Memento Amare

by G. D. Cox

  And that is how Clyde ends up baking Ma's six-layer chocolate cake with toasted marshmallow filling and malted chocolate frosting for the first time in the red-walled kitchen of the Barnett-Cole house, after a quick run to the supermarket for ingredients. As punishment, Cole has been roped into helping Clyde to make the cake, but he finds nothing agonizing about sitting beside his husband at the kitchen table while laying down rows of marshmallows on a baking sheet.

  Clyde is wearing a red t-shirt and jeans. Clyde's soft, short hair is streaked with light gray and white and it glows in the morning sunshine streaming in through the kitchen's open windows. Clyde's eyes are half-lidded with a deep-seated peace that makes Cole's fingers go still, that makes Cole stare helplessly at the man who is still his best friend after all these years, still his lover, his husband, his everything.

  "What?" Clyde asks, after glancing at him and catching him staring unabashedly.

  "Oh, nothing," Cole replies, straight-faced and still staring unabashedly at Clyde. "Just falling in love with you again. That's all."

  Yes, there's that exaggerated eye roll, and there's that sweet, closed-lipped smile, still as endearing as it was the very first time Cole saw it so long ago in his office in the GATF's headquarters.

  "I married the ultimate corndog," Clyde mutters, resuming his enthusiastic whisking of eggs, buttermilk, coffee, oil and vanilla in a medium bowl. "Such a mushbag. Oh my god."

  Between the two of them, though, it's no secret who the bigger mushbag can be sometimes. When they're under the covers in the cozy, curtained dimness of their bedroom, Clyde will eagerly give him a multitude of kisses, drawing back only when the need for oxygen outweighs the need to mold their mouths together. Clyde will brush the tips of their noses together and caress his arm, his flank.

  Clyde will say with that low, raspy and sensual voice, "When I wake up before you do, I like to watch you sleep. I like how your face is so soft and relaxed. I like how your mouth is slightly open and your breaths feel so warm against my face."

  Clyde will say, "I like to feel the rise and fall of your chest under my hand. I like listening to your heart beat under my ear. I like knowing that when you wake up, you'll look at me and then quirk your lips up in that smile that's mine and no one else's."

  Clyde will say, "I still love seeing you in red clothes. I still love the way you make my coffee black on the days we gotta bake those damn cakes for our clients but with sugar and cream when we get to stay in bed and do nothing but make love and nap. I still love the way you walk around naked and wearing only those sexy browline glasses, with all those muscles of yours thickening and buckling under your skin. You're so damn beautiful and you still don't even know it."

  Clyde will murmur, "I still love slow dancing with you and singing to you. I still love the way you laugh when you can't hold it in anymore and all that joy's gotta come out through your eyes and your mouth. I still love knowing all your ticklish spots just like you know all of mine. I still can't believe that you gave me Chestnut when I didn't even realize how much I wanted a silly, squishy-faced mutt like him."

  Clyde will whisper, with his throat working in a long, visible swallow, "I still can't believe that you're mine, babe. That I found you in this big, fucked up world and I get to keep you and be yours for the rest of our lives."

  And Cole will cup his husband's bristly cheek. Cole will kiss him sweetly and no, he still can't imagine a day when he will become weary of Clyde's lips forging to his, speaking a language of gratitude and fondness and love that's for Cole alone.

  The years pass by like seconds. Time ensures that their chosen family members leave the GATF in some way or another as well: Henry is the first to pass away, mere days after his sixty-second birthday. At the funeral in San Francisco, a red-eyed but calm Mai Lin tells Cole and Clyde that it'd been a painless passing, that Henry went to sleep after a gratifying night of wine and mah jong with his friends at home and never woke up.

  "He died a happy man," she says, and it is with a loving smile and the knowledge that her husband will live on in their daughter who looks just like him and is a civil engineer with children of her own.

  Don is forced into retirement just two years after Cole and Clyde withdraw from active duty. An explosion and a weighty block of cement crushing part of his spine results in Don losing the use of both legs and becoming confined to a wheelchair. No one knows just how badly Don is handling his new state of existence until a distraught Susan calls Cole one night, telling him between sobs that Don had thrown terrifying, violent fits of rage and then begged her to take his guns away from him before he did something very, very stupid.

  Cole and Clyde pay a visit to the Stewart family home in Syracuse, New York days afterward. Susan and Don's youngest child and son, twelve-year-old Kevin, are home. Their two older daughters are both away in college in Boston and Los Angeles. Don refuses to see Cole and Clyde, and hides behind the locked door of his bedroom. Cole, Clyde, Susan and Kevin loiter in the living room.

  "Your dad seems scary right now, I know," Clyde says to the anxious, subdued boy with dark brown hair and even darker brown eyes like his dad, looking him in the eye. "But he's scared too. It doesn't seem like it, but he is. He just wants to feel safe again, to know that everything's gonna be okay despite what happened to him."

  Later, the bedroom door is open and Cole sees Don in his wheelchair with his son. Kevin is silently hugging his father and Don's eyes are shut and he's clutching onto his son and not letting him go. Cole knows that words aren't necessary then, that a man can have more than one reason to live, to keep on living, when he remembers them again.

  Like Cole and Clyde, Angela has withdrawn from working on the field but is a specialist consultant with the agency. She's also the handler of a two-agent team and loves every second of the job. She's the luckiest of them all to come out of decades of service with only minor injuries and numerous successful missions on her record.

  "Word has it, Phelan, that I'm the second scariest fucker on the planet now," she says with a grin, during a chance encounter in HQ's lobby when he and Clyde are back at Nate's behest for consultation on an upcoming, large-scale infiltration mission. "How do you like that?"

  She's still the 'hot mama with a dazzling smile' as Clyde still describes her, her long hair straight and gray and still parted down the middle, her almond-shaped, brown eyes still sharp and twinkling with verve.

  And like Angela, Rajah is also single and satisfied with life, retiring from the GATF after a severe injury to his right arm during a vicious shootout in Shanghai three years after Don retires. Rajah is living it up in his home city of NYC. Last checked with Clyde, Rajah is apparently a prominent DJ in one of the most popular clubs in town, going by the nickname of DJ ChowD and rocketing to renewed fame when the media recounts his triumphant capture of the savage serial killer who had terrorized the East Coast decades ago during his NYPD detective years. Clyde and Rajah are still, as both of them fondly put it, bros-for-life.

  "Hey, Clyde. Hey," Rajah says during a welcomed visit to the Barnett-Cole home, lounging on their black, leather-bound couch with Clyde's head on his shoulder while they watch some random movie and Cole is online ordering some deep-dish pizza for delivery. "On a scale of one to ten, with one being 'fugly scumbucket of pus and puke' and ten being 'supreme, sexy hotness in divine flesh', how hot am I?"

  Clyde doesn't even look away from the transparent projected screen of the television as he mutters, "You are the fat, red ass of tandoori chicken cooked to a thousand degrees in murderous paprika and horniness."

  Rajah doesn't even blink, his left arm still around Clyde's slumped shoulders.

  "So is that, like, an eleven?"

  To Clyde's (and Cole's) gladness, Rajah hasn't changed a bit since their GATF days. They hope he never will.

  As for Nate - that muthafucker who will always be Cole's oldest best friend and his bro-for-life - Nate hasn't changed a bit since those days either, not even after finally hanging up
that infamous, long black leather coat as director of the GATF almost seven years after Cole's and Clyde's retirement from active duty. Nate remains a consultant regularly sought by his successor for advice. Nate is still happily married to Victoria and still the proud father of Melina and Siobhan who have both grown up into smart, bold and brilliant young women, with Melina becoming a young adult fantasy author and Siobhan studying to become a clinical biochemist specializing in forensic science (who still affectionately refers to Cole as Uncle Boots). Cole and Clyde still spend Christmas with them, especially in the years after Pa's and Ma's passing.

  There are countless photographs of their family - blood and chosen - and all these memories on the spotless, white walls of their home. There are just as many videos, short and spontaneous ones that Clyde records and stores safely whenever he can of their loved ones and of each other.

  There is one particular video, a very old one now, that Cole watches time and again.

  This time around, his hair is snow white and his skin has begun to turn translucent and the creases on his face linger even when he isn't smiling. He's in a comfy, navy blue sweater and black sweatpants (that may be Clyde's but they share everything anyway). He sits snug on their black, leather-bound couch that's still as sturdy as the day they purchased it in a store in Brooklyn.

  With a pinch of his right thumb and fingers in the air, he pulls up the transparent projected screen of the television into view. With the casual wave of his hand, he scrolls through the video list until he finds the one he wants. He selects and opens it with a tap. The video, aged like it is, is a little grainy on the high-definition screen but it's obvious even to Cole's now less-than-superb eyes that there are two men in casual clothes sitting side by side on a black, leather-bound couch and gazing at the camera.

  Cole's lips quirk up at the sight of his younger self, at his thinning, styled hair still a dark shade of brown, at his crinkled eyes behind black, browline glasses. He's wearing a navy blue sweater in the video too, along with jeans that he's pretty sure are still in the walk-in closet somewhere. (He'll have to ask Clyde about it later when Clyde gets back from the supermarket.) His lips quirk up even more at the sight of Clyde's younger self, at Clyde in a burgundy t-shirt with a a gold infinity symbol emblazoned across its chest. He watches younger Clyde get up from the couch (and yes, it's the very couch he's sitting on right now) to approach the camera and tinker with it.

  "Uh, is it recording yet?" Clyde says in the video off-camera.

  "I think so," Cole's younger self replies, sitting straighter and pointing at the camera (and yes, he remembers that moment clearly, remembers the black, sleek camera upon its stable, steel tripod set behind the low, glass coffee table). "There's a red light there? You see it? It's blinking."

  "Oh yeah, I see it. Okay."

  Cole watches Clyde's younger self return to the couch and sit even closer to his younger self than before. Cole's lips are still quirked up as he hears Clyde's younger self clear his throat and fidget on the couch like a nervous boy auditioning for the lead role in the school play.

  "So! Clyde AKA me, if you're watching this and wondering who the hell you are and who the hell this guy is next to me, you've probably been zapped with some memory-fucking ray or something. Again."

  Cole snorts at Clyde's younger self rolling those big, beautiful, wide-set eyes in that exaggerated, endearing manner.

  "If it's not me then, Phelan! I know you're watching this just for the fun of it, you sentimental mushbag."

  Cole gives up on battling the smile expanding across his face, even more so when he sees his younger self doing that too in the video. He sees younger Clyde giving his younger self a huge, adoring smile, sees younger Clyde give his younger self a noisy kiss on the cheek before facing the camera again.

  "Yes, I'm you and you're me," Clyde's younger self says to the camera, nodding with an outwardly sage expression on that always-exquisite face. "Really, there's just one of us 'cause this planet can only handle so much supreme hotness at a time, ya know? And yes, you're really as good-looking as you've always thought you were."

  Cole shakes his head, his whole face creased and his chest swelling with deep-seated warmth.

  "By the way, Rajah? If you're watching this," Clyde's younger self growls, squinting at the camera, "this is not the sex video you're looking for and there is no sex video, you kinky perverted asshole!"

  Although Cole's watched this video so many times by now, he still chuckles. Yeah, he and Clyde did catch Rajah watching the video once, when they still lived in their apartment in NYC and they'd invited him and Don over for dinner after a mission together in Nepal. Don (who hadn't been injured then) was kneeling next to Rajah in front of the flat-screen television. They'd stared up at Cole and Clyde who'd crossed their arms over their chests and glowered down at them. He and Clyde managed to keep up their outwardly upset appearance until Rajah, still staring up at them with an exaggerated innocent expression, pointed a forefinger at Don who exclaimed, "Hey!"

  (As to whether there is a sex video, well ... that's between him and Clyde and a certain torrid, unforgettable night in a hot tub in a private log cabin in the Wawona area of Yosemite.)

  Clyde's younger self is still speaking in the video when Cole hears the familiar rumble of Baby returning from its trip with its precious passengers. (There are so many self-driving, AI-programmed cars on the road these days, but neither he or Clyde want one of those when they already have a magnificent ride like Baby they can still maintain and upgrade. Maybe they'll get one when they're older and can't drive anymore.) His eyes are trained on the now muted video but his ears listen to the car door opening outside on the paver driveway. He hears the patter of small feet hitting the ground. He hears a happy yip and then the car door closing. He hears the familiar sound of feet in trusty, black combat boots clomping their way up limestone steps onto an oak hardwood porch.

  "Chestnut Junior," he hears the present day Clyde he knows and loves so damn much say to their piebald French bulldog, "if you fart in the living room again, you are staying out here the whole day. Ya hear me?"

  Clyde's voice has deepened over the years, although on some days it also softens in a way that only he can hear, that Clyde allows only him to hear. It's made Clyde's singing even more euphonious, enough that he managed to convince Clyde to record a few songs for his personal enjoyment.

  (Then, to Clyde's mortification, Rajah somehow copied them off Cole's computer and uploaded them onto multiple video and audio streaming websites under his DJ accounts. They'd stayed online for days before Rajah took them at Clyde's request ala an arm around Rajah's windpipe. By then, they'd been downloaded thousands of times. Years later, Rajah would remix them and use them in his DJ sets. One of the songs would end up at #1 on some national Top 40 hit list and stay there for three weeks, to more of Clyde's mortification ... and pride.)

  Cole still loves to listen to Clyde sing. Clyde still sings that song of farewells and love in spring and larks singing when he's near on every anniversary of their wedding.

  "Don't gimme that bug-eyed, fake-innocent look. It's not gonna work on me. No, it won't!"

  Cole pauses the video with a tap. He turns his head away from the transparent projected screen of the television to the arched entrance of the living room. He hears the front door unlock and open with a heavy click. He hears the sprightly patter of small feet on oak hardwood floor and then he sees Chestnut Junior, so much like his dad and namesake, dash into the living room with a grin and pink tongue hanging out. Chestnut Junior leaps onto the couch and receives ear scratches and head rubs from a smiling Cole. He hears Clyde shuffling to the kitchen with bags of groceries. He's still rubbing their blissful bulldog between the ears when Clyde appears and walks easy and slow to the couch to sit with them.

  Just seeing Clyde still steals Cole's breath and heart away. Clyde's hair has gone more white than gold but is still as luxuriant and spiky as it ever was. Clyde's face is still as exquisite and attractive
as the very first time he laid eyes upon it, although there are now more lines on it and Clyde's eyelids are a little heavier. Clyde is also a little heavier in the middle but then so is he and it's done absolutely nothing to discourage their very much active sex life. Clyde still loves the many shades of red and today, he has on a long-sleeved, crimson t-shirt under a dark gray, v-neck sweater and jeans so old and faded that it's become more white than blue.

  After sitting down heavily to Cole's right, Clyde holds his head with both hands and gives him a long, chaste kiss in greeting. Clyde's lips are still so full and supple pressed to his. He dons a deadpan face when Clyde reluctantly draws back, knowing Clyde hasn't noticed what he's watching yet. When Clyde twists around on the couch and faces the screen, Cole still has his deadpan face, even after Clyde shoots him a look that's a mock glower and suppressed smile in one.

  Cole says nothing as he resumes the video with a tap. He also says nothing when Clyde faces the screen again, when Clyde tugs his right arm around Clyde's still so very beloved body, snuggles into his side and lays that full head of hair on his right shoulder. Clyde can't see his lips quirking up with amusement, with old, deep-seated love for his equally sentimental mushbag husband.

  "So if you're losing your shit right now over being gay," Clyde's younger self snarls, glaring at the camera with lips pressed into a thin line, "stop that, you stupid bastard."

  Cole chuckles again. He feels Clyde's shoulders shake silently, in that familiar and wonderful way. Chestnut Junior, now hugged to Clyde's chest, lets out a low whine.

  "Being gay doesn't make you any less a man. It doesn't make you weak or defective. It's part of who you are and that's it." In the video, Clyde's younger self does a quick eye roll. Cole's younger self, who's been silent all this while, is trying not smirk as Clyde's younger self says, "Well, okay, being gay is fucking amazing! Seriously, wait till you get a dick up your ass and it hits you right in that perfect spot. You'll know what I'm talking about then!"