Memento Amare

by G. D. Cox

  And as Clyde's shoulders shake with muffled sobs, Cole also staggers over to the bed and goes down on his knees beside his husband. He partially lays down his own upper body on Clyde's and his head on Clyde's right shoulder, embracing Clyde from behind as best he can.

  "We're staying here, sweetheart," he whispers into Clyde's lush, spiky hair, entwining their fingers together on the sheets and shutting eyes still blurry and wet. "We're not going anywhere."

  Five days after that, Pa and Ma fly in from Chicago and stay with them for three weeks. They hadn't learned about what happened to Cole until Cole had already awakened from his coma for at least forty-eight hours, until Nate was absolutely sure that he wasn't going to die.

  I know you, Phelan, Nate had said while sitting at his bedside in his private ICU room with that infamous, black leather coat draping the back of the armchair. You wouldn't want your parents to see you like that, to see your husband like he was.

  Nate was right.

  At this point, Cole still tires too easily to go out for more than two hours, much less pick up Pa and Ma from JFK during rush hour. Pa insists on getting a cab instead of Clyde picking them up, which is why the first time he and Clyde see Pa and Ma again in ages is when they arrive on their doorstep.

  Despite his initial protests about his parents coming over and inconveniencing themselves over him, Cole can see that they were right in doing so when they hug Clyde in greeting. Clyde can't even speak. His remorse and shame are laid bare to Pa and Ma on his drawn face and in his glistening eyes. Pa embraces him for many more seconds after those two back pats, saying with that low, resonant voice, "It's all right, son. It's all right."

  Ma tries her best to rein her tears in when she sees Cole sauntering up to them from the master bedroom. He hugs her tightly as she hugs him cautiously around his waist to avoid any pressure on his lower back or his ribs, blinking a few times. He understands how a man can smile and yet still have shiny, wet eyes, how someone can cry even when they're happy and their heart aches. He really does.

  "I'm okay, Ma," he murmurs, when she steps back and wipes her eyes with the fingers of her right hand. "Really."

  "I'll be the judge of that, young man," she retorts, and it's with a smile only a loving, loyal mother can give.

  Pa also hugs him for longer than usual. He shuts his eyes when Pa pats him on the upper back twice, that signal when he's home again, that signal to his body, his soul to fully unwind and breathe easy. Yeah, he'd needed that. He and Clyde.

  They get Pa and Ma quickly settled in the guest bedroom. Pa and Ma have been here at least seven times since Clyde moved in over five years ago, and they have some clean clothing stored in the wardrobe so they don't have to carry so much luggage. Clyde makes no objections to Pa and Ma helping him with chores and the likes. Clyde gets that they need to take care of Cole just like Clyde needs that to heal, to move on. Cole does feel a bit self-conscious about having so many people pamper him, but he's sure as hell not going to say no when Ma insists on cooking all the meals for the duration of her stay. He and Clyde have missed her food (and her, and Pa). They have no shame in admitting that to themselves and to Ma who beams at that.

  No one talks about Clyde's temporary amnesia and Cole's abduction in the first week or even the second. Pa and Ma seem to instinctively know that neither man are ready to open up about all that yet in person, that the many phone calls before they flew over had physical distance to help Clyde and Cole distance themselves from their trauma while talking about it. In person, Pa and Ma can see them if, when they crumble. They can't hide with the press of a button on their comm pad screens to end a call.

  Clyde is the first to crumble. It's inevitable, considering Clyde has no control over being triggered. Cole wakes up in the middle of the fifteenth night of Pa's and Ma's stay to find himself alone in bed. He shuffles out of the bedroom to find Clyde and Ma in their pajamas sitting side by side on the couch with just one end table lamp switched on. Their heads are touching while Clyde listens to Ma talk about her early years with Pa in Chicago, about Pa taking her on their first date to that cheeseburger place on Wells Street that's still busy after forty-four years. Clyde in turn talks to Ma about his early years with Cole here in NYC, about their first date to that ice cream parlor near Central Park and how Cole proposed to him on the ledge of this very apartment building's rooftop on a cloudless, star-lit night under the regard of Sagittarius.

  They don't know about him standing in the warm shadows of the hallway, hidden from them by a wall. They don't know about him listening to Clyde speak about these memories with such fondness and gratitude. They don't know about him falling in love all over again with this fascinating, unique, gorgeous man he somehow managed to meet and find and keep in this vast, unfair, unpredictable, senseless world.

  Two days later, Ma teaches Clyde how to make her divine six-layer chocolate cake with toasted marshmallow filling and malted chocolate frosting at the curved, central island of the kitchen. Cole and Pa stand at the living room's expansive windows that are letting in shafts of afternoon sunshine that warm Cole's skin. Cole is facing Pa but gazing out the windows at the city skyline in the distance. Pa is facing the kitchen and watching Ma and Clyde chat quietly while a seated Clyde greases three round cake pans and Ma is standing next to him and placing marshmallows on a baking sheet lined with aluminum foil.

  Pa's weathered, familiar face is tender when he murmurs, "I just can't imagine it, Phelan. I just can't imagine waking up one day and forgetting your mother completely. Much less walk away from her, only to almost lose her forever."

  Cole knows that Pa is gazing at Ma with those old, reflective blue eyes that are so much like his own. He turns around to watch Clyde and Ma too, to see Clyde grinning at something Ma's just said while she bumps his shoulder with her arm and a smile.

  Cole is still gazing at Clyde when Pa asks, "Are they dead?"

  He doesn't have to look at Pa to know that Pa's face is now blank and glacial, to know who Pa is asking about.

  "Yeah, Pa. They are."

  The healing, antler-like scars on his lower back throb under their bandages.

  "Good."

  Cole continues to gaze at Clyde, at Clyde sneaking a marshmallow from its original packaging into his mouth when Ma goes to the double sink to wash her hands. He only turns around to face Pa again when he senses Pa's eyes on him. Pa's expression is a tender one once more.

  "You all right?" Pa asks, and it's with a voice that had once hummed lullabies to him before he fell asleep under thick, comfy blankets in his childhood bedroom. A voice that summons loyalty and honesty with a lifetime of paternal love.

  He looks his father in the eye when he answers, "Yeah, Pa. I'm all right."

  It's true, because he's never been able to lie to his dad, and he isn't about to now.

  The next day after that, it's Cole's turn to crumble (before he rebuilds himself and gets up again, like he always has). Pa and Clyde are out getting Chinese food for dinner with Pa merrily driving Baby again and Clyde as his navigator. Ma stays in with Cole, and at first, Cole doesn't realize it's intentional so that they're alone and out of Clyde's earshot.

  While they're laying out the plates and utensils on the kitchen island's marble counter, Ma says softly, "There are bloody scratches on his scalp, Phelan."

  Cole's hand freezes in mid-air as he's about to lay down a metal fork. He gives Ma a sharp glance. She's looking down at the counter as she places a black-and-red ceramic plate on it.

  "I saw them when we were baking the other day. His hair's thick enough to hide them, but if you're close enough, you can see the scratches. Five on each side of his head."

  Cole lays down the metal fork without a sound on the counter. He doesn't say anything. The huge lump lodged in his throat is making sure of that. Ma says nothing more. She brushes her hand across his upper back as she passes behind him.

  Neither Cole or Ma make any mention of those scratches when Clyde and Pa come home with dinner s
oon after. They sit on the antique zinc stools at the kitchen island for the meal, and it's Clyde who dominates the conversation with how some reckless kid had dashed across the street when the light was already green and scared him and Pa in Baby. Luckily, Pa has always been a conscientious driver who waits at least a second or two when the green light comes on before accelerating. (Pa had lost a friend during his teenage years when a car ran a red light and smashed into his friend's car at an intersection.) Nobody got hurt.

  Of all things, it's Clyde laughing about the whole thing that causes alarm bells to ring in Cole's head. Knowing Clyde for as long as he has, he can tell that Clyde's putting on a good act for Pa's and Ma's sakes, that Clyde's smiles are just a little too wide and Clyde's laughter just a little too forced.

  Everything seems okay until they've all retired for the night and Cole is comfy and relaxed under the blankets with Clyde beside him in the curtained dimness. He rolls onto his side to face Clyde and the shut door to the en suite bathroom. He shuts his eyes and breathes slowly, deeply. He waits.

  He feels Clyde's gaze upon his face. He feels Clyde's lips upon his forehead, a tentative and gentle kiss, and it throttles that thing in Cole's chest like a brutal hand. He's noticed by now that Clyde hasn't initiated any physical intimacy between them since they were reunited. It's always him who does so. Clyde seems to eagerly participate in any kissing once he kisses Clyde first ... but the moment he stops, so does Clyde. It's so unlike his lover, his husband who used to pounce on him and even throw him onto the bed to give and receive sexual gratification.

  He keeps his eyes shut and his breaths steady as Clyde slides out from under the blankets and trudges to the en suite bathroom without switching on any lights. He hears the bathroom door open and then shut with a click behind Clyde. He opens his eyes then, blinking to accustom his eyes to the dimness again.

  He stares at the shut bathroom door. It remains closed for a very long time. He hears no sounds coming from inside the bathroom.

  He silently gets out of the bed. His steps are also silent upon taupe carpet. There's no sliver of warm light at the bottom of the bathroom door. He grasps the handle of the bathroom door and finds it unlocked.

  Without a word of warning, he switches on the bathroom ceiling light and swings open the door. He finds Clyde curled up in a ball against the bathtub in a white t-shirt and black boxer-briefs, hunched back facing the open door. He can see Clyde's fingers clawing at the scalp under all that thick, golden hair. Wherever Clyde is in his mind, it's so far away that Clyde doesn't even realize that Cole is there, not until Cole charges into the bathroom and seizes Clyde's hands in his in an attempt to pull them off Clyde's head.

  Clyde thrashes in his grip. He's wrestled and sparred with Clyde countless times since they met and became GATF handler and asset, but Clyde has never reacted as violently and deliriously as this. Clyde doesn't respond to Cole exclaiming his name multiple times. Clyde snarls and tries to yank his hands away. Cole shoves his manic husband onto the tiled floor and uses his body weight to restrain Clyde, helpless to do anything else without potentially hurting Clyde.

  "Clyde," he tries again, pressing his lips to his husband's ear, "if you keep fighting me, you're going to hurt me."

  It's a fucking low blow, he knows that.

  It works.

  Clyde instantly goes limp and compliant on the floor, still a curled ball. Clyde pants hard against the smooth tiles of the floor, face averted from Cole. Cole sits back on his heels but leaves his hands upon Clyde's heaving back. Now, he can see what Ma saw: the red grooves between tufts of golden hair, some of them bleeding fresh. Clyde had purposely chosen to harm himself this way so he could hide this from Cole, even when they were naked -

  Cole draws Clyde into his arms and tucks Clyde's head under his chin. He holds Clyde tight to his torso as Clyde's shoulders start to quake and Clyde hides that heart-wrenchingly contorted face behind hands with blood-stained fingernails. He rocks them to and fro and cradles the back of Clyde's neck and kisses the crown of Clyde's bowed head.

  They sit there for a very long time, but Cole would gladly sit there for a thousand years if that's what his beloved husband needs.

  "I know he harms himself," he says to Dr. Fisher during his next solo therapy session two weeks later, sitting again on that blue-green, chenille couch with matching, black-striped throw pillows. "I know he still has all those voice messages from other agents on his comm pad. Messages that ... shout at him." He pauses, then says with a low, menacing tone, "Messages that tell him what a ... 'terrible friend' he is to me."

  "What do you think about the messages?"

  He gazes at her, at her magenta blazer and off-white trousers and her silver well-coiffed hair. His hands are pressed flat on his thighs over his charcoal gray trousers. He's battling the urge to tap his thumb and forefinger together. After all these years, it's still a goddamn nervous tic he can't totally erase from himself.

  "I ... do not like them." Again, he pauses for a gravid moment, then says, "I would delete them all if I could. I would erase them. Even from Clyde's mind."

  "Would you do it even if Clyde wanted to keep them?"

  Cole lowers his eyes to the carpeted floor between them.

  "If they're harming him, it seems to me to be the logical decision."

  Dr. Fisher sits back in her wooden armchair that also has blue-green padding.

  "And what about the voice message you left him, Phelan?"

  Cole glances sharply at her, his face stoic.

  "I know he still listens to it. I know he ..." His right hand grits into a fist on his thigh, then loosens flat once more. "I know he punishes himself by listening to it. He ... tortures himself with it."

  "Would you erase that message? Even if Clyde wants to keep it?"

  Cole says nothing. He has yet to listen to the whole message in spite of being the one who'd recorded it. He recalls every word he said. He'd meant every word he said, and he still does.

  Four days later, he's sitting with Clyde on the black, leather-bound couch in their living room and their comm pads are on the couch between them. This morning Clyde had his latest solo therapy session with Dr. Fisher and Clyde already knows what Cole is about to ask of him.

  "I think we should delete all those voice messages and emails," Cole says.

  Clyde has his legs on the couch and folded tight to his torso. Those strong, muscular arms are wrapped around lean shins as Clyde stares down at their comm pads. Clyde's lower face is obscured by his knees.

  Cole quirks his lips up when Clyde glances up at him with big, innocuous eyes. Cole's smile is a small smile that says, but it's up to you.

  Clyde glances down at their comm pads, then back up at him again.

  "All of them?" Clyde asks in that meek, boyish voice that Cole so rarely hears.

  "It's up to you. But I think it's best for us if we delete them all."

  I don't want you to hurt yourself anymore. I don't want you to hurt at all.

  "I wanna delete the email I sent," Clyde mumbles against his knees.

  Cole's face is expressionless but his eyes are warm even as he feels a deep twinge in his chest. He still has that email in his inbox. He hasn't opened it again since that one time. He hasn't moved it to another folder or deleted it.

  Clyde isn't the only one guilty of clinging on to some old, grievous things.

  "Okay," he replies. He picks up his comm pad and goes to his inbox and selects the email when he finds it. He sends the email to the trash folder. He shows Clyde the screen, then empties the folder. He shows Clyde the screen again, and Clyde sucks in a shuddering breath. The sound makes Cole yearn to stroke Clyde's clean-shaven face.

  He sits patiently as Clyde drags his own comm pad nearer to his feet on the couch. He watches Clyde's fingers fly across the screen as Clyde finds the email in his sent folder and deletes it too. He watches Clyde delete many more emails and then many voice messages, sending them all to trash folders and emptying said folders
before his eyes.

  Cole can see that Clyde did not select his voice message for deletion. He's still proud, very proud of Clyde for deleting the rest without qualm.

  "Phelan," Clyde murmurs, and he sounds so meek, so anxious when he doesn't have to be. "I ... I don't wanna delete your message."

  "Why?" Cole asks, his eyes crinkled and unguarded.

  Clyde wrings his hands on his feet on the couch for a few seconds. Then he opens them up and flattens them over his feet. Clyde opens his mouth. Shuts it. Opens it again.

  "You're gonna think it's so stupid," Clyde mumbles, rolling those big, beautiful, wide-set eyes. "It's so much more your kinda thing, you corndog."

  Cole's eyes crinkle even more.

  "Try me."

  Clyde conceals his face behind his knees. An agitated huff of breath later, Clyde is looking at Cole again. His eyes are just as crinkled and unguarded as Cole's.

  "It's ... it's the only recording I got of you saying you love me, okay?" Clyde mumbles. "And I really like your voice. I always have."

  Instead of a deep twinge, Cole's chest now swells close to bursting. Yes, he can understand why Clyde wishes to keep the message for those reasons. He has also always found Clyde's low, raspy voice to be so sweet-sounding to his ears. (Clyde's moans and whimpers even more so, but that's not for the current discussion.) He gives in to the impulse to stroke Clyde's flushed face. He does so with the back of his fingers down Clyde's cheek and he asks, "What if I record a new message for you?"

  Clyde's eyes widen with blatant, pleasant surprise.

  "A new message?"

  "Yes."

  "Oh." Clyde's expression softens into a slight, bashful smile. "I ... I didn't think of that."

  Clyde lowers his eyes coyly. Cole strokes the side of Clyde's head and its healed scalp and his spiky, thick hair. He smiles to himself when Clyde hums under the attention and flickers those big blue eyes shut. Clyde really is like a big cat, sleek and soft and dangerous and majestic. (And just as addicted to cuddles and petting.)