We Still Live

by Sara Dobie Bauer

  “But you’re obviously her favorite teacher.”

  “That’s the thing. I don’t know if she thinks of me as her teacher. More like her friend.”

  Isaac smiled. “Probably because you look like a student.”

  John stared pointedly at the side of Isaac’s head. “Well, at least I don’t have any gray hair.”

  Isaac blinked. “I do not.”

  He chortled and accepted a drink from Tommy. “Do you dance, Isaac?”

  “No. Well, Southern men can waltz, I guess. I had to learn how for all the rich girl cotillions growing up.”

  Tommy reached behind his glasses and itched his eye. “Jesus, I can just see you in an oversized tuxedo and pastel cummerbund.” He yawned and gestured to his drink. “This is it for me, guys. I’m not sure if I’m more emotionally or physically exhausted.”

  “You’re emotionally exhausted?” John smacked his arm. “You’re not the one who gave an impromptu screaming speech this morning.”

  “I’m sympathetically exhausted,” Tommy said.

  When a slow swing song began, Cleo motioned for John, who went to her side immediately. He spun her before pulling her back into his arms, and they floated across the floor like Fred and Ginger. Isaac watched John’s hands—his long, thin fingers. He laughed and talked to Cleo as they moved, flash of white teeth, tip of a pink tongue. Cleo pushed hair behind his ear, and they danced cheek to cheek. So what if Isaac was jealous.

  Tommy left, and the other “adults” didn’t linger long after. Isaac, John, and Cleo stepped out into the crisp September night, while Janelle and Anthony remained dancing inside, along with a half dozen of their friends.

  “Do you need me to walk you home?” John asked.

  Cleo shrugged into a faux-fur coat. “I’ll be fine. Thanks for the dance, as always, and thanks for today. It was…” She blinked and looked up at the stars. “I have no words.”

  “That’s unlikely.”

  She quirked an eyebrow at them both. “Night!”

  John and Isaac walked in the same direction, toward both their places. So convenient that Isaac’s stairwell was right next to Crocodile Lounge. After taking a quick glance up and down Union Street, he opened the door and dragged John inside.

  Behind the closed door, he pressed John against the wall and leaned in for a kiss, but John turned his head. “Isaac.”

  “Mm?” He rubbed his nose across John’s cheek.

  “I thought you said kissing me was the worst.”

  “I was wrong. Not kissing you is the worst.”

  John’s lips parted when Isaac pressed their noses together, but he soon put his hand on Isaac’s chest and pushed. “We can’t.”

  Isaac pushed back and took hold of John’s hips. “I can’t stop thinking about you.” Whatever this was, whatever they had together, Isaac wanted more—and not just because he was lonely or horny. He wanted specifically John, in the stairwell, over a desk, anywhere really.

  He must have been doing something right, because John’s breath caught in his throat, and his eyes closed. “You have to stop thinking about me. We can’t…” He blinked and gave Isaac a soft shove. “Isaac?”

  He stopped kneading John’s hips but kept their foreheads pressed together as he took a long, slow breath. “You’re right. Sorry.”

  Instead of pushing again, John put his hands on Isaac’s face. “Behave.”

  “You smell good.”

  “Of course I smell good. I smell like Knob Creek.”

  “No, it’s just you.” Isaac stood up straight and leaned against the wall opposite. “I didn’t think you’d be a problem for me.”

  John grinned. “Surprise! Now, go upstairs and go to bed. No running tonight. We have important literary magazine business tomorrow.” He adjusted the lapel on Isaac’s coat. “And no more kissing. Even if we maybe, sort of, totally want to.”

  He touched John’s hand. “Fine.”

  “Good night,” John said.

  “Night.”

  John waved and opened the door to the street. His dark hair glowed in the glare of a nearby streetlight before he disappeared behind the swinging door. Isaac leaned his head forward and thumped it back into the wall. Deny it all he wanted, but Isaac longed to chase after him.

  THE REVELATION OF Being Frank spread, thanks to Janelle’s impromptu—and ill-advised—flyer campaign. While Isaac half expected protests outside their meeting that night, instead, more students arrived to volunteer. John rushed around chatting everyone up like the host of some grand soiree. He separated the students into groups based on skills and interests, so a couple of kids worked on the official flyer design, the type-A folks put together their deadline schedule, and the hard-core writers built criteria sheets every submission would be judged by. Janelle sat to the side observing, mingling here and there. Despite her ridiculous T-shirt that read “Brunettes Make Better Psychos,” she seemed older than her classmates. Isaac wondered if the shooting had anything to do with it.

  Type A himself, Isaac worked with the scheduling kids, although John checked in every once in a while. He would walk by, smile, and maybe squeeze Isaac’s shoulder. Once, Isaac caught Janelle staring at them. What did she see?

  Isaac didn’t have to wonder long. After the meeting was adjourned, Janelle handed him a folded piece of paper and walked away, black hair bouncing behind her. He unfolded it.

  John has a crush on you.

  He refolded it and tried not to grin like a goose.

  Isaac wrestled with his own resolve once he got home. The apartment, as always, was empty and awful. He turned on some James Taylor, but that didn’t help, because it only reminded him of John singing on the way to the Ohioana.

  “Screw it.”

  He plopped down on the couch and pulled out his phone and the note from Janelle. He snapped a photo and sent it to John with a quick message: Note from Janelle. Is it true?

  It took a couple minutes, but John eventually responded: No. You have too many muscles, and you make me feel safe. It’s disgusting.

  Of course, Isaac had expected a joke, but the “safe” comment?

  “Keep it light,” Isaac muttered. He typed: Good. Your hair is too silky, and I’ve never once thought about your mouth in the shower.

  He was rewarded with three laughing emojis.

  Isaac was prepared for that to be the end of it, but his phone soon pinged with another text from John: NFL Thursday night special. Party at my place 7 PM. No flirting or Tommy will beat you up.

  Isaac texted quickly: I’m afraid flirting is now my biological response to you.

  Go take a shower.

  If only that would be enough. He wanted John there on the couch, preferably on his lap. It was only nine o’clock. Isaac could go to the Cave and pick someone up—but what would that achieve? A release, for certain, but he already knew he’d be picturing John the whole time. He had some very choice images to build on, thanks to their time at the hotel in Columbus. Plus, there had been that bit of hair pulling at the Cave with that Adam guy. Did John like having his hair pulled? What else did John like?

  A text: Jesus, did I just break you?

  Isaac almost dropped his phone.

  HE DIDN’T KNOW anyone but John and Tommy at the NFL party, but he thought he recognized a few of the other guests from that night at the Cave. Thankfully, Adam wasn’t there. No matter the bartender said there was nothing going on between them, Isaac couldn’t stand the idea of another guy kissing John—not that he had a bit of license to be jealous, no. He kept trying to get himself in check, and it would work for a couple hours, until he saw John again. Even being within a ten-foot radius was a distraction, and every time they were together, John looked at him—a lot. All John’s stories were for Isaac now. Out at lunch that afternoon, he worried Tommy was beginning to feel like a third wheel.

  John hurried into the kitchen where Isaac hid. “Why aren’t you eating?”

  Isaac glanced toward the impressive appetizer spread on the
large island. “I will later.” He lifted his glass of wine. “Liquid diet for now.” He hoped the alcohol would calm the way his heart pounded whenever John was around.

  From where he stood, he could see all of John’s kitchen and living room and out onto the back porch where guys smoked. The open layout made the small house seem huge.

  “Scoot.” John hip checked Isaac out of the way so he could get to the fridge.

  “I thought you liked college football.”

  “I do.” He pulled out a bottle of bleu cheese dressing, presumably for the hot wings. The sauce scent burned Isaac’s nostrils from five feet away. “I like all football, but I prefer college football because the University of Wisconsin is everything.”

  “Do you suppose Hambden ever feels slighted by your undergrad fixation?”

  John blinked his big eyes up at him. In a thin black sweater that was a little too long in the sleeves, he might as well have written “Cuddle Me” across his forehead. “Isaac, they’re not even in the same division.”

  “My mistake,” Isaac muttered.

  Tommy, decked out in Ohio State garb, even though Ohio State wasn’t playing, shouted, “Kickoff” from the living room, and John hurried to his side, slinging an arm around Tommy’s shoulders. They toasted with bottles of beer as the football on screen flipped and spun into the far-off New England air.

  It wasn’t that Isaac didn’t like football. He just didn’t care. He understood it could be a nice escape, but he’d always preferred escaping into books—especially now that he’d found award-winning author John Conlon. He was on his third book by then.

  Watching John watch football was like watching a prizefight. He jumped on furniture and shouted and gave high fives. Tommy was no better, although he was less enthusiasm, more wrath. They acted as a counterbalance—good cop, bad cop—their shenanigans more entertaining than the game itself.

  When Isaac’s phone vibrated in his pocket, he should have known not to look. He’d grown so accustomed to ignoring it, but now, John texted him pretty often—stupid, silly things about classroom glitches, the crappy Ohio weather, and even one picture of John with bed head. But John was in the room, so he wasn’t texting.

  No, Simon texted—something simple, honest, and horrible: You can’t hide forever.

  Isaac closed his eyes and slumped against the nearest wall. He wondered how much time he had before Simon showed up in Lothos, and what the hell would he do then? Strangely, his thoughts shifted to John. What would John think if he knew about Simon? There certainly would be no more impromptu kisses. John might not even want to speak to Isaac anymore. He gulped down dread at the thought. John was already a friendly fixture—or fixation. Either way, Isaac had never felt so comfortable with someone before, and in his limited relationship experience, he assumed that was something worth holding onto.

  A loud, collective moan from the living room interrupted his inner turmoil as a news announcement spoiled the night, but silence ruled when the headline flashed across the screen.

  At least 120 dead in Barcelona attacks.

  “What the fuck,” Tommy muttered.

  Isaac watched John, lips parted, eyes reflecting light from the TV.

  The newscaster spoke in a clipped, British accent, but Isaac didn’t hear all of it, just fragments. “We still don’t have all the details…two explosions…team of gunmen…hundreds still trapped…”

  At the sound of gunfire from some tourist’s cell phone video, John covered his ears and curled his shoulders forward. He whimpered and audibly sucked air into his lungs. Isaac moved to protect, putting his hand on John’s back, while Tommy practically shoved John into his arms. “Get him out of here,” he said.

  Before Isaac could move John anywhere, John hurried down the darkened hall toward the bathroom, Isaac right on his heels. John barely made it to the toilet before throwing up. He fell to his knees, and Isaac tried to keep his hair out of the way. As John choked, Isaac handed him a towel.

  “I’m sorry,” John muttered. “I get episodes. Sorry.”

  “Don’t apologize, John.”

  He wiped his face, still gasping for breath. “Could you get me, uh, in the medicine cabinet, there’s Klonopin?”

  “Yeah.” Isaac hurried over and read the labels on several orange bottles before finding the right one. “How many?”

  “Just one.” He sat back on his heels on the black tile floor.

  Isaac joined him, handing him a small, pink pill that John swallowed without water.

  “We should get back out there.” He moved to stand, but Isaac pulled him back to sitting.

  “Let’s give it a minute.” Isaac wasn’t even thinking about Spain. All he could see was the man in front of him, trying desperately to hide the trembling of his hands.

  John crawled past Isaac and reached under the sink for mouthwash. He swished and spit into the toilet before flushing. “God, this is embarrassing. You must think I’m a disaster.”

  Isaac put his hand on John’s shoulder and squeezed. “No, I don’t.”

  He coughed into his sleeve. “Who the fuck shoots up a cool place like Barcelona?”

  Isaac scooted closer, their knees touching. “I assume you’ve been there?”

  “I spent a couple summers in France with my mom’s family when I was a kid. We’d hit up Spain sometimes.”

  “Your French is very sexy.”

  “Isaac, you just watched me vomit. I’m pretty sure my mystique is gone.”

  Someone knocked on the door, followed by Tommy’s voice: “John?”

  “Come in.”

  He stuck his head inside. “Need anything?”

  “I’ll come back out.” He reached his hand up, and Tommy pulled him to standing.

  They hugged—a tight, manly squeeze—but Tommy hesitated before letting John through. “The news is just getting worse. There are hostages in some theater. Lots of them.”

  John closed his eyes, and Isaac felt dizzy. What possessed a person to kill innocent bystanders? What kind of blind hatred did it require to spray bullets into a crowd?

  “I think everyone’s leaving. You know, loved ones and stuff. You two want to hit Joe’s Pub or something?”

  “I don’t want to leave the house right now,” John said.

  Tommy winced. “Right. Duh.”

  “There’s no ‘duh,’ okay?” John growled but quickly covered his face and spoke through spread fingers. “Sorry. Why don’t you just go to Joe’s and drink for me?”

  “Who’s going to help clean?”

  Isaac stepped past them and into the hall. “I’ll stay.”

  John started, “Isaac, you don’t—”

  He said, “It’s no big deal,” and headed for the kitchen. He needed to keep his hands busy and hopefully his mind too.

  He attacked the dishes in the sink, partygoers still watching CNN. They’d switched stations, the game forgotten. Isaac didn’t listen much. He focused on the task at hand, which eventually involved searching John’s cupboards for Tupperware and putting leftovers in the fridge. By the time Isaac actually noticed his surroundings, he was alone with John, and the TV was black. They moved around and past each other, finishing the last of the dishes, putting things away.

  John initiated first contact. He wrapped his hand around Isaac’s wrist and pulled him close. He pressed his face against Isaac’s chest, so Isaac put his hand in John’s hair and held on. John eventually lifted up on his toes to kiss him, and whatever simmered between them rolled to a boil. As soon as Isaac tasted John’s mouth again, he groaned, consequences be damned. He trapped John against the counter, boxing him in with arms on either side. Hands everywhere—petting, touching, pulling at clothes—John whispered, “Need you.”

  Isaac lifted him onto the counter and stepped between his parted legs. He slipped his hands up the back of John’s sweater and kissed him hard. He sucked kisses down the side of John’s neck until his head leaned back. He licked the soft skin, the place where Chris Frank once pressed a
gun.

  With ease, he lifted John from the countertop and carried him, legs around Isaac’s waist, to the bedroom. He kicked open the door. Dim light from the kitchen trickled down the hallway and poured in a pie-slice shape onto the ruffled, unmade bed. Isaac took hold of John’s hips and threw him down the center of a black-and-white down comforter. On the bed, John backed up on his elbows and feet, kicking blankets away as Isaac tumbled on top of him. Isaac vaguely heard John exhale a whoosh of air at the sudden arrival—just as Isaac used his knees to press John’s thighs apart. He shoved that all-too-tempting sweater from earlier up John’s arching torso, revealing two small nipples that Isaac leaned down and bit.

  John made a sound like he’d been punched, back arching more, mouth wide in what Isaac could discern in the dark. Isaac knew what to do, had moves memorized from so many harried trysts with strange men in even stranger places. He leaned back and tugged at the button of John’s jeans, eyes watching his own hands move. Button free, he tugged at the zipper and was about to tear those skinny jeans right off when pale, delicate hands wrapped around his.

  “Isaac?”

  He closed his eyes and shook his head. When he opened them again, he recognized John beneath him, not some nameless stranger in a bar. He drew his hands away and leaned back on his heels as John stretched to reach the lamp on the side table. A click and the room glowed soft gold. Isaac saw the scattered pile of books by the lamp, the empty water glass and tube of lip balm. Then, he noticed John, shaggy dark hair askew, half in his eyes, and lips wet and parted. The sweater still rested up under his armpits, revealing those tiny, pink nipples and broad, hairless chest. Down his prominent ribs, his hips curved in at the sides in a skinny V. Nothing but a few sparse dark hairs decorated his lower belly, disappearing into black underwear beneath the open fly of his jeans.

  Isaac’s breath shook.

  “Isaac?” John scooted closer, thighs still on either side of Isaac’s. He sat up, and Isaac slumped down. “Hey, where are you right now?” He put his hand to Isaac’s face, and Isaac didn’t hesitate to kiss his palm.

  “You’re so small,” he said.

  John smiled, fingers tracing Isaac’s face. “I’m not that small.”