The Jubilation of Wolves, a csi: new york fanfic

The Jubilation of Wolves

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Fandom: CSI:NY

Author: Kimmychu

Rating: FRM

Pairing: Darri/Dorotheos, Danny/Flack

Content Warning: AU storyline featuring original characters who are indirectly connected to certain CSI:NY characters. In fact, for the most part, this story can actually be read as original fiction except for the latter half or so, hence the first pairing listed.

Spoilers: None.

Summary: Can the love between two souls survive over two millennias and beyond? A Danny/Flack love story that spans the ages.

Disclaimer: Danny and Flack may belong to CBS, but Darri, Dorotheos and any other original character in the story belongs to me.

( Oooo …... oooO )

Author's Notes: Anyone who's read an older story of mine, Amor Aeternus, you should be familiar with the Gladiator Alternate Universe I created. This story is pretty much a revamp of the gladiator AU concept, similar in some ways to Amor Aeternus but it can definitely be read as a standalone story so it's not necessary to read Amor Aeternus in order to read this one and vice versa.

The complete lack of quotation marks is deliberate. If you've ever read Cormac McCarthy books, you'll know what I mean. If not, then you just gotta know there's dialogue but the lack of quotation marks and commas is on purpose. Experimenting with a different style of writing. (By the way, formatting requires that I put this border thingy between 'sections' of the story. Kinda messes up the 'appearance' of the story, actually. Blah. The version on my LJ is the one I prefer.)

Enjoy, and thank you for your reviews as always! Think of this story as a Christmas 2008 gift from me to all Danny/Flack fans.

( Oooo …... oooO )

In his dreams Sparta burns. Temples, houses and trees and his fellow warriors and their women and children raze to grey ashes. The stench of melting flesh does not sicken him. Dust clogs his throat and his eyes. In his arms as he stumbles to his knees his son's corpse is weightless and drenched crimson and cold. As cold as what remains of his heart. The scream tearing from his lungs is heard only by the crumbling, smoking effigies of the dead. His homeland, his soul burns.

Oooo …... oooO

The Viking's hair intrigues him. It's short and spiky and brown-yellow like hay and yet feels like lustrous silk to his calloused fingers. The Viking watches him. Heavy-lidded blue eyes smile at him. One eyebrow curves up.

Have you never seen hair before, you with that nest of black moss on your head?

It's not black, it's dark brown, he says to the Viking. And it's not moss.

My hair is no different than yours.

No. Not after you take away its gold, no.

The Viking laughs.

You have a sense of humor after all, Spartan.

The Viking bounds away from him and the shorter man's lean legs disappear in the sea of bright yellow flowers enfolding them both. The unforeseen smile ensnares him and blinds him.

My name is Darri, Spartan. Remember it.

Oooo …... oooO

The giant Persian's head spins on the earth. Leaving scimitar trails of red in its ghastly wake. The Persian's mouth gapes in a lasting circle of abject astonishment as does his bloody, frayed neck stump. The arena is silent. All is silent. Even Makarios who stands beside him with hazel eyes as wide as the bladeslash gutting the Persian's torso from collarbones to groin. The long, empty left sleeve of Makarios' shirt flails in the wind. Makarios, teacher and taskmaster, judge and jury and god, is in awe of his tyro. Darri's back is turned to them. There isn't a single drop of blood on him or his sword. Anywhere.

Monster, a Roman gladiator whispers nearby.

He stares at the glistening swells of Darri's back, at Darri's crown of silken gold and sees absolute beauty.

Oooo …... oooO

Sunlight glimmers across the quiet waters of the pond. Like knife flashes in the night. Darri kneels before him naked submerged to the waist in the fluid clearness. Darri is trembling but also staring him straight in the eye. The fear is still there. It's still there but in a little while it will be gone.

Must we? Darri asks, voice so subdued as to be almost unheard.

Do you want it to trap you till your death?

No. I don't.

Then we must.

There is no other way, Dorotheos?

It won't matter what way is taken. It will meet you at every turn and corner. As long as you won't face it.

I am facing it now.

Yes, you are. Lean back. That's it.

He reaches out and clasps Darri's muscular arms and gently and gradually pushes the Viking under the water. The watery plains churn for a heartbeat to three. He does not move nor does he relent. Then it calms and he sees Darri gazing at him from another world and Darri's eyes so blue like his own are a child's. Large and wondrous and disbelieving. Then he sees it returning.

Face it, he says. Face it.

Darri's hand is clawing at his arm lunging out of its watery grave at his shoulder. At anything that can be seized, wrenched. Darri is dying and he is drowning his friend and this is the way it has to be or Darri will be haunted by his demons until the end of his days.

Face it!

The pond stagnates once more. A globe of air wrestles itself away from Darri's parted lips and floats away and ruptures and fades. Darri is still gazing at him. He lets go. Chilly wetness strikes him in the face, neck and chest. Miniature spears of receding terror and mounting fury.

You almost killed me, you bastard!

Darri is panting and lurching ungainly then falling over into the shallow water and cursing as loud as the gods will bear to listen. It amuses him. He chuckles at the Viking's rare display of raw emotions and lack of grace.

And yet, you live.

Hush thick as the fog of Mount Olympus seals Darri's lips for a moment.

Yes.

It wasn't your time yet. Just as it wasn't your time to die when your ship sank. You survived that too, didn't you.

His truth placates Darri. They sit on yielding sand while the waves of Darri's departing outrage lap at their waist and legs and arms. His eyes gleam. A wordless request for forgiveness.

As long as you fear you will never be free. But when you are free of your fear nothing can stand in your way.

His hand traverses over a thousand possibilities and a thousand lives but it touches only one and that one grasps it with an equally strong hand that has navigated just as many paths and tapped as many lives. Darri's hand is warm and damp. Darri lives. Darri is a mischievous little imp who yanks him under and feeds him a choking mouthful of water. He doesn't care. Darri is laughing and he's laughing and the elation he feels is worth his air. The fear is gone from Darri's eyes.

Oooo …... oooO

Pain. A lion's claws dig jagged rivulets of fire down his thigh. Darri's shortsword stabs deep into the lion's eye and into its brain. It yowls and crashes onto flat ground. Torrent of blood creating a new lake of coagulating, fleeting life. Another lion pounces and he hurls himself in front of Darri and bridles the lion's jaws with the chain shackling his left arm to Darri's right. Reek of death blasting his face. Yellowed, sharp teeth gnashing on iron. They plunge their swords through the zenith of the maddened animal's skull together and its roar deafens them to the thrilled hammering of their hearts but Darri's grin is radiant as the midday sun overhead and it is enough for him. It is enough and it is good.

Oooo …... oooO

He ponders on the name of the yellow flower in his hand. That is far better than the bleakness that roils in the recesses of his mind and he glowers at the flower's delicate petals and plucks one off. It flutters. Dying butterfly to the grass between them.

Do you still think of Sparta? Darri asks.

Yes, he eventually answers. Their toes sticking out from leather sandals brush against each other.

They say you're of noble blood. Is it true? That you are a king?

Does it matter?

A king should have his crown, Dorotheos.

A king with a kingdom, yes.

Flowers are everywhere but he smells the strangling bitterness of smoke. Of infernos and spilled blood and Lysander's fragile innocence frozen in time and eternity. His baby boy. His son.

The Persians came, his mouth murmurs and he wants to stop and shove the beasts of his past back whence they emerged. Then he looks at Darri's face and in its glory the beasts aren't as frightening as they appear to be.

Xerxes and his army.

Yes. The Persians came. In the hundreds of thousands. And we, we were but a fraction of them.

Yet you fought them.

We lost.

The flower stalk in his hand is crushed. Smoke. There is smoke everywhere. Lysander, so weightless and soundless in his embrace. Amyntas, arrow through the heart. Never to battle at his side again. Cynisca, his queen, once as blazing as the flames that engulfed her. He lost. Everything.

You don't have to say anything, he says to Darri but the other man is already saying what needs to be said with the wrapping of extraordinarily kind fingers around his own and he is ashamed of the hot wetness springing to his eyes. What Spartan king reveals such weakness?

The last time I was touched this way it was with Amyntas. My comrade in arms. My lover.

Am I to be both too?

Do you wish to be?

Darri's scoffing guffaw is expected. What is not expected is Darri's deprecation aimed at himself.

You are of royalty. I am a mongrel. The reality is plain as the moon above, Your Majesty.

A mongrel?

Truth be told, I am not really a Viking. Only that my mother was from them and she hated me for what I am. A mongrel dog born to her out of violence and aversion.

What your mother thought matters not to me. What matters is what you think.

Me?

You are not your mother, are you. You are what you think. So tell me who you are.

The stars inhabit the pools of Darri's eyes. Diamonds on velvet and sheer blue tarns. Darri's breath traces runes across the coarse terrain of his jowl. What is left of the flower slips from his hold. There is nothing between their fingers. There is nothing between them anymore.

I am yours, my king.

Oooo …... oooO

Heat, all around him. Heat. Encirclement. Sanctuary. Droplets dotting a high smooth forehead and sleek neck. He bows his head to lick them. Nestles his face in the supple crook between neck and shoulder. Sweat. Sheared grass. Rosemary. Musk. Darri, utterly Darri.

Dorotheos … More. Please.

He watches his friend's, his lover's eyelids flicker. A caress of their lips. Thrust of hips, two, three and again and Darri cries out with each one and arches underneath him tossing his head on their gathered tunics. Yellow petals threading through short gold silk. Heaving of a broad chest. Another moan. Flash of paradise across the living expanse of Darri's countenance.

Show me. Show me yourself, beloved.

Darri answers his plea with a piercing shout and a tremor from head to toe and the painting of white seed upon their bellies and then he is falling with Darri and falling and bellowing. Shattering. Hovering. Materializing. A million pieces rendered whole yet again. Rapture, o sweet rapture.

Now you have seen me and I have seen you.

He smiles tenderly at Darri and Darri's wisdom. Darri is picking out bits of grass from his dark hair. Running fingertips along his cheek and below his chin.

Mine, he says without doubt.

Mine, Darri whispers.

And far away the wolves howl at their pale mother in the sky.

Oooo …... oooO

Caesar watches the arena and he watches Caesar. He knows who it is that Caesar craves. Outside on the sweltering sands Darri stands atop the carcass of a chariot horse. Scarlet-spattered words at sides and head held high and a smile. For him. He knows what it is that Caesar craves. He is a king without a kingdom but a king nonetheless. No other will claim what is already his. None.

Do not tempt Caesar, Spartan, Makarios growls into his ear. Do not forget your place.

Is that what he told you, Athenian, after he slaughtered your wife and made you his servant?

Clout to the face. Makarios has a powerful right hook. Spray of blood from his cheek. The ring around the one-armed Greek's third finger is deadly when exploited by a soldier so experienced.

You do not speak of Cleantha!

He does not go down. The scaffolds of the gladiators' entrance spins for the length of a noiseless gasp. His fist flies at Makarios' head but he narrowly misses Makarios' nose by a finger's width. The gladiator trainer's eyes glint with reserved respect at his swift resurgence. Point of a dagger underneath his chin. He goes motionless.

Do not tempt him, Spartan. The Viking is not worth it.

He turns his head away from Makarios and glances out at Darri and Darri is gazing back at him smile wiped away. Worry. It is worry he sees upon Darri's familiar features. Caesar is no longer watching Darri. Caesar is watching him.

Oooo …... oooO

The iron bars do not budge. The shackles around his wrists and ankles do not fragment. Has it been three days? Four? He is uncertain. The cudgel blow to the back of his head is not there tormenting him without its consequences. Damn Livius that spineless traitor. Damn Caesar and his foul greed and lust. Damn himself, for possessing a heart that feels even after the loss of everything. Almost everything.

You're playing a dangerous game, Dorotheos.

He glares at Makarios' sandaled feet beyond the bars. Him caged, Makarios not. And still it is he who has not lost his spirit nor its liberty.

After all you have gone through, your wife, your son and your kingdom dead and gone … you still wish to tempt Fate? You still wish to suffer?

If love isn't worth living for then what else is there that is worth living for?

Makarios' silence is its own answer.

Would you say the same to me, Makarios, if Caesar had not killed Cleantha? If she was enslaved by another man would you allow it?

Do not presume to know me!

Makarios has the snarl of a great lion. He has never heard the Athenian so enraged but when he glances up he sees Makarios is leaning his head against one of the iron bars. Eyes shut. Unmistakable tracks roll down the man's lined face. He is not the only one who smells smoke in the midst of sweet flowers. Fresh grass and rosemary in the firmness of his lover's neck. Warm sunshine in golden, silky tufts. He is not the only one who has a heart that continues to feel even after losing everything.

Tell me then. Tell me what you smell when you think of her.

He hears Makarios suck in a shuddering breath. A sigh or a sob.

I smell sage. And crisp bread and honey cakes. Saffron and figs and grapes and olives. Lilies. Roses and marjoram. Myrrh. I smell home. Her.

You understand then.

Yes.

Makarios' eyes are very old and weary and brim with unspoken wrath towards the murderer of his other half.

I will not bow down to Caesar's wishes, Dorotheos says after a while.

He intends to have you slayed in the grand fight tomorrow. He has acquiesced to Darri's request to fight at your side.

Is Darri to be the right hand of Hades then and do his dirty work?

Ask him yourself. Caesar has also granted him his second request. To spend the night with you. For the last time.

Oooo …... oooO

The wall in front of him is colorless and arid. It is not Darri. Darri is behind him on the other side of the room facing another wall of his own. They are manacled to the floor. Wrists and ankles tethered together. Their backs towards each other. Unable to see or touch each other. Caesar's ultimate feat of torture.

We will die together.

Yes, beloved. As it should be.

But neither you or I imagined it to be this way.

No. Not like this.

He can smell Darri. He stares at dead stone but he smells life. Breathe in. Darri is within him.

There is a place called Valhalla, Darri says. Valhalla where the majestic and valiant Einherjar go when they have died in war and are carried by Valkyries. They feast on Sæhrímnir and mead every night and prepare every day for Ragnarök so they may battle upon the field of Vígríðr. And you my king you are more than worthy of being among them than I though you are not of my blood.

I am no king. What king am I that would let this happen? I am no king. Not anymore. Who am I but a mere gladiator against the emperor of Rome?

You are the man I love.

Darri's voice is hoarse and subtle but the avowal is as endless and breathtaking as the ranges of the Tagyetos mountains of his homeland. He hears Darri. He hears them and he closes his eyes.

That is enough for you? That I am just a man without a crown or a kingdom?

It is enough. More than enough.

I have no yearning to be in Valhalla.

The warriors of Sparta have their own heaven like the Einherjar?

No. But even if there was I have no yearning to be there either.

Why?

I choose to roam the underworld forever than to be without you.

Iron scrapes across the granite floor. Iron grating harsh against iron. Roar of rage and sorrow. Darri is struggling to break free and then breaking down and that more than anything else is what rips him to the core.

Here, beloved, I am holding your hand. We are sitting together in the field behind the gladiator school in Ravenna. Watching the sun set. The narcissi are in full bloom for us. Do you see them? Do you smell them?

Yes, Dorotheos. They are pure and wonderful. Like they often are in the spring.

Think of them. Think of them and see them and you will see me there among them. Waiting. For you.

Promise me you'll find me in the afterlife, my king. Promise me you'll remember me.

Always, beloved. Always.

Oooo …... oooO

The Viking's vacant eyes stare upwards at Apollo in the sky. Blood. Blood trickles from the Viking's mouth and stomach ripped asunder. Slippery pale guts overflowing onto crimson sand. The Spartan lies on top of the Viking. Face down. Face nestled in a dirt and blood-encrusted neck. A yawning hole running through the Spartan's chest, cave of gore and nothingness. Makarios gazes into it and sees his past self gazing back.

Who killed him? Who killed the Viking?

Caesar stands beside him. A scowl contorts the emperor's vicious visage.

It was Livius, Caesar.

And the Spartan?

I do not know. I lost sight of him for some time when the chariots appeared. When I saw him again he was here with the Viking. Speared through his chest.

Caesar's skullsmile is even uglier than his scowl. There is no affection lost there. Simply dissatisfaction, that a piece of property of meat and bone is now worthless.

Let the vultures devour them.

A brief gust as Caesar turns. Red cape swirling. Whirling like it did that day while Cleantha was bathing inside and he was outside tending to his horses and examining their newly fitted shoes. There were too many of them, too many soldiers. They were mighty. Purposeful. Pitiless. Exactly how he had trained them to be.

No no please not Cleantha not her anything but her take anything else but her take my arm take it take my arm and leave her be I beg of you Caesar please don't hurt her take my arm take anything anything but her please please no -

Caesar.

The emperor's flesh is remarkably pulpous. His loyal dagger slides between the emperor's ribs straight into a rotten heart. A twist of his wrist. The blade carves through minuscule caverns and veins.

This is what you made her feel, Caesar. This is what you made her feel as you raped her and stabbed her in the chest and belly and face and listened to her screaming for mercy.

Another warranted cruel stab through a perishing body. The emperor of Rome is choking and gurgling like a pig on a spit.

Do you remember her now, Caesar? Do you remember me now?

One last screw of the blade. Caesar's vulnerable eyes grow empty. Sand billows in clouds where the royal corpse crumples. Two bodyguards are rushing towards him swords unsheathed. Screaming frenzy and horror. The dagger plummets from his hand. He smells sage and saffron and roses. He sees her there in the kitchen tearing off a small piece of freshly baked bread and putting it into her mouth and chewing it. Long curly hair down her shoulders. Green eyes glowing with devotion. She is so exquisite in the morning sunlight. She is smiling at him.

Cleantha I am coming home.

He tilts his head back. His eyes waver shut and he does not feel the swords slicing through his neck decapitating him.

Oooo …... oooO

In his dreams New York city is sleeping. He is walking down a street lined by vacant cars on both sides and there is a white furred wolf following him. Scampering to his left then to his right then back again a half dozen feet behind him. He whistles to it but it doesn't listen so he snaps his fingers a few times instead. The wolf halts in its tracks. Its big blue eyes gaze at him.

You know my name, the wolf says.

If I did, I don't remember it anymore, he replies.

Do you remember yours?

Mine?

Yes. Once upon a time, you told me to remember it. Do you remember that?

I've never met a talkin' wolf before so how can I remember your name when a talkin' wolf shouldn't exist?

I'm not a wolf.

Oh? A wolf walks on all fours, has fur and a tail and paws. You are those things. And you oughta know, I'm a scientist who graduated at the top of my class.

The wolf sniffles. Its whiskers dance in soft sunshine.

I'm not a wolf. I'm merely a wolf here because you do not remember my name. You do not remember me.

Who are you then?

When you see me again you will remember.

The wolf suddenly darts ahead of him and as the wolf runs farther and farther into the distance the road beneath it unfurls into an infinite field of bright yellow flowers and his breath catches at the sight of it. At the sight of the solitary tall man standing amidst the blossoming vibrance. The tall man has such thick dark hair. The tall man has eyes just like the wolf's.

The tall man's divine smile sends him to his knees and upon awakening he prays from the depths of his thundering heart that he will remember the man. One day. Soon.

Oooo …... oooO

Mac Taylor is a terrifying legend. Danny thinks this in private as his new work colleague passes him his very first case file on the job.

Stella and I are working on the Benson case. You'll work on this one, the Greenwich Village case.

Okay.

Danny has no complaints. The Greenwich Village case is a simple one. Young man found dead as a door nail with three gunshot wounds to the chest and neck. Pretty damn easy to figure out what killed him. The question of course is who did it.

The scene was only partially canvassed last night, Mac says.

Heh. So the new guy gets the leftovers.

More like the new guy gets to demonstrate why he graduated at the top of his class.

He chuckles sheepishly at Mac's statement. He should have known better than to say that outright to Mac's face in his interview. It's true he is the top of the crop. Still embarrassing though whenever he recalls Mac's raised eyebrows at his straightforwardness. He'll never live it down. At least not for a couple of months.

The homicide detective on the case is waiting for you down the corridor. He'll drive you to the scene and brief you on the details.

Alright.

You two have something in common.

What's that?

This is his first case as well.

Huh, now why doesn't that gimme confidence?

Decades lift away from Mac's mien when the man grins. Mac pats on the shoulder.

You'll be fine. Keep me updated.

Danny begins to reply. Then instead of a yes what leaps off his tongue is a squeak of astonishment. Something dashes across his vision behind Mac. Haze of white fur. Riveting blue eyes.

Danny?

I thought I just saw a wo- … no, forget 'bout it. It's nothin'. Sorry. I'll talk with ya later.

He strides away quickly his cheeks heated. Mac looking amused is right up there on his List of Good Things with Mac looking pleased. But not at his expense!

What are you doin', Messer, get a grip, he mutters to himself.

As he turns around the corner he sniffles and his brows furrow. That's weird. Either someone wearing heavy perfume just walked the same route or his sense of smell has gone off its rocker. There's the scent of something very pleasant in the air. Like honey. Or flowers in the spring.

Oh my God.

He isn't certain if he said it aloud or not. What he is certain of is his breath hitching in his throat at the sight of the solitary tall man standing further down the corridor staring out the floor-to-ceiling windows at the grand skyline of Manhattan. The man is wearing a black leather jacket. Dark orange tie. A pristine white dress shirt and black pants. Polished black shoes. The man's hair is so dark and thick. Pale smooth skin. Patrician nose and dark pink lips. The man is gazing at him now. Such big blue eyes gazing at him. Eyes just like those of the wolf in his dreams. Abruptly he is standing in front of the tall man and the tall man is offering a large hand for a handshake.

Hello, the man says and the resonant toe-curling voice hums of fallen empires long gone and noble blood and love eternal.

Silently he stretches out his own right hand. It travels over millennias and all the lives and possibilities that number the years in those millennias but it touches only one and that one clasps it with a hand just as alive and open and so familiar. And finally. Finally, something extraordinary in the universe shifts back into its rightful place.

Detective Messer, I presume? I'm Detective Don Flack, from Homicide.

Yeah, I'm Messer. Danny Messer. How ya doin'?

I had a lousy hotdog this mornin'. But now? I'm doin' great.

He smiles at Flack. They continue to hold hands. Neither one is letting go.

A hotdog guy, huh? I'm more of a chicken wings and pizza kinda guy.

What a coincidence. They're my favorite!

Guess we'll get along just fine.

Took the words right outta my mouth, Messer.

For the rest of the day they stick close and stay within view of each other. In Flack's car they chat about the Mets and the Rangers and debate on the pros and cons of eating deep-fried chicken alongside beer. At the cordoned crime scene Flack observes him collecting evidence from various locations in the victim's apartment and Flack has his undivided attention while the guy shares stories of humorous occurrences at his precinct. He does not have misgivings about Flack's candidness. Flack's trust in him so soon. It is what he has never had before, what he never thought he would ever have with anyone. It feels right. Real. Especially with this tall, dark-haired man who has his full trust in return.

Do ya need a ride home, Messer?

They're back at the labs and he's at his desk and Flack's standing at the doorway of the office he shares with Aiden. His shift is over. He's grabbing his things and packing up for the night and sure as hell hadn't anticipated the homicide detective following him all the way here from the car park. Flack's query astounds him even more.

No, it's okay, Flack. Thanks for askin' though. I 'ppreciate it.

Don.

Wha?

Don. Call me Don.

Tension. The intense kind. The good kind. The kind that rids the world completely of clamor and pretense and leaves nothing except wonder and certainty. He wants to know Don Flack. He wants to know every fact about this man who is staring at him as if he is all that exists. Unable to speak he nods his head and hopes Flack understands. Flack does.

I'll see you tomorrow then. We're still set for lunch, right?

He nods again and Flack's compelling eyes twinkle with an emotion he dares not name. Flack turns to leave.

Don!

Immediately Flack is facing him once more. He blinks hard. The tuna sandwich he had eaten for an afternoon snack must have been bad because he's not seeing the walls of his office surrounding him anymore. As far as his eyes can perceive there are flowers. Hundreds and hundreds of dazzling golden flowers swaying in the cool breeze. Amid it all Flack stands alone. The man is wearing a dark brown robe or tunic of some sort. Flack's hair is longer and more wavy and the wind rustles it and gives it its own soul. And this Flack also stares at him with such marvel. Such fervor. He desires to know this Flack too.

My name is Danny. Remember it.

They are back in his office. Flack is in a suit and tie again. Flack smiles at him, and its unforeseen splendor enraptures and blinds him.

Oooo …... oooO

His feet and left hip throb. He inhales another puff of smoke from his cigarette and chortles to himself. Flack who sits beside him on the curbside outside the homicide detective's precinct is smoking a cigarette of his own. Flack doesn't smoke as often as he does though. Usually after grueling perp chases that include a whole lot of slipsliding and crashing into trash bins and getting punched and kicked everywhere.

Geez, who woulda thunk such a fat man could run that fast?

Don, ya can't say fat no more. Gotta be politically correct these days, don'tcha know?

Okay, Mr. Smartypants, you tell me what the in-word is then.

Horizontally-challenged. No joke.

Flack's cackle elicits a smile from him and dispels his remaining irritation. He exhales and watches the smoke from his lips mingle with the smoke from Flack's. It's strange. He's smoking Flack's smoking and there's smoke in their lungs and in the air around them and yet, all he smells is the pureness of flowers. When he swivels his head to study Flack's features under the street lamp he is seeing the other Flack. The other one who materializes in his presence at the most bewildering of times. The other one whom he can only touch in his dreams.

We are good together, you and I.

This other Flack is holding a yellow flower. This other Flack plucks a petal off and it wafts down onto verdant grass between them. The man is naked like he is. He is sitting on some bunched up clothes. Their clothes. An ache between his legs albeit a satisfying one. Knowing what it feels to have his lover inside him is worth the slight pain. A large hand rubs his thigh. A tender kiss on his lips, and the flower in Flack's hand is a cigarette once again. This close up Flack's eyes are humongous and unguarded. Flack's hand is on his knee. He does not remove it.

Yeah. We're good together. You and I.

He nudges Flack's knee with the knee Flack is grasping and he grins at Flack giving him a fond squeeze and at the sun rising in the windows of Flack's soul.

Oooo …... oooO

The rains befall him. It is never dark in New York city for it is the city that never sleeps but the rains make him cold and the cold can be so much worse than darkness. A shocking flare of lightning. Rumbling thunder. A fellow pedestrian bumps against his shoulder in the race to seek shelter from the storm. Others shield themselves with umbrellas. He staggers on by himself. His legs are headed for a place they haven't gone to for many years. Once upon a time it was his second home and then it became Eden locked away from him due to his stupidity and his fucked-upness and his cowardice. He's been running. Running away for so long.

Hey, watch where you're going, asshole!

He ignores the angry yell. He stumbles on. He thinks about the man who lives in the Eden from which he is barred. He misses that man very very much. He misses the man's flawless smile and big blue eyes and the man's absolute faith in him and everything else. Everything else that was truly good in his past. He gave it all away to exist in a lie and keep everyone else happy except himself. The ultimate flaw in his plan was that as long as he wasn't happy those who really love him weren't happy either. And the one person who stopped smiling after what he'd done who stopped being happy, whom he lost, is the man living in Eden far away from the empty world he's leaving behind right now.

Please let me in. It's cold out here I just need to get out of the rain for a while, please?

A homeless person is pleading with the maître d' of a five-star hotel for refuge and will receive none. He trudges past them without a word. His haven is not here. He still has some ways to go before he arrives at the stately neighborhood where it is. He walks on. And on. And eventually he is wobbling and trembling in front of a red door with gold numbers on it. The door belongs to a house. An enormous house. A rich man's house that has served generations of Irish bluebloods. He rings the doorbell and awaits punishment for his sins.

Danny? Danny, what the - you're all wet and - did you walk all the way here in the rain from Queens?!

The door is open. A tall decent man looms within its frame. It is Flack. Flack with more lines on his gorgeous face. More grey and even white strands in that luxuriant dark hair. More aged despondency in those striking eyes than the last time he looked into them. Flack had been so upset then. Upset at the falsehoods he told. At the ruthless execution, the death of everything they had. They were good together, he and Flack. They were good together.

Come inside. C'mon. Look at you, you're shiverin' like you're havin' a fit.

Eden is as cozy and warm and welcoming as he remembers it. He is grateful for the moisture dripping onto his face from his sopping hair. If he can't tell what are raindrops and what are tears surely Flack can't do so either. Flack is stripping off his sodden coat. Guiding him to the living room. The sofa set isn't one he recognizes. Flack must have changed it at some point after the last time they saw each other. It's leather and waterproof. Without his coat he feels even colder and he wraps his arms around himself shivering more violently. Flack vanishes and then comes back with something soft bulky and snug. It's a blanket. Flack envelops him in it. Flack vanishes again then returns with a smaller towel. Flack is drying his hair with it. And this time he is powerless against the renewed flow of anguish and relief from his sore eyes. Anguish for so many years wasted. Relief for realizing it's not too late after all.

Danny. Talk to me.

Flack is kneeling on the floor next to him attempting to make eye contact. Flack has placed a hand on his knee. Fingertips brushing his hand on his thigh. He steadies his shaky breathing first. He swallows visibly.

Will you find me, no matter how lost I become?

For a very long time he stares forward at nothing his vision indistinct. He doesn't want to see Flack's face. He doesn't want to see the stark reality there. But then Flack is elevating his hand into the air and he senses Flack's lips upon his fingers and he has to look, he has to look at the man whom he loved from the very beginning. And still does.

Always, beloved, Flack says simply lips outlining the oath onto his skin.

He does not hear the rain. It is cloudless and sunny and they are sitting in a field of iridescent yellow flowers and they are young and laughing as if the earth is theirs to command. He is twining the flowers together and he sets the fruits of his labor around his lover's temples. A crown. A crown of gold for a king with a heart of gold. A Spartan king.

I remember your name.

He caresses the side of Flack's face. Flack's skin is as smooth and alive as he remembers it to be. Flack's smile is as splendid as it ever was and even the tearful joy that cause Flack's eyes to glisten is beautiful to behold.

I remember you, my king. I remember.

Oooo …... oooO

Fullness. Completeness. Unity. Flack is deep within him and he tries to breathe and finds himself moaning.

Take a breath, Danny. Yeah. That's it. You're not gonna black out on me, are ya, babe?

Flack is murmuring so soothingly to him. So lovingly. This is the Flack whom he longed to know. The one whom he had caught so many times staring at him as if he was all that mattered in the universe. The one who was once king of an ancient dominion that now survives solely in books and films and in memory. His king.

Move. Please, Don.

You ready?

Yes ... Please.

He cries out when Flack withdraws halfway then thrusts in to the hilt. Again and again. He can't move. His legs are on Flack's broad shoulders and his hands cling onto Flack's long neck and he can't move but it's okay. It's good and it's perfect. Flack kisses him. Holds him tight and rolls them over so Flack is on his back on the bed and he's sitting on Flack's lap and Flack is deeper inside him. He gasps loudly.

Remember this, Danny?

He gasps a second time then huffs out a near silent amused laugh. Oh yes. Yes he does. Flack is gripping his hips raising him up. Pulling out to the tip. Holding him there, prodding the slick entrance into his body. Oh he remembers this. He knows what comes next. His back arcs his thighs spread in immense pleasure and he slams down filling himself up in one stroke. He and Flack groan in unison.

Remember this, Darri?

He can't speak. It is dusk and the grass crunches beneath his knees and feet. His friend his partner his lover lies between his legs solid and steadfast. Yellow petals knotted in dark undulating hair. Rising and falling extensive chest and its soft sparse hair he delights in nuzzling with his face so. His hands bear down on that chest. He can't speak, merely moan and writhe and whimper while he is pounded over and over and so close to bursting. He's there. Nearly there -

I remember. I remember, he whispers into Flack's mouth and he stiffens and splinters into nothing and everything in the same moment.

Later he peels open his eyes. He is bundled up in a dry heavy blanket. Head on a feather-stuffed pillow. Flack is lying on the bed next to him inches away. Facing him. Gazing at him with such adoring blue eyes. Flack is stroking the back of his head. The sensation is hypnotic. Constant. Comforting. Flack is smiling softly at him. He is home at last.

What about ...

It takes him a few minutes to comprehend Flack's partial question. What and who Flack is asking about. When he does he wriggles out a hand from under the blanket and touches Flack's cheek.

It's over. Some things, they … they just don't work out in the end.

And some things do?

Yes. Some do. Some things always do.

They smile at one another and it is enough for them. Enough that their years of separation are indeed over. That there is no more deception. No more denial. No more fear. They are home. At last. Later still, he quietly watches Flack slumbering. In the dimness of Flack's bedroom the lines on Flack's visage wane. The grey and white hairs are buried beneath their dark brown neighbors. Flack is as handsome as the day he met the tall venerable man for the first time so many years ago. So many millennias ago. He sweeps the back of his fingers down the side of Flack's face. He shifts closer to his other half and nuzzles the sleeping man's cheek. Lets his eyelids flutter shut.

I remember you now, my love. I remember us.

Oooo …... oooO

O Ravenna. Abode of lush forest-pines and daffodils and poppies and antediluvian mosaics by the Adriatic sea. Abode to momentous history. Abode to the memories of a past life of two undying souls. Two who are no longer lone and never will be.

The flowers. They're still here. After all this time, Flack murmurs.

Danny tightens his grasp around Flack's hand. The platinum ring on the third finger of Flack's left hand is cool on his skin.

Yes. Maybe they were waitin' for us to return.

Ya gettin' all sentimental on me now, Danno?

Sentimental? Look who's talkin'. Wasn't me who looked like he was 'bout to bawl his eyes out at seein' a giant field a' yellow flowers.

No. You were the one who did!

He punches Flack in the tummy and Flack snickers, big blue eyes crinkled. Sure Flack was telling the truth but it's not like he's going to let Flack get away with teasing him like that!

Shaddup.

Make me.

Flack's lips are firm and tempting and he suckles on them. He can taste smidgens of cappelletti and the inky purple Rosso Ravenna wine they had for lunch in a convivial restaurant in the heart of the city. Flack always tastes and smells and feels so good. Like hot apple pie. Like narcissi in bloom. Like a passionate embrace in the evening.

Danny, look at the moon. It's gigantic tonight!

Yeah, there was some news the moon would look a lot bigger tonight. Somethin' 'bout it bein' as close to the earth in its orbit as it'll ever get. It'll be years 'fore the moon looks this big again.

Wow.

Yeah.

Lucky us, huh. How many people get to stare at the moon at its biggest while naked in a field of flowers in the middle of nowhere?

This isn't the middle of nowhere. We're just many miles outside of Ravenna, that's all.

Just indulge me here, a'right!

It's his turn to laugh. But unlike him Flack doesn't playpunch him in retaliation. Instead Flack draws him near and kisses him numerous times on his cheek and lips. Soon they are rolling on the blanket Flack laid out on the grass. Chuckling at each other. After they make love a third time they lounge on the blanket and stare up at the night sky at the moon and the celestial bodies. Their bare feet rub against each other.

The wolves don't prowl this part anymore. Not like the Old Days.

That's what they label their past life. The Old Days. He thought of that one because he can't say Flack's suggestion which was That Time When Men Had Bad Tastes In Clothes and Hairdos without cracking up.

Yeah, in the Old Days we could hear them howlin'.

After we made love.

After we made love, Danny reiterates.

Ya think we were so loud then them wolves could hear us all the way up in the mountains?

He turns onto his side and nibbles Flack's neck and smiles into pale skin as Flack's shoulder shakes with mirth. Flack is so funny sometimes. In the Old Days even as Spartan royalty who had lost so much his lover was funny.

Ya know. Maybe before the Old Days we were wolves. Maybe we were wolves who were life partners and got the chance at bein' life partners as human beings.

Ya think so, Don?

Yeah. Kinda fits with that odd dream you had long ago. The one you had before you met me. Ya saw me as a wolf.

Maybe.

All of a sudden Flack sits up. He follows suit. Flack is looking up at the moon. As soon as Flack's eyes close he knows what his mischievous lover is up to and he erupts into laughter when Flack starts to howl. For a New York city homicide detective Flack is startlingly skillful at imitating a wolf's call. Without another thought he joins his other half in the primal verbal tribute. And they howl their jubilation at their colorless mother in the heavens. As one.

Fin.