Memento Amare

by G. D. Cox

  What does it say about this world that men are rewarded for killing another man, and punished for loving another?

  And here and now, he wishes he'd said, it's a fucked up place full of fucked up people, like me.

  Because it's true. He is fucked up. He has to be, for Melissa to leave him even when she loved him. For him to leave Phelan, even when Phelan loved him.

  "When we spoke on the phone that day, I could tell that you weren't in that cage anymore. You were so excited, so happy and free to talk about this guy you'd known for years through your work. This amazing guy who became your best friend, who became something so much more. The guy who -" Melissa lifts her head from his shoulder to give him a smile that's both fond and amused. "As you put it, the guy who never had to tame the wild animal that you were, because he loved you for you. And you chose him for life, just like he chose you."

  He snorts, but he also can't help smiling. He bows his head and shakes it once.

  "Oh, jeez. Did I actually say that?"

  "Yeah. You did. And I could tell you were smiling like a lovesick idiot all the way there in NYC."

  He shakes his head again. He stares down at his knees. Slowly, his smile diminishes, and his arms go tight around his shins again.

  He ... he doesn't remember his phone call to Melissa. He still doesn't remember anything about Phelan apart from that earlier flare of memory (that he may forget again, no, please). Are other memories of Phelan coming back? Or is that the only memory he's going to get? He may never remember anything else. He may never remember anything more than fragile flashes that tease him from the corners of his mind.

  This amnesia has robbed him of something, someone so ... significant. Someone he was fucking stupid enough to walk away from, someone he surely hurt. Someone he may never, ever get back now.

  "That was when I knew for sure that you'd finally found that someone. Someone who finally made you believe you really are worthy of love as you are. And you know what else I know?"

  Clyde glances at Melissa. Her lips are bowed up in that old, affectionate smile, and something in the left side of his chest aches so bad.

  "What?"

  "That even though you can't remember him right now, you still love Phelan. So very much."

  His arms crush his folded legs to his concave chest. He knows how damn defensive he must appear, how vulnerable. But this is Melissa who's sitting next to him. Melissa, who'd treated him only with kindness when he failed to sexually satisfy her, when he lashed out in frustration and ... and self-loathing, so much of it that it had killed whatever relationship they had and made her walk away from him for good. Melissa, who treats him only with kindness, even now.

  He stares at her with stark, stricken eyes.

  "How do you know that? How could you know when I don't? When I -" He swivels his face away and shuts his eyes, whispering, "When I left him without even saying goodbye. Like the fucking coward I am."

  When Melissa touches his bicep again, he feels only her smooth skin and warmth. He feels a compassionate touch that anchors him, that salves him. A touch so much like Phelan's ... but can never be as much as Phelan's.

  "Oh, Clyde. Honey. Your wedding ring is still hanging from your neck."

  His eyes snap open at that. He dips his head to glance down at his chest and ... god, there it is. There it is, that luxurious platinum, court-shaped ring, still dangling from its silver chain necklace over his black t-shirt, gleaming in the afternoon sunlight. It's been there all this time, over his chest, his heart.

  He grasps the ring with the trembling fingers of his right hand. He squeezes his fingers around it.

  He'd forgotten it. He'd forgotten it was there, having become so used to it so quickly. It isn't like he hasn't taken it off before. He's had to do it every time he had one of those brain scans done and he needed to get into those gigantic, whirring machines. But after those scans, he'd put it back on, every time. He'd leave the ring hanging from its necklace around his neck even when he showered in the bathroom attached to the master bedroom of their apartment (wondering which shampoo and soap on the rack Phelan uses, wondering if Phelan will notice if he used them).

  He's had numerous opportunities to take off the necklace and ring and store it away out of sight, out of mind. Yet, he ... never did that. He never even thought of doing that, not once -

  His eyes scrunch shut in a wince when his awful headache ramps up its assault. His fingers clench spasmodically around his ring, his wedding ring and he's ... he's in their apartment in NYC again and he's standing face to face with Phelan in the living room next to that black, leather-bound couch. Phelan's large hands are grasping his callused ones.

  I'm not that guy anymore. I'm wiser now. I'm better. And it's all because of you, babe. Thank you.

  No ... wait, no, he's still in Denver, he's still sitting next to Melissa on her front porch step but he's also standing in front of Phelan and he's gazing up at Phelan and he can barely see the guy through the hot, stinging film of wetness over his eyes. Phelan's hands are roaming over his wrists and up his arms, caressing their length as if Phelan is venerating them. Phelan is leaning forward, bringing those dark pink lips nearer and nearer to his lips and he surges forward to collide their mouths, molding them together hot and sweet and oh, oh, this kiss is even better than that other kiss that he so foolishly broke by shoving Phelan away (before he left, he left). Yes, this kiss is real and mutual. This kiss is a covenant and -

  Phelan, I promise to stand united with you in the face of all adversity and bask together in the light of good fortune. To love and cherish you freely, honestly and without hesitation. To accept you just as you are, in sickness and in health, for richer or poorer, for better or worse, and forsaking all others for so long as we both shall live.

  And now, he's ... he's in Fabry's office at HQ, and he and Phelan are standing face to face in front of a smiling woman holding a small, black book in her hands. She ... she's their officiant. She's the officiant of their wedding and Phelan is kissing him and he's kissing Phelan back and ... this is a memory too. This is the memory of their wedding ceremony in Fabry's office, just like Phelan said so -

  Nunc scio quit sit amor. Now I know what love is, and it's all because of you, babe.

  Una in perpetuum. Together forever, and that's a promise, sweetheart.

  The ring - the very one in his grip right now - fits perfectly on his finger as Phelan slides it on. Phelan is smiling like an idiot, such a lovable idiot and he's laughing like such an idiot but Phelan just keeps on smiling and smiling and kissing him again. Hell, Fabry even has a twinkle in his eye, which makes him look even more terrifying and -

  "Clyde?"

  His memories of Phelan are coming back. They're really coming back and he ... he can tell, somehow, that what he's seen and felt so far are just pale shades of their fullness, their immensity. He can feel something blocking him from them. What he's seen and felt so far are just pathetic, pale shades of those memories and yet, the joy that reigns is akin to the joy he feels every time he fires a weapon and strikes his mark dead on, every time he completes a mission with zero casualties and injuries.

  He's ... he's happy with Phelan in these memories. Genuinely happy and free. There's no fear at all, no suspicion, no panic, no aversion in him when Phelan smiles at him and touches him and holds him like he's ... like he's some irreplaceable treasure.

  God, everything Phelan said about him, about them ... is true.

  "Hey, open your eyes, Blondie. You're starting to scare me a bit here."

  These tiny glimpses of memories aren't enough. They're not. He wants to remember everything. He wants to remember everything he's shared and lived with Phelan. He wants to feel everything again, not this bone-deep numbness, this walking death he's been since waking up in their bedroom with all his memories of Phelan gone and Phelan ... Phelan is the one, the only one who can help him do that. And he ... he'd so fucking stupidly pushed Phelan away when Phelan's the answer to everything, eve
rything -

  He gasps aloud at yet another bombardment of pain upon his brain, cruel jolts like gunshots to his system (and he knows what it's like to be shot and it doesn't hurt less each time). He can feel both of Melissa's hands upon him, one on his arm and the other on his upper back, but in his pounding brain, something's just slammed like a gargantuan steel gate. He feels like he's been cut off from the sun, like he's suddenly gone blind and everything he just saw and felt are becoming feeble glimmers, paler and paler.

  Oh god, oh fuck no, the memories he's just gotten back are dimming. He's starting to forget them, isn't he? He's starting to forget again and he doesn't want to, he doesn't, no, no! NO!

  "Clyde!"

  He hunches forward even more. His forehead presses hard on his knees. His hand tightens even more around his (his!) wedding ring. He clings onto the memories he has with everything he's got and the pain in his head explodes like a shock wave throughout his body. He groans low and curls in on himself. Oh god ... oh god, this pain he's feeling now, all this pain is just an inkling of what Phelan must have felt for those two weeks when they were physically together and yet worlds apart. An inkling of what Phelan must have felt after he pushed Phelan away and walked out the door and never went back, never said goodbye because he ... because he didn't want to say goodbye. He never wanted to say goodbye.

  The pain in his head and body takes eons to recede. There's a vast void in him now, one he feels so keenly that he's sick to his stomach. He grinds his forehead on his knees and wraps his arms around his shuddering torso. He sinks his teeth into his lower lip to not cry out again, to not rock to and fro with the horror of it.

  What has he done? What has he done to a good man who never stopped being there for him? Who never stopped loving him even after he forgot him?

  He has to go back to NYC right now. He has to go back to Phelan and apologize. Go down on his knees and grovel at Phelan's feet and never get up again if that's what it takes, if it'll even begin to mend the damage he's inflicted. He has to go back to Phelan before it's too late.

  "Okay. Okay, I'm calling an ambulance -"

  "NO!"

  He's seized Melissa's wrist before he even thinks of the action. She doesn't flinch from his shout. She sits calmly on the front porch step beside him, her arm relaxed in his grip. She's staring at him with such worry in her sweet, brown eyes and he doesn't deserve it, he doesn't deserve her concern at all.

  He doesn't deserve Phelan at all.

  "No, I'm ... I'm okay. I'm -" Clyde swallows past what feels like a humongous, jagged rock in his throat. He coughs, then says with a gravelly voice, "I ... I'm starting to remember him again. I have to go."

  Melissa's eyes widen with a mixture of surprise and relief. She gets up together with him as he pushes himself off the front porch step and onto his feet. He stands on rickety legs, staring blindly ahead, and he doesn't push her away when she grasps his forearm to steady him.

  "Are you sure you can drive?"

  He nods, then squares his shoulders and nods again with more determination. He can drive. He has to, if he wants to rush back to NYC now. There's a sudden, terrible feeling in his bones, like flesh-eating beetles gnawing away at his marrow. It's the same feeling he gets when things are about to get fucked up beyond all recognition on a mission. When he doesn't know whether he's going to go home this time.

  When someone's going to die.

  "I have to go, Melissa," he rasps. He shivers, suddenly afraid, so afraid for Phelan.

  "Okay, Clyde," he hears Melissa reply gently.

  He allows himself to hug her when she wraps her arms tight around his waist. He staggers away from her, from her front porch. He staggers down the stone path to his rented car with his arms crossed over his chest. He turns around to look at her when he reaches it. She looks back at him with a bittersweet smile, her brown eyes clear and dry again, gleaming with something like hope. Something like the final farewell they both need.

  "If he loves you even half as much as you told me he does," she says without any doubt, with a heart that knows what love is, "he'll take you back, no matter how long it takes for you to return to him."

  And you'll be his, forever, and he yours.

  But this, Melissa doesn't say aloud. She doesn't have to.

  He says thank you, says goodbye to her with a bittersweet smile of his own, for one last time. He feels her eyes on him as he climbs into the car. He doesn't look back at her as he revs the car and maneuvers it onto the road and away, away.

  He can probably get out of Denver by nightfall and just keep going as far and long as he can back to NYC. Without any stops, it's at least a 28-hour drive. He's gone through far worse on far less sleep and food. He'll stop only if he really has to for those things. He can pump himself up on caffeine and keep his foot on the pedal and keep going, just keep going, go, go, go -

  Clyde, that is your third cup of coffee. You want to stay awake, not fly through the roof and keep going up.

  Oh, it's another memory coming back to him, and Phelan's naked in this one. Phelan looks so damn gorgeous in the morning sunshine like that, haloed from behind by golden light cascading in through their kitchen windows. Phelan's sipping coffee from a black mug that says 'Big Boss' in white, serif typeface and he ... yeah, he was the one who'd bought Phelan that mug. Phelan's leaning back against the curved kitchen island with one hand on its polished, marble surface. Phelan has those glasses on again, those sexy glasses that make him so sophisticated even with no clothes on -

  Nah, babe. I got you for that.

  Oh fuck, he's naked in this memory too, showing off his bod and arms for Phelan, sipping from his own maroon mug and leaning over the marble counter also with one hand on its surface. He's arching his back the way Phelan likes so much, showing off his ass that Phelan can never deny. He peers at Phelan from under his eyelashes and grins when Phelan's big, blue eyes fall on his outstanding ass and -

  You keep doing that, and I'll fuck you again.

  Maybe I want you to, Phelan. Maybe I want you to make me fly through the roof and keep going up with your big, hard cock instead until I'm screaming the place down. You thought about that? Hmm?

  Oh, oh fuck, his cock's gone rock hard in his jeans, just like that. Hard as it is in the memory, hard as Phelan is thrusting in and out of him against the kitchen island and making him scream the place down just like he demanded and not giving a damn who hears them. Fuck, he's never gotten so hard so fast before, not with any of the women in his past. None. Not even Melissa. Not even close. Not even close -

  Clyde swerves the car onto the side of the thankfully deserted road and parks it on dry grass and bare soil. He has no idea where the hell he is but he doesn't see any houses or buildings nearby, just trees with verdant leaves filtering late afternoon sunshine. The shadows of those leaves dapple his face as he knocks his head back against the headrest and shuts his eyes. His breaths are loud and jittery in the enclosed interior of the still-running car. His hands are trembling fists on his thighs. Even with the memory retreating to the background of his mind now, he's still hard and pulsing in his jeans, feeling such a good ache in his ass, the phantom feeling of Phelan's cock inside him.

  Ah, if he just pulls himself out now, all it'll take is maybe one or two tugs to come.

  But he ... he won't. He can't.

  He doesn't deserve that pleasure. Not as long as he hasn't made amends with Phelan. Not as long as he hasn't groveled at Phelan's feet and received his due punishment. Over and over and over if it has to come to that, and maybe even after that. His pleasure is irrelevant. His pleasure is meaningless.

  He has to go home to Phelan. That's what matters right now.

  He opens his eyes and lowers his head to gaze out the windshield with heavy-lidded eyes. He ignores his erection. He lets it subside without a single touch to it. He ... still has no idea where he is, but he's got GPS on his comm pad. It will guide him back to NYC like it guided him here to Denver. It will -

 
Wait.

  His GATF comm pad.

  Why the hell is he waiting to communicate with Phelan until they're face to face when he can call Phelan?

  He glances at the comm pad laid flat on the car's wireless charging pad next to the driver's seat. He plucks it up and unlocks the screen to see the GATF logo on it. His left forefinger hovers over the call icon at the bottom of the screen.

  He really does want to talk to Phelan again, but what if ... what if Phelan doesn't want to? What if Phelan doesn't want to talk to him at all? What if Phelan doesn't want to take him back, despite what Melissa said?

  What if Phelan wants nothing to do with him, now?

  Especially after reading that email he sent?

  He chews on his lower lip, a groove of anxiety forming between his eyebrows. Maybe he should check his email first. Maybe Phelan replied him.

  He opens up the email app. He isn't surprised at the amount of new, unread emails in his inbox. He doesn't bother looking at them and goes straight to the Sent folder so he can immediately check for a reply from Phelan.

  There isn't one.

  So ... did Phelan read it or not?

  Clyde lets out a short sigh and rubs the pads of his fingers across his pursed lips, still gazing down at the comm pad's screen. Why wouldn't Phelan read the email? Especially after the way he left? Phelan would have to have been at least curious about what he said in it.

  He sighs again and rubs the same fingers against his aching temple. Shit, why would Phelan reply to it? Why would Phelan even bother to reply to such a deplorable, selfish thing?

  Phelan never deserved it in the first place. Phelan deserved so much more than an unsigned, dishonest email.

  And that's the real problem, isn't it?

  Clyde's been dishonest, been lying to himself and to Phelan from the start. He's gay. He has always been gay. Even Melissa knew that. Phelan knew that, probably from the moment they met. He doesn't remember their first meeting, not yet, but if there's one thing he knows about Phelan by now, it's that the guy is a really smart and sharp one.