Rain slid down the relatively clean window, droplets separating occasionally and dividing into new tendrils of liquid. It was dark, both inside and outside of the apartment building; outside illumination consisting only of cracked streetlamps and the occasional clap of lightening; the inside illumination consisting of a few candles scattered on various tables throughout. The power had been dead for almost forty-five minutes. The streets outside of loft 7B were flooded with precipitation; it seemed that the entire world was crying for Angel's health.
A sudden crash of thunder echoed through the apartment, and Collins' head turned up slightly. Velvet brown eyes looked out the window for a moment, before averting to the door that remained closed, concealed in shadow. No candle had been placed by its frame.
When no sound came from the far room, Tom let his gaze slip back to the notebook he held in his dark hands. It was filled with his own scratchy handwriting, his neat, "teacher" font being abandoned for a more careless scribble that covered the leaf of paper from bottom to top in black ink. His tall, muscular frame was curled up on the couch, knees drawn to his chest. Having just come out of the shower no less than maybe five minutes ago, he wore a red terry towel around his waist, and stray drops of water slipped down his temples every so often.
The temptation of laziness of late rainy evenings are remarkable, and due to the enticement of sloth behavior, Tom had neglected the duty of fully redressing after his much-needed hot shower. The towel and the crackling fire provided ample warmth. Besides, there were no expected visitors that day, for the simple reason that all of his friends had informed him of their plans elsewhere. This left him comfortably lazing in his close-to-bare attire without anxiety. At least, no anxiety as to anyone just appearing in his doorway unexpectedly was there. There was, however, a sort of weary dread that had crept upon his insides and made him jump anytime a sound issued through the loft.
This nervousness was due to his lover's increasingly
decreasing health.
Angel had slept most of the day. Every so often Collins
would slip in and sit by him, stroking the warm cheek to see whether he needed
anything; but for the most part, the transvestite had been left alone to
regenerate the vigorous energy that had attracted Tom in the first place. He
had been sick since mid-October, and was slowly getting worse by the day. It
was now October 28th.
The far door creaked open, and Collins' head jerked up once again. Angel stood in the doorway; leaning against the frame for a moment, before resuming an unsteady walk to the couch. Tom got up hurriedly, and rushed to his lover's side.
"Here, let me help."
Angel brushed him away slightly, moving away from where Collins' arms had steadied against his waist. "I can do it myself."
Collins stepped back, surprised at the force lingering in Angel's voice. "If you're sure…"
"I'm not porcelain Collins."
Angel walked slightly uneasily to the couch, and collapsed down on it. The simple trek from the door to the couch had been enough to drain him of much-needed energy; and his head rested wearily against the back.
Tom took his place beside the transvestite. Angel was, at the moment, stripped of his glorious drag in exchange for a pair of Collins' dark flannel pants and a pair of red socks. A hairless, bare chest was illuminated in the candlelight, and cooled in uncomfortably icy patches. Amber eyes were devoid of light, and gazed dully at the flickering fire.
He was, to Collins, the most beautiful thing in the world.
One dark hand timidly reached out to brush against Angel's thigh, before applying slightly more pressure by resting there. Tom was terrified of frightening Angel, or even worse, insulting him. Too often lately had Angel sharply rebuked him for trying to help the boy up steps, or carrying him to bed. Tom's lover did not appreciate being treated like a precious glass object, and was stubborn to the last that he should be able to do everything by himself just like everyone else. Angel had become so sensitive that it was impossible to predict which way his mood would swing. At some times, the tenderest gesture of love was taken as a patronizing act. Even a simple kiss on the forehead was pushed away and resulted in an icy temperament the rest of the day.
Thus, Tom remained wary of the slightest touch.
But, joyously, Angel made no protest. It could be debated as to whether or not the transvestite even felt Collins' hand resting on his leg.
"Angel?"
Angel's head turned sharply at the voice, eyes wide for a moment before sliding out of his surprise. "Hm?"
"Are you feeling better?"
Collins gently stroked Angel's mid-thigh, soothing his edgy lover into relaxation. Angel, in turn, toyed absently with the edge of the scarlet towel wrapped around Tom's waist; avoiding the question.
"You're not dressed." Angel's voice was quiet.
"I didn't want to wake you up." The philosopher shrugged, and extended a hand, discreetly offering Angel an invitation to close the gap between them. The youth accepted, and crawled over a little. But he still did not nestle against Collins, as he had been wont to in the past.
"Did we have hot water for your shower today? Or did you have to take it cold?"
"We had hot water."
"Oh."
And awkward, tentative silence hovered between the two of them. The couple had not known this sort of uneasiness since their first night together. It had long since melted into a warm sort of drowsy love filled with absent kisses and loving embraces.
Now, however, the flat was filled with dead air.
It was finally broken when a crash of thunder resounded through the room, and Collins noted Angel's shivering shoulders and trembling lips.
"Are you cold?"
Again, a flash of fiercely stubborn light filled Angel's amber eyes, and he shrunk back a little. "No."
Collins hated this hostility. It was like a wall of harsh concrete, isolating him from his Angel.
"I'll get us some blankets anyway, just in case." Tom looked at Angel, who had retreated far back to the other end of the couch.
Those few feet seemed like a million miles.
Collins returned, and sat down in the spot he had before, almost three feet away from the still-shaking Angel. With a regretful look glistening in his velvety brown eyes, Collins sighed and laid one of the wool blankets over his own lap and legs.
"Are you sure Ange-"
"I'm sure, okay?" Angel snapped, slitting a glare at Collins.
The philosopher's anger rose to meet the retort. "Fine then! I try to be understanding, but it you're just gonna give me this bull shit, then I'll leave you alone! Is that what you want? Die alone for all I care, damnit!" His response had been sudden, harsh, and regretted immediately. Angel's eyes filled with tears, before dropping their gaze to the threads on the couch.
Silence once again reigned in the flat for what seemed like an eternity.
"I'm sorry." The transvestite finally murmured quietly. His entire body was slumped over, and the round slope of his shoulders sagged with weariness. A tear slipped down his cheek, and the red lips moved slightly, whispering inaudible words. He was still quivering with cold.
The wall began to crumble. Stone blocks fell to the ground, and concrete slabs broke into a million little pieces.
Collins' heart, equally, shattered. He moved over towards Angel and folded his arms around the boy. It was then, captured in the loving embrace, that Angel's firm shield collapsed, and he sobbed against Collins' chest.
Seemingly on their own, Angel's arms extended up and wrapped around Tom's neck, pulling the man closer. His head was nestled under Collins' chin, face buried against the dark neck. On their own violation, Angel's lips pressed against his lover's neck and jawbone.
The room around Collins spun in a maddening circle as he cradled Angel to him. The drag queen was the only thing that stood between him and the dark abyss that whirled and pulled at his mind from the pits of hell.
The clock in the corner clicked out the time: three a.m. Somewhere in Collins' mind, another clock roared in his ears the same time.
Angel, exhausted, gave up on his isolation for the night. It was late, and he was both frightened and weary. Tom's warm body beckoned him, and he slid fully down on Collins' lap, head pillowed by his lover's muscular arm. Now-silent tears still strolled down his cheeks, and fell to Collins' forearm. One of his hands unfastened the towel from around Collins' waist and let it slip down to the floor from the couch. Regardless of his stripping Collins of the only piece of clothing he wore, Angel desired nothing that night but the drowsy warmth Tom's body had to offer him, and the transvestite closed his eyes to the invitation of sleep.
Collins let his hand run through Angel's hair softly, not
regretting the loss of his one article of clothing simply because his lover's
slim figure made up for any warmth lost with the towel ten fold. Slowly, one
arm reached out to pull another down blanket from the side, and lay in over
Angel and himself. Brown eyes traveled down to the drummer, who had been calmed
into submission by sleep's embrace. It wasn't long before his own pulse slowed
to meet Angel's, and he could feel the hypnotic regularity of his lover's
heartbeat throbbing through his entire body. Angel's breath was the murmuring
breeze of pacific beaches against his bare chest, and Tom was soothed into his
own drowse. Dark eyelids pressed heavily, begging to be closed. Then, the fog
in his mind enveloped any truly coherent thought, and Collins drifted off to
sleep.