Burn Me Like the Sun

I took another look around the reception area, lifting my tired eyes from the months-old gossip magazine I had picked up out of the stack on the coffee table in front of me. My only other companions in the cold room were a mother and her child quietly playing in the corner, along with the receptionist, who was filing her nails while listening intently to whoever was on the phone with her. The telly buzzed above me, the reception just shoddy enough that it would weave periodically between some news channel and static. It was basically what a Sunday morning at the dentist’s office would be: cold, lonely, and boring enough that I could honestly say a root canal would be more entertaining at the moment.

It’s not that I wanted to be there, I just had nothing better to do. I hadn’t gotten any sleep the night before. During breaks between trimesters, I would take advantage of the fact that I didn’t have classes in the morning, and I’d let myself stay up late to watch movies. They were usually dramas or action, as Fran could be woken up by my weakest chuckle at the opposite end of our flat. Crying was different, as were gun shots and swelling music compared to my annoying laugh - usually a bark low enough that anyone could mistake it for an old man with a pipe addiction. But my sleeping schedule would shift forward three, maybe four hours, and I would find myself in a routine that I could not break, even if I wanted to. So every time a new trimester would start, I’d down cough syrup and a shot of dark liquor the night before classes and hope to all things right in this world that my snores would be quiet enough and my alarm would be loud enough so I could actually wake up in time for class with a minimal hangover.

A light weight just like my father. At least that’s what I’ve heard.

I absently flipped the pages, glancing over the gossipy editorials and altered candids just long enough to glean that some reality star got pregnant, another celebrity lost a lot of weight then ate it back only months later, and some musician was caught gallivanting in Vienna with their ex. It was always all the same. And it all blurred together. So I tossed the magazine back on the stack in front of me and sat back in my vinyl seat, crossing my arms as the cushion groaned under my weight.

I could hear a man’s high-pitched voice carry from beyond the back door to the dental engines. There were a couple of loud bangs, as if someone was pounding on a wall, and then the door flew open. The force behind it blew more cold air over me, and a wave of gooseskin instantly popped up on my forearms. I rubbed the bumps away, willing myself to warm up in the chilly office more than I could with just a cardigan and jeans. Really, I had no one to blame but myself, even though it was only March. Doctors’ offices were always freezing.

I stole a glance at the receptionist, whose brow was raised considerably as she tsked the boy that barged into the reception area, nearly knocking over a lamp in the process.

“Steady on,” he told the lamp, holding it straight. Then he giggled, his laugh tight and bright like a dog’s favorite squeak toy.

His forehead was sprinkled with sweat and his eyes were bright and red. The grin plastered on his face was practically maniacal, even, and it brought out the winkles at the corner of his eyes. The striped shirt hanging over his shoulders was wrinkled and his jeans hung low on his hips, low enough that I could see the grey band of his briefs.

Obviously he was reeling from nitrous oxide.

His gaze soon locked with mine, and he broke out into an even wider grin. For a moment, I thought I recognized him, but shook it off. I’d remember anyone who was that fit.

“Hazza!”

“Hazza?” I mouthed, my eyebrows pinching together. From the corner of my eye, I could see the receptionist roll her eyes at the lad, who was now making his way towards my seat in the far corner of the room.

Apparently, he was talking to me.

He plopped down in the vinyl chair next to mine, the seat whining under his weight. His breath was haggard and uneven as he swatted at the air in front of him, his fingers dancing. Then he slumped back slowly, the sharp breath that left his mouth bouncing his wavy coffee bangs off his forehead.

“Any clue when Dadrian’ll be here?” he mumbled next to me, his words slurring together.

I sighed and leaned against my armrest farthest away from him, letting my chin fall into the palm of my hand. I decided to play along. After all, it wasn’t like I had anything better to do. And it could’ve turned out to be a riot, especially since I didn’t know him.

“Not at all,” I told him, quickly giving him a once over as he stared at the TV in front of us, his eyes glazed over. I could see part of what looked like a bird tattoo peek out from under his sleeve and uneven stubble grew along his upper lip and chin. He couldn’t have been much older than myself.

“Mmm.” He leaned forward, catching his elbows on the edge of his knees. He swatted again at whatever he was hallucinating, then sat back and brushed his fingers over his floppy bangs. “I could go for an almond butter and sardine sandwich about now. And tea. Don’t hold the tea.”

“Sounds brilliant,” I agreed, biting my lip to keep from laughing.

With a grin pulling at his cheeks, the guy turned and faced me, but then his mouth screwed up, dimples forming between his eyebrows. “Did you dye your hair, mate? Lou... Lou won’t be happy with you, Harry. She’ll flip a shit when she sees you,” he slurred.

Harry. So I finally had a name and a gender to put to whoever this guy thought I was. Though it made me a little uneasy to be mistaken for a boy, I only had to remember that the bloke sitting next to me was looking at everything through a reeling film of laughing gas. In fact, he was already back to swiping at the air around his face, his nose scrunched up in concentration.

“Fucking cunt bees,” he said, his voice taut and raised. I could feel the dirty look the woman across the room was giving us burn against my cheek.

“Had ya gob, mate,” I whispered, hoping he’d get the clue to shut up even in his preoccupied state.

“Stop it with the fake Geordie accent, Harry.” His voice was groggy and thick with saliva. “You suck at it.”

I snorted automatically. Smashed off his balls, this bloke was.

“You know, I can barely feel my mouth,” he said. I nodded, keeping my eyes to my feet. He was beginning to prove to be more difficult than fun, what with all the attention he was gathering. He sniffed and reached over, poking me just above my knee. “Wanna see what they did?”

“Not really—” But before I could stop him, he stuck his fingers in his mouth, his tongue poking out past his lips.

“Fuckin’ druulled my fucking pfheeph. Druulled like 50 of ‘em. Oi.” He winced and took out his fingers. A string of spit that had caught on his thumb broke, landing on his chin and dripping onto his shirt. The mother shot nervous eye-darts at me again, as if I were responsible for the tripping out adult sitting next to me calling me Harry, of all names a girl could have. Logic was clearly not her friend.

“Watch your sweets, then,” I said, shrugging.

He wiped off the drool on his chin then swiped his hand over his jeans. He gave me a dirty look, too, one that matched the young mother’s, who was now handing run-down crayons to her doodling toddler.

“Can’t blame me if I want a couple biscuits with my tea, Harry. For fuck’s sake,” he said indignantly, flipping his hand at me. His voice still shook the walls, but his words slowed down, his syllables becoming lazy and stretched out. Then his eyes got wide, like the fancy saucers my grandmother only used for Sunday tea. “Whoa, your hair, mate. It’s... It’s, like, all red. Did Lou mess it up? It looks girly, too. And smooth. You didn’t iron it, did you? I liked those curls, mate!”

He reached over and rustled my bangs, but I smacked his hand away before he could mess up my hair any further (not that it was hard to do, as I hadn’t even showered that morning). He smirked, though, a single corner of his mouth picking up. Something stirred in my stomach, but I shook it off, instead turning my attention back to the receptionist’s desk in hopes of catching a glimpse of the fancy dental engines behind her. Fran was bound to be finishing up. I was starving and I wanted to go back home so we could have breakfast, finally, even though I had snacked on crisps all night long. That was probably what had sent my stomach hurtling in the first place.

It turned out that the only thing besides myself that could distract this guy for so long was the telly. It had switched back to the news for only a minute before going back to a wave of static, but it was just enough to calm him down.

“Say,” he said, finally turning away from the telly and facing me. His voice was groggy and strained now, as though his throat was running dry. He reached down into his left pocket, gripping his armrest. His fingertips brushed against my arm, and my eyes snapped to his fingers lingering on my skin. As much as I wished I could’ve ignore it, the feeling of his skin on mine made the entire left side of my leg break out in goose bumps. He finally fished out a white iPhone from his jeans, unlocking the screen with one swipe. “Call Dadrian, mate. See what’s taking him so long. Should’ve been here nine hours ago.”

“And why can’t you?” I challenged.

He reached over and plopped his phone into my lap. “I’m fuckin’ tripping my balls off, Harry.” He grinned, his forehead wrinkling easily.

Ironic, I thought. I picked up his phone and locked it, tossing it back into his own lap, where it bounced between his legs. But he didn’t seem to notice, instead focusing his gaze on my profile. My stomach gave another slight jig and audibly grumbled. I returned his stare.

He was leaning on the opposite end of his chair, his chin set on his knuckles as he stared me down. His face was stony and his marble-blue eyes were still bloodshot, but they stayed trained on me.

Frankly, his steady gaze unnerved me. Easily. After a few silent seconds, which felt more like a few silent years with the way his periwinkle eyes were sharply focused on me, I finally croaked out, “What?”

Something dark flashed across his face, but it was brief enough that I tossed the thought aside. “Why did she have to go and do that, Harry?” He winced when his teeth clashed together, probably from all the pressure he was putting on his jaw with his chin sitting on his knuckles like that.

“Do what?” I didn’t want to pry, but if he was going to rant, there wasn’t really anything I could do to stop him.

“Fucking idiot.”

“Who?”

“Me,” he muttered, his eyes downcast. He massaged his jaw then shrugged, slumping over his legs and groaning.

So much for spilling his guts.

(Alright, so I guess I was kind of curious.)

He sat up quickly, his cheeks pink, then glanced at me again. But before I could even push him away, he leaned sideways and rested his cheek on my shoulder. His hair was soft as it brushed against my cheek, but then he readjusted himself and it got into my mouth. I had to keep myself from gagging as I pushed him off my shoulder, but his hand was clamped around my forearm. I couldn’t even remember how it got there.

“Em... Think you could find a different pillow? Your hair’s getting in my face, mate.”

He only grunted in response, so I lightly shoved his shoulder with mine. In hindsight, that probably wasn’t the greatest idea, considering he just had some cavities filled.

He cursed loudly, his choice words slurring together as he brought a hand up to rub his jaw where his shoulder had hit it. The pain shook him of his trance, and he gave me an irate look, his eyes narrowed, as if I had just pissed in his tea.

“What the fuck was that for? Jesus Christ, Hazza.”

Okay, so maybe it would take a little more than just a shove to wake him up. I guess I was thankful for that, seeing as it would be kind of hard to explain why I had just shoved a complete stranger hard enough to make him grind his teeth together, nearly knocking him over in the process.

He brushed the bangs off his forehead again and settled back into his chair, the deflated squeak making him giggle. I couldn’t help as the corner of my mouth quirked up. He was like a little child, except taller and, well, cuter. And definitely easier to watch after.

But my sad attempt at hiding a smile was wiped off my face when, in front of me, the door to Dr. Laroux’s office was shoved open. A tall man with a shock of neatly coiffed copper hair and a tangled beard marched in, his thick boots vibrating the floor under my feet. The bloke next to me turned in his seat, his brow wrinkled with confusion.

“Dadrian!”

Dadrian – at least I assumed that was his name, but I couldn’t be so sure since apparently my name was Harry – heaved a heavy sigh, running his fingers over his beard. His frown only deepened as he rounded past the waist-high wall of glass in front of the door to our row of chairs, his arms folded and flexed in front of his chest.

“What took you so long, mate? Me ‘n Harry—”

“Harry?”

My smashed friend eagerly nodded, pointing to me over his shoulder with his thumb. Dadrian’s forehead wrinkled so much that I thought his head would split open. “Hazza was polite enough to be here on time,” he slurred. “I’ve been waiting... waiting hours, Aide. Like, like eleventy of them.”

Dadrian only rolled his eyes, the corner of his mouth picked up in what I could only make out to be a snarl (though it was hard to tell with all that luscious beardiness in the way). “God, you’re more annoying when you’re smashed. I hit a jam,” he grumbled in a thick Scottish accent. He took a couple steps forward, reaching the two of us in what could only be record time, then reached forward, hooking one of his beefy hands under the guy’s arm.

“I’d really appreciate if you don’t tell anyone about this,” Dadrian said to me, his voice steady and low.

“What?”

The freckled fellow only gave me a pointed look as he straightened his smashed friend up, grabbing him by his collar as he staggered dangerously forward.

“Tell who, what?” I tried again.

But Dadrian ignored me, instead giving the guy a rough shove forward. He staggered over his own feet before taking the hint and making his way towards the front desk, Dadrian following close behind, his hand still clamped on his shoulder. The intimidating Scotsman spoke in a hushed voice to the receptionist, who shoved a few papers in front of him to sign.

“Think you could make me a sardine and almond butter sandwich when you take me home?”

Dadrian grunted and signed the papers with a flourish, effectively ignoring his friend, though he acted more like his body guard or personal trainer with the way he was treating him. Dadrian patted his shoulder then walked past him for the exit, shoving the office door open with his shoulder and holding it ajar.

But before he even reached the exit, my new friend turned his head towards my row of seats and caught my eye. A change came over his face, as though he had a sweeping realization, and he stopped mid-step, his hand poised on top of the glass wall.

“I’d give you a line, but I think I’m quite out of those,” he said, narrowing his icy eyes at me. “Anyway, I doubt it’d work on you. You look far too sensible for me to sweep you off your feet just like that.” He snapped his fingers.

I smiled. “That was totally a line.”

He shrugged, still smirking, and swept his unruly bangs off his forehead like a proper model. Dadrian reached one of his mammoth arms back into the waiting room, grabbing the bloke by his collar. His face went slack as he stumbled backwards, his arms flailing awkwardly and decidedly not so model-like.

“Harry! Hurry up! Dadrian’s ‘roid raging!” he screeched.

I finally let myself go, laughing behind the sleeve of my cardigan as the heavy door sunk shut after them.

It was only a minute later when I noticed the white iPhone sitting on the seat next to mine, the screen lighting up with a new text from “Mummy.” My eyes bulged as I reached for it, swiping the screen open with one brush of my thumb.

“Shit,” I muttered. The mother, still waiting at the other end of the room, cleared her throat, but I ignored her. I had bigger things at hand to worry about. Like how I had that guy’s mobile and I didn’t even know his name, for instance.

For a split second, I thought about leaving it with the receptionist to give back to the boy with the toffee hair once he was done thinking about sardine and almond butter sandwiches. But a part of me, the smallest part possible, wanted to see him again.

It’s not that I thought he was my soul mate. I wasn’t having some weird romantic fantasy building in my brain, how he’d be so grateful that I’d saved his phone from the slobbering toddler across the room that he’d ask me out for dinner and we’d end up snogging in front of my flat before I invited him in for coffee. I mean, I’ve heard of this kind of weird pull before; granted though, it was just in silly, fantastic stories. But he just fascinated me, and I could honestly say that no one I had ever met pulled me in like he did. I just couldn’t put my finger on it.

I hid the mobile away in my jeans pocket, trying to distract my brain from finding holes in my crooked and logically flawed justification. But I was lucky enough as the perfect distraction came sauntering through the door, uncharacteristically right on cue.

“They expect you not to bleed when they poke you with a pointy instrument. How twisted is that, I mean honestly?”

“What psychopathic bastards,” I agreed.

“Well, you know what they say about British dentistry.”

“No, actually, I don’t.”

“Never mind,” Fran sighed, waving me off.

I laughed, welcoming the feeling that spread inside my chest.

Fran held her jaw as she yawned, her eyes squinting shut. “You know what? I could’ve sworn on my great aunt Maggie’s corgi’s grave that I saw some guy in the corridor from that pop group, y’know, One Direction? The one with the floppy hair. Not the curly one. He’s fit as hell, though. I’d fuck him in a second. Oi.” Her words rolled off one another, like they usually did. Fran had a tendency to talk as fast as her lungs would let her. She shook her head, pushing some of her wayward blonde bangs from her eyes. “Must have been a side effect from all the anger I was holding back from Laroux.”

“Doctor Laroux,” I corrected. “My cousin deserves the title.”

“Aren’t you the one that just called him a psychopathic bastard?”

I bit back my lip, unable to spit out a comeback. Fran only smirked in triumph.

“Ah, slow on the wit, this one is.”

“Not usually,” I weakly argued.

She took the seat next to me, the same one that the gassed up bloke had been in, and patted my hand, all matronly. Only then did I notice that I had been strangling my armrest with a vice grip that paled my knuckles even more than they usually were. I relaxed my hand, finally, and stretched out my fingers.

“You gonna make me a fry-up when we get home? Fuck, I’m starving.”

“But I thought it was your turn to cook?”

She shrugged. “That’s debatable.”

I chuckled.

Fran did the majority of the dishes – really, the majority of the housework – so I couldn’t complain. But I felt bad sometimes, especially if she found her way into my room, which was perpetually as though a hurricane suddenly made its way to London and decided to defy science just for the laugh of traumatizing my room and my room only. It was always a mess. But every time Fran would catch me trying to figure out which bottle of cleaner to use on the loo, I’d remember that the tradeoff was that I was decent in the kitchen – more than decent, Fran would argue. In the least, I knew how to last us a week on just five quid. So it all balanced out. I lucked out on the flatmate lotto, honestly.

She reached over and poked my thigh. “What’s that? Your mobile’s not white.”

I looked down. The end of the laughing gas guy’s mobile was just sticking out of the edge of my pocket.

Fucking iPhone 5s.

“Em...”

“Don’t em me, Blake. Where’d you get the mobile?”

I glanced at the receptionist, who was busy filing out some paperwork, and dropped my voice. “Some... guy. He was high on nitrous oxide. Came in for some cavities. Kind of tall. Striped shirt. You didn’t see him ‘round, did you?”

Fran’s eyes bulged. “Holy shit, I wasn’t imagining things.”

“Imagining what?”

She swallowed hard, reaching over the armrest and tapping the white iPhone in my pocket. Her voice dipped down unusually low, her eyes still wider than I’d ever seen them before.

“Blake, I think you have a member of One Direction’s mobile.”