Modern Myth: The Grey Emotion
for Ares, the god of love
δεινός • (deinós) • dinus :
terrible, fearsome; epithet of Ares, the god of war
*
With his hands clasped in mock prayer, Davis hopes with half of his heart that the bus will be late. That he will be stuck out here in the rain, that he will have an experience some might define as worth being pitied for — then, he would hold that experience to himself as an act of selflessness.
His mouth is bitter from drinking too much poison, and his knuckles… split like his lips — equally foolish from mirroring the hard truths he spouts day in and day out. It is a price he has been paying for years.
In this weather, he feels unbound.
(Free)
Able to escape from the world and slip between the drops of rain. No (lies, or) shelter can protect him now; certainly not the umbrella in his tired hands (or the promise on his stale tongue — “I am okay,”) . In this weather, he is allowed to feel content, despite such trivial things.
Another person steps up to the bus stop — their coat collar pulled lamely over their ears as a pitiful excuse for protection from the weather. Davis peeks down at his umbrella like he has discovered the culprit of his discomfort. He should open it.
The slanted pull on his face follows the direction of the falling rain. The mere idea of abandoning his personal space is incredibly disappointing. Instead, he opts for a significantly smaller sacrifice.
Ciao, umbrella.
As if the tip were scissor blades, he spins the handle in the direction of the stranger who so desperately wants to remain dry. “Here,” Davis says, “you can keep it.”
Naturally, they defy him. With an almost sheepish, “No thank you, that’s okay.”
How annoying that people would cling to their pride rather than be treated to a favor.
(And how interesting that things only hold their color in the presence of light. Offer just a little bit of a shadow, and then a building is the same as a bird, is the same as an umbrella being handed to a stranger at a bus stop.)
Grey. Everything is all grey.
The stranger continues to hold their decision as high as their jacket above their ears (not very high at all), until Davis chooses to open his umbrella for the both of them, standing just close enough to keep them both dry. “There’s worse things in this world than wounded pride,” Davis lectures. “A ruined suit is one of those things.”
“I was thinking the same thing,” the stranger says, adjusting the sleeves of his jacket onto his shoulders again.
There is surprisingly little tension in the small space, where the — now two — strangers stand shoulder to shoulder. Both dripping wet and glancing at each other like it’s the other one who’s out of their mind.
The man who is not Davis is quite a sight up close. Davis might have said that his eyes were blue — but they could have easily been brown, or green. What he can tell with certainty is that the rims along his irises are bloodshot; exhaustion has only recently begun to wear him down, but anchored beneath his eyelids are prominent cracks of purple veins and bluish pockets.
These things show that not only is he tired now, but he is tired all the time.
He hasn’t shaved in the past few days but the defined pattern in his goatee suggests the upkeep is frequent. Drops of water frame his face like how a beam of sunlight might if it rose and peeked through skyscrapers in the early morning.
Perhaps if that had been the hour, Davis would have been able to discern the true color of his eyes.
If there were words of thanks that he spoke to Davis, they fell on deaf ears — and all-too-quickly, he is leaving the umbrella’s vicinity to get on the bus (whose arrival Davis had not noticed). Davis hurries to follow but forgets to close the umbrella, and causes a small scene getting it through the door. Overwhelmed by the attention drawn to him, he takes a seat closest to the front and dares not to turn around.
This time the stranger’s words are resoundingly clear:
“Why were you standing in the rain?”
Behind him now — when had he moved there? Surely Davis would have noticed if he had sat right him. In fact… when Davis looks over his shoulder to witness the inquiry, he sees that the stranger is already dry. His black hair (not straight at all, but playfully curly), his olive skin, his red windowpane suit jacket: all without a single speck of moisture when he was entirely drenched only moments before. He smells warm — like the leftover chestnut embers of a bonfire. Even the color on him radiates brighter than before, brighter than his surroundings.
Now, too bright to tell whether his eyes are gold, or hazel, or orange.
It is peculiar, to say the least. Although Davis initially convinced himself to lie, a last-second change of his cowardice-heart heaves the truth out of his chest; like an eagle plucking a fleshy snack from the lake. “Feeling sorry for myself,” he answers, wondering if (perhaps “hoping” that) his honesty will disarm the stranger’s curiosity.
It does not. “Wouldn’t you rather feel good about yourself?”
A sarcastic laugh is not restrained. When was the last time that happened? Davis wonders. He cannot recall, but the stranger does not pursue his inquiry, and the air between them is not filled with tension. Peculiar.
Is this man an analyst? A therapist? Does he know the answers to questions before he asks them? Davis pondered this strange state of being as they are whisked through the grey downpour in their elongated metal chariot. He wants to ask his own questions but his tongue will not unfurl from its petrification behind his clenched teeth.
What is wrong with him? Why is this silence more dissatisfying than meaningless small-talk? Why does he want to talk to this strange man?
As the bus screeches to a halt, Davis (still soaked and unsettled, but for different reasons now) takes the last chance to speak with his bus-stop-companion. But when he turns around, the man is gone. How strange — had he departed on an earlier stop? Unnoticed?
(Why am I disappointed?)
His heart sinks and he retrieves his trusty umbrella and departs from the bus back into the drenched, gret city. He completely overlooks the very man he was searching for — already waiting for him off of the chariot.
“Same stop, huh?”
The voice, so fresh and new but already familiar, startles Davis — and he whips his neck around far too quickly to see that stranger once more.
But shooting pain feeds regret from his neck all the way down his spine and he finds no playful banter to retort with. No questionable remarks or jokes about magicians; just gasps of tension that were absent before, now concentrating into his muscles, tightening above his shoulders, holding him hostage in a truly embarrassing display of pain and latency.
The stranger furrows his brow and approaches gingerly — his hesitation catching up only moments before coming within arms-reach of Davis.
“I didn’t mean to startle you — my deepest apologies.”
A sharp inhale between Davis’ barred teeth serve a better response than real words and the stranger extends his hands with apparent generosity.
“May I offer you my assistance? I have a lot of practice with pulled muscles; I can sort it out for you.”
Survivalist instinct and introversion tells Davis, no. Stranger danger. A very wise and applicable rule for even strong-willed, fully-grown adults. But as he peered down at the man, with sorrowful round eyes and a chiseled bone structure that glistens with teardrops of the sky, Davis bargains instead for an opportunity of trust — and a chance to be catered to.
Oh, how long it has been since he was touched with generosity…
In an echo of a dying-down applause, the rainfall stops pouring from the sky.
Davis barely notices. “Okay,” he agrees lamely, wincing at the minor shift of his neck. He pointed down the block and directed with a frown of displeasure, “My building is just up there.”
The stranger looks relieved and with a guiding palm against Davis’ jacket, they carefully make their way to the apartment building. The stranger introduces themselves at last; Dinus.
The peculiar similarities in their name structures are enough to trigger Davis’ trusting reflexes and he offers his second chuckle to the man (and not a sarcastic one, this time). He returns the introduction.
This time, the stranger — no: Dinus — laughs under his breath, far more handsomely, and with more etiquette and character than is deserved for a simple introduction (and minor coincidence). “Son of David,” he recites. “Beloved.”
A more hilarious inaccuracy could not have been proclaimed, even by Davis himself. Beloved is a term he would ne’er have defined himself with — and yet, he decides not to derail how unfitting his namesake has been. It seems to have charmed his new acquaintance through no effort of his own, and that was a feat worth relishing in.
Dinus graciously holds the door open and spots the elevator. “Going up?”
David instinctively moves to shake his head but stops himself before the pain strikes too heavily. He jabs his thumb to a downward staircase. “This way,” he corrects.
(There is a hesitation as he twists several locks with more-than-a-couple-of-keys, and he has to remind himself that it is alright to abandon the comfort of solitude on occasion.)
Although the living area is not incredibly sloppy, the lighting is dim from a-few-too-many light bulbs in need of replacement; their off-brand wattage runs thin — like most things in Davis’ life: cheap and expendable.
Davis apologizes for the state of his home but his guest pays little mind. One hand waves dismissively while he situates himself on the couch. He grabs the throw pillow next to him and places it on the floor. “Here,” Dinus says. “Sit on this.”
Davis sheepishly obeys, taking a seat between his knees — careful not to disrupt the balance of his vertebrae during descent. Dinus gently places his fingers over Davis’ own and eased them away from their clutching support around his neck. They are warm hands; warmer than a fireplace or a ceramic bowl of soup in winter. No wonder he dried off so quickly.
“Tell me where it’s the worst,” he muses with careful deliberation as he works over Davis’ neck; getting a feel for the tension and how to work out the cinch.
“Ah-! There — !”
By some form of science, or perhaps magic, Dinus frees the trapped tension with a few simple strokes and kneads. With a humble bout, he runs his palms across the length of Davis’ neck to reassure him that it was sorted.
“That’s it.”
“Th- that’s it?” Davis remains cautious to turn his head — doing so only with an incredibly slow pace, but his skepticism finds itself dismissed. It worked. Davis tests the extent of his mobility, and as if nothing had happened at all, he feels even better than ever. Like he can twist into angles never before reached. He looks over his shoulder to the recent stranger beaming down at him.
Dry.
Warm.
Like sunlight.
All too quickly, Dinus excuses himself. “S’pose I should be on my way then.”
‘Don’t leave yet,’ Davis wants to say, but the words train-wreck in his throat.
Only his palm is able to speak for him, with a grounding position on Dinus’ knee. An expectant look draws back upon him, as if Dinus can see the collision of his words and he still expects to hear it for himself.
“..Thank you..,” Davis murmurs, but still his hand does not move. In the yellow glow of those generic lightbulbs, the fluorescence cast onto Dinus’ jawline is something of magic.
Davis tucks his legs underneath him and kneels before this recent stranger; guest; healer.
There is something about the silence; the fleeting moments that they shared in the rain, on the bus, and in his dimly-lit hovel now seem so tender — as if they had lasted for hours — or if they were his most precious memories…
…as if they met each other years ago
… and forgot.
“Don’t I know you from somewhere..?” Davis finally asks, in a voice akin to pleading.
Dinus laughs. Of course, he laughs. How preposterous. They have only just met and he has never known any Dinus. Never laid eyes on, or been laid upon by, someone so profoundly mystical. Man of warmth, and healing hands.
Which makes his answer all the more pleasantly disarming.
“You have known me for a very long time.” He trails his hands down to meet Davis’, and brings them together like magnets into the shape of prayer. “You have been tired for a very long time?”
Davis nods.
“It is rare that I may offer negotiations of peace; at least ones that may fall on reasonable ears — ” a chuckle, “ — that I may allow reprieve to the weary, and to myself.” He draws his hands up again, to cradle Davis’ face — to stroke his cheek, to inspect his fatigue.
Who is this man? How have they wound up here?
Dinus leans down a places a kiss on Davis’ wrinkled brow — once taut from years of frustration, now smooth and relaxed from just one ounce of affection. The sensation ripples through Davis’ entire body — yearning for so much more than that. As Dinus began to pull away, Davis reaches his praying hands out once more, raking them through the loose curls of Dinus’ hair, and anchoring him into place.
“Is it selfish to ask for more…?”
They surrender themselves to the evening. Dinus, covered in enough scars of his own to know the need for true comfort, reassures Davis yet more with weary eyes of medallion — or honey — or sunlight — using gazes of affection, affirmation, and grace.
Davis mostly has scars that cannot be seen — and still, they are tended to with sweet tenderness. Aches of abandonment and self-worth are forgotten between the drag of stubble on skin on sheets and fluttering eyelashes in the tiny light of digital clocks and appliances. Mostly they did not the need the light while blanketed in dark grey comfort.
But the sweetest moments were when Dinus kissed his lips. Concerns drown and affections ignite; they lay together in something that was greater than fleeting lust, and without the aching of longing.
They lay together with an answered prayer.
