Status: One-shot for ManEater's "Boys Will be Boys" writing contest.

The Indians of Bending Creek

Smoke Born

It smells like cinnamon.

That was my first thought upon opening the door. When I walked into the room, I was taken aback momentarily by how plain it was. The floor space, dark wood polished until it shone and then matted, was almost completely empty. The room was large, the far end of the square space the only part that was truly occupied. Two beds, their white sheets shining in the sunlight, nearly blinded me. Each one had a trunk at the foot, which sat facing each other. Two windows, tall and identical, were cut into the paper-bound walls. The wallpaper was pleasant; the colour of the latte I used to drink back in New York. Silhouettes of flowers, mostly roses, decorated the space near the floor, painted in soft grey against the light brown walls. There was one bookshelf, off to my left, almost hidden behind the door until I pushed it closed behind me. The heavy oak entryway was filled with a creak, and then a click as the door whispered shut. The room could have had a mirror running down the middle, so symmetrical it was. Beds, desks, windows - everything except for a 'Map of the Known World' which hung framed in dark brown between the two windows. Their starched white curtains flowed gently in the wind.

It was only early September, but the wind had already grown cool. A touch of frost was in the air, like a promise of snow. It caused goosebumps to prickle against my skin as I stepped into the room.

Well, it's not much. I thought wryly, raising one hand to scratch an itch on my neck. But it's home.

In truth, I probably wasn't giving the room enough credit. It really was pleasant, in a fresh, homely kind of way. The rain-promising evening sunlight which filtered in through the tall glass windows traced patterns through the dust in the air, dancing and swirling happily. Besides that, everything was immaculate - scrubbed to within an inch of its life. I was tired, and was still feeling slightly stiff from the sixteen-and-a-half hour bus ride; which, by the way, I hadn't slept a moment of - thus the tiredness.

"Big Brother's watching you."

I would like to say I stayed calm as the voice filled the room, deep and sonorous. I would like to say I turned casually over my shoulder to meet the eyes of the well-built, attractive man that such a voice had to belong to. In truth - I did none of these. Biting back a squeak of alarm, I nearly shit my pants. It took me a moment of looking around, startled, before I found the figure.

He was laying on the bed. I couldn't see him because he was wearing nothing but grey boxers, and his skin was the colour of porcelain. The sunlight on the bed sheets hid him until he moved, sitting up and throwing the book he had been reading onto the covers beside him. I breathed out quickly, focusing my gaze on him. Backed now by the sunlight, which illuminated him and turned him to a dark silhouette against the glowing background, I could begin to make out his features. He was a shorter boy, though I couldn't tell his true height from where he sat on the bed; legs bent, elbows rested on knees, face raised to meet my own from across the room. He had a strong jawline, and eyes the colour of ink. A brown, so deep they seemed to drink in the light and turn inwards blackly. A small grin touched his lips, mocking and playful.

As he stood, I could see his muscles rippling under his milky skin. He was taller than I had originally thought, standing to about my eyes. He seemed taller though, by the straight-backed confidence of his stance and the glittering nobility in his sable gaze. What really caught my attention, though, was the tattoo. 'Sorrowful' spelled down the right side of his body, from just above the nipple past his waist and disappearing into the elastic of his boxers. There was another, it took me a moment to realize. A target, like you would expect to see looking down the scope of a sniper; a circle, with a dot in the middle - painted over his heart. It was fancy, as though his skin had been painted by Da'Vinvi or printed by Shakespeare.

"Um." I muttered, not really knowing where to go from that statement. I wasn't even really aware that the word had passed my lips until the boy chuckled, his deep voice reverberating around the room.

"Well spoken." the boy grinned, stepping forward and reaching out one hand. I could see the muscles standing out in his arm, sinuous and powerful. The boy looked like an athlete, without an inch of spare fat on his tough frame. His eyes, however, were friendly as he offered my his hand. "I'm Jackson Howrath."

"Jay Scarentho." I returned, taking his hand in my own and shaking it. As expected, his grip was crushingly strong. "You're a George Orwell fan?" I asked, motioning to the copy of '1984' which lay against the covers as he released my hand.

He glanced back over his shoulder, and then returned his eyes to mine. This close, I realized that they actually weren't brown. They were grey. His light brown hair was raked sideways over his head; trimmed relatively short but still spiked at the top. He looked clean-cut, professional - the way you would expect an NFL played to look if they stripped down out of their clothes. Minus two-hundred pounds of muscle, that is. And ... you know ... white.

"Nah." he brushed off the suggestion with his voice. "Communism's for fucking loonies. Satanism's more my thing, ya know?"

I stared at him for a moment, and he stared back straight-faced. Those black eyes suddenly took on a new cast; dark and menacing. They swirled like deep water, like ink. He was into ... what?

"I'm kidding," the boy raised one hand an clapped me on the side of the shoulder, "of course. Blood sacrificing is not really on my list of weekend activities. Yeah, Orwell's pretty good - though I have to say I stray from his philosophy. The dogs are pretty cool, yeah."

The mood in the room instantly lightened, and I breathed out in relief. Well, at the very least I wouldn't have to worry about my roommate cutting out my heart and preforming rituals with it. His dark eyes were clear once again, boyish and smug. There is a fine line between psychopath and genius, and this boy seemed to be playing jump-rope with it. He was both beautifully captivating and terrifying; the first possibly enhanced by the second.

"Um." I started, and then chuckled under my breath. This kid was something else.

"Elegantly spoken. You are a poet to rival the best of them, Jay." he shook his head slightly, humor staining his teasing voice. "Truly, the prophet of our age."

"Shit." I grinned. "Don't most of them die, like ... virgins and stuff?"

"And brutally, most often." the boy confirmed, shooting me a wink as he turned and made his way back to his bed. "Make yourself at home. You cool if I take this bed?"

"Uh, yeah." I stuttered, picking up my gym bag from where I had dropped it by the door and giving it an underhand toss by the handle onto the bed across from the boy. "Go for it."

"And you're not allergic to anything, right?"

"Don't think so." I replied as I kicked off my shoes beside my own bed. The action made me aware once more of the boys state of undress, and I casually moved my eyes away to study the room. Something caught my eye, and my gaze was instantly drawn to it. Smoke curled from the desk, and I had a moment of panic as I thought the wooden furniture had caught fire. Then I looked more closely and realized that the source of the smoke was actually a stick of incense. The tiny wooden stick burned slowly, the tip glowing orange as smoke curled from it and gathered around the ceiling.

That explains the smell of cinnamon, at least. And why the boy had the windows open when it was so fucking cold.

"So, do you always hang around naked when you have company coming?" I asked, taking a seat on my own bed and facing him. The boy rolled over so that he lay on his stomach, propping himself up on his elbows and lacing his fingers together under his chin.

"I'm not naked." he said, unweaving his fingers and pulling his underpants away from his hips with one thumb. "Though that may change if you stick around, smooth talker."

I chuckled, the sound slightly awkward even to my own ears. The boy's grin strengthened at the noise, and he let the elastic band of his underwear snap back against his skin.

"It's a joke, Jay." he said, rolling his narrow, stormy eyes and making a sound somewhere between and laugh and a scoff. "Unclench, straight boy."

Oh yeah, I thought in amusement, Jackson and I were going to get along just fine.
♠ ♠ ♠
Wait ... you read past the first chapter? This is unbelievable! Thank-you all so much for reading, you have no idea but it means the world to me. I'm thinking that this story will be looking at 8 to 10 chapters, in its current form.
For reference; here's the photo I was challenged to write about: "Warpaint".