Freestyle Love

by Marcus Lopes

  Three

  Malachi pushed the round white button for a third time and finally, after another long silence, there was a crackling sound through the intercom speaker and a druggy, “What?” with a hint of annoyance.

  “It’s Malachi Bishop,” he said, leaning into the intercom. “Please, let me in,” and when there was a buzzing sound a short time later he turned the doorknob and pushed the door open. Inside there was the scent of fabric softener that was stronger near the top of the staircase that led to the basement-level. He mounted the staircase to his right, loosely gripping the railing, until he reached the top level. He made his way down the narrow bright corridor that smelled of curry and bacon and cigarette smoke, and his eyes began to water. He stopped in front of the door with the number twelve on it in brass lettering, rubbed briefly at his eyes and then rapped on the wooden door. First there was the sound of the door chain lock scratching against the door, then the clunk of the deadbolt turning over and finally the door opening wide, a shadowy figure standing in the darkness of the space behind.

  “Welcome to paradise,” Zach Brennan said askance, and motioned Malachi to enter.

  Malachi stepped cautiously into the darkness, his nostrils immediately infiltrated by cigarette smoke, and coughed as Zach moved off and let the door swing closed. The apartment was dark and stuffy and silent. Malachi stood just inside the door, and once his eyes adjusted to the darkness, moved towards the reddish-orange light that flared every time Zach dragged on his cigarette. Malachi went to the far end of the room, drew back the navy blue curtains and opened a window, street sounds bouncing into the room — the honking of a car horn, the rev of an engine, the whistling of the wind. He stood by the window gasping the fresh air and then turned to look in the direction of Zach, who was sitting on the sofa.

  “Mind if I turn on a light?” Malachi asked.

  Zach screwed out his cigarette in the ashtray on the coffee table and then switched on the lamp on the end table, revealing the sparsely decorated room. The TV was in the corner, a worn blue wool-upholstered chair opposite the matching sofa, and a silver floor lamp in the other corner close to where Malachi stood. There were books piled against the white wall opposite the sofa, and at the other end of the room, near the kitchen entryway, a small round oak table with two chairs. On the wall above the sofa was a poster of Monet’s Water Lilies that Zach had purchased from the gift shop at the Art Gallery of Ontario during his final year of political science at the University of Toronto.

  Zach picked up his glass from off the coffee table and stood. “Something to drink?” he asked as he headed towards the kitchen.

  “Sure.” Malachi made for the worn blue wool-upholstered chair and sat down. “Water’s fine,” he said when he could have used a stiff drink to calm his nerves. When Zach returned a few moments later and handed him a short glass with a golden liquid and two ice cubes, Malachi held the glass to his nose and smelled the smoky aroma. “Thanks.” Malachi held his gaze to Zach, who returned to the sofa.

  Malachi was surprised by the extent of his nervousness, like he was on some silly blind date with someone he had met off the Internet, which seemed more scandalous than the one-night stands he had with guys he occasionally picked up at Groove. Zach Brennan, in his final semester of the certificate program in creative writing, was after all one of Malachi’s students. Zach was enrolled in the advanced writing workshop that Malachi taught. The workshop was compulsory for the certificate program. There was an awkwardness between them that was somehow genteel, and Malachi was never sure why, from the first time he had met Zach, that he felt for Zach both compassion and pity. Malachi, sitting across from Zach, felt pity now. The short-trimmed beard that covered Zach’s usually clean-shaven face concealed his boyish looks that Malachi loved. And Zach’s face, grave and drawn, made him look haggard and lost, as if he wasn’t really a part of this world. The grey jogging pants looked baggy on Zach, as if he had unexpectedly lost weight, but at the same time the white T-shirt clung to his defined upper torso.

  Zach stared frankly at Malachi. “If there’s something you’ve come to say?”

  Malachi gulped his drink and glanced away. “You’ve missed my last two classes, and you didn’t hand in the last assignment.” He looked intently at Zach. “We’re concerned.”

  Zach reached for the package of du Maurier that was on the coffee table, pulled out a cigarette and stuck it between his thin pink lips. He tossed the cigarette package onto the coffee table, with frustration, and then picked up the silver lighter that had his initials engraved on it. He lit the cigarette, taking a couple of deep drags, and when he caught Malachi’s disapproving glare, he reached for the ashtray and balanced it on the arm of the sofa, and screwed out the cigarette. “I wasn’t sure you’d notice, me not being in class, I mean.”

  Malachi frowned. “I noticed.” His voice was stern, almost indignant.

  Zach picked up his glass from the coffee table, which seemed to be the catchall for everything — newspapers, cigarettes, his wallet, the open package of condoms partially concealed under a magazine — and lifted the glass to his mouth, his hands shaking terribly. After setting the glass back down on top of the Claredon Times, he said, “Well, there’s no need to be concerned. As you can see, I’m all right,” and offered a wary smile.

  The phone rang and Zach looked vaguely at the cordless phone that was on the cushion next to him and returned his gaze to Malachi. They stared at each other until the phone stopped ringing, and then Zach looked away. Zach imagined Malachi sitting next to him — Malachi’s strong arms wrapped around Zach’s slender body, or perhaps they just held hands as they stole sidelong glances of each other. It was an image that came to Zach frequently, made him hard, and now with Malachi here in his home Zach wanted the dream to pass into reality. Zach was ready to confess his love, which he thought was obvious. Zach always sat in the front row during class and, spellbound, stared at Malachi. Could Malachi not see the depth of Zach’s love? In fact Zach easily found himself lost in a trance, dreaming about being taken by Malachi. Zach was willing, eager, desperate to submit, yield to Malachi’s will.

  The situation seemed impossible, the two of them held in an awkward silence, trapped in their roles of teacher and student, and unable to talk to each other. Zach stood and walked over to the window that Malachi had opened earlier and closed it. Zach, his grey jogging pants hugging his round backside, stood with his back to Malachi. A swell of emotion raced through Malachi’s body as he stared at Zach, and in three seconds Malachi had a hard-on bulging in his jeans. Malachi stood and went over to Zach, who spun around.

  Malachi cupped his hand to Zach’s shoulder and said, “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  “A little tired perhaps,” Zach said with a hint of annoyance, and lifted Malachi’s hand off his shoulder. Zach’s narrow greenish-brown eyes — angry eyes that penetrated, delved deep into one’s core — were trained on Malachi.

  “All right,” Malachi said, holding on to the colossal sadness in Zach’s eyes. Malachi wondered if Zach were really there or somewhere else. Malachi was cognizant of the repressed affinity they shared, and while it caused him great distress he could not name it. Was it love? Could love be this deep, metaphysical — such an unnameable communion that somehow committed them to each other? And in the middle of that, too, was Cole Malcolm. At the college, others noticed the intensity of their stares, their seemingly frequent and public meetings for coffee that were never planned, their animated debates rippled with laughter. It all conspired to mark, bear witness to, their closeness, and at the college no one spoke of it.

  Zach stretched, lifting his arms above his head, his hands clasped together and rising up on the tips of his toes, exposing his smooth navel. As his arms dropped to his sides, he smiled coyly at Malachi. “Is this really why you came here, to make sure that I’m all right?”

  “Yes,” Malachi said, and went to touch his hand to Zach’s arm but pulled it back. “Lately your writing’s been ra
ther black.”

  “Black?” Zach said with a gasp, and chuckled.

  “Yes, you know…” Malachi drew in a deep breath and exhaled. God, I’m making such a blunder of this. “It’s been, well, macabre, morbid, preoccupied with death and dying.”

  “What’s wrong with that?” Zach pushed past Malachi and stood in front of the sofa. “Let’s stop talking about death like it’s taboo. It happens every day, that somebody dies.” Zach slammed his body into the sofa and stared at the ceiling. If only Malachi would hold him then maybe everything else would simply follow naturally. Zach looked at Malachi and said, “We shouldn’t be afraid to embrace death like it will embrace us one day, completing the cycle, releasing us from this, this hell.”

  “Hell?” Malachi said dryly, weighing it up and shaking his head as he moved closer to the sofa. Malachi held his gaze to Zach’s bare feet resting on the coffee table, and slowly dragged his eyes along the grey sweat pants, staring briefly at Zach’s large hands covering his crotch as if to conceal an erection. Malachi breathed deeply, watching Zach’s chest rise and fall and then, as though suddenly awakening from a disturbing dream, Malachi sat down on the edge of the sofa next to Zach and repeated, with a sense of dread, “Hell…”

  “Yes, hell,” Zach said bitterly and lifted his feet off the coffee table. He reached for the cigarette that he had screwed out earlier and relit it, and turned his head away slightly as he blew out the smoke after a long drag. Staring absentmindedly at the books on the floor, he continued, his voice filled with a certain urgency, “Hell is living in a world that’s a façade, fictitious,” and held the cigarette over the ashtray, tapping it gently twice, and after the ashes dropped into the ashtray he took another long drag. “I mean, what are we really doing here? We shuffle from one place to the next without really noticing where we are, without really being present. Do you know what I mean?” Zach looked at Malachi, who was looking at him hopelessly but yet with a hint of understanding. “I think you do know what I mean. I think you feel it too, that there has to be, just has to be, something real beyond this life.”

  “I think there’s something real in this life.” Malachi settled more comfortably into the sofa, sitting sideways so he could contemplate Zach. Of course, Malachi did feel it — that something was missing, or that he was missing. It was easy for Malachi to get caught up in his own life, to feel as though he didn’t belong. He was still searching for that something real in his life, waiting for it to let loose within him, stir him, awaken him.

  Zach screwed out the cigarette, and shifted his body sideways and faced Malachi. Zach folded his arms and said, flippantly, “How can it be real when we stranglehold desire because of some corrupt notion of good?”

  Malachi winced. “It’s real because you and I are here right now. I’m not imagining that, am I?” He poked Zach in the stomach. “You seem real to me.” There was a silence. “And let’s not confuse good with virtue. What are we really doing here?” Malachi shrugged. “I think that’s for each of us to decide for ourselves. We have to know who we are first before we can understand what we’re doing here —”

  “But that’s just it,” Zach said askance, throwing his hands in the air. “We’re always searching for something. Happiness, wealth, fame, love… I’m tired of searching, of waiting, of being absolutely false.”

  Malachi dropped his gaze. Zach was right. There was always something to search out, something to try and grab onto, make your own. Malachi was trying to find happiness within, to live consciously, to be in the present without distraction. Was that completely impossible? A fantasy? Could he somehow live outside his mind? He said, “Get outside of your thoughts, and don’t let them determine what’s good or bad or corrupt. Feel that for yourself.”

  Malachi felt the warm grip of Zach’s hand on his, and Malachi, his heart racing, lifted his gaze, his eyes locked onto Zach. Malachi remembered the night a couple of months ago when he had taken his students from his advanced writing workshop for drinks at the Red Lantern, the more popular of the two pubs on campus. This was before Malachi had met Cole Malcolm. At two o’clock in the morning, when the Red Lantern closed, Malachi and Zach were the only ones left sitting at the table discussing Iris Murdoch’s The Book and the Brotherhood. There was a natural flow to their interactions, like two people who had known each other all their lives. Their quips and jabs were accepted with laughter and rolling of the eyes that were more dramatic than any real suggestion of displeasure. This time was different from all their other meetings for coffee — the only person around was the bartender, who was busy wiping down the other tables and not paying attention to them, and who had disappeared for a long time to some back room.

  Zach had long studied Malachi, like philosophy and economics — searching for a way to remove the muddle, establish a policy to “hook” Malachi. During the time that they were alone, Zach had reached across the table and placed his hand on top of Malachi’s, both of them keenly aware of what had been communicated. And now, seated on Zach’s sofa, again with Zach’s hand on his, was it still so impossible, dare he say corrupt?

  They looked at each other, searchingly, and Malachi gently squeezed Zach’s hand and smiled. Zach smiled back and leaned forward until his lips touched Malachi’s, and just held them there. Zach’s eyes were wide open, with a frenzied look to them, and he could hardly believe that this was happening. In fact, Zach was waiting for Malachi to push him back, but when there was no resistance, Zach used his tongue to work Malachi’s lips apart. Zach drove his tongue deep into Malachi’s throat. Zach pulled his hands from Malachi’s loose grasp and cupped them to the sides of Malachi’s face. Malachi, making a sort of panting sound, wrapped his arms around Zach’s slender body and drew him into a crushing embrace.

  They kissed for a couple of minutes, their tongues darting in and out of each other’s mouths, slurping, breathing deeply, and grunting their pleasure as their hard-ons rubbed against each other through their pants. Malachi slipped his hands inside Zach’s T-shirt, gliding his hands up Zach’s smooth back and then around to his chest and flicked Zach’s hard nipples and then pinched them. Zach, moaning, pulled out of the kiss and buried his face in Malachi’s neck. “Oh, God…” Zach moaned, and tugged at Malachi’s shirt, trying to pull it out of Malachi’s pants. Zach dragged his tongue along the side of Malachi’s neck, in little circles, which made Malachi laugh. Malachi pushed Zach away, and they looked intently at each other, running their hands over each other’s bodies, but uncertain about what to do next.

  The bitterness of Zach’s cigarette breath was more of a turn-on for Malachi than he thought it would be, and he wanted to taste Zach again. How many times had they thought of this moment, imagined it, jerked off to it? Malachi always studied, discreetly, Zach at the end of class as he packed up his books and notebooks — Zach’s large hands, his tanned skin, the way his backside wiggled with confidence as he walked out of the classroom like a temptress — and Malachi wondered what it would be like to feel their naked bodies pressed against each other. Malachi bolted off the sofa but Zach grabbed hold of his arm just above the wrist, hanging on as though his life depended on it.

  Malachi placed his hand on top of Zach’s, and looking down at him, said, pained, “I need to go.”

  Zach stood and rushed to kiss Malachi. Zach reached around and cupped his hands to Malachi’s backside, drawing his body tightly against his own. “This is what’s real to me,” Zach said into Malachi’s ear, took a step backwards, and searched for Malachi’s hands and took them in his. Zach’s eyes were moist yet he was smiling. “Please don’t go.”

  Malachi turned his head to the right just enough so that he wasn’t looking directly into Zach’s eyes that were wide-open and glossy. How could Malachi leave now when they had finally arrived at the place where they both longed to be? Malachi still could not say for certain that what he felt was love, but it was deep, swirling within him, untamed. Malachi focused his gaze and saw a tear race down Zach’s cheek and knew i
n that moment that it was not in him to just leave. Malachi leaned in and placed his mouth over Zach’s and soon enough they were enthralled in a wet, sloppy kiss, grinding their hips, and trying to tear away each other’s pants. Zach pulled away, and almost laughing, took Malachi by the hand and led him into the bedroom.

  ****

  It was Tuesday evening, and Cole Malcolm set the empty tumbler on the wooden tabletop with a loud clank having just consumed his second grasshopper. Cole was seated at a table in the centre section of Trends, where he and Malachi had agreed to meet for dinner. Cole had been surprised, delightfully so, by Malachi’s e-mail because, during the more than two weeks that had lapsed since their rendezvous, Cole had given up hope of them seeing each other again, chucking it up to another night of meaningless sex. The e-mail had sparked something in him, made him twitch, summoned a giddy hopefulness that he hadn’t felt since before he had lost the one person who had mattered to him most, and how long ago that now seemed. He roamed about the city in a daze, with the hope of something unfolding that would change his life forever, and worked up as he was, he could not wait for the weekend to see Malachi again. Cole invented reasons, like meetings with clients, to return to Claredon during the week. That, of course, wasn’t true. But he longed to stare into Malachi’s dark brown eyes and hear Malachi laugh. Worst of all, Cole quaked with an intense desire to hold and touch Malachi — feel Malachi deep inside him.