by Thea Archer
"That's not it," I said. "If you found out that I'm an asexual, you would've laughed at me or just ignored me. Because I'm not someone you needed back then."
Ian snickered.
"Believe me, you are exactly someone I needed back then."
He was silent for a moment, probably contemplating.
"It's not that I wanted to be saved, but... But you would have saved me anyway, right?"
"Of course. Now you're here with me, but somehow it is not enough. I want to feel your warmth and heartbeat; I want to see you sleep or eat or sneeze, you know, all of the small things."
Ian didn't say anything.
"And besides," I continued after a moment of hesitation, "I want to make love to you."
Ian raised his face, serious and confused. "Do you?" he said, his voice full of doubt.
"Sure. I mean... I want to make you happy and show you my affection. But... you know, once in a while and that's why you would've always been unsatisfied. I guess for you and for your sex addiction that would've been like hell on Earth."
Ian smiled; his eyes were bright with humor.
"Well, I'm not sure that that once in a while would've been enough for me, but I would've definitely given it a chance."
I stroke his hair, and he grasped my hand to draw it up to his lips and kiss my wrist.
"You were a bottom, right?" I asked.
"Actually, I used to be a vers bottom, but I would never fuck someone who doesn't really want to be fucked. So in your case, I'm a crazy power bottom."
I chuckled, and he smiled broadly, but suddenly, his smile faded as if he remembered something he tried to forget fiercely.
I took his face in my hands and pulled it to me to kiss his pursed lips. I bit his lower lip, and he exhaled painfully.
I let him go, and he looked at me, almost worshipfully grateful. He pulled away and sat; he lightly trailed his fingers over my arm.
"Why didn't you try then? I mean..." He hesitated as if not sure if he really wanted to continue. "You said you had liked someone."
I smiled wryly. "Well, I was about to, I mean... I thought I could do that, but he seemed went crazy and... I had to punch him because I knew this could become a mental trauma for me or something. Of course, he hadn't called me ever since. But there was another chance; I met a guy, he was just fine — or so I'd thought. And... I was totally ready, but the exact day I wanted to talk to him about that, he dumped me. He said, 'I'm sorry, can't deal with your condition' and patted my shoulder as if I was really sick or something."
"He's a jerk," Ian frowned.
I shrugged. "I can't blame him."
"What did you like about him?"
It took me a few seconds to organize my answer.
"Well, he was kind, attentive, and calm. He never scolded me for my constant tardiness, and he always avoided conflicts, he was rational and serious."
"So, you fell in love with the first decent human being you met?"
I laughed.
"Yeah, kind of. But... now I know, that wasn't love, I liked him and admired him, but that was not the right feeling of absolute devotion I relate with love."
"Devotion," Ian repeated thoughtfully.
"The way I feel it," I explained and squeezed his fingers in my hand. He pulled closer and hovered over me, smiling hugely.
"Devotion," he said again.
"And adoration," I whispered.
He glared at me for a second, and then, suddenly, he exhaled. He leaned his forehead against mine and closed his eyes.
"I'm sorry I didn't tell you that properly," he said under his breath.
"Didn't tell me what?"
He didn't answer. He frowned, his eyes still closed.
"I can't help thinking that if I say it out loud, you disappear."
"Then don't," I whispered. "I know it anyway. You are too obvious, too sincere to hide it properly."
"I'm not trying to hide it; it's just... I wanted to have you so badly, but the moment I actually got you, I realized I don't deserve you at all."
I twined my arms tightly around his neck and rolled over so that I was straddling him.
"Enough with that crap," I said and started to unbutton his shirt. "You're mine, and right now, I'm about to kiss the shit out of you. You know, I may be an ace, but I still can kiss you to death. Well, not technically, since you're not alive enough, but you get the idea. You better beg for mercy."
"Whoa, I'm so scared," Ian said, his faint smile was mocking, but his expression changed as soon as I trailed my fingers down his sides, past his waist to his navel. "More," he murmured somehow shyly, and I felt overwhelming desperation.
I loved him. I loved him too much I could bear here, in this body, in this place. I was desperate to express my feeling, but my every miserable attempt was in vain – these feelings were too strong, too devastating.
"You are..." I whispered but faltered, fighting for the right words. "You are wonderful."
That word seemed weak, but my poor vocabulary didn't allow me to describe my feeling properly.
Ian smiled, but then suddenly hid his face in his hands and laughed. He was absurdly glorious.
I grabbed his wrists and pulled them against the floor above his head to lean to his face and examine his expression. It was different now: he wasn't smiling anymore; instead, he seemed confused, pained, with half-hopeful disbelief in his look. I realized that if we were alive, I would've seen the tears in these dark eyes.
"Hey," I called out softly. "I love you too."
I released his hands and ducked down to press my lips against his collarbone. I felt he ran his fingers through my hair, gently, tentatively. I trailed my kisses down his stomach, and he suddenly chuckled. I looked up at him.
"What's wrong?" I asked, my voice guarded.
"No, it's fine, it's not you. I just... it's actually ridiculous how nervous I am."
I sat up, carefully undid the zipper, and tugged down his trousers. He stiffed.
"Ian," I said and waited until he glanced at me and then reminded, "it's me, the angry, jealous, and insecure asexual."
"You're not acting like one," he smiled at me.
"I'm doing my best."
I grasped his hand and pulled him into my lap; he willingly wrapped his legs around my hips, clasping my shoulders with both hands.
"I've never felt this defenseless," he whispered.
"But I've already seen you naked," I said.
"I didn't want you to like me the way I want right now."
I snickered and trailed my fingers down the contours of his spine.
"You are beautiful," I said. "And it's the first thing I thought of when I saw you. You are perfect."
He tilted his head to one side as I kissed his neck.
"By the way, why did you take your clothes off that time?" I asked.
"I don't know, I panicked."
We both laughed in whispers.
"Actually, it's kind of true," he admitted after a brief pause. "I felt anxious, and it was the first thing that came into my head. I'm such a mess."
I caressed his cheek delicately. "You're not. Well, maybe a little. But who says this is a bad thing? I love it."
He grasped my chin and pulled my face up to his to press his soft lips to mine. He let me go, and I gazed at his bare torso again.
"Look at you," I said in half-whisper. "You are just a work of art."
He signed, clearly enjoying my hands on his chest.
"What if I looked differently? Maybe a bit more extravagant?"
I raised one eyebrow.
"Then you'd be an extravagant work of art. You know... Neo-Fauvism."
"It was rather grotesque."
I smiled at him.
"I admire your body, but it's not why I love you. I fell in love with your laugh, with your every word, with your silly jokes... I fell in love with your voice. And the way you speak of your cosmological theories. I fell in love with the way you're folding paper cranes. With the way you expre
ss your feelings — sadness, happiness, madness. And with every single thought you have."
Ian squeezed his eyes shut, tightening his arms around me. I rubbed his back soothingly.
"I can think of a million reasons to fall in love with you, but I don't get why you..." I trailed off and smiled as Ian cupped my cheeks in his hands.
"You—"
"No, shut up. Otherwise, it looks like I'm trying to fish for compliments."
He kissed the tip of my nose and gazed with probing intensity into my eyes.
"Well, then let me just say that you are the balance that I never had. With you, I can keep my feet on the ground."
He kissed me again before I could answer, but I didn't really want to: all I could think was him — his lips against mine, his skin on my fingertips, and his little, fragile, priceless confession.
18. PAN-PAN
"So, what do you think?"
I tilted my head to the side and narrowed my eyes, testing the angle and perspective to make any sense from what I was seeing. But all I knew that I was staring at the wall covered with papers pegged with pushpins.
"Come closer," Judith grabbed my hand and tugged me toward the wall.
"Oh," I exhaled as I saw the words written in pencil at the papers right next to each pushpin. "It's a map."
"These are the places of our deaths," Moritz said casually and pointed to the left side of the wall, at the uneven outline with a pushpin in the center. "This is Frankfurt. I died around here, the Munsterer street."
"And I was killed here," Judith touched the pushpin next to the handwriting scrawled Sudstadt-Bult, Judith Damaske. "I'm from Hannover."
"This is—"
"Ian's idea," I guessed.
The laughing response came from behind me. "Of course, mine."
Next moment I felt his hands on my stomach as he put his arms around me and pressed his cheek against my neck.
"So, in short, this is cemetery," I said, a dark edge in my voice.
"Well, Birthday means a lot for living people, so it has to be the Deathday for us."
"Happy Deathday, everybody," I said sarcastically.
Ian giggled and stood beside me, wounding his arm around my waist.
"I don't want to remain another dossier in the rack," he said, glancing at the wall. "That's why I did it."
"Then, I'll join the Deathday party."
"Hey..." Moritz mumbled thoughtfully to Judith. "Leipzig has to be a little more to the left. There's no room for Dresden."
"Oh no, why did you say that? Now I want to make a bad joke, please stop me."
"You're horrible, Judith. That's the reason you'll go to Hell."
I took advantage of their talk and turned to Ian harshly, reaching out my hand.
"The pushpin," I said severely.
He stared at me with intense, anxious eyes.
"Come on," I said and gestured, flexing my fingers. "You have like a billion of them in your pockets."
I tried to make my expression blank, but I guess my tone was colder than I planned — Ian didn't smile; his face was ashamed.
Reluctantly, Ian pulled one pushpin out of his right pocket and handed it to me.
I caught his hand, yanked the pushpin, and placed a soft kiss across his palm where I most often saw the faint marks from pushpins' needles.
"Next time I'll demand all of them," I said in a low voice so that no one but Ian would hear me, and he dropped his eyes at once.
I stepped toward the wall and glanced at the southern area of the map.
"Oh, Tim and Max from Munich, too," I commented as I saw two pushpins with their names beside.
"Yeah," Moritz said. "As far as I know, Jaroslaw died there too, but he didn't pin his own place yet."
I squatted, trying to guess the right place on the map.
"I think it's around here somewhere," I mumbled and pinned the pushpin deep in the wall. I pulled the pencil from my shirt pocket and scribbled Westend above the pushpin.
"Westend?" Ian frowned at my caption.
"Uh-huh, Hansastrasse, Middle Ring highway."
I added my name to the caption and handed the pencil to Ian.
"It's your turn," I said, but his face was abruptly severe, while his eyes stared straight ahead; I bet that would've been his pale-as-a-sheet face if we were alive.
"What's wrong?" I whispered.
"Nothing," he answered too fast.
He bent down and murmured in my ear in a soft, but guarded voice. "May I take a look at your dossier?"
I stared in surprise.
"Sure," I agreed.
As soon as I said that, he dashed to the Archive door, past puzzled faces of Judith and Moritz.
"Another crazy idea?" Judith asked, her eyebrow slightly rose.
I tried to smile, watching his back as he walked away; I immediately knew that something was very wrong.
***
"So?"
Ian glanced up at me; his strangest expression frightened me more than it surprised me — it was torn, nearly tortured. He was sitting on the floor, his posture seemed exhausted.
"What happened?" I asked softly and took a stride toward him.
Silence again.
I squatted down and touched his chin, coaxing his face up.
"You know, I don't mind if you're in the mood to be alone, but how on earth can I leave, when you have that face?" I smiled a weak smile.
I stroked his cheek reassuringly, and he leaned his lips against my palm, closing his eyes.
"Amery," he finally said; his voice was a whisper of pain.
"Hmm?"
"You are the most wonderful person in the whole universe."
"I'm afraid I have someone better," I said. "The talented software engineer with gorgeous dark brown eyes; he likes marzipan, and he has a dirty sense of humor."
Finally, his expression softened.
"Hey," I said in a small voice. "It doesn't matter now what you have or have not done. It doesn't matter how hard your guilt tries to destroy you... I'll do anything to make you see what I see in you. To make you feel the same as I feel."
Ignoring Ian's incredulous stare, I stood up and held out my hand.
"Come on," I smiled again. "Get up. Let's dance. You love it, and you're so good at that."
Ian grabbed my hand, reluctantly, and I yanked him roughly enough to make him thud against my chest.
I pressed my hand against his lower back to not allow him to lean away from me.
"Shall we?" I said, arranging my features into my rather-pitiful-than-tempting smile.
Ian laughed, and I felt a huge relief, seeing his smile again.
"But, you should lead the dance," I said apologetically. "Sorry, I do not dance."
I put my hands on his shoulders and felt his arm on my waist.
"You can't dance at all?" Ian raised his eyebrow.
"Absolutely," I nodded. "I don't feel the rhythm, so I wouldn't be able to dance even to the music, not to mention a silence. Must be something wrong with my vestibular system."
We started swaying to the rhythm of an imaginary melody, and to my intense surprise, Ian made it effortless for me to follow his moves as we glided around the Archive, whirling and turning.
"Or you just haven't had the right partner," Ian said in my ear.
"Indeed," I said and met his eyes. Although he was smiling, that smile didn't touch his look — it was hopeless, glum; it seemed as if he felt pain whenever he looked at me.
He gradually slowed down, and now we were swaying from side to side, barely moving our feet. He clasped me with both arms and buried his face in my neck, and I caressed his hair soothingly.
"Hmm... Make believe it's your first time," Ian purred softly. "Leave your sadness behind..."
I froze abruptly.
"What is it? The Carpenters?" I asked dazed.
"Yes. Why not? Very romantic. Vintage, I would say. Make believe it's your first time..."
I struggled to remember the lines of that song.
"Er... And I'll make believe it's mine," I half-whispered ashamed.
Ian exhaled swiftly in my neck; I recognized he was chuckling.
"Well, for sure, you also aren't great at this."
"Ian, I can't do anything," I signed. "Can you imagine how insignificant and useless I am? Wait, no... I'm an excellent cook. I could be a great pastry chef."
"This is particularly relevant in here," he giggled.
I pinched the skin on his shoulder through the shirt, but he squeezed me tighter as if enjoying that slight ache. I pulled away to look at his face, but I felt overwhelmed by the desire to kiss his full lips the moment I did it.
He seemed to read my hesitation and kissed me tenderly. I held my breath as his tongue lightly traced the shape of my lips.
"Amery," he said; the name I've always hated sounded like music in his voice. "I guess I have to tell you..."
"Hmm?"
He examined my face as if committing my features to memory.
"I love you," he said, his dark eyes were intense.
And I smiled, I had nothing more to say for the moment — I was too happy, unconditionally happy.
I stroked my nose against his and kissed his cheek swiftly.
"I love you," he said again, but suddenly there was an edge in his voice – pure desperation. He squeezed his eyes shut and whispered. "I love you so much. I love you, even though I have no right to be here, touch you, and feel the way I feel."
"What?" I exhaled, touching his face.
"Forgive me."
These two words were the last before the dulcet clang chimed through the walls, forcing my muscles locked into place.
19. MAYDAY
IAN HASSLER MMXVIII00150993 SOUTH GATE. DEPARTURE: HELL.
The loud eerie silence was a painful pressure against my eardrums.
My whole body went numb, I stared, uncomprehending, at the display board.
"No." My voice was just a desperate whisper; the realization was beginning to seep through me, trickling like poison through my veins. "No."
I forced my eyes away from the display board and looked around the terminal — the dozens of disbelieved stunned faces, the same dreadful silence.
I felt the tingle of fear slither down my spine. It was strange — where was the adrenaline when there was so much fear?