The Ocean
Some nights the grim reaper comes to greet him, beneath his eyelids as they twitch in deep conscience. He thinks back to the first night they met. A warm afternoon. The sand seemed to glisten like a crystal sea, endless in its expanse. The creak of a door melts as breath into the wind, blowing through the windows, billowing beneath his cape.
Daddy pulls the window shut, ushers his little boy away from the window and towards the bed. He remembers the sound of the zipper, trapped in the room, echoing in the dark.
A plea. A scream.
He thinks back to his sixth birthday. Ma' sat him up on her lap, stroked soft fingertips through oil-black hair. She leans in close, casting a glance over at her husband dozing on the couch. Love is like a scythe, she whispers. Mummy's little angel doesn't understand and she melts away his frown with a lingering kiss on the crown of his head.
Daddy pulls open the curtains, releases the latch on the window. The stale, rancid air, the late evening saline gasps, fill his lungs. Brendan looks out into the bay, the horizon bathed in a sulphur sunset and cigarette stained sand. His tears drip like blood onto his bed sheets.
He awakes when his throat is hoarse and his bed sheets are sodden with the saline spray of the ocean he's never been fully able to scrub away. There's an entire other body of water residing within his skin. When his chest pulls tight, his lungs feel dense and breath feels like a tide that never rolls back out to sea.
There's a shushing in his ear, forcing life into his bones, and arms around his waist, as a dam holding back the river. Promises, whispers. It's okay. It's okay. He knows it's not true, but it's enough. There are soft lips on the hair over his temple, the hollow dip between his jaw and his neck, the crown of his head - the crown he bears in his succession.
The sound of the tide rushing back out into the sea lulls him back to sleep. In this light, the ocean is still.
When morning comes, there's coffee stains on his tongue, fingertips in his hair and a welcome, unobtrusive silence. Just comfort. Just home. For a moment, he feels rested, relaxed, but he feels the water washing over the tips of his toes and he shifts his weight onto the floor. Stands straight, stretches up, allows gravity to be his nurse. The fingertips dance over his hip. He's tempted, tempted to lie back, but it's easier this way. To keep moving, keep running whilst the ocean chases after his heels.
The longer he stands, the less he drowns.
He washes dishes in the kitchen sink. Four mugs, four plates, four sets of cutlery. Counts them once, then counts them twice. Twenty-four. He knows the number well. It's only three steps from the abyss of the coast.
He keeps himself busy, ties his shoes standing up, foot raised up and resting on the edge of the bed. Nothing worse than wet socks, he reminds himself. He walks Steven to work, kisses him goodbye but doesn't answer the question on the tip of his tongue. He decided long ago that distance is easier than words.
By midday his legs are tired. Despite shifting constantly, he feels it creeping up towards his knees, so he sits, and he sits for the rest of the day. By the next time he stands, he walks as though he's treading through water waist deep, walks himself straight out into the horizon.
Steven walks him home, carries his heavy, laden bones with his musical laughter and smiling eyes. Before the threshold he asks the question that has grown stale on his tongue over time: his response is a blunt knife battling through the cut.
I'm fine.
When they shower, he doesn't feel the weight of the droplets on his skin, he just feels heavier. His shoulders sag as familiar finger nails scrape their way over his scalp.
A plea. A scream. His lover holds him tight, chests flush, and he knocks a hole into him, plunges his hand into the depths of his chest and holds his heart. The water subsides for a moment in his release.
When they're done, he wraps a towel around his waist. He is full up to the base of his skull.
Some nights the grim reaper comes to greet him, stares straight into his face in the mirror. He opens the window, feels the breeze dance across his skin. Love is like a scythe, he repeats.
He used to crawl into bed in shame, but he sees that the light here does not illuminate his sins, but shields them. Steven shifts closer, murmurs in his half awareness a temptation he cannot refuse. The ocean ebbs behind his eyes. With legs entwined, soft hair nestled into the dip of his collar bone, palms pressed carefully above overflowing lungs, Brendan closes his eyes before the dam collapses.
Some nights the grim reaper comes to greet me. His love is double ended; two handed. He holds me with the embrace of a silent murderer, fists balled behind my back: a scythe in one hand, an hour glass in the other.
Thank you for reading. I know this isn't really an explicit 'Stendan' story, and it certainly doesn't have much plot, but I've been trying to exercise my writing with some ideas that I've had for a few months. Lately it's been difficult to articulate my ideas, and this isn't much, it certainly isn't good, but it's just something that needed releasing. Whether you enjoyed it or not, all criticism is welcome. Thank you.