We're best friends, Antonio and I. We have been for quite some time. That, of course, my lovely audience, is an understatement. "Quite some time" does not cover our entire history. But that is all we are. We're best friends. I have always been here, and he always comes to me.
The knock on the door was completed expected. I look up from my coffee and the evening paper and the knock comes again. My house is completely silent as I sit in my armchair as a storm is raging outside, the lamp beside me shining gold light on the gray pages of the evening paper. But I know as soon as I open the door, the silence won't last for long. I set my mug and paper down on the side table and answer the door. He's standing there, soaked head to toe from the rain. His clothes are sticking to his body, and I can see the lines of muscles chiseled into his skin. I can see he's tired: he's breathing heavily; he ran here. What I can't see are his brilliant green eyes. His head is bowed and his brown hair is hiding most of his face from me as rain water drips from his locks to my welcome mat, adding to the puddles around his feet. The mouth that's usually smiling is pulled into a taut line. It only ever looks like that at times like this.
"You two fought again?" I ask. It's my turn to smile, but it doesn't compare to what he gives everyone everyday. The one I give him is warm and understanding, but I prefer his grin. He nods and I step aside to let him in.
"Come on," I chuckle, "Let's get you dried up." He steps over the threshold, pausing to politely take his shoes off at the door before continuing. He knows what to do, where to go, where the towels are, where the bathroom is. I watch him fondly as he makes his way around in the usual pattern. He takes a towel from the closet in the hallway and goes to the bathroom that's in another hallway around the corner. I see the light turn on, a spot of yellow on my white carpet, before he closes the door. When I hear the lock click, I laugh softly, thinking that he has no reason to lock me out, before walking to the kitchen. I reach into my cabinets and pull out his mug, setting it on my kitchen counter. The coffee pot is still hot, but I don't touch it. I just stand there, a bitter half-smile on my face, and stare at the white ceramic cup. This is the 999th time I've pulled out this mug. The 999th time Antonio has come to me. The 999th time I play the role of his best friend and take advantage of my place in his life. I listen to the muffled whistle of water I know is jetting out of the shower head and close my eyes. Even in my fantasies, the steam from the shower wraps around Antonio's body and hides him from me. The image is warm, heated, in my mind. His suntanned skin is almost like a brand mark against the white tiles of the bathroom's walls. I've seen him exposed so often, it doesn't take much effort to imagine the steam parting, to envision what lines his figure makes, where his hips dimple into that God-blessed-. I cough, open my eyes, and embarrassedly rub my chin. There is a tightening at the bottom of my stomach, a familiar longing. But there's also sharp pull in my chest. 999 times have I thought to myself how wrong this is, to let him continue to come to me. We both know better and we have known for quite sometime.
The storm outside continues to pelt my roof with heavy rain and the thunder continues to come closer and closer. The water in the bathroom shuts off. I don't have to turn around to know that even though Antonio has come out of the bathroom, he won't come to the kitchen right away. He'll go to my room, steal one of my shirts and a pair of clean underwear, then he'll come and have a cup of coffee with me. He takes it black. Only at times like this.
And surely enough, he's beside me. The shower seems to have lifted the heavy feeling around him…just a little bit. His smile is tired and grateful as I grab the coffee pot and pour the strong-scented drink into his mug.
"Well, then…" I start to say something but stop. Antonio's green eyes peek at me from above the rim of his tilted cup. I close my mouth and smile at him softly, musing over the surprised, clueless look he has, the one he always has. He sets his drink on the counter, still confused as ever.
"Do you want to talk about it?" I ask him gently. His face falls in a way that makes me regret asking.
"…No…not-. Not this time…" We stand there as he finishes the rest of his drink. enveloped in what should be a comfortable silence like it usually is. Tonight, like many nights before, I can feel the same tense jumble of emotions that speed through his brain. I watch his face, and as sadistic it is for me to say, I find it quite amusing. The blank look turns into a furrowed brow. His eyes narrow and then widen, his eyebrows raise and he looks guilty.
"Anto-." He slams the mug onto the counter and the bang of ceramic against ceramic makes me stiffen. Antonio's eyes meet mine; the pigment of his irises are intensified with the fierce look he gives me. I can't describe the look to you, I really can't. All I can tell you is that it is a mixture of self-hate and hunger and that it is powerful enough to throw me off guard for a heartbeat and recognize the same intensity he used to have in his conquistador days, long enough for Antonio to grab me by the collar of my dress shirt and pull me into a passionate, desperate kiss. The way our lips move with each other is the result of practice and the experience of knowing and understanding your partner and the way they work. We've had a lot of that. And although his pecks are hurried and feverish, with just a palm stroke down his back, I calm him down and take over. I lead him away from the kitchen down the hallway where we pause. Not once do we ever separate or stumble like the pair of hormonal teenagers we had once been. After 999 times, you would think I would have learned to successfully push Antonio against the wall lightly, running my hand down his body and having him shiver under me. It's something I enjoy doing— teasing him, I mean. Is that not what best friends are for? The path to the bedroom is well-known and routine, not even worth mentioning: Antonio ends up on my bed, our clothes lie on the floor scattered in a pattern that changes every now and then.
Every night we spend together is the same thing, but the feeling never dies down. It still remains the same storm of ecstasy and torture, where your body tenses and your toes curl at the familiar knot in your stomach. Every skim of fingertips against your skin feels like fire, and the only way to quench that dry burn at the back of your throat is to keep going.
Every kiss and scratch, every gasp and moan, we feel everything. I feel him under me, writhing, moving as the springs of the mattress squeal. His back is towards me, his hands are fists that twist my sheets. I trail kisses from the base of his neck and as far down his back as I can. His back arches; he's shaking. It's coming soon; he groans, says something…a name.
"Yes?" I whisper into his ear. I'm bent over him, my hands over his, our fingers intertwined.
"L-Lovino…" he gasps.
Best friends. That's what we are. After 999 times, after years of history, after a certain night we spent together where words slipped out of my mouth and I said things he should never have heard, we've always been best friends. Best friends care for each other and rip each other apart at the same time; they are the people who drag you back to reality. Sometimes the truth hurts, especially from a best friend; when you are reminded of what you can never have. And although I have the privilege of being the friend of the beautiful Spaniard, I can never have him. I can touch his body and trace the lines and the dips around his shoulder blades and collar bones, kiss every inch of his skin, tease him, play with him, pin him down—but he can never be mine. We've known that, that painful, stupid truth.
How stupid of me to let it continue. I should stop…before 1000, at least.
I plant a small kiss the base of Antonio's neck, feeling him tighten as he recognizes his mistake.
"Je t'aime, Antoine, mais je ne peux pas…"
Let's stop now.
Happy belated birthday, Amy. OTL I'm really sorry I can't write Frain, you guys. You have permission to shoot me and burn this. Alyssa was supposed to help me with the French at the end, but I just ended up putting in a line any French 2 student could write...hopefully I got that right... kthnxbai.