We Still Live

by Sara Dobie Bauer

  They both had work, classes to teach and papers to grade. John gave him a lingering kiss on his way out.

  Isaac was quick to ask, “Are you okay walking alone?”

  John tilted his head and must have understood the silent insinuation: You had a meltdown last night after watching the news and didn’t want to leave your house. “I’m fine. I’m heavily medicated today.”

  Isaac waited ten minutes to make his own exit but watched the streets like a paranoid criminal in a bad TV thriller.

  Chapter Eight

  STANDING IN JOHN’S living room, Isaac watched the news wrap-up for the day. All the Barcelona shooters had been killed, but that didn’t seem to help much. After all, Chris Frank was dead, too, but Hambden University was still a haunted place. Who knew when Barcelona would recover? He’d overheard John talking to his mom earlier—in French, so he didn’t understand any of it. The tone had been less than cheerful. Now, a newscaster discussed the victims as food sizzled in the kitchen.

  “Turn that shit off,” John said. “You’re the worst dinner guest ever.”

  “Sorry. Sorry.”

  “Ambulance chaser.”

  Isaac pushed a button, and the screen went black. “I’d rather chase you. Naked.”

  “Nobody looks good running naked, Isaac.”

  Music played from the kitchen—a mix on John’s computer of classic rock and some modern folk. He tended to play music often when in the midst of mindless tasks. Isaac knew he even had Amazon Echo in his bathroom for when he showered.

  It had been ages since a guy had offered to cook dinner for Isaac, but it wasn’t as though he and John could be seen in public on dates. Not that he minded. John’s house was already starting to feel like home. He walked into the kitchen and noticed the rich smell of butter and garlic. John stood at the stove in a tight, striped sweater that was testing the hell out of Isaac’s resolve. He fed his alarming addiction to John’s skin by pressing his front to John’s back and wrapping his arms around his waist.

  “That smells amazing.”

  “Mm.” John tossed a teaspoon of something green into the skillet.

  “Wait, are you domestic?” He tugged John closer. “You can dance. You keep a clean house. I’ve actually seen you hand-wash a sweater. And you can cook?” He kissed the side of his neck. “You’re going to make someone a wonderful wife someday.”

  He wrestled out of Isaac’s grip. “Cut it out. Pour the wine, you ass.”

  “I think teasing you is my new favorite hobby.”

  “Great.”

  Isaac did as instructed, never once taking his eyes off the one thing that currently made him happy—well, John and the literary magazine. Weeks since its inception, submissions had opened only the day before, and nobody knew what to expect, but Isaac still felt such a relief at being part of something—something good.

  “Come here and fill your own plate,” John said. “I don’t like deciding people’s meat-to-potato ratio.”

  With one hand on John’s hip, he studied the stovetop spread. “What are we eating exactly? And don’t give me French names for things. If I’m eating pig intestines, I want to know.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. We only eat pig intestines at Christmas. Seared and baked pork tenderloin with peppercorns, sage, and rosemary. Pommes duchesse, which are just specialty potatoes, you idiot, and steamed green beans.”

  Isaac kissed him just as they heard the front door open.

  “John?”

  “Fuck.” John took a quick step back as Tommy barreled into the room—and stopped suddenly.

  “Oh, shit, sorry.” Hair in windblown spikes, he looked around the room. “Literary magazine business?”

  “Yeah.” John cleared his throat. “What’s up? Did you just run up my hill?”

  “I’ll leave the running to Isaac, thank you.” He helped himself to John’s fridge as Isaac stepped to the clear opposite side of the island to put some space between himself and the man he couldn’t stop touching. “I was at Joe’s.” He took a long gulp of beer, not even wasting the time to straighten his glasses. “Ran into Adam. Jesus, man, what possessed you to sleep with him?”

  John’s entire face wrinkled and relaxed, eyes to the ceiling.

  “He kept asking if you were okay. I had to physically remove myself from the situation to get him to shut up.”

  Like vomit, the words couldn’t be stopped. Isaac felt them coming up, up… “You slept with Adam?”

  Time stopped.

  “You know Adam?” Tommy asked.

  John crossed his arms. “How do you know Adam?”

  He had to backpedal, fast. “Oh, no, I must be thinking of someone else.”

  “Anyway.” Tommy moved on, but John kept watching Isaac with squinted eyes. “Could you just call him and catch up? I’m not your secretary.”

  “Oh, as if I’ve never played wingman for you.”

  “This isn’t wingman.” Tommy pointed at himself. “This is a human walkie-talkie.” He imitated a robot voice. “John, I want to have a hundred of your babies. Over and out.”

  John shoved Tommy in the shoulder. “Jesus, get plates, you fuckers.”

  Well, apparently their romantic dinner date was over as Tommy did indeed fill a plate. The three men sat around the small table near the sliding porch door, the tiny white lights of Lothos in the distance. Tommy took a huge bite of meat with potatoes, followed by a gulp of beer, and groaned.

  “Damn, John, if I were gay, I’d marry you.”

  “You did call yourself a lesbian once.”

  Tommy nodded, while Isaac tried not to make obscene noises while he chewed. Bless John Conlon’s cooking.

  “Didn’t you have a date last night?”

  Tommy grumbled, “She was a philosophy professor.”

  “I thought professors weren’t allowed to date other professors,” Isaac said.

  “Only in the same department,” Tommy replied. “Not that any of the women in the English Department are exactly beauty queens. But philosophy? I don’t know what I was thinking. I know nothing about philosophy. As soon as she started talking Simone de Beauvoir’s existential feminist blah-blah, I zoned out.”

  “You should find a kinesiology professor,” Isaac said. “Mechanics of body movement and all that.”

  John smiled into his food, but Tommy’s eyes lit up.

  “Genius. This guy’s a genius. Any Lothos locals caught your eye, Isaac?”

  “Oh, I—”

  “There’s a tall drink of water over in administration,” Tommy said between chews. “She wouldn’t give me the time of day, but she might dig your whole rugged runner thing—although your chin looks soft as a baby’s bottom lately. Give up on the five-o’clock shadow?”

  He had, yes, because John’s skin was sensitive. He shaved every morning now.

  Tommy just kept talking. “I could introduce you two.”

  Isaac didn’t even have to lie. “Tommy, I went through a divorce last year, so I’m kind of off women for a while. Thanks, though.”

  “Oh, man, I’m sorry. I had too much caffeine today. I promise not to play matchmaker.” He dug back into his food. Isaac caught John trying not to laugh around a mouthful of green beans.

  The three of them polished off dinner and cleaned the kitchen, after which Tommy finally left. “Guess I should let you two actually talk business,” he said before flashing a peace sign and disappearing into the night.

  JOHN’S DICK FIT perfectly into Isaac’s mouth and down his throat, almost as if their bodies had been waiting, searching, and finally found their missing puzzle pieces. Isaac went down on John every chance he got; the addiction was less concern and more reality—however, John did not seem to mind. Slunk down in the couch, he bucked up into Isaac’s mouth while cussing.

  By the end, Isaac had to hold John’s hips steady to keep him from arching off of it. John’s hands clutched to the cushions above, head thrown back, as he bit his bottom lip. They’d been at it for a while by the
n, Isaac more than willing to delay dessert. He knew exactly what John liked, but he also knew the fun in waiting.

  John put one hand in Isaac’s hair. “I know you like teasing me, but please.”

  Isaac looked up and smiled but did ultimately lean forward so John could thrust right down his throat while Isaac moved his tongue in waves until John came in openmouthed silence.

  “God, I love doing that to you.” Isaac sat back on his knees and wiped his hand across his mouth.

  “I’ve noticed. I thought we were going to watch a movie.”

  “We are, but I couldn’t help myself. That sweater was driving me insane.”

  “This old thing?” John pulled up his jeans and buttoned them. “I realize you were probably trying to distract me with excellent head, but how do you know Adam?”

  Isaac groaned and climbed onto the couch.

  “Don’t tell me you slept with him too? You guys would make zero sense in bed.”

  “No,” he sighed. “I saw him at the Cave. With you. All over you. The bartender said you weren’t a couple.”

  “We weren’t. We aren’t. We never have been.” He ran a hand through his hair. “He’s just a friend I ill-advisedly fucked.”

  “The same night I saw you there.”

  John touched his lips. “I’d just gotten back from Wisconsin, you know, and he was making all the right moves.”

  “Neck kissing and hair pulling.”

  John grimaced. “Does everyone know that shit about me?”

  “I merely observed. Well, and tested the hypothesis. Many, many times.”

  He leaned his head against Isaac’s shoulder. “Anyway, let’s just say I hadn’t gotten laid in a long time. And I’m not sleeping with him now. I’m sleeping with you. Sorry Tommy ruined our dinner.”

  “Dinner was amazing. You’re amazing.”

  Eventually, they snuggled down into the couch—John’s head on a pillow, his sock-clad feet in Isaac’s lap. He gave John’s arches a squeeze. “You have surprisingly large feet.”

  “The only way I keep my balance in the wind.”

  Isaac rubbed his feet and up the backs of his calves until, about twenty minutes into Spielberg’s newest, John fell into the heavy limpness of sleep. Isaac made it about an hour before he turned off the TV, which roused John from slumber.

  He leaned up on his elbows and stared around the room.

  “Did you like the movie?” Isaac joked.

  “Mm.”

  “You fell asleep five seconds in.”

  “It’s your fault for sucking me off and then expecting me to pay attention.”

  “For that, I take full responsibility.” Isaac ducked forward, pushed his shoulder into John’s stomach, and lifted John up into the air.

  John squealed in surprise as Isaac carried him toward the bedroom. “Wait. Lights!”

  With John still folded over his shoulder, Isaac dutifully walked through the kitchen and living room until the house was dark. He headed for the bedroom, but John wasn’t done with his orders.

  “Bathroom! Drugs!”

  “It’s a good thing you’re so light.”

  Still over Isaac’s shoulder, John managed to open the medicine cabinet, swallow his pills, and even grab his mouth guard.

  “Are you done?”

  John imitated Isaac’s voice as a high-pitched whine.

  Finally, in the warmth of the bedroom, Isaac tossed John onto the cozy comforter and crawled on top of him. He kissed the base of his neck. “I like throwing you around. I could get used to dating someone your size.”

  John ran his fingertips over Isaac’s cheeks. “Why don’t you just get used to dating me?”

  EVEN IN THE dark, Isaac recognized her shadow at the bottom of John’s bed. Naked, Elizabeth crept in the moonlight. After he looked up and whispered her name, she stabbed her stomach once, twice, again and again until blood trickled down her legs. Then, blood rushed from between her thighs and pooled on the floor.

  “Isaac.”

  How could one body bleed so much?

  “Isaac.”

  Someone reached for him in the dark. Isaac gripped hard on sinew and skin until someone shouted his name.

  He opened his eyes to find John’s bedroom bright with lamplight.

  “Isaac? It’s me. Isaac? Can you let go, please?” John’s voice sounded muddled at Isaac’s side. It was the mouth guard he wore. He said he’d been grinding his teeth ever since the shooting.

  Isaac searched the room for Elizabeth. When he didn’t find her, he realized he held John’s wrist in his hand—hard. “Shit.” He let go, red finger marks evident. “Did I hurt you?”

  John chuckled around the piece of plastic on his teeth. “A little.”

  “Ice. I’ll get—” Isaac jumped out of bed and ran to the kitchen in search of some frozen corn or peas or something. When he got back to bed, John had removed the silly mouth guard. He opened and closed the fist of his left hand.

  “I’m okay, really,” he said when Isaac pressed a bag of mixed vegetables to his skin.

  Isaac pushed John’s hair from his forehead and kissed every inch of his face.

  “Isaac. Hey. Stop. What just happened?”

  “Nothing.” He pressed his nose against John’s and breathed in the sweat-sweet smell of his naked lover.

  “Nothing? I thought you were going to punch me out.”

  “Just a nightmare,” Isaac said. “Nothing.”

  “You want to tell me about it?”

  “No.” He held John’s face in his hands and kissed both cheeks before helping John hold the frozen veggies to his wrist. “Keep that there. God, I hope I didn’t give you bruises.”

  “Did you know I take pills for nightmares?”

  Isaac nodded. “The ones you take before bed.”

  “Yeah. It’s hell if I forget.”

  They leaned their heads together. “Are they always about the shooting?”

  “No. Permutations of it maybe. It’s always chaos. I can’t see what’s happening, but I know something bad is coming. My therapist says it’s just anxiety.”

  Isaac shook his head and hazarded a glance below the bag of ice. John’s wrist was still red, but at least the finger marks had gone away. “I never want to hurt you.”

  John smirked. “Well, it might not be intentional. You thought I was the monster in your dream.”

  “You’re no monster.”

  He leaned his nose against Isaac’s ear and whispered, “Sure, I am. We often look the sweetest.”

  Chapter Nine

  THE EXCITEMENT WAS practically visible, floating like clouds of smoke near the buzzing fluorescent lights. All the literary magazine staff crowded around behind John’s computer—John, who’d been sure to wear not only a long-sleeved shirt that day but a blazer, too, just in case he was tempted to roll up his sleeves. Yes, he had bruises in the shape of Isaac’s fingers on his wrist. Yes, Isaac felt terrible, but John kept shrugging it off.

  “I’m pale,” John had said that morning. “People leave marks.”

  “What people?”

  “Shit, Isaac, I had your thumbprint on my hip for two days after the first time we fucked.”

  Isaac had promised himself to be more careful.

  Now, they had received their first email submission to Being Frank, and students jostled for position to read over John’s shoulder. “Don’t suck; don’t suck,” John said before clicking.

  Anthony leaned closest to the screen as a dozen eyes skimmed. “It fucking sucks,” he said.

  John glared at him. “Anthony.”

  Isaac really tried not to look amused, but so it was in the world of creative writing: some was good, but most was bad. The only kid not immersed in pointing out everything wrong with their premiere submission was Janelle, who hovered by the darkened window in a Spanish flag T-shirt. A cigarette would have looked perfectly at home in her hand. She stared down at College Green, so Isaac joined her.

  “Don’t you want to see the
first submission?” he asked.

  She shrugged and itched at the black bracelets on her arm. “Early days. We’ll get more. Did John admit to his crush on you yet?”

  “Why do you think he has a crush on me?”

  “Because every time he talks, he looks around to make sure you’re listening.”

  Isaac hadn’t even noticed, but she was right. He hoped he didn’t do the same. “We couldn’t date anyway. It’s against the rules.”

  “According to my parents’ checkbook, I can’t be a lesbian until I graduate, but I’ve done that just fine.” She chewed a black-painted fingernail. “You seem cool, like, easy to talk to.”

  He leaned his shoulder against the wall by the window. “Most people just think I’m quiet.”

  “Maybe that’s why you’re easy to talk to,” Janelle said. “You’re not always lecturing like some of the other teachers.”

  “John doesn’t lecture. Is that why you like him?”

  She made a sound that was sort of a laugh but wasn’t. “John’s not a teacher. He’s a writer.”

  “Can’t he be both?”

  She used her sleeve to rub at a thumbprint on the glass. “I like John because he doesn’t bullshit. I heard about the way he stood up for this, for us. Guess I almost got him fired, huh?”

  “Dr. Meeks wouldn’t have gone through with it.”

  Janelle shook her head. “After what happened last year, he’s the school’s crown jewel. Higher-ups want to keep him around, but he’s barely holding it together.” Kohl liner made her eyes glow. “Haven’t you noticed? I guess you didn’t know him before, though. He was different. Before.”

  Isaac swore he felt a cold breeze. “Are you okay, Janelle?”

  “About as okay as everyone else around here, Dr. Twain.” She poked his arm. “Now, let’s go see how much this submission sucks and make ourselves feel better about our own writing abilities.”

  She balanced on the edge of the desk near John and leaned forward, long, dark hair like a curtain covering her face. She scratched at her black bracelets, and Isaac concluded—quite easily really—that they hid scars.