It's All Relative

by J. M. Snyder

  “I don’t know,” I whisper. I don’t.

  “Figure it out,” he says, closing the door softly as he leaves.

  I don’t want to figure it out just yet. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, why I can’t open up to him, why I can’t tell him what I feel inside. What do I feel? I don’t even know that. My mind is a jumble of emotions and memories, a painting left out in the rain and the colors have run together now, everything is sordid shades of gray. How can I put it all into words to explain it to him when I don’t even know what I’m looking at myself? What I’m feeling, or why, or what I’m thinking of anymore? I want a fresh canvas, I want to start anew.

  For a few minutes, I stay squatting on the floor, I wait—I’m sure he’s coming right back. But he doesn’t, and when my legs go numb, I stand and shake the feeling into them again. I need to clean this place up. It’ll keep me occupied. As long as I’m busy, I don’t have to think, and if I don’t think, I don’t have to feel.

  Though it took me most of the day to make the mess, I manage to get the room put back together again in a couple hours. The boxes I stack together along one wall, the bags propped in front of them—I’ll pick up where I left off in the morning. At least now we can walk in the room, and our suitcase isn’t buried beneath a ton of crap, the bed isn’t hidden under armloads of clothes. When I’m finished, I undress slowly, taking my time just in case Dan is on his way back. I pull off my shirt, my jeans, my socks, turn down the sheets and sit on the edge of the bed, waiting…

  At some point, I turn off the light and crawl beneath the sheets. I leave the lamp beside the bed on for him. I don’t want to fall asleep without him, I don’t like this. I should have said I was sorry earlier, when he brought me dinner. Why didn’t I say anything? Why did I send him away again?

  I face the wall, the light at my back, and close my eyes but I’m not really tired. I lie awake and listen to the sounds of the house around me, water in the pipes, a shutter creaking in the wind, low murmurs from beyond my door. Through the wall I can hear talking—the living room is right on the other side—but I can’t make out words. Every now and then I hear a loud donkey laugh, Ray. I wonder how Dan is faring against my brother. I wonder if he’s sitting on the loveseat alone or with Caitlin, thinking of me and wishing I were there, the same way I’m lying here and wishing he were with me.

  An eternity later, I hear soft footsteps cross the kitchen floor—the tile by the sink is warped, it squeals when stepped on. A hand on my door, no knock this time, just the gentle twist of the knob and I hold my breath, stare at the wall, don’t think. It’s Dan, it has to be. No one in this family is as quiet as him.

  The door shuts without a sound—the only way I know it’s closed is the slight noise of the lock sliding home. A large shadow eclipses the light on my wall, Dan’s hand as he turns the lampshade towards him, away from the bed. He thinks I’m asleep.

  I hear his clothes hit the floor, and when he rummages through the open suitcase, I glance over my shoulder to catch a glimpse of his bare ass as he steps into a pair of my boxers. His skin is smooth by the lamplight, golden and almost glowing in the close shadows. So beautiful, I think, sculpted muscle and flawless flesh, a statue of a young god or an angel. I turn away before he sees me looking.

  Getting into the bed, he turns out the light. Then he slides in beside me, his leg brushing mine before pulling away. I should apologize now, bring him into my arms and make love to him, show him just how desperately sorry I am for being…how did my sister put it? For being such an ass today. But it’s easier to stay quiet, he thinks I’m asleep, and the longer I wait, the more awkward it is to untie my tongue. Soon I’m afraid I won’t have anything left to say to him at all, and then what? Where will we be if I can never talk to him again?

  He doesn’t touch me and I lie on my side in the darkness, listening to him breathe. I should say something, even just sigh, just to let him know I’m awake. It should be easy now, shouldn’t it? Under cover of night, we don’t have to look at each other, I don’t have to see the hurt or pain in his eyes.

  Finally, he sniffles and a tender hand touches my hip beneath the sheets. “Michael?” Dan asks, his voice barely audible over the wind outside. “You awake?”

  “Yeah,” I whisper. I feel like I did years ago as a child, upstairs with Stephen spending the night, and the two of us would talk quietly beneath the covers long after we were supposed to be asleep. Thinking of him now threatens to tear down the wall I’ve spent all day building against those memories. I push them away.

  My lover’s breath tickles the back of my neck as he asks softly, “Are you still mad?”

  I think about that. “Yeah,” I say again. There’s so much tearing me up inside and I don’t know if it’s anger or not, but it’s there. I can’t deny it.

  “At me?” Dan wants to know.

  I shake my head. Because he can’t see the gesture, I turn my face into my pillow and mumble, “No.”

  I don’t know if he hears it or not. He’s silent for a little while, long enough that I begin to suspect that he’s fallen asleep, when he shifts beside me and whispers, “Can I hold you?”

  Can I…the fact that he has to ask hurts my soul. “Please,” I choke, and before he can respond, I’m backing up into him, his arms finding their way around my waist with familiar ease. He buries his face into my hair, sighs my name, presses his body tight against mine until we’re like two spoons in a drawer, curved together as one. My voice is almost nonexistent as I cover my face with my hands and murmur, “I’m sorry.”

  “Shh,” he replies, nuzzling my neck. He kisses my jaw and with his next kiss, I turn my head so his lips meet mine. When I try to say it again, my words dissolve in his mouth, and I can’t seem to find the will to resist his hands on my stomach, my face.

  Chapter 28: Promise of a New Day

  At some point I wake to kisses, but it’s too early and I don’t want to get out of bed, so I snuggle into my lover’s arms, murmur something incoherent, breathe deep his warm scent. Just a few more minutes, I think, unsure if I actually speak the words out loud or not. My arms tighten around his waist, trying to hold him close, keep him with me.

  I don’t succeed—somewhere between those early morning dream-like kisses and the time I become aware of being fully awake, Dan gets out of bed. I lie curled into blankets that hold his scent and keep my eyes shut as I listen to the house around me, listening for his voice. I still don’t want to get up just yet. Maybe if I wait long enough, he’ll come back from the bathroom or the kitchen, or wherever it is he’s gone off to, and he’ll crawl in beside me again, he’ll wrap his arms around me, he’ll whisper silly nonsense in my ear until I just can’t keep my eyes closed any longer and I wake up to more kisses, breathless giggles, my name in his voice. In my mind I hear him ask again, “Can I hold you?” And this time I’m not so tired or worn out, this time I let his kisses lead to something more. Beneath the covers, I trail my fingers up my own stiffening cock as I think of his body next to mine, him in me, his skin as supple and pliant as my own beneath my hands.

  I grow hard thinking of his touch. Encircling my shaft, I thrust into my palm and stifle a moan in my pillow. “Dan,” I sigh. I need him now. I need him to hold me, I need his hands on mine, his fingers strumming below my balls, slipping inside of me as he kisses me quiet. When’s the last time we made love? Not the heated rush when we first arrived in Sugar Creek, not the half-clothed tryst at my parents’ house, but a long, luxurious moment just to ourselves, a time when he was the only thing on my mind and I was his only concern. I can’t recall the last time we allowed ourselves to simply be us—how long has it been? Since I held him for hours at a time, since we cuddled in the bed naked? Not just sex, not just fulfillment or release, but love, where nothing else mattered but the man beside us, where the rest of the world disappeared?

  God, I don’t remember. It’s been awhile since we’ve had that time to ourselves. During the week, we both lead lives too hectic
to simply take a moment to enjoy each other. True, we have the evenings together, and Dan’s an attentive lover—when he wants me, he knows just how to tell me without a word, and the look he gives me is enough to make me come from anticipation alone. He’ll take my hand, lead me to the bedroom, undress me and kiss me and ease down onto me. He’ll whisper he loves me, only me, forever me. We fall asleep in each other’s arms, we wake together, we are love. We’re perfect.

  Aren’t we?

  If what we have is so undying, why are we at odds right now? Because of Stephen, I think, but that can’t be right. He’s not a part of our relationship, past lovers have never been an issue until now. How can Stephen be at fault here when Dan didn’t even meet the guy?

  Maybe it’s me.

  The thought freezes my hand in mid-stroke, numbs my fingers where they’re curled around my dick. Maybe it is me, this sudden uncertainty between us, this animosity I feel toward no one in particular. It isn’t Dan’s fault that my oldest friend has always had a crush on me, it isn’t his fault I probably encouraged those feelings. So why can’t I just accept that and move on? I can’t live my life and worry about living everyone else’s, too. I can’t change the fact that Stephen loves me, the same way I can’t change the fact that I don’t love him in return.

  Under the blankets I squeeze myself again, trying to find a slow rhythm, hoping to erase that thought, but I’m not interested in getting off anymore. If Dan came in now, maybe he could slip between the sheets and kiss away my insecurities—I’d tell him exactly what Stephen said and let him convince me that I have no reason to tear myself up over this. If he came in now, maybe he could make everything right again. He could touch me in the same places I’m touching myself, he could keep me aroused, he could take care of this, of me. If he came in right now.

  But he doesn’t appear just because I think he should. I hear his voice, though, a low sound that barely carries in from the kitchen—he must have left the door to our room ajar when he left. He says something I can’t make out, then Caitlin laughs, I hear the faint chink of silverware on porcelain, breakfast. Part of me wonders why he didn’t wake me up to eat, but I smother the thought. Dan is just letting me sleep. After my mood yesterday, it’s no wonder he doesn’t want to disturb me unless absolutely necessary.

  So I wait. My hand keeps up its halfhearted motions, a thoughtful kneading, a steady rubbing, just something to do as my mind drifts. I fall back into a sort of waking slumber, a dream-like state where I imagine him coming in, I feel his hands on my lower belly, my balls. His breath on my face, his lips on my cheek, his fingers ease into me, my fingers, I’m doing this myself and dreaming it’s him. Above me, laying me back, whispering he loves me even as I lick the words from his lips.

  It seems so real that when I open my eyes, I expect Dan to be loving me, kissing my neck and moving within me—that’s what my mind sees, what my body feels. I’m disappointed to find myself still alone, my dick throbbing in my hand, my balls aching and sore. For a selfish moment I toy with the idea of calling out to him—he’s right in the kitchen, I can hear his voice. Ask him to come here a minute and kick back the covers to expose my thick erection poking through the fly of my boxers. He’ll open the door, my name on the tip of his tongue before his throat closes with lust. Will he even be able to find the words to tell Caitlin he’ll be right back as he closes the door behind him, locks it to keep the two of us in this tiny room, this small bed?

  I decide not to find out. With a few quick thrusts, the deed is finished, my hand covered in my own juices, which I wipe off onto my t-shirt as I climb out of bed. The shirt gets fisted into a tight, embarrassed wad and shoved deep into the bottom of the pillowcase that serves as our laundry bag. The boxers are stripped off, damp with sweat and cum—they join the shirt. I nudge the door shut completely with one foot, lock it for spite, because I know that whoever’s out in the kitchen now knows that I’m awake, and if Dan wants to come see me, he’s going to have to wait until I’m dressed. Until I’m good and up, I think, tugging on a clean pair of underwear, tight and unstretched. Khakis and a thick sweater, socks, shoes, a comb through my hair and a fumbled search for deodorant, a spritz of Dan’s cologne because it’s right at the top of our suitcase and I like the way he smells on me, and now I’m ready to face the world. I’m ready for anything…

  Except Stephen, I amend silently, opening the door. Dan sits at the table with Caitlin, Trevor, my cousin Kenny’s Muslim girlfriend. My lover looks up from a plate of scrambled eggs as I step out into the kitchen. Please, God, I pray, pushing thoughts of my old friend out of my head, don’t throw something like THAT at me again. I’ll make it through the funeral because I have to, but just let Stephen Robichaud keep his distance. The same goes for any other blast from my past You might have hiding up Your sleeve. I’m not here to play a round of “This is Your Life.”

  Dan gives me a sunny grin that almost stops my heart, it’s so damn beautiful, and the memory of Stephen’s sad eyes burns away like fog in the heat of the afternoon. “Hey, baby,” my lover says, scraping his chair along the floor as he pushes it back to stand. He takes my hand and gives me a quick peck on the lips which everyone in the kitchen pretends to ignore. Well, everyone except my sister, who watches with arched brows, a cocky look on her face that screams, I told you so. I don’t meet her smug gaze—I won’t give her the satisfaction of thinking she’s right.

  A squeeze of my hand brings my attention back to Dan. “How are you feeling today?” he wants to know, concern etched into his face like lines of worry or age. “Are you doing better?”

  “I’m fine,” I assure him.

  He frowns, unsure if he should believe me or not. So I say it again, trying on a sincere smile this time, and I lean close enough to catch a brief whiff of his spicy scent, though I’m not sure if that’s him or me I smell. “Fine, hon,” I say with a kiss in the corner of his mouth. “Honest.”

  Before I can elaborate, Caitlin pipes up. “What’d I tell you, Mike?” she asks, pushing her eggs around on her plate. “You just needed to get laid to loosen up.”

  Dull anger hums through me at her careless words. “Don’t,” I warn as I pull out the chair beside Dan’s. Sinking into the seat, I take a piece of toast from my lover’s plate to nibble on—suddenly I’m starving.

  But Caitlin isn’t listening to me. “I’m serious,” she says, with a wink at Kenny’s girlfriend. To her credit, Neeshi simply stares at my sister, then looks at me, her face a mask of neutrality. Scooping up a forkful of eggs, Caitlin points them at me and says, “A good fuck cures almost everything, I’m telling you. I mean, shit, so what if you guys went at it last night? It’s not like anyone can hear you knocking boots all the way down here.”

  “Shut up,” I growl. Dan sits down beside me, his hand finding my knee beneath the table, and it’s his strong touch that keeps me from just getting up and walking out of here. I don’t want to listen to this. When Caitlin opens her mouth to say something else, I turn to my lover and ask loudly, “Didn’t I have this conversation already? The one entitled I’m not going to talk to my little sister about my sex life? Because I distinctly remember—”

  Under the table, a small foot connects with my shin. Glaring at me, my sister mutters, “Okay, so I was wrong, you didn’t get any ass last night. Doesn’t mean you have to be one today.”

  Frowning at Dan, I ask, “Am I being an ass to you?”

  For a moment, fear flickers across his face—I’m forcing him to choose sides, something he hates to do. But much as he likes Caitlin, there shouldn’t be any question here. He’s with me. He’s my lover. Lives with me, sleeps with me. He can be nice to my sister, he can think she’s cool and laugh with her and get along great, I don’t care, but when push comes to shove and she’s trying to make me look like a jerk, he needs to stand behind me.

  But he’s in rare form this morning, having grown comfortable around my family, and there’s an impish gleam in his eye when he gives me a smile so sweet, my
teeth hurt to see it. “Not to me,” he says.

  Across the table, Caitlin snickers into her plate. “Just in general,” I amend. “Am I an ass today?”

  “Not today,” he replies. This time Neeshi giggles, and beside Caitlin, Trevor looks around the table, a silly, uncomprehending grin on his face. He doesn’t know what we’re going on about, I’m sure, but hell, everyone else is laughing at me, why shouldn’t he?

  “Dan,” I sigh. “I’m talking about—”

  He squeezes my knee to let me know he’s just teasing as he says, “I thought we weren’t talking about your ass in front of your sister.”

  I feel an ignoble pout tug at my lips, which I try to hide by stuffing the rest of his buttered toast into my mouth as they laugh at me. “I’m not talking about my ass,” I mutter. I hate being picked on, and by my lover, of all people! In front of my sister, too. I’ll never live this down.

  A melodic voice speaks up from the head of the table—Neeshi, surprisingly. “It’s alright, Michael,” she says.

  I pout harder. At least there’s someone here on my side. “Thank you—”

  “You have quite a nice ass,” she interrupts, and Caitlin, Dan, even Trevor erupt in fresh giggles.

  In her soft voice, the word sounds almost decadent, ass, and with all of them laughing, it takes every ounce of strength I have to keep the frown on my face. “I’m telling Kenny you said that,” I threaten. “What’s he going to say when he knows you’re checking out my ass?”