Memento Amare

by G. D. Cox

  He rubs his fingers across his mouth again. He should restore all the apps and notifications again, then check his emails and any missed calls and other messages (and that's if he still can and he hasn't already been severed from the GATF's internal comm services since his resignation). He does so via the settings page and ... holy shit, the screen's being overwhelmed by pop-ups of numerous new emails and missed calls and voice messages, each one accompanied by beeping noises. He feels just as overwhelmed skimming through the notifications, his brow creasing with burgeoning anxiety.

  At least ten of the voice messages and just as many missed calls are from Rajah alone. There are also missed calls from Don and Angela. He's got emails and more missed calls from GATF agents whose names and numbers he doesn't even recognize and holy shit, there are missed calls even from Phelan's parents as well as Fabry weeks ago. And based on the dates, most of these voice messages, missed calls and emails were made or sent within the past three days.

  What the fuck happened? Why is everyone suddenly so desperate to reach him?

  The terrible feeling in his bones returns and mounts with each passing second. It spreads to his chest, his belly where it coalesces into a colossal iceberg crushing his insides. His fingers shake as he selects and plays one of Rajah's voice messages, the latest one, through the comm pad's speaker.

  "Clyde! What the fuck, man! I know you took your comm pad with you so pick up or call me back, for fuck's sakes! This is Cole we're talking about here! Your handler! Your friend!"

  He stares dumbly at the comm pad's screen when the message has finished playing. These emails and calls and messages, they're about ... Phelan. They're about Phelan. Something's happened to Phelan, bad enough that all these agents have been trying to reach him for days.

  His fingers shake even more when he hastily scrolls down the list of new voice messages to the earliest one. It's ... it's from Phelan. Based on the time-stamp, it was sent around noon on the day after their disastrous dinner date at that Chinese restaurant. Phelan must have read his email, then. This voice message must be Phelan's response to it.

  He scrolls up the list of new voice messages to check if Phelan had sent any other. No, Phelan hadn't. Just this one.

  The breath he sucks in is as shaky as his fingers. It sounds wet, as if his nose is becoming congested. All these agents have been trying to reach him for days and they wouldn't be so desperate if Phelan's okay, which means ... which means that Phelan is ... Phelan is -

  He increases the comm pad's speaker volume to the max. He has to adjust his grip on the comm pad and clench his free hand into a taut fist to stop his fingers from shaking so much. They're still shaking a bit as he selects Phelan's voice message to play it. He then grips the comm pad with both hands, his knuckles going white.

  For several seconds, there is only a crackling silence. Then, he hears Phelan say his name. Phelan says it so clearly, so reverently with that resonant, sublime voice that his eyes instantly flood hot and stinging. His face starts to contort as Phelan speaks on:

  "Clyde. I just want you to know that whoever you choose to be, that whatever life you choose to live, I will always wish only happiness and freedom for you. You're right, it isn't fair of me to keep you in ... a cage. I've always joked about how you're so much like a big cat, a majestic creature, but you are one. A king of the land you roam. You're meant to be free. And if that means letting you go, then that's what I'll do.

  "Everything I have is already yours. There are some things willed to Nate, to Pa and Ma, but everything else is yours to do as you wish. The apartment will always be open to you. You'll become the sole owner anyway when I ... go. Nate will give you the necessary info then for everything else.

  "I love you, Clyde. I will always love you."

  The comm pad suddenly feels as heavy as the Earth itself to Clyde. His suddenly quavering, weak arms drop to his thighs but he clutches onto the comm pad, staring down at the lit-up screen. All the words and colored boxes on it have blurred into indistinct, fuzzy dots and shapes. Droplets of something scorching and wet are materializing on the screen and there's more of it rolling down his face and -

  Then, there's a click deep in his mind, like the unlocking of a gargantuan steel gate. A click, like the final and most essential piece of a puzzle slotting into its rightful place.

  And just like that, the wall between him and all his memories of Phelan is gone, and he remembers everything.

  The comm pad remains on his lap when he grabs at his head with both hands and cries out. He scrunches his wet, burning eyes shut. He's sitting hunched over in a car parked on the side of a deserted road somewhere in Denver and yet, he's also plunging into a universe-vast ocean of memories of Phelan, Phelan, going down and down into the endless depths of all the respect and admiration and affection and love he feels for Phelan and -

  He's walking up to Phelan for the very first time, lifting his hand to hold the large, warm hand that Phelan offers. He hears Phelan say to him, I'm Agent Phelan Cole, I will be your handler from now on, and -

  He's sitting next to Phelan at one of the many curved leather banquettes of vibrant red jewel tones in HQ's mess hall. He watches Phelan forking some ground beef meatloaf to dark pink lips that he can't stop looking at, can't stop thinking about and -

  He's sitting on the burgundy couch (that he adores so much) in Phelan's office and Phelan is sitting next to him, sorting through piles of paperwork with nary a frown and a loosened tie and he thinks, I love this man, I love him, I love him so much and -

  He's falling, down and down and down into all those precious memories, and he's standing in the doorway of Phelan's office with a couple of bottles of chilled beer in hand, giving Phelan a sincere, apologetic look. Phelan gazes back at him from behind his desk with one raised eyebrow, but there's a twinkle in Phelan's eyes.

  I really am sorry for punching Agent Levitt in the face, okay, he says to Phelan after sitting down on one of the chairs in front of Phelan's desk, after Phelan takes one bottle from him but doesn't open it. I just ... I do not like that word, sir. I just don't.

  I understand, Barnett, Phelan says, and he can tell that Phelan means it, that Phelan isn't just humoring him.

  Are you gonna write me up anyway, he asks, I mean, is this going on my record?

  Phelan gazes at him with those riveting blue eyes and says, I think your father should be glad he's dead and that I haven't figured out how to bring the dead back to life so I can kill him with my bare hands. Does that answer your questions?

  As they stare at each other, he feels his lips twitch up in a smile of surprise and awe and -

  Two years have passed, and they're in Phelan's office again, sitting side by side on that burgundy couch, contemplative in the wake of Phelan's forthright disclosure of his bisexuality. He's still abso-fucking-lutely blown away that Phelan is a bisexual man, that his GATF handler, one of the most admired and feared top-level agents in the entire organization is bisexual and yet so tough and courageous and everything Clyde's ever secretly desired in a man.

  Clyde, Phelan says, gazing at him with such kind and respectful eyes. You are not fucked up. This world may be fucked up but you are not.

  He gazes back at Phelan, agonizingly aware of how near and warm Phelan is. He murmurs, how do you know that?

  Phelan asks, do you think I'm fucked up?

  He's shaking his head before he knows it, frowning at Phelan.

  No, you're not, you're ... you're still the bravest, toughest, most noble guy I've ever known, he says without a doubt, with a heart that is beginning to know what love is. Instead of that slight quirk of lips, a smile is blooming across Phelan's face and it robs him of his breath, it robs him of his heart long before he even knows it and -

  He's sitting next to Phelan on the ledge of the rooftop of Phelan's apartment building under a starlit sky and a crescent moon. He has a half-full bottle of beer in his hands. He says nothing when Phelan removes the bottle from his hands and places it on the ledg
e next to Phelan's right hip.

  I wish I could go back in time, Phelan says to him, reaching for his hand, giving him ample time to pull away. I wish I could go back and hurt them all for treating you like they did in the circus.

  They're not worth it, he murmurs, trying to remember how to breathe again as Phelan clasps his right hand with his left, as their thighs and knees press together.

  It's worth it, Phelan murmurs back, if it means taking away even a little bit of your pain.

  And they sit there for ages afterward, their fingers intertwined, uncaring of their beer becoming lukewarm as they stare up at the stars and the moon and -

  He's facing Phelan in his assigned lodgings in HQ and he's sure, so sure that Phelan is going to pivot around and storm out and never come back, not after what he's just confessed: long ago (a lifetime, a whole lifetime ago), he'd tried to kill a guy just for calling him a homo. For branding him a queer, just like Phelan. He would have finished the job too, he's sure of it, if those other guys at the bar hadn't dragged him off and thrown him out.

  There's no way Phelan will want to work with him after this. There is no way Phelan will want anything to do with him after this, and the mere thought of Phelan gone from his life, of never seeing Phelan again, never speaking to him, never hearing his voice, never touching him again is ... fucking unbearable.

  Clyde. Clyde, look at me, Phelan says, cradling his face with both hands so tenderly and he does so, needing to blink a few times to clear his stinging vision. I'm here.

  He stares at Phelan, his lower lip tremoring. His eyes are surely pink and swollen around the edges and he must look so fucking pathetic and yet, Phelan is brushing the damp skin beneath them with gentle thumbs.

  You're not him, Clyde, Phelan murmurs, you're not your father.

  You're wrong, Phelan, he mumbles back, unable to believe that he may be this fortunate, that Phelan isn't leaving, that Phelan's staying with him. I am so fucked up, I am so fucked up that you don't even know.

  Phelan cuts off any other protest with a fervid press of warm, soft yet masculine lips to his, slotting their open mouths together as their noses skim and their beard stubble scrapes so nice against each other that he has to shut his eyes. Phelan's lips feel as incredible against his as they did the very first time they kissed in Phelan's office. They do, they do. Phelan is saying such goddamn sweet things into his mouth, guiding him back to his bed, lying on top of him between his legs, kissing and kissing him as if Phelan can't get enough of him. Phelan feels so right on top of him and in his arms like this. He wants them to stay like this forever, basking in the waves of heat and desire rolling off each other, not knowing where he begins and where Phelan ends.

  You're not that man anymore, Phelan whispers to him, but now they're in Phelan's bed in Phelan's apartment and he's aching all over like he's just had a twelve-hour workout in the main gym at HQ. That's what phenomenal sex with a phenomenal man does to him, apparently. Make him feel like a man reborn.

  He doesn't care that he choked up after coming so hard and so fucking intense with Phelan so deep inside him, like he's made for Phelan and nobody else. He doesn't care that he lost it anyway despite fighting himself, burying his damp, contorted face into the side of Phelan's neck and clinging onto Phelan's broad, dependable back while Phelan stroked his hair and shoulders and told him how gorgeous and amazing and just right he is.

  He doesn't have to lie anymore. He doesn't have to run anymore.

  No, I'm not him, he whispers to Phelan, his head tucked under Phelan's chin as he listens to Phelan's heart beat steady and strong under his ear. I don't have to be him anymore, when I'm with you.

  Then Phelan rolls them over so that he's reclined on the bed and gazing up at Phelan. Phelan swoops down to kiss his lips, his nose, his cheeks, and then they're in the living room and Phelan is handing him a set of keys and saying, this is your home too, and it hits him like a train that he finally has a place where he can be truly safe. A place where he can be just Clyde, just a man head over heels in love with another man who loves him back as much. It hits him like a leap off a fifty-story building that he has a home now, that home doesn't have to be built from bricks and cement, that home can be a person too.

  Thank you, he says to Phelan as they walk hand in hand to their bedroom.

  Thank you for not giving up on me, he murmurs to Phelan as they strip each other of their clothes, their armor, knowing that nothing can hurt them here, that they're invincible as long as they have each other.

  Thank you for loving me, he whispers to Phelan after they've made love yet again, as the sun rises above the city skyline and paints strips of golden light across their sated bodies on their bed. Thank you for loving me as I am.

  Thank you, sweetheart, Phelan says to him years later while they sit 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.

  And then he lands, and he's back in a rental car on the side of a deserted road in Denver. He's alone, all alone and crying like a tortured, wounded animal, filling the enclosed interior of the car with loud, harrowing noises laden with grief that no one can begin to fathom. The tears come fast and so do his breaths. He rocks to and fro and claws at his scalp with the fingernails of both hands, deep and injurious as his nails can go.

  The sorrow and loss and remorse that stab him over and over is worse, far worse than anything he's ever experienced in his whole life. He remembers everything, everything. He remembers those two fucking horrible weeks when he'd treated his best friend, his lover, his husband like the lowest vermin in the universe. (No, that's him, that's him.) He remembers every callous, selfish word and reaction he'd given Phelan while all Phelan had given him in return was patience and kindness. He remembers ogling women right in front of Phelan like pieces of meat, terrified of what other people would think of him being with Phelan when all he really wanted even then was to look at Phelan and no one else. He remembers every infinitesimal flinch that Phelan tried to conceal from him, every twitch of muscle in that firm lower jaw, every visible swallow that worked down Phelan's neck when Phelan thought he wasn't looking.

  And he remembers the last time he'd been with Phelan. He remembers his last kiss with Phelan, and pushing Phelan away. He remembers the pain in Phelan's wide eyes, so wide in that blanched, handsome face. He remembers the warmth of Phelan's chest under his splayed hand, the thundering beat of Phelan's heart slackening when his cowardly words sank in for Phelan. He remembers Phelan just standing there, frozen in place, as if everything good and worthwhile had been leeched out of him and all that was left was a husk of the person Phelan was.

  He'd done that to Phelan. He did. He'd hurt Phelan, again and again and again when Phelan never stopped being there for him, never stopped loving him even after he forgot him, never stopped until ... until -

  The undersides of his fingernails are fringed with red as he lowers hands still trembling to delicately grasp his wedding ring. His left hand folds around it, his right hand folding around his left. A fresh swell of searing tears blinds him. He lets them trail down his face as he stares sightlessly ahead. His chest shudders now and then with a wracking sob.

  Phelan's voice message wasn't just a response to his fucking horrid email. He knows a final farewell when he gives one, when he hears one. He knows why Rajah and Fabry and all the other agents were trying to reach him and still are, and he doesn't want to hear what they have to say about Phelan. He doesn't want to hear about him being too late, about Phelan gone.

  He now knows what it feels like to be a dead man walking. Lost without his soul, without its life-giving heat and love and quirked, dark pink lips and crinkled blue eyes behind black, browline glasses.

  He finally knows what it feels like when hope dies. He's alone, again. And as he squeezes sore and
wet eyes shut, as his face contorts once more and he bows a head heavy with a lifetime of regrets, he cries. He cries, like he never has before.

  An eternity later, in the shadows of the sun setting behind him, as a black SUV slows to a halt behind his car, only two thoughts circle around each other in the white-out daze of his mind:

  I wish I'd been the one stabbed with that kukri that day in Rio Rancho.

  I wish I'd never been born, if it means that Phelan still lives.

  XXXIV.

  COLE'S LUCKY STREAK runs out on the third mission he takes on since Clyde left. He's in fucking Croenia again, and he thinks there's something rather appropriate about his existence ending here, where the existence of the Clyde he knew and loved had also ended.

  He's in a bunker a lot like the one he and Clyde and their team had infiltrated the last time they were in this goddamn filthy, forsaken country. This may even be the same one, except that the GATF would know its location and he wouldn't still be sitting here tied up with ropes to a bolted down, rusted chair while surrounded by Croenian terrorists.

  "We are going to kill you, Agent Cole. Unless you talk and tell us where our device is."

  The terrorist fucker dressed in dark green fatigues who's standing in front of him and speaking to him has a truly heavy accent. The only reason Cole understands him is because the fucker is talking slowly and purposefully, glowering at him with gray eyes that resemble a corpse's. The fucker's already had a go at his face and stomach, but hey, they only tied him down. They didn't gag him.

  So he grins a skull's grin at Gray-Eyes and his lurking cronies. He opens his mouth and guffaws until he's throwing his head back from the mirth (the void) in him. He arches against his bindings. His laughter echoes in the spacious, windowless cell, and he laughs on when he sees how unnerved the fuckers are by his behavior.

  These assholes are hilarious. Look at them staring at him with those dumbfounded expressions. They're fucking hilarious, thinking that death will scare him in any way when it's what he wants.