Flashmob 2

by BRK   

In the sequel, Christian finds the strange bounty his sleeping jockbro freshman roommate has left him: an outdated camera with several strange and unexpected settings.

Previously on “Flashmob”:

When Christian D’Amato got back to his room after several grueling hours studying at the all-night library and turned on the small lamp on his desk, he found… well, several inexplicable things. The first two or three were his roommate, who now seemed to be much bigger and taller than he remembered and also in possession of a twin brother, with whom he was sleep-snuggling in their narrow bed in what clearly, especially given the stench of high-intensity jock spunk hanging in the air, was a state of profound afterglow. Shoes and basketball uniform parts strewn everywhere seemed to confirm their ravenous desire for each other.

Okay.

What lay waiting on his own bed was just as baffling. In the middle of his neatly made blanket pertly sat a strange, outdated digital camera he had never seen before. It was silver or chrome and looked like something cheap someone would have had to buy twenty years ago before smartphones were a thing. It’s probably older than I am, he thought, completely perplexed.

Stuck to it was a hurried note in his roommate’s blocky handwriting. He lifted the note up so he could try to decipher it.

“Christian,” it said, then underneath that were scrawled two short sentences, in quotes for some reason.

“‘Use this to get what you want,’” it said. “‘I’ll be waiting.’”

Christian stared at the oblong, pastel-green Post-It for a long moment, tuning out his roommates’ low, snuffling snores as best he could. And now it’s in stereo, he thought sardonically. No one told me freshman life in the dorms could reach such heights.

Though he’d only known the man for the three and a half weeks they’d awkwardly cohabited the narrow cinderblock room the school graciously called a freshman double, Christian had easily recognized the relatively neat, expert-for-a-fourth-grader chunky all-caps handwriting on the note from the random messages his roomie jad been in the habit of leaving every now and again on the whiteboard hanging on the door outside the room. All of these were along the lines of “Dude we’re going to Taco Hut, you should come” and “Dude your mom called the room phone where’s your cell ha ha” and “Dude where ya been did you get ubducted lol,” that kind of thing. The execution of the particular missive in his hand couldn’t have been more “Joe Pruett” if it had had a little stick figure with a jaunty, up-pointing stick-boner added drolly in the corner.

The content, though, was another matter. The disjunction of lettering and tone unsettled Christian, who liked things clean and uncomplicated. Neither the injunction to “Use this to get what you want,” nor the slightly more ominous “I’ll be waiting,” sounded anything like the sloppy, Axe-body-spray-wielding, laundry-allergic man in the next bed over. Joe, in authoring the note, had helpfully flagged the incongruity by instinctively putting both phrases in quotes, as if to say, “This goes with the camera, bro, no idea. I’m just the messenger.”

So, either Joe had gotten the message orally (what, someone came to the door and with a package and a cryptic communiqué, like a ‘70s spy movie?), or the package had come with a written message and Joe had lost it. Or—

Shit. Abruptly, Christian remembered the wadded-up brown-paper wrapping he’d noticed jammed all the way down in the wastebasket they shared when he’d emptied it in the hallway chute the week before. Assuming Joe had gotten something shipped from home, cookies maybe, or socks, moms always did that kind of thing, Christian had made a mental note to ask him about it as part of an plan he’d been forming to make his life simpler by bonding with his roomie, once that was accomplished, maybe getting him to wash his stinky socks and shit.

Thinking back on it, though, there had been something guilty about how deeply the paper wrapping had been pushed into the receptacle. It wasn’t hard to picture his oblivious roommate accidentally opening a package, realizing too late it wasn’t for him, then hiding the evidence before sheepishly leaving the goods lying around for him to find, no contact, a week later (after things had “died down”).

He lowered the note, regarding his roomie—okay, roomies—with a baleful eye. They seemed very, very comfortable snuggled under the covers in the twin bed, their big, bare feet protruding from the end and making them look taller than he’d thought. Frick, they were probably naked under there.

Get real, he told himself. They are definitely naked under there.

Don’t think of his junk. He’d sort of seen it, once, and he’d had to force himself to stop building on that image more than a few times since. And now there were two sets of dangly flesh and dank, hairy balls under there, silently taunting him.

And.. a twin. The thing was, he definitely remembered Joe mentioning an older brother in one of their few conversations—the main reason he was at this particular school, he’d said. But he hadn’t heard about the twin. Nor, for that matter, had the oh-so-innocent Christian of his life up to this moment known that twincest—a fanciful idea he’d previously consigned to the Unreal Worlds portion of his brain, associated with deliberately icky Game of Thrones fanservice and the occasional demented Harry Potter fan—was a real thing that was real.

Then again, if anyone was uninhibited and narcissistic enough to be that much into his exact double, it was Joe Pruett.

Christian dropped the scrawled note onto his desk, carefully not looking at the mirror that hung on the closet door to his left. He didn’t look in it much. He wasn’t “into” himself, not like Joe. Who would be, if they were him? Christian was resigned to the fact that was as plain as they came, the ultimate “cheeseburger, no cheese” of run-of-the-mill nerdy freshmen. Brown hair, brown eyes, pale skin… just tall enough not to get called “short” without actually being tall… a nothing, humdrum body… What was there to be “into” about that?

The only thing that drew him to his own reflection in any basic, carnal way, when he dared to look at it, was that he was male. Well, and he liked his hair, maybe. It was straight and uninteresting but when he grew it out, like now, it kind of swept around his head, half hiding his forehead and ears under the warm-brown hazelnut flow. Unconsciously, he lifted a hand and pushed it back past his left ear, letting the silken strands slide reassuringly over his fingers.

Pushing down the niggle of self-consciousness prompted by Joe’s unabashed dupe-appreciation, Christian picked up the camera and turned the antiquated device over in his hands as he considered it. He was deeply confused as to why it had come to him and what he was supposed to accomplish with it. Who in all the nine realms had sent him a mint-condition outmoded digital camera from the 90s, and why?

Use this to get what you want, the note had said. What did this person, whoever they were, expect him to do? What did they think Christian wanted, and how would a post-film, pre-smartphone-era run-of-the-mill department-store camera help?

Joe, or maybe it was his dupli-brother, snorked loudly in his sleep and settled his nose into his twin’s neck. Christian’s brain drifted to that stolen glimpse of Joe’s junk, and he forced it away, annoyed and chagrined. At the same time, the bros across the hall started up their Dinosaur Jr.-based Spotify mix at max volume, despite the fact that it was now well past 1 a.m.

Kicking his bookbag aside, packed to straining with his laptop, notes, and the texts he needed for his due-tomorrow, almost-done government ethics paper, he turned and sat on his bed, camera in hand. Maybe what I “want” is to not be here, he thought morosely, grimly aware he was channeling the disillusionment of every small-town academic overachiever arriving at a big students-might-as-well-be-cattle state school since the dawn of higher education. At least be original in your internal monologue, he griped at himself.

He turned the camera over so its back was to him and pressed the menu button. This woke up the display screen, and a realtime image of the twins with their backs to him in Joe’s bed appeared, the lens being aimed that direction by chance. Christian hurriedly tilted the camera away, so that it showed only his worn white sneakers on the sturdy, gray industrial-grade carpeting.

There were a number of icons and settings marked along the bottom of the screen, he noticed. One marking said “5X” in clear, tiny white pixels, which he assumed had something to do with the magnification of the finished image—though if that were true, he wasn’t sure why there was also a “MAG: ON” indicator next to it. That seemed like bad design. One setting for whether to magnify, and another for how much? Why not just set magnification to 1X if you didn’t want it? Unless “MAG: ON” meant something else, in which case, confusing.

No, he had to be wrong about 5X, then. That was probably resolution, maybe. Zoom-magnification was likely set in the viewfinder or something, not the menu settings.

Next to “MAG: ON” was another legend, “ENH: ON.” Enhance? Just… enhance? Maybe he was spoiled by modern photographic options, but “enhance, yes or no” seemed pretty vague. If you wanted more “enhance” did you have to, what, take a picture of the picture?

Not that the intended vector of a command like “enhance” was very clear, photographically or aesthetically. Did it sharpen the image, or saturate the colors better, or what? Could be it affected the autofocus. Or it was there just to make you think it was doing something. Maybe there’s a button that says “Turbo,” too, he snarked to himself.

He noted the word “MENU” was displayed at the top of the screen, telling him he’d put the thing in menu mode when he’d woken it up. Experimentally, he pressed the right rocker and got a screen with the options for the “5X” setting. He considered. Fivefold resolution (or whatever) seemed a bit much, not to mention the file size at 90s compression rates had to start maxing out whatever memory this thing had. He thumbed it down to 2X. The jump from 1X to 2X seemed a lot to him, though. There should really be a “1.5X.”

Whatever, this chrome-plated gewgaw was older than he was, probably. Or at least the design and technology were. The camera itself looked literally fresh out of the box. Had there been a box before his butt-brained roommate got to it? He mentally filed away another routine grievance in his mental “Joe folder” and moved on.

The next menu along was MAG, which indeed had only off and on as options. Frowning, he left that as it was and thumbed to the third menu, which on the screen immediately replaced the floor under his feet with… water?

Startled, he jerked the camera up, watching in fascination as the image skated across a flowing river, the concrete banks of which he seemed to be sitting on, and then to show what could only be the city of Paris—boats, barges, Eiffel Tower, and all. The rest of his room was gone except for Joe’s bed and the twins, the steel frame of the former depicted as being deftly positioned on the far bank, not far from the base of the great iron edifice. A new legend at the bottom left now read “SAVED BG1”. A small red sun, like a red wafer, hovered in the distance just above the horizon, indicating a time in the image maybe an hour past dawn. Weirdly, Christian realized this corresponded to the time it was there now in real life, more or less. Just a coincidence, of course, but his surreality nerves were already jangling.

The imagery sure was impressive. Curious, he placed his fingertips on the screen and spread them, but of course nothing happened. Touchscreen zooming hadn’t been invented yet when doodads like this were being flogged for $119.81 a pop at Best Buy. Still, the background substitution was pretty sweet for the 90s. He could almost believe from looking at the screen that he’d for real teleported Joe and his bro there. The astonishment and discomfiture of the locals was easy to imagine. “Sacre bleu!” they would exclaim. “Il y a des jumeaux qui ont des relations sexuelles homosexuelles dans ce lit!”

He snorted inwardly at his rusty schoolboy French and used the up-down rocker to scan progressively through the other saved backgrounds. He quickly realized the Eiffel Tower was only the first in a string of equally obvious extractions from the Now That’s What I Call Standard Tourist Destinations stock photo series, volume 1. As he got deeper into the catalog, though, the destinations seemed to become more obscure and intriguing. There was a very pretty double waterfall that looked like it was on a tropical island somewhere, for example, maybe Polynesia or one of the lesser-known Hawaiian islands. Christian thought it would be a cool place to “picture himself” being, as it were.

What really took his fancy, once he got into BG numbers past 100 or so, was the appearance of outright fictional locales mixed in with the real. He lingered on one that could only be Minas Tirith as seen from the seventh tier, though as he panned from the citadel and across the lower city he clocked significant differences from the Peter Jackson version. Was all this imagery from the 90s, too, and thus before the films, not to mention A.I.? Even more impressive, if so.

He kept going. Real but unlikely home-Earth cities like Cartagena and Topeka now alternated with historical destinations like Carthage and fantasy worlds with gingerbread cottages or flying cars. He lingered on one with a large, stone courtyard, bounded by high walls and an ivy-covered Gothic edifice at one end. A good third of the courtyard was occupied by a four-legged, winged dragon with dark blue scales. In front of the mighty-looking beast was a strong-looking, handsome man in leather breeches and a thin, golden-brown lace-up shirt that showed off what had to be very well-earned dragon-wrangling muscle. His long flaxen hair rustled lightly in the wind, and his hand rested on the dragon’s snout in a sign of peace and mutual friendship.

Christian grinned. His dad was obsessed with dragons, and his mom had been on his case about getting out there and finding himself a boyfriend before they’d even left for school, the SUV loaded up with boxes of shit he would not need. This would be a good way to wind them both up. He snickered, picturing the selfie and the email he’d send with it. “Hey guys! Dragon-riding 201 starts today—and the hot trainer is my boyfriend Uther! Check it out!”

Pleased with his imagined message and response, he turned the camera toward himself and smiled. Guessing at the positioning, he moved his index finger over the shutter. Hopefully it wouldn’t be too much of a hassle getting the images off thi—

Click

There was a long silence, disturbed only by the muffled strains of Weezer (specifically their cover of “Take on Me”) rumbling through the walls from the room across the hall. Joe snuffed and cuddled in closer to his other self, heedless of the fact that his rarely-home roommate of less than a month had vanished into thin air, body, clothes, camera, and all, leaving only his bookbag, a neatly made bed, and a cryptic note that neither Christian nor Joe had understood in the slightest.

Conrad clenched his teeth, staring the dragon down as he kept his palm firmly pressed against the broad length of its sapphire snout. He wanted to growl at the beast, but he knew better.

Growling at dragons meant they thought you wanted to play, and dragon horseplay was not something Conrad of Bairn was willing to undertake without a good deal more leather padding than he was currently wearing. And possibly a helm.

Honestly, this dragon. Bernard, the guards captain, kept a pet dog the size of a mountain-bear, and Conrad would rather go a few rounds with that supposedly tame monster, fangs and all, than let Steinar here get the idea Conrad was in need of an hour or three of bruising, exhausting, and occasionally pants-scorching drake-tussle.

“For the last time, Steinar,” he said, trying to push all his obstinacy through his hands and into his counterpart’s tiny little empathic brain, “we will not be flying to the Redfire Isles again this year just so you can find another dragon to fuck.”

“You get to fuck, blond primate,” came the response. It wasn’t so much spoken as felt in his flesh, like a rumbling vibration. Sometimes Conrad didn’t mind this kind of subcutaneous semitactile speech, but today it was grating on him. It was bad enough Steinar refused to call him by his name, preferring descriptive terms that highlighted his mammalian ancestry and atypical mane.

“Do I?” Conrad shot back. “You monopolize all my time, ya great ornery lizard. I might as well fuck you!”

“Dream on,” came the growled response rippling through his innards. Steinar would have rolled his amethyst-green eyes, if dragons could do such a thing. Instead he glared insolently at Conrad, his stare as communicative as the word-thoughts he was forcing through Conrad’s body.

One of the guards was tapping him on the shoulder. Conrad ignored him, flexing his hand against the fine, smooth scales of the dragon’s snout to keep his connection as solid as possible. “There are dragons here for you to dally with,” he said. “Go mate with them.”

“None on my level,” Steinar sniffed, the disdain vibrating through Conrad’s insides. “Earhard is an empty-headed braggart, and Siegmund thinks he is much sexier than he actually is. You can’t imagine how annoying they are.”

“You would be surprised,” Conrad gritted out.

The guard tapped him on the shoulder again, but before Conrad could turn and bark a “What??” at him, Steinar shifted his gaze to something behind Conrad. “Who are they?” the dragon asked curiously.

Conrad turned, keeping his hand on Steinar, and frowned at the two men positioned a little ways across the stone courtyard. They were very still and appeared to be crouching, as though sitting on something that was not there. Strangely, they were crouching on each other, as though someone had made two identical seated statues of a comely young man and then stacked them for storage.

Even odder, both were reaching up toward the sky as if lifting something above and at arm’s length, though only the upper one, the one positioned in the other’s lap (as it were), was holding something in his hand. It was small and shiny, the surface catching the sun like a polished shield.

“They just… appeared there a moment ago,” confided the guard who had been trying to get his attention, a strapping redheaded local recently recruited to the baronial guard, in a loud whisper. Conrad was pretty sure he was called Gil. “Manifested, you might say.”

Conrad’s brows furrowed. “Statues? Manifesting statues?” he said to no one in particular.

“Or frozen men,” Steinar observed. “That seems more likely with sorcery, yes?”

Conrad grunted. Steinar might be a pain in the ass, but he knew more about the occult than a mundane human like him. Without taking his eyes off the crouching men, he tilted his chin in the direction of the guard hovering at his shoulder. “Fetch the loremaster,” he commanded.

“Sure thing,” Gil said, preparing to scamper off toward the keep.

Conrad stopped him. “‘Yes, my lord,’” he said pointedly.

Gil grinned. “Yes, my lord,” he repeated, and took off.

Steinar snorted a laugh through his fist-sized nostrils, but Conrad was happy to pretend nothing had happened, keeping his eyes on the newly appeared figures. They remained utterly still, as if cast in plaster, and yet their flesh and clothing looked very real.

“I’m going to take a closer look,” he said to Steinar, a little apologetically. It was polite to remain in contact with a dragon while you were in his presence, in case they wanted to say something, but Conrad wasn’t one to enter a strange situation without both hands free and at the ready. Removing his palm from Steinar he stalked toward the frozen men, until he was standing directly before them, the dragon padding after him a pace or so back.

Remarkably, they had not moved in the slightest. Even their thick, silky hair seemed eerily stilled, despite the breeze playing with Conrad’s own locks. And yet, Conrad was sure they were alive, caught in some kind of interval between moments.

“Ah, but you are a beauty,” he said aloud, surprised at a feeling of attraction rising rapidly in his chest, keeping pace with an even stronger reaction welling in his groin. His pulse quickened at their identical beauty. Sharp jaws, sweet lips, an inviting face, stormy blue eyes he could stare into for ages… Nor was it only in the face and long, captivating hair that their comeliness lay. Their shoulders were broad, their bodies lanky and developed enough to fill out their strange, unfamiliar raiment, without being inelegant or overmuscled. Conrad guessed they might be as tall as himself, a rarity in the barony, and even a finger’s breadth or two beyond that.

Conrad’s pulse picked up as he absorbed the extent to which these two captivating men represented, even in utter stillness, some kind of standard of hormonal appeal—a cock-hardening ideal form of masculine desire.

He yearned to wake them, to hear their voices. Perhaps I can speak to them through touch, as with a dragon, he mused.

He started to reach out, then stopped. If he woke them… Very likely, their uncanny stillness was the only thing keeping them from falling down on their buttocks. Whatever their purpose in being here, friend or foe, such a drop to the cold flagstones of the yard would be an ignominious beginning,

He started looking around for something suitable to put under the lower not-quite-statue’s backside, but a scraping sound alerted him to Steinar, who was carefully nosing an empty wooden crate across the courtyard toward him. Conrad gave him a wide, genuine smile. “You can be useful if you want to be,” he chided the dragon as the great beast sidled the crate up next to the new arrivals. “Imagine that.”

Steinar huffed in exasperation, tiny licks of fire escaping from his nostrils amidst the attendant wisps of smoke and steam.

Conrad used his boot to kick the crate the rest of the way under the lower of the crouched forms, then fixed his attention on the two men’s heart-thuddingly compelling faces. “Will I regret awakening your perfect beauty?” he wondered, before cupping one hand along the nearer of the two cheeks and reaching to place the other on the opposite cheek of the other twin. Moved by an ancient fairy tale older than kingdoms and dragons, he bent to kiss the still, pink lips of the nearer man, almost wishing he had another Conrad to kiss them both at once.

The upper body jolted, and as Conrad pulled back from the kiss the eyes shot wide in sudden, animated shock as the man came fully and suddenly to life. “Holy shit!” the stranger cursed, louder than Conrad would have expected. Then the man jolted again as the lower twin woke with a start and dropped the inch or so onto the crate Conrad had shoved under his backside. Good call, he congratulated himself in the back of his brain. Their arms lowered, and the one in back instinctively reached his around to loosely embrace the double who now sat in his lap.

Though he registered all of this implicitly with the kind of environmental awareness drilled into any noble who expected to survive on the battlefield (social or military), Conrad had to admit his attention was mostly taken up with the two sets of beautiful, storm-blue eyes that belonged to his serendipitous brace of perfect, identical, impossibly attractive soulmates. Nor was he unaware of his audience, what with the dragon behind him, not to mention a presumably-perplexed loremaster and the irreverent guard, Gil, who’d fetched him. For the moment, though, Conrad was not inclined to look away from his twofold prize.

He smiled. “Welcome to my land,” he said, his voice low and tender and just a little saucy. As the two men who had stolen his heart smiled slowly back, Conrad was immensely gratified to see the instant lust that darkened their twin, unwavering stares.

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