by Trisky
Who the fuck am I kidding?
I flip the lightswitch on and the loft comes alive in all of its stark, bright coldness.
"Are you going to stand there or are you going to come in?" I watch his curious expression. His eyes are so wide, it feels like one of those cartoon images where the eyeballs pop out of the character's sockets.
"This is what you wanted to show me?" Okay, so I admit it wasn't the greatest surprise in the world. I'm not quite sure where he was expecting me take him, but I am sure this was the last place he had in mind.
"There's something here that you need to see. Close the door."
He shuffles his feet absently and manages to take a couple of steps beyond the doorframe. At least it's forward progression. I didn't think I'd get him on the elevator, much less all the way up here.
"You couldn't bring me whatever you wanted to show me?" He tugs the door closed with one, loud crashing sound. He's stronger than he looks.
"Actually no I couldn't." I take my suit jacket off and loosen my tie. It's been a long day. I expected it to be over hours ago, but the best laid plans never seem to work themselves out when I make them. It's good that he's here. If I avoided this any longer I may have missed my chance altogether. I'm not that great at making plans, but I've never had any complaints about my timing.
"Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all."
It probably wasn't. I don't have to go through with this. I can show him something totally tasteless and guarantee that it all ends tonight. Or I could show him the truth and take my chances.
I feel an urge to head straight for tasteless.
"Come into the bedroom." I undo the buckle on my belt and the buttons on my cuffs as I walk on unsteady feet towards the last place I ever imagined myself dreading. For some idiotic reason I expect to hear the sound of his feet following me, but I hear nothing. I should have known better. I look out into the open confines of the living room and see that he hasn't moved an inch. The look on his face is almost comical. If not for the fact that neither of us is laughing, this would almost seem funny. "It's not what you think."
"I think I'd rather stay out here. Just bring me whatever you want to show me."
"I can't do that. You have to come see for yourself." I won't beg. I don't beg, for anyone. Not even for him. I swallow a breath, turn my back and just decide to hope like hell. That doesn't cost me any dignity.
It takes an eternity, or quite possibly ten seconds, but it feels like the longest ten seconds of my life, before I hear the first couple of hesitant steps making their way towards me. Working on automatic pilot, I follow my routine, flip the lights on, kick my shoes off, pull my socks off, divest myself of my shirt and tie. I stop at the pants. Maybe that's not such a good idea for the moment.
He appears on the final step and practically adheres himself to the wall. Technically he's in the bedroom, if you want to talk inches, but he's as far away from me in this room as he can physically make himself. I don't necessarily blame him. I'm fairly sure I'm going to disappoint him again. Right this minute, down the line, I don't know. But I'm certain it'll happen eventually. It's better for him if he keeps his distance.
"So where is it?"
I walk to the end of the bed and sit on the edge. I must have worked my legs too hard as well, because suddenly they feel like two tree stumps. I need to take the pressure off my feet. I can't hold myself up. "Open the bottom drawer." I point to the chest at the base of the glass slats.
He looks between the chest and my face, uncertain if he should go along with this. I want to scream "please trust me" until I'm blue in the face, but I don't know if he would even if I did. Another thing I don't blame him for. He sighs, and my shoulders relax. He can't help himself. He doesn't do stiff upper lip very well. It's sort of endearing.
I watch him handle the drawer as if it were a precious work of art. "It's empty," he half questions, half answers himself.
"Open the next drawer."
He does as I ask and I grip the sheet in my hand. There's no turning back.
"So is this one. What the fuck is going on Brian? Is this some kind of joke you're pulling?"
I really shouldn't plan things beforehand. I spend way too much time wiping my face free of the embarrassment afterwards when it all blows up there.
"They're yours." His face twists into a question mark. "When you took your stuff, I never put anything in them."
Some kind of light seems to dawn on him, but I can see his brain pull himself back a few paces before he gets ahead of himself. I almost want to rush him towards the finish line and save myself the need to push us both there. I'll gladly let him drag me past it, if that's what he wants. "Why would you do that?"
"I'd figured... I guess I thought you'd need them again one day." I rub my temples and push back this unnerving feeling just under the surface of my skin. I feel fear. I refuse to kowtow to fucking fear. "It's time for you to come home." I say it with such precision and clarity that I don't leave a breath of a space for hesitation or dissension on either of our parts.
I'm not very sure of much in life, but I am sure that I will never let myself live a life built on fear. I've always promised myself that.
"I think I need..." I reach up instinctively, in case he decides to pass out on me. But that's not what he seems to mean. "I need a minute."
He turns his back to me and for some ridiculous reason I imagine that he's talking to the angel on one shoulder and fighting with the devil on the other. Only he's standing and I'm sitting five feet away, so there's nothing sitting on either of his shoulders. He pivots around so quickly, I really do think he's about to lose his footing and I feel my body lunge off the end of the bed. He reaches down for me, apparently imagining that I'm the one falling off the bed. We meet somewhere in the middle and draw ourselves up slowly.
"Are you alright?" I ask him, even though we're both standing perfectly upright.
"I'm fine. What about you?"
"I'm good."
"I did something for you. I want you to do something for me." He finds the chest behind him and takes a seat. "Sit down." He pats the empty space to the right of him. At this moment, I think I'd do just about anything he asked. Except beg. I don't beg. I just hope mercilessly.
"What do you want me to do?"
He offers me his right hand, palm side up. Does he want me to read it? "Hold my hand."
Okay, there are two things I don't do. I don't beg and I don't hold hands, especially on command. "No."
His shoulders drop a few inches, and he exercises his jaw, rolling his eyes skyward, seemingly doing a mental countdown to calm the urge to slap me upside the head. "Just fucking hold it. I'm not trying to initiate you into the Secret Society of Really Nelly Queers. Your dick will still be intact."
I shove my fingers between his as forcefully as I can. He doesn't bend them all backwards. That's a good sign. "Now what?"
"Be quiet!" He zones out, closing his eyes, his breath rides on a low hum. I think he's spent too much time with Ben, or too much time in a drugged out stupor when I wasn't around.
"Are we meditating?"
"We aren't doing anything. You are being quiet, while I figure out how to kill you and then bury the body."
"Make sure you bury me in the black Armani." I feel my fingers relax around his knuckles. I'm grateful he's even speaking to me. So much so that I don't even care how melodramatic the entire scene is.
"You really fucking hurt me." His voice is hollow and distant.
I think I'd take melodrama over reality every single time. There's no hiding behind reality. Strip it of all pretense and there it is, just laid out right in front of you.
"Now you want me to just come back and pretend like it never happened." His eyes trace some imaginary pattern on the floor. "I can't do that again Brian. I've already tried to forget too much." I look at some random spot on the floor and a tiny pang of pain sears my eyeballs. I squeeze them shut for a brief second and it disappears from my consciousness. I can make it do that sometimes. "I know you can't talk about a lot of things...," he hesitates. "So I don't want you talk. I want you to listen, and if I hit a nerve or you get uncomfortable or whatever, I want you to squeeze my hand. Can you do that for me?"
I rub the skin between his thumb and index finger.
"Good."
"Can I say one thing?" I interrupt him and he pauses, making his entire body a stiff, unmovable force. "I never meant for you to get hurt. I'm sorry you did. I shouldn't have...." It's a whisper of a breath, the pain behind my eyes narrowing my focus. I can't think about breathing correctly. I close my eyes and it only seems to come closer. I guess I expect him to dissolve into my arms, but his hand only seems to grow heavier in my own.
"I never really thanked you for everything you've done for me," he guides us gently out of dangerous territory. My fingers squirm restlessly. I don't want to hear this. I want to hear how I fucked it all up and what I can do to make it not so fucked up. "So I'm thanking you now." I brush my thumb over his nail lightly. "But I don't think I really ask that much of you either. It just seems like a lot to you." I pull his arm closer to my knee.
"It's not a lot." It's really not. Sometimes it just feels Herculean to me.
"It is when everyone else expects absolutely nothing from you. I can't do that. That's not who I am. Does that bother you?" I don't know how to respond. If I squeeze his hand, maybe he'll think it does, but if I don't, then I'm admitting something I'm not sure I'm ready for him to know yet.
I chance the risk and hold my hand steady.
"I want you to stop assuming that I don't have a mind of my own. I know what I want and I want you... to just let me love you and let me worry about the rest." I nearly drain the blood from his hand. "I don't want to feel guilty about it. I don't want to be ashamed and I don't want it to be a fight every fucking time I try." I feel his tense fingers grip some pulse point that seems to relax my hand into submission. "Maybe only half the time," he chuckles.
"When you fuck up, which God only knows you will, and when I fuck up, which I will. Just be honest about it." His tone is light, but his message isn't. "Just keep trying. Effort will get you everywhere."
"What do I get out of this?" I joke.
"Me." Everything. "It's the only thing I have. Is that enough for you?"
I pound every last bit of hope I have left into the death grip I have on his hand. He uses his left hand to pull my fingers off one at a time and slips his hand back into his lap.
"Every time you squeezed my hand Brian, you squeezed the hand that I couldn't even use a year ago." He twirls his fingers in midair and I swear I see ten fingers where there are only five. It must be the lack of air in this room making me dizzy and seeing double. "Look at what I can do with it now. It's not going to fall apart because of a little pressure. I'm not gonna fall apart. I can take care of myself. You have to know that."
"So what do you need me for?" I never really considered that. I never imagined there would be a time when he didn't need me. If he doesn't need me then why would he even bother?
"Who else would put up with me and all my drama?" he asks, breezily.
He's such a little fucker. I wouldn't have it any other way.
"In that case, I expect some things from you too." His face registers surprise. "You didn't think I would just let you come waltzing back in, did you?"
"You sitting around waiting for me to come home? No, didn't think you were."
"I expect you to pick a couple of bills every month and pay them. I don't care what they are, just figure out which ones fit in your budget, make a check out and make sure they're paid." I cross my legs and try to think of a spur of the moment list of expectations. Somehow 'just show up with your bags and let me help you with them' doesn't seem like an appropriate response for the non-begging, non hand-holding type. "Do you have a problem with that?"
"As long as you're not calling those 900 numbers and expect me to pay for it."
"You're also going to clean up after yourself because I'm tired of picking up your shit." That seems reasonable enough. "You also have to have the Jeep cleaned at least twice a month."
"What the fuck does the Jeep have anything to do with moving back in?" he presses.
"Nothing. I just want a clean Jeep." He wipes the grin off my face by shoving his sturdy hand right in the center. I grab it off of me and refuse to let go. "One of those full body massages once a week, that would really be nice. Oh and the tiles in the shower. Make sure there's no mildew on them."
"What you're looking for is a personal slave. I'm sure you could hire one out for a reasonable price," he manages to grab my gut and I yank his arm so that we're almost chest to chest.
"One other thing," I grow a little more serious than I intended. "You don't let yourself love anybody else. I need you to not do that for me."
I see the faint trace of regret fill his eyes momentarily. He doesn't dwell on it, he simply nods his head.
"Same for me." I can't promise much, but that I know I can do.
"Including Michael?" He detaches himself from me. I wait. I can't think to do anything else. "I don't mean don't love him at all. I just mean..." I know what he means. I don't need to hear the words. "I don't want him to have a key anymore. I don't want anybody else to have a key." That he doesn't have... "Or even an invitation. This place is just for the two of us. Find someplace else."
I pull his mouth to mine and bathe him with my tongue. I have this odd addiction to having my tongue in his mouth. It's unbelievably warm in there and almost always open. I feel the pressure pooling in my chest. A tight, constricted pull that vibrates into my stomach and resonates throughout the rest of my body. He pulls me by my waistband, walking us backwards to the end of the bed.
"Okay," I concede. He doesn't ask for much. Sometimes everything, but it wouldn't be a lot to anyone else. Just me.
"Are we done now, because I'm horny as hell."
"You mean you don't want to discuss china patterns and matching linen?" I say sarcastically and push his shoulders down on the bed, working my way up his chest.
"Maybe later," he moans through the deepest haze of lust.
"Maybe never," I distract him with my tongue drawing circles around his nipple.
"Well after a while we'll get so bored with each other we'll have to discuss it, just to have something new to talk about." He's not easily distracted.
"Justin, do me a favor?" He lifts his head up to peer down at me. "Hold the conversation."
He reaches his hand down to dance near my face and I let him trace the steps I need to follow to find my way home.