A Love Song for the Sad Man in the White Coat

by Roe Horvat

  Matěj sucked in a breath. Another hit into a sore spot—Simon was a precise shooter, and Matěj sat exposed. It didn’t sting less just because he’d expected it. “Probably not.” But damn it, what about now? “I’m not who I used to be, Simon. I know that. I’m afraid I’m a little…washed out. But I’ve learned things, too.”

  “What have you learned?” Simon’s head lolled to the side, and he looked at Matěj again, his eyes glowing in the darkness.

  “We were unique. What I felt for you was unique. I didn’t know at that time how fragile and important our kind of love was. Today, I would have put you first.”

  Simon blinked, and regret tugged at his mouth painfully. “It’s been years. We barely know each other anymore.”

  No. “I don’t believe that.”

  “You’ve changed,” Simon said. “Maybe I have, too.”

  “I’m not giving up,” Matěj told him, holding his gaze. His voice broke, though, mocking the meager bravery of his words.

  Simon stood up. “I’m thirsty, and I need something for the pain.” Calmly, he walked to the kitchen.

  It was surreal. Matěj followed Simon on this eerie walk, watched as Simon poured himself a glass, using his elbow to control the water. He offered another glass to Matěj, pulled a small plastic box of various medicines out of the cabinet above the fridge and sat down by the breakfast table, gesturing toward the chair opposite.

  He sorted through the small boxes until he found a common ibuprofen. After popping two 400mg tablets on the table, he closed the box and carefully pushed it back onto the shelf. Everything had its place in Simon’s life.

  Simon swallowed the pills, drank his water and then picked at the gauze with his other hand. Their eyes met a few times, but Matěj always dropped his gaze. He was ready to explode. He needed some kind of response from Simon, anything.

  “I’m—” Matěj began.

  “You made me hate myself,” Simon said, making Matěj flinch. “I was out of control. Weak. I hated myself for it. I abhorred what I was after you left. It was so much easier to blame you for everything. It would have been easier to hate you.”

  That was…much worse than anything Matěj could have imagined. He felt nauseous. He blamed himself for everything. He thought he’d want other people to see and acknowledge his guilt. He thought he wanted justice and righteous disdain. His therapist’s insistence on his innocence, her trying to manipulate Matěj to get him to forgive himself—it made him furious. But Simon’s words about hate…

  Matěj suddenly craved forgiveness and innocence. His sharp exhale was way too loud. It sounded almost like a sob. Mortified, he looked down onto his arm, on the familiar lines of the clockwork, focusing on the dots and edges, the small irregularities in the otherwise perfect geometry…

  And then Simon’s hand covered his on the table, warm and soft while Matěj’s whole body felt like it was being dragged behind a car. The liquid in his eyes spilled over.

  Helpless, he bent forward and rubbed his cheek against Simon’s fingers. He caught Simon’s hand with both of his and pressed his face into Simon’s palm. He couldn’t see. He kissed the center of Simon’s palm, his wrist… Simon’s fingers weaved into his hair, a coarse edge of gauze brushing by his temple.

  “I never stopped loving you,” Simon said.

  Matěj’s tremors intensified. The pressure in his chest made it increasingly difficult to inhale. He heard a scrape of a chair, and Simon was there, tugging him down to the floor, until Simon’s arms were wrapped around him, Simon’s chest against his, Simon’s thighs under his bent knees. Matěj fell forward, sunk his face into Simon’s shirt and lost control.

  “I love you,” Simon repeated.

  Matěj wanted to say these exact words and more, but he couldn’t breathe. Every time he opened his mouth another sob tore out of his chest. Instead, he repeated the words in his mind over and over. Simon, I love you.

  He didn’t know how long he was in there. First, it was only dark and lonely, a cave where strange voices echoed, and he was drowning, suffocating. But then warmth seeped through his thin clothes, a familiar, coveted smell reached his nostrils, and he inhaled deeply, filling his lungs and soul with it. Exhaustion came, blanketing him, comforting. His breathing slowed, and he wept quietly, nuzzling into Simon’s soaked shirt, into the juncture between his neck and shoulder, under Simon’s scarred earlobe.

  When Matěj finally lifted his head, his face burned with salt, his eyes felt swollen, but he could see again. With reverence, he cupped Simon’s jaw and kissed him gently, slowly, not deepening the kiss.

  And Simon kissed him back.

  “I’ll do anything. Whatever you want, I’ll—” he whispered hoarsely.

  “Shh. You don’t have to do anything except sleep. It’s still dark outside. C’mon.” Simon stood, bracing his hand against the table and tugging Matěj upward. Matěj went, pliant but wobbly.

  “You’re dead on your feet,” Simon noted as he led Matěj to the bathroom, and found him a toothbrush and a clean towel. Matěj brushed his teeth, leaning on the sink, barely conscious. There was nothing sexual about it when Simon helped him out of his T-shirt. He offered Matěj a clean one, together with a pair of sleep shorts. Then he left Matěj in the bathroom to do whatever he needed to do before bed.

  Matěj wasn’t aware of his actions—he probably did everything as on any other day—emptied his bladder, washed his hands and face, dried off… His mind was still in Simon’s arms on the kitchen floor.

  When Matěj reappeared in the bedroom door, Simon had changed his wet T-shirt. He didn’t wait for Matěj to form a question. In three strides, he was next to him, a warm palm on the small of Matěj’s back, pushing him toward the unmade bed.

  “You need to sleep,” he stated. “And I do too, for that matter.” Simon turned off the lights and climbed onto the bed next to Matěj. “Come here,” he whispered.

  Starving for closeness, Matěj scooted forward. “Simon…”

  “We’re going to be okay. We’ll talk later. Now sleep.”

  Matěj lay draped over Simon’s right side, his arm tight around Simon’s torso. Simon’s bandaged left hand lay on the man’s stomach, close to Matěj’s face, filling the air with the scent of fresh gauze and antiseptic. The hint of hospital smell was oddly comforting.

  The tension bled from Matěj’s limbs slowly, but a few times a sharp tremor ran through his whole body. Simon stroked his neck.

  “Shh, I’ve got you.”

  Matěj whispered Simon’s name once more before he fell into a deep sleep, at peace with the world and himself for a while.

  ***

  When he woke, the room was bright with the low winter sun. He turned to the left and watched Simon as the man slept sprawled on his back, almost snoring. Almost. It was more like heavy breathing but with a rather loud buzzing sound on the exhale.

  For a few minutes, Matěj only stared. Then he couldn’t resist moving closer. He laid his head next to Simon’s shoulder, inhaling the scent of his skin. So familiar. He nuzzled the spot just under the edge of Simon’s sleeve and closed his eyes.

  “Matěj?” A sleepy voice broke the quiet.

  “Mmhm,” Matěj kissed the skin closest to his mouth, searching for Simon’s right hand with his. When he found it, Simon squeezed back but let go immediately. Instead, he rolled so they faced each other, his injured left hand on Matěj’s hip.

  The green eyes were swollen with sleep, but the smile was full of light.

  On some level, Matěj still feared the reality would tear him away from this moment. He inched closer, wrapping an arm around Simon’s waist, pressing their bodies together. He nuzzled Simon’s jaw, brushed chaste kisses over his cheek, until their lips met. He didn’t want to deepen the kiss, aware of the slightly foul taste in his mouth, but Simon didn’t seem to care. Simon’s mouth closed around his upper lip, the man’s erection slid against his own, and Matěj was alive.

  “Simon,” he sighed, rocked his hips, and Sim
on’s answering loud exhale into the hollow under his ear made his toes tingle.

  Mindful of Simon’s injury, he tugged on the shorts and boxers just enough to feel skin. He took them both in hand, first slow, reveling in Simon’s gasps and hums of pleasure, and then fast, impatient, and frantic, because damn it, never ever had anything been as rewarding and as thorough as an orgasm with Simon right there. Raw joy pulsing through his veins, Matěj came way too early. He scooted down the bed and took Simon in his mouth. There were drops of his own release on Simon’s cock, making him feel like he could possess and own.

  Simon was breathing harshly, and Matěj lifted his eyes, meeting Simon’s wild, lustful gaze. That was how Simon was forever supposed to look at him. Exactly like that. He hummed, and Simon groaned, his mouth falling open. Simon’s seed filled his mouth, and Matěj closed his eyes just listening to the melody of Simon’s unabashed pleasure.

  Much later, he rested his head on Simon’s bare belly, stroking the man’s side and tracing his ribs.

  “I want to try,” he said, his head rising on Simon’s deep inhale, and then settling back as the man exhaled.

  “What?”

  “I want to be with you every minute I possibly can. I want to build a life with you, Simon. I want to try to make you happy.”

  There was a quiet moment during which Matěj’s pulse raced again. When Simon finally spoke, he probably expected Matěj would be surprised, or worried.

  “I have dysthymia,” he said.

  “And I love you.” Because Matěj grew only more determined. He’d known. He’d never used that term—he’d never dared to diagnose Simon. But it had always been there, the subtle awareness of something. There was depth and complexity in Simon which had always fascinated Matěj. Did Simon find comfort in the diagnosis? Because it was one of those fluid ones, just a tad ambiguous. Specialists called it a mood disorder, some might describe it as a mild, chronic depression, and many patients believed it was a personality trait they were born with. They never even questioned it, never considered it a medical condition. There was a consensus however, that the condition was mostly life-long, a constant tendency to melancholy with a few depressive bouts.

  To Matěj, none of it mattered, except he didn’t want Simon to be unhappy.

  “Are you ready spend your life with a sad man?” Simon asked.

  Oh, God. Of course, Simon would think like that—as if there were criteria he was supposed to fulfill, requirements he was expected to meet.

  “Sad? I don’t know if you understand it, but you bring me so much joy, Simon. And if you’re supposed to change, you should because you need it. Not because I want you to change. You want to take the antidepressants, I’m with you. You don’t want to take them…I’ll support you just the same. It might help if you stop believing you can beat the dysthymia by the sheer force of your will.”

  “You do know me,” Simon muttered, sounding mildly irked. His hand appeared on Matěj’s bare shoulder, gently stroking.

  “I’m miserable without you, Simon. And I think you’re miserable without me.”

  “What if we drag each other down?”

  Matěj half laughed. “I’ll quit smoking, and we’ll run together again. We’ll do couples therapy. We’ll get a dog. Hell, we’ll move into the country, get a bunch of farm animals, you’ll garden, and I’ll cook for you. Whatever.”

  Simon’s sigh was powerful enough to move the hair on the top of Matěj’s head.

  “I can’t imagine ever losing you again.” Simon said it mildly, almost pragmatically. The grip of his fingers on Matěj’s shoulder tightened.

  Matěj raised his head, and lifted himself on his hands, bracketing Simon’s torso. The hurt and fear in Simon’s eyes were heartbreaking, in direct opposition to the matter-of-fact tone of his voice.

  “I understand,” Matěj told him seriously, holding Simon’s gaze. “I had three years to think about this. If Marta hadn’t found me, I would have come back. I wouldn’t have made it much longer.” He could keep promising, but it wouldn’t mean anything to Simon. He would have to prove himself with his actions instead. “Whatever you say now won’t change a thing. You see, I think neither of us has a choice.”

  “Only to try,” Simon confirmed.

  Matěj lay back down, molding himself back to Simon’s body. “Yes.”

  “I’m still mad at you.”

  “You can take it out on me in bed.”

  Simon chuckled, the laughter resonating through his chest into Matěj’s. “Oh, I will. I think I need some food and more pain meds first, though.”

  Matěj closed his eyes in an overpowering wave of gratitude—because Simon was there, half-naked in his arms, laughing.

  —Žižkov, Prague, January 1st, 2017—

  New Year’s Eve was a quiet affair. Mike, Lukas, Marta, Matěj, and Simon spent it drinking wine and eating fine cheeses—no klobásky this time—at the guys’ apartment in Žižkov. They played Cards Against Humanity, watched their favorite snippets of stand-up comedy, and they almost missed the countdown because Matěj was telling a story about his friend Alex from Germany, who was apparently a quite acclaimed erotica author, and who was visiting Prague with his boyfriend in February. Simon spent most of the story watching Matěj’s lips move, so the details escaped him.

  They did the group hug thing instead of kissing at midnight. When Mike and Marta marched into the kitchen to open another bottle of champagne, Matěj said he’d have a cigarette. He smoked rarely, at least when Simon could see him, but on evenings like this, when there was company and wine, he usually escaped for five minutes two or three times.

  “You’re coming with me?” Matěj asked, putting his parka on.

  “Sure. Not smoking, though,” Simon answered.

  “I still admire you for stopping. Do you mind me…?” Matěj trailed off, a hint of worry in his face.

  “No, love. I don’t. Just, don’t overdo it, and we’ll be fine.”

  “I’ll stop. I’m pretty sure if I start running with you again, I won’t be able to smoke anymore.”

  Simon zipped his jacket and raised his hand to cup Matěj’s jaw. “We’ll get there.”

  The curve of the man’s lips, the corner lifting in that mischievous grin… Simon blinked. He hoped Matěj’s presence in his life would become less overwhelming with time.

  They closed the balcony door, and the chatter of Mike and Marta in the kitchen dulled. Matěj didn’t pull out a cigarette immediately. He looked over the roofs and city lights, inhaling deeply. Fireworks went off in a nearby park, hidden by a row of five-story houses. Colorful flashes reflected in the windows on the other side of the street, and the cacophony of bangs and whistles slowly faded.

  Simon stepped closer and hugged Matěj from behind, pressing a chaste kiss to his temple. Matěj’s body relaxed into his embrace.

  The night was not that cold—barely below zero—but Matěj shivered. Simon rubbed his arms up and down, his sore thumb protesting feebly.

  “You’re not going to smoke?” he asked.

  “In a minute.”

  “Okay.” Simon kissed his ear, then the hollow underneath. At last, he lay his forehead on Matěj’s shoulder. The past week had run through his fingers like fine, glittery sand, but there was future to be had. Simon didn’t see much importance in celebrating New Year’s Eve—it was just time passing, an arbitrary date turning into another arbitrary date. No need to fuss over it. This night, though, there was a strange kind of energy in the air. An elusive quality to the whole evening. It felt like a promise.

  Matěj had changed a lot. Simon observed with fascination the new version of the man who’d ruined his life years ago, and then given him his life back. He was less playful, subdued, and seemed so fragile. And clingy—something Simon would never have expected—so clingy. He knew he probably shouldn’t, but Simon loved that—waking up in the morning to Matěj’s body wrapped around him, then the silent kitchen routine when Simon would make coffee, and Matěj would re
st his head on Simon’s shoulder from behind and just stand there, waiting, never breaking their connection, never sitting down at the table until Simon did. The neediness was all Simon had ever wanted. And if it made him more a fool, then so be it.

  The box of antidepressants lay unopened in his kitchen cupboard. Simon had decided to wait. He felt better now—of course he did. However, he was also aware of how important it was for him to stay functional. When the day came, Simon would take the pills. Only because Matěj needed him.

  There were still questions nagging at his consciousness sometimes. Was this enough? Was one person’s presence in his life really all he could expect? Was this a pinnacle of human wisdom? It didn’t make sense to find the ultimate meaning of his life in a broken man who depended on him.

  Yet for some reason, those doubts were so easy to dismiss. There was an overwhelming sense of rightness, illogical, but everywhere—in the touches, the quiet conversations, the content smiles Marta and Lukas gave them, even in the slight disorder that spread through Simon’s apartment with Matěj there. It was peaceful, as if the existential pain Simon always wore with pride was suddenly trivial—a laughable, absurdly large pile of time and intelligence Simon had wasted for nothing, and the memory of all those whys dissolved into the void.

  Maybe that was it, though. Maybe there were no better truths to be found. Maybe if everyone just loved and took care of those around them, everything else would fall into place. The simplest of philosophical clichés and the ultimate truth—unless humankind came up with something better, Simon decided it should be good enough for him. With his nose in Matěj’s hair, he felt too lazy to think anymore.

  “Are you sad now?” Matěj broke the silence, surprising him. He paused at first, unsure for just a second, trying to take the thoughts that flowed through his mind in hand and…smell them. Were they sad? Simon almost laughed at himself.

  “No,” he sighed and nipped at the skin on Matěj’s neck. He nuzzled Matěj’s hair, and tightened his arms. Matěj’s hand closed over his. “Maybe a little. I regret the wasted time and energy. I regret what you went through. I will forever doubt there’s more to life than a limp shuffling toward a grave with just a few bright spots in between…”