Between the Shadow and the Soul - 31. Birthday Bash Part 3 - The Soul

February 4, 2017

Something kith and kin to anguished resignation gripped me, and in response lethargy settled in, a weariness of soul and mind and heart that, coupled with the hurt, left me barren and fatigued.

Jaded. That's it. I feel jaded, just worn down and beaten and careworn with life. This must be what a haggard heart feels like, as though the death of hope is a toxin, spreading from its source and killing everything in its path.

Yeah, that's it. A part of me died this morning and the rest of me is following it to the grave.

Kyle and I dragged our still tired selves, along with our bags, into the house. After weeping into the Omni's nice bed linens for half an hour, I'd realized I might intercept Nate at the house, might catch him there and stop him from running away from his fear, perhaps helping him face it and conquer it.

Right. I thought I'd be the knight in shining armor riding in to vanquish The Fiend and thereby save the day. Uh huh ...

But it only took the garage door rising a little for me to realize his car wasn't there. That was when what little hope I had left crumbled and I began feeling numb. Sure, the unbearable pain was still there, the ridiculous amount of disappointment still churned inside me, but it all began feeling like someone else's heartache.

It's called denial. You're very good at that, remember?

Denying it would only carry me so far, I knew, but it would keep me running long enough not to spoil the rest of Kyle's visit. Well, not spoil it anymore than I already had.

We trudged inside under the dark cloud of my torment.

"He's not messy, is he?"

"Nate?" I asked, though I couldn't imagine anyone else he'd ask about under the circumstances. Our rushed travel from the Omni to the house was borne of the hope that we'd find Nate there, giving us a chance to talk, hopefully to fix what seemed so terribly broken. I couldn't have lied to Kyle about what happened even if I'd wanted to, thus he knew the truth and why I'd been in such a funk all morning.

Basketball Boy nodded, glancing at me.

"No. Neither of us are, in point of fact. Thankfully we both share a common sense of domestic decorum, thus—" I gestured elegantly like a real estate agent showing off a property to prospective buyers. "—all neat and tidy, though cleanly lived in rather than pristine, which would be like living in a museum." I grimaced for effect.

"Mom constantly reminds us to pick up after ourselves, to clean our rooms, to put our dirty dishes where they belong, all that stuff."

"Of course she does. You're kids. Procreation is a messy business from start to finish."

He chuckled, shaking his head.

"You can take your stuff up to the guest room."

"We're not going back to the other hotel?"

How could I explain it? Running hither and yon trying to locate him wasn't a consideration. Since he wasn't at the house, I had no hope of reconciling with Nate, no hope of finding him now that I realized he didn't want to be found. If he'd wanted me to find him, I'd have discovered him at home. His absence spoke volumes.

So staying at the house made sense to me. I needed to start packing. It behooved me to skedaddle just as Nate had, but I'd have to make mine permanent and quick, meaning I needed to get the rest of my stuff out of the house as quickly as possible. That meant going back to the hotel I'd been living in was counterproductive.

"No," I responded, offering what I hoped was a dismissive shrug. Kyle knew the score, though, and his frightening ability to observe and analyze and deduce meant he saw right through the pretense.

"You think he'll come back here?" His voice held a boatload of doubt with a teaspoon of promise.

Another shrug. It was quickly becoming my go-to response. "Probably not. But I have things I need to do here. So ... here we stay."

"Okay." He turned and headed up the stairs, his backpack swinging from one shoulder.

Shunning the creeping ache in my chest and avoiding the scampering thoughts in my head, I tossed my bag and jacket on the bar and grabbed a beer from the fridge, guzzled it, grabbed another, drank half that one, then fetched the weed from the coat closet and wandered into the living room, dropping onto the couch like so much dead weight.

"It's nine in the morning, man."

"So?" I replied defensively, glancing at Kyle as he rounded the bottom of the staircase and approached me.

"Isn't it a bit early to drink beer?"

"No." I thought about leaving it at that, but for the sake of education I said, "Unless you're an alcoholic, that is. Besides, the silliness about only drinking between certain times of the day is meddlesome religion that somehow slithered its way into law."

"Religion and government should never mix," he intoned, as though speaking to a child.

"True that. Thus—" I waggled the half-empty bottle at him, gulped what remained, stood, and went to the kitchen for another one. Then over my shoulder: "—I don't adhere to that nonsense. If drinking in the morning was good enough for the Romans ..."

"But the Roman Empire fell."

"And so did I," I mumbled, grabbing another ale from the refrigerator. When I turned around, he'd already made himself comfortable on the couch. "Want one?"

He glanced at me, gave it a moment of thought, then answered, "Not right now."

"Want something for breakfast?"

"That I'd definitely take."

"Coming right up, sir." After a quick swallow of beer, I set about the business of morning nourishment.

* * * * *

Before she had time to get more than the first syllable of hello out of her mouth, I interrupted, "Mom, is Nate there?"

I couldn't say what possessed me to call. A few too many beers? A couple of joints? Depression? Pain? A profound sense of loss? Overwhelming melancholy? Any of a number of other anguished emotional responses I was suffering? Something else entirely? Again, I couldn't say.

"Listen, son of mine, give him some time and some space. You should know a little something about needing that."

Ouch. Getting the smackdown from my own mother hurt like hell under the circumstances. Nothing like a deserved dose of tit for tat to amplify the symptoms of heartache.

"I need to see him. I need to talk to him." I didn't sound desperate, I wasn't on the verge of tears. But no one could deny the emptiness in my voice that welled from deep within me. It gushed out in my words and my expressions and my breathing and every little thing I did.

"Greg, you will not come over here and you will not bother him and you will not push him, do you hear me? And stop calling him, too." The last she added with exasperation.

I huffed, not angrily so much as disgustedly. Hadn't I said pretty much the same to Nate when he kept trying to contact me after I walked out? Why did it hurt so much more when the tables were turned?

Dropping my head, a deep sigh escaping my lips, I admitted defeat. "You're right. I'm being stupid and hypocritical."

"You're being a selfish ass is what you're being."

"Fuck, Mom, do you have to make it hurt more?"

"To make sure you get the point? Probably."

I sighed again. "You're right."

"All I can recommend is that you step back, focus on other things, try to keep your mind occupied elsewhere. What happens will happen in its own sweet time."

"Then tell me one thing."

"What's that, honey?"

"Is he okay? I mean, is he going to be alright?"

It was her turn to sigh. Then: "Only time will tell."

* * * * *

"That was totally awesome!" Kyle declared, holding the joint out for me to take.

"Mars Attacks! is only funny when accompanied by mind-altering accoutrements. Otherwise it's kind of tedious and silly."

"Man, it was silly alright."

I shook my head, deciding it was a moot point to explain my use of the word had been vastly different from his. Too emotionally drained to care and too physically tired to say more than necessities, I let it go.

After tamping the roach in the ashtray, I stood and stretched.

"Hitting the sack?" he asked.

"Yeah. It's been a long day."

Basketball Boy slowly pushed himself upright from the sofa, arched his back and stretched, groaned in a way that was pure physical satisfaction, then turned to me and said, "I guess I'm gonna head on up as well."

Placing a hand on his arm to halt him, I waited for him to meet my gaze again. "Thanks, Kyle. For helping me with the furniture upstairs. For helping me move all that crap downstairs. For coming here for the weekend. For everything."

"It's all good," he replied, a slight blush creeping into his cheeks, a small shrug in one shoulder.

Forget it. You can give him a lesson on courtesy and graciousness later.

My hand moved from his arm to his neck, gave him a slight squeeze. "No, really, Kyle, thank you. This weekend didn't turn out anything like I expected. You've been a real friend—I mean you've been a real brother to me despite all the shit. I've really enjoyed your company, your help, your support. I just wanted you to know."

To my pleasant surprise, he closed the gap between us and pulled me into a hug. I hadn't realized how much I needed someone to touch me, to hold me, to make me feel like I wasn't alone. He anchored me as I temporarily lost myself in a maelstrom of emotions. That simple embrace was just the medicine I needed to get through the night.

We cleaned what little mess we'd made, beer bottles in the recycle bin, weed back in the coat closet, candles extinguished. Then we both headed up to bed since he had an early flight the following morning.

I stood in the doorway of Nate's bedroom pondering the wisdom of sleeping in his bed. Since Kyle had helped me dismantle mine as a prelude to my permanent exile from this phase of my life, the only other option was the couch. Nate's bed won.

Dropping my clothes in a pile on the floor, I slid beneath the covers and snuggled into his pillows. And I inhaled deeply, finding myself surrounded by his smell.

Yeah, I can deal with this. For just one night maybe it'll feel like the dream is real instead of dead. Maybe for just one night ...

* * * * *

February 5, 2017

"Remember I'm coming down there in a few weeks. You interested in hanging out and going to lunch with me and a bunch of people you don't know?" I punctuated the question with a quirky grin.

Kyle met my gaze in the middle of the DFW airport terminal and drew in a deep breath. Then quietly yet confidently he replied, "I don't think that's a good idea."

It felt like a punch in the gut. Suddenly I had a hard time catching my breath. The mountainous pain in my chest, thus far held in check with denial, suddenly grew too large to contain. I found it difficult to focus on the face in front of me.

"What?" I felt sure I said it, but Basketball Boy just stared, his expression blank. So I tried again, putting a bit more force into my diaphragm's attempt to push air out of my lungs and through my vocal cords. "What ... what do you mean?"

A look of loving sympathy spread across his face as he closed the small distance between us, his voice becoming quieter, more intimate. "I think maybe it would be good for me to have some time ... away ... from you, I mean."

Yes, this hurts. I can't believe how much it hurts.

"Why?" The question was little more than an exhale.

You know the answer already. You kinda knew this was coming, too.

His head tilted slightly to one side, almost like one does when dealing with a child who just can't seem to grasp a simple concept, though I knew he didn't mean it in a condescending way. "I need to get over you, Greg. I thought a month away helped, but coming back here and seeing you made it all explode like it'd just been waiting for a little air from you to blaze just as hot as it was when I left."

"Fuck ..." I moaned. I couldn't argue with his logic. I could definitely sympathize with the emotional truth of it.

Resting his hand on my arm, giving a small squeeze, he said, "We'll still talk, but not as frequently, at least not for the next little while. I think it's best if I'm away from you for a bit."

"How long?" My voice was breathy. I felt like I was going to start crying. Again.

"I don't know," he admitted, and that was the best and most honest answer he could've given.

Dropping my head, taking a deep breath to fortify my nerves, I nodded slightly. "I understand. Better than most, I guess." Meeting his gaze again I told him, "I just wish it didn't have to be this way."

His eyes glistened with unshed tears and his breathing tripped a little here and stumbled a little there. It was obvious to me he was fighting himself on this decision, his intellect saying it was the right play while his emotions screamed foul.

Cupping his face, sliding my thumb across his cheek beneath his eye, I said, "Believe me, Kyle, I completely understand."

"I don't want to lose you," he mumbled, "but I can't live like this either."

My arms snaked around him and pulled him into me, nestling his face against my chest, rubbing his back and letting him draw some measure of strength and reassurance from me. He automatically wrapped his arms around me and held on for dear life.

"It's the most adult decision you can make," I admitted. "I wish it wasn't necessary, but I truly do understand and I really think it'll help you."

"I wish it didn't hurt so much," he mumbled against me before sniffling.

I had no response to that. It would hurt, that much was true. It was necessary, that was equally true. It also sucked big time, which was as true as anything could be.

We held each other in silence as thousands of travelers flowed around us like water around a stone. For many minutes we stood like that, unmoved by the world rushing to and fro as we focused on each other, on the moment, on the feelings.

"I'm sorry your birthday weekend turned into shit."

"It's all good."

"I'm really sorry I told you this on your actual birthday. I feel like I just kicked your puppy."

Again I shrugged. The gesture already felt mechanical, automatic. "It is what it is, Kyle." I made the words sound dismissive or disinterested or something like that. I felt nothing of the sort.

"This isn't the end of us."

"Of course not," I huffed.

"We'll talk, I promise."

"It's up to you, Kyle. I'll do anything I can for you, you know that. Whatever distance or time you need, it's all up to you."

His response was quiet and profound. "Please wait for me."

Finally he had to go, get through security, find his gate and board his plane. We hugged fiercely, struggled to let go, said goodbye many times more than necessary, and watched as the gulf between us grew. I could only hope it wouldn't grow into a distance too vast to overcome.

Once he'd disappeared into the secure area, I headed to the house. Throughout the commute I felt like I'd left some part of me behind, perhaps a critical part now that I'd lost Nate.

* * * * *

Hours passed, all day in fact, considering I last saw Kyle around eight in the morning and had arrived home little more than an hour later and—

No, I didn't arrive home. I arrived at the house, which isn't my home anymore.

Oh, right. True that.

Needless to say, I accomplished much, all of it marked with sweat and not a few tears. Despite the beer and weed I'd indulged in throughout the day, I still felt wired and rushed and pretty much like I was coked out of my mind. A big part of that, no doubt, came from the emotional urges that pulled me in too many directions. Call him, don't call him, leave it all behind, stay and try to fix it, hope for the best, there is no hope, all things end, this doesn't have to end, and on it went. That alone stretched me to the breaking point.

At a quarter of eleven that night, the feverish activity of packing and cleaning and preparing to relocate ground to a halt while I mentally inventoried the furniture carefully disassembled and placed near the bedroom door, the luggage and boxes full of my life's remnants that I hadn't taken with me the first time I left, and the boxes and various other containers and bags already stacked and piled in the dining room downstairs.

"Not much more," I mumbled to the empty house.

Almost everything in the master suite and anything Nate didn't use would go with me. In the final analysis, it wasn't much at all, though it seemed otherwise when trying to pack and prepare all of it in one weekend.

This time I'm leaving nothing behind. This part of my life is over. A little more packing tomorrow, then I'll call some movers and have everything put in storage until I figure out where to go from here.

With a fire blazing in the living room and in the master suite—I could no longer call it my room—plus the heater cranked to take the edge off the winter chill, all the physical activity, including running up and down the stairs with various loads of stuff, left me sweaty and feeling gritty. Finally pausing near the sofa, I shed everything but my underwear, intending to take a shower before crashing.

When I turned to grab my overnight bag from the bar where I'd unceremoniously dumped it that morning—what felt like another lifetime ago—I tried to avoid looking at the various photos on the walls. I'd already packed the portion of them that I wanted to keep. Well, I wanted to keep them all since most of them portrayed the last twenty-one years I'd shared with Nate, but I knew he'd want them as well, so it behooved me to take a selection of them while not taking everything with significance.

Damn it, they're all significant!

You know what I mean.

Even as I tried not to look at it, one photo drew my gaze nonetheless. It was the large glass print of Nate and I when we vacationed on the Spanish island of Ibiza. A local photographer discovered us on the beach as we frolicked and laughed and thoroughly enjoyed ourselves with nary a concern. The camera had caught us in a moment of intense levity, me holding Nate in my arms as I prepared to carry him into the water, both our faces aglow with gleeful eyes and mirthful expressions and laughing smiles that seemed to indicate limitless potential and a bottomless reservoir of love.

It'd always been my favorite image. When my blind spot was in full force, the picture simply reminded me of the greatest relationship I'd ever have and of the greatest man I'd ever know. Once the blind spot fell, the picture became a symbol of hope because it looked so much like a couple powerfully in love and always in the throes of joy and abandon so long as they were together.

Like a venerated religious artifact to the faithful masses, I carefully and reverentially took the image from the wall and held it before me, letting light from the kitchen fall on it and through it and over it. Beautifully printed on blemish-free glass, it was breathtaking and heartbreaking and moving and touching and so many other things.

I was functioning on less sleep than I required, more emotional turmoil than I could handle, little food, too much booze and too much pot, and an overabundance of time spent in my own head. To say I was wiped out would be to understate matters.

Though I needed to shower and hit the sack—I intended to rise early so I could hopefully finish my task and leave before Nate came home—I decided to lie on the couch for a few moments, just a minute or two, just long enough to rest my creaky bones and tender muscles and tortured heart. Hugging the picture to my chest, I settled on the sofa and closed my eyes.

Just for a minute or two ...

* * * * *

"You look so tired and beaten, G-Man."

I didn't wake to the sound of the garage door rising, the car entering and parking, the kitchen door opening, or both it and the garage door closing. I didn't wake to the sound of keys and wallet and jacket and cell phone laid quietly on the bar. I didn't wake to the sound of footsteps moving from the kitchen's tile to the dining room's hardwood to the living room's carpet. I didn't wake when a body settled on the couch where I slept, hips nudging against my waist. I didn't wake when steady careful hands slid the glass photograph from under my arms and set it silently on the coffee table. No, none of that woke me.

"What have I done?"

Sadness can be consuming, taking from us so many different things, be it our sanity, our hope, our peace, our comfort, our health, our anything. Including our rest. Which was why I slept through the noises and activities that should've elicited consciousness. I'd been sleepwalking since I read that letter at the Omni, a heartbroken somnambulist stumbling and mumbling through life, trying to look normal whilst feeling dark and pained and unaware and disinterested. So it didn't surprise me that sadness made sleep a deeper and vaguer world, troubled and fitful and not the least bit restful, truly a little death to add to the bigger one I was suffering.

"Why's all your stuff ... Oh fuck."

What pulled me inexorably and reluctantly from the depths of uneasy and haunted slumber was the hand against my face, the thumb stroking my cheek, the touch as light as a zephyr. The undeniable gentleness and warmth of that hand drew me up from the abyss.

"I've really messed up, haven't I?"

Physical touch had always been my language of choice, a way to express emotions—especially love. That I'd taught Nate how to speak the same way didn't surprise me; that I needed him to speak to me in that way made my sense of loss all the worse. He was the only other person on the planet fluent in my mother tongue.

"I know we've always been able to fix what's broken, but I don't know if this can be fixed."

As I climbed upward from the chasm, the soft words that didn't register in my mind as words so much as inaudible whisperings meant for someone else's ears began taking shape. Coupled with the emotion and care hidden in the soft susurrus, the touch began telling me things I refused to accept, thus I refused to open my eyes, refused to acknowledge consciousness, refused to indicate my wakefulness. Instead, I kept my eyes closed, tried to keep my breathing regular, and plotted my quickest escape.

"You're so fucking beautiful. You've always been so beautiful."

Even in sleep, my semi-eidetic mind recorded any words and numbers my senses absorbed. This oft times left me wondering where certain tidbits came from, having overheard a telephone conversation or television program or radio show while I slept. But not in that moment, not while I struggled to look like slumber incarnate even as the hand on my face and the whisperings in my ear beckoned to me.

"I know you're awake. Please just listen to me, G-Man."

My eyes fluttered open, the light from the kitchen—which I accidentally left on—stinging enough to make me squeeze them shut for a moment before trying again. The sight that filled my vision when finally I could see was Nate sitting on the edge of the sofa, his face weary and distressed, his eyes bloodshot and hollow. He wore the same clothes he'd worn to the party Friday evening, except they looked slept in, wrinkled and rumpled and untidy. Only a peripheral observation caught that his beautiful seafoam shirt hung unbuttoned and open and dangling from one shoulder, as though he began undressing on the way in from the garage.

Under different circumstances I'd have let my eyes consume every inch of exposed skin, let my imagination toy with all the things I wanted to do to that bare muscular torso. But such flights of fancy had no place in our new world, probably never again.

When I met his gaze, he stared back with such a profound sense of loss and love that it immediately brought me to tears.

"What time ..." I muttered.

"Almost midnight," he answered softly. "Happy birthday, G-Man," he added in a tone that oozed sadness and regret. "I almost missed it. And I really messed up your weekend. I'm sorry."

Too much ... I can't do this. It's too much.

"Shhh ... It's okay, Greg. You're the strongest man I know. You can do anything."

I pushed myself up on my elbows, meaning to crawl off the couch and get the hell out of the house. I never intended to be there when he came home. I didn't want the unpleasantness, the discomfort, the awkward silence, the painful reminder of what we lost to The Fiend. Or, rather, what we stupidly sacrificed to him.

"I'll leave," I croaked, hoarse with sleep and emotion. "I'll finish ..." I glanced around trying to understand how much more work I had left. "I'll finish some other time," I mumbled in surrender.

Nate's hand slid from my face to my chest, fingers splayed. His touch felt like fire burning against my bare skin, such affectionate tenderness as he stopped my rickety movement.

"No," he responded in a hushed tone. His eyes never left mine, such kindness and sorrow mixed in them. "You look like shit. Have you even slept since the other night? Have you eaten? Fuck, what have I done?"

"I look like shit because I feel like shit," I mumbled. "Sleep's hard to come by and not restful when I find it. I don't have much of an appetite. As for what you've done, I suppose it's what you thought you had to do and I'm in no position to question or comment on that."

A single tear escaped his control and made its way slowly down his cheek. I could see his muscles dance as he dispatched it with a dismissive rub.

I pushed forward or up or sideways, which I couldn't tell. I only knew that I meant to get off the couch and out of the house.

"You need to stay. I need to talk to you." When he gently pushed against my chest, I fell back, listless and dispirited. I had neither the energy nor the inclination to argue the point.

There was a deep thrumming ache in the center of my being that seemed to pulse throughout my entire body with every heartbeat, until even my bones felt tired and sore. If he wanted to shoot off more painfully barbed rejections, I was in no condition to force my way out of the line of fire. And to be brutally honest with myself, I had no interest in dissuading him from trying. I might never see him or talk to him again after I moved the last of my things out of the house, thus the selfish part of me knew I would tolerate whatever dashed hopes and immortal wounds this chat might cause just so I could have one last moment with the other half of my soul.

I settled back on the sofa. Nate shrugged his shirt off the one shoulder it dangled from before reaching down and grabbing my hand, placing it flat against his chest, right over his heart, pressing his own hand against it to hold it in place.

I squeezed my eyes shut, hoping to capture and contain the tears welling there. I failed miserably. Wetness spread from my eyes down my cheeks, down the sides of my face, down my neck.

"Don't cry. Oh my precious Greg, please don't cry!" He leaned down and kissed the tears from my cheeks, from my closed eyelids, his thumb lightly stroking my face while he squeezed my hand and held it against him. Then he gently kissed my lips, a slow joining that had no pressure or lust or desire in it, just comfort and love. "Please don't cry, G-Man," he whispered against my face. His hand slid down along my neck to my chest, coming to rest over my erratically pounding heart, his fingers lightly massaging my fevered skin. "It hurts me so much to see you cry. It hurts even worse to know I made it happen. Please, G-Man, please don't cry."

Nate let his lips brush against mine again, only the slightest touch, as light as air yet heavy with emotion. I shivered, almost jerked away, almost turned my face to avoid what must surely be goodbye. I'd had quite enough pain in the last few months and I couldn't take more, especially not from him.

Sitting upright, still holding my hand to his chest, pressing it tight against him, he admitted in a hushed tone, "I'm a coward. I ran when I should've stayed. But instead I ran because I was overwhelmed with fear. I took the coward's way out instead of manning up and facing you like you faced me."

There was such misery in his eyes, such sorrow. How much more pain would we accept from a dead man? I wondered. How much more can Richard hurt us from the grave?

"I don't know how to fix what's broken," he continued. "I don't know how to move beyond this fear of losing you. I don't know what to do."

As he spoke, I was only vaguely aware of his hand over my heart. His fingers began gently and slowly moving in tiny circles and patterns against my bare skin, raising goosebumps and chills. He seemed so lost that I doubted he was aware of it.

"You had the balls to face me and tell me when you were leaving. You cared enough and were man enough to look me in the eyes and say why you thought you had to leave and to explain the feelings and thoughts that made you reach that conclusion.

"Me? I wrote you a Dear John letter and went slinking out while you slept. Now tell me that's not cowardice."

"Fear is a powerful motivator, Nate." My voice was shaky, uncertain, stinking of emotional decay and dead hope and gangrenous wounds that would never heal.

"Don't make excuses for me, G-Man," he whispered. Then somewhat louder he continued, "Please don't do that, don't try to make me feel better for doing what I did. It was selfish and it was hurtful and it spit in your face while mocking everything we've ever felt for each other, everything we've ever shared, everything we've ever faced together. You showed courage and honored our relationship and demonstrated unflinching love, but I insulted you and I insulted us and in the dead of night I ran like a scared child so no one would see me fleeing in panic. And why was I fleeing? Because that's what Richard taught me to do." The last he spat with disgust, some of it aimed at himself.

Nate released my hand so he could wipe the tears from his face. As my hand came to rest against his bare skin, it began a slow slide downward, a soft stroke over his nipple and around his pectorals, gently coming to rest just above and to the right of his navel. I glanced down at it, as if it belonged to someone else, and I ordered my eyes back to his when I flattened my hand against his hot skin and started gliding my thumb back and forth over the ridges of his muscles.

"Mom said she thought Richard's damage had been the greatest on your fifteenth birthday, but after all this she said he'd left a bomb that didn't go off until fifteen years later, a bomb that inflicted more damage than anything he could've done physically. She cried, G-Man, literally cried and said she didn't think it was possible but she hated him more now than she ever had. She cursed him and swore she'd spit on his grave if she ever cared to visit it.

"And that's the point, isn't it? He's been dead for more than ten years yet we're still wallowing in the muck he left behind, still empowering him by soiling ourselves with the shit he threw at us years and years ago."

Dropping his face and shaking his head, he whispered, "You were right, what you said while we were dancing. We've wasted a lot of years and we've let him take so much from us. We're the only ones who can stop him from hurting us anymore. Only I couldn't see it, or maybe I was too scared to see it. I ran because he taught me to fear what we could be, taught me to fear what I felt for you, taught me to fear until all I knew was fear."

His whole hand had started moving. The caress was light and minor, but I felt it, especially when he'd barely graze my nipple, a button wired directly to my libido and my cock. Highly erogenous zones, he never quite touched it with pressure enough to elicit anything more than a minor shudder, a tremor so low on the Richter scale as to be ignored by all. Except me.

After a deep, unsteady breath, his eyes leaped to mine but then immediately dropped to hungrily take in my bare torso. Then they jumped to his hand, which stilled, before returning to my face.

Unshed tears glistened in the deep pools of his dark brown eyes and a kind of horrified sorrow at self-inflicted wounds showed clearly in his expression.

"My only true emotional bond, outside of family, is with you. That's why I never connected with any of those women. Deep down inside I didn't want to and didn't think I needed to, deep down inside I couldn't. I already had the connection that mattered most, the connection I always wanted and never had to look for because it came to me." In a hushed voice he added, "You came to me, G-Man. That first day of school you came to me."

I didn't know where this was going. Was it goodbye? Was it a way to excuse running out on me that night? Was it an attempt to walk himself through understanding why we could never be together? Was it something else? I honestly didn't know.

When his tongue sneaked out to wet his dry lips, my eyes snapped to the motion, then my teeth clamped down on my bottom lip as my gaze climbed back to his. In time to see his eyes move to my eyes from my lips. Which made me lick my lips as a kind of test. He glanced down at my tongue until it disappeared.

Unbeknownst to him, at least as far as I could tell, his hand had once again started massaging my chest, lazy caresses with his fingers and slow swipes with his palm. Because he sat facing the kitchen, thus the light, I realized his pupils were dilated and he had an unusually provocative look about him.

In a voice low and lazy he explained, "See, Greg, I was so scared of losing you that night because I'd admitted how I felt. So after an hour or two, when you changed positions, I woke up enough to panic. And then I ran. I was scared of losing you so I abandoned you."

My hand slid up his torso of its own volition, or perhaps with a little help from me, and slowly caressed his chest, not to elicit arousal but to offer comfort.

"Nate ..."

"I'm tired of being scared, Greg. I'm tired of living in fear. Mom said I could either let Richard win or I could take action to stop him. She said I was the one handing him his last victory, on a silver platter no less, so it was all up to me."

My mouth opened a few times, closing silently because I didn't know what to say. Then I realized we were reliving Friday night, the dancing and kissing, the admissions, and in the end, the heartache.

Though it pained me to do so, I quietly told him, "I can't do this anymore, Nate. You know how I feel. You say you feel the same and then leave me a letter that cuts me a thousand times. This is killing me. If you really know how I feel about you, then you know what I want. If you want the same thing ..." I shrugged, at a loss for words.

"I want it, too," he whispered huskily, his dark eyes soft and troubled. "But it scares the shit out of me. If I screw this up, I lose you forever. Like I told you, I don't think I can survive that." Dropping his head again, a lone tear falling into oblivion, he shrugged then moaned, "I don't know what to do."

Nate lifted his face and his eyes held such love, such hurt, such conflict, yet still he reached out and ran the backs of his fingers down my cheek. I shut my eyes and turned into the touch.

Waves of fiery heat and gentle warmth spread from his hand on my cheek and his hand on my chest, emotional turmoil made manifest by the physical want and hurtful regret he seemed to pour into me through his touch.

Sliding my hand from his chest to beneath his arm and grabbing his shoulder with the other, I gripped him and pulled him toward me, wanting nothing more than to wrap my arms around him and hold him, probably for the last time.

He nestled his face against my neck while sliding his legs up and tangling them with mine. I could feel a tear or two as they fell on my skin. He shook, breathed heavily, and did his best to wrap me in his arms and hold me close.

"I don't want to lose you," he murmured, his lips tickling my throat, his breath warm and moist against my skin.

"So where does that leave us?" My voice was husky yet uncertain.

His head pivoted slightly and his shoulders rose and fell.

So that's it, I guess. We've come full circle.

The thought made me squeeze him tighter, spreading my legs so he could settle between then. I turned my head slightly so his would fit more comfortably against me. Which placed his lips just below my ear.

Nate inhaled deeply, exhaled, inhaled slower and deeper as he pressed his face against my skin.

We've been here before. It didn't end well.

He took me by surprise when he licked at that spot just below my ear, the one he'd discovered the first time we messed around with each other, when we'd gone slow in an exploratory introduction to each other's body. I felt certain he remembered where my buttons were and how they worked.

When his tongue swirled and teased the tender flesh, fire shot through my body, causing my hips to buck and my cock to harden. I might have moaned, too. Yeah, that was definitely a moan.

His teeth nipped the moist skin, catching it lightly, and a blaze roared to life inside me.

"What are you doing?" I groaned, turning my head further to increase his access and grinding my crotch into his.

He's hard. Fucking hell.

I gasped and cried out when he began sucking blood to the surface, right there in that spot, right there where it lit a fire that shot down to my cock, spreading from there to every part of my body, every intimate and erogenous part that suddenly felt very much aware.

"Nate ..."

He kept sucking—I was going to have one hell of a hickey, and it'd be impossible to hide—his tongue flicking against the skin and his teeth nipping lightly. Everything he did sent tendrils of flame through my body.

I can't breathe. I can't think.

Oh hell, am I making those desperate noises, those whimpers?

My fingers clawed at Nate's back, trying to pull him into me even as I anchored myself to him, not wanting to lose myself in this, not wanting to make it more than goodbye sex, a pity fuck, a moment of weakness that'd end too soon, whatever.

More oxygen. I need more oxygen. I'm gonna pass out.

With a wet pop he came off my neck. He actually fucking growled, the rumble passing from his body into mine, shaking me to my core.

When he blew gently against the wet, tender flesh, I shivered, moaned, lost my mind.

"Nate ... Why ... Fuck ..."

His weight lifted, vanished, though I was kind of maybe sort of aware of activity on the couch, my body possibly vaguely perhaps registering slight movement and bounces passing from the cushions into my back. Then a quick yank near my waist and cool air shocked me when it hit my exposed crotch.

He just took my underwear off me. What the fuck is happening?

Still struggling to breathe, my eyes fluttered open in time to see his face above mine, his expression soulful and wanting and ... something else. Lust, sure, but something else was there, some kind of determination or purpose.

I grabbed his head and pulled him to me. Unlike all the times before when I'd kissed him, I didn't hold back on this one. My tongue dove into his mouth and I opened myself to him, let the kiss fill with all my needs and wants and feelings, let it say what needed to be said.

His strength failed under the onslaught and he collapsed on top of me. Everywhere his skin touched mine, more fires started, more heat, more flames, more passion. Gripping the back of his head with a near painful hold, my other hand slid down his back, feeling the muscles ripple and flex.

Just when I reached his ass, hoping to slide my hand beneath the fabric, his knees buckled and an explosion went off in my crotch as I simultaneously grabbed a handful of bare flesh and a fiery bar of pure heat landed against my cock.

"Fuck ..." I groaned.

He's naked. He stripped while I was incoherent. Fuck me running, what's gotten into him?

I ground myself against him as he reciprocated, moaning into my mouth as our tongues danced and dueled.

Nate wrenched himself away from my mouth, his face hovering just above mine. We breathed from each other, stared at each other, panting and looking.

"You were in denial before," he whispered. "And I was scared shitless. We never had a chance those two times."

"What about ... what about now?"

He grinned, a cocky grin that couldn't hide his nervousness or his love or his desire. Or his fear. His dark eyes smoldered despite the nerves and apprehension, clear and desirous and intent. His mouth opened a few times but no words came forth. Obviously he didn't have an answer.

Instead of putting too much thought into it, he dropped to my left, the side of my neck he hadn't already ravaged, his lips landing on the skin just below my ear.

Fuck yeah he remembers where all my buttons are.

"Nate ... Aaah ..."

His teeth grabbed a bit of flesh, held it snug, his tongue lapping at my skin. Then his lips sucked at the tender spot and once again fires burned bright, flames flashing through me. I writhed and bucked and felt my whole body heat up until I began sweating with feverish intensity.

Unlike the first time, he released me quickly, no doubt still leaving a hickey, albeit a smaller, less angry mark. But still ... he'd marked me. Again.

As I struggled to breathe, light kisses rained down on my nose, my cheeks, my forehead, my eyelids, my lips. Then he was gone, settling between my legs, spreading them so he could sit back on his haunches, his dark brown eyes devouring me from top to bottom.

"Nate, why?" I bit my lip, not sure why I asked or why it mattered. If I could have him just this once, this one time with a clear mind so I could feel both emotionally and physically, wouldn't that be worth it? Wouldn't that be the best goodbye?

"I've never thought a man attractive ... except you," he whispered with too much awe to keep me from blushing. Profusely. "I need this. I need to know."

"Know what?" My voice was breathy, hushed, throaty.

Rather than answering, he leaned forward and kissed me, brief and potent, then began licking and kissing and nibbling along my body. My head feel back and I moaned, enjoying his exploration. He expertly hit each nipple only briefly, knowing that was a sure way to push me over the edge.

Groans and moans and shivers erupted from me almost continuously, not just from the pleasure of his mouth, tongue and teeth, but also from the overwhelming emotions I felt knowing this time was different, this time we both knew damn well what we felt, this time we both knew ... that maybe it was the last time we could be together.

Not wanting to move too quickly, I reached down and grabbed Nate, pulling him up to me so we could trade kisses while our hands roamed and wandered. Though the skin we felt wasn't foreign, the moment was, alive with what hadn't existed the first two times we'd done this.

Thigh to thigh and chest to chest, we writhed against each other. More fire, more heat.

He grunted when I moved my hips so I could push my cock against his. The shiver that went through him made me tremble.

"Fuck ..." he groaned when I snaked a hand between us and gripped us both together. He jerked into my hand and gasped. Two hot velvet rods slick with sweat and precum slid through my fist.

My arm slid from between us, leaving Nate writhing and pressing in his search for friction. I grabbed his thighs and gave a tug. When his head snapped up, his eyes not quite so clear and a great deal less uncertain, I nodded in answer to his silent question before giving his thighs another tug.

I wanted it. So badly.

His hands went to the arm of the sofa and pushed, lifting his upper body as he slid his hips forward, graceful and smooth.

Once he knelt across my chest, looking down with anticipation and worry, I ran my hands up his bare torso as I gazed longingly at his cock. Although not as large as mine, it was big and thick and uncut, the foreskin pulled back just enough to show the dripping tip, the covered head swollen. It was straight and dark and thick and long and beautiful and Nate's ... Fuck yes, it was Nate's, and that's all that really mattered.

I have a dildo that size. And the same color, too. It's my favorite. Just a coincidence, I'm sure.

His head fell back as he grabbed my hands, guiding them across his taught skin and trembling muscles. One he stopped over a nipple and the other he drew up to his face, rubbing against it with feline intensity.

Heat radiated off him, especially his crotch, and his smell—that heavenly and intoxicating smell—mixed with a muskiness that made me shiver. I could spend the rest of my life with that smell and never miss another scent.

When I pinched his nipple, his body shook and his hips bucked forward. I captured the head of his cock with my lips during the unexpected thrust.

Closing my lips around it, I sucked, swirling my tongue around the head and into the foreskin, probing and massaging. And I was quite aware of the warm fluid that spread onto my tongue when I applied pressure against his slit. I'd never forget that taste, nor would I ever enjoy another quite as much.

"Fuck ... Greg ..."

Did he just whimper? Holy fucking hell but was that the sexiest sound in the world. Well, at least at this moment. I'd really like to see if I can get him to make some other sounds, see if maybe something might sound even sexier.

Not the best position for sucking dick, lying back on the couch, I did my best anyway, curling myself forward, head off the armrest, taking more of him into my mouth. He was too thick and too rigid and my angle too shallow for me to get more than half of him inside before the helmeted head ran into the top of my throat. I'd never get him in further like this, though I really wanted all of him.

Instead of impaling my brain on his shaft, I let my tongue do some of the work my throat couldn't by wiggling and pressing it against the underside. Just because I could, I swallowed repeatedly around the head.

Nate collapsed, shaking as with palsy, groaning next to my ear, his hands saving him from going over the end of the couch. Which would've been funny but highly disappointing.

I grabbed the base of his cock, using my own spit to lube it as it extended the reach of my mouth, both working in concert.

He groaned again, a broken, hitched sound that came in sequence with his body's spasms.

Then a major disappointment when Nate gently slid backward, pulling himself from my mouth. His ragged breathing was deep and desperate against my head, his tremors beautiful. I tried to keep stroking with my hand but he moved back again, out of my reach.

Before I could complain, he muttered a "fuck" under his breath, then he captured my mouth with his. Even as we kissed, he slid further down, stretching his body out again, his cock leaving a trail of my spit and his fluid.

He settled between my legs again and slid away from my lips. Kissing and nibbling and licking, he made a direct line from my face to my cock.

"Nate ..." I groaned.

He didn't have a lot of experience with that particular activity, all of it learned from me the two times we'd messed around with each other. But I wasn't worried about that. No, I was concerned I was too wired to survive too much attention there.

Besides, I wanted to know. I had to know. If he could take me to the one place I'd never been able to visit since Richard. Only Nate had been able to rim me without pushing me toward panic and only Nate had been able to finger me without causing terror. But I wasn't so stupid as to assume that those two accomplishments equated to achieving the unmentionable.

He bobbed a few times, struggling with my size, grazing me once with his teeth, emitting a light gag when he pushed down too far and too fast. Even if he puked on me, though, the idea of what he was doing was enough to push me toward orgasm, let alone the feeling of it.

Gently grabbing his head and pulling him up, he faced me long enough for me to beg, "Please ..." He looked as surprised as I felt, but I echoed, "Please ... Nate ..."

"Are you sure?" he whispered, reverent and respectful, even a bit unsure.

"Please ..."

If we failed, it wouldn't do any more harm to us than we'd already done, so I had to know, we had to try. And though I wasn't religious, I prayed to every god I'd ever studied from every religion ever mentioned in every history class I ever took, asking each and every one of them to grant me this one thing.

Nate took me into his mouth again, working me as best he could. I felt his tremors, his worry. But I also felt his finger probing my hole, rubbing in gentle circles, slight pressure causing more fires erupting inside me. Yet he didn't try to penetrate me. Instead he focused on fanning the flames with touches and teases.

My legs shook, both nerves and want, both fear and love. I dropped my head back and moaned as he worked my cock in his mouth, inexpertly yes, but still the best I'd ever had because it was him, it was Nate, and this time we knew what the fuck we were doing, though maybe not why.

Don't question it. Just let it happen. Enjoy it in case it's farewell.

When he hummed around my cock at the same time he worked directly against my hole, I bucked and whimpered, melting in the heat.

He came off my cock with a wet plop, then licked down the shaft to my balls, giving them only cursory treatment as I begged and writhed. At that point I didn't care about anything else other than the possibility that he could do something for me that no one had been able to do before. At least not forcefully.

Nate's strong hands settled beneath my thighs and lifted them, more his strength than my participation. Nerves began firing off, some of fear, some of desire, some of primitive want, and some of anticipation.

"Nate ... Please ..." I reached down and grabbed behind my knees, pulling my legs back to ease his access.

Why am I begging so much?

Um, because it's Nate. And because maybe, just maybe, he can do this for you.

Yeah, those were two very good reasons to beg.

He'd never done anything anal before we hooked up those two times. He'd never considered it. But I think maybe he had thought about it, at least now I think that given what I know about his feelings. Because he never blinked when I walked him through rimming and fingering me those two times, never even looked askance at the idea. No, Nate had followed my instructions and guidance without hesitation. I think he enjoyed the activities as much as he enjoyed what it did to me. There'd been an innate pleasure in his approach, and an inherent desire to bring pleasure, though I hadn't recognized it at the time.

Damn blind spot! Damn Richard!

Without pause, his tongue traced down from my balls and began swirling around and teasing my opening, fanning the fire within me to a heightened blaze, sending heat along my nerves until every part of me felt the flames.

He kept probing then backing off, probing then backing off, each time using a little more pressure. And he never released my cock, stroking it with a firm grip but not enough speed to make me orgasm.

Yeah, he remembers what I like.

I was thrusting toward him, trying to get more of his tongue into me, trying to move his hand faster.

"Nate, please!" A hoarse whisper. Maybe I meant whimper, but whatever.

And so he went at me, bombarding my hole with a jackhammer of tongue jabs, his hand twisting around the head of my cock, this thumb inside my foreskin as he swiped and circled the tip.

"Nate ... Fuck ..." I approached the edge without realizing it, pressure building, body shaking, head lolled back and mouth agape and mind clouded and Nate working me like a master musician works an instrument. He was pushing all the right buttons and I was going to fall.

A few errant white explosions fired off behind my closed eyelids. It was enough to make me realize he had to stop, he had to stop right then or it would end before it began, I'd tip over the edge before I knew.

I dropped my legs enough to wrap them around his head, enough to pull him forward, away, off, to make him stop.

"Oh fuck ..." he muttered, his hands resting on my legs, feeling my tremors, seeing the lost look on my face, my struggle to breathe, the shuddering back and forth of my head, my eyes squeezed shut. "I'll stop. I'm sorry."

"No," I groaned. He misunderstood the signals. Even as I tried to claw my way back to sanity, even as I tried to control my breathing so I didn't hyperventilate, I told him, "Too close. Too much. Please, Nate, I need you ... I need you in me. Please make me feel."

One arm fell, dangling off the side of the couch, gesturing vaguely toward the floor. "Lube," I mumbled. Then: "Jeans. Pocket."

"I need a condom."

"No. Please no. I need to feel you, Nate, please."

"But—"

"Please. I trust you, Nate. Please do this for me. I want you inside me, all of you, start to finish."

Slight movement at the end of the couch didn't draw me back fast enough, didn't interest me. Rustling on the floor beside the couch didn't seem important.

Then came the crinkling of the lube packet, the tearing of plastic. That very much interested me.

I glanced down to meet Nate's gaze, his dark brown eyes gentle and attentive and thoughtful and concerned. "Are you sure?" he said quietly.

"Yeah." I didn't sound so sure, so I tried again. "Yes. Please, Nate, please make love to me."

The glow that erupted in his features looked of divine origin, the lust in his eyes diminished only insofar as love filled them. "I'll try to make you feel good, G-Man." His voice trembled, probably with nervousness as much as worry. This could blow up in our faces. Quickly.

"I'm burning up, Nate. Please ... Too much too quickly. Please, I don't know how long I can hold on ..."

With such soft strength that it felt like love, he slipped his hands under my legs, prompting me to lift them. I grabbed them again, pulling them back, exposing myself to him, granting him access to the most intimate part of me.

The coolness of the lube caused me to jerk a little as he spread it across my hole, working it around and over, then he pushed a slick finger against me, the pressure slight and growing until it slipped inside.

My head feel back and my hips bucked. There might have been a sound coming from my throat, although I wasn't sure.

Nate worked me open, in and out, twisting, helping me relax. He murmured quietly, knowing his voice would help, knowing his voice might make all the difference in the world.

"Relax for me, G-Man. I'll take care of you." Then two fingers followed by soft kisses to the insides of my thighs, my ass. "Open up for me, Greg. That's it, relax and open for me." His fingers sank inside until they could sink no further, at which point he began scissoring and curling them, stretching me and touching my most sacred places, hitting the buttons no one else could touch.

Fire. A lot more fire, flames flickering and spreading, racing from his penetration to every corner of my body. A wildfire blazing out of control.

Nate quickly located my prostate, drumming his fingers against it, then stroking it, them drumming against it again.

I jerked and shook, trembled and shivered, sweat drenching me, and every touch was a new burst of flames, every stroke lighting a new match.

Fireworks. White fireworks behind my clenched eyelids. My brain sizzling in the heat, thought burning away.

Hot. I'm too hot. I can't breathe. It's too hot to breathe.

A third finger. More drumming, more stroking, more stretching.

"Please ..." I couldn't tell if I said it, so I tried again, forcing air out of my lungs and through my vocal cords, yet still a broken blast of breath carried nothing more than a whimper. "Please ..." I finally said.

Everything was on fire, every part of me, and it was flowing from Nate's hand into my ass and out from there, spreading, wild, uncontrolled, consuming.

"Too much ... Not enough ... Fuck ..."

Moving my head from side to side didn't find any cooler air, didn't find a way to breathe that didn't include heat and fire and more fireworks exploding inside my head.

Then it eased away, his fingers eased out, the fires dimmed, maintained, didn't grow. And the fireworks stopped.

A light kiss, gentle and loving. "Talk to me, G-Man."

His face was blurry, hanging in the air above me, concerned yet very much wanting to give me what I wanted, very much full of love. And fear.

I wrapped my arms around him, trembling and limp arms with no strength, barely able to interpret the fuzzy commands from my befuddled brain.

"Please, Nate." I couldn't stop shaking, and I felt a tear streak down the side of my face into my ear. I didn't care. "Please," I pleaded, rocking forward enough to kiss him, a quick peck since I hadn't the strength or control to do more.

"Shhh. I gotcha, G-Man," he whispered against my lips before kissing me, deep and passionate and oh so very tender.

His body moved a tiny fraction and I felt him, there, against me, large and fiery hot against my hole where I burned brighter and faster and out of control, my heart hammering in the heat and my body trembling.

"Relax," he whispered into my ear, his breath cool and moist against the flames of my being.

My fingers dug into his back and he applied pressure, a slow and increasing pressure, each little bit fanning the flames and sending sparks on the wind of my soul to start yet more fires, to burn me, to send me over the edge ablaze and drenched in the fuel of my downfall.

Nate pushed a little more, his lips dropping kisses light as snow along my ears and cheeks and eyelids and forehead and, finally, lips. Then he popped in and a strangled whimpering stuttering cry was ripped from me and I held on tighter and dug into his back deeper and pulled him closer and wrapped my legs to force him deeper and fire so much fire and I was going to die a fiery death of glory as he pushed slowly into me.

"Breathe, G-Man, please just breathe," he whispered against my lips, then against my ear, then against my face and my neck and everywhere his lips traveled he told me to breathe and relax and he pushed in and in and deeper and the fires blazed and the heat increased and I shuddered and trembled and shivered and moaned and cried out to him stop give me more deeper I can't do it please oh please I'm going to burn and he set me afire and kept pushing and kept penetrating so very slowly until the friction burns burst into flames and more white fireworks exploded behind my eyelids and I knew I'd surely die.

Inch by inch he penetrated, gyrating his hips carefully to help me feel him everywhere inside, and deeper and deeper he went into my body, and every inch made more fires and every gyration fanned the flames and every touch and every kiss and every bit more of him inside me felt hotter and more dangerous and all I could see were specks of white like so much snow filling my vision from a fusillade of fireworks.

"Full ..." I mumbled. "So full ... Please, Nate. Please make love to me."

I tightened my grip around his back and thought he'd stop breathing from the pressure and if he moved even a little I'd explode apart from the fire and the heat and the unending fireworks in my head. So I wrapped my legs tighter around his waist and pulled him in further because I needed it and I'd die in the flames a happy man and I couldn't feel anything except him and the heat and the pleasure that was so overwhelming.

He eased out slowly, raking the embers of his penetration into pyres of joy and blazes of feeling and then he slowly pushed back in all the way and so deep he was at the very core of me where the fire burned so bright because he was there and I was there and this was the man I needed and wanted and he could make me feel and I knew I could never get enough and I was burning and burning burning burning.

Nate's body undulated with serpentine precision and he was in and out and in and out at an increasing pace and I was too hot and couldn't breathe and moved my face looking for air only to find the scorch of his lips and tongue and his lungs filling mine and I begged and writhed and bucked and the fireworks exploded until there was nothing but fireworks to see.

His size and angle were perfect, striking a spark each time he penetrated and retreated as he rubbed against my prostate and hit the nerves that started fires and increased the friction as his bare cock touched me inside where no one had been since Richard hurt me so much and I needed him there always and forever to keep me lit and burning.

As his body rippled with each stroke in and out, his washboard abs slithered along my cock, pressing it between us.

Too much. I can't hold on. I'm lost in this. I've never felt such absolute pleasure before and I'm going to burn up the first time and it was worth it.

"Stay with me, G-Man." More kisses, my face burning where he touched. "Stay right here, G-Man, and we'll feel together."

He pistoned in and out, deep and deeper and deepest, and the blaze was too big and too out of control and too hot and I only saw fireworks.

"Too much ... Oh fucking hell ... Nate!"

I couldn't hold on anymore. He was too sweaty or I was too weak or I'd already become lost in all of it and blinded by the smoke from the fires that kept burning and I was so hot and he wasn't fucking me hard and fast but making love to me with a tempo that was beyond perfect and beyond sensual and beyond loving and his kisses never ended and his whisperings kept blowing oxygen on the flames.

My hands slipped from his back, settling on his hips simply because that's where they fell. I couldn't use him as my anchor anymore because I couldn't hold on anymore. It was too much. I was going to fall over the edge because it was too much and the fires were too hot and all of me was burning.

I couldn't tell him it was too much, I couldn't tell him it was perfect, I couldn't tell him anything because the fireworks had overwhelmed my brain and my synapses had overheated and I was lost in the fire and no words could do justice or make sense or form or ...

That was when he reached between us and grabbed my cock firmly around the head, twisting and stroking, using my foreskin in concert with his grip to light a new fire with the fuel I was leaking and an explosion started right there beneath his hand at the same time another started inside me as he slid deep and gyrated and another started where his lips met mine and his tongue slid into my mouth and the explosions spread and joined and the fires made them greater than they should be and every part of felt like it would fly apart at any minute.

"I'm gonna ..."

"In me ..." I managed to say, the one thing I needed to say because I needed him there with me and I needed us together.

"I'm cumming ..." he moaned into my mouth as he pushed deep inside me, his body trembling, his hips bucking, his breath hitching and stuttering.

I exploded into a million pieces as he throbbed inside and the wet heat with which he filled me ignited the last fire and started the last explosion and white blinded me as my brain filled with featureless fireworks and pleasure sent my atoms scattering across the universe and my skin burned away and my ass burned and my cock burned and in that moment I felt the greatest love I'd ever felt as Nate settled atop me and whispered, "I gotcha, G-Man. I gotcha."

As my mind shattered and my body expanded to fill the voids beyond the reach of thought and the fires raged and the explosions overwhelmed my mind and I shook and gasped and wept and felt for the first time like I was really alive, he held me, wrapped me in his strong arms, still inside me and still fanning the flames.

From a land far in the distance an awestruck voice whispered against my trembling lips, "I love you so fucking much."