by G. D. Cox
"I expect you back at HQ in two days," Nate says ages later, still sitting there with him, leaning back against the couch and staring ahead too. "You're needed. Understood?"
Nate's voice is edged with steel and yet rounded with softness, a fascinating dichotomy just like its possessor, one of the oldest and best friends he's ever had. Nate's voice brooks no argument, no defiance. It summons honesty and loyalty.
"Yes, boss," Cole replies monotonously. He doesn't want to think too much about how hoarse he sounds, like he's swallowed shards of glass and they've stuck in his throat, slicing him every time he tries to open up.
He already tried that with Pa yesterday. It was a disaster. Guess he should count his lucky stars he'd held out until he managed to say goodbye and end the call before crumpling again, as if a lifelong dam in him that had corked up entire oceans had just given way. That glass of whiskey on the kitchen table was gone soon enough.
But in two days, that dam in him will be rebuilt. He won't drink another drop of whiskey, or any other alcohol. His Glock will be safely holstered like it always is. He'll be clean shaven and freshly showered with his teeth brushed pristine and he will remember that Nate gave him the full week off, no questions asked. The least he can do is be useful again. The least he can do is do his job.
It's all he's got left. Again.
Nate rests a hand on his knee and squeezes it once as he stands up. Nate doesn't look back at him as he leaves the apartment, and he doesn't look back at Nate either. He stares on and on at that blank space on the wall, at all the blank spaces where Clyde once was, and wonders how relieved he'll be when the seams around those spaces crack and crumble and take him along with them.
III.
"SIR, MY OLD MAN CALLED me a little fag when he beat me up, and I hated him every day until the day he drank himself stupid and killed himself and my mom in that car accident," Clyde said to him long ago, stiff back facing him at the shut door of his office. (And later, Clyde showed up at his office again with several bottles of beer in hand, a wordless apology for getting into that altercation with Agent Levitt over Levitt's use of that homophobic slur towards Clyde.)
"Sir - Cole, I just, I'm ... It's still sinking in, okay? I - I never thought you'd be ... that. I know being bi means that you like women too but ... Cole, you're so goddamn tough and courageous and you - you don't even look and act like a ... okay, yeah. That was dumb. Forget it," Clyde said to him long ago, sitting on that burgundy couch in his office, and staying when he went to sit next to Clyde, staying as he told Clyde who and what Phelan Cole was and is. (And staying even after, gazing at him with the eyes of a lost, traumatized boy who never knew what love was.)
"There was this asshole in the circus who hated my guts. He was one of the bigger acts, the guy who managed all the horses. I never found out what his problem was, but one day he just started calling me a fag and kept on doing it. Calling me fag, fag, faggot until everyone else was doing it too like it was some funny joke. When even Duchaine got in on it, I couldn't say shit about it because he was my mentor and he was the reason I had food and a spot to sleep. And he was the worst. The fucking worst," Clyde said to him long ago, gripping an almost empty bottle of beer with both hands while they sat side by side on the wide ledge of his apartment building's rooftop. (And holding hands later, their thighs and knees pressed together under the eternal stars and smiling crescent moon.)
"I was in this bar trying to chat up this pretty girl when this guy got into my face and started calling me a fag. I just snapped. Squeezed my hands around his throat and I couldn't let go until several other guys pulled me off him and threw me out. I think I woulda killed him if they hadn't. I think I would have, just for calling me a fag. A homosexual. A queer guy. Just like you. You think I'm a scumbag now, Phelan? Huh?" Clyde said to him long ago, blue eyes gone pink and wet and swollen around the edges, so certain that he would turn around and walk out of Clyde's assigned lodgings at HQ, walk out of Clyde's life and never look back. (But he didn't, he stayed, he stayed.)
"There was this girl, this woman. Melissa. I think she's the only woman I ever really felt something for. Not lust. Maybe something almost like love, but not the kinda love people expect between a guy and a woman who're gonna get married and have kids and whatever. But ... she wasn't like the other girls before. And ya know what? More times than not, I could barely get it up whenever we fucked. I thought I was seriously screwed up in the head then, to not be able to get hard just like that for a beautiful woman like her, for every other girl who wanted to have sex with me. And I ... I did what any screwed up coward in denial would probably have done then: I blamed everything else except me, until it drove her away," Clyde said to him long ago, while they sprawled in a tangle of limbs under the blankets in his apartment's master bedroom, weak and wrecked and so fucking in love with each other that it hurt. (But not as much as he hurts now, no.)
"I've never been with a man before you. Never been in love with a man or anybody else before you, Phelan. If you'd asked me just a couple of years ago if I'd ever even think of a man as my lover, I woulda beaten the crap outta you. I know I would. I woulda been so scared, so small, thinking that the opinions of strangers matter that much to me when they never gave a fuck about me. But ... I'm not that guy anymore. I'm wiser now. I'm better. And it's all because of you, babe. Thank you," Clyde said to him long ago, blue eyes gone red and glistening for much more exquisite reasons, on the night he gave Clyde a set of keys to his ... their apartment, the night Clyde held his hand as they sauntered to their bedroom and stayed. (Until he left, he left.)
"Thank you, sweetheart," Cole said to Clyde just as long ago, while they sat side by side on the ledge of their apartment building's rooftop under a pellucid sky and blazing, round sun, their matching wedding rings hanging from matching chain necklaces around their necks. "Thank you for giving me the chance to love you. And for giving yourself the chance to love you, too."
IV.
IN RETROSPECT, COLE should have suspected that the headaches Clyde was suffering throughout the weekend after the mission in Croenia were a sign to hustle Clyde the hell back to HQ's Medical department posthaste. There were only two things that he rationalizes had stopped him from doing so. One, Clyde hadn't said a word about those headaches at any time throughout said weekend. Cole's sole clue had been that tiny furrow between Clyde's eyebrows, that little tell that betrayed Clyde's pain just a little too late. Two, Clyde had been busy, very busy distracting him with mind-blowing sex (that involved a lot of mutual cock-blowing too) that bordered on violent (but in the best ways).
On Sunday night, after returning to their apartment from a brief albeit important top-level staff meeting at HQ, an already naked Clyde had pounced on him at the door. Hauled him to their bedroom, tossed him onto their king-sized bed of dark red sheets and ripped off his clothes - and there went another three thousand-dollar suit, happy and voluntary victim to his husband's callused, adroit hands - and then swallowed down his cock into that hot, wet mouth and throat to the hilt in one go. He carded his fingers through Clyde's lush, blond hair, his own throat tight, his Adam's apple bobbing hard as Clyde's tongue swirled along the length of his cock and lapped at the slit in the tip, coaxing out blooms of pre-come.
During their first couple of months as lovers, Clyde had refused to let him give Clyde a blowjob although Clyde zealously gave them to him. The one-sidedness had perplexed him until Clyde blurted out one night that 'men like Cole didn't do things like that'. That had led to one of the most enraging revelations of Cole's whole life as Clyde flatly told him about needing to get himself drunk before selling his mouth for money on the streets when things got really, really bad.
Men like you don't go on their knees and let themselves become fuck things, Clyde had said to him, like it was the cold, hard truth that everybody knew and accepted. Good men don't do that.
Cole had been this close to grabbing his Glock and charging out the door to track down every john who'd dared to ab
use the man he loved and shoot them all. Instead, after recovering his composure, he'd pulled Clyde into a crushing embrace. Gone down on his knees in front of Clyde and shushed Clyde's frenetic objections with a steadfast, loving glower. Opened his mouth and sucked Clyde's rock-hard, leaking cock right in, gripping Clyde's clenched buttocks until he dimpled skin, rejoicing in Clyde's carnal cries and Clyde's hands clutching his head and Clyde's hips bucking like Clyde couldn't control himself. To Clyde's mortification, Cole's first blowjob for Clyde lasted less than a minute, with Clyde coming down his throat and almost keeling over on top of him after that. Cole had taken it as an obvious compliment, even more so when Clyde admitted he never knew it could be as good as that, much less from another man.
Then Clyde had said, maybe it's because I love you so damn much.
And Cole, who'd assumed he would be the first to say such words, told them to Clyde by guiding them back to the bed and worshiping Clyde's treasured body from head to toes and back, showing Clyde all over again that sex with another man didn't have to be cold and cruel and bound by archaic, corrupt notions of machismo. That it never should be, not when the two men respected each other, trusted each other, loved each other.
They'd come a long way since, what with how readily Clyde took him into that amazing, hot and wet mouth without condemning himself, knowing how much power he had over Cole like this.
"Fuck, your mouth is just ..."
Oh yeah, there it was, that mischievous glint in those large, wide-set blue eyes and that curve of those full lips in an even more mischievous smile as Clyde licked at the head of his cock. Clyde liked to look at him while blowing him. Liked to see him go to pieces - make the Deadpan Master break, as Clyde put it - and know it was because of him.
He moaned low and long when Clyde deep-throated him again. Swallowed around him and licked and hummed until he was lightheaded and shuddering and just high, flying and flying with each sucking pressure around him, feeling like he was just going to explode if Clyde kept lifting him up until there was no more sky to conquer -
"Oh man, look at you, babe. You are so hot when you let go like this."
Clyde's mouth was no longer around his cock. He let out a sound that was nothing like a whine, and he struggled up onto his elbows to see ... oh. Oh, Clyde had scrambled onto the bed on all fours next to him. Clyde was presenting that plump, gorgeous ass that constantly taunted him when it's encased in that damn skintight Long-Shot outfit.
"C'mon, babe, get over here and fuck me hard and deep," Clyde growled at him, arching his back to show off that gorgeous ass even more. "I wanna feel you for days."
And if Cole hadn't gotten the hint already, Clyde raised an eyebrow and wriggled that ass in shameless invitation.
Cole got his own laugh in while opening and stretching Clyde out with a few lubed fingers. He took his sweet time, sliding his fingers in and out of Clyde's hot, tight hole, grazing his fingers across that sweet spot inside until Clyde swore at him and begged him to just fuck him already, fuck him good. He kept pushing his fingers in and out, in and out, until Clyde's thighs were shaking and Clyde couldn't speak anymore, until Clyde could only plead with raw, husky sounds and bucking hips.
He went in easy, he remembers, thrusting into Clyde in one slick motion, leaning over Clyde, hardening even more at Clyde's lusty moan that escalated in volume the deeper he went. He watched Clyde bow his back, felt that head of golden, spiky hair smack against his neck and shoulder when he bottomed out, his hips pressing against Clyde's ass.
"Goddamnit, oh fuck," Clyde rasped, gracefully twisting his upper body for a kiss, already flushed and gazing up at him with glazed eyes. "Oooh, god, oh, I'll never get used to that. I hope I don't, want it as good as the first time, all the time."
Cole felt Clyde's right hand reaching up to clutch the back of his neck as they kissed and kissed. He dug his fingers into Clyde's hips as he gave Clyde what Clyde demanded (begged) for, fucking hard and deep into Clyde with long, relentless strokes, pulling out until only the head of his cock was still inside and then slamming in, over and over and over. Clyde's flushed, rigid cock bounced against a firm, rippled belly. Clyde was moaning into his mouth like he was in the most beatific pain, grappling at the hair above his nape as he pounded Clyde's searing, tight ass. Their wedding rings dangled and swung from the chain necklaces around their necks.
Soon, he was thrusting so hard and fast that Clyde fell away from his mouth and dropped onto elbows on the bed, jerked back and forth, held precariously in place by his hands. He shifted his knees, spread Clyde's thighs even more, tilted Clyde's hips and oh, oh yeah, this new angle was it, he was hitting the right spot now with every thrust. Clyde was swearing a streak once more, quaking visibly, a fine sheen of sweat making his skin gleam under the warm lights of their bedroom.
"Oh yeah, oh yeah, right there, fuck me right there," Clyde moaned loud and lewd, clawing at the red sheets. "C'mon, give it to me."
Cole ground his hips against Clyde's ass and swooped down to bite the juncture of Clyde's neck and shoulder, next to the chain necklace, not too hard, with just enough teeth to send a thrilling bolt down Clyde's bowed spine, just the way Clyde liked it. Clyde cried out and fuck, it'd been a while since Clyde made a sound like that, since Clyde looked so destroyed and felt so pliant in his hands and around his thrusting cock, like he could mold Clyde into anyone he wanted Clyde to be, if he wanted to do that. He didn't. He didn't want to, ever, not when Clyde was just right, just the way he was.
"Phelan," Clyde rasped, turning partway onto his side and folding up his right leg, pawing at Cole's neck again and staring at him with those wide, liquid eyes like he was still too far away for Clyde's liking. "Phelan."
And he told Clyde how right Clyde was just the way he was, stating each word without qualm into Clyde's ear as Clyde groaned and came, spurting pearly streaks onto the sheets without ever being touched. He fucked Clyde through Clyde's orgasm, then his own. He gasped at Clyde clamping so good around him as his whole damn world spiraled and bloomed into profuse fractals of gold and blue and pink upon tan, thrusting once, twice, then one last time while Clyde caressed the back of his sweat-sodden head and nuzzled his face and rasped against his cheek with an exultant grin, "Yeah, yeah, that's it, so good." He collapsed onto Clyde who blissfully tugged him close and on top, turning him into a panting, limp human blanket still deep inside Clyde, deep as he could go.
"You really fuck like a dream, ya know that, Phelan?" Clyde murmured, still grinning, petting his tousled hair.
He'd replied with a sloppy kiss to Clyde's neck, then to Clyde's shoulder, then to Clyde's bristly cheek. Clyde had chuckled, the tiny furrow between his eyebrows nowhere in sight. They rolled away from the wet spot on the bed and lazed for a while, kissing each other when they had the energy again. They cleaned up in the en suite bathroom and changed the bed sheets and then settled in for a good night's slumber. Clyde had kissed him on the tip of his nose, then his lips.
"Good night, babe," Clyde had whispered then, pressing their foreheads together and cradling his cheek with one hand. "Love you."
"And I love you," he whispered in return, cradling the back of Clyde's neck as Clyde snuggled against his chest and tucked that golden head under his chin to listen to his enduring heart beat on. "Always."
He'd meant it then.
He still means it six hours later, when he awakens with a jolt in their bed to find Clyde panicking on the other side of their bedroom, unable to remember him at all.
V.
AFTER HIS VERY FIRST, very pathetic attempt to come out to Pa at the tender age of sixteen, it takes eight more years for Cole to come out to his parents, while on a very rare, CO-approved four-day leave from Fort Benning to visit them back home. He'd been tempted to come home for Christmas and do it then, but the thought of dealing with his other relatives - particularly his less-than-tactful, very conservative Uncle Ben and Aunt Karen who still try to wheedle him into joining their church to 'find a good, god-feari
ng Christian wife' - was enough for him to slap a big goddamn no on the idea.
Not that he wouldn't give a chance to a woman, good and god-fearing and Christian or not, if she wants to date him. The real question is whether she will give him a chance if she finds out that he's bisexual, just as sexually attracted to men as to women. He figures the answer is probably another big goddamn no, with a heaping pile of 'you're going to burn in hell forever, you filthy sodomite'.
He's had enough of that kind of shit already just listening to Uncle Ben go on and on about it during dreaded dinners with extended family over the years. The last thing he needs is a wife he has to delude into believing he's somebody he isn't. Yeah, he's bisexual and has already had two girlfriends so far - Amelia, back in senior high school, and Narumi, during the latter half of his West Point years - but it doesn't necessarily mean he's going to end up marrying and settling down with a woman. And marry and settle down with a woman who will never love him for who and what he is, for all of him? If he can't even envision that right now, what about kids? Drag kids into such a picture, and he'll end up with the kind of madness that can drive a man either to the bottom of a bottle until his liver dies on him or to the bottom of the sea until his breath runs out on him.
(Sometimes, sometimes, whenever he hears news about gay men being attacked and injured, being killed and he hears the outcries of encouragement across the country for these sinful sodomites to be lessened in numbers, he does wonder whether the seabed truly will be his final resting place one day.)
There's nothing to be ashamed of, being who and what he is. It's just the way he is. He's finally getting that now. What worries him isn't his state of being and how he sees himself. It's how Ma and Pa will see him after he comes out to them that does. For all he knows, today may be the last day he'll ever set foot again in this house he grew up in, this A-framed house with its limestone stairs, oak hardwood porch deck, brick-paved backyard and two-car garage.