by G. D. Cox
It's tempting to let go and drift past this gray ether into the darkness. To just let go and ... stay there.
There is, however, a callused, warm hand that is always grasping his. It keeps him tethered to this world despite the fact that the man he knows and loves (and he will, he always will) is gone from it. He focuses as much as he can on it, on its toughened areas of skin, on the way it strokes his fingers and inscribes motifs of love on his palms with languid motions and regardful fingertips.
The hand feels so familiar to him. The touch feels so familiar to him, as if he is reliving a memory of it. Many, many memories of it.
But who is this grasping his hand? Who is this, who sits at his bedside and grasps his hand so tenderly and speaks to him with that voice? That rich, enamored, respectful voice that tells him how much he's loved, how much he means to the possessor of that voice?
The voice says, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, babe. I love you so much. Come back to me, okay?"
The voice says, "I'm back. I'm really back and I'm yours forever. You'll know if you just come back."
The voice murmurs, "Just come back to me."
And the voice whispers, "Please."
He thinks he can stay here a while longer, if only to reply to that rich, enamored, respectful voice that should never have to beg that way:
There was someone I knew and loved, someone I know and love, who seems just like you. But he left.
There was someone just like you. Someone so much like you and we thought we would last but we didn't and now he's gone. I let him go. I have to let myself go, too.
Please let me go.
But the hand won't. The hand and its possessor keep him tethered here to this world where his asset, his best friend, his lover, his husband doesn't exist anymore. And he ... he wants to know why. He wants to know who this man is, who yearns so much for him to live on and touches him with such affection and devotion.
He remains mute and limp, breathing better with the nasal cannula that delivers oxygen into his nostrils. He lingers on the precipice of the gray, misty ether.
Now and then, he feels strong, muscular arms slide under his upper back and knees to rearrange his body on the bed.
"Don't want you to get bed sores now," that rich, enamored voice murmurs to him. "There you go. All tucked in, babe."
Now and then, a warm, damp cloth or sponge cleans him from head to toe with such diligence, such tenderness. Sometimes during these baths, he feels that callused, gentle hand stroke his hair. He feels droplets of water fall on his face when the cloth or sponge is nowhere near it. These droplets are searing. When they land on his lips, they taste salty.
Once, that rich, enamored, respectful voice explodes with anger, although not at him.
"He's my husband! You don't tell me that I can't take care of him, you hear me? No - no, I don't care that you think it's your job and not mine. I'm doing it. And it's my fucking right to be here!"
That voice shrinks to something soft and dulcet when its possessor returns to his side and speaks to him again.
"Sorry about that. I didn't mean to shout and disturb you. But I can't stand it when they tell me to leave and they think I can't do something as simple as give you a bath."
Cole is ... intrigued by this man. Very intrigued. It gives him even more reason to stay here a while longer.
"I'm such an asshole," that rich, enamored voice says to him one day, while its possessor is gently wiping his right hand and forearm with a damp cloth. "I'm such an asshole for leaving you the way I did. For hurting you the way I did when so ... when so many people have done that to me before."
Cole can't imagine for a moment how this sweet, remarkable man can possibly be an asshole in any way.
"You know all that, babe. You know how everybody left. I've lost all my blood family. Danny was the only one left and when we found out about the John Doe in that morgue in Detroit three years ago -" The voice hitches, then whispers, "Everybody leaves me, Phelan. But I don't want you to. Ever. I don't wanna lose Pa and Ma. I don't wanna lose you, too."
Danny ... Danny was the name of Clyde's older brother. What an intriguing coincidence.
"Let's go to Bora Bora again. For the ... the fourth anniversary," that rich, enamored voice rasps to him on another day, while its possessor is gently grasping his hand in that callused, warm one that makes his skin tingle and feel again. "We didn't get to do anything this year because of ... me. So ... yeah, we should do something really nice for the next one, right? We had such an incredible time there. The sting rays were cool. You remember how somebody lifted a sting ray behind us when we were taking that photo? You looked like you were gonna scream when you turned around and saw the sting ray's mouth right there. That was so funny."
Bora Bora? That's ... where he and Clyde had their honeymoon. What an amazing coincidence.
Who is this man? Who is this sweet, remarkable man who sits at his bedside and grasps his hand so tenderly and speaks to him with that rich, enamored, respectful voice about these memories?
He wants to know. He has to know.
He stands on the precipice of the gray, misty ether. He gazes down at the white light beyond the precipice. He listens to that rich, enamored, respectful voice speak to him again, and he wants to meet its possessor. He wants to not be alone anymore. He wants to go home.
He steps off the precipice.
He falls.
And when he opens his eyes, he finds himself staring up at a sterile, white ceiling. He turns his head to the left and finds himself staring at a golden-haired man slumped forward in an armchair at his bedside over a lowered guardrail, grasping his hand with a callused, warm one.
He blinks.
The man's spiky, golden hair is just like ... Clyde's. The man's big, wide-set blue eyes that are so much like a big cat's, that stare at him now are just like Clyde's. The man's charming, prominent nose and his full, supple lips, his sculpted jaw, his light stubble of beard that will surely scratch and tickle with each touch, they're all just like Clyde's, just like -
Clyde.
But ... Clyde, his Clyde, is gone. Clyde left because he hadn't been enough for Clyde, and Clyde is never coming back. Never. So who is this man? Is he hallucinating again?
The man whispers, "Phelan?"
Cole stares at the man with half-lidded, weary eyes. This man even says his name just like Clyde does. But ... it can't be Clyde. It just can't be. He just isn't that fortunate. No one is.
"Who are you?" he croaks in bewilderment.
The stark expression of dismay, of shock on the man's face will reside in his mind for days to come, once the mist has evaporated from it and he recognizes the man again. For now, he stares, unable to speak more, awaiting the man's answer.
The man's chapped lips part, then press together tightly as if the man is uncertain what kind of sound will unfurl from them.
"It's me, babe," the man rasps, his lips quivering into a semblance of a smile. "It's me. Clyde."
Cole stares on and on at the man's face, at the pinkness of the man's eyes and their puffy edges. He stares and he breathes and he is confused.
The man's smile wanes into a stricken expression. It's even more heart-wrenching to Cole than the previous expression of shock.
"Phelan. It's me. Clyde, your husband. I'm back. I really am."
Cole can barely scour up the energy to blink.
"No. My husband's dead," he croaks, point-blank, as confused as ever.
And point-blank like bullets fired is how hard his words strike the other man. He can see and hear it in how the man flinches from him with a plaintive sound. He doesn't know what exactly it is about his statement that makes the man's face crumple, that makes the man bow his head and press those callused, warm fingers to those big blue eyes gone red and wet. What he does know is that he's hurt the man somehow, and he never meant to. He really hadn't.
He has no idea how much time passes before the man raises his head again. The man gazes at hi
m with glistening eyes much more red than blue. He doesn't know who this man is, who looks and talks so much like Clyde but suddenly he yearns to touch the man's face. To kiss that high forehead and tell this man that everything's going to be okay.
"Okay. Okay." The man runs both hands down his face and sniffles once. "You just woke up from a week-long coma and you're spacing out on some hardcore drugs and I ... I was a complete bastard to walk away like I did, fucking amnesia or not. I know, babe, I know. It's okay. I'm gonna prove to you it's really me."
The man - such a handsome, remarkable and sweet man, just like his Clyde after Clyde learned what love is - drags his chair nearer to the head of the bed. He lets out a noiseless sigh when the man grasps his hand once more. The man's hand is just like Clyde's.
The man gives his hand a squeeze, then says huskily, "The first time we kissed, it was in your office here in HQ, over two years after we met each other in Fabry's office. You were wearing this tailored, charcoal gray suit, white shirt and this bright red tie that I'd never seen you wear before." The man's lips curve up into a soft smile that tugs at something in the left side of Cole's chest. "You were so gorgeous, standing there behind your desk with your back straight and your head level and gazing at me with those big baby blues like you were king of the world. You didn't even think twice about walking around your desk to meet me head-on despite the way I stormed in and slammed the door."
The man's smile subsides into something a little sad, a little poignant, like an old, creased photograph whose details have muddied with time.
"Even after what we talked about on the couch in the office, it still took me months to make a move. I guess I was still struggling with my internalized homophobia. With all that self-loathing. You already knew it at the time. You pretty much knew it from the moment you met me and yet, you never, ever pushed me. You never forced me into a corner. You gave me the space and time I needed to sort out my screwed up head. You knew how screwed up I was and you respected me anyway. You trusted me to be able to think things out. And that ... that was something nobody else had ever done for me before. It did crazy things to me, Phelan. Crazy, good things.
"So I guess it just had to be that I was the one who made the first move, right? I knew you definitely wouldn't do it, being my handler and all, and knowing how screwed up I was and not pushing me before I was ready. I just walked up to you and grabbed your face with both hands and kissed you."
The man's smile becomes an even softer one now. There's also a tinge of amusement to it.
"I think that was the first time I genuinely shocked you. You, the legendary Agent Phelan Cole. The Deadpan Master! You made this cute, squeaking sound and it was hilarious. I think you were about to trip or fall over or something and you grabbed my arms and held on and ..." The man puckers those full, supple lips and lets out a sound akin to 'woo'. "We were on that burgundy couch I like so much and oh man, I think we sucked on each other's faces for hours."
Cole's eyes widen and focus on the man. Wait ... wait, how does this man know so many details about his first kiss with Clyde? Details that only Clyde would know. How? Unless -
"Okay, technically we didn't just kiss. We kissed and we were grinding against each other and god, you were making the sexiest sounds into my mouth. We just did that until we came in our underwear. That was seriously hot."
The blush that spreads across the man's face tugs even more at that thing in the left side of Cole's chest.
This man, who may be ... Clyde.
Clyde?
"Okay, our first date." The man clears his throat. "We kinda disagree on this one, since you think our first date was when we ate together in the mess hall on the day we met and you thought you were already in love with me." The man rolls his eyes even as he smiles that soft, sweet smile again. "But me? Nah, I think it was when we went to that ice cream parlor near Central Park. It was about three weeks after our first kiss. We wanted to go earlier, but there was that dumb mission in Stockholm." The man squints at him and it's ... endearing. "You were such an ass that day. You kept calling me sweetheart in public, just to see what it'd do to me."
The man's expression softens again, and he says, "You were wearing those damn sexy black, browline glasses. You had this navy sweater on and jeans and that was the first time I saw you dressed so casually. You looked so relaxed. It was sexy as fuck." The man gives Cole a broad smile and it makes his face glow like morning sunlight seeping through the curtains of his bedroom, his and Clyde's bedroom. "I just ... I just couldn't get over the fact that we were actually going out on a date. Just the two of us, doing something regular like regular folks and nobody cared." The man shrugs and rolls his eyes again. It's just as endearing as the squint. "Okay, yeah, we probably did look like regular guys on a regular date so why would anybody think we were, ya know, secret agents, right? I wasn't in my Long-Shot outfit anyway. I was wearing jeans too, and a tank top under my leather jacket."
Cole blinks owlishly. Yes ... yes, he and Clyde did disagree on which date of theirs was officially their first. He had told Clyde that he considered their very first meal together as their first date, and Clyde had rolled his eyes (just like this man did) and called him a 'total corndog' and then looked at him and smiled anyway.
And this man ... knows all that.
This man, who looks and sounds and feels just like Clyde.
Clyde?
"You ordered this gigantic ice cream platter that had ten different flavors!" The man lifts his hands up in front of that exquisite face and spreads them one foot apart. "We're talking about a platter this big! It had flavors like jackfruit and Sichuan pepper and basil avocado and, oh my god, durian."
Cole's lips tremor at the man's wide-eyed, facetious expression. Yes, yes, he remembers how Clyde had reacted to the durian-flavored ice cream. Clyde had loved it and wouldn't admit it until Cole threatened to eat the rest of it himself.
"You slathered the whole thing with a ton of chocolate sauce and cashew nuts and these psychedelic candies and I was just ... I think my brain froze over before we were even halfway through. We actually finished the whole thing and didn't die straight away from sugar overload. Unbelievable."
Cole's lips tremor again. Yes, by the time half the platter was eaten, the flavors had begun to mix and were getting really interesting. He'd snickered when Clyde pressed fingertips to that high forehead and groaned due to an ice-cream headache, even when Clyde playfully kicked his foot under the table. He'd smiled when he rested his hand upon Clyde's on the table top and Clyde didn't pull away at all. Clyde had turned his hand palm up so he could squeeze Cole's hand back.
He'd been so proud of Clyde then, of how far Clyde had come since the days of assuming that gay men were weak and gutless and unworthy of respect, of love. He'd already been so madly in love with Clyde then. He already knew that he was going to spend the rest of his life with Clyde, if he was fortunate enough that Clyde wished the same.
And Clyde did. He did.
"And the first time we made love ... oh man."
Cole gazes raptly at this man now. At this man's crinkled, wide-set blue eyes so beautiful like a big cat's, at that charming, prominent nose and those full, supple lips and that sculpted jaw, that light stubble of beard that will surely scratch and tickle with each touch.
The man is grasping his hand again.
He turns his hand palm up. He gives the man's callused, warm hand a squeeze. Immediately the man squeezes back, using both hands now to clasp his.
"The first time we made love," the man murmurs, lifting his hand to those full, supple lips and then gripping it against a bristly cheek, gazing affectionately at him, "we were in our apartment. Well, it wasn't ours yet, because you didn't give me the second set of keys until months later. When you were sure I wasn't gonna freak out. Did I mention how well you knew me? Yeah, you did. You do."
The man plants a swift, soft kiss to the back of his hand.
"Before that, we went to this cozy Italian place in the East
Village. It had hundreds of wines to choose from. We had meatloaf and pancetta and this awesome black linguine with seafood. I knew you were planning something special for the night because it was a candlelight dinner, because you're just a mushbag like that. I didn't know what exactly, until we got back to the apartment and you ..." The man's face blushes so nicely. The man sucks in a long, noisy breath, and his eyes glaze over as if he's laying them upon something wondrous that's taking his breath away. "You lead me to the master bedroom and then you just stripped naked right in front of me and laid down on the bed. You were already so hard and leaking pre-come and you asked me if I wanted to suck you for dessert."
The man rubs a heated cheek against the back of his hand and oh, the beard stubble really does scratch and tickle so pleasantly.
"Fuck, of course I did. We only made out and gave each other handjobs until then. You were taking your time with me, letting me get used to physical intimacy with another guy. The real stuff, not the bad shit I forced myself to do just for money. I was dying to taste you by then. To feel you in my mouth, down my throat." The man's blush deepens, and it's so damn endearing to Cole. So ... familiar. "The only good thing I can say about my past experience is that I gave you an awesome blowjob that night. Fuck, the way you moaned and moved your legs and hips. You were so big in my mouth and my throat. It was so good, babe."
Cole lets his eyes flicker shut. God ... god, he remembers that night. He remembers Clyde licking those full, supple lips and then enthusiastically licking and sucking every inch of his rigid cock, particularly its head and underside, making his toes curl hard and his breath stutter in his chest. There were a few times when Clyde had swallowed him down too fast and almost gagged but oh, Clyde had been so good, so good. He wanted Clyde to enjoy himself too, to enjoy everything together with him -
"I knew things were gonna be even better when you made me stop sucking you before you came. You were so careful when you prepped me. You told me everything you were gonna do. You kept asking me if I was okay, telling me we could stop any time if I said so."