Rubble and the Wreckage

by Rodd Clark

  “Gonna sleep real nice now. Thanks, baby. I’m still not sure I’d ever fuck with another man, but you certainly opened my eyes to a new way of thinking. You sure are one sexy shit, particularly for someone who claims he’s never done that before,” Gabriel said as he stroked his hand along Christian’s shoulder fondly.

  “Likewise,” Christian offered, pressing his hand against Gabriel’s bare chest, trying to feel an awkward knocking from inside somewhere. As satisfying as the moment was, his mind trailed to that flaw he’d just learned about and the sadness that it represented. Like winning a lottery ticket and watching it fly from your hands because of an open car window and an unapologetically strong wind.

  “Is there anything you can do besides surgery for your heart?” he asked cautiously.

  “Not a damn thing! But it doesn’t matter anyways. I was always racing toward a quick death . . . and no one deserves it more.”

  They both decided words would only shatter the moment. Without knowing the true breadth of their connection, both men seemed to become in sync with the other’s emotional state. They rested in silence, as men occasionally did in other men’s company, and Christian’s palm tightened over Gabe’s massive chest. Desperation ebbed freely like a weeping sore, sufficient for both to see it plainly displayed. The mood transformed from relaxation to bittersweet melancholia then they both slipped into a restless sleep.

  FITFUL DREAMS invaded Gabe’s slumber. He was remembering an incident or possibly misremembering it. It was a dream after all, and even in the dream, he recognized it as a sleep-filled play performed for his amusement. He had met a man, years before, and now he pulled that picture back from memory. It had an air of familiarity, but much was different than how it truly happened. It had been somewhere in the Midwest. Traveling as he did, he couldn’t rightly remember all the names of the cities he passed through. This was one of those no-named towns in some visage from long ago.

  It had been just outside a bar, which was a familiar custom for Gabe who liked to spend much of his time drinking alone late at night. He had stumbled out, still reeling from the effects of too many glasses of beer, followed by a few shot chasers. He’d wanted to be drunk that night; he’d set out as that being his purpose. “Self-medication” he called it—a chance to push aside those irritating thoughts that continually plagued his mind.

  He practically tripped over a group of men just outside the bar who seemed as drunk as he was. They had circled another fellow and were taunting him with verbal assaults, shoving him from man to man, like stoners passing a joint for each smoker to partake. He had become some plaything for inebriated assholes that had cravings for violence. Gabe didn’t know what the ruckus was about, had not heard their argument with the slight man they were batting around like a cat with its half-dead mouse. Whatever the commotion, the slightly smaller man was gravely outnumbered. But out of all the men, he seemed the least tanked-up.

  Gabe never liked to get involved with the petty residue of the unwashed public. He didn’t much care what others did around him, but as he faltered out the door of that seedy bar and was hit with the stench of urine and rising fear, he knew he couldn’t escape the commotion without at least knowing the cause. Lurching up to the crowd of drunken hayseeds and the man contained in their circle, he heard one of the men call the slighter man a “cocksucking faggot!”

  Nobody took much notice of Gabe lumbering up behind them, their concentration was trained on their smaller target, and in their beer-induced volatility they were finely focused on the beating to come. It wasn’t a fair fight by any means . . . not that anyone cared. Someone had made an assumption about the cocksucker in the center of the fray—it was certainly an incorrect assumption, because even wasted, Gabe knew that no queer would be stupid enough to make a proposition at any of these loud fuckers . . . not in that type of bar, not outnumbered.

  Gabe wasn’t completely blotto. He was sober enough to judge the circumstance for what it was: wasted country bumpkins picking on a smaller man. Too much beer, hot-blooded tempers, and stupid, uneducated fools, but they had made a bigger mistake than just picking on some tiny fellow, even if he’d truly been a cocksucker and dropped to his knees in the bar’s dirty piss-stained men’s room or placed his hand on the leg of some flannel-wearing redneck. They had made the mistake of allowing Gabe to walk on up to the scene.

  Without a word, Gabe grabbed one of the rowdy assholes, who had yet to notice his presence, and swung him around wildly. He slammed his fist into the man’s jaw and rendering him shaken, before he could be surrounded by the remaining goons, he swung again, this time missing his mark slightly, no doubt an effect of the alcohol. But he missed by mere inches. He’d intended his blow to be square to the chin, but it made contact with the side of one confused hayseed’s head. With the two men dazed and attempting recovery, his mind flashed to the remaining three. All were larger and fatter than he was, but each appeared the type of hillbillies who’d let their waistlines stretch and their minds shrink. None of them individually were any match for Gabe.

  Gabe had been raised in the sticks. He had fought kids from the first time he could walk. He enjoyed a good fight and had learned how to manipulate his swings and his footwork to ensure his success. The man in the center of the attack had fallen to his knees; he seemed as surprised as the men Gabe had set upon. Gabe swung again, but he’d actually anticipated his swing going wild. His true motive had been to unbalance his target as he dove low to hit the hole he’d made under one man’s arm just as that man raised an arm to strike back and defend himself against Gabe’s wild swing. With the fat fucker unbalanced, Gabe elbowed him hard in the center of his back, hearing the man lose all his oxygen with one quick jab. Then Gabe swung back around and laid his fist hard under an already stunned chin.

  The brawl had been so surprising, and Gabe’s actions had been so swift and unexpected, that one of the bullies looked flabbergasted; this was not the fun he’d originally planned for his evening. He stepped back and threw his palms up and out, indicating he’d rather not be the brunt of this stranger’s next attack. But his companion wasn’t so wise. He advanced on Gabe with spittle flying from his mouth and a mixture of agitation and revenge in his eyes. A charging bull with the weight to upend Gabe if he reached him. But even drunk he was smarter than that runaway train coming his way. He sidestepped quickly as the man dived at his midsection. Gabe had intended on allowing the bull to miss him by inches, making him close enough so that he could bring his elbow down on the bull’s neck with a tremendous degree of force, nearly severing his spine with one rapid action.

  The free-for-all was over as quickly as it began—one man unconscious at Gabe’s feet as the others receded back in an attempt to salvage their own skins and retain some semblance of pride. Gabe was a caged animal dancing in the center of the confusion, practically begging someone to make an advance. He had not yet tasted his own blood in his mouth, but he wanted it. He desperately needed one of these fat shits to make a run at him—he was practically demanding it. To his amazement none of the bullies moved forward, fearing what rage was represented by the stranger’s stance. His pale eyes couldn’t be seen clearly in the alley’s dim lighting, but the look on his face was visible enough, and that look forced the men to back away and cower, as two even turned and hurried into the safety of the bar. The focus of this battle had been the undersized victim who had finally risen to his feet. Stepping up to Gabe, he smiled through his embarrassment at the moment and extended his hand to shake Gabe’s in gratitude. He was stammering as he choked out the words, “Thank you, mister . . . thank you!”

  Rotating to face him, Gabe could instantly see why the others hated him. “Fuck off, faggot!” he said as he turned and walked to the parking lot and headed to his car.

  Gabe had forgotten the incident, pushing it back as something unimportant in his life. But now in his slumber he could see the man’s face that’d caused the uproar. He could see his delicate, dark features and his wide brown e
yes flashing first with fear then with grateful appreciation. The face reappeared from his memory as a portion of a dream about something that occurred long ago. He didn’t understand why the image was there or why something so forgettable had come back to haunt him. He couldn’t piece together that he’d once rushed to the rescue of a diminutive homosexual after an incident where he’d practically beaten one faggot to death at a lakefront cruise spot. Both were true incidents of Gabe’s nature, but different sides to the same coin. His dreams couldn’t focus the images or the explanations to his satisfaction, but if he had examined them later in the cold light of day, he might have understood their meaning.

  THE MORNING sun broke beams through the hotel blinds, hitting Christian square in the face, rousing him awake. He opened his eyes but didn’t move, waiting to see if Gabriel would stir. He listened to his partner’s breathing and watched the rising and falling of his lover’s naked chest. It was glorious waking next to such a sinfully beautiful creature. He felt like he could lie there all day and be wickedly happy. But it seemed his ecstasy had alerted Gabriel, who grunted a morning inhalation of fresh air and stretched slightly under the covers. Extending his legs and broadening his chest, Gabriel shifted to life and without effort turned to the man sleeping beside him and offered a dry kiss to Christian’s cheek.

  “Morning, boy, sleep well?” Gabriel’s word of boy seemed oddly strange to Christian’s ear since he was only a few years younger than Gabriel himself. But the nickname seemed appropriate and peculiarly refreshing. It was a moniker he could live with. He wanted to crawl under the man’s massive arms and be sheltered in his protection. He was facing new and unaccustomed desires; ones where he wanted to be swaddled in Gabriel’s adoration, due in part because it felt comforting, somehow right.

  “Yeah, pretty well. You?” he said, looking up lovingly.

  “Had a few fucked up dreams . . . but waking up with your body heat warming my cock is always nice.” He smiled broadly, mainly to himself then jumped up and out of the covers with a start.

  “Daddy needs coffee . . .”

  Christian’s gaze was drawn to his naked form: that flaccid shaft with its overhang of foreskin, his brown furry chest, and his wild, manly bush of pubic hair. He could see a twinkle in Gabriel’s eyes and a grin being subtly established. It was clear this man enjoyed having his body worshiped from afar, seeing a lover’s eyes fill up with the same adulation and lust that he must be showing in this moment.

  “You look horny, baby, you needing a ride on this?” Gabe said flaying his open hands around his junk as if in invitation.

  “What I want is a shower, and a big dose of caffeine. Then as much as I’d prefer lying naked with you all day, I know we have a lot of work to do.”

  “My baby boy has turned down my gifts it seems . . . will wonders never cease?” He flaunted an expansive grin then turned with a little bopping dance and headed to the shower. Watching him walk presented the best gift he could’ve given Christian that morning.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “YOU REMEMBER EVERYONE you killed. Do you remember everyone you ever fucked?” His question came from nowhere, and his eyes fell to the cup of coffee he was stirring. Gabriel looked up surprised then leaned in closer to Christian.

  “I remember everything I’ve done that was worth remembering. I could tell you stories, but remember, they were all with women.”

  It began as a peaceful morning for the two men. They’d showered then taken the elevator to the café downstairs. The Mayflower boasted a simple elegance to their dining hall, but in truth it was just a café that had seen better days with a finer reputation. Called The French Hen, it served a country breakfast in European style, but it was a café that tried too hard to be special.

  Christian had thrown out the question as if it was an afterthought, but he could see the look on Church’s face showing how interested he was. The idea of Gabriel being with others was strangely titillating, and Christian wanted something to gauge his own lovemaking with him against. Was Gabriel the same sensual animal with women that he’d been with Christian?

  “I’m just a little curious,” he said, trying to appear disinterested as he sipped gingerly at the hot cup.

  “I BET you just wanna know if I like fucking them as much as I do you. But if you’d asked me this upstairs, we would’ve been an hour later for breakfast.” Gabe smiled and leaned back against the chair and scanned the few guests still lingering over breakfast or an early brunch. He decided, as he was showering, that he would be more careful with what he offered Chris today—he didn’t want another reaction like yesterday. This conversation held that possibility, so he decided “less was more.”

  Gabriel Church liked women. He may not have always understood them, but he knew the cool parts they brought to the party, and that had been enough. He had never had to try too hard like other men, pouting about how they couldn’t get enough pussy; he could drown in it if he wanted . . . which wouldn’t be a bad way to die, he thought. But since meeting Chris he’d had stirrings that should have felt stranger to him than they did. Gabe never looked at Chris as some dick-hungry dude who wanted to simply guzzle on his hose, he saw him as something better. He enjoyed everything they did in bed. He loved the hard wrestle of being with another man and not having to be as gentle. Chris was a sexy form he could maneuver however he wanted, throw him this way or that way to reach purchase. Dominant sexual control over another man pleased him in ways he couldn’t comprehend. It made him feel powerful and godlike, and that was something Gabe could gravitate too.

  He doubted that he would ever be with another male sexually after Chris; it just wouldn’t be the same. That concern flashed something forward—life after Chris. He’d never allowed himself to be fully aware of that concept, yet there it was. Would he ever be without Chris? He knew he’d awoken things in the writer that he’d never experienced, but it was an inevitable conclusion in his eyes. Chris was queer when they met; he just hadn’t made the connection until being in Gabe’s company. The thought of his new partner being with another man had never come to mind, but it rested there, hidden in the dark holes underneath. The picture in his head was unpleasant, he didn’t want to share Chris, and didn’t want the man to have a life outside of his adoration of Gabe. He knew he could be selfish that way.

  “I just wanted to compare the Gabriel I know now to the one before I met him.” Chris was still on that train and just wouldn’t release his grip.

  “What does it matter now? You got me, baby. Why do you care who I mighta fucked before?” He pushed back his plate—the eggs benedict had been too runny and seemed bland after yesterday’s long bout of drinking.

  “You’re probably right. I don’t know why I wanted to know, but you seem like someone who has changed a lot in the last couple of days, like someone finding his footing for the first time.”

  Gabe decided he didn’t have words for that, and his head tilted slightly with a look that implied some playful disregard to Chris’s line of questioning.

  “Shouldn’t you ask these questions back at the hotel with your trusty legal pad?”

  “I decided I can remember everything you tell me. By the time every detail hits the noggin”—he said while tapping at his skull—“once it’s there I promise I won’t let it go.”

  “Besides, you no longer need that distance . . . and that pad of paper as your protective barrier, between a killer and a writer . . . am I right?”

  CHRISTIAN SMILED sheepishly back at Gabriel, realizing how much he so often took Church’s wit and intelligence for granted. It was another reason to admire him. He couldn’t feel the same about Gabriel if he was just a beautiful imbecile. Smart was sexy, and that flash of intellect shined brightest in those pale eyes.

  “Call it what you will, but it was wise to keep a professional remoteness to our conversations.”

  “You kinda fucked that up now, didn’t you?” Gabriel said, cutting him off in mid-thought.

  “You helped. You sh
ouldn’t have taken off your shirt remember? It was all over but the sweating and panting once you did that.” They both grinned like devils at the recollections.

  They had eaten their fill and pushed the plates aside as Christian grabbed the bill and stood up to pay. His eggs hadn’t been as tasty as he’d hoped either. Both suspected The French Hen would only be a place for coffee in the future, if there were a future. Christian had already decided to check out that morning, but the prospect left him numb. If they didn’t have the Mayflower Plaza, what did they have? No sumptuous sex or waking up in cool, clean sheets with nothing but time to fill their days. It had been something of a vacation for him, and he still wondered if Gabriel would ever confess to where he was staying. Originally, he’d wanted to keep that part a secret, but that had been before they’d both done carnal things with their hands and tongues over many lovely hours. Would he slip away after their conversations to some out-of-the-way hole and fade from Christian’s life forever? It was time to address that question.

  “So you remember I was going to check out today. Actually I need to do that pretty much soon. I was wondering what we were doing after that?” His hand grazed Gabriel’s back as he stood in line to pay for their dismal breakfast. “I have a loft here, not far . . . You could crash with me until my research for the book is . . . well . . . underway, if you want?”

  “Get real, baby, you’re never gonna have everything you need on me. It would just be days of fucking, and you know it,” he whispered the words out over his shoulder as an addendum, but the prospect incited Christian’s shaft to stir in his jeans, and a smile formed as he pulled out his wallet.