Rókus
by Edward Kyle Stokes
Chapter 1
Stepping into the World.
The music pulsed like a living thing bouncing around in a confined space, Rókus felt it more as a pressure against his eardrums than an invitation to dance. He'd made it inside, ID successfully presented despite the doorman's skeptical look. Now he was a part of the throng, a lone island in a sea of bodies. The air thick with the scent of spilled beer, sweat, and something vaguely sweet which he couldn't place. He gripped his glass, the condensation cool against his palm, and watched the crowd, feeling like an anthropologist observing a foreign tribe. His heart hammered a nervous rhythm against his ribs, a frantic little bird trying to escape.
A shadow fell over him. He looked up, and a man stood beside him at the bar. He was taller than most, broad-shouldered with a chest that strained against a simple black t-shirt. His biceps bulged, and the muscles in his neck were thick and corded. Laren. Rókus didn't know the name yet, but he knew the type—confident, predatory, and completely at ease in a world that felt alien to Rókus. Laren's eyes, a shocking pale blue, were fixed on him, a slow smile spreading across his face.
"First time?" Laren's voice was a low rumble that cut through the music.
Rókus swallowed. "Is it that obvious?"
"Nah," Laren said, "but you've got that look." He leaned closer, and Rókus caught a whiff of cologne and something else, something sharp and clean. "Like you're trying to decide whether to stay and play or run back home."
Rókus managed a nervous, half-smile. "Maybe a little of both."
Laren chuckled, a sound that seemed to vibrate through the floor. "Don't worry," he said, his gaze dropping for a moment before rising back to meet Rókus'. "I'll make it worth your while."
Rókus wasn't convinced by Laren's smooth talk. He'd heard enough empty promises from the well-built, confident types on dating apps. But Laren was in a different league—the promise in his pale blue eyes, the easy way he held himself, it was all too alluring. And Rókus was desperate. At twenty, he was still a virgin. It wasn't a secret or something he was ashamed of; he'd been out since he was sixteen. He remembered sitting his dad down one evening, just the two of them in their small living room, the quiet of the house a stark contrast to the confession he was about to make.
His dad's reaction had been a relief. "A gay son? Who cares," he'd said with a shrug and a smile, a response that calmed the frantic beat of Rókus' heart. "As long as you're happy."
No, his dad's worry was different. He saw how shy and timid Rókus was, and he despaired that his son would never go out and find a nice boy to love. His mom had passed away when he was twelve, and it had always been just the two of them, their shared grief forging a bond so tight it was almost suffocating. He'd told Rókus a few times, "You've got to live a little. Your mother would have wanted that for you. Get out there, Rókus, find someone."
And so, here he was. The nightclub, the thumping music, the man with the chiseled jaw and the piercing eyes. He was out of his depth, but his dad's words echoed in his head, a silent encouragement to be bold for once.
The club's rhythm hammered against Rókus' temples, a bass beat he felt in his chest. He watched the multi-coloured lights strobe across the bar, reflecting in the glossy, purple surface of the cocktail in his hand. The sugary drink he'd ordered from Carl, the bartender, with a ridiculous little rainbow umbrella stuck in it. He didn't drink alcohol, not really, and he certainly hadn't planned on getting drunk on his first night out. But he hadn't planned on meeting someone like Laren, either. His empty dating history and Laren's confident stare felt like two opposing forces finally colliding.
He picked up the glass and drained the sweet, burning liquid in one long swallow. As he wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his jumper, Laren's voice rumbled close to his ear, "You wanna get high? I've got some stuff. We could go some place."
Rókus' eyes darted to Carl. He tapped his empty glass and gave the bartender a nervous smile. "Same again, please." Carl's eyes flickered from Rókus to Laren and back, a silent warning in his gaze. But the bartender said nothing, simply filling the glass with the same vivid, purple liquid.
Rókus picked it up and, without a second thought, downed it again. The alcohol hit him with a dizzying warmth. He turned to face Laren, the big, husky man whose gaze seemed to devour him. "Sure," Rókus replied, his voice barely a whisper. The word felt heavy and final, a promise he couldn't take back.
"Follow me."
Laren led Rókus away from the crowded bar, his hand on the small of the boy's back, a possessive gesture that made Rókus' heart leap. He steered him toward the toilets, his gaze a warning to anyone who might think of entering. Laren checked the space, pushing open a cubicle door to make sure it was empty before he turned back to Rókus.
Rókus stood with his back pressed against the cold, tiled wall, the large mirror above the sinks reflecting their forms. The bright fluorescence of the lights seemed to amplify the colours and the sounds of the club, a disorienting, pulsing landscape.
Laren moved in front of him, so close Rókus could feel the heat radiating off his body, the broad chest almost touching his own. Laren reached into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out a small, foil packet. He unfolded it to reveal a tiny, rose-coloured pill.
"Open," Laren said, his voice a low command.
Rókus' mouth went dry. He parted his lips and Laren pressed the pill onto his tongue. It tasted bitter and chalky. Laren took one for himself, swallowing it down without a drink. He held Rókus' gaze, a slow, predatory smile spreading across his lips.
The pill began to work almost immediately. Rókus felt a sudden, exhilarating rush, a jolt of energy that coursed through his veins. The world seemed to sharpen, the colours of the strobing lights intensified, and the music became a part of him, an electric current that flowed through his body. The fear and shyness that had been his for so long, melted away, replaced by a sense of reckless abandon. His mind went blank, the only thing that mattered was the here and now. The only person that mattered was Laren. He was no longer a shy boy, but a willing participant in the game.
Laren's large hands gripped Rókus, pulling him closer as their lips met. Rókus didn't object. He just looked up at the looming figure of Laren, a silly smile fixed on his face, and returned the kiss. Laren's tongue pushed into his mouth, a wet, warm, and foreign invasion that made Rókus' head spin. He almost collapsed, but Laren's strong arms held him up, keeping him steady. While their tongues danced, a large, strong hand gripped his cock through the thin cotton of his baggy trousers, tracing its newfound hardness and fondling him expertly.
Rókus was floating, suspended in a cloud of electric lights that pulsed and wobbled. The touch on his cock, combined with the low thrum of the music, made him jump.
"Let's get out of here," Laren's voice was a blurry sound that dissolved into the beat of the music. Rókus nodded, the same grin fixed on his face.
The next thing Rókus knew, he was outside, the night air a sharp contrast to the club's humid atmosphere. He was in a tunnel, the dim lights casting long, distorted shadows on the concrete walls. The distant hum of traffic was a dull, rhythmic sound in the quiet space. Laren was kissing him again, his hand now inside Rókus' jumper, his warm fingers tracing the skin of his chest.
"You okay?" Laren asked, and Rókus nodded, a dizzying assent. It was all the invitation Laren needed. He spun Rókus around, pushing his body up against the cold, smooth concrete wall. His hands were on Rókus' trousers, pulling them down along with his underwear. The cold night air was a shock against his bare arse.
Laren pressed himself against Rókus, his erection a hard, insistent pressure. He moved to guide himself as he whispered, "This is what you want, isn't it?"
Rókus, his cheek pressed against the cold, flat wall, panicked. The haze began to lift, replaced by a surge of fear. He slipped out from beneath Laren, pushing him backward. Caught off balance, Laren stumbled and fell.
Rókus didn't wait. He scrambled to pull up his trousers, gripping the waistband to keep them from falling down. He ran as fast as he could, the fabric slapping against his legs. Soon, he was next to the traffic, on a bridge bathed in the harsh glow of streetlights. The loud, deafening noise of a train felt like it was right beside him.
Nothing was quite right. He clutched the railing, leaning over. Far below, a dark, swirling liquid beckoned. His breath came in ragged gasps, his heart hammering against his ribs. The river below seemed to whisper his name on the breeze, a cool, gentle sound in the midst of the chaos. "Rókus... Rókus!"
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