We Still Live

by Sara Dobie Bauer

  “Tommy. Thanks for looking out. Seriously.”

  “No worries.” He stood. “I’m off. Good luck meeting the parents tomorrow. Word of warning, John and his mom go off on tangents in French, and it’s…” He considered the ceiling. “Sexy as hell, honestly. Woman is a minx. I’m just waiting for his dad to die in some freak accident so I can move in.”

  “That’s terrible.”

  “You haven’t seen Mrs. Conlon.”

  Isaac walked him to the door. They shared a hug before Tommy walked off into the night, whistling. With the earlier help of guests, the kitchen shined. Isaac turned off the lights before washing up and slipping into bed. John immediately cooed and rolled over, nuzzling his face under Isaac’s chin like a cat.

  ISAAC AGREED TO meet with John, Anthony, and Janelle prior to their Tuesday night meeting to discuss cover art for Being Frank. They’d received quite a few submissions—good submissions—but it felt so heavy, choosing the look of their controversial magazine. The entire staff would be involved later that night, but for the time being, it was just the four of them.

  Well, Anthony was late.

  They stood around a big desk, staring at ink drawings and paintings and prints from graphic design students. It felt like every medium was represented, even photography, although those felt almost too real, especially one in particular—a mash-up of photos from that day, including a smiling photograph of Chris Frank.

  John ran his hand over the back of his neck. “Fuck.”

  “Language,” Isaac prompted.

  “Shit. Sorry, Janelle.”

  She ran her fingertips over a splotch of dried red paint. Free-flowing black hair hid most of her face. “Just cuss in French. Then, nobody will know what you’re saying.”

  John said something in French under his breath. He didn’t sound like his mom. He spoke French with an American accent, according to her.

  Sunday’s Skype call had gone way easier than imagined. Sure, John had prefaced the whole thing by saying, “Don’t be awkward,” but Isaac concluded John had actually been talking to himself because his parents hadn’t said much to Isaac. They hadn’t pushed or prodded or mentioned any sort of age difference or questioned their jobs.

  In fact, when the call had first come through, John’s mother had said, “Oh, he’s so handsome!” She was indeed beautiful, as Tommy had said, and spoke with an adorable accent Isaac had only heard in movies. There had been a mixture of French and English throughout. John’s dad mostly smiled or rolled his eyes—must be hereditary—but their adoration for their only child had been palpable. They had waved and blown kisses. They’d asked Isaac for his Christmas list. When Mrs. Conlon—“Call me Maddy, please”—had started crying before hanging up, Isaac saw the resemblance. John did look just like her.

  “This is going to be harder than I thought,” John said.

  Isaac nodded. “Who knew we’d get so many submissions?”

  “And they just keep coming.” John looked over his shoulder at the clock above the door. “Where’s Anthony?”

  Janelle picked up a photo of College Green and stared. She took a couple pieces of art with her and sat in a chair at the front of the room.

  They heard the skid of Anthony’s shoes before he came running in at a trot. “Dude, you aren’t going to believe the shit I just heard.”

  John glanced back at Isaac, smiling, waiting for some comment about language, but Isaac would not give him the satisfaction.

  “Well, it better be good considering you’re twenty minutes late.”

  “I had to meet with my faculty advisor before this, and I was walking through the offices when I heard Meeks.” Anthony tugged off his hat, and his huge hair expanded like a marshmallow in the microwave. “She was talking to someone about censoring books with violence. Like banning them from the program.”

  John’s right eye twitched.

  Isaac tapped his fist on the desk as if that would be enough distraction. “John.”

  John took a deep breath and audibly exhaled through his nose as his hands curled into fists. He closed his eyes and dug his teeth into his bottom lip.

  “John,” Isaac said. “Not your fight.”

  He whined and opened one eye to look at Isaac.

  “But it is our fight, Dr. Twain,” Anthony said. “Fight against oppression.”

  There was no way Isaac was stopping this. Book banning was up there as one of John’s most hated things, along with the Carpenters, instant coffee, and light beer. It probably topped the list, tied with homophobia. Isaac knew John had gone to Washington, DC, years ago to protest censorship; he’d gone there again most recently with Janelle and Demi to speak out against hate crimes. Now, this. Censorship in his own school? Isaac almost felt sorry for Meeks.

  “Just don’t make it a screaming match,” Isaac said.

  “Duly noted. You and Janelle stay here and be brilliant. Anthony, into battle.”

  Anthony fist pumped and followed John out into the hall.

  Skinny as he was, Isaac had no idea where John stored all his passion. Maybe he had an empty leg. It would certainly explain his alcohol tolerance.

  Isaac grabbed a stack of art and sat at the desk next to Janelle. She wasn’t flipping through the cover designs; she just stared at one—the photographic mash-up of the school, the shooting, and Chris Frank’s face.

  “You’re fucking, you and John.”

  It felt like a slap to the face. “Jesus, Janelle.”

  “It’s okay. You’re both adults.”

  “When you talk to me like this, it makes me really uncomfortable. I am your teacher, an authority figure. I’m not your friend.”

  “I don’t think John knows the difference, do you?”

  Isaac had the urge to get the hell out of there, maybe join John in his battle against book banning, but Janelle kept talking.

  “He was nice. Chris. Kind of weird, but quiet. He latched onto John because John didn’t think of him differently, didn’t think he was weird. I remember some kids were giving Chris shit one day in workshop. They were saying how boring his work was, and John said, ‘If you’re bored, you’re boring.’” She poked at the photo. “He said it’s up to our imaginations, when we write or read, to paint the image. Imagination is a powerful thing, for better or worse.” She tugged on her earring until the skin of her ear drooped. “John is the only one who could have stood up that day—the only one Chris would have listened to. I imagine that’s what bothers John the most.”

  “What?”

  “He’s a writer. And he didn’t use the right words.” She scraped a jagged nail against the photo and left a mark. “Demi and I were together for two years. Did you know that?”

  “No.”

  “I first kissed her in the stairwell between the second and third floors of Ellis. She had a tongue ring, and I just wanted to see what it was like. I didn’t mean to get attached.”

  A familiar sentiment.

  “When was the first time you kissed John?”

  Isaac shook his head. “I can’t tell you that, Janelle.” So they sat in silence, mulling over stacks of images that represented lost love, broken dreams, and death.

  SOMETIMES, ISAAC THOUGHT it strange that his hips should fit so perfectly between John’s thighs, considering their difference in size. During lovemaking, he occasionally stopped everything just to wrap his palms around John’s slim waist and press his thumbs to the tender spot where hip met thigh. John always laughed when he did that and said, “I won’t break, you big oaf.” John would then paw at him until the kissing recommenced.

  There was nothing playful about that night, no laughing interspersed between John’s cracking voice. Outside the bedroom, his voice was rarely anything but strong and steady—even when overtaken by emotion. In the bedroom, that same voice went every which way, from high to low, breaking, shaking.

  He wound his arms around Isaac’s shoulders and his legs around his hips. He pulled him in for kiss after kiss until Isaac’s mout
h tasted more like John’s than his own.

  Their bodies flowed against each other, and Isaac gasped when John moved his hips in that certain way. John was not a good lover; he was an excellent lover. He observed, learned, and improved every time they touched. Isaac hadn’t known about the sensitivity of his right earlobe until John. He’d never had someone climb on top of him and kiss his back, lick up his spine. He’d never had someone give and give. If he could, he imagined John would give away his skin and bones to make Isaac happy.

  Hot breath against Isaac’s face. “Where’d you go?”

  “I’m here.” He pressed his thumb to John’s bottom lip until he opened and sucked.

  Wet with saliva, Isaac ran his thumb down the center of John’s neck. His Adam’s apple bounced as he passed. Isaac stared at the pale skin there, with just a smattering of tiny freckles. He rested his palm across that tantalizing flesh.

  “You can squeeze, you know, if you want.” Based on the way John chewed his lips, he liked the idea—the idea of being choked. Just something new they might try.

  But Isaac pulled away and shook his head. “No.” He leaned back, dizzy all of a sudden.

  The bed shifted as John sat up. “I know why you touch me there.”

  Isaac lilted to the side and moved his legs, no longer straddling John’s hips. Sitting naked on the edge of the bed, he dragged his hands through his sweaty hair.

  “Do you want to talk about it?” John asked.

  “How could you ask me to choke you after…”

  When Isaac didn’t continue, John grabbed his hand roughly and twisted his wrist. Isaac gasped in protest—but John did not relent. He pressed Isaac’s palm against his neck until Isaac’s fingers grasped the vulnerable skin.

  “Feel my pulse?”

  It throbbed beneath Isaac’s grip.

  “He didn’t pull the trigger.”

  “He could have,” Isaac whispered.

  “This part of my body is not sacred. It doesn’t deserve worship.”

  “All of you deserves worship.” Isaac tried to take his hand back, but John held tight.

  “Sometimes you stare at this place like you’re expecting to see blood. You have to stop.” He dipped his chin and looked up from under his eyelashes. Isaac had seen that look before; John used it whenever he was trying to win an argument, probably because he knew it made him look like a wolf with a very good point.

  “It’s ridiculous,” Isaac said, more to himself than to John. “I wasn’t even here when it happened, but I think about it almost every day—think about what life would be like if I’d never met you.”

  John sighed and finally released Isaac’s hand from around his throat. “Probably a lot fucking easier.”

  “But not half as interesting.” He crawled back onto the bed and hovered.

  John rested his hands on Isaac’s chest. “Are we good?”

  “Just because I have a morbid obsession with your neck doesn’t mean I don’t also find it incredibly attractive.” He stuck the tip of his tongue right into the notch between John’s collarbones.

  John arched into the touch. “Maybe we should get the honey.”

  Isaac leaped from the bed in a rush for the kitchen. The only sounds were that of his bare feet on tile and John’s quiet laughter.

  Chapter Fifteen

  HE ALMOST TRIPPED while trying to simultaneously put on his jacket and grab his satchel, but if he didn’t hurry, Isaac was going to be late for his first Wednesday class. “John?” He hustled into the office to find John at his desk, forehead on the keyboard. “So writing is going well today?”

  John groaned. Against the hard wood of the desk, the sound echoed like a banshee cry. “I used to like writing. I do not remember why.”

  Isaac picked up John’s head by tugging on his hair. “Maybe you should take a break.”

  He moved his jaw left to right, stretching out the tension Isaac knew he held there. “I need to shower soon anyway.”

  “Did I get honey in your hair again?”

  “Probably. I don’t understand how you had the energy to shower at midnight. After round two, I passed the fuck out.”

  Isaac leaned on the edge of the desk. “I know. I had to roll you like a log to make space. Talk later?”

  “Yeah, I’m going over to Janelle’s on my way to campus. I really need her opinion on some of this cover art. It felt like she was barely paying attention at the meeting last night, and she’s my go-to person, you know?”

  Isaac winked. “I thought I was your go-to person.”

  John gagged. “Don’t be gross in the morning.”

  He kissed John on the head. “I have to go. Love you.”

  John smiled.

  Too much sex was the best form of insomnia Isaac had ever had, so despite the lack of sleep, he started his first class chipper and bordering on cheerful. The students probably thought he was high. He had found a groove—a rhythm. Miraculously, with the help of John and Being Frank, he was a teacher again.

  Right in the middle of his roll, though, someone knocked at the door. Through the small cutout window, he caught a flash of Cleo’s red hair and her big, blue eyes. “Excuse me, class.” He opened the door and stuck his head out. “What’s up?”

  Before she covered her mouth, her lip trembled, and she started to cry.

  ISAAC PULLED INTO the hospital parking lot and sprinted into the emergency room. He spotted Meeks immediately, talking in hushed tones on her cell phone. Her eyes widened when she saw Isaac but soon looked away, disinterested, as she continued having what looked like a heated debate. Isaac scanned the area in search of a familiar face, but all he saw was a curly-haired kid hugging herself and a construction worker with a bloody rag on his arm.

  A nurse in green scrubs looked up from her desk. “Sir, can I—”

  Tommy appeared from down a brightly lit hall, and Isaac ran to him, clinging to his shoulders. “Where is he?”

  Tommy clung back. “I don’t think he’s okay, Isaac.”

  “Where…is…he?” Isaac growled out one word at a time.

  “Back there.” He glanced at a closed door. “I… He won’t let anyone near him. He won’t even… There’s blood and…” He took forever to swallow. “He won’t talk to me. I don’t know…”

  “Okay. I’ll go.”

  “I don’t want to lose him. I—”

  “No.” Isaac squeezed Tommy’s shoulders. “We’re not going to lose him. Go sit down, all right?” He moved beyond Tommy but paused. “Hey, did someone call her parents?”

  Shoulders slumped, he said, “Yeah. Meeks. They’re on their way, but they had to book a flight. It could be a while.”

  With a curt nod, Isaac went in search of John.

  After doing a cursory scan of the emergency department hallways, Isaac found him sitting away from the main waiting area in a pool of shadow. Usually if John was in crisis, Isaac would run to him, but instead, Isaac froze on the tips of his feet as though hitting a concrete wall. For the second time since meeting John, he actually felt scared of him. It wasn’t due to the blank expression or the way the shadows invaded the hollows of John’s cheeks, no—it was the blood. His hands and chest were painted in it, his pastel pink shirt now a Rorschach test. What do you see? He could almost make out Janelle’s face.

  “John?”

  He didn’t move, so Isaac knelt slowly in front of him. Up close, there was a swash of blood across his cheekbone, too, and on his chin. They looked like fingerprints.

  “John, can you hear me?” He wrapped his fingers around John’s wrist and squeezed.

  His eyes moved, at least. Although he looked at Isaac, there was no recognition.

  “Hey, it’s Isaac.” He swallowed sorrow and forced a smile. “Remember me?”

  John stared some more. Just as Isaac’s vision started going fuzzy with tears, he nodded. “How did you know to come here?”

  “Cleo.” He plucked a curl from the center of John’s forehead and pushed it back over hi
s brow. “Would you come to the bathroom with me, John?”

  His thin fingers trembled when he looked down at them, but he nodded again.

  With one arm around his shoulders, Isaac led John the twenty steps to the men’s restroom. ER staff tried not to stare as they went. Inside, beneath the too-bright overhead light, Janelle’s blood looked like something out of a B-horror film. He leaned John against the wall, away from the mirror, and pulled a stack of paper towels from the dispenser. He went for John’s face first, wetting the cloths and gently pressing them against his skin. He focused on the task, busied himself with the mundane, because otherwise, Isaac feared he would start screaming. John merely blinked at his attentions.

  Once his face was clean, Isaac took both John’s hands in his and held them under the faucet. Water ran red, then pink, as he added more soap to the mix—and more soap. Isaac never knew blood was so hard to wash off. Inside, blood kept us alive; outside, it stained skin, clothes, and minds.

  As Isaac massaged suds into John’s nails, John’s hands suddenly squeezed. Isaac looked up, expecting finally some show of emotion, but no, John was still haunted and empty.

  “I didn’t spend the summer with my family in Wisconsin,” he said. “I spent it in a psych ward.”

  Isaac dropped his head, nodding. He released one of John’s hands, and despite the soap and blood, covered his eyes as the tears came. He dragged John into his arms and cried against his hair, even though John barely hugged him back. John was a statue.

  They stepped away when the door opened—and just in time since Meeks walked in. “The nurses said I’d find you in here. John, we need to talk.”

  John took a shuffling step forward, but Isaac halted him with a hand on his upper arm. “Tomorrow,” he said.

  She scoffed. “What are you, Twain, his keeper?”

  “No, I’m his friend.”

  She put both hands in the air and then brushed them across her hips. “Fine. Whatever.” Her over-made-up face didn’t move, frozen in a strained expression of discontent. “John, my office at eight a.m. And pull yourself together.” Her high heels clicked as she stomped away.