Gay Fiction, Volume 1

by Mel Bossa

  “Dr. Lund, you’ve just depressed me.” I dragged my fork across the orange mess.

  “No? Not taxes? Okay—” She bit down on her lip and nodded, seeming to have a conversation with herself. She does that. The first night after I moved in, I stayed awake, staring up at the ceiling, listening to Lene debate the importance of democratic psychiatry.

  With herself.

  “How ’bout you set up a website, and—”

  “Offer my queer Irish ass up?”

  She smiled. “Do you accept credit cards?” She reached for my hand. “Oh, Der, you’ll find something.”

  I sighed. “Lene, I’m twenty-eight years old. I’m too old for the jobs that starve the wallet and challenge the mind, but still too young for the jobs that numb the brain and pack the pockets. I’m overqualified, overeducated, and underexperienced. Not too mention unmotivated.”

  “You said that whole long boring thing without stuttering.”

  I glanced up. “Guess I did.”

  Since the wolf has left my land, I have been treading new ground. I feel fearless at times.

  “I gotta go to work,” she said, getting to her feet. “What are you gonna do?”

  “Panhandle.”

  She slapped my hand, and kissed my hair. “Call Nico.”

  “Lene, it’s Thursday. It would be easier to get a sample of the pope’s shit.”

  “Right.”

  And that goes for every day of the week. The last time I tasted Nick’s mouth was nine days ago.

  “O’Reilly,” he always says, jumping into his big black boots. “I’ll see you around.”

  *

  Boone and Kenya were over for dinner last night.

  I cooked.

  Then I called for Thai.

  As Boone and Lene rummaged through Lene’s boxes of past Christmas decorations, hard set on decorating the balcony before the first snow, Kenya and I sat at the kitchen table, whispering softly over black coffees.

  Aunt Fran used to say, “To some people, a breath is nothing but a breath, until the last one comes.”

  For the best of us, that last breath comes way too soon.

  David Pinet died in 1999.

  David was twenty-seven years old.

  A dancer and painter.

  Nick’s longtime lover and dear friend.

  AIDS-related, yes.

  When Kenya murmured those four deadly letters, my whole body tightened with dread. Her inky eyes shimmered. That homicidal virus has wiped out many of her spiritual kin as well. One thing gay men and African women share is this bloody waiting game.

  How long? How many more?

  My heart leaped.

  Nick.

  The breath caught in my throat.

  “No, Derek. Nick is HIV free.”

  I closed my eyes. “How do you know?”

  She smiled, glancing over at Lene and Boone. They were cursing under their breaths, trying to untangle a string of Christmas lights.

  “In strict confidence,” she said quietly, “I’ve been drawing Nicolai’s blood every six months for the last five years. At his home. You know how Nick hates hospitals and clinics.” She chuckled. “In exchange for my trouble, Nicolai whips me up a meal fit for Mami Wata, the Goddess of Beauty.”

  My shoulders sank with relief.

  He had been spared.

  “It was difficult for Nicolai. To see him go like that. To watch David wither away.”

  I remembered David’s beautiful dark eyes, and for a moment. I was ashamed. Ashamed of my good health.

  My complete lack of gratefulness for it.

  “Nicolai stayed at his side until the very end. In David’s home. In Victoria.”

  The last thing David had seen before leaving this plane, too young, too fast, was Nick Lund’s savage eyes gazing back into his. That thought brought a small measure of comfort to me.

  What were the last whispered words between them?

  When David closed his eyes to the world, did Nick hold his hand through it?

  And later, when everything had been put away, cleaned, and stored—all of Dave’s costumes, pictures, music, books, those things that make us who we are—had Nick turned his back to that dreadful empty bed? Had he stared out the window, at the blue Pacific Ocean, and died a little?

  “When Nicolai came back to us, he was possessed.”

  Had he wondered how to make every thing fit again?

  Had he hurt for the ones who want so much, but never get?

  The boys who give, but seldom take?

  Had he looked east, and wondered about home?

  “The spirits lived within him. I could see them breathing inside Nick’s eyes.”

  Had he wondered about a redheaded boy?

  “But he battled them Derek. One by one.”

  Had he heard that boy calling him home?

  *

  Last night, I woke up to the sound of my own breathing.

  I watched the sky through the window.

  And sweetly, the purple night called to me.

  When the cab pulled up by Split’s back door, I slipped my hat off and turned my face up to Nick’s window.

  Through the thin curtains, I caught sight of Nick’s dark silhouette moving along the loft’s bare walls.

  I slipped the driver a twenty and stepped out.

  I pressed my hat against my chest, tapping my heel to the beat of my heart.

  Finally, I climbed up the wrought-iron stairs.

  I knocked twice.

  The sound of Escoffier’s threatening bark ripped the silence to shreds, and I tensed yet a little more, waiting for my lover to let me in.

  Light flooded my eyes.

  Nick’s face appeared in the doorway. “O’Reilly.” He leaned his head against the door frame and smiled. “Come.”

  I peeled my feet off the ground and took a step inside.

  Escoffier welcomed me with a thorough examination, and after he had stuffed his snout in every possible crease of my jeans, he padded back to his cushion to keep watch.

  The air was dense with humidity, and the scent of Ivory soap filled the loft.

  Nick’s hair was wet and slicked back. The white towel around his waist was his only garment. “I just got home.” His hand swept the air, inviting me to enter. “Sit down.”

  My eyes would not leave his naked chest. “Thank you.”

  Nick laughed. “You’re welcome.”

  I went to the living area. I stripped my jacket off and sat in the only real chair. “Hope you-ou don’t mind that I—”

  “No. I don’t.” Nick slowly unfastened the towel around his waist and let it drop to his feet.

  My cock stretched to the point of burn.

  Nick walked to the other end of the loft, and my eyes followed his bare skin until my breath scorched my chest.

  I sat and stared at his mattress.

  My body spoke hard sentences to my pounding heart, and I rose, nervously, with my hands clinging to my shirt. I let my fingers have their way, and watched them unfasten my shirt’s buttons, one by one.

  My eyes were fixed to the washroom’s door as my hands stripped every useless layer of clothing that held my limbs prisoner. When my pants carried my underwear to the floor, I glanced down at my naked body and caught sight of my heart thumping under my bare skin.

  I need you. I need you. I need you.

  The air moved along my skin, and I turned my head to the window, studying the naked man in its reflection.

  “Make your eyes see. You are the sorcerer. When are you gonna start working some of that magic of yours?”

  Hesitantly, my fingers grazed my smooth chest.

  I stood, revealed and engorged with need, watching the redheaded man in the window.

  Sexuality wet my lips and cock.

  I let my fingers roam. They were warm soldiers, tearing through my inhibitions.

  “O’Reilly.”

  Nick stood a few feet away from me.

  His eyes were two beams of blu
e light slicing through the night. “Show me,” he murmured, moving closer to me. “Show me everything.”

  His fingers joined mine in search of the end of me.

  I lifted my gaze to meet his and leaned my spinning head against his broad chest. “This is all there is, Nick. You can have it all.”

  His mouth hesitated over my shoulder. “I wanna kiss you—”

  “Kiss me.”

  “But if I kiss you, then I’m not tasting this.” His fingers glided down my ass and reached into me. “And if I’m tasting this, then I’m not fucking you. I want everything you have to give me, but I don’t know how to take it.”

  Nick’s body tensed, and his fingers left my skin.

  “Nick—”

  “I’m damaged, O’Reilly.”

  Damaged.

  Tampered by karma.

  “Lie with me, Nick. Turn the light off and lie with me.”

  His eyes glazed with tears.

  Tears.

  In Nicolai Lund’s eyes.

  How can sorrow and beauty coexist in such a way?

  My throat closed up.

  “You’re one of those, O’Reilly, the ones that come out of things stronger.”

  And what kind is Nick?

  “Come,” I whispered. “Come Nick.”

  Nick wrapped himself around me, hiding his face between my neck and shoulder. “I’m scared, O’Reilly.”

  “Everybody’s scared, Nick. Everybody.”

  I pulled him to the mattress, and we fell onto it.

  I turned my head to the light, and flicked it off.

  Darkness shrouded us.

  Our breaths echoed each other.

  Nick warmed my skin with his.

  I closed my eyes to the world and spoke quietly. “Your father used to wonder what you would do when you came to the edge.” My fingers combed his silky hair. “Did you find it Nick? Did you find the edge?”

  I felt his wounds under my palms. These invisible scars, hardened by time.

  “No, O’Reilly. It was the edge that found me.”

  And when the last breath had streamed out of David’s lips, had Nick stepped off it?

  “Nick—”

  “Ease my pain.”

  “Nick—”

  “I cheated and lied.”

  “David’s death isn’t your fau-fault—”

  Nick’s body stiffened against mine. “I killed him.” He pushed his face into my shoulder, and I held him.

  “Oh God,” he moaned, clutching my hand. “Oh God.”

  David was a melody.

  I know that now.

  Nick never could learn that tune.

  “Listen to me, Nick.” Nick’s pain burned my flesh. “Every day is a new promise. We die with the sun, and receive a clean slate when—”

  “I don’t want a fucking clean slate.” Nick’s tears choked his voice. “I wanna feel it.” He slapped his chest. “In here.” His body quivered next to mine. “I wanna feel it, O’Reilly. Every goddamn minute I stole from him. Every fucking empty night I gave him. Every letter I didn’t bother opening. Davie spent his good years sitting in airports, waiting for me to give him a smile, but I was so caught up—”

  “Shh. Enough, Nick. Enough—”

  “His mistakes were mine, but I got lucky O’Reilly. Oh fuck.” Nick shook violently, and I held him tighter. “I watched David die and I packed my life into a duffel bag…” His voice died, and at last, tears snuffed the poisonous words out of him.

  I rocked Nick all through the night, and my lover came undone for me.

  I woke up to the sound of the radio and squinted at the clock.

  It was ten past noon.

  Against the vivid blue sky, the sun was a faded primrose.

  I sat up and glanced around.

  Escoffier cocked his head, watching me scan the empty apartment.

  I raised a brow. “Where’s our man?”

  The dog barked, then sighed.

  I stripped the sheets off my legs and picked up my jeans off the floor.

  Escoffier sprung for the door before I heard the key turning in the lock.

  Nick pushed the door open with his thigh and set down what appeared to be three years’ worth of groceries. “Good. You’re up.”

  I smiled. “Why didn’t you wake—”

  “’Cause you reminded me of a Botticelli painting.” He bent to my head and kissed it. “Hungry?”

  Every one of my senses was. “A little.”

  Nick lugged the bags to the kitchen area and rolled up his sleeves. “Okay then.”

  For the next half hour, I sat in my undies, watching him do what he does best. To Nick, cooking is part dance, part battle, and part sleight of hand.

  Finally, he set a plate of debauchery under my watering mouth. My fork hesitated over the fluffy orange zest waffles, but I picked up a spoon and dove into the ginger ice cream instead. As the homemade ice cream melted in my mouth, I glanced up. “You’re not eating?” I asked, wiping my cold lips with the back of my hand.

  Nick drank the last of his black coffee. “I don’t do sweets.”

  “But why did you—”

  “’Cause I remembered how much you like sugar.” He winked. “Especially my mom’s tapioca pudding.”

  Heat filled my cheeks, and I stuffed a piece of waffle into my mouth.

  “Oh,” teased Nick, “there’s the O’Reilly I remember.” He leaned in, and with a sensuality that bent my knees, ran the tip of his tongue along my lips, gathering the last of the ice cream off them. “You taste like innocence,” he whispered, his eyes darkening again.

  I remembered the night’s confessions and folded my fingers over his. “Are you okay—”

  “I feel a little raw.”

  “Can I say so-something—”

  “Not yet.”

  My face hardened.

  “O’Reilly, things are changing for me in a way I can’t explain to you right now.” Nick sighed, then softly kissed my fingertips. He glanced around. “I need to get some furniture soon.” For a moment, his eyes seemed vacant, but slowly, his blue gaze met my stare. “And—” But he stopped.

  “Tell me, Nick. You can talk to me.”

  “I know I can.” He closed his eyes and leaned his forehead on mine. “That’s why I need you in my life.”

  My mouth popped open.

  He laughed, but his smile was tense. “I’ve never said that to anyone.” He shook his head. “Holy fuck.” He rubbed his face. “Shit.”

  I chewed on my lip.

  “Do you remember when you had that asthma attack in your bathroom?” Nick asked.

  “Yes.”

  “’Cause I’d tried to put makeup on your face.”

  “Yes, Nick. I remember.”

  Everything.

  “Well.” He frowned, staring into space again. “Don’t freak out, but that night, I wanted to kiss you, or something.” He inhaled deeply. “But you were just a kid, and I—”

  “I would have let you.”

  “Yeah?”

  A boyish giggle exploded out of my mouth, and I hid my face in my hands for a moment.

  “What is it, O’Reilly?”

  “If you knew half of the things I wanted you to do to me, you wouldn’t be-be tasting innocence on my lips.”

  The sound of Nick’s deep, resonant laugh spun my head with lust. I pushed my plate up and tugged on his T-shirt. “Do you have to be downstairs?”

  “Not for another hour.” He cracked a smile and jerked his head in the bed’s direction. “Come?”

  I laughed. “Oh yes.”

  Chapter Ten

  There was a Golden Girls marathon this afternoon.

  On my way to the couch, I passed the entrance mirror.

  I paused and debated on a shower, but went back to the kitchen to pour myself another glass of Mountain Dew instead. I dropped some vanilla essence in it and rummaged through the fridge in search of something disgustingly unhealthy to sink my teeth into. I decided on chees
e dip. I grabbed a spoon, a heavy-duty bag of chips, and my drink, then headed back to the couch.

  It was Monday afternoon, and as I dug my way through the dip, trying to keep the crumbing to a minimum, I knew I had officially stepped through the gates of Loserville.

  I went through that bag of chips like a teenage boy goes through a box of tissues.

  I glanced down at myself.

  I was something you’d find at a thrift shop.

  I leaned back and stared up at the ceiling.

  My phone jingled.

  I answered Nick with a breath.

  “O’Reilly, hey.”

  My heart banged up against my chest. “Nick.”

  “Listen. I need you to come over.” I heard him exhale into the phone. “Come through Split’s back door.”

  He hung up without bothering with good-bye.

  I ran to the kitchen to get a garbage bag, and proceeded to dump the chips, dip, and my “clinically depressed” uniform into it.

  I ran back to the main closet and pulled the vacuum out, running it up and down the couch, like some kind of coked-up Martha Stewart.

  I ran back to the closet and tossed the loaded vacuum into it.

  I jumped into the shower, washed, rinsed, and scrubbed all at once, then threw a gray T-shirt on and slipped into my good black jeans.

  I bolted out into the street, with my winter coat hanging off my sleeve, and tossed myself at the first available cab.

  “Wow. That was quick.” Nick shut the back door behind us.

  Immediately, I was entranced by the wonderful, rich scent of fresh salmon and dill. “Smells great, what—”

  “Come.” His fingers wrapped themselves around mine, and he tugged on me. “In here.”

  I followed him through the small kitchen.

  It was immaculate. Cleaner than I could have imagined, and atop one of the industrial gas ovens, a huge pot filled to the rim with brown liquid, simmered gently. “What’s that?”

  “Brown stock.” Nick pulled me away from the stove. “Come on, O’Reilly, I’ll let you strain the fucking thing if you like it so much, but come now. Come on. Come.”

  There was something almost mystic in Nick’s smile.

  We passed through the swinging doors into the dining room.

  The larger back table was set. Candles flickered here and there, and in the middle, on a beautiful silver platter, a large pink salmon seemed to be sleeping in a bed of sea salt and fresh dill.