6. Testament
Henry was soft. He was always soft when he came. Quiet footsteps outside the door; the hesitant moment of decision to nock or turn around and hope I haven't heard. More often than not, the good doctor in you will win out (or perhaps the beasts screaming into your abused head) and I let out a disappointed sigh as the gentle Morse code of your flat shoes escapes down the hall.
But then, there are the time when that pregnant pause rewards me with equally quite taps on the door -- always two, Henry, always ready to be turned down -- and I cannot take my time walking to the door before I fling it open, meeting an anxious doctor. He comes, sometimes flushed, his eyes glowing a fire so intense I was startled when I first saw it; it's look so foreign on those habitually tense features. Other times, though -- these times I want to drop to my knees and take his hands, those kind hands, and cry out how undeserving I am of him to look so fretful of me -- he will come, face pale and damp with sweat, circles under his wide eyes, lips pressed into a fine line, looking like he was expecting to get the door slammed in his face.
Of course, his fear is always unnecessary and I let him in by swinging the door wider, indicating I am in no danger of getting my toes trodden on by him. He comes forward -- five steps, Henry, not to far to run back friend?-- and gives the room a discrete inspection. He knows I took the mirror down the day he asked -- the minute in fact -- but he cannot help but be wary. I wouldn't want any monsters scowling back at me either, Henry, I don't know how you shave…
We're slow at first, taking tea or one of Nemo's sea confections that are left outside the rooms in the morning to munch on. Our charade Henry; neither of us has come here with that purpose. A nervous tic, his knee bounces discreetly under his crossed legs. Sometimes it rests within a few minutes of pleasant talk. On days when he greets me with a pallid face and sweaty hand, it takes longer to soothe this telling creature into stillness. His tired face loses it's apprehension and his long fingers trace slow paths along each other. It is not until then I dare touch him.
He comes to his feet, stretching out those lean legs to their full height. I peel away the thick layers of clothing keeping me from my destination and watch them slide to the floor, his eyes closed and dry lips parted. At long last, I touch bare skin, the contact of warm flesh coaxing a guttural moan from those lips. We come together gently on the bed, never daring to let go, to let it all be a dream as we twist and thrust and gasp. He takes me in those lovely soft fingers and guides me to him, lets me touch him, lets me have him. Sweat slicks his exposed flesh, cries so silent I lean in to hear them, and everything builds and builds and I cannot keep trying to hold onto this dizzying peak, and finally I slip and carry him with me over the edge until we are spent, lying in a boneless, sedate heap onto the forgiving mattress.