PodCastle 755: Aurum & Indigo

* Author : L. P. Kindred

* Narrator : Brent Lambert

* Audio Producer : Eric Valdes

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Previously published by Queer Blades Anthology 1

Content Warning for violence

Rated R

Aurum & Indigo

By LP Kindred

Aurum sits on a wooden stool, hunched over the oakwood bar, stained darker by shellac and low lights. In spite of them, he stares into his book while a second lies closed atop the bar. His feet dangle, kicking softly. Eyes rake over words but their meaning never reaches his mind. The barman doesn’t offer a mug of ale as often as the skulking leches whose eyes scrub his body in hopes of finding interest in his eyes.

Aurum manages to avert his eyes — the book — when they come calling, but his heart triple beats each time the door opens and Shikaakwa cold invades the warm dark. After scouring the door, he draws his book closer.

There is a gentleman caller for whom Aurum journeyed from the Deep South to City Center. The nightmare of crosstown travel hastened Aurum to leave with abundant time to arrive punctually. Consequently, Aurum arrived one hour and one quarter before their arranged time to meet. Should anyone be this nervous about a man he’s already inundated?

The wait has no positive impact on the young man’s face or posture. The mirror-lined spirit wall gives him view of the room and of himself. His close-cropped hair offers a sharp contrast to the burnished gold of his skin. He gazes to the looking glass and scowls at the misshapen line that forms the boundary between his scalp and forehead. Men and women enjoy his face but Aurum sees only the attributes ungainly.

When it’s eleven hours since the sun’s apex and one hour since Aurum’s arrival, he orders one more honey mead. Then wanting not to seem rude, he orders another. Then worried his companion does not enjoy mead, he orders a rumpunch. He waits impatiently for the arrival of cachaça when a firm hand claps his shoulder.

Already annoyed by the range of impolite and presumptuous men in this bar, Aurum flicks the hand from his shoulder as he turns to see the most beautiful man he’s ever been inside of. His skin is darker than the candlelit pub, bluer, but his smile, his eyes reflect the light of stars and the light within his soul.

“Sorry,” the man colored like night says, withdrawing his hand. When such a large man wilts, it’s like a mountain slumping as disappointment slow-crawls across his face.

“No, I’m sorry. I thought you were . . . I didn’t think you’d be but you’re . . . I’m Aurum,” he says, holding out his hand to shake. Almost as quickly, Aurum rethinks the gesture as too formal, like the beginning of a business transaction. As the man with skin like night commits to the handshake, Aurum pulls his own hand away. He looks up at the not-so-stranger, face still confused, and follows that man’s gaze to the unclasped hand. In a fit of panic, Aurum shoots out to grab the hanging hand but somehow ends up grabbing the wrist. Mortified with no other option, Aurum places his would-be companion’s hand back on his shoulder.

Aurum looks up again with furrowed brow. The gentleman seems no less perplexed but breaks into a belly laugh. The guffaw washes Aurum in relief, and the man says, “You’re funny . . . and handsome. All is forgiven if you remember my name.”

Aurum grins as his eyes take in locks bundled behind the head, jumping as the man laughs. Muscles corded taut and compact between a fitted tunic and a Nameate hide parka.