by G. D. Cox
He has to shut his eyes to dispel the macabre image of what would occur next: the bullet striking Clyde's skin and splitting it, then penetrating his flesh, shattering bone, ripping through the fleshy creases, neurons and synapses of his brain. That's if the bullet's fired from someone else's gun. Or if Clyde holds the muzzle of the gun to his temple. Clyde had told him once that if he were to kill himself, he'd put the gun in his mouth instead and vaporize his brain stem and ensure no surgeon in the world could put him back together.
Cole never wants to see that. Cole never wants that to happen. Never.
He's already had his share of seeing loaded guns aimed at Clyde's head, of seeing the triggers pulled and the eruptions of white, blinding light that follow. Each time, his heart had stopped in his chest until it was evident that the bullets had missed Clyde's head, often by scant inches, thanks to Clyde's excellent reflexes and speed.
"I'll be ready," he says to Dr. Fisher, and she gives him a benevolent smile that says, I know you will be and you've proven over and over that you're strong enough, for both of you.
In the weeks after he's discharged from the ICU and back in their apartment (theirs again) and on the long, winding road to a full recovery, he thinks that an erratically firing gun is an apt analogy for the invisible assault upon Clyde's mind and mental well-being. Sometimes he'll find Clyde standing statue-still in the middle of the living room between the coffee table and couch, staring blindly at white walls no longer naked with eyes more red than blue. He'll say Clyde's name, touch Clyde's shoulder when Clyde doesn't respond, and then Clyde will jolt out of his dazed state and turn to him and let himself be hugged tightly. Sometimes he'll find Clyde curled up into a ball on their bed, cocooned in their blankets with only that spiky, golden hair peeking out, deaf to any calls of his name until Cole spoons Clyde from behind and envelopes Clyde in his arms, blankets and all.
Sometimes, in the dead of the night, he'll find Clyde pacing up and down the spacious, cherry-wood floor between the living room and kitchen in the dark, hugging himself with those muscular arms around a hunched torso as if Clyde is cold and alone and still can't find his way home. He'll switch on the lights and instantly, every time, Clyde darts to him and into his arms.
Clyde doesn't dare to sleep. Clyde stays awake for as long as possible until his body collapses from exhaustion, and then he'll jerk awake in a panic, searching for Cole until he can see and touch Cole and never let him go again. Clyde's frightened that he's going to wake up and lose all his memories of Cole again. Clyde tells these things only to Ma via hushed phone calls in the living room, when Clyde thinks that Cole's asleep in the master bedroom and can't hear Clyde speak with that hoarse, boyish voice that makes something in his chest ache deeply.
But most times, he'll find Clyde always near and prepared to help him in any way possible with his ongoing recuperation, with everything from buying groceries to cleaning the apartment to cooking their meals to assisting him with bathing. The last task is particularly challenging since his most severe wounds are on his lower back. He can scarcely see them in the mirror with his head turned, much less properly change the bandages without some imaginative, circus-like contortion. (That's more Clyde's area of expertise.)
Dr. Fisher's guidance regarding triggers is at the forefront of his mind when Clyde is triggered in the bathroom one afternoon after a warm bath in the tub. Clyde is applying ointment to his stitched-up, healing scars that were once gaping, infected wounds. Clyde is no stranger to the many scars on his body, but the new scars on his lower back are overwhelming in their power to wrench all of Clyde's guilt and self-hatred into the open like pliers taking out a bullet from bleeding flesh.
He can tell whenever Clyde is triggered from the way Clyde's hands are abruptly quavering, from the way Clyde is abruptly blinking glistening eyes and trying so hard to behave as if nothing is wrong. This time, when he glances over his shoulder at Clyde, he sees Clyde trying so damn hard to hold back waves of emotions, those beautiful, blue eyes pinched and those lips pressed together pale and hard in an effort to make them stop tremoring. Clyde is staring at his exposed lower back. He still feels Clyde's eyes on it when he turns his head away to face forward.
He says nothing about Clyde's frail emotional state. He knows it's the last thing Clyde wants. He knows what Clyde needs is for him to just be there. To be ready to catch Clyde whenever Clyde falters and falls, like Clyde does for him.
When Clyde embraces him from behind with those strong, brawny arms, when Clyde buries a damp face into the crook between his neck and shoulder, he grasps Clyde's forearms with both hands. He leans his head against Clyde's and makes mild, assuaging sounds and shuts eyes that aren't dry.
The pain doesn't last forever. It never does.
Here in this sanctuary they've made for themselves, they are simply Phelan and Clyde. Here, they take off their armor the moment they step through the front door and shut it behind them, be it a tailored suit and tie or a custom-made, black-and-red combat suit. They lock their weapons away, be it pistols or tactical knives or disagreements in the line of duty as GATF handler and asset (but these are rare, so rare now that they are more committed to each other than ever). Here is where he and Clyde can be emotional and vulnerable and whatever else they need to be, protected and buoyed by each other through every storm.
They rebuild the bulwarks of their sanctuary by hanging back all the framed photographs of them in their rightful places on the white walls of the living room. They do it together on Dr. Fisher's recommendation. They take hours to do it, mostly because they reminisce over each one, sitting snuggled on the couch with his arm around Clyde's shoulders, listening to Clyde chatter animatedly and banish the dense, suffocating silence that had permeated the entire place (and him, and him):
"Oh my god, do you remember this, Phelan? I took this just before that goose charged at you and made you shriek like a little girl. That was so funny. We gotta go back to that area of the park again, just to see if that goose is still there."
"You look so freaking hot here. Only you could make a pink paisley tie look fashionable."
"The steak was really good that night, wasn't it? You remember how many we ate? That's right, three! And don't look at me like that, babe. How was I supposed to know it'd give me so much gas?"
"I love this one. For once your teeth are actually showing in a smile and so are mine."
"Wow. Did we actually hang this one up here? I know we got one with the blankets up to our collarbones but look at this one! If it wasn't for that bit of blanket there, it looks like I'm naked!"
"Oh, here it is, that hilarious sting ray photo from Bora Bora. Oh man, it's still as funny as ever. Look at your face!"
By the time they're done, he's flattening Clyde down on the couch with his whole body, kissing and sucking on those full, supple lips (although nothing more strenuous than that, unfortunately, until he's more hale). With each crush of their lips, they're renewing their bond, their lifelong vows to each other.
There are other things to be put back in their rightful places throughout the apartment, but they leave those for another day. They have time. They have time now.
Also on Dr. Fisher's recommendation, they let trusted GATF agents into this precious, shielded territory of their life, namely Don, Angela, Rajah and Henry. They're aware of the privilege they've been granted and it shows in their deference towards the apartment when they step inside for the very first time, filing in as a group.
"Phelan, I cannot believe you hid this place from us all this time!" Angela says as she takes in the living room and kitchen, looking like the 'hot mama with a dazzling smile' as Clyde still describes her in a boho-style, spaghetti-strapped maxi dress.
Cole, in a more subdued navy sweater that's loose over his bandages and khakis, quirks his lips up and replies, "Technically, I didn't hide it. It's just that nobody's ever asked me where I live."
Don, in a dark gray henley and jeans, says with a deadpan face, "I always ass
umed it was your office at HQ."
In a white tank top and jeans, standing next to Cole, Clyde lets out a snort at that and says, "Ya know, I used to think that too. I thought that burgundy couch was his bed or something."
"I do nap on it," Cole says, straight-faced, giving Clyde a long glance. "Among other things."
Henry, in a black polo shirt and brown slacks, snickers while Don breaks his deadpan face with a slight smirk.
Rajah, who is also in jeans and a canary-yellow graphic t-shirt, goes straight to the living room to ogle at all the framed photos on the walls. He is utterly enthralled by the full-color glimpses of Clyde and Cole as regular guys who apparently go on many dates, do all kinds of mushy, couple-y stuff and are, as Rajah will also later remark, 'selfie pros who'll make teenage girls on Instagram cry'.
"Heeeey, you know, if these pictures ever got out," Rajah says to Cole with an exaggerated expression of innocence while pointing his forefinger at a photo of Cole and Clyde smiling at the camera with green foliage in the background, "you realize nobody will ever believe you are one of the scariest muthafuckers on this planet anymore, right?"
Cole stands with his hands in the side pockets of his khakis behind the couch. He stares at Rajah with an impassive face for several seconds.
"I'd like to see you try getting them out," he replies.
Then, he slowly arches his lips up in a small, dangerous smile. He watches the Adam's apple in Rajah's throat bob hard in a nervous gulp.
"Uhm. I was just being, uh, hypothetical. You know that, right? Right, Clyde, my bro, my bro-for-life who values my life?"
Cole still has that small, dangerous smile (and twinkling eyes, but that's between him and Rajah) when Clyde laughs and hugs him from behind with both arms around his midriff.
"Phelan, be nice to the guests," Clyde murmurs against his shoulder, grinning. "You're not supposed to eat them."
"You do have a point there," Cole murmurs back, turning his head until his cheek is pressed to Clyde's. "I only eat you."
He feels no regrets whatsoever (and not a small amount of satisfaction) when Rajah groans and slaps both palms over his ears and exclaims, "Noooo, too much information! Too much information!" while the others crack up.
Clyde is a spirited mass of smiles and laughter for the rest of the evening. He and Cole had already picked up food from Dees' before the other agents arrived, and they all enjoy a scrumptious dinner of shrimp and lobster dumplings, onion rings, lobster salad with avocado, the restaurant's popular mutton chop and grilled chicken in lemon and olive oil. They sit on the couch and on cushioned foot stools - or in Clyde's case, on the floor in front of the coffee table - in the living room, bantering with each other and avoiding all conversations about work. Rajah joins Clyde on the floor from a foot stool at some point to steal Clyde's dumplings from his plate, which devolves into the two brats wrestling each other over the last dumpling and Clyde sitting on Rajah while triumphantly lobbing said dumpling into his mouth.
Somehow, even after this childish display, Cole falls in love yet again with his mischievous, multi-skilled, misfit of a husband.
For dessert, Clyde wows everyone with his homemade crème brûlée. Don and Rajah gobble down bowls of it. Henry asks for seconds with a sheepish expression. (His wife, Mai Lin, has him on a strict low-sugar diet but no one's going to tell her about homemade crème brûlée seconds if he doesn't.) Angela has no shame at all in stealing some of Cole's crème brûlée while he's chatting with Don about Chevrolet car parts and maintenance.
Throughout dessert, they watch TV together. Clyde is on the couch with Cole and Angela while Rajah sits on the floor and leans back against the couch and Clyde's legs. Henry and Don take up the cushioned foot stools and munch on the remaining onion rings and grilled chicken. Cole has no idea what the TV show currently on screen is about other than that it's about a fictional anti-terrorism agency in an alternate world where extraterrestrials exist. They crack jokes and laugh at all the unrealistic and unprofessional things that occur in this episode alone.
"Hey, Cole," Rajah says during a scene featuring the lead actor and one of the female minor characters. "He kinda looks like you, suit and hair and all. Am I right, huh, guys?"
Don and Henry snicker at that. However, it's when Clyde mutters, "Does not, Phelan looks a million times hotter," that the two men laugh aloud while Rajah turns his head to gaze up at Clyde with large, puppy-dog eyes and goes, "D'awwww!" Even Angela is laughing as Clyde stomps bare feet on a now guffawing Rajah's upper back and yells, "Shut uuuuuppp!"
When Clyde settles back against Cole's side and shoulder, Clyde is still grinning from ear to ear.
Yes, Cole clearly sees how happy and liberated Clyde is now that their peers, their friends know about them being men in love and married. (Cole still owes Don one for his 'big mouth' that resulted in Clyde confronting him in his office about his bisexuality, about Clyde's homosexuality so many years ago.) Cole sees their chosen family surrounding them, protecting and buoying them like they do each other, and he too is happy and liberated.
Still, there are days when Clyde's guilt and self-hatred are mightier than their newfound happiness.
Clyde is triggered repeatedly whenever he stands at a very specific spot near the kitchen's curved, central island, frozen in place with shaking hands and shuddering breaths. It takes Cole weeks to finally realize why and when he does, he has to go statue-still himself, shutting his eyes at the blunt memory of Clyde telling him he wants to take a break, telling him he wants to leave. That specific spot is where Clyde had stood behind him that night, after their disastrous dinner date. Where he'd desperately reached for Clyde and kissed Clyde and gave Clyde everything, everything he had in it, and Clyde had pushed him away and walked out. (Until he returned, he returned.)
He knows that Clyde remembers those many weeks of amnesia, now viewed through the eyes and heart of a man who also remembers everything else about them. He knows how heavy and all-consuming Clyde's guilt and self-hatred still are, how much trauma Clyde's suffered since those memories rushed back, how Clyde still can't quite believe that they have each other again and that they're going to be okay.
When Clyde looks at him, he knows that Clyde can't believe he is still here, that he hasn't left already after all that's happened.
"Maybe we should move to another apartment," he says to Clyde after yet another triggering episode, holding Clyde tight to him with both arms, resting his head against Clyde's on his shoulder. "This isn't helping with your recovery."
Clyde's reaction is intense: Clyde recoils from him and takes several steps back, shaking that golden head from side to side and pressing those warm, callused hands to his temples.
"No," Clyde rasps. "No."
Before Cole can respond, Clyde runs to the kitchen's curved, central island and presses both hands on its marble counter, his slumped back and shoulders facing Cole.
"Here ... this was ... this was where you told me that you love me, for the first time."
Immediately, Cole's eyes begin to sting and turn hot.
It's true. After Clyde had said those three monumental words to him in their bedroom all those years ago, it'd been just a matter of time, of hours until he said them in return. They were eating a breakfast of cereal in milk and fresh fruits right there on those antique zinc cross-back stools, Clyde to his left, when he turned on his seat and said to Clyde, I love you. Clyde's mouth was full of cornflakes and therefore unable to blurt out words, but Cole didn't need Clyde to say the words back. He heard them again in Clyde grabbing his face with both hands to kiss him soundly, then again in Clyde's sun-bright smile that lit up his universe.
"Clyde -"
"And here, in this kitchen," Clyde says, lurching around the central island and gesturing at the stove and sink and fridge, "this was where you made breakfast for me every time I stayed the night until you asked me to move in. This was where we cooked meals together whenever we were home for the weekend and we didn't want to share
each other with the world."
"This was where we slow danced and I sang for you whenever it was a special day," Clyde says, standing on the spacious, cherry-wood floor between the kitchen and living room with his arms spread, his eyes glistening. "Like our birthdays. Our anniversaries. Days when we survived bad missions and we realized all over again how lucky we were to be alive and together."
"This was where we sat together for the first time in casual clothes like two regular guys who were nuts about each other," Clyde says hoarsely, stroking the length of their black, leather-bound couch with both hands, his glistening eyes becoming more red than blue. "Just you and me, watching TV and eating that deep-dish pizza you're so crazy about. This was where we planned our trip to Bora Bora. This was where we made love when we couldn't even stop long enough to go to the bedroom, because we wanted each other so bad we couldn't wait another second."
"And this ... this was where you told me you wanted to spend the rest of your life with me, the day we got home from my first trip to Chicago to meet Pa and Ma," Clyde rasps, tottering to stand in front of the living room's expansive windows with their off-white, smooth sills, with Cole trailing after him and knowing that the ache in his chest isn't just from his healing ribs. "You told me you already knew that even before we went on our first date, for crying out loud. You remember that, babe?"
Yes, he says with eyes as blurry and wet as Clyde's, as he gazes at Clyde blinking glistening eyes and Clyde's quavering hands. Yes, I do.
He trails after Clyde who lurches into their bedroom and goes down on his knees on taupe carpet next to their bed. Standing helplessly at the open door, he watches Clyde bend down to lay that treasured upper body and those strong, muscular arms and that golden head on the bed's dark red sheets.
"And this was where you showed me that I was never, ever some defective thing that needed to be fixed," Clyde croaks into the sheets, fisting his hands in their silkiness. "That I was just right the way I was, the way I am and I - I don't wanna leave, I don't wanna forget, I don't wanna forget again, I don't, please -"