Authors: Alan Conway
“Damon–”
“I have, Brian. I don't want the same things you want. I don't live for the same reasons you do. There is nothing about me that you could possibly find interesting.”
“That's crazy. You're my rock. Being with you is like being–”
“Stop. Just stop it, okay?” His eyes burn into mind and I can see the fire.
I nod. A deafening silence.
“I want to live with you,” I say.
“What are you talking about? You do live with me.”
“I mean
live
with you, Damon. Live life together. Be together.”
He's shaking his head, not looking at me.
I say, “You said you feel something. Tell me more about that.”
He lies back and folds his hands on his chest. I scoot closer, grow some balls, and take one hand in mine.
“I want to feel for you the same way you feel about me, but I don't know if I can. I feel something, but I don't know what it is yet. I'm afraid it's…love.”
“You're afraid it's love?”
“Yeah.”
I swallow hard and say, “And that's a problem?”
He rolls his eyes over to me. “It goes against everything that I am.”
“And what are you?”
Closing his eyes, he says, “I'm nothing.”
I reel him up and grab his shoulders. “Listen to me like you've never listened to anybody before in your life. I have
loved
you, Damon, loved
you
since I first met you, because you were funny and kind, and you accepted me as a person no matter what other people thought or said about me. You single-handedly made me feel like I was worth something to somebody. Like I was important. Like I mattered. I care about you more than I do anyone else in this world. I mean that. More than you'll ever know.” I pull him close, his eyes wide.
He looks at me for a while. Saying nothing. It's like he's taking it all in. Before I know it my lips are against his, his fingers tight against the back of my head. I don't ask him about the cigarettes because right now, I don't give a damn. His lips are soft and wonderful. My tongue glides across his teeth, his beautiful smile now freely tugging at my bottom lip. He pulls away, my forehead resting against his. He whispers, “Goddammit, Brian, you're gonna make me say it, aren't you.”
“You don’t have to say anything,” I say, leaning in, hungry.
But he stops me. “I don't know if I can love you the way you want me to,” he says, deflating my moment of triumph. “But I want you to keep loving me until I can.”
He smiles and ignites nothing short of a celebration in my heart.
“That's the sappiest thing I've ever said in my life, but–”
I put my finger to his lips and tell him, “It's the nicest thing I've ever heard in mine.” Then I press my lips against his neck and I swear I can feel his pulse throbbing madly beneath his flesh. My God he smells delicious. I run my hand up his shirt and across the fine hair on his chest. He's warm to the touch and I let my hand rest, feeling the short, deep breathes below it. In this moment, I feel this connection, this cosmic entwining of our spirits becoming a thing alive, forging a bond that I will never again share with anyone else in the world. In this moment, we are connected only to each other.
I was really nervous the first time I ever had sex. I can't even remember her name. It was at a party at a friend's house just after I moved to college. I was feeling homesick and lost in the bottle (thinking about Damon) then this girl comes up to me while I'm outside getting fresh air. We share a bottle of tequila and find ourselves upstairs away from the commotion taking place below.
I avoid her attempts to kiss me. She's not that attractive, even while I'm under the influence. I'm starting to sound like Damon, but let me assure you I was nothing like him when it came to this sort of thing.
Things go gray at this point and I don't remember much after that.. I pretended to be asleep until she got dressed. Before she left, she programmed her number in my phone, but before I heard her last footfalls on the stairs, I erased it and passed out.
This is different, though. Now I'm really hot and bothered and ready for action, but there's a hesitance, a need to go slow, to take the scenic route and cruise and take it all in.
And I am more than nervous. Past that point. My guts feel loose and hot. I believe this is the first time I've ever seen Damon look so vulnerable. And probably more nervous than I am.
Before anything happens, we agree to take things very, very slow from here on out.
I shower and brush my teeth before bed, still in disbelief. Amazing. Simply amazing. I start laughing hysterically and nearly choke on my toothbrush. My laughter stops when I feel warmth drag down my lip and over my chin. It drips onto my toe. In the mirror I see the blood and nearly pass out right there. I try to call out to Damon but the color quickly drains out the world and out of my face before my head smacks the tile.
Lauren
He looks so pitiful lying here. I stroke his hair as he stares up at the ceiling, lost somewhere in his own thoughts. He's fully alert and feels better now, but I can tell that he's scared. At first the doctor believes it was brought on by stress and he fainted after seeing the blood (he and Damon both can't stomach the site of blood). They ran some tests anyway and we're waiting for the results now.
It's been about nine hours since Damon brought him here, eight and a half since I burst in the Emergency Room, frantic and out of my mind until the nurses explained everything to me. I'm guilty of being a worry wart, but I can't help it.
The doctor comes in. Damon follows. He's fidgeting and chewing on his fingernails.
The doctor says Brian's preliminary blood work came back with abnormalities, but he's still waiting for the other test results to come in before making a diagnosis. You know something is wrong when the doctor looks worried.
Brian refuses to stay overnight for observation, and the doctor says that's fine, but he would do well to take a couple of days off from work.
A few days later, Brian calls me and says they want to take out some of his bone marrow for testing, but he won't tell me anything else. His voice is dry and tired, and I know he's withholding information to keep me from worrying, which I still do no matter what.
He'll tell me when he's ready, I suppose. Until then, I wait by the phone and pray for good news.
It doesn't come.
I hear it from Damon first, but I only get it from him in fragments. While he stands there in the doorway, I try to accept what he's saying, but I can't. I'm somewhere else. A safer place. I do hear Damon say that it is treatable and the chances of it going into remission are fair. The doctors seem optimistic and so does Brian, according to Damon, but I wonder if it's just a mask Brian's wearing to convince us that everything will be okay.
Maybe I'm just being paranoid. I hope that’s all it is.
C H A P T E R F O U R
N
OW OR
N
EVER
Brian
Sixteen months have gone by since I was first diagnosed with chronic lymphatic leukemia. I shouldn't be all that surprised since my mother has it as well, but she's been in remission for a while now and she's feisty as ever. It started with fatigue and nosebleeds then progressed to a decrease in appetite and weight loss, then severe headaches and swelling in the lymph nodes in my arm pits and neck. My doctor had to do a bone marrow aspiration to confirm it, which was excruciatingly painful beyond any description.
So, that's that.
I was so pissed off at myself for not getting checked out sooner, but I'm stubborn just like everyone else in my family. It's not unbearable right now, but I feel tired all the time, which sucks because I want to go out and do things now that the Christmas season is finally here.
My doctor is not a happy camper right now because I've refused chemotherapy or radiation treatment, but something inside me tells me to wait.
Damon has been working at the local bank for about six months now. He likes it there, and the other employees like him, too. How could they not?
We're doing just fine and we've been going to the gym everyday – well, almost everyday – and even took a trip to see a football game a few months back, which was amazing. I had no idea what was going on, but he explained everything and gave me a detailed history about his favorite team and I just sat there and listened to him talk above the screaming crowd, the stadium rumbling with excitement and enthusiasm.
Lauren comes over to visit a few times each week and we usually stay in for a movie. I cook when I feel like it and Damon actually helps me out. And I think entertaining a guest brings out a side of him we've never seen before. Our lives feel like they're on track and we all ride out this wave of life together as the tide rolls in.
Something inside me starts to wiggle around, that familiar squelch in my gut that wants even more. We need to step it up a notch. Things are good – great, in fact – but the only friends we have are each other and we keep ourselves to ourselves.
I'm cleaning out the drawer in the nightstand and pull something I've almost forgotten about – a crumpled issue of
Science of Tomorrow
. I reread the article that had once flooded me with new dreams, even more impossible dreams than I've ever had. I tuck it away again, and think about it for the rest of the day.
After lunch I call Lauren and ask her to meet down at the Bergin Cafe for a chat. Damon's still at work and I don't want him to know.
I want this to be a surprise, and if Lauren shares my enthusiasm, we'll all be one step closer to achieving something that no one else has. Something vastly different.
If I can keep it a secret for just a little while longer.
I'm outside on the balcony when Damon comes home. It's already dark, even though it's just after five. I've been writing by porch light for a while now, and I probably should be wearing a jacket.
He comes out, his tie undone, lighting a cigarette. Unfortunately, this has become his way of dealing with the stress that envelopes our reclusive lifestyle, and it seems like he smokes more each night, but I say nothing. I like to keep the peace.
He sheds his fleece pullover and hands it to me without saying anything. I put it on.
“How's the story coming?” Damon asks. I've been writing fiction from home since October. Through some connections at the paper, I've been able to sell a few short stories to reputable magazines which have helped pay the rent, and just last week I received my first advanced on a novel I've wanted to write for several years. Let's just say we're living quite comfortably at this point with some disposable income to spare.
“So far so good,” I say. “How was work?”
“Eh, it was work. Looks like I'll be getting a pretty sweet bonus at the end of the year.”
I say that's great. I'm relieved at this because we're going to need the money. I decide to tell him my idea later, but not tonight. I'm practically bursting at the seams with excitement and I'm trying hard to hide it.
His phone beeps from the pocket of his pullover I'm wearing. I pull it out, but he snatches it from my hand before my curiosity gets the best of me. I get that pang of fear in my stomach, that jealous rip I'm prone to have from time to time.
He's smiling as he reads the text. He shows it to me. It's from my mother. It says
Tell Brian to answer his phone. Dinner is at 5PM tomorrow. Love y'all!
After my tension subsides, I say, “Are you sure you want to go?”
“Yeah, I mean, if you want me to go.”
“Of course I do, but I don't want you to be uncomfortable.”
“It'll be awkward, but I think I can handle it.”
It took a few months before Mom and Paul figured things out. They suspected something was going on between Damon and me, but I decided to let them figure it out on their own. I wasn't as worried, despite the fact that years ago I tried to tell Mom that something was different about me, that I was interested in men as well as women. She didn't take to it too well at all. She kept yelling
You're crazy! You're crazy!
and she cried hysterically for days. Paul came up to my room (this was when I still lived there) and told me to lie to her, tell her it was a phase or I was confused but I'm fine now, nothing to worry about. Paul didn't want me to crush my mother's heart and her dreams of grandchildren.
So I lied to my mother. After that, it kind of faded away. We never talked about it.
Until about a year ago. She was more worried about my illness than anything else, and I'd like to think she reserved her tears so I wouldn't worry about
her
. That's all in the past now.
But now, Christmas is almost here and Damon and I have been invited to Paul's family Christmas party. He has six sisters and a huge family, generations of goofy folks who have warmly welcomed me since Paul married my mother.
Mom and Paul are hosting it this year, and I feel like once Damon and I walk through the door, no one will ask any questions. At first. Neither of us are flamboyant or fit any gay couple stereotypes out there – I admit it's a rather unique situation – but soon, their minds will fill with suspicion. They'll whisper to each other, gossip, point at us when our eyes are turned away. I'm sure they will, I know they will.
Then that fear creeps in. They already know. Mom or Paul would have said something to them by now, surely. Oh well, if that's the case, then the damage is already done. We might as well walk hand in hand, right into the firing squad and see if we make it out alive.
Damon
I'm really fuckin nervous. I've been watching my knees bounce for an hour and a half, my legs tired and restless. Even my toes ache from twitching inside my sneakers. I want a cigarette, but Brian won't let me smoke in his car. I check my sweater. I flip down the mirror and check my hair.