We Could Be The Embers
His mind burrowed deeper, allowing himself to sink into the feel of him, if only for a moment: Abe imagined those graceful fingers tracing the ridgeline of his bare hip, Robert’s gaze darkening with want. What would he look like? Hungry and unlaced from the confines of his daytime self? What would Robert look like when he begged for what he wanted?
Abe’s thoughts startled him, and he sucked in a breath, eyes shooting open. He stared into the blazing fire, unseeing and slowly forcing himself back to reality. A withered laugh rose up in his chest and Abe squeezed his fist to keep from throwing the rum into the flames. His pathetic daydreams were futile and would bring him nothing but madness and frustration. He glowered at the bottle in his hand and then roughly set it down on the table, staring at it as if it had caused some unforgivable offense.
All of a sudden, Abe felt a draft assault the side of his body, making him shiver as the door blew open with the wretched winter wind. Standing in the doorway to the frosty night, stood Robert. He was cloaked in gray wool, hand still resting on the door warily. His cheeks were slightly wind-burned and wisps of straw colored hair were blown about his face from where his braid was pulled back underneath his wideawake hat. Abe felt his ears burn and the hair at the back of his neck stand on end at the sight of him, terrified Robert heard what he had just been thinking.
“Oh, hello-” Abe breathed, straightening his back and stuffing his hands in his pockets.
“Good evening, Woodhull,” Robert greeted him solemnly, glancing about the room. Abe twitched under his scrutiny and shifted his weight, feeling awkward.
“You’re here,” he announced stupidly.
“So I am."
Robert entered the room and shut the door. He looked cautious, like a caged animal that could be spooked with one wrong movement. He eyed the fire, and the bottle of rum, then the unmade cot in the corner, then settled his unforgiving scrutiny on Abe’s face.
