Nights Without Night

by Marina Vivancos

  One night, we went down to the beach when it was late and dark. The sea was a pool of ink, the sound of it washing in and out a secret call. On Isadoro’s dare, we’d stripped our clothes and ran into the water, the coolness a relief from the thick summer air.

  The half-moon had been a bowl of rice perched on the black. We’d swam around, free in the salt and the waves, pulling each other under in a familiar game.

  We’d been our child selves, free of the ties tugging at us beyond the water.

  When we tired and let ourselves drift, I remember Isadoro swimming close to me. Remember the moon in his eyes. The way his wet skin had felt against mine. It had almost been a kiss. Almost. But I couldn’t do that to myself. Not again. Not when he was leaving and he wasn’t in love with me back.

  Who would have thought that I would be able to resist the pull of the moon at eighteen, and cave so many years later, caught completely in its tide.

  CHAPTER THREE

  I can’t help the tension that has me on edge during the next few days. Isadoro doesn’t initiate anything, and I don’t know if I’m relieved or not. I have trouble concentrating in class and isn’t that ironic. After years of learning how to compartmentalize Isadoro, he’s seeping through every crack.

  As much as I like to hang out with the people at college, sometimes they’re just too bright-eyed and bushy-tailed to digest. Sometimes, what I need is to hang out with someone closer to my age and life experience, that’s been chewed up and spit out a couple of times by life.

  I knock on Jacqueline’s—Jack’s—door. A thirty-year-old police officer in the city, she’s seen what the world really has to offer. Estranged from her father after she ran away from home with her twin brother after he came out, she has a resilience and drive anybody would admire.

  “Come in!” Jack shouts from inside her apartment instead of opening the door.

  “Aren’t you in the police force? Shouldn’t you be a little more careful about stranger danger?” I tease. Jack is in the kitchen fixing snacks, and I go straight in to put the six-pack I brought into the fridge.

  “I’m going to stranger danger your ass. Sit down, the game’s about to start.”

  “You want a beer?”

  “I’ve got a pair in there,” she says, her short, dark hair bobbing a little as she nods at the freezer. She’s tall and wiry, chin pointy and features a little small for her face, giving her a sharp look she puts to good use. Though it’s covered up now, I know there’s a sleeve of tattoos on one of her arms, and the beginning of another on the other. She’s also one of the kindest people I’ve ever met. I’ve never seen her in action, but I can guess she’s one hell of a cop.

  We sit through the first half of the game in exasperated concentration as our team trails behind on the scoreboard. The opposition scores just before half-time is called, and we both groan.

  “Beer,” Jack says, and I laugh, taking the empty ones back to the kitchen and getting us a fresh pair.

  “Tough week?” I ask.

  “Drunk puked on me yesterday. I fucking hate when that happens,” she grouses. I grimace.

  “Ew.”

  “Bah. It could have been worse.”

  “How?”

  “I didn’t get any on my lips this time.”

  “Oh my fucking God. That is the grossest thing I’ve ever heard. Why is there so much puke involved in your job!” I groan.

  “Well, that was still when I was a beat cop but, yeah. The job is a lot less glamorous than advertised.”

  “You love it, though.”

  “Love’s a strong word but, yeah. I can’t live without it. Think I’m about to get promoted too,” she says casually. I perk up, turning fully on the couch to face her.

  “What! Jack! Congrats!” I say, punching her on the arm. She turns her head from where it's resting on the back of the couch, her body slumped into the cushions.

  “Thanks,” she says. “It’s gonna be horrible. I can’t wait,” she laughs. I grin.

  “You deserve it. We’ll celebrate when it happens!”

  “Knock on wood,” she says, but she’s smiling too. “How’s it going with you, then? How’s Isadoro?” she asks. I immediately stiffen a little, turning back to face the TV.

  “He’s okay,” I say. There’s a pause.

  “You fucked him, didn’t you?” Jack says. I turn to look at her, mouth open in surprise.

  “How…” I say. She snorts.

  “Congrats.” She lifts her beer, but I don’t move to meet her. She lowers it slowly. “Oh, fuck. You’ve done something stupid, haven’t you?”

  I want to protest, but… “It’s casual. We’re just…you know. It’s casual,” I try. There’s a beat of silence.

  “So…You’re having a casual relationship with the childhood friend you’ve been in love with since forever and that’s currently trying to adjust to civilian life after doing, what, five tours?”

  “Eight, not counting the two years of Special Ops training. Those tours are shorter,” I say.

  “Fuck, eight tours? Jesus. Well, Iván, that all sounds…fucking stupid.”

  “Fuck!” I groan, thumping the back of my head against the couch.

  “What the fuck were you thinking?” she asks, and isn’t that the question of the century?

  “I…It’s just…When he was away, I tried not to think about it. Where he was, what he was doing. But there were these moments, sometimes. Maybe it was too long a gap between calls, or it was late at night or, just…and I’d get this feeling, this eerie certainty that he was dead, or was injured. That he could be dead, and I just wouldn’t know. I’d think, what was the last thing I said to him? Even though he doesn’t know I’m in love with him, does he know how much I love him?

  “He would redeploy and redeploy and there came a point where I thought he’d never stop. I thought he’d be a career military man, going up the ranks, or that he would keep going until he died. But, now, he’s here. He’s here to stay. I still can’t believe it. I have this awful fear he’ll change his mind and redeploy, or go private, or...But, for now, he’s here. And he just…offered. I’m so used to thinking of Isa as a moment from slipping away that I just…I can’t…I’m not saying it’s a good idea, but I’ll regret it more if I say no.” It all just comes out of me.

  Silence falls for a moment. “Damn,” Jack says eventually. “Okay. I get you.” Her voice is soft, a balm. A part of me had needed some kind of permission, or at least the validation of saying, yes, what I’m doing is stupid but, fuck, can you blame me?

  The conversation veers off, but my own words linger inside me, truths given shape and weight.

  I’ll make the most of this for as long as it lasts.

  **********

  It’s been four days since the hand job. In the beginning, I’m tense and watchful, wanting but not wanting something to happen. Between school and work though, the apprehension gets buried. It’s as if that is exactly what he’s waiting for—a relaxation of defences in order to strike.

  It’s late and the TV is on, some nonsensical program neither one of us is really watching. I step between the couch and the coffee table, bending to place the drinks I just grabbed from the kitchen on the table, when the palm of his hand brushes slightly against my clothed thigh. I look at him and see the twitch at the corner of his mouth.

  I’m in trouble.

  I let go of the drinks and his hand goes to the back of my thigh, pulling me closer. I stumble slightly until I’m right in front of him, looking down at his face as his wide hands hold my hips.

  We just look at each other for a moment before he presses his thumbs against my hip bones. He pulls me onto his lap and I just go, a collapsing house of cards. I wish he’d stop looking at me with those piercing eyes, but something stops me from kissing him first. Some old, worn instinct of repression.

  He leans in, but not toward my mouth. Instead, his lips land on the vulnerable skin of my neck. He kisses me softly, one firefly kiss after another
. I close my eyes, but the tenderness is unbearable. It cuts through my inaction and I pull away only to yank him into a real kiss.

  Isadoro goes with it, but I’m already thrown off balance. I don’t want to think about anything, but my head is too full of him. His hands run across my back and I slide further forward, our crotches pressing. I grind against him, and one of his hands trail down to knead my ass.

  “Oh fuck,” I pant before he pulls me into the next kiss.

  It shouldn’t be possible, to be this desperate this quickly for someone. To want them this much.

  I need more. This time, I’m the one who pulls out our dicks, but I ignore mine, wrapping my hand around his thick cock. I know exactly what I want.

  I go to slide off and get on my knees, but he stops me. I look at him, raising my eyebrows.

  “Seriously? You’re turning down a blowjob?” I ask. Isadoro huffs a laugh.

  “Just—wait a second,” he says, pulling me close again. He wraps me in his arms, drawing me into another slow, slow kiss, but I can’t help it. My hands reach between us and he stops me again, grabbing my wrists and then pinning them to the small of my back in one of his large hands.

  “Fuck, fuck,” I say, grinding forward, and he doesn’t halt the movement, his other hand in my hair as he kisses me deeply.

  I’m helpless against him.

  “Please,” I say eventually. “Please, let me suck you off,” I say against his lips.

  “Jesus,” he groans, emboldening me.

  “Don’t you want to come in my mouth?” I murmur in his ear.

  “Fuck,” he says, and my hair and wrists are released. I’m on my knees in an instant. I’m not here to tease, and I swallow him down, dragging my tongue against the vein on the underside. I can feel the tension in his thighs as he tries not to jerk up, but I push at his hips.

  I want him to fuck my mouth. I want to feel it.

  His hand holds the back of my neck as he lifts his hips. I gag immediately, but I don’t let him stop. I’m good at this, I just need to calm down.

  He finds a pace quickly and thrusts in and out of my mouth, my throat, easy and deep. There’s always been a rhythm to us, even in bed when we were teenagers and just figuring this stuff out.

  It’s always been so goddamn easy.

  I feel it when his hips start to stutter a little and I moan, wanting it. I squeeze his thighs and then trail my hands up, stroking the tightness of his balls. A moment later, he comes. I’ve never been the biggest fan of guys coming in my mouth but, right now, it’s exactly what I want. I want to feel the twitch and the taste of it, how personal and inescapable it is. Feel him soften slightly, lapping at him and seeing his abs where his shirt has ridden up twitch with overstimulation.

  “Come here,” he says as he pulls me up. My cock is wet with my own pre-come, and the moan I let out when he wraps his hand around it is long and dirty.

  “Fuck,” he says, and kisses me, lapping at the come in my mouth.

  His hand is quick and tight as he jerks me, his other arm coming around to press me close. He pulls away from the kiss and looks at me intently, as if he can see through to my core.

  I close my eyes, but I can still feel him looking.

  I come with his presence all around me, an arrow through my lungs.

  When I come down, I’m slumped against him. I’m still wrapped up in him, one of his hands trailing through my hair. We shift slightly until we’re kissing, slow and languid.

  “You,” he says quietly, a breath of air. I nuzzle against him, mind blank.

  “Me, what?” I mumble.

  “You,” he repeats simply and kisses me again.

  **********

  “Why do we even need these many options?” Isadoro grumbles, looking at the grocery shelves packed to the brim with food.

  “Capitalist freedom,” I reply, following it with an eagle’s caw. Isadoro snorts, looking at me. “You can wait outside if you want,” I suggest, even though I know what his reaction will be.

  “I can go grocery shopping, Iván,” he says, frowning. I shrug.

  I’ve sent him to the smaller shop near our apartment a few times, but we’re currently in one of the bigger retailers. I know these environments stress him out, but he had insisted on coming. He stands like a steel pole, eyes trained ahead even as he seems to be aware of his surroundings. He’s so tense he’s making me nervous.

  I give him jobs to do, hoping to keep him distracted. I don’t know if it’s the right thing to do, or if I’m treating him like a child, or—the constant second-guessing is exhausting.

  I’m used to worrying about Isadoro, but it’s different having him here. Before, my worries were both more solid and yet more abstract at the same time. Now, I’m constantly confronted with the evidence of whatever it is he’s holding inside, but no opportunity to help. I can’t seem to strike the balance between pushing too much or not enough, and the results leave me frustrated.

  By the time we leave the supermarket we’re both exhausted and cranky. We load my car and get in, me behind the wheel.

  I know things have changed, but I can’t gauge how much. Time and distance have distorted my perception. I wish he would just talk to me. Not about what happened during combat—not unless he wants that, which I’m sure he doesn’t—but about what he’s thinking about now. How he’s feeling and coping. How I fit into it all.

  I’m lost in thought when a car cuts me off. We’re in the city, so it’s not an uncommon occurrence. I just sigh and slow down. Isadoro, though, reacts instantly. He yanks hard at the door, the handle making a loud noise as it hits the lock. I startle, looking over. Isadoro looks furious in a way I’ve rarely seen in my life.

  “Open the door,” he says.

  “Are you fucking serious right now?” I say, trying to split my attention between him and the slowly moving cars around me as we stop at another light.

  “Open the fucking door!” he screams. I flinch at the unexpected volume. I don’t think he’s ever shouted at me like that before.

  “Jesus, Isadoro!” I shout back, more out of fear than anger.

  “Open the door!” he says again, grabbing at me for a moment before releasing me and then yanking at the handle madly. I open my mouth to fight back, but an odd, out-of-body experience takes over me. I take a deep breath.

  “Isa, you’re scaring me. You need to calm down,” I say as levelly as possible. “You’re putting us in danger. You can be angry at home, but not in the car. Okay?” I glance at him. He’s glaring, jaw clenched, but he doesn’t say anything else. I focus ahead, leaving him to calm himself down.

  The rest of the drive is silent. I’m barely thinking, rattled by the event. It’s not like he lashed out physically or even swore at me. Lots of people get road rage, I try to reason with myself, but that’s not what’s got me so shaken. He’s never screamed at me like that, and it was so easily sparked. Is that what’s inside him all the time?

  When we get home, he grabs a few grocery bags and strides upstairs. I move more slowly, taking a moment inside the car to collect myself before trudging upstairs. I’m expecting a fight, or at least to talk, but when I get into the apartment the bags are in the kitchen and Isadoro is nowhere to be seen. I walk towards his room, plastic bags rustling. His door is shut. It’s silent inside. I move towards the kitchen.

  Mindlessly, I put the groceries away. Soup, toilet paper, jerkins. I divide the ground meat and put it into baggies to freeze. I replace the sink sponge.

  When I’m done, I just stand there in the middle of the kitchen, looking at Isadoro’s closed door. Slowly, I move toward it and knock on the wood.

  “Isa?” I say softly. There’s no response. I wait, my ear tilted toward the room, but there’s just silence.

  With a sigh, I turn away.

  *****

  My heart jumps when I hear the click of Isadoro’s door opening. I try not to react, watching the TV as I strain to hear. My stomach drops as Isadoro goes to the bathroom, but when
he comes out again he moves toward the living room. I turn to look at him, lowering the volume on the TV to a murmur.

  Isadoro is cast in the glow of the night lamps. It’s late, and he’s changed into softer clothes. His face is weary as he looks at me, even though his posture is rigid and proud.

  “I’m sorry,” he says simply. I take a deep breath and then let it out slowly. I’ve had plenty of time to think.

  “I get it, Isadoro. I get that… You don’t want to talk about it, but I understand that you’re, that you’ve been…that there are going to be some bumps in the road, but. You can’t do that. What you—the war and everything, I get it, but it doesn’t give you a free pass to do whatever. I’m not gonna lie and tell you I’m going to leave if you continue because I don’t know if that’s true. You’re my best friend and I…It’s you and me, as far as I’m concerned. But you can’t shout at me like that, especially not when I’m driving in the car. You can be angry, I get that. But that doesn’t give you an excuse to scream at me.” My words come out level and stern, but I’m tired. I’m so tired.

  Isadoro stands there for a moment. It’s him and me in this apartment, in the bubble of the night, the flickering colours of the TV and the glow of the lamps. Time stills, and then cracks. His posture slumps. He walks toward me, wrapping his arms around me as soon as he sits on the couch. I go easily, filling with relief.

  I hold him back. We sit there, wrapped in each other until the murmur of his voice makes me lean away.

  “Sometimes…I’m scared,” his voice says. I look at his face.

  “Of what?” I ask just as quietly. He shakes his head, but answers.

  “That I’m gonna…do something,” he says, not looking at me. I frown.

  “Isa, what are you talking about? You would never hurt me,” I say, but he shakes his head.

  “I don’t mean that. It’s not about hurting or killing. It’s about just…doing. Acting, before I can fully think it through. I’m so used to just acting. Back there, everything was contained by the directives, but in the moment, you just had to act. Your head had to be in one place. If someone falls in front of you, you don’t even pause. There’s you, and there’s the mission and I just…don’t know how to turn it off,” he says. I sit quietly for a moment. This is the most he’s ever admitted to me.