FINIS
I stand up from the screen and walk away. Trash the thing, just as all these other things will be. Nothing to trace and a fresh start, anyway.
But before it begins, I find my steps going towards his room. Our—no, his. His.
And when I go to the door, it all comes back. We had just finished sparring; he is sitting there, on the cot. Sweat glistening on his forehead and around each temple, shining, golden against that marble skin.
He looks up at me, expectant, and raises a water bottle to his lips. That column of a throat the pulse beat through the skin like a gentle tick of time, beat, beat—two steps—I cross that infinite space and without knowing how, I have him in my arms.
I cannot look him in the face for fear—yes, fear. I have said it, even to myself. What will he do? I cannot even think beyond that—to what will I do, then? I cannot-
But I must! I breathe deeply, meet his eyes. Wide and staring, blue, so young and clear.
Those lips relax, then lift. Teeth like pearls.
"You know," I whisper.
"Yeah."
The cot shutters and then collapses, splinters onto the floor. We do not care.
Deep passionate kisses. I cannot get enough I am drinking him down like water in the dessert; like a feast after starvation; like a fire after freezing in snow; like air after choking. Deep deep and never, never enough.
Then more, pushing my weight on top of him. The floor is hard but he is strong and young, and I have waited so long.
For once, I am losing myself, exactly as if I had jumped off a cliff after standing on it for hours.
Free-fall.
I am lost!
I am found!
Search for me no more!
He guides me; he places my hand under his hips; I want to enter him all in a rush, but his hand stops me.
"I haven't—"
"I know. Just easy now." I do not feel easy—I have never felt less easy. It is like the words come from someone else speaking in my voice. It shocks me to hear them. They sound so loud.
"Okay." His voice is soft, trusting almost.
Is it a ruse? I have no time for softness—urgent is all I feel—now—now. Somehow I stop, long enough for some thing, lotion, snatched from where my jacket lies on the floor beside us. I am barely aware of my hand holding it. I should ask—I should-I don't.
And second later it begins, slow—so slow—so wonderful—heat and warmth and close—close beyond words—only moans.
My hips thrusting, rocking, back and forth. Then for a few seconds, utterly beyond thought.
When I come back and open my eyes, I am shocked to see him there, looking at me, quietly. I had forgotten he was there.
"Are you all right?" I ask.
He nods, but does not speak. His eyes are big and somehow shaded, darkened.
I roll away and slip my hand between us and begin to stroke him. It takes a few moments, not long, but a few. He responds and soon is lost himself in feeling. I wait and watch his face; I had not realized—
He drops off for an instant—the reaction of youth. Release, then sleep.
When he opens his eyes again, I wait.
"Oh." He says. Just that—nothing more—just "oh." I wait.
He does not move or look at me again. He takes a shaky breath with a catch in his throat.
"Are you all right?" I ask against my will. I had wanted him to speak first.
He nods, barely. Still no look. "I thought maybe—I thought you didn't like me."
"Why?"
"Because you wouldn't speak to me; you looked disgusted."
"That's not what I felt."
"I was scared, anyway." It is hard for him to say, but he can say it now. He swallows and adds, "I thought you wanted to kill me."
"No, no."
His hand reaches up, like he would touch my face, but is afraid. His touch is like electricity. I cannot get enough of him again, but this time the kisses are slower, less desperate. I feel him relax in my arms; I feel myself relax in his.
The second time is easier.
He sleeps again. This time I study his body, but he does not stir. Not even when I slip my hand down his flat stomach, his relaxed shaft fallen to one side, and cup him.
I think, as I hold him there, in this most intimate of moments, of Whitman's lines, (though I am no reader of poetry), "nest of guarded duplicate eggs! It shall be you! Hands I have taken, face I have kiss'd, mortal I have ever touch'd, it shall be you!"
From years ago, I remember those words in some dim corner of my mind—I remember—was it prophetic? Did I, even then, know this moment would come? Did I create this moment myself, far in the past, before this sleeping beauty existed? Is he only a mirror of myself? Is he only my creation?
He turns, still in sleep, perhaps unconsciously protecting himself. My hand moves away. And that is all.
When he wakes, later, he is mortal again. Just a gangly teenager with a grin, no more.
I raised him to the skies, endowed him with all my projected fantasies, but what is he, really? Just a dream I created and am now awakened from. He would not understand one word of what I have been thinking.
"Anything to eat?" he asks.
He crams some hamburger into his mouth, I watch him chew like a hungry hound, bending over his messy food. His feet are too big; his hair, too spiky. He wipes his hand backwards across his mouth and laughs, "Boy, I was starved."
I cannot bear to see this—this fall from the heights to the banal. Already I am feeling this sense will go on and could become dangerous.
I stand here, now, remembering it all, playing it over in my mind as I look at the empty, shattered cot, the tumbled blankets, his eyes, "It shall be you, " I whisper, to no one, to an empty room.
