Memento Amare

by G. D. Cox

  Phelan isn't here to answer him. Fabry has no answers either while standing where he is like a dark, ominous angel in that long, black leather coat.

  Clyde rubs the bare lengths of his sore arms that isn't covered by the short sleeves of his white t-shirt. He can feel goosebumps erupting all over them. He shivers as he shuffles out of the kitchen and onto the cherry-wood space between the kitchen and living room. Where did those things go? Why have they disappeared -

  He goes statue-still when he stands behind the black, leather-bound couch and faces the flat screen television. He stares at the white wall behind the television. At all that ... empty space. He stares with wide, uncomprehending eyes at the naked, white walls of the living room and he ... he can't process it. These walls aren't supposed to be empty. They're supposed to be crammed with framed photographs of him and Phelan, with breath-held snapshots of smile-luring, intimate memories. Snapshots of Phelan and Clyde, just two guys who somehow managed to meet in this vast, unfair, unpredictable, senseless world and found something even more immense and meaningful that made all the sense in the universe in each other.

  But they're ... they're all gone. They're gone.

  He stumbles past the couch and the coffee table to the naked, white wall that shouldn't be so. He presses his left hand over an empty space, below the tiny black hole where a nail used to be. Here, there was once a framed photo of him and Phelan in winter coats in the snow, smiling at the camera of the comm pad that Phelan held while he hugged Phelan from the side. He presses his right hand over another empty space. Here, there was once a framed photo of him and Phelan at Dees' Steakhouse, of him kissing Phelan hard on the cheek with one arm slung over Phelan's shoulders. Here, there was once a framed photo of Phelan in a navy sweater and those sexy, black browline glasses, smiling at him while he snapped the photo on their first date in that silly ice cream parlor. And here, here there was once a framed photo of them in their bed, tucked nude and close together under a blanket drawn up to their collarbones, and Phelan had been gazing at him with such fondness while he'd grinned like a besotted dumbass at the camera, like their world was going to go on forever and ever and they're all gone, they're all gone, Phelan took down all the photos, every single one of them -

  He slams his hands flat high up on the naked, white wall. He knocks his forehead against the wall and slams his hands on it again, harder. He can hear how harsh and ragged his breaths are as they flee from his open mouth. He scrunches his brimming, sore eyes shut but there's no more denying what Phelan did, what he forced Phelan to do.

  Phelan took down all the photos of them. Phelan took away anything that reminded him of Clyde.

  Phelan erased him completely, just like he erased Phelan from his mind, from his life.

  Phelan doesn't want him back. Phelan can't possibly want him back now. Phelan wants him gone, all of him. Phelan wants him gone, Phelan wants him gone and Phelan's going to die, Phelan's going to die because he wasn't there when Phelan needed him and he deserves it, he deserves to lose Phelan, to lose everything -

  "Jesus fuck."

  He's pressing his cold, shaking hands to his aching temples and he's burrowing his nails into his scalp -

  "Look at me, Barnett-"

  He's pacing the cherry-wood floor between the kitchen and living room, up and down, up and down, up and down and he can't stop, he can't stop wheezing -

  "Barnett-Cole!"

  He can't stop shaking his head from side to side and he can't stop pacing and he thinks that maybe if he hurls himself through the living room windows and goes down head first, the impact will probably kill him on the spot but if he's unlucky then he'll be a broken, bloody mess on the sidewalk and it'll probably take him a few more hours to die in the hospital -

  "BARNETT-COLE!"

  Fabry is abruptly standing right in front of him with a mere foot of space between their chests. Fabry is smart enough to not lay a hand on him. He'll break Fabry's hand if he does, he knows that for sure. He'll break Fabry's hand and then he'll break himself and then ... and then what will happen to Phelan? What will happen if Phelan survives and needs help to recover and comes back only to find that Clyde isn't here to be useful to him? To repent for his sins by serving Phelan in whatever capacity Phelan needs and wants? To be Phelan's slave if that's what it takes?

  Phelan will want him back, then. Phelan will let him stay, then.

  "Are you listening to me, Agent Barnett-Cole?"

  Fabry glowers down at him with those heavy-lidded, piercing eyes. He stares back with wide, glistening ones. He peels his stiff fingers from his scalp. He lowers his arms to his still heaving chest, then to his sides. He feels so cold. He feels so small and frail and cold, and there's a chance his legs are just going to give out on him and he's just going to go down on the floor and never get back up.

  "Yes, sir," he croaks, locking his knees in place, squaring his shoulders.

  Yes, his surname is Barnett-Cole. His name is Clyde Barnett-Cole, legally recognized by the state of New York in a sealed file that no one can access without Fabry's explicit permission.

  Fabry glowers at him for several more tense seconds. He stares back, prepared for whatever punishment his boss - one of Phelan's oldest and best friends - is about to dole on him for failing to keep Phelan safe, for hurting Phelan like no one else could.

  "Go get the things you need," Fabry says, and it's with a voice that thrums with something heavy, a voice edged with steel and yet rounded with softness. "Go on."

  Clyde's numb, cotton-stuffed brain can't process this ... kindness from Fabry. He'd expected Fabry to shout at him even more, to shout him down until he's cowering on the floor for being the pathetic, little slug he is. Clyde blinks at Fabry.

  Fabry says nothing else, his scarred face stone-cold and soulless.

  But Clyde now knows Fabry is anything but those things.

  Clyde turns away from Fabry. He turns his back on the naked, white walls of the living room. He totters past the kitchen and down the hallway to the master bedroom with its cream walls, taupe carpet, ornate dressing table and nightstands, their white, glass-globe lamps and dark red, silk taffeta curtains. He stands in the open doorway for a long time, staring at the army-neat, king-sized bed with its ornate, wooden headboard. It obviously hasn't been slept in for months. It's vacant and impersonal and colorless like a hotel bed when on any other day, it would have sheets in shades of red or brown - his favorite colors - to match the curtains and carpet.

  Phelan hasn't gone back into the en suite bathroom since that fucking stupid incident. Phelan hasn't slept in the master bedroom (their bedroom) since ... probably since that cursed night when his Croenian-gizmo-screwed-up brain turned his beloved husband into a stranger.

  It's still no excuse for how he treated Phelan. He should have been the one to sleep on the couch instead of Phelan. He should have been the one who moved his toothbrush out to the kitchen sink. Regardless of the amnesia, he should have given Phelan as many chances as Phelan wanted for them to work together to heal their relationship. Their marriage. He should have.

  He's wrong about his eyes being tapped out on tears after all, when he lurches to the walk-in closet with its half-open door and enters it to find a pile of cupboard boxes in one corner. He doesn't have to check the shut drawers to know that his clothes are in those boxes, put aside and out of sight and mind (just like he did to Phelan these past months). He doesn't see any of his clothes hanging up on the rails either. Just Phelan's suits.

  He zeroes in on a tailored, pin-striped, navy blue suit tucked in between two dark gray ones. It's still in pristine condition after eight years, as stunning as it was the very first time he saw Phelan wearing it in Fabry's extensive and grandiose office at HQ. The dark orange silk tie that went with it is probably still in its designated drawer under the suits along with Phelan's other ties.

  I'm saving this one for anniversaries, Phelan had said to him when they were lovers for mere weeks, the mushbag that he was. Like th
e day I met you. Like the day you became mine and I yours.

  The last time Phelan had worn it was for the private dinner at Dees' on their second wedding anniversary. Phelan, the mushbag, wanted the dinner there not only because it's their favorite dining haunt but because it was where Clyde had kissed him in public for the first time and ... Phelan may never have the chance to wear it again. Phelan may never wake up from his coma. Phelan may die anyway despite the best efforts of Bertillon and his surgical team.

  And it's his fault.

  His hands weren't the ones that smashed up Phelan's handsome face and treasured body, but they may as well have been. They may as well have Phelan's blood on them already, the moment he abandoned Phelan after vowing to stand united with Phelan in the face of all adversity, to love and cherish his husband for as long as they both lived.

  Clyde reaches for the pin-striped, navy blue suit with both hands. He clutches it tightly to his chest with both arms and he presses his face into its jacket's textured, wool surface. He can smell a hint of Phelan's natural, earthy and distinctive scent that's still so comforting and arousing. It's just a pale shade of Phelan's scent when he smells it directly from Phelan's skin, when he wraps his arms around Phelan and buries his face into the warm smoothness of Phelan's neck and hears that low huff of fond laughter.

  He hadn't breathed in Phelan's scent for months until now. He hadn't touched Phelan for months until he found Phelan in that disgusting, cold cell, when Phelan couldn't feel anything anymore.

  There are dark, damp splotches on the pin-striped cloth after he lifts his face from the jacket.

  "Shit, shit, what the fuck's wrong with you," he whispers gruffly to himself, thumbing the splotches that he can't quite see with his stinging eyes. "You dirtied it."

  He sucks in a noisy breath through a congested nose. Lets it go slowly out his parched mouth. He blinks hard, then several more times but his vision remains blurry and damp. It's ... it's okay. It's okay, he'll clean it before Phelan comes back. Phelan will never know the marks were there.

  He reverently hangs the suit jacket back on the rail between the two dark gray suits. He's numb, more numb than ever as he takes out the empty, black duffel bag he knows is in the farthest left drawer from the door. He removes a few of Phelan's boxer-briefs, soft sweaters and sweatpants from their respective drawers. He shuffles over to the pile of taped-up cupboard boxes in a daze and opens up the nearest one on top of the pile. He removes some random t-shirts from it. He opens up another box to find various sweaters in it.

  He doesn't know which box has his jeans. Or his underwear, or -

  He scrunches his eyes shut and shakes his head once before opening them again. Nevermind, forget it, he can just grab some standard-issued pants and whatever from the Supply & Services department at HQ later. He'll wear the goddamn prisoner jumpsuit if he has to (and it would be fitting for a schmuck like him). He doesn't care. It's Phelan's stuff that's important. Phelan needs to be comfortable. He's gone through this before, after Rio Rancho. It's nothing new. It's nothing new (and how messed up is his life that he can say that at all?).

  He has to get back to Phelan.

  He shuffles out of the walk-in closet with a half-full duffel bag that now also has Phelan's bath and face towels and pajamas. He's facing the dressing table as he comes out and so he also sees himself in the oval mirror when his eyes fall on the small, burgundy velvet box on the dressing table's oak top. In the mirror, his stubbly face is blank and pallid. His wheat-blond hair is a disheveled mess. His reddened, pink-rimmed eyes are wide as they stare at the velvet box, a box he hasn't seen in two years. Not since Phelan took it out of his suit jacket's pocket with both their rings in it in Fabry's office for their wedding ceremony.

  The duffel bag almost drops from his loose left hand as he staggers over to the dressing table. His right hand trembles as it reaches for the curved cover of the velvet box and carefully flips it up.

  Phelan's wedding ring is in the box. It's still attached to its silver chain necklace that's coiled up inside the silk-lined box underneath the ring. Phelan ... took his ring and necklace off. Phelan took them off and didn't put them on again.

  The duffel bag drops from his hand. He reverently picks up the silver chain necklace so he can unclasp it and slide the ring from it. He reverently grips the ring with the fingers of his left hand and he lifts it up to his face so he can see the Latin inscription engraved inside.

  Una in perpetuum.

  Together forever, and that's a promise, sweetheart.

  Clyde allows himself just one sob. He scrunches his flooding eyes shut. He curls his fingers in around the ring against his palm and presses his fist to his chest that feels as if a soiled knife has carved everything good and worthwhile out of it. It's okay, he deserves this pain. It's the least of what he deserves. He'd given up on them first and left Phelan with nothing. It's only fair that he is left with nothing now.

  He eventually slides Phelan's wedding ring on the fourth finger of his left hand. Their fingers are of similar width so the ring sits snug next to his own ring above his knuckle, two halves of a whole.

  Fabry is waiting with mute patience near the couch when Clyde leaves the master bedroom with the duffel bag slung over one shoulder. He trudges back to the kitchen to get Phelan's toothbrush and toothpaste. He chucks them into the duffel bag and then joins Fabry at the door.

  They say nothing to each other but then sometimes, some things have never needed to be said with words. Fabry rests a hand on his free shoulder for a second after they walk to the elevators, nothing more than a touch that slips away when Fabry steps forward to press the 'down' button on the wall between the two elevators.

  Don isn't the only one with a wedding ring stored safely away, with a loving and loyal wife who wears an identical ring on the fourth finger of her left hand.

  Clyde keeps his eyes shut for the entirety of the drive back to HQ.

  Fabry accompanies him all the way to the ICU. There, a blond, brown-eyed, middle-aged nurse in a white, sterile uniform greets them with a nod and guides them to Phelan's private room. She opens the door and then steps aside for them to enter the room.

  Clyde stares into the shadowed doorway, his left hand gripping the handle of his duffel bag tight against his shoulder. Clyde stands where he is in the cold, white hallway with Fabry at his side and he ... can't move. Fabry doesn't move either. He can feel Fabry's gaze on his face like a dragon's fiery breath charring him. He stands there, frozen in place like a goddamn idiot for what feels like a century while Fabry stares at him and the nurse's curious eyes flit between the two of them.

  What the hell is wrong with him? Why is he like this? He's finally going to see Phelan again after months of separation, Phelan who's still alive and he ... he can't move -

  "I'm sorry, only immediate family are allowed to stay with him for more than ten minutes."

  Clyde now stares at her instead with uncomprehending eyes. What? What ... what does she mean? Is she saying he can't stay with Phelan? He was permitted to stay with Phelan in the ICU after Rio Rancho. The nurses back then even let him sleep at Phelan's bedside and didn't kick him out unlike other visitors and he wasn't Phelan's husband yet so what is this, doesn't she know who he is, doesn't she know who he and Phelan are, doesn't she know who Phelan is to him -

  "He is immediate family," Fabry says to the nurse, and it's with a voice edged with steel but with no softness rounding it.

  The nurse's brown eyes go round and her face blanches at her boss' curt response. Her eyes flit to Clyde's hand still gripping the duffel bag's handle. To the two luxurious platinum, court-shaped rings on the fourth finger of his left hand.

  "Oh," she murmurs, her face coloring, her now sympathetic eyes flitting between the rings and Clyde's face. "I'm sorry. Of course. Yes, of course you can stay."

  If the nurses are still as addicted to gossip as he recalls, by noon the whole of HQ will know about him and Phelan being married. His homosexuality won't be a d
irty, little secret anymore. He can say goodbye to his manufactured public reputation of flirting with all the ladies, of being a straight, unmarried man.

  And he's ... really fine with that.

  In fact, he hopes the whole fucking world will find out he's a gay man in the longest, most fulfilling relationship he's ever had, with another man, no less. With Phelan Cole, the second scariest muthafucker on the planet who's a complete mushbag, who quirks those dark pink lips in that little smile that's his alone every time he tells Phelan how proud he is to belong to Phelan.

  Yeah. He's really fine with that.

  After another nod at them, the nurse flees and leaves them alone in the hallway. Fabry says nothing to Clyde and enters Phelan's room without glancing back. Clyde tries to sit down and relax on the row of beige-colored seats next to the room's door. He places the duffel bag on the seat next to him. He taps his right foot on the laminated floor. He wrings his cold, shaking hands on his lap. He turns the rings around and round his finger with the fingers of his right hand. He feels the rings' engraved inscriptions catch on his skin. He endures for about half a minute before he's up and pacing with his arms crossed over his chest, his lower lip chewed on and his brow creased with anxiety.

  He can hear Fabry talking to Phelan. Snippets of low and gravelly sounds, like stones clacking against each other in the rumbling belly of a seething dragon.

  In what feels like a heartbeat, Fabry is out of the room and in the cold, white hallway again. Clyde stumbles to a stop and stares at Fabry across six feet of open space, his arms still crossed over his chest.

  "Prepare yourself," Fabry says, expressionless.

  Clyde is still staring at Fabry as Fabry pivots and strides down the hallway to the ICU entrance. Fabry doesn't glance back at him once. Clyde remains outside Phelan's room for minutes more after Fabry disappears out of view.