

He realised Adam had left him behind and hurried for the door, the laptop bag slung over his shoulder.

* * *

Adam strolled casually down the wide footpath, in no hurry. The crossing light at the next corner was flashing red, so he sped up the last few steps to at least be on the road by the red. As he reached the middle of the road, he heard a soft exhalation behind him,

"Fuck, too slow."

Reaching the other side, cars starting to move now, Adam looked back to see the young guy he'd bumped into while dancing with Vanessa. His hand was on the pole holding the walk button, and Adam heard, even over traffic noise, the click of the button being pressed. No, it was the echo call of the walk button on his side of the street.

Adam held the young guy's look for a moment. It was mostly a subconscious thing, but Adam had learned over his years the primal memories of a hunt, that first prickle on the back of his neck that meant she was watching; and his mind flashed back to that moment in the cafe when he looked up and felt it. The watcher, waiting.

Adam always thrilled when he felt it; it meant, sooner or later, a shadow would fall over him, and he would look up, or glance across, and see her eyes gazing down at him, or the tight curve of skirt at the base of her belly.

He was confused though. There were no watching women in the cafe when he first felt it (and he was between women, but wasn't watching). Now, the only held gaze was from the boy on the other side of the road. Adam shook his head to clear the feeling, and turned down the street. Ten metres on, he turned again into a small lane, and the traffic noise from the street dulled as he walked on. He brushed his fingers over the soft silver of his beard, enjoying the tactile feel. Adam walked on.

Nothing happened that day, just another day in the city.

* * *

Adam strolled casually down the wide footpath, in no hurry. The crossing light at the next corner was flashing red, but he couldn't be bothered hurrying. He slowed to a halt just as the walk sign turned red.

Adam leaned up against the post, and lazily punched the walk sign, then laughed aloud. He remembered his seduction of Amanda, his seduction by Amanda, started at this walk sign.

What kind of a man do you think I am, Amanda?

Her hand on her hip, god, she was so alive. He smiled, remembering the vibrancy of the girl, young enough to be his daughter.

He turned, conscious of a presence near him. Adam breathed in the crisp smell of summer lemons.

"Hey, it's you. Mate, I'm so sorry for nearly knocking you to the ground back there. I didn't step on your foot or anything, did I?"

"No, it's okay, I'm okay." The boy's voice was soft, but was that a bit of a

fuck you

tone to it?

Adam quickly pieced together the bits and pieces he saw in front of him, and saw a statement being made. Long hair, silky black. A touch of make-up which didn't surprise him, given the black nails. Defiance from those eyes? Well yes, anybody as beautiful as this boy was—and Adam knew that no other word could possibly describe this boy better—anyone so beautiful would surely walk through the streets expecting asshole stares from most men, jealous glares from most girls, and unadulterated lust from...

"Listen, ahh... I'm sorry, I ahh... I noticed you back in the cafe, and..."

Adam instantly recalled being watched, that visceral thing prickling at the back of his neck as he sat, coffee in hand, the feeling that often presaged another woman. But this kid in his Muse T-shirt? Muse? Christ, Adam remembered picking up his sixteen year old daughter from a Muse concert at the Ent Cent. Still, no different to when Adam wore his Jim Morrison T-shirt the night he heard his dad had died, because it was the only thing he owned that was black.

Adam wondered if he knew any Muse lyrics, and realised he didn't. No wonder his usual radar was all over the shop. And why on earth did that flash on his father's death just happen, just now?

"Yes, you noticed me?"

That was you?

"Is there anything I can do for you?"

Adam looked down and saw the boy, youth, young man? twisting and turning leather straps on his wrists, in a nervous motion. Gabriela's fingers nervously played with the cuffs of her blouse, and her fingernails, bright red, matched her lips. Anthony painted his nails black for a goth party, and Adam unzipped Amanda's blue dress... Adam took Ant's slim cock into his mouth, something he'd not done for years.

Is this the way it happened, this time? Adam had grown used to strange things happening in his life, strange things beyond coincidence too many times. He'd learned to take it in his stride. But again? So soon?

"Ahh, yes," the stranger paused, and his dark eyes flashed,

"fuck, Jesse, just..."

Adam heard the low whisper.

"Come on, its 'walk'," he said. "By the time we get to the other side, one of us decides who pays."

Who pays the ferryman? Who pays the fat lady in the booth?

Adam walked on, another day in the city. A day when something happened.

* * *

Jesse knew the impression he was making was a particularly bad one and fought to find his inner mettle. It'd been so long since he'd approached a stranger, he'd lost the knack. But a skill once learned was never truly lost, only momentarily misplaced.

He found his voice, and as they reached the other side of the street he spoke up.

"You have a story. I want to know it. You have a story and I want to know it."

Fuck!

Repeating himself like a complete mental. What the hell was wrong with him?

Adam stopped and stared at him, with more than a hint of 'what drugs is this kid taking?' in his clear, clear blue eyes.

"I what, now?"

Jesse fumbled with the flap that covered the front pocket on his laptop bag and pulled out a crumpled card. He handed it to Adam.

"Jesse Clifton. I'm a journalist. I write for Vice."

It was nearly true; of all the media outlets he'd written for, Vice had paid for his dinner more often than most.

Adam inspected the card, then looked up at Jesse, no less confused. Jesse was violently aware that he hadn't dressed for this.

"Why do you want to talk to me? What do you mean, I have a story?"

Jesse stopped breathing, his eyes tortured as he struggled to explain what had drawn him to follow this man like some crazed stalker.

"Look, I saw you back at the cafe, and I... got the feeling. You have a story."

He paused, cursing his own confusion. Adam just raised an eyebrow. Jesse suddenly realised this was a mistake. A terrible mistake.

Adam opened his mouth to speak but Jesse steeled his voice and doggedly carried on. Too late to back out now.

"I've got a sense for it. I know... I know when someone has a story. I don't know what you've been through, but I know whatever it is, there's an audience. And..." he didn't let up, his voice growing stronger with every word. "I know you want to tell it."

He stared at Adam defiantly. To his surprise, the older man laughed.

"How old are you?"

"Twenty-seven."

Adam handed Jesse's card back to him and Jesse pushed it into his pocket. He could feel everything slipping away.

"So... you're what—some kind of street performer? Read people's minds, is that it? Do you want money? Because I'm telling you now, you want money, you can get a job like the rest of us."

Frustrated, Jesse stilled himself. Remembered how it felt to be powerful in himself, to be compelling. Before the accident that'd claimed his brother, and left Jesse's damaged mind convinced of shit like he could

see

people's stories.

"Look," he said. "Can I buy you a drink?"

Adam reassessed him, wary now that something else was going on, but intrigued... not afraid. Jesse could feel the man's presence, an undercurrent of something that told him this man with his steel, cropped beard and penetrating blue eyes could feel the nervous energy inside Jesse, his—

Attraction. Just admit it. That's what this is. He's fit, he's in command of himself, and you want to fuck him.

God. No.

As his brain tortured him, Jesse saw something in Adam's eyes. It was curiosity, he realised. Not jealousy, not disgust, not fear that some of Jesse's confusing sexuality might shed off on him and gay him up.

"Look," Adam said, "Kid, I'm on my way home—"

"It'll be worth it," Jesse said quickly. And just like that, in the light of those eyes that held no judgement at all, it all came flooding back. How it felt to walk strong in himself. To not be ashamed of the way he looked, to stand tall and own his space, the way his brother Nate had always encouraged him to.

'Don't look down,'

Nate would say, as drunk and football-hyped lads passed them on a Saturday night, their eyes full of dark and primal masculine judgement at Jesse's slim figure, his dark hair always worn down to his shoulders. His face.

'Eyes up, Jess. Walk through this world as if you own it. It belongs to whoever claims it. Why shouldn't that be you?'

It'd been all very well when Nate was alive. He'd scrapped and fought and broken his knuckles 'walking through the world' as if he owned it, but he'd made damn sure his little brother knew how to defend himself.

'Hold your head high and take a punch if you have to. But never look down.'

Jesse lifted his head and held Adam's eyes.

"A drink?" asked Adam. "Look, I have no idea what you think I can tell you that'd be worth publishing. You'd be wasting your money."

Jesse smiled, something inside him easing. It wasn't a 'no'. He could do this.

"Let me decide that. I buy the drinks, I ask the questions. All you have to do is tell me about yourself. If I'm wrong, if there's no story, then all you've lost is a couple of hours. But you might be more interesting than you think."

Adam considered him, and seemed sufficiently intrigued to take up his offer.

"Alright, but I pick the pub. No offence, but your—" he gestured to Jesse's general attire, "—suggests you don't know anywhere where your feet don't stick to the carpet."

Jesse grinned. "Sure. But let's take an Uber. It's easier."

He opened the app and held his phone out to Adam to key in the address. Adam entered it and closed the app. He looked from the phone back to Jesse.

"What's this?"

Jesse took the phone back. "It's... the music app?" he said, confused by the question.

"You listen to Led Zeppelin?"

"Raised on it," said Jesse. "My brother Nate had all their albums on tape and everything."

Adam smiled.

* * *

As it was late afternoon, the Uber was quick to arrive. It was a Beemer 730 that had seen better days, its black paint mostly polished, mostly glossy, but fading patches where the sun beat down. Adam smirked, guessing the driver needed Saturdays with elbow grease and the greatest hits from the seventies, eighties, nineties and beyond, to keep the dull paint from fading further.

Adam opened the curb side rear door, and gestured to Jesse to get in. Uncertain of the courtesy, Jesse hesitated.

"What? Get in."

Adam steered the youth lightly by his shoulder, and Jesse slunk into the car, fumbling with his bag. Adam smiled at the kid's gauche sophistication and his fingertips lingered on Jesse's shoulder, echoing his gesture in the cafe, before closing the car door with a thunk.