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Memories of a Lesser Year
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It was a day, just like any other; simple, light breeze coming off the coast, the heat climbing into the eighties. Locked in the endless cycle of an existence that repeated itself over and over again, with little to break the boredom.

It was a song on the radio that started the drifting memories, the ones that couldn't help but sear as they healed. A soft Spanish melody wrapped in remembrances of a treasure nearly forgotten. A tiny erotic smile frozen forever in the stillness; a snapshot that time blurred more and more with each passing year. It wouldn't be long now before it all faded completely.

His fingers felt numb from constantly carving the rock into shapes that only he could understand; the refuse falling as tiny bits of sand into the murky waters of the deep blue sea, so fine was his touch. A hand which had once been master to the greatest silk ever known to man. His fingers gliding over its surface, noting every dip, every nook, every blemish, memorized with care, unerringly lingering over each imperfection, loving it all the more because of them. The heat that would rise, mimicking the cries of its creator as his art spun out of control, writhing, spinning, sighing. Perfection. The gift once embedded into the swirls of his fingertips, the ghost of its touch lasting until he could no longer control the wanting and once again fell into need to touch.

Now all his hands held was cold, deadened stone that failed to come to life. His fingers numb from the chill, callused from repeated handling of the course mineral. The fluid grace which he once commanded, dancing across the folds and valleys, forgotten as his fingers took up the rock, preparing to sluice away yet another grain to try and find the beauty hidden beneath. And still the sparkling rock mocked his attempts to make it live, keeping its secrets to itself.

Dropping the stone into the water, the man plodded across the beach toward his home of the last twenty five years. Twenty five long years of waiting for the magic to return. Waiting, and waiting, knowing that one day it would come again. So he waited. Alone. Locked in his gilded prison, hands empty, the sense memory faded to nothing.

He could no more cling to the magic, than it could to him. Not when he did not live. But he could remember. Remember what it was like when he did. Remember what *life* had once smelled like.

Like spring. Freshly mown grass, and wheat rising from a newly sowed field. A warm, gentle rain coating his skin, kissing the bare patches, revitalizing, invigorating, adding years onto his life. The magic smelled like sweat, and heat, and love, and more. All tumbling over each other to be the first to be felt, smelt, and tasted once again. The bitter morsels flooded his tongue. This is what it meant to leave someone behind.

And once upon a time, the magic had a name...

A tear slid from the corner of his eye, making a path for the others to follow. One after the other, nary a sound did he make as they rolled down his cheeks in silent surrender to the song of pain. Simply let the words of the ballad flow over him as he stood staring at the offending instrument willing it to silence. It was so much easier to bear this waiting in silence, or in the haunting strains of Led Zeppelin, but not this...not this one song did he ever want to hear again. At least not until time resumed its march across the universe and the waiting complete.

He never felt the arms surround him, hold him within their embrace. Never felt the brush of lips across his nape, for he was too numb with the passing of years, and the brush of memory. Never heard the sound of his name, so lost was he in the past. So the other merely held on as the tune played out, and played yet again. By the third rendition, the man was shaking, only the strength of the other's arms keeping him upright.

Pulling himself free from the captivity of the cobwebs of the past, he stumbled blindly for the solace of his room, collapsing haphazardly on the bed. Still he was silent, with only the sound of his harsh, broken breathing filling the air. A hand lay on his hip unnoticed.

As the man settled, the song filtered in from the porch, playing yet again in some sort of weird self-designed hell. A melody he hadn't heard since the day when the fire had burnt out, leaving only the tiny ember of hope to burn brightly in his chest. And that spark blazed, full tilt, demanding attention. He ignored it in favor of rolling over, an arm tossed across his eyes, as image after image played across his internal movie screen.

Slowly his body awoke. Inch, by inch, it responded. Ghosts of the past arose, slowing the picture show to a crawl, entertaining the here and now, with what had already gone. Hands ran up his bare skin. Very male, very masculine hands, well beloved, the memory sharp and clear, the long fingers stopping to tease at the waist band of his shorts. He sucked in a breath as the fingers brushed across his stomach, before they pulled his shorts over his hips and slipped them off slowly, so very slowly, taking away the only barrier between now and then.

And those hands began to create magic. Touching, caressing, loving. Begging as much as they gave. Making his skin spark, come alive, his hair raising just before those fingers lit upon the curve of his neck, following the path down along his shoulder, to his chest, tracing one nipple, then the other. Lower and lower into the dip of hip, following the trail to his groin where his cock, full to the point of pain, begged to be held in an iron grip.

Denied his pleasure, the man thrashed on the bed, tormented by his dream lover. Instead the feather-light caress fell lower, barely letting the passing caress touch the heavy sacks of his balls. Sucking in yet another breath, the man raised his knees, knowing, wanting and needing what his lover demanded. Entrance to his body. It was a familiar torment.

He lay exposed before the heated, brilliant gaze in his mind.

Too afraid to move, too afraid to touch, lest he chase away this fervent desire, he let himself float in the magic, the Spanish guitar an accompaniment to his pleasure/pain. He laid open, nothing hidden, not his desire, not his want, not his willing surrender.

Waiting.

Waiting.

Waiting for that needed touch. He could feel it building, higher and higher. He was going to explode. A hot breath feel across his groin just before the burn of a tongue licked along the crease of his ass, up over his balls, and along his cock. He nearly fell off the bed at the intimate touch, arching up, trying to follow the retreating mouth, wanting more. A chuckle floated in the tide of desire.

He needed...

He wanted...

He needed to be...filled...

Slowly, slowly, slowly, he was given it. Slick, hard flesh entered him.

He wanted...

Magic. A name floated in the ether unspoken, terrified that the spell would be broken and this feeling of being filled, of being taken, owned, possessed, needed, wanted....loved...would disappear. He rocked forward, taking his lover deeper within, deeper until flesh met flesh. And it was flesh, fire in motion. His hands rose...felt it hovering just under his fingertips, slick, sweating with suppressed need, shaking.

He touched life. He touched silk. He felt...

He opened his eyes and saw. Real. Alive. As dark and as passionate as his sea...waiting. Waiting for *him*. Waiting for him to awake.

Heat. Incredible heat filling him. Screaming internally, an inferno erupting into each cell, heat pulsing through his blood, marking him forever.

The cold disappeared when faced with the fiery storm. Heady musk rose from his partner, the scent of sex surrounded him, enfolding him in its long forgotten embrace.

The man breathed.

The apparition spoke, that beloved erotic smile tugging at his heart. "Took your sweet time."

"You're real..." And he spoke no more, his mouth buried in the taste of his lover, his hands coming alive playing along the familiar hard planes. His lover moaned as his hands found the tiny imperfections. His fingers not only remembering the magic, but sang with it. Pulsing into him as he found his lover's nipples and took one into his mouth. Sucking, nipping, gently scrapping along the sensitized flesh with his teeth as his mate arched up and entered him hard.

His hand tugged at the sun kissed hair in his hands, pulling the man closer to him, to his mouth, seeking the well remembered taste. Wanting this, needing this reconnection of spirit. Drawing the man down, down, down, until his lips hovered mere millimeters above his own, sharing the same space, the same air.

"Mine." And he took his lover, raising his hips, thrusting himself on his partner, their moans spiraling into his throat, becoming one in the same, passing from man to man. Sharing the same voice as they shared the same heart, the same breath, the same soul. Parting slightly, only to sink back together, the flesh willing, wanting, beating together. Reaching for the edge together after so long alone. Pulsing, writhing, spinning out of control into one last cry...

Magic.

"Daniel."

Finally.

~~~

The End