The day passes. I don't sleep. I don't leave the room. I'm numb. I stare, out the window, out onto the horizon, for hours, unblinking. Inadvertently, I watch the sun set, staring directly into it, til my eyes hurt. The colors are brilliant. They fill the room. They mean nothing to me.
The room blackens. Sleep comes.
I dream of course, of him. Of clasped hands. The smell of his skin. My face in his neck. Cruelly, I awaken, sweat-soaked, and hard.
I grab angrily at the bag of ice in the bowl next to me, that I'd set out for my jaw, and run it down my body, gasping as it makes contact.
In the morning I remain still, drifting in and out, off and on, for hours. My mind is empty. I feel nothing.
At some point in the afternoon I rise, not out of any desire, but of simple need to piss. As I enter the bathroom, the breath catches in my throat- he's there in the shower, facing away, soaping his chest. I look again, and, nothing. In the corner next to me is the magazine rack that was turned over the night he tried to cut his throat. It is upright and orderly, now. Adjacent to that, on the counter, sits his razor, sans blade. I jerk my head away, and there I am in the mirror. I look withered and old. I begin focusing intently, for long moments, on the tiny veins in my eyes, desperate not to see what is there, behind me- his reflection, over my shoulder.
I piss, and return to the room, shaking. I plant myself in the window to stare off at nothing. I will remain here. I desperately need a cocoon.
Hours pass, and I begin to feel it; the numbness, without warning, receding. I claw at it, desperate for it to stay, for it to protect me. There is a brief moment when I think I've won, when it teeters on the edge and I'm pushing it back, but it turns suddenly, and falls away. In an instant, the airways constrict and my chest tightens, only to compress further, and hold. My heart races. I'm suffocating, spiraling downward from total devastation and grief. I pitch forward, clutching the window sill, blinded by the unrelenting pain which batters and washes over me in great terrible waves.
For the first time, I understand it, what he talked of, I can taste it in my mouth – the craving, the desperate all encompassing need that will not leave you, for numbness, for nothingness. For the first time in my entire life, I fully understand it, it's clear and real, the allure, the power, of suicide.
"NO!" I growl. No fucking way. I will not be found dead in this house, and have him not hear of it. I will not be found dead, and have him hear of it, and not care.
I hold myself still, rasping the breath inward, blinking hard to squeeze out the tears. In the corner of my eye, he is there, sitting on the edge of the bed, watching. I clench my fists and curl myself into a ball, next to him. He turns and lays me out, and holds me.
"Bastard," I sob to him.
He is diving into the ocean, mouth and eyes wide open. He swallows pockets of air and takes great gulps of water into his lungs, and it doesn't effect him. I'm with him. I look down, cradle his head, and run my fingers through the dampness of his hair. Our eyes lock, and hold. He pulls me lovingly, deeply inward, and stays with me as I come.
I jolt awake, gasping, spasming.
It is nightfall. The room is stale. I desperately need air. I rise slowly, pull the robe from the closet, open the bedroom door and for the first time in 36 hours, descend the stairs. My stomach churns from hunger, from now, 2 days without food. I shuffle aimlessly out the door, onto the sand. As I approach, I spot it, on the lounge chair; his robe. I sit back and pull it over me. I don't want to, I'm sick to death of it, my sides ache from the sobbing, but it can't be helped- I bury my face in it, and bawl.
As my torso shakes, he, the apparition, is there, standing two feet off. He looks down at me with sadness, with concern, with love.
I wipe my face. It's a mirage, the same fantasy that's been following me around, but it's such a tremendously comforting one I don't care at the moment that it's fake. I don't care if it's a sure sign I'm losing it.
I turn to him. He is incredibly beautiful. His eyes are extraordinarily bright and clear, and the moonlight catches the stubble on his jaw, but most arresting is that lovely tousled mane of unwashed hair getting blown about in the breeze. I blink. I blink again.
Suddenly, a jolt shoots through me and I'm frightened. I'm losing my mind, clearly, from the strain of it all, from sleep deprivation, from hunger, but, I can't stop myself …
My voice is small, squeezed of life. I'm trembling. I feel incredibly fragile.
"Is it you?"
The apparition's hand extends. I don't take it.
"No," I whisper,
He holds my gaze.
"Is it you?"
His first two fingers wiggle at me.
"Yes."
Liar.
Yet … I'm suddenly scared to death. I am losing it. I feel lightheaded, strung out, completely spent. My voice shakes violently.
"No, Curt, I have to know … is it you."
The figure drops to his knees next to me, eyes gentle and warm. He takes my hand between his and studies my face. He speaks softly and comes into focus.
"It's me, Brian."
I freeze. The breath kicks forward, sputtering from my lungs. It's too much. He leans and engulfs me in his arms, holding me, caressing me as the sobs rack my body, whispering over and over again his sorrow and pain and love.
Oh god. Oh god. It's true, it is.
I'm completely overwhelmed. My head is spinning, twirling- with shock, with relief, with fear and bewilderment.
We hold each other, even as my breathing returns, even as the sobs finally, eventually subside.
He leans back, and brushes the hair from my eyes. We study each other's faces. His thumb runs gently over the corner of my still swollen lip.
"Have you not fucking put ice on this yet?"
The words spit forth.
"It-it is you?"
He smiles.
"Yes." He squeezes my hand. "I was petrified to come back, sure you'd kick me out."
I'm stunned. I still don't believe it.
"But … ?"
He sighs and takes my hand. The corner of his mouth turns up.
"I guess you could say I finally came to my stupid bloody senses."
"But … didn't you leave the country … 2 days ago?"
"Almost."
"Then, what?"
"Flight got delayed, then it got canceled. Gave me time to think. I've been sleeping in airport chairs since I left, thinking like a motherfucker."
"But …"
"Right away I just … missed you. I felt so fucking empty, it was physically painful. I tried to ignore it but it kept gnawing at me, this giant gaping hole in my gut. But mostly it was what you said that kept ringing in my fucking ears."
I pull him towards me. It's sinking in. The mirage is real. I'm holding him right this second. I whisper shakily.
"Which was ?"
"Everything you said. It hit like a fucking sledgehammer, Brian. How you were sickened by me, how I had allowed it all to poison me. That I absolutely could not get past. Jesus, it hurt."
I pull back and raise my hand to his cheek
"I'm sorry."
"Fuck, don't be ridiculous. You were right, that's all. Doesn't mean it wasn't painful to hear, but like you said, I needed to hear it."
"Did you hate me, though?"
He sighs.
"Probably no more than you've hated me since I left. I felt a lot of bad things that day. It's just, unfortunately it's just so easy to set me off, Brian. I'm so fucking fucked up and unstable, and I so don't wanna be that way, I swear to god, but the second I detect, or think I detect someone betraying me or whatever, I go off. I can see myself doing it, like I'm outside myself, but I can't fucking stop it."
He runs his thumb over my lip again.
"I'm so incredibly sorry; I can't tell you. When I walked up just now, it just absolutely killed me to see you like that."
"Oh that was nothing. You should have been here earlier."
"I can't stand that I hurt you that much."
I respond wearily.
"You didn't hurt me, you absolutely decimated me."
My stomach is unsettled.
"I'd been hyperventilating, practically having a seizure, at one point I thought I was in the midst of a heart attack. I'm not kidding. I was even hallucinating. I kept seeing you. "
"Seeing me?"
"All over the house. You were in the bed, in the bathroom. When I saw you just now, I was sure it was your bloody ghost again."
He's partly horrified, partly fascinated.
"Wow, that is heavy. What was I doing?"
I reflect on it.
"Protecting me. It was at the absolute rock bottom moments, you were there."
I look at him.
"But Curt, it was all rock bottom. In fact you almost didn't have a person to come back to."
"What do you mean? You might've left, too?"
"I, um, no. Forget it; never mind."
"No, tell me, I wanna know."
"I don't wanna tell you."
"Come on, Brian."
I sigh.
"It was just … in passing. I'm not saying this to be dramatic or make it all worse or guilt you out, okay? It's just that I had a momentary, very brief thought of … suicide. But I immediately knew I wasn't going to do it, so I don't want you to be upset."
He's yelling.
"Upset, of course I'm fucking upset! What the fuck– "
I hold up my hand.
"–Curt, I am too far gone and emotionally wasted right now to talk about this. Please. I beg you."
He sighs.
"Okay. But we'll talk about it another time. Tomorrow."
"Why? I promise you, there's no point. It was just a–, anyway, I'm ready to collapse from the shock of all of this. You were a ghost, and then you came to life. I've been, we've both been through enough. Please."
"Alright. But just so you know, I had the same thought at one point yesterday. Also brief. Not that it's all that rare with me."
He smiles crookedly.
"We make a fine pair."
I can't smile.
"Curt, I can't relax. What if what happened happens again? Through some stupid bloody misunderstanding? I absolutely won't be able to handle it another time."
"It won't."
"But how on earth do you know? We'll have an argument at some point. We could have an argument tomorrow. What if it escalates? Think about it, if your flight hadn't been canceled, you wouldn't be here right now."
He seems uncomfortable.
"Well, I like to think I would have arrived at the same conclusions had I been anywhere."
"And what are those conclusions?"
He examines my face.
"Mostly that I love you, that I know that's real and I can relax inside of that."
"It's not enough, though."
"No, I know. What I also realized is that I've learned in my life not to trust people, to go with my instincts instead, and how much that unravels your soul after a while. Plus, I've been such a mess for so long that I forget my instincts aren't like other people's. They themselves can't be trusted a lot of the time."
I smile. "I tend to think of you as a completely instinctual being. Like 100% of the time."
"Ya, more like baser instincts, you mean."
"No. It's lovely. It's one of the things I'm most envious of. How you will react instantly, without fear. Or even, how the fear drives you, and you absolutely run with it."
He looks at me. He speaks with sadness.
"I'm so incredibly fucking sorry about all this."
I kiss his hand.
"What will we do, Curt?"
"I don't know. There's no manual for this shit, but I think there was a lot of wisdom in what you said. It's really effected me, the idea that I have to stop allowing the bad shit in my past to control me, that I might even have the ability to do that! Sounds simple, right? But you can't imagine how that blew my mind, hearing it. It's like that phrase, 'the truth will set you free.'"
I squeeze his hand.
"I'm gonna try my ass off, I promise you, Brian. I just need you to be patient with me."
"And in order to do that, I'm going to need you to trust me. I'm going to need you to not assume if something sounds odd or if we get into a fight and I say something out of anger, that it means I don't love you or I've been lying to you all along, or whatever. We have to at least start with that, and build from there, I think."
"Right. I agree."
We smile warmly at each other.
"I still cannot believe you came back. I certainly believed you wouldn't."
"I know, especially where you told me in no uncertain terms to fuck off."
I wince.
"Let's not talk about it. Let's move forward."
My stomach growls audibly.
He looks down, then up, and laughs.
"Wow, oh fuck, that's right! Have you not eaten?"
"Curt, we didn't get any food, remember? And I've certainly been in no shape to go out the last 2 days."
He takes my hand and we stand and turn for the house.
"Good!" He points with his head towards the deck, grinning. "Because I haven't eaten either, and with the money from the flight, I bought us a humongous bag of groceries!"
We eat a small meal of Spanish roast chicken and wine, with the most amazing dinner rolls.
I'm chewing.
"These are wickedly delicious."
"I know, aren't they? They were from the baker cat, in the square. Right by where we had our meltdown."
"You went back to the market?"
"Ya, I had no idea where else to go."
"It would have been funny if the guy recognized you."
"Ya, or like, if he'd been one of the guys holding me back."
We laugh.
"Es el hombre blanco loco otra vez!" I translate for him: "It's the crazy white man again!"
We laugh harder, talking in exaggerated accents.
"The one who threatened his friend with a big cucumber!"
"Right up his ass!"
We're holding our guts, barely able to speak.
"Quick! Call the policia!"
It's late. We finish dinner and hold hands quietly across the table, studying each other's faces.
"I don't think you have any idea how much I love and worship you."
He winces.
"Worship? Come on, Brian, I'm the last fucking person who should be worshiped. Surely you know that, now."
"Shut up. It's for me to decide whom I will worship. I think you're quite magical."
He grins stupidly. "'Magically delicious'."
I don't get it.
He sings stupidly. "Frosted Lucky Charms, they're magically delicious!" and then bursts out laughing. "It's a tv commercial in America for this kids' breakfast cereal with a fucking leprechaun in it doing an Irish jig; total garbage, like a million percent sugar and food coloring. You've never seen it?"
I lean close for a quick kiss.
"No. See, I even love that my declaration of undying worship makes you think of an advert for a leprechaun."
"No, an ad with a leprechaun in it. You gotta get this straight, man."
"They won't take to me very well in America if I don't."
"That's right."
We kiss softly. He brightens.
"Let's go for a swim."
"You must be joking. Curt, it's 10:30 at night, the water will be cold, and I'm already wasted."
"Oh, come on! It'll feel amazing, I swear. It'll wake you right up."
"I don't wanna wake up." I whine, and begin pulling him from the table by the hand. "We've had such a terrible row, this has been about the worst 2 days of my entire life." I lean into his neck and whisper. "I badly need fucking."
He hesitates. He looks ambivalent.
"Oh, Curt, you weren't still …"
He speaks shyly.
"I guess I was, ya; a part of me, anyway."
I kiss him softly. "What part?"
He points to his temple. "My head. It still craves that honeymoon."
"Wedding night, you mean."
He grins. "There's a difference?"
We kiss.
He pulls back suddenly, looks down and counts off with his fingers, mouthing to himself. "Well we can credit 2 days towards the 12, can't we?"
"Of course," I smile, "It's only right and proper."
"Then we'll start over tomorrow."
I giggle.
"Tomorrow, okay. So we have until midnite tonite, then, is that the case, Master Wild?"
He grins. "Ooooh, I like that you called me that."
I whisper into his mouth. "I knew you would." Our lips brush. "Now let's get to bed."
We walk from the kitchen, hand in hand.
"See, this is one of my favorite moments in the whole world. Deciding where, and then … how."
"It never occurred to me that there was ever any decision making involved. It always feels so bloody spontaneous with you."
"Well I think we probably subconsciously try to sway each other, don't we?" He turns his head to smell under his arm. "But right now, phew, consciously, I have to say I haven't had a shower in 2 days and I fucking stink. Let me just run for a dip in the ocean or …" he grins, "we could get in the shower."
I pull on his hand, leading him towards the stairs.
"You know I like you unwashed. Plus, we've already had our shower. Bed, I say."
As I speak we pass the glass French doors, the ones that lead to the patio … where the jacuzzi is. Curt stops in his tracks and grins wickedly at me.
We stand on the deck in the warm breeze, next to the bubbling pool. The man who I was hurt and broken by, whom I thought never to see again nor wanted to, looks so achingly beautiful in the moonlight I can barely contain myself. He reaches for my robe and slides it from my shoulders. It falls in a pile at my feet. He watches my eyes, and slips his thumbs into the stretchy waistband of my night trousers, sliding them over my hips and past my knees.
I'm embarrassed for some reason by my quick erection. He reaches for it, but I block his hand, and finger the buttons on his shirt which hangs loose at his waist. I start slowly, from the bottom, peeling the sleeves backwards off his chest when I reach the top. I am unable to resist taking a nipple momentarily into my mouth, before reaching for his belt.
We stare at each other, expressionless, as I pull on it, snapping it slowly thru the loops, letting it drop to the floor. Now the top button. I'm so impatient and excited I'm shaking as I yank it open, jerk down the zipper and plunge my hand inward, knowing he will be, as usual, naked underneath.
I grasp him tightly. He is half hard. My mouth waters.
I descend to my knees, pulling the material softly down with me, and envelop the tip in my mouth. He shudders and holds my head as I move slowly down the shaft, which immediately swells in response.
After a minute he's shiny, wet, and very stiff. He pulls me upward and we turn towards the pool.
He enters ahead of me, descending the shallow stairs. I grab at the large bottle on the table, and empty most of it into the water.
"What is that?" he reaches for my hand.
I take it and enter the warm pool. "Something magical. Water soluble lube." I smile. "It will make us both really slippery."
He pulls me close.
"Is it edible, too, like that other stuff?"
Our lips brush.
"Why would you want to know that?"
Our mouthes fold hungrily, furiously over each other, and right away I'm wincing and pulling back. Stupid fucking swollen lip is going to spoil everything.
His hand flies to his mouth. "Oh my god, I'm so sorry. I totally forgot."
I'm touching it gingerly, very annoyed. " It's alright. It's just a bit sore."
"Brian, I cannot believe I hit you. I feel horrible."
"I don't want you to feel horrible, I want you to be turned on and pummel me through the bloody wall. I badly need make-up sex."
He grins. "Makeup sex? Which one wears the makeup?"
"Shut up, arsehole. I'm serious. We've two naked men, with hard-ons, in a jacuzzi." I giggle despite myself. "I command that we fuck!"
"Holy shit, is that what we're in here for?"
I reach for his cock. He looks down.
"What are you doing under there, in the water, with your hand? I can't see."
I whisper to him. "You don't need to see."
He leans in and grazes my lips. "I can't stand not kissing you. I'll be careful. This is good, actually. It will slow us down."
We kiss softly. After a minute he pulls back to rest his forehead against mine and watch the motion below. The tip is just visible, while my hand is completely submerged, making small waves and bubbles. His eyes lower towards half mast, and close. His voice is distant.
"Christ it feels good."
He tilts to kiss, feather soft. I lean into it, kissing him firmer; our tongues explore.
The hand on the back of my hip yanks me close while the one on my waist slides diagonally to grasp me. We begin echoing each other's rapid, slippery motion. In between kisses we stop to take in the sight of the twin upright tips, swollen and bobbing at the surface. It's an unspoken, incredibly delicious contest – which one will shoot off first? It occurs to me that hand jobs have no bloody business being this exciting.
I pant into his mouth. "I thought you said it would slow us down."
He answers breathily. "I should punch you every week."
Giggles sputter out of us, despite ourselves.
"So this is make-up sex?"
I look at him. Christ, what are we doing? I have him all to myself in a warm bubbling pool, in which we are essentially weightless, and I'm jerking him off? I lift my hand and push him up and backwards onto the steps. He lands with a soft thud, with a look of astonishment, in a seated position, arse on one step, both hands behind him on the one above.
"Yes."
I climb between his knees and grasp him by the back of the neck, clamping my mouth down over his, biting and sucking through the pain. He grabs at me and answers back. Our tongues twirl and heads twist impatiently. I pull away and drop to the lower step. His cock is a little less than half way submerged. I plunge my face in with a splash, surrounding him, dipping my nose over and over into the water as I do so. Breathing is tricky and the chlorine stings my lip, but I'm relentless. He leans his torso back, tilts his chin up, and rests his hands on the step behind, in the most beautiful gesture of surrender imaginable.
When his body has tensed and his gasps have slowed, when I know he's seconds from it, before I'm aware of what has happened, I've been lifted and tossed backward, into the deeper end of the jacuzzi, where I land with a great splash.
By the time I recover, he's moved himself behind, standing us both up in the chest- deep water, pulling me close, running his hands up my body. My urge to yell at him for scaring the shit out of me is instantly gone.
He presses the hardness into my back. He bites my ear and whispers groggily. One word.
"Slow."
We kiss sideways, with passion, as he moves himself rhythmically, at a snail's pace, vertically between my cheeks, and into the curve of my lower back, pulling softly on my cock the whole time. After several minutes I'm completely bloody mental. I squirm and fidget in his arms, panting like a fool. How? How on earth could simulated humping be almost as hot as the real thing?
"Curt, please," I whimper.
He kisses the side of my neck.
"Please what?"
Oh, I'm going to hit him.
I sound frantic.
"I can't bear it another minute. I need you inside me."
After a beat I feel his hands clutch my waist and I'm picked up again, and hurtled softly forward thru the water. I land facing the stairs, hands resting on the upper, bent knees on the lower, ass high in the air behind, in other words, textbook perfect. It's the easiest, most graceful repositioning I've ever been subject to.
He approaches and runs a finger gently between, sending a shudder directly through me. My hips are then grasped, and he pulls backward, bumping me down to the next step, so that my cock is submerged, as is my arse.
He moves close, pulls my hips upward, and kisses my lower back, pressing into it firmly with his palm. The effect is that my back arches and my behind is now only half way submerged.
I'm not realizing the significance of this. If anything, it benefits us for my back end to be immersed in the oily pool and then … oh god, on fuck, oh holy mother of christ, … it's his tongue, his evil tongue.
Oh fuck … Oh FUCK, oh … sweet …jesus ! I am in dire need of something to grip. I lean myself forward instinctively, and he jerks me back and up again. It's strong and soft and wet and oh so … concentrated … spectacularly intense … pointed and flicking, and then flat and wide, turning slowly sideways and back, criss crossing, moving in a circle, pushing hard inward and around, and back again, and again, and again, each and every pass sending an electric jolt through both my nervous system and my cock. The night air is filled with my urgent, gasp-shouted cries, swears, and desperate pleadings.
Somewhere far off in the back of my mind I'm laughing. 1) That someone may actually call the 'policia' as it sounds like I'm being murdered, and 2) this is Curt's idea of 'slow'. But, then, the latter makes perfect sense- it's managed to delay us both peaking.
As he continues however, my orgasm approaches, and I begin involuntary hip-thrusts. He stays right with me, immediately picking up the subtle rhythm, and it's no longer bearable. As his hand snakes round front, in 5 quick jerks I'm gone, shooting off into the water.
I'm gasping, absolutely spent. I badly need a mattress to tumble down onto, but there isn't one. I don't feel I can handle more, but there's no time to ponder it.
He flips me over. I balance myself on outstretched arms directly beneath, and turn my hips out to gather him to me. I encircle him, and hook my ankles behind. He positions himself at the eye and with one hand flat on the step, and the other wrapped round my back, plunges himself inward. We float and bounce freely, pushing him deeper each time.
Though it is more gradual, more hard won due to the indirect use of lube, there is not a single part of me that minds.
There just isn't another feeling like it in the world, being penetrated by your lover, being impaled, right down the center of your body, as you look up into his eyes, as you lick and kiss and taste the sounds coming out of his mouth, but then … to have gravity give way and be rocking effortlessly against him in this surreal, weightless state of suspension, is just truly something eerie, perfect, magical.
That we've neglected the jacuzzi all this time is simply an apalling tragedy.
I watch the changes, the beads of sweat developing on his brow, the rising color in his cheeks. After a dozen strokes, his body stiffens. He plunges inward twice more and a beautiful storm passes over his face as the spasms begin rippling through his body. I can feel in his thighs, in his fingertips, in his spine, that he's coming. He calls out hoarsely. His lids flutter and his face is blissful indeed.
He collapses into my neck, panting with great effort.
We hold each other in the warm water.
