Fictober Prompt 29: "Why are we whispering?"
On the Tip of My Tongue
Bob had spent two decades longing for Helmut. He yearned to hear his voice murmuring sweet music in his ear. He had wanted to his fingers brush along his skin and shudder from that familiar tingle traveling through his body. The days when he needed his affection had long tormented him. In his mother's greenhouse, where her corpse had festered, he had drowned those sensations and memories in liquor, but they always seeped out moments before he blacked out on the floor, sinking just like Helmut had.
There was much he wanted to say to him. Thousands of words wouldn't have been enough to fully express himself. He couldn't have properly verbalized the despair and loss he had suffered in the wake of Helmut's death. It haunted him to the point of silence that stretched on for years until one day, it abruptly ended.
Helmut was alive. His brain rolled in a ball filled with clear cerebrospinal fluid. He spoke telepathically, his voice booming with life. Although his body remained in Grulovia, either perfectly conserved in ice or desecrated by time, he was still with Helmut. (Of course, they planned to rescue his body. Bob refused to leave it in an underwater grave; Helmut insisted it was preserved. He supposed that was a difference of perspective after the long years separated.)
Right now, Bob found himself in a strange situation. He had never anticipated Helmut's return. Throughout the last twenty years, he had spoken to Helmut only in his dreams and nightmares. But with Helmut being tangible, conversations between them came naturally in reality, but sometimes, as the peaceful days continued, Bob's tongue tied. He didn't know what to say. Whether he was supposed to laugh or reply, it confused him. He overthought his reactions and tried to minimize his fidgeting, hoping to maintain that semblance of who he used to be for his husband.
Helmut didn't seem to notice. He carried the conversation by asking Bob what had changed in twenty years. Technology, television, tunes, all of which Bob informed him. And when he couldn't, Helmut sought the answers with him.
"Bob," Helmut began.
He looked up from his cup of tea. The steam fogged his glasses, a new pair without cracks. "What is it?" he asked, levitating his drink.
Helmut's brain rocked on Bob's work desk. They were in Bob's old office. Truman hadn't given it to anyone else, causing a layer of dust to emanate in the air. It was still quite bare. Only a few of Bob's belongings had made their way back home to line the wooden shelves, and they had been discussing what refurbished furniture the room needed.
Helmut chuckled. "Why are we whispering?"
"What? I'm not-" Bob paused. His ears could hardly pick up his words. Clearing his throat, he snaked his hand behind his head, rubbing it. "Oh, guess I am," he said, raising his voice.
"I was whispering because you were," Helmut replied, rolling to the edge of the desk. "Do you need a lozenge or something? Got a sore throat? Is that why you've been pounding back that tea?"
"It's only my third cup. 'Sides, you know how much I love mint tea," Bob replied. Even if he had only microwaved water in a plastic cup and stuffed a mint tea bag in it, his drink still tasted soothingly sweet.
He took another sip, filling the silence. He shot a glance at Helmut, his brow wrinkling. Words bubbled in his brain, and that was where they remained.
"You're nervous," Helmut stated. He nudged himself off the desk and rolled over to Bob's new shoes. "Come on, Bobby, you know you can tell me anything. What's troubling you?"
"Am I that much of an open book?" Bob countered, his lips raising. He crouched, grunting from the effort. He sat on his bottom and levitated his cup onto his desk. Dust wafted into the air when he sat, and he brushed the particles away.
Helmut leaned into Bob's open hand. Despite the cool exterior of his ball, warmth exuded from Helmut's brain and seeped into Bob's palm. He sighed, closing his eyes, and he scooped Helmut into his arms, his trimmed beard covering his husband's brain.
"Guess I just need to learn how to be chatty again. I've been like this with Otto and the others, too. Dunno what to say or when to say it," Bob admitted.
Helmut hummed, his tone as melodic as always. Bob cradled him. He stroked the top of his ball, the material smooth and heated. There had been a time when he hadn't been given the simple pleasure of holding his husband, and he treasured every subsequent moment when he could.
"It's okay, Bobby. Don't push yourself to talk if you don't want to," Helmut insisted, resting his brain against Bob's chest."
"But I do," he blurted, opening his eyes. "There's so much I want to say to everyone, y'know? I've been-" He sucked in a heavy breath, then released it, fogging part of the ball. "-silent for far too long. It makes it a bit hard for me to talk after years of solitude."
Helmut perked up. "Hold on. No one visited you during that time? I know you got letters, but none of them came to check on you?"
Sensing Helmut's anger, Bob bit his lip. He set Helmut in his lap, the liquid sloshing quietly in his ball. "Oh, no, that's not it. I, well, I wouldn't let them visit. Even if the vines tried letting someone in without me knowing, I turned 'em away. Truman, Otto, Compton, Cassie, everyone."
"Oh, Bobby," Helmut crooned, relaxing his tone, and Bob dipped his chin to his chest. His telekinetic hand caressed Bob's cheek, tender and comforting, just as his real hand had been. "Everything's okay now. You got me, and you got the rest of them. Just take your time, okay? We don't need to rush. We'll take it all at your pace."
"There's so much I wanna say to you. So many things, so many feelings," Bob murmured, his vision blurring. His face felt damp, and Helmut dried his eyes.
"Take it slow, Bobby. We have all the time in the world to say what we wanna say."
And with a smile tugging at his lips, Bob did exactly that.